Starset

The sun is spilling through the room when the familiar noises wake you up.

It’s Dusty gnawing at the door of her cage, high squeaks piercing the quiet room. Ilia is laying on his stomach next to you, his cheek squished against the pillow, his arm stretched out like he's searching for you. You don't realize it for a couple of seconds, shifting next to him and closing your eyes in hopes that Dusty will grow silent soon enough, but then it hits you. Your eyes widen. It's way past dawn and Ilia is still in your room, twisted in your sheets, peacefully sleeping next to you.

"Ilia," you whisper, leaning down to gently shake him, but it doesn't work. You glance at Dusty, who has grown even noisier after seeing you wake up, eager to get your attention. Looking at the door like Jace is about to burst in at any second, you swallow, shaking Ilia with a little more force. "Dammit, wake up!"

His eyes flutter open, his eyebrows knitting in confusion and his mouth slightly agape as he squints up at you. There are faint creases on his cheek, his lips are slightly fuller, and his blonde hair is all messy. The sight is so beautiful that it makes your chest tighten.

"What's wrong?" he mumbles in a groggy voice, laying his head back on the pillow so softly that you can't even find it in yourself to scold him. His eyes snap shut tight again. "It's so early."

"You promised to go back to your room."

"But your bed is so comfy," he sighs, rolling over onto his back and rubbing his eyes. He looks up at you, realizing from your tone that it's serious. "Actually, I've always wanted to sleep in it. It's so soft and cozy. And the sheets smell so nice."

"It's not the sheets. It's the Victoria's Secret body mist."

"So it's you," he grins, sitting up as he extends his arms to trap you in a hug. You push him off with a smile, trying to maintain a strict expression.

"Go back to your room."

"It's a Sunday morning and Jace usually sleeps until, what, 1 p.m. or 2 p.m.?"

"It's not a risk I'm willing to take."

"Fine," he exhales, pursing his lips as he gets up. He glances at Dusty, who has grown quieter, her curious eyes fixed on the two of you. Her tiny hands are clutching the bars, her expression so innocent and sad that it softens you. You crouch down to finally take her out. "Aww, Dusty… Wait, don't let her out yet!"

His voice rises, but it's way too late. She's already out, your fingers dug into her soft fur as you gently scratch her. You turn toward him, a playful smile dancing on your lips as you pad over.

"Don't you wanna pet her?"

"Wasn't I supposed to leave?" he tries to joke.

You roll your eyes at his defensiveness. It's been years and he still isn't used to Dusty's company, which is a bit annoying. "Overcome your fear and hold her."

"I do not fear her," he insists, but the tone of his voice and the reluctant way he caresses her fur say the exact opposite. You nudge her into his hands and he almost drops her, his hands shaking. Surprisingly, Dusty doesn't try to wriggle free from his touch. "She feels so… warm."

"Isn't she cute?"

"Very much," he grins, cradling her in his arms like she's one of his cats. "Just like the owner."

Then, he proceeds to smack a loud kiss onto your cheek, the heat rushing to your face at the innocent affection. You make him let Dusty go, gently pushing him out of your room while promising him that you'll meet him down in the kitchen for breakfast.

As you start making your bed, you spot a crumpled tissue laying on the nightstand. A stupid smile plasters itself across your face as you recall the night before, a familiar, electric feeling settling deep in your stomach.

"Did you get back with your ex?"

"Ew, no."

"Then what has gotten you giggling like that?"

You squint at Allie, who is spinning in her chair, an almost stupid smile plastered on her face as she types out a response on her phone, her nails clinking against the screen. She’s never been much of a texter—especially not someone whose face lights up with every single notification—until recently. It makes you wonder if it has something to do with a boy, because in your experience, it always does.

"No one."

Her face suddenly turns serious, locking her phone as she straightens her spine. You don't press her, because you don't like it either when you're texting Ilia and others bring up your stupidly excited face. So far, only Ziggy and Cam know the truth, and you would've told Allie too if she didn't have a habit of speaking before thinking.

"Mhm, sure." You give her a teasing smile, your eyes snapping back to your phone as you feel her staring at you. A few seconds pass before she exhales, shaking her head. You stare up at her in confusion.

"Girl, fuck you," she rolls her eyes at you, taking you aback with her sudden outburst. "Acting like you've not been sneaking around with your brother's best friend."

"What the hell, Allie?!" You look around with a horrified expression, getting up from the floor and spinning her chair around so she's forced to face you. "Are you insane?"

"Me and the people on X, right?" She gives you an annoyed expression, referring to the discussion that's been going on Twitter for the last few days.

You hadn't intended it, but when you streamed on Twitch with Ilia, you ended up wearing that blue t-shirt that belonged to him. Never in a million years would you have expected the fans to dig up old pictures of him, realizing that the t-shirt you were wearing was the exact same as his. It was enough to spark a discussion, along with compilations of snippets from the stream where fans claimed it was a soft-launch. You'd be lying if you said the implications didn't flatter you.

"Oh wow, you don't even try to hide it anymore," she rolls her eyes once again, slapping your hand away when you try to tug on her braid. "Although I gotta say, I'm disappointed you didn't tell me sooner. You don't trust me?"

"Of course I do!"

"Then why didn't you tell me?!"

"Because you have a habit of speaking before thinking!" You slap a hand over her mouth, forcing her to shut up before the whole cafe hears about your secret affair. "Might as well take a mic and announce it publicly!"

She licks your palm. Your expression turns disgusted as you pull your hand away, quickly washing it under the tap water. Allie looks incredibly content with the outcome, her expression smug now that she has finally made you admit your secret out loud.

"Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're gloating," you huff, wiping your wet hands on your apron. "It's your turn to spill."

"I'm not in love like you," she waves it off, trying to pass it off as something casual. But even if she insists otherwise, you know the look on her face and the change in her behavior. She's falling for someone.

It's 10 p.m. when Jace picks you up. It's raining nonstop as he drags your bike into the trunk, asking about Allie's absence. She had to leave fifteen minutes earlier to catch a ride from a friend, leaving Jace slightly disappointed that he didn't get a chance to flirt with one of your friends again.

It's evening when you get back home after going to the movies with Allie. You're not surprised to find Jace and his friends hanging out in the living room, Ilia having texted you prior that he would be coming over along with them. The table is cluttered with empty beer cans and snack packages, making you internally roll your eyes at their inability to clean up after themselves before they start playing.

Josh is the first one to notice you. He waves, a bright smile plastered on his face as he calls out your name. Out of all Jace's friends, he's your favorite.

Well, obviously after Ilia.

"Hey, everyone."

You smile at them, your eyes landing on Ilia just a fraction of a second longer than the others as his lips curl into a subtle smirk. Jace is too engrossed in the game to turn around and acknowledge you, playing Call of Duty on a television screen split into four squares. Ilia is the only one left out, harboring a dislike for the game just as you do.

"Ew," you can't help yourself, your face twisting into a disgusted expression. "Why do you all keep playing it? The latest versions suck."

"Says a girl who plays Valorant," Max chuckles, rolling his eyes. "You don't like it because it's harder."

You snort, a genuine laugh spilling out of your mouth, mirrored by the others—excluding Max himself.

"Bro, everyone who has played both games knows that COD is so much easier."

"Yeah! Like, in Valorant, you move a millimeter while shooting and your bullets end up in a different zip code," Josh chimes in, agreeing with his twin, Jack.

Jack glances at you from time to time with a weird expression you can't quite decipher. You refuse to look back at him, his comment from a month ago still leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.

Jace yells at the screen, entirely on your side. "Yeah, my sister would clear you out in COD and she has barely even played it, you stupid shit."

"I'd like to see her try," Max challenges.

"Yeah, no thanks," you snort at him.

You turn to head up the stairs, planning to feed Dusty before Cam and Ziggy call. Tonight, the chances are high that you can finally rank up, and excitement bubbles up in your chest at the mere possibility. You reach the top of the stairs, stopping briefly to reply to Allie, when you hear Jace's voice break through the noise of the game, the sharp edge of annoyance instantly clear.

"Did you just stare at my sister's ass?"

You freeze. Your eyes widen in pure panic as you immediately imagine Ilia's horrified expression. Your palms go slick and sweaty against your phone as you lock the screen, but it's not Ilia's voice that replies.

"What?" Jack snorts, a defensive chuckle escaping his throat. "No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did. Your eyes followed her all the way up the stairs. Don't bullshit me."

"You're delusional, bro."

"I recognize that dirty look on your face," Jace's voice rises, his tone dead serious now. "Don't you dare try anything with her."

"Does that threat only apply to me?" Jack shoots back.

"What?" Jace’s voice sounds genuinely confused.

You grip the wooden staircase railing, unlike your brother acutely aware of exactly what Jack could be hinting at.

"You're the one ogling my sister," Jace snaps.

"Am I?"

"Bro, shut the fuck up and just own it," Josh intervenes, and you can practically picture him forcefully nudging his twin in the shoulder to shut him down.

"It applies to everyone in this room," Jace’s voice drops, cold and severe, sending a chill straight down your spine. You don't even want to imagine the look on Ilia's face right now. "She's off-limits. End of discussion."

No one dares to say another word. You stand frozen at the top of the landing for a full minute, physically unable to walk away, almost as if you're waiting for them to bring you up again. But the living room quickly and awkwardly changes the topic back to the game.

A moment later, Ilia loudly excuses himself to get a glass of water. Peeking through the banister, you catch the tense line of his jaw as he walks past the living room toward the kitchen. He doesn't look up, completely missing you standing there.

And later that night, long after the guys have gone home and you're laying in bed texting him in the dark, neither of you mentions a single word about it.

When Ilia sets off on his family cruise vacation, he leaves his cats with you. Since Jace is allergic to them—in the literal sense, not just because he’s a dog person—you have no choice but to temporarily evict Dusty to another part of the house. Instead, you help Ilia drag his cat tree into your room, setting up pillows and blankets to make them feel at home.

"Miu Miu usually likes to wake me up pretty early, so keep her out of the room if she starts doing that," Ilia explains, cradling Mila, the newest member of his quadcat family, in his arms. She is basically attached to him. Jace joked that it only took Ilia getting three cats for him to finally end up with one that didn’t hate him. "Mysti won't bother you. This little one might try to cuddle up to you, though."

"I feel like she's gonna be very sad when you leave."

"Yeah, please don't remind me," he exhales, pressing soft kisses onto Mila's head as she purrs warmly against his chest.

You smile at the sight, your heart threatening to burst with adoration. "You know, someone else is going to miss you, too."

"Yeah, I know," he smiles, his eyes subtly darting toward Mysti, who is already perched high up on the cat tree, staring out the window. "Secretly, she loves to cuddle me."

You look at him with a disappointed, raised eyebrow. Confusion washes over his face for a few seconds before the realization hits him, a wide grin breaking across his lips.

"I'm gonna miss you, too."

He leans in, placing soft kisses on your cheeks just like he did with Mila. The door is shut tight, and both of you know Jace has absolutely no interest in watching Ilia's cats settle into your room. You don't shy away from his touch, instead slipping your fingertips into his hair when his lips finally slide over yours.

"Make sure to send me pictures from the cruise."

"Of course," he looks at you like it's not even up for discussion. "I'll bore you with them."

"And make sure to put on sunscreen."

"Yes, ma'am."

Then, he has to leave, and you are left in the quiet company of his cats. You leave your bedroom door cracked open so they can wander out if they get bored, but Mysti and Miu Miu stay put on the tree, both of them fast asleep. Mila settles directly onto your stomach, her tiny body warm against yours. A comfortable drowsiness washes over you, and eventually, you close your eyes, too.

Ilia celebrates the 4th of July on the cruise, while you celebrate with your family at your dad's friend's house, leaving the gathering early with the excuse that you don't want to leave the animals alone at home for too long. Dusty has made herself comfortable in Jace's room, but she offers you even less affection than she rarely does anyway, your brother constantly joking that she's mad at you.

A week passes in a blur, and before you know it, he is back. He surprises you, picking you up after a late-night shift at the cafe. His nose is a little sunburnt, but overall he has kept his promise; the golden tan compliments his skin, almost shimmering under the dim streetlights.

"You look so good."

"So do you."

"My hair is a mess and I stink of coffee and cinnamon."

"I do find the smell comforting," he mumbles into your neck, pulling you flush against him one more time. "I brought you a present."

"From the cruise?"

You raise an eyebrow, following him to the car. He holds the door open for you, signaling for you to climb in as he carries your bike to store it in the trunk. You settle into the passenger seat that has gradually become yours, fixing your hair in the mirror in an attempt to look better for him—despite him already seeing you, and despite knowing that he doesn't care about a messy hair.

By the time he gets into the driver's seat, you have already texted your father that you're grabbing burgers with Allie, indicating that you will be home later than you usually are. Ilia stretches his hand toward the backseat and pulls out a thick book, the Sudoku grid illustration on the cover making you chuckle.

"You mentioned that you completed the one your father brought you."

"I did," you smile at him, leaning over to smack a loud kiss on his cheek to show your gratitude. "Thank you."

"Although Liza was a little suspicious that I was getting you a gift," he raises an eyebrow, exhaling at his sister's behavior like she’s giving him a hard time. "She said, and I quote, that I was being 'unusually generous.'"

"But you've brought me gifts before."

"Yeah, but I might've gotten you another gift, too," he grins, his smile on full display as your stomach basically flips upside down. "I guess two gifts is a bit suspicious."

"Aren't you gonna show me?"

"Won't you thank me first?"

"I already thanked you," you raise an eyebrow, anticipating exactly where this is going. "Wasn't it sufficient?"

"No, the second gift requires more than a kiss on the cheek."

You huff, rolling your eyes, but you still lean in. You capture his lips with yours as you close your eyes, hearing him sigh in pure bliss. His fingertips slip into your hair, and before you know it, you find yourself leaning over the center console. His hands grip your hips as you settle into his lap, his fingertips tracing your bare legs.

"I told my dad I was staying out with Allie," you breathe out, sweeping your eyes over his face as a small smirk turns up his lips. "We don't have to go back yet."

"Good. I wasn't planning to."

He kisses you again, harder this time, his fingers slipping beneath your shirt as his tongue slides into your mouth. It's all too much and still not enough. You want nothing more than to let him peel your clothes away when he cups your breast through your thin bra, but you're in the car. Even though the street is dead quiet, thinking of doing anything more here is insane.

"Ilia," you pull back, your chest heaving up and down. His mouth is glistening as he furrows his eyebrows, sensing the slight panic in your voice. You lick your lips, swallowing hard so you can even out your breath.

"What is it?"

"What's my second present?"

He stares at you for a fraction of a second, and then his face breaks out into a wide smile. He rolls his eyes, not even slightly mad about the interruption. You climb off his lap and slide back into your own seat, turning your whole body toward him so you can just stare at him as he talks about whatever comes to mind, simply because you've missed him so much.

"A couple of days ago my manager called me," he starts explaining, licking his lips as he drags out the words, giving you the impression that he's trying to gauge your reaction to whatever he’s about to say. "You know, after the Olympics, I've been getting quite a lot of offers."

"You just had to quickly brag about it, huh?"

"Absolutely," he grins. "And this one might be the best one I have ever received."

"Is it a Dior partnership?" Your eyes practically sparkle with excitement, shifting in your seat so you can lean in closer to him. "Is it a Calvin Klein ad?"

He bursts out laughing, shaking his head like you've said something impossible. "I don't think anyone wants to see me in a Calvin Klein ad."

"I do."

"Well, we can arrange something. You don't need Calvin Klein for that."

"Okay, now spill," you tug at his arm, completely impatient for the news. "What is it?!"

"I got invited to a movie premiere."

"Oh! Which one?"

"Spider-Man."

He says it like he’s testing the waters. It takes you a couple of seconds to process, and then your eyes widen, your mouth left slightly agape as he chuckles at your reaction.

"Oh my god."

"Yeah."

"Oh my god, you're gonna see Tom and Zendaya," you laugh, unable to control your excitement. "That's insane."

"We're gonna see Tom and Zendaya," he corrects gently, the playful smile on his lips turning incredibly soft.

You freeze, your breath catching in your throat as you stare at him.

"They said I can bring a plus-one," he says, his blue eyes holding yours with absolute certainty. "And of course I'm taking you with me."

For a moment, your heart beats so hard and fast it feels like it's bruising your ribs. A cold rush of panic and dizzying excitement sweeps through your veins, leaving your palms sweaty.

Sensing the silent shock taking over your body, Ilia reaches out and slides his fingers through yours, squeezing your hand tightly between his warm palms to ground you.

"Yeah," he whispers, his grin widening. "We're going to London."

"Shut up," you shake your head, tears instantly prickling the backs of your eyes. You squeeze your eyelids shut, refusing to let the words sink in because it feels like a dream you're about to wake up from. "No way. Ilia, don't joke."

"Yes way."

And then, even though you try not to, tears of pure excitement escape your eyes. He laughs softly, pulling you against his chest while you sob into his shirt, scolding him for making fun of you during a moment like this.

No one is surprised to learn that Ilia chose you to take to the premiere.

Jace is actually more excited about it than you are—having absolutely no clue what this three-day getaway in London could turn into behind his back.

In a week, you leave for London. Betty covers your shifts at the cafe without making a fuss, even though Allie is away on vacation, too. Jace is the one to drive you both to the airport, and he's the very first one to text you asking for updates every few hours.

You end up sharing a hotel room with Ilia, but even that doesn't come as a surprise to your brother. Jace instantly assumes that Ilia is the one sleeping on the couch. You silently agree with him, sharing a brief, knowing glance with Ilia as you both press your lips together to keep from laughing.

"It's so comfy," Ilia sighs, jumping onto the king-sized bed and burying his head in the pillows. He closes his eyes with a content groan. "Come here."

"Comfier than mine?"

"Come and find out."

The mattress dips beneath your weight as you climb onto it, settling next to him with a soft smile stretching across your face. He immediately slides his arm around you, pulling you flush against his chest as he drapes his leg over yours, anchoring you to him.

"What if we nap for a while?" he mumbles into your neck. "Then we can grab some breakfast and explore the city. Around evening, the stylists will come by so we can choose our looks, do the fittings, and get them tailored if needed."

"After ten hours of travel, of course I want to sleep."

"Good."

He nuzzles his head deeper into your shoulder, his arm locked securely around your waist as his fingers lace with yours. His breath falls softly against your skin. You close your eyes and finally let sleep take over—this time with no rush, no alarms, and not a single trace of worry in your bones.

People in London don't pay attention to you. In the busy crowd, you're able to hold his hand in public, kiss him on the streets, and just be together like you're meant to.

You end up choosing the black dress, the rhinestones adorning the structured corset sparkling under the lights. It matches his suit perfectly, and your breath hitches in your throat when you see him fully dressed for the first time.

Although it's not his first time walking a red carpet, he's not entirely used to the madness either. His palms are sweaty when he takes your hand and leads you toward the crowd. You're incredibly anxious, feeling so many eyes on you, feeling out of place in a glamorous lifestyle that everyone else seems to blend into so easily. But he squeezes your hand tightly and reassures you, his smile so comforting that it immediately eases your panic.

"And what if I kiss you right now?" he murmurs, his voice teasing, his eyes edged with a soft admiration as he gazes at you.

"Jace will gouge his eyes out when he sees the pictures."

"You're so beautiful, it's criminal not to do anything," he sighs, keeping his hand resting on your lower back. It's respectful and casual, but enough to show everyone that you've come together and you're with him. "I'm gonna backflip into misery."

You laugh, and then the photographers start shouting his name. You don't know which camera to look at, and for a whole thirty seconds you hold your breath and try to smile despite the panic fluttering inside, but his arm is secure around your waist and it's more than enough to ground you.

A sigh of relief leaves your lips when you finally walk into the lobby. It's free of flashing cameras and excited shouts, and people are already talking, sipping champagne as they chat away. Ilia is introduced to some people, and you stand beside him, awkwardly looking at them while they talk, occasionally answering whatever they happen to ask you too, though you don't have much to contribute to the conversation.

The spider-web-garnished cocktails catch your eye, and you instantly hurry over to try them, Ilia waiting to take a sip from your glass because he's convinced he won't like it.

"It's… decent," you try not to wince, offering him a sheepish smile as you hand it over. "It's sweet."

"Your face says otherwise."

"I fear they don't serve apple juice here, Ilyusha."

"Stop making fun of me," he nudges you with a teasing smile, leaning in close. He whispers something to you, and your eyes widen as you look in the direction he points—Tom and Zendaya are walking in.

"I'm gonna faint."

"Don't."

"I'm not leaving this theater until I get a photo with them."

"You will."

He reassures you, chuckling at your enthusiasm that almost resembles panic. You don't get a chance to talk to them right away, and by the time you get close enough, you have to head inside to watch the movie, your seat assigned right next to Ilia's. Throughout the whole movie your eyes are fixed on the screen, and he keeps looking over to make sure you're doing okay, happy just watching you have a great time.

Before you leave for the night, you excuse yourself to the restroom. You can't help but laugh at your reflection staring back at you from the mirror because you look almost ridiculous with the wide smile on your face. But because you aren't used to wearing high heels, your feet are slowly starting to give out. You wince as you slip one shoe off to fix a band-aid that already has a blood stain on it. You dig into your purse only to find it completely empty of what you need—your phone, a mini lipstick, and mascara are taking up all the space.

You groan, almost burying your face in your hands before remembering you can't ruin your makeup. "Oh, great!"

"Need some help?"

You freeze at the familiar voice. You look up with wide eyes to find Zendaya staring at you with a warm smile. The words die in your throat, your palms going sweaty as you nervously chuckle and mumble something almost too incoherent. She doesn't mind your awkwardness at all, offering you some band-aids and chatting away with you while she fixes her makeup in the mirror. Your heart is almost bursting out of your chest. She compliments your dress, and her warm, down-to-earth energy makes you feel instantly welcome.

When you finally step back out, Ilia is waiting.

"What took you so long?" he asks, his eyebrows furrowed in slight concern as he leads you out of the lobby so you can head back to the hotel to change for the afterparty.

You grin, clutching his arm tightly. "I just talked to Zendaya," you gush, your voice full of pure admiration. "And she told me my dress looks beautiful!"

"It's not the dress, it's you."

"That's not the point!"

He laughs, letting you tell him all about the restroom encounter for the entire ride back.

Once you're back in the quiet sanctuary of the hotel room, the transition is quick and intimate. He stands behind you, his warm hands helping you zip up the short, sleek dress you've chosen for the afterparty, and in return, you help him restyle his hair, running your fingers through the strands that have become messy from the London wind.

The afterparty is louder, warmer, and much more relaxed. The room is bathed in low lighting with a heavy bass vibrating through the floor. Without the cameras and the formality of the red carpet, everyone is just themselves, having fun.

You and Ilia slide into the crowd easily, and the highlight of the night comes when you run into Zendaya again near the lounge area—only this time, Tom is right there with her. She recognizes you and to your surprise both of them recognize Ilia, your boyfriend blushing when they highlight his talent. The four of you stand together for a few minutes, chatting casually about the movie and how much you're enjoying London, before you finally get the group photo you've been hoping for all night.

Once they wave goodbye and head back into the crowd, you stare at the picture on your phone in sheer disbelief, while Ilia just laughs, pulling you flush against his side with a quiet "told you so" smile.

It's midnight when you return to the hotel, both of you still giggling as you stumble into the dark room. Your feet are aching from wearing heels for the entire evening, forcing you to lean heavily against Ilia's arm as he leads you inside. Before he even flips the bedside lamp on, casting a soft, warm glow across the room, you have already kicked off your shoes. You pad across the carpet and sprawl across the bed, letting out a long sigh of relief.

"It was the best night of my life," you mumble, staring up at the ceiling, still entirely starstruck as the memories rush through your mind. "It literally feels like a dream."

You prop yourself up on your elbows, looking over at Ilia. He is already unbuttoning his crisp white shirt, watching you with a soft, quiet smile that feels infinitely more intimate than anything on the red carpet. Sliding off the mattress, you reach behind your back to pull down your zipper, but your fingers are trembling too much to get a grip.

Suddenly, the brush of his warm fingertips against your exposed spine makes you freeze.

"Let me help you," he murmurs.

His voice is low in the stillness of the room as he steps up behind you. Your breath hitches in your throat as you stand perfectly still, silently letting him.

The metal teeth of the zipper glide down with a soft hiss. You let the fabric of the dress slowly slip from your torso. As the cool air of the hotel room hits your bare skin, a shiver runs down your spine—your chest tightening not just from the temperature, but from the sheer anticipation of what is about to happen. You swallow hard, your palms growing slick at your sides as you slowly turn around to face him.

His gaze sweeps over your body, slow and reverent, before finally settling on your eyes. The warmth of his hands as he reaches up to cup your cheeks is almost overwhelming.

"So beautiful," he whispers.

He leans in, softly pressing his mouth to yours. The kiss is so incredibly gentle that your eyes flutter shut, your lips parting slightly as he begins to pepper slow, warm kisses down your jawline and the sensitive column of your neck. His hands slide down to grip your hips, pulling you close enough to feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

You let him guide you back toward the edge of the bed. Your hands find the fabric of his shirt, helping him ease it off his shoulders until it pool on the carpet beside your dress. He gently coaxes you down onto the mattress, hovering over you as you map the line of his bare chest, your fingers gripping his biceps when his hand slides slowly, deliberately between your thighs. A soft, breathless moan escapes your throat.

"Ilia," you whisper his name. It feels like a plea, a quiet prayer, as a sweet, familiar heat begins to bloom in your stomach, igniting your skin everywhere he touches. "I've never done this before."

He pauses, his fingers stilling against you. His chest heaves up and down, matching the shallow, uneven rhythm of your own breath. He looks down at you, searching your face, gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. There is an intensity in his blue eyes, a sudden, protective softness that makes the breath catch in your throat.

"Do you want to?" he asks softly, giving you space, making sure you feel entirely safe.

You look up at him, feeling more exposed and entirely perceived than you ever have before. But looking at the tenderness in his face, the fear melts away, leaving only a certainty.

"Yes," you whisper, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down to you. "With you."

A wide smile stretches across his face just before he leans in to kiss you again—much fiercer this time. He sweeps his tongue over yours, catching the breathless whimper that escapes your throat as his hands slide down your hips, hooking into the sides of your underwear and smoothing them down your legs. Your back arches against the mattress, your body reacting instantly to the direct, steady circle of his thumb. This time, you don't even try to hold back. You don’t smother the sounds or slap a hand over your mouth to hide them. Instead, you let him hear everything, shamelessly whispering his name against his lips as you wrap your bare legs tightly around his waist.

When the overwhelming peak finally washes over you, bringing tears of pure release to your eyes, he leans down to kiss them dry. He pulls back just enough to strip off his pants, and through your smudged mascara, you look up at him. Seeing his bare silhouette in the soft lamp light makes your chest tighten with a sudden ache. Biting your lower lip in quiet anticipation, you part your legs, welcoming him closer.

He settles between your thighs, tearing the small, square foil package open with his teeth. You watch him with quiet, curious eyes as he rolls on the condom. You swallow hard, trying to force your muscles to relax against the pillows, but your eyes drift to the ceiling as a sudden rush of nervous heat sets your veins on fire.

"Hey."

Sensing the sudden shift in your posture, Ilia gently traces his fingers along your jawline, coaxing your gaze back to his. His expression is calm and patient—a quiet anchor in the middle of all your thoughts.

"We don't have to do this if you're not ready," he promises softly. "It's okay."

"No, I am," you insist, shaking your head to clear the lingering doubt.

To prove it to him—and to yourself—you cup his face in your hands, pulling him down to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. Under the softness of his touch, any trace of anxiety washes away. You let him take a piece of you, giving yourself over to him completely. He is gentle with you, so careful and sweet, and it's everything you had ever wanted—everything you had spent years secretly dreaming of.

"So, does MJ get her memories back?"

"Do you want me to spoil the movie for you?" You raise an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at your lips as you look at Liza.

She is ecstatic to hear all about the premiere, making you recount every single detail over again even though you’ve already talked to her on the phone about it. Tatyana observes the scene with an amused expression, chopping chocolate for the cake Ilia has been requesting ever since before you two even got back. He is sitting at the table with you and Liza, but unlike you, he’s having a late breakfast after sleeping in, while you help his little sister bedazzle her figurines.

"I guess not," Liza says after a while, thoroughly contemplating the spoiler with a focused look on her face. "Was it better than No Way Home?"

"I mean... I was too excited when I watched it, so I don't think I can fairly criticize it without a rewatch."

"Fair enough."

"Aren't you guys gonna ask me for my opinion?" Ilia asks between bites, his voice muffled. All you can stare at is the smear of jam stuck to the corner of his lips. The sudden desire to reach over and wipe it clean off him—in a way that is not at all appropriate for the family kitchen—is almost ridiculous. "I was there too, you know."

"Do you even have enough vocabulary to analyze a movie?" Liza asks.

"Liza," Tatyana warns, shooting her a look to behave, even though she is desperately trying not to laugh. "What did we talk about?"

"Sure, Mom. I won't make fun of your loser son."

"This 'loser' attended a major movie premiere and you didn't," Ilia points out.

"Wait till I grow up," she bites back, an annoyed expression plastered on her face as she glares at her brother.

"I don't know what I did to deserve such a bratty attitude."

"It's a universal experience," you jump in, less to defend Liza and more to tease him. "Jace goes through the same thing every day. It's kind of like our job."

"I don't remember you being this mean when you were twelve."

"Well, I wasn't mean to you."

"Wonder why," Tatyana notes, amusement dripping from her voice.

You groan at her comment, burying your face in your hands in sheer embarrassment because you know exactly where this is going.

"I remember once you asked me what Ilia's favorite color was," Tanya continues, highly pleased with herself. "And then you made your dad buy you a dress in that exact color for the first day back to school. I think it was your second or third year?"

"Tanya, please stop."

Ilia is the only one laughing, a smirk tugging at his lips as his eyes lock onto yours. Liza rolls her eyes as if the story has personally offended her, huffing when she accidentally picks up the wrong color rhinestone.

You help Tanya decorate the cake while Ilia watches in silence, cradling Mila in his arms. Later, Jace comes over because it's a sweet occasion his appetite can't possibly miss. Once Tanya and Liza leave for practice, you’re stuck with the boys, finishing up the bedazzled F1 car figure Liza left for you to complete, trusting you with the fine details she doesn't quite trust herself with yet.

"Dude, did you see Jake Gyllenhaal?" Jace asks.

"Nope, he wasn't there."

"Aw, man. That's a shame," Jace sighs in disappointment, drumming his fingertips against the wooden table. "How was London, anyway? I didn't have time to properly chat with you two."

"Yeah, everything was great," you reply, keeping your eyes fixed on the tiny Ferrari logo. "Except the English breakfast, of course."

"I dunno, I liked it," Ilia shrugs.

"Well, you only ate the bacon, eggs, and tomatoes, Ilia."

"Did he keep you awake?"

Your head snaps up, glaring at Jace with a confused expression as a sudden jolt of panic surges through you. You don't dare look at Ilia, but you see his fork freeze halfway to his mouth. Jace notices your raised eyebrows and quickly offers a cover-up.

"Sometimes he snores so loudly."

"Literally, you're the one who snores," Ilia huffs, recovering quickly. "It's definitely not me."

"No, he doesn't snore," you agree, keeping your voice carefully casual. "I fear that's you, Jace."

"Well, then I don't see any other reason why you wouldn't enjoy the trip."

"Yep. I enjoyed everything... a lot."

To get a reaction out of him, you put a deliberate, slow emphasis on the last words, a subtle smirk playing on your lips. Only you and he know the heavy implication behind them. But his timing is horrible. Just as the words leave your mouth, he takes a sip of his juice and immediately chokes. His eyes widen, a fit of coughing overtaking him as Jace cluelessly pats him on the back, completely oblivious to what actually provoked the reaction.

Jace is about to say something, but his phone buzzes, and he’s immediately on his feet to take the call in the other room.

The moment the kitchen door swings shut, you let out a laugh. You reach across the table to fix his hair, offering him a playful, apologetic stroke of your fingers.

"You're cruel," he mutters.

"I'm sorry," you giggle, leaning in to press a quick, sweet kiss to his cheek. "You should've seen your face. Thank god Jace wasn't looking at you."

"You know, I was thinking about it..." he starts, his expression turning serious, careful, as if he's trying to gauge your reaction. "I think it's time to tell him."

You don't reply immediately, a sudden wave of anxiety washing over you at the thought of what's to come once Jace finds out. He notices the instant shift in your mood, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand between his. His palms are warm, grounding.

"We can't keep hiding forever," he mumbles, looking at you with absolute certainty. "It's not fair to us. He's going to go a bit mental whenever he finds out, so we might as well save ourselves the time."

"He's going to hate you."

"I know."

"For a few weeks," a soft smile touches your lips, though it carries a trace of sadness. "But eventually, he'll understand... he has to."

"I'll tell him the second I get back from New York," he promises, lacing his fingers securely through yours. "He can rage at me all he wants. I don't want to hide you anymore."

"I don't want to either."

He leans in, stealing a quick, lingering kiss just before Jace walks back into the kitchen, resuming his conversation, completely oblivious to the shift that had occurred in his absence.

A few days later, Ilia sets off for the Sun Valley show, planned to travel directly to New York afterward for his magazine afterparty and the Time 100 Sports Gala. You patiently wait for him to return, your chest bubbling with a restless mixture of excitement and terror for the moment the truth finally comes to light.

"Pass."

"Bitch, how?" Allie rolls her eyes at you, personally offended that the attraction to the celebrity guy she's currently thirsting over isn't mutual. You simply shrug. "He is, like, so hot."

"Not to me."

"Why? Because he doesn't look like a twink who dyes his hair?"

"Oh, you cunt!" You tug at her wavy hair, slapping her hand away when she tries to do the exact same to yours.

Playing 'smash or pass' with Allie is a fun way to kill time—as long as you agree with her. The second you don't, she makes sure to drag Ilia into it, teasingly referring to him as either a low-testosterone man or a twink. You always roll your eyes, knowing she’s only jesting, but you still defend your ground. "Says the girl who is exclusively into alpha males."

"I am not!"

"Sure."

You give her a mocking smile. She opens her mouth to argue, but the soft chime of the front door bell interrupts her. Giving you one last annoyed look, Allie disappears into the kitchen, leaving you alone to take the order.

With a customer-ready smile already plastered onto your face, you turn toward the counter. But it falters for a fraction of a second when your eyes lock with hers.

"Hey!" Macy says your name, leaning over the counter to pull you into a brief side-hug.

You return it, giving her a tight smile. She is a sweetheart and has never actually done anything to earn your dislike—even though, sometimes, you desperately wish she would. Instead, you're just left with an unpleasant, heavy sinking in your stomach every time she walks into the cafe. Thankfully, it doesn't happen often, even though she lives just a few blocks away and this is technically her local spot.

It’s a bizarre, uncomfortable feeling to face the girl Ilia used to date for almost two years, especially now that you're secretly involved with him. You've hung out with her multiple times in the past because your friend groups forced it, and even though you two were never close and you don't owe her anything, it still feels like you’ve broken some unwritten girl code. It's a bitter, constant reminder that she once had the man you spent years quietly yearning for.

"Long time no see! How are you?" she asks warmly.

"I'm great, Macy." You smile, trying to sweep the ugly feeling aside. She really is beautiful, with her flawless porcelain skin and big, doe-like brown eyes. "Your new haircut looks great on you."

"Haha, thanks! I got bored and chopped it off myself a couple of days ago." She waves it off like it's nothing, even though her hair looks absolutely perfect and effortless—result you've never quite achieved even with the help of professionals. "Guess who missed the pistachio rolls?"

"Well, you arrived at the perfect time. They're fresh out of the oven."

You grab the bakery tongs, carefully choosing the fluffiest, most golden roll from the display. She watches with a smile as you place it into a cardboard box. "Would you like a flat white with that?"

"God, I wish," she sighs, burying her face in her hands. "But I'm trying to cut down on the caffeine. I've gone a bit off the rails lately."

"Haha, totally understandable."

"How's university going?" she asks after she pays, lingering at the counter. You find yourself wishing she would just take her box and go, but she keeps the conversation flowing. "You finished your first year, right?"

"Yep. Surprisingly, it went a lot smoother than I was prepared for."

"Of course it did, you're super smart," she says with a teasing nudge to your shoulder. "And how's Jace? I haven't seen him around in a while."

"He's a lot buffer than he used to be, but otherwise, he's exactly the same," you chuckle, rolling your eyes. "Annoying, I mean."

"I saw your photos at the Spider-Man premiere," Macy’s voice suddenly quietens, her tone shifting as if she is carefully navigating onto sensitive ice. "You must have been absolutely thrilled."

"Yeah," you smile, the memory of that magical night briefly warming you. "I really was."

"Good. You deserved it."

Macy hesitates for a second. You think she's finally about to leave, but she stays put, her fingers nervously fidgeting with the silver rings on her hand.

"How's, um… how's Ilia?"

"He's alright," you shrug, keeping your voice light and casual, desperately hiding the ugly twist of jealousy gnawing at your insides. "He's just preparing for the upcoming season."

"Of course he is," she chuckles softly, her eyes drifting to the floor.

There is a heavy pause. You get the distinct, terrifying feeling that she wants to say something she isn't quite sure she should. A cold trace of worry begins to spread through your veins.

"I actually saw him once since he came back from the tour," she says quietly.

The words land like lead, leaving a bitter, metallic taste in your mouth. Your heart starts thumping violently against your ribs, your jaw tightening as you force yourself to keep breathing.

A smile touches Macy's lips, filled with something that looks painfully like regret.

"We, um… we tried to fix things. But it didn't work." She shrugs, giving you a tight, melancholy look.

You want to reach across the counter and slap a hand over her mouth—anything to make her stop talking. But you just stand there, completely frozen, pouring every ounce of your energy into keeping your face entirely blank.

"He came over at night. I think we both just needed to see if the spark was still there. We spent the whole night talking… well, not just talking." she chuckles and something twists deep inside your chest, a breath knocking out of your lungs as you grip the chair behind the counter, your hands digging into the leather. "But by the morning, it was clear we’ve just grown too far apart. I'm glad we had that one last night, though. It was a nice way to finally close the chapter."

She lets out a soft sigh, finally looking up at you with those big, innocent brown eyes, completely unaware of the heavy, suffocating feeling pressing down on your chest. Macy doesn't seem to notice the way the air has left your lungs.

"Anyways, it was nice seeing you!" The easy enthusiasm slips right back into Macy's voice, and she grins. "I should get going before this roll gets cold!"

"Yeah," you barely manage to breathe out, fighting with everything you have to keep your voice from breaking. "Enjoy it, Macy."

"Bye!"

You wave her off, and the very second the door clicks shut behind her, the fragile mask shatters. You break down, your chest heaving violently as the realization crashes over you. Pressing a trembling palm to your chest, you gasp for air, tears instantly blurring your vision before streaming hot down your face.

"Oh my god, what happened?"

Allie’s face is a mask of pure horror when she bursts out of the kitchen. She immediately crouches down beside you, frantically trying to coax out what's wrong. You can't bring yourself to say a single word. Instead, you just weep into her arms, and she lets you, wrapping her arms tight around you and holding your head against her chest.

But the ticking clock reminds you that you’re still at work. Forcing yourself up on shaky legs, you head straight to the employee bathroom to freshen up. You slide the lock into place and lean against the sink, staring at your tear-stained, pale reflection in the mirror.

Hundreds of thoughts race through your mind, but one loops relentlessly. Her words. The nostalgia in her voice. The sad, knowing smile. The implication was as clear as day: He slept with her. After he got back from the tour. When he was supposed to be yours.

Your mind frantically scrambles backward, trying to piece the timeline together. The first night he came back, he had stayed over, waking you up in the middle of the night over those stupid blankets. The next day, he went out with Jace and the guys. They had played that humiliating game, and then they all stayed over.

And then it hits you.

Four pairs of sneakers on the floor the next morning. The lingering assumption that either he or Josh had left in the middle of the night. Did he leave that night to go to Macy's? The exact night he had brushed you off like a joke? Did he spend those hours wrapped around her while you wept yourself to sleep in your bedroom?

It would explain everything. The next afternoon, he had visited you at the cafe, casually claiming he was "just in the neighborhood." And Macy lives just blocks away. It drives you insane because everything makes sense—even when you desperately, frantically want it to be a lie.

With trembling, sweaty fingers, you pull out your phone. Through blurry vision, you open the home security app. Your dad had installed cameras covering the driveway and front porch years ago, always paranoid about safety. You’d only used the app a handful of times in high school, mostly to see if Jace was sneaking out.

Now, you scroll back through the archives, skipping past weeks of footage until you find the exact date. Your heart thumps violently against your ribs, a loud roar in your ears.

And then, you see it vividly. It isn't Josh, but Ilia.

The time stamp on the screen reads just after 3:00 AM. You watch his familiar silhouette quietly step out of the house, his movements cautious as he cuts across the grass toward the driveway to get into his car. To drive to her.

The truth settles into your bones like ice. He spent the night with her, and he only came running back to you after he realized he couldn't have her anymore. You were never his choice. You were just the safe, convenient second option he settled for because the girl he actually wanted wouldn't take him back.

You violently wipe your face dry, the devastating hurt suddenly giving way to a hot, burning anger that flares deep in your chest.

You spend the final hour of your shift in agonizing silence, refusing to say a word to Allie because you know if you speak, you will completely crumble. On the cycle ride back home, you can think of nothing but the two of them, twisting in the sheets together while you were crying in the dark.

Oscar knew something was wrong before he even got through the front door.

Lavender House was not quiet.

That, by itself, was not suspicious. They had lived there for less than six months, and the place still echoed with the constant disruption of moving boxes, contractors, Bee discovering new cupboards, and Felicity deciding that every room required “one small adjustment” that inevitably involved power tools.

But this noise was different.

A low, repetitive clucking drifted from somewhere behind the house.

Oscar stopped on the front step.

He listened.

There it was again.

Cluck.

Cluck-cluck.

A sharp squawk followed, then Bee’s delighted laughter.

Oscar closed his eyes.

No.

Surely not.

He had been away for four days.

Four.

He had left Felicity with a half-unpacked kitchen, a toddler, a list of furniture deliveries, and very specific instructions not to start any major projects until he got home.

Felicity had kissed him at the door and said, with a perfectly straight face, “Of course.”

That should have warned him.

Oscar set down his suitcase and walked around the side of the house.

Lavender House sat on enough land that Felicity had nearly cried the first time they viewed it. There were old trees, uneven stone walls, a small orchard, a weathered outbuilding she had immediately claimed for restoring cars, and a broad stretch of grass behind the kitchen that Oscar had imagined filling with a swing set.

There was, indeed, now a swing set.

There was also a chicken coop.

Not a little flat-pack coop.

A proper one.

Painted pale sage green, with a pitched roof, nesting boxes, a secure run, and a small hand-painted sign that read:

BEE’S WORLD CHAMPIONS

Oscar stared.

Felicity stood inside the run wearing muddy overalls, her hair twisted into a loose knot, one sleeve rolled higher than the other. She was tightening a latch with a screwdriver.

Bee sat cross-legged in the grass beside her in yellow wellies and a raincoat, surrounded by chickens.

Actual chickens.

Several full-grown hens scratched around her feet. A cluster of tiny chicks huddled beneath a heat lamp inside the coop. One reddish-brown hen stood beside Bee and leaned against her hand while Bee stroked its feathers as if it were a particularly cooperative cat.

Oscar’s mind went completely blank.

Felicity glanced up.

For one brief second, guilt flashed across her face.

Then she smiled.

“Hello.”

Oscar looked at her.

Then at the coop.

Then at the chickens.

Then back at his wife.

“What,” he said slowly, “is this?”

Bee scrambled to her feet.

“Papa!”

She ran toward him, tripped over one of her own wellies, recovered without concern, and flung herself into his legs.

Oscar caught her automatically.

“Hello, Bumblebee.”

“We got champions!”

Oscar looked over her head at Felicity.

“You got what?”

“Chickens,” Felicity said.

“I can see that.”

“They’re rescues.”

“That does not explain why they are in our garden.”

Felicity rested the screwdriver against her thigh. “Because this is where we live.”

Oscar stared at her.

She had the nerve to look serene.

Bee tugged urgently at his trousers. “Come meet them.”

Before Oscar could object, she took two of his fingers and pulled him toward the run.

Felicity opened the gate.

Oscar did not move.

“I’m not going in there.”

Felicity’s brows lifted. “Why?”

“They’re chickens.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know them.”

Bee looked up at him, deeply confused. “You can meet them.”

That was difficult to argue with.

Oscar stepped inside.

Immediately, a white hen charged directly at his shoes.

He stopped.

The hen stopped.

They stared at each other.

The hen pecked his trainer.

Oscar took one step back.

The hen followed.

“What is wrong with that one?”

Bee beamed. “That’s Verstappen.”

Oscar’s head snapped toward Felicity. “No.”

Felicity bit the inside of her cheek.

Bee pointed proudly. “She is very fast and very cross.”

The hen pecked Oscar again.

“Why is there a chicken named Verstappen?”

“Bee named them,” Felicity said.

“You allowed our daughter to name an aggressive chicken after one of my colleagues?!”

“It seemed appropriate.”

The white hen flapped her wings and lunged toward Oscar’s ankle.

He moved out of the way.

Bee giggled.

“Verstappen likes you.”

“She absolutely does not.”

“She’s establishing dominance,” Felicity explained.

“Over me?”

“Apparently.”

Oscar looked down at the hen.

The hen looked back with pure malice.

“No. I’m not calling a chicken Verstappen.”

Bee frowned. “That is her name.”

“We can call her Vera?”

“Her name is Verstappen.”

“Vera.”

“Ver-stap-pen.”

Oscar looked at Felicity for support.

Felicity shrugged. “Vera is a nice household name.”

“Thank you.”

“But her full name is Verstappen.”

Oscar exhaled through his nose.

This was going badly.

Bee moved on, blissfully unaware that her father had already lost the first battle.

She pointed to the reddish-brown hen still lingering near her.

“That’s Senna.”

Senna trotted toward Bee the moment she heard her voice, lowered herself beside Bee’s wellington, and allowed Bee to run both hands over her back.

Oscar blinked. “That one behaves like a cat.”

“She thinks Bee is her chick, I think,,” Felicity said.

Senna followed when Bee took two steps sideways.

Bee stroked her again. “Senna is nice.”

Oscar crouched slightly, holding out one cautious hand.

Senna inspected him.

Then walked straight past to press herself against Bee’s leg.

“Right,” Oscar murmured. “Rejected by the chicken.”

“She has standards,” Felicity said.

He shot her a look.

Bee pointed to another hen, a small grey one standing perfectly still beneath the coop ramp.

“That’s Räikkönen.”

The hen did not make a sound.

It did not move.

It barely seemed to breathe.

Oscar glanced at Felicity. “Why?”

“She has never made a noise,” Felicity said.

Oscar looked back at the chicken.

The chicken stared into the middle distance with the detached expression of someone who had been invited somewhere against her will.

He nodded. “Fine. That one makes sense.”

Bee crouched beside the silent hen. “Räikkönen is pretty.”

Oscar immediately pointed at her. “No. We are not shouting Räikkönen across the garden every morning.”

“But she’s Räikkönen.”

“She’s… Kimi.”

Felicity’s lips twitched.

Bee looked unconvinced but was distracted by a fluffy cream-colored hen dramatically launching herself into the dust bath and flapping as though she had been mortally wounded.

“That’s Rosberg.”

The hen rolled over, kicked dirt in every direction, then froze on her side.

Oscar’s stomach dropped.

“Is it dead?”

Felicity didn’t even look. “No.”

“How do you know?”

“Rosberg just does that.”

The hen suddenly sprang upright and strutted away.

Oscar stared.

Bee clapped. “She’s dramatic.”

“Rosie,” Oscar said firmly. “Her name is Rosie.”

“Rosberg.”

A speckled hen squeezed through the gap between his legs and bolted toward the open gate.

Felicity moved faster than he expected, blocking it with one boot.

The hen pivoted and raced the other way.

“Mansell,” Bee cried, delighted.

Felicity caught the hen neatly against her side. “Mansell keeps trying to escape.”

Oscar watched Felicity secure the wriggling bird beneath one arm like this happened every day.

“You’ve had them for how long?”

“Two days.”

“And one is already trying to leave?”

“She has an adventurous spirit.”

Bee patted the hen’s back. “Mansell wants to explore.”

“Mandy,” Oscar said. “We’re calling her Mandy.”

Felicity nodded. “Reasonable.”

“Thank you.”

“Her legal name remains Mansell.”

“Chickens do not have legal names.”

Bee gasped.

Felicity looked at Oscar as though he had just said something unforgivably stupid. “Don’t tell her that.”

Oscar rubbed a hand over his face.

There were more.

Of course there were more.

Bee introduced each one with ceremonial seriousness.

Hamilton was a sleek black hen who had already found the highest possible place in the run and stood there looking elegant and mildly superior.

“Millie,” Oscar said.

Schumacher was a sturdy little brown hen who scratched at the earth with relentless determination.

“Minnie.”

Alonso had apparently arrived as an older rescue and immediately worked out how to open the unsecured feed container.

“Allie.”

Niki Lauda was missing several feathers from a hard life before arriving at Lavender House and had already survived an encounter with Vera by refusing to move out of her way.

“Niki can stay Niki,” Oscar decided.

Bee nodded. “Niki is brave.”

“She is,” Felicity agreed softly.

Farah—Fangio—was a dignified grey hen who moved with slow purpose and seemed to disapprove of all the others.

Then there was Prost.

Prost was standing in the water dish.

Oscar watched her for several seconds.

The hen did not seem to realize this was unusual.

“She looks stupid,” he said.

Felicity winced. “That’s not kind.”

“It’s also ridiculous that you named that one after The Professor when it looks like it has no brain cell left.”

Prost stepped out of the water dish, walked directly into the side of the coop, and sat down.

Oscar pointed. “I rest my case.”

Bee hurried over. “Prost is learning.”

Prost tried to peck a shadow.

Oscar stared at her.

Something about the chicken gave him a bad feeling.

Not danger. A complete absence of survival instincts.

“Polly,” he decided.

Bee looked scandalized. “Prost.”

“I am not coming outside my house shouting ‘Prost’ every morning while he’s visiting the paddock occasionally.”

“She,” Felicity corrected.

“I know the chicken is a she. I mean Alain.”

Felicity’s smile widened. “I’m sure he would be touched.”

“I hope he never find out.”

Bee wrapped both arms around Prost and lifted her with the alarming confidence of a child who had clearly been doing this unsupervised.

Prost hung there limply.

Oscar reached out instinctively. “Careful.”

“I am careful.”

“I know. Support her feet.”

Bee adjusted her grip.

Prost blinked at him.

Oscar did not trust her. He did not trust any of them. But especially Prost.

Oscar stood and surveyed the scene again.

The coop.

The run.

The hens.

The chicks.

His wife in muddy overalls.

His daughter radiating happiness.

“How did you build this?”

Felicity glanced at the coop. “Timber.”

“Fliss.”

“I found plans online. Bee helped measure. The rescue had hens that needed somewhere immediately, and the chicks had been abandoned after a school-hatching project.”

Oscar looked at Bee.

She was still holding Prost, whispering something into the hen’s feathers.

“You built a chicken coop with a two-year-old.”

“She was very good with the spirit level.”

Bee looked up. “Bubble goes in the middle!”

Oscar’s chest tightened against his will.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It does.”

Felicity watched him carefully.

She knew him too well.

Knew the irritation was already crumbling beneath the sight of Bee’s delighted face. Knew he could complain about mess and livestock and the fact that their garden now contained a hen named after Max Verstappen, but none of that would survive his daughter being happy.

Still, he had principles. “You should have told me.”

Felicity lowered her gaze. “I know.”

Oscar’s frustration softened further. That was unfair. “I would have said no,” he admitted.

“I know.”

“And that’s why you didn’t tell me.”

“Yes.”

He stared at her.

Felicity stared back.

Bee looked between them.

“Are you cross?”

Oscar glanced down immediately.

“No, Bumblebee.”

“Verstappen is cross.”

As if summoned, Vera charged past and pecked Oscar’s shoelace.

He jerked his foot back. “Vera is a menace.”

“Verstappen,” Bee corrected.

Oscar gave up. For now.

He crouched beside her and Prost.

“Do you like them?”

Bee’s face became so bright it seemed impossible.

“I love them.”

That was that, then. Oscar sighed.

Behind him, Felicity’s shoulders relaxed.

He looked at the coop again. “Who’s cleaning it?”

“I am,” Felicity said.

“Fine. But you’re not doing it alone.”

Her brows rose. “You’re volunteering?”

“I’m establishing a reasonable division of labour.”

Felicity turned away, but he saw her shoulders shake. 

Oscar narrowed his eyes. “I like the eggs,” he said defensively.

They did not have eggs yet.

He was already preemptively justifying his surrender.

Felicity looked back at him, smiling now.

“Yes, Oz, sure. You’ll like the eggs.”

Oscar’s war with the chickens began six days later.

It began, specifically, with Prost.

He came downstairs before sunrise because Bee had woken him by climbing onto his chest and announcing that Prost was dead.

Oscar was out of bed before his brain caught up.

He ran through the house in pajama trousers, pulled on the first pair of shoes he found—which turned out to be Felicity’s garden clogs and therefore several sizes too small—and stumbled into the garden.

Prost lay motionless beside the coop.

Bee stood a few feet away in her dressing gown and wellies, clutching Felicity’s hand.

Felicity looked concerned.

Oscar crouched beside the hen. “She’s not breathing.”

Felicity knelt and placed two fingers against Prost’s body.

There was a terrible pause.

Then Prost sneezed, lifted her head, and stood up.

Oscar fell backward into the mud.

Bee gasped. “She’s alive!”

Felicity pressed her lips together.

Oscar stared at the chicken.

Prost wandered over to the food as though nothing had happened.

“What was that?”

“She may have been sleeping,” Felicity said.

“On her side? In the mud?”

“She’s unusual.”

“She’s an idiot.”

Felicity frowned. “Kind thoughts.”

Oscar pointed at Prost. “She made me run outside in your shoes.”

Bee looked down.

The garden clogs were cutting into his heels.

She giggled.

That was Prost’s first pseudo death.

The second happened when she wedged her head through the fence, became convinced she was trapped, and stopped moving.

The third happened when she fell asleep beneath a wheelbarrow.

The fourth happened when she ate too quickly, choked briefly, recovered, and immediately returned to the same food.

The fifth was, unfortunately, her first real death.

Oscar found her floating in a shallow water trough she had somehow climbed into despite three bricks having been placed around it specifically to prevent this.

Bee cried for two hours.

Felicity cried quietly while holding her.

Oscar did not cry, because he did not like Prost and had spent months insisting that the chicken was a health and safety violation with feathers.

He buried her beneath the apple tree and put a little painted stone over the grave.

The following week, Felicity came home with another pale hen.

Oscar stood in the kitchen and stared. “No.”

Bee held the new chicken proudly. “Prost is back.”

“No.”

“She looks the same.”

“That is not the same chicken.”

“It’s Prost Two,” Felicity offered.

Prost Two died three months later after becoming trapped inside an empty feed sack after escaping somehow.

Prost Three fell from a low branch and broke her neck.

Prost Four ate something she should not have eaten and required emergency treatment, after which Oscar paid the vet bill while muttering that a replacement chicken should not have cost more than a set of tyres.

By Prost Five, Oscar had stopped pretending.

“Where is Prost?” he would ask every morning.

Bee would point.

Oscar would visually confirm the hen was alive.

Only then would he make coffee.

Meanwhile, Senna remained Bee’s shadow.

She followed Bee through the garden, waited outside the kitchen door, and once climbed onto the back step because Bee was eating strawberries there.

Bee stroked her like a cat. Senna closed her eyes and leaned into it.

Oscar found this unsettling. “Chickens don’t do that.”

“This one does,” Felicity said.

Vera remained furious.

She chased Oscar specifically. Not Felicity. Not Bee. Oscar. She waited near the gate in the mornings and launched herself at his ankles the moment he entered the run.

“I think she knows,” Felicity said once.

“Knows what?”

“That you renamed her.”

“She’s a chicken.”

Vera flew at him.

Oscar dropped the feed bucket.

Bee laughed until she fell over.

Kimi remained silent.

Oscar once crouched beside her for five full minutes trying to make her cluck. Nothing.

She simply stared at him.

“Honestly,” he said, “this one might actually be the most accurately named.”

Rosie screamed every time someone picked her up, even though she actively approached them to be picked up.

Millie learned to stand on the garden bench and watch Oscar through the kitchen window until he brought scraps.

Minnie scratched holes in Felicity’s flower beds.

Allie escaped the run once, entered the workshop, and laid an egg beneath a restored Jaguar.

Mandy escaped constantly.

They reinforced the fence.

Mandy went over it.

They added a net.

Mandy went under it.

They blocked the bottom.

Mandy discovered the gate latch.

Farah observed it all with quiet disappointment.

Oscar complained every day.

He complained about the feed on the patio.

He complained about the feathers.

He complained about the mud.

He complained about Vera. Especially Vera.

He complained while helping Felicity to repair the coop roof.

He complained while installing a more secure gate.

He complained while researching automated chicken doors in an airport lounge.

He complained while buying a heated water container because Felicity mentioned the winter might be hard on Niki.

He complained while carrying Senna to Bee’s bedroom window when Bee was ill, because Bee had asked to see her.

And every morning, he collected the eggs. He brought them into the kitchen in a small wire basket Felicity bought him as a joke.

He inspected them for cracks.

He washed his hands twice.

Then he made breakfast.

“Fresh eggs are better,” he said once, defensive even though no one had challenged him.

Felicity sat at the table with Bee on her lap and smiled into her tea.

“Yes, Oz.”

“They taste different.”

“I know.”

“And it would be wasteful not to use them.”

“Of course.”

Bee ate a forkful of scrambled egg and announced, “Thank you, champions.”

Oscar looked toward the garden.

Through the window, Vera was standing on the patio, staring directly at him.

He narrowed his eyes.

She pecked the glass.

In the world of high speeds and higher stakes, Logan Sargeant lost one kind of race— But he found his place in yours.

You’re used to the roar of engines, the burn of adrenaline, the raw power of your NASCAR machine as it screams around the oval track. You live for the rush—the split-second decisions, the crackle of radio chatter, the smell of burnt rubber. But tonight, everything feels quieter. Still.

The phone rings, and when you answer, you hear it immediately, putting him on speaker—Logan’s voice, heavy and uncertain.

He exhales hard. “Just like that. No more seat. No plan.”

You pause mid-scroll, thumb hovering over a still photo of him in his F1 suit, hair a little messy, smile still bright. Your chest tightens, but you steady yourself. Logan’s always been a fighter, and you know this is just another turn in his race. You clear your throat and say softly, “Hey, it’s okay. You’ve got me. Maybe it’s time to come home and be my HAB full-time, just for a little while.”

You hear a soft laugh on the other end, followed by a long pause. Then he says, “I’m coming for you. Whatever comes next, we face it together.”

Three Days Later

He shows up at the paddock like he’s done it a hundred times—though you can tell from the way he tugs at the hem of his hoodie and keeps his sunglasses on indoors that he’s fighting nerves.

“God,” he murmurs, eyes on your car as it’s rolled out of the hauler. “She’s a beast.”

You grin. “You get used to her.”

He turns to you then, lower lip caught between his teeth. “And you’re really okay with me being here?”

You shrug. “You’re my HAB. Full-time gig, remember?”

That earns a real smile. You kiss his cheek in front of your crew, not caring who sees. Someone whistles behind you.

“Man, y’all are disgustingly cute,” your tire specialist mutters, amused.

He chuckles at the comment, ducking his head with that familiar Florida-boy flush spreading across his cheeks. Still, he doesn’t pull away. His fingers find the hem of your fire suit, just a small touch of grounding as he watches your crew swarm around the car.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. “You’re allowed to look a little lost, y’know.”

“I don’t want to be in the way.”

“You’re not.” You nudge his hip with yours. “You’re with me.”

Logan lifts his sunglasses to the top of his head, his gaze clearer now. “Yeah. Okay.”

The two of you stand there for a beat, surrounded by the hum of tools, shouted instructions, and the scent of fuel in the air. It’s your world. But you can already feel it reshaping to include him.

Practice runs are underway. You’re deep in the cockpit, helmet on, fingers wrapped tight around the wheel, focusing on your line—until your radio crackles.

“The car looks good through the turns,” your spotter calls. “Logan says you’re sliding a little outta four.”

You blink. “Logan’s watching now?”

“Watching and waving like a damn golden retriever.”

You can’t help the smile that curls your lips.

Back in the garage, you climb out of the car, sweat dripping down your neck as you pull off your balaclava. Logan’s already approaching, holding out a cold water bottle like he was born to do this.

He grins. “You were cooking through the backstretch. But you’re still overdriving into turn three.”

You narrow your eyes. “You really are watching.”

He shrugs. “Used to analyze telemetry between free practice and quali. Old habits.”

“You make a hot pit crew guy,” you tease.

He raises an eyebrow. “You just wait till I get you out of that fire suit.”

You nearly choke on your water. One of your engineers coughs pointedly.

That Evening — Motorhome Quiet

The sun’s starting to set. Most of the crew’s gone off for dinner, and the paddock’s quieted down to a low buzz. You’re sitting on the couch in your RV, legs spread, shoes off, in a sweatshirt (Logan’s) and leggings. Logan’s sitting between your knees, back resting against your chest. His hair’s damp from a shower, and he’s in one of your oversized crew shirts, sleeves pushed up, ankles bare.

“I thought I’d feel… more useless,” he murmurs, voice soft.

You wrap your arms around him, palms flat over his stomach. “You were never just the driver. Not to me.”

He shifts slightly, leans his head back to rest on your shoulder. “You’re not just saying that because I brought you that granola bar during debrief?”

“Well,” you laugh, “it was a pretty good granola bar.”

You feel his breath catch in his throat before he says it. “I was scared to come.”

You squeeze him gently. “I know.”

“I didn’t know who I was without the car, the suit, the pressure. But being here…” He turns in your arms until he’s facing you, straddling your lap, forehead against yours. “It’s not loud in my head anymore. You quiet the voices.”

You simply lean and kiss him. Long and slow. Like you have all the time in the world.

Race Day — Hours Before the Green Flag

You’re pacing. Pre-race tension clings to your shoulders like static. Logan’s seated on a folding chair outside the hauler, tapping something into his phone before he looks up.

“C’mere.”

You stop.

“Babe,” he says, voice firm. “C’mere.”

You walk to him. He rises, hooks his fingers into the waistband of your suit.

“You’re going to do great,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “You’ve got the best hands, the best instincts, and the biggest balls on the track.”

You snort. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Already has.” He winks. “Now go win something. I’ve got plans for what happens after.”

You don’t ask. But the heat in his eyes tells you exactly what kind of celebration he has in mind.

It’s chaos in the best way.

Three cautions, one near spin, and a fuel strategy gamble that’s either genius or reckless. Your hands are locked on the wheel, heart in your throat. Every vibration of the track hums through your bones like adrenaline on loop.

“Five to go,” your crew chief says through the radio. “You’re clear. Push now.”

You don’t answer, but you can feel the grin tug at your mouth beneath the helmet. You dig deep. Brake late. Cut sharp.

White flag.

One more lap.

You take the inside line, muscle the car just past the leader’s quarter panel and— Checkered flag.

You win.

You scream into your helmet as the radio crackles with shouts, your crew cheering like you just lit the world on fire. You circle once, the burnout messy and raw and perfect.

And then, in the pits—

Logan’s running.

He doesn’t wait for cameras or team protocol. The second you climb out of the car, he’s there, arms open, grabbing the collar of your suit and yanking you into him.

“You did it,” he says breathlessly, pulling your face to his. “You did it.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” you murmur against his ear.

“You’d better not,” he teases, but there’s something wet in his eyes. Something big and full and proud.

Post-Race – Dusk at the Track

The sun’s dipping below the grandstands, streaking the sky with oranges and fading purples. The media frenzy is finally dying down, and most of the team has dispersed yet again—some off to dinner, some still buzzing around the hauler. You’re catching your breath behind a stack of equipment cases, guzzling a half-warm Gatorade, watching the crowd linger at the far edge of pit road.

That’s when you see him—Logan.

He’s alone for the first time all day, sunglasses hanging from his collar, hair a little wild from hours under a cap. He’s standing near the security fence, scrolling through his phone, probably catching up on texts and memes your spotter has no doubt sent him by now.

Then: “Excuse me?”

A small voice. Timid. Soft. Nervous.

You watch as Logan looks up.

A girl, maybe ten or eleven, stands on the other side of the barrier. She’s got braces, big brown eyes, and a shirt with his F1 number printed in blue. Her hat’s slightly too big, almost slipping down her forehead, but she clutches a mini diecast car to her chest like it’s sacred.

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I don’t want to bother you—”

“You’re not,” Logan cuts in, crouching down to her level instantly. “Hey, what’s your name?”

“Aubrey.”

He smiles, soft and real. “Hi, Aubrey.”

You stay quiet. Hidden. Watching.

She hesitates, looking down at her shoes. “I liked you… when you were still in Formula One. My brother said you were his favorite before—” She stops herself, like she’s unsure if it’s okay to bring it up.

Logan nods gently. “Before I got dropped?”

Aubrey nods, wide-eyed.

He lets out a breath, but there’s no bitterness in it. “Yeah. That was rough.”

“I thought you were still really good,” she says, small voice stronger now. “I didn’t understand why people were mean. I—I told my dad it wasn’t fair.”

You see his jaw twitch, just slightly, like he’s holding something in.

“I’m really glad you said that,” he tells her. “I didn’t always think I was good enough. Still don’t, some days. But hearing it from you? That means the world.”

Aubrey finally smiles. “I think it’s cool that you’re here now. NASCAR’s lucky.”

Logan laughs, genuinely. “You hear that?” he calls over his shoulder, knowing you’re nearby even if he can’t see you. “NASCAR’s lucky.”

You smile against the lip of your bottle, heart squeezing.

He twirls the cap in his fingers — the one he’s been wearing all day with your number stitched on the front, the sponsor logo slightly sun-faded, the brim worn in all the right ways from hours under sun and stress. The one he’s claimed like a quiet badge of pride: your cap, your team, your win.

Then he offers it out through the fence to her.

Aubrey stares, wide-eyed. “Is that… yours?”

Logan grins. “It was. But I think you should have it.”

She takes it carefully, like it’s made of glass. “Why me?”

“Because,” he says, his voice a little lower now, softer, more sincere, “you believed in me when I didn’t. That’s the kind of fan worth everything.”

She flushes pink and hugs the hat to her chest.

“But,” he adds, leaning in conspiratorially, “you have to promise me one thing.”

She nods hard. “Anything.”

He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, toward your hauler — toward you.

“You cheer for her now. The driver who just won today?” His grin tugs wider. “That’s my girl. And she’s everything I ever wanted to be on a track.”

Aubrey’s eyes go huge. “She’s amazing.”

“She is,” Logan says, proud like it’s in his blood. “So keep rooting for her. And if anyone ever tells you girls can’t like racing—tell them they can come talk to me.”

She giggles, nodding furiously, and gives him a shy wave before her dad gently takes her hand and guides her away — leaving her clutching your cap like it’s the world’s most precious treasure. 

Logan stays where he is for a second, watching the little girl disappear into the thinning crowd, her new cap still clutched to her chest like it might float away if she lets go.

You cross the distance to him without a word. He doesn’t turn—just exhales like he knows it’s you. “She’s going to remember that forever,” you say softly.

He turns, slow, hands already finding your waist like muscle memory. “She reminded me of why this matters.”

You raise a brow, still catching your breath from the long, wild day. “Racing?”

“No,” he says, stepping in closer. “Being here. Being with you.”

It’s quiet now. The kind of quiet that only comes after the roar, the kind that settles in your chest instead of your ears. Logan’s gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes—like he’s grounding himself in something that finally feels permanent.

You loop your arms around his neck, resting your forehead against his. “You didn’t have to give her that cap, you know.”

“I did,” he murmurs. “Because it was never really mine. It was yours. And giving it away like that? That’s what pride looks like when it’s real.”

You swallow hard.

“She’s cheering for you now,” he adds. “Just like I am.”

There’s so much emotion humming under his voice—not sadness, not anymore. Just that quiet, steady type of love. The kind that builds over time and settles into your bones. You pull back just enough to kiss him—gentle, unhurried, full of everything that didn’t need to be said out loud. When you break apart, he still holds you close, one hand slipping into your back pocket like he can’t help himself. 

“You know what I think?” he asks, lips brushing your cheek.

“What?”

“That girl might be the only person here who had a better day than me.”

You chuckle. “Pretty sure I had the better one. I got the checkered flag and you.”

“Okay,” he admits, nudging his nose against yours. “We’ll call it a tie.”

The sun’s just about gone now. The track lights cast long shadows on the pavement as the two of you walk back toward the motorhomes, fingers intertwined.

Your crew chief whistles low when you pass. “Still glowing?”

You grin. “Is it that obvious?”

Logan smirks beside you. “Blame me.”

Your fueler mutters, “We do.”

You shake your head, but you don’t let go of him. Not tonight.

Not after a win, not after that moment, and definitely not when you’ve got something this good to hold onto.

As the two of you climb into the RV, Logan pauses in the doorway, looking back over the track one last time.

“She was brave,” he says quietly. “Coming up to me like that.”

“She wasn’t just brave,” you reply. “She was right.”

He turns to you, and whatever he's about to say vanishes into a soft, tired, completely in love smile.

You tug him inside by the front of his shirt. “Now c’mon, HAB. You owe me post-win kisses and a back rub.”

He laughs and lets you lead him in. “You drive like that every time, I’ll be rubbing your back ‘til retirement.”

You glance back at him, smug. “So... forever, basically?”

He leans down to kiss your temple, his voice dropping low. “Gladly.”

Outside, the world’s still moving — but here, the air’s quieter. Heavier.

You toe off your shoes, tossing your team shirt somewhere near the couch, and Logan… Logan just watches you. Like he’s still not used to you. Like you walked out of that firestorm of a race and now he’s the one who gets to follow you upstairs.

You raise a brow at him, playful. “What, never seen a winner undress before?”

He smiles slowly, stepping forward until his fingers graze your hips. “Not like this.”

You let him kiss you — and like everything else he’s done today, it starts gentle. Meaningful. But there’s tension simmering beneath his skin, and the second your hand tangles in his hair and you pull just a little, it snaps. He walks you backward toward the bed, never breaking the kiss, until the back of your knees hit the mattress and you sink into it with a soft gasp. He follows — all heat and breath and hands under fabric — until your shirt is gone and his hoodie’s somewhere on the floor.

“Still taste like Gatorade,” he murmurs, dragging his lips along your jaw, your throat.

“You smell like the end of a perfect day,” you say, fingers slipping just under the hem of his sweats.

He huffs a laugh, but the sound breaks when you palm him— slow and steady, like you’ve got all the time in the world.

“I was trying to be romantic,” he groans.

“You were,” you whisper, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Now you’re something else.”

He grins — lazy, crooked, yours — and then he’s stripping the rest of the way down, pressing you flat into the sheets as he settles between your legs.

“You know how long I’ve been thinking about this?” he asks, his voice low and rough and close to your ear. “All day, watching you light that track up like you owned it…”

You gasp as he sinks in slow, deep, the stretch familiar and perfect. His hands pin yours above your head, his forehead resting against yours as he starts to move — unhurried, intense, like the win doesn’t matter nearly as much as this does.

You’re not loud. Neither of you are — not at first.

But the way he says your name when you clench around him? Like a prayer?

It undoes you.

“Look at me,” he whispers, breath stuttering. “I wanna see you fall apart.”

You do — with a gasp, with a broken cry into his neck, with his body locked to yours like he never wants to let go.

He follows close behind, spilling into you with a quiet groan, hips stuttering, mouth pressed to your shoulder like he’s never been safer than right here.

You’re still wrapped around each other, sweat cooling between lazy kisses and the occasional exhausted laugh. One of his hands traces slow, thoughtless patterns on your arms, like he’s memorizing you all over again.

The silence is easy. Earned. The kind of quiet that settles in only when everything has been said — and everything else has been felt.

“You always this good after a win?” he murmurs, voice raw, playful, lips brushing your jaw.

You smile, eyes half-lidded. “Guess you’ll have to stick around to find out.”

He hums, dipping his head to press a soft kiss over your sternum, your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder. “That a challenge, champ?”

“No,” you say, fingers sliding into his messy hair again. “That’s a promise.”

Logan looks up, and there’s something warm in his expression — deeper than lust, steadier than adrenaline. His hand flattens over your ribs, just above your heart, like he needs to feel it beating to believe you’re real.

“I’ve been in a thousand paddocks,” he says softly. “Stood on pit walls in Monaco, walked the grid in Abu Dhabi. But tonight, watching you cross that line?” His breath catches. “That was the proudest I’ve ever been of anyone.”

Your throat tightens. You thread your fingers through his, still resting over your chest, and pull his hand up to your lips. Kiss the inside of his wrist — slow, intentional.

“I won today,” you whisper. “But I swear, Logan… having you here? That felt like winning twice.”

He doesn’t speak — not right away.

He just kisses you again, slower this time. No rush. No fire.

There was something cruel about hope.

It never arrived loudly.

It slipped into stolen glances across dinner tables, lingering touches when someone handed you a book, the way a pair of hazel eyes softened whenever they found yours in a crowded room.

Hope whispered.

And that made it so much harder to silence.

You had spent nearly three years in Velaris convincing yourself that Azriel simply cared for everyone that way.

He was thoughtful.

Protective.

Patient.

It wasn't love.

It couldn't be.

Not when everyone knew where his heart belonged.

Elain.

You watched it constantly.

The way he lingered near her gardens. The careful gifts left anonymously. The quiet smiles that appeared whenever she laughed.

You never blamed him.

How could you?

Elain was sunshine wrapped in kindness.

You had loved her your whole life.

Still...

It hurt more than you cared to admit.

So you did what you'd always done.

You loved quietly.

—

"You're leaving already?"

Cassian's voice echoed through the River House as you pulled your cloak tighter.

"It's getting late."

"It is barely sunset."

"I have reading to do."

"You've read the same book four times."

"I like it."

Mor snorted from the couch.

"She just wants to escape your terrible stories."

"They're excellent stories."

"They're mostly yelling."

You smiled despite yourself.

"I'll see everyone tomorrow."

As you reached the front door, another voice stopped you.

"I'll walk with you."

Azriel.

Of course he would.

He walked everyone home.

Because he was kind.

Nothing more.

—

Velaris glowed beneath the stars.

Music drifted from riverside cafés while lanterns reflected against the Sidra.

Neither of you spoke immediately.

Silence had never been uncomfortable with Azriel.

It settled around him like another pair of wings.

"You've been quiet lately," he finally said.

You laughed softly.

"I've always been quiet."

"You've been...sad."

Your heart squeezed.

"I'm alright."

"You don't have to pretend with me."

That almost undid you.

Because pretending with Azriel was all you had left.

"I'm fine."

His shadows drifted closer.

One brushed against your wrist before disappearing again.

You pretended not to notice.

—

A week later, Elain mentioned she was meeting Azriel in the gardens.

You smiled.

Of course she was.

So when Nesta suggested everyone have tea outside, you politely declined.

"I have errands."

"You hate errands," Nesta deadpanned.

"I suddenly love them."

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

But let you leave.

You wandered Velaris for nearly two hours before returning home.

The gardens were empty.

Only Azriel remained.

He sat alone on a stone bench.

Looking disappointed.

Your stomach twisted painfully.

She must have left.

Maybe they had argued.

Maybe she had finally told him she couldn't return his feelings.

The thought made your chest ache for them both.

"You shouldn't sit out here alone."

He looked up immediately.

"I've been waiting."

"For...Elain?"

His brows furrowed.

"For you."

"Oh."

You blinked.

"Oh."

"I asked Elain where you'd gone."

"...You did?"

"She said you suddenly remembered errands."

Heat crawled into your cheeks.

"I did."

"She also said you were avoiding me."

You stared at the flowers.

"I wasn't."

"You were."

"...Perhaps a little."

The confession hung between you.

Azriel sighed.

"Did I do something?"

"No."

"Then tell me why."

Because I love you.

Because watching you love my sister is breaking my heart.

Because every time you smile at her, I have to remind myself that she deserves happiness more than I deserve you.

Instead, you whispered,

"I thought you wanted to spend time with Elain."

Silence.

Long enough that you risked looking at him.

Azriel looked...

Confused.

"Why?"

You almost laughed.

"Because..."

You gestured vaguely.

"Everyone sees it."

"The gifts."

"The gardens."

"The way you look at her."

Realization slowly spread across his face.

Then something that looked suspiciously like horror.

"Oh."

Your stomach dropped.

"I shouldn't have said anything."

"No."

He stood.

"No, you should have."

He ran a scarred hand over his face.

"I have been an unbelievable idiot."

"I don't understand."

"The gifts were because she likes gardening."

"...Yes."

"I asked for her help."

"...Yes."

"I look at her because she's your sister."

You frowned.

"I still don't understand."

He laughed.

Actually laughed.

Soft.

Disbelieving.

"My shadows have been trying to tell me for months."

"They're not very good communicators."

"They've been screaming."

One of them nudged your shoulder as if agreeing.

You smiled despite yourself.

Azriel stepped closer.

"So have Cassian."

"Cassian?"

"He keeps asking when I'm finally going to tell you."

Your heartbeat stumbled.

"...Tell me what?"

His hazel eyes searched yours with a vulnerability you had never expected to see.

"That I have never been in love with Elain."

Your breath caught.

"I care about her."

"But not the way everyone assumes."

"Especially not the way you assumed."

"I..." Your voice failed.

"I thought—"

"I know."

His expression softened.

"I should have realized."

"You kept pulling away."

"I thought you were tired of me."

"Tired of you?"

The idea was so absurd you laughed.

"I've been in love with you since the first time you brought me that ridiculous stack of books because you remembered I liked stories."

"You remembered that?"

"I remember everything about you."

His shoulders relaxed like he'd been carrying the weight of the world.

"I've loved you since you thanked me."

You blinked.

"For books?"

"No."

His smile was impossibly gentle.

"You thanked me like I had done something extraordinary."

"You always thank everyone."

"I know."

"But no one had ever thanked me like that."

Emotion tightened your throat.

"I thought someone like you could never love someone like me."

"Someone like me?"

"You are..."

You looked at the legendary spymaster.

"Wings and shadows and impossible things."

"And you?"

"I'm just—"

His hand found yours.

"You are the kindest person I've ever known."

"You make my family laugh."

"You remember everyone's favorite tea."

"You leave blankets over sleeping friends."

"My shadows adore you."

As if summoned, several wrapped gently around your intertwined hands.

"They've adored you long before I admitted I did."

A tear slipped free.

"You really aren't in love with Elain?"

He smiled.

"No."

"I think she'd be rather offended if she knew she's accidentally been stealing another Archeron sister's happiness."

You laughed through watery eyes.

"She would probably scold both of us."

"Almost certainly."

"And Feyre."

"And Nesta."

"Cassian would never let us hear the end of it."

"No."

"He absolutely would not."

You leaned into him.

His forehead rested against yours.

"So..."

"So?"

"Would it be alright if I finally stopped pretending we're just friends?"

Your answer was a kiss.

Small.

Shy.

Perfectly you.

His smile against your lips was brighter than any sunrise over Velaris.

Some misunderstandings took weeks to unravel.

Others disappeared the moment two stubborn hearts finally chose honesty.

And as Azriel's shadows danced happily around the two of you, you could have sworn they were celebrating long before either of you had caught up.

a/n: hi everyone, i’ve literally been so m.i.a lately but I’M BACKK!! so i have this entire story planned out and it will be a total of two or three parts. please let me know your thoughts on the story and i hope you enjoy!

"Where did Scope go?"

After finally being granted a two week long break, the squad decided to kick it off with a night at the Hard Deck.

While everyone was in close proximity to each other — some playing darts, others playing nine-ball — there were a few strays from the group. Hangman was busy trying to get a pretty brunette's number by the bar, and you were heading out to sit with some cute guy on the swing bench beside the entrance.

Bob jerked his head in your direction by the door in response to Phoenix's question.

Following his eye-line, Natasha let out a huff. "Looks like we lost another one."

Before going back to her game with Rooster who was laughing at his friends not making it even halfway through the night before hitting on someone, Mickey nudged Natasha.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that."

The apprehension in his tone caused the four to avert their attention back to you just in time to see you hurl whatever mix of food and alcohol was in your stomach on the boots of the guy you were with. The man was holding your arms to help maintain your balance, but the look of disgust across his features was evident. He looked around in search of someone, anyone, who would be able to take you off his hands.

A bunch of "oohs" and "yikes" escaped from your friends inside. Already knowing he was going to be sent to get you, a grimacing Bob hopped off the stool he was occupying.

"Yeah I know, I'm on it."

Everything felt dizzying. The lines on the floorboards blurred together as you immediately went to apologize to Max (or was it Miles), who you just yacked on. Mortification slipped through the pounding going on in your head. While you couldn't even pick your head up, eyes shut in the direction of the ground, a familiar voice filled the air.

"Hey man, sorry I'll take her off you hands."

The forearms you were gripping didn't hesitate at all to hand you over.

You understand that anyone would have been disgusted with the incident, but damn. Bob could've been a murderer for all Max (Mason?) knew. A string full of cursed grumbles came out of him as he walked off towards his car.

You stumbled into Bob looking for any sort of balance.

Bob's chuckle filled your ears. "Whoa, easy sweetheart. I told you to go light on those shots tonight."

A stabilizing arm wrapped around your waist while the other guided one of yours around his neck. He contemplated taking you straight home or back inside to get some water in you. Bob decided on the latter after hearing you mutter something about not feeling well.

"Bubs we both know I never listen to you."

He shakes his head at your stubbornness, lips quirking slightly at the nickname you've had for him since childhood.

You and him have been best friends ever since the day you met in kindergarten. It was the first week and everyone was playing outside while Bob sat under a secluded tree. Your little heart broke seeing him all alone and decided from then on that you'd never leave his side. This decision turned out great considering years later, you found out Bob wanted to talk to other kids but was just too shy and scared to do anything about it. While your never-ending questions about his glasses that were two sizes to big for his face made him nervous at first, he was always grateful that you gave him attention when no one else seemed to care.

You started calling him bubs after hearing his family called him bubba whenever you went over to his house for play dates. Although he grew out of the nickname with his family, you never found it necessary to shake the habit.

Bob never minded. In fact, he loved the nickname that was reserved only for you. Something to represent the closeness and bond of your friendship to each other.

After hauling you back onto the stool you originally occupied before leaving, Bob waved Phoenix over so that you'd have someone to lean on while he went to grab your water. Phoenix immediately handed the pool stick to Fanboy and sat on the stool beside yours. You slumped into her side, head resting against her shoulder.

"Scope, babe, what were you thinking? The last time you ate was during lunch and you decided to go ham on all the shots?"

You groaned. "Ugh, I know I know. But I wasn't in the mood for anything here. And I was not about to drive to another place for food just to come back here again. "

The pounding was still coursing through your skull and Bob thankfully appeared with the glass of water he promised. You practically ripped it out of his hand and chugged the entire thing in what seemed like two seconds.

Phoenix and Bob shared a look, laughing at your actions.

You were about to say you were going to head home before the southern drawl from the annoying man you've grown to love interrupted you.

"Aw damn! No way I missed it." Hangman, who was yelling at a volume ten times too loud for your liking right now, appeared in front of you wearing a devastating pout like he missed out on the greatest thing ever. "You hurl your lunch on some poor guy and I miss it?! Did anyone record it?"

Jake's amusement quickly came to an end as he bent over to rub the place on his shin you kicked in retaliation.

"Hangman, go be a dick somewhere else. I do not have the patience for you right now." You rubbed your temples at the headache that just wouldn't seem to go away. "I'm gonna head out guys."

"Alright, let's go." Bob offered as you slid from your seat.

Guilt filled your system, not wanting to make Bob turn in early just because you couldn't hold your liquor. But, the two of you did drive together since you shared the same street and Bob wasn't planning on drinking.

You shook your head. "Bob, no it's fine. I'll just get an Uber or something. Stay, have fun."

Ignoring your protests, Bob turned to grab his keys. Knowing that you weren't going to win this battle, you sighed and turned to give Phoenix a goodbye hug.

"Try to make it past the door without throwing up this time." Phoenix winked teasingly, resulting in her earning a poke at her side. She contorted her body away from your hand and you laughed, bidding her and the team a goodnight.

Bob appeared beside you once more and the two of you headed out.

-

Waking up the next morning wasn't nearly as terrible as you thought it would be. Your headache was completely gone but the hunger in your stomach was unbearable. You ate something light before going to bed, but it seems your body didn't get the memo.

Luckily, it was the first Saturday of the month, which meant it was your and Bob's monthly lunch date. You guys have had this ritual for years and only missed it whenever you weren't in proximity of each other. It was meant to give you and Bob one-on-one time whenever weeks got hectic and you two wouldn't get to hang out as much. Although you both loved your squad, it was always nice to spend time alone together just like you did when you were kids.

Pulling into your favorite part of town that was littered with everything you and Bob love—a cozy little cafe with the best waffles and coffee known to man, a bookstore across the street, and a movie theater just down the block—you rushed inside to get those delicious aforementioned waffles in your grumbling stomach as quickly as possible.

Your eyes scanned the cafe for Bob, knowing that he always arrived earlier than you did. After a few seconds, you managed to find him scrolling on his phone at a table tucked away in the corner.

You make your way towards him but just before you take a seat, you stop in your tracks.

"You're actually the best person ever."

Bob's gaze lifts to yours as he lets out an easy chuckle and stuffs his phone away in his pocket.

A smile splits across your face as you take in the stack of steaming waffles covered in whipped cream, fresh fruit, and chocolate drizzle. Right beside it is an iced coffee, which you're sure is made exactly how you like. You immediately reach out for the chair and hurry to grab the utensils to dig in. Once you successfully shovel a perfect bite into your mouth with a little bit of every topping, you let out a satisfied groan.

"Yeah, I figured you'd be starving after yesterday. Didn't feel like you should wait if you didn't have to." Bob began to eat the omelette that you only registered was in front of him after your post waffle clarity.

"I hope you get everything you ever wish for in life Robert Floyd."

The food still being chewed in your mouth made your words almost incoherent. But, after knowing you for so long, Bob was basically fluent in any state you were in.

''Slow down. We don't want you throwing all that up on my shoes this time around. They're new."

You let out another groan. This time out of embarrassment.

"Don't remind me. I actually can't believe I did that. Next time I don't eat and decide to drink the entire bar, I want you to bring that exact moment up."

Bob scoffs. "Yeah right, like you'd listen. Just like you did last night when I told you to eat."

You just shrugged knowing that he had a point.

After some more easy conversation, you decided now was the perfect time to set into motion the plan you've been working on for a few months now.

You set your fork down and reach for a sip of your coffee in order to give yourself a few seconds to prepare the most authentic looking disappointed face known to man.

"Okay bubs, I have some news and you're not going to like it." The middle of Bob's brows furrowed and you mentally applauded your grave tone. "But don't worry, I'll do my very best to make it up to you."

The utensils in his hands get set down immediately, his full attention on you."What is it?"

"I know your birthday is coming up in a few weeks, but I won't be here to celebrate with you."

Bob's concern drops immediately. He shakes his head, averting his attention back to his meal. "Oh my god. I thought you were being serious."

You were prepared for this exact reaction. So, you channeled all of your practice from the school play you did when you were in the seventh grade and pushed on.

"No Bob, I'm telling the truth. My sister sent the date for her college graduation ceremony and it falls on your birthday weekend."

He just nods along, clearly not believing you. "Yeah, yeah. You know, I thought we were past you trying to surprise me with some party. We both know every time you do, you get all pouty when I never fall for it."

You folded your arms and, true to his word, your lips pout. Bob sees this and points his fork at you. "Yes, just like that! I know you want me to feel excited by some big party, but, you know me. I don't need some big elaborate surprise to feel special."

"Okay, first of all, I am not lying. And second of all, everyone deserves to feel special on their birthday-"

"And I do."

"But it's not the same," you exasperate.

You've been trying to throw Bob a surprise party ever since your eighteenth birthday. You were looking forward to it all year and the week before your party was supposed to happen, bam. Your appendix burst. You had to cancel your party and, although you were grateful for spending a small celebration with your parents and sister, you were devastated.

Your parents offered to postpone the party, but you felt guilty making them go through all the trouble of planning again. But then, your lovely best friend decided to step in behind your back and throw you the party of your dreams. He singlehandedly sent out new invitations to your closest friends, called the catering place to reschedule, and rounded up your family at the crack ass of dawn to set up your backyard. All without you noticing.

After a successful day of keeping you in the house until night with a movie marathon, Bob dragged you out to your backyard. You immediatley broke down in tears, heart bursting at the seams. Purple and green streamers lined the fences that surrounded the yard, a double chocolate cake was sat on one of the long tables, and all of your favorite people were there. While you originally thought it was your parents who did this, they just pointed to a bashful Bob staring and awaiting your reaction.

It wasn't just the fact that he took the time and spent the effort to do all this for you, it was that he wasn't looking for any recognition at all. He just offered a shrug when you asked if he did all this and, when he nodded, you tackled him while in a fit of pure joy.

From that moment on, you've devoted your life to trying to give Bob the same feeling he did to you on that day. However, that obviously has never come to fruition since he always manages to figure out when you're lying. And while there is never a doubt in your mind that he enjoys the events you plan for him, it is a very surreal feeling to have someone do something for you exactly how you wished without being asked. The moment made you feel completely seen and you want Bob to know that you've always seen him, too.

While your past attempts have failed, this time you are sure you're going to succeed.

"Okay, prove it."

"I literally have the email that got sent to Becca. I'll show you right now." You pulled your phone out and opened the messages app. Turning it to show Bob, he reads the screenshotted email and examines the date stamp of the message. It was sent a week ago.

So, obviously the email wasn't real. You roped your sister into this and went as far as to create a fake email that looked exactly like her school's. With some research and careful editing, it looked legit. You called Becca and told her when to send it. Following the screenshot were messages about how you were oh so sad that you'd have to break it to Bob that you'd be missing his party.

Bob handed the phone back to you before saying, "Okay…this could still be fake. I don't believe you."

Sighing, you scrolled through your phone and opened up the messages with your Mom. There was a reused screenshot of flight information sent by an airline that you had from the past years with the date edited. It was followed by messages regarding pickup details.

Bob's shoulders slumped ever so slightly and you knew you got him. You had to keep yourself from smirking in victory. Who has a terrible poker face now Bob?

"Oh." His voice was small and guilt started to creep into your system at his obvious effort to not appear too disappointed. But you shoved those feelings down knowing that it was all going to be worth it in the end. "That's okay. Like you said, we can celebrate another time. Not a big deal. It's not like it's our first birthday we've had to make up."

You nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah exactly. I'll make sure you have the best time when I get back."

After finishing your meals and browsing the nearby bookstore, you two went your separate ways. Once you were in your car and one hundred and ten percent sure that Bob left the parking lot, you broke out in a happy dance.

Everything is going to be perfect.

-

"Thanks for letting me crash here Hangman. I owe you one."

Weeks had passed since you first broke the news to Bob that you "wouldn't" be here for his birthday. He originally offered you a ride to the airport, but obviously without a flight, that would just be a waste of gas and time. So, you made up some excuse about Jake owing you a favor and you wanting to be as annoying to him as possible.

Bob laughed at that and gave no protests since it meant Jake would be inconvenienced.

In reality, the two of you weren't going to the airport. Instead, you were going to camp out at Jake's apartment because Bob would never unexpectedly visit like he would Natasha's or Mickey's place.

It would only be for a day. Plus, Jake just moved into his apartment, making Bob the most unfamiliar with it, which is perfect for your facetime with him tonight.

"No problem Scope. But I got to hand it to you. I think this is the year you successfully surprise Baby on Board."

You beamed at Jake. "You think so?"

He nodded and guided you to the guest room.

"Definitely. As long as Fanboy doesn't open his big mouth and accidentally lets it slip at dinner tomorrow night."

You groaned, "Ugh. Please make sure he limits his alcohol consumption. You know how chatty he gets when he's wine drunk."

"Will do," Hangman promised. "What time is everyone getting here?"

With Bob's birthday being a day away, you wanted to go over the plan with the squad one more time just to ensure everything went perfectly. You bribed them all with free pizzas and beers that you and Jake picked up.

You settled down onto the very comfortable queen size bed before saying, "In an hour so I'll order the pizza in a bit. Can you put the beers in the fridge till they come?"

Jake hummed before walking out the door.

Flopping back onto the bed, you open up your phone and order a few boxes of pizza from the nearby place you know everyone loves. After all the food has been ordered, you decide to take a little nap before everyone arrives. But just as you're getting comfy and two seconds away from knocking out, your phone decides to ruin your peace with a ding!

Your eyes shoot open and immediately reach for the phone. Because, while you know that you aren't on a plane, it slipped your mind that Bob doesn't. What also slipped your mind was that you needed to text or call Bob before your flight, something you both always did out of habit to give each other peace of mind before boarding. You tap your phone on and open up the messages app.

From Bubs: Hey just wanted to check in. Are you about to board?

From You: Yep, boarding right now! Sorry it's really hectic here, slipped my mind to text you.

As soon as you sent your message, Bob responded with a Have a safe flight :) and you tossed your phone aside before knocking out cold.

You wake up around an hour later to someone jumping you and disrupting your peaceful slumber.

"WAKE UP SLEEPY HEAD!"

A muffled groan comes out of you, courtesy of the sleeve of Mickey's hoodie covering your face.

"Fanboy if you don't get up right now, I will start biting."

He rolls off with all the urgency of a man who knows you're bluffing.

With your face hoodie-free, you're able to blink awake to see Phoenix leaning on the entrance of the door with an amused grin. "Come on Scope, get up. Everyone's here and so is the food. Be quick before the guys get distracted by some game on the tv."

"Okay okay, I'm coming," you mumble while rubbing the sleepiness out of your eyes.

Phoenix kicks off the frame to head back to the living room and Fanboy follows, but not before shoving you back on the bed when you stand up and running away giggling like a five year old.

"Mickey!" You huff and get back up to follow after them.

Reaching the living room, you see the group already cozy in their spots. Boxes of pizza are spread open across the coffee table, everyone has food and a beer in hand, and Hangman is already scrolling through channels to find something interesting. Rooster, Hangman, and Coyote occupy the L-shaped couch while Phoenix is crisscrossed on the nearby armchair.

You grab some pizza and a beer from the fridge before settling down behind the coffee table on the plush carpet beside Fanboy—but not before grabbing a hold of his head and giving him a noogie.

Once you're all comfy, you grab everyone's attention. "Okay people, big day tomorrow night. I need everything to run smoothly."

Even though you've run this plan with them a couple of times before, all of their eyes and attention is locked on you. They understand how important this is to you so, even if they don't need to hear the plan again, they humor you.

"You all know what you're doing?" Nods are given all around, but you still feel the need to double check.

"Nat, what time are you picking Bob up?"

"Seven-thirty, and we're going to that fancy italian place we go to every year," she responds.

"Perfect. And what time is everyone heading out?"

"Ten p.m sharp." Everyone says in unison.

A smile spreads across your face. "Yes, and most importantly, what are you guys supposed to do when giving your keys to the valet?"

Rooster swallows his bite of pizza before answering. "Find Jordan and give her Phoenix's keys."

When planning for tomrrow, you stopped by the restaurant last week to ask if anyone would be working that could pretend to have a "little misshap" and say that there is some sort of confusion with finding Phoenix's keys. This way, everyone else will have time to rush to Bob's house for the surprise without him seeing. That's when you met Jordan, the sweetest girl who agreed to do it after hearing the reason behind Bob's surprise party and who said she'd be working that night.

You let out a sigh, trying to let go of all the nerves and trust that your friends were going to do everything perfectly.

Seeing the anxiety written all over your face, Fanboy spoke. "Scope relax, we got this."

His shrug of confidence actually helped a lot to ease your worries, but you still decided to egg on him.

"Yeah as long as you, Mr. Chatterbox, are able to keep your lips sealed."

Fanboy put a hand to his chest in mock offense before getting distracted by whatever channel Hangman flicked to.

You relaxed against the couch behind you feeling hopeful that everything would go according to plan. A small smile was permanently etched on your face the rest of the night in ancitipation of Bob's reaction.

-

Is it considered breaking and entering into someone's house if said someone is your best friend who gave you a key to his apartment years ago for emergencies? Well, you constitute needing to surprise him as an emergency so, it's fine.

After Hangman dropped you back home, you were finally able to use your car without Bob noticing that it was gone from its place on the side street. You were going to have to do multiple trips from your place to his because of all the bean bag chairs and other decorations you bought, but at least it was only down the street.

You facetimed Bob at exactly midnight. Fanboy and Coyote decided to stick around a little longer so you asked everyone to quiet down before you headed to the guest bathroom, a place Bob definitely wouldn't recognize. You called wishing him a happy birthday, always needing to be the first to greet each other on birthdays. He wanted to say hi to your sister whose apartment you said you were crashing at, but you just told him she was sleeping. Another perk of being dedicated to calling at such a late hour.

Although he tried to hide it, you could hear the disappointment in his voice, the edge in his tone when talking about how excited he was to go out with the group. Your heart cracked a little at his sadness but you reminded yourself once again that it would all be worth it.

Now, it's up to you to get everything set up and you have around two hours to do it.

You work as fast as you could and had the layers of sweat to prove it. Bob's backyard was perfect. He lived in the coziest craftsman bungalow you've ever seen. Warm colors, the comfiest furniture known to man, and photos of his family and friends scattered everywhere. But most importantly, his backyard had a good amount of space. Just the right amount for the outdoor plan you had.

You clicked on your phone and had exactly twenty minutes to spare. The perfect amount of time for you to get ready before Bob got here.

You took the quickest shower ever, did some skincare, and put on your pajamas that you packed. The wide leg sweatpants and one of Bob's old t-shirts were a wonderful reprieve from the sweaty jeans you had been confined in.

By the time you finished up, you heard a couple knocks on the door and rushed to open it. Behind it was the squad, aside from Bob and Phoenix of course.

"Okay everyone, Phoenix texted me saying that she was eight minutes away so hurry up and get changed."

The men all filed into the house carrying a spare change of clothes you told them to bring for the night. Once everyone was dressed, you shuffled them into the backyard to hide knowing that Phoenix would be arriving with Bob at any minute. As soon as everyone stepped outside, their eyes widened in awe.

"Woah Scope, you did all this in the span of two hours?!" Payback gawked.

Bob's backyard was just how you imagined it would turn out to be. The grass covered area was filled with blankets spread across the floor, throw pillows littered everywhere, and eight bean bag chairs. Along the perimeter of the wooden fence and hung on some trees were fairy lights illuminating a warm glow that softly filled the space. In front of everything was a plastic backdrop stand holding a sheet. Off to the side was a table full of Bob's favorite snacks and drinks that surrounded the elevated projector you ordered online. And the cherry on top was the vintage popcorn machine you in a corner that you which was currently churning out some kernels.

When you two were younger, Bob always thought they were the coolest thing. So, you decided now was a good time to fulfill that childhood dream.

Coyote's jaw was practically touching the floor before saying, "No, seriously, you're insane. I don't know how you pulled this off, but you did it."

Before you could bask in anymore compliments, you heard the loud lock on a car go off. Phoenix and Bob are here.

You rushed to turn off the fairy lights so that they wouldn't draw Bob's attention through the windows.

"Quick everyone, hide!" you whisper-shouted.

All of them were quick to duck below the eye-line of any windows and you moved to hide behind a tree to serve as a final surprise. It was barely covering you but you knew the rest of the guys would draw Bob's attention away before he noticed.

After a minute, the door clicks open followed by Bob's voice. Peering around the tree, you see Bob semi-distracted by Phoenix as he steps outside, keeping his focus away from the entire set-up.

"Phoenix, are you sure we're even able to see the shooting stars with all the light pollu- What the?"

"SURPRISE!" Before Bob could even comprehend what was going on, you turned the fairy lights on with the remote control you grabbed before hiding and the guys popped up from their squatted positions.

If eyes could pop out of their sockets, they'd definitely be rolling out of Bob's head right now. He was a stuttering mess. "You guys- how did you- when did you-…what's happening right now?"

Phoenix jumped in with an amused grin asking, "You like it?"

Bob let out a surprised huff as he took everything in. "Of course! This is literally the coolest thing ever, but how were you all able to do this? You were with me the entire night. And I think I would have noticed you guys carrying all this stuff here."

Everyone let out a collective chuckle before Bob just turned to Natasha looking for answers. She just shrugged before spotting you from behind the tree and nodding her head in your direction.

You walked out from behind your spot with a shy smile. "Surprise Bob! Happy birthday."

Understanding seemed to wash over his features, the furrow in his brow immediately relaxing. You knew he realized that this was all some elaborate scheme you pulled off, yet the shock was still coursing through him. He shook his head in disbelief. "You did all of this? How did you do all this?"

You nodded. Before you could even get an explanation out, a squeal ripped through you Bob raced at you. He picked you up into the biggest hug ever and spun you around. You immediately wrapped your arms around his shoulders, giggling like a child.

After a few seconds he put you down, hands settled on your waist while yours slid to rest on his shoulders. His eyes gleamed under the fairy lights and you wished you could take a picture of the pure joy on his face. You had no doubt that your expression matched his.

"You liar," he accused, but there was not even a single ounce of betrayal on his face.

"Guilty. But be honest, did I finally get you?"

"How could you not? You had so much proof and, like, planned everything so ahead of time that I couldn't even convince myself that you were lying. How were you even able to answer from your sister's place?"

"I didn't. I crashed at Hangman's."

At the mention of your friend, the two of you finally separated from each other's grasp and turned to the group. You rolled your eyes at Fanboy who had his phone out recording the entire interaction.

Bob continued to look around, still taking it all in.

You clapped your hands and rubbed them together in anticipation. "Anddd, we're having a movie marathon. So, let's get this party started!"

Excited energy polluted the air as everyone took the time to grab snacks and popcorn.

Finally noticing the popcorn machine, Bob whipped his head in your direction. "No way. You actually got one of these?!"

"Mhm," you proudly nodded,"I thought of everything."

Shaking his head in awe he let out a breathy, "You really did."

Once everyone settled down onto beanbags that surrounded around the makeshift screen, you turned on the projector.

"NO WAY! STARWARS?!"

A laugh bellowed out of you from Bob's realization.

"Duh, what else would we watch for your birthday you nerd?" You ruffled his hair before plopping down on the seat right next to him.

Fanboy let out a dramatic, "SHHHHHH. It's starting," which left you with no other choice but to throw a handful of popcorn at him in retaliation.

The conversations and jokes didn't entirely settle, but they quieted down to just a murmur.

You were focused on the beginning scenes before feeling a pair of eyes on you. You turned to Bob and found him looking at you carrying a small smile that hadn't disappeared from his face since you saw him. He looked utterly contented.

Your face immediately mirrored his as you let out a quiet, "What?"

Bob leaned in to not bother your friends.

"I told you that you didn't have to go through all this trouble to make me have a good birthday. I love all of this though, thank you, but I would have been just as happy with you at dinner."

"I know, but I wanted you to experience at least half of what I did."

His eyebrows furrow.

"You know…for what you did for me at my eighteenth party." Realization hits Bob and he seems to finally see what the fuss was all about.

"Scope, is that why you've been scheming all these years?"

You nod.

"You seriously didn't have to go through all this trouble. You don't owe me anything because of that party."

A pink hue painted your cheeks. "I know, I just wanted you to know how special you are to me Bob. You don't know what that night meant to me."

He shook his head dismissively and breaks eye contact. "It wasn't all that. Anyone would have done that for you."

To bring his attention back on you, you gently place a hand on his arm.

"Bob. Not just anyone would have done that for me. And it's not just about the party. It's about the effort and thought that you put into all of it. I've never felt as cared about as that night and it was all thanks to you. And if tonight made you feel even the slightest bit similar, then I am satisfied."

The sparkle in his eyes caused by the light seem to only amplify. There's an indescrible look on Bob's face, and, for the second time that night, you wish you could take a picture to keep the memory forever.

Seemingly at a loss for words, he pulls you to him and wraps his arm around you.

Into your hair beside your ear, he breathes your name out like its a sacred thing that he has the privledge to know. "Thank you. This is the best birthday ever."

If the tightness of his hug is anything to go by, you think that everything was a success.

Before the two of you can pull apart, a pillow is thrown at the back of your head.

Whipping your head towards the direction it came from, you see all of your friend's eyes locked on the screen — completely unbothered — before pointing to Mickey.

"Oh really? Thanks guys."

"Fanboy! What the heck?"

"What? You guys were being too mushy. It's cute, but like, you're distracting."

And that's all it took for you to start a pillow fight with Mickey.

Easy laughter and jokes spilled out of everyone the rest of the night. After finishing the second movie, almost everyone was either snoring or drooling on themselves. The only survivors of the night were you, Bob, and Phoenix.

"Okay birthday boy, I think its time to wrap this up. Let's round everyone up and clean this mess up tomorrow, yeah?"

Bob responded with a nod before stretching his limbs out like a cat, prompting a sleepy giggle to fall from your lips.

Natasha, noticing that you and Bob were getting up, followed and started shaking some of the guys awake.

Once everyone was awake, they dragged their feet heavily inside Bob's house.

"Okay, Nat and Mickey, you're crashing at my place. Here's the keys. Go ahead, I'm just going to help set up the air mattresses here."

After a few minutes of setting up some air mattresses in the living and the boys playing a game of rock paper scissors over the spare room Bob had, everyone was settled in. They practically knocked out as soon as their head hit the pillows.

While Bob walked you to the door, not worrying about needing to be quiet since the guys were out cold, you told him to give you a second to grab something you forgot. A quizzical expression fell over Bob's features when he saw you walking out of the kitchen towards him with a glow in your hands. That is, until you began to sing happy birthday quietly.

"…happy birthday bubs. And many more."

The single candle topped on the small vanilla cupcake in your hands was raised enough to illuminate Bob's face in the darkness that enveloped the rest of the room. It reflected off of his glasses, but there was no doubt that the warmth exerted from Bob was caused by the flicker of the candle alone.

He stared into your eyes before you nudged him to make a wish. Shutting his eyes, he took a few seconds before blowing out the candle.

"You really thought of everything, didn't you?"

"I know they gave you a cake at the restaurant, but I wasn't there. And I didn't want to subject you to another moment in the spotlight, I know how much you hate it."

Taking a hold of the small plate in one hand, Bob wrapped his free arm around your shoulder and placed a kiss on the side of your forehead. Warmth filled your chest for what felt like the thousandth time that night and you couldn't be happier with how everything turned out.

"Goodnight Bub, I hope today was everything you wished for and more." You greeted him goodbye as you pushed the door open.

"Trust me, you outdid yourself. Can't believe you finally got me. Goodnight, Scope"

You were grateful to have basically done your entire nighttime routine at Bob's house because that meant you just needed to brush your teeth before knocking out. Once you entered your house, your ears filled with the sound of Fanboy's snoring coming from the couch. Unlike Bob, your apartment only had one bedroom which meant you were sharing a bed with Nat.

The door to your bedroom creaked, much to your dismay, causing Natasha to stir in her sleep.

"Scope, is that you?" she mumbled.

You pulled the covers on your side before apologizing. "Yeah, sorry babe, didn't mean to wake you."

She only hummed before going back to bed. After you were all snug under the blanket, you allowed yourself to fully relax and sink into the bed. All of the stress and worrying paid off and you couldn't be happier. You took a minute to replay the night before falling asleep.

It was still dark when you woke up to the feeling of being absolutely dehydrated and overheated. Kicking off the blanket you were encased in, you looked to the clock on your beside table that read four a.m.

You stumbled into the kitchen, still half asleep, before pulling a glass of water from the cupboard above the sink. Footsteps echoed behind you, but you were too busy trying to quench your thirst. After filling the glass with water and taking the largest gulp known to man, you startled at the strong arms that enclosed your waist before relaxing into the hold. Your head leaned back against the shoulders, eyes closing in comfort.

The sleepiness was evident in the deep rasp you usually heard in his morning voice.

"Sweetheart, what are you doing up?" He began peppering soft kisses along your neck, eliciting a hum from you.

"Was thirsty," you mumbled.

His aviator glasses bumped the side of your face, but you didn't mind. Turning in his grasp, you buried your face in his chest to breathe in his scent. The usual jetfuel smell that accompanied him after a long day of flying was replaced by clean cedarwood.

His large palm rubbed comforting circles up and down your back. You pulled back just enough to stare into the man's face.

Bob is just the cutest when he's sleepy.

The two of you shared a smile before both your eyes went to eachother's lips. You leaned in, your lips about to touch and-

You couldn't sit up fast enough. A sheen of sweat covered your forehead as you gasped for air. You looked around your surroundings, trying to grasp where you were.

Natasha was sound asleep beside you and the sunlight was just barely beginning to peak through your curtains. The noise of the birds chirping did little to ease the beating in your ears.

Did I just have a dream about dating Bob?

- You have never dreaded the thought of coming into work more than you did now. You loved your job, you really did. But you didn't know what to do with the confusion that plagued your mind.

After the dream, you were totally out of it. You tried to act as normal as possible, but kept zoning out whenever you talked to Mickey and Natasha. You blamed it on being spent from all the planning and they thought nothing of it. The rest of the weekend, you did your best to avoid Bob at all cost, which proved to be a challenge, but you managed to do it.

However, now it was Monday morning and you can't exactly avoid Bob when you're both pilots in the same squadron.

Usually, Bob and you would carpool, but the thought of being confined in a vehicle with him for fifteen minutes made you feel even more sick than any g-force ever could. So, you sent him a text the night before saying that you and Nat were going to grab a bite to eat before work and would be up earlier than usual. You made sure to send it when you knew he was asleep, which was easy since he was basically a grandpa and slept at nine p.m. on work nights.

In the locker room, you were thankful that Natasha wasn't a chatty morning person because you were so lost in your thoughts that you don't think you could've held a conversation. As you pulled on your flight suit, you couldn't get the dream out of your head.

It didn't mean anything, it was just a dream. You aren't held liable for the things your subconscious pulls. Plus you've known Bob your whole life, if something was there it would have happened already. You're gonna see him right now and see that you're being ridiculous. It meant nothing. It meant-

"Scope. Scope, hellooo?"

The sound of Nat's voice pulled you back to reality. "Oh sorry Phoenix."

"Where the heck is your head at? It's time to go to the briefing room, we have five minutes."

"Right, yeah. Just super tired this morning. Let's go."

Too tired to consider question anything, Nat just shut her locker before the two of you headed out.

The closer you got to the double doors of the briefing room, the more you felt like your heart was going to explode. You haven't felt this nauseous since your first day at the academy. Nerves coursed through your system and you just thanked your lucky stars that you haven't fainted yet.

Your worries eased just the slightest bit when you realized that the guys weren't in the room yet. You were tempted to force Natasha to sit beside you, but you decided against it, needing to prove to yourself that your feelings for Bob were as normal as ever.

Taking your usual seat in the front row, you shut your eyes and tried to focus on your breathing. Its effects were just starting to kick in before Hangman and Coyote's loud voices echoed outside the room. Although you couldn't hear Bob, you were sure he was with them. Within two seconds, the doors burst open and the rambunctious group strolled in.

You forced your eyes open as you registered the all too familiar light footsteps approaching. The pounding of your heart felt like it was going at one beat per minute, each breath you took feeling more labored than the last. And then, you saw him.

Bob, as normal as ever, entered your peripheral vision and you refused to look at him head on. He was occupied flipping through a notebook he always brought, facing you while he stood in front of his seat.

With all of the courage you could muster, you finally stared up at him.

And, oh no.

It felt as though the air was sucked out of your lungs by some imaginary force. Your heart stuttered.

The position of the early morning sun shone perfectly on Bob through the window beside you. You often teased Bob for having the brownest blue eyes you've ever seen, but now they were brightened in a way you didn't have the pleasure of usually witnessing. His short hair that was usually gelled to the side was falling ever so slightly over his forehead. And you wanted nothing more than to satisfy the urge of pushing it back into place, just to be able to touch it. His green flight suit was partially unzipped at the collar, revealing the silver chain around his neck. Your features relaxed, drinking in the sight of him.

That's when he must have noticed you staring and raised his head. The soft curve of his lips deepened as your gazes met, nothing you haven't seen before. But the feeling of your heart plummeting to the floor was definetly a new sensation. Yes, Bob has always been cute to you, but in an adorable, puppy way. Definetely not in the way that made you want to pull him down by his dog tags to kiss him.

Stop. Oh dear god please stop. What are you thinking?!

His soft voice broke the trance you found yourself in. "Morning Scope. How was your breakfast?"

It was an effort to find your voice."Um, fine? It wasn't anything special, just a bagel."

He matched your confused expression.

"A bagel? I thought you went somewhere with Phoenix?"

Oh. That's right, you did tell him that.

Feigning realization, you quickly responded, "Ohhh, right yeah. Um, the place was actually closed so we just grabbed bagels on the way."

"Huh, that sucks sorry about that."

Before he could continue conversation with you, Mav's voice boomed through the room. He was going over the schedule for the day, but for the life of you, you just couldn't sit still. Your leg bounced the entire time and you were very aware of Bob's arm next to yours that rested in the middle arm rest. While you weren't touching, the close proximity was enough to make you fold your arms together.

This is going to be a long week.

- And a long week it was.

Pretending like your entire world wasn't just flipped upside down drained the absolute life out of you. Thankfully, you and Bob didn't have many run-ins at work. Any time you were in the air, Bob was reviewing his past flights, and vice versa.

The only time you were forced to act normal was during lunch. While you two usually sat next to each other, you began to progressively make subtle excuses throughout the week to sit with the others. You spoke with Phoenix about the latest book you were reading, caught up with Coyote about the newest album your favorite band released, and even suffered through whatever Hangman was yapping about. And no one suspected a thing.

Then came Saturday. You were looking forward to the beach day the squad had planned, but, the universe had different ideas about that. As if it couldn't make your week any more difficult, you were hit with the worst food poisioning.

You started to feel it after lunch on Friday and became especially queasy when thinking about dinner that evening. Late into the night, you were awoken by the violent urge to hurl and ended up falling asleep on the bathroom floor.

After forcing a few pieces of toast down your stomach in the morning, you found yourself curled into the fetal position on your couch. Just wanting to sleep it off, you quickly sent a text about not being able to make it to the beach to the group chat. The heaviness and constant pain in your stomach made the thought of any notification feel too much, prompting you to shut it off for the rest of the day.

You successfully managed to sleep until heavy knocks annoyingly struck your front door. You tried to ignore it until Bob's voice carried through the door.

"Scope? It's me. Are you in there?"

Oh poor, sweet, caring Bob.

You wanted him instantly annihilated.

You forcefully grunted, "Bob. Use your key."

"Oh right," he quietly mumbled.

He had a spare you gave him as soon as you got the place in case of emergencies. He never cared to use it, often forgetting he even had it at all.

The jingle of his keys and the turn of the knob turning signaled his entrance.

"Aw, Scope." His husky voice was laced with concern. It would have melted your heart if the food poisoning didn't make you already feel like everything inside was disintegrated.

He immediately approached you, letting the door shut on its own before crouching in front of you.

This was your worst nightmare. Bob has seen you at your worst, worse than how you looked now. But that didn't prevent insecurity from flooding your system.

Your folded arms shielded your face, originally to keep the light out, but now to hide away from Bob. You felt disgusting. Sweat covered your entire body from the makeshift cocoon of blankets you wrapped yourself in and felt too lazy to unravel from. You hadn't managed to brush your teeth so you knew it could only smell horrendous. You wished for nothing more than to be swallowed by the earth right now.

And you just about wanted to implode when Bob ran a comforting hand up and down your side. The weight of his palm did quite literally the opposite of soothe you.

"Mm, what time is it?"

"It's two sweetheart."

Without opening your eyes, you began to push Bob away as you sunk further into the couch.

"Bob what? You're supposed to be at the beach right now," you whined.

"And so are you miss M.I.A," he replied, swiping your arms away. "What's going on? Got the flu?

"Food poisoning."

Bob hummed in response before taking a seat in the space beside your legs.

"Bob. Out. Beach."

He huffed out a pitiful laugh. "Scope, you went ghost on us. Everyone's worried about you."

"Okay well I'm alive."

"Barely"

"And you should be having fun."

At this, he brought his hand up to your face, brushing away the hair sticking across your forehead. Despite your embarrassment, you relaxed into the touch.

As if you couldn't fall for Bob any more, the look of care you were greeted with when you opened your eyes sent your mind spiraling. He was scanning your face, analyzing every sign of discomfort.

"Scope, there is no way I'm leaving you alone. We can go to the beach at any time. Someone has to make sure you're not dying."

Before you could protest, Bob just tsked at you. "Don't even bother. Let's get some water in you, yeah? Then you can go back to sleep."

Begrudgingly you agreed.

A few hours later, you woke up to the feeling of Bob's comforting hand rubbing up and down your calves. After he grabbed a glass of water for you and cooked up some oatmeal — which you promptly threw back up five minutes after eating — he gave you some medicine from your cabinet before letting you knock out. Thankfully, the pain in your stomach began to dull into a faint, barely there ache.

Somehow in your sleep Bob managed to rest your legs on top of his lap and turned on a show the both of you had been watching.

"Heyyy, you traitor." At your whine Bob turned to face you. "You're not supposed to be watching that without me you bum."

"I'm not. I'm re-watching the episodes we already saw."

"Oh. I think you're still a bum."

Now that your symptoms were more manageable, it left space for your feelings to return at full force. The easy smile Bob wore made you feel guilty for relishing in his presence, but you didn't have it in your to care. He was here, not at the beach. Of course Bob would be here, it's him. You just wish it didn't make you realize that one thing you've been trying to convince yourself of otherwise.

"You didn't have to stay here you know," your voice came out small. "You should have gone with the rest of them, I'm fine."

His head tilted, like you should know better than to say that to him. "Scope, I'd pick being with you over anything. Even if it means holding your hair up when you're puking your guts out." At your unconvinced expression he continued. "Seriously. We always go to the beach together anyways. Plus I was in no mood to get another sunburn."

Once he finally elicited a small smile from your face, he felt satisfied enough to turn his attention back to the screen. Your heart felt like it skipped a thousand beats just by looking at him. The dim lights, glow from the T.V. that illuminated his side profile so perfectly, and his obvious state of being at ease just did something to you.

It was time to call it.

You had a crush on Bob. Not some sort of weird after effect from your dream. No. You had true feelings for your best friend who you spend all your work and free time with.

yourusername just posted

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yourusername i missed you melboure

user no oscar pictures 😕

user they haven't interacted online for months so idk if they're stil even friends

hattipiastri #movebackhome

yourusername #movetomonacowithme

user why do all the drivers follow her?

user she's oscar's childhood best friend! she used to be in the paddock all the time

olliebearman i never see you anymore

yourusername sorry im employed

olliebearman sorry you're avoiding the paddock this comment has been deleted by the author

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yourusername posted a story!

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oscarpiastri when are you're exams?

yourusername im done on the first!

oscarpiastri can't believe you're actually almost done with your masters

yourusername i know! definitely ready to be done

oscarpiastri hattie said you're going to be in monaco in time for the race?

yourusername yes! ill be there

oscarpiastri nice 👍

hattiepiastri, yourusername, and oscarpiastri posted a story!

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hattiepiastri oscar istg if you don't find another emoji to use

oscarpiastri 👍

oscarpiastri posted a story!

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user IS THAT YN

yourusername i can not believe hattie spilled that whole bottle of wine on us

oscarpiastri i know, i swear she did it on purpose

yourusername seriously. sorry about your shirt 😬

user oscar you can't just randomly post your best friend after not publicly acknowledging her for months

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈⋆˚꩜。

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oscarpiastri a few days off in monaco

user since when is oscar a reader

user the last pic is him eating dinner on the floor with someone so he might've been helping them move

user didn't yn just move to monaco🧐

hattiepiastri what is this we all know you can't cook

hattiepiastri and you can't read what the fuck

hattiepiastri OH MY GOD YOU WERE WITH YN this comment has been deleted by the author

olliebearman so this is why you cancelled padel

user whos dog is that???

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hattiepiastri HELLO

hattiepiastri how much are you hanging out this is two days in a row

hattiepiastri yn im going to fly to monaco if something happened and you don't tell me

olliebearman YAHWOOO OOOOSCARRR AND YN

olliebearman come to canada pls😕

The paddock is loud in that way it always is before a race weekend — cameras clicking, engines rumbling somewhere in the distance, people moving with purpose. But Max isn’t paying attention to any of it. His hand is laced with yours, thumb brushing the back of your knuckles in that absent, instinctive way he does when he’s relaxed.

Except you aren’t relaxed.

You’ve been tugging at your outfit since the moment you stepped out of the car. A dress you loved in the mirror this morning, but now, under the fluorescent paddock lights and the eyes of half the media center, it feels wrong. Too tight. Too short. Too exposed. Too something.

You don’t say a word - you never do, not when you don’t want to ruin his focus - but Max notices. He always notices.

He sees the way your shoulders curl in. The way you keep smoothing the fabric over your hips. The way you stand slightly behind him when someone walks by. He doesn’t call attention to it, doesn’t tease, doesn’t ask in front of anyone. He just squeezes your hand once, gently, like a quiet I see you.

Inside the Red Bull hospitality, the air is cooler, calmer. Max lets go of your hand only long enough to greet a few engineers, but his eyes flick back to you every few seconds. You’re smiling, polite, doing everything right - but he can read the tension in your jaw.

He steps closer, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

“You okay, liefje?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah, just- long day.”

He doesn’t push. He just studies you for a beat, then nods once like he’s made a decision.

A few minutes later, when you’re both heading toward the balcony for photos, he shrugs off his team jacket - the one with his name stitched on the sleeve, the one he always wears until someone forces him to take it off - and drapes it over your shoulders without a single word.

No announcement. No explanation. No fuss.

Just quiet, instinctive care.

You blink up at him, surprised. “Max- you’ll be cold.”

He shakes his head, already adjusting the collar so it sits comfortably on you. “I’m fine.”

And then, softer, “You weren’t.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t look smug about noticing. He just looks relieved that you’re covered, warm, shielded from the eyes that were making you shrink into yourself.

The jacket is huge on you - warm, soft, smelling like him. You pull it tighter around your body, and something in your chest loosens.

Max’s hand finds the small of your back, guiding you gently through the crowd. He stands slightly in front of you when cameras flash. He answers questions quickly so you don’t have to linger. He keeps you close, always touching - a hand on your waist, your shoulder, your lower back - grounding you without making it obvious.

When you’re finally alone on the balcony, he leans against the railing, eyes soft.

“You didn’t like the outfit,” he says simply. Not accusing. Not disappointed. Just stating a fact he’s known for the last hour.

You sigh, cheeks warm. “I thought I did. But then we got here and… I don’t know. I felt stupid.”

Max’s brows pull together, that protective frown he gets only with you.

“Nothing about you is stupid.”

He reaches out, tugging gently on the sleeve of his jacket where it swallows your hand. “And you look perfect in anything. But if you’re uncomfortable, that’s the only thing I care about.”

You step closer, resting your forehead against his chest. His arms come around you instantly, holding you like he’s shielding you from the whole world.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you mumble into his shirt.

“You’re never a bother.” His voice is firm, certain. “You tell me when something feels wrong. Even if it’s small. Especially if it’s small.”

You nod against him, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne and the faint smell of fuel that always clings to him on race weekends.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Better now?”

You look up at him, wrapped in his jacket, wrapped in him.

“Yeah. Better.”

Max smiles - that soft, private smile he only ever gives you - and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Good. Then I can enjoy tonight.”

He keeps you close for the rest of the evening. When someone asks for a photo, he stands slightly in front of you, subtly blocking the angle that made you uncomfortable earlier. When you sit, he drapes an arm around your shoulders, thumb rubbing slow circles into your arm. When you walk, he keeps you tucked against his side, jacket zipped halfway so you’re cocooned in warmth.

And every time your fingers brush the embroidered VERSTAPPEN on the sleeve, you feel steadier.

Later, when the crowd thins and the noise fades, he takes your hand again, thumb brushing your knuckles just like before - but this time, you’re the one who’s relaxed.

“You know,” you say softly, “you didn’t have to give me your jacket.”

“I know.” He lifts your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles. “But I wanted you comfortable. That’s all.”

You smile, leaning into him. “Thank you.”

He bumps his forehead gently against yours. “Always.”

And he means it - in the quiet, steady way Max always means things. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just real.

Just him taking care of you, without needing to be asked.

ᴘᴀᴛʀᴇᴏɴ: ᴇᴀʀʟʏ ᴀᴄᴄᴇꜱꜱ, ᴇxᴛᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇꜱ, ᴇxᴄʟᴜꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ: ʀᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ꜰʀᴏᴍ ꜱᴏᴄɪᴀʟ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ᴀᴜ’ꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴀᴋᴇ ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴀɢᴇ ᴀᴜ’ꜱ - ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʀɪᴏʀɪᴛʏ ʀᴇϙᴜᴇꜱᴛꜱ

ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ - ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ.

Wolff Residence, Monaco - 13 October 2025

Susie waited until Jack was asleep before she let herself stop being useful.

All evening, she had been the person who translated terror into routine.

Water for Ana.

A soft voice for Jack.

A sharp voice for Toto when he started looking like he might make their daughter feel responsible for the size of his guilt.

A hand on Max’s shoulder when his rage had gone too silent.

A calm explanation to Jack that no, Ana was not physically hurt, and yes, Nikolai was there, and yes, Coco had been very helpful.

But now Jack was asleep in his room with Coco tucked beneath one arm and the bedside lamp left on because he had asked, very quietly, whether “security bad days” could come through dreams.

Susie had promised him no.

It was not a promise she had any right to make.

She had made it anyway.

Now she stood in the kitchen, hands braced on the counter, staring at the kettle.

The kettle was empty. She had forgotten to fill it.

Behind her, Toto sat at the dining table with a legal pad, his phone, and a fury so controlled it made the room feel colder.

The list sat in front of him.

Stephanie.

Rosa.

Benedict.

Freya.

Joanna.

Freya had been crossed out with a note that read: accepted one local asset. Shoe conditions.

Benedict: exterior only. route assessment. something more going on.

Rosa: schedule received. angry. asked if Ana okay.

Stephanie had been boxed, underlined, crossed out, and then written again in the margin with one note beside it:

muted. security arrangements only.

Joanna’s name sat at the bottom.

Untouched.

Susie turned around.

“You still haven’t called your mother.”

Toto did not look up. “No.”

“She is the last one?”

“Yes.”

“She needs to know.”

“I know.”

He still did not move.

Susie crossed the room and sat opposite him.

Toto’s hand rested near the phone but not on it, as if the device had become something dangerous. In a way, it had. It was a door. Pressing one name would reopen a room he had only just walked out of in September.

His mother’s apartment in Vienna.

The staged tribunal.

Stephanie on the sofa. Rosa beside her. Joanna already disappointed. The dining table cleared like they expected to conduct proceedings. Toto putting the legal folder down and saying he was done negotiating Ana’s dignity.

Susie had not been there, but she knew the room by now.

She knew it because Toto had described it in pieces, and because the worst part of family were often built the same way: comfortable furniture, polished wood, and the expectation that cruelty would be called concern if it was spoken in the right tone.

“Toto.”

He looked up.

The expression on his face made her chest ache. “I do not want to protect her,” he said.

Susie went still.

Toto’s jaw tightened almost immediately, as if he expected her to correct him.

She did not.

He looked down again.

“I will,” he said. “I know I will. I have already told Nikolai to prepare the local asset. I will call her. I will make sure she is covered.”

His hand closed into a fist.

“But I do not want to.”

Susie inhaled slowly.

She thought of Ana, pale and too still, forcing herself through threat statements, security logic, legal procedure, family coverage. Ana had thought of Joanna. Ana had thought of Stephanie. Ana had thought of people who had turned her childhood into a list of things she needed to correct about herself.

And still, she had said they should be protected.

Because George’s logic was not rational.

Because family was a map of pressure points.

“I know,” Susie said quietly.

Toto laughed once.

No humour.

Only bitterness.

“I sent security to Stephanie,” he said. “After she called this another Anastasia overreaction. After she implied Ana enjoys making people run around because she is frightened.”

Susie’s mouth tightened. She wanted to break something.

“She is vile,” Susie said.

“Yes.”

“And you still protected her.”

“For Benedict and Rosa.”

“And because Ana asked.”

Toto’s face shifted.

There it was. The part that had lodged under both their ribs.

Ana had asked.

Ana, threatened and shaking, had asked them to protect the family perimeter.

Not the deserving perimeter.

Not the kind perimeter.

The family perimeter.

Susie leaned back, arms crossing tightly over her chest.

“She should not have had to think of them. She should have been allowed to be frightened for herself for one hour.”

Toto looked at her.

His voice roughened. “She never is. She was barely holding together, Susie. She had just read those messages, and she was already thinking about Jack’s school route. Benedict’s apartment. Rosa’s schedule. Freya. My mother.”

“I know.”

“She thought of Joanna before I did.”

Susie’s anger shifted.

Sharper.

Joanna.

Grandmother, technically.

The woman who had called Ana in Nice while Max was in surgery and told her she had created a disaster.

The woman who had told a twenty-seven-year-old women sitting alone beside an empty hospital bed that she was difficult, cold, undisciplined, morbid, strange.

The woman who had called autism a fashionable diagnosis.

The woman who had said Ana was an accident Toto made in Russia.

Susie had not heard the call.

Jos had.

That fact still made Susie feel strange.

Jos Verstappen had stood in a hospital room, heard enough, and taken the phone from Ana’s hand. Jos Verstappen had defended her.

Bluntly. Furiously. Imperfectly.

But he had defended her.

It had taken Toto’s mother less than ten minutes to become so cruel that Jos Verstappen became the safer adult in the room.

Susie would never forget that. Neither would Toto.

“She thought of Joanna,” Toto said again, quieter.

His mouth twisted around the name.

“After Nice. After everything.”

Susie reached across the table and covered his hand with hers.

“Sending security is not forgiveness,” she said.

He looked at her.

“It is not reconciliation,” she continued. “It is not you reopening boundaries. It is not you apologizing. It is not you telling Joanna than what she said was alright.”

Toto’s eyes stayed on hers.

“You are putting a guard outside the door,” Susie said. “You are not inviting her through it.”

For a second, his expression flickered.

“That sounds like Anastasia.”

“She would say it better.”

“She would say perimeter.”

Susie’s mouth almost moved.

Almost.

Then the anger came back.

“Our child was threatened tonight,” she said.

Toto’s face changed immediately.

There. The centre of it.

Ana.

Their child.

Their daughter, probably not sleeping. Probably trying to convince Max she was tired rather than frightened. Probably being held because if Max Verstappen was good for one thing tonight, it was using every injured, furious, stubborn part of himself to keep her from splintering alone.

Susie’s throat tightened.

“Our child was threatened,” she repeated. “Probably by a man who already hurt her. Who already hurt Max. Who thinks she is somehow responsible for his consequences. And we are here protecting people who helped teach her to think she has to account for everyone else’s comfort before her own pain.”

Toto’s hand turned under hers and gripped back. Hard.

“I know.”

“I am furious,” Susie said. Her voice sharpened. “I am so furious. I do not want to be reasonable about this. I do not want to be gracious. I do not want to give Joanna the benefit of age or distance or generation or whatever other excuse people use when older people are cruel,”

His mouth tightened.

“Susie.”

“No.” She leaned forward. “She called Ana an accident.”

Toto went still.

“She called her an accident while Max was in surgery,” Susie said. “She told her nobody would tolerate her without you. And now Ana has asked you to protect her. She does not deserve Ana’s concern. But Ana also does not deserve to carry what would happen if we refused.”

His eyes closed. “Yes.”

That was the miserable truth.

Joanna did not deserve Ana’s care.

Ana deserved not to suffer the consequences of being the kind of person who offered it anyway.

Toto opened his eyes. “She will say I am overreacting.”

“Then tell her no.”

His eyes sharpened slightly.

Susie squeezed his hand.

“You did it in September,” she said. “Do it again.”

He looked down at the phone.

“September was different.”

“No.” Susie’s voice was firm. “It was the same thing. They put Ana on trial then. Stephanie did it tonight. Joanna will try to do it now. The only difference is that this time, you are not there in person. You are here, on the phone, with me.”

Toto looked at her.

“And I am not going to let you forget what you already decided,” Susie said. “Basic decency or no access. Security does not change that.”

He breathed in.

Slowly. Out.

Then nodded once.

“Stay. Please.”

“Of course.”

He pressed the call button before he could think better of it. It rang four times.

Then Joanna answered.

“Torger?”

Her voice was polished, cool, mildly irritated already. The voice of a woman who expected every interruption to justify itself.

Toto’s hand tightened around Susie’s.

“Mama,” he said. “There has been a security incident.”

A pause.

“What sort of security incident?”

“A credible threat connected to the family. You will have additional protection assigned tonight.”

Another pause.

“Connected to the family,” Joanna repeated.

“Yes.”

“Is this about Anastasia?”

Toto’s eyes went cold. “Yes. Anastasia received serious threats tonight.”

Joanna sighed.

Not softly.

Not with concern.

With irritation.

Susie’s entire spine locked.

“Toto,” Joanna said, “how many times must one girl be the centre of a storm before you ask why storms follow her?”

Susie’s lips parted.

Toto did not move.

When he spoke, his voice was very quiet. “No.”

Joanna paused.

“No?”

“No,” Toto repeated. “A man threatened her. She did not summon him. She did not attract him. She did not create the storm.”

“You have always been very defensive about her.”

“And you have always mistaken cruelty for insight.”

Silence.

Susie’s eyes snapped to his face.

Good.

Joanna’s voice cooled. “Be careful how you speak to me.”

“I am being careful,” Toto said. “That is why I am still speaking calmly.”

A small pause.

Then Joanna said, “I assume this is somehow connected to that incident with that driver earlier this year.”

Toto’s jaw tightened.

“That is not information you need.”

“Of course. Secrets again. Always secrets with Anastasia. Always something dramatic that cannot be properly explained.”

“It has been explained enough. A credible threat was made. Security will contact you.”

“I am an old woman in Vienna,” Joanna said sharply. “I do not need men standing outside my building because Anastasia cannot manage her own personal entanglements.”

Susie’s hand went rigid around Toto’s.

Toto’s face did not change.

But something in the room did.

“My daughter’s safety is not a personal entanglement.”

Joanna made a sound of disbelief. “Your daughter?”

Toto went completely still.

Susie felt the shift through his hand.

A deep, cold fury.

The kind that had no room for shouting.

“Do not do that,” he said.

“I am simply saying what everyone is forced to live around. Anastasia has made a life of needing special handling, and you have trained the entire family to provide it.”

“She was threatened.”

“And I am sorry if that is true.”

If.

Susie nearly stood.

Toto’s thumb pressed once against her hand.

Not stopping her.

Holding himself.

“It is true,” he said.

Joanna continued as if he had not spoken. “But you cannot expect the rest of us to be rearranged every time she spirals. Rosa is upset. Stephanie is upset. Benedict barely speaks. You have fractured this family over one girl’s sensitivities.”

“One girl’s sensitivities,” Toto repeated.

“Yes,” Joanna said, emboldened now. “And nobody is allowed to say it. She was difficult as a child, Torger. She is difficult as a woman. This is not hatred. This is reality. She takes and takes — attention, patience, excuses — and then acts wounded when people finally tire.”

Toto’s face had gone pale with rage.

Susie held onto him.

Not because she thought he would do something.

Because she could feel the force of what he was keeping inside.

“We had this conversation in September,” he said.

“Yes,” Joanna snapped. “You came into my home and threatened your family with lawyers because that girl cannot tolerate criticism.”

“You called her an accident.”

“She was an accident,” Joanna said.

The words cut through the kitchen.

Clean. Unapologetic. Susie stopped breathing.

Toto did not.

He looked straight ahead, hand locked around Susie’s.

Joanna continued, voice hard now, stripped of polish.

“You may not like the word, but it is the truth. She was the consequence of your mistake in Russia. A child we did not know existed. A child who arrived already damaged and then demanded the entire household bend around the damage.”

Toto’s eyes went flat.

Susie had seen him angry often.

She had rarely seen him like this.

Joanna was not finished.

“And now she is a grown woman still demanding it. You call it autism. You call it trauma. You call it brilliance. I call it what it is: an inability to adapt and a lifetime of being indulged by a guilty father.”

Toto inhaled.

Very slowly. When he spoke, his voice was low and deadly calm.

“If you say one more sentence like that, I will end this call and your security arrangements will go through security only.”

Joanna laughed once.

A brittle sound.

“So now I am managed by hired muscle because I speak plainly?”

“Because you speak cruelly.”

“No, Torger. Cruelty is what you did to Rosa. Cruelty is cutting off a daughter because Anastasia whispers in your ear.”

“Anastasia had absolutely nothing to do with Rosa’s trust structure.”

“She always has something to do with it.” Joanna’s voice sharpened. “That is the point. She stands there with those dead eyes and that flat voice and lets everyone else become the villain. Stephanie tried to discipline her. She became the villain. Rosa asks why she is treated differently. Rosa becomes the villain. I speak truth. I become the villain.”

Susie could feel her pulse in her throat.

Dead eyes. Flat voice.

Toto’s hand shook once.

Once. Then stilled.

“You know nothing about her eyes,” he said.

Joanna ignored it.

“She has never wanted to be part of this family,” she said. “She wanted your guilt. Your money. Your protection. Your name.”

Toto’s chair scraped back so sharply Susie flinched.

He stood.

Not because Joanna could see him.

Because his body could not remain seated under the weight of that sentence.

Susie stood with him, still holding his hand.

“You called her,” Toto said.

Joanna went quiet for half a beat.

He continued.

“After what happened in Baku. She had not slept. She had spent three days holding herself together by a thread. We were all holding by a thread. And you called her to tell her she was an accident. To complain to her about decisions that I made that she had nothing to do with.”

“She needed to understand what she was doing to this family!”

“No,” Toto said, voice sharpening for the first time. “She needed an adult to ask if she was safe. If she had eaten. If she had slept. If she was frightened.”

“She is not a child.”

“You never let her be one.”

The silence after that was immediate.

Susie closed her eyes.

God.

Joanna recovered quickly.

“She made herself impossible to mother.”

Toto went still.

Susie’s eyes opened.

The words seemed to hang in the kitchen.

Impossible to mother.

Toto’s voice, when it came, had changed.

It was quieter. Much colder.

“She was eight years old.”

“She was already strange before she came to you. That much was clear.”

“She was eight.”

“And at eight, a child can still be corrected.”

Susie made a sound then.

She could not stop it.

Toto’s eyes flicked to her.

Joanna heard.

“Is Susie there?” she asked.

“Yes,” Toto said.

“Of course she is.” Joanna’s voice dripped with contempt now. “Another woman who found purpose in making Anastasia into a cause.”

Susie reached for the phone.

Toto did not give it to her.

Not because he thought she was wrong.

Because if Susie spoke now, the call would become something else, and Toto was not finished.

“You will not speak like that about my wife,” he said.

“I will speak about what I see. Susie encourages this. She has always enjoyed being the understanding one. The rescuer. The woman who could do what Stephanie could not.”

Susie’s face went hot.

Toto’s voice dropped.

“Susie treated Anastasia like a person.”

“A person who divides every household she enters.”

“No,” Toto said. “A person you never bothered to understand because calling her difficult protected you from asking what she had survived.”

Joanna scoffed. “Survived. Such dramatic language.”

“She was abandoned by her mother.”

“She was delivered to her father.”

“She was abandoned.”

“She was given a better life than she would ever have had otherwise.”

Toto’s face twisted. Not with doubt. With disgust.

“A better life does not excuse harm inside it.”

“That is modern nonsense.”

“No,” Toto said. “That is accountability.”

Joanna inhaled sharply. “You have become very grand in your guilt.”

“Yes,” Toto said.

The simplicity of it stopped her.

“Yes,” he repeated. “I am guilty. I should have protected her sooner. I should have protected her from Stephanie. I should have protected her from you. I should have protected her from every person who looked at a frightened child and decided she was inconvenient.”

Joanna’s voice turned icy.

“And I suppose you believe I abused her.”

Toto did not hesitate.

“I believe you harmed her.”

Silence.

Susie’s eyes burned.

Joanna’s voice, when it came, was lower.

“You are my son.”

“She is my daughter.”

“You would throw away your mother for an accident?”

The kitchen went utterly still.

Toto’s face emptied.

For a second, Susie thought he might hang up then.

He did not.

When he spoke, each word was precise.

“I am going to say this once.”

Joanna said nothing.

“Anastasia is my daughter. Not an accident. Not a complication. Not a Russian mistake. Not a difficult girl. Not a diagnosis. My daughter.”

His voice shook once.

Only once.

“You will not speak about her like that again. Not to me. Not to Susie. Not to Jack. Not to Benedict. Not to Rosa.”

Joanna was silent.

Toto continued, colder now.

“Security will contact you in fifteen minutes. You will answer because a threat exists and because Anastasia, despite everything you have said to her and about her, thought you should be protected.”

That landed.

Susie could feel it.

For the first time, Joanna did not reply immediately.

Then, quieter but still sharp, “She asked?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps she enjoys appearing magnanimous.”

Toto’s expression snapped shut.

There was no other way to describe it.

One second, there had been rage and pain and some terrible hope that the truth might pierce through.

The next, there was a door closing.

“No,” he said.

Joanna began, “Torger—”

“No.”

“You cannot—”

“No.”

Silence.

Toto’s voice was controlled again, but the fury beneath it was unmistakable.

“This conversation is over. Your security contact will call. If you refuse cooperation, it will be documented. Do not contact Anastasia. Do not contact Susie. Do not call me again unless it concerns security logistics.”

Joanna’s voice rose. “You cannot forbid me from speaking to my granddaughter. You are being manipulated.”

“No,” Toto said. “I am finally listening.”

“You will regret this.”

“I already regret far more than you understand.”

He ended the call.

For one second, nothing happened.

Then Toto lowered the phone slowly.

His hand was shaking.

Not much.

Enough.

Susie stood opposite him, breathing hard, her own body lit with a fury so intense it felt almost clean.

Toto stared at the phone as if it might ring again.

It did not.

“Toto,” Susie said.

He did not answer.

“Toto.”

His jaw flexed.

Then he turned and, with frightening precision, placed the phone face down on the table.

Not thrown.

Placed.

That was somehow worse.

“She said impossible to mother,” he said.

Susie’s throat closed.

“She said Ana was impossible to mother.”

“Yes.”

“I want—”

He stopped.

Susie stepped closer.

“What?”

He shook his head.

“I do not want to say it.”

“Say it.”

His eyes lifted to hers.

There was fury in them still.

White-hot.

Unspent.

“I want to make her understand what it feels like,” he said. “To have the person who should protect you turn every wound into a defect.”

Susie’s eyes burned.

“I know.”

“I want to hurt her with it.”

“I know.”

“I am still protecting her. Because Ana asked.”

“Yes.”

He let out a sound that was almost a laugh, almost something broken.

“She said Ana only asked to appear magnanimous.”

Susie’s face hardened.

“She would.”

Toto looked toward the dark hallway where Jack slept.

Then back at the phone.

“I am not calm,” he said. “I am not done being angry. I hate them.”

Susie did not correct him.

Not tonight. She only stepped closer and put her hands on his arms.

“I know.”

“I hate that Ana thought of them.”

“I know.”

“I hate that she is better than they deserve.”

“So do I.”

Toto closed his eyes.

His breathing was too tight.

Susie moved one hand to the back of his neck.

“Look at me.”

He did.

His eyes were wet now, but the fury had not gone anywhere.

It sat behind them like fire behind glass.

“She is protected,” Susie said.

His mouth twisted.

“Joanna?”

“No,” Susie said sharply. “Ana.”

He went still.

“Ana is protected,” she repeated. “That is why you made the call. That is why you protected the perimeter. Not because Joanna deserved it. Not because Stephanie deserved it. Because Ana deserves not to have another thing to blame herself for.”

Toto stared at her.

Then nodded once.

The phone buzzed.

They both looked at it.

Nikolai.

Nikolai:Your mother confirmed. Local asset assigned. Cooperation minimal but sufficient.

Toto read it.

Something like relief tried to move across his face and failed because anger blocked the way.

“She cooperated,” Susie said.

“Minimal,” Toto replied.

“That is enough.”

“No,” he said.

Susie understood.

Enough operationally.

Not enough morally. Never enough morally.

“No,” she agreed. “It is not enough.”

For a while, they stood in the kitchen in silence.

The kettle remained empty.

The legal pad sat on the table with Joanna’s name finally crossed out, but not cleanly. Toto picked up the pen and drew one hard line through it.

Then another.

Then he put the pen down before the paper tore.

Susie watched him. He was still furious.

“Toto,” she said quietly.

He looked at her.

“She should never speak to Ana again.”

Susie’s voice went quiet. “Then make that the boundary.”

He turned back.

“Not tonight,” Susie said. “Not in rage. But soon. Clear. Written. No direct contact with Ana unless Ana initiates. No messages. No calls. No commentary through Rosa or anyone else.”

Toto breathed in slowly.

That helped. Structure.

A place to put the anger without handing it to Ana.

“Yes,” he said.

“And COTA,” Susie added.

His expression tightened immediately. “She is going. I cannot protect her from that.”

“But you can make sure she knows she does not have to be the person Joanna thinks she is,” Susie said.

Toto frowned.

“The impossible child,” Susie said. “The difficult girl. The one who has to keep proving she is not too much by never stopping.”

His face changed.

“She gets to stop,” Susie said. “If COTA is too much, she gets to stop. If she goes and then breaks, she gets to come home. If she decides not to go in the morning, that is not George winning. That is Ana choosing. She needs to hear that.”

Toto nodded.

“And you need to hear it too.”

His jaw tightened. “Yes.”

The kettle sat empty behind her.

Susie looked at it and let out a breath.

“I forgot the water.”

Toto stared at her.

Then at the kettle.

For one absurd second, neither of them moved.

Then he made a sound.

Not quite a laugh.

Too angry to be a laugh.

But close enough to human that Susie took it.

“I’ll fill it,” he said.

“No. Sit.”

“I can fill a kettle.”

“You are still visibly homicidal.”

“I am not homicidal.”

“Toto.”

He paused.

Then, after a beat, “Fine.”

Susie filled the kettle.

Her hands were still shaking.

She let them.

Behind her, Toto sat back down, phone face down, one hand pressed flat against the table like he was anchoring himself to the wood.

When the kettle began to boil, she looked over her shoulder.

He was staring at the legal pad.

At Joanna’s crossed-out name.

Susie brought two mugs to the table and sat beside him rather than opposite.

After a moment, Toto’s hand found hers.

He did not say anything.

He did not have to.

***

Email Subject: Immediate Security Escalation — COTA

From: Toto Wolff <[email protected]> To: Bradley Lord <[email protected]>

Bradley,

I need you looped in before this begins moving through formal channels tomorrow morning.

Anastasia received a series of credible threatening messages this evening. The content included direct threats to her safety, references to Baku, and language that strongly indicates George Russell as the sender or originator. 

Police, legal counsel, and private security are already involved. Nikolai Maroz is handling immediate close-protection coordination on Anastasia’s side.

This is not to be discussed outside a strict need-to-know group.

We are treating this as an active security matter ahead of COTA. Anastasia has made clear that she intends to travel and work the weekend. I tried to object; she was very clear. I will not remove her from her work because a dangerous man wants her frightened out of it. That said, her attendance is conditional on a full security sign-off.

Effective immediately, I want the following coordinated with Mercedes security, circuit security, local authorities where appropriate, and only the minimum required operational staff:

Hardened travel plan for Anastasia, including airport transfers, hotel arrival/departure, and all movements between hotel, circuit, and any Mercedes-controlled locations.

No solo movement under any circumstances. Anastasia is to have close protection at all times outside secured private spaces.

Revised paddock movement plan. Controlled routes only. No unnecessary exposure in public-facing areas. No informal media crossings. No unscheduled sponsor or hospitality appearances.

Hotel security review, including room location, access logs, lift routes, staff access, and emergency exits.

Credential review. Anyone with proximity to Anastasia, or the engineering areas should be checked again. I do not want assumptions based on existing accreditation.

Communications discipline. No public discussion of Anastasia’s travel, movements, accommodation, or schedule. Internally, this is to be shared only where operationally necessary.

Clear extraction plan. If Nikolai, Mercedes security, or Anastasia herself decides the situation is unsafe or untenable, she leaves immediately. No debate. No optics discussion.

I want this handled calmly and without theatre. Anastasia does not need to walk into a paddock that treats her like an incident. She needs to be able to do her job with protection around her, not attention on her.

Please coordinate with Nikolai Maroz first thing and then come back to me with a proposed COTA movement and access plan. Keep Russell’s name out of written circulation beyond those who legally or operationally require it.

Anastasia is not to be challenged about whether she “really” needs this. She has already spent the evening trying to protect everyone else from the consequences of what happened to her. I will not have her managing the emotional or logistical discomfort of people who should simply be doing their jobs.

Regards, Toto Wolff CEO & Team Principal Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS Formula One Team

***

Bradley Lord’s House, Brackley - 13 October 2025

Bradley Lord had been asleep for twenty-three minutes when Toto Wolff’s email arrived.

Not enough sleep to count as rest.

Just enough for the body to feel personally betrayed by waking up again.

His phone buzzed on the bedside table with the particular insistence of an email that came from someone who did not believe in the concept of business hours when the building was on fire. Bradley opened one eye, saw Toto Wolff, saw the subject line, and immediately knew the building was, at minimum, smoking.

Immediate Security Escalation — COTA

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Bradley muttered.

His wife, without opening her eyes, said, “Work?”

“Yes.”

“Fire?”

“Likely.”

“Actual fire or Mercedes fire?”

Bradley opened the email.

Read the first line.

Then sat up.

“Mercedes fire.”

She made a sympathetic sound into her pillow and went back to sleep, which was the correct choice. 

Bradley had made several incorrect choices in his life, including working in Formula One communications, but waking his wife fully for a crisis that could be summarized as George Russell continues to be the reason I cannot have peace was not going to be one of them.

He read the email once.

Then again.

Then a third time, because by the second reading his brain had begun rearranging the information into categories.

Threats to Ana.

References to Baku.

Language indicating George Russell.

Police involved.

Legal involved.

Nikolai involved.

Toto furious enough to write with terrifying clarity.

Ana still intending to travel to COTA.

Bradley lowered the phone and stared into the dark.

“I am going to murder George Russell,” he said quietly.

His wife, apparently not asleep after all, mumbled, “Don’t put that in an email.”

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

“I’ll put it in Teams.”

“Bradley.”

“I’m joking.”

“You’re not.”

“No.”

He swung his legs out of bed and reached for the lamp.

The room filled with soft yellow light. Too soft for the scale of disaster currently unfolding in his inbox.

Bradley opened the email on his laptop because some crises deserved a full keyboard.

He read it again.

The problem with Toto Wolff was that when he wrote like this, Bradley could feel the unspoken parts between the sentences.

She is physically safe.

Meaning: she is not okay.

She intends to travel and work the weekend.

Meaning: I have already lost this argument.

I will not remove her from her work because a dangerous man wants her frightened out of it.

Meaning: I am furious enough to become unreasonable and am choosing, with great violence, not to.

She does not need to walk into a paddock that treats her like an incident.

Meaning: Bradley, if one camera, one journalist, one staff member, one sponsor guest, one person with a phone makes my daughter feel like a spectacle, I will burn down the earth and ask finance to invoice the ashes.

Bradley rubbed both hands over his face.

Then he got up and went to the small desk near the window.

His laptop woke.

So did his migraine.

He opened a fresh document and typed:

COTA — ANA SECURITY / COMMS ESCALATION

Then stared at it.

Then added, under his breath, “Subtitle: George Russell, you absolute nightmare.”

He did not type that.

He wanted to.

(He had standards. Low standards, sometimes, but standards.)

Bradley had worked in Formula One long enough to know that “security issue” could mean many things. An overenthusiastic fan with a paddock pass. A sponsor guest who thought the word VIP meant access to oxygen others did not get. A photographer too close to a hospitality entrance. A leak. A threat. A stalker. A parent. Occasionally, somehow, all of the above.

But this?

This was not a normal security issue.

This was personal.

Personal was always worse.

Personal moved unpredictably. Personal crossed borders. Personal made rational people become irrational and irrational people become catastrophically inventive. Personal meant the threat was not necessarily looking for opportunity in the broad sense. It was looking for her.

And her was Ana Wolff.

Bradley sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling for one second.

Mercedes would protect Ana.

That was not the question.

There were plenty of things Bradley Lord doubted in life. He doubted the good faith of certain tabloid journalists. He doubted the structural integrity of many temporary hospitality builds. He doubted any driver who said, “I don’t care what people think.” He doubted every crisis described to him as “small.”

But he did not doubt that Mercedes would protect Dr. Ana Wolff.

She was theirs.

The paddock still did not understand that.

Some of them thought Ana was Toto’s daughter in the way children of powerful men often floated at the edge of institutions. A name. A complication. A person allowed through doors because blood opened them.

They were wrong.

Ana had earned the doors.

(And then improved the locks.)

The engineers trusted her because she was frighteningly good. The strategy room trusted her because she could look at a system and see three failures before anyone else finished the first coffee. The younger staff trusted her because she never mocked questions. The older staff trusted her because she did not waste words. The mechanics liked her because she labeled cables correctly and once silently fixed a diagnostic display during a red-flag delay without acting like it was a favor.

Bradley liked her because she was the only person in the building who could say “that would be a reputationally inefficient lie” and make it sound both insulting and helpful.

Mercedes would protect her.

Of course they would.

That did not stop Bradley worrying.

Because protecting someone in private was one thing.

Protecting someone in the paddock was another.

A Formula One paddock was a small city built entirely out of access hierarchies and expensive lanyards. 

People moved through it believing they had the right to be wherever their badge allowed them and several places it did not. Cameras existed in hands, on shoulders, on phones, behind tinted hospitality windows, inside accreditation systems, and occasionally in the souls of people who claimed they were “just capturing atmosphere.”

And COTA was COTA.

Loud. Wide. Exposed. Hot. Sponsor-heavy. Media-heavy. Fan-heavy. A place where walkways became funnels and hospitality became theatre and every movement could become content if the wrong person noticed.

Ana’s first paddock appearance after the threat would have been complicated enough.

Except it would not just be that.

Bradley leaned back slowly.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” he said to the ceiling.

The ring.

Bradley had almost forgotten the ring.

No — not forgotten. Suppressed. Like the mind suppresses trauma, dental work, and the 2021 Abu Dhabi press conference calendar.

COTA would very likely be the first time the media saw Ana’s engagement ring properly.

A visible ring on Toto Wolff’s daughter. 

On Mercedes’ systems lead. On the woman connected to Max Verstappen in a way the public did not yet fully understand, because somehow the most operationally paranoid family in Formula One had managed to keep one of the biggest personal stories in the sport below boiling point for this long.

Bradley stared at his laptop.

Security threat.

George Russell.

Baku.

Ana at COTA.

Max Verstappen injured, moving toward Mercedes, probably one crutch away from committing a crime if anyone looked at Ana wrong.

Toto Wolff furious.

Engagement ring.

Press speculation.

Drivers noticing.

Photographers zooming.

Social media detectives.

COTA cameras.

Sponsors.

Netflix, God forbid.

Bradley put his head in his hands.

“I am going to murder George Russell,” he said again.

This time, his wife said nothing.

A wise woman.

Bradley opened another document.

ANA RING / PUBLIC VISIBILITY — OPTIONS

He stared at the title.

Then immediately closed the document.

“No,” he told himself. “One fire at a time.”

But that was not how fires worked in Formula One.

They merged.

The ring mattered because the threat mattered. The threat mattered because the ring would increase attention. Increased attention made security harder. Security harder made media movement plans stricter. Stricter media movement plans made people ask questions. Questions led to speculation. Speculation led to photographers looking for the thing people were speculating about.

And there was also Ana herself.

Bradley had enough sense not to think of Ana as fragile. Fragile was the wrong word. Ana was one of the strongest people he had ever met, though he suspected she would call that inaccurate and then offer a structural correction.

But strength was not the same as invulnerability.

People confused those all the time.

Especially in Formula One.

A strong person could still be hurt. A private person could still be exposed. A brilliant person could still be frightened. A calm voice could still be the sound of someone holding themselves together by force.

Bradley had seen Ana at work during ordinary stress. She became quieter, sharper, more exact. She moved less. She answered questions more literally. People who did not know her sometimes thought she was unbothered.

Bradley had learned to be wary of that.

Ana unbothered had a dry comment, a pointed eyebrow, and an ability to dismantle bad logic in five words.

Ana too still was something else.

He opened Teams.

Hovered over Mercedes Security.

Then decided he needed to think before he started waking people.

Not too long.

Just enough to avoid creating a panic under the banner of preventing one.

He created a list.

Immediate need-to-know:Toto. Bradley. Mercedes Head of Security. Legal. Travel coordinator. COTA liaison. Hotel security contact. Probably Shov? Other Senior Engineering staff. Definitely Solomon. Possibly communications deputy, but only if briefed under lock and key.

He paused.

NOT need-to-know:Anyone who might say “poor Ana” in a corridor. Anyone who might say “is it true?” within earshot of mechanics. Anyone who thinks discretion means “tell only my three closest colleagues.” Netflix. Absolutely not Netflix. Hospitality. Not yet. Sponsors. No.

Then he opened a response to Toto.

Did not type.

Not yet.

There was another problem.

Public posture.

If Ana arrived at COTA with visibly tightened security, and no explanation, people would notice.

If she arrived with a ring, people would notice.

If she arrived without the usual freedom of movement, people would notice.

Bradley hated attention economies with every tired bone in his body.

He opened the ring document again.

Stared at it.

The question formed despite his best efforts.

Did they want Ana to post beforehand?

A controlled reveal. A quiet Instagram post.

A hand photo. Maybe not even a hand photo. Something soft. Something architectural. A caption that said enough without inviting comment war.

Bradley immediately grimaced.

Because the last Instagram post Ana had made had not exactly lowered the emotional temperature of the internet.

Ana did not post like a media-trained person.

Ana posted like someone who had examined the concept of public communication, found most of it inefficient, and decided to say the exact thing in the exact way that would cause maximum psychological damage to anyone trying to interpret it through normal PR rules.

It was one of the things Bradley respected about her.

It was also why his high blood pressure existed.

A pre-COTA post might reduce the ring circus by turning speculation into known fact.

Or it might detonate everything early.

Dr. Anastasia Wolff confirms engagement to Max Verstappen ahead of COTA amid heightened Mercedes security.

No.

Absolutely not.

Maybe a post from Max?

Bradley snorted.

Max Verstappen’s idea of a subtle Instagram reveal would probably be a photo of Ana’s ring with the caption mine and comments turned off too late.

Maybe joint?

Worse.

Maybe nothing. 

Let the ring appear naturally and manage the fallout.

But “naturally” in the paddock meant a Getty photographer capturing a six to seven figure sapphire under harsh Texas sunlight while some fan account circled it in red and wrote UM???

Bradley put his fingers to his temples.

Maybe the ring but no Max?

Let Ana post something beautifully cryptic and then let the internet start wild conspiracy theories if she was getting married to increasingly cursed options?

“George Russell,” he whispered, “I hope every charger you own only works at an angle.”

The laptop pinged.

A Teams message from Mercedes Security.

Apparently Toto had not waited for Bradley to begin the cascade.

Of course he had not.

SECURITY:We’ve received preliminary from TW. Do you have comms guidance yet?

Bradley stared at the message.

“Do I look like a man with guidance?” he asked the room.

The room did not answer.

He typed:

BRADLEY:Working on it. Treat as strict need-to-know. No written detail beyond credible personal threat / COTA escalation. I’ll join call in 10.

Then he opened Toto’s email again and began drafting his reply.

He deleted the first line.

Then the second.

Then the third, because Toto, what fresh hell was honest but not useful.

He settled on:

Toto,

No.

Too calm.

He tried again.

Toto,

Still the same.

Bradley sighed and continued.

He would deal with the absurdity later.

Now he needed to be useful.

He typed:

I’m on it. I’ll coordinate with Security and Nikolai immediately and keep this to the smallest possible group.

Then paused.

Because there were things Toto needed to know that were not security logistics.

And Bradley’s job, annoyingly, was to be the person who said them.

He typed more slowly.

We also need to think about public visibility. If Ana travels with tightened movement protocols, people may notice. If her ring is visible, they will definitely notice. We need a plan for whether we let that surface organically or consider a controlled acknowledgement before or during the weekend. I am not recommending a decision tonight, but we should not walk into COTA pretending this will not become part of the noise.

He stared at the paragraph.

Then added:

That said, her safety and comfort come first. I will not push a public-facing solution if it increases pressure on her.

Good.

That was the line.

Bradley did not want to make Ana post.

He did not want to make Ana hide either.

He wanted, ideally, for the entire internet to take a long walk into the sea.

But failing that, he wanted Ana to have choices.

He kept typing.

I’ll prepare options: no comment, controlled minimal statement, or pre-emptive personal post if she and Max want it. Nothing goes to her tonight unless you or Susie think she is ready for that conversation.

He almost wrote and unless Max Verstappen can resist growling at me.

He did not.

Again: standards.

The Teams pinged again.

This time from his comms deputy.

DEPUTY:Sorry to message late — saw security flag. Is this something I need to wake up for?

Bradley stared at it.

Then typed:

BRADLEY:Not yet. Keep phone on. If anyone asks tomorrow morning, you know nothing beyond “routine COTA planning.” And please do not let anyone say “routine” in writing near me.

DEPUTY:That bad?

Bradley hesitated.

Then:

BRADLEY:Bad enough.

He closed Teams before more people could become awake.

The problem with Mercedes was that they were very good in a crisis.

This was usually helpful.

It also meant everyone competent developed a sixth sense for when a crisis existed, and then they began appearing like summoned spirits.

The security call started six minutes later.

Bradley joined in a hoodie, glasses, and the expression of a man who had aged since opening his laptop.

Security was already there.

Of course they were.

Two of them appeared on screen in a dark room, faces expressionless, looking like they had been born inside a threat assessment.

“Good evening,” One of them said.

“Bad evening.”

“Understatement.”

“Yes.”

Legal joined. Someone from travel joined and immediately looked like they regretted it.

Bradley took notes.

Hardened transfers.

Hotel access.

Private entrances.

Lift control.

Credential review.

No solo movement.

Restricted internal awareness.

Contingency extraction.

Toto updated, but not copied on every operational detail unless necessary because Toto would start optimizing from rage and nobody needed that at midnight.

Bradley wrote it down as: Limit TW tactical involvement unless required.

He did not write: Toto currently emotionally armed.

(Bradley definitely thought it though.)

Halfway through the call, Travel asked, “Will Dr. Wolff be willing to adjust her paddock schedule?”

Bradley said, “If the adjustment is justified by security logic, yes. If it sounds like avoidance, no.”

Mercedes Security asked, “What about media visibility?”

Everyone went quiet.

“Yes,” Bradley said. “That’s the other part. Security changes will attract attention if handled clumsily. We need to keep her movement protected without making her look like a guarded dignitary.”

“She is somewhat a guarded dignitary now,” Travel said weakly.

Bradley looked at him.

Travel went silent.

“No,” Bradley said. “She is Dr. Wolff coming to do her job.” Bradley continued, “If anyone internally starts treating her like a story, I will become unpleasant.”

Legal said, “Define unpleasant.”

“No.”

Nobody asked again.

Then he raised the ring issue because he hated himself and because ignoring problems did not make them vanish, it made them trend.

“There is also personal visibility,” Bradley said carefully. “This may be the first public weekend where her engagement ring is clearly visible.”

Travel blinked. Security sighed. Legal closed his eyes.

“The ring is significant?” Travel asked.

Bradley stared at him.

“Have you met Formula One media?”

“No.”

“Lucky.”

Security said, “Do we need a separate media protocol?”

“Yes,” Bradley said. “Photography hotspots, paddock entrance, hospitality balcony, garage approach. We cannot forbid people from photographing her in accredited areas, but we can limit unnecessary exposure and control our own staff behavior.”

Legal asked, “Statement?”

“Not tonight,” Bradley said. “Options tomorrow. No comment remains viable unless the ring becomes a direct question, in which case we need an answer that does not invite a feeding frenzy.”

“What answer?”

Bradley removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Something like: Dr. Wolff is here in her professional capacity. We are not commenting on personal matters.”

The call ended forty-two minutes later with enough action items to ruin several people’s mornings.

Bradley sat back in his chair and looked at the list.

He trusted the system.

That was the strange thing.

He trusted Mercedes.

He trusted Security. He trusted Toto’s fury to fund whatever needed funding. He trusted Susie to notice the emotional risks no one else saw.  He trusted Ana too.

That was what worried him.

Because Ana would cooperate with security if the logic was sound.

Ana would follow a plan if the plan was efficient.

Ana would accept a shadow if the shadow did not crowd her.

And then Ana would walk into COTA with her head up, her ring possibly visible, her threat assessment memorized, her father furious, her fiancé injured, half the sport watching, and act like she was fine because being fine was often the price private people paid to keep moving.

Bradley hated that.

He hated that he admired it.

He hated that his job was to help make it possible.

His laptop pinged again.

This time from Toto.

TOTO:Understood. Prepare options. Do not involve Anastasia tonight.

Bradley exhaled.

At least that was settled.

Then, a second message:

TOTO:And Bradley?

Bradley waited.

TOTO:If anyone treats her as a spectacle, I expect it handled.

Bradley looked at the screen.

Then typed:

BRADLEY:It will be.

He paused.

Then added:

BRADLEY:She is one of ours.

The reply did not come immediately.

When it did, it was only one word.

TOTO:Yes.

Bradley sat back.

There it was.

The whole thing, really.

Not the threat. Not the ring. Not the media circus waiting in Austin with cameras and lanyards and the collective restraint of starving gulls.

Ana was one of theirs.

Mercedes protected their own.

Not always perfectly.

Formula One rarely did anything perfectly except create emergencies at inconvenient times.

But they would protect her.

Bradley closed the laptop halfway, then opened it again because he remembered three more action items.

He added them.

Then a fourth.

Then, in a private note no one else would see, he wrote:

George Russell has created a security crisis, a legal crisis, a media crisis, a driver management crisis, and possibly an engagement reveal crisis in one evening. Impressive only in the way a sinkhole is impressive.

He looked at it.

Deleted it.

Then wrote instead:

Prepare COTA holding lines.

Much more professional.

Much less satisfying.

He finally stood at 2:17 a.m., turned off the desk lamp, and looked once toward the dark bedroom where his wife was asleep.

His phone buzzed again.

Bradley froze.

Looked down.

A calendar reminder for 8:00 a.m.:

COTA comms sync.

He stared at it.

Then whispered, “I am going to murder George Russell.”

From the bedroom, his wife mumbled, “Still don’t put that in an email.”

Bradley put the phone face down. “No promises.”