v✶lor

yuki tsunoda

starts off convincing himself it’s fine. “it’s okay, just racing. it happens.”

tries to brush it off with humor, but his eyes are a little too glossy.

sits stiffly, arms crossed, forcing himself not to cry in front of anyone.

when you ask if he’s alright, he shakes his head and says, “i don’t wanna talk about it,” voice tight.

but as soon as you wrap your arms around him, he lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for hours.

“i tried so hard today,” he mumbles into your shoulder, and that’s when the tears come.

buries his face in your chest, completely silent except for the way his arms tighten around your waist.

you stroke his back and whisper, “i know. i saw. you did everything you could.”

he doesn’t let go for a long time, just holds you like he needs you to hold the world together.

later, sniffling into your hoodie, he mutters, “don’t tell anyone i cried. but don’t go anywhere either.”

ʚ・mercedes

george russell

“well, that was a masterclass in how not to have a race,” he says, throwing his gloves on the table like he’s commentating his own downfall.

acts unbothered, sipping his water like it’s champagne. “at least i didn’t crash into a wall. small victories.”

makes a passive-aggressive joke about his strategy call, then follows it with “but it’s fine. i love character development.”

when you ask how he really feels, he smirks. “emotionally bankrupt, but thanks for checking.”

keeps pretending he’s over it, but you catch him zoning out mid-shower, forehead against the tile, just breathing.

when you hand him a towel and a soft “you don’t have to keep it together right now,” he just shrugs. “if i let go, i might not get back up.”

you sit with him on the couch, and he rests his head on your lap, finally letting you card your fingers through his hair.

“you make this day slightly less shit,” he mutters, then adds with a cheeky grin, “wanna really take my mind off it?”

you raise a brow. “that subtle, huh?”

he just smirks, pulling you down for a kiss. “come on. don’t make me beg. i’ve had a really bad day.”

kimi antonelli

throws his helmet a little too hard, then immediately panics like "oh shit did i just break it," while storming into the motorhome.

tries to act cool but ends up rage-snacking on chips mid-rant. "why the f—why do i even try?! i’m literally doing everything and the car’s like, ‘no ❤️’"

paces back and forth while voice-cracking through sentences like, "no, it’s fine. it’s cool. it’s just… my whole career. no big deal."

you sit there trying not to laugh because he’s got one sock halfway off and crumbs on his shirt but is fully spiraling like it’s the end of the world.

“am i washed at 18?! is that even possible?”

you calmly hand him a juice box and say, “you’re not washed. you’re dramatic.”

he glares, sucks on the straw aggressively, then slumps down next to you with a loud sigh.

“i hate being a prodigy. too much pressure. should’ve been mediocre and mysterious.”

you rub his back and say, “you’re allowed to have a bad day, baby genius.”

he blinks up at you, lip jutted out. “if i win next weekend can we get matching crocs?”

you nod. he grins. “sick. emotional support footwear incoming.”

ʚ・ferrari

charles leclerc

comes home way too quiet. keys in the bowl, shoes off, straight to the bathroom without a word.

you find him staring at the sink, toothbrush in hand, not even brushing—just zoning out.

“i don’t know what i’m doing wrong,” he says, voice low. “i keep trying and i still mess it up.”

you hug him from behind and rest your chin on his shoulder. he doesn’t flinch, just leans into it with a sigh.

“maybe i’m not good enough anymore,” he mumbles. “maybe they’re right.”

you turn him around gently. “you are good enough. more than enough. stop speaking to yourself like that.”

he blinks fast like he’s trying not to cry, then rests his forehead against yours.

“i just… hate letting you down. even if you say you’re not disappointed.”

you guide him to bed, tug off his hoodie, pull the sheets over both of you. he curls into you instantly like a kid.

“you’re the only part of the day that feels good,” he whispers against your skin.

then, quietly, a little mischievously, “maybe we can end it with something else that feels good?”

you laugh into his hair. “if you’re asking me to kiss it better, just say that.”

“i am. in a poetic way.”

lewis hamilton

he doesn’t storm in. he’s not loud. he just walks through the door a little slower, like the weight of the day is still sitting on his shoulders.

takes his time taking off his shoes, hangs up his coat carefully—like staying in control might keep the emotions at bay.

sits on the edge of the couch with his hands clasped between his knees, eyes distant. “you ever give everything and still feel like it’s not enough?”

you sit beside him without saying a word, letting him talk when he’s ready.

“i don’t mind the criticism. i’ve been through worse. but sometimes it’s like… no one lets you just be human anymore.”

he looks at you with tired eyes, soft but heavy. “i’m not asking to win all the time. i just want to feel like i did something right.”

you lace your fingers with his and lean your head against his shoulder. “you do so much right. more than most ever could.”

he hums low in his chest, squeezes your hand. “you always know what to say.”

eventually pulls you into his lap, buries his face in the crook of your neck like he’s finally letting himself rest.

“just stay close tonight,” he whispers, kissing your shoulder. “you’re the one thing that still feels steady.”

“you’re the one thing that feels like peace.”

ʚ・mclaren

lando norris

kicks his shoes off a little too aggressively when he gets home. “don’t ask,” he mutters before you even say hi.

slumps on the couch, arms crossed, hoodie up, eyes on the ceiling. “today was great. crashed my hopes, ran over my self-esteem, 10/10.”

you offer to talk and he just grumbles, “nope. don’t wanna. gonna repress it. very healthy coping strategy.”

pretends he's fine, scrolls on his phone like he’s not one second away from crumbling. keeps sighing dramatically every five minutes for attention.

refuses to cuddle at first. “i’m mad at the world. leave me in my hoodie cave.” but then two seconds later: “okay but like… you can sit near me. just not touching. but like… close.”

eventually ends up curled into your side, face hidden in your neck. mumbles, “today sucked. i sucked. everything sucked.”

you stroke his hair and he softens immediately. “you don’t suck. you’re just tired. burnt out. you need rest, not punishment.”

“you’re being all soft and wise, it’s disgusting,” he grumbles—but his hand’s gripping your shirt like you might float away.

you kiss his temple. “still want me to leave you in your hoodie cave?”

he pulls the blanket over both of you and whispers, “shut up. you live here now.”

oscar piastri

walks into the room and doesn’t say much. just nods once, drops his bag, and disappears into the bathroom.

you hear the water running—ice cold. he always showers when he’s overwhelmed. said it helps him “reset.”

when he comes out, hair wet, hoodie half-zipped, eyes tired—he looks a little more like himself again. still quiet. still distant. but thawing.

sits next to you on the bed without saying anything, just slowly reaches for your hand and starts tracing circles on your palm.

“i didn’t know how to talk about it without getting angry,” he admits softly. “so i didn’t.”

you nod and lean your head on his shoulder. “you don’t need to explain everything right away. i’ll wait.”

he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “thanks for not pushing me. i just… hate not being enough.”

turns to you with red-tinted eyes. “it’s stupid. it’s just racing. but when it goes wrong, it feels like i’m failing you too.”

you hold his face and say, “you never have to earn being loved. not from me.”

he presses his forehead to yours and whispers, “can i just stay here with you for a while?”

then, a small smile. “also i might’ve left my sanity in the ice bath, but at least you’re here.”

ʚ・aston martin

fernando alonso

he comes home calm, like always. keys on the counter, jacket folded neatly. but there’s a tightness in his smile when he kisses your cheek.

“today was… different,” he says. not dramatic, not upset. just honest. “did everything right. still fell short.”

you know when it hits him—it’s in the way he lingers at the window, watching the sky like it has answers.

“some days you feel time catching up with you,” he says quietly. “not just in racing. in everything.”

he doesn’t need you to fix it. he doesn’t even need a pep talk. just presence.

you sit beside him on the couch, thigh to thigh, and rest your hand on his. he doesn’t speak for a while.

then, softly, “i think it just hurts more when you still want it this badly.”

you turn to face him. “it’s not weakness to want. it means you’re still alive in it.”

he smiles a little, shakes his head. “you’re too poetic for me.” but he leans in, rests his head against yours anyway.

“you help me breathe on days like this,” he murmurs. “even if i don’t say it.”

then after a pause, he smirks. “also… i might require some very specific stress relief later. for mental health reasons.”

you laugh. “is that what we’re calling it now?”

“doctor’s orders.”

lance stroll

walks in without a word, drops his stuff, and immediately faceplants onto the bed—fully dressed, shoes still on.

groans into the mattress. “everything sucks. i suck. the car sucks. media sucks. people suck.”

doesn’t want to talk at first, just grunts when you ask if he’s hungry. “no. actually, yes. but i don’t wanna move.”

you bring him snacks and he eats them off your plate like a sleepy gremlin, mumbling, “you’re the only good thing today.”

flops his head into your lap and finally breathes properly for the first time all day. “i hate how drained i get. everyone wants something. i just wanna be here.”

you run your fingers through his hair and he closes his eyes, murmuring, “i think i used my entire personality quota at the track.”

“can we just stay in here forever? like… disappear? change our names? move to a mountain town?”

you smile and nod. “sure. i’ll pack the stuff.”

he grins sleepily, then pulls your hand to his chest. “you make everything feel less loud.”

then, quietly: “you’re my safe place.”

five minutes later, fully under the blanket, eyes half-closed: “also. i’d like to make out now. for comfort purposes.”

ʚ・williams

alex albon

walks in already scrolling tiktok, earbuds in, nodding like he’s totally unbothered.

plops onto the couch, legs across your lap, and shows you cat videos like he didn’t just get roasted by strategy and a five-place penalty.

laughs too loud at dumb memes. “this is healing. this is therapy.”

you let him vibe, let him chill, until you see that slight pause mid-scroll. his thumb hovers. brows knit. he doesn’t show you this one.

“people are brutal today,” he mutters, still staring at the screen. “like… i know i joke about it, but sometimes i wonder if they’re actually right.”

you take his phone gently, set it down, and crawl into his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck. “hey. you know they’re not.”

he exhales slowly, voice quieter now. “i wish it didn’t get to me, but some days it does. just a little more than i’d like to admit.”

you press your forehead to his. “you don’t have to be funny about everything. you’re allowed to feel it too.”

he nods, lips pressed together. then, soft as ever: “can you just… hold me for a bit? like properly?”

“always,” you whisper. and he lets himself be still. no jokes. just you.

carlos sainz

he comes in with that tired-but-trying smile, tossing his bag down gently like even that feels heavy.

“it wasn’t… great. but i learned something. that’s always the takeaway, no?” he says, already slipping off his jacket.

he talks himself through it out loud, mostly to you but partly to himself. “maybe i pushed too hard. maybe the strategy wasn’t perfect. but i didn’t give up. that matters.”

you nod and hum and let him vent until he runs out of words and just stares at the wall in thoughtful silence.

“can i have a hug now?” he asks suddenly, already walking over like he knows the answer.

wraps his arms around your waist and buries his face in your shoulder. “you’re the only place i feel like i can breathe after a day like this.”

you guide him to the couch and he pulls you into his lap, burying his face into your neck like it recharges him.

“even if i’m okay… i still need this. i think everyone does, sometimes.”

he starts to drift off mid-cuddle, fingers tracing your spine lazily, voice getting slower.

“i should just speak spanish. english is too much work when i’m tired,” he mumbles against your skin.

then whispers, “gracias por amarme incluso cuando me siento roto.” (thank you for loving me even when i feel broken.)

you press a kiss to his forehead. “always.”

“te juro que voy a mejorar. para ti. para mí.” (i swear i’m going to get better. for you. for me.)

ʚ・haas

ollie bearman

bursts into the room like he just won the race. “alright! that was a trainwreck. who wants to start the post-race roast?”

keeps making jokes like, “honestly, i think i invented new ways to mess up today. f1 history books: written by me.”

you raise an eyebrow and say nothing, just letting him go off while he rants about strategy, traffic, “and my stupid left foot that forgot how to brake.”

finally crashes onto the couch, staring at the ceiling with a dramatic sigh. “do you think i peaked at 17?”

you crawl into his lap and cup his face gently. “no. i think you haven’t even scratched the surface of what you’re capable of.”

he blinks up at you, smile faltering for just a second. “yeah? even after… whatever that was today?”

“especially after that,” you say, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “you care. you fight for it. that’s what makes you special.”

he exhales, the tension leaving his body all at once as he buries his face in your chest. “okay, now i’m gonna cry like a little baby, hope you’re ready.”

you kiss the top of his head. “already holding you. already proud.”

he peeks up with a grin. “can you say that again but like, with sparkles and dramatic background music?”

you laugh. “ollie bearman, you are a legend in the making.”

“that’s the energy. now kiss me before i start doing self-deprecating tiktoks.”

esteban ocon

comes home calm, too calm, like he’s holding everything in with white knuckles and discipline.

doesn’t speak until he’s showered, changed, and had a full 20 minutes of silence. then sits beside you and says softly, “he was better today. i saw it.”

you know he means another driver—someone younger, someone faster today—and you can hear the frustration in his restraint.

“maybe i’m not doing enough,” he mutters, barely above a whisper. “maybe i’m the weak point.”

you try to stop him, but he just shakes his head. “i’m not fishing. i just… feel it. and i hate it.”

he’s not angry. he’s just disappointed in himself. his brows stay pinched even when you’re stroking his hand.

“i’m scared that if i don’t prove it now, no one will believe in me later.”

you climb into his lap and hold his face gently, forcing him to look you in the eye. “you don’t need to prove anything to be worthy of love. or respect.”

he leans into your touch, eyes closed. “i want to believe that. i do.”

you kiss his cheek. “then start here. start with me. i’ve always believed in you.”

he lets out a shaky breath and whispers, “merci…” then rests his forehead against yours like he’s anchoring himself back to solid ground.

ʚ・racing bulls

liam lawson

walks in tossing his hat onto the kitchen counter and mutters, “well that was a steaming pile of absolute crap.”

jokes about it in that dry way. “should’ve just driven a shopping trolley. might’ve gotten better results.”

he’s pacing while he talks, voice calm but clipped. “not even mad at anyone specifically. just… the whole bloody universe.”

you lean on the doorframe, arms crossed. “want me to fight the universe?”

he smirks, shaking his head. “nah. that’s my job. but i appreciate the backup.”

doesn’t take it out on you at all—in fact, he’s more affectionate. keeps reaching for your hand while he vents.

“i know it’s just one race. i do. but it builds up, y’know? starts to feel like you’re yelling into a void and it’s all echo.”

you guide him to the couch and let him rest his head in your lap. “you’re allowed to yell. i’ll hear it. even if the world doesn’t.”

he sighs and looks up at you with that soft, slightly crooked smile. “you’re dangerously good at this, you know that?” “at what?”

“loving me out of a bad mood.”

then he tilts his head and adds, completely casual, “might need a little… extra cheering up later though.”

you roll your eyes. “that what you’re calling it now?”

he grins. “what can i say? i’m a man of simple needs.”

isack hadjar

bursts through the door like a tornado. “I AM RETIRING. I’M QUITTING. I’M GOING TO OPEN A BAKERY. OR JOIN A CULT. SOMETHING PEACEFUL.”

flings his bag across the room, misses the couch, and nearly knocks over a lamp. doesn’t even blink.

“do you know how humiliating it is to be passed like that? i was driving my heart out and the car was like, ‘no...NOPE..NOOOO.’”

keeps fake-dramatizing it like a one-man soap opera. “isack hadjar: the fall from grace – coming soon to a streaming platform near you.”

you play along for a bit until he finally plops onto the floor at your feet and just… sits. quietly.

“i was actually trying today,” he mumbles, not looking at you. “like properly trying. and it still went to shit.”

you sit down beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and he leans into you slowly like he’s deflating.

“sometimes i feel like people are just waiting for me to fail so they can say they knew it.”

you turn to him gently. “they’re not. and even if they were… you’ve already proven them wrong just by showing up the way you do.”

he rests his head on your shoulder with a sigh. “you’re annoyingly good at this whole ‘being nice to me’ thing.”

you grin. “want me to stop?”

“no,” he mutters, snuggling closer. “never. might need it tattooed on me actually. in comic sans.”

ʚ・alpine

pierre gasly

slams the door just a little too hard. doesn't say anything at first—just kicks off his shoes, throws his phone on the table, and heads straight to the kitchen for water like it personally wronged him.

“they don’t listen. doesn’t matter what i say. it’s like talking to a fucking wall,” he mutters, pacing like he’s ready to punch a pillow.

you try to say something gentle and he snaps a little too fast—“i’m fine, okay?” but it’s not sharp. it’s exhausted.

he keeps moving around the room, hands on his hips, jaw clenched. “maybe i should stop caring. maybe that’s the trick.”

you don’t respond—you just walk over and wrap your arms around him from behind. he tenses for half a second. then sighs.

“you always do that,” he mumbles, not pulling away. “just… hug me until i stop being mad.”

you press your cheek to his back. “because i know you’re not really mad. you’re tired. and hurt.”

he turns around and buries his face in your neck like it’s the only safe place he knows. “i hate that they make me feel like this. like i’m not enough.”

you kiss his hair. “you are. always have been.”

he holds you tighter, breath shaky. “i don’t say it enough, but… i need you. especially on days like this.”

then, muffled: “also if you kiss me again i’ll probably forget what i was mad about. just sayin’.”

jack doohan

in front of the team? stone-faced. cool. collected. “yeah, not the best day. we’ll move on. it’s fine.”

comes home? immediately sighs the second the door closes. rests his forehead against the wall for a solid ten seconds before moving.

tries to act chill around you too. “it’s just one of those days. happens. i’m fine.”

he is not fine. but he’s doing that thing where he says he’s okay while avoiding eye contact and changing the subject every 3.2 seconds.

“you hungry?” he asks, even though he’s barely eaten since breakfast. “we could order something. or not. i don’t care.”

you eventually pull him onto the couch, and he lets himself flop next to you, arms crossed like a sulky cat.

he won’t say it outright, but his knee is bouncing, his fingers are twitching, and he keeps glancing at you like he wants permission to crack.

“i just hate looking like i don’t belong here,” he finally mumbles, voice low. “like i’ve got something to prove every second.”

you crawl into his lap and cup his jaw, making him look at you. “you belong. you’re not failing. you’re learning. that’s what makes you good.”

his lips part like he wants to argue, but then he just exhales and wraps his arms around you like you’re the only thing holding him up.

“it’s stupid,” he whispers. “i didn’t want to need comfort today. but here i am.”

you smile. “i don’t mind. i like being the person you let your guard down with.”

he looks at you with soft eyes and the tiniest grin. “well… if i’m already emotionally vulnerable and pathetic… might as well make out about it?”

you snort and walk away, not expecting anything. max doesn’t do sweet, right? not like that.

but a few minutes later, you find the orange sitting on the counter, peeled perfectly — skin discarded, slices arranged in a neat spiral.

you eye him across the room, arms folded. “did you peel this?” he shrugs without looking up from his phone. “was bored.”

you know better. max verstappen doesn’t get bored. he gets intentional.

the next day, he grabs one for himself — and another for you. doesn’t say a word. just peels both and hands one over like it’s routine.

when you try to thank him, he waves it off. “don’t get soft on me now.”

but when he catches you smiling, he smirks.

because of course he peeled it. of course he cares.

he just needs you to understand that his love isn’t loud — it’s in the quiet things. like protecting you from citrus juice and acting like it means nothing.

ʚ・lewis hamilton

you barely get the words out, “can you peel this for me?”

and lewis is already taking the orange from your hand.

“no problem, babe.”

he sits beside you, cross-legged on the couch, and starts peeling it with careful fingers, chatting about his day while he removes the white pith piece by piece.

then he gets up, walks to the kitchen, and returns with it sliced.

“i thought we’d elevate the citrus experience.”

you stare at him, wide-eyed. “lewis, it’s an orange.”

“exactly,” he grins. “you deserve your fruit with style.”

he kisses your forehead, then curls up beside you as if he didn’t just turn a tiktok test into an act of service so soft it made your heart melt.

he never calls attention to it, but he always peels your oranges after that. leaves them in little containers when you’re busy. packs them in your bag before flights.

you never have to ask again. and you know why.

because lewis isn’t just your boyfriend — he’s the kind of person who peels oranges like he’s caring for your soul.

ʚ・george russell

george blinks down at the orange you placed in his lap like it’s a bomb. “…you want me to peel this?”

“yup,” you grin. “no knife allowed.”

he stares at it, then at you. “this is a trick, isn’t it?”

“nope. just love language stuff.”

he huffs but you can see the gears turning. within two minutes, he’s looked up the most efficient orange peeling methods on his phone and begins carefully creating what can only be described as citrus origami.

“george, you’re taking this too seriously.”

“incorrect. i’m taking you seriously.”

he finishes with a perfectly spiraled peel, hands you the orange like a gift, and raises his brows. “well? did i pass your little test?”

you bite into a slice and nod, stunned. “you aced it. definitely best in class.”

he beams and mutters something about how he’d like that on the record.

you find out later that he’s now obsessed with fruit prep. pineapples. mangoes. grapefruits. the works.

all because you handed him a single orange.

and george russell doesn’t do anything halfway, especially not love.

ʚ・carlos sainz

you hand carlos an orange and say, “can you peel this for me?”

he blinks. “are your hands broken?”

you give him a look. he gives you one back.

he sighs. “you’re doing one of your tiktok psychology things again, aren’t you?”

you say nothing. just smile sweetly and leave the room.

a few minutes later, you hear him mumbling in spanish, something like “why do i always fall for this nonsense…”

but sure enough, the orange is peeled. slices separated. a napkin even folded beside it.

you grin. “i knew you loved me.”

he points a finger. “i only did it because i didn’t want you making a mess.”

“sure,” you say, popping a slice in your mouth. “that’s the reason.”

the next day, you find two oranges in your lunch bag. peeled. packed. one labeled “for mi amor” with a heart.

carlos acts like he has no idea how they got there.

but when you thank him with a kiss on the cheek, he just hums and goes, “well… i do spoil you.”

and you both know the truth: he always will.

ʚ・charles leclerc

when you ask charles to peel an orange for you, he doesn’t even blink. “okay.”

you expected teasing. maybe a confused “why?” or at least a sarcastic comment.

but no, he just quietly takes it and starts peeling like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

halfway through, he looks up. “…wait. is this a test?”

you nearly choke laughing.

“oh my god. it’s one of those tiktoks, isn’t it?”

you nod. “so? did you pass?”

he pauses, holding out the perfectly peeled fruit. “i mean… it’s in one piece. that’s worth at least a b+.”

you take a slice and smile. “a+ for effort.”

charles keeps stealing glances at you the rest of the day.

that night, he casually places another peeled orange on your nightstand before bed.

no words. just soft fingers brushing yours as he hands it over.

and in the quiet, you realize this man would do anything for you.

even pass little love tests without realizing he was taking them.

ʚ・lando norris

“peel it yourself,” lando says immediately when you hand him the orange.

you pout. “fine. i just thought you loved me.”

he groans like you just kicked his puppy. “oh come on.”

you walk away.

ten minutes later, you hear him cursing softly in the kitchen.

“why is this so hard?! this peel is evil.”

he returns with a mangled, chaotic-looking orange and dramatically sets it in front of you.

“it’s done. don’t say i never do anything for you.”

you try to bite into a slice and get hit with the bitterness of leftover peel.

“you suck at this,” you laugh.

he grins and kisses your temple. “yeah, but i tried. and that counts.”

the next day, he hands you a pre-peeled orange in a ziploc bag like he’s been training for it.

he also printed a label that says “from your emotionally available boyfriend.”

progress.

ʚ・oscar piastri

when you hand oscar an orange and ask him to peel it, he gives you the driest look imaginable. “…why?”

“just do it,” you say, kicking your feet on the couch. “please?”

he doesn’t ask questions. just takes the orange and gets to work.

two minutes later, he hands it back, peeled clean, slices stacked neatly like a pinterest tutorial.

you raise a brow. “…that was suspiciously fast.”

he shrugs. “it’s not that hard.”

“you didn’t even ask why i wanted it peeled.”

“didn’t need to. you wanted it, i did it. simple.”

your heart actually stumbles.

later that night, he places another orange in your hands, already peeled, in a container, lid snapped on.

he doesn’t say anything. just walks off like it’s no big deal.

but you’re left there holding the container like he just proposed.

because when oscar piastri quietly decides to care about you he really means it.

there’s a single rose on your desk - a pretty swirl of soft pink petals that still has that faint sweet smell. 

it sits neatly on your stack of graded addition-papers, right atop aurelia's perfect-score paper. 

at first, you had thought that it was from one of you adventurous first-graders, jack or tina, who had climbed up onto the rose-bush hills and plucked a single flower to put on your desk. it wasn’t rare, of course, for your students to give you gifts. (you still had that rock that your student from a few years ago, logan, had given to you on your desk)

you had even asked your class, standing in front of all of them with the roses in hand, asking who had picked them.

they had all shared that devious look only first-graders could make, covering their giggly mouths with a hand, and refused to elaborate. 

only gabriel, or bubbles, as many called him, had raised his hand and said, ”it wasn’t us because i saw someone down the hall come in with a flower for you,” before isack, who sat next to him on the colored square carpet, slapped his glue covered hand in front of gabriel’s mouth and announced, “no, we didn’t see anything, missus teacher.”

weird. 

a white rose sits on your desk today, its pure petals almost glowing from the sunlight filtering through your window. 

you poke at it, as if it could just magically reveal who had placed it there. you even consider sniffing it really hard in a moment of desperation, as if the scent of the giver would somehow be there. 

however, the pitter-patter of sparkly flats and light-up shoes squeak through the hallway, accompanied by the loud chatter of your first grade students stop you from performing such a stupid-sounding act. 

they’re obviously not supposed to be inside where you are, sorting their coloring worksheets, but rather supposed to be outside on the play-yard with the rest of the first graders. of course, when have 1st graders ever listen to adults, anyways?

the scuffling of several pairs of shoes stop in front of your closed door. 

ollie’s voice drift through the cracks of the door first.

“you open the door,” he says in a whisper-that’s-not-so-quiet.

a second accented voice echoes through. “no you open the door, ollie, you’re the one who wanted to come here first!”

right away, you clock it as ollie’s inseparable best friend, kimi.

a third voice resonates through the classroom through the crack under the door. 

“don’t be a idiot, kimi, you both wanted to come back to the classroom.” 

doriane.

“hey! don’t be meanie, doriane, that is a bad word!”

”well, you and kimi both have cooties, anyways.”

the sound of someone bursting into tears. 

at that point, you shoot out of your chair, leaving the rose atop a quite frankly, badly colored picture of a dinosaur. 

slowly, you open your classroom door to find doriane and maya standing with their arms crossed, facing an angry-looking kimi who was holding up a bawling ollie.

”what’s going on here, guys?” you ask, crouching down to look them in the eyes. “why did you guys come back into the classroom when you guys should be out in the play-yard with your friends?”

ollie wipes the tears from his big brown eyes with the back of his hand before shooting forward, out of kimi’s grip. 

“i just wanted to tell you, that me, and maya, and kimi, and doriane were playing tag- and guess what!” 

“what,” you respond, just to appease him. 

“we heard- “ he looks around nervously- “that the teacher from room 33 down the hall called you gor- gor-“

”gor-jus!” maya interjects helpfully. 

kimi and doriane nod aggressively. 

“did he?” you respond slowly. “that’s very interesting, guys, thanks for telling me that. now go run along back to the playground, because you guys still have five minutes of recess left, okay?”

they beam, and echo you’re welcomes before scurrying back down the hall.

hmm.

a yellow rose sits on your desk this time, thornless, but with a single spiky leaf on its stem. it fits in the pot real nicely with the other two roses, even though they are different colors. 

you almost zone out looking at the flowers, before you feel a little hand grasping your shirt and pulling. 

jack stands next to you with a piece of paper and a shy smile. 

quickly snapping out of your trance, you scoot closer towards him on your wheely chair and lean forwards him. 

“hiya jack,” you say, encouraging him to speak up. “did you want to show me something?”

”yeah,” he says simply, before turning his paper around. 

it’s…something. 

“wow, that’s very nice, jack,” you respond, trying to decipher and piece together exactly what the five big pink and blue squares, two circles, and random black scribble on the side were supposed to mean. 

“it’s a car,” he states matter-of-factly. “it’s ‘cause i want to be a race-car driver when i gr-“

before he can finish his sentence, bianca runs up behind him like a secret-agent before shoving him out of the way. 

“hey, i want to show missus teacher my paper,” she snaps.

almost immediately, you leap up to catch jack before he stumbles and falls head-first into the trash can placed  next to your desk. 

“bianca,” you chastise. “we do not push, we wait our turn, okay?” 

she frowns, whispering a quick ‘sorry’ to jack. 

“that’s o-k,” jack says, smiling kindly, before walking away to show somebody his abstract shapes/car drawing. 

bianca shoves her picture in your lap the moment you sit back down.

it’s beautifully drawn, and you would definitely paste it on your “artist superstar” board in the corner of your classroom, except for the fact that there was two figures, one clearly with a rose in its hand, embracing another figure with a blue shirt and yellow-crayon colored hair. 

“that’s you,” she explains, pointing to the figure with the red rose. “and that,” she says, pointing to the mysterious other figure, “is your secret friend that likes you.” 

“oh!” you respond. 

right, okay. 

a velvet red rose shows up on your desk half-way through the next day. it’s in perfect bloom, petals opening to a perfect rounded shape. 

as pretty as it is, you almost forget about it, only because of the fact that your class was being well-behaved, unlike normal.

they actually listen as they sit quietly on their own little carpet squares, whiteboards in hand, as you begin your lesson on the three properties of matter at the front of the classroom.

it doesn’t last very long, however. you’re halfway through explaining how ice cubes can go from the solid form to the liquid form, when you start hearing whispering from the back row. 

liam, with, like, twenty goofy little lightening mcqueen stickers stuck all over his shirt, squeals in laughter as he scribbles something on his white-board, causing the kids around him to laugh. 

you sigh, setting down your own marker, before turning back around. time to confiscate whiteboards. 

“liam, please give me your white-board,” you declare as kindly as you can. 

“no!” he screeches stubbornly as he ferociously scribbles something on the board again.

you have to almost snatch the board away from his surprisingly strong grip with excess force.

on it, instead of the water droplet diagram like everyone else, he has drawn a big heart, complete with your initials, a plus sign, and a big fat MV next to it. 

what. 

gathering all the clues together from your students like you were some type of detective, you are certain you know who has been giving you the roses. there was only one person down the hall, in room 33, who always wore a blue shirt with blond-ish hair that had the initials mv. 

you stroll down the hall during recess the next day, when ollie and kimi and jack and all the little troublemakers are outside jumping rope and playing tag.

when you peer into the window of the 1st grade classroom located at the end of the hall, you spot a familiar man sitting in a swirly chair in the corner of the room. aside from you, he was one of the only other 1st grade teachers at the school. you hadn’t really talked to him much- just limited conversations in the teacher break room or quick greetings the hallways.

he’s scrunched over his desk, lamp setting his blonde hair alight into golden strands. the glasses that sit atop his nose slide down his sloped nose, which he quickly corrects by lifting his hand and pushing it back up to its correct position. 

huh. you suppose he was kind of cute. 

max, or mr. v, like all the students call him, jerks rather violently when you stick your head into the doorway his race-car themed classroom and wave a hello. the glasses he wears skew crooked, and the half-open can of redbull that he has on the corner of his desk almost goes flying onto the checkered rug that he has placed on the floor.

“oh, i’m so sorry, max, didn’t mean to scare you there!” you apologize, watching as he snatches the silver and blue can with lightning fast reflexes before shoving it haphazardly behind a stack of ungraded papers. 

“no, no, you’re okay,” he says much too quickly, fixing his glasses. “i was, just, you know, sitting around, um, here.” 

there’s a slight lisp to his voice that you hadn’t noticed before. it curls around you in a surprising yet comforting way. you kinda liked it. 

”right,” you affirm. “well, i hope you don’t mind me interrupting your, er, sitting around time, but i’ve been receiving this kind gift from a certain someone and i was wondering if you could help me find them.”

you reveal the small bouquet of multicolored flowers from behind you, tied neatly with a piece of ribbon from your supply bin. 

max’s eyes widen just a fraction behind his square-framed glasses. his cheeks flush a pretty pink. 

“oh!” he stutters out. “i-i-wouldn’t really know anything about that, um i don’t think.” 

max scratches at his neck awkwardly. 

you laugh. 

”max, i know it’s you. somehow, my 1st graders picked up on it before me, which is kind of crazy, but they kind of snitched on you.”

he turns even redder. 

“i’m sorry,” he blurts out. “i hope it’s not weird- it’s just that i think i really like you, and that my friend charles suggested i give you a gift sometime, but i keep getting caught up in the classroom but also get too scared to give you the flowers and i thought-“

“-max,” you say, cutting him off. “it’s okay, i don’t mind at all- i thought it was really sweet. i haven’t had a chance to know you very well, but i’d love to know you better. we can do my house, this weekend? i’d really like some tips on how to deal with rowdy 1st graders!”

you add in a reassuring smile.

”yes!” he snaps as soon you finish talking. “wait, sorry, i meant um, i would love to,” he quickly adds.

”great!” you beam. ”it’s a date then!”

he smiles shyly at you. 

“it’s a da-“

a sudden screech cuts off max halfway, leading the both of you to turn towards the doorway. 

somehow, ollie, kimi, doriane, and maya have snuck inside again. they stand there, wide-eyed, at the scene.

doriane points an accusing finger at you.  “ewww!!!!” she yells at the top of her lungs. “that’s disgusting! you’re going on a date with a boy! he’s gonna give you cooties!”

there was an apartment directly opposite you but the only thing you really noticed about your next door neighbor was that he kept to himself. big guy, always in dark clothes, always looked like he had something heavy on his mind. you met him officially a few days in. you’d just come back from a grocery run, bags balanced on your arms, fumbling for your keys when your grip slipped. a can rolled out, bouncing against the hallway floor.

before you could grab it, a hand - scarred, rough - scooped it up.

"here," he said, voice deep, like he wasn’t used to speaking much.

you blinked up at him. up, because he was tall, broad, with dark hair and tired eyes.

"thanks," you said with a smile, taking the can back. "you live next door, right?"

he hesitated, then nodded.

"i’m frank."

"nice to meet you, frank. i’m y/n." you told him your name, shifting the weight of your bags. "i’d shake your hand, but, well - " you lifted an elbow, gesturing to your full arms.

the corner of his mouth twitched, almost like a smile. almost.

"need help?"

"i got it, but thanks," you said, bumping your hip against your door to nudge it open. "see you around?"

he gave another small nod before heading into his own place.

it became routine after that. you’d pass him in the hall, offer a smile, and sometimes he’d give a quiet "hey" back. not much, but enough that you figured he was just the reserved type.

then one night, you made too much food. way too much.

you’d been testing a new recipe, caught up in the process, and suddenly you had enough to feed four people. maybe five. you thought about saving it for later, but then you remembered frank.

he lived alone, right? maybe he’d appreciate a home-cooked meal.

before you could second-guess yourself, you packed up a container, grabbed a fork, and stepped into the hall. you knocked once, then again.

there was a long pause before the door opened. frank stood there, looking at you like he wasn’t sure what to do with the sight of you standing there with a tupperware in your hands.

"hey," you said brightly. "i made too much food. thought you might want some?"

his brows pulled together, like no one had ever done this for him in a long while.

"you didn’t have to do that," he said gruffly, but he didn’t close the door.

"i know," you said. "but it’s way too much for me, and i hate wasting food." you said sheepishly.

he looked at the container, then back at you.

"yeah," he said finally, taking it. "thanks."

you beamed. "no problem.”

he shut the door, and you went back to your place, not expecting much from it. but the next evening, when you came home, you saw the container left outside your door. clean. like he’d made sure to wash it before giving it back.

it kept happening.

at first, it was just every now and then. when you had too much pasta, too many leftovers from trying a new dish. but soon, it turned into a bit of a habit.

every couple of nights, you’d knock on frank’s door, offer him whatever you’d made, and he’d take it. at first, he still looked a little suspicious of the whole thing, but eventually, he stopped hesitating before accepting.

he never outright asked for it, never said much about it, but you started noticing little things.

like how his door would open a little quicker each time you knocked. like how, if you were even five minutes later than usual, you could sometimes hear movement from inside - like he’d been waiting.

and then, one night, when you handed him a container, he cleared his throat.

"you, uh… you don’t gotta keep doin’ this," he said, voice low, almost hesitant.

"i want to," you said simply.

he looked at you for a long moment.

then, so soft you almost didn’t hear it - 

"it’s good. the food."

your chest warmed. "yeah?"

he gave a single nod.

you grinned. "i’ll take that as a compliment."

he shook his head, but there was something almost fond in his expression.

"yeah," he murmured. "suppose you should."

the next time you knocked on frank’s door, he opened it almost immediately, like he’d been standing right by it. there was something different in his expression this time - not the usual hesitance, not the same unreadable look. he seemed like he had something on his mind, but for a moment, he just stood there, glancing between you and the container in your hands.

“you eaten yet?” he asked, voice rough, almost like he wasn’t sure he should be saying the words.

it took you a second to process that. you blinked up at him. “oh - no, not yet.”

he shifted his weight, looking at the container, then back at you. “stay. eat with me.”

you hadn’t expected that. he never let on that he wanted more than the quick exchanges at the door, never made you think he’d want company. but now, he was standing there, offering something more than just a quiet ‘thanks.’

you smiled. “yeah. i’d like that.”

he stepped back, letting you in, and you got your first real look at his apartment. it was neat, but sparse. like he didn’t keep much around unless it had a purpose. the table had some mail stacked on it, a few books, nothing personal. the couch looked barely used. the kitchen was well-kept but plain - functional, not homey.

“you cook much?” you asked, setting the container down as he grabbed a couple of plates.

“sometimes,” he said, grabbing utensils. “nothin’ fancy. just enough to get by.”

you hummed, opening the container and splitting the food between the plates. “that explains why you keep taking my leftovers.”

he let out a quiet huff - almost a laugh, but not quite. “yeah. guess so.”

you sat across from each other at the small table. he was quiet as he took the first bite, but you watched the way his shoulders eased, just a little, like he was letting himself enjoy it.

“good?” you asked.

he nodded, chewing before answering. “real good.”

you smiled, taking a bite yourself. for a moment, there was only the quiet sound of utensils against plates. but it wasn’t awkward. it felt easy. comfortable. like you’d been doing this for longer than just tonight.

“so,” you said, leaning forward a little, “what do you do? when you’re not accepting free meals from me.”

he smirked slightly, shaking his head. “not much worth talkin’ about.”

“come on,” you nudged. “humor me.”

he sighed, setting his fork down for a moment. “used to be in the marines. now… just work with my hands. fixing things. keeping busy.”

you tilted your head. “is that why you look so serious all the time?”

his brows lifted slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to just say it outright. then he shook his head again, looking down at his plate. “guess so.”

“you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” you said, voice softer now.

he glanced up at you. “yeah. i know.”

you didn’t push, didn’t ask anything else. instead, you let the conversation shift, let things settle into something lighter. you told him about your classes, about finishing uni and not knowing exactly what came next. he listened, really listened, like he wasn’t just being polite, like he actually cared.

somewhere in the middle of it, you noticed he was looking at you differently. not in a way that made you uneasy, but in a way that made your stomach flip. like he wasn’t used to this - someone sitting across from him, talking, laughing, sharing a meal. like he wasn’t sure how he’d gotten here, but he didn’t want it to end.

the food disappeared faster than you thought it would. when your plate was empty, you sat back with a content sigh. “okay. you’re definitely letting me cook for you again.”

his lips twitched, a ghost of a smirk. “that right?”

“yep.” you leaned on the table. “i mean, unless you didn’t like it.”

he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “nah. wasn’t that.”

“good.” you grinned. “then it’s settled.”

he didn’t argue. didn’t brush it off. just looked at you, something warm and unreadable in his dark eyes. something that made your breath catch for just a second.

“yeah,” he said, voice quiet. “guess it is.”

ᰔ frank castle : @stvr-dust, @uncertified-doc, @erospecies, @seasonofthenerd, @the-dixon-effect

Years of study, years of forcing your brain to absorb all the knowledge that had been spreaded out on the table in front of you.

That's what it takes for you to enter Piltover Academy. Complete agony and exhaustion behind that smile of yours. Though, it's worth it, right? Being accepted into the university you've longed for in the past years, hell, maybe even decades.

Hundreds of pearly whites were shown to you as you entered the building, the smell of different kinds of... rich fragrance hitting your nostrils. You held back every muscle in your face to not scrunch up in disgust. Your gaze shifted away from the people and onto the edifice. The building itself had greatly structured walls and ceilings. That's one thing to admire, at least. Statues were placed here and there, being the center of attention in the crowd forming around you, but that's not enough to shake off the annoyance building up on your shoulders.

A familiar, grand voice spoke up as the whole building abruptly went quiet. Your movements halted, taken aback by the sudden loss of commotion. More and more people gathered around the center of the room and, out of fear of missing out, you squeezed into the suffocating crowd. There stood the golden boy of Piltover on the stage.

“Good evening people of the future,” Jayce greeted, voice filled with warmth and determination. “Hope everyone's doin' alright.”

He cleared his throat, placing the papers on the podium as the crowd cheered loudly. You, too, clapped for him.

“Right,” he paused for a moment as the crowd's cheers died down. “It's been... a while, ever since the invention of Hextech. Since then, the glorious city of Piltover has been working its way to a brighter, easier future.”

A small bead of sweat slid down his forehead, “I was a nobody— my family used to create hammers that are probably used to make the stage I'm on. You see that?”

He pointed to the Hextech building that could be seen through the skylight of the University. The audience paused, taking their time as they listened to his speech. Your gaze shifted from him to the building, your heart thumping against your chest— for what? You don't know exactly.

“Hextech couldn't have done it without you all,” Jayce spoke. “And, I, as the Hextech inventor, will keep fighting for a brighter future. For our brighter future!”

And the crowd roared as he spoke his finishing line, a cheeky smile tugging onto the corner of his lips as he stepped down from the stage. People gathered around him, asking him all sorts of questions and begging him for his signature or a handshake. You, though, didn't move a single inch from your previous position; having just arrived into the university.

Jayce accepted the attention the crowd was giving him, answering the questions with ease, shaking their hands and writing down his signature on a piece of paper. Your brain seemed to stop working before you snapped out of your trance. You didn't have the desire to talk to him (yes, you do.) After all, he's a busy man with a busy career, what's he got for someone like you? You're fresh out of the oven, still clueless and would ramble away about some kind of nonsense that he wouldn't be interested in. So, you decided to play it safe and made your way through the horde to get to your room.

Jayce smiled awkwardly as more and more people began appearing, causing him to pause or trip over his own words; but he's good. He's good at hiding it all behind his facade. His gaze shifted before abruptly meeting your eyes, noticing the conflict in them. He'd never seen anyone so... ahem, unbothered. Your chocolate-colored eyes, gazing into nothingness while people surrounded him, crushing him with questions and pleas. The whole world seemed to stop spinning as he paused for a moment, taking his time to gaze over you before he was interrupted with another request.

What? Were you not interested in him? Was his speech too straightforward? Or was it too bland?

His thoughts scattered over one another as the amount of people began to gradually decrease, having their feeling of satisfaction after he'd answered every single one of their questions. Eventually, all the chattering from the people died down; and, soon, they're all dismissed.

But it was too late.

You were no longer in his sight and he was left with his own thoughts. Jayce was never good at pushing these doubts away. Making everyone pleased with even the slightest scent of his cologne was his goal, yet, your absence left him with a heavy heart. Fuck, he doesn't even know you... yet.

His eyes were glued onto the spot where you'd stood in the middle of the crowd, his gaze hazy and mind full of thoughts— but he knows better than to cry over spilled milk. He turned on his heels, adjusting his suit before hastily making his way back to the Hextech lab. His hands clenched into fists as he planned his next speech, wishing that you'd be at least slightly impressed by him. Getting to know you was his next step to getting rid of his little-to-no information about you. And, maybe, he'd ask Viktor... if he's even aware of the new visitor in the Piltover Academy.

“Viktor,” Jayce called out to his partner, his voice nearly echoing through the Hextech lab.

Viktor, who took his time turning around, glanced at him over his shoulder before shooting him a look of curiosity. Jayce seemed… conflicted. That made Viktor’s curiosity ignite. One of his eyebrows curled up, waiting for Jayce to continue his sentence. Jayce shut the door behind him, a look of uncertainty washing over his expressions.

“Jayce.” Viktor quipped, his voice low and steady.

Jayce cleared his throat, taking a seat on one of the chairs as he placed his leg over the table. He tried to look casual, he really did, though Viktor was observant enough to notice the beads of sweat sliding down his temple. The silence took over the conversation, creating this unbearable silence before Jayce eventually broke it.

“Quick question, ahem, my partner.” Jayce paused, “did you notice any new… visitors around the University of Piltover? Or, perhaps, around the Hextech building?”

Viktor gave him a look of indifference, clearly taken aback by the sudden question. Though, his gaze eventually fell onto the floor as he pondered the new faces he’d seen today. Quite a lot, Viktor thought to himself. Jayce had his fingers crossed, hoping for any information regarding you, peculiarly.

“New visitors…” Viktor repeated. “There were a lot of new visitors today. But if you have someone in mind— specifying them would help.”

Jayce cleared his throat, murmuring incoherent words as he leaned back against the chair. His brows furrowed, the memories of you seemingly disappearing one by one as soon as someone asks about them.

“Uh, no, well— well yes, actually.” Jayce stumbled over his words, his mind clouded by thoughts.

Viktor tilted his head to the side, finding Jayce's reply amusing to him. Curiosity piqued, and Jayce finally gathered himself.

“They wore glasses, uh… They have brown hair, not too long but not too short, y'know? And..." Jayce trailed off, trying to squeeze the memories out. "Yeah, that's all I remember.”

“Hm…”

“You've got any idea?”

“... No.”

Viktors reply caused Jayce's shoulders to sag. Jayce slumped back against his chair, his gaze falling onto the floor beneath him. Viktor furrowed his brows, taking a few steps closer to him.

“Why?” Viktor asked, curiosity evident in his voice. “Are you interested?”

“What? Pfft, no, nonsense.” Jayce replied, getting his leg off of the desk. “It's just… I don't know, they seemed so uninterested in my speech earlier.”

“Bruised your ego?”

“Hah! You wish,” Jayce retorted, his voice shifting to his usual playful one.

Viktor scoffed softly before turning his back towards Jayce, walking back to his original position as he glanced around the blueprints distributed onto the table. That caught Jayce's attention. He stood up from his chair, making his way to Viktor.

“Still looking at the blueprints?” Jayce murmured, “shouldn't you be sleeping, partner?”

The silence lingered for a moment, Jayce's question falling on deaf ears. Jayce furrowed his brows, his hand reaching up to touch Viktor's shoulder, though, instead, it hovered over him.

“Hey.” Jayce called out once more, causing Viktor to snap himself out of his thoughts.

Jayce's hand soon found Viktor's shoulder, giving him a light squeeze before taking a step front to stand right beside him. Jayce's brows furrowed, eyes filled with concern and care while Viktor stood there silently. Viktor's hand grabbed on the edge of the table, leaning forward onto the table. Soon enough, Viktor turned on his heels once more before walking towards the door.

“I should be sleeping.” Viktor spoke, his voice unfaltering.

Jayce watched silently, brows furrowed and his expression nearly pleading. Viktor took his cane and silently walked out the door.

“Goodbye.” He greeted Jayce as he left the room.

The door closed with a small click, and Jayce was left alone, once again. A small frown tugged into the corner of his lips, causing him to nearly pout. One of his hands made their way to his forehead, rubbing against his temple as he leaned back on the table. He had no reason to be so… worked up today. Did he?

Maybe it wasn’t the best scenario, but this was his only option at the moment. You two were acquainted, meeting last spring when he did some jobs for your family, preparing the pool for summer and what not. The two of you hit it off surprisingly, but John B stopped coming around as quickly as he started. It was slightly disappointing for you, but as you saw it, he probably wasn’t interested in you anyway. If anything, he flirted with you for the tips.

Though there was never an official hello or goodbye between you two. You could either slam the door in his face or not answer at all, maybe you weren’t even home. It was worth a shot in any case.

John B can’t hear footsteps chasing after him anymore, he’s pretty sure he’s lost the guy. But making the assumption that he’s safe is a luxury he can’t afford. With a fisted hand he knocks on the wooden door and rings the doorbell once for good measure.

You swore you were hearing things until the doorbell sounded, leaving you to sigh and place your bookmark between the pages that you just barely started reading. With no patience to check who was behind the door or bother to yell out “Who is it?”, you swung it open.

“John B? What are you doing here?” Your eyebrows furrow in confusion as your eyes land on him, leaning up against your home on an extended arm as he pants to catch his breath. To say this was the last person you expected to see on a random Tuesday afternoon would be an understatement.

“Do you mind if I come in? Please?” He answers breathlessly, golden brown eyes meeting yours with a pleading look.

“Sure, come in.” You open the door wider for him to enter, examining his disheveled appearance. Patches of dirt, grass, and even some blood stains covered his loosened button up, making you wonder what on Earth could have led him to your front doorstep. “Are you… okay?”

John B doesn’t waste time, entering your home and plopping down on the leather sofa with a sigh, running a hand over his face and then through his hair. You were close behind, sitting beside him as you held an expression and feeling of concern. “I could be better.” John B quips, monotone as ever. And by the looks of it, you believe him.

“Can I get you anything? Water? Tea? A Bandaid?” You ramble, his eyes shooting down to his injury once you mention the latter.

“Shit.” John B mumbles to himself, blood now visibly seeping through the thin material of his shirt. “I didn’t realize… I can um- would you mind if I used your bathroom to clean up?”

“No, no. Stay here.” You assure him, fingers grazing over his shoulder to keep him from standing up, afraid that if he does, you’ll have a harder time helping him if he passes out. “I’ll help you.”

You scurry to the kitchen to grab him a bottle of water, twisting open the cap and handing it to him quickly. He takes several gulps like he just ran a marathon, not even bothering to put on the usual manners that are standard here on Figure 8.

“Thank you.” John B acknowledges, his voice less hoarse now that he’s rehydrated.

“Sure.” You respond with a soft smile, standing up and holding your hand out for him to take. “Come with me. We need to get that wound taken care of.”

“Alright.” John B agrees, but then again, he probably would’ve agreed to just about anything right now. His head’s spinning and it doesn’t seem to be slowing down even though his body has.

You lead him to the guest bedroom and gesture for him to sit on the rectangular ottoman at the end of the bed. “One second.” You tell him, before going to retrieve some first aid supplies from the en-suite.

John B looks around at the tastefully decorated room, feeling out of place as everything looks like it’s straight off the cover of an interior design magazine. He doesn’t remember your house being so nice, but then again most of his time working here was spent outside.

Except for when you would purposely, unbeknownst to him, fix lunch around the time he was present, offering him to come inside and eat with you. Just because it was convenient of course, you’d hate to let the food go to waste. He could never resist a good meal anyway.

Your house appeared spotless enough to eat off of any given surface, he’s seen JJ eat off dirtier things. And here he was, feeling like he just rolled around in a pigpen, while resting on a plush couch in your gorgeous home.

“Can you unbutton your shirt for me?”

“If you insist.” He chuckles, earning a look from you. Your eyes widen upon seeing his injury close up. This is the first time John B had the time to examine it, too. He cringes at the sight as it’s a lot worse than he expected. Adrenaline will do that to a person.

“My God, what did you do?”

“How much time do we have? You want the short or the long version?” John B prompts.

“I want the truth, John B. What happened to you?” Your eyes soften with sympathy as they scan his appearance.

He sighs. “Do you remember when I first mentioned my little treasure hunting gig with my friends?” You give him a nod. “Well, we’re not the only ones after it, obviously. There’s another guy and he’s really after us. Dodged so many run-ins with him that he started chasing my ass in the street. I hopped a fence, probably lost him around that point and now I’m here.”

You try your best to make sure your expression doesn’t come off as judgemental to avoid being rude, until your heart softens when he speaks up again. “I didn’t know where else to go. But I thought I’d be safe here.”

“You are safe here.” You smile. “Don’t even worry about it.”

He nods, lips pursing together. “Yeah, I’ll try not to until I have to go outside again.”

You begin dabbing at his injury with a damp washcloth, cleaning up the excess area to find the root. “Whatever you do, try not to die.”

“Trying.” John B murmurs, hissing as the cloth meets the cut on his abdomen. “Maybe it’s time to take a vacation though. We’ve risked a lot.”

You giggle at his contemplations, knowing he doesn’t believe a word that’s coming out of his mouth. “Just don’t get caught. First thing you should do with your treasure money is hire a full security detail.”

“Ehh, there’s no fun in that. I’d rather fight ‘em myself.”

“Of course you would, John B.” You smirk, knowing that once you sterilize his open wound, that tough guy act will vanish.

“Holy sh-!” He shouts, clasping a hand to his mouth, as he bellows in pain. “So, you weren’t even gonna warn me? Just rub salt on it, why don’t you?”

“Oh relax, smartass. It’s better not to warn you.” You shrug, continuing your process despite his uncomfortable squirming and shifting. “The pain’s over before you know it so it’s not anything worth warning you about.”

“Uhm, speak for yourself.” He retorts, exaggeration clear in his tone. “Warn me next time, maybe?”

“Why? So you can be dramatic about it in the same amount of time it could’ve been over and done with? Didn’t know you were such a baby, John B. You seemed pretty tough when you were running from your adversary 30 minutes ago.” He remains silent, figuring that you must know best. It would only take the lightest pressure from the cloth to set his cut on fire again. Talking back wasn’t worth it.

“Mhm. That’s what I thought.” You mutter in victory, gathering the used products and returning them to their original place, tossing the dirty materials. “Would you like to take a shower? I’m sure we have some spare clothes you could wear while I throw yours in the wash. I’d hate for that blood to stain your shirt permanently, it looks good on you.”

He smiles softly at your subtle compliment. “Thanks. But I don’t want to overstay my welcome, you’ve helped me more than enough.”

“So you’ll just drop this off at the dry cleaners on your way home?” You implore rhetorically, asking a question you both know the answer to. “You might as well take advantage of my kindness, John B. I don’t mind, y’know. It’s actually nice to have some company.”

“Alright, if you insist. I’m glad I could keep you company.” He trails off, puzzled at how cleaning him up was your idea of good company. “You think you can get the blood stain out?”

A chuckle escapes your lips unexpectedly at his question. “I can get blood out of pretty much anything.”

“Oh.” John B realizes, a rosy color taking over his cheeks. “Right. That might come in handy again someday.”

“As long as it’s not a murder cleanup, I’m happy to help. By the way, towels and everything should be in the cabinet.” You inform him from the doorframe of the bathroom, both of you sharing quick smiles and nods before you shut the door and leave with his stained button-up tee.

-

John B took longer than expected in the shower, his body going numb under the feeling of the warm water. It was refreshing to have a good shower in the midst of all the chaos in his life. Protected from all of it within these shiny porcelain tiles and the comfort of your home. When he comes out, he can’t help but smile at the fresh set of clothes laid out on the bed, neatly folded in a pile.

He saunters out of the guest bedroom, retracing his steps and following the scent of food into the kitchen. It was hard to remember his way around this place.

“Did you find everything okay?”

“Yeah, I did. Nice home, by the way. I always remembered it from the few jobs I did here. Not that I’ve been inside many of the houses over here but… you know.”

“Thanks. Have my parents' careers to thank for that.” You jest. “They’re never home to enjoy any of it, though. It’s usually just me around here.”

“You’re lucky I’m not scoping out potential burglary spots.” John B cautions. “You probably shouldn’t announce that. There’s some crazy people out there. Believe me.”

“Like you?” You chide with a sarcastic look, earning an eye roll out from him. You offer him the serving spoon to dish his food after you’ve dished some for yourself. “Thanks dad, but I think I’m fine.”

“Just telling you to be safe, Y/n.” John B defends himself, his hands up in surrender. “Don’t wanna see anything bad happen to you.”

“What happened to the whole kooks vs pogues thing? With the way some of these people have treated you, I’d say you deserve to be the one orchestrating robberies.”

“Got bigger fish to fry these days.” He shrugs, picking up some of his food on his fork. “And thanks for the food. Best meal I’ve had maybe ever.”

“Don’t mention it. I’m just saying, that kind of self control is amazing. I don’t know how you do it.”

“I don’t have as much of it as you might think.” He argues. “Standing next to JJ, maybe. Standing next to Pope? Not so much.”

“And you’re humble too? No wonder the kooks hate your guts.”

“You know, you’re not so bad either. I can’t imagine what they’d do to you if they knew how generous you’ve been to me.”

“Doesn’t matter to me.” You shrug. “The less I can be like them, the better.”

–

You both finish eating in a comfortable silence, the sun setting before you have the chance to double check the time.

“So, I’m assuming you’re spending the night…?”

“You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“I’m positive, John B. If I minded, I would’ve kicked you out hours ago.”

He stands beside you at the kitchen sink, helping you wash the dishes. It had been ages since he’d even touched a glass dish, let alone eaten off of one.

“If you insist, Y/n. How can I pass that up?”

You suppress a laugh as he nudges your side. “You can’t. You’re gonna get a good night’s sleep if I have anything to do with it. After the day you’ve had, I’m assuming you could use some sleep. You look tired.”

He cocks an eyebrow, folding his arms over his chest to feign offense. “Do I, now?”

“Mhm.” You hum sleepily in response to his query.

“You look a little tired yourself, Y/n.” He observes jokingly. “But I guess that might have something to do with me. Sorry about dropping by so unexpectedly.”

“Don’t be. I like having someone around, even if you are being chased down by a treasure hunting psycho. You’re actually not that bad.”

“Uh, oh. Hallucinating already? Sounds like it’s time for bed.”

All of a sudden, he sweeps you off of your feet and carries you bridal style into the guest bedroom. You let out a shriek as soon as your heels leave the floor, fingernails digging into his shoulders as you hold on for dear life.

He gently places you on the neat duvet, gaining a sigh of relief from you. Your hand takes its sweet time to trail down his arm, your fingers grazing over his muscles. A lovesick smile pulls at your lips as you stare into John B’s eyes, receiving the same expression back while he looks into yours.

“I missed seeing you for so long, Y/n.” He admits, just barely above a whisper. “I wish I had stayed around longer. I always tried to get more jobs here so I could see you.”

“Really?”

“Of course I did. Do you think pool water chemistry needs to be checked twice a week?” He compliments with a smile that makes you feel weak, sitting down beside you. The tips of your ears warm at his words.

“Good to know.” You ponder aloud. “I totally didn’t bother my dad to keep hiring you because I liked you, either. So I hope you don’t think that.”

He chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling as his lips turn up. “Ah, okay. Then I totally didn’t white lie to your parents about the pool checks because I liked you, either.”

You avoid his eyes, instead paying attention to the polish on your fingernails as you change the topic off of whatever’s going on between the two of you. “Is there anything else I can do for you, John B?”

“Kiss me and maybe I’ll feel better? I’m sure Ibuprofen works fine too, though.”

You really had to be delirious or something, as you obliged his request and kissed him. It was clear he didn’t expect it, but didn’t waste time relaxing into your touch. He places a hand to your cheek and deepens the kiss.

You both have matching drowsy smiles when you pull away. “Feel better?”

He sighs contentedly, head falling back on the pillow next to you. “I’m on my way.”

A yawn threatens to escape from you, so you take your last moments of consciousness to not let the moment pass. “If you ever need a hideout again someday, I’m your girl.”

He turns toward you, heart fluttering at your pretty face under the warm lights from the glow of the lamps on the nightstand. He couldn’t help but admire you.

“My girl.” He repeats to you in a mutter, thumb caressing your cheek. “I think I like the sound of that.”

Leaning forward just as the words left his mouth, you press your lips to his once again and kiss him with all that you could muster at the semi-late hour. Exhaustion makes for bravery you wouldn’t have otherwise. This time, John B smiles into the kiss.

“Good.” You murmur, thumb brushing over his lips once you pull away. “‘Cause I do, too.”