The London season began like a waltz—predictable in its rhythm, expected in its elegance.

Debutantes filled the parlors of Mayfair with laughter and lace, hopeful mamas arranged introductions like battle strategies, and eligible men surveyed the room as though it were a market.

You, however, sat unmoved in the chaos of it all.

As the eldest Bridgerton daughter of your generation—niece to the famed Daphne, Duchess of Hastings—you were no stranger to the dance of courtship.

You had received suitors each season since your coming out, and as of last season, you sent them away with practiced grace and mild disinterest.

You were admired, certainly—renowned for your wit and celebrated beauty—but you were hardly easy to impress.

It was not that you were cruel, only… resolute.

You believed in marrying for love, not convenience, and though your family’s standing made you an undeniable prize, you refused to be won like a trophy.

And so, as you stood beside your mother in the ballroom of the Featherington estate, you watched the swirling dancers with an expression that betrayed only mild curiosity.

Until he walked in.

The doors opened wide and in stepped him—Lando Norris, the Duke of Bristol.

The buzz in the room was immediate and unmistakable. He was not a stranger to the ton, nor to its gossip.

Known for his rakish smile, whispered escapades with barmaids, and a suspiciously frequent presence at one of London’s more notorious gentlemen’s clubs, the Duke was a man often discussed behind fans and teacups.

Though he was recently betrothed to Lady Magui Corceiro of Arleshire—elegant, obedient, and, by all appearances, a perfect duchess-to-be—none in the room could ignore the sharp, magnetic presence of the man himself.

Lando was trouble.

And yet—he was beautiful trouble.

He was all dark curls and striking eyes, a crooked smirk playing at his lips as he surveyed the room, his hands clasped behind his back like he owned the very floor upon which he stepped.

When his gaze swept across the crowd and landed on you, something sparked—sharp, electric, and undeniable.

Your posture did not change, but your breath did. Just slightly.

The music swelled again, another dance beginning. Suitors came and went, offering their hands, their compliments, their family names.

You obliged politely. You smiled, curtsied, laughed at appropriate moments—but your mind remained with the Duke of Bristol, who now stood near the refreshment table, engaged in an idle conversation with Lord Featherington. His eyes, however, remained elsewhere.

On you.

“He’s looking this way,” your younger sister whispered beside you, nudging you playfully.

“I’m aware,” you replied, tone neutral.

“And he’s coming this way.”

You turned just in time to see Lando Norris weaving through the crowd with the grace of a man used to parting seas.

He stopped before you, bowed deeply, and said with a voice smoother than sin, “Lady Bridgerton. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

You curtsied, your expression unreadable.

“Duke Norris. I was beginning to think you were merely a ghost spoken of in scandal sheets.”

He laughed, charmed instantly, as though your words were the first true ones he’d heard all night.

“I am very much flesh and blood, I assure you.”

“So I’ve read,” you returned, letting your gaze linger just a second too long.

Around you, the air shifted. The room hadn’t gone quiet, but it felt quieter. As though the ballroom itself held its breath.

“May I have this dance?” he asked, extending a hand.

You paused—long enough for him to wonder if you’d decline—before placing your gloved hand into his.

“Very well, Duke. I still have space left on my dance card, but do try not to ruin my slippers.”

The orchestra began anew. As he led you to the floor, you felt it again—that current, that pull.

The way your hand fit in his, the subtle strength in the press of his palm to your back, the way his eyes never seemed to stray.

“You’re not at all what I expected,” he murmured, his tone intimate though his words were innocent.

“Do you often expect women to faint at your feet, Your Grace?”

“Not always. But I was warned of your… indifference.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear. Especially in drawing rooms.”

“And yet, I want to hear everything from you.”

You raised a brow, amused. “Such a dangerous line for a man with a fiancée.”

He faltered, just briefly, before offering that infamous smile.

“She and I are… a match on parchment, not in person.”

“And what are we, Duke Norris?”

He studied you for a moment too long. “An interruption. A welcome one.”

You did not answer. You didn’t need to.

The song ended, and as you stepped away from him, the room resumed its rhythm—but your heartbeat did not.

Somewhere, beneath lace and velvet, sparks had turned to embers.

And Lady Whistledown, no doubt, had already begun to write.

The morning sunlight spilled gently across the pale carpeted floor of the Bridgerton drawing room, filtering through embroidered curtains and dappling the upholstery in soft gold.

The air smelled faintly of spring jasmine and black tea, and the peaceful clink of porcelain cups echoed in companionable rhythm with the rustling of newspaper print and idle conversation.

You sat by the window in a sky-blue and cream colored day dress, flipping through a book you had no true intention of finishing.

Across from you, your younger brother was attempting to charm your eldest cousin into a chess match he had no chance of winning, while another sibling picked at the piano keys absently, humming a tune that had long gone out of fashion.

The scene was delightfully domestic—until the door burst open.

“Have you seen it?!”

Your cousin Emma’s voice rang out like a hunting horn, and all heads turned as she stormed into the room, skirts swishing in her wake and a half-folded paper clutched in one gloved hand.

“Emma,” you said slowly, raising an eyebrow, “should you really be making an entrance that dramatic before tea?”

But Emma was already waving the paper about as though it were aflame. “Lady Whistledown. Page two. Top of the column.”

Your fingers froze over your book. The entire room shifted in energy.

Your brother reached for the paper first, snatching it from Emma’s hand and reading aloud in his best impersonation of Whistledown’s tone:

“Though the Featherington ball sparkled with expected elegance, it was a single waltz that drew the ton’s breath into their fans. One must ask: what is a Bridgerton doing wrapped in the arms of a Duke already promised to another? And more importantly—why did they look as if the rest of the ballroom had disappeared entirely?”

A chorus of gasps and stifled laughter broke out among your cousins, your youngest sister squealing and swatting the arm of her twin.

You, however, merely closed your book with deliberate calm.

“She must be running out of scandal if she’s resorting to printing dance cards.”

Emma plopped into the seat beside you, eyes wide and sparkling with mischief.

“Don’t be coy. You were practically glowing that night.”

You gave her a look. “I was overheated from too many quadrilles.”

“Please. The Duke of Bristol looked like he would devour you where you stood.”

Across the room, your oldest brother choked on his tea.

“Emma,” you warned, though your cheeks had grown suspiciously warm.

She leaned in, all feminine conspirator and far too pleased with herself. “Tell me the truth. Was it just a dance?”

You gave a long-suffering sigh, smoothing your skirts.

“It was one waltz. Barely three minutes long.”

“Yes, and that’s all Lady Whistledown needed to light the entire city aflame.”

There was no denying it—the article had consequences.

While you had maintained every measure of propriety during the dance, the intimacy, the spark, had been… undeniable.

You had felt it. Lando had felt it. And so, apparently, had everyone else.

The ton wasted no time.

By midday, the invitations to luncheons arrived not-so-subtly addressed to you and the Duke, and your mother had already received no less than four veiled inquiries into whether your dance with Lando had been sanctioned by his betrothed.

You felt yourself recoil slightly at the word.

Betrothed.

A barrier you had not dared to cross, yet somehow, found yourself drawn toward again and again.

Even now, your thoughts betrayed you—replaying the weight of his gaze, the warmth of his hand at your waist, the deliberate slowness with which he had spoken your name.

That afternoon, you made a silent vow.

No more dances. No more rooms full of whispers. No more proximity that might invite ruin.

And yet, the very next evening, you found yourself at the Ashbourne estate for their annual spring garden soirée—and there he was.

The Duke of Bristol.

He looked absurdly good, as though carved for moonlight, dressed in deep emerald silk that set his eyes aglow.

Lady Magui was not with him—word was she had taken ill and remained in the countryside—but Lando was very much present. And he wasted no time seeking you out.

“Lady Bridgerton,” he said as he appeared beside you, his voice a velvet thing in the hush of twilight.

“Your Grace.” You kept your posture stiff, your expression unreadable. “I assume you’ve read the paper.”

He smirked. “Ah. So we are addressing the matter directly, then.”

“I’d rather not,” you replied coolly. “Especially if we are to avoid becoming the subject of tomorrow’s column.”

“And yet, here I am,” he murmured, leaning just slightly closer. “Drawn like a fool to candlelight.”

You stiffened, your fan fluttering nervously in your hand. “You should not say such things.”

“I shouldn’t,” he agreed. “But I have never been particularly well-behaved.”

You met his gaze. “Perhaps that is why your name appears more frequently in scandal sheets than invitations.”

His grin deepened. “And yet you still accepted my dance.”

“You asked.”

“And you said yes.”

Your breath caught. It was infuriating—the way he could disarm you with a smile, undo weeks of practiced composure with a single glance.

You looked away, toward the hedges, the flickering lanterns, the safety of anything else.

“I’m not a woman who will be hidden behind doors or whispered about in corners,” you said finally, voice steady.

“You are engaged. And I will not be some tragic footnote in your family’s history.”

He was silent for a long moment. Then:

“You are no one’s footnote.”

You turned back to him, startled by the sincerity in his tone.

He looked at you as though you were made of starlight. And you hated that you liked it. That it made something within you soften, ache, want.

“I cannot be the reason you ruin yourself,” you whispered. “Even if… even if I wish it could be different.”

He reached for your hand, and though he barely brushed your glove, you felt it like a flame.

“I would ruin myself a thousand times,” he said lowly, “if it meant I could be yours.”

You pulled away then, heart pounding, before propriety could snap under the weight of such a confession.

Before your name became not just rumor, but scandal.

You disappeared into the rose gardens alone, breath caught, thoughts aflame.

And somewhere in the city that night, Lady Whistledown had dipped her quill into the ink pot.

Night had long since fallen over.

The Bridgerton manor sat quiet, shrouded in a soft hush that only the late hours could bring.

Candles had been extinguished room by room, replaced by the flicker of moonlight that spilled in through gauzy curtains and danced across polished floors.

Yet you were not asleep.

You paced softly in the gallery above the entrance hall, a robe of pale lavender silk drawn over your nightdress and slippers muffling your steps.

The household had retired for the evening, and still sleep evaded you.

Perhaps it was the dread of morning callers, the unbearable weight of unsolicited offers of courtship, or perhaps it was the latest column from Lady Whistledown tucked in the drawer of your writing desk—its words still echoing in your mind.

“One of our more eligible daughters remains shockingly unattached. But word among the housekeepers and coachmen is that she waits for someone—someone who already belongs to another. And he, reckless creature that he is, keeps appearing like a ghost when all others have gone to sleep. Tell me, dear reader, what keeps a lady from accepting a proposal unless her heart has already given its answer?”

You had crumpled the paper in your palm before you could finish your tea.

And yet—every word had rung true.

Your gaze fell on the front door. You had not meant to descend the stairs. You had not meant to slip outside. But something—something inevitable—pulled you forward.

The chill of the garden air kissed your skin as you stepped onto the terrace, drawing your shawl tighter around your frame.

The scent of roses hung thick in the night. Above, the moon cast silver shadows onto the stone, the stars sharp as needlepoints in the vast navy sky.

That was when you saw him.

A figure in the darkness, shoulders cloaked in black, stepping through the break in the hedge with the confidence of a man who had trespassed here before.

“Your Grace,” you breathed, startled by the wildness of your own heartbeat.

Lando stopped a few paces from you. “I was hoping you’d still be awake.”

“You should not be here.”

“And yet,” he said softly, “here I am.”

The night swallowed your protests.

You should have fled back inside. You should have told him to leave, to forget you, to go back to the woman he was meant to marry and leave the foolish whispers of affection behind. But something in your heart stilled as he drew closer, the hem of his coat catching on the gravel.

You could not look away from him.

“You’ve read the paper,” he said, voice gentler now. “Whistledown. Always precise with her daggers.”

“She may not name names,” you replied, tone brittle, “but the world is not blind.”

“I do not care what the world says.”

“But I do,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “Because I have to.”

You turned from him, clutching your arms to your chest as you gazed out at the garden, its roses ghostly in the moonlight.

Behind you, Lando stood still, as if tethered to some invisible string pulled taut between you.

“I am not like the others,” you continued. “You know that. I was not raised to cause scandal for sport, nor would I—could I—betray my own name.”

He said nothing. And so you spoke again, barely more than a breath:

“Then why do I want to let you?”

It was an admission, as dangerous as it was honest. The night seemed to still with it, the breeze itself holding its breath.

You heard him step toward you then, each footfall deliberate, until he was standing close—so close, you could feel the warmth of him even through the cool air.

“Because,” he murmured, “we are already lost in this, you and I.”

You turned to face him. His eyes met yours, and in them was everything you feared and everything you craved—desire, ache, devotion.

A man slowly unraveling.

“I feel like I am losing my mind,” he admitted, voice hoarse.

“They push me toward her, toward Magui, and all I can think of is how her hand does not fit in mine. How her laugh does not echo in my chest. How she is not you.”

Your lips parted, but the words would not come.

“I never meant for this to happen,” he continued. “I never meant to—fall for you. But I have. And it is ruining me.”

Your heart pounded wildly in your chest. “Then why not stop? Why not walk away before we both shatter?”

He reached for you then. His gloved hand brushed your cheek, and you let him—for just a moment. For just this breath between the before and after.

“I cannot,” he said. “Because the only time I can breathe is when I am near you.”

The night pulsed with the truth of it. The silence that followed was not empty, but full of things unspoken. Things felt.

You should have stopped it there.

But instead, your fingers found his lapel.

You tilted your head, rested your brow to his. His hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you like you were a secret he could not bear to part with.

No kiss was exchanged.

But everything else was.

And when he pulled away—slowly, painfully—you were left breathless.

“I must go,” he said, voice ragged.

“Yes,” you whispered. “You must.”

But neither of you moved for a long time.

Eventually, Lando stepped back into the shadows, vanishing as quietly as he had come, swallowed by the very night that had hidden him.

You stood alone beneath the moon, heart in your throat, shame clashing against longing like thunder in a storm.

Above, the windows of the manor remained dark.

And somewhere in the shadows, Lady Whistledown was lurking—ready to set fire to everything you thought you could keep hidden.

It began with distance.

Not a loud, dramatic withdrawal, but the quiet sort—measured, precise, and maddening. The sort that makes one question if they had only imagined everything that came before.

In the days following that moonlit confession in the garden, you did not see the Duke of Bristol.

Not at your aunt’s musical evening, nor at the Ridley’s spring fête, nor even at the bishop’s charity breakfast where half the ton gathered.

Your eyes sought him in every room, in every carriage that passed, in every drawing room filled with polite chatter and tittering laughter.

And yet, Lando Norris was nowhere.

He had disappeared into his obligations, back into the arms of his duty. Back into the orbit of Lady Magui, the delicate, quiet beauty whose every movement was approved by society and whose name elicited smiles from even the most difficult dowagers.

You told yourself you were glad.

You told yourself that it was for the best, that perhaps the silence between you was a mercy—a clean break before your emotions bled too deeply into places they should never reach.

But your heart betrayed you. It ached.

And Lady Whistledown, that ever-watchful specter, had not ceased her musings:

“It seems our midnight mystery continues to haunt the halls of Mayfair. The Bridgerton diamond sparkles at every ball, but perhaps it is only a clever polish hiding the cracks of a broken heart. Meanwhile, her Duke grows colder by the day, seen with his betrothed but never quite of her. How long before something shatters?”

You’d burned that issue.

Still, when in public, you wore your finest silks and your brightest smiles.

You laughed with your cousins and took your turn at the pianoforte. You smiled at Lord Dewhurst’s forgettable jokes and danced the cotillion with Sir Edwin Baines, though his feet resembled a drunken pony.

Your poise did not falter.

Not even when Prince Luke Browning—a distant relative of the royal family with a dazzling uniform and a reputation for wooing women—arrived in London and requested a dance from you.

The ton hummed with speculation, and your mother beamed so widely that the pearl comb in her hair threatened to fall loose.

You agreed to the dance.

And when you turned beneath the flickering chandeliers at Lady Ashcombe’s masquerade, you caught the gaze of him.

Lando.

Standing on the edge of the ballroom in a coat of deep navy, his jaw set tight, his posture stiff, his eyes locked on you with the intensity of a man barely containing himself.

Magui stood by his side, her gloved hand resting lightly on his arm. She did not notice how still he’d gone, or how his gaze never left you.

You turned your face from him and smiled at the Prince instead.

And yet, your skin prickled. You felt him watching.

The next morning, the tension broke.

It was a grey-skied affair, the weather perfectly matching the storm that brewed within Lando’s chest as he paced his family’s London townhouse.

He had left the ball early, ignoring the questions Magui had begun to ask, ignoring the gnawing of his own conscience.

He could not forget the image of your laughter with Prince Luke Browning. The soft pink of your lips as you smiled at someone else. The curve of your arm in his grasp.

It haunted him, poisoned him.

And suddenly, the life he had agreed to live—duty, name, legacy—all felt like a shackle around his neck.

Magui found him in the drawing room, standing by the fire, hands clenched.

“Lando,” she said gently. “You’ve been… strange. We should speak.”

He turned to her, and for the first time, saw her clearly.

She was beautiful. Graceful. Kind. A woman any man would be fortunate to call his duchess.

But she was not you.

“I owe you the truth,” he said at last, voice hoarse.

She blinked. “What truth?”

“I cannot marry you.”

There was a silence so loud it became a roar in his ears.

“You—what?”

“I have tried to be the man everyone expects me to be. For my estate. For my name. For the House of Lords and the papers and every grandmother in Mayfair,” he said.

“But I can no longer lie to you. Or to myself.”

She stared at him, pale and quiet.

“There is someone else,” she said finally.

His silence was all the answer she needed.

To her credit, Magui did not scream, nor cry. She only nodded once, stiffly, her shoulders drawing upward in practiced dignity.

“I hope she is worth the scandal,” she said.

“She is.”

Magui left the room without another word.

Lando remained by the fire long after she had gone, breathing like a man who had just shattered the glass walls of his own prison.

He had no plan. No speech. Only a certainty that no title, no alliance, no approval was worth living without you.

And somewhere, across the city, you sat in your family’s drawing room, pretending not to be affected, pretending not to care.

But you did not know—not yet—that the Duke of Bristol was already on his way to you.

The morning after the ball, London awoke not to the gentle rustle of society’s carriages or the distant toll of chapel bells, but to chaos — or rather, the sweetest kind of chaos: gossip.

Lady Whistledown’s latest column had arrived at breakfast tables across the city like a cannonball through crystal.

“Dearest readers, if the art of scandal were a season sport, the ton would be on its way to the championship. For it seems our infamous Duke of Bristol has committed a most shocking act: he has ended his betrothal to Lady Magui…without offering a reason. But those with eyes at Lady Ashcombe’s masquerade might suspect his heart beats for a different beauty—one whose name has danced through these pages before.”

Your name.

The moment Emma slammed the paper on the breakfast table, you felt the blood drain from your face.

You skimmed the lines, throat tightening, hands trembling just slightly as you set your teacup down with forced calm.

The room erupted around you — your sisters gasping, your mother going stiff with silent horror, your brothers exchanging sharp looks.

Only Violet Bridgerton, your graceful grandmother, regarded you with quiet strength, her gaze calm but knowing.

It was true, wasn’t it?

The ton’s whispers grew louder by the hour. At Gunter’s, ladies lowered their parasols to whisper behind fans. At Hyde Park, gentlemen on horseback eyed you curiously.

The Bridgerton name carried weight — but not even centuries of honor could shield you entirely.

By the time invitations for the Queen’s charity gala arrived that afternoon, you were exhausted. Your reputation, once spotless, now walked a tightrope.

You knew all it would take was one more misstep — one careless glance, one whisper in the wrong ear — to undo everything.

And so, you dressed for the royal gala in defiance.

In a gown of Bridgerton blue, you entered the ballroom like a goddess descending through the clouds — head held high, lips painted in delicate rouge, a practiced smile in place. But the air was sharp.

Conversations paused when you passed. Glances lingered. The glittering chandeliers above did not shine as brightly as the judgement in every pair of eyes.

Until Lando appeared.

The Duke of Bristol strode into the ballroom like a storm. Dressed in black and gold, hair tousled, his jaw set in unwavering determination, he looked nothing like the polished, pliable man society once praised.

He looked like a man on the edge of something monumental.

And then he walked straight toward you.

The music faded. The chatter dulled. The crowd seemed to part for him, curiosity rippling like the tide.

“Lady Bridgerton,” he said, voice low but clear.

You met his gaze — eyes dark with something unspoken, heart in your throat.

“Your Grace.”

There was a beat.

And then Lando dropped to one knee.

The ballroom gasped.

Gasps, whispers, even a shriek from the Duchess of Norwich somewhere near the card tables.

“Forgive me,” Lando said, eyes locked on yours.

“For being a coward. For waiting too long. For letting duty drown out what I already knew.”

“Lando—”

“I have loved you since the moment you turned away from me at that first ball. You are impossible, brilliant, and maddening. And you have every right to hate me.” He paused, breath caught.

“But if I let you walk away now, I will be haunted for the rest of my life.”

Tears burned at your lashes.

“Marry me, before every hungry eye in this room. Before Whistledown can write another word. Before anyone else dares cast a shadow over your name. Not to save your reputation—” His voice broke.

“But because I want you. I choose you.”

A hush fell over the room like snowfall.

Your family was frozen across the ballroom — your mother clutching your father’s arm, your siblings slack-jawed. Somewhere, Lady Magui watched from the corner, her expression unreadable.

And you…?

You knelt to meet him, your gloved hands curling into his as the ballroom erupted around you.

“Yes.”

Lando surged to his feet and kissed your hand, then your cheek — his restraint razor-thin, but holding.

The Queen, amused and watching, gave a faint clap. And as violins swelled again, Lando whispered against your ear:

“We leave them speechless, don’t we?”

You smiled through your tears. “We always did.”

From the corner of the room, Lady Whistledown’s latest informant scribbled furiously. But for once, no scandal could taint what had just occurred.

The Duke had chosen his Duchess.

And the ton would never forget the night love defied reputation — and won.

“Though I have chronicled many tales of scandal, deception, and heartbreak this season, it appears there is still room—however begrudgingly—for true affection to bloom amongst the roses of society. And bloom it has, most spectacularly. The Duke of Bristol and Miss Bridgerton shall soon wed, and though tongues will continue to wag and pens continue to scribble, this author dares to admit…they may just deserve their happy ending.” — Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers

For once, her tone lacked its usual venom.

There was a pause to her words, an almost reluctant grace — as if even the most infamous gossip in all of London had run out of reasons not to root for you.

The world had shifted since Lando’s public proposal. The ton, in its fickle way, had turned the scandal into celebration.

Seamstresses worked around the clock to replicate your gown from the gala. Poets attempted sonnets inspired by the drama.

The Queen herself had summoned you both for a brief word — and, with a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, given her approval.

Now, the sun cast a warm golden hue across the hills as the Bridgerton estate prepared for the wedding of the season.

Beneath it all, however, the house hummed with stillness.

You had asked for a few moments alone before the final fittings, before the guests arrived, before the orchestra began to tune their strings.

You slipped away through the garden, skirts gathered gently in your gloved hands, your heart already aching with the anticipation of the moment to come. And as if by fate’s gentle hand, there he was.

Lando, leaning against the ivy-covered archway, jacket open, waistcoat slightly askew, the breeze tugging at his hair.

His eyes found you instantly.

“No chaperones,” he said, smirking. “How scandalous of you.”

“I believe we’re beyond worrying about scandal now, Your Grace.”

“I believe I told you to stop calling me that.”

“And I believe you enjoy it too much when I do.”

He laughed, that warm, quiet sound that curled into your chest. You walked toward him slowly, aware of every step, every heartbeat.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

You smiled, even as you lowered your gaze. “I’m not even in my wedding gown yet.”

“You could be wrapped in a curtain and I’d still lose my breath.”

He reached for your hands, his fingers brushing your gloves like they were sacred things. For a long, quiet moment, neither of you spoke.

“I never thought it would be this,” he admitted.

“Not with the way I grew up. Not with the way I was taught to keep everything buried — to play the part of the duke, never the man.”

“And now?”

“Now…” He looked at you. Really looked. “Now I know that love doesn’t ruin duty. It gives it meaning.”

Your throat tightened. “And you’re not scared?”

“Terrified,” he said, smiling. “But only of tripping over my vows.”

You laughed, the sound catching on the breeze like music. The garden shimmered in late afternoon light, the flowers in bloom, the roses opening wide as if in blessing.

“I’ll be your wife in less than an hour,” you whispered.

“And I’ll be yours,” he said, pulling you gently into his arms. “Entirely. Eternally.”

You leaned into him, resting your head against his chest.

The world felt still again. No whispers, no papers, no masks. Just the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the heat of his palm against the small of your back.

“I hope Whistledown is fuming,” you said quietly.

“Oh, she’s furious,” Lando teased. “But even she had to admit defeat.”

“And Lady Magui?”

“Left for Paris last week. Sent her best. I believe she intends to marry a count.”

“Good for her.”

“Great for us.”

He kissed your temple, soft and reverent. “Are you ready?”

You pulled back enough to meet his eyes — golden-brown, unwavering.

“I’ve never been readier.”

The bells tolled in the distance. The orchestra’s first notes floated faintly through the hedges.

And hand in hand, you walked back toward the manor — not as a secret or a scandal, not as a rumor or a possibility, but as the beginning of something true.

The season ended not with disgrace, nor a duel, nor a tragic parting.

It ended with love. Bold, scandalous, extraordinary love.

And in the next morning’s paper, nestled beneath Lady Whistledown’s formal farewell for the season, was one final line that needed no embellishment:

“Dearest gentle reader, they married for love—and for once, I approve.”

You didn’t expect to start the new year as Haas F1 Team’s newest social media hire. But life had a funny way of steering you straight into plot twists, and this one had a name:

Oliver Bearman.

Ollie was sunshine bottled up in human form. He lit up every room he walked into—warm, easygoing, charming in that casual Gen Z way that made media duties second nature to him.

Being the same age didn’t help either. It created a spark you couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard you tried to keep things professional.

“Honestly, I’m surprised you two aren’t a thing yet,” Lia, your closest friend on the team, mused as she leaned back in her chair.

You gave her a look, tossing a scrap of paper her way. She dodged it with a laugh.

“As if. I’m probably just the annoying admin who follows him and Esteban around with a camera and a checklist,” you grumbled.

Francine glanced up from her screen across the room, smirking.

“You’re literally the youngest person here, and pretty enough to be scouted on the grid. We’ve all seen the way he looks at you during media shoots. He’s into you, babe.”

You opened your mouth to respond—but the universe had other plans.

Right on cue, Ollie strolled in alongside Esteban and Ayao Komatsu. Lia’s eyes sparkled as she glanced at you with a smug grin.

“Speak of the devil,” she whispered.

Francine immediately walked over to brief them on the shoot, and as you stood to prep for the long day ahead, she turned back and called out, “Y/N! Ollie’s looking for you!”

You internally cursed her timing but pasted on your most composed smile as you stepped toward the makeshift studio.

Ollie stood mid-conversation with Esteban, but his gaze locked onto yours almost instantly. He excused himself and made a beeline straight to you.

His boyish grin tugged at your heart a little more than it should have.

“Hey,” he said, voice softer than you expected. “Did Francine tell you I was looking for you?”

“She did,” you replied with a quiet laugh. “You need anything? I’m sticking with you most of the day, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Ollie rubbed the back of his neck, a rare flicker of sheepishness on his usually confident face.

“Not really… I just wanted to see you. It’s been a while since the off-season. Wanted to check in. Maybe… we could grab lunch later?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice—and the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

“I’d love that,” you replied, heart doing a backflip. “Thanks, Ollie.”

You nodded toward Lia, who was waving a mic in your direction. “Now go. You’ve got fans to charm on camera.”

He gave a shy smile before walking off to get mic’d up, leaving you stunned but smiling.

Francine elbowed you lightly. “He’s so whipped.”

You didn’t answer—not out loud anyway. But you were starting to think… maybe you were too.

Lunch came as a small break from the whirlwind of filming, shooting, and briefing sessions, and you were more than grateful for it.

The Haas cafeteria was quiet during the midday lull—just a few engineers and staff scattered around, low voices murmuring over bowls of pasta and rice.

You spotted Ollie already seated at a table near the back, two trays set out, one of them untouched. He glanced up the moment you entered and waved you over with a smile that had no right to be as boyish and disarming as it was.

“Saved you a seat,” he said casually as you sat across from him.

“You really didn’t have to,” you replied, trying not to focus too hard on how warm your face felt.

“I know. But I wanted to.”

You busied yourself with your utensils, trying to ignore how those six simple words managed to root themselves deeper than they should have. But Ollie didn’t seem to notice—he was already digging into his food like a man who hadn’t eaten in days.

Halfway through lunch, with conversation bouncing between the new season schedule and the chaos of media prep, he leaned back in his seat with a laugh, eyes shining with that mischievous glint you were slowly learning to recognize.

“Okay, you wanna hear something absolutely mental?” he asked, mouth curving upward.

You raised an eyebrow. “Always.”

“So back in F2—like, peak chaos mode—Kimi and I may have… kind of stolen my trainer’s credit card.”

Your jaw dropped mid-sip of your drink. “What?!”

“Okay, hear me out!” he said through a laugh, clearly reveling in the shock on your face.

“We didn’t actually steal it. He left it lying around when we were staying at this hotel for a race weekend, and Kimi dared me to order snacks from room service. Next thing we know, we’ve got a literal feast delivered to the room.”

You stared at him, equal parts horrified and entertained.

“Please tell me this only happened once.”

Ollie winced. “Twice.”

You smacked your hand over your mouth in disbelief, laughter bubbling in your throat.

“Ollie!”

“We replaced it before he noticed!” he insisted, eyes wide.

“Well… before he formally noticed. I think he suspected it was us when a $48 bill for Haribo and chocolate milk showed up.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you said between laughs, your stomach aching from how hard you were laughing.

“But admit it, you’d have done the same,” he teased.

You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand. “Maybe. I just wouldn’t have gotten caught.”

For a moment, the two of you locked eyes—and the atmosphere shifted. It wasn’t sudden or overwhelming. Just something soft. Something quiet. Like the kind of silence that settles between two people who understand each other a little too well.

The way Ollie was looking at you now made the rest of the room blur around the edges. It was the look of someone who wasn’t just fond of you… But maybe a little scared of how much.

You could feel the weight of someone’s stare and instinctively glanced over your shoulder.

Francine and Lia sat a few tables away from a few other team members. Lia was leaning forward slightly, her smirk barely hidden, as she whispered something to Francine, who visibly rolled her eyes, though her smile betrayed her amusement.

“They’re watching us,” you muttered under your breath.

“I know,” Ollie said without taking his eyes off you.

“And you’re not doing anything about it?”

He shrugged with that same signature smirk. “Should I?”

You fought the heat creeping up your neck and busied yourself with your drink again, but Ollie leaned forward now, elbows on the table.

“Jokes aside… It’s nice being around you again,” he said, voice gentler now. “I didn’t realize how much I missed it until today.”

The weight of his words sank into your chest like a stone.

You didn’t have the right words—you weren’t sure there were words for the strange, giddy ache in your chest, the one that twisted every time he smiled at you like that.

Instead, you just nodded, offering a quiet, sincere, “Yeah. I missed this, too.”

And somehow, that felt like the beginning of something neither of you was quite ready to name just yet.

Your camera bag hung loosely off your shoulder as you trudged across the start-finish straight, half-blinded by the rising sun bouncing off the asphalt.

Melbourne's skies were clear, birds were chirping, and the Haas team was already scattered along the track, all bundled up in their branded jackets.

You were still half-asleep when Francine shoved the filming schedule into your hands with a pointed, “Ollie’s segment is your responsibility today. Good luck with the ‘Bearman Broadcast.’”

And here you were—armed with your DSLR, your mic, your dignity (hanging by a thread), and a rookie driver who looked far too good for this early in the morning.

Ollie was already grinning when he spotted you.

“You ready for me, Spielberg?” he called out, adjusting his cap and bouncing on his heels like a golden retriever high on adrenaline.

“Just try not to flirt with the camera this time,” you shot back, hoping your voice didn’t betray how much you meant don’t flirt with me, I’m the one holding the camera. “We don’t have all day.”

“That sounds like a challenge,” he said with a wink, grabbing the mic from your hand.

God help you.

You hit record.

Take One.

“Good morning from sunny Albert Park! I’m Ollie Bearman and I’ll be your tour guide-slash-mic-hog for today’s track walk. Behind the camera is our brilliant media manager, Y/N, who deserves a raise for putting up with me—”

“Cut,” you said immediately, groaning.

“What? That was wholesome.”

“You’re not supposed to mention me.”

“But it’s true.”

Take Two.

“So here we are on the main straight—where I plan to overtake at least three cars and maybe steal a few hearts.”

You lowered the camera. “Ollie.”

“What?” he said, blinking innocently. “It’s a multi-purpose strategy.”

You pointed at the mic. “Focus on the track, Bearman.”

“Fine, fine. Professional voice. Got it.”

Take Three.

He managed an entire thirty seconds of serious commentary—talking about braking zones and tire wear—before he glanced at you mid-sentence and said, “And right about here is where I’ll lock up after Y/N distracts me with her eyes from the pit wall.”

“Oliver.”

“I’m visualizing race conditions,” he said with mock sincerity. “Very immersive.”

You turned the camera off and stared at him. “I swear if I have to reshoot this one more time—”

“I’m trying to make the fans happy!” he insisted, hands raised in defense. “They love chemistry.”

You blinked. “What chemistry?”

He grinned. “Exactly.”

You could feel your soul leave your body.

Around you, the engineers walking the track had begun to steal glances your way. Then, Ollie’s race engineer passed by and gave Ollie the most resigned dad-look you’d ever seen, like this is your problem now. Esteban gave you a thumbs-up from several meters away and muttered, “Good luck, lovebirds,” under his breath.

You briefly considered using your mic cable as a lasso to throttle your driver.

Take Four.

You didn’t even let him finish his intro this time before he added, “Also, single file is recommended in sector two… unless you’re Y/N, then you’re allowed to hold my hand if it gets too tight.”

You spun around, face flushed, voice clipped. “Cut. You’re walking back to the paddock.”

“I regret nothing!” he called after you as you stormed off. “This is gold footage!”

You flipped him off behind your back.

But when you turned slightly, you caught him watching you with a satisfied grin—like teasing you was better than winning practice.

And unfortunately, your heart agreed.

The track walk had ended, the sun had softened behind the Melbourne skyline, and you were tucked into a corner of the Haas media room with your laptop balanced on your knees, earphones dangling around your neck.

The blooper reel from the morning’s chaos was halfway done rendering when you felt a warm presence hover beside you.

“You editing the stuff from earlier?” Ollie’s voice was casual, but the smile tugging at the corners of his lips betrayed how not casual he was about it.

You didn’t even look up. “If by ‘stuff’ you mean the seven unusable takes of you treating the mic like a dating app, then yes. I’m editing the stuff.”

He plopped into the chair beside you, knees brushing yours. “Let me guess—you kept the bit about you distracting me on track with your eyes?”

You side-eyed him. “Do you want to get fired?”

“Depends. Would you miss me if I were gone?” He grinned, leaning slightly closer to try to peek at your screen.

You huffed a laugh, but your heart fluttered—traitorously—at the way his shoulder grazed yours, casual like he didn’t even notice. (You did.)

You hit play. The blooper reel rolled.

First clip: Ollie trying to be serious, only to flash a cheeky smile when he mentioned your name.

You groaned, smacking his shoulder lightly. “Do you ever listen?”

He winced playfully, rubbing the spot. “Hey! I was being complimentary.”

Second clip: “Right about here is where I’ll lock up after Y/N distracts me with her eyes—”

You buried your face in your hands. “I cannot post this.”

“Why not? It’s romantic,” he said, and then added, “Kinda.”

You peered at him through your fingers. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m a visionary,” he corrected, then bumped his shoulder into yours again—this time more deliberately. “C’mon, admit it. You love this stuff.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling, and Ollie noticed. His gaze lingered longer than necessary. He looked at you like he was memorizing your expressions in real time—like you were more interesting than his own highlight reel.

The next clip played: Ollie winking into the camera after declaring “fans love chemistry.”

You paused it right on the wink and turned the laptop toward him. “Explain yourself.”

“I have no explanation,” he said, but he was laughing now, eyes crinkling, cheeks flushed. “Also, that was for you, not the fans.”

You shoved his arm again, this time harder.

“Violent,” he chuckled, then leaned in conspiratorially. “You realize every time you hit me, you end up laughing after, right?”

“That’s because I’m trying to cope.”

“With my charm?”

“With your nerve,” you replied, but your shoulder remained pressed to his now, and neither of you moved away.

Another clip rolled. The part where you stormed off and Ollie yelled after you — “This is gold footage!”

You both watched that one in silence before you turned to him and said softly, “You are kind of entertaining when you’re not insufferable.”

He smiled slowly. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

He bumped his knee against yours this time, watching your reaction carefully. “Too late.”

You should’ve pulled away. You should’ve nudged him off the chair, called him annoying, and reset the professional boundaries. But you didn’t.

Instead, you hit play again. This time, Ollie leaned in a bit more — enough that his arm brushed yours from shoulder to wrist, and neither of you flinched. The space between you felt smaller than it had all day. Cozy, almost.

You were too focused on not looking flustered when Francine suddenly poked her head in and deadpanned, “Should I leave you two alone, or...?”

You jerked away, immediately pretending to click around the timeline. “We’re editing. Working. Normal things.”

Ollie just smirked and muttered, “Jealousy’s a disease, Francine.”

Francine rolled her eyes and disappeared again.

You stole a glance at him. He was still watching the screen, but you caught the faintest, most sincere smile on his face — like he couldn’t help himself.

And god help you, you smiled too.

The next day, the Haas garage buzzed with energy, a symphony of pre-race sounds. Engineers shouting over the whirr of tire guns, strategists reviewing last-minute simulations, and the rhythmic clatter of tools filled the air.

You stood near the back, camera in hand, panning over the controlled chaos, catching B-roll for the team's socials.

Esteban sat on the folding bench, halfway into his race suit, a bottle of water in one hand and his other tugging at the collar of his fireproof undershirt. Ollie was beside him, zipping up his suit in slow, exaggerated movements that made it clear he knew he was being watched.

He had caught you filming ten seconds ago. And of course, he was going to make the most of it.

You tried to keep your camera steady, focusing the shot on both drivers—balanced, professional, all clean lines and corporate branding. But Ollie’s smug little grin as he adjusted his gloves deliberately slowly was making your job impossible.

“Don’t look at the camera,” you mumbled under your breath. “Just… be normal.”

Esteban caught your muttering and glanced up with a curious brow. “You okay?”

“She’s fine,” Ollie piped up before you could answer. “Just struggling to focus, aren’t you, Y/N?”

You narrowed your eyes behind the camera. “Only because someone’s being a menace.”

Esteban snorted. “I feel like I should leave the garage. This feels like a lovers’ quarrel.”

You choked on air. “It’s not.”

Ollie, without missing a beat, winked directly into the lens. “Give the fans what they want, right?”

Your face flushed instantly. “Ollie.”

“Oh come on, Y/N,” he said, stepping just a bit closer, enough that his face now filled most of your camera’s viewfinder. “You don’t want to post the boring stuff. You need charisma. Sparkle. Maybe a bit of charm.”

“You’re insufferable,” you mumbled, trying to steady the camera despite your hands practically trembling with laughter.

He just gave you that smug little look—the one where his lips curved ever so slightly, and his eyes glinted like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

Then he dramatically struck a model-esque pose with his helmet in hand, chin tilted up, shoulders squared. “How about now? I’m giving GQ meets motorsport.”

Esteban groaned. “I’m begging you to be serious for five minutes, mate.”

“Five minutes is a long time when Y/N’s this distracting,” Ollie teased, and you nearly dropped the camera from how flustered you got.

“I swear I’m going to start charging you for every take I have to reshoot,” you muttered.

Ollie grinned. “Totally worth it.”

“Y/N!” Lia’s voice rang from behind you just as you were trying to hide your face behind the camera. She strolled in, coffee in hand, expression flat. “At this point, you and Ollie are a full-blown HR nightmare.”

Ollie didn’t even flinch. “And yet, we boost engagement by at least 30%. That’s gotta be worth something, yeah?”

You turned slowly to glare at Lia, who was very clearly enjoying this.

She just smirked. “When you two finally kiss on camera, I’m posting it without a caption.”

You gasped. “LIA!”

Esteban raised both brows. “Wait, finally?”

“I’m not listening to this,” you huffed, already walking away with your camera in tow, ears burning. Behind you, you could hear Ollie call out:

“You still filming my good side, yeah? Because I’ve got a great one lined up after quali!”

Lia cackled. Esteban sighed. You didn’t look back—but the camera was still rolling.

And so was something else entirely.

The paddock was unusually quiet around the Haas motorhome.

You’d been in the back corner room most of the afternoon, downloading footage, trying not to think too hard about the pit in your stomach ever since Ollie failed to get a time in during qualifying. 

A red flag had come out just as he was pushing on his hot lap, and with time slipping away, he never got another shot. The disappointment had been written all over his face when he stepped out of the car.

You watched the interview from the media pen earlier, catching the subtle tension in his jaw and the practiced tone of someone trying very hard to be professional while keeping it together. It made you ache a little, watching him pretend like it didn’t hurt as much as it did.

You weren’t expecting the quiet knock.

Three soft taps on the door.

“Come in?” you called gently, not bothering to look up right away.

When you did, Ollie was already stepping inside, still in half his race gear, the top half of his suit peeled down to his waist, his white fireproofs damp with sweat. His hair was messier than usual, and the moment your eyes met, all the breath you had been holding left you.

He shut the door behind him without a word, leaned against it for a moment like he didn’t trust his legs to move forward just yet.

His usual playfulness, the cheeky glint that lit up every room—gone. Instead, he looked tired. Not physically, but the kind of tired that sat heavy in your chest when nothing had gone right.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he said quietly, almost apologetically.

You stood slowly, walking over to him without thinking. “You don’t need to explain.”

“I just…” Ollie trailed off, dragging a hand through his curls. “I know I’m supposed to shake it off, move on. Rookie year and all that. But that was supposed to be my moment. I’d worked so hard for that lap. And it was… it was there, y’know?”

You nodded, your chest tightening as you reached out and gently touched his arm.

“I know.”

He laughed, but it was a soft, hollow thing. “It’s stupid. There are worse things. But I’m just—God, I’m frustrated. I feel like I let everyone down. Ayao. The team. You.”

“Hey,” you whispered, stepping in closer now, your hand sliding to his wrist. “You didn’t let anyone down. Especially not me.”

Ollie looked down at where your fingers rested against his skin. His eyes were darker than usual—glassier. “Why does it matter so much what you think?”

The air between you shifted. Your fingers curled slightly.

“Maybe because we’re not just coworkers anymore,” you said softly. “Maybe because I care more than I should.”

His jaw clenched. “Yeah. Me too.”

He looked up again, his eyes meeting yours properly this time, and the moment stretched into something wordless. Raw. Honest.

You could see the war in his expression—between pulling you into his arms and holding back for your sake. So you made the choice for both of you, stepping forward to close the distance and pressing your forehead gently to his.

He let out a breath like he’d been holding it all day. Then his hand came up to cradle the side of your neck, thumb brushing softly just below your ear.

Neither of you spoke.

You didn’t need to.

The silence held everything that hadn’t been said out loud yet. All the teasing and playful tension, the shared glances, the near-confessions. This was different. This was real.

“I didn’t get my lap in,” Ollie whispered against your hair, “but this… this feels like something I did get right.”

You smiled into his chest as you finally let your arms wrap around him. “Then we’ll call it a win.”

And for the first time all day, Ollie’s breath came out steady.

The paddock was buzzing.

Shanghai’s return to the calendar meant everyone was high-energy, and media day was in full swing. Between the driver photo ops, camera crews, and sponsor booths vying for content, it was a chaotic symphony of noise and laughter.

But the Haas social media team? Thriving.

You had your camera bag slung across your shoulder and your phone steady in your hand, already in full “content goblin” mode as you called it.

You’d snagged a few chaotic clips of Esteban accidentally knocking over a stack of water bottles earlier and even convinced Ayao to do a finger heart for the camera (after three takes and one very unimpressed sigh).

Now, you were standing near the Aramco mini basketball court — a small activation booth that had become the unofficial playground for half the grid.

“Watch and learn,” Ollie smirked as he grabbed a basketball and turned to you with the full force of a cocky, too-pretty-for-his-own-good grin.

You raised your camera. “Please. If you make all three, I’ll edit this reel to the Space Jam theme.”

He laughed. “Deal.”

You hit record.

The first shot?

Miss.

It bounced off the rim and rolled sideways, nearly hitting a cameraman’s foot. You zoomed in on his expression — a picture of betrayal.

“Solid start, Steph Curry,” you teased off-camera.

Ollie held up a finger, mock-scolding. “That was a warm-up. Don’t put that in the reel.”

“Oh, it’s already in the cloud, baby,” you replied sweetly.

The second shot?

Swish.

Nothing but net. Ollie turned to you with a triumphant grin and raised both arms like he’d just scored a game-winning three-pointer at the buzzer.

“Ohhh, okay. Calm down, LeBron,” you laughed. “You’ve got one more. Let’s see if you’re actually clutch.”

“Please,” he scoffed. “I’m him.”

He lined up. You zoomed in.

Clang.

The ball hit the backboard and ricocheted hard to the side, narrowly missing Lia in the background as she struggles to take photos of him. Ollie looked back at you, wide-eyed.

You died laughing.

“That’s going in the reel twice,” you snorted, lowering your phone just enough to tease him properly. “Once in real time, and again in slow motion with sad violin music.”

Ollie crossed his arms. “You’re evil.”

“Don’t dish it if you can’t take it.”

He walked over and bumped your hip with his lightly, eyes playful. “You better be careful. I know where all your old TikToks are.”

You gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would. I saw that one where you’re lip-syncing High School Musical 2 in a face mask.”

“You are banned from the Dropbox,” you warned, pointing a finger at his chest.

“Too late. I already have the admin login.”

Your jaw dropped, and he winked before tossing the ball over his shoulder — it missed, again.

Francine, who had been watching from the side, leaned in with a grin. “This is either going to end in HR intervention or a wedding.”

Ollie caught your eye.

“Hopefully not in that order,” he said under his breath with a small smirk.

You caught that on camera, too.

Oh, yeah. That reel was going viral.

Golden hour was draping soft light over the circuit’s towering infrastructure, casting long shadows on the asphalt.

Media day had officially wrapped, and the once-buzzing paddock had settled into a more peaceful hum as teams trickled out, staff chatting about the day or heading for team debriefs and dinners.

You stretched your arms above your head, your camera gear finally tucked away in your backpack.

Your phone was packed with content—some of it hilariously unusable, most of it pure gold. You were already mentally editing the basketball reel.

Next to you, Ollie pulled on a Haas hoodie over his team shirt, glancing around as if half-expecting more cameras to pop out.

"Well," he said, offering you a lazy smile, "that was fun. Embarrassing. But fun."

You grinned, nudging his arm. “You’re lucky I’m nice. That last shot was tragic.”

“Please don’t use the violin,” he begged as you both started walking down the path toward the exit gates.

“No promises,” you laughed.

A soft breeze picked up as the city skyline in the distance began to glow. The two of you walked side by side, a comfortable rhythm forming without even thinking about it—one that had been building since winter testing.

His shoulder occasionally brushed yours when he leaned in to talk, and neither of you moved away.

“You eaten yet?” he asked casually, glancing over.

You shook your head. “Not since lunch.”

He nodded. “Let’s do room service. My hotel’s menu has these weird bao buns Jack swore by. We can debrief, edit stuff… you know, multitask.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“You’re inviting me to your room under the pretense of bao buns and editing?”

He laughed, that familiar, breathy laugh that made your stomach flutter. “Yes. Entirely professional. Bao-first, always.”

You agreed.

You were cross-legged on the sofa while Ollie sat on the floor, leaning against the bed as a spread of room service trays covered the table in front of you—bao buns, fried rice, chicken skewers, and an experimental tofu dish that neither of you dared to try first.

The TV was on mute, some race replay running in the background, while your phone’s screen lit up with clips from earlier.

You played one of Ollie trying to spin the basketball on his finger and dropping it straight onto his foot.

You cracked up. “This is elite-tier clumsiness.”

“That was Kimi’s fault,” he said, pointing an accusing chopstick at the screen. “He said something in Italian right before I shot, cursed me.”

You snorted. “I’d believe that.”

He grinned, leaning back.

“Speaking of Kimi… he and Isack spent the entire media morning trying to convince Gabriel to do a fake British accent during the F1TV skits. Poor Gabri. He panicked and said ‘oi, bruv’ and then immediately apologized.”

You laughed, almost choking on a piece of rice. “Gabriel apologizing for saying ‘oi, bruv’ might be the most Gabriel thing ever.”

“Oh, 100%. Then Jack walked by and asked if they were bullying his son again.”

“Not his son,” you corrected, eyes playful. “His ‘golden retriever protégé.’”

Ollie chuckled. “Same thing.”

The laughter slowly faded into a more comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t feel heavy. You glanced at him as he stared ahead at the muted TV, the flicker of color reflecting softly in his eyes.

“Y’know,” he started, voice lower, more thoughtful, “I’ve been thinking a lot about sprint quali.”

You leaned in slightly, sensing the shift.

“I know it’s just another format and all, but… it’s been messing with my head a little,” he admitted.

“There’s less time to ease into things. If I mess up one run, that’s it. It’s over. I hate how fast everything moves. I feel like I’m still catching up.”

You stayed quiet for a moment, setting your food down. Then, gently, “That makes sense. It’s a lot of pressure, especially when people already expect so much from you.”

His eyes flicked to yours.

“And I know everyone says you’re doing great—and you are—but that doesn’t make it feel easier,” you added.

“You’re allowed to feel overwhelmed. It doesn’t make you weak.”

He let out a quiet breath, and then his voice softened. “You always say the right things.”

You smiled gently, then reached down to squeeze his hand.

Just for a moment. Just enough to remind him he wasn’t doing this alone.

He looked at your hands, then back at you. “You help more than you know.”

You didn’t say anything—just gave his fingers a small squeeze before letting go.

He walked you back to your door, hoodie sleeves pushed up and hair a little messy from running his hand through it too many times.

The hallway was dimly lit, the distant hum of hotel activity low in the background.

You turned to him, unlocking your door.

“Thanks for dinner,” you said. “And the stories. And letting me bully your basketball skills.”

He chuckled. “Thanks for not using the violin. Yet.”

He scratched the back of his neck again—the telltale Ollie Bearman nervous tic you were starting to recognize.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Seriously. Thank you. For tonight. I didn’t know I needed to laugh this much.”

You softened. “Anytime, Bearman.”

There was a beat of stillness. A moment suspended in the warm silence of the hallway.

Then he smiled, stepping back. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Ollie.”

And with one last glance, he turned down the corridor—leaving your heart a little lighter, and your camera roll a little fuller.

The garage was still buzzing, the scent of tire rubber and brake dust lingering in the air as Ollie tugged off his gloves, cheeks flushed beneath the edges of his helmet hair.

Sprint Qualifying had just wrapped, and it had gone well—better than expected.

P12 wasn’t pole, but the lap was strong, the car felt alive underneath him, and for the first time all weekend, Ollie actually looked relaxed.

You had your camera raised before he even saw you, catching the moment he slung his helmet onto the counter and unzipped his suit halfway.

There was a gleam in his eyes—the post-session glow of someone who’d wrung every drop out of the car and knew it.

“Car felt good,” he told one of the engineers, voice still slightly elevated from the adrenaline.

“Hooked up in Sectors 1 and 2. Bit of understeer through the final corner, but nothing we can’t work around.”

You filmed him through the debrief, staying out of the way, switching to your second lens to catch the softer details: the way he tapped the edge of the tablet while reviewing data, the little grin he flashed Kimi when they fist-bumped on the way out.

The footage was going to be gold.

After the team media wrap, you caught up with him just as he stepped off the media pen carpet, fiddling with the velcro on his gloves.

"That went well," you said, camera still rolling.

Ollie turned to you, all bright eyes and wind-tousled hair. “Told you the car would come alive once it stopped raining.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You also told me this morning you had a bad feeling about Turn 13.”

He smirked. “Reverse psychology. I played myself.”

The mic was still clipped to his suit, so you kept rolling as he continued his little victory monologue, gesturing dramatically as he described how he "summoned the spirit of Alonso" through the middle sector.

It was all very standard Ollie Bearman behavior—until you signaled that the clip was good and reached up to unclip the mic.

As you did, he leaned in, dropping his voice slightly, almost conspiratorial. “You know, I think I drive better when I know you're watching.”

Your fingers froze just slightly on the clip.

He gave you a tiny smirk, catching the hesitation. His voice stayed low. “Makes me wanna show off a little.”

You rolled your eyes, lips twitching upward.

“You say that like it isn’t already painfully obvious.”

He took the mic from your hand and stepped closer—not dramatically, but just enough to make the air between you buzz.

“You’re just lucky I keep it PG when the camera's on. Otherwise…”

You arched a brow. “Otherwise, what?”

He grinned. “HR might actually have to get involved.”

You choked on a laugh, pushing at his shoulder.

“Ollie.”

“That wasn’t a no,” he said, beaming.

Before you could retaliate with a clever jab, Lia passed by with her headset still half-on, a tablet under one arm. She took one glance at the two of you—him smug, you trying (and failing) not to smile—and didn’t miss a beat.

“I swear to God,” she muttered, “you two are one flirty exchange away from being a full-blown HR nightmare.”

You and Ollie both burst into laughter, the tension cracking like sunlight through clouds. She rolled her eyes and kept walking.

“I like her,” Ollie said, still grinning.

“You would,” you replied. “She sees right through you.”

Ollie leaned back, hands on his hips. “Doesn’t mean I’m not charming.”

You raised your camera again and aimed it at his face.

“Say that again for the reel?”

He struck a mock-model pose. “Ollie Bearman, charming and quick. Spread the word.”

You shook your head fondly behind the lens, laughing as you captured him in that exact moment—race suit half-zipped, hair a mess, cheeks flushed with pride and adrenaline, and eyes sparkling with just a bit too much mischief for his own good.

It was chaos. Predictable, flirty chaos.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You hadn’t expected the team dinner plans to dissolve so quickly after landing, but jet lag hit harder than expected.

Everyone had either retreated to their rooms for sleep or mumbled promises of “next time” as they peeled off into the hotel lobby.

Except Ollie.

He’d looked over at you as you both lingered by the elevators—hair slightly messed from the flight, hoodie half-zipped over a faded white tee—and asked, “Still up for food?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Always.”

He grinned, clearly relieved. “Perfect. I saw a place a block over—tiny, but it’s supposed to be good.”

And now, here you were—sitting across from him in a dimly lit booth, warm yellow paper lanterns hanging overhead, a half-eaten plate of yakitori between you and two tall glasses of iced oolong tea sweating on the table.

You poked at a skewer with your chopsticks. “You really just wanted food, or were you hoping to escape the jet lag spiral?”

He smirked, eyes warm. “Both. And I figured I’d take my chances asking you first.”

You tilted your head, amused. “Why me?”

His lips twitched.

“Because you always say yes when it comes to food.”

You laughed, reaching to flick a sesame seed at him from your plate.

“Not wrong.”

There was a lull, but not an awkward one. The kind where the air felt charged but familiar. Ollie looked… peaceful.

Not performing for cameras or joking with engineers. Just Ollie, twenty minutes after landing, skin flushed from the cold outside, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows.

He leaned back against the wooden booth, eyes drifting for a moment to the street outside, where faint neon buzzed beyond the frosted windows. Then he looked at you again—longer, softer.

“You know,” he said, voice dropping slightly, “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

You set your chopsticks down slowly. “That sounds serious.”

“It kind of is.”

You gave a small, teasing smile. “You didn’t forget to submit your media requests again, did you?”

He didn’t laugh this time. Instead, he held your gaze, mouth pulling into something more vulnerable.

“No. I mean—this isn’t about work.”

Your heartbeat picked up, but you didn’t say anything. You just waited.

Ollie exhaled, fingers brushing over the condensation on his glass.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while. Honestly, since before the season started. And I didn’t want to make things weird because… we’re around each other all the time. And you’re one of the only people who makes this job feel normal.”

He paused, watching your face. You nodded slightly, silently telling him to go on.

“And at first I thought it was just because we’re close in age, or we get each other. But then we started spending more time together. Lunches, dinners, stupid mic tests where I couldn’t stop teasing you because you looked so—” he broke off with a soft laugh, rubbing his jaw.

“God. You looked so serious, and I liked getting reactions out of you.”

You ducked your head, cheeks burning.

“And then it became… more,” he said quietly.

“Like, I’d look for you without realizing. I’d want you around, even when things weren’t going great. Like when I didn’t that time in Melbourne and the first person I wanted to see was you. That kind of thing doesn’t just happen for no reason.”

Your heart felt like it was fluttering in your throat.

Ollie leaned forward a little, elbows on the table.

“I like you. A lot. And I know we’re in this crazy environment with cameras and flights and people always watching, but tonight—when everyone else said no and it was just you and me—I realized I didn’t want to keep waiting for the perfect moment. Because I think this might be it.”

Silence fell between you, but not the suffocating kind. The soft, shaky kind that sits between two people on the edge of something good.

You smiled, slowly, hand brushing your glass just to keep it steady. “So you planned to charm me with food and lantern lighting, huh?”

He grinned, but there was something nervous in it.

“Did it work?”

You didn’t speak. Instead, you reached across the table, gently wrapping your fingers around his.

Ollie blinked, then looked down at your joined hands—like he wasn’t sure if it was real.

“It worked,” you said softly. “It worked a while ago.”

He exhaled shakily, the tension melting from his shoulders, and his thumb brushed yours in a quiet, grateful way.

Outside, the street was starting to empty. A couple staggered past on bicycles, laughing.

You and Ollie just sat there, hands linked across an empty plate, the last flickers of nerves replaced with something calm, something certain.

And when you walked back to the hotel side by side—his arm brushing yours every few steps—it was quieter than usual. But in the best way.

Just before you reached your door, he stopped.

“Thanks for dinner,” he said, voice low.

You looked up at him, smiling. “Thanks for the confession.”

His cheeks flushed. He gave a soft, bashful laugh. “Yeah, I’m gonna replay that in my head a thousand times tonight.”

“Good,” you said, unlocking your door. “I will too.”

He hesitated, then—gently, slowly—tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Ollie.”

And when the door clicked shut behind you, your heart was still racing.

The shift between you two over the course of the weekend wasn’t drastic, but it was obvious.

It started with the way Ollie carried himself during media day. Still his usual charming self on camera, still cracking jokes about his playlist choices and his tragic attempts at origami for the “Japanese culture challenge” — but with you, there was something gentler.

A soft layer under his banter. Like his smiles landed just a beat longer when your camera focused on him. Like he didn’t care who saw anymore.

You weren’t exactly hiding either. And the team? The team noticed.

By Saturday, Esteban had raised an eyebrow when he caught Ollie lingering too long by the media tent.

“Didn’t realize we were doing interviews and puppy eyes now.”

Gabriel chimed in with a snort. “That’s not puppy eyes. That’s in love eyes.”

“Shut up,” Ollie muttered, cheeks pink, but he didn’t deny it.

You were behind the camera laughing, biting your lip to keep the shot steady as Isack whispered, “HR’s gonna have a field day,” before winking at you.

Even Lia had a moment during the driver mic checks, adjusting her headset and muttering just loud enough:

“You two are a walking HR nightmare and I’m so proud of you.”

Everyone teased, but it was lighthearted — celebratory, even. Like they'd all known it would happen eventually.

Because now, it wasn’t just glances. It was you handing Ollie a bottle of water after a session and him tapping your fingers with his in thanks.

It was you fixing his mic cord and him whispering, “You’re good at that, you know,” with a grin meant only for you.

It was walking a few steps apart through the paddock, only for him to nudge your elbow just slightly — a secret shared in a crowd.

Even during the race, he kept looking for your face in the garage. Between the chaos of comms and tire calls, he’d glance toward the media pit, just to check if you were there.

And when he crossed the line, not on the podium but in points, he pumped a fist — then looked at you with the kind of grin that said it still meant everything.

The sun was setting slowly over Suzuka, casting warm gold across the paddock as teams packed up.

Equipment cases thudded onto trolleys, pit carts rolled past, and most of the crew had already changed out of uniforms and into hoodies, prepping for the long haul out.

You were wrapping cables, still high off the adrenaline of the weekend, when your radio buzzed and someone said, “He’s looking for you, by the pit exit.”

You didn’t have to ask who.

When you got there, Ollie was leaning against the concrete barrier, one hand tucked in his hoodie pocket, the other holding his phone loosely by his side.

The minute he saw you, he lit up.

“There you are.”

“Didn’t think you’d wait,” you teased.

“I always wait for you,” he said easily.

You walked up beside him, close enough for his arm to brush yours. Close enough to feel how warm he was despite the breeze that had picked up.

“Think we survived Suzuka?” you asked, bumping his shoulder.

He nodded. “Just barely. Between quali, sprint drama, and everyone suddenly deciding our love life is their favorite new hobby…”

You laughed. “To be fair, they were right.”

Ollie looked at you then, fully — no rush, no nerves, just that wide-open, boyish gaze that made your heart flutter like it was day one.

“They were,” he agreed softly. “But I’m glad we didn’t rush it. Feels… right now. Doesn’t it?”

You nodded, smile soft. “It really does.”

He reached down and took your hand without a second thought, fingers lacing through yours like it was second nature.

“Come on,” he said, tugging gently. “Let’s go find dinner.”

“Another confession night?” you teased.

“Nah,” he said with a smirk. “You already said yes.”

Oscar has always been in your life.

For as long as you can remember, he has been there—first as a boy trailing behind you in the castle corridors, then as a sparring partner in the training grounds, and now as the ever-present shadow at your side, sworn to protect you.

His family has served the crown for generations, and by extension, so has he. But unlike the other knights, Oscar is not just another sworn blade in the royal guard.

He is yours.

It has always been that way.

And yet, the moment you began to see him differently—when childhood affection turned into something deeper, something dangerous—that was when everything became complicated.

You think about that now, standing on the grand balcony overlooking the castle gardens, where the royal court has gathered for the evening feast.

The noblemen and suitors your parents have chosen for you are in attendance, eager to impress. You feel their eyes on you, their polite smiles and careful words all laced with expectation.

But your mind is elsewhere—lost in the past, in a memory that still lingers no matter how much time has passed.

A memory of golden sunlight, an apple tree, and the boy who would become your knight.

The late afternoon sun draped golden light over the castle gardens, turning the ivy-covered stone walls warm to the touch. A soft breeze carried the scent of fresh blooms—roses, lavender, and a hint of apple from the orchard just beyond the courtyard.

You weren’t supposed to be here. Right now, you were meant to be sitting stiffly in the grand hall, reciting courtly etiquette to your tutor, but the thought of another hour trapped inside made you restless.

So you did what you always did. You escaped.

Slipping through the narrow servant’s passage, you stepped onto the familiar stone path winding through the gardens. And there he was—exactly where you expected him to be.

Oscar stood beneath the old apple tree, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, sharpening a dull practice sword with careful precision.

Even in simple training attire, he carried himself with an effortless ease, his posture relaxed but always alert. He hadn’t noticed you yet, too focused on the task at hand.

A slow smirk spread across your lips.

You crouched, picked up a fallen apple, and lobbed it toward him.

Thud.

The apple bounced off his shoulder. Oscar stilled. For a brief moment, his entire body tensed, hand instinctively shifting toward the sword at his waist. But then he turned, dark brows raising as his sharp gaze landed on you.

"Really?" His voice was flat, unimpressed.

You grinned, feigning innocence. "Oh, my apologies, Ser Piastri. I was aiming for your head."

Oscar exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he tossed the apple aside. "You know, most people wouldn’t think it’s wise to attack the one person sworn to protect them."

"Most people wouldn’t expect their sworn protector to be so easy to hit," you quipped.

Oscar gave you a look, the kind that suggested he was debating whether or not he actually wanted to keep protecting you. But he didn’t argue, which you counted as a victory.

You stepped closer, lifting the hem of your gown slightly to avoid the dirt. "What are you doing out here anyway?"

"Training."

You eyed the dull wooden blade in his hands. "That’s not a real sword."

"No, but it’s still sharp enough to throw at you."

You gasped, pressing a dramatic hand to your chest. "Ser Piastri, threatening a member of the royal family? That sounds dangerously close to treason."

Oscar huffed a quiet laugh. "And yet, somehow, I don’t think the punishment would be severe enough to make it worth it."

You pouted. "You’re no fun."

"And you are supposed to be in a lesson right now," he pointed out.

"Supposed to be," you echoed. "But I decided diplomacy could wait."

Oscar gave you a long look, arms crossing over his chest. "One of these days, your tutor is going to have a heart attack."

"And when he does, I’ll make sure the healers tend to him immediately," you said sweetly.

Oscar sighed, running a hand down his face as if dealing with you was an exhausting job. You supposed, in some ways, it was. But then, despite himself, he reached a hand out to help you up onto the low stone wall beside him. You took it without hesitation, his grip steady and sure.

"You’re impossible," he muttered.

"And you’re predictable," you countered. "Every time I sneak away, you’re always here. Almost like you knew I would come."

Oscar hesitated, then simply shrugged. "Or maybe I just like apples."

You laughed, the sound light and unguarded.

But then, a sharp voice echoed from the castle corridors.

"Your Highness!"

You winced. Oscar sighed.

"Time to go," he murmured.

You knew it was foolish—you were not a child anymore, and Oscar was no longer just a boy who ran after you when you snuck away. But still, before you could think better of it, you leaned in and pressed a quick, fleeting kiss to his cheek.

Oscar froze.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. His breath caught, his fingers twitching slightly at his side.

When you pulled away, his expression was unreadable, something careful and restrained settling over his features.

"You should go," he said, voice quieter now.

You hesitated—just for a moment—but then turned away, heading back to the castle.

Even as you walked, you could feel his gaze on you. Watching. Protecting.

Always.

The memory fades, but the feeling lingers.

Back on the grand balcony, you take a slow breath, hands tightening against the stone railing. The weight of expectation presses down on you, suffocating.

You glance across the courtyard, and there—standing in his usual place, just behind the crowd, sharp eyes scanning for any sign of danger—is Oscar.

You know he can feel your gaze, even if he refuses to meet it.

Because some things never change.

And some things… you wish would.

The late afternoon sun slanted across the castle gardens, casting dappled shadows on the cobblestone paths. The scent of blooming roses mixed with the fresh earth, a fragrance you found both grounding and nostalgic.

You had walked these gardens countless times as a child, exploring every hidden corner, every quiet nook.

Now, though, they had become an escape.

"Your Highness," a soft voice broke through your thoughts.

You turned to find your lady-in-waiting, keeping her distance but still too close for comfort. Her eyes were cautious, as if waiting for permission to speak.

"Yes, Constance?" you asked, voice soft but firm enough to signal that you weren’t in the mood for idle chatter.

"I’ve been instructed to remind you that your presence is requested in the great hall for the feast," she said, glancing nervously at the horizon where the sun was beginning to dip.

"I know," you replied, a trace of irritation in your voice. "But I wish to be alone for a while."

Constance opened her mouth to protest, but you gave her a pointed look. She hesitated, then curtsied, a resigned nod following.

"Very well, Your Highness. I will inform the queen."

With that, she turned and walked back toward the castle, leaving you alone with your thoughts once more.

You didn’t want to be there—surrounded by the court, surrounded by the suitors your parents had deemed suitable. Their smiles were sweet, their words carefully measured. But it wasn’t their faces you longed to see.

You had to find him.

You walked quickly through the gardens, making your way to the familiar apple tree where Oscar would be waiting.

The path was shaded by thick vines and hanging branches, the quiet of the gardens broken only by the distant murmur of the palace and the occasional rustle of wind through the leaves.

You paused at the base of the tree, looking up at the thick canopy. The place was just as you remembered it. Quiet. Hidden. Safe.

And there he was, standing beneath the tree, leaning against its weathered trunk as he always did. His arms were crossed over his chest, but his posture was relaxed, as though this was a space only for the two of you.

Despite the absence of his armor, there was still an unmistakable air of command about him. He was a knight in every sense of the word, even when not in uniform.

Oscar’s dark eyes caught yours almost immediately. For a brief moment, neither of you moved. Time seemed to stand still as he regarded you.

His gaze was sharp, intense, but there was something more in his eyes—a warmth you couldn’t explain. Something that you had never felt with anyone else.

He pushed off from the tree with a quiet grace and met you halfway.

"I thought I might see you today," he said, his voice low and familiar.

"You knew I would come," you replied, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

He shrugged, but there was a subtle shift in his demeanor, something almost… tender.

"Maybe I was just waiting for you to find me."

You stopped a few paces from him, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. The tension between you was palpable, but neither of you spoke about it.

You didn’t have to. It had always been there.

"I need to get away," you confessed, the words escaping before you could think better of them. "From everything. From them."

Oscar nodded, his gaze softening just a fraction. "I understand."

The silence between you grew, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of quiet that only comes when two people who have known each other for years share the same thoughts, even if they are left unspoken.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. His hand shifted slightly toward you, but he didn’t reach for you—not yet.

You found yourself stepping forward, just a little, closing the distance between you. Oscar didn’t step back, his gaze never leaving yours.

"You shouldn’t be out here," he finally said, though his voice lacked the usual reprimand. It was softer, almost a whisper.

"It’s dangerous."

You shook your head, taking another step until you were standing so close to him that your breath mingled.

"No one is looking for me," you said, your voice barely more than a whisper.

"I’m not worried about them. I’m worried about you."

Oscar’s brow furrowed at that, and he tilted his head, trying to understand the meaning behind your words.

"What do you mean?"

You met his gaze, heart racing as your fingers reached out, tracing the edge of his sleeve with a light touch.

"You always protect me. But who looks after you?"

His breath caught, just for a moment.

"You don’t have to worry about me."

But you could hear the unspoken weight in his voice—the unsaid words.

You smiled softly, your fingers brushing against his hand now. "But I do."

Without thinking, you took another small step forward, pressing yourself against him just enough that the warmth of his body enveloped you. He tensed for a moment, but you didn’t pull away.

"I want to stay here," you murmured, your voice thick with the weight of the moment. "With you."

Oscar’s hand moved, slowly but surely, until it was resting on your shoulder. His fingers were gentle, his touch betraying the usual reserve he kept with everyone else.

"One day," he whispered, his voice low and almost strained. "Someone will notice. And then everything changes."

"Let it change," you replied softly, your gaze never leaving his. "For now, let me have this."

He paused, his gaze searching yours, weighing the moment. And then, with a quiet sigh, he pulled you closer, his hand at your back guiding you in. You could feel his heartbeat beneath your fingers.

When his lips brushed against your forehead, it was as if the world shifted around you. The years of friendship, the weight of your responsibilities, and the knowledge that what you shared here, now, was fleeting—none of it mattered in that instant.

The only thing that mattered was him. And you.

And the fragile, stolen time between you.

It feels like only yesterday that you first saw Oscar in a different light. Back then, he was just another knight in the training yard—a skilled swordsman, quick with a quip, and always so serious when it came to the duties of his family.

But that all changed on the day he was promoted to your personal guard.

It was a quiet morning, the sun still soft and low in the sky, when your father, the king, called for the royal council to convene.

The air was thick with tension, as it always was before such meetings. And yet, when the doors opened and your father stepped into the chamber, his presence alone quieted the room.

"Today," he began, his voice firm and unwavering, "I have made a decision." His gaze swept across the faces of his advisors and the knights assembled.

Your heart beat a little faster.

Oscar stood to the side, as he always did, eyes lowered in respectful silence, though there was a glint in his eyes—a barely perceptible shift in his demeanor as he stood straighter than usual.

You noticed it at once, though you said nothing.

"The time has come for the princess to have a personal guard," your father continued, his tone final. "A knight who will protect her not only from danger but from the perils of court itself."

You glanced at Oscar, confusion flickering in your chest. The others, however, were already murmuring amongst themselves, nodding in approval.

Your father’s gaze landed on Oscar, and your heart skipped a beat.

"Oscar Piastri," he declared. "You will serve as the princess’s personal guard. From this day forward, you will answer to her."

There it was—the moment when everything shifted.

When Oscar was no longer just the boy who trained with you, but the knight who swore an oath to protect you, it was a shift you felt deeply, and one you both knew would change everything.

Now, as the weight of the decision made so long ago settled around you again, you found yourself in the quietest corner of the palace—the library.

The scent of old parchment and leather-bound books lingered in the air. The shelves, stacked high with wisdom and secrets, felt like a refuge from the bustling palace life, a place where time seemed to slow, and the world outside faded into nothing.

The late afternoon light poured through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the marble floor.

You had come here to escape the weight of your responsibilities, the endless suitors your parents paraded before you, the eyes always watching, always waiting for you to choose.

Your fingers ran lightly along the spines of books as you wandered deeper into the room, eventually making your way to your favorite nook—a small alcove at the back of the library where no one could hear your thoughts.

You took a deep breath, sinking into the leather armchair, the quiet of the space settling over you.

But it didn’t last long.

The sound of footsteps reached your ears before you saw him.

Oscar stepped into the alcove, his figure framed in the doorway. He had removed his armor again, his presence still commanding, even without the weight of the steel.

His face was unreadable as usual, but there was a soft tension in his posture, the kind that only came when he was worried about you.

"Your Highness," he said quietly, his tone soft but firm.

You looked up at him, your heart quickening. He had always been there, always just beyond the reach of the court, but today, the weight of the moment pressed down on you in a way it hadn’t before.

“Oscar, we’ve known each other for so long. I don’t think this formality applies when we’re alone,” you chuckle.

"Also, I thought you’d be at the feast," you continued, though you already knew why he wasn’t there.

Oscar didn’t move, didn’t sit. He remained standing, the faintest shadow of uncertainty in his gaze.

"I couldn’t stay. Not when I knew you’d be here." His eyes softened slightly. "You’ve been avoiding them again."

You gave a small, wry smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

"I don’t need to be paraded around like a prized possession, Oscar."

His gaze hardened, and for a moment, there was a flash of something unspoken in his eyes—something possessive, something that mirrored your own frustration. But it was quickly masked by his usual composure.

"I know. But you also need to be careful."

You sighed and leaned back in the chair, the weariness of the day settling over you.

"I didn’t ask for this. Any of it. The suitors, the expectations." You glanced up at him, your voice quiet. "You know that, don’t you?"

Oscar nodded. "I do."

The two of you stood there in silence for a long moment, the weight of your shared understanding filling the space. You had known each other for so long, the bond between you had long since surpassed any formality.

He was your protector, yes—but more than that, he was someone you trusted with the deepest parts of yourself.

At last, Oscar broke the silence. "I worry about you, Your Highness," he said, stepping closer.

His voice was low, almost a whisper.

"I worry that one day, someone will make you choose between duty and happiness. And that… that will break you."

You sat up straighter, your eyes meeting his. The words hung in the air like an unspoken promise.

"Oscar, I’m not sure I can keep going on like this. I don’t know how much longer I can pretend that everything is fine."

For the first time, Oscar’s expression softened into something far more tender, his eyes filled with the care he always showed when it was just the two of you.

He didn’t speak at once, instead walking toward you and lowering himself to a knee, bringing himself to your level.

"You don’t have to pretend with me," he said simply, his hand resting just inches from yours. "Not now. Not ever."

You reached out, brushing your fingers against his, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours. The simple gesture, the quiet exchange of unspoken truths, was all you needed in that moment.

"I never wanted this life for you," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Oscar’s eyes darkened, and for a brief second, there was a flicker of pain in them.

"I chose this life the day I swore to protect you," he murmured. "And I will never regret it, not for a second."

The weight of his words hung in the air, his promise lingering in the space between you. And though the world outside the library was loud, filled with the endless hum of court life and expectations, in this small, quiet space, it was just the two of you—unseen, untouched by the world beyond.

For a fleeting moment, you allowed yourself to forget everything else.

You allowed yourself to just be—with him.

The grand hall is alive with music and light, a dazzling display of nobility dressed in their finest silks and adorned with jewels that catch the golden glow of the chandeliers above.

The scent of roses and expensive perfumes mingles with the richness of aged wine, and laughter rings through the vast space, blending with the waltz that plays in the background.

It is yet another ball. Another night where you are expected to stand in the center of it all, smiling gracefully as the kingdom’s most eligible bachelors parade before you, each hoping to be the one you choose.

And of course, standing in the shadows, as he always does, is Oscar.

You don’t have to look to know he is there.

He is always there.

Leaning casually against one of the towering marble pillars at the edge of the ballroom, he watches the festivities with the same unreadable expression he always wears—calm, observant, utterly indifferent to the lavishness around him.

He’s shed most of his armor for the evening, only his sword still resting at his hip, its presence as much a part of him as the very air he breathes.

He looks as though he is standing guard, as if he is simply another knight fulfilling his duty.

But you know better.

Because even without meeting his gaze, you can feel the way his eyes follow your every movement.

And when you do glance in his direction—briefly, discreetly—you catch the faintest flicker of amusement dancing in his hazel eyes.

Smug.

Of course he’s smug.

Because he’s noticed it too.

The way your smiles don’t quite reach your eyes. The way your laughter is polite but never real. The way your replies to the suitors’ attempts at charm are composed, effortless, but never genuine.

Oscar shifts slightly, arms crossing over his chest, the corner of his lips barely twitching in what could almost be called a smirk.

You bite the inside of your cheek, willing yourself not to react.

"Your Highness," the noble before you says, drawing your attention back to the conversation.

The young duke from a neighboring kingdom offers you a dazzling smile, oblivious to the fact that your mind had momentarily wandered elsewhere.

"I must say, you are even more breathtaking in person than the rumors claim."

A practiced compliment. A rehearsed smile.

You return his words with a graceful nod. "You are kind to say so, my lord."

The duke steps closer, lowering his voice just enough to feign intimacy. "I imagine you must grow tired of these balls," he muses, eyes twinkling with what he likely assumes is charm.

"So many suitors, all desperate for a moment of your time. It must be exhausting, having the entire kingdom vying for your affection."

You offer a polite, measured laugh.

"It is part of my duty, my lord."

Another flawless response. Another moment where you play the role expected of you.

And from across the room, Oscar sees right through it.

His fingers drum idly against the hilt of his sword, his smirk deepening ever so slightly.

You can hear the words he isn’t saying, the teasing remarks he would make if only the two of you weren’t in the middle of a crowded ballroom.

"Careful, princess. Smile any wider, and they might start thinking you actually enjoy this."

The thought makes your lips press together slightly, as if to suppress a laugh that was never meant to escape.

Oscar notices that too.

His head tilts just so, the way it always does when he’s quietly entertained by something. His eyes gleam with knowing amusement, as if to say, You can fool them, but you can’t fool me.

The duke is still speaking, though you hardly register his words now. Something about how the stars pale in comparison to your beauty. Something about how he would be honored to stand by your side.

You glance toward Oscar again, unable to stop yourself.

He raises an eyebrow, an almost imperceptible movement, but you catch it nonetheless.

Is this the best they can do?

It’s infuriating, really. The way he can say so much without uttering a single word. The way he stands there so unbothered, so utterly himself while you are forced to endure another evening of political pleasantries.

And yet…

And yet, you find yourself grateful for his presence.

Because even though he is not at your side, even though he stands just far enough to remain unnoticed by the rest of the court, there is a quiet comfort in knowing he is watching.

That he is here.

That he will always be here.

A new suitor approaches then, a nobleman with sharp blue eyes and a confident stride.

The duke reluctantly steps aside, giving the newcomer space to introduce himself. You turn to greet him, offering another graceful nod, another polite smile.

And out of the corner of your eye—

Oscar exhales slowly, shaking his head just enough for you to notice.

"Another one? This should be entertaining."

It’s a good thing the ballroom is so loud.

Otherwise, someone might hear the soft, breathless laugh that escapes you.

Tonight, you are the kingdom’s jewel, on display for the finest suitors to admire and court.

He is not part of this world—the world of ballrooms and nobility, of silk gloves and honeyed words. He was never meant to belong here. And yet, he watches, his back against a marble pillar, his gaze never once leaving you.

It is both his duty and his torment.

Because while everyone else in this room sees you as a princess, as a future queen, as a prize to be won—he sees you.

He sees the way your smile is just a touch too polite, the way your eyes flicker with quiet disinterest even as you entertain the endless stream of noblemen vying for your hand.

And it amuses him.

Because of course you don’t care for any of them.

Because of course you don’t care for any of them.

Oscar’s arms are loosely crossed, his fingers tapping idly against his forearm as his gaze flickers between you and the noble currently trying (and failing) to charm you.

From a distance, he looks bored, as if none of this concerns him. But the truth is, he is far too entertained by the way you are so clearly enduring this rather than enjoying it.

"Careful, princess," he thinks, lips curving slightly in the faintest hint of a smirk. "Smile any wider, and they might start thinking you actually enjoy this."

Your eyes flick toward him for just a second—so brief no one else would notice, but Oscar catches it instantly.

And the moment you do, he knows you’ve caught him smirking.

It’s almost imperceptible, the way your lips press together, as if to fight back a genuine smile. As if, for just a second, you wish you could roll your eyes at him instead of at the man before you.

Oscar leans back against the pillar, shifting his weight slightly, knowing full well he’s been caught and not caring in the slightest.

Because he knows you.

Knows that the noble before you, with his rehearsed flattery and empty words, has already lost your interest.

Knows that, even in a room filled with men begging for your attention, you are thinking of him.

The thought sends something warm curling in his chest.

But then the noble steps closer.

Oscar’s smirk fades.

The man is still talking, his voice lowering just enough to feign a sense of intimacy, his confidence brimming as he leans in ever so slightly. Not enough to be inappropriate—but enough that Oscar notices.

Enough that his fingers instinctively tighten around the hilt of his sword.

The conversation is polite, nothing he can interfere with, but he wants to.

Wants to step forward. Wants to place himself between you and the man before you. Wants to give some excuse—any excuse—to remove you from the conversation.

But he does not move.

He cannot.

Because he is not your suitor.

He is your knight.

So instead, he watches. His grip tightens. His jaw clenches.

And then you do something that nearly undoes him.

You glance toward him—subtly, carefully—just for a second.

And in that moment, Oscar sees it.

The way your eyes meet his in silent understanding. The way you are searching for him in the midst of all this. The way you are standing before a hundred noblemen who wish to claim you—and yet, it is him you turn to.

Something inside him aches.

If only I could be the one standing before her.

If only he could be the one offering you, his hand, whispering promises only you were meant to hear. If only he could pull you away from all this, from the duties and expectations weighing so heavily on your shoulders.

But he is not a prince.

He is not a nobleman.

He is just a knight.

And knights do not get to love princesses.

So instead, he does the only thing he can do.

He holds your gaze for just a second longer, just long enough for you to know—I’m here.

And when you turn away, returning to the conversation with a flawless, practiced smile—

Oscar exhales.

And he waits.

And he aches.

The ball has long ended, and yet, the echoes of music still hum in your mind.

Laughter, conversation, the clinking of crystal goblets—all of it lingers in the stillness of the palace halls as you walk, the heavy train of your gown brushing against the marble floor.

The torches that once illuminated the grand ballroom have dimmed, leaving only the faint golden glow of lanterns to guide your way.

But you are not headed toward your chambers.

Not yet.

Your ladies-in-waiting had asked if you wished for assistance in undressing, but you dismissed them, claiming exhaustion. And though you are tired—exhausted, really—it is not your body that aches.

It is your heart.

So instead of retiring for the night, you find yourself wandering the palace corridors until you step past the great archway that leads to the royal gardens.

It is quiet here.

Peaceful.

The air is crisp, carrying the scent of roses and lavender, the bushes still heavy with late-summer blooms.

The moon hangs low in the sky, casting a silver glow over the stone pathways, illuminating the small fountains and marble statues scattered throughout the grounds.

You exhale, closing your eyes as you let the coolness of the night soothe you.

And then—

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t come.”

Your eyes snap open at the sound of the familiar voice, low and edged with quiet amusement.

Oscar.

He stands by the stone railing of the terrace overlooking the gardens, still clad in his uniform from the ball—though the formal sash across his chest has been loosened, and the first few buttons of his collar are undone. His posture is relaxed, arms loosely crossed, his sword still resting at his hip.

He looks perfectly at ease, as if he belongs here, standing beneath the moonlight, waiting for you.

And perhaps he does.

Perhaps he always has.

You step closer, shaking your head. “I didn’t realize I had an appointment.”

Oscar smirks. “You always come here after the balls.”

You hesitate at that, because—you suppose he’s right.

On nights like this, when the weight of your duties feels suffocating, when the expectations placed upon you feel too heavy to bear, you always find yourself seeking solace in the gardens.

And somehow, without ever needing to arrange it, Oscar is always there.

You glance up at him, your voice quieter now. “And yet, here you are.”

Oscar shifts slightly, leaning one arm against the railing.

“Someone has to make sure you don’t fall into a fountain.”

That draws a small, reluctant laugh from you.

“That was one time.”

“One time is enough.” He tilts his head, studying you for a moment. “Rough night?”

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you turn, resting your hands against the cool stone of the terrace as you gaze out over the garden. The flowers are still vibrant under the moon’s glow, and yet, tonight, they do not bring you peace.

After a long moment, you whisper, “I wish things were different.”

Oscar doesn’t speak right away.

He doesn’t push, doesn’t demand an answer from you. He simply waits—because he knows you.

Knows that eventually, you’ll let the words slip free.

And you do.

“I wish I wasn’t the princess,” you murmur, your fingers curling against the stone. “I wish I wasn’t bound to all these expectations—forced to entertain men who don’t even know me, let alone love me.” You swallow, voice growing tighter.

“I wish I could—” The words catch, but you push through them. “I wish I could love you freely.”

The confession hangs between you like a fragile thread, delicate and dangerous all at once.

Oscar still doesn’t move. For a moment, he doesn’t even breathe.

Then—slowly—he exhales, tilting his head down as a wry, almost bitter smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“You deserve a good life, Y/N,” he says at last, his voice low, steady. “One where you don’t have to hide or wish things were different.”

Your throat tightens, and you turn to face him fully. “But I don’t want a life without you in it.”

Oscar’s gaze flickers. Something inside him—something he keeps so carefully restrained—fractures.

He is silent for a moment, his eyes searching yours as if trying to memorize every unspoken thought you’ve left between the lines of your words.

Then, carefully—so carefully—he reaches out.

His gloved hand brushes against yours. A hesitant touch, uncertain—until you turn your palm up, letting your fingers curl around his.

His grip tightens just slightly.

Enough to tell you that he understands. Enough to tell you that he wishes things were different, too.

But the world is not kind to lovers like you.

And yet, despite everything—despite knowing better—Oscar lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

It is the kind of thing that should be harmless. A courtly gesture, one of politeness and decorum. But it is not.

Not when he lingers. Not when his lips press against your skin with a reverence that makes your heart ache.

Not when you are looking at him like this.

The space between you is too small, too fragile.

Oscar watches you carefully, his eyes dark, guarded—his restraint hanging by a thread. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs.

You don’t.

Instead, you close the distance.

His breath hitches the moment your lips meet, his fingers tightening instinctively around yours. The kiss is soft, almost hesitant at first—until something in him unravels.

And then— Oscar’s free hand moves to your waist, pulling you closer.

Your fingers tangle in the fabric of his uniform, gripping tightly as you lose yourself in him, in the quiet desperation of a love that neither of you are allowed to have.

His lips are warm, his touch careful, reverent—yet beneath it all, there is longing.

A longing that has been buried for far too long and here, beneath the cover of the midnight sky, he lets it show.

When you finally pull away, your forehead rests against his, your breaths mingling, hearts racing. Oscar exhales a quiet, breathless laugh, his thumb grazing against your cheek.

“You really are going to give your lady-in-waiting a heart attack.”

You laugh, and this time, it is real. But reality is waiting, and you know you cannot linger here forever. So, wordlessly, Oscar offers you his arm.

And as he escorts you through the quiet halls of the palace, back to the sanctuary of your chambers—

You wonder if, just maybe, you could wish for one more stolen moment like this.

One more secret kiss.

One more chance to love him, even in the shadows, because if this is all you can have— then you will take it. And Oscar, despite everything, will let you.

Because he has never known how to refuse you.

You knew something was wrong the moment your parents called you to their private chambers.

The way the guards stationed outside the door stood a little too still. The way your mother’s hands were folded neatly in her lap, her expression unreadable. The way your father, a man of authority and logic, avoided meeting your gaze for the first time in your life.

You knew.

And yet, nothing could have prepared you for the words that left his lips.

“Your engagement to Prince Lando Norris has been finalized.”

Your world tilts.

“What?” Your voice barely escapes you, a breathless whisper.

Your mother sighs, as if she had expected this reaction.

“You knew this day would come, dearest. It is a strong match—Lando’s kingdom will—”

“I don’t care about his kingdom,” you snap, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “You promised me—I trusted you when you said I would have a say in my future.”

Your father finally looks at you. His eyes are firm, unyielding.

“This is not a punishment, Y/N. It is your duty. Prince Lando is a good man, and his family is powerful. You will not only be a queen but a revered one.”

But you don’t want to be a queen.

You don’t want him.

You want—

Your breath trembles as you take a step back, shaking your head. “No.”

Your mother’s expression softens, but your father’s darkens.

“No?” His voice is sharp. “You don’t have the luxury of refusal.”

Anger burns in your chest, white-hot and all-consuming.

“Then why even pretend I did? Why make me believe I had a choice when you had already decided my fate?”

Silence.

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “Was I always just a pawn to you?”

Your mother’s voice is gentle. “You are our daughter. And that is why we have chosen a good future for you.”

You stare at her—at both of them—and realize, with a heavy heart, that they will never understand.

That your life has never truly belonged to you.

And so, without another word, you turn on your heel and leave, your vision blurring as you flee the room.

The dress they chose for you that night is beautiful. It is silk, a soft ivory shade embroidered with gold thread, designed to make you look every bit the princess you are expected to be.

Your ladies-in-waiting fuss over your hair, pinning jewels into place, smoothing out the fabric of your gown, whispering about how fortunate you are.

You barely hear them.

Your mind is elsewhere. Your heart is elsewhere.

Somewhere in the quiet corridors of the palace, Oscar is going about his duties. Does he know? Has he heard?

And if he has—why hasn’t he come? Why hasn’t he stopped this?

But even as the thought crosses your mind, you know the answer.

He can’t.

And that is what makes your chest ache the most.

By the time you enter the grand dining hall, the evening is in full swing. The long table is draped in the finest linens, candles flickering along its length, the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine thick in the air. Nobles sit in their assigned places, engaged in polite conversation, but all attention shifts when you enter.

Including his.

Prince Lando.

He rises to his feet as you approach, a grin pulling at the corners of his lips. He is dressed finely—navy blue and gold, his dark curls slightly tousled, his brown eyes twinkling with mischief.

He bows when you reach him. “Your Highness.”

You hesitate before curtsying. “Your Highness.”

Lando’s grin widens as he extends his hand. “Lando,” he corrects smoothly. “If we are to be bound together, we might as well drop the formalities, don’t you think?”

You blink, caught off guard. You had expected arrogance. Coldness. The same emptiness that so many of your previous suitors carried.

Instead, you find charm.

And yet—

As Lando guides you to your seat beside him, your gaze flickers across the room.

Your heart stutters.

Oscar stands at the far end of the hall, half-hidden in the shadows between the pillars, his expression unreadable. He is dressed in his finest guard uniform, the silver embellishments glinting under the candlelight.

But his hands— his hands are clenched into fists.

Your throat tightens.

You turn back to Lando as he pours you a glass of wine, still smiling, still speaking—though you barely hear him because your heart isn’t sitting beside you.

It is across the room.

Watching. Breaking.

Waiting to shatter.

Late into the night, after the dinner has ended, after you have smiled and laughed and played the perfect princess, you find yourself drawn to the place you know he will be.

The courtyard is empty when you find him, and you are right. Oscar is there, his back to you, his sword swinging in sharp, powerful arcs.

His movements are stiff. Frustrated. Angry.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” Your voice is quiet, but the accusation is clear.

Oscar doesn’t stop. He grips his sword tighter, his stance sharp and defensive.

“I’m doing my duty,” he mutters.

You step forward, arms crossing. “Your duty? Is that all I am to you?”

This time, he does pause. His shoulders tense, his breath heavy. And then, slowly—so slowly—he turns. His expression is unreadable.

“You’re everything to me.” Your breath catches.

He exhales, voice quieter now. Raw.

“And that’s the problem.” Something inside you snaps.

Tears burn at the back of your eyes as you step closer, gripping his wrist before he can turn away again.

“Oscar.” He flinches slightly at your touch, his resolve wavering.

You shake your head, your voice breaking. “Say it.”

He stares at you. “Say what?”

“Say you don’t love me.”

Silence.

His jaw tightens. His fingers tremble beneath your grasp. The moonlight casts sharp shadows over his face, highlighting the war behind his eyes.

Then—finally—he exhales, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I can’t.”

The confession is devastating.

And yet, it is all you need.

Your grip on his wrist tightens for a brief moment before you pull him forward—into you.

Into your arms. Into the only place he has ever truly belonged.

And for a moment, just a moment, the world and all its cruel expectations disappear.

Days pass. And with them, so does any sense of control you once had over your life.

Prince Lando is nothing like the suitors before him—he is clever, charismatic, kind.

He does not treat you like a trophy to be won but rather a puzzle to be solved. He asks you questions no other nobleman has cared to ask before. About your dreams. Your childhood. Your thoughts on the war strategies of neighboring kingdoms.

And you, against your will, find yourself liking him.

Not in the way your parents hope. Not in the way that makes your heart race, that makes your chest ache with longing.

Not in the way you love Oscar.

But still—Lando is a good man.

And it makes it all the worse. Because every time he smiles at you, every time he pulls out a chair for you, every time he offers you his arm to guide you through the castle halls, there is another pair of eyes watching.

And they are filled with silent suffering.

Oscar is always there. He stands at a respectful distance, his posture rigid, his hands clasped behind his back. But he knows you too well to be fooled by your carefully placed smiles and polite nods.

He sees the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers tremble ever so slightly when Lando brushes his hand against yours. He notices how your laughter rings hollow, how your gaze flickers toward him when you think no one is looking.

But no one else seems to notice.

Because you are playing your role perfectly.

Oscar watches, unseen yet always watching, his own emotions a carefully concealed storm beneath his armor. His grip on the hilt of his sword tightens when Lando leans in to whisper something in your ear.

When you laugh—force yourself to laugh—it’s all he can do to keep his expression neutral.

She is smiling, but it’s not real. I know her smile, if only I could be the one standing before her.

The breaking point comes at the end of the night.

After hours of entertaining Lando the whole day, smiling until your cheeks ache, you finally retreat.

Lando bids you goodnight with a small, knowing smirk, disappearing into his chambers. The second his door shuts behind him, you turn on your heel.

Your feet move swiftly through the dimly lit corridors, past the royal guards, past the curious glances of the castle staff.

You know exactly where to go.

And when you reach the door of your private study—your sanctuary—you find him already there, as if he knew you would come. As if he had been waiting.

Oscar is leaning against the grand mahogany desk, arms crossed over his chest, eyes unreadable. He doesn’t say anything when you enter, but you feel the tension radiating off him.

You shut the door behind you, exhaling shakily.

“Oscar—”

“Did you enjoy yourself tonight?”

His voice is calm. Too calm.

You flinch. “Don’t.”

He scoffs, pushing off the desk, taking a slow step toward you.

“Don’t what, princess?” His tone is laced with something sharp, something bitter.

“Don’t acknowledge the fact that you seemed rather comfortable with your betrothed?”

You glare at him. “What was I supposed to do? Defy my parents in front of an entire court? Humiliate Lando when he’s done nothing wrong?”

Oscar lets out a humorless laugh.

“You could have at least pretended to be miserable.”

You throw your hands up in frustration.

“And what would that have changed? Would it have undone the engagement? Would it have made this any easier?”

Silence.

Oscar exhales, running a hand over his face.

“No.” His voice is quieter now, strained. “But at least I wouldn’t have had to stand there and watch.”

Your chest tightens. Slowly, cautiously, you step closer, your voice softer now.

“It’s torture for me too, you know.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and whatever restraint he’s been holding onto shatters.

Before you can think, his hands are on your waist, pulling you against him. His forehead drops to yours, and you close your eyes, breathing him in.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” he murmurs, his voice raw.

Your fingers clutch at the fabric of his tunic.

“Then let’s stop pretending.”

Oscar pulls back slightly, brows furrowing.

“What?”

You lift your chin, determination settling in your chest.

“Let’s leave.”

His eyes widen slightly. “Y/N—”

“I mean it,” you whisper. “If we stay, we lose. Either we suffer in silence, or we get caught and suffer a far worse fate. But if we leave—”

A future. A chance. Freedom.

For a moment, Oscar doesn’t speak. He just stares at you, searching, his grip tightening at your waist.

Then, finally—finally—his lips curl into the smallest, most dangerous smirk.

“You really are reckless,” he mutters.

Your own lips tug into a smile. “You love it.”

He huffs a small laugh. “I really do.”

And just like that, a plan is set into motion.

You should be used to this by now.

The routine, the conversations, the effortless charm that Prince Lando possesses—it all blends together into something pleasant. And perhaps that’s what makes it so much worse.

Because as the days pass, you are not miserable. You are not trapped in the company of a cruel or indifferent man. Instead, you are surrounded by Lando’s warmth, by his laughter, by his easy companionship.

But it does not reach the deepest parts of you. It does not set fire to your soul the way he does.

You try to bury it, to push aside the ache in your chest when you catch glimpses of Oscar standing at a distance, always watching, always waiting. But it festers. It grows. And as much as you try to pretend, the weight of your own heart is becoming unbearable.

Lando notices.

At first, he does not say anything, merely observes you with a quiet sort of patience. When you take longer to respond to his questions, when your smiles lack the brightness they once did, when your gaze lingers too long elsewhere—he takes it all in.

And then, one evening, over the soft glow of candlelight at dinner, he finally speaks.

“You don’t love me, do you?”

Your fingers tighten around your fork.

The words are not cruel. They are not laced with bitterness. They are simply resigned.

A quiet, sinking truth.

Your breath catches, and you immediately avert your gaze, staring down at your plate. “Lando…”

“I knew it.” He exhales, leaning back in his chair. His expression is unreadable, his sharp features bathed in the flickering glow of the chandeliers. “I think I’ve known it for a while now.”

You say nothing.

He chuckles, but there is no humor in it. “I was naive to think we could make this work.”

A sharp pang of guilt cuts through you. “I tried—”

“I know,” he interrupts gently, eyes softening. “And I appreciate that.”

The silence stretches between you, thick with things left unsaid.

And then, after a long pause, Lando tilts his head, watching you closely. “It’s Oscar, isn’t it?”

Your breath stutters.

The way your fingers curl into your lap, the way your shoulders tense—it’s enough of an answer.

Lando nods to himself, a small, understanding smile playing at his lips. “I should’ve realized sooner.” He huffs, shaking his head. “The way you look at him…” His voice trails off, and when his gaze meets yours again, it is filled with something quiet and knowing. “You never look at me like that.”

Your throat tightens. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Lando lets out a soft chuckle. “Don’t be.”

You blink, startled. “What?”

“I won’t lie and say this doesn’t hurt.” He exhales, running a hand through his curls. “But I can’t exactly be angry, can I? If anything, I admire you for it.” His voice turns wry. 

“I mean, I’d rather lose to someone worthy, and Oscar…” He smirks slightly. “I suppose he is.”

A quiet laugh escapes you, though it is weighed down by emotion.

Lando leans forward then, clasping his hands together. “So, what now?”

Your smile fades. You lower your gaze. “I don’t know,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “If my parents ever found out about us…”

Lando hums thoughtfully. Then, as if something dawns on him, his eyes sharpen. “Prince Charles is returning soon, isn’t he?”

You frown slightly. “My brother?”

He nods. “Your parents wouldn’t dare stir a scandal right before his arrival. They want to present a perfect, unified image of the royal family.” His lips curl into a smirk, though there is something serious in his gaze. “If there was ever a time to leave…”

Your heart pounds. “You would help us?”

Lando tilts his head. “What kind of man would I be if I stood in the way of true love?”

A lump forms in your throat.

You can barely believe what you’re hearing.

Lando, the man you were meant to wed, the prince who had every right to resent you for your affections lying elsewhere—was offering you a chance at freedom.

“You don’t have to do this,” you murmur.

He shrugs. “I know.” A small smile touches his lips. “But I want to.”

Tears prick at your eyes. You don’t think—you simply rise from your seat and step forward, wrapping your arms around him. Lando tenses in surprise before exhaling, returning the embrace.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Lando huffs a quiet laugh. “Just promise me one thing.”

You pull back slightly, brows furrowing. “What?”

He grins, though it is tinged with wistfulness.

“Name your firstborn after me.”

You roll your eyes, laughing despite yourself. “Absolutely not.”

His laughter follows you as you slip out of the dining hall, heart racing, feet carrying you toward the one person who has always been waiting.

Because now—now you have a chance.

A chance to escape. A chance to be together.

A chance to finally be free.

You don’t walk to the training courtyard—you run.

The moment you step out of the dining hall, your feet carry you through the castle’s dimly lit corridors, past the flickering torches and the few guards patrolling the halls. The stone beneath you is cold, but the fire burning in your chest is hotter than anything you’ve ever known.

You have to tell him.

For the first time in weeks, hope doesn’t feel like an impossible dream. It thrums beneath your skin, desperate to be shared, and there is only one person in this world you want to share it with.

The scent of damp earth and fresh grass fills the night air as you burst into the courtyard, your breath coming in quiet pants. The grounds are empty save for one lone figure near the weapons rack.

Oscar.

Your heart clenches at the sight of him.

His back is turned to you, his sword gripped tightly in his hands as he swings it in precise, practiced movements. The muscles in his arms flex with every strike, his form sharp and unyielding. Even from here, you can see the tension in his stance, the frustration in the way his blade bites into the wooden post he’s been using for target practice.

He looks exhausted.

Your stomach twists. You know the reason for it.

The sleepless nights. The constant vigilance. The way he has had to watch you spend your days with Prince Lando, forced to stand in the shadows while another man claims a role that was never meant for him.

And yet, through it all, he has stayed.

He has never once turned away from you.

You swallow past the lump in your throat and step forward.

“Oscar.”

His head snaps up instantly. He stiffens at the sound of your voice, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword. His expression, once hardened with frustration, shifts the moment his eyes meet yours.

For a brief second, something softens in his gaze.

Then, as if remembering himself, he schools his features into something unreadable. He sets his sword down with deliberate care before turning fully to face you.

“Princess.” His voice is steady. Controlled.

But you don’t care for formalities, not now. Not when your entire world is about to change.

You rush toward him, reaching for his hands before he can even think to step away. His fingers are rough against yours, calloused from years of wielding a sword, but they are warm. Comforting. Familiar.

“We have a way out,” you whisper, breathless.

Oscar goes completely still.

The tension in his body doesn’t ease—it shifts, morphing into something sharper. His fingers twitch against yours, his knuckles brushing over your skin.

“What?” His voice is rough.

You nod, hardly able to contain your emotions. “Lando—he knows.”

A flicker of something crosses Oscar’s face.

Jealousy. Hurt.

But he tamps it down so quickly that you almost miss it.

His jaw clenches. “And?”

“And… he’s helping us.”

Oscar exhales sharply, his grip on your hands tightening for a moment before he lets go, stepping back as if to process your words. He drags a hand down his face, looking away.

You see the battle within him—the relief, the gratitude, the frustration of knowing that it was another man who gave you this chance.

Most of all, you see his love for you, warring against every other emotion in his heart.

“When?” he finally asks, voice tight.

“Three nights from now,” you say. “When Charles arrives. My parents will be too preoccupied with his return. It’s the safest time.”

Oscar nods once, his gaze steady. “And the plan?”

You hesitate for only a second before saying, “I’m going to tell Charles the truth.”

Oscar’s brows knit together. “Are you certain that’s wise?”

You inhale deeply. “Charles loves me. He always has. If I tell him that I don’t wish to rule, that I’d rather live my life free of these expectations, I know he’ll take my place. He has always wanted to lead.”

A pause.

Oscar studies you carefully. “And you trust that he won’t turn us in?”

You meet his gaze without hesitation. “With my life.”

Silence stretches between you, the weight of your words settling over the both of you.

Then, after a long moment, Oscar exhales. The tension in his shoulders eases slightly, and the ghost of a smile tugs at his lips.

“You’re incredible, you know that?”

A quiet laugh escapes you. “I like to think so.”

His expression softens.

And then—before you can think, before you can stop yourself—you close the distance between you.

You step forward, tilting your head up, and wrap your arms around his neck. He tenses for a heartbeat, caught off guard, but then—then his hands come to rest on your waist, firm and grounding.

Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging slightly, and he exhales against your skin.

For a moment, there is no kingdom. No titles. No consequences.

There is only this. Only him.

His arms tighten around you, holding you closer. “We’ll make it,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

You shut your eyes, pressing your forehead against his. “I know.”

The weight on your chest lightens—just a little.

You are not free yet.

But for the first time, you believe that you will be.

And that is enough.

You sit at the end of a long dining table, the polished mahogany gleaming under the flickering light of enchanted chandeliers.

The walls of your family’s grand dining hall are lined with portraits of your ancestors—each one draped in regal wizarding robes, their eyes following you as if judging every breath you take.

Outside the frost-laced windows, the grounds of your estate stretch endlessly, blanketed by a soft mist that only adds to the manor’s imposing grandeur.

The clinking of silverware against fine china breaks the silence, but no amount of opulence can dull the sharpness in your father’s voice.

“Y/n, I trust you’ve been behaving appropriately at Hogwarts,” he says, his tone a mix of warning and expectation. His hawkish gaze fixes on you, and you feel the weight of the family name pressing down like the heavy pendant around your neck.

“Yes, Father,” you reply, keeping your tone neutral. It’s easier that way.

Your mother, seated to your left, places her wine glass down with a delicate hand. Her sharp eyes, so like yours, glint with something cold.

“Good. Because we’ve been receiving concerning reports about the school’s... lax attitudes. Headmaster’s leniency has allowed Muggle-borns to overstep their place.”

The word “Muggle-born” rolls off her tongue like a curse, and you’ve heard it too many times to flinch anymore. You’ve memorized the lectures, the justifications, the family’s obsessive need to uphold purity in the wizarding world. To them, tradition is everything.

“We’ve raised you to understand the importance of your bloodline,” she continues, her voice smooth but firm. “It’s not just your legacy—it’s your duty. And to ensure that you fulfill it, we’ve made arrangements.”

Your stomach tightens. You’ve been expecting this conversation, but the confirmation still twists something inside you.

“Arrangements?” you ask, keeping your voice steady, though you already know the answer.

Your father nods, a thin smile tugging at his lips.

“Charles Leclerc. A fine match. His family has the same values as ours, and their standing in the wizarding world is impeccable. He’s talented, from a distinguished bloodline, and will make a suitable husband.”

The room feels colder, despite the roaring fire in the hearth. You’ve met Charles a few times—at banquets, galas, and other events you’ve been forced to attend. He’s everything your parents want: charismatic, handsome, and firmly rooted in the beliefs that bind families like yours together. But to you, he’s a gilded cage waiting to snap shut.

Your mother’s voice cuts through your thoughts. “You’ll have plenty of time to get to know him better when he visits over the holidays. His family is eager to solidify this bond.”

They’ve decided your future, just as they’ve decided everything else. You nod, the weight of your family’s expectations sinking into your chest. You’re the perfect daughter in their eyes, but that perfection comes at a cost.

As the conversation shifts to other topics—affairs of the wizarding world, the latest scandals, and more disdain for Muggle-borns—you retreat into your thoughts. Outside, the mist deepens, cloaking the estate in an eerie quiet.

You wonder what it would be like to escape this life. To be free of the portraits’ judging eyes and your parents’ endless demands.

But then you think of him—the boy with a kind smile, who sees you as more than a name or a bloodline. Franco Colapinto, the one who’s already starting to unravel the carefully built walls around your heart.

Your mother’s voice interrupts again, crisp and demanding. “Y/n, are you listening?”

You straighten in your chair, the mask of obedience slipping easily back into place. “Yes, Mother,” you reply.

But in your heart and in your mind, the storm is already brewing. 

The first time you notice him, you’re standing in the middle of the Charms corridor, your wand clenched tightly in your hand. Around you, students bustle between classes, their chatter echoing off the high stone walls. But you’re stuck—utterly frustrated as the spell you’ve been practicing for weeks refuses to cooperate.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” you mutter again, flicking your wand in the precise motion Professor Flitwick demonstrated. The feather in front of you quivers but stubbornly refuses to rise.

You glance around, hoping no one’s paying attention. A member of your family struggling with such a simple spell? It’s mortifying.

“Try loosening your grip,” a voice says from behind you.

You turn sharply, surprised. Standing there is a boy you don’t recognize—dark hair slightly tousled, his tie a little crooked. He’s carrying a stack of books nearly as tall as he is, but there’s a kind smile on his face that somehow makes the intrusion feel less insulting.

“And why would I take advice from you?” you reply, your tone sharper than intended.

The boy’s smile doesn’t falter. “Because I’ve been watching you try for five minutes, and you’re gripping your wand like it’s about to run off.”

You blink, caught off guard by his straightforwardness. He doesn’t sound mocking—if anything, there’s a genuine attempt to help.

“Fine,” you mutter, adjusting your hold slightly. “Happy?”

“Not quite,” he says, stepping closer. He sets his books down and takes out his own wand. “It’s more of a swish and flick, like this.” He demonstrates the movement with practiced ease, and his feather floats gracefully into the air.

You mimic his motion, this time feeling the spell click into place. Your feather rises, bobbing gently in the air. Relief washes over you, but it’s quickly replaced by a mix of irritation and embarrassment.

“See? Told you,” he says, grinning.

You narrow your eyes. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Franco Colapinto,” he replies, extending a hand. “I’m new this year. Muggle-born.”

There’s a beat of silence as the word sinks in. Muggle-born. Normally, it’s the kind of thing your parents would scoff at, the kind of thing you’ve been taught to look down on. But standing here, looking at his easy smile and his confidence, you can’t summon the disdain they’d expect from you.

“Y/n,” you say finally, ignoring his hand and raising an eyebrow instead. “You’re awfully bold for someone who doesn’t even know their way around the castle yet.”

“I know enough,” he counters. “Like how to help someone who’s too proud to ask.”

For a moment, you’re stunned into silence. Then, before you can think better of it, a smile tugs at the corner of your lips.

“Thank you,” you say, though the words feel strange coming out of your mouth.

Franco shrugs, picking up his books again. “Anytime.”

As he walks away, disappearing into the crowd of students, you can’t help but watch him go. There’s something about him—something different.

You turn back to your feather, still floating in the air. For the first time, the corridors feel a little less cold, the walls a little less confining.

You don’t know it yet, but that moment will change everything.

The library is quiet, the only sounds being the rustle of parchment and the occasional whisper between students.

You sit at a corner table, your usual spot tucked away from prying eyes. Your open textbook blurs before you as your mind wanders to the task at hand—a complex potion formula that refuses to make sense.

“Stuck again?”

You glance up, startled. Franco stands there, a playful grin on his face, a quill tucked behind his ear.

“I’m not stuck,” you say quickly, closing the book as though that will prove your point.

He raises an eyebrow and slides into the chair across from you without waiting for an invitation. “Let me guess. Amortentia?”

You freeze. “How did you—”

“You were muttering ingredients under your breath.” He leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “The trick is to focus on the timing, not the amount. Most people get it wrong because they think adding powdered moonstone too early will speed things up.”

You narrow your eyes. “How do you know that?”

Franco shrugs. “Reading ahead. You should try it sometime.”

The corner of your mouth twitches. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“And yet, here I am, helping you.”

Despite yourself, you laugh softly. It’s strange how easy it feels—this banter, this warmth. With him, there’s no need for the polished facade your family expects.

The next time you run into him, the evening air is crisp as the last of the Quidditch practice wraps up. The field is littered with players still chatting and laughing, broomsticks slung over their shoulders. 

The sound of footsteps echoes as they move toward the changing rooms, leaving the pitch growing quieter with each passing second.

You remain where you are, perched on the edge of the Quidditch stands, watching the fading light of the day paint the sky in streaks of pink and gold.

You’re not one of the players—never have been—but something about the energy of the game draws you in. There’s a certain freedom in watching, in being part of something without actually belonging to it.

The seat next to you creaks, and you glance to your left. Franco is there, his broom tucked under his arm, hair slightly disheveled from practice. He’s out of breath, cheeks flushed with the excitement of the game.

“Not heading back to the castle?” he asks, his voice low but amused.

You shake your head. “I like the quiet up here.”

“Yeah, me too,” he says, dropping into the seat next to you, his gaze scanning the empty field. “Sometimes, I just need to get away from the noise.”

You don’t respond at first, but the silence is comfortable, more comfortable than you expected. The hum of the breeze around you seems to fill in the gaps.

You glance at him, noticing the way the fading light makes his eyes seem lighter, warmer. He catches your gaze and gives you a small, knowing smile.

“What?” you ask, unable to hide the curiosity in your voice.

“Just thinking,” he replies, his voice quiet. “You’re not what I expected.”

You raise an eyebrow, not quite sure how to take that. “How so?”

“I don’t know. You seem... different, when no one’s watching.”

Your heart stutters for a moment, unsure how to respond to such an honest observation. The words hang between you, vulnerable and real, and you’re suddenly acutely aware of the way his presence fills the space beside you.

“Maybe I don’t like being watched,” you say after a beat, looking away, your fingers nervously tracing the edge of the bench.

He nods slowly, his expression softening. “I get that.”

For a while, neither of you says anything. You sit in the quiet together, the sounds of the castle now distant and muted. The only company is the soft rustle of the wind, the fading warmth of the sun, and the faint whispers of the past few hours of Quidditch practice.

Finally, Franco speaks again. “You know, it’s funny... I thought being on the team would be the thing that made me feel like I belonged here.” He laughs softly, almost to himself. “But it’s actually the opposite. I feel more myself when I’m not trying to be anything else.”

You turn your head to look at him, and the sincerity in his voice catches you off guard. There’s a rawness to his words, something that feels utterly honest, something you never expected from someone like him—someone who comes from the exact world your family would call “unworthy.”

“Do you ever feel like you’re just playing a part?” you ask, your voice quieter now.

Franco turns toward you, his gaze steady and searching. “All the time,” he says, but there’s no bitterness in his tone, just an acceptance that feels almost freeing. “But the trick is not to let it swallow you whole.”

His words settle over you, making your heart beat a little faster. It’s strange, how easy it feels to talk to him, to let down your guard in a way you’ve never allowed yourself to do before.

For a long while, neither of you moves. The field below you is empty now, the stands quiet except for the occasional gust of wind.

And just for a moment, you wonder what it might be like to live like him—to exist without constantly measuring every move, every word, every expectation. To simply be.

But that life isn’t for you. Not in the world you were born into.

Still, you sit there, side by side, feeling the weight of the world shift ever so slightly in his presence.

Finally, as the last light fades from the sky, you stand, reluctant to break the stillness between you.

“Guess I should go,” you murmur, your voice barely a whisper.

Franco looks up at you, a small smile playing on his lips. “I’ll walk you back.”

You hesitate but nod. “Alright.”

As you walk side by side toward the castle, his presence beside you is somehow both grounding and unsettling, like a constant reminder of a world you don’t fully belong to, but can’t quite let go of.

The castle is eerily quiet at night, the only light coming from the torches lining the stone walls.

You walk beside Franco, your steps muffled by the thick rugs underfoot, the soft glow from the torches casting flickering shadows on the ancient stone. There’s something almost magical about the stillness, a sense that the world beyond these walls is far away.

“If we get caught, this is your fault,” you whisper, though there’s no real annoyance in your voice. You can’t quite suppress the thrill of sneaking through the halls at night, the usual sense of duty and expectation left behind for a while.

Franco smirks, holding up a folded piece of parchment. “Relax. I’ve got the map. We’re fine.”

The Marauder’s Map. You could never have imagined him holding something so rebellious, yet somehow it seems to suit him perfectly.

“You’re entirely too comfortable breaking the rules,” you tease, a playful edge to your voice.

“And you’re entirely too afraid to.”

The words sting, but only because they’re true. You’ve spent your entire life obeying rules, living in the confines of expectations that you never questioned. His way, though, it’s reckless—and yet, it feels free.

You glance at him, his face lit by the faint glow of the torches, and for a moment, you wonder how he can walk so easily in a world that constantly tries to push him down. How does he stand tall with so much weight on his shoulders?

“How do you do it?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

“Do what?”

“Stay... you. When everything’s against you.”

Franco stops, his expression shifting from lighthearted to something deeper. His gaze locks with yours, the soft glow from the torches flickering across his features, making his eyes seem even more intense than usual. There’s no sarcasm, no teasing. Just quiet, raw honesty.

“Because I don’t let them decide who I am.”

It’s such a simple answer, but it hits you harder than any lecture or reprimand your family has ever given you. In that moment, you feel something shift—like a door cracking open, letting in light where there had only been shadows.

Your heart beats a little faster. You think of your family’s expectations, the path they’ve paved for you, how every step feels like it’s already been written.

You’re expected to be a perfect daughter, the ideal pure-blood witch, but... you’ve never really known what it means to be just you.

Franco watches you, his gaze steady, almost knowing.

“You should try it sometime,” he says with a small smile, echoing his words from the library.

For the first time, you wonder if he’s right. If you should try it.

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of his words and the stirrings of something deep inside you. You don’t answer him right away. Instead, you keep walking, each step feeling heavier now, as though the weight of his question is lingering in the air between you.

Finally, you reach a narrow, quiet hallway—a place where the shadows seem to swallow sound, where no one would dare to pass at this hour. You glance around, feeling the pulse of adrenaline in your veins, the rush of doing something forbidden, yet exhilarating.

Franco leans against the stone wall, his posture casual, but there’s an intensity to him now, something quieter, almost waiting.

“What happens if we get caught?” you ask, your voice a little quieter than before.

Franco shrugs, his gaze lingering on you in a way that makes your heart race a little faster. “Then we deal with it. Together.”

The simplicity of his words sends a strange warmth through you. The way he says it—as though it’s nothing, as though the consequences don’t matter as long as you're not facing them alone. It’s almost enough to make you forget the fears that have been so carefully instilled in you.

You stand there, just looking at him for a moment, the quiet intimacy of the moment settling over you. And in that silence, you feel something shift between you—something more than friendship, more than mere companionship.

“You never answered me,” you say softly, breaking the tension. “How do you stay so... sure of yourself?”

Franco’s eyes soften, and for the briefest moment, he doesn’t look like the boy who defies every expectation placed on him. He looks like someone who’s seen the world in all its unfairness but still chooses to walk his own path.

“I don’t know if I’m sure,” he says quietly, “but I’m not going to live my life pretending to be something I’m not.”

His words hang in the air, heavy and honest, and you realize you don’t want to pretend anymore either.

But as your gaze locks with his, you feel the pull of your own truth, the truth you’ve been avoiding—the weight of your family, the future they’ve mapped out for you. The truth that, despite everything, still clings to you, no matter how far you try to run from it.

“I should get back,” you say, your voice a little breathless.

Franco straightens, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, he nods, offering you a small, understanding smile.

“Yeah, probably,” he says, but there’s something in his tone—something like a promise, unspoken but felt all the same. “But you don’t have to walk alone.”

You hesitate, the words hanging between you, and for a brief moment, it feels like the entire world might shift in this hallway, in the quiet between you.

But you turn away, your heart pounding, the decision already made.

You may not be able to live your life like Franco yet, but you know one thing for certain.

You don’t want to live it alone.

The days following your late-night walk with Franco seem to blur together in a strange mixture of tension and yearning.

Every glance you steal at him, every stolen word, feels like a rebellion against the life your family has set out for you. But you know better than to make any rash decisions. Your family’s hold on you is too tight—your future already mapped out, carefully planned like the stones in a wall.

Your parents intensify their efforts to push you toward Charles in the following weeks. They invite him to every possible Hogwarts event—dinners in the Great Hall, late-night study sessions in the library where you’re expected to assist him with his work, and even casual strolls around the grounds, as if the whole school should be able to see you together.

“You know, darling,” your mother says one evening, as she surveys you carefully while adjusting your robes, “Charles is such a fine young man. I’m sure you two will have so much in common.”

You give her a tight smile, nodding just enough to appease her. “Of course, Mother.”

She beams at you, oblivious to the knot tightening in your chest.

Charles is everything your family could hope for—polished, handsome, and above all, pure-blood in every sense of the word. He carries himself with the air of someone who has never known a life without wealth or privilege, his polished smile a constant reminder of his family’s legacy.

But as you spend more time with him, you begin to see the cracks in his carefully constructed façade. The charming exterior begins to falter when no one is watching.

At dinner one evening, he’s seated next to you, as always, his elbow resting casually on the table as he talks about his summer. 

“I can’t believe my parents are pushing me to spend my time on all these charity events,” he complains, swirling his wine idly.

“It’s all so tedious. I’d rather be at the Manor, relaxing. But no, they’ve got me running errands for other families who don’t even matter in the end.”

You glance at him, surprised by the bitterness in his voice. “You’re not happy to help?” you ask, genuinely curious.

Charles laughs, but there’s no warmth in it. “I’m not happy to do anything that doesn’t benefit me. You should know that by now.”

The words sting, but you brush them off, feeling the weight of your family’s expectations pressing down on you. Still, there’s something in his words—something that feels more human than the polished image he likes to present.

Later that night, you find yourself alone with him in the courtyard, where the moonlight casts long shadows over the cobblestones. The cool air settles over you, and Charles’ voice breaks the silence once more.

“You know,” he starts, his voice quieter now, “Sometimes I feel like I’m trapped in all this.” He gestures to the grounds, the towering spires of Hogwarts in the distance. “Everything is decided for me. My future, my connections. My parents won’t even listen to my opinions anymore.”

You study him carefully, surprised by the vulnerability he’s showing. It’s not the Charles you’re used to—the charming, confident heir to a prestigious family. This Charles seems... lost.

“I thought you wanted this,” you say softly.

“I thought I did, too,” he admits, his tone tinged with something like regret. “But now... it’s like I’m drowning in it.”

For a moment, you see the young man behind the title, the boy who is also a prisoner of his bloodline. He’s not just the golden child of a pure-blood family. He’s a person—a person who feels the weight of his own inheritance, who feels the chains that bind him as much as you do.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be free?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Charles doesn’t answer right away. He looks away, his gaze distant. For a brief moment, you wonder if you’ve pushed him too far, but then he turns back to you, his smile weak but genuine.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he says quietly, “to be the perfect heir, always expected to be more than you can be. It’s... it’s suffocating.”

You don’t know how to respond. You’ve never really thought about it that way—how Charles, too, is a puppet to his family’s expectations, bound by the same invisible strings that have always held you back.

“I think we’re both in the same boat,” you finally say.

He looks at you, his eyes searching yours as if looking for something—maybe understanding, maybe a shared truth. “Maybe,” he says slowly.

You don’t know what to make of it. The conversation lingers in your mind, like an unfinished spell.

The reality of it all—Charles’ struggles, his insecurities, his desperation to break free—sits uneasily with you. But even as you understand him a little more, the thought of your future with him feels colder, more distant.

And all you can think about is Franco—the boy who, despite everything stacked against him, dares to be himself.

The more you try to ignore it, the more it becomes impossible to resist. Every stolen glance, every whisper exchanged, feels like a forbidden secret pulsing between you and Franco. 

You’ve come to realize that the rules that once held your life together now feel more like chains—chains that, when broken, give you a taste of something real.

It starts innocently enough, these secret meetings—passing notes between classes, lingering after hours to talk in quiet corners. But soon, it’s not enough. You crave something more, something deeper. Something that, no matter how hard you try, won’t be denied.

One night, after the last bell has rung and the students disperse to their common rooms, you find yourself slipping out of your dormitory, the darkened hallways a comforting refuge. You glance over your shoulder, making sure no one sees, and move quickly through the castle’s winding corridors.

Franco’s waiting for you at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, the shadows dancing on his face as he leans casually against a tree. He’s always been good at making danger feel like a challenge, not a threat.

“You’re late,” he teases, his voice low.

“Had to lose a few people,” you reply, your breath coming in short bursts. It’s exhilarating, this secret life you’ve carved out for yourself.

He smiles, but there’s a softness in it—one that you’ve come to recognize as his true self, the one he only shows when it’s just the two of you.

“You’re always running away,” he says quietly, stepping closer. “What if you stopped? What if you just stayed?”

The words hang between you, fragile and tentative. You look at him, seeing the sincerity in his eyes, and something inside you shifts. The walls that have always surrounded you seem to falter, crumbling little by little.

“I don’t know how to stay,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to figure it all out now,” Franco says, his hand brushing against yours in a brief, electric touch. “But you can start by being here. With me. Right now.”

You let out a slow breath, as if the very idea of staying—of being truly present in this moment with him—terrifies you. But as his hand lingers in the space between you, you feel the weight of your family’s expectations start to slip away, replaced by something lighter, freer.

And so, you do stay.

The days that follow are a blur of stolen moments—hidden meetings beneath the Astronomy Tower, quiet conversations in the Library’s darkest corners, and long walks through the castle grounds. 

Each time, you feel the world around you get a little bit smaller, the only thing that matters being Franco and the connection that is growing between you.

One evening, after the last of the evening students have gone to bed, you find yourself walking alongside Franco through the Forbidden Forest. The moon casts long, eerie shadows over the path, but it’s beautiful in its silence, away from the eyes that have always watched you.

Franco glances at you, a question in his eyes. “Do you ever think about what we could have... if the world didn’t get in the way?”

You hesitate, your heart pounding. It’s the question that’s been sitting in the back of your mind for weeks now. What if? What if there was a life beyond the walls of Hogwarts, beyond the blood status, beyond the endless expectations of your family?

“I think about it every day,” you admit, the words flowing out before you can stop them.

Franco stops, turning to face you. His eyes are filled with something deeper now—something that goes beyond mere affection. “What would you do?”

The question catches you off guard. What would you do? The possibilities feel endless, like an open sky, but they’re also terrifying.

“I would...” You pause, feeling the weight of it all.

You’ve spent your entire life living for others, living for a future you didn’t choose. But with Franco, it’s different. He makes the world feel like it could be your own.

“I would want to be free,” you say quietly, your gaze meeting his. “Free to choose. To be with you, without anyone telling me I can’t.”

Franco steps closer, his voice low, his hand brushing your cheek as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted, too.”

His lips find yours then, and for a moment, it feels like the world falls away entirely. There are no expectations, no rules, no family legacy to uphold. There’s just the two of you—two people bound by something deeper than blood status or societal expectations.

You pull back, breathless, your heart racing. “What if we could?”

Franco’s smile is soft, filled with a mixture of hope and uncertainty. “We could. We just have to believe we can.”

The idea of a life outside the confines of your family’s control lingers in the air, both thrilling and terrifying. You don’t know what the future holds, but with Franco by your side, for the first time, you’re not afraid to find out.

The silence in your dormitory is heavy, punctuated only by the quiet rustling of parchment as you prepare for your next set of classes. The world outside seems calm—everything still seems... normal. But there’s a coldness settling in your chest, a chill that hasn’t been there before.

The weight of your secret feels unbearable now. The hours you’ve spent sneaking around, the stolen moments with Franco—they’ve all led to this point.

And you know it’s only a matter of time before someone catches on.

You’ve been doing your best to keep your distance from Charles, to avoid the forced meetings and the long, drawn-out conversations that always seem to circle back to expectations you can’t bear. But despite your best efforts, your family seems to be closing in on you.

They’re beginning to notice your absences, the way you’re always slipping away from social gatherings, your eyes distracted when you should be focused on Charles.

It’s Charles who finally puts the pieces together.

You hadn’t expected him to notice so quickly, but he’s been watching you—perhaps more carefully than you ever realized. His charm has always been a mask, one that’s cracked in moments when he’s felt threatened. And now, the mask slips, revealing something sharp underneath.

One evening, after dinner in the Great Hall, he finds you alone, standing near the entrance. He approaches with his usual confident air, but this time, there’s a tension in his posture that sends a shiver down your spine.

“You’ve been acting strange,” he says, his voice quiet but piercing. “I thought we had an understanding.”

You look at him, heart pounding. “What do you mean?”

His gaze narrows. “Don’t play dumb. I know what’s been going on.”

You feel your breath catch in your throat. He knows. How long has he suspected?

“You’re seeing him, aren’t you?” Charles’s words hang in the air, and for a second, it feels like the entire Hall goes silent around you.

Franco.

Your heart races, and the ground beneath your feet seems to shift. How did he find out?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, but the cracks are already forming.

Charles steps closer, his gaze intense. “I’m not stupid. I saw the two of you in the courtyard last week. You thought no one was watching, but I was. You’re spending time with a Muggle-born—Franco Colapinto, of all people.” He spits the name out as though it’s poison, his distaste clear in every syllable.

Your heart sinks. He’s caught you. The secret you’ve worked so hard to protect is now laid bare.

“I told you it wasn’t just about us,” Charles says, his voice laced with bitterness. “You’re betraying everything. You’re betraying your family.”

Before you can respond, a cold, firm voice cuts through the air.

“You’re right, Charles. She’s betraying the family.”

Your head snaps to the side, and there, standing at the edge of the hall, is your mother, her expression stern and unforgiving. Behind her, your father stands like a looming shadow, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

The walls of your family’s quarters in Hogwarts feel suffocating as your parents stand before you, their cold eyes locked onto yours.

The flickering torchlight casts harsh shadows across the stone walls, accentuating the severity of their expressions. You can hardly breathe in the heavy silence that follows their ultimatum.

"You have no idea what you've done, Y/N," your father’s voice is low, sharp like a knife. "Do you truly think you can live with the consequences of your actions?"

You stand before them, heart racing, as though you’re caught in some impossible dream—a nightmare where every word they speak strikes harder than the last. The weight of your family’s expectations presses down on you like an unshakable force.

"Do you think the pure-blood wizarding world will stand for this?" your mother adds, her voice betraying a quiet fury. "You’ve sullied your name. You’ve betrayed everything we’ve worked for."

They’re trying to break you, you realize. Trying to make you see the gravity of your mistake.

But it’s too late.

The truth has already made its way into your heart—the truth of your love for Franco. The truth of the bond you share has become more important than the expectations of your family, more important than anything.

But the sting of their words lingers in your chest, tightening with every passing second. You try to steady yourself, to push back against the storm building inside. You can’t let them see how much they’ve shaken you.

You can’t let them win.

"You’ll do what’s right," your father continues, his gaze icy and unforgiving.

"You’ll break ties with that Muggle-born and you’ll marry Charles, as we have planned. You’ll uphold your duty and restore honor to this family."

The air feels too thick. You can hardly think straight. The weight of your family’s demands threatens to crush you, but a single voice cuts through the chaos in your mind.

Franco. The warmth of his hand in yours, the feel of his presence beside you, comforting you, grounding you.

"You have no choice in the matter," your mother presses, her voice growing colder with each passing word.

"If you refuse, we will ensure that he—Franco Colapinto—never sets foot in this castle again. We’ll make sure his reputation is ruined. You don’t understand the power we hold."

The finality of her words hits you like a punch to the stomach. The thought of Franco, the boy you love, being torn apart by the very same people who have always controlled your life—it feels like a weight too great to bear. You can feel your chest tighten, your breath coming faster.

"We can make him a pariah, Y/N," your father adds, his voice dark and cold. "It would be easy. His time at Hogwarts, his future as a wizard—it could all be destroyed with a single whisper."

You feel your knees weaken beneath you. The pressure in your chest is unbearable. 

This isn’t just about your future anymore—it’s about his. Franco, who never asked for this. Franco, who fought for a life in a world that never accepted him, only to have it ripped away by the people who are supposed to be your family.

"You can’t—" Your voice cracks, and you quickly swallow the knot in your throat. "You can’t do that. You can’t hurt him."

The coldness in your father’s gaze sharpens.

"We will. And don’t think for a moment that your connection with him is a secret. The whole school will know what’s going on if you continue down this path. We will destroy him, Y/N. We will make sure his name is mud."

The walls close in on you. You glance between your parents, their hardened faces staring back at you with ruthless certainty. You know they will do it—know they will pull every string they have to ruin Franco’s life.

They’ve always had the power to control things, to bend people to their will. But this time, it’s different. This time, it’s him.

"I—I can’t do it," you whisper, your voice shaking, your heart breaking. "I can’t choose between you and him. I can’t."

Your mother’s expression softens, just slightly, before hardening again. "You will make a choice, Y/N. A choice between your bloodline and some fleeting relationship with a boy who can never give you the life you deserve." She steps closer, her eyes never leaving yours. "You’re not a child anymore. You know what’s at stake."

A part of you wants to scream, to reject their demands. But the weight of their words, of their promises to ruin Franco, keeps you rooted in place.

You want to fight, but the image of Franco devastated and broken by their wrath, stops you in your tracks. You’ve spent your whole life running from this moment, but now it’s here—and there’s no easy way out.

“You’ll end this,” your father insists. “Or you will never see this family again.”

You stagger back, your heart racing, a thousand thoughts swirling in your mind. Your world is crashing down around you, the pieces of everything you thought you knew about loyalty, family, and love shattering one by one.

The ultimatum hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating.

"Choose," your mother says softly, her voice final, her gaze unwavering. "Choose now, before it’s too late."

The wind is biting tonight, sharp and unforgiving as it sweeps through the trees. You walk through the darkened grounds of Hogwarts, your heart in your throat.

Every step feels heavier than the last, the weight of the decision you’ve made pulling you down, making it harder to breathe.

You reach the edge of the Forbidden Forest, the familiar shadows of the trees looming ahead. This is where you promised Franco you’d meet him. This was supposed to be a moment of peace, a place where the world couldn’t touch you. But tonight, everything is different.

Tonight, you’re about to shatter both of your worlds.

You spot him standing by the edge of the trees, his dark hair disheveled, his usual bright eyes now searching the horizon for you. When he sees you, his face lights up in a way that makes your chest tighten.

For a brief moment, you almost forget. Forget why you’re here. Forget the ultimatum.

“Y/N,” Franco calls softly, his voice warm despite the chill in the air. He steps toward you, and you almost lose your resolve. 

You want to reach out to him, to tell him that you’ve changed your mind, that everything will be okay. But you know it won’t be.

You stop a few feet away from him, taking a deep breath as you fight to steady your racing heart. This is the hardest thing you’ve ever done.

Franco frowns, noticing the distance in your gaze. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice laced with concern. He takes a step forward, but you hold up a hand to stop him.

“No,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I can’t… I can’t do this anymore, Franco.”

His eyes widen in disbelief, his brows furrowing. “What do you mean? What’s going on?”

You swallow hard, biting back the wave of emotion threatening to overtake you. “This—it’s not going to work. I can’t be with you anymore.”

Franco stares at you, as though he doesn’t understand the words coming out of your mouth. His face falls, and the light in his eyes flickers for just a moment. 

“What are you talking about?” he asks again, his voice quieter now, almost pleading.

You close your eyes, willing yourself to hold it together. “I don’t want to hurt you, Franco,” you say, the words feeling like acid in your mouth. “I never wanted to hurt you. But I have to let you go. It’s over.”

There’s a long silence between you, and the air feels suffocating, thick with everything unsaid. His face crumbles, the pain evident in every line of his expression. His hand reaches out toward you, but you take a step back, your heart breaking all over again.

“I don’t understand,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “I thought we... we were in this together. You told me you loved me.”

“I do,” you say quickly, your voice breaking. You want to say more.

You want to tell him everything—about the threats, about your family’s cruelty, about how you’re terrified for his safety. But you can’t. You can’t drag him further into this world, into this mess you’ve created. It’s too dangerous.

“I love you, Franco,” you whisper, the words barely audible, “but this isn’t safe. For you. For both of us.”

Franco takes a shaky step toward you. “So, what? Just like that, you’re giving up on us? You’re going to pretend like none of it meant anything?”

You shake your head, tears threatening to spill. “It’s not like that. It’s just...” The words catch in your throat, and you fight to keep your composure. 

“I can’t lose you. And I can’t lose everything else, too. I don’t have a choice. You don’t understand how dangerous this is.”

His eyes widen as he steps back, the realization dawning on him. 

“You’re doing this for me? For my safety?” He takes a sharp breath, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re willing to let go of us because you think they’ll hurt me?”

You nod, feeling your chest tighten even more, the pain of this decision almost unbearable. “Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, Franco. They’ll ruin you. I can’t let that happen.”

Franco’s expression hardens, a mixture of anger and hurt flashing in his eyes.

“So, what? You’re just going to walk away from everything we’ve built? Everything we’ve shared?” His voice is rising now, but it’s not in anger—it’s in pain, the raw emotion cutting through him.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, your voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry, but it’s for the best. You have to forget about me.”

He stands there, frozen, staring at you with disbelief and sorrow in his eyes. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything, his gaze searching yours as though looking for some sign that this isn’t real—that you aren’t really telling him this. But deep down, you know it’s too late.

Finally, he takes a step back, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “I can’t believe this,” he mutters, his voice barely audible.

“I thought you were different. I thought... we were different.”

Tears blur your vision as you turn away from him, not trusting yourself to say anything else. The words you wanted to say—the truth about why you’re doing this, about how much you still love him—are stuck in your throat, choking you.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, more softly this time, your voice breaking. “I’m sorry, Franco.”

You turn and walk away, your steps unsteady. You hear him call your name once, and it feels like a knife twisting in your chest. But you don’t turn back. You can’t.

The world feels empty now, a hollow place where everything you thought was real is gone. And the love you had for Franco—your love for him—feels like a wound that will never heal.

The castle felt colder than usual ever since that night, as though the very walls of Hogwarts had turned against you.

Every corner seems to echo with the absence of Franco’s presence. His laughter, his warm smile—things that used to fill the space between you now feel like distant memories. You still feel his absence deep in your chest, the hollow ache where his love used to reside.

You’ve become a stranger to him now, and the worst part is that you’ve chosen to be that stranger.

You avoid him in the halls, in the library, even during meals in the Great Hall. You keep your gaze fixed on your plate, pretending you can’t hear the soft murmur of his voice when he calls your name, the way it wavers with hope and confusion. 

You won’t look at him. You can’t.

You’ve made your choice. You can’t let him know the truth, can’t let him see how much this is killing you. So you keep walking past him, your heart shattering with every step.

But Franco—he doesn’t understand.

Every day, he tries to reach out to you. It starts with tentative glances across the room, his eyes filled with questions he’s afraid to ask. When you’re alone in the library, he’ll approach, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Y/N, what’s going on? Why are you acting like this? Did I do something wrong?”

The desperation in his voice cuts you deeper than any words could. But you remain cold, detached, hiding behind a wall of indifference that you’ve built around yourself.

“No,” you say quietly, not meeting his gaze. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just... I need space.”

And that’s all you give him. Space. Silence. Distance. Because that’s all you can offer him now.

Franco’s confusion grows with every passing day. He watches you closely now, like he’s waiting for something, for any sign that you’ll come back to him. But you don’t. The days stretch on, and the weight of his loss begins to crush him from the inside out.

His grades start to slip. The assignments that once came easily now seem impossible. He’s distracted in class, his mind wandering to the painful silence between you two, the way you refuse to acknowledge him.

His friends notice the change. Lando, his roommate and the one person who’s always had his back, raises an eyebrow when Franco stumbles through their shared dorm room late one evening, his eyes heavy with exhaustion.

“Mate, what’s going on?” Lando asks, concern creeping into his voice. “You’ve been off for days now. You’re barely eating, you’re not showing up to practice. Is it about... her?”

Franco looks at him, his eyes empty, the spark that once burned brightly in them now gone.

“I don’t know what happened,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “She won’t talk to me. She... she just shut me out, Lando. I don’t understand why.”

Lando sighs, his expression softening. “Look, I know you care about her, but if she’s pushing you away, maybe... maybe it’s for a reason. Maybe you need to give her space, yeah?”

But Franco can’t give up. Not like this. He can’t accept that she’s just... gone. He spends hours in the library, researching everything he can about the things that might have driven her to act this way. But nothing makes sense.

The silence between you two feels louder than anything he’s ever experienced. And the more time passes, the more he feels like he’s losing control of everything. His world, once so steady and clear, has become a series of questions with no answers.

He starts to drift away from his usual circles. He no longer joins in the conversations during meals or laughs with his friends like he used to. His social life is unraveling, slipping through his fingers as though everything he once held dear was slipping away without him even realizing it.

The other students start to notice too. The once confident Muggle-born who had so effortlessly carved his place at Hogwarts now seems distant, withdrawn, and hollow.

One evening, you see him sitting alone on the steps of the castle, his shoulders slumped and his face turned away from the bustling students. His robes are disheveled, and his normally neat hair is messy, as though he’s forgotten to care about his appearance.

It hurts to see him like this, but you force yourself to look away, to continue walking with your head held high, as though you don’t feel the weight of his gaze on your back.

That’s the moment you know he’s spiraling.

But you can’t reach out. Not now. You can’t risk it. You can’t risk him.

As the days pass, Franco’s presence in your life feels more like a memory than a reality. His messages go unanswered. His attempts to meet you in secret—like the ones you once shared with him—are now nothing more than painful reminders of what you’ve lost.

And yet, even as his world unravels, he doesn’t stop trying. He doesn’t stop believing that somehow, one day, things will return to how they were.

But you know better. You’ve made your choice.

Franco’s heart is breaking, but you can’t save him. You can’t save either of you.

The days blur together in a haze of politeness, forced smiles, and the constant hum of expectations. You’ve slipped back into the life your family always envisioned for you, a world where appearances matter more than anything.

Charles is always there now—by your side during meals, accompanying you to events, and constantly appearing in places you never asked for him to be.

His presence is a comfort in some ways, a reliable and steady force that you can count on when you need to act the part. He’s charming, and he knows exactly how to behave in front of your parents—how to make them smile and nod approvingly at every word that leaves his lips. He’s the perfect candidate for the future they’ve planned for you.

But every time you glance at him, you feel something missing. A hollow spot deep inside that no matter how much you try to fill with your duties, your smiles, or even his touch—nothing works.

The void only grows larger, and you can’t ignore it.

Charles is polite, of course. He never forces himself into your space, but his attentiveness is constant. 

He notices the little things—like how you’ve become quiet during dinner, how you retreat into your own thoughts during conversations. He never pushes, never demands more than what you’re willing to give, but he’s beginning to see the distance between you.

One evening, as you walk side-by-side down the grand staircase of Hogwarts after dinner, your fingers brushing lightly against Charles’s, you feel the emptiness that comes from the space between you two. You look at him, and while he smiles warmly at you, his smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he observes, his voice steady but with an edge of concern.

You force a smile, one you’ve perfected over the years, one that convinces even yourself, at least for a moment.

“Just tired,” you say, but the words feel foreign coming out of your mouth. The truth is, you’re not tired. You’re aching, though you can’t explain why.

You both stop at the top of the Astronomy Tower, where Charles often accompanies you to discuss future plans—plans that your family has already laid out in meticulous detail. He’s standing close to you now, his hand lightly grazing your arm, the faintest sign of affection.

You don’t pull away. But you don’t reach out either.

“You know, we’ve got the gala in a few weeks. I’m sure your parents are expecting us to make an appearance,” Charles says, trying to pull you into the moment. His hand slips into yours, and you don’t resist.

You’re so used to this, to him. But it doesn’t feel right.

In the back of your mind, you picture Franco, standing alone by the edge of the Forbidden Forest, his eyes full of confusion and sadness.

You haven’t seen him in weeks, but every time you close your eyes, you see him—his hair falling messily into his face, the warmth in his voice when he used to call your name. And every time that memory resurfaces, it hurts more than it did the last time.

You blink, forcing yourself back to the present. “I’ll be there,” you say, your voice lacking the enthusiasm it once had.

Charles doesn’t seem to notice. He squeezes your hand. “Good. I’m looking forward to it.”

But in the back of your mind, all you can hear is the silence between you and Franco—the unspoken words, the moments of warmth that now feel like they belong to someone else.

The following day, you find yourself walking down the same corridor where you and Franco used to sneak away for late-night conversations. The walls seem to close in around you as you walk, each step bringing you closer to memories you’re trying to forget. But you can’t help it.

You reach the library, and you see a flicker of movement by one of the tables. For a split second, you think it’s him. Your heart skips in your chest, but when you look more closely, you see it’s just another student. But the brief hope is enough to pull you in.

You stand in the doorway, staring at the empty seat you once shared with Franco. Your fingers twitch, aching to reach for the familiar book you’d always shared between the two of you. A letter, an old note—anything that might bring him back to you.

But instead, you close your eyes and walk away, the sharp pang of regret tightening in your chest. You keep your head down, you keep walking.

The rest of the day is a blur. You smile when you’re supposed to, laugh when it’s expected of you, but nothing feels real.

When you look at Charles, you don’t see the person you’ve convinced yourself you should love. You see a placeholder, a piece in a puzzle that doesn’t fit, and the guilt washes over you like a wave you can’t escape.

You promised yourself you wouldn’t look back, that you’d leave the past behind. But no matter how many times you remind yourself that you made the right choice, Franco’s presence lingers, a shadow you can’t escape.

You lie in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, and for the first time since you ended things with him, you let yourself think about him. You wonder if he’s okay. You wonder if he’s moved on.

But most of all, you wonder if you ever will.

Franco’s world has become quieter since you walked away. The weight of your absence presses against him every moment of every day, yet somehow, he forces himself to move forward.

His mornings are filled with the rhythm of textbooks, his nights consumed by late-night study sessions in the library. The constant hum of activity has become his refuge, an attempt to drown out the emptiness that lingers in the corners of his mind.

He’s not sure when it happened—when his academic focus shifted from just surviving his classes to something deeper, something more personal. But now, his studies aren’t just about passing.

They’ve become a way to make sense of the chaos that has overtaken his life. They’re his lifeline.

It’s a late evening when Franco sits at the library table, his eyes scanning the pages of a book on Transfiguration, but his mind drifts. It always drifts. Every time he looks down at his notes, he sees your face. Every time he hears a whisper in the halls, he expects to turn around and find you there. But you’re not.

He rubs his eyes, exhaling sharply. It’s getting harder, the constant ache of not knowing what went wrong. But despite everything, he’s determined not to let it consume him.

He begins a project—an ambitious one. It’s part of his Independent Study in Charms, a project designed to create a charm that allows the user to manipulate their surroundings.

At first, it’s just a distraction—a way to pour his heartache into something productive. But as the days pass, Franco becomes obsessed with it.

It’s not just any charm now. It’s something that represents his fight against the heaviness in his chest. Something to prove that he can move forward, no matter what.

The project starts to take shape, the pieces of magic intertwining in ways that surprise him. He works tirelessly in the small hours of the night, testing each spell and modification until it feels like a part of him is infused into it.

With every flick of his wand, with every calculated movement, Franco feels like he’s peeling back the layers of his grief.

But even amid his work, he can’t escape the haunting reminder of what he’s lost. It’s in the moments when he’s walking to class when he passes the Astronomy Tower—the place where you once laughed together under the stars. It’s in the quiet spaces when the world stops moving, and the only thing left is the echo of your absence.

And yet, despite the ache, Franco presses on. His charm begins to take form—a small, glowing orb of light, suspended in midair, its glow flickering like a heartbeat. It’s nothing extraordinary in the magical world, but to him, it feels like everything. It’s a piece of himself, a mark of his resilience. The ability to create something new, to move through the pain and still build something beautiful.

As the charm comes to life before him, Franco can’t help but feel a mixture of pride and sorrow. His heart still aches for you, the connection between you two that now feels like a ghost he can never reach.

But at least, for a moment, he has this. His project. His proof that he can keep going, even without you.

He sits back in his chair, watching the charm flicker softly in the dim light of the library. It’s not perfect, but it’s something. And in that something, Franco finds a small shred of peace.

For the first time in weeks, he allows himself to think about the future—not the one he thought he’d have with you, but the one he’ll have on his own terms.

It’s a future that doesn’t revolve around your love, but one where he is strong enough to stand on his own.

It’s an ordinary morning at Hogwarts—students fill the halls, the sound of chatter and footsteps echoing off the stone walls.

You walk down the corridor, Charles by your side, his presence a comfortable, almost too-familiar weight. The warmth of the sun filters through the windows, casting long shadows across the polished floors.

You’ve gotten used to this life. The life where you smile at the right moments, laugh at the right times and live a life that looks perfect on paper. But every time your thoughts slip to Franco, the warmth fades. The ache never truly leaves.

Today is no different, until you round the corner and see him.

Franco is standing by the wall, his head tilted slightly as he talks to a younger student. The words are too muffled to hear, but you don’t need to. The sight of him—so near yet so far—sends a jolt through your chest.

The hair that once fell in his face now pushed back, and the determined look in his eyes never seemed to fade, even when everything fell apart between you two.

You freeze for just a moment, your heart stuttering.

Franco’s gaze shifts, and in that instant, his eyes lock with yours. The world seems to slow around you.

For a second, everything is silent—every sound, every movement, erased by the weight of the unspoken history between you. The loss. The heartbreak. The love that you both buried.

His expression is unreadable—almost distant—but there’s something in his eyes. A flicker of recognition, a flicker of pain, that mirrors your own. He doesn’t smile, and neither do you. There’s nothing left to smile about. There’s no comfort in seeing him again, not after everything that’s passed between you.

And yet, you don’t look away. Neither does he.

Charles steps closer to you, his presence a reminder of the life you’ve chosen, the life you’ve settled into. You force yourself to tear your eyes from Franco’s, the knot in your stomach tightening. You take a breath, as if bracing for something you can’t name, and look ahead, your steps quickening.

Franco doesn’t move, doesn’t make any attempt to stop you, even though you can feel the weight of the moment between you.

As you pass him, you hear his voice—just a whisper in the air. “Goodbye, Y/N.”

The words hit you harder than you expect. A finality to it, a goodbye that wasn’t really said before, a goodbye that wasn’t really chosen.

You don’t turn back.

Charles speaks beside you, but you don’t hear him. The world feels distant again, the ache of what could have been pressing against your ribs.

Franco’s gaze follows you for a moment longer, then he turns, disappearing down the corridor. His figure melts into the crowd of students, and just like that, he’s gone.

You know you’ll never be the same. Neither of you will.

The months have passed, and graduation looms closer. The corridors of Hogwarts seem emptier now, less filled with the excitement of possibility and more with the weight of your decisions.

The choices you’ve made weigh heavily on your chest, like a stone that never quite sinks to the bottom.

The life you live now isn’t one you ever envisioned for yourself. You’ve kept your head down, followed the rules, and embraced the expectations your family placed on you without question. Or at least, without the kind of question that would lead to a different path.

Your relationship with Charles is… well, it’s functional. There are no sparks, no passion, no fireworks. Just a quiet, cold companionship that mirrors the distance between you and your family. They’ve made their peace with this future for you—Charles is everything they wanted for you, the perfect match of blood status, status, and reputation.

But that doesn’t make it easier. The weight of it presses in every time you look at him and see nothing more than a reminder of what you’ve lost—what you’ve chosen to lose. And the guilt gnaws at you.

You sit beside him sometimes, as you’re supposed to, and you kiss him because it’s expected, but your thoughts drift to Franco. Always. And that gnawing ache never fades, never quiets.

You find yourself walking the halls at night, sometimes alone, sometimes with Charles, but always feeling like there’s an emptiness in your heart that no one else can fill.

The world around you feels like a distant echo of what could have been, and every time you glance at the stars or walk past the Astronomy Tower, your heart tightens in your chest.

You can’t shake the feeling that there’s a piece of yourself you’ve lost—one that will never be found again. You wonder if this is what you were meant to have all along. If your future was set in stone before you even realized it.

But sometimes, in the quiet moments, you let yourself ask: Did I make the right choice?

And the answer is never clear.

Graduation arrives, and Franco stands at the threshold of the next chapter.

The weight of the past is a constant companion, but so is the fire that’s been building inside him since that fateful moment. He knows he can never go back to who he was, and he knows there’s no turning back for you either.

But he’s not going to let the ghosts of the past define him. Not anymore.

Franco steps into the future with resolve, ready to carve out a name for himself in the wizarding world. His reputation as a Muggle-born, an outsider, will not hold him back.

He’ll prove to everyone who ever doubted him—especially those who hurt him—that he is worth something. That he’s capable of greatness, even without the privileges of a pure-blood family.

In the quiet moments, when he’s alone with his thoughts, Franco still thinks about you. He wonders where you are, what your life is like now.

Sometimes, he imagines a different world—one where things didn’t end the way they did, where the two of you could have been together. But those thoughts are fleeting.

Franco’s learned to keep his heart locked up tight, to put his energy into building a life that’s his. He’s spent too long grieving what’s gone, and now he’s focused on what’s ahead.

And yet, as he walks across the grounds for the last time, Franco can’t help but steal one final glance back at the castle—the place where you once walked beside him.

A small part of him will always wonder what could have been.

But he knows better now. Some things are never meant to be.

And so, he moves forward, silently vowing to never forget you, even though he knows that you will never be his again.

Epilogue:

Years have passed, and time has done its work. The world has shifted, as it always does, but for you, something has changed in a way that feels too good to be true.

You’ve finally broken free.

No longer confined by your family’s expectations or the cold, distant relationship with Charles, you’ve stepped into a world where you’re free to make your own choices.

The life that once felt like a cage has crumbled, piece by piece, and now, for the first time, you stand on your own.

Your family, too, has learned the hard way that you were never meant to be a part of their perfectly polished world. You don’t fit the mold they tried to force you into—and you won’t let them control you any longer. The weight of their expectations no longer hangs heavy on your shoulders.

And Charles? He’s just a shadow now—someone who never truly understood you, never truly saw you.

But the past still lingers in the corners of your heart, as memories do. And then, on a quiet afternoon in Diagon Alley, fate steps in.

You’re walking down the cobbled street, the vibrant shops filled with the usual bustle, but your heart feels light—unburdened for the first time in ages.

You’re with a friend, laughing at something trivial, when you hear it. That voice. That sound. It’s not supposed to be here, not after all this time.

You freeze.

And there he is.

Franco. Standing in front of you, just as you remember him—older, wiser, but the same spark in his eyes. He’s no longer the boy you once knew, but somehow, in this moment, he is.

It’s as if time has folded, and you’re back at Hogwarts, the world falling away until it’s just the two of you, standing in the middle of Diagon Alley.

Franco hesitates for a beat, as if unsure of what to say, or maybe afraid of what he might feel. You’re both strangers now, in a way—so much has changed, and yet, so little.

The years of separation, of silence, have built walls between you, but the pull of what was once there, what was always there, can’t be denied.

“Y/N…” he whispers, the sound of your name almost breaking something inside of you. His voice is steady, but there’s a tenderness in it that makes your chest ache.

For a moment, you both stand there, the weight of the past heavy between you. Neither of you speaks for what feels like an eternity.

And then, without thinking, without words or plans, you take a step forward. Your heart races as you close the distance between you, until there’s nothing but the familiar warmth of him in front of you.

Before either of you can stop it, your hands find each other, fingers intertwining in a way that feels like coming home.

It’s like the years vanish. All the pain, all the grief, all the distance fades away in an instant, leaving only the two of you. No words are needed, because you both know.

“Do you remember…” Franco begins, his voice softer now, the question unfinished, but the meaning clear.

You smile, the old, familiar spark of mischief glinting in your eyes. “Of course I do.”

Without another word, you both turn, slipping away from the crowd and into the quiet alley, the same sense of adventure and secrecy that once defined your relationship taking hold of you again.

You walk side by side, as if time had never passed, as if you’re still those young, reckless students sneaking off into the Forbidden Forest.

In the distance, the setting sun casts a golden glow over the cobblestones, but it’s the warmth of Franco’s hand in yours that makes everything feel right. The world seems to open up around you as you step into a future that, this time, is yours to create—together.

For the first time in years, you’re not afraid. You’re not held back by anything or anyone. And neither is he.

Together, you slip into the shadows, disappearing into the night, as if time hadn’t passed at all.

@pitlanespy the way y/n and lando are handling their relationship is so refreshing. they’re not flaunting, but they’re not hiding anymore either. we love a balanced couple

@chicanechatter y/n and lando have mastered the art of keeping it private but not secret. leave them alone and let them enjoy their love!

@turn1drama ok but y/n keeping things private yet giving us hints every now and then is such a power move. the girl knows her pr

@papayaruIes well duh, she’s a socialite. she’s practically an expert

@f1gossipupdates I can’t believe Y/N and Lando are finally being open-ish. Like, she really said ‘we’re together, but y’all don’t need all the details.’ I respect it!

The short off-season break had been a rare pocket for you and Lando to relax without the rush of race weekends or the scrutiny of flashing cameras. It was a crisp afternoon in Monaco, the sun reflecting off the gentle waves as the two of you sat on the terrace of Lando’s apartment overlooking the harbor.

With steaming cups of coffee in hand and a blanket draped over your shoulders, the moment felt calm, natural—far removed from the chaotic world outside.

“Feels nice, doesn’t it?” Lando broke the silence, his voice soft. “Being able to just exist without worrying about anyone watching.”

You glanced at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “It does. I was almost starting to forget what that felt like.”

The two of you had tiptoed the fine line between privacy and secrecy, but the responses to your soft launch had been surprisingly supportive.

Fans who had once speculated endlessly about your relationship now seemed to respect the boundaries you were trying to set. It was refreshing, almost liberating.

Lando set his mug down and turned to face you fully, his expression growing more serious. “I’ve been thinking about something,” he began, hesitating just enough to make you raise an eyebrow.

“That sounds ominous,” you teased, trying to lighten the mood.

He chuckled but didn’t look away, his blue eyes searching yours.

“I don’t want us to hide anymore,” he admitted.

“I mean, I know we’ve already agreed to keep the details of our relationship private—and I want to stick to that. But I hate the thought of going to the next Grand Prix without you. It feels wrong now like I’m leaving a part of me behind.”

Your heart softened at his words, but you couldn’t help the cautious tone in your response. “Lando, you know how intense it can get. Even with the positive reactions, there will always be backlash. Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

He reached out, taking your hand in his.

“I’ve never been more sure about anything. I’ve been through enough to know that people will always have something to say, but it doesn’t matter to me. What matters is us—and I want you there with me, not just in the background but by my side. I think we can handle it together.”

You studied his face, finding nothing but sincerity in his expression. It was hard not to be moved by his resolve. You had spent so much time questioning if the two of you could make it work, but Lando’s unwavering confidence in your relationship made you want to believe it too.

“And you think it’ll make things easier if I’m there with you?” you asked, your voice teasing but soft.

He grinned, leaning closer. “I know it will. Plus, you being there might actually make all those post-race media sessions bearable.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Alright, Norris. You win. I’ll come with you to the next Grand Prix—but you’d better promise to share some of the attention.”

His face lit up with a mixture of relief and happiness, and he leaned in to kiss your forehead. “Deal.”

As the two of you sat back, the afternoon sun casting a golden glow around you, it was clear that this decision marked the start of a new chapter. No more hiding in shadows or ducking behind corners. You would face the world together, one race at a time.

The soft hum of Monte Carlo filled the space between your words as you sipped your coffee, the warmth of the mug grounding you.

Pietra leaned back into the plush armchair across you, her curiosity palpable as the sunlight bathed your living room in a golden hue.

“So,” Pietra began again, her voice playful yet genuinely inquisitive. “Are we finally getting the tea on you and Lando?”

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head as you set your mug down on the table. “You’re so nosy.”

“Nosy?” she retorted, raising an eyebrow. “Please, I’ve been invested ever since that media meltdown since your birthday. There’s a difference. Now spill.”

Her lighthearted tone brought a smile to your face, but the memories of the past month made your chest tighten slightly.

Pietra had been one of your closest confidantes ever since you met Lando's close circle, one of the few who truly understood the chaos of public scrutiny and the complexities of trying to maintain a personal life within it.

If anyone could handle the details of what you’d been through, it was her.

Taking a deep breath, you began. “We’re good now,” you said, the words feeling like a balm as they left your lips. “Really good, actually. But it wasn’t always like that.”

Pietra’s expression shifted, her teasing giving way to concern. She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her hand. “What happened?”

You hesitated, your fingers lightly tracing the rim of your coffee mug as you gathered your thoughts.

“When everything blew up, it felt like the world was against us. The media was relentless, fans were speculating every little thing, and it felt like we couldn’t catch a break. It all came to a head, and we ended up having this huge fight.”

Her brows knitted together. “Over the media?”

“It was more than that,” you admitted. “It was the pressure, the constant hiding, the fear that we’d never be able to have something real outside of all the noise. Lando was frustrated, and I don’t blame him. But he said some things…” You trailed off, the memory still stinging.

Pietra reached over, placing a comforting hand on yours. “Things that hurt?”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Yeah. And I was so overwhelmed, I left. Went back to Saint Tropez. For a while, I thought that was it for us. I couldn’t see how we’d come back from it.”

She squeezed your hand gently, her voice soft. “But you did.”

A small smile tugged at your lips.

“We did. During the break, Lando found out I was in Monaco. He called me—said he wanted to talk, that he couldn’t leave things the way they were. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see him, but when I did…” You paused, exhaling deeply. “It felt like the right thing to do.”

Pietra’s eyes softened, her smile encouraging you to continue.

“We had a long talk. About everything—what we want, what we’re afraid of, what we’re willing to do to make this work. It wasn’t easy, but we both realized that letting go wasn’t an option. We care about each other too much to let all the outside noise ruin what we have.”

Pietra leaned back, her smile widening. “That’s huge, Y/N. It sounds like you both really fought for this.”

You nodded, the relief of the memory settling over you. “We did. And now, we’re taking it one step at a time. He asked me to come to the next Grand Prix with him. He doesn’t want us to hide anymore, and honestly, I don’t either. But we’ve agreed to keep things private—no oversharing, no giving the media more than they need. Just us, on our terms.”

Pietra’s grin turned mischievous. “Oh, I can’t wait to see the paddock’s reaction when you show up with him again. The fans are going to lose it.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’m sure they will. But for the first time, it doesn’t feel overwhelming. It feels… manageable.”

“That’s because you’re doing it the right way,” Pietra said confidently. “You’re setting boundaries, and you’re doing this together. It’s going to be okay.”

“Thanks, Pietra,” you said, your smile grateful. “It feels good to finally have some clarity, to know that we’re in this together.”

“Absolutely,” she said, a sparkle in her eye. “But don’t think you’re off the hook. You owe me every detail about how it goes when you’re back at the Grand Prix.”

You laughed, feeling a lightness you hadn’t in weeks. “Oh, trust me, I’ll have plenty to share.”

As the conversation shifted to lighter topics, you couldn’t help but feel a renewed sense of hope. For the first time in a while, the future with Lando felt bright, and you were ready to take on whatever came next—together.

liked by mclaren, lando and others

laurant.yn off-season kick off

francisca.cgomes 😍

mclaren starting the break right 🧡

lando ❤️

@f1landolove SHE POSTED HIM. SHE REALLY POSTED HIM. Y/N AND LANDO ARE OFFICIALLY OFFICIAL. I’M SCREAMING. 😭❤️ 

@paddockqueen_ Not me refreshing my feed 100 times today just to confirm it wasn’t a fever dream. Y/N posted Lando on her MAIN. THE MAIN!!! 🔥👀

@pitstopsocialite_ Y/N really said, “Soft launch era is OVER.” That pic of Lando is giving boyfriend energy. We love to see it. 🥰

@f1overdrive Okay, but I’m lowkey jealous… Y/N Laurant is the definition of having it all. Fashion icon + F1 driver boyfriend? Goals

@neutralnora Honestly, happy for them. Y/N seems like she keeps Lando grounded, and he deserves that. 🥹

@shadypaddock I give it six months. Relationships in the spotlight rarely last. 🙄

The energy in Singapore was electric, the vibrant city buzzing with excitement as race weekend loomed closer. You stood beside Lando, your suitcase rolling quietly behind you as you both exited the airport.

The humid air wrapped around you, mingling with the chatter of fans and photographers who had already spotted you.

Flashes of cameras ignited like small bursts of lightning, and the occasional murmur of your name reached your ears. You instinctively glanced at Lando, who gave you a reassuring smile, his hand brushing against yours.

“We’re really doing this,” you said softly, your voice a mix of nerves and determination.

“Yeah, we are,” Lando replied, his eyes meeting yours with steady resolve. “No more hiding. No more letting them control the narrative. It’s just us, and we’re not apologizing for it.”

The ride to the hotel was quiet, the occasional buzz of your phone from notifications breaking the silence. You knew the media frenzy was already kicking off—pictures and videos of the two of you had likely hit social media within minutes of your arrival. But for the first time, you didn’t feel the weight of it.

As you stepped into the hotel lobby together, the atmosphere shifted. Fans waiting in the lounge glanced your way, some pulling out their phones, their whispers barely audible over the soft music playing in the background.

“People are watching,” you said under your breath, your fingers brushing against his arm.

Lando chuckled lightly. “Let them watch. We’re not doing anything wrong.”

His nonchalant attitude eased the tension in your shoulders, and you found yourself smiling despite the circumstances. The two of you checked in without a hitch, the staff professional and discreet, even as you caught sight of a few camera flashes from outside the glass doors.

Once you reached the privacy of your suite, the tension you hadn’t realized you were holding finally began to dissipate. You sank onto the plush couch, letting out a long exhale.

“That wasn’t so bad,” you said, glancing at Lando as he placed your bags by the wall.

He sat beside you, leaning back with a grin. “See? I told you. We can handle this.”

You turned to face him, your expression softening. “It’s just… surreal. To finally be here with you, not worrying about every little thing. I mean, I know the rumors and gossip won’t stop, but it feels different now.”

“It does,” Lando agreed, taking your hand in his. “Because we’re not letting it control us anymore. We’re doing this our way, on our terms.”

You nodded, the warmth of his hand grounding you. “It’s going to take some getting used to, though. I’m sure the paddock will have a lot to say.”

“Let them,” Lando said with a shrug, his tone calm but firm. “I don’t care what they think, as long as you’re with me.”

His words sent a wave of reassurance through you, and you squeezed his hand gently. “You’re really good at this whole boyfriend thing, you know that?”

He grinned, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your temple. “I try.”

The two of you spent the evening talking, discussing how you’d navigate the paddock together, and agreeing to address any questions with a united front. By the time you went to bed, you felt a sense of peace you hadn’t in months.

The Singapore paddock buzzed with excitement, the air thick with humidity and anticipation for the race weekend ahead. As you and Lando walked through the gates together, it was impossible not to notice the ripple of energy your presence caused.

Fans lining the barriers gasped, some clutching their phones tightly as they captured the moment.

“There they are!” someone whispered loudly, their voice barely audible over the collective murmurs. “It’s Y/N and Lando!”

Flashes from cameras and phones lit up around you as you kept a steady pace beside Lando. He was calm, his expression relaxed but confident, while you mirrored his composure, your hand grazing his arm lightly as if to reassure yourself.

Fans erupted into chatter, their voices mixing with the distant hum of engines.

“Oh my God, they’re actually together.” “Do you think this means they’re official-official?” “They’re not hiding anymore, but they’re still so lowkey. I love it.”

As you passed a group of fans holding up McLaren flags, Lando glanced their way with a small wave and a quick smile. You couldn’t help but grin when you heard someone squeal, “He looks so happy!”

Inside the paddock, the atmosphere was no less intense. Team members and media professionals stole glances at the two of you, some openly curious, others trying to act nonchalant.

You caught sight of a camera crew lingering near the McLaren hospitality, their lenses subtly but unmistakably trained on you and Lando.

“Ready for the circus?” Lando muttered under his breath, leaning slightly toward you.

You smirked, keeping your gaze forward. “I think I can handle it. You’re the one who’s got to focus on racing.”

He chuckled softly, his fingers brushing yours in a fleeting touch. “I’ve got that part covered. It’s the rest of this that’s new for me.”

Before either of you could say more, you spotted Lily Zneimer and Hattie Piastri approaching from the McLaren hospitality, their faces lighting up when they saw you.

“You’re here!” Lily exclaimed, her voice full of excitement as she pulled you into a quick hug. “I was wondering when you’d show up!”

Hattie grinned, giving Lando a knowing look before turning to you. “And here I thought you’d keep us guessing forever.”

You laughed, your nerves easing slightly. “I figured it was time. Can’t keep hiding forever, right?”

“Exactly,” Lily agreed, linking her arm with yours. “And you’ve got us. The paddock isn’t so bad once you’ve got the right people.”

Lando excused himself briefly to check in with his team, leaving you with Lily and Hattie. You felt the stares around you but found yourself surprisingly unbothered, their presence grounding you.

When Lando returned, he didn’t hesitate to rejoin you, his arm brushing against yours in a way that felt both casual and intimate. He didn’t seem fazed by the whispers or the cameras subtly tracking your every move.

Instead, he leaned down slightly and murmured, “Told you we’ve got this.”

You glanced up at him, the corner of your mouth lifting into a small smile. “We do.”

As the two of you walked deeper into the paddock, side by side, it was clear to everyone watching: while you weren’t laying out the details of your relationship, you weren’t hiding it anymore, either. And from the way fans’ excited chatter filled the air, it seemed they couldn’t be happier to finally see you together.

© soleilpinto 25’ -. no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any manner without the permission from the publisher.

The warm glow of Barcelona’s neon lights cast vivid reflections on the rain-slicked streets of the red-light district. Carlos Sainz walked with quiet purpose, his simple black cassock stark against the gaudy opulence surrounding him. 

In his hands, a worn Bible—the anchor of his resolve, the symbol of his mission. He moved through the chaos of the night, determined to bring solace to those lost in the shadows of the city.

Inside La Rosa Negra, the district’s most infamous club, decadence thrived.

Music thumped, laughter rang out, and a haze of cigarette smoke curled lazily in the air. Among the revelers, you reclined on a velvet chaise, draped in a crimson gown that shimmered like liquid fire. 

A glass of champagne rested in your hand, its fizz catching the dim lights as your piercing eyes scanned the room. You were at home in this chaos, thriving in it, yet tonight her gaze landed on something—someone—who didn’t belong.

At first, you almost laugh. The man standing at the entrance, his black cassock and steady gaze, is a jarring contrast to the vivid world around him.

He clutches his Bible tightly, a solitary island of purpose in an ocean of indulgence. The faintest smirk pulls at your lips as you watch him step further into the club.

He begins to speak, his voice cutting through the din. It’s calm and firm, a steady current against the tide of indifference. But you can see it’s futile. Patrons glance his way with vague curiosity before returning to their drinks and conversations. Yet, he doesn’t falter.

His presence commands attention in a way that stirs something in you—curiosity, amusement, and perhaps a touch of challenge.

You lean back, taking a sip of champagne as an idea forms. The game practically writes itself. You set your glass aside and rise, your heels clicking against the polished floor as you move through the crowd. The familiar sound feels like a prelude to a performance, and the patrons part for you instinctively.

When you stop in front of him, you tilt your head slightly, letting your lips curl into a slow, knowing smile.

“You’re either very brave or very foolish, Padre,” you say, your voice laced with playful mockery.

His eyes meet yours for the first time, steady and unwavering. Up close, you notice the sharpness of his features, handsome in a way that doesn’t fit with his role—or this place. But it’s the strength in his gaze that holds you, a calmness that both intrigues and unnerves you.

“I come where I’m needed,” he replies simply, his voice measured.

You arch an eyebrow, amused by his composure. “And you think we need you?” you ask, feigning curiosity. A soft laugh escapes you as you shake your head.

“How noble. But tell me, Padre, do you even know what it is we’re looking for?”

His expression doesn’t waver. “I think you’re looking for more than this,” he says, gesturing subtly to the room around you.

You chuckle, the sound carrying a faint edge. “More than this? What makes you so sure?” You take a step closer, your voice dropping just enough to make it personal.

“You don’t know me, Padre. You don’t know what I want, what I need.”

For a moment, the distance between you feels like a thread pulled taut. His calm resolve remains, but you notice a flicker of doubt, so faint it’s almost imperceptible.

You lean in, catching the faint scent of incense on him, and let your voice drop further, almost conspiratorial.

“You think you’re different,” you murmur. “That you’re here to save me, to show me the error of my ways.” You pause, watching the tension build in his silence. Then, with a sly smile, you add, “But tell me, Padre—who’s going to save you?”

The weight of your words lingers, and his silence is an answer enough. Satisfied, you step back, your confidence surging as you give him one last knowing look. 

“Careful, Father,” you say, your voice light but tinged with something darker. “You might find yourself in need of saving after all.”

As you walk away, you feel his eyes on you, lingering longer than they should. A thrill courses through you, though you’re not quite sure why. Whether it’s the game itself or the strange pull of his presence, you can’t tell.

One thing is certain, though: this is far from over.

After your first encounter, Carlos couldn’t escape you. Even in the quiet solitude of his small, sparsely furnished room at the parish, your laughter lingered in his mind, like the faint echo of a song that refused to fade.

 He knelt in prayer each night, clutching his rosary tightly, seeking clarity and strength. He told himself that you were a test—an obstacle placed in his path by God to challenge and refine his faith.

But the memory of you was relentless.

It wasn’t just your beauty, though that alone was enough to unsettle him. It was the way you moved, the way you spoke with such confidence and defiance, as though the rules of the world—and of God—were mere suggestions to you. 

You had looked at him not with guilt or shame, as so many others in your world did, but with amusement, as though you held some secret he could never comprehend.

Carlos found himself questioning his resolve. Why had he been so affected by you? Why did your words, your presence, continue to haunt him? Every moment he spent thinking about her felt like a betrayal of his calling, a crack in the foundation of his devotion. But no matter how fervently he prayed, no matter how many scriptures he recited, your image remained.

For you, your encounter was less about faith and more about curiosity. Men like Carlos didn’t belong in your world—men with unwavering principles, who spoke with conviction about things like salvation and redemption. 

It fascinated you. 

He wasn’t like the others who passed through La Rosa Negra, indulging in its offerings while wearing masks of denial.

Carlos was genuine, and that made him an enigma you couldn’t ignore.

You found herself replaying the moment he had looked into your eyes, unwavering even as you pushed and prodded at his composure. There was strength in him, a quiet kind of power that she didn’t often encounter. Most men were easy to read and easy to manipulate. But Carlos was different. His devotion wasn’t a facade—it was real, and it intrigued you.

At first, you told yourself it was a game. He was a puzzle to be solved, a challenge to be conquered. 

What would it take, you wondered, to make him falter? Could you pull him from his pedestal of piety, or would he prove as unshakable as he seemed? The thought thrilled you, and yet, there was something deeper, something you weren’t ready to acknowledge.

For both of you, your encounter had created a ripple you couldn’t ignore.

Carlos returned to the district more frequently, under the pretense of his mission to save souls. But every time he stepped into the shadows of Barcelona’s neon glow, he found himself scanning the crowds, searching for you. And you, in turn, began to linger in places you knew he might appear, your interest growing with each passing day.

Carlos saw you as a test—a trial meant to strengthen his faith and reaffirm his commitment to his calling. But he couldn’t deny the unease you stirred in him, the questions you raised about his own humanity. 

You saw him as a challenge, a man who had built his life on principles you had long since abandoned. But as the days passed, you found yourself less interested in breaking him and more curious about understanding him.

Your worlds, so starkly different, began to orbit each other in a way that neither could fully control. And though neither would admit it, you were drawn to one another—not just by curiosity, but by the faint, undeniable pull of something neither of you fully understood.

Carlos found himself returning to La Rosa Negra more often than he would admit, even to himself.

He justified it as part of his mission—his duty to save those who had strayed farthest from grace. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t the smoky haze or the disillusioned patrons that drew him back. It was you.

Tonight, you were waiting for him, lounging at the same velvet chaise as though you’d expected his arrival. Your ruby-colored gown clung to you in all the right places, and your eyes sparkled with mischief as he approached.

“Back again, Padre?” You asked, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Starting to think you like it here more than you’d care to admit.”

Carlos stood tall, his expression calm despite the heat rising to his face.

“I will continue to go where I’m needed,” he replied firmly, clutching his Bible as though it were a lifeline.

“Needed,” you repeated, leaning forward slightly, your voice dripping with mockery. “And here I thought priests only stuck to the safety of their churches. But no, here you are, in the lion’s den once again. How noble.”

He ignored your tone, instead meeting your gaze with quiet resolve. “I’m here for you, Y/N,” he said simply.

Your laugh was soft and melodic, tinged with incredulity. “For me? Padre, you don’t even know me.” You gestured to the room around you. 

“What makes you think I’m any different from the others? Just another lost little soul for you to save?”

“You are different,” he said without hesitation, his voice steady. “You’re not like the others.”

You raised an eyebrow, genuinely curious now. “And what makes you so sure of that?”

“Because you’re not indifferent,” he replied, his words measured. “You challenge me. You question me. That tells me there’s a part of you that still cares—about truth, about meaning. Even if you hide it behind mockery.”

For a moment, your smirk faltered. The way he looked at you, with such earnestness, was disarming. But you quickly recovered, crossing your legs and leaning back with an air of practiced ease.

“Maybe I just like watching you squirm,” you say, your tone light but eyes probing. “After all, you’re so sure of yourself, so convinced you have all the answers. It’s fascinating, really.”

Carlos hesitated, unsure if you were taunting him or speaking honestly. 

“I don’t have all the answers,” he admitted quietly. “But I believe in something greater than this—greater than what you’ve settled for.”

“Settled?” You echoed, voice sharper now. “You think I’ve settled for this? Let me tell you something, Padre—I chose this life. I’m not some poor, helpless creature waiting for you to swoop in and save me.”

“I don’t believe anyone chooses this,” he said gently, his gaze softening. “Not truly. You’ve been hurt, abandoned, lied to—”

“Don’t,” you interrupted, your tone icy. “Don’t you dare act like you know me. You hide behind your faith, Carlos. You’ve built your whole life around it because it’s easier than facing the real world. You sit on your little moral high ground, judging the rest of us for living in the mess you’re too afraid to touch.”

Your words hit him like a physical blow, but he didn’t back down. “And you?” he countered, his voice rising slightly. 

“You hide behind this life, this persona you’ve created. You pretend it doesn’t matter, that you don’t care, but I see it in your eyes. You’re lost, Y/N. You’re searching for something, and you think you’ll find it here, in the validation of strangers.”

Your jaw tightened, and for the first time, you didn’t have a quick retort. The silence between the two of you was heavy, charged with tension that neither could fully articulate.

Finally, you stood up, your movements deliberate as you closed the small distance between you and Carlos.

“Maybe I am lost,” you say softly, your voice carrying an edge of vulnerability. “But at least I’m not lying to myself about who I am.”

Carlos met your gaze, his expression a mix of frustration and something else—something he couldn’t name. “You’re not as different from me as you think,” he said quietly.

You tilted her head, studying him. “Maybe not,” you admitted, a ghost of a smile crossing your lips. “But I think you’re more lost than I am.”

With that, you turned and walked away, leaving him standing alone once again, his grip on the Bible tightening as he watched you disappear into the crowd.

Carlos had always believed himself steadfast, unshakable in his faith.

His life had been one of service, guided by the tenets of scripture and the quiet assurance that he was walking the path of righteousness. But you had become a thorn in his conscience, a contradiction that burrowed deeper with each passing day.

He told himself that his feelings were not desire but pity, not longing but righteous concern. He prayed fervently, his whispered words to God growing increasingly desperate. 

“Lord, grant me strength. Let me see her as you do—a soul in need of salvation, nothing more.” Yet, no matter how many hours he spent in prayer, your image returned to him unbidden: the curve of your smile, the defiance in your eyes, the way you looked at him as though you could see the thoughts he tried so hard to suppress.

When he sought you out again, he told himself it was for your sake. You needed guidance, and he was obligated to provide it. This was his calling, his purpose. But when he saw you, lounging in your usual spot at La Rosa Negra, his heart betrayed him.

“Back for another sermon, Padre?” You teased as he approached, your white dress catching the dim light and making you seem almost otherworldly. Devil in disguise.

Carlos hesitated, gripping his Bible tightly. “I’m here because I care about your soul, Y/N. I can’t stand to see you waste your life like this.”

You laughed softly, a sound that sent an unwelcome shiver down his spine. 

“My soul? You’ve got quite the fixation on it, don’t you? But tell me, Carlos—” you leaned forward, your voice dropping to a sultry whisper, “—is it really my soul you’re worried about?”

His breath caught, and for a moment, he was struck silent. He forced himself to look away, focusing on the floor rather than her piercing gaze. “You’re trying to distract me,” he said, his voice strained.

“Distract you?” You tilted her head, smirk widening. “From what, exactly?”

He didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. Instead, he turned on his heel and left, his chest tight and his thoughts a whirlwind.

But he couldn’t stay away.

The next time the two of you met, it was outside the club, late at night when the streets were quieter. Carlos had been walking, lost in thought when he saw you leaning against a lamppost, smoking a cigarette.

“Carlos,” you greeted him casually, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Didn’t think I’d see you out here. Shouldn’t you be in a church somewhere, praying for all our souls?”

“I pray for you,” he admitted, his voice low. “Every day.”

Your expression softened, but only for a moment. “You shouldn’t waste your prayers on me.”

“They’re not wasted,” he insisted, stepping closer. “I believe you can change, Y/N. I believe God has a plan for you if you’d only let Him in.”

“And what about you?” You asked, tone sharper now. “What’s God’s plan for you, Carlos? To spend your whole life saving all these sinners while pretending you’re not just as human as the rest of us?”

“I don’t pretend,” he shot back, his voice rising. “I’ve dedicated my life to something greater, something sacred.”

“And yet here you are,” you say, stepping closer, your gaze unwavering. “Standing here with me. Tell me, Padre, is this sacred?”

Carlos felt his resolve crumble as you closed the distance between you. He could feel the warmth of your presence, and smell the faint scent of your perfume. His heart raced, every instinct screaming at him to leave, to run back to the safety of his church and his prayers. But he didn’t move.

“You’re testing me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m not,” you replied, your voice soft now, almost tender. “I’m just being honest. Maybe it’s time you were, too.”

At that moment, the weight of his denial came crashing down. He didn’t just care for you as a priest cared for a wayward soul. He wanted you, desired you in a way that defied everything he had vowed to uphold.

“I can’t—” he began, but the words caught in his throat as you reached up, your fingers lightly grazing his cheek.

“You can,” you say, voice steady, almost daring.

And then, against every vow he had ever made, every principle he had sworn to uphold, he gave in.

His lips met yours in a kiss that was both desperate and restrained, as though some part of him still tried to cling to the man he was supposed to be. But the floodgates had opened, and there was no going back.

When you broke apart, the silence between them was deafening. Carlos stepped back, his chest heaving, his hands trembling.

“What have I done?” he whispered, his voice laced with anguish.

You looked at him, your expression unreadable. “You did what you’ve been wanting to do since the moment you saw me,” you said simply.

He stared at you, torn between shame and something he couldn’t name. “I… I need to go,” he said, turning and walking away before you could respond, the weight of his actions threatening to crush him with every step.

Carlos shut himself away in the small, dimly lit chapel that had become both his sanctuary and his prison.

The once comforting scent of incense now seemed suffocating, the flickering candles casting shadows that danced mockingly across the walls. He knelt before the altar, his hands clasped so tightly in prayer that his knuckles turned white.

"Forgive me, Father," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I have failed You. I have strayed from the path You set for me. I let her pull me into darkness... I let myself be weak."

The memory of your touch, your voice, your eyes—everything about you—played on an unending loop in his mind.

Each moment felt like a dagger, twisting deeper into his soul. He had succumbed to temptation, and now the weight of his sin felt unbearable. He had been called to be a servant of God, to lead others to salvation, and yet he had fallen, allowing her to taint him.

"No, not her," he muttered aloud, his voice trembling. "She is not to blame. It’s me. I allowed it. I let her in."

But even as he tried to take responsibility, a darker thought lingered in the corners of his mind. Had you been sent to test him, or to ruin him? Had you been a temptation laid in his path by the devil himself?

Meanwhile, you stood outside the chapel, your arms crossed tightly over her chest. You had waited for days, hoping Carlos would come to you, that he would at least confront the feelings you both knew existed. But instead, he had disappeared into this sanctuary, avoiding you like you were some kind of plague.

Finally, your patience snapped. You pushed open the heavy wooden door, the sound echoing through the stillness of the chapel. Carlos flinched at the noise, his head snapping up to see you silhouetted against the light.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice hoarse and strained.

“What am I doing here?” You repeated, your tone sharp and incredulous. You stepped closer, your heels clicking on the stone floor. “What are you doing here, hiding like a coward?”

Carlos rose to his feet, his expression torn between anger and despair. “I am seeking forgiveness,” he said, his voice trembling. “For what I’ve done—for letting you... letting this happen.”

Your eyes narrowed, and you took another step toward him. “Letting me? Is that what you think this is? That I’m some kind of devil sent to tempt you?”

“You don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head. “This... this isn’t who I am. This isn’t who I’m supposed to be. I had a purpose, a calling. And now it’s gone.”

“Gone?” You snapped, your voice rising. “You think you’ve lost your purpose because of me? Because you kissed me? Don’t you dare put this on me, Carlos.”

“I’m not putting it on you!” he shot back, though his voice lacked conviction. “But you—” He paused, searching for the right words, but they escaped him.

“But what?” You pressed, your tone laced with hurt. “Say it. You think I ruined you, don’t you? That I’ve tainted you and ruined your chance at sainthood.”

Carlos looked away, his silence speaking volumes.

You let out a bitter laugh, the sound cutting through the heavy air. “You know what your problem is, Carlos? You’re so busy trying to be a saint that you’ve forgotten how to be human.”

He turned back to you, his face a mask of anguish.

“I gave up being human a long time ago. I chose this life because I wanted to rise above it, to serve something greater than myself. And now—” His voice cracked, and he looked away again.

“And now you’re realizing that you’re just as flawed as everyone else,” you finished for him, your voice softening slightly.

“Welcome to the real world, Carlos. It’s messy and complicated and full of mistakes. But that doesn’t make you any less of a person.”

He clenched his fists, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “You don’t understand what this means to me. I’ve dedicated my entire life to this path. To fail now—it’s unforgivable.”

“Unforgivable?” You stepped closer, your voice firm but not unkind. “Do you really think God is up there keeping a tally of every mistake you make? Do you think He’s going to damn you for being human, for feeling something real?”

Your words struck a chord, but Carlos shook his head, unwilling to let go of his guilt. “I don’t know what to think anymore,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

You reached out, your hand lightly touching his arm. He flinched at the contact but didn’t pull away. 

“Carlos,” you say, your voice gentle now, “I’m not your enemy. I never was. But you need to stop using me as an excuse to avoid your own doubts. You’re questioning things because you’re human, not because of me.”

He looked at you then, his eyes filled with conflict. “I don’t know how to move forward,” he confessed.

“Then stop trying to figure it all out at once,” you state simply. “Start with the truth. What do you want, Carlos? Not what you think you’re supposed to want. What do you want?”

The silence that followed was heavy, but for the first time, it wasn’t suffocating. It was a space for honesty, for something real to take root. And in that moment, Carlos realized that the answer he’d been running from was standing right in front of him.

The sting of rejection lingers longer than you expected. For days after Carlos turned his back on you, his absence felt like a void in the chaotic rhythm of your life. 

You’ve always thrived on your ability to stay in control and to hold the upper hand in any interaction. But now, for the first time in a long while, you’re left grappling with an uncomfortable truth—you’re not as unaffected as you thought you were.

You pace the length of your apartment, the sounds of the city filtering through the windows—honking cars, muffled laughter, the occasional shout. Normally, the chaos outside feels like an extension of you, a reminder that life never stops moving. But tonight, it feels distant, irrelevant.

In the silence, memories creep in. The way Carlos looked at you—not with lust, like so many others, but with something deeper, something raw. 

The way his voice wavered when he spoke your name as if he were afraid of the power it held. You think about the way he walked away, his shoulders heavy with guilt, his words cutting sharper than they should have.

It’s not your fault, but I can’t be near you.

You scoff aloud at the memory, though the sound is bitter. “Coward,” you mutter, but the word rings hollow. 

Deep down, you know his rejection wasn’t just about you. It was about him, his faith, his struggle to reconcile who he wanted to be with who he actually was. Still, knowing that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

The truth is, Carlos made you feel something you hadn’t felt in a long time—seen. 

Not for your beauty, not for your confidence, not for the role you play in a world that thrives on appearances, but for something deeper, something more vulnerable. And now that he’s gone, that vulnerability feels like an exposed wound.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, and for a moment, you barely recognize the woman staring back.

The black gown, the perfectly painted lips, the sharpness in your eyes—they all feel like a mask, a costume you’ve worn so long that you’ve forgotten what’s underneath.

“Who are you?” you whisper to your reflection, the question hanging heavy in the air.

The answer doesn’t come easily. You think about the choices you’ve made, the life you’ve built—a life of freedom, of defiance, of never letting anyone hold power over you. But now, for the first time, you wonder if that freedom has come at a cost. 

Have you been running all this time? And if so, from what?

Your thoughts drift back to Carlos, to the fire in his eyes when he spoke of his faith, of purpose, of something greater than himself. You didn’t agree with him—you still don’t—but you can’t deny the pull of his conviction.

It made you wonder if you’d been wrong to dismiss the idea of something more.

And yet, his faith had crumbled in the face of his desire for you. That should feel like a victory, but it doesn’t. Instead, it feels hollow, like you’ve won a battle you never wanted to fight.

You sit down on the edge of your bed, your head in your hands. The question lingers in your mind, persistent and unrelenting. What do you want, Y/N?

Not the fleeting thrill of the game, not the power you wield over others, not the endless nights of laughter that fade by morning. What do you truly want?

The thought scares you more than you’d like to admit because, for the first time, you’re not sure you know the answer.

The church is silent, save for the soft flicker of candlelight casting long shadows across the stone walls. It’s the same place where Carlos once knelt in devotion, where he first took his vows and pledged his life to God. But tonight, the sanctuary feels different—less holy, more human.

Carlos stands at the altar, his hands clasped in front of him, though not in prayer. His cassock hangs loosely on his frame, as if it no longer fits the man he has become. The weight of his inner turmoil is etched into his face, and for the first time, he looks like someone searching for answers rather than providing them.

The echo of footsteps draws his attention, and he turns to see you stepping into the church.

Your presence feels out of place here, yet oddly fitting, like a storm finding its way into a serene landscape. You're dressed simply, without the usual glamour that used to envelop you, but it only makes you seem more striking.

Neither of you speak at first. The distance between you feels vast, a chasm of misunderstandings, pain, and the undeniable connection that brought you here.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Carlos finally says, his voice quiet, almost reverent.

You walk closer, your heels clicking softly against the stone floor.

“I wasn’t sure I would,” you admit. Your gaze sweeps over the church, the stained glass windows filtering muted colors into the dim light. “But I needed to see you one last time.”

Carlos nods, his eyes fixed on you as if he’s afraid you might disappear. “I’ve been… thinking,” he begins, his words careful, measured. “About everything. About you. About me.”

He looks down, his voice faltering. “You changed everything, Y/N.”

Your lips curl into a faint, bittersweet smile. “I wasn’t trying to,” you say softly.

“I know,” he replies, meeting your gaze again. “But you did. I thought I understood faith. What it meant to be a man of God. I thought I knew who I was. But after you… I’m not sure of anything anymore.”

You step closer, the distance between the two of you shrinking. “And is that my fault, Carlos? Or is it because you were too afraid to question it before?”

He exhales sharply, the question cutting through him. “Maybe both,” he admits. “I convinced myself that my path was clear, that I was untouchable. But you showed me the cracks, the places I didn’t want to see.”

“And now?” You ask, your voice quieter, almost fragile.

Carlos looks around the church, his expression pained. “Now, I don’t know if I can call myself a man of God. I broke my vows. I doubted everything I believed in. And I—” His voice catches, but he forces himself to continue. “And I wanted you in ways I never should have. That’s not the man I was supposed to be.”

Your eyes soften, and you step even closer, close enough to touch him but holding back. “You’re not a saint, Carlos,” you say gently. “You never were. You’re just a man. And maybe that’s what you were running from all along.”

He stares at you, the truth of your words sinking in. For a long moment, neither of you speak, the silence filled only by the flicker of candlelight.

“What about you?” Carlos asks finally, his voice tentative. “What do you want now, Y/N? After everything?”

You look down, a faint tremor in your voice as you answer. “I want to stop running, too. I’ve spent so long living to defy everyone else, proving that I don’t need their approval. But I’m tired, Carlos. Tired of fighting battles that don’t even matter to me anymore.”

Your gaze lifts, meeting his, and for the first time, there’s no mockery or defiance in your expression—only vulnerability.

“I want something real,” you say. “Even if it’s not with you.”

Carlos flinches, your words hitting him harder than he expected. But he nods slowly, understanding. “I can’t give you what you need,” he says quietly. “I’m not even sure who I am anymore. But I hope… I hope you find it.”

You step forward, reaching out to touch his face lightly, your fingers brushing against his cheek. “And I hope you find yourself, Carlos,” you say softly. “Because whoever that man is, I think he’s worth knowing.”

You let your hand fall, and you both stand there for a moment longer, the weight of unspoken words hanging between you. Then, with a faint, bittersweet smile, you turn and walk away, your footsteps echoing through the empty church.

Carlos watches you go, his heart heavy but strangely lighter than before. As the doors close behind you, he turns back to the altar, unsure of what lies ahead but knowing one thing for certain—his life will never be the same.

Carlos left the church quietly, slipping away from the place that had been his refuge, his calling, and, ultimately, his prison. He carried little more than a small suitcase, the cassock folded inside as though packing away an old skin. 

For days, the road stretched before him, unfamiliar and daunting, each step taking him further from the life he thought he was destined to lead.

In the beginning, his prayers were desperate, pleading whispers in the night. “God, forgive me. Show me the way,” he’d mutter, clutching his rosary as though it could anchor him. But the words felt empty, bouncing back from a silence he couldn’t ignore. 

His faith, once unshakable, now felt fragile, brittle under the weight of his doubts.

He soon found himself in a coastal town far from Barcelona, where the salty breeze mingled with the scent of fresh bread from the local bakery. 

The town was simple, quiet, and unremarkable, but its stillness offered a balm to his restless spirit. He took a job at the bakery, learning to knead dough and shape loaves with hands that once held a Bible.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was grounding.

For the first time in years, his work felt tangible, the ache in his muscles at the end of the day a comforting reminder of his efforts.

Carlos thought of you often, though the memories came with less pain over time. He recalled your sharp wit, the way your laughter could cut through the most solemn of moments, and the way your piercing eyes seemed to see through him. 

You had challenged everything he believed, not out of malice, but because you saw the cracks in the foundation he’d built his life on.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold, Carlos sat on a bench overlooking the sea.

A journal rested on his lap, its pages filled with reflections and unanswered questions. He thought of the arguments you’d shared, your voice sharp yet earnest as you tore into his defenses.

“You hide behind the church because it’s easier than facing the real world,” you’d said during one of your heated exchanges. “You call it faith, but it’s fear, Carlos. Fear of failure, fear of imperfection, fear of being human.”

At the time, your words had infuriated him, striking too close to the truth. Now, they lingered in his mind like an undeniable echo.

“You were right,” he murmured aloud, the waves crashing softly below. “I was hiding. I thought I was above the chaos, but I wasn’t. I never was.”

He closed his eyes, letting the breeze carry away his confession. For the first time, the weight of guilt seemed to lift, replaced by a fragile acceptance. He wasn’t the man he used to be, but perhaps that was the point.

In Barcelona, you wandered the city’s labyrinthine streets, your heels clicking against the cobblestones. The vibrant energy of the city felt muted now, a backdrop to your growing introspection. 

After Carlos left, you’d thrown yourself back into the familiar rhythms of your life—late nights, endless parties, and the intoxicating game of holding the world at arm’s length. 

But it wasn’t the same.

One afternoon, you passed a small, unassuming church tucked between two old buildings. Something about its modesty drew you in. The air inside was cool and quiet, the faint scent of candles and incense lingering.

You sat in the back pew, letting the stillness envelop you. It was the first time you’d stepped into a church without an agenda, without a performance to put on.

Carlos’ voice came back to you, unbidden, from one of your arguments. 

“You think rebellion makes you free, but it’s just another kind of prison,” he’d said, his gaze intense, his words cutting through your bravado.

At the time, you’d dismissed him with a laugh, but now, sitting in the quiet, you couldn’t shake the truth of his words. You weren’t free. You were running, hiding, masking the emptiness you were too afraid to face.

“Carlos,” you whispered, his name lingering on your lips like a prayer. You didn’t know where he was or if he ever thought of you, but you hoped he had found peace.

Months passed, and Carlos settled into his new life. The townspeople had accepted him as one of their own, though they never pried into his past.

His days were simple—early mornings at the bakery, evenings watching the waves, and nights spent reflecting.

One evening, after closing the bakery, Carlos sat at his small kitchen table with a pen and paper. He began writing a letter, not intending to send it, but needing to put his thoughts into words.

“Dear Y/N,

I don’t know where you are or what you’re doing, but I hope you’ve found what you’re looking for. I used to think meeting you was a test, something I had to endure to prove my faith. But now, I see it differently. You weren’t my downfall. You were the mirror that forced me to see myself clearly for the first time.

I’m still figuring out who I am without the church, but I think I’m starting to like this version of me. It’s messy and uncertain, but it’s real. Thank you for teaching me that, even if it was painful.

Take care, Carlos”

He folded the letter and tucked it away in a drawer, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Life wasn’t perfect, but it felt honest, and for now, that was enough.

Though your paths had diverged, you and Carlos carried pieces of each other forward.

His voice remained in your thoughts, not as a haunting, but as a reminder of the lessons you’d learned. You no longer lived solely to defy expectations, nor did he cling to the rigid ideals of his past.

In your separate journeys, you found something precious: the courage to face yourselves. And though you would likely never meet again, the bond you shared—tempestuous, transformative, and unforgettable—would remain a part of you both, a testament to the way two flawed souls could change each other forever.

The warm hues of the Monaco sunset filtered through the curtains of your suite, casting a soft glow over the room.

You were seated by the window, absently scrolling through your phone, when it buzzed in your hand. The screen lit up with a familiar name, and your heart skipped a beat.

Lando.

For a moment, you hesitated. You hadn’t spoken to him since the British Grand Prix, and even though you tried to move on, his absence lingered in the quiet moments. But something compelled you to answer.

“Hello?” you said, your voice steady despite the swirl of emotions brewing inside.

“Hey,” came Lando’s voice, softer than you expected. There was a tentative edge to it, as if he wasn’t sure you’d pick up. “I, uh, heard you’re in Monaco.”

You blinked in surprise. “Who told you that?”

“Max and Pietra. And I might’ve heard from Alexandra too. They said you were planning to spend time with her.” He let out a small chuckle, though it sounded strained.

You exhaled, leaning back against the plush seat. “Yeah, I’m here for the break. Alex and Jade invited me to a couple of things.”

There was a pause on the line, and you could almost picture him running a hand through his curls, trying to find the right words.

“Look,” he started, his voice heavier now, “I know I’m the last person you probably want to hear from right now, but... can we talk? In person.”

Your grip on the phone tightened. “Lando—”

“Please,” he interrupted, his voice bordering on pleading. “I need to see you, Y/N. I know I messed up. I know I hurt you. But I can’t leave things like this between us.”

You chewed on your bottom lip, your mind racing. Every instinct told you to say no, to guard the fragile walls you had built around your heart. But something in his voice—raw, earnest—made it impossible to refuse.

“Fine,” you said after a beat, your voice quieter now. “I’ll text you where I’m staying.”

Relief flooded his tone. “Thank you. I’ll be there soon.”

The call ended, leaving you staring at the screen. Your heart felt heavy, torn between the familiarity of his presence and the wounds that hadn’t fully healed.

You sighed, standing up to pace the room. It wasn’t just the thought of seeing him again that made your chest tighten—it was the uncertainty of what this meeting might bring.

When a knock came an hour later, it wasn’t unexpected. But as you opened the door to find him standing there, looking slightly disheveled but heartbreakingly earnest, the emotions you had fought so hard to bury came rushing back.

“Hi,” he said softly, and the vulnerability in his voice was enough to make you reconsider the walls you had so carefully constructed.

“Hi,” you replied, stepping aside to let him in.

Once inside, the air between you was heavy with unspoken words. Lando’s gaze flickered over you, his eyes filled with emotions he didn’t know how to express. Finally, he broke the silence.

“I’ve been a mess without you,” he admitted, his voice raw. “Seeing you in those headlines, looking like you’ve moved on... it’s been killing me.”

You crossed your arms, trying to keep your composure. “What did you expect, Lando? We can’t keep living under a microscope. It’s exhausting.”

“I know,” he said quickly, stepping closer. “And I don’t want you to feel like that. But I can’t pretend I’m okay with losing you either.”

Your chest tightened at his words, but you held firm.

“Then how do we make this work? Because I can’t keep pretending I’m unaffected when people dissect every move I make. I’ve been living with that my whole life, Lando. But this... this is different. It’s personal.”

“We don’t have to pretend. We don’t have to hide. Not like before. I think... if we’re honest about what we mean to each other, maybe it’ll hurt less. I’m willing to take that risk if you are.” Lando reached out, his hand brushing yours.

You looked into his eyes, seeing the sincerity in them. “You think being open about us will make the pressure disappear?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I think it’ll be easier if we face it together.”

Your defenses softened as his words sank in. For the first time in weeks, the weight on your chest began to lift.

“Okay,” you said quietly. “But we set boundaries. We do this on our terms, not theirs.”

Lando nodded, his relief palpable. “Anything you need, Y/N. As long as you’re with me.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “I’ve missed you, Lando.”

His arms wrapped around you in an instant, pulling you close as he whispered, “I’ve missed you too. So much.”

At that moment, the noise of the outside world faded away. It was just the two of you, choosing each other despite the chaos. For the first time, it felt like you were finally on the same page—ready to face whatever came your way, together.

@F1GossipHub 🚨 Lando Norris and Y/N Laurant were spotted together in Monaco earlier today! 👀 The pair were seen leaving a hotel, looking... tense? Fans are speculating—are they back together or just clearing the air?

@MonacoSocialiteLife Y/N Laurant seen with Lando Norris in Monte Carlo. Are we witnessing a reunion or closure? Either way, these two can’t seem to stay out of the spotlight.

@mclarenlover95 mixed emotions seeing lando and y/n together. like, are they good? are they not? either way, if she’s the one making him smile again, i’m here for it 🧡

@gridtalk24 i’m sorry, but after all the drama, how is y/n back in the picture? they literally SCREAM messy. i hope lando knows what he’s doing

Racing Rumors Weekly

Love on Track or Off? F1 star Lando Norris and socialite Y/N Laurant reunite in Monaco, fueling relationship speculation.

Monaco Times

Back Together or Final Goodbye? Lando Norris and Y/N Laurant were seen leaving a Monaco hotel, sparking rumors of a reconciliation after their rumored split.

Elite Society Daily

Spotted: Lando and Y/N in Monaco The high-profile duo has fans guessing—are they reconciling or simply tying up loose ends?

You adjusted the brightness of the photo one last time before hitting "post" on your Instagram story. It wasn’t anything overt—just an artfully angled shot of Lando's hand resting on his leg. The dead giveaway was the bracelet he always wore catching the glow of the light. Next to it, the sleeve of his hoodie—one his fans would instantly recognize—peeked into the frame.

It was subtle but unmistakable to anyone paying attention. You smirked to yourself, knowing exactly what kind of reaction this would stir.

Across the table, Lando caught the faint upward curve of your lips as you locked your phone.

“What did you just do?” he asked, suspicion laced with amusement.

“Just posted a cute picture of your hand when we were in the car,” you said nonchalantly, sipping your espresso.

He leaned over, trying to glance at your screen, but you tilted it away with a teasing smile. “Cute? Or you’re making the entire internet lose its mind again?”

“It’s just your hand,” you countered with a playful shrug. “And a tiny bit of your hoodie. Relax.”

But neither of you could relax as your phones buzzed with notifications almost immediately. Twitter, Instagram, and every gossip forum were alight:

@f1girIies is that LANDO’S hand on Y/N’s story??? that bracelet is a dead giveaway

@papayacorner okay, the hoodie? The BRACELET?? this is literally confirmation. she’s soft-launching him, and i’m living for it

@gridrumors No way Y/N just gave us this much in one picture. The hand, the bracelet, AND the hoodie? She knows EXACTLY what she’s doing

Lando’s phone buzzed incessantly, and he rolled his eyes, his lips quirking into a grin. “You’ve done it now. The detectives are already on it.”

You tilted your head, your expression pure innocence. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re impossible,” he said, shaking his head but unable to hide his amusement. Reaching across the table, he lightly brushed his fingers over yours, a subtle reminder that he didn’t mind the chaos, not as long as it was with you.

“You’re the one who wore the bracelet,” you teased.

“And you’re the one who posted it,” he countered, laughter in his voice.

As the soft buzz of notifications continued, you set your phone down, determined not to let the world’s reactions dictate your lunch. Lando watched you closely, his expression softening as he leaned back in his chair.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” he started, his voice thoughtful. “How one little picture can feel like such a big deal.”

You glanced up at him, your lips curving into a small smile. “It’s because we’ve been trying so hard to stay under the radar. But maybe…” You hesitated, your fingers tracing the rim of your glass. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be that hard anymore.”

Lando’s gaze didn’t waver. “I was thinking the same thing,” he admitted.

“I mean, I get wanting to keep some things just ours. But hiding? It’s exhausting. And honestly,” he added with a teasing glint in his eye, “you’re terrible at it.”

You laughed, the tension melting away as you playfully tossed a napkin at him. “I am not terrible at it! You’re the one who kept showing up in my private stories. If anyone’s bad at hiding, it’s you.”

He chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “Fair enough. But seriously, maybe we don’t have to hide anymore. Be private, yeah, but not secret. I don’t want us to feel like we’re always sneaking around. It’s too much pressure.”

You nodded, his words resonating with the nagging thoughts you’d had for weeks.

“It was so hard pretending not to care when people speculated about us. Like, I couldn’t even react when they’d say things that weren’t true. And don’t get me started on how many times I’ve had to dodge questions from my family and friends.”

Lando reached across the table, taking your hand in his. “We don’t owe anyone every detail about us,” he said gently. “But we shouldn’t feel like we have to pretend we’re strangers, either.”

You looked down at your intertwined hands, his thumb gently brushing over your knuckles.

“You’re right,” you said softly. “We can set our own boundaries. Let people see just enough to stop the speculation, but keep the important stuff between us.”

“Exactly,” Lando said, his voice warm with reassurance. “We’ve got nothing to prove to anyone else. As long as we’re good, that’s all that matters.”

You smiled, the weight of the conversation lifting from your chest. “Okay,” you agreed. “We’ll be private, not secret. But if you think I’m suddenly going to start posting couple selfies, you’re delusional.”

Lando laughed, the sound easing the last of your lingering doubts. “Noted. No couple selfies. But maybe the occasional hand shot? Or a glimpse of my hoodie?”

“Deal,” you said with a grin.

As you clinked your glasses together, a quiet understanding settled between you. For the first time in what felt like forever, you both felt like you could finally breathe.

liked by lando, francolapinto and others

yvesaintlaurant a little something for those paying attention❣️

lando ❤️

lettiemng she's not secret anymore! congrats baby x

iamrebeccad cuties

@f1gossipgirI Lando and Y/N soft-launching their relationship? The hand pic? The hoodie? WE KNOW 👀💅 #F1 #WAGwatch

@papayalando4ever guys... i’m not ready for y/n and lando to actually go public. they’re like the blueprint of private-but-perfect relationships 😭

@monacodreams_ If Y/N and Lando are finally going public, I’m here for it. They’re literally the power couple we needed 👏🔥

@f1stan123 Soft-launch confirmed?! Y/N posted the hand pic and that hoodie is 100% Lando’s. Not me crying in papaya 🧡😭

@ynsluxury Imagine being Y/N. Beautiful, stylish, AND dating Lando Norris. She’s living the dream life I scripted for myself 😩✨

@norrisupdates Prepare yourselves, Lando and Y/N are going public soon. The fandom is NOT ready. #ProtectThePrivacy

The Daily Chicane

"Love on the Grid? Y/N Laurant Posts Subtle Clue Suggesting Romance with Lando Norris" A close-up of a hand with that bracelet has F1 fans spiraling. Is the sport’s favorite bachelor off the market?

Monaco Confidential

"Y/N Laurant Sparks Rumors with Soft Launch of F1’s Rising Star" The socialite posted a glimpse of Lando Norris’s unmistakable hoodie. Are they preparing to take their relationship public?

Celebrity Circuit

"From Secrets to Subtlety: Y/N Laurant Drops a Cryptic Relationship Clue" Her latest story featuring a familiar bracelet and hoodie has everyone talking about a soft launch with Lando Norris.

The Papaya Insider

"Is Lando Norris Off the Market? Y/N Laurant's Instagram Post Says Maybe" Fans spotted a bracelet identical to Lando’s in her story—coincidence or confirmation?

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