DARCY

His eyes glared at the water as if he could command the fish to bite by sheer noble decree.

“They won’t bite if you keep scowling at them,” a bright voice chimed from behind him.

Aerion stiffened, his jaw tightening. He turned his head sharply, expecting a person sent by his father to drag him back to his lessons.

Instead, he saw you.

You were the daughter of Maekar’s most trusted ally, having arrived only an hour ago.

While the adults spoke of their business, you had wandered out into the sun, your heavy skirts already trailing in the damp grass.

You looked entirely out of place among the solemn guards, a little burst of warmth against the grey stones of summerhall.

“Go away,” Aerion snapped, turning back to the water, “You’ll frighten them.”

“You’re the one frightening them,” you retorted easily, completely unbothered by the venom in his tone.

You marched right up to his rock, your slippers squelching in the mud, and plopped down beside him without asking. “My father says that fishes can sense when someone is angry. They don’t like the energy.”

“Your father is a fool, and so are you,” he hissed, expecting you to cry or perhaps run back to the castle.

But you didn’t seem bothered as you tilted your head, watching the bobber dance on the ripples. “You’re doing it wrong anyway. The bait is too high.”

Aerion opened his mouth to deliver a cutting remark—something about how a dragon did not take lessons from a silly girl—but before the words could leave his lips, your smaller, warmer hands brushed against his.

You reached out, bypassing his defensive posture, and gently adjusted his grip on the handle, lowering the tip of the rod so the bait sank properly into the water.

The prince froze. No one touched him without permission. No one dared.

Yet, as the silence stretched between you, the bobber suddenly dipped aggressively. A heavy tug yanked the line down, nearly pulling the rod from his hands.

“See!” you gasped, your face lighting up with a blinding grin. “Pull, Aerion! Pull!”

Forgetting his pride, Aerion yanked the rod back with all his boyhood strength. A massive trout broke the surface, thrashing wildly and splashing mud and lakewater directly across his pristine tunic, and right into your face.

Aerion braced himself for the screaming. Noble girls and boys always screamed when they got dirty.

But then a bright laughter echoed across the banks. “Look at the size of it! We caught it!”

Aerion looked from the wiggling fish to your mud splattered face. His lips twitched, fighting a smile before he forced his features back into a proud mask.

“I caught it,” he corrected, though his voice lacked any real bite. “You merely watched.”

“We caught it,” you insisted, bending down to take a closer look at the trout.

Your father’s visit ended shortly after, and the brief, strange kinship evaporated into memory as the years pulled you both down separate paths.

Years slipped by like water through fingers, and when you finally returned to court as a young woman, the boy by the lake had become a man feared by the entire realm.

Aerion was breathtakingly beautiful, and notoriously cruel. He walked through court with a sharp tongue and a sharper temper, but that did not faze you.

From afar, Aerion watched you navigate the treacherous nature of court. You were a vision of light, offering warm smiles to the guards, listening patiently to the older women, and showing unfaltering kindness to everyone you crossed.

To him, it was grating. All noble ladies were trained to be sweet, performing acts of grace to secure a good match or win the favour of higher lords.

He waited for you to finally lose your cool.

But the day never came. No, the reality of your kindness crashed directly into him one afternoon near the small council chamber.

You were walking down the corridor with a butterfly that had landed on your arm when the doors of the chamber burst open.

A flurry of lords tumbled out into the hall, fleeing in terror. Among them was the master of coin, frantically wiping dark ink from his doublet with his bleeding hands, his face pale as death.

“Seven hells,” one of the other lords whispered hoarsely, scurrying past you. “The prince has lost his mind entirely!”

You stopped, watching the chaotic retreat. Instead of turning back like any sensible person would, you set the butterfly on a nearby branch and stepped through the heavy doors.

An iron candelabra laid overturned on the floor, dark wax spilling across the polished wood, and an inkwell had been shattered against the wall.

Aerion stood by the high window, his back to you. His shoulders were incredibly tense, and his chest was rising and falling with heavy, angry breaths.

“I thought I made it clear,” Aerion growled without turning, “The next soul to disturb me will lose their tongue.”

“Then it is a good thing I am capable of writing. I do not need my tongue.” you responded lightly, closing the heavy door behind you.

Aerion went still. He turned slowly, his stormy eyes dark with lingering rage. When his gaze landed on you, he let out a harsh, bitter scoff.

“Come to play the saint for me too?” he sneered, maintaining his distance. “Save your sweet smiles for the lords in the hall. I have no patience for your endless charity.”

You took a few measured steps into the room, keeping a respectful distance yourself.

“I don't think they don’t understand how stressful it can be,” you said softly, ignoring his cruel words. “they whisper and push, expecting you to sit quietly while they try to manage your family’s rights. It makes sense that you’d lose your patience when they refuse to listen.”

He stared at you from across the room, his mind struggling to process what he was hearing. He had expected an admonishment, or at the very least, fear.

“They are parasites,” Aerion muttered, his posture unlocking just a fraction. “They look at me as if I am mad because I refuse to let them dictate my bloodline’s terms.”

“I can see that,” you replied gently, giving a small smile. “They may be stressed as well, but no one should have to bend to their whim.”

The room went silent before you spoke again.

“Whenever the court gets too loud for me, I find that walking around the gardens helps. The fresh air is always calming.. maybe it would help you too. It’s quiet out there.”

The fire in his eyes flickered, clearly caught off guard by the suggestion. He stared at your face, the lines of his memory remembering the specific curve of your smile.

A breathless laugh escaped him.

“The gardens?” Aerion repeated, his voice dropping the edge it possessed just moments ago.

He took a step forward, assessing your form. “You haven’t changed at all, have you? Years ago at Summerhall, you told me the fish wouldn’t bite because of my ‘anger.’ Now you’re trying to herd me into the bushes to calm down.”

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise, a soft laugh bubbling up. “You remember that?”

“I remember a girl pushing my hands around and getting me covered in mud,” he murmured.

He then let out a soft click of his tongue, turning to look at the doorway. “Fine. We will walk the gardens. But only because your previous method somehow worked.”

“Of course,” you smiled.

As the weeks progressed, a unique friendship blossomed between you.

Aerion still remained difficult as ever to the rest of the world, but your presence seemed to simmer that down.

The shift did not go unnoticed by the ladies of the court, leading to an afternoon that they wouldn’t stop gossiping about for days.

You were walking through the outer courtyard with a small retinue of noble ladies, the daughters of prominent lords from the Reach. They were talking endlessly, giggling as they spoke of whatever irrelevant topics crossed their minds.

“You must be careful, my dear,” one of the ladies said, leaning in closer to you. “Prince Aerion may be amused by your novelty but once he grows bored of playing with his new toy, you will be left with nothing but yourself.”

“He is a prince of the blood,” another lady chimed in, her voice tight. “They take what pleases them for a moment and cast it aside. Do not mistake a tyrant’s passing curiosity for actual regard.”

“Aerion simply values sincerity,” you replied, offering an unbothered smile. “There is no game being played.”

“You are far too gullible–” the former lady was cut when Aerion walked out from the room beside.

The ladies instantly adjusted their posture, immediately dropping to curtsies as he approached, each of them desperately hoping to catch the prince’s favour despite their previous warnings to you.

Aerion ignored them, his eyes locking firmly onto you.

Without a word of greeting, and completely disregarding decorum, he walked into the center of the group and stepped right into your space, his frame towering over you.

“You’re late,” his voice was low—meant strictly for you, though it carried across the hall.

“Late for what, my Prince?” you asked, tilting your head up to meet his gaze with your beaming expression.

“I am going to the cliffs, and you are coming with me,” he stated flatly.

Behind you, a collective intake of breath echoed from the ladies. Here he was, actively seeking you out, his attention consuming you and utterly shattering their spiteful claims that you were just a passing game.

You looked back at the girls, giving one last smile before parting from them. “Very well, my Prince, if you insist.”

“I do,” Aerion tilted his head, turning on his heel to fall into step right beside you, his side brushing against yours as he guided you out of the yard.

That would not be the first or last time the court would witness the two of you separating from the rest of the world.

During one evening, after failing in your search for Aerion through the whole castle, you found him alone in the secluded parts of the library.

He was sitting alone, staring dead at a massive volume of ancient Valyrian history.

“I am not in the mood for company,” he hissed out, “leave.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in worry before approaching and setting down a small plate of pastries on the corner of the table. You pulled out the empty chair beside him and sat down despite his request.

Reaching over the plate, you picked up a small pastry and held it right in front of his face, completely disregarding his brooding glare.

“Eat,” you insisted gently as Aerion still refused to acknowledge you. “You always go for these specific ones. I know you like them.”

His fingers that had been gripping the edge of the book twitched, and he finally turned his head to look at you.

The weight on his shoulders gradually disappeared as he looked at the pastry, then up at your fond expression.

Aerion didn’t move to take it from your hand. Keeping his intense gaze locked firmly onto yours, he leaned slightly forward.

Then, totally unprompted, he took a bite right out of the pastry while it was still held between your fingers.

A tiny giggle slipped past your lips, a bright warmth blooming all the way to the tips of your ears at the sheer intimacy of it.

You tried to bite your lip to hide your surprise, but your shoulders shook with quiet amusement as you looked into his smug face.

Aerion chewed slowly, the corners of his lips twitching at your giddy reaction.

“You are ridiculous,” he murmured as he swallowed.

“Maybe,” you agreed, your heart fluttering as you set the remaining half down onto the plate. “But it worked. You feel better already, don’t you?”

Aerion stared at you for a moment, drinking in your presence. He did feel better—the tight, suffocating knot in his chest had already unraveled. But it was certainly not because of the pastry.

Slowly, he hesitantly reached out across the small space between your chairs. With one deliberate movement, he dragged your chair until it hit his.

Then, his hand moved to flip over on the table with his palm facing up, his fingers sprawling open in a silent, stubborn invitation.

You, on the other hand, did not hesitate. You slid your hand into his palm, your fingers easily weaving through his.

Aerion squeezed your hand, his rings pressing firmly against your skin, though his touch was surprisingly careful.

However, the true demonstration of expanse that you two had built played out before the entire court during a grand feast, where Aerion’s attempt to maintain his reputation crumbled.

The feast was deafeningly loud.

You were seated next to Aerion by Prince Maekar.

Aerion had spent the first half of the feast interacting with other lords while you conversed with other ladies.

He was glaring at a group of lesser lords when he noticed your sudden silence. Just then, some of the lords he had been talking to earlier called out to him and he tried to force his eyes back on them.

Aerion was aware that you two were the topic of conversation as of late. He couldn’t let the people of court think he had gone soft. At least that was what his pride told him.

But the sight of your fragile form pulled at him like a physical anchor, shattering his resolve. His demeanor instantly changed.

He turned fully in his seat toward you, his cold stare evaporating.

“You’re pale,” Aerion murmured, voice stripped away of anything harsh. “What is it?”

“Just… a headache, Aerion,” you whispered softly, giving him a tired smile. “The noise is particularly loud tonight.”

Aerion didn’t waste a second as he gently used his hand to cradle the back of your head.

His fingers began combing through the loose parts of your hair, his thumb tracing circles down your temple to ease the pressure.

The chatter around the surrounding tables died down, dozens of eyes tracking his movements, yet no one dared to disrupt. They watched as Aerion paid no mind to everything else the moment you showed discomfort.

You leaned into his touch, a smile returning to your face. “Aerion… everyone is watching.”

Aerion let out a defeated sigh as he grinned. “Let them stare,” he concluded, his fingers tucking in a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve broken me anyway.”

Shifting his broad shoulders, he blocked the rest of the room from view, shielding you from prying eyes.

“You are tired,” he paused, “if anyone breathes a word about that, I will have their heads.”

“You can’t murder the entire court,” you teased, lifting your head up for a moment.

Movies, as is their premise, glamourise plenty of things - high school, politics, tiny Greek islands - but none more than the classic sucker-punch.

The teeth-crunching, blood-spitting moment where skin meets skin in a satisfying thump that sends an unsuspecting victim to the floor. Music plays and the hero grins, grabbing the girl round the waist: dipping low to kiss her.

What’s consistently (conveniently) left out is how bloody painful it is to be on the sending end of that fist.

The first, and only, time you’d ever punched someone was in second year.

It had seemed like a great idea in the moment, quickly succeeded by the mind-numbing pain that shot up your arm where knuckle met face.

You’d aimed for his jaw, but as it turns out: in addition to painful, punching someone wasn’t a particularly accurate sport for a beginner and your slippery skin found a round-tipped nose instead.

A collective gasp and a month’s worth of detention waited for you on the other side of your act of rage.

And sure, while afternoons in Snape’s classroom every Friday sucked: it was all worth it.

Every purple knuckle that throbbed with the slightest brush, the points lost to Hufflepuff, the pages and pages of Hogwarts Does Not Condon Physical Violence you’d been forced to write was worth seeing the trickle of blood running down from Oliver Wood’s nose.

To see that smug fucking look wiped clean from his face. To watch how he doubled over in pain, grappling onto his friend for balance.

“Tyler fancying you? Any bloke would rather snog a goblin.”

His little comment had earned him a broken nose.

It had been the start of a five year long feud.

It’s the reason - now - why the ground is racing up to meet you, the nose of your broomstick pressed down towards it and wind whipping so hard against your face it draws tears. You knock into the ground, catching yourself on wobbly legs. A few feet away, Oliver Wood has done the same.

He’s marching towards you with the same ferocity that’s curdling in your chest:

“Tha’s blatching and you know it!” His accent is ringing, thick and blistering with heat like it always is when he talks to you. At you, rather.

The accusation is crystal clear, and loud despite the echoing din of the quidditch stands above. From the field where you're parked, you can hear the chatter and the cheers and the boos all conglomerating into a fuzzy uproar.

There’s still twelve brooms floating in the air, spewing irritated shouts from players in both yellow and red:

Just let it go, Wood!

Come on, Cap, can we just finish the match please!

You promptly ignore them. Oliver follows suit.

“What?” You scoff, face hot as a kettle on a lit stove. “As if Laurel and Hardy haven’t been elbowing my girls all game!”

It goes without saying that you’re referring to Gryffindor’s red-head twin-set of beaters.

“Bullshit.” He seethes, it’s purposefully quiet enough that McGonagall’s approaching figure doesn’t pick it up.

She, unlike yourself, is less patient and knobby vein-webbed hands come out to knock you both against your chests: widening the gap to a safe enough distance between the opposing captains.

“You two are exhausting.” And she sounds it too. Her glasses tremble at the edge of her nose, sun shining down on her aged face. "If one more match this season is interrupted because you two can't control your tempers, you will both be stripped of captainship and you will not fly until you graduate. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

But Oliver isn't looking at her. His eyes are focused on yours over her cloaked shoulder.

He's taking the predictable route of not replying first.

"Crystal clear, Professor." You resign to speaking first, skewing a grin at his anger-sewn face.

It’s another long boring moment before he cuts his gaze from yours, kicks up a patch of grass and grits through his teeth.

“Yes, professor.”

As can be imagined, things between you and Oliver Wood have been tense since the day he’d hobbled up to the hospital wing with a palm over his face and blood dripping down over his already red tie.

But with age, came ferocity, and what started as passing glares in the corridor melted into anger-drowned faces and sharp words flung with intent to scar.

Things got infinitely worse when you were elected captain of the Hufflepuff quidditch team in the same year Oliver was made captain for Gryffindor. It stoked the already sizzling embers that made moments around him warm and stuffy and hard to breathe.

The murky history swirled with what should be friendly competition, instead frothing into a bubbling pot of annoyed teammates and exasperated teachers and more sessions of detention than you would have ever had if you'd never met the son of a bitch that is Oliver Wood.

It's what puts you in situations like the ones you find yourself in the middle of before you even know how you got yourself there.

"You two," Professor Burbage had never held you in particularly high favour. It was just your luck that Oliver received the same courtesy. "One more word out of either of you and I will be seeing both of you this afternoon for detention in my classroom."

It was even unluckier that she'd sat you two barely three wizards away from one another and one fly-away comment had blown out into another heat-filled exchange. It always does.

"But professor--" you try.

"Right then. I'll see you both at five o' clock."

Oliver sighs, hands running up over his head between chestnut locks: "Fucking perfect. Thanks, big-mouth."

"Would you like to make it two days, Mr Wood?"

He huffs like an angry dog, tightening the grip on his writing-feather but says nothing else.

The end of the lesson doesn't come soon enough and when it does, Oliver is first out of his seat. You're grateful for it.

Cherry bumps you in the shoulder where she throws her bag over it. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"

You grin, despite the sunken feeling hollowing your chest with the acknowledgment that you're gonna be spending yet another afternoon at the mercy of an under-paid staff member alongside the hothead that was the Gryffindor captain.

"Come on, that wasn't my fault and you know it."

Her tight red curls dance when she shakes her head. They match her blood red tie. "Somehow it never is."

To your dismay, but not surprise, Enzo shares Cherry's views when he waltzes into step beside you in the corridor between Muggle Studies and Divination. His arm drapes over your shoulders and his tall frame shakes when he laughs.

"You know," his voice is thick and gravelly. "You two are gonna have to fuck it out eventually."

You roll your eyes, shoving him off you with a chuckle. The sentiment isn't anything new. "Oh, shut up."

The day folds blurrily between classes and lunch and greenhouse visits that by the time you look up it's just about five o clock.

Burbage's office door stares down at you.

The corridor is ghostly all the way behind you and it's emptiness means it's easy to make out Oliver's heavy footsteps down the stone floor. They're not slow, in an arrogant strut, neither quick like he has somewhere to be.

He trudges. Like the weight of the world is strapping him to invisible pins in the floor. It's easy to figure that your existence doesn't lighten his load any.

You don't turn. He simply falls into place beside you, keeping a good foot distance between your tightened shoulders.

The door opens.

Charity Burbage is insufferable in the way that she forces you and Oliver to sit almost on top of each other behind a scratched up desk where she can watch you under the curtain of her ratty blond hair.

You inch the chair dramatically away from Oliver's.

She's set a stack of pages by him and a wet stamp. "Stamp these and sign the date."

Additionally, she's dropped a stack of envelopes under your nose. "Tuck and seal. When you're done, you can leave."

You eye the papers. There must be hundreds.

To Whom It May Concern,

Hogwarts would like to remind all parents and guardians that the third-years will require prior permission before being allowed to visit the nearby village of Hogsmeade--

You jump when Oliver's elbow knocks yours (more violently than what was really necessary). He holds the first page out to you silently, face dripping with impatience.

When you take the page, his thumb brushes yours.

The paper is delicate in your fingers where you fold it. You tuck and seal, and by the time you've set it aside Oliver is offering the next page to you again.

His thumb brushes yours for a second time.

You find that it does for every letter that's passed on.

It's hard not to watch him out the corner of your eye. Oliver has this dark brown, nearly black, hair that's thick and almost too long and untamed all over. It's matched by bushy eyebrows and speckled freckles over the bridge of his nose.

If you didn't hate him as much as you did, you might think he was pretty. You might think that anyway.

Time stretches until the sun is setting the classroom afire with golden light and it's boredom that causes it, or possibly a desire to hear his voice at such tight quarters, but you speak.

"You know," it's soft enough that Burbage doesn't look up from her Witch Weekly magazine. "Even if - in some act of God - Scotland qualifies for the semi-finals, Luxembourg is gonna flatten them. I mean, think about it unemotionally, Wood: they have Luca Schmit as seeker. It's really a no brainer--"

"Are y’really just stupid or are you purposefully trynna start another argument?" His gaze flickers up to eye Burbage's desk warily, she still doesn't react.

Maybe it's both. After all, the subject of the Quidditch World Cup had been what put you both there in the first place.

You shrug, unfazed by his scathing remark.

"I'm just trying to make conversation."

"Well don't."

His hand brushes yours again.

-

Every second Friday, generally at the tail-end of lunch, Hooch's grey barn owl swoops low over your head and drops a smaller-than-average white envelope right into your mashed potatoes. Cherry yelps in surprise every time.

Then you watch the bird drop the same over the Gryffindor, Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables.

Good afternoon,

Reminder of Captain's meeting this afternoon in my office. Six o' clock, don't be late.

Regards,

Madam Hooch.

The letter says the same thing it has since you became captain and it's a wonder you still take the effort to break the seal on the envelope.

But come six o' clock, you're traipsing towards the west end of the castle. Lavender streaks caress the sky under the last impression of sunlight through the ornate stone arch of the corridor windows and an autumn chill creeps up your arms where your sweater isn't thick enough.

Hooch's office is in a quiet alcove, nearly impossible to find if you didn't know where to look, and the lamps are lit. Beyond the door, you can hear voices: you grin.

The door creaks noisily where you push it open. Inside it's cramped and cluttered with shelves of quidditch equipment - broken brooms, punctured quaffles and loose kits draping every open surface - but it's warm and smells like leather and is maybe your favourite little room in the whole castle.

The quidditch legend herself, Rolanda Hooch, has her legs kicked up on her desk and the boys are standing ahead of it locked in animated chatter.

She's laughing at something they said, and smiles when you enter.

"Sorry I'm late, coach."

It's nothing new and she waves you in with a smile. "Come in, poppet."

"Merlin," Marcus' shoulder finds yours and the force of the bump nearly sends you off your feet. "You'd be late to your own funeral hey, Puffers?"

You laugh, shoving him back with as much force as you can muster against the giant brute that is Slytherin captain Marcus Flint. It barely nudges him but he barks out a laugh, rough like tractor tires over crumbly concrete.

"I'm worth the wait." You quip back, leaning around Marcus to wink at Roger Davies. "Isn't that right, Rodger?"

He flirts back, "Always, sweetheart."

Roger is the antithesis of Marcus: all pale skin, blue eyes and short blonde hair. Easy on the eyes.

Oliver lingers just behind him, the tallest of the captains. You catch his eye, face slipping into something more serious, and nod. "Hey, Wood."

He nods in return, curt like how a ministry wizard's might be.

"Right," Hooch sits up straight in her high-back chair. "There are just a couple things we need to get through tonight, we won't be long."

The dynamic between the captains would be easy, if not for Oliver.

You're the only girl and that made for tough beginnings. Marcus is naturally brash and brutish, but - as you found - easy to impress with a couple showy tricks on the broom. A single promise to show him how to pull off a Woollongong Shimmy had him eating out your hand: the favour of a couple Slytherins was generally hard to buy and invaluable to a plushy Hufflepuff such as yourself.

Roger popped out the womb with a wink at the nurse. Impeccably charming and impossibly negotiable. Beyond being slightly dim, it was hard to say a bad thing about the Ravenclaw captain

On the other hand, Oliver was … well, Oliver.

Hooch tapped the sharp end of a writing feather rhythmically at a spot on her desk, eyes roving her clipboard.

"Next week we're doing a clean up of the supply room down by the pitch. I've set you each up on days, the whole team needs to be down to help unless they're excused by a teacher: I want a written letter."

She offers a piece of parchment without looking up.

"As you all know, it's the Slytherin versus Ravenclaw game next week."

You bump your elbow to Marcus'. He looks down and grins a mouthful of crooked teeth before turning to Roger. "Ready, pretty boy?"

Roger rolls crystal blue eyes, but he's smiling too. "Bring it on, tough-shit."

"Oy," Hooch interrupts them with a cool sigh, "The last thing, you all submitted your autumn practice requests for the pitch: Roger, Marcus, you have the days you want--"

They nod. Your shoulders stiffen.

"--Oliver, Y/n. You both want Wednesday afternoons. Monday afternoon is open, I'll let you two decide between each other who is gonna move their practice. I want a decision before tomorrow night."

Marcus is sniggering under his breath. The edges of your mouth sink into a frown, of course he wants the same day as me.

You can feel the heat of Oliver's eyes on the side of your face. You don't indulge him, keeping your gaze settled on Hooch's face.

"We'll figure it out, coach."

"Unlikely." Roger's quip is barely a whisper but you catch it.

"Alright." Hooch doesn't. "You're dismissed, go get some dinner kids."

The office door bounces back off the stone wall where Marcus tosses it carelessly open, echoing all the way down the empty corridor.

Frosty air chases over your face and the boys start down towards the Great Hall. Roger is complaining about a potions essay he hasn't started and Marcus is shrugging him off with a suggestion that includes something along the vein of blackmailing a sixth year into doing it for him but you can't focus long enough to follow.

"Oliver." Irritation is prickling at the surface of your skin. It flares into an almost rash when he stops walking, glancing over his shoulder with an unconcerned expression. "Who's giving Wednesday up?"

His arms fold against his chest. You're working extremely hard not to look down where his biceps stretch the seams on his Hogwarts jumper. "Well, you obviously."

Marcus barks another laugh, he calls down the corridor: "We'll see you kids at dinner."

"Yeah, don't kill each other! It's only practice!"

You huff in disbelief, unconcerned with the running commentary.

"Uh," you mirror Oliver by folding your own arms. "no it's not. Come on, we can negotiate like civil people can't we?"

Thick caterpillar eyebrows disappear beyond the overgrowth hiding his forehead. "Negotiate? I'm the one who wasted three hours of my life in detention last week thanks to your big fat mouth. Wednesday is mine."

"That was a joint effort, twat." You can feel where your throat is flush with rising anger. It wires your jaw tight. "Are you really so bloody difficult that we can't even come to a simple agreement?"

"Difficult?" His arms have shifted from his chest to perch against his hips. "Just because I'm not giving you what you want? Cry me a fucking river, darling. Sorry Puffers, but I'm not your precious Marcus or Roger. I'm not gonna fold just cause you bat yer pretty little eyelashes at me."

Pretty?

You blink in surprise. It's brushed quickly aside for more pressing matters. Your hands scrunch into fists at your side:

"Well. I'm not giving it up. I want Wednesday."

"Neither am I."

"Fuck you."

"In your dreams."

-

Oliver collapses loudly into the open spot at the Gryffindor dining table. His callousness knocks Archie's goblet of pumpkin juice across the shiny wooden surface between dishes of sausages and peas and roast potatoes.

"Bloody hell, what's got you in a mood?" He's patting down the table with a serviette, transforming it into a orange lump under his palm.

Shaking his head, as if it would joggle the thought of you loose, Oliver stabs a chicken drumstick from the top of a nearby pile with his fork. He doesn't respond.

"Wait, let me guess." Archie presses the elbows of his red jumper into the still wet surface beside his plate. "Something to do with your little Hufflepuff sweetheart?"

Oliver grunted around a mouthful, looking annoyed. "Not mine and not a sweetheart. A fucking brat."

Archie seems to find something funny, leaning back on the bench with a haughty laugh. "Right. What she do this time?"

"Wants the pitch the same day as me for practice." He's mumbling around a mouthful of chicken, tipping forward to shove a spoon teetering with peas alongside it. "Refuses to give in, despite the fact that she put me in detention last week with Burbage."

Shifting to the edge of his seat, Archie leans around Oliver's frame to find your figure across the Hall at the yellow-lined table. He nods, seemingly finding you. "Yeah, she don't look too happy either."

"I don't care."

Oliver is trying very hard not to give into the itch to look back.

"Whatever," Archie's gaze finds his again. "in better news ... I spoke to the twins just before dinner. They're still on for tomorrow."

He's twitching in his seat, eyebrows dancing and grinning around his words like a kid who's found a matchbox.

Right. The twins.

Specifically, Daisy and Delilah Dawson: two Ravenclaw sisters a year below Oliver.

They're peng, Archie had reasoned, you need a little fling to get your mind off quidditch. You're too strung up, mate.

And sure, they were, but Oliver had more important things to do than gallivant across Hogsmeade attached to the hip of some sixth year who just wants to earn her I Kissed The Quidditch Captain! badge.

He'd groaned and whined and glowered at the prospect. Was it petulant? Naturally, but spending five sickles on subpar hot chocolate and making false conversation with some Ravenclaw was a waste of precious time in Oliver's humble opinion.

His priorities are, as they've always been, crystal clear in his mind.

1. Win Gryffindor the Quidditch Cup 2. Refer to point (1)

There was little wiggle room for the introduction of girls into any spot on that list.

You're the only one who came almost close to the tight list. Only because if there had to be a third priority, "shove winning the cup in Hufflepuff's face" might just crack it. He thought about you significantly more than any other girl in the castle and maybe that might mean something if he thought about too long about it, but fortunately, he refused to.

Regardless, Archie was adamant and more than a little pathetic when he mentioned that Daisy only agreed to see him if he had a date for Delilah. It was all settled very quickly.

And it's in this show of loyalty to his dearest friend that Oliver finds himself walking the cobblestone path down into Hogsmeade on a crisp Saturday morning.

The little village is bustling with students - it normally is - and the crowd has him knocking shoulders with Delilah who's walking in step beside him.

He's uncomfortable to find that she's staring dreamily up at the underside of his jaw.

On Oliver's other side: Archie is talking Daisy's ear off, making another pitiful attempt at holding her hand. He doesn't quite manage it and Oliver can't tell whether it's because she genuinely doesn't notice or she just can't be arsed.

"So," Delilah's voice is light and sweet. Delicate. "You mentioned that you take Arithmancy? I've heard it's tough."

Oliver nods airily. "Yeah ... yeah, it's difficult."

He tightens his jacket closer over his frame. The wind is whipping between their bodies and he thinks that maybe she didn't hear him over it's howling if her confused expression is anything to go by. He finds he's not bothered enough to repeat it.

The entrance of Madam Puddifoot's comes into view at the end of the walkway.

Oliver’s relieved. It's freezing out here and maybe he'll be more in the mood for flirtatious conversation once he's gotten some food in his stomach (Archie had insisted they skip breakfast: we have to order something to eat, so we can sit longer).

There's a jingle of a bell overhead when Archie pushes the door open, standing awkwardly aside to let the ladies in first.

Inside the shop, it's more than busy: powdery blue walls barely visible beyond the sea of Hogwarts couples crammed around tiny circle tables and waiters in red uniform knocking the back of their chairs with wobbling trays.

There's music coming from ... somewhere, it sounds like The Weird Sisters and at the sound, Oliver can't imagine how this morning could possibly go any worse.

Oh wait, yes he can.

You could be sitting at a table right by the door across a too-small-table knocking knees with some Slytherin prick. Like you are right there right now.

Delilah tugs on his wrist, it's gentle and he almost doesn't feel where he's being lead between tables towards an open booth across the room. He falls unceremoniously down against the torn leather, eyes never leaving your table.

You haven't noticed his presence, he knows because your lips are stretching around a giggle he can't hear but can already imagine. You don't smile around him, that's for sure.

Oliver's stomach is frothing and bubbling and he's trying really hard to tune back in where Archie's knocking a menu into his hand.

Of course you're there. To ruin his mood and his day, because you're just bloody perfect at it.

"So, am I seeing you girls at the Quidditch match on Saturday?" Archie's voice carries somewhere over his head.

Delilah laughs. Or maybe it's Daisy, Oliver doesn't look.

"Maybe," she says, "Depends if Oliver's gonna be there. You're gonna be there, right?"

He feels a hand nudge at his forearm. Definitely Delilah.

His gaze floats back over the table to offer a fraction of eye contact, he nods. "Oh, uh ... yeah. Sure, definitely."

Archie saves him by speaking again and your table finds Oliver's attention just in time for him to watch the boy sitting across from you swipe away a smudge of hot chocolate over your cheek. You smile, looking bashful and a little bit flushed.

A suffocating, searing heat rushes from the soles of Oliver's feet up between his every organ and over every tendril of hair on his head. His jaw tightens.

Of course he recognises the pratt across you.

Ryo Yoshida.

Every girl in the castle's wet dream, if the rumours he's heard are anything to go by. With his fucking sleek black hair and his Japanese accent that had witches flocking to him in the dozens.

He doesn't wonder why you're here with him.

Oliver is a proud man, but even he could admit that you're beautiful. Albeit reluctantly.

With your wide wet eyes that make him a little sick in a way that turns his stomach warm and the way you do your hair and those fucking dangly earrings that clink when you loose your cool on him.

That's without even mentioning the sound of your laugh - the one he only ever overhears - and your legs in the school uniform skirt and the way you look when you're diving on your broom under the light of a sunny day.

Alright, maybe he couldn't admit to all of it ... but you were okay.

Okay enough to crack a date with Ryo Yoshida or any other schmuck in the castle if you wanted.

"Anything good to eat here, Oliver?"

He pretends he doesn't hear her at first, but the kick at his shin under the table is harder to ignore.

Archie is glaring at him across the table. Dude, don't fuck this up for me.

Oliver's eyes find Delilah. She's scooted up close under his elbow and, to be fair to the poor girl, she was pretty too. Red lipstick smeared across her smiling lips, painted nails edging closer to his arm and perfectly styled hair sitting over her shoulder.

He nods, reaching for the menu: "Yeah. Actually, last time I had the Merlin Meal and it was pretty good."

She perks up, cherry red smile widening at his reply. "Oh, I thought that looked good!"

Training his eyes on the menu, Oliver wills himself not to look back at you. You're already souring his mood and you haven't even said a bloody word.

It's just what you do. What you do to him: infuriating him with the threat of an argument around any and every corner.

The waiter comes by and Oliver finds himself generous enough to gift Delilah with an arm draped over the back of her seat. She giggles and he pretends he doesn't notice when she mouths something that looked suspiciously like 'he's so hot' to her sister across the table.

Archie seems pleased too. Daisy has granted him, finally, her hand and his arm bends at an awkward angle to maintain the grip in hers under the table. He's positively beaming.

But despite Oliver’s best efforts to stay engaged, he still catches himself - only when it's too late - and his eyes are already glued to watching the way your jeans are hugging your thighs where you shift in your seat.

Your table is sat by the door. The chime of the bell calls for his gaze every time it tolls and every time he finds you let off a violent shiver in your seat as the autumn crisp rolls over your shoulders.

The door shuts again and you still.

Oliver can feel where the tips of his ears are burning red and his bones are itching: Ryo’s black suede coat is hanging over the back of his chair.

You’re still talking - hands rubbing together, fighting for warmth - he’s leaned over with his chin in palm to listen and his jacket sits unused behind his shoulders while you fucking shiver in the breeze.

It’s pathetic, really. He’s not sure whether he’s referring to himself or you: but Oliver is still looking and you’re still shaking like a leaf and he’s halfway to flipping tables to get to you and just give you his own fucking coat so you’ll stop shaking and stop annoying him—

“Oliver was just telling me about wanting to join the Hogwarts Choir.” He turns again to find Archie waiting with an expectant face, it's laced in a little bit of smugness: caught you. "Weren't you, mate?"

When he looks back you’re gone.

There's a short pile of sickles abandoned on the table and he hopes that Ryo at least had the good sense to pay for your drink after forcing you to sit in the freezing cold.

He shakes the thought off. Who cares.

In fact, he hopes you catch a cold.

-

The day passes like swimming through molasses: slow and sticky and exhausting.

It's nearly seven when Oliver presses a sympathy kiss into Delilah's cheek - Daisy allows for no such thing from Archie - and the two sisters skip off down the west wing corridor with a wiggle of their fingers over their shoulders at the boys.

"I think that went well." Archie's grinning, hands on his hip and glasses edging down his brown nose.

It's the first thing that genuinely brings a jolt of life out of Oliver all day. He teeters back on his heels, hands gripping his stomach where he laughs. Laughs like a madman.

"I think you need to get yer fucking head checked, mate."

The tail end of his outburst is simmering down, now barely a breathy chuckle, when a voice washes over him from down the other end of the corridor. "Wood!"

He'd recognise that voice anywhere. From the dead of sleep or the depth of the ocean.

He's slow when he turns on his heel, the remnants of his smile dripping all the way off the edge of his jaw until he's nearly frowning.

You're jogging, scarf bouncing at your shoulder with the movement, and coming to a stop right under his chin.

"What?"

There's a sharp edge to his tone - there always is - but he really hopes you haven't noticed how the syllable wobbled at the end. Now that you're right beneath his frame and not across the room, it's harder to ignore the lashes kissing at the corner of your eyes. You're wearing lip gloss and he knows it's for Ryo.

His stomach is churning and your face is twisting into something he is struggling to recognise.

"I--" your hands wring, eyes flickering behind to where Archie's watching curiously (you wave awkwardly). "You ... you can have Wednesday."

It's not what Oliver is anticipating. He almost takes a full step back in surprise.

"Why?"

Your eyes roll in a comfortably familiar way, "Because Hooch wants an answer tonight and one of us had to be the bigger person."

His brow tightens, eyes roving down the stitching of your sweater. It's cute. He's quiet.

"You not gonna argue?" You throw your words quickly, snatching them back before he can answer: "Perfect. I'll send her an owl before bed."

You're marching back down the corridor before he has chance to say anything else and he's watching your retreating figure with the hope - that he’s not gonna address - you’re not going to cozy up somewhere in the Slytherin dorm room.

“Well.” Archie’s running a hand over his thick black curls. “That was unexpected.”

Oliver huffs. “It’s been a weird day.”

-

An uneasy air has settled over Hogwarts.

It came in like a storm front, drifting in on the wind that dropped the article at the door of the castle. 

The same copy of The Daily Prophet has been doing the rounds between dormitories and class rooms all week: Sirius Black, Azkaban’s most infamous prisoner and recent escapee, has been sighted in Dufftown by an astute Muggle, The Daily Prophet reports. 

Dufftown. A barely twenty minute ride by carriage from Hogwarts bridge. 

It’s got the castle on edge, it’s got you on edge. Creeping around the castle like Sirius Black is gonna jump out from around any corner. 

Dumbledore stationing dementors at the edges of the castle was the tipping point for the cold drip of trickling fear in your chest that's become easy to ignore in daylight - when Cherry and Enzo are flittering around you between classes - but in moments like these, like now, when you’re on the tail end of a quidditch practice, grow like a poisonous black vine up around every nerve in your body. A Monday night, the team’s kit weighing heavy in your arms - broomstick tucked precariously in the bend of one elbow - and following the siren call of the dormitory showers. 

You’d promised the team you’d get them to the house elves before the upcoming match on Saturday. The match against Gryffindor. 

But for tonight, they’re gonna live in a pile at the end of your bed. 

You’re exhausted: calves burning, sweat sticking loose hairs to your forehead and probably smelling like wet socks and broomstick polish. 

The touch of night is suffocating the flicker of the corridor lamps. It’s long past the recently set curfew and you know that if McGonagall finds you out you’re likely in deep enough trouble to get you off Saturday’s match roster. 

Despite the prospect, you don’t dwell on it. You find you’re more worried about escaped Azkaban convicts: the echo of your own footsteps setting you further on edge. 

You’ve craned your neck over your shoulder enough times to form a knot there. Each time you’re relieved to find that Sirius Black hasn’t crept up behind you. 

Suddenly, the squeak of your boots against the stone floor are un-alone. 

Someone is marching and right in your direction. Your heart bangs wildly on the inside of your ribcage - blood turning to an icy slurry in your veins, but you don’t move. 

The corner is sharp when the figure turns into the corridor you stand and the scream is halfway out your throat when your eyes find his face. 

Absent is the matted black hair and sunken eyes you’re anticipating. Instead, warm brown rings reflect the fire of the lit torches. 

Your broomstick clutters to the floor, warm relief flooding down to your fingertips. “Fucking hell, Wood.” 

He looks just as surprised as you. Only for a moment, though, before his gaze is tightening in annoyance again. 

“I thought you were Sirius Black.“ 

“Well that’s stupid isn’t it.” 

You huff, shifting the weight of the team’s robes precariously between your arms: squatting to try scoop up your broomstick off the floor again. You’re halfway successful when it clatters loudly back against the stone floor. 

“What are you even doin’ out here so late? You know curfew is passed, don’t you?” His voice curls with something that might be mistaken for concern if you didn’t know who you were talking to. 

“I could ask you the same thing.” 

You’re reaching down again. A robe on the top of the pile slips off, landing beside the broomstick. 

“Aye right. Whatever, goodnight.” 

He’s brushing past you. 

In a movement neither of you anticipated, driven by the fear shooting up your spine again, your hand finds his wrist. “Wait—“ 

Oliver freezes: eyes dropping to where you’re connected. You rip your hand back, as if scalded. 

“I …” the words mash and wrestle at the back of your throat. “Could …”

You glance down the darkened corridor awaiting you in the journey back to your dorm before meeting his face again. It’s unreadable. 

His brow scrunches. “Yes?"

"Could you want me to walk my common room?” 

Embarrassment sears at your cheeks. On a normal day, you’d sooner go dancing naked under the Whomping Willow before asking Oliver Wood a favour but that was before the image of Sirius Black swum behind your eyes everywhere you looked. 

Oliver would be fairly useless if faced with the criminal, naturally, but at least you wouldn’t die alone. 

“Please?” Your voice is quiet and you think it’s the gentlest word you’ve ever said to him. 

There’s a long stretch of quiet. His eyes flicker between your face and the broomstick on the floor. It’s quickly stretching past the blurring boundaries of an appropriate time for consideration. 

You’re practically melting in embarrassment now, electing to make the decision for him. 

“Never mind.” You squat again, successful this time in sticking the broomstick back under your arm. The dropped robe is more difficult but you manage to replace it. “Forget I asked.” 

Oliver’s moving before you’re stood straight up again. He’s reaching for your broomstick, you instinctively yank it back but he sticks you with a firm look and his thumb is unexpectedly soft where it caresses over your knuckle wrapped around the handle. 

Your grip loosens and he perches the broomstick over his shoulder with ease. He surprises you again by taking half the load of laundry in your arms into his own. 

“C’mon, before someone catches us out here. I’m not doing any more detention because of you.” 

He’s already three feet ahead when blood rushes down to your legs, prompting them to chase after his figure. The movement is easier, lightened by Oliver’s surprise act of kindness. 

You fall into step beside him, half-tempted to comment on his willingness to share your burden, but knowing him, one wrong word and he’d dump it all back into your arms. 

It’s quiet. 

You don’t make a move to talk and Oliver doesn’t look your way. It dawns on you that Gryffindor dormitory is in the other direction and you’re still deciding whether to feel guilty or flattered over the fact when Oliver speaks. 

“Why’re you out here alone?” 

You look, met with the side of his face: it’s still like he hadn’t said anything at all. There’s a tugging instinct to snap at him. 

Why do you care? 

But his tone is perceptibly gentle enough that you think maybe, just this once, it won’t end in an argument. You test the tepid waters. 

“Uh …” your head knocks sideways, tilted as you speak. “I let the team come up early while I sorted the quaffles in the sports closet by the pitch. Didn’t want them walking up in the dark.” 

You’re tempted to mention that it was his team last week that left it in such a mess. You don’t. 

"And now you’re walking in the dark yourself? Smart move, princess."

Your breath hitches. 

It’s not the first time he’s called you that. Princess. A couple times over the years, usually in the heat of a spiraling argument, but never so benign. While still ungentle, the tone is soft enough that it rings in your ears.

You choose not to succumb to the antagonization of his reply. Humming, you shrug. "Rather me than them."

His eyes flicker, almost barely, to the high apple of your cheek. You notice in the corner of your eye how his jaw twitches, like he wants to say something. 

He seemingly decides otherwise because he focuses his eyes ahead of him and stays silent. 

The overhanging ceiling art is sloping down, air going sticky with the scents of the kitchen the further you go: it’s the trademark of the approaching Hufflepuff common room. 

Another two turns and it will be the end of your little journey with Oliver Wood.

"‘M surprised Ryo didn’t walk you up."

You're more surprised than you've been since finding him, eyes widening in confusion. He grants you another look out the side of his eye.

"How do you know about that?"

Oliver shrugs, shifting your broomstick to the other shoulder.

"The whole world saw your little date down at Madam Puddifoot's the other day."

Of course. Word travels faster through seventh year than a new Firebolt.

"Yeah. Well." You hum. "That's not gonna be happening again anytime soon.” 

It had all been good and well. The rush of having Ryo Yoshida, Hogwart's most eligible bachelor, ask you out and - to be fair - the date had been fine. Ryo was funny and made good conversation but nothing near thrilling enough to daydream over and you'd allowed yourself to brush over a couple red flags because of it, until Cherry came bursting into your dormitory less than a day after your date relaying how he'd caught her between classes to ask her out to the same spot.

"Why's that?"

You're confused now, why Oliver cares or how he'd become curious enough to actually ask. You're even more confused as to why you decide to answer him. You shrug, "He asked Cherry out the very next day. She said no, obviously, but that was enough to let the whole thing go."

You expect him to say something malicious, quip something spiteful about What you did you think would happen? You're nowhere near in his league.

He doesn't.

"He's an idiot."

Not for the first time in the last five minutes, you're not sure what to say. You think this is the longest a conversation has gone without an argument. You sigh, "Yeah."

The stack-up of barrels comes into view. You dig into you the deep pocket on the inside of your robe, emerging with your wand.

Oliver stops, eyes flickering between the barrels and his shining black boots.

You step ahead, tapping the barrels in the rhythm that's become second-nature and the entryway opens.

Turning to him, you offer out an arm and he sets the robes back into your hands. The awkwardness is stifling. He leans forward, tucking the broomstick under your arm, hand wavering to make sure it doesn't fall again. The gesture makes the hold in your knees wobbly.

He nods. "Right. Goodnight."

You nod back, so quickly that you hear your earrings jingle. "Yeah, g'night."

Oliver turns, marching back the way you came and you watch him: biting your bottom lip so hard you're half expecting to draw blood.

"Thank you!" It leaps from your mouth before you have you moment to let it marinate on your tongue. You wince immediately.

He pauses, turning halfway on his heel. He smiles, it's not wide enough for teeth, but definitely wide enough to have your heart falling through your stomach. He nods again and then he's gone.

-

Saturday arrives gloomy and dripping.

It makes for good quidditch conditions, but the chill in the air is still hard to ignore when you step out into mushy grass under stadium lights. The roar of the crowd nearly deafens you, but it'll only take a couple minutes in the air for it to burn down to a soft hum.

In the middle of the stadium floor: Hooch is standing with a whistle to her lips, her figure blurred by the drizzle. Oliver stands beside her, and behind you, your team is clambering onto their brooms and rising into the air with the freshly washed kit over their backs.

You go to walk, but the icy glance Oliver is sending your way convinces you into a jog. He's always impatient before a game, itchy, antsy.

"On time as usual." Hooch hums when you land beside her.

"Got the whole bloody school waiting on her." Oliver mutters but Hooch shrugs him off, pulling the game coin out from inside her robes.

"Perfect." She positions it so we can see, "Gryffindor?"

Oliver straightens out, chest swelling: "Heads."

Hooch nods and before you can suck in another breath, the coin is in the air. She catches it with a skilled hand, flipping and revealing it to the set of captains.

"Hufflepuff, first ball!" She shouts loud enough that the floating players can hear. They nod, some groaning.

The coach turns back on the captains, "I want a fair game kids, no fighting."

"Me and Ollie? Fight?" You smile, "Never, coach."

Oliver rolls his eyes. "Yes, coach."

Suddenly you're above the pitch, sucking in breaths of wet air and struck with that familiar feeling like you could conquer the world on just your broomstick.

The quaffle flies and you stoop to catch it, twisting around Alicia Spinnet to snatch the ball before she's even noticed you're there.

Rain pelts on heads and the game goes on.

Oliver is shouting like a madman from his place in front of the goals behind you - you’ve long learnt to drown it out. He does it half to annoy his own team and half to distract yours. 

You're spinning, flying, swooping and - as you predicted - the crowd has become a distant call, a blurring sight of yellow and red.

An hour passes and the game is already halfway into the next when there's a rise in the crowd. It's not the normal yells and whoops and hollers, but you still don't look up: you're calling over to Jane and Wyatt, your beaters.

“Get between the twins, and stay there!” 

Below, Harry Potter and your own seeker, Cedric Diggory, are flying in circles around each other. The call of Cedric's name is on the tip of your tongue when there’s another ripple of sound off the crowd and this one draws your eyes. It’s there for a second before you find the army of figures descending on the pitch. 

Your breath catches in your throat, freezing solid so you can’t swallow. 

The dementors are even more ghostly this close. You'd never seen so many.

A darkness is permeating the air, the sight of the supporters in the stand dissipating into black. They’re floating in from every corner, drifting at a pace that’s too fast for you to make a move in any direction. 

There’s a scream and your gaze finds the body falling through the sky: it’s Harry.

The ground is racing up to meet him and adrenaline drives your hand to tip your broom, to chase after his quickly disappearing shape when a blurry figure blocks your way. 

Someone yells your name but you don’t hear it. 

You’d never imagined examining a dementor, much less this up close, but even if you had: nothing your imagination could conjure up would ever come close to the harrowing darkness of its empty eye-sockets. 

Its silhouette spreads over every corner of your vision, black like night and blocking the view of the sky. Your nose is so close you could tip forward and meet it's silken cloak.

A cold washes over your body like you've never felt, like you're freezing over: ice creeping up your fingertips, shoulders and face.

Your brain looses all grip on thought, replaced with a seeping dread. It barely acknowledges where a scabbed, decomposing hand is reaching out to you.

Charcoal fingertips brush your cheek when you're tugged back, all the way off your broomstick.

There's not even a last coherent thought to panic when you're engulfed in a warm chest, a hand stabilising around your waist onto a new broomstick. It dips and the green grass is reaching up to you.

The new heat engulfs you through to your bones. You grasp blindly for the expanse of a thick veined neck, wrapping yourself around him.

Digging your face into his shoulder, it takes one glance at the scarlet robes to know who it is. Oliver's panting, one hand holding you against him while the other steers the broomstick down to the floor.

You're trembling, no thought occupying any space beyond Oliver, Oliver, Oliver, Oliver--

"What the bloody hell were you thinking?"

The voice is distant, said against your temple but echoing as if from the end of a long corridor. You don't register where hot tears are wetting your cheeks, erupting over your face without being called.

His words prompt you closer: a tight arm furling over his shoulders and wrapping around him like a vine around an old tree.

"O-Oliver ..."

The hand over your waist tightens. "Sh ... it's fine. You're fine."

The broomstick lands shakily, Oliver's boots squelching into muddy grass. You barely realise you're back on ground when another hand is tugging you off, but you cling tighter to the sweaty red neck: shaking your wet face against his well-pressed robes.

"C'mon, princess ..." His calloused hands pry you from him, gently like you're a piece of china sitting on the very edge of a high shelf. "It's Pomfrey, she's gonna look after you."

You think you feel a kiss press into your hairline before you're being scooped up into a new set of arms. Madam Pomfrey is warm too, smelling like antiseptic and maple syrup.

There's another swell of noise erupting from the supporters above and you're being lead away.

Oliver watches your figure, slumped against the school nurse until you've disappeared into the medical tent.

His heart is going wild, slamming against the walls of his ribcage. Beside him his hands are shaking and he's sucking in thick gulps of air, he finds it still isn't enough oxygen.

There's another splatter where Angelina has landed a few feet behind him. She's panting too, tugging on the edge of his robes and pointing up into the sky.

"Wood!" She's frantic, "They won, Cedric caught the snitch!"

His mouth is dry when he swallows. Rain catches in his eye when he looks up, half the Hufflepuff team is no longer in the sky and the Gryffindors are all on their way down.

"I ..." feeling is returning to his fingertips, "is ... where's Harry?"

Angelina points in the direction of the medical tent. Above, the pitch is engulfed in a bright white light and Oliver catches the wispy end of a shining phoenix chasing between disappearing Dementors. It's a patronus. Dumbledore's, Oliver figures somewhere in his muddy brain.

"Is everyone else okay?"

Angelina nods. Her eyes flicker to the medical tent then back at him. "Is she?"

The image returns to him: the mass of darkness engulfing your figure in the sky. The terror that ripped through him like he was being torn apart from the inside, the whistle of the wind that stung over his ears and how it blocked out his mutterings of please, please, please--

He shakes his head. "She's too tough for her own good. She'll ... she'll be fine."

But it comes out like he's trying to convince himself more than Angelina.

-

Oliver doesn't see you for a few days.

Two, to be exact, and his skin itches the entire time. A deep itch, like it's coming from his bones.

It's only on Monday evening at dinner, with the Hufflepuff table whooping, that you come strolling back into the light of his eyes.

Your head is down, flushed with all the attention, and when you sit, kids are rising from their seats to tackle you into side hugs. He can tell you're embarrassed but he can't gather himself enough to care: the warm rush of relief flooding his stomach so much so that if he dared open his mouth it would all come rushing out.

You look fine. All limbs attached and smiling, it settles him.

He doesn't snap at Archie when he knocks his shoulder with a "you're staring" and his dinner suddenly looks more appetising when he peels his eyes off your figure down to his plate. He finds that he doesn't care as much as he usually does where Enzo's lanky arm is strung over your shoulder.

The week passes in a flurry.

While you share several classes, Oliver doesn't share a single word with you. It's hard not to notice that you're working very hard not to interact with him.

In Muggle Studies, you arrive late and keep your nose tucked deep into the pages of a textbook he knows you couldn't care less about. You're up and out of the classroom before he's even zipped up his bag. It's the same in Potions and Arithmacy.

While going days without talking to each other is not unusual, this time he can tell it’s on purpose. He pretends that he doesn't care.

The rain has cleared and when Friday arrives the sunset is red and orange and purple, granting Oliver with a rare enchanting view out his bedroom window where it's setting behind the East tower.

It's in this quiet, peaceful moment that Archie comes bouncing in with some news of a party happening in the Ravenclaw dormitory.

He's indifferent but Archie is nothing if not convincing.

"Come on, dude. You're literally a hermit crab." He sighs, falling back against his own poster bed across Oliver's. "There will be girls."

"There's girls everywhere, Arch."

His eyebrows wiggle, "And alcohol."

It takes a bit more pestering and the Weasley twins rushing in after him with the same news (and a far less patient approach) to get him up off his bed.

He digs in his cupboard for the last pair of clean jeans and a somewhat suitable purple jumper, tugging them on with a grumble, before he's being dragged by both arms - a twin on each side - across the castle to the West tower wherein resides the Ravenclaw population.

The common room is bustling with seventh years, he recognises them from all houses, and a table set up to the side with some trays of food. He's barely made himself comfortable when Katie Bell is shoving a red solo cup into his hand:

"It's Angelina's brew." She informs him.

He can believe that. The liquid is strong, burning down his throat followed by the barely there after-taste of pumpkin juice. Oliver downs the whole thing in one go.

The music swells louder and he's three cups of Angelina's concoction deep when you come tumbling through the entrance portal.

You're drunk yourself, he can tell by the way you're giggling and half leaning on Cherry Stretton. Bumping through people, not passing without leaning back to apologise to them tipsily, you head straight into the arms of Angelina and Alicia Spinnet. They smile in surprise, engulfing you in their arms.

Despite his and your long-held rivalry, it had done nothing to stop the rest of his team from sweetening up to you. The twins called you their favourite yellow tie at regular intervals and the girls found you nothing less than endearing. Oliver could lie and say he hated it.

Instead, he wrestles his way to where Katie is situated with more to drink, filling his cup and downing it.

-

The room is twisting in a flurry of colours and faces and it's the lightest you've felt in almost a week. You giggle against Enzo, his dreads tucked safely back in a bun while Cedric sets a Dragon-Barrel Brandy shot on fire and hands it carefully over.

Enzo's head knocks back, slipping the burning liquid down his throat with a wince. There's a cheer at his accomplishment, and suddenly Cedric's knocking your elbow: "you're next, Cap!"

After the match-gone-wrong, Madam Pomfrey had held you down in the infirmary until Monday morning. You were fed copious amounts of chocolate - in the form of bars and drinks and cakes and ice creams. By Saturday night you were - surely a couple kilograms heavier - and feeling fine, but Pomfrey was nothing if not paranoid:

"That was no light ordeal you went through, dear. I'm not letting you out of my sight until I'm happy with you."

In all honesty, you'd prefer if the whole school forgot it ever happened.

If Pomfrey didn't fret and your friends didn't come by every meal time and your team stopped sending you get better! letters and nobody mentioned it ever again.

More than anyone, you wished Oliver would forget. The ordeal, or maybe just you as a person.

You'd made a stupid decision under the heat of stadium lights and the influence of racing adrenaline, trying to chase for Harry, and he'd made a stupider decision coming to save you from yourself.

When it got quiet in the infirmary past dusk and Harry's shadowy figure was long since snoring in the bed across yours, you could feel Oliver's touch. Could feel it's strong hold wrapped around your waist and the voice against you the back of your neck and the lips at your temple.

You never reminisced long: for with his touch came the writhing, scalding fear burrowing a hole in your chest.

He could tease you, he will tease you.

Oliver had saved you from the clutches of a dementor moments from your soul being sucked out your body and you'd cried in his chest the whole time, refused to let him go in front of the whole school. It was a mortification you would never live down. And if Oliver decided he was going to use it against you, even once, you were sure you'd melt into the floor in shame.

It's what's made the Firewhiskey and Lemon squash concoction Cherry had handed you back in her room so easy to toss back. It stung and steam rose out your mouth where you'd panted for air. There was another ... and another, they went down the same.

The walk across the castle to reach the Ravenclaw Tower had been wobbly and you'd laughed with your friends loud enough to wake up the whole castle you're sure, but it dissolved the fear that clung to your bones. The fear that he was here, lingering between the people in the crowded blue common room.

Now the liquor is fading. Numbing to a dull buzz and you decline Cedric's offer at a burning shot, thinking about how proud you'll be of yourself when you wake up tomorrow morning in bed rather than wrapped around a toilet seat and hauling up guts into the bowl.

The party, not unlike yourself, is dimming.

Students are crawling away into all corners, each with their own excuse. I have a potions essay to do or No, dude, I'm too drunk for this or Flint wants us down at the pitch for drills at eight tomorrow morning, I gotta head to bed.

The crowd, though thinning, is beginning to clump into respective circles across the room. You glance annoyed at the fireplace where the flames crack merrily. Even with your short skirt and thin satin top, the heat of the common room is stifling.

Enzo is on his fourth burning shot, it's lost it's appeal to the crowd but he seems undeterred, knocking Cedric in the shoulder with the empty shot glass motioning: another! You yawn, playing mindlessly with the ruffled sleeve of your shirt.

"Oh no," A harsh tug at your hand draws you from the lure of sleep that's fogging your mind. "The night is young, no yawning!"

Cherry has your wrist in her grip, Enzo's in the other. He blinks blearily down at his friends.

"Huh?"

"Come on," Cherry's brown eyes roll far back in her head. "Fred says they're starting Seven Minutes In Heaven. Let's go join--"

"Seven minutes--?" you laugh between words, "Cher, are you mad?"

She whines, pouting like a kicked dog. "It'll be fun. Besides, when last did you have a good fucking snog? Too long, I say!"

Somehow, you're not only convinced across the room into a spot onto the floor in a circle of a couple others, but a drink has ended up in your hand and its contents quickly down your gullet.

For the nerves, you assure yourself.

Before you know it, Angelina - who's conveniently settled beside you - is topping up your plastic cup with a nearly empty bottle of Daisyroot Draught. "This is the good stuff. Katie stashed it in, her sister works at a brewery."

You smile nervously, nod, and take a tentative sip. The pre-existing buzz in your head convinces you it's not so bad.

In the circle is a couple Gryffindors you recognise, some giggling Slytherin girls, a Ravenclaw you can't name and three members of your quidditch team. There's an open spot on the side you don't take note of.

That is until Archie Kumar is steering a grumpy, visibly drunk Oliver Wood into the open place and collapsing beside him.

Your breath catches in your throat, heart sinking into your stomach like a stone. You're halfway off the floor, suddenly desperate for the loo, when Cherry - on your left side - drags you back down to the floor.

Maybe it's Katie's sister's brew, but you tumble too easily back onto your bum.

"Relax. Just don't look at him, okay?"

You suck in another breath, eyes trained on the white moon outline sewn into the rug. "Yeah ... okay."

It doesn't hold long and when you find the Gryffindor captain again, his gaze is trained on your face. It's stone cold. You gasp quietly and look away.

"Right!" George Weasley is on his feet, setting an empty Firewhisky bottle into the centre. "Who's first?"

Alicia shuffles forward on her knees, the first of the group to move, and the bottle goes spinning. It lands on the Ravenclaw boy. He grins and she does too: Fred wolf-whistles when they stand.

The "heaven" in question is a tall oak cabinet leaning against the back wall of the common room. The pair disappear into its depths and conversation rises again as the circle waits.

You sip your drink in large gulps, trying to hold conversation with Angelina against Oliver's hot gaze that's burning a hole through the side of your face. It's difficult: the Gryffindor girl is so drunk that she's talking with her eyes closed.

Seven minutes later, there's a chorus of "time's up!", Alicia and the boy emerge another ten seconds later. They're rearranging their clothes and Alicia is as scarlet as her quidditch robes. The boy is grinning like the cat who caught the canary. You're suddenly struck with the violent urge to throw up.

The game goes on like that, round after round. Lee Jordan and Jane Emmet (your beater), Katie and Wyatt (your other beater), Cherry and a pretty Slytherin girl you don't know - she's especially chuffed when she returns, red lipstick smeared over her chin.

You're working very hard not to look at Oliver, much less think about him, but it's proving difficult. Every time the bottle takes its spin, your stomach churns.

It had occurred to you during the time that Alicia and that boy were in the closet that there was a very real chance that Oliver could be called up when one of those pretty Slytherins take their turn at the bottle. The thought had made you down the last of your drink and immediately want to vomit it all back up into your cup.

The image of their slender arms curling around his criminally wide-set shoulders, Oliver pushing them back against the inside wall of the grand closet. Would he make noise? Would he sigh or groan against their lips or whisper something about how beautiful they looked tonight in their ears--

"Ollie, you're up mate."

You can't remember who said it, but the words stripped your gaze off Angelina and straight into the pooling brown eyes you'd been avoiding all week long.

He sighed, grumbling under his breath and only with a less-than-gentle nudge from Archie, did he lean up on thighs that flexed unfairly -- bloody hell, stop it! -- and wrap his hand over the neck of the bottle: it went spinning.

The only sound you could hear was the twist of the glass against the woven rug and the hum of your own blood rushing past your ears. It stopped.

"No fucking ways." Enzo cracked from two people down.

A hand landed on your shoulder, shaking you half off your arse: Angelina. "You're up, babe! Go!"

The bottle was pointing irrefutably at your little spot in the circle.

Oliver's face was as white as you'd ever seen it when you dared look up.

"I-I'm not going in with him--" It was the first thing that came to your mind and went spluttering out your mouth.

George was laughing so hard that he'd fallen all the way onto his back. The roar of the group was ear-splitting.

"There's no ways I'm going in with her!"

"Let's end this feud once and for all," Katie bellowed over their heads. "Captain versus captain!"

You're being knocked from all sides, hands crawling under your arms and lifting you off the floor. Across the circle, Oliver is experiencing the same and before you know it: the wooden doors of the cabinet are creaking open.

"Go on!" Lee's finger is piercing your side.

Oliver is beside you but you won't look. You take one last look over your shoulder at Cherry back on the floor, she does nothing but offer a sympathetic shrug and mouths "sorry, dear".

Your hand reaches before Oliver's, flinging the door open with maybe a little too much force. It bangs against the wall behind it.

"Let's get this over with." You mumble, only half concerned that he heard you.

You slouch climbing in, the top is low and the space is even more cramped than what you assumed. To your surprise, Oliver is stepping in after you. He takes his turn at slamming the door, shutting it this time.

It's dark inside, but not enough that you can't see. Light is peaking in through the cracks and he's leaned back against the opposite wall to you.

In the narrow space, your legs are twisting around each other to stand: his one knee situated between yours. In the dimness, he folds his arms and you notice for the first time the jumper he's wearing. The purple one, you recognise it as the one he's had for years. Time has taken its toll where the jumper is clinging to life around his frame, Oliver having grown at least three times wider while the jumper has remained the same size.

"Go on, Wood, give her a kiss!"

The voice is unrecognisable but it knocks your tongue back into your mouth where you'd been ogling at his torso.

His arms are folded, proffering you with a glare that could cut through steel. He makes no visible sign that he'd heard the shout at all. You mirror him, folding your own arms.

"I'm not kissing you."

His head cocks. "Oh, so you're talking to me now?"

You suck in a sharp breath. It's not the response you're anticipating. "What?"

"So we're playing dumb?" He leans just a fraction closer. You can smell the linger of alcohol on his breath, but it doesn't work hard enough to drown out the smell of peppermint that follows him around. "Doesn't suit you, princess."

"I'm not playing anything. I don't know what you're talking about." You double down. It's probably not sustainable but the heat of his body almost against yours and the thrum of liquor in your blood makes the decision for you.

"Y've been avoiding me all week."

"I haven't"

"You're a bad liar."

You swallow hard. Embarrassment is rising again, making your head spin. Oliver's chest is puffed up in anger, you can tell because you've had five years to learn the look like the back of your hand. Except, now - as it has been for a longer time than you care to admit - it's harder to focus on the waves of fury reflecting off of him when his face is just so ... beautiful. Nose scrunched and lips pulled tight into a grimace.

It's what makes you change tactics, you think.

"So what if I was? Why does it matter?"

His arms unfold, eyes rolling so far that his head knocks back against the wood of the cupboard.

"Why?" you press, "Did you miss me, Wood?"

"Maybe I did."

He's looking at you again. For what feels like the hundredth time just tonight, your breath escapes you in a rush and your lungs struggle to grasp back at it. Your face softens without meaning to.

You blink at him.

"You did?" It's a whisper.

His arms are still folded but something clement passes like a shadow over his features.

"No."

His face betrays his words, eyes soft and lip daring to curl up at the edge.

The air in the tight space goes cold. Or maybe it's your blood. It's more likely the look on Oliver's face: like he hasn't just turned your organs to slush. You're all the way sober now.

"I'm not kissing you." You repeat dumbly, but it's gentle.

Merlin, you want to kiss him so fucking badly.

"You mentioned." He's almost, almost, smiling. It's gentle too.

The space between you falls quiet. You're suddenly overly focused on the brush of his knee between yours. His swirling brown eyes catch on the split of light creeping in past the hinge on the door.

It stays like that until your voice creeps nervously out. "I was embarrassed. Am, I am embarrassed."

A thick brow tightens in confusion. "Why?"

You huff, almost annoyed. Your eyes train on a dark spot by your intertwined feet. "Come on, Wood."

"What, about the match?" The alcohol thickens his accent.

Your silence seems to answer his question. The apples of your cheeks are warming again.

"What was I supposed to do, leave you to have you bloody soul sucked out yer body?" His voice is rising, "No, princess, I'm not apologising for that."

It's an outpour that you're not expecting. Oliver's clearly in the mood to shock and surprise tonight.

Your lips tighten around the words that are all fighting for the spot at the tip of your tongue. Silence reigns while they argue, he's still watching you with exasperation set into the lines of his face.

"Princess." You settle.

His expression twists again. "What?"

"You always call me that. Why?" It's a question that you buried long ago. But his proximity, in conjunction with the night you've had, unearths it.

It's his turn to look surprised. He grumbles some indiscernable Scottish blabber before-- "It's because y'are a princess. Spoilt and bratty. Always gets her way."

There's no malice to his response, you find. It draws a chuckle from the depths of your chest.

"Aye, right." You mimic his accent and his quip, one he's used many times at you.

He laughs. It's not a sound you hear often and it's setting your whole nervous system alight like a tangled bunch of christmas lights. His whole body's shaking with it, head resting back against the wood again, and you really do think you might grab him and kiss him -- when the door flies open again: seeping his whole body in yellow light.

Alicia's standing at the opening, grin wide as night is wide and clearly expectant on catching you with your tongues down each other's throats.

If she'd given you another three seconds she just might have.

"Oh." She slumps in disappointment, looking back over her shoulder and shaking her head to the expectant crowd. They groan collectively. "Well, love birds, your time is up."

You'd almost forgotten where you were. Oliver clears his throat, the ghost of his laugh impossible to find on his face, and clambers over your legs out into the common room again. He doesn't pass without brushing his hand over yours.

-

It's nearly three in the morning when Enzo finally lets up.

His long legs are sprawled across the midnight blue couch in the middle of the common room. Fiona, a lovely Ravenclaw girl you'd met just tonight, shrugs at you: "Don't stress it. He can crash here tonight."

The party is long since dead. Seven Minutes In Heaven had looped another three rounds before everyone had gotten their chance in the dusty cupboard and began to grumble in boredom.

You'd avoided Oliver's eyes the whole time again, sure that if you looked he'd be able to read the fondness on your face.

It wasn't long after that the last of the students dissolved in the direction of their respective bedrooms. With your dear friend in good hands with the Ravenclaws, you loop your arm with Cherry - knocking against her side towards the portal.

You've barely pushed it ajar when she breaks off you, "Hold on, I need to get my Transfig notes from Jacob!"

"Cher, it's three in the morning?"

Alcohol is directing her legs in the opposite direction clumsily, "I'll wake him. If I fail another quiz, Mcgee's gonna have my arse."

She's gone before she catches your call: "I'll find you outside!"

The portal creaks where you shove it open again. The corridor is dimly lit and colder than the common room and a shiver chases up your exposed legs.

"Bloody hell." You run a hand over your forearms.

It's quiet too, and empty besides the Gryffindor captain leaning against the stone wall closest to the entrance you've just emerged from.

"Merlin," your eyes find his. "Not you again."

The flush over your cheeks is warding off the chill.

Oliver shrugs. "Me again."

An awkward silence permeates. Against better judgement, you shuffle forward, leaning against the wall beside him. He doesn't react, arms folded and staring into the inky abyss of the corridor leading out to the rest of the castle.

"Why're you out here?" You ask, tucking your hands between your back and the wall.

"Archie." He huffs out, voice wrapped in annoyance. "He's in there with Penelope. I gave him ten minutes."

Ah, Penelope Clearwater. She'd joined the game in the last round. A good thing too because Oliver's friend was looking more crestfallen as the bottle spun again and again, surpassing him each time. Penelope had taken the last turn, ending up with her hair in every direction and Archie's spectacles leaning half off his face when they emerged from the cupboard.

"You?"

The eddy of average conversation is strange, but you find you like it.

"Cherry." You hum. "Something about quiz notes."

He drops his head back against the wall.

"That what they calling it now?"

It startles you, head tilting to stare up at the side of his face with a grin: "oh, Wood’s got jokes now? I didn’t know it was possible for you to make a joke."

His eyes flutter shut, a twinkle of laughter bubbling out of his frame. Tucking his head down to his chest, he shrugs against his own light chuckle. "I have them. I just don’t share them with you."

You giggle back at him. "Right. Well then you better stop smiling there, someone might walk past and think we’re friends."

He shakes his head, the sound of his snicker fading but leaving behind the imprint of a smile. "Nobody’s gonna think that."

You lean back again, eyes drifting over the low ceiling. Quiet falls again - not uncomfortable - and you let it linger for a moment. A thought tugs on a loose string in your mind, not a new one, but one you’ve carefully buried over time.

It comes falling out your mouth. "You ever think about how it might be ... if things were different?"

The question grants you a look out the side of his eye. "Different?"

"Y’know," you shrug, the very last remains of alcohol are ebbing and unsureness is replacing where it stood. "If we … we had—"

"If you hadn’t suckered me in the bloody nose?" His words are unexpectedly fond.

You laugh at him, "If you hadn’t deserved to be suckered in the bloody nose."

He draws in a long breath, not answering. It prompts you.

"We could have been friends." You whisper, more to your chest than to him really.

But he hears it. "We would never be friends."

It stings sharper than it should. Your shoulders go stiff and the corners of your eyes sting inexplicably, turning the corridor blurry. A dying fire revives in your chest, blistering the cave, reminding you why Oliver Wood has been nothing but a stake in your side since you were thirteen years old.

"Of course. How stupid of me, for a minute I forgot what an absolute arsehole you are." You push off the wall, intent in going to dig out Cherry from the depths of the Ravenclaw dormitory. "Goodnight, Wood."

An arm wraps around your waist, not unlike it'd done a week ago in the air of the quidditch pitch, lurching you into him until you're pressed back against the cool stone of the corridor wall.

Oliver looms over you, crouched so that your nose bumps against his. "Don't sulk, princess."

It all happens at once: his hands grab onto the fat of your hips, digging in there like he really does hate you, and lips crash against yours like maybe he doesn't at all.

He stays there, unmoving for a second that feels a year long.

Where the inside of your brain had been buzzing with runaway threads of thought, ribbons streaking out in all directions: they disappear in a sizzling light. Oliver Wood is kissing me.

You melt against him, tipping up onto your toes and latch onto muscled shoulders. He seemingly takes that as his cue, pressing you closer against his body with his arm - lifting you half off the wall.

He tastes like the remnants of Firewhisky and pumpkin juice, the flavour setting every nerve ending in your body on fire. Lips soft but persistent while his hands grip onto you like you'd dissolve into dust if he didn't.

It's aggressive, but familiar in that way. Oliver is nothing if not hot-blooded and his touch, darting between your hips and your face is turning you tipsy again.

"If you want a friend," It's muffled when he speaks, punctuating his words with hot wet kisses, "go be friends with Ryo."

It's only in this moment, with his desperation mirroring in the glimpses of sugar brown irises you catch where he's fluttering his eyes over your face, that it dawns on you.

"Jealous much?"

He growls lowly and it makes you giggle against him, your hands slithering up into the hairs at the base of his neck. Oliver shakes his head against you, still huffing in disbelief.

"Shut up." It's accent-heavy and bleeds a hole through the bottom of your stomach. "You're such a fucking brat."

"And you're a fucking prick."

He huffs lowly, you press harder to him: solidifying the sentiment. Somehow the bickering makes it all sweeter, like you're dissolving cotton candy against your tongue where his swoops over it.

You'd just about forgotten where you were when a creak echoes down the corridor. Halfway to ignoring it in favour of Oliver's touch, your situation dawns on you in the same moment it does him.

Like you'd both licked the end of a live wire, you and Oliver jolt back a foot, hands diving to your respective sides.

Cherry is standing against the light of the common room behind her, a lanky Archie parked beside her. Their eyes are wide and Cherry's hand is against her jaw in shock.

"Oh my god." She mumbles against it.

Blood is rushing to your face and out the corner of your eye, Oliver is running a hand over the hair that's sticking in all directions from the influence of your fingers.

Cherry is laughing breathily, eyes still wide and white in surprise. "Oh my god."

Archie's eyes are flickering between you and Oliver.

"Sorry to interrupt." He says, a smirk curling onto his features.

It jumpstarts your entire system. You step forward, grabbing Cherry by the arm.

"Well," you nod at Archie and at Oliver, not daring to meet his eyes, "goodnight then."

You march with fervour, half-dragging her in the direction of the Hufflepuff common room until your figure disappears behind the next corridor.

Oliver stands with his hands hanging at his side dumbly. He swipes a finger of his bottom lip, still tasting the strawberry lip gloss you'd left there.

"Can't say I didn't see this coming, mate." A hand claps over his shoulder.

He groans, running both hands over his face, and Archie shakes him lightly.

"So ... how was it?"

With another groan, Oliver shoves Archie's hand off of him. "Bloody hell, Arch."

Archie throws his head of curly black hair back, laughing so loud it bounces off the wall. "That good, huh?"

(part two/final part)

-

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As a child, Harry had once stumbled across a series of books Dudley had received for his birthday—a gift he’d promptly discarded in a tantrum after declaring he’d wanted a new gaming system instead.

Harry hadn’t exactly known how to read at the time. He’d pieced words together slowly, sounding them out in whispers late at night beneath his cupboard blanket. But somehow, he’d managed to salvage one of the books from the rubbish bin, thankfully not too stained or torn.

That rescued copy had become one of his most prized possessions.

Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief.

He’d read it over and over again until the spine cracked and the pages softened at the edges. He remembered thinking, even at ten years old, how impossibly oblivious Percy was. How could someone be so blind? Annabeth’s feelings were practically written in flashing neon letters. Surely anyone with half a brain—or at the very least, a pulse—could sense what was happening around them.

Harry had thought it ridiculous.

Fate, apparently, had thought it hilarious.

By the time he reached his sixth year at Hogwarts, it seemed the universe had turned around, smacked him square in the face with that old paperback, and laughed.

Because he had somehow managed to fall hopelessly, painfully, irrevocably in love with one of the most emotionally intelligent people he knew—

And you were completely, utterly oblivious.

The irony was cruel.

You, who had noticed Ron’s ears turning red every time Hermione spoke too passionately about something. You, who had quietly pulled Harry aside months before anyone else caught on and said, “Ron’s falling for her, isn’t he?”

You, who had called Seamus out for his embarrassingly obvious crush on Lavender Brown, comparing him to a child tugging at pigtails during playtime just to get a reaction.

You, who could tell Hermione was in a foul mood simply based on the way she tied her hair that morning.

You—who read people like open books.

Couldn’t tell that your best friend was madly in love with you.

And had been for two years.

At first, Harry had thought he was doing a decent job hiding it. He wasn’t exactly known for emotional finesse—Hermione had smacked him upside the head more than once for being clueless—but he figured he could at least manage subtlety.

Apparently not.

Hermione had fixed him with a long, unimpressed stare one afternoon in the common room and said, very slowly, “Harry. You follow every word she says like a lap dog. You are not fooling anyone.”

He’d nearly choked on his tea.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Ron had snorted. Hermione had rolled her eyes.

The worst part?

They were right.

Everyone had noticed.

Everyone—except you.

So Harry tried something different.

He stopped hiding.

He started calling group outings with Ron and Hermione “double dates,” saying it lightly, casually, as if it were a joke—but watching you carefully for any sign of understanding.

There was none.

He’d draped his arm around your shoulders whenever you sat beside him, heart hammering as you leaned into him without hesitation.

You’d only smiled and continued talking, completely unfazed.

Last Valentine’s Day, he’d even gathered the courage to give you a card.

Not anonymous. Not vague.

A proper Valentine.

You’d stared at it for a moment, eyes wide and soft, and then you’d hugged him tightly.

“That’s so sweet of you, Harry,” you’d said. “You didn’t want me to feel left out.”

He’d felt something in his chest cave in so suddenly he’d almost wondered if it would show on his face.

That was the day he’d given up.

You clearly weren’t interested. You clearly didn’t see him that way. Because surely—surely—no one could be that blind. Not you. Not the person who noticed everything.

And yet.

He still didn’t tell you.

He couldn’t.

Because losing you altogether was not an option.

He could survive loving you quietly. He could survive pretending. He could survive swallowing it down every time you curled into his side or stole his jumpers or whispered that he was your safe place.

But he could not survive you walking away.

That would undo him in ways even Voldemort never had.

So he chose silence.

He chose the quiet torture of it.

And he told himself that it was enough.

It had to be.

But Merlin—

You made it painfully, excruciatingly difficult.

It was one of those mornings where his uniform just didn’t want to listen. Harry had barely managed to get dressed. His shirt was wrinkled and stubbornly refusing to stay tucked into his pants, and his tie… well, his tie was acting like it had a mind of its own. No matter how many times he twisted and adjusted it, it refused to sit flat.

Part of him wanted to leave it in his dorm and run late, but he’d already lost two points for Gryffindor yesterday—leaving his robes behind because he was far too warm—and he’d be damned if he lost more, not when Slytherin was creeping up.

So instead, he kept undoing and redoing the insipid tie, the knot now looking like a wriggling little snake.

“Oh, this is driving me crazy.” You said, stepping up to him like you did any other day, batting his hands away from the tie.

Before he could respond, you were behind him, hands on his shoulders, fingers brushing the collar of his shirt. He froze.

“Stay still, Haz.” You reached around him, adjusting the knot with the precision of someone who had done it a hundred times before. Your fingers lingered at his throat, and Harry’s stomach decided to stop functioning altogether.

He watched your soft hands, then flicked his gaze to your face, keeping his breath shallow. He dared not move too much; one accidental graze of your hand on his chest and he was certain he would faint.

“There we go,” You said happily, smoothing down his shirt, “Now you won’t lose us points for being a slob.”

There was a moment of quiet after you stepped back. Harry adjusted his glasses nervously, feeling the faint ghost of where your fingers had been. He tried to focus on the tie, but all he could think about was how effortlessly close you’d been, how natural it had felt for you to reach around him, and how his heart was hammering in his chest for no reason he could explain.

Harry wanted to argue that he was not a slob—he was a fool. A fool for you. But all that came out was a breathless, “Thanks.”

You shrugged, smiling faintly. “Anytime.” And with that, you were gone, leaving Harry standing in the common room, sparks crawling down his body from where your hands had pressed against his shoulders.

It started with a bang.

Not a catastrophic one—not the sort that sent stone crumbling or Death Eaters Apparating—but the unmistakable crack of a spell gone wrong, followed by the shrill screech of something that definitely should not have been screeching at two in the morning.

Harry was upright in bed before he was fully conscious.

“What—?” Ron mumbled from across the dormitory, hair sticking up even worse than usual.

The corridor outside erupted into noise. Doors opening. Voices overlapping. Someone shouting, “Seamus, I swear—”

Harry shoved on a pair of joggers and grabbed his glasses just as the portrait hole burst open downstairs and Professor McGonagall’s voice rang up the staircase.

“All students are to gather in the common room immediately!”

Brilliant.

Within minutes, the tower was chaos—students stumbling down in mismatched pajamas, half-awake and grumbling. Ron looked like he might fall asleep standing up. Dean was laughing. Seamus looked guilty.

Harry was scanning the staircase.

Hermione clambered down, hair in messy braids, Crookshanks tucked into her arms.

And then you appeared.

Sleepy. Disoriented. Rubbing at your eyes.

And—

Wearing his Quidditch jersey.

It swallowed you whole.

The hem brushed dangerously high against your thighs, revealing a pair of barely-there shorts beneath. One shoulder of the jersey slipped lower than the other, the collar stretched from wear. Your hair was a mess, curling around your face, and you looked so soft and warm and real that for a second Harry forgot how to breathe.

You padded over to him barefoot, squinting blearily as you offered him a sleepy smile, and he felt butterflies slam their insistent wings against his diaphragm. No one should look this beautiful straight after waking up.

Heat crawled up his neck.

“I—” He cleared his throat, trying very hard not to look at your legs. Or the way the fabric clung to you, “I don’t remember giving you that.”

You blinked at him, still half-asleep.

“Oh. Yeah,” You said casually, glancing down at yourself as though you’d forgotten what you were wearing, “I think I stole it, like… a year ago or something. It’s my favourite sleep shirt.”

You yawned.

Actually yawned.

As if you hadn’t just detonated something inside his ribcage.

Harry wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

But you didn’t notice.

You shuffled closer without thinking—because you always did—and leaned lightly into his side, your head brushing his shoulder as you crossed your arms against the chill of the stone floor.

It was instinctive.

Unthinking.

Comfort.

His entire body went rigid for half a second before he forced himself to relax.

For one reckless, dangerous second, something warm and foolish bloomed in his chest.

You fit far too perfectly there.

It was hard to believe you weren’t meant to be.

His arm twitched at his side, resisting the urge to wrap around you. To make the picture complete.

Instead, he swallowed.

“You could’ve asked.” He muttered.

You smiled without opening your eyes.

“Like you would’ve said no.”

His gaze drifted down before he could stop himself—the oversized jersey, the way it brushed your thighs, the faint outline of his old Quidditch number pressed against your chest.

His.

And yet not.

You tugged absently at the hem, “Don’t worry. I’ll give it back one day.”

He forced a shrug, “Keep it.”

You hummed contentedly and leaned into him more fully, completely unaware of the war waging inside his skull.

McGonagall was still lecturing Seamus about reckless spellwork. Students whispered. The common room buzzed with irritation and half-suppressed laughter.

Eventually, detentions were handed out and it was declared safe to return to bed. One by one, people began climbing the stairs again.

You murmured a sleepy goodnight and pressed a brief kiss to his cheek before heading up.

Harry watched your retreating figure.

And the name stretched across your back.

Potter.

Something in his chest clenched painfully.

This—this was it.

As close as he would ever get.

The only way he would ever see you with his last name.

On the back of an old, worn jersey.

Harry had been wandering the castle corridors with a tray in his hands—two steaming mugs of tea and a small plate of treacle tart he’d grabbed from the kitchens—because honestly, you looked completely drained, buried under a mountain of books in the library, and he couldn’t just leave you like that.

“Here,” He said softly, setting the tray beside you, “Thought you might need… something.”

You looked up from your notes, hair tumbling across your face, eyes half-lidded with focus. “Haz,” You murmured, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips, “You’re a lifesaver.”

Harry felt his chest warm at the soft praise, giving a small, almost embarrassed shrug, “Well… someone had to. You’ve been at this for hours.”

You took a careful sip from your tea, and your eyes flickered up at him, almost surprised. “Exactly how I like it,” You murmured, setting the mug down with a satisfied hum. You leaned back, stretching languidly, hair falling messily over your shoulders, and reached for a tart, “Honestly, you’re amazing, you know that?”

Harry blinked, trying to keep his composure. “The flies are starting to gather here because they think you’re a corpse, you know.” He teased lightly, but the truth was harder to hide. Even like this—bare-faced, hair tousled from running your hands through it constantly, lips soft and slightly bitten—you looked gorgeous. Effortless. Bright. Dangerous in a way that made his chest tighten.

He tried to act casual, sitting on the edge of the table, but his mind refused to cooperate. Every movement you made, every tilt of your head, every lazy stretch—it all pulled his attention like gravity.

Then, as if the universe were deliberately cruel, you looked straight at him. Your eyes softened, warm and unguarded, and you spoke like you weren’t even thinking about the weight of your words.

“You know,” You said casually, almost absentmindedly, “anyone who ends up with you is going to be really lucky.”

Harry froze. His stomach dropped.

“Haz?” You blinked, tilting your head slightly, noticing his silence, “Are you even listening?”

“I… yeah.” He croaked. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to throw the treacle tart at the wall. He wanted—he wanted everything that was impossible.

You smiled softly, leaning back against the table, entirely casual, completely unaware of the storm you’d just unleashed. “You’re such a great friend, you know. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you sometimes.”

Friend.

Harry’s chest tightened painfully, his throat constricting, a lump rising that refused to go down. Of course. Of course that’s how you saw him. All this praise, all this warmth… and none of it was for him in the way he longed for.

You can’t possibly say all this if you don’t have an idea, he thought bitterly. You must know… and you’re saying it anyway.

He remembered all the little ways he had shown he cared—ways no one else would notice. When Hermione had nearly ended up in the hospital wing while cramming for her OWLs, he had stayed behind in the dorm with you, drilling you with flashcards, quizzing you until your eyes drooped. You should have known that this wasn’t ordinary. That this was special treatment.

He swallowed hard, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Right. Yeah. Of course. You’re… right.”

You hummed, picking up your tea again, completely oblivious, eyes returning to your notes, leaving Harry sitting there, trembling slightly, heart racing and shattering all at once.

As soon as February first hit, Valentine’s Day decorations began infecting the castle like a rash—pink banners strung across archways, enchanted cherubs flitting through corridors with tiny golden bows, heart-shaped confetti drifting lazily from the ceiling.

Harry had never thought he’d hate the color red.

But here he was, absolutely detesting the sight of the red paper hearts hanging from every doorframe in Gryffindor Tower.

He should’ve told that blasted Hat to sort him into Slytherin.

At least then the common room wouldn’t look like it had been violently attacked by romance.

He was sitting in an armchair, pretending to read, when Ron dropped heavily into the seat across from him. Seamus sprawled on the sofa, hands tucked behind his head.

“So,” Seamus began casually, like he was commenting on the weather, “Valentine’s Day coming up.”

Harry didn’t look up from his book, “Fascinating.”

Dean snorted, “You finally going to confess your undying love this year, or are we continuing the proud annual tradition of pining in silence?”

Harry’s head snapped up, “Sod off.”

Ron grinned wickedly, “Oh, come on, mate. We’ve got bets going.”

“You have bets?” Harry demanded.

“Yeah,” Dean said, nodding seriously, “Whether you’ll confess, or just stare at her like she’s the last slice of treacle tart on earth.”

Ron shrugged, “My money’s on the staring.”

Harry threw his book down, “I do not—”

“You absolutely do,” Seamus cut in, “Every time she laughs, you look like someone’s cast a Patronus straight into your ribcage.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue.

And then closed it again.

Ron leaned forward, elbows on his knees, “So? You gonna tell her?”

Harry hesitated.

Just for a second.

Because part of him wanted to.

Merlin, he wanted to.

The thought had been clawing at him ever since that afternoon in the library.

He wanted to drop to his knees. To tell you he loved you and always would. That he would do whatever it took to make you feel like the most special girl in the entire world. That he would adore you until the end of time if you let him.

No one else would ever love you the way he was willing to.

With every single fiber of his being.

With a kind of devotion so limitless, so boundless, so unconditional that it scared even him to recognize it. The kind that made him feel like every cell in his body would willingly come apart if you asked him to.

And then—

Dean laughed lightly, “She probably wouldn’t even realize, to be honest.”

That one landed wrong.

A sharp, painful twinge in his chest that seemed to connect to his stomach, to the tips of his fingers, to his jaw.

Ron nodded, “Yeah. You could get down on one knee and she’d just go, ‘Haz, are you feeling alright?’”

The boys burst out laughing.

Harry didn’t.

Because that was the worst part.

They weren’t wrong.

His jaw tightened.

Ron tilted his head, studying him now instead of teasing, “You ever think maybe she doesn’t know because you let her not know?”

Harry’s stomach twisted.

“That doesn’t even make sense.” He muttered.

“It does,” Ron said, quieter now, “You do everything for her. You look at her like she hung the moon. But you never say it. So she doesn’t have to face it.”

Dean leaned back, voice softer than before, “Or maybe she does know. And she’s pretending.”

That one felt like a punch to the ribs.

So hard he felt his breakfast crawl up his throat.

Harry stood abruptly, “You’re all mental.”

“Just saying!” Seamus called as Harry headed toward the stairs, “Valentine’s Day’s a good excuse!”

“Yeah,” Ron added, “Worst she can say is no.”

Harry paused at the bottom step.

He didn’t turn around.

Worst she can say is no.

But that wasn’t what terrified him.

What terrified him was the moment you’d realize how deep his feelings actually ran.

Because you—kindhearted, careful, endlessly thoughtful you—would pull back.

You’d grow cautious.

You’d stop sitting so close. Stop stealing his scarves. Stop crawling into his bed when you couldn’t sleep.

You’d feel guilty for ever letting it look like he had a chance.

And he would lose you.

Not just the possibility of you.

You.

His best friend.

The girl he had loved quietly for longer than he dared admit.

And that—

That was a risk he wasn’t sure he could survive.

The knock on Harry’s dormitory door was soft.

Too soft for this hour.

He looked up from where he was sitting on his bed, glasses slipping halfway down his nose, “Yeah?”

The door creaked open, and you slipped inside, already in your sleep clothes, glancing at him to make sure he was awake. When your eyes met his, your shoulders relaxed, and you stepped fully into the room.

“Hi.” You said quietly.

Harry’s stomach dropped at once, “What happened?”

You sighed, shutting the door behind you. “Ron and Hermione had a row. It started over something stupid and turned into something not stupid. They’re both pacing like caged animals, and I figured…” You shrugged, “They might need space.”

Harry nodded slowly. That made sense.

“And?” He asked gently.

“So I was wondering if… if it’s okay if I sleep here tonight.” It sounded like courtesy more than a real question—you were already walking toward the bed, looking tired and small in a way that made it impossible to say no.

His heart skipped.

“Course,” He said instead, softer now, “You know you don’t have to ask.”

Your shoulders relaxed immediately. “Thanks, Haz.”

You climbed into his bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world, lifting the blankets and sliding beneath them.

The air shifted.

This wasn’t new. You’d done it before—after nightmares, after late-night talks that blurred into sleep, after studying until your eyes burned.

It wasn’t new.

But something about tonight felt different.

Harry swallowed.

For the first time, the thought flickered through his mind before he could stop it—

Why not Ron’s bed?

Why here? Why were you so comfortable beside him that you didn’t even hesitate, didn’t even consider the empty bed across the room that would stay empty all night if history had anything to say about it?

The question burned at the back of his tongue.

But he bit it down, watching as you settled into his pillow, getting comfortable. He lay down more slowly, painfully aware of every inch of space between you, of the warmth your body gave off in the cool room.

The dormitory was quiet except for the distant whisper of wind against the windows.

You turned onto your side, facing him, “Night, Haz.”

“Good night.” He said quickly.

You hummed softly in response, already drifting off.

It took less than five minutes.

Your breathing evened out. Your body went slack with sleep. One of your hands shifted unconsciously, brushing his shirt before coming to rest there.

Like it belonged.

Harry stared up at the ceiling.

Wide awake.

Every nerve in his body felt lit. He could feel the warmth of you beside him, the steady rhythm of your breathing, the faint scent of your shampoo clinging to his pillow.

You were so close.

So close he could have counted your eyelashes if he’d turned his head.

And you slept.

Just like that.

No tension. No hesitation. No awareness of what this might mean.

Because to you, it didn’t mean anything.

That was what hurt.

You could fall asleep beside him without a second thought, while he lay rigid, afraid to breathe too deeply in case he woke you, afraid that if he didn’t move at all he’d never make it through the night.

He wanted to wrap an arm around you.

He wanted to pull you closer.

He wanted to know what it would feel like to hold you properly, to fit against you the way his body seemed to insist it was meant to. To bury his face in your hair. To memorize the shape of you by heart.

He wanted to ask why him.

Why always him.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stayed perfectly still, staring into the dark, listening to the soft sound of your breathing.

That should have been enough.

But as the minutes dragged on and sleep refused to come, a cruel thought crept in—

If you knew.

If you knew how badly he wanted you…

Would you still sleep this easily?

Would you still crawl into his bed without thinking twice?

His throat tightened.

Beside him, you shifted closer in your sleep, your forehead brushing faintly against his shoulder.

And Harry finally closed his eyes.

Not because he was calm.

But because it was easier than letting himself cry.

Harry didn’t remember falling asleep.

If he had at all.

Grey morning light filtered through the curtains, pale and cold, painting soft lines across the dormitory ceiling. For a few seconds, he didn’t move.

Then he became aware of the weight against his chest.

You.

Your back was pressed to his front, your body curled slightly toward him as if you’d shifted in your sleep without thinking. Your hair brushed his chin with every breath. One of his arms was trapped beneath the pillow; the other had somehow slipped around the dip of your waist, pinning you to him.

He released you at once.

And your hips—Merlin help him—were pressed far too close.

He froze, blood rushing from his face and so far south he felt dizzy as his heart began to pound like he’d just finished a Quidditch match. He stared at the wall, terrified that if he moved even an inch, you’d wake up and realise how close you were.

But you didn’t.

You only shifted, nestling back into him, completely unconcerned.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut.

Of course you don’t notice, he thought bitterly. Why would you?

A moment later, you stirred properly. You stretched, arms reaching forward, back arching slightly—still pressed against him.

“Mmm… morning.” You murmured.

Harry swallowed, “Morning.”

You didn’t jump away. You didn’t gasp. You didn’t even hesitate.

You just rolled onto your back and rubbed your eyes.

“Thanks for letting me sleep here.” You said easily.

He forced a laugh that didn’t sound right even to himself, “Yeah. No problem.”

You propped yourself up on one elbow, perfectly at ease, as though you hadn’t been curled into him moments ago.

It hit him then, sharp and humiliating.

You weren’t embarrassed because, to you, there was nothing to be embarrassed about.

You saw him as safe. Familiar. Harmless.

Not someone whose chest was still tight from the way you’d fit against him. Not someone who’d lain awake for hours listening to you breathe. Not someone who had imagined—stupidly, foolishly—that maybe this meant something more.

You slid out of bed and tugged on his jumper from where it lay across his trunk, “I’m starving. Want to go down to breakfast?”

“Yeah.” He said automatically.

There it was again.

That warm, affectionate smile.

And then you were gone.

The door clicked shut behind you.

Harry stayed where he was, staring at the empty space you’d left behind. The bed was still warm. Your pillow still indented.

He pressed his palm into the sheets where you’d been.

You could curl into him in the middle of the night and wake up tangled in his arms.

And it still didn’t mean what he wanted it to mean.

He fell back against the mattress and covered his eyes with his arm.

Valentine’s Day was a week away.

And he was running out of ways to survive this.

It started with the heat.

Not the warm kind he’d grown used to. Not the soft, almost pleasant flutter that came when you laughed too hard at something stupid he’d said. Not the quiet nerves that lit up under his skin when you linked your arm through his.

This was different.

This felt like something crawling up his spine and settling at the base of his skull.

You were walking beside him after Charms, talking animatedly about something Flitwick had said. Your hands moved when you spoke, brushing his sleeve, tapping lightly against his arm.

Usually he loved that. Usually he leaned into it.

Today, every touch felt like friction.

He nodded along, not really hearing you. The corridor felt too narrow. Too loud. Too bright.

You bumped his shoulder playfully, “Are you even listening?”

“Yeah.” He muttered.

He wasn’t.

He was watching the way your fingers lingered on his sleeve a second too long before dropping away. Watching the way you smiled up at him without hesitation, without thought.

You didn’t think about it.

You never thought about it.

By lunch, it had gotten worse.

The heat had spread — up his neck, across his cheeks. He could feel it burning there. He kept tugging at the collar of his shirt like he could air himself out.

Across the Great Hall, you were laughing with some boy from Hufflepuff. Leaning toward him. Head tilted.

Harry told himself it didn’t matter.

You laughed like that with everyone.

But something about today — something about the way the morning had felt, about the way you’d curled into him two nights ago and slept like you belonged there — made it twist wrong.

You sat across from him, smiling over your pumpkin juice, “You okay, Haz? You’re quiet.”

“I’m fine.” He said too quickly.

You tilted your head, “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

You didn’t push. You never did.

And that made it worse.

Because you trusted him to be honest. You trusted him to be steady. You trusted him to always be there without ever asking why he was there.

The frog in the pot, he thought bitterly. The water heating so slowly he hadn’t realized he was being boiled alive.

By the time you reached the staircase after classes, his nerves were shot raw.

You bumped his arm playfully, “You’re walking like you’re being marched to your execution.”

“Can you—” He started, then stopped himself, “Never mind.”

You blinked, “What?”

“Nothing.”

He took the stairs two at a time.

You followed.

“Harry.”

He didn’t answer.

“Harry, wait.”

He turned at the landing, irritation flashing in his eyes. “What?”

You stopped short. “What’s wrong with you today?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’ve barely looked at me all day.”

“Maybe I just don’t feel like talking.”

Your face fell slightly. “Did I do something?”

That question hit him like a jab to the ribs.

“No,” he said, harsher than he meant. “It’s not about you.”

“Then what is it about?”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

He walked away.

But you didn’t let him.

You followed him up the staircase, your steps quickening to match his longer strides. He was climbing like something was chasing him — like if he didn’t put enough distance between the two of you, he might actually combust.

By the time he reached his dormitory, his chest was heaving — not from exertion, but from the pressure building behind his ribs. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

You followed.

Now it was just the two of you.

The room felt smaller than usual. The late afternoon light slanted through the windows, dust drifting lazily in the air, completely unaware that something catastrophic was about to happen.

You shut the door gently behind you.

“If there’s something you want to tell me,” You said, trying to steady your voice, “just go ahead and say it, Harry.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

He stared at everything else in the room but you.

At his trunk. At Ron’s unmade bed. At the crack in the stone wall. Anywhere but your face.

He wasn’t sure if he was avoiding your gaze because he couldn’t bear to see the hurt there — the kind that would extinguish the flames raging in his chest.

Or because looking at you would only pour oil over them.

You hesitated.

Then you reached for his hand.

The contact was gentle. Familiar.

It felt like static shock.

Like a spark struck from flint. Like something small and bright landing in a room full of gasoline fumes.

His entire body reacted before his mind did.

He jerked away.

“Just—stop it.”

Your hand froze midair.

“What?”

“Stop touching me like that,” He snapped, “Stop acting like everything’s normal.”

Your brows pulled together, “Harry, I don’t—”

“That’s the problem,” he said, abruptly, raking his hands through his already messy hair, “You don’t.”

You stood too, confused, hurt beginning to bleed into your expression, “Don’t what?”

“You don’t think. You don’t notice. You just… do things. You hold my hand, you take my jumpers, you sleep in my bed like it’s nothing—”

Your breath caught, “We’ve always—”

“Yes,” He said sharply, “Exactly. You’ve always done it. And I’ve always let you.”

“Why are you acting like it’s a bad thing?”

“Because you don’t see how it’s killing me!”

The words ripped out of him before he could stop them.

They echoed in the quiet room.

You stared at him.

“What are you talking about?” You whispered.

He let out a hollow laugh that didn’t hold even a trace of humor, “You really don’t know.”

“Know what?”

He dragged a hand through his hair again, pacing now, restless and unraveling. The heat in his chest felt unbearable — like something burning through muscle and bone.

“I thought I could handle it,” He said, “I thought I could just… be whatever you needed. Your safe place. Your spare bed. Your extra person.”

His voice wavered, but he pushed through.

“I thought I could ignore the heat. The nerves. The way my stomach drops every time you look at someone else. I thought I could handle wanting you when there’s no possible future where you want me back.”

His throat tightened.

“But I was wrong.”

You stepped toward him, instinctively, “Harry—”

“No,” He said softly, “Let me say it.”

And finally — finally — he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

“I love you.”

Silence swallowed the room.

“I’ve been in love with you for so long,” He continued, voice shaking now, “that I can’t remember a time I didn’t feel like this. When I’m around you, I can’t think straight. It’s like everything else blurs out. Like I’ve gone blind to the world except for you.”

His hands trembled at his sides.

“And for a while… that was okay. I didn’t want to see anything else. I was perfectly content only looking at you."

His laugh was brittle.

“But it’s not easy, (Y/N). It’s not easy just hoping. Just waiting. Yearning for every single touch like it’s a gift. Taking whatever scraps of affection you hand me and pretending it’s enough.”

His voice cracked.

“I feel like a stray dog sometimes. Grateful for any little piece of love you throw my way.”

Your eyes filled with something as your throat began to ache.

“And I can’t keep pretending it’s not killing me,” He said, quieter now, but more raw than before, “I can’t keep smiling through it. I can’t keep acting like I’m not falling apart every time you don’t see me the way I see you.”

His eyes locked onto yours.

“You’re my everything,” He whispered, “But I’m just one of your things.”

The words nearly undid him.

“And that’s all I’ll ever be to you.”

The room felt too still.

Too tight.

He stood there, stripped bare, like he’d finally set down something he’d been carrying for years and didn’t know how to stand without it.

The heat in his chest wasn’t a flutter anymore.

It was a burn.

And it hurt.

Harry didn’t raise his voice when he told you to leave.

That might have been easier to bear.

He didn’t shout. Didn’t slam the door. Didn’t say anything cruel.

He just looked at you with that exhausted, hollow expression — like he had finally emptied himself of something he’d been carrying for years and didn’t have the strength to hold anything else.

“I think you should go.” He said quietly.

Not angry.

Not cold.

Just… spent.

For a moment, you stayed where you were. Your body refused to move, as if waiting for him to soften. To sigh and rake a hand through his hair and say he didn’t mean it. To reach for you like he always did when things felt wrong.

He didn’t.

He stepped back instead.

And that — that was what made your chest crack open.

You left without another word.

The corridor outside his dormitory felt longer than usual. The torches along the walls flickered gently, unaware that the world inside you had tilted off its axis. Students passed you on the stairs, laughing, arguing, whispering about homework and Quidditch and weekend plans.

Everything sounded distant. Muffled.

You couldn’t quite feel your feet touching the stone as you walked.

By the time you reached your own dormitory, your hands were trembling.

The room was empty when you entered. The late afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, soft and golden, dust drifting lazily in the air.

You shut the door behind you and leaned back against it, staring at the opposite wall.

Your heart was still racing.

Harry’s words hadn’t simply echoed — they had embedded themselves somewhere deep inside you, reverberating in slow, relentless waves. Every time you tried to steady your breathing, to anchor yourself in something solid and familiar, his voice would surface again.

I’m in love with you.

The way it had cracked in the middle. The way it sounded less like a confession and more like a wound finally tearing open.

You could still see him — pacing like a caged animal, hands dragging through his hair, shoulders tight with years of something he’d never let himself say. You had memorized his mannerisms over time. The subtle twitch in his jaw when he was frustrated. The way his fingers flexed when he was holding something back. The restless energy that clung to him whenever he didn’t know what to do with his emotions.

You’d thought you knew him.

But tonight had been different.

Tonight he had looked raw.

You pushed yourself away from the door slowly, your back peeling from the cool wood. Your nose burned from the effort of not crying, and when you blinked, the tears spilled over anyway. You didn’t trust your legs to carry you very far, but somehow you made it to your bed before your composure gave way entirely. You sank down onto the mattress and bent forward, pressing your face into the nearest pillow as though you could smother the sound of your own thoughts.

The confession replayed again.

And again.

And then—

You inhaled.

And froze.

That wasn’t your pillow.

You lifted your head, blinking through the blur, and realized your fingers were fisted in black fabric.

Harry’s jumper.

Slightly oversized on you. Sleeves too long. The collar stretched just enough from where you’d tugged it absently while studying.

You hadn’t meant to keep it.

It had been one of those cold nights in the library when the wind rattled the windows and the castle felt more like stone than shelter. You’d shivered once — just once — and he’d noticed. Of course he had.

He’d shrugged it off his shoulders without hesitation, draping it over yours with that casual sort of gentleness that was so uniquely him.

Keep it as long as you want, he’d said.

You never gave it back.

Your throat tightened painfully.

Would you have to return it now?

The thought felt unbearable.

You sat up slowly, the jumper clutched to your chest, your gaze drifting around your dorm room as if you were seeing it for the first time.

Your eyes landed on your nightstand.

The half-open chocolate orange from Honeydukes — the one he’d brought back after noticing you’d been chewing your quill during exam week. He hadn’t made a big deal of it. Just dropped it beside you and muttered something about you needing proper sugar instead of ink.

Next to it, a folded scrap of parchment in his messy handwriting. Practice questions he’d written out to quiz you before Transfiguration. You’d teased him for highlighting almost every sentence.

A tiny golden snitch keychain rested beside your wand. He’d pressed it into your palm in Hogsmeade last winter, cheeks pink from the cold.

Reminded me of you, he’d said, eyes refusing to meet yours.

You’d laughed.

You hadn’t asked why.

It was everywhere.

He was everywhere.

Not in grand, sweeping gestures.

Not in dramatic declarations.

But in the quiet, steady way he had slipped into the empty spaces of your life and made himself at home there.

Your gaze lifted to the moving photographs above your bed.

There were dozens.

Most of them were group pictures—laughing, chaotic, alive. But your gaze snagged on the one from Christmas morning last year. You were mid-laugh, half-hidden by torn wrapping paper. Harry stood beside you, watching.

Not the gift.

You.

At the time, you had thought his smile was simple excitement, pride in having chosen well. Now, with the knowledge of his confession lodged painfully in your chest, you saw something else layered beneath it—something softer, something unguarded. A kind of careful devotion that made your eyes sting all over again.

Now you could see the way his expression softened at the edges. The way his eyes lingered, unguarded. Earnest.

Longing.

How many times had he looked at you like that while you were too busy looking somewhere else?

Your vision blurred again.

You slid off the bed and crouched by your trunk at the foot of it, fingers trembling as you rummaged through folded clothes and books until you reached the small wooden box at the bottom — the one you kept tucked away for things that felt too important to leave out in the open.

You brought it back to the bed and opened it slowly.

Inside were ticket stubs from Hogsmeade weekends. A pressed flower from the lake shore. A few scraps of parchment with inside jokes scribbled in ink.

And then—

You found it.

A modest piece of white cardstock, slightly bent at the corner.

Your favorite flowers charmed along the edges, frozen mid-bloom.

Be my Valentine?

The memory hit you all at once.

A sob broke free before you could stop it, the sound raw in the quiet room. You pressed your hand to your mouth, but it did little to steady you. You hadn’t meant to hurt him. You hadn’t even realized there was something fragile to protect.

But now that he had spoken the truth aloud, your memories rearranged themselves with startling clarity. The way his jaw would tighten when you laughed too brightly at someone else. The subtle shift in his expression whenever another boy lingered too long in conversation. The way his hugs always lasted a fraction of a second longer than necessary, as if he were memorizing the feeling.

You had seen the signs.

Some quiet part of you had always known.

It’s been like this for years.

Sneaking down to the kitchens together. Late-night study sessions that dissolve into whispered confessions about fears neither of you would tell anyone else. Sitting shoulder to shoulder at Quidditch matches, your knee pressed against his because neither of you ever moves away.

You always thought it was just that.

You and him. Best friends. A matched set.

Your chest tightens painfully.

The realization did not strike like lightning. It did not feel dramatic or explosive. Instead, it settled slowly into place, like something ancient and inevitable finally aligning inside you. You tried, for a moment, to imagine your life without him woven into it so seamlessly—the absence of his steady presence beside you in the Great Hall, the lack of his quiet warmth at your side during long nights, the empty space where his voice should be.

The thought hollowed you out in a way guilt never could.

This wasn’t simply remorse for hurting him.

It was grief at the idea of losing something you hadn’t realized you wanted.

You drew his jumper back into your arms and pressed it against your chest, breathing in the familiar scent as your tears slowed into something softer, more certain.

You loved him.

Somewhere along the way, your heart had chosen him quietly and without ceremony.

And now that you finally understood it, the only thing more terrifying than admitting it was the possibility that you had realized too late.

You hadn’t meant for it to stretch into days.

At first, it was only supposed to be a night. One evening to let the shock settle. To let his words stop echoing quite so violently in your chest. But the more you turned them over in your mind, the more you realized you couldn’t simply run back to him with something half-formed and call it love.

You needed to know.

You needed to be certain that what you were feeling wasn’t guilt twisting itself into something softer. That it wasn’t fear of losing him masquerading as devotion. That you weren’t just trying to patch the wound he’d opened with whatever words would make it stop bleeding.

So you kept your distance.

And it seemed Harry had no problem respecting that unspoken boundary.

He avoided you with a precision that would have been impressive if it hadn’t hurt so much.

He left the Great Hall early. Sat at the opposite end of the Gryffindor table, shoulders angled deliberately away from you. Took longer routes between classes, choosing staircases that added minutes to his walk if it meant not crossing yours. When you entered a room, he found a reason to leave it. When you tried to catch his eye, he found something intensely fascinating to study just over your shoulder.

It wasn’t cruel.

That was the worst part.

He wasn’t punishing you.

He was protecting himself.

Careful not to brush against you in passing. Careful not to linger too close in crowded corridors. Careful with his voice, as though speaking to you too long might crack something open again that he’d only just managed to stitch shut.

You caught him watching you once—only once—during Charms. Professor Flitwick had turned to the board, and for a fleeting second, Harry’s guard slipped. His gaze found you with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs.

There was no bitterness there. It wasn’t resentment.

It was restraint.

And that made your chest ache in ways you hadn’t expected.

By the time Valentine’s Day arrived, the castle was absolutely drenched in pink and glitter from the highest spires to the stone floors below. The enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall shimmered a soft rose-gold, petals drifting lazily down from an illusion of endless sky. Pink ribbons curled around every banister. The air smelled overwhelmingly of roses and sugar and something sparklingly artificial.

Harry hated it.

He sat rigidly through breakfast, jaw tight as the owls descended in a flurry of wings and parchment. Bouquets, boxes of chocolates, glittering gift bags—packages thumped down across the tables in rapid succession. Laughter erupted every few seconds as someone unwrapped something elaborate or embarrassing.

It was almost comical that Valentine’s Day had fallen on a Hogsmeade weekend this year.

A miracle.

Or some divine joke at his expense—Harry hadn’t quite decided which.

Dean presented Ginny with her bouquet in person, attempting nonchalance and failing spectacularly. Ron, flustered and pink-eared, kept checking his reflection in the back of a spoon before bolting off to meet Hermione. Even Seamus—Godric, even Seamus—had a date and left with an air of nervous triumph.

One by one, his roommates disappeared, pulled eagerly toward waiting hands and planned afternoons.

Harry remained behind.

He told himself he didn’t care.

He’d endured far worse than a holiday built on pink paper hearts and saccharine declarations.

But something about the exaggerated romance of it all scraped at him today. The floating hearts. The couples walking just a little closer than usual, fingers intertwined as if they were guarding something precious. It pressed against the hollow space in his chest and made it ache more sharply than he’d anticipated.

Stupid, really.

He was the one who had confessed. He was the one who had drawn the line. The one who had told you to leave.

And yet he hadn’t realized just how much it would hurt—not only to spend Valentine’s Day alone—but to spend it carrying the quiet understanding that whatever you had been before could never quite be the same again.

He pushed back from the table abruptly, appetite long gone, and made his way up to Gryffindor Tower. The corridors were noticeably quieter now, most students already filtering toward Hogsmeade or secluded corners of the castle.

The Fat Lady gave him a knowing smile as he muttered the password.

He didn’t return it.

By the time he reached his dormitory, exhaustion weighed heavy behind his eyes. He was fully prepared to throw his bag aside and collapse face-first into his mattress, to sleep the day away and wake up when the castle had returned to normal.

He pushed the door open.

And froze.

The room was dimmer than usual, bathed in the steady glow of candlelight. Flames flickered softly along the mantle and windowsills, casting warm gold across the stone walls. The usual clutter—Quidditch gear, discarded socks, scattered parchment—had been tidied away.

And there you were.

Hands clasped tightly around a small arrangement of flowers, as though you weren’t entirely sure what to do with them. Your shoulders were drawn back in visible determination, but your expression wavered somewhere between courage and terror.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Harry’s first instinct was disbelief.

His second was fear.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He said automatically, though the words lacked any real sharpness.

“I know,” You replied softly, “But I had something important I needed to ask you.”

His gaze flicked around the room again, as if confirming that this wasn’t some elaborate trick of exhaustion. The candles. The cleared space. The deliberate care in every detail.

“What is this?” He asked, his voice quieter now.

You swallowed, then stepped forward carefully—like you were approaching something skittish, something that might bolt at the wrong movement.

“You gave me a Valentine last year,” You said, the slightest tremor betraying you, “I thought I might return the favour.”

For a split second, something flickered in his eyes but it was swallowed almost immediately by something harder.

He let out a short, humorless breath, dragging a hand down his face, “Do you realize how cruel you’re being?”

The words hit you square in the chest.

“Harry, I—” You stopped yourself, forcing in a steadying breath, “I came to a couple of… epiphanies since we last spoke.”

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t interrupt you either.

You took another breath, slower this time, willing your thoughts to line up properly instead of scattering the way they had been all morning. Harry watched you closely, and you could tell he was fighting the instinct to step in, to calm you the way he always did when you spiraled. He knew the signs—the way your fingers twisted together, the way your gaze drifted when you were trying to find the right words.

He let you have the silence.

“I’m sorry.”

The words were small when they finally left you.

And he felt his stomach drop.

There it was, he thought. The careful tone. The softness. The prelude to rejection dressed up as kindness. He’d imagined this exact moment in the worst hours of the night—imagined you standing in front of him with pity in your eyes, explaining gently why you couldn’t give him what he wanted.

His shoulders went rigid without him meaning to. Something inside him began quietly folding in on itself.

“I’m sorry for taking so much time to think about this,” You continued, your voice trembling but determined, “And I’m sorry that you’ve felt this way for—God knows how long—and I was so blind to it. I’m sorry for keeping you at arm’s length and dangling something you wanted in front of you for so long. God, I can’t even imagine how that must have felt, because I’ve only just come to this realization a couple days ago and not being able to be around you has been killing me, and I’m such a terrible—”

“(Y/N), hold on.”

He stepped forward suddenly, closing the space between you before he could think better of it, his hands coming up to gently but firmly wrap around your wrists. Not restraining—just grounding. Anchoring you before you could spiral yourself into something cruel and untrue.

You stopped mid-breath.

Your chest was heaving slightly, eyes bright with unshed tears, and for a second neither of you moved. You had forgotten what it felt like for him to touch you. The warmth of his hands. The steadiness of his grip. A small, frightened part of you had begun to wonder if he ever would again.

Harry swallowed.

He hadn’t expected you to look like this—wrecked and earnest and terrified in equal measure.

You opened your mouth, and he nodded his head faintly, urging you to keep going.

“I—” You drew in a steadier breath this time, “You’re my first thought when something happens. You’re the person I look for in every room. When I’m tired, I want you next to me. When I’m overwhelmed, I look for you without even realizing it. And I kept telling myself that was just friendship. That it was normal.”

Your lips curved faintly, sadly, “But I realized that no matter what label I tried to place on it, what I feel for you, Harry, is not just friendship.”

His grip tightened—barely, but enough that you felt it.

Harry’s breathing had gone noticeably slower. Measured. Like he was forcing himself not to interrupt, not to hope too quickly.

“You’re not just some sort of placeholder,” You continued, your voice steadier now, “Or a spare bed. Or my extra person. Or my safe place because you were convenient.”

The room seemed to still entirely.

The candles crackled softly. Somewhere outside, a burst of cheers rose and fell again, distant and irrelevant to the world shrinking down to just the two of you.

Harry stared at you as though you’d begun speaking in a language he desperately wanted to understand but was afraid to mistranslate.

“If it’s not you,” You said, your voice breaking slightly despite your effort to keep it steady, “then I don’t want anyone else.”

His heart thudded once—hard enough it almost hurt.

“If that’s what love is,” You whispered, blinking away the dampness gathering in your lashes, “then I suppose I’ve been in love with you for a while now.”

For a moment, he didn’t react at all.

It was as though the words had struck him somewhere too deep to process immediately.

You watched it happen—the disbelief first. The instinct to protect himself from false hope. His eyes searched your face desperately for hesitation, for guilt, for anything that might suggest this was born of obligation.

He didn’t find it.

Something in his expression changed then. Not dramatically. Not all at once. But the tightness around his mouth eased. The guarded set of his shoulders softened. His hands, still wrapped around your wrists, shifted—sliding down until he was holding your hands properly now.

Reverently.

“Say that again.” He murmured, his voice rougher than before.

You let out a shaky breath, “I love you.”

The words didn’t tremble this time.

They landed between you solid and undeniable.

Harry’s eyes closed for half a second, like he needed that brief darkness to steady himself. When they opened again, they were shining in a way you’d rarely seen—unguarded, almost overwhelmed.

“You have no idea,” He said quietly, almost helplessly, “how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”

There was no accusation in it. No bitterness.

Just awe.

Blinking quickly to keep your tears from spilling over, you lifted the bouquet again with trembling hands. The gesture felt suddenly very small compared to what had just been said, but it mattered to you.

“Harry,” You asked softly, your voice braver than you felt, “will you be my Valentine?”

For a heartbeat, he simply looked at you.

Like he was memorizing this version of you—the one standing in front of him choosing him openly.

His hands left yours only long enough to take the bouquet, setting it carefully aside on the nearest surface as though it were something fragile and precious.

Then he stepped forward.

Hesitantly.

Cautiously.

As though he were afraid that one wrong movement might shatter the moment entirely.

He lifted his hands and cupped your face, thumbs brushing gently beneath your eyes where tears still clung to your lashes. His heart was pounding so hard he was certain you must feel it. He had imagined touching you like this more times than he could count, never truly believing he would be allowed to. Some part of him still waited for the illusion to break, for him to wake up from this dream all alone.

But you were real.

Warm beneath his palms. Trembling slightly where your bodies hovered just short of touching.

The way you looked at him—earnest, anxious and filled with anticipation—anchored him in the moment more surely than anything else could have. If this was a dream, then he decided he would stay in it. He would cling to it as long as it let him have you.

The restraint he had lived with for years finally gave way.

He pulled you into him, not roughly, but with a fierce, aching tenderness, arms wrapping around you as though he feared you might disappear if he loosened his hold. His forehead brushed yours, breath unsteady, and then he kissed you.

It was soft at first. Almost uncertain.

But when your lips moved against his, fitting together like divine puzzle pieces, the rest of the world seemed to dissolve. The candles, the room, the noise of the castle beyond the walls—none of it mattered.

All that existed was the warmth of his hands, the steady press of his chest against yours, and the quiet realization that you were no longer standing on opposite sides of something unspoken.

You pressed closer to him, and he held you as though he had been waiting his whole life to do exactly that.

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Leaving your job is the best thing that's ever happened to you. That's what you tell yourself, anyway. That's what you've been telling yourself for a year and a half now, and if you say it enough times, eventually it might feel true. The severance package Lando gave you was obscene. Guilt money, obviously, even though you're not calling it that out loud, but that's what it is—guilty money, hush money, please don't sue me for firing you thirty seconds after I came inside you money. Enough that you don't need to work. Enough that you're free.

Free. You're so fucking free that you've tried pottery three times and hated it every single time. You're so free that you've reorganized your closet by color, then by season, then by color again because the first way was better. You're so free that last Tuesday you stood in the shower and counted to three hundred just to see if you could.

The clay fights you. That's what they don't tell you about pottery. Your hands cramp and the instructor keeps saying feel the clay's energy like the clay has energy, like the clay is anything other than wet dirt that collapses the second you think you're getting somewhere. You even tried running. Running is just you and your thoughts for however many miles you can stand. Not ideal. Not even close to ideal. Guitar's gathering dust in the corner. Duolingo sends you passive-aggressive notifications about your streak. You've considered learning Portuguese but that feels pointed, feels like something you shouldn't examine too closely.

Two weeks ago, Lando Norris won the World Championship. You watched it from your apartment because you're a masochist, apparently. You sat on your couch in Monaco and watched him spray champagne and cry and lift the trophy, and you thought, good for him. You thought, I'm happy for him. You thought those things and none of them were true.

Last Friday he went to the FIA Prize Giving ceremony in Rwanda with his beautiful girlfriend to collect his trophy. The photos were everywhere. Every sports website, every F1 account, probably on the fucking news in countries that don't even have racing. His girlfriend, Magui, wore a black dress that made her look like a goddess reincarnated. He wore a tuxedo. They looked like they were attending their own wedding. That's a thought you're not examining. That way lies madness.

You abandon your collapsing bowl. Scrub the clay off your hands—it gets under your fingernails, stays there for hours. The instructor asks if you're signing up for next week. "I'll think about it," you say.

You're not signing up. You already know you're not signing up. Outside, Monaco is cold for December. Your apartment is fifteen minutes away if you walk fast, twelve if you're really moving. You've timed it. You don't go home, and you tell yourself you're just walking. Just getting some air. Just clearing your head after an hour of fighting with clay that had no interest in becoming anything other than a lopsided mess. That's what you tell yourself, and maybe it's even true. Except you're walking toward the harbor instead of toward your apartment, which is the opposite direction, which means you're either lost in your own city or you're lying to yourself. Probably the second one.

And the wonderful thing about Monaco is that it's small. Stupidly small. You can walk from one end to the other in under an hour. Which means you can't really avoid anything, can't really escape anyone, can't really pretend you're not living in the same two square kilometers as—you stop that thought before it finishes.

There's a sports bar on the corner. The kind that has screens covering every available wall, the kind that shows every race, every match, every game that matters. You've walked past it a hundred times. You've never gone in.

Today, you're going in. Just for a drink, you tell yourself. Just for one drink because it's cold outside and your apartment is empty and you're allowed to get a drink at a sports bar without it meaning anything. The bartender is maybe twenty-five, definitely Australian, probably works here because Monaco is where F1 people end up when they're not important enough to actually work in F1. He looks up when you walk in.

"What can I get you?"

"Vodka tonic." He makes it. You don't drink it. Instead, you just hold it and look at the screens because that's what you do in sports bars, you look at the screens. There are eight screens total. Three of them are showing football. Two are showing tennis. One is showing some sport you don't recognize—maybe rugby, maybe something else entirely. And one is showing a replay of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix. The final lap. Lando crossing the line. The radio message. The celebration. You watch him climb out of the car. Watch him collapse into his team's arms. Watch the whole thing you already watched two weeks ago from your couch, except now you're watching it in a bar in Monaco while a drunk British guy three seats down yells "FUCKING LEGEND" at the screen.

The bartender notices you watching. "You follow F1?"

"Not really," you lie.

"Shame. That race was incredible. Norris finally did it, you know? After all these years."

"Yeah. I heard."

"Best season I've ever seen. Guy's a machine." He's polishing a glass, still talking. "And his girlfriend, mate. You seen her? Absolute smoke show."

You finish your vodka tonic in one go. It burns. "Another?" the bartender asks.

"No. Thanks." You pay and leave. Outside, the cold air hits you like a slap. You start walking. Not toward home. Just walking again. The thing about Lando firing you is that you still don't understand it. You've had a year and a half to make it make sense and it doesn't. It will never make sense.

He'd looked at you. Really looked at you, the way he used to in hotel rooms and empty conference rooms and all those in-between moments when it was just the two of you and nothing else in the world mattered. He'd touched your face. You'd touched his. For one perfect second, you'd thought maybe this is it, maybe this is where everything gets fixed. Then his expression changed and he'd pulled away and gotten dressed like he couldn't stand to be near you anymore.

I fucking love you, he'd said. In that hotel room in Qatar, buried inside your cunt, saying it like it was being torn out of him. Like he couldn't help it. Like he actually meant the fucking words. And then ten minutes later, boom, you're fired.

Just like that. You're fired. Two words that ended everything. You've spent eighteen months trying to figure out how someone tells you they love you and then removes you from their life entirely. How someone can look at you like you're the only person who matters and then just stop. Just move on. Just win a championship and fall in love with someone else and be happy, be so fucking happy that you can see it in every photo, every interview, every goddamn Instagram story.

He touches her differently than he touched you. He touches her casually. His hand on her waist, his fingers interlaced with hers, easy and comfortable and public. Like he's allowed to. Like it's simple. He never touched you like that. He touched you like he was desperate. Like he was trying to memorize the feeling. Like he was afraid—of what, you still don't know. Afraid you'd disappear, maybe? Afraid someone would see? Afraid it meant something.

It did mean something. It meant everything. At least it did to you. You miss him. That's the pathetic truth of it all. You miss him so much that sometimes you can't breathe. You miss his 3 AM phone calls. You miss fixing his disasters. You miss the way he'd look at you when he thought you weren't paying attention, like he was trying to figure out a puzzle he couldn't solve. You miss the feeling of him. His hands, his mouth, the weight of him, the way he'd say your name like it meant something.

You miss all of it and he's moved on and you're walking through Monaco at sunset thinking about someone who fired you eighteen months ago and probably hasn't thought about you since.

Your doorbell rings at 9:16 PM on December 19th. You're not expecting anyone. You consider ignoring it—consider pretending you're not home, consider going back to the book you're not reading. mBut, then, the doorbell rings again.

You should just pretend you're not home. Should pretend a lot of things that aren't walking to the door. You walk to the door anyway. Look through the peephole and your heart stops. Actually fucking stops in your chest. Lando Norris is standing in your hallway. He's wearing a cream Loewe sweatshirt and jeans, one hand shoved in his pocket while the other coddles his phone, and he's looking at it like he has all the time in the world. His hair is also shorter than it was in Qatar.

So, you do the only rational thing, the totally rational thing, and open the door. "Finally." He looks up from his phone. "I was about to use the spare key."

"You don't have a spare key."

"Don't I?" He walks past you into your apartment before you can stop him. "Nice place. Very clean and entirely very sad."

"Excuse me?"

"It looks like no one actually lives here." He's examining your bookshelf now, tilting his head to read the spines. "When did you become this person?"

"What are you doing here, Lando."

"Came to see you, obviously." He picks up a book, flips through it, puts it back in the wrong spot. "How've you been?"

"How have I been? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Yeah. How are you? What've you been up to? Pottery, I heard. That's cute."

Your stomach drops. "How did you know about pottery."

"I know things." He sits on your couch. Your couch. Like he belongs there. "You quit that too, I assume. Seems to be your pattern lately."

"My pattern."

"Quitting things. Pottery, yoga, that book club." He gestures at your apartment. "Living like a goddamn ghost."

"Get out."

"In a second. I need to talk to you about something first." He leans back, arms spread across the back of your couch. "The new assistant isn't working out."

You stare at him. "Emma. She's trying, I'll give her that. But she's not you. Doesn't think like you. Doesn't anticipate things like you did." He says it so casually. Like he's commenting on the weather. "She's kind of useless, actually."

"And?"

"And I need you to train her."

The audacity. The fucking audacity of Lando Norris. "Are you insane?"

"No. Why would I be insane?"

"You fired me."

"I know. I was there."

"You fired me eighteen months ago and now you're asking me to train your replacement."

"She's not your replacement. That would imply she's anywhere near as competent as you were. Which she's not." He examines his nails. "I'm asking you to train her so she can be at least seventy percent as useful as you were. That's all."

"Get out of my apartment."

"Why are you being so difficult about this? It's a simple request. A few weeks of your time. I'll pay you whatever you want. You're not exactly busy." His eyes flick around your apartment. "Are you."

"That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?"

"The point is you fired me. The point is you told me I was done. The point is you haven't spoken to me in a year and a half and now you show up here like nothing happened."

"Something happened?"

You want to hit him. Want to actually punch the asshole in the face. "Qatar. Something happened in Qatar."

"Oh, that." He waves a hand. "Ancient history. We've both moved on."

"Have we."

"Haven't we? You have your pottery classes. I have my championship." He smiles. That smile. The one that used to make you feel like you were in on a joke and now just makes you want to scream. "We're both doing great."

"Lando."

"What?"

"Get the fuck out."

"I'm at the Fairmont. Room 412." He stands up, stretches. "Think about it. I need an answer by tomorrow morning."

"The answer is no."

"Sure it is." He's walking toward the door. Pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "You look good, by the way. Tired, but good."

He leaves before you can respond. You stand there in your apartment. Your very clean, very empty apartment. Your heart is doing something in your chest and your hands are shaking. Lando Norris showed up after eighteen months and asked you to train his assistant like it was the most reasonable request in the world. Made you feel crazy for being angry. Commented on your home and your pottery classes and the fact that you're living like a ghost. How does he know about the pottery classes. How does he know anything?

You walk to your couch. The cushion where he sat is still slightly compressed and you stare at it. He knows about pottery. About yoga. About the book club you got kicked out of. He's been watching. Or keeping track. Or something. For eighteen months you thought he'd forgotten about you entirely. That you'd been erased from his life as cleanly as you'd been erased from his Instagram captions. And now it turns out he's been aware of you this whole time. Aware enough to know about pottery classes in Monaco. Aware enough to know you quit.

The Fairmont is twelve minutes from here if you walk fast. You're not going to the Fairmont. You're not training Emma. You're not doing any of it. You lasted forty-seven minutes before you grabbed your keys.

When you enter Fairmont hotel, you walk past the front desk without making eye contact with anyone, past the bar where well-dressed people are having well-dressed conversations, past the elevator bank to the one marked for floors three through six.

You press the button. Wait. Watch the numbers descend. Four, three, two, one. The doors open and you step inside before you can change your mind. Fourth floor. Room 412. The elevator is playing jazz, soft and inoffensive, the kind of music designed to make you forget you're in a metal box suspended by cables. You watch the numbers climb. One, two, three, four. The doors open.

The hallway is long and carpeted in a pattern that's probably meant to be elegant but just makes you slightly dizzy if you look at it too long. Room 412 is at the end, past eleven other rooms, past the ice machine, past the window that overlooks the harbor. You stand there for a moment. The door is dark wood with a brass handle and a number plaque that's slightly crooked. You can hear voices from one of the other rooms, muffled by walls and distance. Someone's watching television. Someone else is laughing. You knock on Lando's door.

The door opens immediately, like he was standing right there, like he was waiting.

"Took you long enough," Lando says. He's changed. Different sweatshirt, this one grey, same jeans. His hair is still damp like he showered after leaving your apartment, and you can smell his soap from here—clean and you don't recognize it but that fits him anyway, fits this version of him that exists in hotel rooms and galas and Instagram posts with his girlfriend.

"Can I come in or are you going to make me stand in the hallway?"

He steps aside and you walk in. The room is bigger than you expected, bigger than it needs to be for one person. There's a king bed with white sheets, a sitting area with a couch and two chairs, a desk by the window with a view of the harbor that's probably spectacular in daylight but right now just shows darkness and distant lights. His suitcase is open on the floor, clothes spilling out in a way that's chaotic and familiar and makes your fingers itch to organize it. There's a bottle of champagne on the desk. Two glasses next to it.

"You knew I'd come," you say.

"Of course I knew." He closes the door behind you. "You always come." The certainty in his voice makes you want to scream.

"Don't flatter yourself."

"I'm not flattering myself. I'm stating facts." He walks past you to the desk, picks up the champagne bottle, examines the label like it matters. "You lasted, what, an hour?"

"Forty-seven minutes."

"Forty-seven minutes." He looks at you now, really looks at you, and there's something in his expression that you can't read, something that might be satisfaction or might be something else entirely. Either way, you don't entertain the thought. "You counted."

"I count everything now."

"I know you do." He says it so casually, like it's obvious, like of course he knows. And maybe he does know. Maybe he knows about the counting and the pottery and the book club and every other pathetic thing you've been doing for the past eighteen months while he's been winning championships and falling in love.

"How do you know about the pottery classes?" you ask.

"I told you. I know things."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer you're getting." He pours champagne into both glasses even though you haven't said you want any. "Emma will be there on Monday. I need you there by nine."

"I didn't say yes."

"You're here, aren't you?"

He hands you a glass and you take it. You're not sure as to why you take it but you do, and now you're standing in his hotel room holding champagne and trying to remember how you got here, trying to remember the exact sequence of decisions that led from your apartment to this moment. "This is insane," you say.

"Probably."

"You fired me."

"I remember."

"You told me you loved me and then you fired me."

Something flickers across his face. Fast, there and gone before you can identify it. "That was a while ago."

"So?"

"So we've both moved on." He takes a sip of his champagne, watching you over the rim of the glass. "Haven't we?"

"I don't know, have we?"

"You tell me." He sets his glass down on the desk, leans back against it. "You're the one who showed up at my hotel room at ten PM."

"You literally asked me to."

"I asked you to think about training Emma. I didn't ask you to come here." He tilts his head, studying you in that way he used to. "But here you are anyway."

You hate that he's right. Hate that he knew exactly what would happen when he showed up at your apartment. Hate that after eighteen months of nothing, he can still make you do exactly what he wants with barely any effort at all. "Why me?" you ask. "Why not hire someone else to train her? Someone who doesn't have a history with you?"

"Because no one else knows how I work."

"That's not a good enough reason."

"It's the only reason." He crosses his arms. "You know my schedule better than I do. You know what I need before I need it. You know how to fix problems before they become problems. No one else can do that."

"Emma could learn."

"Emma is twenty-three years old and terrified of me. Every time I ask her a question she looks like she's going to cry." He says it without sympathy, just a simple observation, a simple fact. "She's not you."

Your stomach lurches, "Good. She shouldn't be me."

"Why not?"

"Because being me got me fired."

"No." He pushes off from the desk, takes a step closer. "Being you got you promoted from assistant to whatever we were. Getting fired came after."

"After you decided you were done with me."

"I never said I was done with you."

"You fired me. That's pretty definitive."

"Is it?" He's close enough now that you can see the exact color of his eyes in the hotel room lighting—that blue-green that changes depending on what he's wearing, what the weather is, what mood he's in. Right now they're darker, more blue than green, and fixed on you with an intensity that makes your stomach twist. "Because here you are. In my hotel room. Eighteen months later. Doesn't seem very definitive to me."

You should leave. Should put down the champagne glass you're still holding, should walk out of this hotel room, should tell him to train Emma himself or hire someone else or figure it the fuck out on his own. You don't leave.

"Monday," he says. "Nine AM. MTC. I'll have everything ready for you—schedules, systems, all of it. Two weeks. That's all I need."

"And after two weeks?"

"After two weeks you go back to your life. Pottery classes or whatever else you're doing to pass the time." The dismissiveness in his tone makes you want to throw your champagne in his face.

"I want double your normal consulting rate," you say instead.

"Done."

"And I'm not working with you directly. Just Emma."

"Fine."

"And if she's actually incompetent, if she can't learn this, I'm out. I'm not babysitting someone who can't do the job."

"She can learn. She's not stupid, she's just not you." He picks up his champagne glass again. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. What does your girlfriend think about this?" The question comes out before you can stop it. You watch his expression carefully, looking for any sign that it bothers him, that the mention of Magui does something to him the way the thought of her does something to you.

Nothing. His expression doesn't change at all. "Magui doesn't care about my work arrangements," he says.

"You told her you're hiring your ex-assistant as a consultant?"

"I told her I'm getting help training the new hire. She said that's great." He takes another sip. "She's very supportive." Of course Magui is supportive and understanding and completely unthreatened by the fact that her boyfriend is hiring the woman he fired after sleeping with her. Of course she's goddamn utterly perfect.

"Monday," you say. "Nine AM. Two weeks. Then I'm done."

"Deal." He sets his glass down, extends his hand like this is a business transaction, like you're colleagues making an agreement and not two people who destroyed each other eighteen months ago.

You shake his hand. His palm is warm, rough with calluses from the steering wheel, and the touch of it against your skin makes something in your chest crack open. He doesn't let go immediately. Just holds your hand for a beat too long, his thumb brushing once against your knuckles in a gesture that might be accidental or might be completely intentional.

"It's good to see you," he says quietly.

You pull your hand back. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't do that. Don't make this into something it's not."

"What am I making it into?"

"You know what."

He smiles. That smile. The one that used to make you feel like you were the only person who mattered and now just makes you feel like you're losing a game you didn't know you were playing. "Monday," he says again.

You leave before you can do something stupid like stay. The hallway is the same length it was before—forty-three steps from his door to the elevator. You count them again anyway. Count them and try not to think about the way his hand felt against yours, the way his eyes looked in the hotel lighting, the way he said it's good to see you like he meant it.

The elevator arrives. You step inside and watch the numbers descend. Four, three, two, one. The doors open to the lobby and you walk out past the bar, past the front desk, past all the well-dressed people living their well-dressed lives. The night air hits you when you step outside and it's cold, colder than it was before, or maybe that's just you.

Monday. Nine AM. Two weeks. You just agreed to spend two weeks training Lando Norris's new assistant, in the same building as him, probably seeing him multiple times a day, pretending that Qatar never happened and that the past eighteen months of pottery classes and counting ceiling tiles were a completely normal and healthy way to process getting fired by someone who said they loved you.

This is fine. You're fine. Everything is completely fine. You walk the twelve minutes home and try to convince yourself that you haven't just made a catastrophic mistake.

Monday arrives with the kind of crystalline Monaco morning that makes you hate how beautiful everything surrounding you is. The sky is aggressively blue. You stand outside the MTC building at 8:47 AM because you're not going to be late, not going to give Lando the satisfaction of waiting for you.

The severance money means you don't technically need this. Could've said no. Should've said no. But here you are anyway, in black trousers and a cream cashmere sweater, your hair pulled back, looking professional and composed and like someone who definitely didn't spend three hours last night googling "how to train someone when you're emotionally compromised."

The building looks the same. Glass and steel and McLaren orange accents, you've been here a thousand times. Walked these halls, sat in these conference rooms, fixed Lando's disasters in every possible corner of this building. You take the elevator to the third floor. Lando's offices are on the fourth, but you're meeting Emma in the conference room, neutral territory. The elevator doors open and she's already there.

Emma is standing outside Conference Room B, clutching a tablet to her chest like it's a life preserver. She's twenty-three, with dark hair in a neat ponytail and wide brown eyes that get wider when she sees you. "Oh my god," she says, and her voice is high and nervous and sweet. "You're here. You're actually here. I'm Emma. Obviously. You know that. Lando said you'd be here at nine but I got here at eight-thirty because I didn't want to be late and I've been standing here for—sorry, I'm talking too much. I do that when I'm nervous. I'm Emma."

"You said that already," you say, but you're smiling despite yourself because she's like a puppy, earnest and eager and probably thirty seconds away from peeing on the floor from excitement.

"Right. Yes. Sorry." She clutches the tablet tighter. "Thank you for doing this. Lando said you were the best and he wasn't exaggerating, I've read all your notes, like all of them, the system you set up is incredible and I've been trying to follow it but I keep messing things up and last week I accidentally booked him on a flight to Barcelona instead of Budapest and he didn't even yell, he just looked at me like I'd kicked a puppy and that was somehow worse—"

"Emma."

She stops mid-sentence. "Yeah?"

"Breathe." She takes a breath. Then another one. "Sorry. I'm nervous. You're kind of a legend around here."

"I'm really not."

"You are, though. Everyone talks about how you could predict what Lando needed before he even asked, how you saved the Singapore weekend when his passport got stolen, how you once fixed a PR disaster with seventeen minutes' notice—"

"That was fifteen minutes."

"See?" Emma's face lights up. "That makes it even more impressive."

You can't help it. You laugh. It's been eighteen months since you laughed in this building, maybe longer. "Come on. Let's get started."

Conference Room B hasn't changed. Same long table, same uncomfortable chairs, same view of the parking lot where you can see Lando's cars if you crane your neck. You don't crane your neck. You spend the first hour going through systems. Calendar management, how Lando color-codes everything but never looks at the color-coding so you have to verbally remind him anyway. The specific way he likes his schedule printed—landscape, not portrait, because he's a psychopath. His coffee order, which changes based on what country he's in but follows a pattern if you pay attention.

Emma takes notes on everything. Actual notes, handwritten in a neat script, asking questions that are surprisingly intelligent. "What about when he's being difficult?" she asks around 10:15. "Like when he just doesn't want to do something?"

"Give me an example."

"Last month he had a sponsor call with Tag Heuer and he just didn't show up. Turned his phone off, then I found him at the gym."

You nod. "That's a Marcus problem."

"Marcus?"

"The Tag Heuer exec. Lando hates him. Too corporate, talks in buzzwords, makes Lando feel like he's in a business school presentation." You pull up the calendar on your tablet. "Did you reschedule?"

"I tried. Marcus was pissed."

"Marcus is always pissed. Did Lando at least send him something? Gift basket, signed merch, something to smooth it over?"

Emma's face falls. "I... uhhhhhh, no?"

"Rule one," you say, and you sound exactly like you used to, competent and certain and completely in control. "When Lando fucks up with a sponsor, you fix it before it becomes a problem. Send Marcus a bottle of something expensive with a handwritten note from Lando. I'll show you where we keep the stationary. Lando won't remember doing it but that's fine. That's the point."

"That feels like lying."

"It's not lying. It's managing expectations. Lando's job is to drive fast and look good in photos. Your job is to make sure he can do both without accidentally destroying his entire career." You look at her. "Can you do that?"

She straightens up. "Yes."

"Good." You're explaining the intricacies of Lando's travel preferences—aisle seat but only on long-haul flights, hates flying commercial but won't admit it's because he's claustrophobic, needs noise-canceling headphones or he gets migraines—when the door opens.

You don't have to look up to know it's him. You can feel it, the way the air in the room shifts, the way Emma's posture goes rigid. "Morning," Lando says, and his voice is casual, easy, like this is completely normal. Like he didn't show up at your apartment four days ago asking you to do exactly this.

You look up. He's in McLaren team gear, black joggers and a papaya polo, his hair still damp from a shower. He looks good. He always looks good. You hate that you still notice. "We're in the middle of something," you say.

"I know. Just wanted to check in. See how it's going." He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, and his eyes are on you. Just on you. Not on Emma, not on the conference room, just you. "How's she doing?"

"She's sitting right here," Emma says, and there's a tiny bit of spine in it that makes you like her more.

"Right. Sorry." But he doesn't look at Emma. Still looking at you. "How's she doing?"

"Fine. We're going through travel protocols."

"Riveting." He pushes off the doorframe, walks into the room like he owns it. Which, technically, he does. He owns this whole building, or at least McLaren does and he's their golden boy so it's basically the same thing. He stops at the head of the table, one hand braced on the back of a chair. "Mind if I sit in?"

"Yes," you say, at the same time Emma says "No, of course not."

Lando smiles. That smile. "Majority rules." He sits down across from you. Emma looks between you like she's watching a tennis match and can't figure out who's winning.

"Continue," Lando says, gesturing at you like a professor encouraging a student. "Don't let me interrupt."

"You're already interrupting."

"Am I?" He leans back in his chair, arms behind his head. "I'm just sitting here. Very quietly. Being super helpful."

You want to throw your tablet at his head. "Emma, where were we?"

"Um." Emma's looking at her notes but you can see her hands are shaking slightly. "Travel preferences?"

"Right. So Lando needs—"

"I need a lot of things," Lando interrupts. "Very high maintenance. Must be exhausting to keep track of."

You ignore him. "Lando needs at least seven hours of sleep before a race. Which means you're coordinating with his trainer and his PR team to make sure he's not scheduled for anything after nine PM on Saturday nights."

"Unless it's important," Lando adds.

"Nothing is more important than you not crashing the car because you're tired."

"I would never crash because I'm tired. I'd crash because someone else did something stupid."

"Abu Dhabi 2023."

He sits up straighter. "That was different."

"You were exhausted. You'd done press until eleven the night before and you missed the apex on lap forty-three because you were too tired to focus."

"I missed the apex because Ocon was being a dick."

"Lando." You level him with a look. "Are you going to let me train Emma or are you going to argue with me about things that happened two years ago?" Something flickers across his face. Something that might be hurt or might be anger or might be something else entirely. "Fine. Continue."

You continue. Emma asks about race weekend protocols. You explain the specific way Lando likes his debriefs, bullet points, not paragraphs, because he won't read paragraphs. The way he gets quiet before qualifying, needs space, don't try to cheer him up or pump him up just let him be.

"He's a headphone person," you explain. "If he's wearing them, don't bother him unless the building is on fire."

"What if it's actually important?" Emma asks.

"Then text me first— sorry, text whoever his performance coach is and they'll handle it."

"You mean text you," Lando says quietly.

You don't look at him. "Text whoever is listed as his primary contact."

"That's you."

"I'm not his primary contact anymore."

"Yes, you are." He says it with complete certainty. "Never changed it. It's still you."

The room goes very quiet. Emma is looking at her tablet very intently, like she's trying to disappear into it. "We should take a break," you say, standing up. "Emma, fifteen minutes?"

"Yeah. Yes. Absolutely." She practically bolts from the room.

You start gathering your things. Lando stays seated. "You're still my primary contact," he says again.

"Change it."

"Why?"

"Because I don't work for you anymore."

"You're working for me right now."

"I'm consulting. It's temporary."

"Right." He stands up, walks around the table. He's too close now, close enough that you can smell his cologne and your head spins. "Two weeks."

"That's what we agreed."

"Then what?"

"Then I go back to my life and you figure out how to not destroy Emma's will to live."

"C'monnnn, I'm not that bad." You finally look at him. Really look at him. There's a small scar on his left eyebrow that wasn't there before—probably from a crash you didn't see, didn't hear about, weren't there for. He's broader in the shoulders. More defined. Like he's been training harder, pushing himself harder.

"You called her useless," you say quietly. "Emma. You told me she was useless."

"I said she wasn't you."

"Same thing."

"It's really not." He takes another step closer. "You were terrifying. Efficient and cold and you knew exactly what I needed before I needed it. Emma's trying but she's not—"

"She's twenty-three years old and you make her cry."

"I don't make her cry."

"You make her feel like she's failing even when she's doing everything right. That's worse than making her cry."

His jaw tightens. "That's not what I'm doing."

"Isn't it?" You cross your arms. "She accidentally booked you to Barcelona instead of Budapest and you looked at her like she'd killed your dog."

"It was a stupid mistake."

"It was an honest mistake. A mistake I made three times in my first six months working for you and you just laughed and fixed it."

"That was different."

"Why? Because you were fucking me?"

The words hang in the air between you. Lando's expression shutters closed, that thing he does when he doesn't want you to know what he's thinking. "That's not fair," he says finally.

"Nothing about this is fair." You grab your tablet. "I need air."

"Wait—" But you're already leaving, walking out of Conference Room B, past Emma who's hovering in the hallway pretending to look at her phone, toward the elevator. You hit the button. Wait. The doors open.

Lando catches them before they close.

"Move," you say.

"No."

"Lando, I swear to fucking god."

He steps into the elevator. The doors close behind him. It's just the two of you in this small space, and he's looking at you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. "You're right," he says.

"About what?"

"About Emma. About me being too hard on her." The elevator starts moving down. "I don't mean to. I just—"

"You're comparing her to me."

"Yeah."

"Then stop."

"I can't." His voice is quiet now, raw. "You set an impossible standard and now everyone else just feels wrong."

"That's not my problem."

"Isn't it?" He moves closer. "You're here, aren't you? Training her. Which means some part of you still cares."

"I care about her. Not about you."

"Liar." The elevator dings. Ground floor. The doors open to the lobby and you walk out without looking back. You can feel him following you, his presence like a heat at your back. Outside, the Monaco sun is aggressive and bright. You walk toward the parking lot, no destination in mind, just moving because if you stop moving you might do something stupid like turn around.

"Where are you going?" Lando calls after you.

"Away from you."

"Your car's the other direction." You stop and turn around. He's standing there in the middle of the parking lot, hands in his pockets, looking at you like this is all some game and he's already won.

"What do you want from me?" you ask.

"I want," he stops. Runs a hand through his hair. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do."

"Fine. I want you to stop looking at me like I'm the villain in your story."

"Then stop acting like one."

"I fired you because," He stops again, and this time he looks genuinely frustrated, like the words won't come. "It was getting complicated."

"You said you loved me and then you fired me. That's not complicated. That's just fucking cruel, Lando."

"It wasn't— I wasn't trying to be cruel."

"Then what were you trying to be?" He doesn't answer. Just stands there in the parking lot while people walk past, employees and engineers and team members who definitely recognize both of you and are definitely going to talk about this later.

"Two weeks," you say finally. "I'm going to train Emma for two weeks and then I'm done. I don't want to have this conversation again. I don't want to analyze what happened in Qatar. I don't want closure or explanations or whatever it is you think you need to give me."

"What if I want those things?"

"Then you should've thought about that eighteen months ago." You walk back to the building, back to Conference Room B where Emma is probably still trying to make herself invisible. Lando doesn't follow you this time.

When you get back upstairs, Emma looks up nervously. "Everything okay?"

"Fine," you lie. "Let's talk about how to handle media obligations." You make it through the rest of the morning. Make it through lunch—salads in the cafeteria, Emma chattering nervously about her girlfriend and her apartment in Nice and how she got this job. Make it through the afternoon session on crisis management.

At 4:47 PM, your phone buzzes.

You stare at the messages. Emma is explaining something about how she organized his sponsor contacts but you're not listening anymore. "I need to take care of something," you tell her. "Can you review the crisis management protocols we just covered? I'll quiz you when I get back."

"Yeah, of course." She's already pulling up the documents, eager and focused.

You take the elevator to the fourth floor. Lando's office is at the end of the hall, corner office with windows overlooking the harbor. The door is half-open. You knock anyway.

"Come in," he says. His office is exactly how you remember it. Sleek brown desk, nice chair, shelves lined with trophies and helmets and racing memorabilia. There's a new addition—a photo from Abu Dhabi, him holding the championship trophy, surrounded by his team. You're not in it. Obviously.

Lando is standing by the window, back to you, still in his team gear. "Close the door," he says without turning around.

You close the door. Stay by it. Keep your hand on the handle. "What."

"I owe you an explanation." He turns around finally. His face is serious, none of that cocky confidence from this morning. "About Qatar."

"I don't want a fucking explanation."

"I know you don't want to hear it. I'm telling you anyway." He leans back against the window ledge. "I fired you because I was in love with you and I didn't know what the fuck to do about it."

You stare at him. At Lando Norris standing in his corner office with the nice windows and a championship trophy on his shelf, telling you he fired you because he loved you like that makes any fucking sense at all.

"No," you say.

"No?"

"No. You don't get to do this." You take a step forward, then another, until you're in the middle of his office and your hands are clenched into fists at your sides. "You don't get to rewrite this to make yourself feel better."

"I'm not rewriting anything. I'm telling you what happened."

"What happened is you fucked me and then you panicked and then you got rid of me. Don't dress it up as some grand romantic gesture."

"It wasn't—" He pushes off from the window, agitated now. "I wasn't trying to get rid of you. I was trying to protect you."

"From what?"

"From me. From this." He gestures around the office, at the trophies, at everything. "From being the person everyone whispers about. 'Oh, she's only here because she's sleeping with Lando Norris.' From having everything you accomplished reduced to who you were fucking."

You laugh. It comes out sharp and bitter. "How noble of you. Firing me to protect my reputation."

"It wasn't just about reputation."

"Then what was it about, Lando? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you got scared. You said something you didn't mean in the heat of the moment and then you couldn't take it back so you just removed the problem entirely."

"I meant it." He takes a step closer. "I meant every fucking word."

"Then why—"

"Because I couldn't keep you and race at the same time!" His voice rises, echoing off the glass walls. "Because every time I got in the car I was thinking about you instead of the track. Because in Suzuka I nearly crashed in turn seven because I was wondering if you were watching. Because I was so gone for you that it was making me dangerous."

You open your mouth. Close it and try to find words that make sense. "You don't get to blame me for your driving," you say finally.

"I'm not blaming you. I'm explaining."

"You're making excuses."

"Jesus Christ." He runs both hands through his hair, messing it up completely. "Why are you being so difficult about this?"

"Difficult?" Your voice is rising now too. "You fired me, Lando. You looked me in the eye and told me I was done and then you disappeared from my life for months. You moved on for fucks sake! You found someone else. You won a fucking championship. And now you want me to what? Thank you for protecting me?"

"No, I want you to understand!"

"I understand perfectly. You wanted me gone so you could focus on your career. Mission accomplished. You got everything you wanted. Congratu-fucking-lations!"

"Everything except you."

The words hit you like a physical blow and you take a step back. Lando closes the distance. He's too close now, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his blue-green eyes, close enough that you're breathing the same air.

"You think I moved on?" His voice is lower now, dangerous. "You think I just forgot about you?"

"You're with Magui—"

"Magui is—" He stops. His jaw works. "Magui is uncomplicated. Easy. She doesn't make me feel like I'm losing my fucking mind."

"How nice for you both."

"You're not listening to what I'm saying."

"I'm listening. I just don't believe you."

"Why not?"

"Because if you actually loved me, you would've fought for it. You would've figured it out. You wouldn't have just thrown me away like I was—like I was disposable."

"You were never disposable." His hands come up like he's going to touch you, then drop. "You were the opposite. You were so important it fucking terrified me."

"Past tense."

"What?"

"Were. You keep saying were." You're shaking now, with anger or something else you refuse to name. "Past tense, Lando. Because whatever you felt, it's over now. You made sure of that."

"Is it?" He moves even closer, so close now that his chest is almost touching yours. "Because you came to my hotel room. You agreed to train Emma. You're standing in my office right now when you could've said no to all of it."

"I came because you manipulated me—"

"I asked. You chose."

"Fuck you."

"Yeah?" His voice drops even lower, rough and intimate and infuriating. "Is that what you want?"

Your breath catches. "Don't."

"Don't what? Don't point out that you're still here? That you haven't left even though you could? That you're looking at me right now like you want to hit me or kiss me and you can't decide which?"

"I want to hit you."

"Liar." He reaches up slowly, giving you time to move away. You don't. His fingers brush your jaw, the same way they did in that hotel room in Qatar, and your traitorous body remembers. Remembers everything. "You're still the worst liar I've ever met."

"And you're still an asshole."

"Yeah." His thumb traces along your bottom lip. "But you liked that about me."

"Past tense."

"Sure." He's smiling now, that devastating smile that means he thinks he's winning. "Keep telling yourself that."

You should leave. Should push him away, walk out of this office, text Emma that she's on her own, block Lando's number, and get on the first flight to literally anywhere else. You don't leave. "You're with someone else," you say, but your voice comes out breathy, unconvincing.

"Am I?"

"Magui—"

"Isn't here." His other hand comes up to cup your face, tilting it up toward him. "Hasn't been here. Not in any way that matters."

"That's not—you can't just—"

"I know." His forehead drops to yours. "I know it's fucked up. I know I have no right to any of this. I know I'm the villain in your story and I probably deserve it. But I can't," His voice cracks slightly. "I can't keep pretending I don't still feel it. Can't keep watching you in that conference room teaching Emma things you used to do for me and act like it doesn't make me want to flip the fucking table."

"Lando."

"Tell me you don't feel it too." His eyes search yours. "Tell me Qatar meant nothing. Tell me you don't think about it. Tell me you're over it and I'll back off. I'll let you train Emma and I'll stay away and I'll never bring this up again."

It would be so easy to lie. To say the words he's asking for and walk out and go back to your empty apartment and your pottery classes and your carefully constructed life without him. "I can't," you whisper.

"Can't what?"

"Can't tell you that."

His grip on your face tightens. "Why not?"

"Because it's not true." The admission feels like it's being torn out of you. "I think about it every day. I think about you every day. And I hate it. I hate that you still have this much power over me. I hate that you fired me and moved on and I'm still—I'm still stuck in that hotel room in Qatar waiting for you to explain why you ruined everything."

"I'm explaining now."

"It's too late."

"Is it?" He's so close now his lips are almost touching yours. "Tell me it's too late. Mean it. Make me believe it."

"Lando, don't."

"Don't what? Don't tell you I haven't stopped thinking about you? Don't admit that Magui was supposed to help me move on and it didn't work? Don't say that I've been keeping track of every pottery class and yoga session and book club meeting because I couldn't stop myself?"

"That's creepy."

"I know." He laughs, but it sounds broken. "I know it is. I know I'm fucked up about this. About you. But I can't."

You kiss him before you can talk yourself out of it. It's not soft. It's not sweet. It's eighteen months of anger and hurt and want colliding all at once. Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he makes a sound low in his throat that you remember, that you've heard in dreams and hated yourself for missing. His hands slide from your face to your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and it's exactly like Qatar and nothing like Qatar at all. In Qatar, it was desperate and finite, both of you knowing it was ending even as it was happening. This feels different. More dangerous.

This feels like a beginning. He walks you backward until your back hits his desk, and his hands are on your waist, lifting you onto it like you weigh nothing. Your legs wrap around him automatically, muscle memory from all those times before, and he's between your thighs and you're both breathing hard. "Fuck," he mutters against your mouth. "Fuck, I missed this."

"Shut up." You pull him back in, kissing him harder, meaner, putting all your anger into it. He takes it, gives it back, his teeth catching your bottom lip hard enough to sting.

His hands slide under your sweater, palms hot against your ribs, and you arch into the touch. You've been so cold for eighteen months and now you're burning up. "We can't," you gasp when he moves to your neck, biting down on that spot below your ear that makes you see stars. "Lando, we can't."

"Why not?" His voice is muffled against your skin, and his hands are still moving, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your bra.

"Because—because Emma is downstairs, because this is your office, because you have a girlfriend."

"I'll break up with her." He says it so casually, like it's already decided. "I'll call her right now."

"Don't be stupid."

"I'm not being stupid. I'm being honest." He pulls back to look at you, and his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. "I don't want her. I want you. I've always wanted you."

"You fired me."

"Worst decision I've ever made." His hands frame your face again, forcing you to look at him. "And I've made a lot of bad decisions, so that's saying something."

You want to laugh. Want to cry. Want to pull him back in and forget everything that happened between Qatar and now. "This is insane," you say.

"Probably."

"We'll ruin everything. Again."

"Maybe." His thumb brushes across your cheekbone. "Or maybe we'll figure it out this time."

"You don't know that."

"No." He leans in, presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then the corner of your mouth. "But I'm willing to risk it if you are."

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You both freeze. "Don't," Lando says.

"It might be Emma—"

"It can wait." But the spell is broken. Reality is seeping back in through the cracks—the fact that you're sitting on his desk with your sweater rucked up and your lipstick definitely smeared. The fact that Emma is downstairs waiting for you. The fact that Magui exists, whether Lando wants to acknowledge it or not. You slide off the desk, putting distance between you. Your hands are shaking as you pull your sweater back down, try to smooth your hair.

"This was a mistake," you say.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Pretend it didn't mean anything. You're shit at it." He's watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. "Always have been."

"It meant something in Qatar too. Look how that turned out."

"This is different."

"Is it?" You find your tablet where you dropped it on the floor, clutch it to your chest like Emma did this morning. "Or are you going to fire me again in two weeks when you remember why this is a bad idea?"

"That's not going to happen."

"You don't know that."

"I do, actually." He takes a step toward you. You take a step back. His jaw tightens. "Don't run."

"I'm not running. I'm leaving. There's a difference."

"Is there?" You open the door. Emma is definitely going to know something happened—your face is probably flushed, your lips probably swollen. But you can't stay here. Can't keep looking at him without wanting to touch him again. "Two weeks," you say without turning around. "I'm training Emma for two weeks. That's all this is."

"If that's what you need to tell yourself."

You walk out. Down the hallway, into the elevator, down to the third floor. Emma looks up when you walk in, takes one look at your face, and wisely says nothing. "Sorry," you manage. "That took longer than expected."

"It's fine." She's studying you though, those wide brown eyes taking in everything. "Everything okay?"

"Fine. Let's go over crisis management one more time." You make it through the rest of the day. Make it through Emma's questions and the review session and the walk to your car. Make it all the way home before you finally let yourself fall apart. Your apartment is exactly as empty as you left it. Clean and sad and full of the ghost of pottery classes and yoga sessions you quit.

Your phone buzzes and you brace yourself.

You throw your phone onto the couch. Pour yourself a glass of wine you don't drink. Stand in your living room and touch your lips where they're still tender from his teeth. This is going to end badly. You can see the car crash coming from a mile away and you're walking toward it anyway. Monday down. Thirteen days to go, and you are so undeniably fucked.

Tuesday passes in a blur of Emma and schedules and carefully avoiding the fourth floor. You arrive at 8:45 AM, earlier than necessary, because if you're early then you're in control. Emma is already there—of course she is, eager puppy that she is—with coffee for both of you and questions written neatly in her notebook.

"I was thinking about what you said yesterday," she starts, and you're grateful she doesn't mention the fact that you came back from Lando's office looking like you'd been thoroughly kissed. "About anticipating his needs before he asks?"

"Yeah?"

"How do you do that? Like, how do you know what he's going to want before he knows?" You think about all the times you just knew. Knew he needed silence before quali. Knew he needed distraction after a bad race. Knew he was spiraling before he even realized it himself. "You pay attention," you say finally. "To patterns. To mood shifts. To the things he doesn't say."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It is."

You spend the morning going through his sponsorship portfolio. Emma takes notes on everything—which sponsors require more hand-holding, which ones Lando actually likes, which ones are just obligatory. "Tag Heuer," she says, reading from her tablet. "You mentioned Marcus yesterday. What's the deal there?"

"Marcus is—" You stop, because Lando's walking past the conference room. You can see him through the glass wall, talking to someone from engineering. He doesn't look at you. Doesn't even glance in your direction.

Good. That's good. "Marcus is old-school corporate," you continue, dragging your attention back to Emma. "Thinks racing should be serious and professional. Doesn't understand that half of Lando's appeal is that he's not those things."

"So Lando hates him."

"Lando tolerates him because Tag Heuer pays extremely well."

Emma makes a note. "Got it. Tolerate with expensive gifts."

"Exactly."

Lando walks past again twenty minutes later. Still doesn't look. Wednesday is worse because Lando isn't there at all. "He had to fly to London," Emma explains when you arrive at 9 AM to an empty building. "McLaren board meeting. Won't be back until late."

"Oh." You hate the disappointment that floods through you. Hate that some part of you was expecting him to show up, to push, to do something. "Okay. Good. We can focus without distractions."

Emma gives you a look that suggests she's not as oblivious as you thought. You spend Wednesday going through worst-case scenarios. PR disasters, contract disputes, the time Lando accidentally liked a tweet criticizing the team principal and you had to do damage control for six hours straight.

"The key," you tell Emma, "is to fix it before it becomes a story. Lando's going to fuck up. That's not the question. The question is whether you can contain it before it explodes."

"That's kind of dark."

"Welcome to Formula 1." Your phone stays silent all day. No texts from Lando. No calls. Nothing. Which is fine. Which is what you wanted. You definitely don't check it seventeen times. Wednesday evening you're back in your apartment, staring at your laptop without seeing it, when Charlotte, your close friend finally calls.

"You're avoiding me," she says without preamble.

"I'm not avoiding you. I'm busy."

"Busy doing what? I thought you were living your best unemployed life."

"I'm consulting."

There's a pause. "Consulting for who?"

"It's temporary."

"Babe. Consulting for who?"

You close your eyes. "Lando."

Charlotte makes a noise that's somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "You're kidding."

"I'm training his new assistant. Two weeks. That's it."

"Two weeks of seeing your ex-boss who you were definitely in love with and who fired you after fucking you? That Lando?"

"I wasn't in love with him."

"You counted ceiling tiles for four months after he fired you."

"That's not—that's different."

"Babe." Charlotte's voice goes soft. "What are you doing?"

"I'm helping someone who needs help. Emma's sweet and she's trying and Lando's going to destroy her confidence if someone doesn't teach her how to handle him."

"Very altruistic."

"It is altruistic."

"So nothing's happened?" You think about Monday. About his office and his hands and the way he kissed you like he was drowning.

"Nothing's happened," you lie.

"You're such a bad liar." But Charlotte doesn't push. "Just be careful, okay? I don't want to watch you fall apart again."

"I'm not going to fall apart."

"Promise me."

"I promise." You hang up and immediately check your phone. Still nothing from Lando, which is good. Which is what you need. Right? Right? You make it to 11 PM before you break and text him.

You stare at that last message for longer than you should. Beautiful. He used to call you that, in hotel rooms and early mornings and moments when he thought you weren't paying attention. You plug your phone in across the room so you won't be tempted to respond. It doesn't help. You lie awake until 2 AM thinking about his hands and his mouth and the way he said I'll break up with her like it was simple.

Thursday morning Emma is vibrating with excitement when you arrive. "Okay so I have a question about the simulator sessions," she says before you've even sat down. "How often does he do them and do I need to coordinate with the engineers or does that happen automatically and—"

"Emma. Breathe."

"Right. Sorry. I'm just," She pauses. "He texted me last night."

Your stomach drops. "Lando texted you?"

"Yeah. Just to say I'm doing a good job and he appreciates me being patient while I learn." She's beaming. "That was nice, right? That he took the time to do that?"

"Very nice." Your voice sounds strange even to your own ears.

"He's not as scary as I thought he'd be. I mean, he's still intense, but you can tell he cares about getting things right."

You think about Monday, about the way he looked at you in his office, the way his voice cracked when he said I can't keep pretending. "Yeah," you manage. "He cares about getting things right."

You're midway through explaining the intricacies of coordinating with his performance coach when the door opens. Lando walks in with two coffees and that fucking smile. "Morning," he says, like this is casual, like he didn't disappear for two days. He sets one coffee in front of Emma. "Vanilla latte, right?"

Emma lights up. "You remembered!"

"Course." Then he turns to you and sets the second coffee down. "Oat milk cappuccino. Extra shot."

You stare at the cup. It's from the specific café three blocks away that you used to make him stop at every morning when you worked for him. The one with the good oat milk, not the shit oat milk. "I didn't ask for this," you say.

"I know." He sits down at the table, directly across from you. "But it's 9:30 AM and you've been here since 8:45 and you haven't had your second coffee yet. You get mean after 9:15 if you don't have caffeine."

"I'm not mean," you say.

"You're terrifying." But he says it like it's a compliment. "So. What are we covering today?"

"We?"

"I'm sitting in again. Making sure Emma's getting the full picture." He leans back in his chair, arms crossed. He's in team gear again—black joggers, papaya polo. His hair is messy like he didn't bother styling it. "That okay?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not really."

You want to throw the coffee at him. You take a sip instead. It's perfect. Exactly how you like it. The bastard remembers everything. "Fine. We're covering travel coordination. Emma, pull up Lando's schedule for Japan."

The next hour is torture. Lando sits there asking questions, making comments, watching you explain things to Emma with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. Every time you look at him he's already looking at you. "So when we're coordinating flights," you say, pulling up a calendar, "you need to account for jet lag. Lando needs at least two days in-country before a race weekend if it's long-haul."

"What if there's not two days?" Emma asks.

"Then you make it work. But he'll be pissy about it."

"I don't get pissy," Lando interjects.

You level him with a look. "Singapore 2024. You had one day in-country and you snapped at everyone for three days straight."

"That was different."

"How?"

"I had food poisoning."

"You were jet-lagged."

"I was dyyyyying."

"You had a very mild stomachache." Emma is trying very hard not to laugh. Lando is glaring at you, but there's something else in his expression. Something that looks almost like fondness.

"Anyway," you continue, turning back to Emma. "Two days minimum. Schedule accordingly."

At 11 AM, Lando's phone rings. He glances at the screen and his expression shutters. You make it through another twenty minutes before Lando comes back. His expression is carefully neutral, but you can see the tension in his jaw.

"All good?" Emma asks brightly.

"Fine." He sits back down. "Where were we?"

"Simulator sessions," you say. "Emma needs to know how to coordinate."

"Actually," Lando interrupts, "I need to talk to you about something. Work thing. Won't take long."

Emma looks between you. "I can step out—"

"No need." Lando is already standing. "Conference room down the hall. Five minutes."

He walks out. You have no choice but to follow. The conference room is smaller than the one you've been using, no windows, just a table and six chairs and fluorescent lighting that makes everything look slightly sickly. Lando closes the door behind you.

"What's the work thing?" you ask.

"There is no work thing."

"Then why—"

"I needed to see you alone." He's standing too close again, crowding into your space. "Needed to know if Monday was real or if I imagined the whole thing."

"Lando—"

"Did you think about it?" His voice is low, urgent. "The past two days. Did you think about it?"

"That's not, we can't do this here."

"I texted Emma. Told her she's doing a good job. Did she tell you?"

"Yes."

"I did it so you wouldn't think I was only here for you. So you wouldn't accuse me of using this as an excuse." He takes another step closer. "But I am here for you. I'm always here for you."

"You were in London."

"McLaren board meeting. Had to present the championship review. Couldn't get out of it." His hand comes up to your face but doesn't quite touch. "Thought about you the entire time. Especially during the part where they asked about my personal life."

Your breath catches. "What did you say?"

"Said it was complicated." His thumb brushes your cheekbone, so light you might be imagining it. "Said I was working on fixing something I broke."

"Did they ask about Magui?"

Something flickers across his face. "Yeah."

"And?"

"And I told them we were taking a break."

The world tilts. "You what?"

"Called her last night. Told her I needed space to figure some things out." His eyes search yours. "She was surprisingly understanding about it."

"Lando, you can't just do this."

"Can't what? Can't be honest? Can't admit that I've been in a relationship with someone I don't love because I was too fucked up over you to be alone?"

"That's not fair to her."

"I know. Which is why I ended it." His hand is fully cupping your face now. "I'm not doing this halfway. I'm not sneaking around or lying. If we're doing this, I'm all in."

"We're not doing anything—"

"Liar." He's so close now you can count his eyelashes. "You're still the worst liar I've ever met."

"You're being crazy."

"Probably." His lips brush against yours, barely a kiss, more a promise. "But I'm done pretending I don't want this. Want you."

You should push him away. Should remind him that Emma is down the hall, that this is insane, that he broke your heart eighteen months ago and you're not giving him the chance to do it again. You kiss him instead. It's different from Monday. Slower, deeper, less angry and more inevitable. Like you're both finally admitting something you've been avoiding. His hands slide into your hair and you press closer, your back hitting the wall, and he makes that sound again, the one that's half-groan and half-surrender.

"We have to stop," you gasp against his mouth.

"Why?"

"Because Emma is waiting. Because we're in an office building. Because—"

"Because you're scared."

"I'm not scared."

"You're terrified." His forehead rests against yours. "But that's okay. So am I."

"Then why are you pushing this?"

"Because eighteen months without you was worse than being scared." His eyes meet yours. "Because I'd rather risk everything than spend another year and a half counting how long it's been since I touched you." You're saved from responding by your phone buzzing in your pocket. You pull it out, grateful for the interruption.

"Shit." You step back, putting distance between you. "We need to go back."

"In a second." He catches your hand. "Tonight. Come over."

"Lando."

"Not to my place. Neutral ground. There's that restaurant you like on Avenue Princess Grace. The one with the good risotto."

"I know the one."

"Seven PM. Just dinner. Just talking."

"And if I say no?"

"Then I'll respect it." His thumb traces circles on your palm. "But you won't say no."

"You're very sure of yourself."

"I'm sure of you." He lifts your hand to his lips, presses a kiss to your knuckles. "Seven PM."

He leaves before you can argue. You stand there in the conference room, heart racing, lips tingling, completely and utterly fucked. When you get back to the main conference room, Emma takes one look at your face and mercifully says nothing. You make it through the rest of the day. Make it through explaining simulator protocols and race weekend logistics and all the things Emma needs to know.

Lando doesn't come back. At 6 PM, Emma starts packing up. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Tomorrow's our last day of basics, then we'll start shadowing some actual events."

"Sounds good." She hesitates. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"You and Lando. You have history, right?"

You should lie. Should definitely keep it professional. "Yeah," you say instead. "We have history."

"I figured." Emma adjusts her bag. "For what it's worth, I think he's different around you. Lighter. Like he can actually breathe."

She leaves before you can respond. You sit in the empty conference room staring at your phone. At the time. 6:03 PM. You could go home. Pour wine. Pretend tonight isn't happening. Instead, at 6:47 PM, you're standing outside La Maison du Caviar in a black dress you haven't worn in two years, watching Lando get out of his car.

He's in dark jeans and a white button-down, no tie, sleeves rolled up. He looks unfairly good. "You came," he says, and he sounds surprised.

"Don't gloat."

"Wouldn't dream of it." He offers his arm. "Shall we?" Day three. Tension officially at breaking point. This is going to end in flames.

"Wine?" Lando asks once you're seated.

"I can order my own wine."

"I know you can. I'm asking if you want wine."

You do. You desperately do. "Red."

He orders a bottle of something French and expensive without looking at the menu. The sommelier practically bows before walking away. "So," Lando says, leaning back in his chair. "How am I doing?"

"At what?"

"At this. Dinner. Normal human interaction."

"It's been five minutes."

"And?"

"And you're doing fine. Very restrained."

He smiles. That dangerous smile that means trouble. "Just wait."

The wine arrives. It's good. Too good. The kind of good that makes you forget you're supposed to be maintaining boundaries. "Emma's doing well," you say, because work is safe. Work is neutral territory.

"She is. Thanks to you."

"She's a fast learner. She actually listens."

"Unlike me?"

"You listen. You just choose to ignore half of what people tell you."

"Not true. I listened when you told me I needed to be nicer to Emma."

"You texted her once."

"And I brought her coffee this morning. And I'm letting her leave at reasonable hours instead of texting her at midnight about random shit." He takes a sip of wine. "See? Growth."

"Impressive. Want a gold star?"

"I want you to admit I'm trying."

"You're trying," you concede. "Doesn't mean it's working."

"Ouch." The waiter comes to take your order. You get the risotto because Lando was right, it is good here. He gets something with fish that you know he'll eat half of before getting distracted. Once the waiter leaves, Lando leans forward. "So. Eighteen months."

"We're not doing this."

"Doing what?"

"The post-mortem. The 'where did we go wrong' conversation."

"Why not?"

"Because I already know where we went wrong. You fired me."

"Before that. You're skipping the part where we were in love."

Your grip tightens on your wine glass. "We weren't in love."

"I was."

"Don't."

"Don't what? Don't tell you the truth?" He stops, frustrated. "Why are you being so difficult about this?"

"Difficult?" Your voice rises slightly. An older couple two tables over glances your way. You lower it. "You think I'm being difficult?"

"I think you're refusing to have an actual conversation because you're scared of what might happen if you do."

"I'm not scared of anything."

"Bullshit. You're terrified. You've been terrified since Monday when I kissed you and you kissed me back and realized that maybe you're not as over this as you want to be."

"You're so fucking arrogant."

"And you're deflecting."

"I'm being realistic. You broke my heart, Lando. You don't get to just decide we're doing this again because you're bored of your girlfriend."

His jaw tightens. "That's not what this is."

"Then what is it?"

"It's me finally having the balls to fix the worst mistake I ever made."

"By taking me to dinner? By kissing me in conference rooms? That's your plan?"

"My plan is to show you that I'm serious. That this isn't just—" He gestures vaguely. "—nostalgia or whatever you think it is."

"It's been two days."

"It's been eighteen months. Two days is just how long it took me to get you in the same room as me." He refills your wine glass even though you haven't asked. "And before you say it—yes, I know I'm the one who caused those eighteen months. I know I fucked up. I know I hurt you. But I'm here now and I'm trying and you won't even give me a chance to explain. I've had eighteen months to figure out exactly how miserable I am without you." His voice drops. "Because I've tried to move on and I can't. Because every time I get in that fucking car I still think about you in Qatar watching me in FP2 and smiling like you were proud of me."

Your chest aches. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't say things like that."

"Why not? It's true."

"Because it's not fair." You set your wine glass down too hard. "You don't get to fire me and disappear and show up eighteen months later with pretty words and expect me to just—"

"Just what?"

"Just forget. Just forgive. Just let you back in like you didn't completely destroy me."

The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut. "I know," Lando says finally, quietly. "I know I destroyed you. You think I don't know that? You think I didn't see what I did to you?"

"Clearly not, since you still did it."

"I did it because I was fucking terrified. Because I'd never felt that way about anyone and it was making me insane. Because every time I looked at you I wanted things I didn't know how to want." His hands are clenched on the table. "And I know that's not an excuse. I know it doesn't make it better. But I'm trying to explain—"

"I don't want an explanation. I want you to leave me alone."

"Liar."

"Stop calling me that."

"Then stop lying." He leans forward. "You want me to leave you alone? Fine. Tell me Monday meant nothing. Tell me you felt nothing when I kissed you. Tell me you're not sitting here right now wishing we were anywhere else so you could do it again."

"You're delusional."

"Am I? Because your pupils are dilated and your breathing is uneven and you've been staring at my mouth for the past thirty seconds." Fuck. He's right. You have been.

"That's—I'm not—"

"You're a terrible liar," he says again, and there's something almost gentle in it now. "Always have been. It's one of my favorite things about you."

"I need to use the bathroom." You stand up before he can respond. Navigate through the restaurant on unsteady legs—from the wine or from him, you're not sure. The bathroom is in the back, single-stall, the kind with a heavy wooden door and a lock that actually works.

You close yourself inside and immediately brace your hands on the sink. Your reflection looks back at you—flushed cheeks, bright eyes, lips slightly parted. You look like someone who's losing an argument. Worse, you look like someone who wants to lose. Deep breath. You can do this. You can go back out there, finish dinner like a professional, go home, and forget this ever—

The door opens and Lando steps inside and locks it behind him. "What are you doing?" Your voice comes out breathy, unconvincing.

"What do you think I'm doing?" He's crossing the space between you in two strides, and then his hands are on your waist and he's lifting you onto the sink.

"Someone could—"

"Let them." His mouth finds your neck, that spot below your ear that makes you gasp. "I'm done pretending. Done watching you try to convince yourself you don't want this."

"Lando."

"Tell me to stop." His hands slide up your thighs, pushing your dress higher. "Tell me you don't want this and I'll walk out right now. I'll finish dinner, take you home, never bring it up again."

You should. You should absolutely tell him to stop. "I hate you," you say instead.

"I know." His mouth moves to yours, kissing you hard enough to bruise. "Hate me louder."

Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer even as you're trying to push him away. It's all contradiction—your mouth saying one thing while your body says another, and he can read every single signal.

"This is insane," you gasp when he bites down on your lower lip.

"Probably." His hands are everywhere now—in your hair, on your waist, sliding up your ribs. "Don't care."

"We're in a restaurant bathroom."

"I know." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are dark, dangerous. "You want me to stop?"

"Yes."

"Liar." His hand slides higher, fingers tracing the edge of your underwear. "Try again."

"I—fuck—" Your head drops back against the mirror as his fingers slip beneath the fabric, teasing. "This doesn't change anything."

"Doesn't it?" He's watching your face, cataloging every reaction. "Because you're shaking. And your breathing's gone all uneven. And you're so wet I can feel it through your underwear."

"That's not—" You gasp as he presses exactly where you need him. "—not fair."

"Nothing about this is fair." His mouth is on your neck again, biting, sucking, definitely leaving marks. "Been thinking about this for eighteen months. Eighteen months of wondering if you tasted the same, if you'd make those same sounds, if you'd still fall apart the same way."

His fingers slide inside you and you bite your lip to keep from making noise. "Don't." He uses his free hand to pull your lip from between your teeth. "Want to hear you. Want everyone in this fucking restaurant to know what I'm doing to you."

"You're insane."

"And you love it." He adds another finger, curling them just right, and your hips buck against his hand. "There she is. There's my girl."

"Not your girl."

"No?" He slows his movements, teasing. "Then whose girl are you?"

"I'm not—I don't belong to—fuck, don't stop—"

"Say it." His thumb finds your clit and you actually whimper. "Say you're mine."

"Go to hell."

He laughs, and it's dark and possessive and makes you clench around his fingers. "We're already there, beautiful. Might as well enjoy it." He works you with devastating precision—eighteen months and he still remembers exactly what you need. The pressure, the angle, the rhythm that makes your thighs shake. You're gripping his shoulders, nails digging in through his shirt, and he's muttering against your neck in a voice gone rough and desperate.

"So fucking perfect. Missed this. Missed you. Missed making you fall apart on my fingers like you're mine, like you've always been mine—"

"Lando—" You're close, embarrassingly close, everything building sharp and inevitable.

"I know. I can feel it. Can feel you getting tighter." His mouth finds yours, kissing you through it. "Come on, beautiful. Show me. Show me you still want this as much as I do."

You come with his name on your lips and your hands fisted in his hair, and he works you through it, drawing it out until you're shaking and oversensitive and pushing his hand away. "Fuck," you breathe.

"Yeah." He's breathing hard too, forehead pressed against yours, and you can feel how hard he is against your thigh. "So that happened."

Reality comes crashing back. You're in a restaurant bathroom with your dress rucked up and Lando's fingers still inside you and at least twenty people on the other side of the door who definitely heard something. "Oh my god." You push at his chest. "Oh my god, we just—in a public bathroom—"

"Technically a private bathroom." But he's pulling back, giving you space. "No one's going to say anything."

"Everyone's going to say something." You slide off the sink on shaky legs, trying to pull your dress down with trembling hands. "They're going to see us walk out and they're going to know—"

"So what if they know?" He's watching you in the mirror, his reflection overlapping with yours. "I told you. I'm done pretending."

"That's easy for you to say. You're Lando Norris. You can do whatever you want."

"And what are you?"

"I'm the girl who got fired for sleeping with her boss and now everyone's going to think I'm pathetic for coming back."

"No." He steps behind you, hands on your hips, meeting your eyes in the mirror. "You're the girl I've been in love with for two years who I was too much of a coward to keep. And if anyone says anything about you being pathetic, I'll personally destroy them."

You want to argue. Want to list all the reasons this is a terrible idea. Want to protect yourself before he has the chance to hurt you again. Instead you turn around and kiss him. Slower this time, softer, and when you pull back his eyes are closed like he's savoring it.

"This doesn't mean I forgive you," you whisper.

"I know."

"And it doesn't mean we're back together."

"Okay."

"And I still think you're an asshole."

"Fair." He opens his eyes. "But you're here. You came to dinner. You let me—" He gestures vaguely at the sink. "—do that. So maybe we're not as hopeless as you think."

"We're absolutely hopeless."

"Probably." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "But I'm willing to risk it if you are."

You should say no. Should walk out, go home, block his number, and never look back.

"One chance," you hear yourself say. "You get one chance, Lando. You fuck this up, I'm gone. For real this time."

"I won't fuck it up."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do." He kisses you again, quick and sure. "Because I'm not losing you twice."

You fix your makeup as best you can. Lando runs his fingers through his hair, trying to make it look less like you've had your hands in it. You both look thoroughly fucked and there's nothing to be done about it.

"Ready?" he asks.

"No."

"Me neither." He unlocks the door. "Let's go anyway."

The meal continues in a strange sort of limbo. Lando orders dessert—some chocolate thing that's probably obscenely expensive—and insists you try it even though you say you're not hungry. He feeds you a bite from his fork and you let him, and somewhere in the back of your mind you're aware that this is a turning point, that you're crossing a line you swore you wouldn't cross.

"Good?" he asks.

"It's fine."

"Just fine?" He takes another bite, considering. "I think it's better than fine."

"You think everything here is better than fine. You probably have stock in this place."

"I don't have stock in this place." He pauses. "I know the owner, though. Nice guy. Makes excellent risotto."

"Of course you do." By the time the check comes, it's nearly 10 PM. The restaurant has thinned out—just a few tables left, couples lingering over wine, the staff starting their closing routines. Lando pays without looking at the total, leaves a tip that's probably more than your entire meal cost.

"Ready?" he asks, standing and offering his hand. You look at it for a moment. At his palm, open and waiting. At the decision you're about to make. You take his hand. Outside, Monaco is cold and beautiful. The kind of night where the Mediterranean is dark glass reflecting city lights, where everything feels suspended and possible. Lando's car is waiting where the valet brought it around—matte black Porsche,

"I can walk," you say, even though you're not letting go of his hand.

"It's cold."

"It's twelve minutes."

"It's twelve minutes in heels." He opens the passenger door. "Let me drive you. Please." There's something in the please that gets you. Something vulnerable and honest that wasn't there before. You get in the car. Lando slides into the driver's seat and the engine purrs to life. He doesn't immediately drive. Just sits there with his hands on the steering wheel, staring out at the street.

"You okay?" you ask.

"Yeah." He glances at you. "Just thinking."

"About?"

"About how I'm going to convince you to let me come upstairs."

Your stomach flips. "Lando."

"I know, I know. You said one chance. I'm not fucking it up." He pulls out into traffic, smooth and controlled. "But I also know that if I drop you off and drive away, you're going to spend the entire night convincing yourself this was a mistake."

"It might be a mistake."

"Or it might not be." He takes the turn toward your apartment, like he's made this drive a thousand times. Maybe he has, in his head. "Either way, I'd rather find out tonight than spend another eighteen months wondering."

You don't respond. Just watch the city slide past through the window, trying to organize your thoughts into something coherent. Trying to figure out when exactly you decided to let this happen. Your apartment building appears too quickly. Lando pulls into a spot on the street—not in front, not obvious, but close enough. He kills the engine and the sudden silence is deafening.

"So," he says.

"So."

"This is the part where you invite me up for coffee that we both know we're not going to drink."

"Is it?"

"Or—" He shifts to face you properly. "—this is the part where you tell me to leave and I respect that and go home alone and hate myself for approximately six hours before texting you something stupid at 4 AM."

"Those are my only two options?"

"Probably not. But they're the most likely ones." His hand finds yours in the dark. "For what it's worth, I'm hoping for the coffee."

You should tell him to leave. Should protect yourself, keep the boundary you've barely managed to maintain. Should remember that this is Lando Norris, who broke your heart eighteen months ago and has given you no real proof that he won't do it again.

"Do you actually want coffee?" you ask instead.

His smile is slow and dangerous. "Not even a little bit."

"Then why did you offer?"

"Because you need the plausible deniability. Need to tell yourself we're just having coffee, just talking, just two adults having a completely professional and appropriate conversation at 10 PM in your apartment." He brings your hand to his lips, kisses your knuckles. "And I'll play along. I'll make coffee and sit on your couch and keep my hands to myself until you give me permission to do otherwise."

"You're very confident I'm going to give you permission."

"I'm not confident about anything right now except that I want you. Have wanted you for two years. Will probably want you for the rest of my life." His eyes meet yours in the dim light. "But I can wait. I'm good at waiting now. Eighteen months taught me patience."

Your heart is doing something complicated in your chest. "One coffee."

"One coffee," he agrees.

You get out of the car before you can change your mind. Lando follows, keeping a careful distance as you walk to your building's entrance. You're aware of his presence behind you—not crowding, not pushing, just there. Patient in a way he never was before. The elevator ride is silent. You're both watching the numbers climb—three, four, five, six, seven. Your floor. The doors open and you lead him down the hallway to your apartment.

Your hands shake slightly as you unlock the door. Lando notices but doesn't comment. Inside, your apartment looks exactly the same as it did when he was here four days ago. Clean and empty and sad. You see it through his eyes again—the bookshelf organized by color, the lack of personal photos, the overall sense that no one actually lives here.

"Coffee," you say, moving toward the kitchen. "How do you take it?"

"However you're making it." He's still standing by the door, hands in his pockets. Not moving. Not presuming. "Nice place."

"You said it was sad last time you were here."

"I said it looked like no one lives here. Different thing." He finally moves, but only to the living room, sitting on the edge of your couch like he's not sure he's allowed. "Do you actually live here or do you just exist in it?"

"That's a very philosophical question for 10 PM."

"I'm a very philosophical guy."

"Since when?"

"Since I spent eighteen months thinking about what I did wrong." He watches you move around the kitchen, getting mugs and grounds and trying to remember how your coffee maker works. "Lots of time to think when you're alone."

"You weren't alone. You had Magui."

"I told you. That was—"

"Uncomplicated. I remember." You measure out coffee with more precision than necessary. "How is she taking the break?"

"She said she saw it coming."

You turn to look at him. "She did?"

"Yeah." He runs a hand through his hair. "Apparently I talk about you. A lot. Even when I'm trying not to."

"That's—" You don't know how to finish that sentence. "—unfortunate for her."

"She's already seeing someone else. Some photographer. They've been friends for a while." He says it casually, like it doesn't bother him at all. "She's happy."

"And you're here."

"I'm here," he confirms.

The coffee maker gurgles to life. You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him watch you.

"Why did you really come to Monaco?" you ask. "Not the story about Emma being useless. The real reason."

He's quiet for a moment. "You want the truth?"

"That would be nice."

"I came because I couldn't stay away anymore. Because I won the championship and the first person I wanted to tell was you and you weren't there. Because I went to the Prize Giving with Magui and spent the entire night wishing it was you in that dress." He stands up, finally, moving toward the kitchen. Not quite entering it, just leaning in the doorway. "Because I've been tracking your pottery classes and your yoga sessions and every other thing you've tried to distract yourself with, and I realized I was being a creepy stalker instead of just coming here and saying what I should've said eighteen months ago."

"Which is?"

"That I love you. That firing you was the worst decision I've ever made. That I'm sorry." His voice cracks slightly on the sorry. "That I don't expect you to forgive me but I'm asking anyway."

The coffee maker beeps. You don't move.

"How were you tracking my pottery classes?"

"Really? That's your question?"

"It's a relevant question."

He sighs. "Charlotte."

"Charlotte?" Your voice rises. "Charlotte's been spying on me for you?"

"Not spying. Updating. She thought I should know you were okay."

"I'm going to kill her."

"She was trying to help."

"By reporting my activities to my ex-boss like I'm under surveillance?"

"When you put it that way it sounds bad—"

"It is bad, Lando!" You're fully yelling now, and some part of you knows you're not actually angry about Charlotte, you're angry about everything else—the eighteen months and the pottery classes and the fact that he's standing in your kitchen looking unfairly good and you want him so badly you can barely breathe. "You can't just—you can't track me and show up and expect me to just—"

"To just what?" He moves into the kitchen properly now, crowding into your space. "To just admit you still feel it too? To just let yourself want something instead of punishing yourself for wanting it?"

"I'm not punishing myself—"

"You're living like a ghost. Like you're waiting for permission to actually be alive again." His hands find your waist, not pulling, just holding. "Let me give you permission."

"I don't need your permission."

"Then take it anyway." His forehead drops to yours. "Take what you want. For once, just take it."

You're gripping his shirt. You don't remember reaching for him but you're holding on like he's the only solid thing in the room.

"This is going to end badly," you whisper.

"Probably."

"You're going to break my heart again."

"I'm going to try really hard not to."

"That's not good enough."

"I know." His lips brush yours, barely a kiss. "But it's all I've got."

You kiss him properly this time. Slower than in the restaurant bathroom, less desperate, more like you're both admitting something you've been avoiding. His hands slide up your back and you press closer, and the coffee sits forgotten on the counter, getting cold.

"Bedroom," you breathe against his mouth.

"You sure?"

"If you ask me one more time if I'm sure, I'm changing my mind."

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist automatically. He carries you down the hallway, kissing you the whole way, only fumbling slightly when he has to navigate your bedroom door. Your bed is exactly where beds go, and he sets you down on it with a gentleness that makes your chest ache.

"Hi," he says, hovering over you.

"Hi yourself."

"Just so we're clear—this isn't just sex."

"Lando."

"I need you to know that. This isn't me trying to get laid. This is me trying to—" He stops, searching for words. "—to show you I'm serious. That I'm all in."

"You're going to show me you're serious by sleeping with me?"

"I'm going to show you I'm serious by staying." His hand cups your face. "By waking up here tomorrow. By making you actual coffee in the morning. By not running away when it gets complicated."

"It's already complicated."

"Then I guess I'm not going anywhere." He kisses you again, and this time there's a promise in it. A commitment you're not sure either of you are ready for but are making anyway. Your hands find the buttons of his shirt. Start working them open one by one. He watches your face the whole time, like he's memorizing this, like he's afraid if he blinks you'll disappear.

"Still with me?" you ask when his shirt is open, hands spread on his chest.

"Always." His hand slides into your hair. "Even when you don't want me to be."

"Annoyingly persistent."

"One of my best qualities." He pulls your dress over your head in one smooth motion, and then you're both just staring at each other in the dim light from the hallway. "Fuck. I forgot how beautiful you are."

"You saw me three days ago."

"Wasn't close enough." His hands map your body like he's relearning it—ribs, waist, hips, thighs. "Wasn't touching you like this."

You pull him down, tired of talking, tired of thinking, tired of all the reasons this is a terrible idea. His weight settles over you and everything else falls away—the eighteen months, the fear, the certainty that this will end in disaster. Right now, there's just this. Just him. Just the feeling of finally, finally being exactly where you want to be.

Even if it's temporary. Even if it's going to hurt later. Right now, though, it's enough.

Days four through fourteen pass in a blur of Emma and schedules and Lando showing up at your apartment every single night like he lives there. He doesn't live there. You've been very clear about that.

"I'm just here a lot," he says on day seven, making coffee in your kitchen at 6 AM like he belongs there. Like it's normal, like this is normal. "That's different from living here."

"You have a toothbrush in my bathroom."

"Emergency toothbrush."

"You have clothes in my closet."

"Just in case."

"Lando."

"What?" He's grinning now, that insufferable grin that makes you want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure. "I'm respecting boundaries. You said I couldn't move in. I'm not moving in. I'm just visiting. A lot."

"You stayed here six nights in a row."

"And I went home on the seventh. See? Not living here."

You throw a dish towel at his head. He catches it, still grinning. The thing is—it's good. Terrifyingly good. He makes you coffee in the morning and you pretend to be annoyed about it. He stays up too late watching old race footage and you fall asleep on his chest listening to his heartbeat. He fucks you against your kitchen counter on day nine and you return the favor in your shower on day eleven and somewhere in between all of that, you stop counting days.

Emma is thriving. That's the word everyone keeps using—thriving. She's confident now, anticipating Lando's needs before he asks, managing his schedule like she's been doing it for years instead of two weeks. "You're amazing," she tells you on day twelve, over coffee in the MTC cafeteria. "Seriously. I don't know how you did this job for so long."

"Practice. Lots of practice."

"And patience. God, so much patience." She stirs her latte. "He's different lately though, have you noticed?"

Your stomach flips. "Different how?"

"Happier? Less stressed? I don't know, he just seems lighter." She smiles. "Whatever you said to him about being nicer to me, it worked. He actually asked about my Christmas plans yesterday. Like, genuine interest. It was weird."

"Good weird?"

"The best weird." She leans forward. "Can I ask you something personal?"

"That depends on the question."

"You and Lando. Are you... I mean, it seems like—" She stops, cheeks flushing. "Sorry. That's none of my business."

"It's complicated."

"That's what everyone says when they're together but don't want to admit it." She's still smiling, not judging, just observing.

Day fourteen arrives with the weight of finality. Your last day training Emma. Your last day having an excuse to be at MTC every morning. Your last day before everything becomes real or falls apart or some combination of both. Emma brings you flowers. Actual flowers—a bouquet of peonies tied with a ribbon.

"Thank you," she says, and her eyes are suspiciously shiny. "For everything. For being patient with me. For not making me feel stupid when I messed up. For teaching me how to do this job without losing my mind."

"You're going to be great," you tell her, and you mean it. "Better than great. You're going to be exactly what he needs."

"I hope so." She hugs you, quick and tight. "Will you still answer if I text you with questions?"

"Of course."

"Even stupid questions?"

"Especially stupid questions."

Lando doesn't show up all day. You tell yourself it's fine, that he's busy, that he's giving you and Emma space to wrap things up properly. You tell yourself a lot of things that aren't quite true. At 5 PM, Emma leaves. You pack up your things—tablet, the notes you've accumulated, the coffee mug you've been using that technically belongs to McLaren. You're stalling. You know you're stalling when your phone buzzes.

You take the elevator to the fourth floor for what might be the last time. Lando's office door is open. He's standing by the window, still in team gear, and he turns when you walk in. "Hey," he says.

"Hey."

"So. Two weeks."

"Two weeks," you confirm.

"Emma's going to be fine."

"She is."

"Thanks to you." He moves toward you, hands in his pockets. "I, uh. I got you something. To say thank you. For the training."

"Lando, you don't have to—"

"I wanted to." He pulls an envelope from his desk drawer. "It's not much. Just a little something." You open it. It's a check. A very large check. More than double what you agreed on.

"This is too much."

"It's not enough." His voice is quiet. "You came back when I asked. You trained Emma. You gave me two weeks when you could've told me to fuck off."

"I did tell you to fuck off."

"And then you came anyway." He's smiling now, that soft smile that's just for you. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." You fold the check, tuck it into your bag. "So I guess this is it."

"Is it?"

"The two weeks are up. I'm done. You and Emma are set."

"What about us?"

There it is. The question you've been avoiding for fourteen days.

"I don't know," you admit. "What about us?"

"I don't want this to end." He says it simply, honestly. "The two weeks are up but I'm not ready to stop seeing you every day. Coming to your apartment. Waking up next to you. All of it."

"Lando."

"I know it's fast. I know we're still figuring things out. But I'm all in. I told you that. I meant it." He takes your hands. "Move in with me."

You stare at him. "What?"

"Move in with me. My place. I have space. A lot of space. You could—"

"No."

"No?"

"We've been doing this for two weeks. That's not enough time to—"

"It's been two years," he interrupts. "Two weeks is just how long it took us to stop being idiots about it."

"That's not how this works."

"Then how does it work?" He's frustrated now, you can see it in the set of his jaw. "Tell me. Tell me what I need to do to prove I'm serious."

"I don't know! I don't have a checklist of requirements. I just," You pull your hands back. "I need time. I need to know this isn't going to fall apart the second things get hard."

"Things are already hard. We're still here."

"Two weeks isn't hard, Lando. Two weeks is the easy part. The hard part is six months from now when you're traveling and I'm here and we haven't seen each other in weeks. The hard part is when I do something that pisses you off and you remember why you fired me in the first place."

"That's not going to happen."

"You don't know that."

He opens his mouth. Closes it. "You're right. I don't know that. But I know I want to try. I know that two weeks with you has been better than eighteen months without you. I know that I'm in love with you and I don't want to waste any more time pretending I'm not."

Your chest aches. "I need to go."

"Where?"

"Home. My home. I need space to think."

"Okay." He doesn't try to stop you. "Will I see you tonight?"

"I don't know."

"Tomorrow?"

"Lando."

"I'm just asking. I'm not pushing." But you can see it in his eyes—the fear that this is it, that you're walking out and not coming back.

"I'll text you," you say finally.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

You leave before you can change your mind. Drive home in a daze, your apartment appearing too quickly. Inside, it's exactly as you left it this morning—coffee mugs in the sink from breakfast with Lando, his shirt draped over your chair, evidence of him everywhere. You sink onto your couch and try to figure out what the fuck you're doing.

Christmas comes three days later and you spend it alone. Lando's in the UK—family obligations, his mum's house in Somerset, the kind of traditional British Christmas that involves too much food and badly wrapped presents and everyone arguing about charades. He invited you. Asked you three times, actually, each time more hopeful than the last.

You said no.

"I don't want to meet your family," you'd told him. "Not yet. It's too much."

"They'd love you."

"That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?"

"The point is I need space. I need to figure out if this is real or if it's just us getting caught up in each other again."

He'd looked like you'd slapped him. "Right. Space. Okay."

He texted you on Christmas morning, then a hour later, and the hour after that. Charlotte called twice asking if you're spending Christmas alone, you lied, she definitely didn't believe you.

The day after Christmas, you're sitting in your apartment in pajamas and the same book you've been pretending to read for three days when your doorbell rings at 2:47 PM. Lando is standing in your hallway in a Christmas sweater—an actual, honest-to-god Christmas sweater with reindeer on it. He's holding a small gift bag, silver with white tissue paper, and he looks nervous.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi."

"Can I come in?"

You step aside. He walks in, setting the gift bag on your coffee table like it might explode. "You didn't have to get me anything," you say.

"I know. I wanted to." He shoves his hands in his pockets. "How was your Christmas?"

"Fine. Quiet."

"Mine was loud. Too loud. Kept thinking about how you'd hate it—all the noise and the people and my mum asking a million questions."

"She asked about me?"

"Yeah. She wanted to know why I invited someone and then showed up alone. Gave me a whole lecture about not screwing things up." He smiles, but it's strained. "She's very wise."

You gesture to the couch. He sits. You sit on the opposite end, keeping distance between you. "The training finished well," he says, like this is a business meeting. "Emma's doing great."

"I know. She texted me."

"Right. Of course." He's fidgeting now, picking at a loose thread on the couch. "I, uh. I missed you. At Christmas. Kept looking around like you might show up even though I knew you wouldn't."

"Lando."

"I know you need space. I'm trying to give you space. But it's been three days and I'm going insane." He looks at you finally. "I don't know how to do this. Don't know how to prove I'm serious without being overwhelming. Don't know how to give you time without feeling like I'm losing you."

"You're not losing me."

"Aren't I?" His voice cracks slightly. "You spent Christmas alone. You won't move in with me. You barely text me back. What am I supposed to think?"

"That I'm scared." The admission comes out quiet. "That I'm terrified this is going to fall apart and I don't know if I'll survive it a second time."

"So don't let it fall apart." He moves closer. "Stay. Fight for this. Give us an actual chance."

"I am giving us a chance."

"Are you? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're preparing for the end before we've even really started." His hand finds yours. "I'm not going anywhere. I don't know how many times I need to say it. I'm not firing you. I'm not leaving. I'm not changing my mind."

"You can't promise that."

"Yes, I can." He reaches for the gift bag, holds it out to you. "Open it."

"Lando."

"Please. Just open it."

You take the bag. Pull out the tissue paper. Inside is a small box, velvet, the kind that makes your heart stop. "It's not what you think," he says quickly. "I mean—just open it."

You open it and it's a key. A single key on a keyring, simple and silver.

You stare at it. "It's to my place," Lando says, words tumbling out fast now. "I know you said you won't move in. I heard you. But I want you to have it anyway. So you can come over whenever. So you know you're always welcome. So you can—" He stops. Takes a breath. "So you can stop thinking of my place as mine and start thinking of it as ours."

Your vision blurs. "Lando."

"I know it's not a grand gesture. I know it's just a key. But I don't know how else to show you I mean it. That I want you in my space, in my life, in everything." His thumb brushes your knuckles. "You said I needed to prove I'm serious. This is me proving it. Take the key. Use it or don't use it. But know it's there. Know you have a place with me whenever you're ready."

You're crying now. Properly crying. And Lando looks panicked.

"Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you cry. If it's too much—"

You kiss him. Hard and desperate and with your hands fisted in his ridiculous Christmas sweater. "It's perfect," you whisper against his mouth. "You're perfect."

"I'm really not."

"Shut up and let me have this."

He laughs, and it sounds like relief. "Okay."

You pull back, wiping your eyes. The key sits in the box, catching the light.

"I'm still scared," you admit.

"Me too."

"But I want this. I want us."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You pick up the key, test its weight in your palm. "I'm not ready to move in yet. But maybe—maybe I could stay over more? Start keeping more things there?"

"Yes. Absolutely. Whatever you want." He's grinning now, that full devastating smile. "You can reorganize my entire closet if you want. Color-code my kitchen. Do that thing you do where you arrange everything by frequency of use."

"You make me sound like a psychopath."

"You are a psychopath. It's one of my favorite things about you." He pulls you into his lap, arms wrapping around you. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas." You press your face into his neck, breathing him in. "For the record, I missed you too."

"Yeah?"

"So much I almost got on a plane to Somerset."

"You should've."

"Your mum would've hated me. Strange woman showing up on Christmas."

"My mum would've loved you. She already does, actually. Based entirely on my descriptions." He pulls back to look at you. "Fair warning—she's going to want to meet you. Properly. Probably at Easter or something equally family-oriented and terrifying."

"Easter's months away."

"So we have time to prepare." His hand cups your face. "You'll be ready by then. I know you will."

"How are you so sure?"

"Because you're here. Because you're crying over a key. Because you're scared but you're doing it anyway." He kisses your forehead. "That's the bravest thing I know."

You stay like that for a long time—curled up on your couch with Lando, the key in your hand, the future stretching out uncertain and terrifying and full of possibility. It's not perfect. You're still scared. He's still Lando Norris with all the complications that entails. But it's real. And maybe that's enough. Maybe that's everything.

Eight Months Later

The private jet levels off somewhere over Europe. You're curled up in the leather seat across from Lando, watching him pretend to read the same page of his book for the fifth time. You've been living together for six months now—his place became your place became our place somewhere around month three when you finally stopped keeping a drawer at your apartment "just in case." You sold that apartment four months ago. Haven't regretted it once.

"Nervous?" you ask.

"About what?" He sets the book down, reaches for your hand. The promise ring sits on your right hand, exactly where it's been for eight months. You've gotten used to the weight of it. Used to the way Lando looks at it sometimes, like he's planning something.

"You've read the same page five times."

He laughs, caught. "Fine. Maybe a little nervous." He stands up, walks to his bag. "Actually, I have something for you."

"Lando—"

"Close your eyes. Trust me."

You close your eyes. Feel silk brush against your face—a blindfold. He ties it carefully at the back of your head. "What are you doing?"

"Surprising you." He takes your hand. "Just trust me. We'll land soon."

"We're supposed to be going to Belgium."

"We are. Eventually." You can hear the smile in his voice. "But first—a detour." Twenty minutes of torture. You can hear everything but see nothing—the engine, the change in air pressure as you descend, Lando's thumb tracing circles on your palm like he's the one who needs reassurance. The plane touches down. Smooth landing. Lando helps you stand, guides you down the stairs carefully, his hand firm on your waist. The air is different here—warmer than Monaco, with a breeze that smells like salt and something floral you can't quite place.

"Are we at the beach?"

"Maybe. Keep walking." He guides you across tarmac, then pavement, then sand. Definitely sand. You can hear waves now, the rhythmic crash of water against shore. The sand gives way to wood—a deck, maybe a dock. The sound of the waves is louder here. Then he stops. His hands on your shoulders.

"Okay," he says, and his voice is different now. Nervous. "You can take it off."

You untie the blindfold, let it fall.

You're standing on a dock. The sun is setting over crystal-clear water that stretches to the horizon. There's a villa behind you, white stone and huge windows, the kind of place that's definitely not in Belgium. Palm trees. Bougainvillea climbing the walls. The most beautiful sunset you've ever seen painting everything gold and pink.

"Where are we?" you breathe.

"Greece." Lando's voice comes from behind you. "Santorini, specifically."

You turn around and Lando Norris is on one knee. Your heart stops. Actually fucking stops because he's holding a box—a different box than the one from eight months ago. This one is smaller, more delicate, and when he opens it there's a ring inside that catches the sunset and throws light everywhere.

"I know this is fast," he starts, and his voice is shaking. "I know eight months isn't very long in the grand scheme of things. But I've been in love with you for two years. I wasted eighteen months of that being an idiot. And the last eight months have been everything. Coming home to you. Waking up next to you. Fighting about whose turn it is to do dishes and making terrible pasta at midnight and watching you reorganize my closet for the third time." He takes a shaky breath. "I don't want to waste any more time. I don't want to wait until it's been a year or two years or whatever arbitrary timeline is supposed to make this acceptable. I know what I want. I've known since Qatar. I've known since before Qatar."

You're crying already. God, what is happening?

"You make me better. You make everything better. You call me on my shit and you're there at 3 AM when I can't sleep and you make Emma text you updates because you're worried about her even though you don't work for me anymore. I love you. I love you so much it's stupid. And I want to marry you. I want to marry you and fight about coffee orders and have you reorganize our entire life and grow old and—"

"Yes," you interrupt.

He blinks. "What?"

"Yes. I'll marry you. Obviously I'll marry you, you idiot."

"I had a whole speech prepared—"

"I don't care about the speech." You're pulling him up off his knees, laughing and crying at the same time. "Ask me. Properly."

He laughs, stands up, takes the ring out of the box with shaking hands. "Will you marry me?"

"Yes. A thousand times yes."

He slides the ring onto your left hand—your actual left hand, the important one. It sits there catching the light, real and perfect and terrifying. "I can't believe you did this," you say, and you're in his arms now, held tight against his chest. "Greece. A sunset. What about Spa? The race?"

"Fuck Spa." He's grinning against your hair. "We'll get there Sunday. I told Zak I needed a couple days. Told him it was important. Everyone knows—McLaren, Emma, Charlotte. They're all in on it. I've been planning this for three months." He pulls back to look at you, and his eyes are shiny. "I'm yours. For as long as you'll have me."

"Forever, then."

"Forever." He kisses you as the sun sets over Santorini, soft and deep and perfect. When he pulls back, he's still grinning. "No take backs."

Lando pushes the door open to the bedroom and you see champagne on ice, rose petals scattered across the bed, the whole romantic setup that he definitely planned down to the last detail. "You're very sure of yourself," you say, even as he's walking you backward toward the bed. "What if I'd said no?"

"You didn't." His hands find your waist, slide under your shirt. "And even if you had, I would've asked again tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that until you said yes."

"That's insane."

"That's commitment." He pulls your shirt over your head, tosses it somewhere behind him. "Now stop talking and let me worship my fiancée." The word makes you clench. Fiancée. You're his fiancée now. The ring on your finger catches the candlelight as you reach for him, pulling him closer.

"I love you," you whisper against his mouth.

"I love you too." His hands are everywhere now—in your hair, on your skin, working open the button of your jeans. "And I'm going to spend the rest of the night proving it." He pushes you down onto the bed and follows you, covering your body with his. His mouth finds your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp, and you arch into him. "Shh." He's working his way down, kissing and biting and marking you as he goes. "Let me take care of you. Let me show you what it means to be mine." He makes quick work of the rest of your clothes, and then his mouth is between your thighs and you're fisting your hands in the expensive sheets, gasping his name. He takes his time, licking and sucking and bringing you right to the edge before pulling back.

"Not yet," he says, grinning up at you with his mouth wet and obscene. "Want you desperate for it. Want you begging."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't." He slides two fingers inside you, curling them just right. "You love me. You're going to marry me. And right now, you're going to come for me." He lowers his mouth again and you shatter, coming hard with his name on your lips and your hands in his hair. He works you through it, drawing it out until you're shaking and pushing him away.

"Too much," you gasp.

"Not nearly enough." He's pulling off his own clothes now, and when he's finally naked he settles between your thighs, the head of his cock brushing against you. "Ready?"

"God, yes." He slides in slowly, so slowly, and you can feel every inch. When he's fully seated he stops, just breathing hard against your neck.

"Fuck," he groans. "Feel so good. Always feel so good. My perfect girl. My fiancée. Mine."

"Yours," you agree, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Always yours."

He starts moving then—slow at first, then harder, faster, until the bed is slamming against the wall and you're both gasping. His hand slides between your bodies to find your clit and you're coming again, clenching around him as he fucks you through it. "That's it," he growls. "That's my girl. Come on my cock. Let me feel it, baby."

You're barely down from the second orgasm when you feel the third building. Lando shifts the angle and hits something inside you that makes you sob.

"Right there?" he asks, doing it again. "That the spot?"

"Yes—fuck—yes, don't stop—"

"Never stopping. Never letting you go. You're mine now. Forever." His rhythm is getting erratic, his grip on your hips tightening. "Gonna come inside you. Fill you up. You want that?"

"Yes—please—Lando—"

"Mine," he says fiercely, and then he's kissing you as you both come, him spilling inside you as you clench around him, both of you shaking and completely wrecked. He collapses on top of you, breathing hard. You can feel his heart racing against your chest, matching your own.

"Holy shit," you manage eventually.

"Yeah." He lifts his head to look at you, and he's grinning. "So. Still want to marry me?"

"After that? Absolutely." You trace his jaw with your finger. "Though I'm going to need you to do that again. You know, to make sure."

"Fiancée has demands." He's already hardening inside you again. "I think I can work with that." He does it again. And then again. By the time you finally collapse in a tangle of sweaty limbs and expensive sheets, the moon is high and you can barely move. "Can't believe you're mine," Lando murmurs against your hair, his hand finding yours to trace the ring there.

"Can't believe you proposed on a dock."

"Romantic as fuck."

"Insane as fuck."

"Same thing." He kisses your temple. "Get some sleep. We have Spa on Sunday and I need you well-rested."

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to win that race for you. For my fiancée." He says the word like he's testing it out, like he can't quite believe it's real. "And then I'm going to take you back to Monaco and fuck you in our bed as a race winner and your future husband."

"Very confident."

The bitter taste of Vodka burning on your throat couldn’t mask the erratic rhythm of the drums pounding in your ears. On a good note, the song was so loud it was impossible for you to focus on anything - you can also blame that for the alcohol running in your bloodstream. 

It was Monaco. Glorious, glamorous, the country of clubs and billionaires, where, even if you were poor, you were still filthy rich. 

You were sure you would be enjoying yourself, had it not been the unfortunate circumstances on your pathetic private life. It was supposed to be a couple’s trip, fancy, much like a honeymoon. You wanted to surprise your boyfriend - well, ex-boyfriend - with tickets to the Monaco race for his birthday, but before you could even wrap a cute baby blue ribbon around the Paddock Passes, you received a text - or rather a picture - from a random girl on your instagram DM’s. The image was clear, your boyfriend was locking lips with some blonde on a random Thursday night. You didn’t know the girl who sent it, maybe she was your guardian angel, maybe someone who knew you from college. It didn’t matter. What truly mattered was the pain breaking your bones, followed by the anger twisting your upper stomach.

He tried to reach out and explain himself, but there was nothing that could free him from the charges once the proof was so unquestionable. 

After that, every time you looked at those stupid Paddock Passes you thought about burning them, alongside a few of his t-shirts. But your rational brain was always something you were proud of. Why burn them if you can just enjoy the perks? 

Were you a big Formula 1 fan? No shot. It all started off as a way of  pleasing your ex on Sundays, and then it quite became an unspoken tradition. You didn’t know all the drivers names, only the ones that won most of the time, and you still couldn’t figure out if Lewis Hamilton was a Mercedes or a Ferrari driver. And, wait, where was Daniel Ricciardo? The thing is, it was never about the sport, to you, it was only about the quality-time in the relationship.

However, with all your apathetic knowledge of races and Grand Prixs, you knew one important thing, Max Verstappen. Your ex’s favorite driver. God, you even had t-shirts with his number on it. You rooted for him, because your boyfriend did. So, now that there was no boyfriend, you wanted Max Verstappen to actually crash his car on Turn 1. Sure, maybe it was a little bit mean to project your anger on a guy who is just doing his job, but the rage inside of you was so sharp that everything your boyfriend once loved, became what you now hate. So what if Max Verstappen is one of those things? He doesn’t know you.

The arrival to Monaco was chaotic. There was no way of getting to it by plane, so you had to spent an unholy amount of euros on an Uber ride. At least you got a chance to ride on a fancy white Jaguar that only existed on a parallel reality to yours.

You packed your best clothes, fancy satin dresses, short flowy skirts, the ones you’ve been saving most of your life for that special occasion that never really arrived. Now it was the time. Young, single, enjoying the salty air of Monte Carlo. You wanted to make sure no one knew you’ve been through a break up and you thought you were doing a good job, but, God, every corner of that country screamed your ex’s name.

Maybe a night out in a club before Qualifying would do you good. From the outside perspective, you looked stunning. Goddess-like. Everyone could tell you were not from Monaco, because there was something about you that stood out from that dystopian place, something which some might like to call a personality. No designer brands sticking out, no fake anything, no trying too hard, just a simple but effective beauty.

“Would you like another shot?”

The bartender’s loud voice overlapped the electronic beat. You looked down at the empty glass shot between your fingers. The image brought back the unbearable taste of Vodka, which made you involuntarily twist your lips.

“Uh… Sure.”

You nodded, but the hesitation was dripping from your lips.

“Maybe you should make her something she actually enjoys drinking.”

You heard the masculine voice coming from your right side. The sentence was filled with confidence, mixed with a sense of humor that was dry. You didn’t dare to look at the man, you were not looking for one, in fact, you much preferred if they were far away from you.

“And how do you know what I like to drink?”

Your answer just slipped your tongue, it was supposed to stay in your thoughts. But that was the Vodka effect. Maybe the stranger was right, you should stop.

“Feisty.” You rolled your eyes. “But no one actually likes the taste of that shit.”

“Well, I’m not drinking for the taste of anything.”

You looked to your right, over your shoulder, with annoyance tattooed on your face. And then you saw him. Black t-shirt, fitted jeans, black cap backwards. Piercing blue eyes. Looking like a frat boy from a sorority or someone from high school you’d have a crush on from afar. 

“You could still get drunk on Gin and Tonics and they taste pretty nice. Trust me.” He gave you a polite smile, lips closed. “I’m Max.”

You had to use your sober side to control any facial expression in that moment. Must the universe play such twisted games with you? Does God actually believe you’re one of his strongest soldiers?

It was unwitting the way you relaxed your posture once you managed to understand what was going on. Blame it on the celebrity halo effect. It was like he pushed all your negativity out of the club, even the songs sounded decent now. 

He did not look this hot on tv.

“I’m YN.”

He nodded and you noticed his grin. Wild. Trouble.

“So… Gin and Tonics?” He shook the glass cup on his right hand, the ice cubes making a light sound.

“I think I will actually just stop with the drinking.”

Because you wanted to remember every single aspect of that interaction so you could journal it and send it on a letter to your ex-boyfriend. See? I’m talking with Max Verstappen and you’re just dreaming about getting a glimpse of him.

“You are not from around here.”

He wasn’t asking, it was a statement. You didn’t know if you should take it the wrong way, if you looked so pathetically poor or outcasted, but his tone didn’t seem to imply this. Max was curious. He didn’t ask to offend, he asked with admiration.

“Damn, do I look that poor?”

You joked, getting a silent laugh from him.

“No, not at all! I meant it in the best way.” Max looked at the crowd of people dancing around, instantly making you pay attention to it too. The girls were well dressed, out of this world, like the Met Gala happened everyday here. You noticed, but never really paid that much attention. But, honestly, it’s not like you were self-conscious about it. Who care? In a few days you would leave and they would never see you again. “Everyone here is wearing some designer of some sorts, or glitter, or insanely high heels and expensive watches. You’re wearing flat sandals and you hair is beach wavy.”

You blushed, feeling suddenly overwhelmed with the fact that he analyzed you with caution.

“Don’t get me wrong, I would wear Louboutin’s if I had them.” Truth is, there was a part of you that think you would have fun in this lifestyle. There’s nothing wrong with dressing fancy and wearing designer, as long as you’re doing it for the fun and not to show off. “But, following your logic, you’re wearing a plain black tee and backwards cap.”

He raised his now empty glass. Max was never one to flaunt wealth in his fashion. He wasn’t, actually, a fashion guy. He was the type of guy who enjoyed spending his money on other people, or at least on things to do, things to get him out of boredom.

“Am I supposed to be wearing something else?”

“Maybe some RedBull merch?”

That got a loud laugh out of him. That was it for Max. He was officially invested in this. You knew who he was, yet you were still treating him like he was just some random guy flirting with you in a club. Of course, a guy you were minimally interested in. There was no starry admiration in your eyes, just plain acknowledge of his presence. 

“A-ha. So you do know who I am.”

“I think everyone in Monaco this weekend knows who you are.”

You didn’t know your words caused his chest to tighten a bit. But, of course, it wasn’t your fault. You weren’t aware of his issues with his public presence and persona. No one was, actually. Max never really said out loud how he hated being famous, although he thought his private manners spoke it loudly for him.

You noticed, however, his shoulders tensed up a bit and the air between you was slightly heavier. 

“Are you here for the race, then?”

“It’s a funny, long, too much information type of story…”

You opened the breach. Were you planning on telling about your disaster of a dating life to Max Verstappen? Never in a million years, but he looked like the guy who needed to hear some common human issues. Max craved normality, you could read that. So you were going to give it to him.

“Hm, now you will have to tell me.” Max looked around, aware of the discomfort coming from the loud, stupid electronic track that he actually would like if the sound of your voice wasn’t ten times more interesting. “Follow me.”

Max had no problem walking through the crowd, people would just simply open the space he needed to pass, like he was the prince of Monaco himself, some authority figure that could go anywhere and get anything. That part of his fame he liked it, there was no denying.

You held his hand firmly, like you’d be dropped at the ocean if you let go. His skin was rough and firm, with a few calluses. Hands that could break you if you allowed. The pressure he was applying on your palm was like a reassurance.

You followed Max to what looked like a private room, with a few booths, away from all the noise. The light was dim and yellow, moody, a typical place for flirting. Not necessarily romantic, though. The energy emanating was too sensual to allow space for any fairytale date.

Around you, you could see a few recognizable faces. Celebrities, models with old men, drivers. Lewis Hamilton particularly caught your eye, sitting in a booth, listening to a blonde girl talking. Unlike everybody else who seemed mesmerized by Max’s presence, Lewis didn’t care, in fact, he didn’t even acknowledged your existence, like he was above you, or Max. Truth is, he probably was.

Max guided you to a place in the corner, far away from the others, isolated. It felt like a calculated move. The dutch waited like a gentleman for you to sit down first, taking his seat right in front of you. The black table separating you with a single candle lit by a lonely flame wasn’t enough distance, it felt unduly intimate.

“So… What is the too much information, funny, story?”

He took a sip of his drink, that by now consisted in mere melted ice cubes with whatever was left of a lemon.

“I bought the tickets a few months ago, as a gift, for my boyfriend.” You saw Max’s lips curling in a smirk once you said the infamous word. “Now ex-boyfriend.” The emphasis on the first half of the word was deliberate.

“Tough breakup?”

“I found out he cheated on me through pictures that were sent on my Instagram Directs.”

Max tilted his head, he was convinced that something similar probably happened to him once.

“Well, first of all, I’m sorry, he’s a douche.” You brushed it off, a shoulder movement that made explicit that you were, somehow, almost over it. “Second, you said it was funny.”

“Well, here’s the funny part. I never liked Formula 1. No offense.”

“Non taken.”

“But Dylan was, like, obsessed with it. He knew everything, about everything. He had merch, lego cars, watched countless races in person, and the ones he couldn’t attend, he watched on Tv. Never missed a single one.”

Max laughed. Your description of his behavior wasn’t news to him, it sounded like just the average Formula 1 fan, but maybe that was the view from the public who had no idea how much passionate sports fan can be.

“So you bought him Monaco tickets. That’s sweet.”

“When we broke up I contemplated selling the tickets and getting my money back. But why would I do that when I could live the experience he always dreamt of?”

Your comment sparked something in Max’s chest. You were feisty, he could see you had a fire in you. He recognized, somewhere in your eyes and demeanor, that you had the rage and determination he only truly saw in himself. 

“So you flew out here?”

“Hoping I could see his favorite driver crash and send a video to him.”

“And who’s that?”

“You.”

Max tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. The fact that you just admitted you were hoping he would crash didn’t even bother him, because the confidence and malice in how you said it, turned him on. It’s like you were a challenge, unlike any other person he ever met. He wasn’t offended by anything you said, he was, on the other hand, completely captivated.

“I’m sorry to break it to you, sweets, I’m not going to crash just so you could get revenge on your pathetic ex-boyfriend.”

You giggled, feeling a rush of goosebumps with the nickname that escaped his lips so naturally, like it was something easy for him to say.

“No, I know. I guess talking to you is enough revenge already.”

You said the word talking, but both of you knew that wasn’t simply it. The air was denser and filled with dirty thoughts both of you had crossing your mind.

“Yeah, except he’ll never know you are here talking to me.”

You shrugged.

“It’s okay. Sometimes revenge is not about a public act, but an act of self gratification.”

Maybe it was the Vodka hitting, maybe it was how beautiful Max’s eyes looked when they were reflecting eroticism, or maybe it was just the confidence that you packed and brought it out like a hidden gun, but your words were explicit enough for him to understand the double meaning.

“So, since plan A is not going to work, your plan B is fucking your boyfriend’s favorite driver and what? Send him a sextape?”

Max was joking, clearly, but every time he thought back about it, he realized he wasn’t opposed to the idea at all.

You raised an eyebrow, as if daring him to agree to a plan HE was the one who created. You never said anything about a sex tape, or sex, at all. Turns out Max Verstappen had the devil in his mind, especially when confronted with a beautiful girl.

“Look, I can’t give you a crash, or a sextape…” He let the phrase prolong, like he had something to add. “But I can give you something else.”

You narrowed your eyes, tempted.

“And what is that?”

“Come to the RedBull garage this weekend, with me. I’ll make sure he sees you.”

You were out of breath for a moment, nearly choking on air. Your mind racing with ideas and ‘what-ifs’. Being on the spotlight was never your thing. Normal job, normal clothes, normal apartment, you would even call yourself basic. Simple. And there was nothing wrong with that. You liked the shadows, you liked doing your own thing without strangers lurking and noticing. It gave you a sense of freedom. If you were not in the spotlight, no one could judge and you could do what your heart truly desired.

Being in the RedBull garage with Max would change everything, your whole way of living. Because once you are seen in public with a guy like him, people never forget. It would give you a new identity, people would gossip, comment on your appearance, on your manners. It was too much.

Max could see the hesitation emanating from you, which sort of made him like you even more. Any girl would jump onto that opportunity, but you seemed actually worried about the consequences.

“I don’t know, Max. He’s not the only one who’s going to see me. People will talk.”

“So?”

“People will gossip. About me.”

“Who cares about what other people think?” You didn’t answer. Of course Max Verstappen didn’t care about other people, he didn’t have to, he would still be successful and talented regardless of what people would say, and he would still be adored. Because unlike you, he had an army of a fanbase to support him. “Look, YN, you’re not going to show up as my girlfriend or anything, people bring guests to the Paddock all the time. It’s really nothing if you think about it, and it will give you exactly what you need.”

Max promised to himself he wasn’t going to push if you said no. But he legitimately wanted you there, not only for the revenge or the ploy around your love life, but so that he could spend a little bit more time with you.

“I suppose we can try tomorrow and if it goes well, I’ll be there on Sunday too.”

Max smiled, ear to ear, a rare Max Verstappen smile journalist would be fighting over a picture. But it was natural and real, like the ones he had when he held his trophies.

“I have a condition though.”

“Oh, a second ago you were begging for me to agree to this, and now you have conditions?”

“I was not begging.” He kinda was though. “And I am the one doing you a favor, so, yes, I have a condition.”

You smirked.

“Ok, let’s hear it.”

“A date on Sunday night, after the race.”

Max had a dirty smirk hidden on the corner of his lips, which made your stomach twist with a familiar sensation you couldn’t quite name it.

“To celebrate your win?” You teased.

“To celebrate both our wins.”

Licking your lips, you couldn’t help but look at him like you were no better than any man. A date with a cute guy who was actually interesting and had a spark of evilness that matched you? Yeah, no one could refuse that.

“You better not crash then.”

Max laughed, relaxing his posture.

“I’m too good for crashing.”

You gave him your left hand, waiting for a shake, like sealing a deal between two powerful businesses.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

yourusername added to their story

"won't you guess where i am?"

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Saturday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

As soon as qualifying was done, you heard the whispers, from celebrities on the Paddock, from members of the RedBull team, even drivers and their girlfriends. Everyone was polite, cordially polite, but no one dared to ask your name, that day you were simply “the girl that came with Max.” Little did you know people were dying to unravel the mystery surrounding your persona. Who are you? How do you know Max? Are you and Max dating? It made you nervous.

You felt isolated. It was another reality, the people were so rich you were certain they didn’t know what working 9 to 5 felt like, or how it feels to get recognized for your ideas. At least, you had to admit that watching the whole thing in person was way more fun than on TV. Something, perhaps, you could start enjoying.

You were standing alone next to a window in RedBull’s hospitality, holding a glass of champagne that felt rude to decline. The room suddenly lit up, you heard loud claps all around, whistles buzzing. Between the fancy dresses and expensive t-shirts, you saw Max, walking with confidence, like he was royalty. 

Max politely smiled and shook hands with everybody congratulating him. Pole sitter. In Monaco. A big thing, from what you learned. However, the excited strangers and members of the team were not able to stop Max from walking straight to you, like he had a duty, like getting pole position was a purpose.

“Hello there, pretty.”

He smiled and you noticed how his features softened. Max was sweaty, hair messy, racing suit falling over his hips. You cursed. God damn it that man was breathtaking. Everything got even worse when he hugged your shoulders, placing a gentle, shy kiss on your cheeks. The room fell silent as everyone paid close attention to Max Verstappen being tender.

“Congratulations!”

“Did you enjoy it?”

You smiled, big, setting off an involuntary reaction on Max, that mimicked your smile as well.

“Way better than from home.”

“Any news?”

Max asked shamelessly, excited for the answer, excited to know if your boyfriend was cursing his own life for letting you go.

“Not yet. Maybe he didn’t see it.”

“Or maybe he is at the hospital, dead by a heart attack.”

You both laughed. Who knew Max Verstappen had a sense of humor? Even better, he had a dark sense of humor. One that sounded like the things you think, but keep it in your mind, afraid others will judge. Not Max. He will never refrain from speaking his truth, maybe that’s how he got to the top, the best of the best.

Before you could say anything, Max got surrounded by people of his team. He gave you a look, a sorry one. 

“It’s fine, I’ll go to the hotel, need some rest.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir.”

Another kiss on your cheek and he was gone. This time, when he walked out of the door, you felt overwhelmed by the looks fallen on you. They weren’t judging, just dying with curiosity. Nobody knew what the two of you had, but it was damn clear that the energy of attraction was so powerful it filled the space and left no place for anything else.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Sunday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

Race day was chaotic, that was note number one. Note number two was, you were sure there was no way that many boats fit on Monte Carlos’ coast.

Unlike yesterday, you saw Max before he got into his car. You texted him when you arrived and he made his way to you, introducing you to a few people, so you wouldn’t feel isolated. It was uncomfortable having to explain that you weren’t dating, just getting to know each other. What you learned was that Max never really brought any girl over ever since his breakup with his long time ex, or even before her. He was a guy that kept his personal life so private even his family members had no clue if he was still single or not. Which is why people were so curious about you, because Max was treating you like, at the very least, a long time friend.

Your presence during Qualifying alarmed the media. The cameras weren’t shying away from filming you during certain parts of the race, especially when Max won after dominating 78 laps. But nothing prepared the journalists and the fans to when he said it out loud on the radio, proudly, letting everyone know.

If Dylan was already freaking out by one TV appearance, by this time he was for sure throwing a tantrum like a toddler who refused to eat vegetables. He wasn’t the only one. You wanted to crawl into a dark hole and hide from humanity. Or maybe scream and punch Max on his god crafted face. Everyone was speechless from that moment and Max kept going with his duties like he didn’t just create chaos amongst the Formula 1 community.

Thankfully, an angelic, miraculous girl that worked for RedBull managed to take you to Max’s driver’s room, where you could be alone. God, in that moment, if you could kiss her, you would.

You threw your phone in the depths of your purse, where you couldn’t reach to see any messages or take any calls, and especially not open Instagram. Your legs were shaking, like anxiety creeping through every pore on your skin. There was nothing you could do now, the damage was done.

Max opened the door in a brutal movement, like he was rescuing you from a dungeon. The mix of feelings when you saw him was too complicated to point. You were angry, nervous, grateful, amused, all of the above, plus a few more. Max, on the other hand, seemed like he just had another day at the office.

“Hey, told you I’d win, no crashes.”

“Are you fucking insane?”

Max was taken back by the tone of your voice and he replayed in his memories every single second of the day, trying to figure out what he did to get you so worked up.

“What?”

“That fucking radio message!”

And then he laughed. He laughed like he was brushing it off. Like it was nothing, an incident. 

“Not a sextape, but it’s the best I could do.” His smile quickly vanished once he saw the seriousness in your semblant. “Are you mad? I thought this is what you wanted.”

You were out of breaths to take. Sure, this was what you wanted, in a way, but maybe it went too far, too public. It was too much. And in that moment you were overwhelmed.

“I… It’s-” You shook your head, sitting back down on the small white couch behind you. Max stood still, watching, studying your movements. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

That was part of it. You weren’t expecting any of this. It took you by surprise and reminded you that you had no control over anything. But to make matters worse, this happened in a situation where you particularly needed to control.

“Would you have preferred if I asked you before?”

“Yes, I very much would, Max.”

He kneeled before you, reaching your height.

“I’m sorry, liefje. You are right, I should’ve asked.”

You softened, not only because he seemed genuine apologetic, but the pet name and sweetness in his voice melted every bad feeling you had, just like magic, he erased every reason you had to be angry in the first place.

Max Verstappen just had that it factor that no matter what he said, people would simply surrender to his ways.

You stood up from the couch, making him turn to you, waiting anxiously for your reaction. The minimal possibility that you would just say no to the date or never see him again was driving him insane.

“So, what time are you picking me up?”

The shape of his lips curved into the most beautiful smile you have ever seen.

“At eight. No need to wear a fancy dress, anything is fine.”

“Thank God I packed my finest sweatpants then.”

Max giggled, playfully.

“Well, actually, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

Of course he wouldn’t mind. You could go to the date dressed in pajamas and he would still think you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.

“See you later, champ.”

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

Later seemed to never come. Your hotel room was a mess when Max texted that he was waiting for you downstairs, much like a reflection from your insides. You were going out, on an official date, with Max Verstappen. How would you simply return to your job on Tuesday and tell your co-workers what happened? 

Max was waiting outside his car, dressed casually, not like he was going on a first date, but as in you were in a established relationship and he could dress comfortably, like he always did. Somehow, that made him even more attractive. There were people around, watching, filming. You were worried, Max was annoyed, he wanted to punch anyone who dared to disturb that moment.

Once you were in the car, it was a relief, all the noise was shut, remaining only the sound of your shaky breathing.

“I promise you I will take you far away from this shit.”

He drove no longer than 10 minutes until he reached the coast. You followed him, like a lost child, watching him in his element, talking to the coast guards and some people that were there to help. And, then, it hit you, the big, white yacht, bigger than your childhood house. The type of thing you could work your entire life and still couldn’t afford.

Max got in first, extending his hand, like a gentleman, helping you. You looked around, mesmerized, like you’ve entered heaven. That place was beautiful, unlike anything you’ve seen before. The look on your face was probably pathetic, but Max found it adorable.

“Is this yours?”

You wanted to curse yourself, what a stupid question, of course it was.

“Yes, welcome.”

Max gave you a quick tour around, showing the place with the lack of interest that only a person who’s been there a thousand times could have. Like it was getting old. The Yatch was so peaceful you didn’t even notice it started to move and you were now somewhere in the ocean.

The tour ended with a table set out in the open, under the dark starry sky. White cloth, a burning candle, in the company of a lonely red rose. Max pulled your chair, sitting in front of you. You noticed he was nervous and you noticed he tried hard. Little did he know you didn’t need an expensive yacht to be impressed, he could do it only by being himself.

“This is really nice, Max.”

Your compliment eased his nerves.

“I hope this isn’t too much.”

“Well, it certainly isn’t too little.” You joked, but he seemed still a little tense. “But I think it’s romantic.”

And it was, indeed. Text book romantic. Straight out of a romcom.

“Are you hungry?”

You weren’t. The nerves were eating you alive, you couldn’t think about food, your body showed no signs of hunger at all.

“Starving.”

He grined, ear to ear. “Awesome.” And got up from the table, walking towards the inside.

You took the moment without his presence to breathe, get yourself together, recompose. You would leave tomorrow and never see him again, which was a shame, but at the same time helped you to get comfortable. 

Max was back barely a minute later, holding two white plates. You were expecting some fancy seafood dish, maybe a lobster or shrimp, but instead, he held in his hands the delicacy of a homemade burger, garnished with french fries. You smiled. Maybe you were hungry after all.

Max placed the plates on the table, looking proud.

“I made them.”

“Woah! I’m impressed.” You giggled, quickly taking one of the fries, from his plate. “He can drive and cook? What can’t you do?”

“Anyone can cook a burger, it’s not that hard.”

“Don’t put yourself down. You’d be surprised to see how people’s culinary skills are precarious.”

You took a big bite of the burger. Sure, it wasn’t anything elaborated, just a patty with a slice of cheddar cheese and tomatoes, but the simplicity turned it into something special. Plus, the fact that Max took his limited time to make them himself.

He watched you carefully, aching for your opinion, like you tasting his food was somehow validating him as a person, as a man, as a lover.

“So… How is it?”

“Perfect.”

You weren’t talking about the burger at all. You were talking about him, about the weekend, about everything he did for you. It was perfect. Just what you needed. Like God saved Max Verstappen just for you, like all of this was just for you. Suddenly, you felt seen, important, cared about.

The rest of the night flowed like silk. The conversation was stimulating, electrifying. Max learned about your life, your family, your job and you learned about everything that did not involve his career or driving. That night, Max was just a regular guy, with a normal girl, having homemade burgers on a 33 million dollars Yatch. 

As the night extended, you both realized how you didn’t want it to end, how you wanted to be there forever. You were laying down on a towel, the chill breeze flowing, standing side by side, stargazing, telling each other childhood stories.

“I really want to keep seeing you.”

Max’s words came out as a fragile whisper, like he was telling a secret, like he never experienced being vulnerable before.

You turned your face, staring right into his blue eyes, that were a little bit darker with the lack of sunlight.

“How are we going to do that?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it work.”

And he kissed you. You felt his hand first, barely touching you, almost like he was insecure - as if Max was afraid that instant could break. 

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It came with the calmness of someone who knows that time, sometimes, bends before what is real. You sighed slightly, between the kiss, letting the air escape your longs amongst your partial open lips.

The sky fell a bit closer, like all the stars were watching, silently, bearing witnesses to that moment. He moved slowly, shy, like discovering his own name, until he wasn’t. Max leaned in even more, you felt the deepness, not in an urgent kind of way, but in a way in which you were dancing the same song.

And over there, underneath the starry Monaco sky, with his taste invading you, everything stopped moving. Nothing before, nothing after. Just this. The whole world fitted in that kiss, as a promise that would perpetuate for a long time.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

What followed the weekend was not what you expected. You thought that once you boarded that plane back to your hometown, Max Verstappen would fade into a distant memory, a fairytale, something to tell your kids in the future and make them doubt reality. But that wasn't what happened.

When Max wasn’t flying you to nearby races, he was visiting you in his free time. Showing up at your job, unannounced, holding some white lilies or some plush toy that he bought. You visited his home, got introduced to his family, had dinner with his dad. The infamous Jos Verstappen people talked about, like he was an urban legend. Turns out, he wasn’t as scary as people made it sound, or maybe you were just too good at dealing with that kind of man. At the same spectrum, Max also met your family, your dad nearly crashing out once he saw the Max Verstappen sitting on the dining table, like a normal guy.

Turns out that, even with the constant traveling, media, fans following you down the streets, loving Max was so easy. Much easier than you thought. You even told that to him once. Max didn’t believe you, because he has been told the contrary many times before. In fact, he quite believed that he was an unloving person, although he would never admit that to anyone. However, he felt you were genuine in your acts of tenderness. Every time you brushed his hair or kissed his temples, something in him lit up with warmness, like he was experiencing a real life miracle.

Max never officially asked you to be his girlfriend, he didn’t need to, it just happened. When he wasn’t racing or you weren’t working, you were together, glued like birds of a feather.  You were familiar with the drivers now, and their girlfriends. Unlike Monaco, every race you attended now you had someone to talk to, you would even dare to call some of the girls your friends. Everyone seemed to enjoy your company, the team, the drivers, Max’s friends. It’s like you were a breathe of fresh air amongst the chaos of the racing world.

Horner wouldn’t lie, he was a bit worried seeing his driver fall in love with someone, because he had never seen Max race while being distracted, while having another priority. However, Christian quickly noticed there was nothing for him to stress about. Quite the opposite, actually. Max - if it was even possible - improved, ruining McLaren’s dominance. He couldn’t quite explain what the chemicals of love were doing to his Dutch Lion, but he prayed you never left.

On Max’s perspective, yes, he wanted to put on a show, to be his best, to impress you. Not in a pressured way, but in a “I want to make you proud” way. And you were proud regardless of his position. You celebrated Max the same exact way, it didn’t matter if he was P1 or P11. In fact, during Singapore, after a disappointing race, finishing at P8, you waited for Max at the hotel room with champagne and balloons. At first he was frustrated, angry, disappointed at himself and definitely confused at your reaction, but that was mainly because he never had someone who supported him so much, to the point which anything was enough. You taught him that he was enough, and you were proud of him as a person, as a driver, he didn’t need to be the best of the best all the time.

That sort of mentality you brought worked like reverse psychology. It took the weight out of his shoulders. And racing without any worries, made him better.

Needless to say your ex, Dylan, was losing his mind with that whole situation. Which, to Max, was only an incentive. He took the cheating personally, like it happened to him. And even though you never talked to that guy again, he wanted to make sure Dylan regretted what he did to the rest of his life. You told him to forget it, reassured that you were over it, that after Monaco Dylan was dead to you, like a nightmare that you forgot the second you woke up. But Max wasn’t the type to let it go.

So, Abu Dhabi 2025, last race on the calendar, he would give his all. The championship was tied between him and Lando. For the entire season, he raced to win, but that exact race he had entirely different motives.

You weren’t nervous unlike the other girlfriends, you put blind faith in Max. That’s why when the race started, you watched with a steady heartbeat. And Max? Reminded everyone why he was the best of the sport.

When he stepped out of the car, the whole team made a priority that you would be the first to see him, per his request. Helmet on, he rushed to you, like you were the trophy, like you were the championship prize. You kissed the helmet, feeling the coldness hitting your lips. His breath fogged the visor for a second as he leaned closer, hands still trembling with the leftover adrenaline of the race. The roar of celebration around you faded into a muffled hum — the crowd, the champagne, the cameras — all of it dimmed behind the shield of this moment.

Max lifted the visor slowly, revealing eyes that had searched for you since the checkered flag. Eyes that only softened when they found yours.

“Fuck, liefje,” he said, voice rough, edged with emotion. “I can’t believe we did it.”

You smiled, blinking against the tears threatening to fall. “You did it, Max,” you whispered, your fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, “you’re the best.”

He laughed — a breathy, shaking laugh — and pulled you into him, the hard shell of his suit pressing against your body like armor. “Thank you so much for being here,” he murmured into your hair. “For always being here. Love you.”

You closed your eyes, letting the truth of his words wrap around you like warmth. But then he leaned back just enough to meet your gaze again — this time with that glint in his eyes. The one you’d seen when he was most dangerous. Most determined.

“And maybe,” he added, with the ghost of a smirk, “just maybe... I wanted him to see this too.”

Your breath caught.

“I wanted him to watch,” he continued, quieter now. “To watch me win everything he lost the moment he let you go.”

The crowd started chanting Max’s name, and behind you, the team called for photos, for celebrations, but neither of you moved. You stayed there in the quiet bubble of his embrace, the world spinning a little slower just for the two of you.

Finally, Max pulled back, cradling your face in his gloved hands. “It’s you and I, now,” he said, not as a question, but as a promise. “Wherever I go next, we go together.”

And you nodded, heart thudding like an engine ready to race. Because this wasn’t just the end of a season. It was the beginning of forever.

The cheers swelled again as Max took your hand, raising it high like another victory. And when he looked back at you one last time before stepping onto the podium, he didn’t see the crowd, the cameras, or the flashing lights.

He saw you. Always you. His greatest win.

liked by redbullracing, f1, yourbff and 6,288,494 others

vogue Evertyhing we know about the romance between Yn Yln and Max Verstappen. From how they met to how she became RedBull's princess and fan's favorite WAG. Link in bio.

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user imagine being such an iconic couple vogue wrote a fucking article about you

user they won best paddock couple 😍😍

user she is so pretty!! 😩😩😩

user can yn teach me her tricks? 🙏

yourbff my baby is a star 🤩

danielricciardo finally some real journalism!

> user you're in a max/yn biggest fan competition but your oponent is daniel ricciardo > danielricciardo you're immediately losing

yourusername what is my life??

> user girl if you don't want it, can i have it??

user how's dylan??

❤️ liked by maxverstappen1

user bro saw his girl got cheated on and made it everyone's problem

user if they don't get married istg

yourmom my loves 😍

zendaya petition for this to be a movie immediately.

user if petty was high fashion, this man just walked Paris.

florencepugh I need her skincare routine and his PR team.

gigihadid love that for her. love that less for her ex 💅

user he said drive to survive and thrive to flex, and I support it fully.

user this is the energy you have when your love life AND tire strategy are in sync.

user it’s giving “revenge dress” but in the form of an entire Grand Prix.

f1gossip she got cheated on and responded with a WDC boyfriend. this is not a win, this is a legacy.

user he’s not just her man — he’s the man your ex warned you about.

user if Romeo drove a car and Juliet wore a paddock pass.

liked by yourusername, RedBullRacing and 9,293,555 others

maxverstappen1 This one's for your girlfriends.

view all comments

user this is actually insane

user mad!max is back 🥵🥵

user may this love find me! 🙏🙏🙏

redbullracing the dutch lion is still here! 💪🦁

user 5 times world champion, hot girlfriend, rich, talented. will he ever lose?

user i'm so invested in whatever this drama with this dylan guy is

> user i hope he is suffering wherever he is > user starting a fuck you dylan campaign

user max is in his protective!boyfriend skin

yourusername the best of the best! 💗

> user she is such a queen 😍

lando congratulations mate!! 🍾

charles_leclerc chat we tried, we can't stop him

> maxverstappen1 maybe when I retire 😎

lando blocked by at least 6 exes after this post probably

user championship + main character energy = unstoppable. respect 🫡

georgerussell63 ok but do you offer classes in pettiness? asking for a friend user imagine being the ex watching this with dry cereal and regret 😭🥄 user no because he didn’t win a championship he won her and THAT’S revenge 🔥

His son would have grown and perhaps would not recognize him. Months were years to children that age, and their memories were fickle. He felt older than his years, a weariness in his bones, sitting heavily on his shoulders, dragging his spine down until he felt he might collapse to the floor.

Such were the duties of men, to shoulder the burden of bloodshed so that women and children could be safe, and older men could take a rest. Still, it burned deep in his chest, this aching loneliness. It was in those moments that he thought of Arra the most. While the pain of her passing would likely never fade, he had to admit he felt the call to marry again, and find comfort in the companionship of a woman.  

Cregan was pulled from his low musings by the sounds of footsteps coming from behind him—his closest friend, Cley Cerwyn, came to sit at his side with a groan. He leaned into his shoulder for a second, which Cregan responded to and the two men waited in silence until Cley found it appropriate to speak.

He cleared his throat, looking up at the high ceiling. “How long do you think we shall stay?”

“Are you in such a hurry to ride home?” Cregan answered, knowing of the harsh winter that awaited them, and that several of the wounded would need to remain in the capital for a while longer.

“Are you not?” Cley asked.

It was Cregan’s turn to clear his throat, slightly irritated at his friend’s attitude, fully knowing he had an argument to make. “Say your piece,” he ordered, meaning it to be biting, but instead it came as a sigh.

Cley rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, looking at him with a tired expression on his youthful face—he had started to grow a beard, much like Cregan, and it was rather an odd sight. 

“You have done your duty. You have done right by your friend, and that is more than most men can say in their life,” Cley said gently, perhaps gentler than he had ever addressed him. 

“I made a vow,” Cregan replied, looking away at the large doors of the throne room, almost expecting Queen Rhaenyra or Prince Jacaerys to cross them. 

“Now you may leave the throne to those it belongs to,” Cley continued.

“The king is a child,” Cregan said regretfully—it seemed a tragedy to leave such a fractured realm in the hands of a fractured person such as Prince Aegon, but the laws of Gods and of men agreed that he was the rightful ruler, for better or worse, and there would be dire consequences to go against it.

“And he shall have regents,” Cley replied.

Cregan sighed out loud, leaning back on his elbows and looking up at the same ceiling Cley had been gazing at. “A hundred and thirty years of reign and now…” he murmured, unsure of what he really meant to say.

The size of the hall and of the throne at their back was almost dizzying, and yet its emptiness and coldness had robbed it of all its glory. It seemed a ruin now, even if it had not been destroyed during the battle. 

“If you wished to take it, I would bend the knee,” Cley said with humor, but there was a dark edge to it. 

The fate of the whole world could topple so easily, it seemed to Cregan. It should all have felt like victory, and instead it all felt like ruin. He shook his head. “I have no wish for it.”

“What do you wish for, then?” his friend asked, almost too quiet.

“Respite.”

The moon was high in the sky that night, and you could almost swear the howling of wolves could be heard from the kingswoods. From the window of your chambers, turned holding cell, you watched the dark mass of the forest far on the horizon. The black of the bay did not bring you any more comfort, nor did the numerous lights from the city below.

Restlessness and grief were your only companions these days, since the passing of your sister and your mother, you were utterly alone at court, and in the world. The war had decimated your family, and you were now the last of your siblings.

Once, you would have thought you would have been furious, vengeful, but instead you found yourself utterly devastated, longing for quiet and reprieve from your grief. You found herself entertaining the thought of taking Jaehaera away, far from the capital and the court, far from the throne which had caused your family’s downfall, far from the young king who sat where your brother once had.

Lord Cregan Stark was holding court from the bottom step of the Iron Throne. You were surprised he had not seized the throne for himself, as he very well could have. His army held the city with an iron fist and all seemed to fear him, even the Rivermen—it could have been the start of a Stark dynasty, and some seemed to think it was, in all but name. 

You had been confined to your chambers on his orders, and you felt as though you were standing in ruins, waiting for your own end. You could hardly stand the sight of the red bricks anymore; this place was forever soiled. So you clung to your niece, the poor girl in dire need of motherly love, and in loving her you endeavored to keep your sister alive in memory. Keeping the girl safe was your utmost priority, and you feared she would not be until she was freed of this red-walled prison.

Morning came and brought no relief from your nightly torments. Instead a maid came to bring you tea and collect your linens, but you stopped her before she could leave you alone again. “I was wondering if I would be allowed to pay my farewells to my brother,” you inquired.

The maid hesitated, looking at you with obvious pity. “You are to remain confined to your rooms.”

“A sister cannot say goodbye to her own brother? My niece, who now finds herself an orphan, could not say goodbye to her father? Surely the lord that now rules this place isn’t so cruel,” you pleaded.

“I shall ask,” was all the maid replied before she left, still giving you a quick curtsy. 

In the end, and to your great surprise, your wish was granted. In the later hours of the afternoon, a pair of guards came to fetch you and Jaehaera, and the two of you were escorted to see your brother in the crypts, where the Silent Sisters were keeping watch over him. 

In the privacy of your own mind, and for only the Gods to hear, you vowed to his still and cold form that you would take his daughter away from this dreadful place which had eventually been his downfall. 

Cregan had been surprised to hear your request to see your brother, but had seen no reason to refuse you. No matter the fact that he had been his enemy, he resented that the man had been murdered with such cowardice. He could give him back some honor in death, and in allowing you and the young princess a farewell, restore some dignity to the whole tragedy.

As was your right, you had refused to see him upon his arrival in King’s Landing, remaining confined to your rooms in prayer. Cregan had honored your wish until now, and it was by chance that he came upon you in the Red Keep—if he had not known you resided here, he would have thought he’d come across a wraith, or any creature of the shadows.

You were dressed in a black gown void of any embroidery, with a veil upon your face, which made it impossible to see your eyes or the lines of your face in the darkness of the corridor. The only thing he could notice was that your grip on Princess Jaehaera’s shoulder tightened as he approached. As he came upon you, you bent to pick her up, carrying her on your hip, clutching the girl like a lifeline. 

“Princess,” he greeted with a small dip of his head. “Princess,” he said with a tilt of his head and the ghost of a smile for Jaehaera. The girl buried her face in your neck without a word.

“Lord Stark,” you said, sounding wary behind your veil.

“Might we have a word?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” you refused in a quiet tone, and when he frowned, explained. “I need to tend to my niece.”

“She will be safe with her nurse the time of a conversation,” Cregan assured you, but you refused him yet again.

“There is nothing for me to say, and nothing for you to say that would appease my torments,” you said, your arms tightening around the little girl. 

“It does not please me to have you a prisoner in your own home,” Cregan tried. 

Tears welled in your eyes at his statement, and you watched him for a moment before you answered. “At night, when she sleeps, then. I would not part from her.”

As agreed he came at the hour of the bat, finding the girl was curled up in your bed, under the covers, her white hair splayed on the pillow. It made Cregan long for his own son, wondered if he still refused to have his hair cut, intent on growing it long. He would write to his sister later, and promise a quick return.

You were the perfect picture of a Targaryen princess, and for a moment Cregan wondered how such a feat could have been accomplished when your mother was a Hightower. The blood of the dragon ran thick, he supposed, in most of its heirs.

Without your veil to hide your face, the way you were looking at him unsettled him—it wasn’t quite fear, and certainly not reverence. You seemed exhausted and he felt sorry for the state this whole war had put you in. You were a royal princess and it desolated him to see you so diminished. He regretted the downfall of this dynasty—now a child would rule and the women and children would suffer.

“She wakes in the night, crying,” you said, glancing at your niece.

“I am sorry.”

“You bring war to my doorstep, do not offer me apologies.”

“I only ever upheld the vows my father made. He bent the knee to his king and swore allegiance to the heir he had named. Words might be wind to you, but to me they mean life,” he explained.

At that you turned away, crossing your arms over your chest, and he thought he heard a shaky intake of breath that betrayed the presence of tears. “I shall see that you are settled, before I return to Winterfell,” he told you carefully, gently as he could, but it seemed you did not care for his consideration.

“Why do you care, my lord?” you asked over your shoulder, your eyes wide and glossy with unshed sadness.

There was a softness to you, even in anger, and his heart throbbed to witness such a sight. “Because you are my responsibility until I leave,” he replied as honestly as he could. “When I am gone, rest assured that the king will take care of you.”

Turning to face him again, you looked at him with a broken expression, anger hiding the deepest, most primal heartbreak he had ever seen. “The king is no king at all. There will be no caring for us here,” you hissed, and deep inside he feared you might be correct.

With one last bow he took his leave, afraid this conversation had not served any purpose but to upset you and unsettle him. 

When Cregan visited Aegon in his chambers the following day, it was only to contemplate the same ruin he had found when conversing with you. You had been right in a way—the king was no king at all, but a child with a crown and the weight of an entire dynasty on the verge of collapse. 

“I wish them no harm but I do not wish to see them, either of them. I should have them sent away,” the child-king told Cregan when asked about the fate of those who were now his wards. 

“It would be unwise to send them to the Hightowers. It would cultivate ill will and it might awaken the spirit of revenge,” Cregan offered. 

“Dragonstone, then, away from my sight!” came the broken cry, and Cregan realized that you had been correct in your fear that you would not find any care in the capital. War had ended but you were still prisoners.

“The council shall soon discuss the matter of your succession,” Cregan said, disgusted at the prospect of such talks when children barely older than his own son were concerned. “It might be well to consider the option closest to home.”

Aegon’s face fell, contorted in what wanted to be fury but could only ever be devastation, and Cregan left without another word, once again faced with the fact that this conversation had only served to upset all parties involved. Words would not resolve any of this, he feared.

In the hallway, a knight carrying a message was waiting for him. You had behaved in a barely disguised hostile manner when he had come to your chambers the night prior, so it was with the greatest surprise that he received your request for an audience, and after thinking on it for the better part of the afternoon, he relented to seeing you again in the evening. 

This time it was you who came to him, upon your suggestion, and he wondered why. As you stepped into his temporary quarters, which he had set in the Hand’s tower, he was struck with the image you made. 

While he had only ever seen you dressed in black, you had changed into a dark blue gown and forgone your mourning veil. Instead, your hair was falling in heavy weight about your shoulders, some of it tied at the back of your head. Your eyes stood out, darker than they ought to be for such a fair face, and rimmed with red. 

“Lord Stark,” you said, curtsying to the northern lord respectfully, and his nerves only grew at your sudden change of demeanor.

“You wanted to speak to me, princess,” he replied while pouring two cups of wine. The dark liquid looked almost black, but it was much sweeter than what he was used to in the North.

“I realize I am in no position to negotiate. However, I have seen you carry yourself with honor, I have come to the conclusion that you are just and fair and therefore I would respectfully make a request,” you said, taking a tentative step towards him, keeping her eyes low.

Cregan frowned, slightly displeased at your bold approach and obviously rehearsed words, when you had been so hostile towards him, all the way to the day prior. “I have heard that there are plans to betroth Jaehaera to Aegon. I have come to beg for her to be spared from that fate,” you said, her voice breaking. “She is but a child, a girl who has seen so much horror already. This will crush her.”

Cregan turned fully to face you, putting down the cup he was holding for you, sudden understanding dawning on him. “She has had to endure the massacre of her brother, then the loss of her younger sibling, then saw her mother succumb to grief,” you continued.

“The match is a logical and advantageous one. It would bridge the gap between Greens and Blacks once and for all,” Cregan replied.

“I am sure there are others that would do,” you retorted with a quiet strength that picked Cregan’s curiosity. “Please do not subject this girl to such an ordeal. I beseech you. You have a good heart.”

“You do not know me, princess,” he replied, solemn, and yet you did not falter.

Your eyes rose to him and held his gaze, and he was struck with the strength of your resolve, and how much you were sacrificing by coming to him, begging for your niece’s sake. “No I don’t, but I have seen how you treat your enemies,” you replied. “You gave my brother a proper burial. You told me my niece and I were your responsibility.”

Cregan sighed, appreciating the way you were ready to set some of your pride and resentment aside for the love of a child. “What do you have to offer me, in return?” he still asked. “In negotiations, one cannot make a request without a reward. What do you have to offer that I do not already possess?”

It seemed you had come here with determination, and had already prepared an offer, as your reply came without any hesitation. “While I am not exactly innocent, as some men aren’t as considerate, I remain a maid.”

Cregan was disturbed that your mind would take such a path, and his heart seized with sudden cold. “You would offer me your maidenhead, in exchange for your niece’s safety,” he clarified. 

“Yes, my lord.”

Cregan could admit feeling unsettled, faced with the desperation of a woman who had nothing to negotiate with but herself, and her own dignity. “What if I turned out to be cruel and decided to give you to my men? To be passed among them,” he challenged your proposal, his wariness making him crueler than he needed to be.

“Then I would happily submit myself as a spoil of war, my lord. I would please you now, if you wished," you offered, taking a few careful steps forward. “You could claim your spoils right this instant.”

Before he could add or ask anything else, you had gone to her knees in front of him, your trembling hands reaching for him. To his absolute horror, his loins stirred at the prospect of a woman tending to him—the nearly two years of war had been long and lonely, and he had hardly tended to his needs since the passing of his wife, upon the birth of his son. Little Rickon would soon be six of age.

However, to see royal blood so diminished made his own blood boil. “No,” he replied, harsher than he needed to be, which made you flinch. “This is beneath you, princess.”

“I thought—” you hesitated.

“It was but a moment of weakness.”

He reached for you, bringing you to your feet by the arm. The woman he was faced with in this instant, as you rose again with nothing gained for your niece and nothing else to offer, softened his resolve. He was tired of the schemings of war, of the plots and alliances that led only to ruin. He could not see a path where such choices ended peacefully and there you were, with an honest request and a brave offer, and he had to admit, he respected you all the more for it. 

“I will think on the matter,” he promised.

“Thank you, my lord,” you replied.

Cregan’s foul mood was still with him when he rose the next morning and presided over the day’s council meeting. He watched the proceedings with much on his mind, as each question was brought up and resolved, and he could not make himself take part in it. 

It was only when the Maester brought up your name that he finally decided to end his neutrality. “There is the matter of the princess. She might share blood with the traitorous king, but she is of royal descent, the last living child of King Viserys, and she is of marrying age,” the Maester said.

“She could perhaps be a good way to appease Dalton Greyjoy?” Tyland suggested. “Or to bring House Velaryon back into the fold. Lord Alyn is still unmarried as well.”

Without thinking on it further, his instinct taking the reins, Cregan stood up. “I shall take her.”

Lord Peake laughed as though the statement was ludicrous. “Surely if you’re in need of a woman to warm your bed, Lord Stark, any other would do,” he replied with humor. “A choice closer to home might be appropriate. Alysanne Blackwood is still unwed.” 

Cregan closed his fists on the tabletop, looming over the Council, and did not back down. There was an instinct in him that he could not quiet, much like the one that led him through battle, that he could not in good conscience leave you.

You might have been too bold for what you could afford, but once the shock had passed he had admired your determination, and your lack of fear. If he called himself honorable, then he could not watch idly as you were being sold to the highest bidder, and your niece used as an instrument for peace.

Perhaps it was arrogance, to think himself the lesser evil, but he knew himself enough to know.

“I have sacrificed enough for this realm. Prince Jacaerys was a trusted friend of mine. We made a blood pact that his first-born daughter would be joined in marriage to my house. His death doesn’t annul such a vow. House Targaryen owes me a daughter, and I shall take the princess.”

Unwin Peake looked unconvinced, but Thaddeus Rowan nodded his acknowledgement, and Cregan continued his argument. “If you are so worried about the Velaryons and their loyalty, there is an easy way to remedy this,” he explained. “I have looked at the prospects. Daeron Velaryon has already proposed the hand of his own daughter as wife to young King Aegon. Surely allying the two bloodlines on the throne would strengthen the realm.”

Peake scoffed, crossing his hands on the tabletop. “Lord Stark, I wonder about the justifications of this sudden campaign of yours—”

Cregan did not let him speak, uncaring that his change of mind was so sudden, and that such a demand he was making was perhaps not the most logical one. “It would do this Council well to remember that without my men, victory was impossible. The Crown owes a debt to the North, and I shall take that debt in flesh.”

His statement quieted them for a minute, and even the insufferable Peake looked uncomfortable. After a while, Tyland, ever the diplomat, cleared his throat. 

“How about we ask the king? Surely he will be glad to have the last child of Alicent Hightower out of his sight,” he remarked, and while it served his cause, Cregan loathed how easily he was swayed, and how he never stood his ground, only taking the side of the argument he perceived as favorable. 

“He is a child,” Lord Peake protested.

“Nearly the same age I was when mine own father passed. My uncle was appointed regent, but I was still well capable of having a mind of my own,” Cregan countered. 

“Let us not bother the young king with such matters,” the Maester reasoned. 

Thaddeus Rowan cleared his throat to silence the protest Peake was about to voice. “Your proposal is a sound one, Lord Stark. Perhaps it would be beneficial to take the remaining Hightower princesses away from the capital.”

“Princesses, plural?” Peake scoffed, and Cregan closed his hands into fists in annoyance at the man’s obvious self-interest. It was known to all that he had hopes for himself and his house that extended beyond the reach of a man of his position, and Cregan found a wicked sort of pride in taking the prize he coveted.

“Yes. I assume your marriage to the princess would include taking her niece as your ward?” Thaddeus asked, and Cregan was relieved that he would not need to elaborate on the matter.

“Indeed,” Cregan confirmed.

“Very well,” he said, rising in turn and putting an end to the negotiations. “It is decided then.”

All that remained to be done was to inform you, and Cregan knew that despite his insistence at council, he would not impose his will upon you. It was his intention to free you from the prison you were currently captive in, and he would not be able to live with himself if he was to imprison you in another, one of his own making.

It was true, his motive was partially selfish as Unwin Peake had suggested—he longed for the presence of a woman at his side again, the softness of married life, and he thought he could find it in you, just as you could find solace in him.

The way you had surrendered all for the sake of your niece had shown a quiet strength he admired, one that would surely benefit you as his lady wife in Winterfell, if you were to accept. Perhaps such was the path to the respite he longed for.

He came in the early afternoon, when he knew the young princess Jaehaera was asleep, and as predicted, found you in the nursery, watching over her as a mother would. “Princess,” he greeted from the threshold, suddenly hesitant.

Setting your embroidery aside, you rose, glancing nervously between him and the sleeping child. “You swore you would think on it,” you said, mistaking his hesitance for an omen of bad news.

“Fear not, your niece is safe,” he said, approaching carefully. “Daeron Velaryon’s daughter is currently on her way to the capital to wed the king. I would ensure your niece is kept away from the scheming of the court, until she is of age at least.”

Your shoulders dropped in relief, a heavy breath pushing past your lips, but your weariness had not abated. “Would?” you asked with a slight frown.

Cregan swallowed his sudden nerve and planted his feet firmly into the floor—while he was skilled and fearless on bloody battlefields, the quiet of a nursery and the expectations of a woman were somewhat more complex to face. “My offer is a proposal of marriage,” he said rather bluntly. “I would take you to wife, and Princess Jaehaera would come with us, as a ward in Winterfell.”

Cregan could not decipher the next exhale that came from you—it could have been relief, or horror, he did not know, as there was only surprise on your face. 

“I will not take you to wife against your wishes. If another prospect is more agreeable to you, then you may let it be known and I shall ensure it,” he promised.

For a moment too long you could not find your words, nor your breath. Your heart was beating wildly in your chest at the most unexpected offer, but you felt the Gods had answered your prayers. It was true, you knew little of the North, but you knew that this man, your enemy, had done more for you and your niece in mere days than your allies in months of war.

“Surely your offer comes with conditions,” you said hesitantly, searching his stormy eyes.

Cregan shook his head, his frown softening. “I already have a son and heir so it will not be required of you, but Rickon needs a mother,” he explained, his voice softer than it had ever been while addressing you, and it seemed for the first time that you were faced with the man rather than the warrior.

At that you nodded, looking at the crib once more, your heart aching. “Just as Jaehaera needs a brother, or a companion, at the least,” you admitted, wondering if you would ever see her smile again, hear her laugh, or if she was doomed to an existence of sadness and grieving without end. “I would still be expected to be a true wife, to perform my duties, wouldn’t I?”

Cregan took a step closer to you, but somehow you did not feel threatened—his shoulders were hunched forward, and he looked younger in the soft light of the nursery than he had ever. It was only now that you realized he was not wearing his usual attire. While his furs and leathers were still strapped across his chest, his sword was nowhere to be seen, and his hands were bare, the gloves tied to his belt.

“You would be the Lady of Winterfell, but as I said, I would not take you against your wishes,” he replied.

Grateful tears came to your eyes, and you wanted to fall to your knees again. The Gods were cruel in a way, making it so that you would owe such a debt to your enemy, but he had shown in these last few days that perhaps, the warrior had been your foe, and the man would be your salvation.

In three words, you sealed your fate, and that of Jaehaera.

“Then I accept.”

Author's Note ✢ Dividers by @/arcielee. Please ask in the comments if you want to be tagged in this series! Next chapter will be posted in two weeks, on July 8th.

Cregan taglist ✢ @kateris-world @elleclairez @watercolorskyy @praline357 @whodis-26

@elle-28 @hb8301 @flawroses @random-shit-i-like-2 @heavenly1927

@thegeminithrone @vixemi @rockerchick05 @maniccrystalhippie @melsunshine

@siimiasoi @mxtokko @thenameswinter99 @multyfangirl

@alawnuhyawpp @arrozyfrijoles23 @r-3dlips @yujyujj @lessdepressy

@blessedbymoon @deltamoon666 @writingjourney @still-jon-snow @vampzv

You are an adult, a respected professional of the FBI, but sometimes you can’t even make eye contact with him. That has to do with the fact that ten months before you joined the team, you had a one night stand with him. You didn’t know him as Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner, Unit Chief of the BAU and one of the most intimidating men in the bureau. He had just been a very attractive stranger in a hotel bar in Georgetown. 

You finished undergrad early and already had your academy acceptance and spent the night celebrating with friends. You saw his frown across the bar and made it your mission to make it go away. He was recently divorced and you talked long enough that your friends moved on to the next bar. You made him laugh and you could tell he hadn’t done that in a long time. 

He looked at you with the warmest eyes and such want that he knew he shouldn’t crave. You could see him fighting it, the age difference likely plaguing his mind but the concern made you want him more. Once he got his hands on you, it would’ve taken everything to stop. You didn’t want him to. So he didn’t. 

It was supposed to be one night. One reckless, stupid, amazing night. 

Months later when you walked into the BAU and were introduced to the team you would be joining and your new boss you nearly died on the spot. You had thought about the mystery man from the bar a handful of times, but never thought you would actually see him again.

Now in the past two years, neither of you have ever spoken of it once. Not a single time. Instead the two of you exist in some weird purgatory of prolonged eye contact and way too much tension. 

“So, drinks tonight?” Morgan asks, spinning around in his seat to face everyone. 

“Please, god yes.” Emily sighs, closing her eyes. 

JJ nods, “I’m in.” 

“We know Garcia will come.” Morgan nods obviously, “Kid?”

He looks at you and you finally look up from your computer. 

“Is Rossi buying the first round?” You tease, calling up to his office and he raises a thumbs up. 

Morgan turns toward Hotch’s office, “Boss man, you too.” 

Your chest immediately stalls. He doesn’t usually come with for team outings, he usually spends any free time with Jack so his answer surprises you.

“I’ll be there.” 

You think about it the rest of the afternoon until everyone is eventually grabbing their bags and packing up. Everyone breaks off with the plan of meeting at the usual bar in an hour. It gives you enough time to change and freshen up a little. 

You were regretting your decision to come the second you walked through the door. You know what going out for drinks after a case typically led to. No one was allowed to have secrets, dignity, or peace. You know tonight will be no different. 

The group had managed to secure the big corner booth and you can tell as you walk up that you’re the last one to arrive. 

“Come on, kid.” Rossi stands, “Now that you’re here, help me get the first round.” 

“Gladly.” You smile, following him to the bar. He knew everyone’s order already and you add yours to the list. He passes you drinks and you balance the first few in your hands and Rossi stays behind to wait for the rest. 

“Don’t spill, kid.” He calls and you roll your eyes. 

You head back toward the table and nearly make it when a tall man in his late twenties steps in front of you. He’s handsome but his face is showing the kind of confidence that tells you he doesn’t get a no very often. 

“Hey,” he says with an easy smile, “You look like you could use some help with those.” 

You smile back politely, “I’m good, but thanks.” 

“Maybe I could buy the next round instead?” 

He steps closer and you have to admit he’s smooth. On another night you would’ve at least entertained it for fun, but with your entire team and Aaron somewhere in your peripheral vision, absolutely not. 

You shift the drinks in your hands, “That’s sweet, but I’m here with people.” 

“Boyfriend?” He grins. 

“Federal agents, actually.” You cut, “Much scarier.” 

He laughs and holds up his hands in surrender.

“Noted. I’ll back off, but come find me if you change your mind.” 

You walk away without missing a beat and set down the drinks at the table behind him like nothing happened. The team very clearly had not missed a second of it. Morgan leans back, his grin already forming. 

“Well, well. Pretty boy at twelve o’clock. You work fast, why turn him down?” 

You roll your eyes and shake your head, passing out the drinks to the correct person. 

“Not interested.” 

“That’s the problem, you need to get some.” 

JJ nearly chokes on her drink and your jaw falls slack. 

“Subtle.” Emily shakes her head. 

You laugh, “Absolutely not.” 

“She has standards.” Garcia corrects. 

“Very high ones.” JJ adds. 

Morgan frowns, “What does that even mean?” 

Rossi returns with the rest of the drinks. You wish the ground would swallow you whole. 

“You don’t know about her rule?” Emily asks, raising her brows. 

You simply close your eyes, a hand on your forehead.

Morgan looks even more confused, “What rule?” 

“Y/n doesn’t sleep with men before at least three dates.” 

Morgan just blinks a few times, you can’t bring yourself to look at Hotch but you can feel his eyes on you. 

“That’s insane.” He shakes his head, “Three dates?”

“Hey, I wish I did that.” Emily defends, pointing at Morgan directly. 

“Thank you.” You laugh, “Men are terrible. They need a screening process.” 

Garcia raises her glass, “To quality control.” 

Everyone clinks glasses but Aaron hasn’t moved a muscle. 

Morgan still shakes his head, “So you’re telling me you’ve never broken this rule?” 

You hesitate. 

“Well…”

The hesitation was your mistake. 

“What?” Garcia shakes your shoulder aggressively.

“Oh my god!” JJ covers her mouth. 

You clear your throat, “Every rule gets broken at some point.” 

The table bursts out, all of the girls talking over each other and pulling for more details. In all of their girls' nights you’ve never fessed up for breaking the rule once. You take the opportunity to take a long sip of the your drink.

You hold up your hands in self defence while they continue to badger, “It was one time!” 

“And you never told us?” Garcia shrieks. 

“You were withholding information.” Emily accuses. 

JJ leans forward, “So, who was he?” 

Oh no. 

“Was he hot?” Garcia asks. 

“Well obviously he was, look at the guy she just turned away.” Emily rolls her eyes. 

You can feel a blush taking over your face and take a moment to finally look over at Aaron. His eyes were still on you and you would swear that there was the faintest smirk on the corner of his mouth. To everyone else it looks like he’s enjoying the chaos, but you know the truth. 

“He must’ve made quite the impression.” He finally speaks up. 

The table softens, turning back to you. Your eyes are still locked with his, there it was again. The same impossible and undeniable tension that stretched tight across the two of you for years. All of it stemming from one unforgettable night. You force yourself to stay calm, leaning back against the booth. You can see that Aaron is enjoying this, and hold his stare.

You shrug, “Something like that.” 

The table eventually moved on, sadly Reid became the next target of the group interrogating, focusing on giving him unsolicited dating advice. Garcia was in the middle of explaining how relevant astrology is, but you weren’t actively listening. You can physically feel him staring at you across the booth. 

“Kid, do me a favor.” Rossi reaches out his platinum card to you, “Get us the next round going.” 

You let out a dramatic sigh, ready to complain about doing it alone but you don’t get far. 

“I’ll help.” Aaron says quickly, already moving to slide out of the booth as well.

You take the last sip of your drink before looking up at him. 

“Let's go.” 

The walk to the bar was quiet, and somehow familiar. You can feel his presence close behind you and then at your side once you're actually at the bar. You fold your arms loosely, tapping Rossi’s card on the counter absentmindedly. 

“I didn’t know about the rule.” 

You let out a short laugh, turning to look at him. He’s standing closer to you than you thought he would. 

“That’s your takeaway?”

You raise your brows and he seems unfazed. His gaze is still studying you. 

“You said three dates.” 

You lean against the bar and lower your voice, leaning in closer. 

“You’re really not letting this go?”

“I’m asking a question.” He insists. 

“No,” you say, “You’re interrogating.” 

He hesitates, you see him swallow. 

“Yes, I am.” 

God, that should not be attractive.

You shake your head, smiling despite the situation.

“We’ve worked together for almost two years, Aaron.”

His eyes dart between yours, “And?”

“And we have never once talked about the fact that we slept together.” 

There it is. Out loud in public. The world did not end because you finally said what you had both been refusing to address for years. The world did not end, he didn’t even flinch. 

“No, we haven’t.” 

You give him a look, “That seems insane, doesn’t it? Now you want to talk about it?”

“Yes-” 

The bartender finally approaches and you order quickly. You rattle them off, choosing to focus on that rather than the fact that he’s somehow another half step closer to you. As the bartender gets to work on the drinks, you turn your attention back to him. 

“Now, that’s cold.” A voice cuts in. 

You turn to see the guy from earlier standing next to the two of you. 

“Excuse me?” You raise your brows.

“I thought you said you weren’t here with your boyfriend.” 

You open your mouth, but Aaron beats you to it. He uses the terrifying voice that he uses right before suspects start crying, too calm and flat. 

“No, she said she was with federal agents.” 

The guy blinks a couple times, the silence is palpable. You have to stop yourself from laughing, watching a range of emotions flash across his face. Aaron wasn’t even trying to look particularly threatening, but this was far scarier than the jealous boyfriend act. 

The guy straightened, “...Right.” 

Aaron gives him a single nod and he walks away, going back to wherever his friends are. You continue to stare at him as he reaches for the drinks. 

“What?” He finally asks. 

You grin, “That was incredibly subtle.”

“I thought so.” He finally looks back at you. 

“You were jealous.” You comment, loving every second of this. You know the second you return to the booth it’ll all be over. 

“I was not.” He disagrees. 

You nod, but it’s clear that you don't believe a word. You grab the rest of the drinks, looking back up to follow his lead back to the booth. 

“I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.” He admits, his voice dangerously low. 

You manage a smile, “Good.” 

-

The walk back to the table felt like miles. Morgan immediately reached for his drink and you both slide back into the ends of the booth. 

“Took you two long enough.” Morgan grins, “You start another investigation without us?”

You set Rossi’s scotch in front of him. 

“Yeah, actually we solved the mystery of why men need to be screened.”

Emily snorts into her glass. 

“Groundbreaking.” JJ shakes her head. 

“Please tell me you humbled him again?” Garcia practically begs. 

You nod in Aaron’s direction across the table, “No need, Hotch had him.”

Apparently now, Aaron Hotchner is deciding to be chatty. Not normal person chatty, but Hotch chatty. You noticed, and you’re sure that others did too. Morgan was halfway through telling a ridiculous story involving a case in Miami when Aaron interrupted with a sarcastic detail. The entire table was stunned. Morgan stuttered for a half second before continuing. 

Garcia was leaning over Reid to explain to him what his type was while you sit there trying hard not to think of Aaron and how close he was at the bar. The low tone of his voice when he told you he didn’t like that man was looking at you. It warmed you all the way to your core. 

You turn to laugh at something Emily says and when you do you can see Aaron is already looking at you. He doesn’t pretend otherwise when you catch him and it makes your smile falter. His did too, just barely. 

Somehow what had been avoidance for years, it felt like it was turning into anticipation. Admitting your history out loud to each other cracked open just enough between you two to let something warm back in. 

Hours later, everyone slowly starts to trickle out to go home. Rossi declared himself too old, JJ was missing her boys, and everyone eventually made their way out. You could tell the team noticed Hotch get up after you did, insisting he was tapping out as well and would walk you to your car. You spot Garcia and Emily exchange glances. 

The air outside was cooler, it was a needed relief for how flushed you felt at this point. Maybe the two of you were just two coworkers walking to their cars. You know absolutely no one who would actually believe that. 

“They’ll talk about this.” You break the silence. 

“They talk about everything.”

“True.” 

Your steps slow as the two of you get closer to your car. 

“You didn’t have to walk me to my car.” 

“I know.” He looks down at the ground briefly, “I wanted to.” 

The parking lot felt very quiet. You could hear your own heartbeat, which was annoying. You tilt your head slightly while still looking at him. 

“So, what now? You get jealous when guys hit on me and walk me to my car?”

His eyes drop to your mouth for a second before meeting your gaze again. 

“That depends.” His voice dropping low again. 

“On?”

“Whether this is still a bad idea.” He admits, reaching out bravely to tuck your hair back behind your ear. 

“Oh it’s definitely a bad idea.” You smirk. 

“Good.” 

He uses the hand that was in your hair to pull your face into his. He kisses you like he had been thinking about it for years, and maybe he had. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you in closer. Your hands find his jacket and grip it instinctively with just as much need. 

Neither of you hesitate for a second, just years of tension finally snapping all at one. He presses you lightly against your car, his mouth still on yours. It feels so familiar like that first night, but somehow it’s entirely different. 

This time it isn’t two strangers, this isn’t one reckless mistake. He knows exactly who you are and you know exactly who he is. You’re sure it makes you want him even more now. You fingers slide up the back of his neck and his breath catches. It’s dangerous information you’ll burn into your memory, it makes you smile against his lips. 

He manages to kiss you deeper now, slower this time. It’s like he’s trying to make up for lost time. Trying to make up for every moment over the last two years that didn’t exist. You eventually pull back to get a real breath. 

“Well,” You pant, “that seems like an answer.” 

For the first time all night he is openly amused. 

“Apparently.” He actually smiles. 

You smile back, his thumb brushes against your side. 

“This is still a terrible idea.” 

“Yes.” 

“Potentially career ending.” You continue. 

“Potentially.” He agrees. 

“Totally complicated.” 

“Absolutely.”

You look at him, openly studying him. His calm reactions to everything you keep adding, the fact that his grip hasn’t lessened any. 

“Okay, just checking”

His lips chase yours immediately, pressing you back against your car again. You're already breathless again when your car alarm goes off causing you both to jump apart. 

“So… this is the part where I usually make the responsible decision.” You admit. 

He nods, taking a step back but you can tell it takes some serious effort to do so. You miss the heat of his body on you instantly. 

“I completely understand.” 

Aaron, ever the gentleman. 

“But I think we’ve already established that you’re the exception to the rule.” You roll your eyes, watching him light up. 

-

Your keys hit the floor the second Aaron kicks the door shut behind you two. You’re pulling him by his jacket, eventually pulling it off his shoulders and dropping it too. The two of you are a lot less careful in the privacy of your apartment. 

Your heels are somewhere in the hallway. You tug on Aaron’s tie, loosening it and ditching it. His fingers slide under the hem of your shirt, sliding up your sides. Your top lands on a lampshade. You’re working on the buttons of his shirt while he tugs your skirt down your hips. 

There was a trail of professionalism all the way from the front door to your bedroom. 

He’s still kissing you like he had been holding it in far too long. Your hands are in his hair again, eliciting a groan. The back of your knees hit your bed and you pull him down with you. He pulls back just enough to look at you, both of you still panting. His thumb passes over your bare hip, grounding both of you. 

“Are you sure?” He asks softly. 

You offer him a certain smile, sitting up so you can press a quick peck to his lips. 

“Aaron, if you stop touching me now, I’ll lose it.” 

For the first time in a long time, he really truly laughed. The same laugh that charmed you all those years ago. At the time you had no idea how rare it was. It was honestly unfair how attractive it was. 

He reconnects your lips again and it silences your whine when he slips his hand under the waistband of your panties. The two of you feel the same as you did all those years ago, but somehow it’s better now. It’s better now that you actually know him and he knows you. Every touch. Every moan. Every time he said your name. 

It was sinful. You’re not sure you’ll ever be able to hear it the same way from him. He nearly combusts the first time you let ‘sir’ slip out. Both of you can see what it does to the other and it doesn’t take long for both of you to finish, multiple times over. 

“I can’t believe we made it two years without doing that again.” You huff, turning to look at the man laying next to you still fighting to catch his breath. He generously gives you another rich laugh, reaching out to pull you closer. You rest your head on his chest and can feel how fast his heart is racing. 

His face looks softer than you’ve ever seen it. 

“Never again.” He mutters, leaning down to press a kiss to your hairline. 

“Thank god.” You chuckle. 

He clears his throat and his hold on you tightens slightly, you look up at him noticing the change. 

“I’ve been lying to myself the past two years.” He admits, “When you joined the team I told myself that night was a mistake we would leave in the past. But it’s something I’ve replayed in my mind over and over.” 

“I’m glad I wasn’t the only one suffering.” You steal another hungry kiss, “So, what now?”

“Now I owe you a date, or three of them?” He smirks, “Or is it six now? How exactly does that work?” 

You love that he’s teasing you. His face is so relaxed and carefree. You swing a leg over his lap to straddle him, feeling him harden underneath you. 

“Keep counting, I’m not done with you yet.” 

-

“I’m picking up what you’re putting down, and I will go find Tucker to give him another beer.” Logan saluted you as he went to grab a new beer and locate Tucker.

“Am I invited to this dinner tomorrow?” Beau quipped to Dean.

“I don’t know, man. Are you?” Dean teased. “Missy, here is the woman of the house. You’ll have to ask her,” Dean jutted his thumb in your direction.

Beau turned to face you and pouted as he asked, “May I please come over for dinner tomorrow night?”

“Excuse me, I do not live here,” you mocked in defense. “But, yes, you are invited to family dinner.”

"Don't even start with that," Dean waved you off.

“Family dinner?” Beau questioned you and Dean.

Dean let out a laugh, “Yeah, Tucker and Missy have been alternating in cooking on Sundays, and now it’s family dinner,” as if that explained why you and the boys considered it family dinner. 

“Garrett invited me over to dinner at the beginning of sophomore year, and Tucker was cooking tortellini. We were all hanging out afterward, and I told them how I would cook more if I wasn’t in the dorms. I hated cooking in the dorms because the smell lingered way too long,” you started. “Anyways, he cooked dinner that night, and the next weekend I cooked, so it just kind of became a cycle. A routine.”

“Why haven’t I been invited to family dinners until now?” Beau raised a brow at Dean. “I would’ve brought something!”

You let out a giggle at his dramatics. “Yeah! Why didn’t you invite Beau?” you goaded.

“Not you too, Missy,” Dean groaned into his drink. The red solo cup is blocking the view of his face. 

Allie approached you guys and poked at Dean’s side, causing him to choke on his drink. You and Beau try not to laugh, but the second you look at each other, the laughter spills out. “What are you guys going on about?”

“Family dinner,” Dean answered her.

“Is Tucker cooking tomorrow or Missy?” Allie pondered for a moment. “Oh, wait! She cooked last weekend, so Tucker’s definitely cooking.”

“Missy wants to get him drunk tonight, so we can get him to agree to make tortellini tomorrow,” Dean explained the plan to Allie as he pulled her into his side. “You know he’ll feel bad if Missy asks and he doesn’t follow through with it since she made her famous dish last week per his request.”

Beau quit mid-laugh the second he comprehended that Allie had been attending these family dinners. “Am I the only one not attending these dinners?” he called out, exasperated. 

“Dean should’ve invited you earlier.” Garrett slapped a hand to Dean’s shoulder as he joined you all.  

“G, not cool, man.”

Garrett made his way to you with a new can of cherry Coke in hand. “For the lady,” he presented it to you and took the empty can. He set it down on the counter before turning back to you. “I’ve been wondering where you were, but I found you with these bozos and Allie.”

“Beau is very upset that he hasn’t been in attendance for family dinners on Sundays,” you whispered to him as he snuck an arm around your shoulder. 

Your eyes were on Dean and Beau as they started going at it again, but this time Allie joined Beau’s side. Dean’s eyes flared open with joking betrayal. “Babydoll, not you too. Please.”

“You want to make rounds?” Garrett asked softly, leaning down to speak into your ear. 

“Yeah, I want to check in with Tucker. Make sure Logan is getting him drunk, so we can get Tuck’s delicious ricotta tortellini.”

Garrett guided you away from the group in the kitchen. You both navigated through the living room in search of the fellow housemates. You see Tucker downing a beer and Logan immediately offering him another, which Tucker greedily took into his hands. Logan winked at you knowingly as you and Garrett approached the pair. 

“How you feeling, Tucker?” Garrett asked him, amused. 

“Great, G!”

“You’re cooking dinner tomorrow, right?” you questioned, trying to seem like you weren’t sure.

Tucker scratched his head and looked at Logan, who gave him a nod. “Yeah! Of course I am,” he blurted out.

You unconsciously leaned your head against Garrett’s shoulder. “Do you have anything specific in mind?” You glanced over to Logan with a slight smirk. 

“Dude, you should totally make tortellini again!” Logan suggested.

Tucker immediately started shaking his head, “Absolutely not. Do you have any idea how long that takes to make?”

“But, Tuck, you know how that’s my favorite! Won’t you even think about it?” You pull away from Garrett’s side to go to Tucker with the biggest pout you managed to put out. 

Tucker took one look at your face, then another at Garrett, and he folded quickly. “Yes, I will,” he sighed, knowing there was no point in saying no to you. “Only because you’re my favorite.”

You let a short cheer out and pressed a kiss to Tucker’s cheek. “You’re the best, Tuck!”

“Enough of that,” Garrett interjected you two, and he gently grabbed your hip to pull you back beside him. 

“Mr. Best Friend is jealous that I’m going to steal your heart, Missy,” Tucker joked.

Logan doubled over in laughter, fully shaking with amusement, “Oh, you know that a way to a woman’s heart is food.” 

“Might just take Missy right from you.” Tucker playfully reached out for you with a smirk, pinching at his cheeks.

Garrett’s grip on your hip tightened just enough for you to notice. Heat flooded your cheeks, and you felt like the room was getting hotter by the second. You should’ve been used to the jokes by now, but being Garrett Graham’s best friend since freshman year came with lots of teasing.

The day you and Garrett met was in a history lecture, and he was sitting behind you. When class ended on the last day of the first week, you were still gathering your stuff, and Garrett was getting up to head out. In a rush to grab his ginormous water bottle, he brought it up, and it hit you right in the back of the head.

The professor whose name you hadn’t quite remembered yet just dismissed class, and the usual chaos of shuffling backpacks with everyone gathering their things filled the room. You remained seated as you were putting away your notebook and trying to search for your headphones in your backpack. With your head slightly tucked down, you weren’t really too aware of your surroundings, and something had smacked into the back of your head.

Thunk.

It wasn’t hard enough to hurt badly. Just hard enough that it made you jump. You let out a surprised yelp and gently rubbed the sore spot before putting your arm back down.

“Oh shit.” You heard some mutter behind you. Garrett instinctively reached to touch the back of your head with his free hand but retracted, realizing it probably isn’t appropriate to do that to someone you’ve just met, even less so after you accidentally hit them in the head. “I’m so sorry,” he blurted out.

You turn around, and a guy is staring at you in complete horror. It was only a few seconds later when you realized that he was the new hot shot hockey player. Which from what you’ve seen on The Fifth Line, there was a bit of emphasis on the player part.

The expression on his face caught you off guard.

He genuinely looked like he thought he just committed a crime. 

You shook your head, amused despite the small sting. “It’s okay! Things happen.” You laughed off, softly giving him a smile, trying to let him know you weren’t mad. 

Somehow, the poor guy looked even more distressed. 

“No, seriously,” he says. “Are you okay?”

You glanced at the water bottle that is ridiculously large.