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He barely lifted his head when he heard you gasp, the lens of his mask focusing on your figure standing there with wide eyes, wearing only an oversized shirt.

“Wrong window,” he choked, then tried to hold himself up but immediately collapsed again. “Dammit,” he cursed, waiting for you to freak out any second now. 

You could have, but instead you rushed to him and knelt beside him.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Your hands hovered helplessly over his body, trying to see how bad the damage was in the dark. “You need a hospital–”

“No!” He snapped, trying to turn away but failing miserably. “I’ll be fine, I heal quickly.”

“You still need to stop the bleeding,” you countered, folding your knees under your body so you could rest on your calves. “Listen, I can help you. I took some medical courses last year and I have a kit somewhere.”

You looked at him with pleading eyes. He’d saved the city so many times, the fucking world, it was the least you could do to give something back. 

He considered his options for a second, and to be honest he didn’t have many. His body was betraying him, and he couldn’t even get up to fix it himself like usual. 

The blood loss made him nod, and you wasted no time in getting up and finding said kit. The blood loss also made him drift in and out of consciousness as you tended to the wounds on his ribs as much as you could. 

It did not make him less cautious of you though. When you noticed the rip on his mask over a nasty gash on his neck and reached for it, his hand closed around your wrist and even half conscious, his grip was strong. 

“Please,” he whispered. Pleaded. “Keep it on.” 

The fear in his voice made you promise you would. Even if you couldn’t get to that gash properly. Even when he fell asleep on your floor and didn’t wake up for six whole hours. 

The next morning, he opened his eyes and found you sitting on your bed, still staring at him. 

His hands patted his chest, and confirmed his arachnid powers had done its job and healed him mostly. But most importantly, his mask was still in place. With no warning from E.V of it being removed. He learned that you’d spent the night making sure he was still breathing without seeing his face. 

That had been one year ago. 

After thanking you profoundly for helping him, he’d repaired your window, apologized several times, and disappeared into the apartment next door. He then considered moving into another building, but the thought was brushed away very quickly when he remembered the balance in his bank account. 

So he acted more careful instead. For a while, he only turned back home when your curtains were already closed, or he only left the apartment when you had already left for your job (because yes, he absolutely researched the hell out of you after that night.)

Then he moved to the attic of the building. Bigger space, no neighbors, no risks. No you. Or at least he thought. 

Because some nights…some delirious nights he still found your window a few stories down, and the accidental visits became less accidental. When he was too badly injured to care for himself, he came to you, even after you confessed your degree had nothing to do with medicine. 

When he noticed you understood about his equipment malfunctioning, he’d bring it for you to inspect. When he became too reckless with himself you talked his ear off about how being difficult to kill did not make him immortal.

Somewhere along the way, you became spiderman’s friend. 

Spiderman was safer. With you, spiderman was the only part of him he could let you see. Because that was the thing, you only knew the masked superhero. 

He’d spent so much time blocking away his identity, making peace with the fact that there was no longer anyone in the world who would call him Peter and know exactly who that person was. That name only belonged to the people that once knew him, and no longer existed, so he never gave it to you.

Never showed you more than a sliver of skin when his mask rode up or glimpses of his abdomen when you tended to his wounds. He always kept that barrier and you respected it, even on those nights he was too weak to stop you. Even if sometimes not knowing the color of his eyes kept you up at night. 

A promise was a promise. 

Maybe that’s why he kept coming. Why he trusted you with a certainty he couldn’t understand. Why he eventually showed you his new living quarters in the attic and let you spend time with him. Why half a year ago, he added another chair next to his desk so you could work together, or help him when he was out patrolling and needed an extra set of eyes.

“I’m officially the girl in the chair, spidey,” you joked that time as you sat next to him, spinning around in your chair.

He’d gone quiet immediately, his body tensing up enough to make you frown, but then managed a small smile and said you were. You pretended you didn’t notice him being too quiet as he worked on his inhibitor after that. 

He was wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and the mask. Always the mask that didn’t quite let you see through him. After a moment of quiet, you rolled your chair closer to his and nudged his arm playfully. 

“You know I can’t keep calling you spidey forever, right?” 

He snapped out of his trance, and the chuckle that came from under the fabric was unmistakable. 

“Why not?” He nudged your arm back, but still focused on the device he was hunched over. “I like spidey.”

You put your elbow on the desk, resting your cheek on your hand so you could lean a little closer. 

“I like it too, but it feels ridiculous after having my hands all over your body almost every night.” 

The moment the words left your lips, you realized how bad that sounded. He straightened up, turning toward you.

“Wow.” Even if you couldn’t see the smile on his face, the lenses of his mask were quite expressive sometimes. He was amused. 

“That came out very wrong,” you said immediately, before he bursted into laughter. He had been laughing more since you entered his life. “You know what I meant,” you whined, laughing too with heat flooding your cheeks. 

“I think I know,” he chuckled, making you roll your eyes. 

“I’m being serious though,” you added, a little more quietly. “You don’t have to say your real name. Just give me something.”

“Mmm…” he acted like has considering it, going back to tinkering with the piece of metal between his fingers, but then his eyes drifted to the flowers he’d bought that morning, and the name came out of his lips before he could think twice about it. “You can call me Maynard.” 

“Maynard?” You repeated, suppressing a chuckle. “You don’t sound like a Maynard. That’s like an 80 year old man’s name.”

“That’s all I can give you,” he shrugged playfully. 

You had a feeling it went deeper than that, but you’d also learned not to push it with him. 

“Alright. Maynard,” you nodded, “but don’t expect me to use that name unless you’re dying. Guess I’ll stick to spidey for now,” you chuckled, going back to your own work as he hummed in agreement. 

The conversation ended there. With him trying not to think about your hands all over his body in…different conditions. 

Peter didn’t know exactly when his gratitude became longing. He could not identify the moment the friendship, the closeness, or just your smile, shifted into something he craved everyday. 

Despite the mask and the fake name, he knew that after years of being no one to everyone, he had become someone to you. And you had become everything to him. Even if it was behind walls he’d built, you were the person who knew him better than anyone alive.

Which is why, the night he lost control of himself after an unknown dust was thrown at him in a fight, he chose not to crash land into your room. 

Peter hit the floor of the dark attic with a loud thud, as his senses went overboard. His suit was sticking to his body uncomfortably due to the sweat coating his feverish skin. The fabric was intact, with no visible wounds in his body, just that burning sensation of something running through his veins. 

And that dark part of him he’d managed to lock down with the inhibitor, trying to claw its way out. 

“What the…what the fuck is going on,” he cursed, clutching his heaving chest as he panted against the worn wood floors. “I can’t–I can’t breathe…” 

The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence. 

“You have arrived injured. I’m letting her know–”

“NO!” He cut the AI off, “EV, don’t tell her–”

“Message already sent.”  

He glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. 2:18 am. 

He groaned, grabbing his head when a wave of migraine hit him. He knew what came after that. The black eyes. The desire to break. To take. But this time something felt different. It was like a pull, looking for something or someone…for…for you? 

Oh fuck. 

You were going to come in and you were going to see him like this. No, no–

“Spidey?” You asked from behind the door, knocking exactly twice before opening it anyways.

The air changed the exact moment you walked in, and that something inside him shifted too. It became aware that the only thing it craved to survive was in the room now. 

He needed to get to you. He needed to pin you down and– 

“Don’t!” He managed to scream, holding his hand up weakly when you scrambled toward him. 

You stopped right in your tracks, eyes wide and running all over him, searching for torn fabric, blood, or anything that would explain why he looked like every breath was painful. 

“What happened?” You frowned, when you couldn’t find any source. “Did you get hurt?” 

You instinctively stepped forward, but he waved his hand in front of him again. 

“Stop, stop, stop,” he said quickly, “don’t come any closer.” 

The harshness in his voice caught you off guard, but what sealed the deal was him dragging himself further away from you. It was barely more than a clumsy, desperate crawl, but he managed to put a decent distance between you before collapsing against the side of his thrifted couch. 

He avoided looking at you. The oversized shirt covering your body, the comfy shorts you were probably wearing, the way your hair looked messy from rolling out of bed as soon as you got EV’s warning even if you had work the next morning.

You stayed right where you were, watching him. His suit had always fit him like it was painted on his skin, but every pant made his chest rise and fall beneath the fabric so violently that you wouldn’t be surprised if it ripped at the seams. 

This reminded you too much of the changes that happened in him months ago. 

It started with a sharpened temper, then the heightened sensitivity to everything, the black covering his eyes, and moments during patrol when his reactions became simply frightening for someone who had as much strength as he did. But you were supposed to have stopped it. 

“Is it the inhibitor?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, “is it failing?” 

“I–I don’t know…I was hit with some dust out there,” he breathed. “I think it’s tampering with it…my head is killing me. Everything is too much.”

You nodded, turning toward the workstation. 

“I will check the programming. Just hold on.” Not your best attempt at reassuring him, but he groaned in acknowledgment. 

“EV?” 

The computer woke when you touched the keyboard, illuminating the dark attic in a wash of blue light. 

“Online.”

“Please run a diagnostic on the inhibitor and any possible interference.” 

“Beginning diagnostic.” 

You waited impatiently for the results, tapping your fingers on the desk while you watched him from the corner of your eye. 

Over there, he…he was doing his best trying to breathe. 

This obviously wasn't his first time having sensory overload. When the animal tried to take over the human part of him, everything in the city became impossible to escape. Not a single movement, or sound, or simple existence within miles was unnoticed by him. 

But this time? The rest of the city had disappeared. There were no sirens in the distance, or voices coming through the walls, or every heartbeat in the building pounding in his head. 

There was only you. 

Your rapid heartbeat echoing inside him. He felt every tap of your fingers against the wood, every slight catch in your breathing each time he made another involuntary and pathetic sound from his spot on the floor. 

Your scent…God, your scent filled the entire apartment. 

The scent he found himself coming back to so often that it scared him. He didn’t want the attachment. The possibility of having someone again only to risk losing them again. 

That same scent was making every muscle in his body react in a way he didn’t understand. It made him, and the other him, wanna do things to you he had only dreamed of in his wildest fantasies. Things he wasn’t proud of, things he wouldn’t dare to say out loud, even if he looked at you through the lenses of his mask and you couldn’t see the black in his eyes. 

He pressed the back of his head against the couch harshly. 

This was wrong. So wrong. 

His senses were supposed to consume everything when the change came. Instead, they had fixed themselves entirely on you.

He could feel the heat of your body from across the room as though you were still in front of him. Could remember with sickening detail how soft your hands looked when they reached for him. Could almost feel the burn of the touch that had never landed because he stopped you. 

What if he’d let you? What if he’d felt the way your hands ran all over his body? What if you’d moved them lower, and lower, as your mouth–

“Diagnostic complete.” 

Your heads snapped toward the screen. 

“There’s no external damage affecting the integrity of the device. I detected a foreign biotoxin in the bloodstream that may be bypassing the inhibitor, activating the suppressed arachnid hormones.” 

“What biotoxin?” You frowned. 

“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.” 

Great. He thought. He had no time to take a bath with Yelena Belova to find out what the stupid dust was. 

The screen changed, displaying a model of his nervous system. There were yellow bright lines pulsing quickly, running all the way from the base of his brain down the length of his spine. Something unknown was moving through his blood, altering the part of him he had spent months forcing into submission.

He sucked in a breath as he watched you read the screen. Your eyes were focused, and a bead of sweat made its way down the side of your forehead. 

He suddenly felt the need to lick it off. 

Wanted to run his tongue from the base of your neck to the back of your ear. Wanted to fist your hair and make your heart beat out of your chest from how good he knew he could make you feel–

“The effects remain within his enhanced tolerance. However, prolonged exposure to certain hormones can cause extreme distress without relief.” 

“What hormones?” Your voice, worried and unknowing of his thoughts only made him feel guiltier. 

It took him a second to realize what you asked, but EV threw him under the bus before he could say anything. 

“There’s a significant rise in reproductive hormones. The unknown toxin is inducing a strong mating response in him.”

Mating response. He stopped breathing. 

Your eyes slowly moved from the monitor to him, and he saw the moment your attention dropped lower to the tent of his pants. 

That suit concealed nothing on a good day. On one like this? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck–

He shifted almost immediately, but the movement only worsened the pressure, pulling a helpless groan from his throat that made your pulse jump. You looked away at once, turning back to the computer. 

“Is there a way we can…umm…stop it?” You asked hesitantly. 

“The subject is experiencing severe sexual arousal with a fixation on a nearby individual,” she explained, because fuck him if he wasn’t the unluckiest individual on earth. “Acting upon it can be a positive option to relieve sexual tension.”

He wished the floor would open beneath him, swallow him, and never ever EVER spit him back out again.  

Your pulse was absolutely hammering after that. He caught the sudden change in your scent. There was a sharp spark of surprise, nervousness, and something else beneath it that his altered senses fed on immediately.

You kept your eyes fixed on the monitor, although the data had stopped meaning anything the moment you heard fixation on a nearby individual. 

“Is that what you really feel?” You asked softly after a moment. 

His head fell forward, catching it between his gloved hands. He didn’t know how to answer without making everything worse.

Although, after what EV said, could it really be worse? 

“…Yes.” The word came out rougher than he expected. Yet still not enough for what was happening inside him. “It’s like…I can only feel you. All of you.”

Heat rose to your face once again. 

“What does that mean?” 

Don’t say anything, don’t–

“I can smell you.” Great start, idiot. He cleared his dry throat before continuing. “I can smell your shampoo…the lotion you use…the ink on your hands from your favorite pen.” 

He chose not to mention he could also smell the adrenaline on you. The heat gathering slowly beneath your skin. 

Your eyes dropped to your hands, and under the dim light of the computer, you caught the ink stains in them from your journaling session before bed. 

“I can hear your heartbeat changing every time I speak,” he added. Okay, that one slipped out.  

You swallowed. And god, he felt that in his own throat. 

The suit was suffocating him at this point. He wanted to rip it off as much as he wanted to rip off the fabric covering the goosebumps on your skin. 

“Is it only because I’m nearby?” You asked, gathering the courage to turn your chair to him.

White lenses met you across the room. He dragged in another shaky breath of oxygen made of you as he thought about his next words. He could’ve lied. He should’ve lied. But instead, chemically overwhelmed and stripped of every defense he possessed, he gave you the truth. 

“No.”

His voice was firmer this time. No hesitation in it despite the thousand red alarms pounding in his head telling him to shut up. 

“It picked you–no, I picked you for a reason,” he added. “And it’s not just me. The other…the other me wants you too.” 

His voice went lower on the last part, that told you how much it cost him to admit that. 

The silence following his confession was heavy. For a moment he wished he could read your mind. For all he could feel of you, your thoughts were unreachable. 

His own mind was a mess. The impulses didn’t feel like thoughts anymore, just his body feeding him instructions. 

Get up. Cross the room. Touch her. Breathe her in.

His palms shook with the urge to close around you. His teeth ached with the need to graze your skin. His eyes burned with the desire to see beyond fabric. 

Every part of him seemed convinced that the small distance between you was a mistake he needed to correct. That he needed to breathe you in until his lungs burned. Drag his mouth along the inside of your wrist and taste the pulse there.

He hated it.

He hated that something inside him could look at the person he cared for the most and reduce her to an answer for his pain. 

“EV, how long is this state going to last?” He asked the computer, followed by a weak cough as he clutched his side. 

“Your enhanced physiology is struggling to break down the toxin’s structure. I estimate a time between ten to twelve hours before it’s metabolized. However, neurological collapse is expected before that timeframe.”

“What?” You looked at him. “There’s no way we’re letting that happen. Maybe I can–”

“Don’t even start,” he cut you off, shaking his head profusely. 

“So what? I’m supposed to sit here betting on whether your body collapses on hour three or hour six?” 

“I’ll just pass out, big deal. I’m not putting you in danger because of this. I can handle it.”

“You’re barely handling it now. There’s no danger in trying–”

“You don’t understand what’s happening inside me right now,” he argued, raising his voice. “This other thing, the one the inhibitor controls it’s…awake. That part of me doesn’t think like I do. It doesn’t care if you're scared, or hurting–”

“You wouldn’t hurt me–”

“You don’t know that!” He snapped, his fist struck the floor next to him, hard enough to make the worn wood crack beneath his knuckles. 

The sudden noise made you flinch. He smelled the flash of fear moving through your body for only a second. 

One second enough. 

“Fuck–that is what I mean,” he cursed, covering his lenses with his hands. “I don’t…I don’t know if I’d be gentle. I can’t risk this, I can't…shit, I can’t risk you.”

The words, said with so much pain, and honesty, seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest. 

“Okay,” you nodded, settling deeper in your chair. “But I’m not leaving you like this. I can’t risk you either.”

He shuddered a painful exhale. His head dropped to the couch again, shutting his eyes in preparation of what the next hours of torture would be. 

Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes. 

The suit was killing him, so he decided he’d be better without it. He reached desperately behind his back, clumsily undoing the zippers that tied the suit together.

He could feel your wide eyes on him as he tugged the fabric off his shoulders, peeling it off his sweaty arms. He groaned when he lifted his hips and the suit grazed his swollen crotch. In a matter of seconds that felt like eternity he managed to break free from the spandex, and threw it away somewhere in the room. He’d undressed down to his dark boxers, mask still in place, revealing the marble sculpture of his body.

You let out a shaky breath from your spot, eyes raking over a body you’d only seen partially. He was covered in wounds most of the time, but this time, he only had faint bruises from the night before decorating his chiseled abs. 

His tight muscles flexed with every rise of his chest, his bulge straining harder the more you devoured him, pressing against his pants, making him curse quietly. 

You noticed, and returned your eyes to the screen to track his vitals. 

He felt grateful that you’d given him that grace, but just you being in that room made it very hard for him to think of anything other than your existence. 

Too hard. 

Before he knew his hand drifted down the growing ache in his crotch, trying to feel some relief, but every rub he made over the fabric of his boxers sent a jolt of pain through his body instead of pleasure. 

It only made it worse when he realized you were tense at the desk, trying very hard to keep your focus on the screen and not on the whines he was letting out. 

“…I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly, breathlessly, moving his hand away. “I didn’t–”

“Don’t apologize,” you shook your head quickly, eyes still on the screen. “You…you can do whatever you need.” 

He didn’t say anything, just whined in pain again, so you took it as a chance to say it before you regretted it. 

“But my offer still stands, spidey.” 

What a polite way of saying ‘I’d let you fuck me into next week so you can control your horny arachnid hormones, spidey.’

Fucking hell. 

“I’m okay I just–God I didn’t–I didn’t think it would feel this way…” He laughed humorlessly, staring at the ceiling. “But I–I got this. Yes.”

You kept quiet, hearing him mumble to himself about a hundred times about how he had this.

“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…” 

He wasn’t. 

“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”

For God’s sake. 

“I think I can help.”

By the time he registered the words and looked back at you, you had already moved from your chair and shortened the distance between you, kneeling in front of him. 

His senses went from one thousand to one million. He forced his hands behind his back, trying to keep the animal from grabbing you and getting it over with. 

“What–what are you doing?” He stammered nervously, the lenses of his mask going wide. 

“Maynard,” you said quietly, ignoring the way his body tensed up at that name. “Would it make you feel better if I put my hand here?” 

You placed your hand right in the center of his chest, and your cold palm met his overheated skin. He gasped, feeling every individual fingerprint on his skin. He wanted them marked on him. Tattooed. 

His back arched from the couch, with a strangled gasp breaking from beneath the mask. The relief hit him all at once, through a simple contact that felt like salvation. 

Your hand steadied him for only a glorious second, but now that you had touched him, his body knew precisely what it had been denied.

It wanted more.

His own hand closed around yours so suddenly that you almost pulled back, but he loosened his grip the instant he realized how tightly he was holding you. 

“Sorry–”

“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder. 

He was burning.

The heat beneath your palm scared you, but what scared you more was the violent pounding of his heart beating against your hand so so quickly. 

“Better?” You asked quietly, trying not to bite your bottom lip at the image of him crumbling under your palm. 

“So fucking better,” he said breathlessly, pressing your hand tighter against his chest. “I…dammit–”

“Breathe,” you reminded.

His head fell back against the couch. Chest rising up and down, up and down, up and down. 

Just take her, man, she’s right there–

Your free hand accidentally brushed his neck, right where the border of the mask started, snapping him right back. He grabbed your hand, not harshly, but firm enough to make your breath hitch. 

“Please.” Was all he said. 

Leave it on. 

It brought you back to that first night he’d crashed into your life. 

“I wasn’t planning on removing it,” you whispered, leaning closer. “You can keep it on. But let me help you…I really want to.”

See? She wants it. She needs it so bad. 

He hated that the other guy was right. He knew you meant what you said because he could smell the proof pooling between your thighs.

Fuck it.

In a sudden movement he reached for your waist, dragging you forward so you were straddling his lap. The bulge you landed on made you gasp, hands instinctively grabbing onto his sweaty biceps for balance when he let out a broken groan that vibrated against your core. 

His hand cupped your jaw, bringing it closer to his face, and your dilated pupils reflected on the white of his lenses. 

“I can feel that you want this,” he mumbled, tilting his head to the side. “Please, say it again…”

You shifted your hips, barely, so minimal yet he felt it travel through his whole body. He hissed, tightening the grip on your jaw. 

“I want this,” you repeated firmly, moving your head closer to his ear. “You can take whatever you need…”

You moved your hips again, more deliberate this time, pulling a broken whine from him. The toxin made every contact feel like electricity racing down his spine, straight to the heavy, aching weight of his cock under you. 

“Yes…yeah just like that…” he panted. “Just let me…”

His hands landed on your waist, moving you back and forth at a quicker pace over his bulge. You gasped at the friction, fingers digging into his shoulders, while he let out a collection of muffled words you could barely understand. 

“...M–more…” he whined, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t–I need…”

“What do you need? More what?” 

“More contact.”

His hands left your waist to grab the hem of your shirt. 

“Can I?” He whispered.

You nodded eagerly, gasping when his hands shifted to the collar of your shirt instead, ripping it off your body with a sharp pull. 

“Oh fuck,” he cursed when he realized there was nothing under that shirt, and saw your nipples hardening instantly under the cold air. 

He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask. 

His hands, however, wasted no time to cup your breasts with a broken whine. His thumbs played with your nipples, tugging at them as hard as he could allow himself to without hurting you. 

“Fuck you’re perfect…you’re so perfect…” he whispered, more to himself than you, pulling some soft whimpers out of you when he tugged a little harder. His hands drifted to your lower half, to the hem of the last piece keeping your body from his greedy eyes. “These too,” he said, “please, can I? I want to feel you.”

“Yes,” you nodded, already out of air. 

You didn’t even know why you tried to get off his lap to take the shorts off properly, when he just did the same as the shirt: ripped it in half where it rested on your hips, yanked it off from your body and threw the ruined pieces far away. 

You weren’t wearing anything underneath. 

“I can smell you. God, I can smell you. You’re so–oh God…”

Now he could feel your wetness drenching his boxers, dripping onto the fabric. He could almost taste it in his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to drown in it for hours. 

“Can–can I–?”

You didn’t even let him finish, you grabbed his hand and placed it right between your legs. 

Water. He found water in the middle of the dessert. 

His hand moved carefully through your wet folds once, twice, delighting in your warmth, the way you felt, the way you let out the prettiest sound he had ever heard in his miserable life. 

“Fuck…” you cursed softly, moving your hips eagerly when he kept stroking slow. Too slow. “Touch me, please.”

He obliged, fingers finding your clit in movements that had you gripping his shoulders tighter, eyes fluttering shut so beautifully he had to bite his lip to not let out a pathetic sound. 

“Been wanting this,” he mumbled. “Longer than today. Longer than tonight.”

His finger slid inside of you, making you moan when he curled it just right. 

“There were…there were nights I thought about you riding my hand,” he kept going, voice cracking as he added a second finger, stretching you more. “I’ve wanted you for so long–not just because of this shit in my blood. Because it’s you.”

Every word made you clench around his fingers. Every admission pulled another shaky moan out of your throat. You were a mess already, breathless, hips rolling down to meet the thrust of his fingers. 

“Oh my God–don’t stop, please don’t stop–”

“Not stopping, baby.” 

He kept working you open, the white lenses of the mask never leaving your face. His free hand slid up your chest, settling between your breasts. 

“I’m–I’m close,” you managed. “I’m so close–”

“Come on…you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

The heel of his palm lifted to press against your clit. You were right there, right on the edge, about to come on his hand and drip down his boxers–

“Please,” he begged, unable to keep it in. “Let me fuck you after this…please. I need to be inside you. I’ve needed it for so long–just let me, after you come, please, please–”

The plea undid you.

You came with a broken cry, stopping your movements as your walls pulsed around him. The sound you made against his shoulder nearly finished him right there. 

It took you a second to just breathe again, your chest synching up with his in the search of oxygen. He kept rocking his hand slowly, not just to work you through the aftershocks, but because the friction of your pussy in his hand brought the tiniest relief to him. 

You just stayed there as the last soft waves rolled through you. 

Once you were able to see clearly again, you let out a breathless chuckle and straightened back up. 

He needed you. He needed you so badly you really thought he was going to die if you didn’t help him. 

You placed one hand on his chest as the other reached under you, slipping inside the fabric of his boxers without breaking eye contact. 

The second your bare fingers brushed him, his hips jerked hard under you. 

“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly. 

You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.

His cock sprang out, heavy and flushed between your bodies, so thick and hard and painful. The head was red and shiny, with precum dripping down the vein that ran along his length. The tip brushed the skin of your stomach, leaving a warm, wet patch that made the hair on your arms go up. He could smell the small flicker of intimidation sparking inside you, but the want that followed was stronger. 

You stroked him a few times, slowly just as he’d touched you at first. 

“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”

Another thick bead of precum welled up and spilled over your fingers. Whether it was the toxin or just his enhanced physiology, he was dripping for you.  

Flustered wasn’t enough of a word when you had his leaking cock in your hand. 

His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tighter, guiding you up as if he was about to lift you then pulling you back down immediately. 

Fuck her. Fuck her right now. 

“Please, I need–I need to feel you…” he cried out. “Let me…let me…”

You nodded just as desperately, lifting yourself up as he helped, steadying you with shaking hands until the thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance. You both exhaled hard at the same time when you started to sink down, taking him inch by inch.

He was big. Almost too much. The burn of it made your breath hitch, but the way he cursed under his breath multiple times, completely at your mercy, made you keep going until he was buried balls deep.

You sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, and so full of him. 

When the initial sting faded away, you started moving. He let you set the pace as you adjusted, holding back his need of thrusting up. His fingers dug on your skin, not lifting just holding you, but the more that you moved, the more that control started to waver. 

He could feel it coming. The change. 

You kept moaning, bouncing on top of him, completely unaware of his self restraint crumbling away. 

His grip slowly tightened when his eyes began turning completely black under his mask. That careful, pathetic boy who’d been begging disappeared beneath something more…primal. 

Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.

The next thing he knew, his hands slid under your thighs with sudden strength. He lifted you up in one motion until only the thick head of him remained inside you, held you there for a second as the last part of him tried to remember how to be gentle–then snapped his hips up hard.

That first thrust pulled a sharp moan out of you, but there was no chance to adjust this time. He set a relentless pace almost immediately, using pure strength to bounce you on his cock while he drove up to meet every drop of your body, buried so deep it stole your breath every time he bottomed out. 

“Oh my–May…Maynard–” the name you barely used on him slipped out in the middle of the frenzy, but his hand reached behind your head to pull your hair back slightly as he kept thrusting up. 

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, his voice so different from just minutes earlier. “It’s Peter. Call me Peter when I’m inside you.” 

He didn’t even give you time to process, still lifting and dropping you onto his cock at the exact hard rhythm he wanted. The only one that satisfied the need inside of him. Your hands instinctively reached for the edge of the arm of the couch he was leaning against, fingers digging into the worn fabric as he hit that spot inside you over and over again. 

“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”

“That’s better,” he approved. “I was right, you’re so so perfect…taking every inch like you need it as bad as I do…”

A desperate sound slipped out of you at the praise, he could feel your walls clenching tight around him as your body went for that second orgasm, your eyes were fluttering shut, almost there–

“Nuh–uh,” he denied immediately, stopping mid thrust, holding you pressed against him as you gasped, surprised and confused. 

“What–what happened? I was about to–”

“I want you to hold it for me. I know you can.”

That twisted part of him enjoyed the slow realization on your face. 

Even if you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew the same spiderman he’d been without the inhibitor, was the one with your body at his mercy now. 

Good. 

He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, breathing hard behind the mask. When your breathing finally slowed down and accepted that the high never came, he stood up. Still inside you, he walked you to the bed in the corner of the room. 

His bed.

He pulled out with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then laid you down roughly near the edge of the mattress. He kneeled down, strong hands hooking behind your knees and dragging your legs over his shoulders, folding you open for him completely.

“Look at the ceiling,” he ordered. “Don’t look at me.”

You obeyed, staring up at the wood beams high above you while he tugged the bottom of the mask just high enough to free his mouth. 

Peter leaned down and pressed a few soft kisses to your swollen folds. He wasn’t necessarily eating you out, just giving a few loud smooches that felt good enough to make you grip the sheets. 

“M’sorry, you were so perfect there…” he mumbled condescendingly against your most sensitive spots. “But I need you to hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?” 

You nodded, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Maybe too eager. Maybe too pathetic. Just like he’d been. Had he pumped that toxin into you? 

Either way, you didn’t care. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this version of him. 

He laughed right over your clit when you moaned loudly, after he moved his tongue in a slow, torturous swipe over it. 

“Was back there too much?” He cooed. “Maybe I just need to stretch you more...”

Two fingers slid inside you, so easily, but the sudden stretch still dragged a whine out of your throat. He curled them immediately, finding the spot that made your hips jerk. 

“Peter…” 

“Huh?” He acted coy, pumping his fingers with a rhythm that kept you right on the edge without letting you tip over. He added a third finger, making your back arch from the mattress. “Keep holding it in.”

Every shake of your body fed the stupid toxin inside him. Having you like this…really trying to keep your body from coming apart because he said so. 

God. He was never going back. 

“You just took my cock. I think you can take three fingers with no problem.” 

He kept the same relentless pace, chuckling when your body started twitching again. 

“Shhh, you’re perfect, absolutely perfect…”

“Peter…” you called out again, hand dropping the sheet to find his shoulder instead. “I need…need…”

“Need what?”

“Need you inside me…please I won’t–I won’t hold for much longer just–fuck me.”

He stopped altogether, a smirk you couldn’t see stretching the corner of his mouth. He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, licking them clean before tugging his mask back in place and standing up. 

“Yeah?” 

Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed for a moment before his hands gripped your hips and turned you over. He moved you higher up the bed, grabbing one of the pillows, and shoving it under your hips, tilting your lower body up for him. 

He then climbed onto the bed behind you and knelt between your spread thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight as one hand stroked down the length of your spine. 

But something made him stop. 

“This fucking mask–” he cursed under his breath. “It’s suffocating me.”

The sweat on his forehead had pooled under the mask, making it so sticky over his eyebrows that it was affecting the lenses he was trying to see you through. 

“I need you to be a good girl for me,” he added breathlessly, yet still commanding enough. “Keep your head on the mattress. Ass up. Don’t turn around.”

You nodded. Too eagerly again. Couldn’t care any less again. 

He didn’t think twice, just yanked the mask off and tossed it aside. It landed near you, making you bury half your face on the sheets as if staring at the mask alone would be disobeying his commands. 

The sound he made when the cool air hit his face was pure relief. He swiped the sweat off with his forearm, finally seeing you clearly. Face down. Eyes squeezed shut. Already clutching the sheets. 

“You look so pretty like this,” he mumbled. “All spread out for me…waiting.”

“Peter…” you whined, lifting your ass slightly from the pillow. 

“I know, I know. You’re okay.” He couldn’t keep the smirk away when he added, “you said please.”

He reached between you, guiding the thick head of his cock between your thighs until it nudged against your entrance. You were still soft and ready and perfect. 

Peter pushed in slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank deep and deep and deeper. 

He braced one hand beside your head and kept the other on your hip, pushing you into the mattress as his thighs hit the back of yours. Slap. Slap. Slap. The position left almost no space between your bodies, with Peter pressing his chest against your back. 

“Fuck…you feel so good like this…so pretty taking me.”

He kept going, making the mattress creak and the base of the bed hit the brick wall repeatedly. Your desperate moans ran through his body like electricity, making something inside him crack open again. 

What? What is–

The moment his rhythm stuttered, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Beads of sweat flew from his hair to your back. 

“God–you…you’re making me–” The roughness of his thrusts slowed down immediately, inhaling a sharp intake of air as he felt the change again. “I can’t, I can’t…”

He lifted his gaze to the window behind the bed and noticed his eyes had turned back to its original color. 

“Oh my god,” he gasped, stopping altogether. He straightened up, still kneeling and inside you, but panicking. “I’m…I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened I–“

“Peter!” You cut him off, pushing yourself back, closer to him, without turning around. “Shut up and fuck me.”

The order left your mouth breathless, pushing back against him even more to make the point clear. His hands twitched when they gripped your hips again. 

“Okay, okay…” he panted, groaning when you dropped back on the bed and his cock almost left the warmth of your pussy. “I’m sorry–if I was too rough, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

He picked up the pace again, but the words tumbling out of him now were pure pleading Peter again. 

“Don’t turn around–don’t turn around–fuck, fuck…” slap, slap, slap. “You can come now. Please. Please, I want to feel it–you’d come apart so pretty on me, I know you would…pleasepleaseplease–”

His final permission and the desperate way he said it made you crash harder than the first time, crying out into the mattress. The second he felt you coming around him, he knew he couldn’t last much longer either.

“Can I–inside…please, can I??…let me fill you up–”

“Yes–inside, Peter, do it inside me…” 

He buried himself to the hilt with a strained groan and finally came. The orgasm tearing out of him was harder and longer than anything he’d ever felt, holding you there, filling you up. 

You gasped against the sheets, breathless, as the waves of cum seemed to go on forever, flooding you with warm and thick ropes in every spurt as he emptied himself inside you. 

“Thank you…thank you…” His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, sending broken gasps against your skin as he kept coming. “You are so perfect–fuck…so perfect…thank you…”

The pollen wrung him dry until he could barely breathe, and even then he kept rolling his hips weakly, chasing the last of it while he slowly softened inside you. 

When it finally eased, the pain, the need, the hunger…he pulled out slowly with a whine, and half collapsed over you. His arms held most of his weight as he planked above you, but you could feel every ridge of his muscles brushing your sweaty skin. 

Peter’s eyes fluttered shut, feeling exhausted and aching in the best way, almost lulled by the sounds of your agitated breaths. 

You both felt the warm trail of liquid leaking out between your bodies and neither of you moved or said anything for a while. He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With your naked body under him, no masks, no barriers, just your swollen pussy leaking out his seed–

“Successful ejaculation brought down the arachnid hormone levels immediately. Inhibitor working within regular parameters now. Congratulations, Peter.” 

EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence. 

It took two seconds of shock before you both broke into breathless laughter. His teeth grazed your back as your bodies vibrated in sync from the amusement and overall flustering after everything that happened. 

“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered. 

“You’re welcome. I gathered data and the released semen volume exceeds standard parameters by two hundred and twenty six percent due to the high hormonal concentration. Hydration, clean up and rest are advised.”

“For fucks sake…” Peter cursed under his breath. 

“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets. 

That was your call back to reality. 

Peter felt you move under him, reaching blindly to the side until your hand found the mask. You lifted it over your shoulder, offering it to him without looking. 

“I don’t want to,” he said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I…I don’t want to put it back on.” 

“Then I’ll close my eyes,” you offered instead. 

“No–I mean…you don’t have to. I don’t want to wear it around you anymore. Not after…all of this,” he admitted sheepishly. 

“But you told me to not turn around,” you reminded him, dropping the mask on the mattress again. “And that was you, not the darker you.”

He chuckled, nodding even if you couldn’t see him yet. 

“Yeah, because if I saw your face while I was balls deep inside you I would’ve busted before you came.”

There it was. He said it. No turning back now. 

At least it got a chuckle from you too. 

“Listen I…I meant everything I said. Everything. The wanting, the nights I thought about you,” he confessed. “I don’t want you to feel like I just used you when…when there was always a reason why I needed you like oxygen tonight.”

Your breath hitched, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him, and when you didn’t push away…he exhaled in relief behind you. 

“So maybe…you can turn around now. If–if you want to. Know the real me.”

“I would really like that,” you whispered without hesitation. 

You tried lifting yourself up to turn around, but he did most of the job, moving away the pillow he had placed under you and helping you roll onto your back. You closed your eyes, at least until you were facing him completely, and took a deep breath. Holding onto his biceps for moral support, you finally opened them again. 

Seeing his face for the first time felt so intimate, even after everything you just did. 

There he was. The same guy who just fucked you into next week, looking more shy and boyish than you could’ve ever imagined. 

Brown eyes. Dark, curly hair sticking to his forehead. A nervous smile tugging at the corner of his gorgeous mouth. 

So young. So earnest. So yours. 

Not spidey anymore. Just Peter. 

Your Peter. 

Thank you so much for reading 🤍 I used to write Peter so much back in the day (shoutout to my starktonyx era) and I’ve missed him dearly.

Feedback is always appreciated 🕷️

Divider by @andromeda-graphics

chapter two, lesson one ⭑

chapter three, hook and eye

chapter four, double booked ⭑

chapter five, interferences ⭑

chapter six, standard procedure

chapter seven, ykwim?

chapter eight, tell me when ⭑

chapter nine, talk 2 me

chapter ten, no other heart ⭑

Truthfully, in part, this was a bad idea from the beginning. 

He knows who he is—always has—but no one really prepares you for what you lose of yourself when people leave. 

Not really. 

Sure, there’s pieces of it—age-old sayings, over-quoted self-help books, your pushy therapist’s nagging mantras—but it’s not only that a part of you dies with the person you lose— It’s that you start to question if what’s left of you is able to survive. 

Or willing to, for that matter. 

So, he was doomed from the start. He used to lie awake at night pushing back against the threat of morning light like his life depended on it. He used to come alive in the afterglow, swinging through the city like it was his heartbeat, chasing after it like a lifeline. 

Now, he counts the hours down. He watches his clock move so slow it might as well be going backward. He stops wishing for days to be longer and foams at the mouth for more time asleep. 

Unaware. Unbothered. Unmocked. 

And suddenly he’s suffocating. He feels it in every thread he runs worn, tired fingers over. Frayed at the edges, torn and half-stitched together too many times to count, bloody knuckles laying so many patches he loses the seam.

It hangs, derisive as it clings to a crooked doorknob. 

Fated blurs of blue and red used to fuel him, used to make every decision—every action, every mistake—feel worth it. It gave him purpose, gave him direction. It made him forget the violet in between every wrong turn and right hook and focus on the parallel fate propelling him forward. 

Now it all feels eroded, taunting what he let slip away. Laughing in the face of failures that stopped making him stronger and won. Watching, waiting for a next move he could never make. 

He only slipped deeper with every month that passed, desperate for something to tether himself to. His responsibility started to feel heavier, and his motivation to get off his futon and to a fire escape was few and far between. 

Because what did he really have to fight for anymore? 

Then the wails of sirens and veins of flickering streetlights tracing down the cool city pavement roared like a heartbeat he couldn’t shake, rattling him from the inside out, making him remember where he came from. 

Reminding him that he is this city, and this city is him. 

So he pushes through. She shoves it down. He pulls the mask off his doorknob and fixes what was broken in more ways than one. He conquers the battle one fight at a time. And the greater good remembers that it’s just the good in him. 

Because after all, Peter Parker knows who he is. 

And Peter Parker doesn’t give up. 

But this wasn’t giving up— At least that’s what he’d convinced himself of. He was simply accepting a fate beyond his control. Giving credit where credit was due. Letting go, even if it hurt like hell. 

He’d gotten particularly good at that. 

Besides, how could he surrender when it was starting to feel like there was nothing to give up in the first place?

No matter how much he tried to ignore it, he keeps getting the reminder. Like when he sees her new friends, or when she waves past him in a room full of people, making him foolishly wave back at no one. When he says hi to her across the hall and she responds, 

“Oh, hey… you.” And keeps walking, brows knit and laughing off the fleeting awkwardness with that guy. 

With Paul. 

“You,” he echoes in bitter disbelief, dropping into a seat he barely kicks half-out. “She called me you. Buddy or Pal would’ve stung less.”

Ned doesn’t even bother glancing up from the essay and lunch he’s hunched over, expression flat and unbothered. “Because she doesn’t know you, Peter.”

Right. Of course. Tact was never lost on him. 

“Yeah, but you think she’d at least sense something by now, right?” He sighs, slumping deeper into his seat and mindlessly picking at something non-existent on the table. “She just looks right through me.”

Ned shrugs loosely. “It’s been two years. Maybe you should finally move on.”

The unwelcome words settle, rooting themselves inside his head and making him nearly choke on nothing. 

“You can’t be serious.”

Ned lower his laptop screen, leveling him with a look. “She has a boyfriend.” 

“Yeah, and people… break up,” he says with a shrug, completely unconvincing. Ned’s glare narrows, irony sharp on his tongue. “And don’t say that’s what we did,” he adds. “I really don’t need the reminder.”

“This is college, Peter,” Ned urges, tossing his hands up to the room of laughing students and chatty professors around them. “There’s way more options out there than just MJ.” 

His face shifts into a scowl, making Ned sigh and adjust his approach, expression softening a notch.

“Listen, you know I love MJ— We’re still friends.” Yeah, just not with him. “But you’ve been chasing after her for a while now and you’ve gotten nowhere.” 

Peter steals a fry from Ned’s tray, shrugging innocuously. “And?”

“And maybe that means it’s just not meant to be.”

Ouch. His stomach twists on cue despite the harrowing, irrefutable truth: Ned was probably right. 

He’d been chasing after a ghost so long he could feel his own body going cold. He was trying to pin down something that kept slipping away so persistently, it was starting to dissipate from reality. He was stuck running after something that didn’t want to be found, a fate he couldn’t face.

Maybe they just weren’t right for each other anymore. 

He still loves her— At least he thinks he does. Things fell apart before he could really figure it out. He’s grown a lot. Changed a lot, too—a bit for the better, certainly some for the worst—and despite it all, he was still standing, still pressing on like forward was all he knew.

But maybe he couldn’t ever really move on until he accepted what was so glaringly in front of him. The shell of his high school romance flatlined at his feet. 

And the echo of a DNR order looming over it. 

It killed him to surrender— To let something he always thought was special slip away like he’s mourning a piece of himself he never really had. Not in the ways that counted most. He didn’t even get the chance. 

He was supposed to be resilient. He was supposed to face a challenge head on when all else fails. He was supposed to be a hero—hers, and his own—but lately it felt like he wasn’t even capable of that. 

And if he wasn’t… then who was he, really? 

The void that met him in the mirror was starting to fade faster than he was willing to accept. And choosing to acknowledge the barren, fractured truth sitting between him and someone who was nothing more than a stranger now was making him question if letting go was really worth it. 

Or if it was just another crack he couldn’t fix. Another mistake that tarnished what was barely left of him. 

Another loss he couldn’t stop.

“But what if we are right together?” he counters, voice low from its weight in raw, unbridled reckoning. “What if losing her means I lose me too?”

Ned frowns, eyes laden with something he can’t hide.

“You’re already lost, Peter.” He pauses, brows creasing in something too close to pity. “I can’t keep watching you chase after what’s already gone.” 

He swallows, rough and tight. God, he hated when Ned was right. But he needed to hear it. He needed the truth to scream through his lungs instead of whisper. 

Maybe then he could find himself again. 

“I’m not saying it’ll never happen,” Ned adds through a mouthful of fries. “I just think this is a good opportunity for you to get it out of your system.”

Peter’s brows lift and not from intrigue. “My system?”

“You know what I mean,” he defends, polishing off his lunch and sliding his laptop into his bag. “Meet new people. Enjoy being single. Use it to your advantage.” 

“That’s, like, the complete opposite of me, Ned.”

“Is that really a bad thing?”

“Dude,” Peter mutters, expression twisting.

Ned holds his hands up in faux surrender. “All I’m saying is it won’t kill you to let loose a little.”

“I’m totally loose!” He was not at all loose.

“Go to a party, have some fun for once,” he explains like it wasn’t abundantly obvious. “Maybe even hook up with someone.”

Peter shakes his head immediately, the thought foreign and sour swimming in his head. “No, no way. That’s not something I can just do.”

“Why not?” Flashbacks of the weird, flukey flings he’s witnessed his oddly-charming friend go through rush in all at once. Of course Ned wouldn’t get it. “Have a couple drinks and find someone hot. Easy.”

“I’m just not wired like you. I’m a relationship guy.”

“You’ve had, like, one girlfriend, Peter.” 

“No,” he defends, voice cracking like it was on a mission to expose him. “There was Liz, too.”

Ned’s mouth tilts. “Yeah, if you consider ditching her at homecoming and sending her dad to jail a date.” 

Jeez. He was right about that one, too. 

Ned glances at his watch, quickly shoving the rest of his stuff into his bag while Peter mulls in the completely undesirable suggestion floated his way. Let loose. Party. Hook-up? No way— No chance in hell. 

Ned lingers in front of the now empty table, weighing if being late to class was worth one last attempt at convincing Peter this was sound advice.

“Do me a favor and at least think about it? Please?” 

Despite himself, he caves, giving Ned a half-hearted smile. “Yeah. I will.”

He sits alone in silence, helplessly watching as his friend disappears into the flood of mingling students he’s still a stranger to. Everything buzzes around him, alight with life and the fresh promise of summer’s rapid approach. All he can hear is himself, trying desperately to rationalize the new question humming in his brain.

What the hell did he just get himself into?

Three weeks. It had been three weeks since that conversation with Ned. The topic wasn’t really brought up again—at least not directly—and he wasn't exactly complaining. 

Not at all. 

It was mentioned in passing—a vague invitation to a party, a harmless question about weekend plans that hummed with the hope for more, a not-so-subtle nod at a pretty girl passing by—but neither of them dared to push it further. 

Ned was smart enough to know Peter would take the push when it was needed, and Peter was too scared to even entertain the idea of it looming in his mind. 

How could he? How was he expected to just turn his brain off and let himself go? Pluck at the loose strings of his body that beared too much tedious tension. Unravel just enough to do something that didn’t require meticulous, painstaking logic for once.

Knowing the option existed only made it worse. 

His mind raced behind blank stares in class. He got more clumsy with every building he swung from in the crest of midnight. He tossed through every hour of sleep, desperate for silence to sweep his brain again. 

Was it really over? Just like that? A love he thought was going to last a lifetime dying a pitiful, worthless death— Reduced to the shape of a name that decays, growing unfamiliar when it whispers through his soul. 

And the worst part was that he was starting to consider it. Like, actually consider it.

Put himself out there. Reclaim his identity again. Kiss someone new like it means absolutely nothing and enjoy being young for once. Forget about the crushing threat of responsibility constantly burdening him.

It was becoming abundantly clear that he wasn’t capable of the mantle he took on, so maybe he should. 

He tried to fight it—the nagging doubt staining his mind, the ghost of his failures coming back to haunt him—but how could he when he was grappling with the fact that this was just another thing he couldn’t save?

And if he couldn’t save this, was he worthy of saving anything? Was he worthy of the pressure put on his shoulders? To be the one people turn to when they need hope? 

He didn’t particularly want that answered right now. 

The longer it lingered in his mind, the more it crawled to the forefront. The last time he spoke with—no, spoke at—MJ was 12 days ago. 12 whole days and all he could come up with was an invitation to join his group in their Experimental Physics lab when she already had one. 

Things were rough, to say the least. 

All he had to do was survive a few more pointless lectures and drill through his pile of neglected work. Then maybe he could spend his weekend remembering what it’s like to recharge.

His phone buzzes as he slides into his usual seat for his 2pm: Ned with his end-of-the-week attempt to drag him out to some Greenwich Village hole-in-the-wall spot called Lion’s Head Pub tonight. Pass.

He sighs thinly and clicks his phone off without replying, slumping further into the cool, sterile chill of his lecture hall chair like it could swallow him whole.

He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep doing this. Ned was getting his hopes up only for Peter to inevitably decline or go MIA. He hated the guilt that followed, making him question if he was even capable of starting over again. And it didn’t matter how many times he expressed his disinterest, Ned still offered like he might finally change his mind.

It was the same doomed cycle.

His stare hones in on the board in front of him, littered with indistinguishable strings of words that were starting to hurt his head. All the pre-lecture noise slips away with his attention—eyes glazed over, expression blank and unreachable—completely aloof to someone gently nudging his foot. 

“Parker? Did you finish it?”

He blinks back to life, glancing up to find someone looming over him, blocking the blinding slats of stale overhead lights. And his brain nearly short circuits when he realizes it’s a girl— A really pretty girl.

Talking to him. 

Your eyes flick between his in a straight-cut motion, silently beckoning his answer. Impatient fingers lightly drum a pencil against the edge of a thick stack of notebooks curled into your chest, studying him with barely pouted lips he suddenly can’t stop staring at.

His senses shift into overdrive, stumbling their way through trying to catalog everything about you: the soft strokes of hair gently framing your face in static light. Your perfume lingering around the heat of your skin, completely captivating and haunting through his head. The way your weight shifts the longer you’re forced to stand there, like time kneels to you and knows it has no business being wasted in your midst.

Then he realizes he’s just staring— Mouth parted, thoughts stuttering, eyes slack and completely silent like a fool… Or a freak.

Fuck, Peter, pay attention.

He clears his throat sharply, choking on the ghost of words that don’t come. “S-sorry, what?”

He’s completely thrown. Sure, he’s caught your eye once or twice when you transferred into this class, but you’ve never once spoken to him. Or really looked, for that matter. Why would you?

The slim clock hand usually brushed a few minutes past two when you slipped in, slowly easing the door shut like you could muffle the resounding click that echoes through the room, making heads snap to yours in a nosy wave. You always found an inconspicuous seat tucked in the last few rows, darting toward it like your name was etched there. Most days you were covered in an oversized hoodie, your eyes heavy from too many late nights, shoes shuffling, headphones in. 

He didn’t know your name—or much of anyone’s anymore, for that matter—but he’d be lying if he said his attention didn’t snag on you when you scooted past him for the last remaining seat in his row the second week of class.

The warmth lingered in him, the memory of your hand brushing his shoulder to steady yourself over some asshole who wouldn’t tuck in his knees unmoored. 

You didn’t speak, just offered him a soft, lopsided smile when you finally reached your destination like you appreciated that he didn’t slip away from under you— Like the steady weight of his shoulder simply being there was worth more than it should be. 

He didn’t say a word either. Just matched your expression and went back to packing tiny, mechanical font into his notebook like it could help shake the way his thoughts were suddenly frazzled… And the fact that his favorite elective class was suddenly the least interesting thing in the world. 

He forgot about you after that. It was better for everyone if he continued being invisible. Unknown, unnamed, un—

Wait… How the hell did you know his name? 

“Your transcript?” Your eyebrows tick up in quickly fleeting patience, staring at him like it was obvious.

Right. The final project. The interview he totally hasn’t typed out yet… And you must be his partner.

Everyone was randomly assigned a faceless-name to work with through the class portal. Most identities in a class this big were a mystery, and it worked that way. No one cared. As long as your partner did some semblance of work that was good enough for a mostly passing grade, there wasn’t a second thought given.

The same went for you and him.

When the rubric was handed out and the deadline was set, you emailed a handful of times—designating roles, coordinating plans, dividing everything evenly—and that was that. You both had your tasks to do. But the way you peered down at him with a question held a between your brows told him you clearly did your part.

And the way his palms began to sweat and his brain started frantically flipping through its fuzzy filing cabinet of every half-assed assignment he barely survived this week made it abundantly clear he didn’t. 

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, digging through his bag and saying a silent prayer it looked convincing enough to you. “I think it got lost on my desk.” 

It wasn’t even a titled document on his computer yet. 

You sigh, tilting your head like this was the last thing you wanted to hear. His stomach twists on cue. 

“I can’t start writing the feature without it.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” he rushes, crumpling his bag shut and shoving it under his chair to distract from the heat crawling up his neck. “I’ll get it to you tomorrow, I swear.”

You pause, weighing it through narrowed eyes that were far too sharp to be making his heart flutter the way it was. Then you cave, sighing gently. 

“Fine. First thing.”

He nods with a little tug at the corner of his mouth, settling back into a reality where he was known enough to have someone’s nerves grated because of him. 

“O-of course. Promise.”

Your gaze stays on him for a beat longer than it should’ve, and he swears the room slips away when your expression softens, barely, just enough to make his brain go a little numb. 

Then you smile—routine, polite, lined with something he wants to turn around inside his head—and slip past him for your seat in the back, same as always. 

And for once he doesn’t feel too bad about being distracted during class if it was because of you.

By the time the clock crawls toward 11, he’s starting to genuinely consider the very plausible reality he’s no longer conscious.

He turned into a machine, natural instincts clicking into place as he tore through the growing pile of work looming on his desk.

Now he can finally see through his window again, dark and dusty reflection catching the bleak glow of his lamp light straining to cut through the shadow-swept room. 

He glows like a ghost from the dying light of his laptop, clinging to a despondent seven percent battery, a victim of his relentless focus. He plugs it in, stretches against the chair squeaking under his weight, and stares at the ceiling, slowly recalibrating his psyche.

The city roars beyond his window with the resurgence of nightlife, floating conversations and the symphony of sirens a blanket of sound down below. He finished relatively early considering the dense amount of work he had to chew through, but now his reward was being left alone in his shamefully empty apartment.

Like even his walls could come to life and judge the lack of one he had. Nice.

Then his phone buzzes on his crumpled sheets. The muffled sound rips through the silence, and he doesn’t have to bothering looking to know who it is. 

“No, Ned,” he mutters, rubbing a tired hand over his sunken, aching eyes.

There was no way in hell he was entertaining the idea of some overcrowded, borderline-animalistic dive bar when his skull was still throbbing with the lingering remains of theorems and study guide questions. 

He kicks his music up a notch higher in retaliation when it buzzes again, focused on filing away his work. 

By the third interruption, he breaks, letting out a tired groan and blindly fumbling just to find the ringer. He freezes before he gets the chance, blinking back at the hollow glow of the screen tracing the outline of his jaw in late evening indigo.

His eyes have to run across the subject line four times before he realizes his eyes aren’t playing tricks on him. It wasn’t Ned. It wasn’t his reminder to pay rent or a new assignment added to his dashboard. None of that. 

It was you. You, who now had a face he could connect to the name decorating his inbox. A pretty one, at that. 

One his mind admittedly drifted to more times than it should’ve during class. And the class after that… And every hour between, slouched over his desk and trying to stay focused on slicing through his stack of work. 

You still managed to slip in between the cracks he couldn’t seal. Your presence, your expression, your eyes. All of you lingered where he didn’t want you to— Where he felt like you weren’t allowed to. 

Not yet. 

He stares back at the notification, stunned like the universe was mocking his mind for drifting to you all night long. It wasn’t much—just a routine email with an outline for the rest of the project attached—but that was enough to do it. That was enough to make him realize he somehow, someway, wanted it to be more.

He quickly taps the dimming screen back to life, sliding the notification open, eyes tracing over every letter of your name like it could allow him to know more than just your student email address and a tapping pencil in midday Manhattan sunglow.  

He opens the outline, slowly dropping onto his bed and running over the meticulous, fine-tuned details you laid out in the document. Something buzzes under his skin from it, like he just got another tiny piece of you—the way you were wired, the way you worked—all through a couple bullet points and bylines.

And if that was as close as he’d get, then he’d take it. 

Suddenly something aches in him— Something he’s done such a good job of suppressing. Something human, hungry for more he knows he can't have. 

This was stupid. The isolation he swore himself to had gotten so bad he was excited over an email for an elective credit group assignment— Over the fact that someone knew his name besides his landlord or Ned. 

Someone clearly driven. Someone with soft skin and kind eyes edged with something that made his heart hammer. Someone with a baggy sweatshirt that brushed his desk every Tuesday and Thursday at two. 

Someone he wanted to know more.

He shakes it off, quickly closing the document and marking the email as unread so it wouldn’t get buried in his inbox. This was something he already made peace with, something he already accepted: the less people know him—even as simple as a first name or assigned seat—the better. He couldn’t risk it again.

Besides, he couldn’t get distracted. He was meant for MJ— Now, and always.

No one else.

But it wasn’t you that was throwing him off. It couldn’t be. It was the nagging, persistent tenacity of his friend finally catching up with him, poisoning his focus and making him wonder if he was worthy of moving on.

He had enough on his plate as it was. He didn’t need to add to what he already couldn’t sort through. He needed to forget about you and every dangerous, fleeting thought that came with you.

He fails miserably. 

You linger in this mind like you belong, warmth sparking through him like wildfire. The way you glowed in lecture hall light, hair a little messy and unkempt, but never careless. The way your eyes quickly flitted over him, like you sized him up and had him completely figured out before blinking, all with a faint tug at the corner of your mouth that made his bones hum.

He couldn’t get you out of his head. Why couldn’t he get you out of his head? Was Ned actually right about everything? That he was tying himself to something sinking, something already gone?

That maybe he was worth another chance again?

Regardless, some harmless, completely illogical little crush curls at the corners of his shredded heart, curious to try to put him back together again. 

He blinks at the ceiling, letting frayed curls sink into his pillow, and thinks. His brain wrestles itself until it’s numb, making room for something to settle between his ribs— Something daring he hasn’t felt in forever. 

The willingness to begin again. 

And this time when his phone buzzes, he pulls himself off the bed, powers through a shower, shrugs on fresh clothes, and leaves his apartment with the address Ned sent lighting up his screen.

Because maybe sacrificing a little more hurt was worth the chance to feel something again. With someone—anyone—even just for a minute. Just for one night.

And you made him believe it might be possible again.

The place was easy to find considering the dense group of drunk ESU kids flooding the doorfront, shouting and laughing over music that’s easily drowned out. It’s a small place, almost unrecognizable along the strip, just one wobbly brick away from being swallowed into the rest of the building. 

He slips between swaying bodies, following a dingy, stone staircase down to the roaring basement pub. There’s people everywhere: pressed against the walls, hanging over sticky tables, packed together in the tiny space surrounding the bar, all looking for attention. 

Everything was dark, bathed in silhouettes and draped in the smell of margarita mix and mistakes clinging to the thick, balmy air. Shadows dance between bodies, painting slick skin in flickers of colored Christmas lights draped across the ceiling. Every inch of exposed brick was plastered in garage sale collectibles and old bar games that were charming enough to pass as decor. 

Toward the back of the room he spots Ned near a high top with a tray of shots that were surely all sugar. He catches his eye, stopping dead in his tracks and instantly lighting up at the shocking sight of Peter swiftly cutting through the crowd. 

“Dude, no way,” Ned beams, quickly pulling him in for their handshake. “I can’t believe you finally showed!”

Peter shrugs, trying to hide the fact that he was already regretting this decision. “If I had to look at one more derivative, my head was gonna explode.”

Ned shakes him by the shoulder, clearly tipsy. “Let’s get you a drink.”

He winces, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t know, man. I just came to…” Well, he didn’t really know what he came for, to be honest. “Check it out, I guess.”

He hadn’t even been there for two minutes and he was already starting to get cold feet. The reality was setting in quicker than he could handle, and allowing himself to divulge in this fickle moment of bravery might equate to something he couldn’t take back. 

With someone who wasn’t MJ. 

Then he scans the room and his attention immediately settles on the person behind the bar, tilting a pint under the tap and politely indulging in a customer clearly too old to be alone at a college bar.

You. 

You were here. Not in his class, not in his head, not on his screen. Here, standing in front of him under dusty, jagged spotlights and falling perfectly into his line of sight like it was the only place you belonged. 

His pulse thumps in his ear, cheeks hot while he stares, in awe of you completely in your element. Then you laugh and he swears it cuts right through the crowd and punches him square in the gut like the sweetest sucker punch to his better judgement. 

Wait, why was he regretting this again?

“Peter,” Ned whines, immune to the spellbinding daydream he was suddenly stuck in. “You didn’t come all the way out here just to go dry on me.”

He clears his throat weakly, trying to act normal. “I live, like, four blocks away, Ned.”

“And you didn’t walk four whole blocks just to bail on me again. Come on— Just one drink.” 

Ned’s right: he didn’t. He came to let loose, to get out there. To explore the feeling you helped him remember how to have—and now here you were—so he mumbles, 

“Yeah… yeah, you’re, uh— I’m gonna go… Yeah.” 

He says it under his breath, meandering over to the line at the bar like a moth drawn to life’s last light. If Ned responded, he didn’t catch it— Just cuts his way through every sweaty body like a man on a mission. 

To say what, exactly? That was still unclear. 

He almost turns on his heels and abandons ship when your attention lands on him— Smooth, mindless motions buffering, almost like him being thrown into your orbit again made you do a double take. 

You blink, calculating how to place him in your mind, and smile. It’s small—almost missable—but it’s there. 

And it’s for him. 

The moment slips away like it’s nothing—probably because it was—but the stutter in his heartbeat grows with every step he takes toward to you. 

As soon as a narrow, empty spot clears up at the counter, he takes it, patiently waiting with his nerves in his throat while you top off a drink with the soda gun. You look so effortless, gliding through motions like you were keeping the whole bar afloat without even trying. 

There’s something about you that has him captivated with every little thing you do— So much so that by the time you sling the towel over your shoulder and slide up in front of him, he’s completely unprepared for it. 

You smile, expression lined with something that makes his brain buzz, head gently cocked as you size him up with one swift tick of your eyes. 

“You know, when I said first thing tomorrow, I didn’t mean it literally,” you tease, glancing at the overhead clock showing just a hair past midnight. 

Red covers the top of his ears, lips pressing into a tight, sheepish smile.

“So you mean to tell me I came all the way down here for nothing, then?”

Your confidence falters, disbelief slowly seeping in. “Oh my God, did you actually bring it with you?”

“No,” he chuckles, a little proud. “But the look on your face kinda makes me think I should’ve.”

Your shoulders loosen a notch, smiling with a shake of your head that was anything but annoyed. “Very funny, Parker.” You pause a beat, watching him like you’re searching for something. “What’re you having?”

He blinks. “Huh?”

“To drink.” You casually lean against the counter until the heat of your skin brushes his. “You’re at a bar, remember?” 

He clears his throat, praying his synapses click back into place and start doing their job.

“Oh, uh, right. Sorry.” He quickly glances over your shoulder at what was on tap like he has any idea what kind of beer he even likes. “Can I get the, um,” he pauses, eyes narrowing, “the Voodoo Ranger?”

You grab a clean pint glass, glancing over your shoulder while you pour. “You don’t come here often, do you?”

“What makes you say that?” he asks against the thin head of foam before taking the kind of sip that wants to prove something. The second it hits him, his face twists, sheepishly coughing on the bitter trail of honey-gold liquid that cuts down his throat like a threat. 

You cross your arms, smiling in satisfaction. “That.”

His cheeks heat in a way he can’t hide, but it’s hard to care when you’re looking at him like that, laughing in a way he knows will get stuck in his head.

“What,” he manages, “is this, like, a notoriously bad beer, or something?”

“Not necessarily.” You shrug, taking the glass and dumping it. “You just don’t strike me as an IPA guy.” 

His eyes settle on the tug at the corner of your mouth, soft and undeniable. It makes his heartbeat skip.

“You seem to know a lot about me.”

“This kinda job comes with a lot of people watching,” you say casually, just the simple truth. “You learn how to read people pretty quickly.”

He smears the ring of condensation left on the bar, staring at it like it could wipe his smile away.

“Okay, what am I drinking, then?”

You lean a fraction closer and it’s like thunder strikes behind his ribs. He barely even knows you but suddenly none of it matters.

You hum, eyes sharp. “You tell me.”

He studies you for a second, gaining the confidence to look you square in the eye again and raise you. It comes out of nowhere—this low, pulling buzz—but he can practically feel the electricity pulsing between you now. 

“Whatever you wanna make me.”

Your eyes sweep over him, the movement kickstarting his pulse. Then you pull away, nodding just once. “You got it, Parker.”

The world falls away while you work behind the bar, slipping into an easy rhythm like garnishes and simple syrups were second nature. He’s completely hung up on your every move, so much so he barely catches Ned across the room flashing an ever-so-obvious thumbs up and toothy smile. He ignores that.

“Alright,” you say, sliding a freshly chilled rocks glass to his fingertips. “Give this a try.”

He studies the drink like it bites. “What is it?”

“A secret. Just try it.”

“I’m good at keeping secrets.” His grin unfolds despite himself. You have no idea just how true that really is.

You cock your head, weighing it. “Okay. Only if you tell me why you finally decided to show up here tonight.”

“Because I was bored. Your turn.”

You roll your eyes, laughing under your breath while he beams over a cautious sip of his new drink. 

“Weak answer, but fine.” You tilt your chin to the glass between you. “7 and 7— Easy ingredients, stronger than a tap beer, and more interesting than a Captain and Coke. You’re welcome.” 

The warm, woody burn of whiskey floods his system, perfectly balanced by the fresh tang of lemon-lime. It’s good—genuinely something he likes—but with a smile that inviting and eyes impossibly soft under faint splashes of copper spilling through the room, he know’s he’d happily take just about anything you made. 

“Has anyone ever told you you’ve got a knack for this?” 

You huff a timorous laugh, dropping your stare to the counter like the loose pieces of hair falling in your face could hide the way your smile lightens with something that lands right between his ribs.

“Yeah— Only the creeps who tip too much and, well… you.”

He nods, mouth tilting as he pushes two measly, crumpled singles he had in his pocket across the counter to you. “Glad I’m neither of those things, then.”

You laugh, all sweet and breathless like it was meant to find itself along the way. It’s fleeting, but he actually makes you blush. His nerves flutter from knowing he’s the reason behind that kind of sound.

It was terrifyingly easy to become enamored with you. You were like a trap he walked himself into and didn’t want to escape. Why was he even here, again?

You slide the bills back, fingers tentatively meeting his in the process. “Get that transcript to me and we’ll call it even?”

Before his nerves could talk himself out of it, he takes your hand—small, warm, gentle in his palm—and shakes it, sealing the promise of more between you. “I would anyways, but deal.”

His voice comes honestly, almost too quiet beneath the blanket of social sound unfolding around him. It didn’t matter— Not when something dangerous runs behind your eyes as you watch his fingers loosen from yours. 

Everything else goes forgotten between the brick and sloppy string lights. Nothing more exists. Just you, just him, watching each other like maybe you’d find a way to define what was starting to settle inside the thinning space between you. Not the crowd, not the noise, not—

Ned plants a firm hand on Peter’s shoulder, slurring a loose hello and shaking him free— Literally. He places the tray that’s now a graveyard for the sticky-sweet shooters from earlier down for you to take.

“Thanks again for the shots,” Ned says to you, trying way too hard to be cool about what he just stepped into as he passes over his card to close out his tab.

Peter’s brain blanks, eyes basically screaming for Ned to please be normal about this as he watches in mild-panic. Then he glances between you both with the kinda look Peter hates—especially when it’s preceded by alcohol—and his stomach drops in preparation.

“You guys know each other?”

“We’re in Investigative Journalism together,” Peter quickly cuts in, not willing to risk things when Ned was currently on a one man mission to make his life more interesting. He introduces you, silently praying his friend doesn’t take it as an invitation and leaves.

“Woah,” Ned breathes, looking at you like you’re a paradox. “You go to ESU, too?”

You nod, finishing up a quick vodka cran for someone else. “Yup. Sophomore. What about you guys?”

“Same,” Ned affirms. 

“Wait,” Peter interrupts, brows furrowing gently. “How are you a bartender if you’re still a sophomore?”

He regrets it immediately, fearing he might have offended you. You could’ve been held back or taken a year off or something, but he was too caught up in daydreaming over you, he didn’t really properly assess how his question would come across. 

Or how much of his drink he’s already thrown back.

Luckily, you just shrug and hand Ned his card back. 

“Eh, Eddie doesn’t really care that I’m underage. The less he has to report to the IRS, the better.” You pause, smirking at Ned. “Besides, according to your friend here, I’m pretty damn good.”

It flashes across Ned’s face immediately: the kind of dangerous curiosity Peter could only silently curse.

“Oh, I’m sure he’s probably thinking more than that.”

Peter exhales sharply, quickly steering Ned away while you laugh under your breath at just how obviously flustered he is. “Okay. See you later, Ned.”

Your easy laughter only makes the embarrassment knot tighter through him, skin hot with harmless heat as Ned takes the hint and disappears into the crowd.

The bar is rocking far beyond full capacity now, finally at the height of Thirsty Thursday fun. His vision goes a little hazy as he scans the crowd around him, dense and desperate for drinks. Some girl immediately slips into the space Ned left, eager in hopes of getting some service, but you don’t pay her a shred of attention.

And he notices.

Instead, your eyes stay locked on Peter, sharp with something that toed a line neither of you have decided to draw yet. You glance down at his freshly empty glass, lips curved with curiosity.

“You plan on sticking by for another round, Parker?”

A thick beat of heady silence pulses while he lets his nerves drown in the sweet, careless buzz of warm whiskey and wanting. The tension stretches, humming with a shameless electricity dire for direction. 

The same perfume from earlier floods his senses, his eyes heavy with something he couldn’t ignore, and it hits him: there was no where else in the world he’d rather be right now. So he tilts his head, leans closer to you bathed in dusty, yellow spotlights that suddenly look like heaven, and dares to feed the spark.

“Do I have a reason to?”

You don’t say a word, just reach between you, grab the sweating glass, and pour a fresh drink in record time, garnish and all. When you slide it back, you lean in to match his stance, bass and breath brushing his cheek until his heart makes a good case for cardiac arrest. 

“You say that like it’s a challenge.” The trace of heat in your eyes raises the stakes instantly, not daring to back down.

“Maybe it is,” he murmurs, low and level. 

In this moment, he is truly, wickedly, in deep, and he doesn’t want to even think about climbing out of it. He’d happily drown in indulgence if it meant he got to spend another second under the pressure of your full attention. 

You huff a laugh, soft and fatal. Then your voice falls low, the danger in it criminal for anyone else to hear. 

“I like you loose, Parker.” 

Before he can respond, your coworker who’s been swarmed by a rush of drunk, demanding college kids—and no longer willing to cover—calls you over, a gunshot in the spell. So you sigh, fingers brushing his as you slide the drink closer. 

And this time, they don’t leave.

“Stay here and think about what you want that reason to be.” Then you slip away to the other side of the bar, leaving him alone with a spark coiling between his ribs. 

It was insane— The dizzying, undeniable combination of you and whiskey all rushing to his head. Traces of anything else behind his eyes melts away between the heat of stolen glances at you across the room and the alcohol striking like fire through his veins. 

All the responsibilities, all the overthinking—all of his desperation to cling to what was lost—is gone. The only thing he can think about is how he would do anything to make this night last forever— To tie himself to the feeling of falling, to keep his head above water just a little bit longer. To lose the air in his lungs by making you breathless instead of from suffocating in the reality he’s faced every day since the last time he was looked at and known.

But tonight—for one fleeing, thoughtless night—he had an identity. His face was next to his name. His soul, perceived again. 

And, God, it felt good. 

So he was okay with this being a bandaid on a wound that needed sutures. He was okay with leaning into this dumb, reckless rush. He was okay with caving to echoing impulse and seizing what was right in front of him instead of chasing after ghosts. 

And he was damn well tired of being one. 

His second drink is noticeably stiffer, but still downed nice and easy without any pretense catching in his throat. His depth perception grows foggy, his nerves loose and looking for something to hang onto.

He doesn’t know how much time passed, but he doesn’t care— Not when his self-control was slipping away with every minute he watched you work. His knee won’t stop bouncing, his mind won’t stop running to you. Restless fingers fiddle with the edge of his empty glass, eventually earning the attention of one of the other bartenders to replenish it.

Every sip swaps his apprehension with a familiar buzz that curls between his ribs and replaces his better judgement. Not a problem— It didn’t want to be found.

By the time the clock nears one, you find your way back over to him, smile all temptation and trouble. The late night crowd filed in: bodies packed, bass slamming through the speakers, drunken drama traded for dancing under flashing strobe lights. 

Everything got too loud—too intense—including the bubbling ache knotting at the pit of his stomach for you. The alcohol was making him want to do something dumb— To jump, to lay it all on the line and finally forget the consequences. 

Go where he normally wouldn’t have the guts to.

But right now—with the salacious way your eyes glimmer in the spill of midnight, with the way your soft lips curve like you know you have him undone—denying the spark that was tired of threatening to catch was the complete opposite of dumb. 

“You stayed,” you hum over the wall of sound, warmth brushing the shell of his ears going hot as you lean in.

He tucks his head closer to your neck, lips ghosting your hair. “I had a good reason to.”

You laugh gently, making his heart hammer senselessly behind the cage of his chest as you pull back a fraction to study him. God, he was in trouble with you. 

“Oh, yeah?” you murmur. “And what might that be?”

His cheeks flush, boyish nerves written raw across his face. It was miraculous just how easy it was for you to get him all worked up. 

“If I say,” he begins, stare helplessly flicking down to your lips for a beat, “you won’t believe me.”

You hum, narrowing your eyes like you were preparing to sink him. “And why’s that?”

“Whiskey.”

You glance at the almost-empty glass tilted to his lips, brow lifting gently. “Still nursing those?”

“No.” He swallows, setting it down between you with a final, echoing thud. “Waiting for them to be worth it.”

It flashes across your features so quick you’re able to hide it, but not to him. He sees it: throbbing under your skin, lingering in your eyes, slipping across your sly smile that almost falters— Almost.

You look nervous, like you’re slightly taken back with the way he matches your game. Like you weren’t expecting him to flirt back—all harmless and fun—but weren’t opposed to the surprise of it, either. It makes you shift your weight from the whisper of wicked want.

Even if just for a second, it’s there. 

And it counts. 

You shake it off in an instant, cocking your head like you’re ready to go toe-to-toe with him to see just how far he’s really willing to take this.   

The answer on his end was abundantly clear.

“You know,” you murmur, voice low and syrupy-sweet as you reach to take the glass between you. “If you wanted to kiss me, you could’ve just said so.”

His heart slams into his chest, hard and ruthless. His breath catches, brain trying to rationalize that your fingers were still touching his on the lukewarm glass— Curious. Tempting. Deliberate. He’s truly no match for you, and the way his eyes go a little wide and his lips part in pure elation tells him you know it, too. 

But he tries, anyway.

His lips tilt, trying to hide the way his mind was struggling to reboot under your intensity. “Kinda sounds like you’re putting words in my mouth now.”

“Careful, Parker.” You smile, soft and fatal. “Say the right thing and you might get more than just words.”

His blood’s on fire, his heart awestruck, completely and hopelessly so. You were water in the circuit board of his self control, quickly sparking through him until he shorted.

Maybe it was the drinks, maybe it was the loneliness or the abandoned feeling he’s been chasing after for years, but suddenly he doesn’t have a single thought behind his eyes that isn’t getting his hands on you. 

So he swallows any innocence sitting his tongue, humming like he knows something that could raise what you put down.

Your eyes flit over him, curious. “What?”

“Nothing.” He lowers his voice, finding your hand splayed on the sticky wood. His eyes hold yours as he slowly uncurls your fingers and places his card in your palm to cover his tab. “I just like how you say my name.”

The tension hums, thick and persistent in the air that suddenly feels electrifying. His heart was a mess, his nerves the same. You were so close— Your heat, your breath, your lips, full just like the blush crawling up to your cheeks.

Your hand, still held in his.

Every doubt folds into impulse, every impulse demands action. Every action loses its command between the adrenaline and alcohol flooding his system. You’re the only thing he feels— The only thing he wants.

The principle checks out of his brain, the sanctions he placed on his hunger dissipate. It’s all you, and only you.

So when you slip toward the back of the bar for the night, clocking out and reaching for the back door, he grabs your wrist— Gently, but with complete and total desperation.

You find his eyes in the sweeping shadows, the dangerous spell of high stakes and low contrast wild beneath your body aching for his.

He’s not prepared to speak, he doesn’t know what he’s willing to do— All he knows is he can’t let you go just yet. Not when his bleeding heart was finally patched by the tourniquet of tender touch. Not when it was still in his hands, hammering pulse tying itself to yours. He needs you. He needs to know you want this too.

So he whispers the only truth he has left, raw and timid.

“I don’t want you to leave yet.”

Your lips curve, eyes molten under his gaze as they catch the dim, dusty blur of a bleeding bar behind you. Then you lean closer and take his hand in yours. Your skin shocks his like a defibrillator bringing him back to life, the promise of dawn in his palm.

“I’m not. I’m making those drinks worth it.”

Before he can process it, he’s stumbling through the backdoor and slamming you against the wall. Limbs tangle, new heat is knelt to, every cell of his body fights for dominance against unshed need sparking in the narrow alleyway of the rear bar exit. Your mouths are hot—hungry and demanding—as they devour every inch of each other. Sounds, skin, spit— All of it. 

His palms trace every spill of your skin, frantic to uncover more. He grips tightly, tilting your head back to kiss you deeper. Your tongue curls around his, legs wrapping around his waist, tiny little hands pulling until every messy curl comes undone right along with him. 

He groans into your mouth, lips melting into yours, teeth tugging at his bottom lip. His hands are wild: skimming up your sides, looping through the hem of your shirt, palming you through the fabric until your whimpers ring through the echoing brick.

“I don’t usually do this,” he breathes between kisses, trialing his wet mouth down your neck. “I swear I don’t just hook up with people all the time.” His weight presses you into the wall, pinning you to it. “Do you?” He laps at your collarbone, pausing for a second as that thought settles. “Wait— Fuck, sorry,” he pants. “Don’t answer. That sounded wrong. And judgey. I meant—”

“Just shut up and touch me, Parker.”

He obeys like he was made for it, letting you yank him by his hair back to your lips, crashing together.

He follows your lead like he’s possessed, letting you guide his ravenous fingers from their bruising grip on your waist down to the hem of your skirt. They rest on the crest of your bare thigh, inviting him to cross the line he long but killed in his mind. 

You smile, slow and sly at the way his breath catches when you return the favor. Fingers he can’t get enough of find the pressing weight at his zipper, stroking him through his pants until he can’t think straight. 

He didn’t come here for this. He didn’t plan this. 

But, fuck— He doesn’t care. 

He wants you badly, and the way you’re looking at him while your fingers dig in deeper—hips mindlessly shifting against his rough, calloused touch like you’re desperate for it—tells him you want this just as much. 

And he’d be damned to deny you both of it.

He unravels quickly, turning off his brain and blindly following every sensation that rips through his cells. His teeth graze your swollen lips. Your breath catches on a soft, sinful sigh. His body jolts with heedless need, blood rushing so far south his head spins.

His fingers drift under your skirt, tattered knuckles brushing the smooth fabric as he slides his hand to the lace stretched over your pulsing center. He shudders into your mouth as you fumble with the zipper of his jeans, fingers tracing the soaked spot sitting between your thighs. 

His mouth latches onto your neck, sucking your skin like it could distract from the needy way his hips follow every drag of your touch. He’s ready for it—to finally feel your bare skin wrapped around him in more ways than one—when you stop, pulling back a fraction to look him square in the eyes despite your fingers still hovering over the crest of his newly unbuckled jeans.

Your voice is husky, slicked over with wild, messy want that hits him low in his gut. “You’re sure, right? You’re not, like, drunk drunk?”

He shakes his head instantly, still helplessly teasing his touch at your clothed core. “Barely buzzed.”

You snort in the spill of abandoned darkness and the sound etches its way deeper into his heart.

“We both know that’s not true.”

“Probably,” he pants, “but I’m still sure. I want this.” 

He pauses, leaning closer until his lips brush yours. His eyes are heavy, mouth daring to capture yours when he adds,

“I want you.”

You waste no time going to his bulge, thick and straining below his belt. Catharsis finds its breath when you finally mold your palm around the long curve of him, hips bucking into your patient pressure, chasing more. 

His lips smash into yours, swallowing your breathless, little moans as he circles your folds through your panties. His mind is soaked in sin, teasing pace increasing tenfold on a desperate mission to make you fall apart first. 

His head spins, veins buzzing like they're pumped full of jet fuel. Every wired, heightened sense is dialed into you like you’re where life begins again— Each touch slowly bringing him back to the wake of resurrection. 

Your mouth is wet on his, finding the waistband of his underwear and diving underneath. The hot and heavy weight of him greets you, held closely in your clumsy fingertips, both limbs screaming with need. 

He returns the favor, pushing soaked, clinging lace to the side until he feels your bare, throbbing skin. Both of you indulge in every desperate, collapsing need, fingers working over each other in ruthless tandem.

Nothing else matters—not pounding bass, not the distant noise, not the drinks or bruised feelings he shoved down to get here—just this.

Just you and him. 

When he finds just the right spot, he’s rewarded with a gentle tremble in your thighs, fingers blindly swiping in a frantic, building rhythm against your clit swollen from the friction you chase. Your hips rock, completely drunk on the pressure he pleasures you with.

His mind starts to blank, knees threatening to give as you stroke him with the same vigor now, shamelessly smearing the pool of precum while you work him ruthlessly through his pants. 

Every thread of tension pulls tighter until neither of you can breathe. A moan breaks in your throat, rhythm on his length faltering, hips grinding into his hand— Needing more without saying it. He listens, hoisting you up in one smooth, quick motion so you’re pressed against the wall on top of his thigh.

You gasp against his mouth at the new position, melting against his firm muscle as he holds you up around your waist with one hand, anchoring you to the wall while your legs wrap around him and your fingers blindly search for his cock again. 

Your strokes go slow, twisting at the base and tracing the heavy curve of his underside in a tedious, aching motion. You continue to pump him while he runs his finger through your slick and plunges inside, making you adjust around the sudden stretch. 

“Fuck, right there,” you whisper into his mouth while he thrusts inside you, curling up against your soft, spongy walls. “Feels good. You feel good.”

He effortlessly adds a second finger, sloppy and slow as he strokes you from the inside out, knuckles disappearing between your slick-smeared thighs. Your thighs tremble, muscles locking in focus as you teeter on the edge of euphoria. He’s knocking on the same door, body ready to implode with a ravenous release he’s desperate to nail down as you work him harder. 

Your fingers coax his throbbing head, twisting around his length until his breath catches and his movements falter, fighting back against the plummet of his own pleasure to get you exactly where you need to be. You cling onto him for dear life as his fingers slam inside of you, filling the dark, dingy hallway with the shameless sounds of sweat and sex. 

Your lips fall to his neck, breath fanning over the juncture of his shoulder as your body thrums with a quickly approaching climax you desperately chase. 

“I’m close,” you pant against his skin, eyes fluttering shut in focus while you work your relentless rhythm around his cock. “Please tell me you’re close.”

He hums, broken and breathless, completely devoid of forming coherent a sentence when you quicken the pace and circle your thumb quickly around his head.

“Uh huh,” he mumbles, needy and pathetic. “Keep going. Just like that.”

You bite gently at his shoulder, body shaking as his fingers thrust inside you, slick thumb gliding in vigor over your clit in determination despite the burn.

He could feel you going slack at the pleasure building inside your body, moaning with every torturous, messy slide of his fingers. Your words are a mess, spilling helplessly into the sweat building on his skin as his pace falters and his arm burns from the chase.

“Don’t stop,” you plead. “Don’t you dare stop.”

“I got you,” he groans, deep and low in his throat, breath hot and spent. “I got you, baby. Take what you need.”

Your walls shudder around him, hips thrusting into his hand as you follow his command and grind into his palm. Oh, what he wouldn’t do to give you his cock right here right now if deeper was what you needed.

His eyes screw shut, breath hot and strained in your ear as he crumbles from every dirty stroke, begging to unravel him like it’s the only thing you know.

Sinful sounds bounce off the walls— Your moans, his panting. The sloppy slam against your cunt, his twitching cock, wet and muffled in his pants.

Neither of you care. Nothing else matters.

His pace turns dangerous, fingers demanding you to cum with their messy, filthy movements. His thumb sears into your clit, commanding your finish. He can feel it coming. Your muscles lock, stiff with focus, fingers barely surviving the rest of his handjob. Your voice gives out with a weak, winded little sound crawling from low inside your throat, hips slowing. 

And just like that, you fall apart around his fingers, walls pulsing, throbbing as they flutter in pleasure at the way he rubs you through it. Your forehead collapses into his neck, breath wrecked and spent despite still being desperate to push him off the same ledge as you. 

It doesn’t take much between the broken little sounds you make or the way your soft, slick walls swallow his fingers, soaking down his hand. Part of him wonders if it wasn’t even about his own pleasure, but yours— Or the pride of knowing he was able to get you there.

Regardless, one testing, tedious slide of your finger along his slit before you pump him with tight, desperate demand is all it takes to tear him apart. 

His groans into your hair, spilling ropes of thick, hot cum into your hand and his pants. You pump him through it, fingers tightly wrapped along his shaft until you slow your pace when his release stops twitching. 

Both of you go completely silent, hands still buried in each other's pants like stupid, horny teenagers. The alleyway hums with released tension finally given the kind of space it demands, thick and sweet with hammering heartbeats and sweaty, reckless sex.

Both your breathing eventually evens out, regulating itself as you take a moment to unwind and slowly untangle, a little dazed at what just happened… Because what the fuck just happened? 

His head is swimming with lust and raw, undeniable afterglow. You look euphoric, fucked-out and free of frustration. He slowly sets you down, sliding his fingers out from between your legs while you both situate yourselves.

And it dawns on him, slow and creeping, invading the fleeting ecstasy fading away with the night,

Maybe he has no idea who he is anymore. 

By morning, he’s half convinced all of it was a dream. 

The scrape of the exposed brick against his burning arms, powering through every move to make you fall apart. The whisper of every word and sound you made for him echoing through his head. The unbridled, deteriorating speed of it all like nothing else mattered.

It crashed just as quickly as it built. One minute you were demanding his half of your project, the next his fingers were buried between your legs in a very public space as he spilled himself into your trembling hand. 

Jesus. What the fuck was he thinking?

He regrets it… and yet doesn’t all at the same time. The feeling was foreign— Something he doesn’t really know how to name swimming through his gut as he blearily blinks up at the ceiling bathed in pale morning light. 

Maybe if he could lean back into the clean-cut, meticulous, logical part of his brain, he could compute the solution in ways he knows how to. Sort through what he couldn’t shake and settle into a rhythm he could navigate again.

There were some undeniable, irrefutable facts he could file away with this: he was interested in you. He thought you were pretty, thought you were intriguing. He wanted you in the moment—the quick, haphazard connection, the sexual frustration, the costs that came with it—all enough to override the doubt. 

None of what happened was just the liquor talking, but it gave him the confidence to let go. It gave him the permission to find what he lost— Something buried under the dusty, desolate semblance of a heart that could still be heard.

Not forgotten.

But the other side to that coin was the fact that he let himself betray every truth he tied himself to. Just a few days ago he was only focused on getting MJ back. That was all that mattered. He was completely opposed to even entertaining the idea of letting loose.

Drinking. Socializing. Hooking up. 

He thrived on structure. He had a responsibilities on top of crushing grief and a girlfriend to win back. Finding the guts to let go was completely unparalleled to the neatly sanctioned rules that keep his brain in check.

…So then why did last night feel so good?

Life flickered for a moment, penance suddenly bathed in careful, cautious saturation. He indulged in the chaos. He let his tension melt. He blended in with a crowd instead of avoiding it and talked to someone who wasn’t just a ghost in his head. 

Then did a lot more than just talk.

But why couldn’t he stop overthinking the jumbled, tangled mess of it come morning? Waking alone in his cold, rickety bed, only joined by knotted nerves and doubling doubts. Thinking about MJ… and you.

Betraying something that wasn’t there anymore. 

He pushes that to the back of his mind as he gets ready for the day. The thin toothpaste trail swirling down his sink was like a trance, stuck staring dizzy and dazed as his mind remains riddled with memories of you.

He sighs, scrubbing his hands over his tired eyes, headache pounding beneath his skull. He didn’t do anything wrong… Right? It’d be different if MJ knew who he was. Or if he never found her. Never tried.

Instead he was busy waiting—holding himself at bay—because he knew eventually, somehow, someway, she would remember and come back to him. She would realize the guy she was with wasn’t worth it, and see she was meant to be with him instead.  

Because wasn’t she meant to be with him?

Worse than the self-inflicted guilt, he feels a thread of insecurity threatening to tangle out of control. It spirals deeper, waiting for him to finally accept the harrowing truth—

MJ moved on. 

If she could, then maybe he should, too. Which was exactly what he did. Even if it was brief—unplanned, and doomed to end before it could really begin—he still did it. And he liked it more than he thought he would. 

He tugs his hoodie closer to his chest against the sharp chill of morning air, popping his headphones in and starting down the street like it could clear his head. It didn’t matter how far he walked, you linger everywhere.

It wasn’t fair for him to drag you into this mess— All just to chase down the dizzy taste of lust that would never fix what was broken in him. Even if it could, the boundary between you was set in stone.

You didn’t owe him anything. This was strictly sex. Just imploding hormones, or erroneous adrenaline. That’s it. And that was all he needed it to be, even if deep down it felt wrong— Even if it silently sliced through his gut until he felt nauseous with the implications.

He had no right to your heart… But he also couldn’t act like it didn’t happen, especially if he still had to work with you— Pass you by on the street and navigate how to associate more than just your name to your face.

So he buys two coffees and follows a street he’s walked a million times like he’s lost. He goes, hoping you could exchange something a little more baseline— Even if he has no idea how you’ll take it.

Both the coffee and the opportunity to start fresh. 

Maybe it was unorthodox to smooth things over with a one night stand, but it was one of the only things he felt sure about right now. He was too hung up on the feeling of hearing someone else speak his name and know him.

That was all he needed to try. 

The pub looked different in the light. It might as well’ve been abandoned in the soft shimmer of sunlight slowly brushing the atmosphere again, empty, without a soul in sight. The door at the end of the descending stairs was left wide open, letting lulls of cool city air filter through like it could cleanse the lingering echoes of cheap bar crawls and impulsive tequila shots.  

His nerves ignite, rising to his throat as he slips down the weathered steps. He inhales, sharp and tight, trying to convince himself this was still a good idea. 

You don’t notice a thing. Fresh light paints you perfectly, filtering through thin hopper windows, clinging to the soft edges of your skin. Your hair is pulled out of your eyes, attention lazily locked on a dusty broom’s labored drags across the floor still sticky with sin. Everything was turned off like the whole bar needed time to reset, only the stale overhead spotlights piercing through the room.

Pretense falls away when it’s just you and him in a small space that suddenly feels huge in its silence. He clears his throat softly, internally wincing at the sudden interruption.

Your attention snaps toward the empty, echoing sound, expression blank and unreadable as you process the fact that he’s awkwardly wading in the entryway— A place he certainly didn’t belong at 10 a.m. on a Friday. 

He half-expects you to call out the absurdity of it, but instead you cross your arms like it’s nothing, letting lips he could still feel the memory of curve into a smooth, knowing smile. 

“One night and suddenly you’re a regular, huh?”

He laughs, thin and nervous in a way he hopes you miss despite knowing you won’t. 

“I figured it was my turn to get you a drink now.” He takes a small step over the threshold, holding out the humble offering of standard-order caffeine. “Hopefully you like subpar bodega coffee.”

He glances down to the sweating cups, one with cream and sugar, the other one black, just in case. You let him simmer in the uncertainty—just long enough to remind him how wildly you could make his heart race—then you tilt your head, beckoning him inside.

“I like anything that makes up for the sleep I lost.”

He shuffles inside, careful to avoid the pile of dust bunnies and bottle caps you swept up. He passes over your coffee with a wobbly smile, trying to ignore the way his skin sparks when your fingers brush his again.

“So…” you hum over a sip, swirling the ice around to fill the awkward beat of silence. “I’m kinda surprised you’re alive before noon.”

If he didn’t already know you handle the afternoon regulars for a bit of extra cash on days you don’t have classes, he’d say the same about you. But he does.

It’s the kind of soft, domestic information he tries not to dwell on despite filing it somewhere in a deeper cavity of his heart. 

He unzips his backpack and pulls out a copy of the transcript, still warm and slightly curled at the corner. 

“I’m a man of my word,” he says, running his thumb over the crease before passing it over. “Sorry it took so long.”

You study him, eyes flicking between his sheepish expression and the packet. Then you take it, shaking your head with a gentle smile. 

“It’s, like, twelve hours late. You’re good, Parker.”

“Didn’t seem like it yesterday,” he points out, not judgmental— Just honest.

“You know how it gets. I got kinda worried you might be bailing on me or something.” You sigh, running your fingers through your hair. “Plus Thursday was kinda the only time I had to do it because I work the night shift here and… basically the whole weekend.”

“But, thanks.” You pause, glancing up at him with something far too soft lining your eyes— Just a flicker of it. “I appreciate it. And the coffee.”

He smiles, warm and honest. “No problem.”

Silence unsure of itself settles in the hazy morning light, catching the soft curve of your jaw and exposing the subtle pink hiding in your cheeks. Lingering traces of exhaustion poison your expression, smile weighed down just enough that it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. 

You look pretty despite it.

He’s still standing in front of you with his heart in his hands, unsure of what to do next— What you’ll do next.

“So…” you start, grabbing the broom and glancing his way again. “I’ll see you Tuesday?”

“A-actually,” he sputters, thoughts quickly snapping back into place as he steps an inch closer. “I was kinda thinking, um… Maybe you wanted to hang out and study?” He pauses, face going red. “I-I mean, like, actually study,” he adds quickly. “With me.”

His pulse roars in his ears, fingers uselessly fidgeting at his side for what feels like an eternity. His eyes are nervous as they meet yours, always steady and even.

Always holding something that makes him want more. 

You study him, clearly amused at the way he trips over himself in every sense of the word.

“You don’t do this very often, do you?”

He shifts his weight, nerves pressing. “Not exactly.”

“I can tell,” you tease, light and harmless. “Plus you made sure to tell me that last night.”

He groans, dropping his head to the ceiling in agony as he pinches the bridge of his nose like it could erase the very painful memory of his mouth running when it wasn't on yours. 

“Can we pretend that didn’t happen? I was drunk.”

You cock your head, not biting. “And nervous.” 

“…Maybe.”

“Or barely buzzed— Your words, not mine.”

He sighs, reduced to a ball of embarrassment plagued with the echoes of last night. “Please don’t remind me.”

You laugh softly, the sound kissing over his bruised ego and wounded memories. “We can sign the marriage license later.”

His cheeks go crimson, heat crawling up from under the collar of his shirt. Man you loved making a mess of him, didn’t you? He’d be crazy to admit he kinda loved it, too, but he did.

You scan over the tension in his posture, leaning the broom against the bartop soaked in the sterile scent of clean citrus and chemicals, expression unbothered.

“Relax, Parker. We hooked up. It happens. Life moves on.”

“So what happens next?” He asks it honestly, a little quiet from the traces of genuine uncertainty seeping through the edges of what you both danced around. 

Things were clearly different, one way or another. 

You gesture to the packet still in hand with that same knowing smile as you comb over the first page. “You tell me why you referred to Al’s children as kids,” you tease. “Your AP style needs work, Parker. They’re not baby goats.”

He chuckles, shoulders loosening a notch. “Writing’s not really my thing.”

“Right,” you say, pulling out a stool and raising a brow at him still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. “What is your thing, then?”

He shrugs, mouth tilting as he takes the hint and joins you. “I do better in STEM stuff.”

“Okay, but that doesn’t necessarily make it your thing.”

His brows knit, really thinking about it as he drops his bag to the floor and slouches against the counter.

“I’m into photography, I guess.” He hesitates, insecurity suddenly sinking in. “It’s kinda dumb.”

“It’s not,” you counter, nudging his foot gently. “Can I see?”

His eyes widen, surprised you’re actually interested— Or willing to pretend, at least. When you don’t change the subject, he fishes his phone out of his pocket and pulls up a folder with some final edits.

“What’s yours, then? Your thing,” he echoes, watching as you swipe through with a faint smile on your face. 

“Writing, actually.” You glance up from the screen, sliding it back his way. “Original, I know.”

“Well, that explains a lot,” he teases, nudging your foot back. It’s only then he realizes you haven’t pulled away.

Your smile tugs. “Should I be offended?” 

“N-no, the opposite. Definitely the opposite.” He rakes through his messy curls, giving his nervous fingers a distraction. “I just meant it makes sense why you care so much about our feature when half the class is just trying to survive for the credits, you know?”

Your cheeks tint an innocent shade of pink. “Well, that and the fact that I have to be. I’m a journalism major and I’m interning at the Daily Bugle, so…”

He shifts his weight, trying to hide his visible disdain at the clickbait-machine of a tabloid that has a particularly colorful opinion on him.

“Really? People still read that thing?”

“No, not at all,” you snort, soft and genuine. “But hey, an internship is an internship… Plus they kinda let me do whatever I want, which is cool.”

He smiles, dimples deepening as he watches the way you lean against the bar, traces of the night before roaring through the veins wired to his fluttering heart. Soft, desaturated light pours in from the door, casting your features in the hazy, muted crescendos of spring. You made everything so easy. He loved the easy.

And suddenly, whatever’s left of the semester wasn’t nearly long enough. 

“…Safe to say you’ll have a busy summer, then?”

He hopes you don’t hear it— The undercurrent of a low, unidentified ache threaded through the question, cushioned in casual formalities like it didn’t hurt to think you’ll clearly be much too busy to get to know him outside of a drunken hookup and a group project. 

But his heart knows things his mind doesn’t, and showing up here today was clearly about more than just smoothing things over and easing his conscience. He didn’t realize he wanted it until it was staring him square in the eye and making him name it. But he does.

He wanted to see what you could look like in his life.

“You can say that.” You pause, stare dropping to your hands like your expression gave away more than you were willing. “They’re always looking for photographers to buy from, actually… You should check it out.”

His pulse flips, nerves buzzing again. 

“Yeah? What kinda photographers?”

“Whatever the articles need, really.” You shrug, running a finger along the edge of your cup starting to leave a ring of condensation on the counter. “Maybe you could shoot for me— If I ever make any progress, that is.”

His posture straightens, instantly intrigued. “Y-yeah— Of course. What’s yours on?”

He’d take pictures of anything you wanted, actually. 

“Don’t laugh, okay… But I’ve been trying to track down Spider-Man.”

Anything but that. 

He nearly chokes on his coffee, eyes going helplessly wide as he tries to suppress a strangled cough.

“Oh my god, you think it’s dumb,” you mumble, shrinking in your seat. “I knew that would make me sound insane.”

“N-no, not at all! It’s not that, it’s just, it’s—”

“Then are you one of those weird conspiracy theorists or a pro Mysterio guy or something?”

“No! Definitely not that.” Quite the opposite, actually. “I-it’s just…” He’s Spider-Man. “That seems like a hard subject to tackle, you know? Tall order.”

“Exactly!” You lean in, face lighting up. “That’s what makes him so interesting. Haven’t you noticed that dude’s been like a ghost lately? Doesn’t that make you wonder why?”

Nope, definitely not. The reality was disappointing.

“Like, what’s he so busy doing?” you continue, passion lining your eyes despite his posture going rigid. “Is he just old and ready to retire? Is he going through something personal?” You sigh, obsessed with the possibilities. “Imagine it: a hero who hurts… That’s the perfect story.”

Leave it to you to make his grief-ridden identity crisis sound cool and mysterious. He wishes he could agree and mean it, but the truth is pretty disappointing. You’d hate the reality maybe more than him— Maybe more than the sour truth settling deep in the pit of his stomach: he couldn’t get involved with this. With you.

He clears his throat, trying to sound unassuming. “You said it yourself, though… The guy’s a ghost.”

You smile like you know something he doesn’t, swirling the thin line of coffee lining the bottom of your cup.

“Do you know what a ghost is?”

He blinks, lost. “What?”

“They’re just souls with unfinished business,” you add, eyes sparkling in a way he’s gotten too used to seeing in the likes of him. “We only have ghosts because they can’t move on—can’t rest—so they linger in between.”

His brows knit, unsure of what you were getting at.

“Point is, all ghosts want to be found eventually.”

Maybe, but not this one. It took some time, but he was perfectly fine with falling off the face of the Earth. It was for the best. The less people who pried into his life, the better. They’d only come up empty.

And so would you once you realize he’s a ghost in more ways than one. 

He goes quiet, the thoughts fast and unreadable behind his eyes as he tries to find a casual way out of this… And maybe convince you to follow.

“I don’t know… He’s, like, really hard to get pictures of.” He shrugs, innocuous and empty. “There’s no way they’d buy from me even if I could.”

“Printed media is a dying art,” you level. “They’re so desperate they’ll take just about anyone.”

He smiles tightly. “Gee. Thanks.”

“Which is why you’ll definitely get it because you’re actually good,” you add, nudging his arm. You pause, grabbing a pen and empty piece of receipt paper from the register behind the bar, scribbling something down. 

“Just think about it.” You slide the slip with the Bugle’s email address inside his jacket pocket, heat tangling with his. “You never know— Your summer might get a lot more interesting.”

Something tells him you’re right, regardless. 

By the time his last class gets out, Ned’s already blown up his phone.

He sighs, pulling it out of his pocket as he assesses the damage, quickly climbing out of his seat and beelining for the exit. 3 missed calls and 17 unanswered texts. 

No wonder why Happy never used to answer him.

None of it phased him. The whole time his mind was riddled with you. Your body, your laugh, your voice. 

…And now your investigation as well. 

Every thought he had lately was a contention point, all opposite of each other. You were like the best kind of quicksand, enticing despite his resistance. He tried to chalk it up to the fact he’s been living like he never existed the last couple of months—that any semblence of human connection was fucking with his head—then the memory of your roots itself deeper, carves lower into his bones until you linger without eviction. 

Every class. Every lecture. Every question and equation answered. You were there, making him second guess if this spiraling feeling was something he could contain. 

Or wanted to, for that matter. 

Then the logic seeps in. What you did in your free time. Who he already belonged to. What happened was strictly sex—reckless release, a casual thing—and both of you agreed on that. 

Anyone he got involved with only got hurt. It would be selfish to let himself get close to you, and the last thing he wanted to be was that. Maybe it was best if he never saw you again. He was busy with more than he could handle, and he definitely couldn’t let you get near that. He’s been there before, and every time it somehow ended up worse than the time before.

Liz. Ned. Happy. All collateral damage he had to answer for. Then there were the real losses. Tony. May. MJ.

At least maybe one of those could still be salvageable. 

That’s what he had to focus on—getting back to what mattered—not distracting himself with you. Not when his life was an irreparable mess and he still wanted—

MJ clips him as he rounds the corner, completely caught up in himself: feet shuffling, face buried in his phone, mind stuck on a different planet entirely. It sends him reeling, leaving him a speechless, sputtering mess as he helps her pick up her things and rambles through a string of flustered apologies. 

“Sorry,” she echoes. She pauses, tilting her head toward the lecture hall he just left, letting out the last few stragglers for the day. “So… How’d you do?”

He blinks, mouth dry with unannounced contrition.

“H-huh?”

“Ket’s exam.” She says it like it’s obvious, probably because it was considering he just took it. “I thought it kinda sucked— Especially on a Friday.”

“Oh, right, yeah,” he rushes with a nod, trying to act normal like she didn’t just knock the wind out of him, more so than literally. “Y-yeah, it did. How, uh… How’d you do?”

“Standardized testing is subjective to the true measure of intellectual truth.” She shrugs. “We’ll see.”

It melts his frozen heart, all while exposing a pulse of something foreign curling at the pit of his stomach. It’s MJ—it’s the MJ he fell in love with—but there’s still an awkward beat of silence like neither of them were sure how to be around each other anymore.

It wasn’t new, it just built up enough to be noticeable now. Every conversation didn’t make things easier. It didn’t remind either of them of their shared past. It only exposed just how quickly things slipped into a void of nothing.

He hated to even think it, but it's still there. It’s still true.

She presses her lips together, giving him a tight wave—polite, but distant—and continues down the hall like she was never there.

His shoulders slump as she slips out of view, fighting the the betrayal crawling up his throat and sitting like a lump of guilt. Why did everything feel so forced? If they were meant to get back together, shouldn’t it come naturally? Like things never changed?

The sharp jolt of his phone buzzing in his hand snaps him out of it. Everything forgotten from last night comes crashing back at full force. 

MJ might be different, but now he was, too. 

He slides the answer bar with a defeated sigh, already bracing himself for an onslaught as he heads to the coffee shop on the corner of 8th and Astor he already knows Ned will be at. 

“Dude,” Ned says as soon as the call connects. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been texting you, like, all morning.”

He shrugs loosely, tucking his phone between his ear and shoulder as he cuts between passing cars.

“I had class.”

“Yeah, at noon and three— And you never sleep until noon.”

His lips pinch together, already regretting the words before they find themselves in his brain. “I stopped by the Lion Head before my first class…”

“To go see—”

“Yes,” he hisses under his breath, suspiciously scanning the room through the window like his classmates could somehow sense this was a new version of the walk of shame. “Just keep your voice down, alright?”

Ned might as well’ve inherited his own version of a sixth sense with the way his attention immediately snaps up to Peter opening the door and darting toward their usual back-corner table, head tucked and cheeks flushed.

“What the hell happened after I left?” Ned pushes, hanging up once Peter got close enough, sliding his backpack off the unoccupied seat to make room.

Peter hesitates, shame creeping up the back of his neck. “We just… hung out.”

“Hung out?”

“Yes,” he says weakly, dropping into the chair. “Hung out.”

“And by ‘hung out’ you mean hooked up, right?”

The way he goes helplessly silent with crimson-warmed cheeks might as well’ve just spilled his entire personal life to the whole Coffee Bean. Ned’s eyes blow wide, coughing on a sip of his drink in disbelief as the realization sets in. 

“Holy shit, no way!” he gapes, eyes alight with intrigue. “You actually slept with her?”

Peter exhales, strained and tired. “Can we not talk about this now? Please?”

“Peter—”

“I’m serious, Ned.”

“Yeah, so am I!” He closes his laptop, hanging on every imaginary detail like this was life or death. “Are you gonna see her again?”

Peter’s face twists like the question was egregious. “What? No— No way. This was a one time thing.”

Especially after what he learned this morning. 

“Why not? Peter, come on— This is your chance.”

“Chance for what?” He bristles despite himself, muscles going rigid with the obvious. “It’s just… not a good idea, okay? It’ll ruin things with MJ.”

Ned blinks. “You can’t be serious.”

“I promised her, Ned!” He pauses, slumping forward like the guilt was taking a physical toll on his body. “Besides, it’s too risky. I can’t get involved with someone else like that again. I just can’t.”

Ned goes quiet, brain running a million miles a minute behind his eyes. 

“Did you have a good time last night?”

He shifts in his seat like it’s sinful to admit. “…Yes.”

“And you’re into her, right?”

His mouth tilts like he hated to admit it, but couldn’t stand to lie, either. He does like you—more than he probably should—but he also wasn’t ready to say that. 

Then his mind drifts to you, soft swells of spring sunlight sweeping over you, eyes warm and honest, sparkling like you couldn’t help yourself around him. You made everything lighter, made everything in his life suddenly feel meaningful without trying. It didn’t matter if he just met you, or if what you shared was something you brush off and don’t look back at.

You still made him feel like it was more. Or could be.

So, despite his vicious doubt, he nods.

“Then there’s your answer!” Ned levels, eyes grounded and certain. “MJ’s happy, you’re happy— Or having fun, at least. That’s all that matters.” 

His jaw works with a truth he couldn’t accept. He knew MJ was happy—and the thought that she was probably better off without him certainly wasn’t a new one—but his mind fought the idea of moving on like it was ingrained in his bones and woven into his DNA.

Like he had a duty to die with the part of him that died to the world. 

He shakes his head, loose and evasive. “That doesn't really change things.”

“That changes everything, Peter.”

He exhales sharply, voice low. “It’s just… complicated, okay?” His eyes drop down to his lap like the truth was drowning him. “I’ve had enough problems lately. I really don’t need another.”

He doesn't elaborate, prompting Ned’s brows to lift past his glasses, silently urging him on. He tilts his head like he has to weigh it, wincing in painful surrender, voice low and shameful.

“I think I like her…”

“Peter, how is that possibly a problem?”

“Because…” He pauses, rubbing his temple. “Because it just is, okay? I’m not supposed to. This is supposed to be a one time… two time thing— Nothing more for either of us.”

It didn’t matter how many times he turned it over in his head—how many times in the last 24 hours he’s tried to file away every feeling and redefine it with firm, resolute logic—you hummed between what he knew of himself. You warmed your way into a soul that forgot what it’s like to be spoken to. 

You were in his head—your smile, your charm, your body, slick and needy against his—all of it. You were there, exactly where you shouldn’t be, and it didn’t matter in the least.

Nothing could come of this, that much was obvious. Even if he wanted it—just a sliver of it—it couldn’t happen. You established the boundary yourself.

Casual. Thoughtless. Something to help block out the noise, even if the way he chose to muffle it only made it louder. The amplified sound of exile’s rest sang through him when he was with you.

And that scared him.

Then there was the other piece of it. The piece that made his heart stutter and his head hurt. The reminder that the face behind Spider-Man needed to be forgotten for a reason. No excuses. 

You’d only end up hurt. 

Ned frowns. “Dude, this sounds like the solution. She’s hot. Like, way-out-of-your-league hot.” 

He’s right. You were. That much they could agree on.

Like Ned could read between the anxious lines etched on his face, he sighs, expression softening a notch like he knew Peter needed to hear what they both avoided if he wanted a shot at pulling him out of his head. 

Something true, more so than he’d like it to be. 

“You’re allowed to be happy, Peter.” He pauses, eyes searching. “You don’t have to punish yourself forever.”

Peter goes quiet, letting the words sink into his skull. Was he? After everything—after everything he’s lost, everything he’s become, everything he’s failed to save and ruined while trying—was he really worth the risk of being a taken chance again? 

And if he was, who was willing to take it?

It crawls under his skin slowly, the hungry, human crave, whispering with what he wanted more than he realized. Something starved and no longer patient after a taste of indulgence.

Maybe he did deserve to be happy.

Even if the path to get there wasn’t what he planned.

You had no idea how to file Peter Parker in your mind. 

There was something there— Something right beneath the surface that didn’t want to be found, yet didn’t know how to stay hidden, either. He was quietly interesting, a paradox dressed in zip-up hoodies and wired headphones. He lingered like a color just a shade off: close enough to blend in, but noticeable if you stared long enough. You didn’t, and yet there he was.

In your class. In your life. In your mind. 

It didn’t start out that way— Or not intentionally, at least. It was routine. Controlled. He was nothing more than just another faceless-name you hoped could string together a coherent sentence and carry his weight. The only space he occupied in your head was attached to a few deadlines and an email address that frequented the top of your inbox.

That was it. You didn’t give him a second thought. 

Until about a week later.

Rain clung to the edge of tall window panes, dripping down the glass in steady, weighted drops. Stale, droning sounds of your professor blurred into already-answered questions and the soft scratch of your pen pretending to be busy. The clock was a hostage to your eyes, diligently tracking every tick full with the promise of just five more minutes. 

And that’s when you heard it.

His name. 

Your head snapped up, eyes scanning across the room until they landed on a guy five rows in front of you, lowering his hand and slinking back into his seat. 

He didn’t crash into your system, he didn’t completely upend your balance or make you lose focus. He just simmered under your skin, clinging to the edge of your mind until you caught the side of his face slipping out of class.

He was nothing more than just the back of a head, but it would be a lie to say the day you first saw him didn’t trip you up. The moment was nothing—because it wasn’t one—but you still remembered it like it was. 

You were barely half-awake, eyes and feet heavy as you moved up the aisle with your head down. Past-due rent was coming in faster than your already pathetic paychecks, and suddenly the offer of extra hours and handling closing at Lion’s Head was worth a little less sleep. 

It was embarrassing enough to be late, but pulling open the lecture hall doors to find one empty seat left felt personal— Like the universe tilted a little off-axis just to make sure the memory of him would stick when it really counted. 

And it did.  

He was all soft stares and scuffed up sneakers, like he’d seen every edge of the city. Soft curls framed his face, stubborn and wind-tossed with a mind of their own. His shoulder stayed steady, ready to catch you like waiting came naturally to him. 

Then there was the brief smile once he saw you safely reach your seat— The kind that was softer than most, like he was afraid of it leaving an impression. 

He slid into your mind with ease after that. 

Your thoughts drifted to him without permission, eyes cataloging the quiet confidence he tried so hard to hide. It lived in the way he carried himself—reserved, but certain—like he didn’t have to be rewarded to persist. 

He was always there before you, same seat halfway up the hall. Ankles crossed. Slumped low with his hood half-up, pretending to work while his attention wandered somewhere else entirely. He thrived on routine, on quiet systems that let him disappear into the background. Smart enough to coast, but diligent enough to care.

It only made the day he failed to send the transcript more confusing. 

You woke up half asleep, blankly scrolling through your notifications with the expectation of seeing his name at the top of your inbox bright and early. 

It wasn’t. 

Your brows furrowed slightly, helplessly refreshing the screen like it might pop up. Eventually, you forgot it and moved on with your morning. It was the end of the semester, he was always relatively prompt unlike half the barely-functioning students in your class. He was probably just busy with a million other things. Whatever— You could crunch the first draft of the feature before your shift like you’ve done a million times before. 

Then the whole day went by. 

The radio silence was unnerving. The assignment was due next Tuesday, sandwiched between an early opening, long shifts, and an exam Monday you’d surely fail—not to mention you had to make some serious headway on your piece for the Bugle—so the decision to ask him about it was an easy one. 

You expected a lot of things to happen when you did, but what you didn’t expect was how easily it changed everything. 

Your pulse stuttered with something fierce and foreign under his attention. Your heart became cautiously aware of its rhythm like his stare could write a cardiogram. And it didn’t matter what you had reserved him to— Peter Parker stuck.

He lingered, settling somewhere you couldn’t find. He found his way into everything without trying. 

That was new.

You weren’t one to get caught up on guys—you’d spent too much time watching them disappoint you to expect anything else—but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t find any trace of what you avoided in Peter. 

And suddenly seeing how far he was willing to go with you was the only thing that made any sense at all. 

Despite being a little unassuming, he wasn’t one to scare easily. He held the kind of strength that made for a sound soul, and the physical traces of it were just an extra added bonus. You could fall breathless from the memory of the way he had you pressed up against that wall alone— Effortlessly holding you like you were nothing while he moved in time with your whimpers.  

Maybe it was your own fault, but he wouldn’t stop buzzing under your skin after you opened that door. He was like a string left loose, still finding what to thread itself through. And for the first time, you found yourself disappointed at a one night stand being just that.

One night.

Luckily, he felt the same, lingering in the doorway with more than just coffee in hand. Guilt hummed low in your stomach as he left that morning, leaving you stunned at the way you flipped your own world upside down to fit him in it like you didn’t have a choice. He was supposed to be a one time thing. He was supposed to be nothing.

Why did you suddenly hate the idea of that? 

It didn’t matter what you wanted from him— Not when you had to focus on your article. Your lede was buried in more ways than one, and the last thing you needed was a distraction in the form of warm eyes and soft lips.

The Bugle wasn’t going to entertain your petulant fantasies of Spider-Man forever, especially once they figured out your angle was pretty opposite to theirs. You couldn’t coast by with complicated conspiracies, and you certainly weren’t going to secure a job with only the concept of an article to your name.

You needed real journalism. Now, or never. 

Even fighting through your mind riddled with memories of Peter, you managed to shift into survival mode. It was your only option if you wanted to get through being pent up with drunk assholes for the rest of your Friday at Lion’s Head… And most of the weekend.

Whispers of the day clung beneath your eyes, heavy and indifferent as you peeled off your tank top soaked through with sweat and the stale bite of basement vodka the second you stepped into your room. The city never stopped moving, always waiting beyond your window no matter how little time you had for it.

Your phone showed a little after 10 as you climbed onto the fire escape, desperate for a minute to recalibrate before collapsing into bed and doing it all over again tomorrow.

And that’s when you found it. A sticky note. 

It was missable, like it was meant to flutter against the rusted metal with regular city litter. You almost left it—almost didn’t even notice it, actually—but then you realized in the soft pulse of breeze, it’s tucked. A simple corner curled under the curve of the railing so it stays put. You glance around, quickly examining the empty spill of shadows, and snatch it before it blows away. 

I know you’re looking for Spider-Man, it says, written in stiff, block letters. I can show you who he really is.

A chill runs up your spine as you slip inside, locking the window behind you with a final click. Damp, hollow desk light clings to the corners of it tight in your grip, eyes darting between every word like something bigger could hide between. 

Whispers of doubt runs through your head as you trace your finger over the bottom, memorizing the vague address scribbled at the bottom.

Then something else curls in your veins, reclaiming your nerves and demanding they cave to the other part of you. 

A tip. Your first tip. Maybe even real. 

Someone who wanted to nail Spider-Man and was desperate enough to hand you the trail. Someone looking for the right person to blow it wide open. Maybe you— The one who could finally uncover another facet to the face of New York, who could finally shed some light on why he’s gone dark.

Yeah, Peter Parker was gonna have to wait. 

The late evening air was unforgiving, sweeping the city in a blanket of hollow breeze. The edge of May bites your cheek while you wait, discreetly tucked on top of a subway station elevator entrance in Midtown East. 

You didn’t know the area, but you knew it well enough to know it was littered with low traffic allies. The only life this late came from the wailing sirens floating by, perfect for shaping shadows. No one was around to catch you watching— Or care, for that matter.

That’s one of the things you loved most about New York: people would die for this city all without giving a damn about what went on within it. 

It’s been about an hour of you staring blankly at the starless, light-polluted sky. A blanket of black stretched across the skyscrapers and the last trickle of traffic up a handful of blocks. Maybe all of seven people walked by in the time you were there, making you jump at any sign of other warm bodies, scrambling to the edge of the station cover to peek around the corner.

Nothing was ever there. 

You checked your phone constantly, groaning in agony at the inevitable reality of the clock only changing by a minute or two. There wasn’t a soul in sight— No sign of someone wanting to meet you. No sign of danger or another life-altering event to plague the city. 

But most importantly, no sign of Spider-Man. 

You sigh in defeat, watching your breath curl in the midnight chill, ready to pack up your things when it happens: a flash of light in the distance. Just once. 

You freeze, shuffling just enough to study the block around the corner. The same block written on the note. 

You wait a minute. Then two. And you almost fall off the edge when you catch it just out of the corner of your eye— A quick blur of red and blue swinging from one building to the other. 

You bite back a squeal of shock, bursting with excitement as you watch him scan across the streets from a rooftop.

The distance didn’t swallow his intent. His posture was rigid, almost defensive in nature, legs folded in a stance ready for action if it came. His eyes felt obsessive, even behind the mask as he watched for something, same as you. 

You tried to calm down, tried to regulate your nervous system, but God, how could you? It was Spider-Man. Actually Spider-Man— Here, in front of you, just like you were told he would be.

Your heart hammers ruthlessly behind your chest, a ball of conflicted feelings bubbling up inside your body. You’re completely enamored, blindly fishing a pair of flee market binoculars out of your bag and scooting to the furthest edge of the structure to see him better.

This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. You were in complete and total shock—

So much so you forgot about the mysterious, unnatural flash of light that brought him here in the first place. 

A violent, bone-shattering noise rocks the concrete beneath you, making you drop the binoculars to scramble for purchase against the dingey, faded metal. Your breath catches in your lungs, tight and sharp as you quickly slide away from the edge, still equally as desperate to search for whatever Spider-Man was surely watching too. 

Anxiety floods your veins as you crouch down, blindly fumbling for your phone as a shadow melts into the corner. He flickers in your mind for a moment, thoughts wandering to the kind of pictures he’d take if he were here— How he’d probably protect you at the first sign of danger. 

You shake it free, adjusting your phone’s lens. Focus.

Everything around you quickly spirals into frantic static. There’s yelling in the distance between mercenaries and the masked hero, whirls of strange technology and the shattering sound of explosions imploding. Bodies collide, the sharp sting of punches and whipping webs striking through the air.

You couldn’t see much from this distance, but zooming in only further compromised the blurry altercation, so you push your luck and slide closer to the edge. The focus racks, your fingers slipping across the screen in a rush to combat the ashy static on your screen.

One second he’s there, the next, he vanishes.

Then he gets closer.

Spider-Man is suddenly hurling straight toward you, swinging down at full speed, increasingly filling your frame. He’s right there, he’s right in front of you. He’s—

A violent burst of heat engulfs the block, light blasting, concrete bones shaking so intensely they might as well shatter. The building across from you erupts, crumbling back to the dust it was built from.

And suddenly you’re falling.

The structure holding you up explodes, slicing through the city in shards of flying glass, shattering from beneath you. Heat curls around your body, fear striking through your spine as you plummet to the ground.

Your stomach drops. Everything slips away from under you in the blink of an eye like it never existed. Fear crawls to the top of your throat, tight and helpless like the frantic pulse hammering in your ears until you’re in someone’s arms right before hitting the pavement. 

Before you could process that you’re falling, your feet brush solid ground again, watching in shock as a vehicle flies by you, blasting everything in sight. Flames catch the shell of broken buildings, eroded and barely standing. Sirens scream around you, painting the crisp edges of skyscrapers in flashes of red and blue, surely chasing what left you behind as collateral damage. 

You’re frozen, clinging to a solid frame that tries to stop the van screeching around the corner by webbing loose scaffolding down in its path. Everything spins as you desperately try to ground yourself in the middle of imploding, adrenaline-hungry chaos.

Dust and debris clings to your matted hair, caught in wind that refuses to settle like your nerves. Slowly, you turn in his grasp, measuring the humming aftermath still catching its breath along with you. Then it hits you, slow and crawling, but all consuming. All at once.

Spider-Man. You’re standing in front of Spider-Man. Real and warm beneath your trembling touch.

He’s shorter than you expected, hovering beside you like he hasn’t figured out how to step away yet. His suit has character up close—less high-tech, Stark-type build, and more homemade—like only he knows exactly what makes it move. It’s tattered, covered in flimsy stitches trying to hold more than just fabric together. The eyepieces fluctuate like he’s quietly assessing you, ensuring you’re still standing in one piece.

It stops your breathing, sweeping you off your feet even after he put you back on them. You should be talking to him, questioning him—saying literally anything that might help your story—but you’re frozen, completely speechless as you blink up at him in the curl of smoke. 

“You alright, Miss?”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Embarrassment floods you, making your mouth snap shut as you feebly nod. He matches your movement, nodding once like he could move on now that he had the confirmation.

“Good. You stay safe out here.” And he swings away before you could say a word. 

You blink, stunned and starstruck. Your phone is buried under rubble, cracked and covered in dust, barely holding on for dear life. Blurred photos of nothing litter your camera roll, fingers shaking, mind in overdrive as you run through every unthinkable piece of what just happened— And the fact that you failed to come away with anything useful. 

Except, maybe in a way, you did. 

Now you know that tip was real, and maybe they’ll come and find you again. Your heart hammers, nerves fierce with lingering traces of adrenaline. Only one thing comes to the forefront of your mind. One person. 

You had to tell Peter. 

He’s halfway through his window when his phone rings, buzzing with what had to be your newly added number.  

He fumbles for the answer bar, snapping the window shut and tugging off his mask, fighting to keep his voice casual as he says your name and quick hello. 

“Oh, so you do know the girl.”

He freezes, veins going cold under his skin. “Detective Dewolff.” He swallows, rough and thick, trying to calm his racing mind before it runs away on him and dives head first into the deep end. “I-I’m sorry… who?”

“Seems you already know,” she says evenly. “You don’t have to worry, she didn’t show.”

His mouth goes dry, lungs tightening. “Show where…?”

“Doesn’t matter. The important thing is you’re not being followed like I thought. In other news, how did tonight go? Please tell me you made some progress.” 

His phone buzzes against his ear while she talks, your name dropping down from the top of his screen. 

You

i got a tip. can u come by my place?

His heart stops, clues snapping into place quicker than he could handle. You. A tip. From the high-profile detective he was working with as Spider-Man… Who apparently knew you were looking for him and sent you straight to the first sign of danger just to prove it. Fuck. 

“Wait, wait— You sent her that tip?”

“Did your hearing get damaged in the fight? I just said she didn’t show.”

Anger bubbles up in his throat, ruthless and fast as his defenses click into place. It takes everything in him to bite his tongue and keep what he knows to himself. The fact that there was someone else out there who knew who you were—knew you were looking for him and exactly where to send you—swims with twisting, unshed panic in his stomach. 

Silence crackles on the other end, thick and empty while the detective waits for his response. He has nothing to give that wouldn’t cause more problems, so he says, 

“I can’t do this right now.”

“Wait, we need to—”

“Sorry. We’ll talk soon.” And he hangs up the phone before she can get another word in. What matters most right now is getting to you.

The faded brick and cool concrete on the edge of the East Village slips away in blurs behind him as he finds the address you sent. Nothing else matters—not the fight and the failure that came with it, not what got away or came after—none of it. The only thing on his mind as he smoothes over his hair and brushes lingering soot off his fingertips is knowing you’re okay.

Sure, he caught you before you fell. The danger skirted by you like it was never there. He saw you in one piece—held you that way, too—but something bordering on the perfidious edge of panic slices its way through the pit of his stomach until he feels sick with the possibilities.

He didn’t really want to think about what it meant.

Or why he felt so strongly about it. 

It was nothing, right? It was his job to keep people safe. This was no different, nothing special… But why does that feel like a lie when he knocks on your door, nerves crawling up his throat, eyes, anxious to see your face instead of drab, chipping paint. 

The lock unlatches with a groan, swinging open to reveal him straightening his shoulders and tugging his sleeve down to cover a gash on his forearm he forgot about. You greet him the same way you have ever since he met you— Efficient. Controlled. A whirlwind that makes him reassess how he fits into a world you share. 

Warm kitchen light spills through the apartment behind you, bathed in milky white tiles and little signs of life. Your face is freshly washed, shadows hugging the gentle curves of your skin. Delicate, sweeping blush settles at the tops of your cheeks softly carved from midnight. Traces of the city cling to you in smears of dust on your clothes, chaos still knotted through your hair, but your eyes are alight with something unbridled. 

You tug him inside and lock the door behind him, wasting no time dragging him down the dim hallway to your room, steps sharp and purposeful. Everything slips away, eyes stuck on the way your soft hand is wrapped around his again. 

He hovers awkwardly in the threshold while you slip into quick, calculated motions: closing the door, locking your windows, flinging your curtains shut. Despite the evidence of your paranoia, excitement floods your expression, buzzing and palpable like the adrenaline hasn’t settled yet. 

Luckily, you’re distracted enough to miss the way he quickly scans over you for anything out of place. 

“No one followed you, right?” You glance over your shoulder, raising a brow at him like the question was a test created for him to fail. “You were careful?”

He clears his throat and weakly gestures to the dark grey sweatshirt swallowing his frame, hood still half-up in his thoughtless pace. “I was inconspicuous.” 

If only you knew the half of his experience with that. 

You nod, disappearing into the tiny ensuite bathroom, leaving him alone in your space. It was intimate, soft and spilling at the seams with you. Your heartbeat was threaded through every blanket, your past pressed between the pages of every book on your shelf. Your soul sang through every inch, clean and concise, but free. 

Undeniably you. 

His hands wring, timidly stepping further inside like he was crossing a boundary bigger than an invitation. 

The faint drone of running water melts into the gentle hum of midnight just beyond the windows. Delicate little string lights illuminate the room, draped over your bed that’s a bundle of thick, plush pillows and smooth sheets. A sweater he’s seen you wear to class a million times hangs on the post of your bed next to a tiny candle on your nightstand, stained with scorched wax from being burned too low for too long. The scent of it is unmistakable, subtle and tender just like the perfume that always clings to the warmth of your skin. 

Everything about your space was comfortable, easily likeable at first glance— Much like you. 

He’s caught up in it, completely immune to you leaning against the frame of the bathroom door, mouth curved and eyes locked on him.

“Are you gonna take a look, or what?”

He freezes like he’s done something wrong, eyes wide with slight alarm. “W-what?”

“The tip,” you explain like it’s obvious, tipping your chin to your desk, neat and well-organized. “You don’t need an invitation, you know.” 

The knot of anxiety in his throat loosens, chuckling as he scratches the nape of his neck. “Right. Sorry.”

You shake your head softly, laughing under your breath at his innocent apprehension as you cross the room. A damp towel scrunches through your hair, holding up a tattered, electric-orange sticky note like it was a prize rather than a warning sign shooting through his soul. 

“Check it out, Parker.”

He shrugs his hood down, slowly dropping to the edge of your bed as he takes the note and studies it. The letters were sharp like a threat in disguise, draining the blood from his face until he feels faint. A lump crawls to his throat, crushing his lungs as he runs his finger over the folded edge, searching.

“Well?” you urge, peeing down at him while you work through your dusty, matted hair. “It’s cool, right?”

He clears his throat, trying to settle his nerves. “You sure it’s real?” Oh, it was real alright. 

You grin like you won the lottery instead of a death sentence. “Totally real. He was right in front of me.”

He exhales, carefully putting it down like it was a ticking time bomb. “Wait, you actually went?”

Yeah, and almost plummeted your way to a couple of stitches and a concussion in the process. 

“Why wouldn’t I? If I manage to track him down, that’ll, like, guarantee me a job after we graduate.”

Everything slips away as he stares past your elbow at the note, taunting him from your desk. The words were menacing, sinking their teeth into every rational part of his brain trying to sort this. 

Was it a bluff? Were you a pawn, just someone to get in the way? Or was it a serious offer from a person who figured out his identity and wanted to destroy him with it again? 

But the biggest question was how do they know you.

There were hundreds of reporters always looking for him—desperate to find the edge of his mask, hungry to poison his reputation for attention—but why you? Why an entry level intern— A college student who slings drinks to pay rent?  

Someone he cares about more than he should. 

He didn’t want to be involved—he wanted to stay far away from you and your work for more reasons than one—but he keeps getting pulled back in. 

“So, what happened, then?” he asks, playing into the part of being invisible he hates the most. “He was just swinging around or something?”

“No, there was, like, a full fight,” you gush, dropping the towel on your desk and peeling off your dirty sweatshirt. “Looked like some high-tech stuff that’s always being trafficked. He was chasing a group of guys with these crazy weapons, but I couldn’t get a good look.”

“I don’t know… That sounds intense.” He hesitates, dropping his stare down to his fingers running along the seam of your comforter. “There’s, like, a million things you could write about.”

You blink, brows pulling together. “We literally have the best subject right here in the city.”

He shrugs, weak and unconvincing. “So?”

“You’re telling me you’re not even the least bit curious?”

“He just… stops bad guys.” His voice is laced with evidence of his internal contradiction. “People do that all the time.”

“Yeah, but, like, insane felons.” You toss your sweatshirt into the hamper, thinking. “That vulture guy who was stealing stuff, the Doctor Strange wannabe, the freaking giant lizard thing… I mean, how am I supposed to resist that?” 

In any other situation, he’d be obsessed with your passion, hanging on every word like he couldn’t get enough, but with this, his stomach drops. There was no way you were letting this go. 

He swallows his pride, nodding slowly. “I get it, I do. I’m just…” He loses the words, fighting what he was too afraid to admit. “I-I just think you should rethink this.”

Your answer is immediate. “No. No way.”

“You said it yourself— These guys are crazy dangerous, same with whoever sent you that.” 

You grab your brush on the nightstand, starting to work through the tangles, scanning over him steadily. “Or it’s someone who has a lead they wanna share.”

“Or it’s someone looking to hurt you.”

“Why would anyone want to hurt me? I don’t know Spider-Man, and clearly the person who sent the tip knows that.”

“It’s just a big risk, okay?” He sighs, strained and weighted. “You really shouldn’t go back.”

Your eyes sparkle with a challenge, leaning against your desk and slowing your methodical strokes through your hair. “And what if I don’t listen? Are you gonna stop me?”

Warmth crawls to his cheeks despite himself, glancing out the window for refuge. “C’mon, that’s not fair.”

You tilt your head, eyes flicking down his frame. “Live a little, Parker.” 

“Are you always this bossy?” he counters, shifting his weight on your mattress like he could handle your gaze. 

“You didn’t seem to mind being told what to do the other night,” you hum, lips curving like a tease. His heart hammers, cheeks on fire under your attention.

“Come on,” you add, putting the brush down. “Just think about it.”

He looks away again, hands raking through his hair, ready to fold, when he catches it. 

Your arms crossed over your chest reveal a thin slit of your midriff, soft and swallowed by shadows. It’s faint, barely there, but the thin fabric of your tank top rides up just enough that it’s eyeline with him. Something he wasn’t supposed to see, but does. 

The blooming edge of a reddened bruise. 

“Woah, woah, hold on,” he says softly, shifting closer as his eyes search yours. “Did you get hurt?”

You follow his stare down to your side, shifting your weight as you try to tug the hem down to cover it. 

“It’s nothing,” you dismiss easily. “I’m fine.”

Something wanders across your face despite your words, bearing what you didn’t want him to see. The stress was creeping up on you, thinning adrenaline exposing the dim whisper of exhaustion clinging to your features. Your lips were a little chapped, pressed into a thin line like you could keep your frayed composure buttoned up with them. Hesitant eyes search his, glossy with the reflection of city lights beyond the world you tried to trap yourself in. 

And suddenly nothing else mattered. 

Slowly, his fingers find the hem ghosting the dip of your waist—tentative, testing—touch barely brushing your skin, warm and familiar under his. You flinch, watching his hand like you weren’t sure if you should let him in like this, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you let him peel it up to reveal an unattended cut.

It was a little swollen, puffy with bitter blooms of purple and red swallowing your bare skin. The gash was still open, starting to crust over with dried, browning blood. It wasn’t the worst, but it certainly wasn’t just a light scratch either.

His throat tightens in its wake, sharp through his soul.

He glances up at you, struck with silence as his finger runs just underneath it, gentle and questioning. He doesn’t know what changed—doesn’t know what passed between when he first felt your skin against his and now—but it was like he never touched you before. 

And suddenly the contact felt like it was making you both cross a line together for the first time. 

His lungs tighten around the realization, silence between you stretching like the moment lived on an edge it didn’t know which side to take. The splintered world hums around you, still buzzing with blurs of city sounds and faded lights in the hush of midnight.

A different darkness than the night before. 

His eyes hold the offer: to turn back, to brush it off, and return to the boxes you drew around yourselves like it could make whatever wanted to burn between you safer.

Because even if this was nothing, it never felt like it. 

Not with you. 

He whispers your name, soft like the sound was breaking something set in stone. “You’re hurt,” he says carefully.

“It’s okay.” Your eyes flick between his, trying to sense where your denial landed on him. “I’m okay, really.”

Slowly, he rises, body eclipsing yours. “You’re not the only one who gets to tell people what to do, y’know.” 

It runs behind your eyes, fast and unreachable— A flicker of something raw you weren’t ready to face. 

An edge that softens without knowing why. 

Then you cave, sighing as you feebly point to the bathroom behind you. “Top drawer on the left.”

He watches you a beat too long like you might slip away in a moment too delicate for its own good, then nods. 

When he comes back, you’re tucked on top of your comforter, legs crossed and bare. Vulnerability clings to you in ways that make his heart rattle. Damp hair brushes your shoulders, fingers tangled around each other in wait. Your eyes are trained on the window, trying to hide what lines them.

Everything slows, narrowing like time has no place between what was and what could be. Stillness threads through every fiber of panic, leaving him frozen in the crest of your doorway like he’s finally seeing you for the first time.     

He buries it, nerves simmering despite the jumping pulse beneath his ribs, and he ties himself to what he knows. He moves efficiently through your first aid kit, taking what he needs and setting it aside, but then he pauses like sitting next to you was closer than anything you’ve already shared. 

Maybe in the spill of sudden stillness—in the limerence that whispers through his soul, demanding to be reassessed—it was. 

He distracts himself, stare locked on his meticulous motions through your supplies as he lowers himself to the spot beside you, mattress dipping under his weight. 

When he looks up, you’re already watching him, eyes intentional and honest. It makes his mind stumble, tension tight in his spine. You don’t say a word, just shift closer until your heart brushes his.

Slowly, your fingers slip to the hem of your shirt, cautiously lifting it so the whole cut was visible to him.

Everything goes static—his brain, your history, the lines you set after wrecking them long before they were needed—and suddenly nothing else exists to him besides skin he can finally heal instead of hurt. 

So he leans in, eyes flicking up to yours with the offering of another out, breath caught low in his lungs when you don’t take it.

His hands fiddle with the bottle of peroxide, soaking a cotton pad until it drips on his jeans. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, softer than intended. “This might be a little cold.”

You don’t answer, just watch carefully as he presses the cotton pad to your side and slowly soaks the cut clean. 

He couldn’t figure it out— Why even the most innocent of touches felt so charged with weight it couldn’t bear. You rendered him speechless, completely at a loss at the way you somehow managed to make his heart a mess without the help of whiskey. 

The way you made it worse.

But this time—unlike the consequences he lies awake sorting through, unlike the indulgence he feels no right to, defenseless and blindly devoted—he doesn’t fight it. 

He can’t. Not when your exhale thins with a hiss at the antiseptic bubbling through the lingering dirt and debris— The same breathless sound you made when he touched you where your skin bled into shadows. 

Not when your eyes fluttered shut at the subtle sting coursing through the cut— The same way they closed when he kissed your neck and whispered into your hair. 

Not when you watched him patiently— The same way you looked at him when he showed up with more than coffee in hand, ready to reset the line you both moved. 

Something quietly warm in the curve, finally accepting that he was meant to exist in this moment with you. 

“You’re good at this,” you say after a moment, voice seeping into the silence. “Taking care of people.” 

His heart flips with innocence, careless curls hanging in his eyes that stay glued to your cut finally fresh beneath his touch. The words land somewhere open and aching he didn’t know they could settle in. 

He doesn’t respond—he doesn’t know how to—not when the passing time sharpens the lines of your face, tired and bare in late night glow. It clings to you, exposing what burned-through adrenaline could no longer hide once you put your heart in his hands. 

The silence settles, thick with something neither of you knew how to face. The raw contempt of reckoning lingers in your expression locked on him, holding back.

“You know,” he says, low and careful. “I already told you I can keep a secret.”

Your brows knit softly, watching as he tosses the stained cloth and searches to find your Bacetracin. He catches your eyes, leaning a fraction closer to apply it.

“You’re allowed to be scared,” he whispers.

It’s free of judgement, completely unassuming. Just the opportunity to exist with what was. To listen.

To allow. 

You don’t say a word, but you don’t deny it, either. It’s there—raw and throbbing under your skin, no longer able to hide in the delicate intensity of manhattan midnight—a mask shifted just enough to remind itself of the human part hidden underneath. 

After a moment, you lean into his touch— Not enough to notice, just enough to count. Your lungs loosen around a breath, ribs retracting softly under his gentle pressure.

“It just happened so fast,” you confess, voice even like it’s all you know. “One minute I was staring straight at my cover photo of him, the next, I’m falling 15 feet.” 

You pause, watching the way he runs his thumb over a fresh bandage, patiently waiting for you to give him what’s been on the tip of your tongue the whole night. 

“That’s why I can’t let this go.” You peel the corner for him and place it back in his palm. “So many people act like he’s the problem— Or part of it, at least.” 

You sigh, the warmth of a bare soul brushing the edge of his cheek tilted near your lips, body leaning in to press the dressing to your skin. 

“He didn’t hesitate,” you whisper. “Even if it meant losing the fight, he didn’t hesitate to catch me.” 

The words land into the palm of his wild pulse, waiting to be taken. It crawls from deep inside him, patient and persistent, wrapped around a heart that suddenly forgot it’s purpose wasn’t just to beat for you. 

Something he hasn’t felt in years— A sacred truth reserved for those few and far between. 

He’d drop anything to catch you. Always. 

And worse than that, he’s not scared of the way the realization etches itself into his bones. Not at all. It feels tragically fated, meant for only him to find.

He says the only thing he can think of, eyes steady as he peers up at you in the hush of spring’s final breath. 

“Because it’s not a sacrifice to save you.”

Your inhale catches as he smoothes the bandage over your ribs, touch soft and timid like it’s afraid of awakening something finally tired of lying dormant. He can feel your mind moving, familiar rhythm ticking behind your eyes as you study him like it would help both of you make sense of this fragile, foreign thing taking root without permission.  

“Still… There’s more to him. I just know it.” You pause, searching his eyes. “I need to see this through.” 

It hits him somewhere raw — The honesty in your voice when it comes to the other side of him, lonely and forgotten.

The way you somehow already saw him better than most despite that part of him being stranger to you. The way passion bleeds through every word, your soul on fire with every glance, the spark reaching for him and warming what’s been dead and cold for so long. 

The way you see him without seeing him at all. 

It didn’t matter if you did or not. He couldn’t let you do this alone. There were risks, there always were, but the reward felt worth it if he got to land in the safety of your eyes. 

His fingers still against the soft splay of your skin, lingering along the bandage longer than he should. His eyes find yours, suddenly steady like his voice.

“I guess I’ve got summer plans now.”

continue reading here where part two is posted .ᐟ — i hit block limit (boooo) so this seemed like a good place to stop. i really wanted to avoid posting two separate parts but, alas, i never shut up. i hope you enjoyed this in the meantime ! part two is almost done, so let me know if you’d be interested in that <3 thanks for stopping by xx

edit: omg the love on this already ?? it’s been up for 9 hours and already has 500 likes what ?? my notifs are literally broken lmao. just had to say a quick thank you to who read and made it down here 🤍

the banner of house targaryen flowed in the wind against the walls of the red keep. the whole tourney was for the newly appointed heir to the targaryen dynasty.

andrea targaryen, often known as kimi, was born as george’s first and born son. him being crown heir was the most important event to happen in the realm since lewis took the throne all those moons ago.

it was a gift the realm took graciously, no longer could they stand for michael’s rule of tyranny. the mad king started off as a loving king who brought the realm to victory against the brutes of the rebellion and over the narrow sea, but over the years he slowly became a cruel dictator.

he abused his own heir, accusing the poor boy of lying with other men, scrutinising him in front of everyone.

nico was a sweet and gentle boy, he did not deserve any of what hatred his father spewed. often, the boy sought out his closest childhood friend, Lewis Velaryon.

he had always defended him, close to his friends and fiercely loyal. some people ran with the rumours his father had told and accused the two men of being more than friends.

maybe they were, who knows.

all that anyone knows is that lewis took that throne off of michael the moment he showed weakness, the small folk roared at the sight of the tyrant that had made their lives a living hell being marched through the street in shackles.

this was the small folks pay back.

nico could have took the throne, but ultimately chose not to. lewis married nico’s sister and took the targaryen name, bearing a son, George, before passing in child birth.

it broke the man, but he ultimately chose to focus on doing good for the realm and his son rather than have it worsen while he grieved her.

now, all those moons later, kimi stares through the windows of the red keep at the big celebration before. for him.

the great houses were all invited, even the small ones too, just to watch him be anointed the next king of the seven kingdoms.

but this tourney was special, not because of the circumstances, no, but because every person in this story has found love one way or another here.

whether they were already wed or meeting for the first time, no one leaves without a betrothed or lover, i can promise you that much.

OSCAR TYRELL | her favour (coming aug 1st)

LANDO MARTELL | (tbd…)

LEWIS VELARYON/TARGARYEN | (tbd…)

CHARLES ARRYN | (tbd…)

GEORGE TARGARYEN | (tbd…)

ANDREA KIMI TARGARYEN | (tbd…)

MAX BARATHEON | (tbd…)

ISACK BARATHEON | (tbd…)

LIAM TULLY | (tbd…)

ARVID MARTELL | (tbd…)

FRANCO TYRELL | (tbd…)

PIERRE ARRYN | (tbd…)

OLIVER ARRYN | (tbd…)

ESTEBAN ARRYN | (tbd…)

CARLOS MARTELL | (tbd…)

ALEX TYRELL | (tbd…)

GABRIEL MARTELL | (tbd…)

NICO TULLY | (tbd…)

FERNANDO MARTELL | (tbd…)

PAUL ARRYN | (tbd…)

YUKI BARATHEON | (tbd…)

JACK TULLY | (tbd…)

KIMI STARK | (tbd…)

SEBASTIAN LANNISTER | (tbd…)

MARK TYRELL | (tbd…)

NICO TARGARYEN | (tbd…)

JENSON LANNISTER | (tbd…)

the banner of house targaryen flowed in the wind against the walls of the red keep. the whole tourney was for the newly appointed heir to the targaryen dynasty.

andrea targaryen, often known as kimi, was born as george’s first and born son. him being crown heir was the most important event to happen in the realm since lewis took the throne all those moons ago.

it was a gift the realm took graciously, no longer could they stand for michael’s rule of tyranny. the mad king started off as a loving king who brought the realm to victory against the brutes of the rebellion and over the narrow sea, but over the years he slowly became a cruel dictator.

he abused his own heir, accusing the poor boy of lying with other men, scrutinising him in front of everyone.

nico was a sweet and gentle boy, he did not deserve any of what hatred his father spewed. often, the boy sought out his closest childhood friend, Lewis Velaryon.

he had always defended him, close to his friends and fiercely loyal. some people ran with the rumours his father had told and accused the two men of being more than friends.

maybe they were, who knows.

all that anyone knows is that lewis took that throne off of michael the moment he showed weakness, the small folk roared at the sight of the tyrant that had made their lives a living hell being marched through the street in shackles.

this was the small folks pay back.

nico could have took the throne, but ultimately chose not to. lewis married nico’s sister and took the targaryen name, bearing a son, George, before passing in child birth.

it broke the man, but he ultimately chose to focus on doing good for the realm and his son rather than have it worsen while he grieved her.

now, all those moons later, kimi stares through the windows of the red keep at the big celebration before. for him.

the great houses were all invited, even the small ones too, just to watch him be anointed the next king of the seven kingdoms.

but this tourney was special, not because of the circumstances, no, but because every person in this story has found love one way or another here.

whether they were already wed or meeting for the first time, no one leaves without a betrothed or lover, i can promise you that much.

OSCAR TYRELL | her favour (coming aug 1st)

LANDO MARTELL | (tbd…)

LEWIS VELARYON/TARGARYEN | (tbd…)

CHARLES ARRYN | (tbd…)

GEORGE TARGARYEN | (tbd…)

ANDREA KIMI TARGARYEN | (tbd…)

MAX BARATHEON | (tbd…)

ISACK BARATHEON | (tbd…)

LIAM TULLY | (tbd…)

ARVID MARTELL | (tbd…)

FRANCO TYRELL | (tbd…)

PIERRE ARRYN | (tbd…)

OLIVER ARRYN | (tbd…)

ESTEBAN ARRYN | (tbd…)

CARLOS MARTELL | (tbd…)

ALEX TYRELL | (tbd…)

GABRIEL MARTELL | (tbd…)

NICO TULLY | (tbd…)

FERNANDO MARTELL | (tbd…)

PAUL ARRYN | (tbd…)

YUKI BARATHEON | (tbd…)

JACK TULLY | (tbd…)

KIMI STARK | (tbd…)

SEBASTIAN LANNISTER | (tbd…)

MARK TYRELL | (tbd…)

NICO TARGARYEN | (tbd…)

JENSON LANNISTER | (tbd…)

"Third door on the left," he murmurs now, close to your ear, and the warmth of it does something stupid to your stomach. He's got your hand in his, fingers laced together, pulling you down the corridor with this urgency that keeps threatening to tip over into something reckless.

"You're going to wake everyone up, Pedri and Gavi are next door," you hiss.

"I'm not doing anything." He stops at his door and turns to face you, and even now - rumpled, champagne-flushed, eyes gone soft with exhaustion and something else entirely, he looks like the man who scored the only goal in a World Cup final. Like someone who got exactly what he wanted and is already thinking about the next thing.

He fumbles with the keycard.

It doesn't work.

You bite down on a smile. "Ferran."

"I know, I know-"

He tries it again, the little light flashing red, and he exhales through his nose and presses his forehead briefly against the door like it's personally betrayed him. You're going to laugh, you can feel it building.

"Flip it the other way," you whisper.

He does. The light blinks green.

He turns back to you with an expression that can only be described as triumphant, like he's scored again. The lock clicked loudly in the silent hallway and you both froze, wide-eyed and drunk, before dissolving into hushed laughter.

"Shh, shh," he grinned, the smile boyish and wicked all at once as he pushed the door open. His hand slid lower on your body, squeezing your hip, then your ass as he guided you inside. "I'll be quiet, baby. I promise."

The door had barely clicked shut before Ferran's mouth was on yours again, hot and desperate. His hands framed your face at first, thumbs stroking your flushed cheeks, but that restraint lasted all of three seconds. One of his big palms slid down to grip the back of your neck, tilting your head exactly how he wanted as his tongue pushed past your lips.

He pressed you harder against the door, his body flush with yours. You could feel every inch of him - his chest, his abs still tight from the adrenaline of the match, and the hard outline of his cock grinding slowly, deliberately against your thigh. He rolled his hips in filthy little circles, letting you feel how badly he needed you.

"Been so hard for hours," he breathed against your mouth between kisses, voice wrecked and quiet. "Every time I looked at you tonight… fuck, I just wanted to drag you somewhere and bury myself in you."

Your hands fisted in his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer. The friction of his clothed cock rubbing against you had heat pooling low in your belly, your panties already soaked. He kissed you like he was drowning, messy and urgent, teeth tugging at your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue.

You couldn’t take it anymore. Your hands slid down his chest, over the hard planes of his stomach, until you dropped to your knees right there against the door. Ferran's eyes widened, dark with lust, as you quickly worked his belt and zipper open.

"Baby - fuck," he hissed as you freed his cock. It sprang out, heavy and flushed, the tip already glistening with pre-cum. He was rock hard, veins prominent under your gaze.

You didn't tease, just took him into your mouth in one smooth motion, as deep as you could. Ferran's head thunked back against the door with a muffled thud, his hand flying to your hair, fingers tightening almost painfully.

"Shit - yes, just like that," he whispered, voice strained as he fought to stay quiet. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, pushing deeper into the wet heat of your throat.

You sucked him eagerly, hollowing your cheeks, tongue swirling around the head every time you pulled back. The taste of him, salty and warm, made you moan around his length.

He was breathing hard through his nose, chest heaving, trying so hard not to make noise. But you could tell he was already close as his thighs trembled, his grip in your hair grew tighter, and his cock throbbed heavily on your tongue.

After only a minute, he cursed under his breath and pulled you off with a wet pop, breathing ragged.

"Not yet," he growled, voice low as he hauled you back up, kissing you fiercely so he could taste himself on your tongue. "Want to finish inside you, I need to feel you come around me first."

Before you could respond, he scooped you up, hands gripping the back of your thighs. You wrapped your legs around his waist as he carried you across the dark hotel room toward the king-sized bed. His mouth never left your skin - kissing, licking, sucking marks along your neck and collarbone.

He dropped you onto the mattress, the bounce making you both grin drunkenly for a second. His hands were everywhere at once, ripping at your clothes with zero patience. The expensive dress you'd worn to the celebrations was yanked up and over your head, your bra was quickly unclasped and tossed aside as he peeled your soaked panties down your legs and threw them somewhere into the darkness.

You were completely bare in front of him, and Ferran stared like he'd just won another trophy.

"Fuck, look at you," he murmured reverently, running his hands up your thighs, spreading them wide.

He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, dragged you to the very edge, and buried his face between your legs without warning.

The first long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit made your back arch off the bed. He groaned loudly into your pussy at how wet you were, the vibration shooting pleasure through you, then he stopped holding back. Ferran ate you out like a man starved - messy, ravenous as two thick fingers plunging deep inside you and curling instantly against that spot that made you cry out.

"Oh my god - Ferran," you cried out, trying desperately to stay quiet. You bit your lip hard, one hand flying to your mouth while the other tangled in his hair.

He didn't let up. He kept devouring you, licking and sucking with obscene wet sounds that filled the room. His fingers pumped steadily, faster and faster, while his tongue worked your clit in tight circles. Every moan he made vibrated against your most sensitive parts, the knot in your stomach getting tighter and tighter.

You were failing miserably at being quiet.

Soft, broken whimpers and gasps kept slipping out despite your efforts. "Ferran - fuck, please- I can’t - ah!"

He pulled back just enough to look up at you, lips shiny with your arousal, eyes blazing with lust. "Shhh, baby," he whispered, voice husky, before diving back in even harder.

The pressure built unbearably fast as your thighs started shaking around his head, hips grinding desperately against his mouth. He was relentless - groaning, licking, sucking, fucking you with his fingers like he needed you to come more than he needed air.

You came hard, back bowing off the bed, a choked cry tearing from your throat before you could muffle it with your hand. "Oh, Ferran!"

Pleasure crashed over you in waves, your pussy clenching rhythmically around his fingers as he kept licking you through it, drawing out every last pulse of ecstasy.

Ferran didn't stop until you were trembling and oversensitive, kissing your inner thighs softly as you came down.

He rose up over you, cock rock hard and leaking, eyes dark with pure need as he climbed onto the bed, crawling over you with a hunger that still somehow looked reverent. His body hovered above yours, skin hot and flushed from the long night.

For a moment, everything slowed. He cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing tenderly over your cheekbones as he looked straight into your eyes.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered, voice thick with emotion and lust.

Then he kissed you - soft at first, almost sweet. His lips moved gently against yours, savoring the taste of your shared desire. You melted into it, arms wrapping around his neck, fingers threading through his messy hair as the kiss deepened. Tongues slid lazily together, like he was pouring every ounce of love and triumph into you.

You could feel his cock, heavy and burning hot, resting against your soaked entrance, twitching with need. But he didn't rush, just kept kissing you, breathing you in, forehead pressed to yours between kisses, eyes half-lidded and locked on yours.

With a low, broken groan, Ferran gripped your hips hard and thrust into you in one powerful stroke, burying himself to the hilt. The sudden stretch and fullness ripped a loud cry from your throat. He didn't give you time to adjust as he pulled back and slammed in again, setting a relentless pace right away.

"Fuck - yes," he growled, eyes burning into yours. He refused to look away, staring straight at you as he fucked you senseless.

The headboard started slamming against the wall with every hard thrust. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound echoed through the quiet hotel room, but Ferran didn't seem to care anymore. He'd completely forgotten about his teammates sleeping next door. All that mattered was you.

He was rough and fast, hips snapping forward with powerful strokes that drove the air from your lungs. Every thrust was deep, almost punishing in its intensity. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto your chest as he pounded into you, the wet slap of skin on skin mixing with your uncontrollable moans and his deep, guttural groans.

You cried out sharply with every thrust, unable to hold back. "Oh, Ferran - oh god, slow down, they'll hear-"

But he just fucked you harder, eyes still locked on yours, pupils blown wide with raw lust. "Let them," he rasped, voice wrecked. "I don't care. Need you, need this."

He was fighting so hard not to cum. You could see it in his face - the clenched jaw, the way his brows furrowed in concentration, the desperate groans that slipped out every time your walls fluttered around him. His fingers dug bruisingly into your hips as he held you in place, driving into you again and again.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he groaned loudly, never breaking eye contact. "So tight… so wet for me. Look at me, baby. Don't look away."

You couldn't have looked away even if you wanted to. His gaze pinned you intensely as he fucked you into the mattress. Tears of overwhelming pleasure pricked at the corners of your eyes, every thrust hit that perfect spot inside you, sending sparks of ecstasy shooting through your body.

Ferran suddenly grabbed your legs, pushing your ankles up onto his shoulders. The new angle folded you in half, letting him sink even deeper. He groaned loudly at the sensation, burying himself as far as physically possible.

"Oh Ferran, oh my fucking god-" you sobbed, the pleasure overstimulating since you were still sensitive from your previous orgasm.

"Gonna cum inside you," he panted, voice hoarse, thrusts growing somehow even deeper. "Fuck, look at me when you cum again."

His words, combined with the relentless drag of his cock against that sensitive spot and the overwhelming eye contact, sent you spiraling. You came hard around him, crying out his name loud enough that half the floor probably heard.

Ferran's rhythm finally broke. With a deep, guttural moan that echoed through the room, he slammed into you one last time and stayed buried deep, hips pressed flush against you. His cock pulsed hard as he came, flooding you with thick, hot spurts. He kept his eyes on yours the entire time, watching every second of your shared climax, forehead pressed to yours as he groaned your name like a prayer.

For a moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant thump of your racing hearts. Ferran stayed inside you, gently lowering your legs as he collapsed on top of you, still pressing soft kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your neck.

"Best night of my life," he whispered against your skin, voice soft again.

The next morning, the parade bus is a disaster.

It starts before Ferran even makes it up the steps. Lamine is already there, sunglasses on despite the fact that it's overcast, grinning at him with the specific energy of someone who has been waiting all morning to say something.

"There he is," Lamine announces to no one in particular. "The hero of Spain."

"Don't," Ferran says.

"I'm just saying. Two goals last night."

Ferran stops walking. "I scored one goal."

"That's not what it sounded like from room 804."

The back of the bus erupts. Gavi nearly chokes on whatever he's drinking, Pedri has his face buried in his hands already, and Cucurella is outright cackling, leaning across the seat to slap Lamine on the arm like he's just said the funniest thing anyone has ever said in the history of professional football.

Ferran keeps walking and finds a seat, jaw tight, staring straight ahead.

It lasts about thirty seconds.

"Oh, Ferraaaaaan-"

He turns around. It's Gavi, voice pitched high, hand clutched dramatically to his chest, and now the whole section of the bus is losing it, a full chorus of his name in varying degrees of falsetto, and Ferran closes his eyes slowly like a man searching for patience he does not have.

"You're all children," he says. "We won the World Cup yesterday."

"We know," Pedri says, completely composed except for the way his mouth is twitching. "We were there. We heard."

"Shut up, Pedri."

"I'm just saying - thin walls."

"Incredibly thin," Cucurella agrees solemnly. "Paper, basically paper."

"I had to put headphones in," Lamine adds, shaking his head like he's recounting a trauma. "At four in the morning. On the night we won the World Cup because of you."

Ferran turns back to face the front of the bus. Outside the window, the streets are already lined with people, red and yellow everywhere, flags and scarves and thousands of faces blurring together. The noise of it filters through the glass, and it's enormous, the kind of sound that settles somewhere behind your ribs.

He'd scored the only goal in a World Cup final - he should be allowed to have this.

"She was really that loud?" someone asks from the back, one of the defenders, he doesn't even turn to look.

"Louder," Gavi and Pedri say at the exact same time.

The bus absolutely loses it again.

Ferran tips his head back against the seat and stares at the roof and thinks about how he is going to have to live with this for the rest of his career. Every dressing room, every camp, every time one of them wants a cheap laugh. He's going to be sixty years old and Lamine Yamal is still going to be doing that voice.

But then the bus turns the corner and the crowd comes into full view - hundreds of thousands of them, screaming, crying, holding up his name on banners and someone presses a medal into his hand, while Gavi drops into the seat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and says quietly, genuinely, "You were unbelievable yesterday. You know that, right?"

Ferran looks at him.

Gavi grins. "The goal, I mean. Obviously."

"I hate you," Ferran says.

"No you don't."

He doesn't.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

2019

The morning had started with Lily staging a full-scale intervention in front of the hotel mirror.

"If I'm going to be sweating in a paddock all day, I am at least going to look cute while doing it," Lily had declared, wielding a curling iron like a weapon. "And you are too. So sit.” She had sat, yielding to her best friend’s cheeky aggression. “Do I really need to go, Li?” she asked now, reluctantly adjusting her top for the tenth time as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. “I don’t know anything about the sport, and I don't know anyone there. I’m just taking up space from someone who actually deserves it.”

Lily smiled, stepping up behind her to give her a playful nudge. “Hey, you know Alex!” She laughed, rolling her eyes. “Come on! It’ll be fun. You’ll love it, I promise,” Lily said, pressing a pass into her hand and kissing her cheek. She sighs at her reflection, knowing she’d lost even before it started.

When they arrived, she quickly realized she was entirely out of her depth. She trailed quietly behind the couple, doing her best to duck away from the cameras that Alex and Lily effortlessly smiled for. Once they reached the hospitality suite, she stepped out onto the balcony, looking down at the blur of mechanics, celebrities, and roaring cars below. Everyone seemed to have a crucial purpose, and she decided that if she was going to survive the day without hiding in a bathroom stall, she needed caffeine. Leaving the suite, she navigated her way toward the Paddock Club to track down some food and coffee, but on her way back, the identical-looking buildings and glass doors blurred together. She forgot which turn she had taken and suddenly realized she had no idea how to find the Red Bull suite.

Wandering down a quieter hallway, she turned a corner too quickly and plowed straight into a solid chest. She tripped backward, losing her footing, but the man reacted instantly. One of his hands caught her securely by the waist while the other gripped her wrist, steadying her arm just in time to stop her coffee from splashing all over them. “Shit, I’m so sorry!” she gasped, quickly steadying herself. “Ah, it’s no problem. I wasn’t looking where I was going either,” the voice replied. She looked up, meeting a warm smile and a pair of striking blue eyes. Her gaze drifted down to his navy shirt, noticing the red bull logo. “Oh, do you work for Red Bull?”

The man blinked, a look of brief, genuine confusion crossing his face before a small smirk broke out. “I—uh, yeah. I mean, yeah, I do.”

“I'm so sorry to bother you, but could you point me in the direction of their hospitality suite? I’m terrible with directions, and it’s my first time here.” He let out a low laugh, nodding toward the corridor. “Of course. Follow me, I’m heading that way anyway.”

As they started walking, she took a sip of her coffee, relieved. “So, first time at a race?” he asked, glancing over at her. “Is it that obvious? I thought I was blending in perfectly.”

“The panicked look when you turned the corner gave it away a bit,” he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “But you’re doing great.”

“Good to know. My best friend’s boyfriend is a driver, so she dragged me along,” she explained. “You might know him, Alex Albon?” His smile widened significantly. “Yeah. Yeah, I know Alex. Good guy, good driver.”

“Oh, really? Do you fix his car or something?” she asked innocently. He bit his inside lip, trying incredibly hard not to burst out laughing. They were literally walking past a massive, two-story promotional poster of his own face, but her eyes were fixed entirely on the path ahead.

“Ah, no,” he said smoothly, playing along. “I work over in the other garage. Different car.”

“Is it stressful? It seems like a lot of pressure. I hear you guys had to change tires in like two seconds.”

“It has its moments,” he chuckled, playing into the narrative she built. “But the drivers get all the credit anyway. We just do the heavy lifting.”

“Typical,” she joked, nudging his arm slightly. “Well, make sure you don't screw up his tire change today, okay?” Max let out a hearty laugh. “I’ll do my very best to keep the boss happy.”

Over the next five minutes, the initial awkwardness completely vanished, melting into an easy rhythm of quick jokes, but the moment they reached the entrance of the garage, the bubble burst. A group of engineers in matching team gear spotted them, their eyes going wide before they urgently called him over. Turning back to her, he offered a parting smile that she couldn't help but return. “Thank you for saving me,” she said.

“Anytime,” he said, giving her a quick, playful wink. “If you ever get lost again, I’ll come find you.” With her heart doing a strange, unfamiliar little flutter, she walked into the hospitality area and found Lily sitting by the sidelines while Alex was getting his racing suit zipped up. “Oh, hey! Where have you been?” Lily asked, pulling out the chair next to her.

She sat down, unable to wipe the grin off her face as she set her coffee down. “I got lost on my way back, but this cute guy, I think he’s changes the tires or something, helped me find my way back. He said he knows Alex.” Lily’s eyes widened as she took in her friend's flushed face, a knowing smirk instantly spreading across her lips. “An engineer, huh? Did he have a name?”

“I forgot to ask, but he was really sweet”

“And to think, you almost didn't want to come,” Lily joked, bumping her shoulder against hers. 

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

When it was finally time for the race to start, the atmosphere shifted from chaotic to electric. Lily pulled her by the arm through the garage, navigating around stacks of spare tires and heavily focused mechanics until they found a spot near the back wall. Someone handed them a pair of heavy, noise-canceling headphones, which muffled the sudden, earth-shattering roar of twenty engines firing up on the grid. She clamped the headphones over her ears and stared at the wall of monitors. Truthfully, she was completely lost, not knowing what the numbers on the screen meant nor the little letters or colors of flags. She resolved to look at only one thing: car number 23. The rest of the grid was just a blur of passing colors, but she took her cues from Lily. For as long as her best friend was gripping her arm, jumping up and down, and screaming into the garage noise, she was right there alongside her, cheering just as loud knowing something was going right. 

As the laps ticked down, the tension in the garage thickened. Alex was driving a flawless race, defending his position fiercely. By the time the final lap rolled around, even she was leaning forward on her tiptoes, her heart hammering against her ribs. When the checkered flag finally waved, the entire garage erupted into a wall of sound. Mechanics slapped each other on the back, and team members flooded toward the pit wall. Alex had secured an incredible second place, sharing the front row of the podium with his teammate, who had taken the victory.

Before she could even process the win, Lily grabbed her hand, dragging her out into the bright sunlight of the pit lane to join the swarm of media and team personnel waiting behind the barriers. “Congrats, Alex!” she screamed over the deafening roar of the crowd. Alex broke through the crowd, his face covered in sweat and a massive grin, and immediately pulled Lily into a breathless hug, lifting her off her feet. He pulled back just enough to press a hard kiss to Lily’s lips before looking over. “Thanks!” he beamed, glowing with pure adrenaline. “What a race, right?”

“You were amazing!” she yelled back, cheering for him. Alex gave them a quick wave before a press officer gently nudged him toward the television cameras for his post-race interviews. As he walked away, her eyes began to wander across the chaotic paddock.

The top three cars had parked in their designated slots, and a swarm of photographers was currently surrounding the number one car. The winning driver stood on top of his car, arms raised in victory as the crowd chanted his name, before hopping down. He reached up with both hands, unlatching his helmet and pulling his balaclava off in one smooth motion to shake out his hair, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Her breath caught sharply in her throat. She froze, her eyes widening as the pieces instantly clicked together.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them. Lily looked over at her, blinking in confusion as she tried to trace her friend's exact line of sight through the crowd. “What? What’s wrong?”

“It’s him,” she stammered, raising a trembling, subtle finger toward the center of the media circus. “The guy. The engineer. From earlier. He said he was...”

Before she could even finish the sentence, the sea of mechanics and photographers seemed to part. The winner wasn't heading straight to the weighing scales just yet. Instead, he was walking directly toward their section of the barrier, a victorious, incredibly smug grin plastered across his face. He had spotted her instantly. He stopped right in front of her, resting his forearms on top of the barrier, completely unfazed by the cameras flashing around him.

“You think I kept the boss happy enough?” Max asked teasingly, his voice carrying easily over the noise. She stared at him, her jaw slightly slack, her brain still trying to reconcile the helpful tire-changer with the reigning champion of the sport. She finally found her voice, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “You said you changed the tires!” Max let out a hearty laugh, his bright blue eyes sparkling with pure mischief. “Actually, if I remember correctly, you said that. I just didn't deny it.” She opened her mouth to argue, but the words were instantly cut off. Fueled by the pure, chaotic high of his victory and the sheer amusement of the moment, Max suddenly leaned over the barrier, caught her jaw with his hand, and pulled her into a hard, breathless kiss.

It was fast, hot, and tasted faintly of sweat. Her brain entirely short-circuited as she gripped the metal rail to keep her balance. When he finally pulled back, a wicked, victorious grin stretched across his lips at the utterly dazed look on her face. He gave her a quick, playful wink, turning on his heel to head toward the garage for his weigh-in, leaving her standing entirely frozen against the barrier.

Beside her, Lily burst into a sudden, uncontrollable fit of laughter, burying her face in her hands before nudging her hard in the ribs. “Oh my god. You didn't. You actually didn't know who he was.” She turned slowly to face her best friend, her fingers coming up to touch her tingling lips, her cheeks burning bright red. “He told me he worked in the other garage!” 

“He did! Driving the other car!” Lily shrieked with laughter, looping an arm through hers as they watched his retreating back. 

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

Their love was as quick and unexpected as that first kiss shared across the paddock barrier. One reluctant visit turned into a permanent, every-race-week habit. She became a constant fixture at Max’s side, cheering him on through every high-speed turn and always waiting right at the edge of the team garage, ready to greet him with a breathless kiss in parc fermé the moment he climbed out of the car.

He was simply never without her, and she was never without him.

The media quickly fell in love with them, though she still preferred the quiet moments away from the cameras. Most days, she would be curled up in the corner of his driver’s room, reading a book or watching a movie on her tablet, simply enjoying the quiet sanctuary away from the roaring paddock. The moment Max walked in, looking exhausted and running a hand through his hair, the tension would instantly melt from his shoulders the second his eyes landed on her. He’d walk straight over, dropping to lay on her and wrapping his arms securely around her waist to pull her close.

"I missed you," he would whisper, his voice soft enough to keep the words a private secret just between the two of them. "You saw me an hour ago," she'd reply with a soft laugh, her fingers instinctively burying into his hair.

Max just buried his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling the familiar scent he had completely memorized by now. "That was sixty minutes too long." She giggles, pressing a kiss on his forehead. It was in quiet, stolen moments like these that she realized she was completely, utterly gone for him. 

Falling in love with Max was a sudden shift she never saw coming. It was watching the fierce, ruthless competitor the world saw on television dissolve into the gentle, needy man holding onto her like she was his only anchor. She loved the way his thumb would idly trace circles on her hip when he thought she wasn't paying attention. She loved the quiet confidence in his eyes when he looked at her from across a crowded room, a silent communication that belonged only to them. Standing by the barriers, watching his car fly past at impossible speeds, her heart didn't just race out of excitement anymore, it beat in time with his. 

She had come to the track completely lost, looking for nothing more than a simple cup of coffee, but looking at him now, she knew she had found exactly where she belonged.

2020

Their whirlwind romance was brought to a sudden, screeching halt when the pandemic decided to press pause on the entire world. The moment the global lockdown was officially announced, Max didn’t even bother asking for her input. He simply turned up at the front door of her apartment with a stack of flat-packed cardboard boxes, packed up her entire life himself, and moved her into his Monaco penthouse, stating that his house had a better view of the sea, delivering it with that trademark, matter-of-fact confidence, but on the inside she knew, he just couldn’t stand benign apart for any longer than a day. 

Suddenly, their routinary life on the international racing circuit was replaced by the domestic, deeply cozy reality of quarantine. They spent endless, lazy afternoons completely melted into the deep cushions of his sofa. They would lose track of time binge-watching television series until their eyes blurred, wrapped together in a giant, oversized cashmere throw blanket while the sun dipped below the horizon outside.

Even when Max had to return to his strict daily routine, which involved spending grueling hours competing in highly competitive virtual races on his simulator, he flatly refused to be separated from her. His solution was a late-night impulsive order from Amazon that resulted in the arrival of a plush bean bag so ginormous. He dragged the monstrosity right beside his sim rig, piling it pillows and blankets just so she could read or nap comfortably within arm's reach while he drove.

Naturally, his online racing buddies were quick to notice the sudden shift in his attention. During a live-streamed race, Chris’s voice crackled loudly over the team Discord channel. “Max, why do you keep looking to the side, mate? Is Sassy peeing on your setup again? You’re dipping on the straights.” Max let out a soft, low laugh, his hands remaining perfectly steady on the steering wheel as he turned a sharp corner at two hundred miles per hour on the virtual track. “No, no. My girlfriend’s sleeping. I’m just checking on her. She was stirring.”

Instantly, the stream's live chat exploded into a frantic wall of oohs and awws, and Jarno chimed in over the headset with a laugh. “Is she sleeping on the hard floor, mate? Give the girl a proper bed!”

“No! I bought her this bean bag, it’s massive,” Max defended immediately, a fiercely fond, protective warmth creeping into his voice. “She sleeps there when I play. I just don’t like her sleeping all alone in our bedroom.” The boys teased him relentlessly for being a simp, but Max just grinned, completely unbothered by the banter. He loved her, and if the internet wanted to watch him turn into absolute mush because of it, they were welcome to the show.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

On some days, he drew her into his favourite thing completely. She would never forget the afternoon the delivery truck arrived with a surprise that left her completely speechless: a custom sim rig built exclusively for her. Max had gone to ridiculous lengths, contacting a specialized builder to customize the entire setup, from the carbon-fiber seat to the leather-wrapped wheel casing, in a beautiful, soft butter-yellow, her favorite color.

“Just press down on the gas, schat,” Max encouraged, leaning over her shoulder, his chest pressing against her back as she gripped the steering wheel with pure terror. “You won’t fly off the track, I promise. Just hold it straight.”

“It’s too fast Maxie! The screen is moving too quickly, I’m going to crash into the wall!” she argued, her heart hammering against her ribs as the virtual tire barriers loomed large on the triple monitors. Max let out a hearty, booming laugh that vibrated against her spine, leaning down to press a tender, lingering kiss to the top of her head. “Okay, up,” he commanded gently, pressing pause on the game. She gladly scrambled out of the seat, letting out a breath of relief. Max plop-dropped down into the racing seat, placed his long legs expertly on the pedals, and then caught her tightly by the waist, pulling her down securely onto his lap. “Now drive. You focus entirely on the steering and the apexes, and I’ll handle the speed.”

That became their favorite afternoon rhythm. 

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

On other days, she would coop herself up in Max’s home office, one he barely used her work, simply existing to showcase all his trophies and medals, losing herself in quiet, slow-paced crafts to pass the time. Mondays were reserved for crochet, while Fridays were dedicated to intricate thousand-piece puzzles spread across the mahogany desk, and Max would dutifully follow her there every single time, dragging the giant bean bag into the center of the office floor just so he could be the one napping or watching near her while she worked. It was a kind of calm that built the perfect sanctuary out of isolation.

Of course, being locked in together twenty-four hours a day also fueled a fierce, magnetic sex drive that seemed to grow more intense with every passing week. They didn't even need words anymore. All it took was a specific, heavy, darkened look from Max across a room, whether she was washing dishes or sorting through laundry,she knew exactly what was coming. He would walk over, lift her effortlessly against his chest, and carry her to the bedroom, the sofa, or simply take her right where she stood, their passion entirely uninhibited and raw. That consuming physical closeness naturally bled into a beautiful, heavy sense of emotional safety. 

Late one evening, they lay tangled in their bed, bare and stripped of any inhibition, wrapped securely in each other's damp skin and tangled sheets. The room was entirely dark save for the silvery moonlight filtering through the windows, and Max’s thumb was tracing soft phantom stars and hearts across the soft, warm skin of her shoulder as she rested her head heavily against his chest. Listening to the steady, rhythmic, calming beat of his heart, her thoughts began to drift, floating through the bright future she was secretly beginning to picture, until she couldn't keep the quiet question inside any longer.

"Maxie?" she murmured softly, her voice a tiny whisper in the dark room. "Hmm?" he responded immediately, his hand pausing its gentle tracing to cup her bare arm, squeezing her gently.

"Would you ever want kids?" she asked. She shut her eyes tight against his chest, a sudden wave of intense vulnerability washing over her, terrified that she had broken the golden rule of romcoms and moved way too fast, way too soon, but Max didn't pull away. 

Instead, he just let out a low, breathless chuckle, his chest expanding under her cheek as he tightened his grip, pulling her even deeper into his side. "Of course," he said smoothly, his tone so steady and sure it felt like the most natural, undeniable truth in the world. "I’d love to have them one day. With you." She smiled in the darkness, her heart swelling with an immense, peaceful contentment that made her eyes sting with happy tears. She was perfectly ready to leave the conversation at that, but Max kept going, his voice quiet, deep, and laced with a rare, soft vulnerability.

"Do you think of names sometimes, too?" Too? The realization that he had already been privately dreaming about their future sent a sweet, electric thrill straight through her veins. She shifted slightly, propping herself up on one elbow to look down at his face in the moonlight. "I mean... I used to keep a handwritten list of them when I was much younger. Just silly daydreaming."

"Yeah?" Max’s eyes crinkled at the corners with a soft, beautiful smile. "Okay, imagine if we had a little girl. What would you name her?" Her heart beat a little faster against her ribs. "I don't know, I always used to love the name Autumn, it's my favorite season, and it sounds gentle."

Max smiled up at her, reaching up with his free hand to gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. "I love it.” A heavy, intimate beat of silence settled over the room. The ocean waves outside crashed softly against the shoreline below, the rhythm matching the peace in their bedroom.

"And if we had a boy?" Max asked softly, his gaze locked onto hers.

She stared up into those blue eyes, the exact same eyes that had gotten her out of trouble the day they first met in the paddock. The same eyes that pulled her in, kept her close, and allowed her to fall in love with Max Verstappen, the person. Not the racer. The pure, domestic, undeniably sweet Max. The answer was already alive and thriving in her heart.

"Emilio." Max repeated the name instantly, testing the weight of the syllables on his tongue, his slight accent softening the edges of the vowels. "Emilio."

"I've always loved your middle name, Emilian," she whispered, her fingers trailing up his bare chest to rest against the warm line of his jaw.

"And if we ever have a boy, Max, I want him to carry one of my favorite parts of you."

2021

The garage wall monitors blurred into a chaotic wash of flashing colors as the final lap concluded, but the commentator’s voice blared over the headsets with absolute clarity, shaking the very foundations of the room.

“And Max Verstappen wins the World Drivers’ Championship for 2021! He is officially the champion of the world!”

The words sparked a roaring fire in her chest. Seeing his car cross the finish line under the sudden, spectacular eruption of Abu Dhabi fireworks felt less like a sporting victory and more like an emotional explosion. She was the absolute proudest she had ever been in her life. Screaming until her throat burned, she jumped up and down, throwing her arms around mechanics, engineers, and anyone within arm's reach before the team aggressively pushed her through the frantic crowd toward the barriers of parc fermé. She stood at the very front, her hands gripping the metal rail, her heart hammering against her ribs as his car rolled to a stop right in front of her, its tires smoking.

The moment Max killed the engine, he vaulted over the nose of the car in a blur of pure, unadulterated adrenaline lifting his fist up in the air. He threw his helmet aside, his eyes scanning the screaming sea of team shirts until they locked onto hers. He ran straight for her, his face flushed, chest heaving as he crashed against the barrier.

“Did you see me, schat? Did you see me?” he gasped, his voice tight with an overwhelming, ecstatic high. “I saw you, baby,” she whispered fiercely, reaching out to cup his sweat-dampened face. “I am so incredibly proud of you.”

Max gripped her wrists, his eyes blazing with a fierce, magnetic intensity. “I could not have done that without you. I need you to know that. This win is yours too.” Before she could even reply, he leaned over the barrier, caught the back of her neck, and pulled her into a bruising, breathless kiss. In that exact second, surrounded by flashing cameras and thousands of roaring fans, Max was riding the greatest high of his existence, and he was doing it with his greatest love tightly in his arms.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

The real celebration, however, started the moment they finally escaped the paddock. They fled to a secluded villa for the winter holidays, leaving the heavy weight of the world behind. Away from the grid, it was as if they had transformed into completely new people. The intense, laser-focused racing driver vanished, replaced by a version of Max that was lighter, softer, and entirely consumed by her. One evening, they were curled up together on the sofa in front of a roaring fireplace. She was leaning back against his chest, and Max’s arms were wrapped securely around her waist, holding her close against the winter chill.

"You're remarkably quiet tonight, champ," she murmured, turning her head to look up at him. "Still trying to figure out if it was all a dream?" Max let out a low chuckle, pressing a warm kiss just beneath her ear. "No. The racing part feels real," he whispered, his blue eyes softening completely as they locked onto hers. "It’s this part that feels like a dream. Just being here with you."

She shifted in his embrace to face him fully, her fingers coming up to rest against his jaw. Looking up, she stared deep into his eyes. A sudden, quiet wave of intensity washed over her, and she stared at them fiercely, memorizing every fleck of light, terrified of ever forgetting exactly how he looked at her in this moment. "I love you, Max," she whispered, the words carrying the simple, unedited truth of everything she felt.  Max’s breath hitched, a soft, captivated smile breaking across his lips. He pulled her flush against his chest, burying his face in her hair. "I love you," he murmured deeply against her skin. "So much, schat."

Holding each other in the quiet room, they both felt incredibly, impossibly lucky. In a world full of chaos, they had somehow found their perfect peace. The year ended on that spectacular, untouchable high. They were completely consumed by each other, Max riding the wave of his historic championship, and her simply happy being his anchor. 

Everything felt so effortlessly perfect, so beautifully permanent, that neither of them could have possibly known this beautiful peak was actually the beginning of the end.

2022

She had naive hopes for his championship. She thought that once the number one was secured on the nose of his car, the suffocating pressure would ease. She thought he would look at the trophy, realize he was exactly as great as he had always dreamed, and finally let himself breathe. Instead, it did the exact opposite. The taste of victory only made him hungrier, sharper, and completely unreachable.

The shift was subtle during the first quarter of the year. A simulator session running two hours later than usual, a delayed text, a lingering engineering meeting. It was manageable. She was okay with it. She had always known racing was his first love, and she was perfectly content being a close second, but by the second quarter, the manageable hours turned into a ghost town. Max was rarely home. When he was, his body was there, but his mind was still on a track thousands of miles away.

Then came the forgotten dinners. One rainy Tuesday night, she spent hours in the kitchen preparing his absolute favorite meal. She texted him, and he replied almost instantly, promising he was wrapping up and heading out. Seven o’clock became eight. Eight dragged into eleven. The food on the stove grew cold, and a matching, heavy chill settled deep in her bones. When the clock struck midnight and the front door still hadn’t opened, she packed the food away in silence. She went to bed alone, waking up the next morning to the predictable routine: an extravagant bouquet of flowers on the counter and desperate makeup sex.

Eventually, even the intimacy shifted. The slow, reverent lovemaking that she was used to with him was replaced by something quick, mechanical, and entirely one-sided, almost always fueled only by whatever leftover adrenaline he had when he finally crawled into bed. As terrible as it sounded, she let him do it. She leaned into it because, in those brief, breathless minutes, it was the only time she could actually feel him.

It was the only time he was close enough to touch.

In the paddock, it was even worse. He used to linger by her side, but now, he would walk away in the middle of their conversations, his eyes darting toward the telemetry monitors, entirely consumed. He was too hard to catch, too far to reach. She used to have a place beside him, but now, she felt like a ghost haunting the room. 

Then came her birthday. Lily had thrown her a beautiful surprise party at a quiet lounge in town. Alex was there, laughing and keeping the drinks flowing, and for a glorious twenty minutes, Max was present too. He kissed her deeply when she walked in, handed her a stunning bouquet, and wrapped his arms securely around her waist as they blew out the candles on her cake.

“Make a wish, birthday girl,” Lily cheered, snapping a photo. She looked back at Max, whispering, “I already have mine.” But the moment the cake was cut, the illusion shattered. Max retreated to the corner of the booth, his face illuminated by the harsh blue light of his tablet. He spent the rest of the night furiously texting GP about tire degradation.

They drove home in absolute, suffocating silence. Max knew he had messed up. He looked over at her at a red light, his expression softening as he reached across the console to grip her hand, and because she loved him so completely, all it took was that single look from his blue eyes for her defenses to crumble. She let him pull her into his arms that night, but when she woke up the next morning, naked and cold to an empty bed and a text saying he had an early meeting at the factory, something inside her snapped. Never again, she promised herself. If he did it one more time, she was done.

Then came the Japanese Grand Prix. Max clinched his second World Drivers' Championship in the pouring rain of Suzuka. Watching him celebrate on the screen, a heavy, painful knot formed in her stomach. It was a double-edged sword. She was proud, but she knew what this meant, the obsession would only worsen. That night, her phone buzzed. It was a text from him: 'WDC again schat! Can’t wait to come home to you and celebrate our anniversary. I love you.'

A desperate spark of hope flared in her chest. He hadn’t forgotten. Their anniversary was on the day he landed. Maybe this was the turning point. Maybe he was finally ready to come back to her. That hope solidified into sheer, terrified positivity when she looked down at the bathroom counter, staring at a plastic stick with two faint, unmistakable pink lines.

Everything was about to change.

She knew how chaotic his schedule was, so she took the lead. She booked a table at the restaurant they had been promising to visit for two years but never had the time for. She texted him the reservation details, the dress code, and the exact time before he boarded his flight.

His reply was instant: 'Perfect. See you at 8, liefje.'

At seven forty-five, she sat in the candlelight of the restaurant, dressed in her best clothes, the tiny Red-Bull t-shirt tucked safely in her handbag. Eight o'clock came and went. By nine, the bread on the table was stale. By ten, the waiters were offering her sympathetic looks. At twelve, the restaurant closed its doors, and she walked out into the cool night air entirely alone.

She didn't cry on the way home. The tears had run dry somewhere around nine-thirty.

When Max finally walked through the front door of the penthouse, it was nearly four in the morning. The apartment was entirely dark, empty and eerily quiet. She was sitting perfectly still on the edge of the mattress, staring blankly into the empty space of their bedroom. Max kicked off his shoes, looking exhausted but entirely oblivious to the wreckage he had left behind.

"Liefje, why are you awake?" he asked softly, untucking his shirt as if it were just any ordinary day. She didn't answer. She didn't even move.

Max climbed into the bed, stretching his long arms out to pull her back against his chest, but her body remained completely rigid, like a statue. "Are you okay?" he murmured, leaning closer. It was only when his hand brushed her cheek that he felt the cold, dried tracks of her tears. Max instantly sat up, panic bleeding into his voice. "Oh god, what's wrong? Are you hurt?"

He genuinely didn't know.

“Max,” she said, her voice completely flat, devoid of any anger. “What day is it?” Max blinked, thrown off by the question. He rubbed his eyes, thinking. “I don’t know... Wednesday? No, Thursday now, I think. The flight was long.” She closed her eyes, the last remaining piece of her heart turning to ash. She shakes her head. “What date is it?”

Max pulled his phone out of his pocket, the screen illuminating his face. He glanced at the top corner, and then, the silence in the room became deafening. The color drained from his face entirely. The phone slipped slightly in his grip. “Oh, god,” Max whispered, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. “Our anniversary. Schat, I—I am so, so sorry. I landed and the team… they had a whole surprise reception waiting at the hangar. Christian, the mechanics, everyone was there to celebrate the title. A few friends came by after, we had drinks, and I just… it completely slipped my mind. I lost track of time, I swear.”

“Let’s end this, Max.” she said softly, the firmness in his voice sent a chill down his spine. She was determined, she was decided. Max froze, his chest hitching. “What? No. No, schat, please. It was one mistake. A stupid, terrible mistake, I know, but it’s just one night. The season is almost over—”

“It wasn’t one mistake, Max,” she interrupted, her voice terrifyingly steady, keeping her cool even as his blood ran cold. “Except it wasn’t one mistake, Max. It hasn’t been five, or even ten. It’s been months and months of forgotten dinners and unsent texts.”

“I’ll fix it,” Max choked out, tears suddenly welling in his striking blue eyes, his voice breaking in a way she had never heard before. He reached out, his hands trembling as he tried to grab her waist. “Please. I will talk to GP, I will cut back on the sim—”

“But you won't,” she said, gently placing her hands over his, stopping him from pulling her close. She looked at him with an immense, heartbreaking love, but her grip was final. She was entirely understanding of who he was, but she had reached her limit. “I am so proud of what you’ve achieved, Max. Truly, but I can't be with someone who would easily trade me for a high-speed chase. Not anymore. Not when I spend almost half the time sitting alone in the dark thinking if you still loved me, if you'd come home to me because you'd miss me, praying that we'd go back to how we used to be. How we were when you were just my Max. Not World Champion Max.” She slowly turned her head, her eyes dropping down to her lap. She looked at her stomach, her hand hovering just an inch above it with so much hidden guilt, so much quiet fear, before she looked back up at his eyes, those damn eyes she had promised herself she would never forget. She slid her legs out from under the covers, stepping onto the cold floor. She didn't look at the closet. She didn't grab a bag. She just stood there in the quiet moonlight, looking down at the boy who had once promised to always come find her if she got lost. 

"I love you," he says desperately. “Don’t go.” Max whispers. Her heart pinches in her chest, forcing her to close her eyes and pray it was over. “I’ll grab my things when you're out.” Max sat frozen in the center of their massive, empty bed, the tears finally spilling over his cheeks, his mouth open but completely silent as the quiet weight of his own world crushed him.

2023 ~ 2025

The year that followed was unbelievably hard.

Packing up her life and leaving Max’s apartment was one thing, but carrying a secret as monumental as the one growing inside her changed everything. She knew she couldn't risk the relentless prying eyes of the media, so she flew across the Atlantic, heading back home to British Columbia. Nested among the quiet, towering pines and the crisp mountain air, she sought the anonymity she desperately needed. She did remarkably well on her own, grounding herself in the stillness of her new life. During the long months of her pregnancy, her family wrapped her in a protective bubble of love and privacy, keeping her safe from the echoes of the racing world, but the real test came when her son was finally born. The moment the news reached the other side of the world, Lily didn't even hesitate. She booked the first available flight out for her best friend. Lily spent the first two months living out of the spare bedroom, navigating the sleepless nights, the endless diaper changes, and the overwhelming rhythm of early motherhood right alongside her.

Alex became a constant, anchoring figure in their lives too. Whenever his brutal schedule allowed for a break between races, he would fly straight out, trading his racing suit for rolled-up sleeves and a baby carrier. He was completely natural with the baby, effortlessly stepping in to give her a chance to sleep, eat, or simply catch her breath. Standing in her quiet kitchen, watching Alex walk around the living room rocking her son to sleep while Lily organized bottles, her heart would swell with a profound, aching gratitude. She was endlessly thankful for both of them, their fierce loyalty was the shield that kept her small, fragile new world safe from the chaotic storm she had left behind.

When the baby turned one, Lily decided it was time for an intervention. She marched into the kitchen, confiscated the baby bottle brush, and looked her dead in the eye. "Come on, just one party," Lily insisted. "It’s in Canada, after the Grand Prix in Montreal. I will fly with you there and back. We’re just having a short, quiet gathering to celebrate Alex’s previous win. You need to breathe." She hesitated, her eyes immediately drifting toward the nursery door. Lily’s expression softened, and she reached out to squeeze her hands. "I know why you're saying no, you know, and I already made sure he won't be there. Not even close. I promise you."

It took a few more rounds of convincing, but once her mother stepped in and practically ordered her out of the house, insisting she would take perfect care of her grandson, she finally relented.

Still, it was the first time she had been apart from her son since the day he was born, and the physical ache of the separation hung heavy in her chest. By the time she and Lily arrived at the venue, her heart was hammering against her ribs. She felt entirely out of place, battling a sudden wave of postpartum insecurity about her dress, desperately missing her baby, and wrestling with a toxic, underlying fear that Max would somehow materialize in the crowd.

"You'll be fine, babe," Lily whispered, leaning in close as they scanned the room. "He won't be here. He's all the way back in Monaco from what I heard." She shook her head, forcing a tight smile. "Wasn't thinking about him." Lily let out a knowing chuckle. "Right. If you say so." She gave her a supportive pat on the shoulder before slipping away to help Alex accommodate their arriving guests.

Left alone near the bar, she tried to smooth down her dress, feeling exposed without the familiar weight of a baby in her arms. "What are you having?" The deep, smooth voice came from right beside her. She blinked, looking over, and instinctively pointed a finger at herself to clarify if he was actually speaking to her. Standing there was a man who was devastatingly handsome, with thick, dark hair and heavy, warm eyes that held a distinct air of easy confidence. "Um... a Virgin Piña Colada," she said, her voice a little small. The man chuckled, a rich, low sound. "Nice choice." He turned to the bartender without missing a beat. "One of those, please. And a bottle of beer for me."

She blinked in surprise at the extra drink. "What are you doing?"

"You are Lily Muni He’s best friend, right?" he asked, leaning one elbow against the bar counter. A genuine laugh slipped out of her before she could stop it. "Why do you say her full name like that?"

"I like her name," he replied with a slight shrug and a charming grin. "It is like the best name ever."

She laughed, the tension in her shoulders finally beginning to ease. "She is my best friend. Inseparable for life. And you are? An engineer of some sort?"

"Alex’s teammate." Her jaw dropped slightly, a cold splash of familiarity hitting her. "Oh. I'm sorry, I didn't know." She apologized quickly, a sharp ache in her chest reminding her of the exact same mistake she had made years ago in a different paddock, with a different driver.

"You didn't have to know me," he said smoothly, completely unbothered. "I was willing to introduce myself anyway." She smiled, but as she looked at the lingering, attentive way he was watching her, she could feel it in her bones. This man was flirting with her, and after everything she had been through, she simply didn't have the energy for the racing world's games.

"Look," she sighed softly, turning to face him fully. "I know you're a nice guy. If Alex likes you, I can trust that you're great. But... I have a son. And I know you have much better options out there than a single mother." The man actually smiled, his dark brows drawing together, but the determined glint in his eyes didn't fade for a second. "Well then you’re in luck, I was actually hoping I’d come here and become a dad. Fate, no?"

The unfiltered, blunt, sheer audacity of the line caught her so off guard that a breathless laugh bubbled up from her chest. He smiled, thoroughly pleased with himself, and extended a broad, warm hand toward her.

"Carlos. Carlos Sainz."

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

From then on, Carlos smoothly integrated himself into her world. He was insistent, persistent, and entirely unbothered by her constant reminders that she didn't need a man or a partner in her life. No matter how many walls she put up, Carlos was simply there, taking every step right alongside her. Eventually, the boundaries blurred into something beautiful. One rainy evening, Carlos slept over for the very first time, a duvet lying out on the living room sofa after an exhausting afternoon playdate with her son. Her little boy had grown so much, and in the sweet, chaotic rhythm of their unconventional life, he had started pointing to Carlos and calling him Papa. It had started as a toddler's mix-up, much like how he called her mother Mom, Lily Auntie Mom, and Alex Uncle Dad. It was a funny, tangled family tree, but looking at them all, she felt incredibly, profoundly lucky.

After checking on her sleeping son, she walked back into the living room, sitting on the edge of the sofa near Carlos’s feet. The apartment was quiet, the amber light of the lamp throwing long shadows across the room. "Why do you stay?" she asked quietly, the defenses she usually wore slipping away, leaving her raw and vulnerable in the dark. "Even when I've rejected you so many times?"

Carlos shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. His dark, warm eyes locked onto hers with absolute sincerity. "Because I love you." She let out a heavy sigh, looking down at her hands, but Carlos quickly soft-corrected himself.

"Not in that way," he cleared up gently, a small, melancholy smile touching his lips. "I think I've moved on from it. I've accepted the fact that you will never see me in a romantic way because your mind and your heart are still with someone else, someone so far away."

She looked up at him, her lips parting to deny it, to protect herself, but the lie died in her throat. She couldn't hide it from him. Carlos’s smile widened, turning fond and completely devoid of bitterness. "And I am okay with that, because I found comfort in you. A kind of pure friendship I've never found anywhere else. And... I've come to love him too." He tilted his head toward the small toddler bed they had dragged right beside the sofa, because the little boy had stubbornly insisted on sleeping right next to his favorite playmate tonight. "I love him as a nephew, as a son, as a little boy I never knew I needed in my life."

Silence settled over the room, heavy and comforting. She leaned her head back against the cushion, right near Carlos's shoulder, her breathing slowing down as her body finally relaxed. "My words still stand from the first time I met you at that bar, you know?" Carlos murmured into the quiet.

She shifted her head, looking up at him. "What do you mean?"

"I've always wanted to be a dad," Carlos said, his eyes fixed on the peaceful, rise-and-fall chest of the sleeping two-year-old. "And for that little boy over there, I am prepared to be."

A painful, beautiful ache bloomed in her chest. In that exact moment, staring at the devastatingly good, fiercely loyal man beside her, a desperate thought echoed in her mind: Why couldn't she just love Carlos? Why couldn't she just close her eyes, let go of the past, and convince herself that he was the perfect man for her? Why, even after all this time, after all the distance and the heartbreak, was her soul still fiercely yearning for someone else? Someone who didn't even know their son existed, miles away, racing across the world.

2026

Her son had always been drawn to Formula 1. 

With both Alex and Carlos spoiling him with every miniature die-cast model car and every single Williams kit they could find, the little boy was bound to be hooked. At first, it used to be just about the fast cars, regardless of the team or the color, he simply loved watching the machines blur across the television screen. For months, Alex and Carlos had playfully coaxed him, trying to bribe the toddler into choosing one of them as his absolute favorite. What they absolutely didn't expect was for his first real favorite to be someone else entirely.

“Du du du du! Max Verstappen!” the little boy would sing, bouncing off the living room walls in a miniature Verstappen shirt that her grandparents had bought him. Initially, Alex and Carlos were genuinely bummed, poutingly complaining about their wasted efforts, but they quickly turned it into a relentless teasing game directed at her. They laughed about how a toddler could love a driver without ever meeting him, but deep down, she knew it was bound to happen, terrifyingly, inevitably so. A quiet ache settling in her chest. 

Blood always recognizes blood.

It was bad enough that she had to watch Max on television 24/7 on a loop, hearing that viral song echoed by her toddler’s high-pitched voice. Seeing his face through a screen and hearing that familiar, blunt Dutch accent again made her feel a tidal wave of emotions she had spent years trying to drown. It grew even more complicated when her son requested, and successfully manipulated both his Papa Carlos and Uncle Dad Alex into buying him merchandise and posters of his father's face to line his bedroom walls.

So now that the idea of actually attending a race was finally placed on the table, her entire body froze. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea, Li,” she whispered, her fingers fidgeting nervously with the fabric of her jeans as she stared down at the two paddock passes Carlos had left on the kitchen counter.

“Come on,” Lily urged gently, reaching out to stop her hands from shaking. “We’ll be locked away in the hospitality unit all day. No one from the public or the media will be able to get to us there. We can cross the paddock to the garage only when we’re completely sure everyone is already locked in their cars, out on track. There’s zero chance of you bumping into…” Lily’s voice trailed off as they both looked over at the now three-year-old boy. He was sprinting around the living room with Alex and Carlos chasing after him, his face lit up with pure, untainted joy, entirely enclosed in his miniature Verstappen racing suit.

She hesitated, the heavy, suffocating knot tightening in her stomach, but as she watched her son's laughter echo through the house, she reminded herself that everything she did was for his happiness. With a deep breath, she reluctantly swallowed her fear. “Fine.”

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

The day of the race arrived with a sky full of nerves, because of the logistics, she and her son stayed tucked away in a private van arranged by Williams in the restricted parking lot, while Alex and Lily went in first to check the coast. Sitting in the backseat, she found herself brushing her hair over and over again, her eyes darting anxiously to her reflection in the rearview mirror every few seconds. “I hope we get to see Mr. Max, Mom! I wanna show him my suit!” the little boy chirped, jumping up and down on the leather seat before scrambling to either side of the big van to peek through the tinted windows.

“He might be very busy today, honey,” she said softly, her voice straining to stay even as she adjusted his collar. “But we can always visit Uncle Dad and Papa and see their garage, okay?” Finally, her phone buzzed with the go-signal text from Lily: Drivers have just been called to the track for the pre-race parade. The paddock is clear.

Relieved that there was absolutely no chance of seeing him, they finally stepped out of the van and made their way into the high-security zone. They reached the hospitality unit safely, but as fate would have it, the Red Bull energy station was positioned directly across the lane from theirs. Fun, she thought ironically, trying not to stare at the massive blue-and-red structure. It was quite chilly out, so she had paired a simple blue tank top with a thick white jacket, pulling the fabric tightly around herself as she stood outside the unit, deeply engrossed in a quiet conversation with Lily.

Unbeknownst to her, a late-running driver was suddenly walking down the paddock lane toward his team's entrance. With the quick, split-second decision-making only a three-year-old could possess, her son spotted the familiar racing suit. Before Lily or she could even react, the little boy’s eyes went wide. He broke away from her side, his small light-up sneakers clicking loudly against the paddock asphalt as he darted straight toward the approaching figure.

“Mr. Max! Mr. Max!” the boy squealed at the top of his lungs, running with reckless abandon. Max Verstappen, completely focused on the impending race and rushing to catch up with his engineers, didn't see the tiny blur of a child until it was too late. The toddler crashed directly into the back of his fireproof-clad legs, wrapping his small arms tightly around Max's knees in a fierce, unyielding hug.

“Oh, I love you, Mr. Max!” the little boy beamed, burying his face right into the fabric of the Red Bull suit. Max stumbled forward a step, completely shocked by the sudden weight around his knees. He blinked, looking down in sheer bewilderment, but the moment his gaze registered the tiny, miniature version of his own racing suit hugging his leg, a warm, booming laugh burst from his chest. “Hey, I love you too, buddy! What’s your name?” Max asked, a wide grin splitting his face as he bent down to the toddler’s level.

But the moment the little boy tilted his head back, the words died instantly in Max’s mouth. He was suddenly staring into a face that was a devastatingly identical mirror of his own. The same golden-brown hair, the exact same nose, and those goddamn, unmistakable blue eyes. “Emilio!” the boy chirped proudly, bouncing on his heels. Max’s heart started booming against his ribs, a violent, deafening rhythm that made his head spin. Emilio? The breath was completely knocked out of his lungs. The world faded into white noise. It can’t be. It’s impossible.

Meanwhile, inside the Williams hospitality unit, she was completely losing her mind. A cold, suffocating panic had seized her chest the exact second she realized her side was empty. “Emilio? Lio, honey, where are you?!” she cried out, her voice cracking as she began sprinting through the hospitality lounge. Lily was running in the exact opposite direction, frantically checking behind couches and under tables. Carlos walked through the entrance just then, laughing about a joke from the garage, but he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her face. “Hey, hey, what’s going on? What happened?”

“Emilio—I can't find him, Carlos! He’s gone!” The blood drained from Carlos’s face in a fraction of a second. Without a word, he whirled around and slammed his weight against the glass doors, sprinting straight out into the open lane. “Emilio!” Carlos’s voice boomed across the entire paddock, raw and commanding, instantly drawing sharp looks from mechanics and team principals alike. “Emilio!” he roared again.

Luckily, the sharp, authoritative voice pierced through the ambient noise of the track, and the little boy’s ears perked up. “Papa! Papa!” Emilio shouted back, his face lighting up. He broke away from Max, who was still frozen on his knees, entirely too shocked and paralyzed to even react as the little boy ran toward the other driver. “¡Ay dios mío, mi amor!” Carlos breathed, dropping to his knees and scooping the toddler up into his arms with a desperation that shook his broad shoulders. He held him flat against his chest, closing his eyes tightly. “We were so worried about you. Don't ever do that again.”

“I just met Mr. Max! He said he loves me!” Emilio beamed, entirely oblivious to the wreckage around him, pointing a tiny finger back toward the Red Bull energy station. A heavy, dark wave of worry washed over Carlos. He slowly looks past the toddler's shoulder to meet the gaze of the man still kneeling on the asphalt. Max was staring back at him, his face completely pale, his eyes wide and hollow. He looked like he had just seen a ghost.

Before another word could be exchanged, the sound of frantic footsteps echoed behind them. She came bursting out of the Williams unit with Lily trailing close behind. “Oh, Emilio, honey! You scared Mommy so much,” she sobbed, rushing forward and practically ripping the boy out of Carlos’s arms, burying her face into his tiny neck as tears finally spilled over her cheeks.

Max wanted to scream. He wanted to run forward, to grab her by the shoulders, to demand answers to the million suffocating questions tearing through his brain, but his limbs felt like poured concrete. He was entirely frozen to the spot, his chest heaving under his race suit. She felt the heavy weight of his gaze, and her eyes briefly flicked over to see Max kneeling just a few feet away, but right now, her heart was too battered and her mind was too consumed by the sheer terror of almost losing her son to even care about the past. She tightly shielded Emilio's head with her hand, turning her back to him.

“Let’s go back inside,” Lily said quickly, her tone sharp and protective as she shot a heavy, warning look at Carlos.

Carlos caught the signal instantly. He glanced back at Max one last time, a silent, heavy look of absolute confirmation, before turning his back. Together, Carlos and Lily flanked her, securely escorting the mother and son back into the privacy of the suite, leaving Max alone in the middle of the paddock as his entire world fractured in complete silence.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

Max walked back to his garage like a shell of a man, his legs moving entirely on autopilot. Mechanics were bustling around him, engineers were thrusting data sheets into his peripheral vision, and Christian was asking him a question about the track temperature, but the noise of the paddock was just muffled, ambient static.

All he could see was the little boy's face. And her.

The love of his life. The person he had spent two agonizing years yearning for, looking for, missing, and desperately loving from afar, it was her, unmistakably, and beside her was a little boy so completely identical to him that it would be a flat-out lie to pretend he didn't know the truth. Emilio. The name they had chosen together in the quiet dark of a Monaco bedroom, under the silvery moonlight, when they were dreaming of a future that felt so certain, but the realization didn't bring him peace; it brought a suffocating, violent wave of agony. Why was his son calling Carlos Papa? Why was Carlos the one the little boy ran to? Why was Carlos the one holding her, shielding her, doing everything Max had ever wanted to do in that moment? The jealousy and regret burned hot in his throat. 

He wanted so badly to rip his race suit off, march across the paddock, and demand his family back, but he had a race to finish. The grid walk was starting. He had to get into the car. Maybe after, he promised himself, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his helmet. After.

Back in the Williams hospitality unit, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Lily had quickly taken a distracted Emilio up to the private upstairs office with a view of the track, making sure to firmly click the lock into place behind them. It left just her and Carlos standing in the quiet of the lower room.

Her hands were visibly shaking, the adrenaline of the paddock encounter still racing through her veins. Carlos stepped close, his heavy, warm eyes filled with an intense, protective focus. "What do you want to do? Do you want to talk to him? Do you want me to kick him in the nards? What? Just tell me." A breathless, panicked chuckle slipped past her lips despite the terror gripping her chest. She reached out, squeezing Carlos’s large hands tightly, anchoring herself to his warmth. "Nothing, it’s just that he saw him, Carlos. He saw Emilio. I'm scared."

"I'm here," Carlos said instantly, his grip tightening around hers without a second thought. "You want me to just bail? I can. I swear, I'll walk away from the car right now and just hold you right here." Oh, Carlos. The sheer, unyielding loyalty of the man made her heart ache with gratitude. She forced a soft smile, shaking her head. "No. No, I want you to win. Win for Lio. He's been so excited all week to see you and Alex race. I'll be okay."

Carlos looked down at her, his brow furrowing with deep, lingering hesitation. "Are you sure?" he asked again, searching her face for any sign of cracking. "I've got it," she said, her voice finding a steady, quiet strength she didn't know she still possessed. "Whatever happens next, I'll deal with it."

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

When they finally moved down into the Williams garage to watch the race, she focused entirely on the two cars she knew. Emilio, however, was on cloud nine. Perched on a high stool with noise-canceling headphones over his ears, he was jumping and screaming every single time Max, or Alex, or Carlos flashed across the broadcast screens.

When the final lap concluded and the checkered flag waved, Max crossed the line first to take P1. For a fraction of a second, her heart jumped right out of her chest, a sudden, violent echo of the exact same pride she had felt all those years ago, but the bittersweet ache was quickly washed over by pure joy as Carlos brought his car home in P2, with Alex crossing right behind him to secure a massive P3 podium.

The garage erupted. Lily was jumping up and down, holding Emilio’s hands as the toddler bounced on his heels. “Yay! Go Papa! Go Uncle Dad! Gooooo Max!” the boy yelled, his voice straining with pure excitement. Before she could even process, the team was ushering them out of the garage. They were pushed straight toward the barriers of parc fermé just as the top three cars rolled into their designated slots. The moment Alex climbed out of his car, he ran straight into Lily's arms, the mechanics surrounding them in a chaotic wall of celebration. Carlos killed his engine right in front of them and jogged straight over to the metal rail, his face flushed with sweat and a massive, bright grin splitting his features. Without a word, he reached over the barrier, pulled Emilio right out of her arms, and hoisted the little boy high into the air.

“You won, Papa! You won!” Emilio screamed, his little light-up sneakers kicking out in pure excitement. When Carlos finally brought the boy back down, cradling him securely against his chest, she stepped forward with a warm, genuine smile. She wrapped her arms around Carlos's shoulders, hugging him tight over the metal rail. “Congrats, Mr. Smooth Operator,” she teased softly, her voice full of affection for the man who had protected them for so long. Carlos pressed a sweet, lingering kiss to the top of Emilio's head before leaning his forehead against hers for a brief, grounded second of gratitude.

All of this unraveled directly in front of Max’s eyes.

He was standing just a few meters away by the P1 board, a water bottle gripped tightly in his hand. What should have been a glorious, hard-fought victory instantly turned incredibly bitter at the sight. The roaring crowd and the flashing cameras faded into the background as he watched another man hold his son, another man comforted his greatest love, and another man received the exact embrace he had spent two years yearning for. Max took a desperate step forward, the water bottle slipping from his fingers as he tried to catch her eye, to make his legs move faster, to call out her name over the noise of the podium track, but before he could even get close, she gently took Emilio back from Carlos, turned her head away from the Red Bull car, and began walking back toward the hospitality unit, leaving Max standing in the heat of his victory, entirely frozen and alone.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

Emilio had fallen asleep in her arms while they waited for the boys to finish their media duties. She sat quietly in the lounge, cradling his small, heavy body against her chest, the soft rise and fall of his breathing the only thing keeping her grounded. The door opened and Carlos walked in, a tired but bright smile instantly gracing his features the moment he saw them. "Ready to go?" She nodded softly. Carlos stepped forward, carefully shifting Emilio into his own arms. The sleeping toddler didn't even wake, instinctively nuzzling his face deep into Carlos’s chest, his small hands gripping the fabric of his team shirt. She picked up her bag from the floor, smoothing down her jacket, and walked out of the hospitality unit side-by-side with him.

Just before they could cross the paddock gates to head toward the parking lot, she heard it. 

Someone called her name.

A sharp, breathless shout over the fading noise of the track. Without even looking, she knew exactly who it was. The voice slicing straight through the cool evening air. She stopped, completely frozen in her tracks, the breath catching painfully in her throat. Carlos paused beside her, his body instantly tensing. He looked down at her, trying to keep his composure so he wouldn't wake the little boy cradled against his shoulder.

Behind them, Max called her name again. It was closer this time.  Her heart hammered violently against her ribs, a deafening drumbeat that made her dizzy. She swallowed hard, staring at the exit gates just a few feet away. "Take Lio to the car," she whispered to Carlos, her voice tight. "I'll follow."

Carlos looked at her, his dark eyes filled with deep, protective worry. "You, sure?" he whispered back. She nodded, forcing her hands to stop shaking.

"I'll be right outside if you need me," Carlos said, his voice firm and reassuring. "Just call."

She watched them leave, watching the way Carlos securely shielded her son's head as they passed through the turnstiles. The moment they disappeared from view, she finally turned around. She didn't say anything. She just stood there, her hands buried deep in the pockets of her jacket. Max was standing a mere two feet away. He had changed out of his race suit into a team polo, but he looked completely unraveled. His hair was messy, his chest was heaving, and the fierce, untouchable posture of a world champion was entirely gone.

He called her name again. "Please look at me," Max whispered, his voice trembling so violently it shocked her. She kept her gaze firmly anchored to the ground, staring at the scuffed leather of his trainers. 

No. No, no, no.

"Please," Max breathed, the sound of it thick with a desperate, heavy ache. When she still didn't move, Max finally gathered all the courage left in his chest. Trembling, he reached out, his long fingers gently placing themselves beneath her chin.

Don't look at him. Don't fall for it.

His touch was incredibly soft, almost reverent, as he slowly, deliberately tilted her head up.

Please, don't.

Then her chin rose, the movement staggered and heavy, until she could no longer fight the gravity of him. Her gaze lifted, and she was looking at him. Those same striking blue eyes were swimming with unshed tears, completely shattered as he looked down at her.

"Schat," he choked out.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

©️𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒔

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You waited for him to explain, but he returned his attention to his phone, forehead creasing at whatever message he was reading. You told yourself there was nothing unusual about it. He sometimes removed it when he trained, and once or twice he’d forgotten to put it back on before leaving the house, although usually he noticed within an hour and sent you a message about it.

This time, however, the ring remained on the bedside table.

It was still there when he left for the factory the following morning. It sat beside his watch, placed neatly on the dark wood rather than abandoned carelessly, which somehow made its absence from his hand feel more deliberate.

“You’ve forgotten this again,” you said, holding it out to him as he came back into the bedroom to retrieve his wallet.

Max looked at the ring, then at you.

“I didn’t forget.”

Your fingers slowly curled around it. “You’re not wearing it?”

“No.” The answer came too quickly, without the sheepish smile you had expected, and something unpleasant tightened beneath your ribs.

“Why not?”

Max sighed, already sensing that the conversation was becoming more serious than he believed it needed to be. He stepped closer and placed his hands on your waist, rubbing his thumbs over the soft fabric of your jumper as if affection alone would smooth the concern from your face.

“It’s uncomfortable, it catches on everything,” he explained. “Especially when I’m driving or training. I keep noticing it and I don’t really like wearing jewellery anyway,” flexing his fingers as though the ring had been causing him some terrible physical hardship rather than a faint inconvenience.

“You’ve worn it for nearly two years.”

“Yes and it’s annoyed me for nearly two years.”

You stared at him but he just smiled, trying his best to make it sound harmless. “Not because it’s our wedding ring… just because it’s a ring.”

“It never seemed to bother you before.”

“It did. I just didn’t say anything because I knew you would take it personally.”

“I’m not taking it personally.”

“You are.”

“Well you never said anything.”

“Because I knew you'd be upset.” His answer came too easily. You looked at him for several seconds, waiting for some awareness of how unhelpful that confession was, but Max merely took a small step back.

“So you knew it would hurt me, and you decided to do it anyway.”

His expression tightened. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s very close.”

“I just told you.” Max lifted one hand to your cheek. “It has nothing to do with you. I love you. I am married to you. I am completely committed to you and a ring does not change any of that.”

“It represents it.”

“To other people maybe.”

“To me.”

His hand fell away from your face and he looked briefly frustrated, although he tried to conceal it. Max had never understood attaching enormous significance to objects. He cared about actions, loyalty and the things that existed privately between you, the parts of your marriage that did not require an audience. To him the ring was a symbol of something he already knew with complete certainty and symbols had always mattered less to him than facts.

The fact was that he loved you.

The fact was that he came home to you.

The fact was that he had stood in front of everyone who mattered and promised that there would never be anybody else for as long as he lived.

He didn’t understand why a narrow band of gold should carry more weight than all of that.

“It doesn’t make me more married when I wear it,” he said carefully. “And taking it off doesn’t make me less married. You know that.”

“I know.”

“Then what are you asking?”

“I suppose I was asking you to care that it means something to me.”

Max’s expression faltered, but only briefly. He stepped back towards you and placed both hands on your waist again, drawing you close despite the stiffness in your body. His voice softened as he kissed your forehead, evidently believing the affection should reassure you more effectively than any further discussion.

“I care about everything that matters to you,” he murmured. “But I think you’re taking this personally when it has nothing to do with you.”

You pulled back enough to look at him. “You keep saying that as if it helps.”

“It should help. I love you.”

“I know.” you repeated

“Then trust that.”

You did trust it. That was almost the most irritating part.

It’s not like Max was trying to appear single. He wasn’t ashamed of you, nor was he concealing your marriage from anybody. He spoke about you constantly, often without realising he had done it, he’d developed a habit of beginning stories with my wife even when your marital status had absolutely no relevance to what followed. There was no hidden intention behind his decision as far as you could tell.

Still, it hurt.

Perhaps because you remembered how he’d looked at the ring on your wedding day, turning your hand beneath the light with a tenderness that had made your chest ache. Or maybe because he’d spent weeks before the ceremony pretending not to care about the design only to privately contact the jeweller three separate times to ensure the engraving was exactly right. Possibly because after the wedding you’d caught him looking down at his own hand with a small, private smile, as though the ring proved something he’d once been afraid he would never have.

It had meant something then.

You didn’t understand why it suddenly meant nothing now.

“I don’t want to argue before you leave,” you said, placing the ring back on the bedside table.

Max studied your face. “Then don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’ve hurt you.”

You gave him a thin smile. “You should go. You’re already late.”

He kissed your forehead before leaving, lingering for a moment as though reluctant to end the conversation there, but he still left the ring behind.

Over the next week you tried to let it go. You reminded yourself repeatedly that he hadn’t changed. There no secret motive for you to uncover, no suspicious behaviour hiding beneath his decision and no sudden reluctance to acknowledge your marriage. Max spoke about you constantly, often with an unmistakable pride that made even strangers aware of how thoroughly his life had rearranged itself around you. He introduced you as his wife when everybody in the room already knew who you were, kept photographs of you tucked into places he thought you’d never noticed and called you after almost every meeting, flight or race because he seemed to measure the passing of his days by when he could speak to you again. He still reached for your hand beneath restaurant tables, and he still pulled you against him in his sleep as though even unconsciousness made him possessive of the space between you. He continued to behave exactly like your husband.

He simply did it without looking like one.

Other people noticed.

His mother asked whether his fingers had swollen from training. One of the mechanics jokingly asked if he’d already lost it. A journalist’s gaze dropped conspicuously towards his hand during an interview before she carefully rephrased a question about how married life was treating him.

Max answered every comment with the same calm explanation.

He didn’t like jewellery.

The ring was uncomfortable for his style of work.

It did not mean anything.

You smiled whenever somebody looked towards you for reassurance, unwilling to admit that each repetition made the irritation beneath your skin burn a little hotter.

The final push came at a sponsor dinner in Monaco.

You were standing beside Max while he spoke with a group of executives, only half following the conversation as you watched a woman at the edge of the group look him over. She was subtle about it, but not subtle enough. Her attention lingered on his face, his shoulders and then, predictably, his bare left hand.

Her smile changed.

She stepped closer.

You watched her direct questions exclusively at him, laugh too brightly at comments that were not particularly funny and touch his forearm while making a point. Max remained oblivious, answering politely and occasionally glancing towards you, but he didn’t move away from her touch until he saw your expression.

Then he shifted immediately, placing a hand at the small of your back and drawing you closer.

“This is my wife,” he said, although you’d already been introduced.

The woman looked briefly embarrassed. “Of course.”

Max’s hand remained firmly against you for the rest of the conversation.

In the car afterwards he glanced towards you several times before eventually saying, “You’re quiet tonight.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’re annoyed.”

“I’m apparently always annoyed now.”

“She knew I was married.”

“After you told her.”

Max frowned.

“She looked at your hand, saw no ring and thought she could try.”

“And then I told her you were my wife.”

You turned towards the window. “Exactly.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “You’re making this into something it’s not.”

“I— I, maybe.” You stuttered slightly, and then looked back out the window.

The ease of your agreement made him suspicious, but he decided to let it go as you said nothing else.

The following morning you removed your wedding ring.

You didn’t announce it, you didn’t leave it pointedly on his side of the bathroom counter or place it somewhere he would be forced to notice. You simply slipped it from your finger while getting dressed and put it inside the small jewellery box in your wardrobe.

For the first few hours Max didn’t realise. He kissed you goodbye, left for a meeting and sent you two irritated messages about traffic. When he returned home in the afternoon he found you in the kitchen arranging flowers that had been delivered earlier that day.

He walked behind you, wrapped both arms around your waist and kissed the side of your neck.

“Who sent these?”

“The foundation.”

“For what?”

“The charity dinner next week.”

He reached around you to examine the card, and his gaze fell upon your hand.

His entire body went still.

You felt the change immediately, although you continued trimming the stem of a flower.

“Where’s your ring?”

The question sounded remarkably similar to the one you’d asked him a week earlier, except there was none of your tentative confusion in his voice. Max sounded sharp, alert and instantly displeased.

“In my jewellery box.”

“Why?”

“It was uncomfortable.”

He released you slowly. You could almost feel him arranging his response, separating what he wanted to say from what he was allowed to say. When you finally turned around, his jaw was set and his eyes were fixed on your bare finger.

“Your ring has never been uncomfortable. You’ve taken it off because I stopped wearing mine.” Max sighed frustrated.

“I thought you said it didn’t matter.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“Perhaps it’s annoyed me for years and I never said anything because I knew you would take it personally.”

His gaze lifted to yours. “You’re doing this to prove a point.”

“I’m just doing the same thing you are.”

“No you aren’t.”

“Why does the reason matter if the ring doesn’t? How is it different?”

“Because you like wearing yours.”

“You don’t get to decide whether I like wearing it.”

“I know you like it.” His voice tightened. “You play with it when you are nervous. You touch it whenever somebody asks about the wedding. You never take it off unless you’re showering or sleeping.”

“Maybe I changed my mind.”

“You didn’t change your mind. You’re trying to irritate me.”

You returned your attention to the flowers, choosing another stem. “Why would it irritate you? A ring doesn’t make me more married, and taking it off doesn’t make me less married. You know I love you. You know I’m committed to you. I shouldn’t need jewellery to prove that.”

Max stared at you in silence.

Hearing his own reasoning returned to him should have ended the argument. Instead, it seemed to make something darker and more complicated move behind his eyes.

“I don’t like it,” he said eventually.

You tried not to smile. “That sounds personal.”

“It is personal.”

“Interesting.”

“Put it back on.”

You looked at him then, unable to conceal your disbelief. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am serious.”

“So you can decide that you don’t want to wear yours, but I have to wear mine because you’ve told me to?”

“I didn’t tell you that you had to.”

“You just said, ‘Put it back on.’”

Max looked increasingly frustrated, not with you so much as with the fact that he had walked directly into a trap constructed from his own words. He rubbed a hand across his mouth, glancing again at your empty finger.

“You’re my wife.”

“And you’re my husband.”

“I know.”

“People can’t tell that when they look at your hand.”

“I’ll tell them.”

“And I’ll tell them,” you shot back quick.

“That’s not the point,” The words escaped before he could stop them.

Your eyebrows rose. “No?”

Max closed his eyes briefly.

He knew he was being hypocritical. He knew every argument he wanted to make could be dismantled with something he’d already said to you, and more importantly, he knew you knew it too.

You waited, but he had nothing else to offer. He couldn’t admit that the sight bothered him without giving validity to everything he’d dismissed, and he was too proud to concede the argument when he still believed his original reasoning made sense.

“All right,” you said eventually. “Then it shouldn’t be a problem.”

The following days became a quiet war.

Neither of you wore your ring and neither of you mentioned it. Max’s discomfort however, became increasingly obvious.

At dinner with friends he watched the waiter smile at you for a little too long while describing the specials. When you thanked him, Max’s hand immediately settled possessively on your thigh beneath the table. At a party an acquaintance you’d met only once before touched your elbow and asked whether you were attending alone. Max appeared at your side before you could answer.

“No,” he said, sliding an arm around your waist. “She’s here with her husband.”

The man blinked. “I didn’t realise.”

You pressed your lips together to hide your amusement.

Max did not find any of it amusing.

Without your ring every innocent interaction seemed to catch his attention, he noticed men looking at you in bars, strangers finding reasons to start conversations and old friends becoming slightly too familiar. Most of them likely would have behaved exactly the same way had the ring been there, but Max no longer had that immediate, visible claim to comfort himself with.

It made him restless.

It also made him clingy.

His hand rarely left your waist in public, he introduced you as his wife with unnecessary frequency. He kissed you more openly, sometimes in the middle of conversations, and stood so close behind you that the front of his body remained pressed to your back.

You knew precisely what he was doing.

He was replacing the symbol he had dismissed with constant physical reminders that you belonged together.

The hypocrisy was so obvious that you expected him to surrender.

Instead, the disagreement became something neither of you could address without reigniting the original argument. Max refused to wear his ring, and you refused to wear yours, while both of you quietly resented the other for making the same choice.

The situation finally broke at the next race weekend.

A set of images from a sponsor dinner appeared online showing you and Max standing several feet apart during a conversation. In one photograph his bare left hand was visible and in another, so was yours.

The speculation began almost immediately.

Most people dismissed it, but enough accounts repeated the suggestion that your marriage might be in trouble for the rumour to reach journalists. A reporter asked Max about it during a media session, disguising the question as casual concern.

Max’s face hardened instantly.

“My marriage is fine,” he answered.

The journalist began to clarify, but Max interrupted.

“It’s more than fine. My wife and I are very happy and there’s no story.”

When he came back to the hotel that evening, he was furious. You were sitting on the sofa when he entered, his phone clenched in one hand. He tossed it down on the table and began removing his jacket with agitated movements.

“They’re saying we separated.”

“I saw.”

“We could’ve released something.”

“A statement announcing that our marriage is intact but neither of us likes wearing jewellery?”

Max looked at you sharply. “This is not funny.”

“I don’t think it’s funny.”

“They’re saying you’ve moved out.”

“I’m sitting in our hotel room.”

“They don’t know that.”

You held his gaze. “You can tell them.”

The reminder of his own words made his jaw clench.

“I did tell them.”

“Then there shouldn’t be a problem.”

“There is a problem when thousands of people think my wife has left me.”

“Why do you care what they think?”

“I don’t care about them.”

“Then who?”

Max turned away, pacing towards the window before facing you again.

“I care that somebody might believe you’re available.”

There it was again, the truth he kept revealing in pieces without ever allowing himself to examine it fully.

“You know I’m not.”

“That’s not the point.”

You stood slowly. “That’s exactly what you said to me.”

“I know what I said.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, and I still believe it. I know you’re committed to me. I know a ring doesn’t change that.”

“But you hate other people not knowing.”

Max didn’t answer.

“You hate the possibility that someone might look at my hand and think there’s space for them in my life,” you continued. “You hate having to explain that I’m your wife after they’ve already approached me, and you hate that people are looking at photographs and questioning whether our marriage is secure.”

“Obviously.”

The answer was quiet, but it came without hesitation.

“That’s how I felt when you took yours off.”

“It’s not the same.”

Your frustration finally broke through. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because I didn’t take it off to hurt you!”

“And I didn’t take mine off to make people think I’d left you, I took it off because you made me feel foolish for caring about it.”

Max stopped. You had said versions of the same thing before, but never so directly. His anger faltered as he looked at you.

“You treated the ring like it was meaningless,” you said. “You made me feel shallow.”

“I never said you were shallow.”

“You kept telling me that your love should be enough, as though wanting the symbol as well meant I didn’t trust you. I never thought you were going to cheat on me. I never thought you wanted to look single. I only wanted you to understand that it meant something to see you choose to wear it.”

Max’s eyes lowered towards your hand.

“And when you refused,” you continued, your voice less steady now, “I started looking at mine and feeling stupid. Every time I wore it beside you, it felt as though I was publicly claiming something you’d decided was too inconvenient to acknowledge in the same way.”

“That’s not what I was doing.”

“I know… logically I know, but it’s how it made me feel.”

He came closer, but you stepped back before he could touch you. The movement seemed to wound him more than anything else you’d said.

“I need some air,” you murmured.

“It’s late.”

“I’m going downstairs, not leaving the country.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“I’d like to go alone.”

Max’s face changed. His protective instinct battled visibly with his awareness that following you would only make the situation worse.

You picked up your phone and left before he could decide.

The hotel bar was quiet, occupied mostly by guests finishing late drinks after the event. You found a seat at the far end of the counter and ordered water, wanting space more than alcohol.

You’d been alone for less than ten minutes when a man took the seat beside you. You recognised him vaguely although you couldn’t remember his name. He worked for one of the sponsors and had spoken to you earlier in the evening while Max was occupied.

“Escaping the crowd?” he asked.

“Something like that.”

He smiled. “I was hoping I might see you again.”

The intention behind the comment was clear enough to make you straighten.

“I’m married.”

His gaze dropped predictably towards your hand.

“I heard there might be some uncertainty about that.”

“There isn’t.”

The firmness of your answer should have ended the conversation instead he leaned one arm against the bar. “Then your husband is a very lucky man.”

“We both are.”

“Does he know you’re down here alone?”

You turned towards him fully. “I don’t need my husband’s permission to sit in a hotel bar.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“It sounded like it.”

Before the man could respond, a familiar voice came from behind you.

“She also doesn’t need to explain herself to you.”

Max stood several feet away, his expression too controlled to be anything but anger. His sleeves were rolled unevenly, the top buttons of his shirt undone like he had followed you before he could stop himself.

The man rose. “We were only talking.”

“I heard enough.” When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but unbridled jealousy sat beneath every word.

“Max,” you warned.

His gaze shifted to you, softening for only a second before returning to the man.

“She told you she was married.”

“I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Then leaving should be easy.”

The man muttered something beneath his breath but walked away. Max watched until he disappeared through the doors, then turned towards you. His restraint was already fraying.

“What were you thinking?”

Your disbelief was immediate. “Excuse me?”

“Sitting down here alone without your ring while people are saying we separated.”

“I told him I was married.”

“He didn’t care.”

“And that’s my fault?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what are you angry about?”

“That he looked at you as if he had a chance!”

His voice rose enough to draw attention from the other end of the bar. Max noticed it too, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to lower his voice, but the emotion was still there, sharp and impossible to hide.

For a second neither of you said anything more. Then Max looked around the room, like he had only just remembered where you were.

“We’re not doing this here,” he said.

You should have argued. Part of you wanted to, just to make him stand there a little longer with all that jealousy burning under his skin, but the truth was, your own chest felt too tight, and you hated the idea of strangers pretending not to listen.

So you walked past him towards the lifts.

Max followed half a step behind you, close enough that you could feel him there, but not touching you. That somehow made it worse. He was usually all hands when he was like this hand on your waist, fingers at your back, some small claim disguised as care. Now he seemed to know he had lost the right to do it.

The lift ride was silent.

The moment the hotel room door clicked shut behind you, the argument picked up exactly where it had left off.

“You don’t get to be angry at me for this,” you said, turning on him.

Max was already facing you, one hand still on the door handle. “I’m not angry at you.”

“You are.”

“No I’m angry because he thought he had a chance, he sat beside you because he thought you were alone and when you said you were married he looked at your hand and decided he didn’t have to respect it.”

“That is exactly what happened to me when that woman approached you.”

“I know.”

“You dismissed it.”

“I know.”

“Then why are we still having this argument?”

Max stared at you, breathing hard as the anger gradually drained from his face. In its place came something far more exposed.

“Because I was wrong.”

The admission was not enough to soothe you immediately, particularly after weeks of stubbornness.

“You could have said that days ago.”

“I always understood that it upset you,” he continued. “I guess I just didn’t fully understand why.”

“And now?”

Max looked down at your hand. “Now… I still think a ring doesn’t make us married,” he admitted. “I still think what we have is more important than whether other people can see it.”

You waited.

“But I hate that they can’t see it.”

There it was, not quite an apology, but close.

You leaned back against the table. “Why?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, as if the answer should have been obvious.

“Because you’re mine.”

You gave him a warning look laced with a smirk.

“You know what I mean,” he said quickly. “Not that I own you, but you’re my person. You’re my wife, and I don’t like somebody looking at you and thinking that place beside you might be available.”

“It isn’t.”

“No.” Max stepped closer. “But I like that it tells them before they ask.”

You studied him for a long moment Max came to stand between your knees, his hands settling on your hips. Unlike all the other times he’d touched you over the past week there was no performance in it now, no deliberate need to show anybody what you were to each other. It was only the two of you in the small room.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You made me feel ridiculous.”

“I’m really sorry.”

He bowed his head towards yours, “I thought you were putting too much meaning into an object when you should already know how I feel. I didn’t really consider that wearing it was one of the ways I showed you how I feel.”

“And?”

“And I have been an enormous hypocrite.”

A laugh slipped out before you could stop it.

Max’s mouth twitched. “I knew that would make you happy.”

“A little.”

He brushed his thumb over the place where your ring usually rested.

“I don’t like jewellery,” he said. “That part is true. I still find the ring uncomfortable sometimes.”

You gave him a flat look.

“But I would rather notice it a hundred times a day than make you believe I don’t value what it represents.”

“Then we can find one that isn’t.”

He looked at you. “What?”

“A thinner band. A different material. Something you barely notice. I never said it had to be the exact ring we bought for the wedding.”

Max frowned as though this practical solution had somehow never occurred to him. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“The ring matters because you’re choosing to wear it. I don’t care whether it’s gold, silver, silicone or something you found inside a cereal box.”

“A cereal box?”

“Perhaps not that.”

He smiled properly then, his shoulders finally relaxing.

“I’ll wear the original when we go somewhere important,” he said. “And we can find something more comfortable for every day.”

“That sounds fair.”

“But you have to put yours back on.”

You lifted an eyebrow.

Max corrected himself reluctantly. “I would very much like you to put yours back on.”

“And not because you nearly had an aneurysm when a man assumed I was single?”

He slid one hand around the back of your neck, leaning closer until his forehead rested against yours.

“I trust you,” he murmured. “I don’t trust other people to behave properly around you.”

“You can’t be angry with them for not knowing I’m married when you’re the one who said I shouldn’t need a ring to show it.”

“I can be angry about whatever I like. I simply can’t blame you for it.”

You smiled. “Growth.”

His mouth found yours the kiss beginning soft before deepening with the same possessive edge that had coloured his behaviour all week. His hands tightened around your waist, pulling you firmly against him, and you felt the last of the tension in his body finally ease when your arms settled around his neck.

When he pulled back, he kissed the corner of your mouth once more.

“Will you wear it tomorrow?”

“I haven’t brought mine,” you said.

“It’s here.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I put it in the hotel safe.”

“You’ve known where it was this entire time?”

“Yes.”

“And you brought it with us?”

His expression became faintly sheepish. “I didn’t like leaving it at home.”

The confession was so painfully hypocritical that you stared at him.

“You carried my wedding ring across countries while insisting it did not matter?”

“Hey, I’ve already admitted I was wrong don’t I get some credit for that?”

“Will you wear yours?”

“Yes.”

“Even if it’s uncomfortable?”

Max sighed dramatically. “Until we replace it.”

You pretended to consider it.

“Then yes.”

The relief on his face was almost comical.

Later he retrieved your ring from the safe and placed it in your palm without immediately asking you to wear it. He sat beside you on the edge of the bed, his knee pressed against yours while he waited.

He held out his hand.

You took his ring first.

For a moment you simply turned it between your fingers, tracing the engraved date hidden along the inside. Then you slid it slowly back onto his finger. Max watched you with an intensity that made the moment feel strangely reminiscent of your wedding, stripped of the ceremony and the guests but not of its meaning.

He picked up yours next.

“I don’t need this to know you love me,” he said, looking at you rather than your hand.

“I know.”

“And you don’t need mine.”

“No.”

“But I will wear it because it matters to you.”

You softened. “And I’ll wear mine because it apparently keeps you from glaring at every innocent man who speaks to me.”

“None of them were innocent.” He growled.

“Max.” You laughed as he slipped the ring back onto your finger.

His thumb passed over it once, then again, and you watched the familiar satisfaction settle over his face. He lifted your hand to his mouth, kissing directly above the band before lacing your fingers together.

The rings didn’t make you married. They didn’t create the loyalty between you nor did they guarantee it. They couldn’t carry the full weight of every promise you had made or every private thing your marriage had become, but as Max stared down at your joined hands, both bands finally returned to their places he seemed to understand that symbols did not have to replace the truth to matter.

Sometimes they simply reminded you of it.

“Is it poison?” she questions Grand Maester Gerardys, her arms crossed on her chest.

He nods. “It seems as so. We believe it is from the wine she drank at supper.”

“Can’t you open a window?!” you yell with a cracking voice.

Silence fills the room after the outburst. Both Rhaenyra and Gerardys glance over. You do the same once you see a smile fall over her face, one she fails to bite back.

The windows are open.

“All of the windows are open, princess,” Gerardys mumbles.

“Yes, I can see that now, thank you.” Your head falls back onto the pillow, allowing your dampened hair to reconnect with your sweaty nape and back. “Will I die tonight, Gerardys?” you question, almost joking.

“No, no, princess,” he says. “Not tonight.”

Your head shoots back up from its resting position. Rhaenyra is already looking at him, any sign of her former coyness erased from her features.

“It seems the poison was mixed with the wine,” he begins. “Therefore, unless the culprit is found, it will be quite difficult to tell whatever was infused in the drink. And given your symptoms, unless somehow magically cured, there is not much I can do.”

“Not much you can do?” Rhaenyra exclaims, her arms now at her side.

Gerardys lowers his voice and steps closer to her. “Not unless you would like me to find a maegi.”

She takes one look over at you. You look full of fear, full of suffering, but most of all—full of regret. “That wont be necessary,” she mutters. “If you’ll let me speak to my sister alone?”

“Of course, your grace.” He leaves the room. Rhaenyra watches him go, not looking back until the door swings back shut.

She makes her way to your bedside so swiftly it was as if she was running. The screech of the chair she pulls to sit on hurts your ears more than any of the conversation you had just been put through. You wish your protector was here instead. He would be able to help you. He would have to help you.

“Tell me,” she commands, already leaning forward, her hands folded in her lap.

You lift your body off the sheets, but they stick to you as you rise. “Tell you what?”

“Don’t play the fool. You know what I’m referring to,”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t, Your Grace.”

She scoffs out a laugh after that. Two of her fingers settle on the bridge of her nose. “Your condition is of your own volition. If you tell me what you drank, it will be easier for me to find a solution.”

You look at her. She isn’t smiling. There’s no hidden agenda beneath her stoic expression, none of the small facial cues you spent your childhood learning to decipher. She truly wants to help you.

And your body feels like it could give out at any moment. No, you want it to give out at any moment. You’re starting to feel nauseous.

You’ll do about anything to stop whatever you did to yourself.

You exhale a heavy breath. “You mustn’t tell anyone what I did.”

Rhaenyra lets herself crack a smile. “Gods, sister, what did you do?”

“I am unwed. Undesired,” you mumble. “I thought it clever to…”

“To what?” Rhaenyra presses, leaning closer.

You sigh and cover your face with your hands. You mutter something so quiet you don’t even hear it in your own ears.

“What did you say?” she asks softly.

“I had a potion brewed.”

Rhaenyra lets out a sharp breath through her nose. “Oh, Gods, sister—“

“You don’t understand! The Realm’s Delight, the most beautiful maiden in all of the Seven Kingdoms—you could have anyone and anything you desire!” you argue. “It isn’t the same for me. Even if it were, I don’t get to choose—”

“I’ve heard enough.” You finally remove your hands from your face, both now sheen with a layer of sweat as is the rest of your body. Rhaenyra is now standing at the edge of your bed, pacing back and forth. “When you had the potion brewed, did the alchemist tell you of any cure?”

“No…” you mumble.

“Well.” Rhaenyra sighs. She gazes over at you, but avoids your own. “I can presume what it is.”

You know what remains unsaid. It is torturous enough for your own sister to know of the humiliation you’ve brought upon yourself. For her, the queen, to be made uncomfortable by the revelation? You get a sudden urge to throw yourself from the highest point of the Red Keep. It would cure all of the emotions swirling in your head.

The writhing starts all over again. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your own body. In your peripheral, you can see Rhaenyra stop moving. She faces forward to look at you as you thrash around the mattress.

“I know what must be done,” she says. And she leaves the room.

You are left alone in your torture. Now seems about the best time to consider your future. You could jump from the window. It would be quick. You’d be remembered as tragic. Never wed, without children, lonely, jumped from her bedroom window after being poisoned—Rhaenyra would spread the word of poison. She wouldn’t subject the public to the truth.

You suck in a breath as you rise from the bed, dragging your feet to the window. The air fanning on your face makes you hopeful for about fives seconds before the sun finally catches on your skin and shines over the moisture on your skin.

The ache in your body almost certifies that you wouldn’t be able to hoist yourself onto the windowsill without some help.

Maybe your protector would help you. You could say you need more air. He certainly wouldn’t help cure your self-inflicted debilitation—he is too honorable. No—he’s too insistent on protecting your honor to do anything to you.

The door swings open again.

Rhaenyra enters first. You watch her panic once she does not immediately spot you on the bed, then watch her settle once she finds you by the window. There is someone behind her.

The person unveils themself from the shadows.

It is your sworn shield and protector. Ser Gwayne Hightower.

He steps into the room, and it is like your legs turn to water. He notices this, and dashes across the room to wrap his arms around your waist, stabilizing you. Once you are brought back to your feet, you let out a moan. It is almost embarrassing, but you couldn’t care less now.

Gwayne is touching you. Sometimes, the Gods do work in your favor. You slowly look up at him. He is already staring down at you, concerned at your condition, of course—and probably confused as to why you just moaned when he touched you—and you place a hand on his shoulder. Your other arm wraps around his bicep.

“I shall leave you to it.” Rhaenyra is out of the room with a slam of the door before you can look over to acknowledge her. When you look back, Gwayne still has his gaze fixed on you.

The contact you share feels truly breathtaking, perhaps because it is. It does feel quite hard to take in any air. You find your body inching closer to his, desperate for closer proximity. You feel your nipples, hard under your smallclothes, brush against his gambeson. You let your head fall onto his sternum, and it is then that you realize what you are doing, and immediately push away.

You stumble back to the bed, sitting on its edge, and shame washes over you. Gwayne hasn’t moved from his spot by the window. He still stares at you, however.

“My princess.” He steps closer. You hold up a finger as if to tell him to stop, and he does. “I cannot bear to see you in this condition. I only wish to help.”

“Help with what?” you breathe.

He remains silent.

“What exactly did Rhaenyra tell you?” you question.

Silence.

“Tell me. I command it.”

His gaze shifts to the ground. “Her Grace informed me of your condition.”

“You already knew of my condition. What else did she tell you?”

He looks back up at you. “She revealed to me the nature of your condition. What exactly brought it on.”

“Gods,” you mutter under your breath and squeeze your eyes shut. This cannot be real.

“How it can be cured,” he adds.

Your brows tighten. You hope that when you open your eyes again, he will be gone, and this will all have been a figment of your imagination.

When you do so, you find that this is the realest he has ever been. Ser Gwayne of House Hightower, in all his glory. He glistens in the flare of the sun. His hair, usually a light brown, shimmers auburn in the light. It looks similar to his sister’s in a certain light.

You can see the resemblance, him and his father. You would rather not, but it is there. He is certainly more alluring.

“I want to help you.” He takes a single step closer. “I need to help you.”

Your head is cocked to the side, though only out of exhaustion. It feels to heavy to carry yourself.

“When you swore yourself as my protector, I vowed that I would ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. What do you reckon this is?” you scoff out a laugh, feeling the whole situation truly ironic.

“It would not bring me dishonor if nobody discovers it.” His voice is low. He closes the window, then moves to close the other. “In fact, I swore first to protect you from any and all harm. I believe that prevails over bringing me dishonor.” You watch him then as he travels to the door. The lock clicks shut, and the sound of it travels to your core.

Not only is he able, he is willing.

He turns back to you, and you lock eyes. His brows are turned upwards at the corners—it is true, desperate concern etched onto his face. You can only imagine how disheveled you look.

You sigh, but it comes out as more of a moan, and let your head hang low.

Gwayne is across the room in a moment, kneeling down in front of you. He removes the gloves from his hands, settling them on the ground beside him, and then places his hands on your clothed thighs. The contact draws the linens slightly upwards. How you wish he would just slide them all the way up and just kiss your cun—

You close your eyes and draw in a long breath.

“Tell me what you need,” he purrs. Your eyes shoot back open, and his hands move to hold your hips. “I am yours.”

You want to. Gods, who are you kidding? You need to tell him, because he will do it, but you can’t. The words freeze on your tongue. Where do you even start?

But he is knelt before you, almost pathetic in his attempt at a remedy, so eager on helping you.

Why must you tell him?

You grab the cloth at your thighs and curl your fingers enough times until it is bunched up near your crotch. All that prevents him from laying eyes on your bare cunt is closed legs. You let them spread, gruelingly slow, pushing Gwayne’s hands from your hips in the process.

He does not look away from your face. “Tell me. Please,” he whimpers, letting his fingers graze the sides of your thighs.

You stammer, and squirm once more. “I need you to touch me,” you declare.

Gwayne nods once. “As you wish.”

And he hoists your legs over his shoulders and his face inches closer and closer to your core until his lips latch onto your clit. And finally, for once since drinking the stupid wine, you feel bliss. You’ve never felt something like this before.

It surges through your body and your entire body twitches violently. Gwayne lifts his arms up and grips your hips back again, using the hold to tug your cunt farther into his mouth. He eats you like a man starved.

You did not realize of the noises you were making until you nearly screamed, letting your head fall back. Your hands snake into his hair, pulling his head closer to your core.

He releases your clit from his lips. “Tastes so good—my princess—” his words fan over your damp slit, and he leans down to lick a thick stripe from bottom to top, collecting your arousal into onto his tongue. He swallows it with a loud gulp.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Gwayne continues his assault on your clit, sucking down hard. Your hips roll toward the allure of his lips. You are panting and gasping, hand bunching up his hair into your fist.

Heat flows through your entire body. It is a mix of the feeling you felt upon drinking that curséd wine and something incredible. True, pure ecstasy. You feel the blood of the dragon in you now. You understand it.

An unfamiliar ache begins to tighten in your lower stomach as he persists in lapping at your cunt. Nothing in your life has ever felt so good. You wonder if this is the true effect of the wine, or if it is just because it is your first time—you cannot really think about anything else. His tongue flattens and rolls against your clit and you choke on a moan.

Your muscles tense, your toes curl, and your heels dig into his back. His tongue presses and prods against you and he can feel it coming, the way your thighs tighten around him and shake and spasm.

Shudders wrack your body as you cum. He does not stop even when you do, even when your moans crescendo, his tongue still relentlessly ravishes your cunt even after you fall back onto the bed.

Finally, he lets go of your core with a wet pop.

It is then that you realize the burn has subsided. Relief washes over you momentarily.

But it returns as quickly as it went away. It flows through your body and you feel desperate for him once again.

He crawls up your body, caging you in between his arms, searching for something beneath your fucked-out expression.

“It isn’t enough—” you declare, your breath labored.

“What do you require?” Gwayne rasps, using a hand to brush your hair off of your forehead. His touch wavers in concern when he realizes the scorch of your skin.

“I need—” you paw at his clothed cock. “Your—”

“My what?” he pants.

“I need you inside,” you mutter.

Without a word, he begins shedding his garments. You were simply too dazed to admire it. Perhaps if there is a next time—Gods you hope there is a next time—you’ll get to do exactly that.

He is crawling back over you in an instant, his body bare. You run your hands up his chest, dragging the ball of your hand over his sternum. His cock hits your pelvis.

Your smallclothes, practically wet at this point, Gwayne lifts slightly at your waist. “Would you like me to take this off?” he asks.

You nod lazily.

He shimmies the linen up your body. “Sit up for a moment, sweet girl,” he instructs, and you obey.

They are finally, finally off, discarded somewhere across the room, and it feels much better being exposed than you expected it to be. There is no insecurity when you are with him. He just wants to help.

He grabs a pillow from off the head of the bed, lifting your hips up with a swift sleight of hand and shoving it under. “For your comfort,” he clarifies.

His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, his elbow resting beside your shoulder, as his other hand reaches down to grip his cock.

You look into his eyes, trying to search for anything past pure devotion and adoration for what he sees before him, and failing. Your lips falter as they reach up to lock with his. He meets you halfway.

Your hand tangles in his hair, pressing his head down harder onto your wet lips. The kiss is unpracticed and messy. Has he done this before? With anyone else, you mean. You should ask once you finish.

Gwayne enters you in a slow thrust, inhaling the noise you make into his mouth. His hand, the one that was cradling your cheek, finds itself on the nape of your neck.

His lips depart from your own, and he presses his forehead against yours, looking down to watch his cock sink into your cunt. He withdraws and sinks in once more, just to see it again. And again. And again. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the torturous drag of his length into you.

Your lips are parted, throat singing moans so frequent you’d think you were performing for him. You know you are being too loud. It feels impossible to be anything but.

Those gorgeous blue eyes of his find their way back to yours. "Oh—fuck, look at you," he praises, no longer needing the arm that guided his cock into you to guide his cock into you, so he raises it up to your mouth.

His thumb glides over your teeth, and then pushes past them. You wrap a hand around his wrist and suck on the digit. Up and down, up and down, as if it were his cock. He almost freezes inside of you.

Your hand slides up his, grabbing his pointer and middle-finger, swapping his thumb out for them. You do the same to them, bobbing your head up and down, moaning around them, and Gwayne fucking whimpers.

He resumes his movements. His cock throbs, your walls wrapping around him, sucking him in like you were made for him—or more so he was made for you, because he was. He is your man. He will be your man until the day he dies.

His fingers leave your mouth, and your saliva connects to the pads of them. He takes them into his own mouth momentarily.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, pulling his body down to connect to yours. His hand snakes between you, gripping your hardened nipple, earning a gasp from you.

“I’m yours, my princess,” he murmurs, drunk-like. “I’m yours.” And he presses his lips all down your neck, the trail all wet and sloppy.

You’re clenching around him, body spasming from under his caging hold. You feel close to a similar sort of climax that you felt only once before, just then when his head was between your legs. With each slap of his skin against yours, you are screaming. He mutters things, most you can’t quite catch, but they’re all something like that’s it, sweet girl, and let it out, my princess.

He uses his forearm to rise from the skin-to-skin contact you had forced him into. His fingers, desperate yet nimble, work themselves to the small of your back. The contact releases your skin from the suction of the pillowcase, and he lifts your hips up more with his arm now wrapped around them.

His pace quickens. You glance down, and nearly sob at the sight of him disappearing inside you.

“Gwayne?” you look back up at him. Again, he is already staring back at you, ready and willing to fulfill your every need.

“Yes, my princess?” he heaves.

“Kiss me.”

As you wish, is he would have said, if it weren’t for him immediately giving in to your wish. He kisses like he is eating you. Messy. His spit somehow finds itself all around your mouth. You don't notice that you do the same to him.

Your orgasm slams into you. It is a violent punch that knocks the wind out of you—you think you see the Stranger reaching out to you—then you feel Gwayne slow his movements and a thick liquid coat your insides. You babble incomprehensible speech as you ride it out.

“Fuck—” you hear him mutter, and pull out quickly. He runs a finger up your slit, not considering the fact that you were still beyond sensitive—you jerk back at his touch, still trying to catch your breath.

It was like all air was running from you. It probably was. You violently pushed it back out with every small inhale of it.

You finally come to, and realize he has been repeating the words fuck, fuck, fuck, since he pulled out.

“What’s wrong?” you raise a hand to hold his cheek, bringing his attention back to you.

“You don’t—” he pauses. And he sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. “I wasn’t supposed to cum inside.”

You’re still confused. “What’s the problem?”

“That is how you get pregnant.” He lets out one last heavy sigh and then falls onto his back beside you.

You turn onto your side, resting your head on one of the arms he lies beneath your shoulder, and bringing a hand up to place it on his chest. His is still rising and falling as rapidly as yours is.

Your fingers trace your name onto his chest. He is none-the-wiser, but you still smirk at the action. Your man.

“Will you ask the maesters to brew me moon tea?” you mumble.

He brings his other hand to hold yours. “As you wish.”

You chuckle breathily.

“Are you—are you cured?” he says, playing with your fingers.

“I suppose so.” You sigh. The need for him no longer thrums through you in the way that it did before.

Now you want him in a different way. A normal, human, potionless way. The way you wanted him before you drank that wine—you thought it would make you seductive enough for him. It certainly worked, you assume.

“Is it poison?” she questions Grand Maester Gerardys, her arms crossed on her chest.

He nods. “It seems as so. We believe it is from the wine she drank at supper.”

“Can’t you open a window?!” you yell with a cracking voice.

Silence fills the room after the outburst. Both Rhaenyra and Gerardys glance over. You do the same once you see a smile fall over her face, one she fails to bite back.

The windows are open.

“All of the windows are open, princess,” Gerardys mumbles.

“Yes, I can see that now, thank you.” Your head falls back onto the pillow, allowing your dampened hair to reconnect with your sweaty nape and back. “Will I die tonight, Gerardys?” you question, almost joking.

“No, no, princess,” he says. “Not tonight.”

Your head shoots back up from its resting position. Rhaenyra is already looking at him, any sign of her former coyness erased from her features.

“It seems the poison was mixed with the wine,” he begins. “Therefore, unless the culprit is found, it will be quite difficult to tell whatever was infused in the drink. And given your symptoms, unless somehow magically cured, there is not much I can do.”

“Not much you can do?” Rhaenyra exclaims, her arms now at her side.

Gerardys lowers his voice and steps closer to her. “Not unless you would like me to find a maegi.”

She takes one look over at you. You look full of fear, full of suffering, but most of all—full of regret. “That wont be necessary,” she mutters. “If you’ll let me speak to my sister alone?”

“Of course, your grace.” He leaves the room. Rhaenyra watches him go, not looking back until the door swings back shut.

She makes her way to your bedside so swiftly it was as if she was running. The screech of the chair she pulls to sit on hurts your ears more than any of the conversation you had just been put through. You wish your protector was here instead. He would be able to help you. He would have to help you.

“Tell me,” she commands, already leaning forward, her hands folded in her lap.

You lift your body off the sheets, but they stick to you as you rise. “Tell you what?”

“Don’t play the fool. You know what I’m referring to,”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t, Your Grace.”

She scoffs out a laugh after that. Two of her fingers settle on the bridge of her nose. “Your condition is of your own volition. If you tell me what you drank, it will be easier for me to find a solution.”

You look at her. She isn’t smiling. There’s no hidden agenda beneath her stoic expression, none of the small facial cues you spent your childhood learning to decipher. She truly wants to help you.

And your body feels like it could give out at any moment. No, you want it to give out at any moment. You’re starting to feel nauseous.

You’ll do about anything to stop whatever you did to yourself.

You exhale a heavy breath. “You mustn’t tell anyone what I did.”

Rhaenyra lets herself crack a smile. “Gods, sister, what did you do?”

“I am unwed. Undesired,” you mumble. “I thought it clever to…”

“To what?” Rhaenyra presses, leaning closer.

You sigh and cover your face with your hands. You mutter something so quiet you don’t even hear it in your own ears.

“What did you say?” she asks softly.

“I had a potion brewed.”

Rhaenyra lets out a sharp breath through her nose. “Oh, Gods, sister—“

“You don’t understand! The Realm’s Delight, the most beautiful maiden in all of the Seven Kingdoms—you could have anyone and anything you desire!” you argue. “It isn’t the same for me. Even if it were, I don’t get to choose—”

“I’ve heard enough.” You finally remove your hands from your face, both now sheen with a layer of sweat as is the rest of your body. Rhaenyra is now standing at the edge of your bed, pacing back and forth. “When you had the potion brewed, did the alchemist tell you of any cure?”

“No…” you mumble.

“Well.” Rhaenyra sighs. She gazes over at you, but avoids your own. “I can presume what it is.”

You know what remains unsaid. It is torturous enough for your own sister to know of the humiliation you’ve brought upon yourself. For her, the queen, to be made uncomfortable by the revelation? You get a sudden urge to throw yourself from the highest point of the Red Keep. It would cure all of the emotions swirling in your head.

The writhing starts all over again. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your own body. In your peripheral, you can see Rhaenyra stop moving. She faces forward to look at you as you thrash around the mattress.

“I know what must be done,” she says. And she leaves the room.

You are left alone in your torture. Now seems about the best time to consider your future. You could jump from the window. It would be quick. You’d be remembered as tragic. Never wed, without children, lonely, jumped from her bedroom window after being poisoned—Rhaenyra would spread the word of poison. She wouldn’t subject the public to the truth.

You suck in a breath as you rise from the bed, dragging your feet to the window. The air fanning on your face makes you hopeful for about fives seconds before the sun finally catches on your skin and shines over the moisture on your skin.

The ache in your body almost certifies that you wouldn’t be able to hoist yourself onto the windowsill without some help.

Maybe your protector would help you. You could say you need more air. He certainly wouldn’t help cure your self-inflicted debilitation—he is too honorable. No—he’s too insistent on protecting your honor to do anything to you.

The door swings open again.

Rhaenyra enters first. You watch her panic once she does not immediately spot you on the bed, then watch her settle once she finds you by the window. There is someone behind her.

The person unveils themself from the shadows.

It is your sworn shield and protector. Ser Gwayne Hightower.

He steps into the room, and it is like your legs turn to water. He notices this, and dashes across the room to wrap his arms around your waist, stabilizing you. Once you are brought back to your feet, you let out a moan. It is almost embarrassing, but you couldn’t care less now.

Gwayne is touching you. Sometimes, the Gods do work in your favor. You slowly look up at him. He is already staring down at you, concerned at your condition, of course—and probably confused as to why you just moaned when he touched you—and you place a hand on his shoulder. Your other arm wraps around his bicep.

“I shall leave you to it.” Rhaenyra is out of the room with a slam of the door before you can look over to acknowledge her. When you look back, Gwayne still has his gaze fixed on you.

The contact you share feels truly breathtaking, perhaps because it is. It does feel quite hard to take in any air. You find your body inching closer to his, desperate for closer proximity. You feel your nipples, hard under your smallclothes, brush against his gambeson. You let your head fall onto his sternum, and it is then that you realize what you are doing, and immediately push away.

You stumble back to the bed, sitting on its edge, and shame washes over you. Gwayne hasn’t moved from his spot by the window. He still stares at you, however.

“My princess.” He steps closer. You hold up a finger as if to tell him to stop, and he does. “I cannot bear to see you in this condition. I only wish to help.”

“Help with what?” you breathe.

He remains silent.

“What exactly did Rhaenyra tell you?” you question.

Silence.

“Tell me. I command it.”

His gaze shifts to the ground. “Her Grace informed me of your condition.”

“You already knew of my condition. What else did she tell you?”

He looks back up at you. “She revealed to me the nature of your condition. What exactly brought it on.”

“Gods,” you mutter under your breath and squeeze your eyes shut. This cannot be real.

“How it can be cured,” he adds.

Your brows tighten. You hope that when you open your eyes again, he will be gone, and this will all have been a figment of your imagination.

When you do so, you find that this is the realest he has ever been. Ser Gwayne of House Hightower, in all his glory. He glistens in the flare of the sun. His hair, usually a light brown, shimmers auburn in the light. It looks similar to his sister’s in a certain light.

You can see the resemblance, him and his father. You would rather not, but it is there. He is certainly more alluring.

“I want to help you.” He takes a single step closer. “I need to help you.”

Your head is cocked to the side, though only out of exhaustion. It feels to heavy to carry yourself.

“When you swore yourself as my protector, I vowed that I would ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. What do you reckon this is?” you scoff out a laugh, feeling the whole situation truly ironic.

“It would not bring me dishonor if nobody discovers it.” His voice is low. He closes the window, then moves to close the other. “In fact, I swore first to protect you from any and all harm. I believe that prevails over bringing me dishonor.” You watch him then as he travels to the door. The lock clicks shut, and the sound of it travels to your core.

Not only is he able, he is willing.

He turns back to you, and you lock eyes. His brows are turned upwards at the corners—it is true, desperate concern etched onto his face. You can only imagine how disheveled you look.

You sigh, but it comes out as more of a moan, and let your head hang low.

Gwayne is across the room in a moment, kneeling down in front of you. He removes the gloves from his hands, settling them on the ground beside him, and then places his hands on your clothed thighs. The contact draws the linens slightly upwards. How you wish he would just slide them all the way up and just kiss your cun—

You close your eyes and draw in a long breath.

“Tell me what you need,” he purrs. Your eyes shoot back open, and his hands move to hold your hips. “I am yours.”

You want to. Gods, who are you kidding? You need to tell him, because he will do it, but you can’t. The words freeze on your tongue. Where do you even start?

But he is knelt before you, almost pathetic in his attempt at a remedy, so eager on helping you.

Why must you tell him?

You grab the cloth at your thighs and curl your fingers enough times until it is bunched up near your crotch. All that prevents him from laying eyes on your bare cunt is closed legs. You let them spread, gruelingly slow, pushing Gwayne’s hands from your hips in the process.

He does not look away from your face. “Tell me. Please,” he whimpers, letting his fingers graze the sides of your thighs.

You stammer, and squirm once more. “I need you to touch me,” you declare.

Gwayne nods once. “As you wish.”

And he hoists your legs over his shoulders and his face inches closer and closer to your core until his lips latch onto your clit. And finally, for once since drinking the stupid wine, you feel bliss. You’ve never felt something like this before.

It surges through your body and your entire body twitches violently. Gwayne lifts his arms up and grips your hips back again, using the hold to tug your cunt farther into his mouth. He eats you like a man starved.

You did not realize of the noises you were making until you nearly screamed, letting your head fall back. Your hands snake into his hair, pulling his head closer to your core.

He releases your clit from his lips. “Tastes so good—my princess—” his words fan over your damp slit, and he leans down to lick a thick stripe from bottom to top, collecting your arousal into onto his tongue. He swallows it with a loud gulp.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Gwayne continues his assault on your clit, sucking down hard. Your hips roll toward the allure of his lips. You are panting and gasping, hand bunching up his hair into your fist.

Heat flows through your entire body. It is a mix of the feeling you felt upon drinking that curséd wine and something incredible. True, pure ecstasy. You feel the blood of the dragon in you now. You understand it.

An unfamiliar ache begins to tighten in your lower stomach as he persists in lapping at your cunt. Nothing in your life has ever felt so good. You wonder if this is the true effect of the wine, or if it is just because it is your first time—you cannot really think about anything else. His tongue flattens and rolls against your clit and you choke on a moan.

Your muscles tense, your toes curl, and your heels dig into his back. His tongue presses and prods against you and he can feel it coming, the way your thighs tighten around him and shake and spasm.

Shudders wrack your body as you cum. He does not stop even when you do, even when your moans crescendo, his tongue still relentlessly ravishes your cunt even after you fall back onto the bed.

Finally, he lets go of your core with a wet pop.

It is then that you realize the burn has subsided. Relief washes over you momentarily.

But it returns as quickly as it went away. It flows through your body and you feel desperate for him once again.

He crawls up your body, caging you in between his arms, searching for something beneath your fucked-out expression.

“It isn’t enough—” you declare, your breath labored.

“What do you require?” Gwayne rasps, using a hand to brush your hair off of your forehead. His touch wavers in concern when he realizes the scorch of your skin.

“I need—” you paw at his clothed cock. “Your—”

“My what?” he pants.

“I need you inside,” you mutter.

Without a word, he begins shedding his garments. You were simply too dazed to admire it. Perhaps if there is a next time—Gods you hope there is a next time—you’ll get to do exactly that.

He is crawling back over you in an instant, his body bare. You run your hands up his chest, dragging the ball of your hand over his sternum. His cock hits your pelvis.

Your smallclothes, practically wet at this point, Gwayne lifts slightly at your waist. “Would you like me to take this off?” he asks.

You nod lazily.

He shimmies the linen up your body. “Sit up for a moment, sweet girl,” he instructs, and you obey.

They are finally, finally off, discarded somewhere across the room, and it feels much better being exposed than you expected it to be. There is no insecurity when you are with him. He just wants to help.

He grabs a pillow from off the head of the bed, lifting your hips up with a swift sleight of hand and shoving it under. “For your comfort,” he clarifies.

His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, his elbow resting beside your shoulder, as his other hand reaches down to grip his cock.

You look into his eyes, trying to search for anything past pure devotion and adoration for what he sees before him, and failing. Your lips falter as they reach up to lock with his. He meets you halfway.

Your hand tangles in his hair, pressing his head down harder onto your wet lips. The kiss is unpracticed and messy. Has he done this before? With anyone else, you mean. You should ask once you finish.

Gwayne enters you in a slow thrust, inhaling the noise you make into his mouth. His hand, the one that was cradling your cheek, finds itself on the nape of your neck.

His lips depart from your own, and he presses his forehead against yours, looking down to watch his cock sink into your cunt. He withdraws and sinks in once more, just to see it again. And again. And again. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the torturous drag of his length into you.

Your lips are parted, throat singing moans so frequent you’d think you were performing for him. You know you are being too loud. It feels impossible to be anything but.

Those gorgeous blue eyes of his find their way back to yours. "Oh—fuck, look at you," he praises, no longer needing the arm that guided his cock into you to guide his cock into you, so he raises it up to your mouth.

His thumb glides over your teeth, and then pushes past them. You wrap a hand around his wrist and suck on the digit. Up and down, up and down, as if it were his cock. He almost freezes inside of you.

Your hand slides up his, grabbing his pointer and middle-finger, swapping his thumb out for them. You do the same to them, bobbing your head up and down, moaning around them, and Gwayne fucking whimpers.

He resumes his movements. His cock throbs, your walls wrapping around him, sucking him in like you were made for him—or more so he was made for you, because he was. He is your man. He will be your man until the day he dies.

His fingers leave your mouth, and your saliva connects to the pads of them. He takes them into his own mouth momentarily.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, pulling his body down to connect to yours. His hand snakes between you, gripping your hardened nipple, earning a gasp from you.

“I’m yours, my princess,” he murmurs, drunk-like. “I’m yours.” And he presses his lips all down your neck, the trail all wet and sloppy.

You’re clenching around him, body spasming from under his caging hold. You feel close to a similar sort of climax that you felt only once before, just then when his head was between your legs. With each slap of his skin against yours, you are screaming. He mutters things, most you can’t quite catch, but they’re all something like that’s it, sweet girl, and let it out, my princess.

He uses his forearm to rise from the skin-to-skin contact you had forced him into. His fingers, desperate yet nimble, work themselves to the small of your back. The contact releases your skin from the suction of the pillowcase, and he lifts your hips up more with his arm now wrapped around them.

His pace quickens. You glance down, and nearly sob at the sight of him disappearing inside you.

“Gwayne?” you look back up at him. Again, he is already staring back at you, ready and willing to fulfill your every need.

“Yes, my princess?” he heaves.

“Kiss me.”

As you wish, is he would have said, if it weren’t for him immediately giving in to your wish. He kisses like he is eating you. Messy. His spit somehow finds itself all around your mouth. You don't notice that you do the same to him.

Your orgasm slams into you. It is a violent punch that knocks the wind out of you—you think you see the Stranger reaching out to you—then you feel Gwayne slow his movements and a thick liquid coat your insides. You babble incomprehensible speech as you ride it out.

“Fuck—” you hear him mutter, and pull out quickly. He runs a finger up your slit, not considering the fact that you were still beyond sensitive—you jerk back at his touch, still trying to catch your breath.

It was like all air was running from you. It probably was. You violently pushed it back out with every small inhale of it.

You finally come to, and realize he has been repeating the words fuck, fuck, fuck, since he pulled out.

“What’s wrong?” you raise a hand to hold his cheek, bringing his attention back to you.

“You don’t—” he pauses. And he sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. “I wasn’t supposed to cum inside.”

You’re still confused. “What’s the problem?”

“That is how you get pregnant.” He lets out one last heavy sigh and then falls onto his back beside you.

You turn onto your side, resting your head on one of the arms he lies beneath your shoulder, and bringing a hand up to place it on his chest. His is still rising and falling as rapidly as yours is.

Your fingers trace your name onto his chest. He is none-the-wiser, but you still smirk at the action. Your man.

“Will you ask the maesters to brew me moon tea?” you mumble.

He brings his other hand to hold yours. “As you wish.”

You chuckle breathily.

“Are you—are you cured?” he says, playing with your fingers.

“I suppose so.” You sigh. The need for him no longer thrums through you in the way that it did before.

Now you want him in a different way. A normal, human, potionless way. The way you wanted him before you drank that wine—you thought it would make you seductive enough for him. It certainly worked, you assume.