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Summary: Jack tells you to wear the shirt. You do. He survives it just long enough to take you on a date.
Warnings: 18+ only. minors dni. adult language, sexual references, suggestive clothing, reader wearing Jack’s shirt, white lace/lingerie mention, heated kissing, public almost-kiss, romance/smut book jokes, dirty talk references, mentions of previous phone sex, possessive language, age gap dynamics, soft dominance, “use your words” adjacent energy, emotional intimacy, relationship talk, girlfriend ask, Jack being thoughtful in a devastating way, feelings becoming impossible to deny.
Author’s Note: forearms/trouble are back, and date Jack is officially getting dangerous. This one starts with the reader taking “wear the shirt” as a personal challenge and Jack immediately realizing he has created a problem for himself. We’ve got his white button-down, white lace, doorway kissing, Jack refusing to abandon the date plan even when reader is trying very hard to lure him inside, a surprise bookstore trip, smut book chaos, romance aisle near-disaster, “source material,” burgers, fries, milkshakes, Robby/Liv being useful off-page, and Jack Abbot weaponizing thoughtful date planning like the menace he is.
Quick Series Note: Chapter 10 will be the final main chapter of forearms/trouble. I’m open to bonus scenes and one-shots for them later, but the main series arc will wrap up with the next chapter. Thank you for loving these two so much. I’m emotional already.
Xoxo, Del
| Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 | Pt. 3 | Pt. 4 | Pt. 5 | Pt. 6 | Pt. 7 | Pt. 8 |
The knock came while you were still staring at yourself in the mirror.
Not because you were unsure.
That would have been easier.
You were staring because you knew exactly what you were doing, and the knowledge had made you unbearable.
Jack’s white button-down was tucked into your jeans like it belonged there, the sleeves rolled to your forearms, the collar open just enough to be deliberate without looking like you had tried too hard. A glimpse of white lace peeked out beneath the open buttons, soft and pretty and absolutely not accidental. You had put on simple jewelry. Lip gloss. Enough effort to look effortless.
It was a complete outfit.
A devastating outfit, frankly.
The knock came again.
You crossed the apartment before you could lose your nerve. When you opened the door, Jack was standing on the other side in dark jeans, a gray shirt, and a jacket that made the whole forearms situation frankly irresponsible.
For half a second, neither of you said anything.
His eyes dropped. Not far. Just to the shirt, then the open collar, then the lace beneath it. Then lower, to where the shirt was tucked into your jeans. Then back to your face.
You watched the exact second recognition hit.
Jack went very still.
You smiled. “Hi.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “You’re wearing my shirt.”
You glanced down as if this were new information. “I am.”
His eyes narrowed faintly.
You leaned against the doorframe, entirely too pleased with yourself. “You told me to wear it.”
Something moved across his face. Heat. Amusement. Regret, possibly, for ever giving you instructions you could follow maliciously.
Jack stepped closer.
Your breath caught before he touched you.
His hand found your waist, firm over the cotton of his own shirt, and his mouth came down on yours.
The kiss was not polite. It was not hello. It was the kind of kiss that made your fingers catch in the front of his jacket, and your back hit the doorframe before you realized you had moved.
Jack’s other hand came to your jaw, tilting your face up, and when his thumb brushed the open edge of the collar, the lace underneath shifted against your skin.
His grip tightened once.
You smiled against his mouth.
He had noticed.
You pulled him closer.
Jack let you. For one second. Then two. Then you took one step back into the apartment, bringing him with you.
Jack followed.
Your mouth curved against his.
Then his hand tightened at your waist, stopping you before you could pull him any farther.
He broke the kiss slowly.
Too slowly.
Like he was making a point.
Your fingers stayed curled in his jacket. “Come inside.”
His eyes moved over your face. Then the shirt. Then your mouth again.
“No,” Jack said.
Your lips parted. “No?”
His mouth curved faintly, but his voice stayed rough. “No.”
You blinked at him. “I’m sorry, did the shirt not work?”
Jack’s hand flexed at your waist. “The shirt worked.”
Your stomach flipped. “Then I’m confused.”
“I can see that,” Jack said.
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re being difficult.”
“I have a date planned,” Jack said.
The words stopped you. He said it simply, like it mattered. Like he had made a plan and shown up at your door intending to keep it, even with you standing there in his shirt looking at him like you would very much prefer to ruin the schedule. Your grip loosened on his jacket.
“A date,” you said.
Jack nodded once. “Yes.”
“You planned something?” you asked.
“I did,” Jack said.
Your chest did something soft and dangerous.
“Oh,” you said.
His thumb moved once against your waist. “Good oh or bad oh?”
You looked down at his hand over the shirt, at the place where his fingers pressed into fabric that belonged to him and somehow felt more like yours by the second. Then you looked back up at him.
The heat was still there, humming low under your skin, but something else had joined it now. Something worse. Something that felt like him showing up on time, dressed for you, with a plan he had not told you about because he wanted to watch you discover it.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “Good surprised.”
Jack held your gaze for one more second. Then he stepped back, giving you room.
“Get shoes,” he said. “I’m taking you out.”
Your stomach flipped again.
You looked down at yourself, suddenly remembering you were barefoot, shirt open at your throat, entirely dressed to devastate a man in your living room and not at all prepared for public society. You grabbed your bag from the chair and slipped into your shoes, trying very hard not to smile like an idiot.
It did not work.
Jack stayed in the doorway, watching you with one shoulder against the frame, like he had every intention of enjoying exactly how caught off guard you were.
You looked over your shoulder. “You could have warned me.”
“I wanted to surprise you,” Jack said.
Your chest warmed despite yourself.
You picked up your keys and crossed back to him. “That is doing a lot of work for you right now.”
“Good,” Jack said.
You pulled the door shut behind you. “You’re impossible.”
Jack waited while you locked it. Then he held out his hand.
Your teasing faded for half a beat.
You looked at his hand. Then at him.
Jack did not say anything. He just waited. Steady and certain.
Yours, if you were brave enough to take him that way.
You slid your hand into his. His fingers closed around yours.
“Come on, Trouble,” Jack said.
Your stomach flipped.
You followed him down the hall, still wearing his shirt, still warm from his kiss, and suddenly very aware that Jack Abbot had looked at you like he wanted to drag you back inside and had chosen to take you on a date instead.
Which was, somehow, much worse.
Jack opened the passenger door for you.
You paused beside the truck and looked at him.
Jack looked back. “What?”
“You’re doing that thing again,” you said.
His brows lifted faintly. “Opening the door?”
“No,” you said, climbing in. “Being Date Jack.”
His mouth curved, barely. “Date Jack had a good first review.”
You tried not to smile. You failed.
Jack waited until you were settled before he closed the door. The cab felt smaller once he got behind the wheel. Not because there was not enough room. Because Jack was in it. Because his shirt was on your body. Because his hand landed on the gearshift and your brain, traitorous and unhelpful, immediately remembered where that hand had been the last time you spoke.
You looked out the windshield. “So.”
Jack started the truck. “So.”
“Where are we going?” you asked.
“A place,” Jack said.
You turned your head slowly. “A place.”
He glanced over as he backed out of the parking spot. “Yes.”
“That is not an answer,” you said.
“It is technically an answer,” Jack said.
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re lucky I like you.”
His mouth curved faintly. “I know.”
You stared at him for another second, then looked out the window before your face could do something embarrassing. The late-afternoon light stretched gold across the street, softening the edges of the buildings and warming the glass storefronts. Jack drove with one hand low on the wheel, quiet and steady and entirely too pleased with himself.
You lasted maybe three minutes.
“Is it food?” you asked.
“Eventually,” Jack said.
You looked at him. “Eventually?”
“That was a hint,” Jack said.
“That was not a hint,” you said. “That was barely a word.”
Jack’s mouth twitched.
You sat back with a huff. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”
His eyes flicked to you. Just once. Enough. Then his gaze returned to the road.
“That one I didn’t know,” Jack said.
Your head turned toward him. “Oh, you absolutely do.”
Jack’s mouth curved again. “Do I?”
“You own mirrors,” you said.
“I do,” Jack said.
“And forearms,” you added.
His hand tightened once on the steering wheel.
You smiled.
His voice stayed even. “You done?”
You looked at his hand on the wheel, then back to his face. “Not even a little.”
Jack exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh. Then he pulled into a parking spot along a narrow street lined with small shops. He put the truck in park and looked at you.
For one second, all the teasing faded under the weight of his attention.
Then Jack said, “We’re here.”
You followed his gaze.
The storefront was narrow and warm-looking, tucked between a coffee shop and a place with plants spilling out near the door. A hand-painted sign hung above the windows, the lettering slightly uneven in a way that made it charming instead of careless. Inside, shelves lined the walls. Stacks of books sat in the window. A lamp glowed near the register, soft and golden.
“You brought me to a bookstore?” you asked.
Jack shifted in his seat, one hand still resting on the wheel. “You like books.”
Your throat tightened.
“I passed this place last week,” he said.
You looked at him.
He was looking through the windshield at the storefront, not at you, which somehow made it worse.
Then Jack added, quieter, “Thought you’d like it.”
Oh.
That was worse.
That was much worse than him saying something smooth.
Because Jack did not sound like he was trying to impress you. He sounded like he had simply seen something good and thought of you.
You looked back at the bookstore. The warm windows. The crowded shelves. The hand-painted sign. Then you looked down at your lap, at the white cuff of his shirt falling near your wrist.
“You thought of me?” you asked.
Jack’s gaze moved back to you. His answer was simple. “Yeah.”
Your chest did that stupid, dangerous thing again.
You swallowed. “You’re very good at this.”
“At what?” Jack asked.
You looked up at him, trying for teasing and not quite getting there. “Being Date Jack.”
His mouth curved, but his eyes stayed soft. “Good.”
You stared at him.
Jack reached over and brushed his thumb once along the inside of your wrist, right where his cuff had slipped over your hand. Then he pulled back and opened his door.
“Come on,” Jack said. “Before you decide to make that emotional.”
You laughed because it was easier than admitting you already had. Jack came around to your side and opened your door. You stepped down from the truck, his shirt shifting against your skin, the lace beneath it suddenly feeling less like a weapon and more like a secret.
Jack looked at you for half a second. Then he held out his hand.
You took it.
He only squeezed your hand once and led you toward the bookstore.
The bell above the door gave a soft chime when Jack opened it for you.
The smell hit first.
Paper. Coffee from somewhere nearby. Something clean and soft, like fresh laundry from a candle burning near the register.
You stopped just inside the doorway.
Jack glanced down at you. “Good?”
You looked around at the crowded shelves, the little handwritten staff picks, the narrow aisles that disappeared toward the back of the store.
Your voice came out softer than you expected. “Very good.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly.
He did not say anything. He did not have to. You could feel him watching you take it in, feel the quiet satisfaction in him, as if this had been the whole point.
You turned toward him, trying not to look too affected. “You’re looking very pleased with yourself.”
Jack reached for one of the baskets stacked near the door. “I picked well.”
Your eyes dropped to the basket. “That feels presumptuous.”
Jack looked at the basket, then back at you. “You’re already looking at three shelves at once.”
“I am browsing,” you said.
“You’re hunting,” Jack said.
You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Because he was not wrong.
Jack’s mouth curved a little more.
You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re very smug for someone who brought me into a bookstore and then expected me to behave normally.”
“I don’t expect that,” Jack said.
Your stomach flipped.
He held the basket at his side like he had already accepted his fate. That should not have been attractive. It was.
You turned toward the first aisle before your face could betray you. “Fine. But I’m only looking.”
Jack followed beside you. “Of course.”
You glanced over your shoulder. “That sounded sarcastic.”
“It was supportive,” Jack said.
Your eyes narrowed. “You are a liar.”
“I’m holding the basket,” Jack said.
You looked at the basket again. “That is not helping your case.”
Jack only hummed once, low and amused.
The store was narrow in the best way, every shelf crowded, every table layered with paperbacks and little cards written in looping black ink. A display of staff picks sat near the front. New releases lined one wall. Somewhere toward the back, two people spoke in hushed voices, like even conversation had to be careful around that many books.
Jack walked with you without rushing. That was dangerous too. He did not hover. He did not act bored. He just stayed beside you, one hand on the basket, watching while you ran your fingers over spines and pulled out books like you were waiting for one of them to confess something.
You opened one to the first page.
Jack looked down. “What are you checking?”
“The first line,” you said.
He nodded like this was a reasonable scientific method. “And?”
You read the sentence. Then you shut the book.
“No,” you said.
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Brutal.”
“You have to be ruthless in a bookstore,” you said.
Jack glanced around at the shelves. “I’m learning.”
You slid the book back into place and reached for another one.
Jack watched you for another second. “What makes it a yes?”
You glanced at him. “Vibes.”
His brow lifted. “Vibes.”
“Characters,” you said, opening the next book. “First line. Back cover. Whether the prose is trying too hard. Whether I immediately want to ignore my responsibilities.”
Jack nodded. “That last one seems important.”
“It is the entire metric,” you said.
He looked down at you, eyes warm with amusement. “Good to know.”
You tried very hard not to feel touched by that. It did not work. You moved deeper into the store.
Jack stopped near a small display table. “This one?”
You turned back. “What about it?”
He picked up a paperback and read from the handwritten card beneath it. “Slow burn. Forced proximity. Emotionally repressed man with a competency problem.”
Your mouth parted.
Jack looked at you. “No?”
You took the book from him slowly. “That is alarmingly targeted.”
His mouth curved. “Staff pick.”
“You picked it up,” you said.
“I can read,” Jack said.
You stared at him. He stared back.
The book sat between you like a crime.
“You think I like emotionally repressed men with competency problems?” you asked.
Jack’s eyes held yours. “I have a theory.”
Your face warmed.
You looked back down at the book because that felt safer. “That theory feels self-serving.”
“Maybe,” Jack said.
You opened the book to the first page and read the first line. Jack waited. You read the second line. Then the third.
Jack looked at the book. “That a yes?”
You tried to sound casual. “Maybe.”
He held out the basket.
You looked at it. Then at him.
His mouth curved. “Put it in the basket.”
You put it in the basket.
Jack did not gloat. That was worse.
You kept moving.
The aisles narrowed toward the back, and the shelves shifted from general fiction into romance, then deeper into the kind of romance section that made your fingertips slow over the spines. The covers grew glossier. The titles grew more dramatic. The illustrated couples looked like they were either about to argue, kiss, or ruin each other’s lives.
Possibly all three.
Jack noticed the change in your expression.
His voice dropped. “What?”
“Nothing,” you said.
Jack stopped beside you. “That was not nothing.”
You skimmed the shelf with exaggerated interest. “This is an important section.”
“I gathered,” Jack said.
You glanced at him. “You sound very calm for a man surrounded by smut.”
His eyes moved over the shelves. “Should I be afraid?”
“Respectful,” you said.
Jack looked back at you. “I can be respectful.”
You gave him a slow look. “Can you?”
His mouth curved faintly. “When motivated.”
Your stomach dipped.
You turned back to the books immediately. That was when you saw it. You stopped so abruptly that Jack nearly walked into you.
His hand found your waist on instinct. “What?”
You reached for a book on the middle shelf. “Oh my God.”
Jack glanced down at the cover. “Do I want to know?”
“You do,” you said.
He looked at your face for half a second. “That expression says I don’t.”
You tapped the cover with one finger. “This book changed my life.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “That sounds dramatic.”
“It is not dramatic,” you said, already fighting a smile. “It is historically accurate.”
Jack looked from you to the book. “Historically.”
You nodded once. “Yes.”
His hand was still at your waist. You noticed that at the same time he did. Neither of you moved.
You lowered your voice. “You know that thing I do with my mouth?”
Jack went still. Completely still. His hand tightened once at your waist. So slightly you almost missed it.
Almost.
His voice dropped. “Yes.”
You smiled at the book. “Chapter twenty-seven.”
Jack stared at you.
You looked up innocently. “Very formative literature.”
His jaw shifted.
Then, slowly, he grinned. Not a polite smile. Not Date Jack. Something worse.
“Put it in the basket,” Jack said.
Your stomach dipped. “I already read it.”
“I know,” Jack said.
You blinked. “Then why am I putting it in the basket?”
His eyes held yours. Low. Steady. Dangerous.
“It’s for me,” Jack said.
Your mouth parted.
Jack reached for the book. You did not let go. His fingers closed over the edge of the cover, brushing yours. The contact was small. Ridiculous. Barely anything. Your pulse did not care.
“You do not read smut,” you said.
Jack’s thumb shifted against the book, close enough to touch your hand again. “I can start.”
Your breath caught.
The aisle had gone very quiet around you. Or maybe you had stopped hearing anything beyond him. Jack was closer than he had been a second ago. You were closer too. You did not remember stepping forward.
Maybe you had.
Maybe he had.
Maybe both of you had moved at once, drawn into the same narrow space between shelves by something neither of you was trying very hard to fight.
Your back brushed lightly against the shelf behind you. Jack looked down at you, the book still caught between your hands.
His voice came lower. “Chapter twenty-seven?”
You swallowed. “It was a very good chapter.”
“I’ll pay attention,” Jack said.
Your stomach flipped so hard you nearly forgot how to breathe.
“You’re impossible,” you whispered.
His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back to your eyes.
“No,” Jack said. “I’m studying.”
The word hit like a touch. Your fingers loosened on the book. Jack did not move away. You lifted your chin without meaning to.
His gaze tracked the movement.
For one suspended second, the bookstore disappeared. No shelves. No warm lamps. No staff picks or narrow aisles. Just Jack standing too close, his hand warm at your waist, his shirt on your body, his eyes on your mouth like he was trying very hard to remember you were in public.
Jack leaned in a fraction.
Your breath stopped.
A voice came from the end of the aisle. “Finding everything okay?”
You nearly dropped the book.
Jack turned his head toward the sales associate with the calm of a man who had absolutely not been half a second away from kissing you in the romance aisle.
“Yes,” Jack said. “Thank you.”
The sales associate smiled. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“We will,” Jack said.
You stared at the spine of the book like it had personally betrayed you.
The sales associate disappeared around the corner.
For one second, neither of you moved.
Then Jack looked back at you. His mouth curved.
You pointed at him with the book. “Do not.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Jack said.
You glared. “You were about to.”
“I was not,” Jack said, like the accusation had personally insulted him.
“You absolutely were,” you said.
Jack took the book from your hand and placed it in the basket. “You’re projecting.”
You frowned. “I am embarrassed.”
“You should be,” Jack said.
Your mouth fell open.
His eyes gleamed. “Almost getting caught in the romance aisle?”
“You were also there,” you hissed.
“I was shopping,” Jack said.
Your brow furrowed. “You were not shopping.”
Jack looked down into the basket. “There’s a book in here.”
You stared at him.
Then you laughed, quiet and helpless, pressing your fingers briefly to your mouth.
Jack watched you.
The amusement in his face softened into something else before he hid it. Not all the way. Enough that you caught it.
You dropped your hand. “What?”
Jack’s hand slid from your waist, slow enough that you felt the absence when it was gone. “I like watching you here.”
Your chest went warm. “Oh.”
His mouth curved. “Good oh?”
You looked down at the basket, at the books already inside, at the ridiculous paperback sitting on top like evidence. Then you looked back up at him.
“Dangerous oh,” you said.
Jack’s eyes softened.
He reached for another book on the shelf beside you and turned it over like he had not just said something that made your ribs feel too small.
“What about this one?” he asked.
You glanced at the cover, grateful for the shift and annoyed that he could do it so easily. “That one has betrayal in the third act.”
Jack looked at you. “You’ve read it?”
“No,” you said.
His brow lifted.
You nodded toward the cover. “I can tell.”
“That seems unfair,” Jack said.
“I am very fair to books,” you said. “Books are not always fair to me.”
Jack put it back. “Noted.”
You kept browsing, and Jack kept following, holding the basket as if it were perfectly normal for him to do. Like he took women to bookstores all the time. Like he had not picked this place because he had passed it once and thought of you.
Except you knew he did not take women to bookstores all the time. You knew this was not normal for him. That was the problem.
Every few minutes, he would point something out. A cover he thought you would like. A staff pick with a dramatic enough description to make you laugh. A book with a title so absurd you had to read it aloud under your breath.
He listened. Not politely. Not passively.
Actually listened.
You could feel him storing things away. How you checked first lines. Which covers made you suspicious. What tropes made you roll your eyes even though you still picked up the book. What kind of summary made you soften before you could stop yourself.
By the time you made it to the register, the basket had more books in it than you had intended.
A lot more.
You reached for your bag.
Jack glanced at you. “No.”
You froze. “No?”
“I invited you,” Jack said.
“To a bookstore,” you said. “Not to financially support my habits.”
Jack set the basket on the counter. “I know what I signed up for.”
Your chest warmed. You looked at the books.
“Jack,” you said.
His voice softened without losing the edge. “Let me buy you books.”
That was unfair.
That was so unfair you had no immediate defense against it.
The sales associate began ringing them up, and you stood there beside Jack, trying not to look as affected as you felt.
It did not work.
Jack noticed.
But for once, he did not call you on it. He just paid, took the paper bag from the counter before you could reach for it, and thanked the sales associate with the same calm politeness he had used after nearly ruining your life in the romance section.
You followed him toward the door.
“I can carry books,” you said.
“I know,” Jack said.
“And yet?” you asked.
Jack opened the door for you. “And yet.”
You stepped out onto the sidewalk, the evening air cooler now than it had been when you went inside. The late-afternoon light had softened into something warmer, gold settling along the shop windows and the edges of parked cars.
Jack stepped out behind you with the bag in one hand.
You looked at it, then at him.
“You bought yourself smut,” you said.
Jack’s mouth curved. “Source material.”
You laughed despite yourself. Jack’s gaze moved over your face, and the laugh caught somewhere softer in your chest. He shifted the bag to his other hand, then held his free hand out to you.
You took it.
His fingers closed around yours.
“Hungry?” Jack asked.
You looked up at him. “Always.”
His mouth curved. “Good.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Do I get to know where we’re going now?”
“No,” Jack said.
You groaned. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
Jack’s hand squeezed yours once as he guided you back toward the truck. “A little.”
You glanced down at the bag swinging from his hand. “You know, if this is how Date Jack operates, he is setting a very dangerous precedent.”
Jack looked at you as he unlocked the truck. “Good.”
Your stomach flipped.
He opened your door. You climbed in, trying not to smile.
It did not work.
Before Jack closed your door, he opened the back one and set the bookstore bag carefully on the floorboard.
You watched him straighten. “You’re tucking them in?”
Jack shut the back door. “I’m not letting diner grease get on your books.”
Your chest warmed.
You tried to make your smile teasing instead of ridiculous. “Very protective of the source material.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Among other things.”
Then he closed your door before you could respond.
The diner was only a few blocks away.
Jack still did not tell you where you were going until he pulled into the small lot beside a squat brick building with wide front windows, red vinyl booths, and a sign in the window promising milkshakes made the old-fashioned way.
You looked from the sign to Jack. “A diner?”
Jack put the truck in park. “You sound skeptical.”
“I sound curious,” you said.
“You sound hungry,” Jack said.
You looked back at the window just as a server walked past carrying a tray loaded with burgers, milkshakes, and a pile of fries so golden and crisp they looked personally engineered to ruin you.
Your mouth parted.
Jack noticed.
His mouth curved faintly. “There it is.”
You turned toward him slowly. “Did you bring me here because of the fries?”
Jack unbuckled his seatbelt. “Partly.”
Your chest did something inconvenient. “Partly?”
He glanced at you. “They also have milkshakes.”
You stared at him.
Jack opened his door like he had not just casually rearranged something inside your ribs. “Come on.”
You climbed out of the truck, still looking at the diner windows, at the warm light spilling out onto the pavement, at the people tucked into booths with baskets of food between them.
It was not fancy. It was not candlelit. It was not a restaurant with a dress code or cloth napkins or a reservation that made you sit up straighter. It was burgers. Fries. Milkshakes.
His shirt on your body.
And somehow that felt more dangerous than anything else he could have planned.
Jack came around the front of the truck and held out his hand.
You looked at him. “You know this is working on me, right?”
Jack’s brows lifted faintly. “The diner?”
“The whole thing,” you said.
His expression shifted. Not much. Enough. Then Jack’s fingers closed around yours.
“Good,” he said.
You swallowed and let him lead you inside.
A bell chimed over the door, sharp and bright, and the smell hit you all at once. Grilled onions. Hot oil. Toasted buns. Sugar. Coffee that had probably been sitting too long but still smelled like comfort.
A hostess smiled from behind the counter. “Two?”
Jack glanced at you. “Two.”
The hostess grabbed two menus. “Booth okay?”
Jack nodded. “That’s fine.”
You followed her through the narrow aisle, past the counter stools and the glass dessert case, past a couple sharing onion rings and two teenagers arguing over the jukebox in the corner. The hostess set the menus down in a booth near the window. Jack waited until you slid in before he sat across from you.
You watched him settle in, one forearm resting near the edge of the table, his eyes already moving over the menu like this was a mission. You looked around again, at the red vinyl seats, the laminated specials tucked behind the napkin holder, the chrome edge of the table catching the overhead light. Then you looked back at him.
“You researched this place, didn’t you?” you asked.
Jack glanced at you over the top of his menu. “A little.”
“A little,” you repeated.
His mouth curved faintly. “Enough.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Enough for what?”
Jack looked back down at the menu. “Robby told me about it.”
Your brows lifted. “Robby?”
“He and Liv came here,” Jack said.
Your mouth curved. “Did they?”
Jack’s eyes flicked up to yours. “Apparently.”
You leaned back against the booth. “Interesting.”
“Behave,” Jack said.
“I am behaving,” you said.
“You’re investigating,” Jack said.
You smiled. “Same thing.”
His mouth twitched. Then Jack glanced down at the menu again, like he was trying to make the next part casual. It did not work.
“Robby said Liv mentioned you loved the fries here,” Jack said.
Oh.
Your teasing faded before you could stop it. You looked down at the menu, then toward the window, then back at Jack.
“You remembered that?” you asked.
Jack held your gaze. “I remembered.”
Your chest did something soft and stupid.
“It’s thoughtful,” you said.
The words felt small for what you meant.
You tried again. “It’s really thoughtful.”
Jack looked down at his menu like it had become very interesting. “It’s just fries.”
“No,” you said.
His eyes lifted back to yours.
Your voice softened. “It’s not.”
For a second, the diner moved around you without touching the booth. Plates clattered near the kitchen. Someone laughed at the counter. The jukebox changed songs. Jack looked at you across the table, and the noise seemed to settle around him instead of between you.
“I wanted to take you somewhere you’d like,” Jack said.
Simple. Quiet. Devastating.
Your throat tightened. “You did.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Good.”
You stared at him for one second too long. Long enough for the warmth in your chest to become dangerous. Long enough for you to realize you had spent so much time wondering if Jack wanted you that you had not prepared for the much worse possibility.
That Jack noticed you.
All of you.
The teasing. The wanting. The books. The fries. The way you got quiet when something meant more than you knew what to do with.
A server appeared beside the table with two glasses of water and a bright smile. “Hi, folks. Can I get you started with something to drink?”
Jack looked at you. You looked at the chalkboard near the counter.
Then you looked back at the server. “Chocolate milkshake, please.”
Jack’s mouth curved.
The server nodded. “Whipped cream?”
You answered immediately. “Yes, please.”
Jack looked down at the drink specials. “Coffee.”
You turned your head toward him. “No.”
Jack’s eyes lifted. “No?”
You pointed toward the chalkboard. “They have an espresso milkshake.”
He glanced at the chalkboard. Then back at you.
You lifted your brows. “It’s the perfect loophole.”
The server smiled down at her pad. Jack stared at you for another second.
Then his mouth curved, slow and reluctant. “Espresso milkshake.”
The server nodded. “Whipped cream?”
Jack looked at you.
You gave him a look.
Jack sighed. “Yes.”
The server’s smile widened. “One chocolate shake with whipped cream and one espresso shake with whipped cream. I’ll give you another minute on food.”
She left before Jack could change his mind.
You leaned back against the booth, deeply pleased. “That was good for you.”
Jack set his menu down. “Was it?”
“Yes,” you said. “Growth.”
“Ordering coffee with ice cream in it is growth?” Jack asked.
“For you?” you asked. “Yes.”
His mouth curved faintly. “You’re enjoying yourself.”
“I am,” you said.
The answer came out too honest. Jack’s face softened just a little. You felt it immediately. The urge to make a joke. To dodge. To turn the warmth into something easier. But Jack’s foot brushed yours under the table, quiet and grounding, and the joke softened before it reached your mouth.
Your fingers moved over the edge of the menu. “This is a really good date.”
Jack went still. Not frozen. Just listening.
You looked down at the laminated menu because looking at him felt like too much. “The bookstore. This place. The fries. The milkshakes.”
Jack’s voice was quieter when he answered. “You haven’t had the fries yet.”
You smiled, still looking down. “I can tell.”
His mouth curved. “Can you?”
“Yes,” you said. “I have a gift.”
Jack leaned back slightly. “For fries.”
“For many things,” you said.
His gaze moved over your face, then briefly to the open collar of his shirt before returning to your eyes. “I know.”
Your pulse jumped.
The server arrived with the milkshakes before you could recover.
Two tall glasses landed between you, whipped cream piled high, cherries on top. Extra metal cups came with them, cold and sweating against the table. You looked at Jack’s shake. Then at Jack. He looked unimpressed in a way that did not fool you at all.
You picked up your spoon. “You look very serious for a man about to experience joy.”
Jack picked up his spoon. “I’ve had a milkshake before.”
“Not with me,” you said.
His eyes lifted to yours. The words landed differently than you meant them to. Or maybe exactly the way you meant them to. Jack’s expression softened.
“No,” he said. “Not with you.”
Your chest warmed. You took a spoonful of whipped cream before the moment could undo you.
Jack watched you.
You pointed your spoon at him. “Don’t make it weird.”
His brows lifted. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking something,” you said.
“I think a lot of things,” Jack said.
You smiled around the spoon. “Dangerous.”
His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back up.
“Yes,” he said.
Your stomach flipped.
The server returned with her pad ready. “Ready to order?”
You set your spoon down quickly. “Yes.”
Jack looked far too pleased with himself.
You ordered a burger with crispy fries and ranch on the side.
Jack ordered his burger, then added, “Extra napkins.”
You looked at him. “For you or me?”
“For us,” Jack said.
The server wrote it down. “Good call.”
You turned toward her. “Why did that sound ominous?”
The server smiled. “The burgers are messy.”
You looked back at Jack. “You brought me somewhere with high-risk burgers while I’m wearing your white shirt?”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “I ordered napkins.”
“That is not a full risk management plan,” you said.
“It’s a diner,” Jack said. “Not a trauma bay.”
The server laughed under her breath and gathered the menus. “Food’ll be right out.”
You watched her leave, then looked back at him. “You’re very calm for a man whose shirt is in danger.”
Jack’s eyes dropped briefly to the open collar. Then back to your face.
“I can wash it,” he said.
Your stomach flipped.
The softness of that was unreasonable.
You took a sip of your milkshake, simply for something to do. It was thick enough that the straw resisted. Perfect. You closed your eyes for half a second.
Jack’s voice came from across the table, softer now. “Good?”
You opened your eyes.
He was watching you with the same quiet satisfaction he had worn in the bookstore. Not smug. Not exactly. Something gentler. Like he had wanted this. Not just the date. Your reaction to it.
“Yes,” you said. “Very good.”
Jack nodded once, like that mattered.
Your chest tightened again.
“You’re getting very invested in my dairy opinions,” you said.
His mouth curved faintly. “I asked about fries. I’m expanding the research.”
You laughed, and Jack watched it happen like he liked being the reason.
That was becoming a problem. He was becoming a problem.
By the time the food arrived, you were already too warm from the milkshake, the booth, the conversation, the way his foot stayed near yours under the table without making a show of it.
Then the server set down the plates.
The fries were exactly what you had hoped.
Golden. Thin. Crispy.
You looked at them. Then at Jack. He watched your face with careful attention.
You picked up one fry, dipped it into the ranch, and took a bite.
The crunch was perfect.
Your eyes closed.
Jack’s quiet laugh came from across the table. “That good?”
You opened your eyes. “I need a moment.”
His mouth curved. “Take your time.”
You pointed the fry at him. “This is serious.”
“I can see that,” Jack said.
You took another bite and shook your head. “Robby has never been more useful.”
Jack laughed then. An actual laugh. Low and warm and pleased enough that it did something unfair to your chest. You smiled before you could stop yourself.
Jack reached for his burger, still watching you like maybe the whole date had been worth it for that alone.
You hated how much you liked that.
You loved it more.
For a while, the two of you ate and talked about nothing important. The books you bought. The smut book he insisted was research. The hospital gossip he could share without violating several laws and basic human decency. The fact that you were apparently incapable of eating fries without looking emotionally moved by them.
Jack noticed that too.
His eyes stayed on your face after you took another bite.
You froze. “What?”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Nothing.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That was not nothing.”
“It was close,” Jack said.
You picked up another fry because you needed something to do with your hands. “You know, this is becoming a problem.”
Jack took a drink of his espresso milkshake. “What is?”
“You,” you said.
His gaze lifted.
You meant it as a joke. Mostly. But his expression changed in that quiet, attentive way that always made it impossible to pretend you had not said something real.
Jack set the glass down. “Yeah?”
Your fingers tightened around the fry. You could have laughed. You could have said never mind. You could have blamed the milkshake. Instead, you looked at him across the booth, in the warm noise of the diner, with his shirt on your body and the taste of chocolate and salt on your tongue, and told the truth as much as you knew how.
“Yeah,” you said softly.
Jack held your gaze. No joke. No smirk. No easy deflection.
Just Jack. Steady. Certain. Yours, if you let him be.
Your chest tightened.
Then he reached across the table, palm up.
You looked at his hand. Then at him.
Jack did not say anything. He did not have to.
You put your hand in his.
His fingers closed around yours, warm and sure, and for one impossible second, the whole diner seemed to go quiet around you. Jack’s thumb moved once over your knuckles.
“You’re quiet,” he said.
You looked down at your hands together. “I’m thinking.”
His voice softened. “About?”
You swallowed.
You could have made that small too. You almost did. But his hand was warm around yours, and he had spent the whole night making things feel less like a game and more like a place to land. So you looked back up at him.
“You,” you said.
Jack went still. Only for a second. Then his fingers tightened around yours.
“Good,” he said.
Your heart did something useless and warm.
You smiled faintly. “That’s all you have?”
His mouth curved. “For now.”
Your stomach flipped.
You looked down at the table, at the half-finished milkshakes, the scattered fries, the napkins he had ordered because he had researched the date like it mattered.
Because apparently it did.
When you looked back at him, Jack was still watching you.
This time, you let him.
By the time the check came, your milkshake was gone, the fries were mostly gone, and Jack looked entirely too pleased with himself for a man who had weaponized a bookstore and diner fries in the same evening.
You reached for your bag.
Jack gave you one look.
You stopped. “Right. You invited me.”
“I did,” Jack said.
You leaned back against the booth. “This is becoming a pattern.”
His mouth curved faintly as he set his card on the check. “Good.”
Outside, the night had settled properly, cooler now, the windows of the diner glowing behind you. Jack opened the truck door for you, then paused before you climbed in. His hand found your waist, light but certain over the cotton of his shirt.
You looked up at him. “What?”
Jack’s eyes moved over your face.
“Just looking,” he said.
You smiled. “That sounds suspicious.”
His mouth curved.
Then he leaned down and kissed you once.
Soft. Brief. Enough to make your fingers curl against the edge of the open door.
When he pulled back, his thumb brushed once over your waist.
“My nothing,” Jack said.
Then he helped you into the truck like he had not just made your knees unreliable in a diner parking lot.
The drive back to your apartment was quieter.
Not uncomfortable. Not empty. Just full.
The kind of quiet that sat between you like both of you knew something had shifted and neither of you wanted to scare it off by naming it too soon.
Jack drove with one hand low on the wheel, his other hand resting on the center console. Palm up. Waiting.
You looked at it for maybe half a second before you placed your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours immediately. Warm. Certain. Like he had expected you to take it. Like he had wanted you to.
The bookstore bag sat safely in the backseat. The diner lights disappeared behind you. The taste of chocolate and salt still lingered on your tongue, and his shirt shifted softly against your skin every time you breathed. It was ridiculous.
All of it.
The books. The fries. The milkshakes. The way Jack had listened to a tiny detail and turned it into a date. The way he had looked at you all night like he was not surprised by how much he wanted you, but maybe a little surprised by how much he liked wanting you like this.
Not urgent. Not hidden. Not half-dressed in the back of his truck or half-brave over the phone.
Like this.
In public. In evening light.
On purpose.
Jack pulled into a spot outside your building and put the truck in park. He let go of your hand only long enough to get out. Then he came around to your side, opened your door, and reached past you for the bookstore bag in the backseat before you could climb down.
You watched him hook the paper handles over his fingers.
“You’re carrying my books too?” you asked.
Jack looked at you. “Yes.”
You smiled. “You’re going to spoil me.”
His eyes held yours. “That’s the idea.”
Oh.
Your teasing smile faltered.
Jack noticed. But he only held out his free hand.
You took it and stepped down from the truck.
The night had settled properly now, cool against your bare throat, soft around the streetlights. Jack walked you to your building with your hand in his and your books in his other, like this was normal. Like he had done it a hundred times. Like he wanted to do it again.
That was the part that got you.
Not just the kiss at your door. Not just the way he looked at the lace under his shirt. Not just the book in the bag that he had called source material with a straight face.
This. His hand. Your books. The quiet certainty of him walking beside you.
You reached your apartment door too soon.
Jack watched you unlock the door. You knew he was watching you. You unlocked the door but did not open it.
For a second, neither of you said anything.
The hallway was quiet around you. Too quiet.
You turned back toward him. “Thank you.”
Jack’s brows lifted faintly. “For the date?”
“For the date,” you said. “And the books. And the fries. And the very committed milkshake participation.”
His mouth curved. “Committed?”
“You got whipped cream,” you pointed out.
“I was pressured,” Jack said.
You smiled. “You were encouraged.”
“I was handled,” Jack said.
Your smile widened. “You loved it.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “I didn’t hate it.”
The warmth in his voice made your smile fade into something softer. You looked down at the paper bag for a second, then back up at him.
“It was perfect,” you said.
Jack went very still.
His voice was quieter when he answered. “Good.”
Your chest tightened.
Jack looked at you for a long second.
Then he said, “I want to ask you something.”
Your pulse changed. You tried for a smile. “That sounds ominous.”
“It’s not,” Jack said.
You searched his face. He did not look unsure. That almost made it worse. He looked steady. Serious. Aware of exactly what he was asking before he asked it.
“Okay,” you said.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “I want this to be real.”
Your breath caught. The hallway seemed to narrow around the two of you.
“It feels real,” you said softly.
Jack’s expression shifted. Barely. But enough.
“Good,” he said.
Your pulse jumped.
Then Jack took a breath and said, “Be my girlfriend.”
Your mouth parted.
For once, nothing came out.
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “That was not the reaction I expected.”
You blinked at him. “I’m processing.”
“Take your time,” Jack said.
“You just told me to be your girlfriend,” you said.
“I asked,” Jack said.
“You ordered,” you said.
His eyes warmed. “I can ask again.”
Your throat tightened. The teasing softened before you could stop it.
“Ask again,” you said.
Jack’s hand found yours.
This time, his voice was quieter. Gentler.
“Will you be my girlfriend?”
Your chest went warm. “Yes, Jack. I’ll be your girlfriend.”
For half a second, he did not move.
He just looked at you.
Like he needed to let the words land. Like maybe he had asked the question with all that steadiness and still had not let himself fully believe he would get to keep the answer.
Then his hand tightened around yours.
“Good,” Jack said.
Your smile trembled.
“You keep saying that,” you whispered.
His eyes dropped to your mouth. “I mean it.”
Then he kissed you.
Not hard at first. Not like the doorway earlier. This kiss was slower. Deeper. The kind that made your shoulder press back against your apartment door and the bookstore bag slip lower in his grip.
Jack’s hand came to your waist, warm over the cotton of his shirt.
His shirt.
Your body.
His girlfriend.
The thought hit you so suddenly that you made a small sound against his mouth.
Jack heard it.
His hand tightened once.
You kissed him harder.
The paper bag crinkled in his hand.
Jack pulled back just enough to set it carefully on the floor beside the door without looking away from you.
That should not have been hot.
It was.
It was devastating.
Then his hand was back on your waist, and your fingers were in his jacket, pulling him closer because apparently having a boyfriend had not made you any less greedy.
Jack went with you. This time, more than before. His body pressed yours back against the door, solid and warm and careful in a way that only made it worse.
His mouth moved over yours again, and the kiss changed. Not rushed. Not careless. But hotter. Hungrier. Like the word girlfriend had not settled the want between you. It had named it. Given it somewhere to go.
Your fingers slid from his jacket to the back of his neck.
Jack made a low sound in his throat.
Your stomach flipped.
You tilted your face up, chasing his mouth, and his hand slid from your waist to your lower back, pulling you closer. The lace beneath his shirt shifted against your skin.
Jack’s thumb brushed the open edge of the collar.
You felt the exact second he remembered.
His mouth slowed. Then came back harder.
Your breath broke against him.
“Jack,” you whispered.
His forehead touched yours for half a second.
His voice was rough. “Yeah?”
You swallowed, your fingers still at the back of his neck. “Come inside.”
Jack went still.
You felt it this time.
Not rejection. Not hesitation.
Restraint.
The kind that made his body press closer even as his mind tried to stay useful.
His eyes opened. They were dark. Focused.
Yours.
“Trouble,” Jack said.
You reached behind you, found the doorknob, and pushed the door open.
The apartment was dark behind you, quiet and waiting.
Jack’s eyes moved past your shoulder. Then back to you.
You held his gaze. “Come inside.”
For one second, neither of you moved.
Then Jack bent and picked up the bookstore bag from the hallway floor. The motion was so controlled, so practical, so painfully Jack that it almost made you laugh.
Almost.
He stepped forward. You stepped back. He crossed the threshold with your books in one hand and his other hand still at your waist.
Your pulse jumped.
Jack kicked the door shut behind him.
The sound was soft.
Final.
Your back hit the wall near the entryway.
Jack set the bookstore bag down beside you.
Carefully.
Like he was still capable of being responsible while looking at you like that.
You were not. Not even close.
“You are very careful with my books,” you said.
Jack’s eyes moved over your face, then down to the open collar of his shirt, then back up. “I’m careful with things I want to keep.”
Your breath caught.
The hallway light slipped under the door, catching along the edge of his jaw, the line of his shoulders, the place where his hand spread warm and certain over your waist.
“Jack,” you said softly.
His thumb moved once over the cotton of his shirt.
The sun is just starting to set when you step onto the deck.
The sky is painted in soft gold and fading orange, the ocean reflecting it in slow, shifting waves. The Polar Tang sits steady near the island, quiet for once.
You rest your hands lightly against the railing. Waiting.
He’s not late. If anything, he’d be early. So the fact that you’re the one here first… it makes your chest feel a little too tight.
Footsteps sound behind you, and you don’t turn right away.
“…You’re early.”
You smile slightly.
“…So are you.”
Then you glance over your shoulder.
And there he is, Trafalgar Law.
Something about him is different. Not obvious, but there. Less distant. Less guarded. Like he tried, without wanting it to look like he did.
He steps closer, stopping beside you. Close, but not touching. For a moment, neither of you says anything.
The village isn’t far. Small, quiet, tucked between the shoreline and a line of low hills.
You walk in comfortable silence, stealing glances at each other. Both of you trying not to smile too much.
The bookstore café is easy to miss.
A narrow storefront, warm light spilling through the windows, shelves packed tightly with books that look like they’ve been there for years.
You stop without thinking.
“…This is your ‘place’?”
“…Yes.”
You glance at him, a small smile forming.
“You took me to a bookstore.”
“…You read.”
“…I do.”
“…Then it’s appropriate.”
You shake your head, amused, and step inside.
“…I like it.”
A pause.
“…Good.”
The air inside is warm. Quiet. Soft conversation hums in the background, the faint clink of cups, the comforting smell of tea and paper.
You drift toward the shelves without thinking.
Law follows. Not hovering. Just… there.
“…You’re going straight for fiction,” he notes.
You glance back at him.
“…And you’re not?”
“…No.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Let me guess, medical texts? History?”
“…Occasionally.”
He pauses near a lower shelf. Reaches down and pulls something free.
“…This is… my guilty pleasure.”
You step closer, looking down at the cover.
“…Sora, Warrior of the Sea?”
You look up at him.
“…You’re serious.”
A pause.
“…Yes.”
You study him for half a second.
Then you smile. Not teasing. Just… interested.
“…Tell me about it.”
That catches him off guard.
“…What.”
“You said it’s your guilty pleasure. Everyone has one,” you say, tilting your head slightly. “So what’s it about?”
He doesn’t try to deflect for once. Doesn’t brush it off.
Instead.
“…It’s about a marine soldier who fights Germa 66. The structure is predictable. Clear conflict. Clear resolution.”
You lean slightly closer, glancing down at the page he’s opened.
“…That’s it?”
“…No.”
A pause. Then, quieter
“…He always does what he says he will.”
Something about the way he says it makes your chest soften.
“…You like that.”
“…Yes.”
You nod slightly.
“…I get that.”
He glances at you.
“…You do.”
“Yeah.”
You shift just a little closer, your shoulder nearly brushing his.
“…Read it to me.”
Another pause, but he does.
And you listen. Actually listen.
And somewhere between the lines, between the way he talks about it, you realize you’re not really focused on the story anymore.
You’re focused on him.
The way his voice lowers slightly when he explains something.
The way he gets just a little faster when he’s interested.
You smile faintly to yourself.
He’s… kind of adorable.
“…You’re smiling,” he says suddenly.
You blink, caught.
“…Am I?”
“…Yes.”
You glance back at the page, pretending to think.
“…I like it.”
“…The story?”
You look at him again.
“…Both.”
That stops him. Just for a second.
“…Both… noted.”
A little while later, you’re seated side-by-side. Tea between you. Books scattered across a table.
The quiet feels easy again.
“…Do you have a preference?” he asks.
“…For what?”
“…Fiction.”
You smile slightly.
“…I do.”
A small shift in his expression, almost teasing.
“…Well, tell me about it.”
You lean back just a little, thinking.
“…It’s an adventure romance,” you say. “The kind where they travel everywhere, get into situations they probably shouldn’t survive, and somehow still find time to fall in love along the way.”
He watches you.
“…That sounds inefficient.”
You laugh softly.
“It absolutely is.”
“…Then why do you like it?”
You shrug slightly.
“…Because it’s not predictable.”
“…And?”
“…Because they choose each other anyway.”
Your voice softens without you meaning it to.
“…Even when it’s messy. Or complicated. Or doesn’t make sense.”
You glance at him.
“…They don’t need guarantees.”
He goes quiet for a moment.
“…That’s risky.”
“…Yeah.”
“…And you prefer that.”
“…Sometimes.”
Another pause.
“…I can see the appeal.”
You smile.
“…Can you?”
“…Yes.”
The quiet returns. But this time it feels different. Closer. Like something shifted without either of you needing to say it out loud.
Law glances at you again, then at the books, and for once he doesn’t try to analyze it. Doesn’t try to break it down into variables or outcomes.
He just lets it exist.
Because somehow this moment, with you beside him, the quiet, the conversation, the way it all fits feels… right.
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𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨: coffee, chaos, coffee all over again (like one, two, three pt. 4)
𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: Max Verstappen is your greatest rival on the track, despite the fact that you’re teammates. Always tenths of a second ahead or behind, angling to steal the inside line, performing insane overtakes that always fuel the fire. It’s purely rivalry on the track between two teammates, reflected when that same fiery fight flares up, in the paddock, in interviews, on livestreams where the race is just on the screen. Except… now it’s more than that to you. And you’re not quite sure, but it seems like it’s more than that to him too. 5.2k words.
𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘴: teammate!racer!reader, gn!reader, reader is equally insane as max, verstappen/reader rivalry, ‘25 racing stuff but not ‘25 accurate, racing stuff AGAIN i go craaaaazy w ts if i do say so myself, Psycho!reader
𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘺: i love my Psycho!reader universe. alsonim still scared i may have implied fem reader in previous parts so LET ME KNOWWWW. also all of the books named here are real actual books ive read and enjoyed (except one) soooo yeah accidental book recs in the middle of my max verstappen x reader fic on tumblr dot com
The rest of the day after qualis is a blur of boring meetings that you can’t skip, and a lot of nodding at cameras and coming up with BS answers that mean nothing but answer the question anyway. Exhausted, you drag yourself back to your driver room long enough to take off your race suit and get into more comfortable clothes.
Now in a basic t-shirt with equally basic shorts, you force yourself to walk out of your driver room and back to the motorhome where you drop into your usual seat like a stone, your limbs going whatever direction gravity drags them in as your eyes fall shut. Your hands hurt, as usual, and you open your eyes just enough to sigh longingly at the fridge, knowing there are ice packs in there that can soothe your achy joints.
Your eyes fall shut again, and you let yourself relax, tensing up every muscle you can before consciously letting go and melting into your seat. The sound of footsteps gives you exactly zero incentive to open your eyes and see who’s inside. You just listen and sit quietly, letting your brain reset after the hype of FP3 and qualis.
The footsteps move along the floor, vaguely in the direction of the fridge. You hear the sound of a fridge opening, confirming your guess. Then the crunchy sound of something being taken out, and the quiet clink of a mug being set on the counter. Crinkling paper comes next, then the sound of it being torn, and the bubbling of something that’s a bit too thick to be water—milk? Then the quiet shf-shf-shf of something being shaken out of a packet.
The sounds of things being made and used and moved around almost lull you to sleep, the quiet whir of the air-conditioning unit adding to the calming white noise. The sound of a spoon being stirred comes, along with the crunching of whatever had been taken out of the fridge. Then the footsteps start again, drawing closer without hesitation, so it must be someone you know.
The clink of the mug comes again, probably now filled with something as the sound is a little duller. Before you can register what’s happening, there’s the feeling of two towel-wrapped ice packs being placed on your lap, and familiarly warm and calloused hands are taking yours and resting them over top of the icepacks. You crack your eyes open just a little bit, already knowing who it is.
“Thank you, Max,” you mumble, already half-asleep as the ache in your joints is quickly soothed by the cold of the ice packs. Your eyes fall shut again as Max drapes something warm over you—a blanket from somewhere in the room, maybe? You swear his fingers tuck a stray bit of hair behind your ears. And you tell yourself that you’re already dreaming when you feel the soft touch of lips at your temple followed by a quiet, “Sleep well, snoepje.”
When you next wake up, it’s to the shuffling and shushing that comes from a large group of people trying to be quiet. You blink groggily, sitting up properly as you try to stretch out the crick in your neck from sleeping in an armchair. The ice packs are long melted, turned into bundles of cool water. You set them aside, and the blanket slips off of you, pooling in your lap.
You blink down at it. It is not, in fact, a blanket. It is, however, a very large, somehow still warm Red Bull jacket that could not be in any way construed as your size. You pull it on, settling into the warmth of it. And then you lift your head and see half of the paddock gathered in the small living-room-style area of the motorhome, frozen in place as you stare at them.
“What.”
There’s an immediate scramble to escape, mechanics and PR and assistants alike laughing and grinning as they push past each other. You raise a finger, point at the nearest crewmember, and in a sleep-dried voice, call over, “You.” The poor guy stops immediately, his friend patting him on the back with a quiet ‘Good luck!’ before escaping with the rest of the crew who were… watching you?
“What was that?” you ask of the guy, still a little too groggy from just waking up to start demanding things. The guys just shrugs, his grin returning. “Nothing at all,” he answers, very vaguely, before skittering off to wherever his spot is. Probably PR, since you know most of the names and all of the faces in your garage.
You shake your head at the absurdity of it, standing with the jacket still wrapped around you. You don’t zip it up, adjusting it just enough to make it look more like ‘I accidentally picked the wrong size but it looks good anyway’ rather than ‘I’m wearing Max Verstappen’s jacket.’ And, well, that’s the only logical conclusion, right? That Max had come in while you were half-asleep, set up ice packs so your hands wouldn’t be achy when you woke, and draped his jacket over you…
Oh. And then he’d tucked your hair behind your ear gently, and kissed your temple, and whispered, “Sleep well, snoepje,” in a voice so soft you’re tempted to lie to yourself and say it wasn’t Max. You know better, though. So you make your way out of the trackside motorhome and begin the short walk to where the private motorhomes are parked.
You find the quiet field where a series of RV-like trailers are parked, each in different styles. You can almost immediately spot Lando’s—decorated in a very bright fluoro yellow that’s very him. Charles’ (and now Alex’s) is simpler, something that you would expect to see on the roads, with cute little plants in the windows (clearly Alex’s touch). And then you spot Max’s, laughing softly to yourself as you walk towards it.
It’s completely undecorated, straight off the lot (or wherever you get these kinds of house-cars with whole Turkish saunas inside of them). You knock on the door tentatively. Is Max even here? Should you be bothering him on this off time? Maybe you should just go back to your hotel, you find yourself thinking when you hear nothing from inside. You’re just about to do that when you hear Dutch cursing (or at least, that’s your guess) and the sudden sound of footsteps approaching. You take one step back just in case the door opens outwards.
“Who is it, I was—oh.” There stands Max, in nothing but a pair of straight-fit jeans that you’d finally put him onto. Clearly, he’d been in the middle of getting dressed and ready, if the towel around his shoulders catching water from his still-wet hair is anything to go by. He tilts his head at you, and you realize you’ve been silent for a little too long.
“Brought your jacket back,” you say, before Max can open his mouth and get on your case about staring or something stupid, because you’d never stare at your teammate. Ever. Not even the water droplets that roll slowly down his neck and over his Adam’s apple—you snap your gaze back up to find Max giving you that same old infuriating grin, and the tension melts out of you. It’s just Max and his stupid smug face as usual. (Just, now you find that stupid smug face good-looking.)
“Keep it,” he tells you, stepping aside to let you in. “Busy?” he asks. “Technically, yeah,” you answer, moving past him. The door clicks shut behind you, and now you’re officially inside of Max’s motorhome. Despite the money that you’ve come into yourself, you haven’t gotten yourself one of these. The level of luxury you live in regularly now is something you’re still getting used to, and you can’t bring yourself to buy something that costs millions of dollars.
“Sim rigs?!” you exclaim, immediately walking over to the twin pair of rigs inside of the vehicle. This is ridiculous. “You’ve got a whole personal network in here?!” you ask. “Everything?” You run your hands over the wheel. Max laughs at your shock, nodding as he dries his hair with the towel around his shoulders. “Join up,” he tells you, dropping into the seat next to you.
You shrug off his jacket, draping it over the back of your chair and then taking a seat. “Monaco?” you ask, flicking through the track options. “Or here?” You see the Japanese circuit and immediately ooh at it. “Let’s do Suzuka!” you exclaim, glancing over at Max. “We’ve run the Red Bull Ring enough in our cars, let’s relax a little.”
Max hesitates, then nods. “Suzuka it is,” he agrees, selecting the track. You do the same, and wait for Max to join a lobby. You copy the code into your sim rig carefully, then join. Out of the 9 circuits you’ve competed in so far (Australia, China, Japan, Bahrain, Saudi Arabia, Miami, Canada, Monaco, and Barcelona) Suzuka has been your favorite.
With 18 turns (5 of them back to back) and a crossover bridge, it had been the most exciting race you’d competed in besides Monaco. The countdown on the sim rig starts, and you relax into your seat. The lights go out, and then it’s just you versus Max, the two of you leaving the rest of the players in the dust as you burst past the traffic and fight for the lead along the first straightaway.
“Ha!” you exclaim as you take and hold the lead into Turn 1. Max doesn’t even glance at you, too focused on the circuit. It’s true, then, that Max treats GPs and sim rigs with the same terrifying focus. You hold the inside through Turn 2. Then you realize—this is the perfect time to practice that cut-across strategy that had surprised even Max.
Turn 3 approaches, and Max cuts across you to take the inside for the turn. You go around the outside, staying on the outside and letting Max have the inside for Turn 4 as well. But now there’s a gap between the two of you as you take the inside for Turn 5. The gap grows wider as you hug the inside line as closely as you can.
At the last possible second, you turn your wheel, cutting directly across Max’s path where he was trying to take the inside. A perfect maneuver. Max is forced to fall back, and the look of surprise on his face, though it quickly melts into determination, is worth it. You let Max take the inside line again as the two of you pass through Turn 7, with the gap between you and the rest of the pack already at 12 seconds.
Max will have to cut across you again to take the inside for Turn 8. You don’t let him, going as fast as you can without flipping your sim car over. You see the wheels of your sim car bounce up onto the curb, but you hold your line anyway, growing the gap again. 0.7 seconds. You take turn 9 and immediately cut across to the inside again. 0.9 seconds.
Turn 11 sees you nearly crash, though you slow down just in time around the hairpin curve to avoid oversteering directly into the barrier. It’d happened during the Japanese GP—someone, Alex Albon if you remember—had turned into the hairpin too hard. The VSC had been deployed, and you lost your 5-second lead on Kimi Antonelli. It’d been a hard battle against the Italian rookie, but you’d fought well and kept your place.
The sim rig race goes well in your favor until lap 50 out of 53. One of the other racers (you don’t care to see what their handle is) T-bones you. How? You have no idea, and you’re too busy laughing so hard you cry as you watch your car flip and flip and flip in real time. You’ve let go of the wheel, which is now jerking around in response to the crash.
Max keeps racing, though you can see him trying not to laugh in response to your own laughing fit. As he finishes the race, both of your stats pop up on the screen. To your (still amused) surprise, you’d set a fastest lap, but Max had beaten it soon after you crashed. “Good game,” you tell him, voice still shaky with laughter. Max nods at you, his own lips curving into a grin that matches yours.
“Good game, [name],” and the use of your real first name again nearly has the smile on your face growing idiotically lovesick, but you tamp it down enough, pushing yourself up and out of the sim rig. “Your jacket,” you answer, holding out the Red Bull jacket he’d draped over you. And, because you can’t stop running your mouth, for some reason, you ask, “What does snoepje mean?” And yes, you butcher the pronunciation a little.
Max purses his lips. “Little licorice,” he translates. “It is a diminutive of snoep, the word for candy, but licorice is a very Dutch candy.” He doesn’t explain anything else, nor does he ask why you’re asking. Well, you suppose he already knows. “Keep the jacket,” he tells you as he stands, plucking the jacket from your hand to drape it around your shoulders again. He lets his hands linger, adjusting the collar that doesn’t need adjusting. “It looks better on you.”
Before you manage to do anything stupid (like ask for a kiss???) you nod. “Thank you.” Then you turn, wave at him over your shoulder, and escape back to your hotel room, cheeks pink. And when you run into Lando, the papaya driver has the gall to give Max’s jacket a meaningful glance and waggle his eyebrows at you. You blush, scowl at him, and continue on your way.
Back in your hotel room, you take off Max’s jacket long enough to change into your pajamas, then wrap it back around yourself as you settle into your bed just like yesterday. Speaking of, laying in bed with snacks and a show feels like forever ago, even though it was just last night. You do the same thing tonight, surrounded once more by your favorite snacks (yes, some of the opened packets from yesterday) and your show.
The familiar episode fills the air, and you try to focus on it. Try being the operative word, because no matter what you do, your thoughts drift back to Max. Specifically, how he’d taken care of you yesterday, made you a mug of something that you’d hadn’t drunk and had magically disappeared by the time you woke up. You sigh, shake out the final bites of one of your snack packets, and push yourself out of bed.
This time, you don’t bother to change out your pajamas, thankful that you’d brought long pant bottoms. You pull Max’s jacket around yourself tighter, grabbing what you need (your phone, wallet, and room card). You pull on your sneakers, and debate texting Max. Would he come along for another late night walk? It might mess up his sleep schedule… You open your thread with him anyway.
You grin down at the near-instant response. Even as you purse your lips and try to rationalize—he might’ve already been on his phone, maybe he’s just bored—your heart flutters again as you feel the giggle-inducing rush of having a crush. You reply to him, maybe with a bit more excitement than you really should be having about your teammate (who’s jacket you’re still wearing…).
You step out of your hotel room with a pep in your step, quietly humming some random audio off of TikTok that’s now stuck in your head. The elevator dings open, and then you’re humming along to the elevator music with a smile on your face that probably looks really, really stupid, but you don’t care, because Max agreed to hang out with you.
Speaking of, the man himself is in the lobby by the time you get down (how?!). You make your way over to him, waving hi. “So, where to this time?” you ask, falling into step beside him. He shrugs. “Wherever we find first,” he answers bluntly. You nod in response, and a comfortable silence, filled by the sounds of a city night, surrounds the two of you.
Eventually, you find yourselves on a calmer avenue, lit by the soft yellow glow of streetlamps and filled with the chatter of people just hanging out. In the dark, with the same Red Bull caps on your heads, the two of you aren’t Psycho number 27 and Max Verstappen number 33. You’re just you and Max, two friends out on a nighttime walk.
“Bookstore plus cafe,” Max muses to himself, staring at the little storefront along the street. You follow his line of sight and find a sign that reads The Hidden Chapter: Bookstore + Cafe. “Oh, oh, let’s go!” you exclaim, taking his hand into yours and pulling him across the street, laughing as someone honks at you.
“We’re on the crosswalk!” you shout back at the driver, not really caring if he hears as you do a little half-walk and half-jog over to the front. Your fingers are still intertwined with Max’s as you hop up the two little steps to the door. A little shopbell jingles as you swing the door open, and the comforting scent of new books and brewing coffee washes over you. “This is going to be fun,” you murmur, lowering your voice to match the ambience of the shop.
Your and Max’s footsteps are softened by the carpet underfoot as you make your way over to the built-in cafe in the back. To your surprise, it’s not just a local shop, it’s a full-on illy caffe, the high-quality and equally exclusive brand. “Oh!” you exclaim quietly. “I want to try everything!” Max chuckles softly beside you, squeezing your hand. “That much caffeine can’t be a good idea, liefje.”
Ah. A nickname again, making your chest feel warm and your cheeks turn red. And the squeeze of your hand reminds you that you’d dragged him behind you, but you make no move to let go. “Let’s both get something!” you suggest. Max scrunches his nose. “I’m not much of a coffee person,” he admits. You gasp in mock offense. “Not a coffee person?” you ask dramatically, pressing a hand to your heart. You laugh at the look on his face, waving it off. “It’s fine, they have a lot of other stuff,” you inform him.
You let go of his hand reluctantly to take out your wallet from the pocket of your jacket, stepping up to the counter. You scan over the menu for a moment, then nod. “Can I get a medium almond rose caffe latte?” you ask the barista, and she nods. Max steps up behind you, pointing at one of the pastries in the glass cabinet. “One vanilla and one blueberry lemon scone as well,” he tells the barista, his black card already in hand. “Can’t drink caffeine on an empty stomach, liefje.”
“Hey, you got it last time, I can do this,” you protest, ignoring how your cheeks burn red as you hip-check him. He doesn’t budge an inch, giving you a look. “I’m paying,” he answers with a finality that only makes you more determined. The barista clears her throat, and your attention snaps back to her. “Yes, that’s all,” you answer her, but before you can even take your card out of your pocket, Max is sliding his into the card reader.
You swat at his hand like you can undo the payment, but it’s done, and with a sigh, you put your wallet away. “I’m paying next time,” you tell him, and he gives you a look filled with a fondness that makes your chest tighten. “Next time,” he agrees, though the smirk playing on his lips says something different. You take the receipt, memorizing your order number before tucking the paper into your pocket, a reminder to pay him back.
Max follows you as you wander off through the aisles of the bookstore. It’s neatly organized, and of course, you find yourself in the fantasy section soon enough. A particularly pretty book catches your eye. The cover has an intricate hourglass, with a dying tree at the top and petals pouring onto a sakura tree at the bottom. The fore-edges are painted black with pink roses, and the title is written in imposing white font. “Immortal Consequences,” you read, and Max leans over your shoulder as you flip open the cover to read the blurb.
The sudden warmth of him at your back has your shoulders tensing, and you’re unable to focus on the blurb properly, understanding a few words that draw your interest, but only Max is muttering them into your ear. “Magical trials… Wren, her arch-rival, Augustine… Irene, her only friend, Masika… Olivier, stop Emilio… fates worse than death…” Max steps back just enough to give you a little space, and the fog in your head clears.
You scan over the blurb quickly, then tuck the book under your arm. When the weight of it disappears, you turn to catch it, only to realize it hasn’t fallen. Max is… holding it for you? You blink at the book in his hand, then at him. “Thanks,” you murmur, moving along and scanning over the books. Another one catches your eye, this time a bright blue cover with gold on the fore-edges. You’re running into an absolute trove of pretty books today.
The call of your order number has you turning. You look at the book longingly, then turn to go get your order, but Max rests a hand on your shoulder. “Stay,” he tells you, the warmth of his hand lingering long after he disappears between the aisles to get your coffee and the pastries. A silly smile curls your lips, and you pick the book up.
Your thoughts wander to Max as you examine the cover. There’s a black-and-white pencil sketch of a visibly Asian-American girl on the cover, though it’s beyond you to guess exactly where. Her hair is beautifully drawn in the same black-and-white, and she’s wearing a beautiful hanfu, cluing you in that it’s at the least Chinese-inspired. She’s also holding what looks like a calligraphy brush. There’s a shadow dragon and gold dragon drawn around her, obscuring her body from the chest down.
The title is written in clean white font over the bottom. A FORGERY OF FATE. You flip open the cover to read the blurb. Gifted art forger, ability to paint the future, marriage contract with a mysterious dragon lord? You’re sold on it. By the time you’ve tucked the book under your arm to continue meandering through the aisles, Max is back.
With a branded tote over his shoulder, balancing a coffee cup on top of the pastry box.
You can’t help it. You laugh, putting a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound in the quiet of the bookstore. Max scowls at you, though his expression smooths into an equally amused smile after a moment. He holds out the coffee cup to you. “Almond rose latte,” he tells you, taking A Forgery of Fate from under your arm and placing it in the bookstore tote (presumably alongside Immortal Consequences.)
One sip of the coffee has you melting. The flavor is unmatchable, and you’re pretty sure you’re ruined for any other type of almond-flavored coffee. “This is so good,” you mumble, holding the cup up to Max. “Try some!” you tell him. He leans back, shaking his head fondly. “Not a coffee person,” he tells you, even as he takes the cup. He brings it to his lips, taking the tiniest sip, and nods. “Not bad,” he murmurs, handing the cup back to you.
Indirect kiss?! is the first thought in your head, and you turn back to the shelves of books. Your eyes land on yet another pretty cover. You sip at your coffee as you pick it up, shaking your arm to push back the sleeve of Max’s jacket. This book is simpler than the other two—no fore-edge painting. The cover is white with a rose in the center that’s dripping blood, a pirate-style sword stabbed through it with the hilt visible at the top. The corners are stylized with swirling, vine-like red designs, and the title is written in loopy gold. “Oathbound,” you read aloud.
Max steps a little closer, still holding the pastry box and the tote. You’re practically trapped between him and the shelf, and if you took a tiny step forward you would really be trapped. Somehow managing to not let your nerves show, you flip open the cover. “Beware the waters. The dangerous deep brings ruin to all,” you read, and despite (or maybe because of) the theatrics of the sentence, you find yourself already invested.
You go to tuck the book under your arm, but Max plucks it from your hands and gently places it into the tote. “Three books in…” Max checks his watch, “fifteen minutes. That’s pretty good,” he quips, stepping back. Again, you immediately miss his warmth, even as you continue down the aisle. “What time is it?” you ask offhandedly as you pick up another book, only to immediately snap it shut when it flops open to a particularly nasty smut scene that has your cheeks burning red.
Max laughs, and the only way you can describe it is rich and low. Like your books. “What happened?” he asks, opening the pastry box and breaking off a piece of the vanilla scone. He hands it to you as he continues. “Someone die, or what?” You laugh, a little awkward as you replace the book. “Something like that,” you answer vaguely as you pop the piece of scone into your mouth, looking back at the title—Pretty Pink Poison—and memorizing it to make sure you don’t pick it up again.
He purses his lips, clearly fighting back a smile. “Something like that,” he parrots. You think he’s let it go, and you take another sip of your coffee—only to swallow it too fast and choke as he picks up the book. “Yep, yep, something like that,” you yelp, snatching the book and replacing it too fast to be nonchalant. The page number and the scene is unfortunately pasted into your brain now.
Max picks the book back up, and you resign yourself to your fate, awkwardly hovering not quite close enough but not far enough either. Heat burns up the back of your neck and over your cheeks as Max’s eyebrows climb. And climb. After exactly forty-five seconds of reading, he too snaps the book shut, pink dusted across his cheeks.
“I should’ve taken your warning,” he mutters, taking a piece of the blueberry-lemon scone and chewing it like it personally offended him. You nod, pursing your lips as you turn. “Oh, right, what time is it?” you ask again. Max checks his watch. “11:45,” he answers, and you startle. “We need to get back to the hotel, get some rest, the race is tomorrow!” you exclaim. You reach for the tote, but Max just adjusts it on his shoulder.
“We’ll get these and head back,” he tells you, resting a hand on your back and guiding you towards the counter. His calm demeanor calms you in turn (a little bit, you’re still worried about getting enough sleep for the GP tomorrow). The two of you reach the register, and you set your coffee cup down to pull your wallet out as the clerk scans the books. You can still feel his hand on your back through his jacket.
When you go to hand your card over, again, the clerk shakes his head. “Sorry, he already gave me his card,” the clerk tells you in heavily accented English. “Max!” you exclaim, swatting his arm. Max shakes his head at you. “Can’t let you pay,” he shrugs, ignoring your protests as he picks up the complimentary tote of your three new books. You pick up the box of scones before he can. “Let me carry this much at least,” you plead, turning back to grab your coffee.
Max relents. You take the last few sips of your coffee, tossing the now empty cup in the trash. Your thoughts are swirling—he’s acting so gentlemanly, holding the bag and paying and walking with you—”Wo-ah!” you exclaim as he loops his arm around your waist. Max pulls you across him, settling you on the inside while he walks closer to the road.
You nod, pursing your lips. “Thanks,” you murmur, trying to open the lid of the box of scones. Your fingers are already shaking slightly. Max sighs, adjusting the tote over his shoulder and taking the box from you. He pops it open, breaking off another piece of the vanilla scone and handing it to you. You reach out to take the piece, but he shakes his head, a mischievous smile curling his lips.
“Say ahh,” he tells you, and your cheeks burn red. Is he for real?! You clamp your lips shut, reaching out again, but all he has to do is raise his hand and the piece of scone is out of reach. You hop up, fruitlessly trying to get the piece of scone, but Max just clicks his tongue. “C’mon, say ahh,” he repeats. And, well, it’s not like you’re against it…
With a sigh (that’s completely performative, you want to and you know it), you open your mouth. Max feeds you the piece of vanilla scone, and for some reason it tastes even sweeter. How corny of you to think that. You chew the bite of scone, savoring it before reaching over and breaking off another piece. Your smile matches Max’s when you repeat the same words at him. “Say ahhh…”
To your surprise, he does, even leaning down to make it easier for you. His teeth scrape over your fingers in a way that makes the back of your neck burn even as you yelp and snatch your hand back. “Thank you,” he tells you in that same infuriating (and now, you have to admit it) yet attractive tone. You huff at him. “Keep your teeth away from my fingers,” you bite back, though you’re smiling.
All the way back to the hotel, sharing the vanilla and the blueberry-lemon scone, all the way back to where he walks you to your room (and only then hands you the book tote), and even as you flop into bed, still wearing his jacket, you’re still grinning like an idiot. That? That had to be a date.
Right?
𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘺: BOOKSTORE DATE BOOKSTORE DATE i KNOW all of yall on here want ts frfr </3 anyway ENJOY DARLINGS I HAD TOO MUCH FUN WRITING THIS
Logan Howlett x GN!Reader where the reader is a somewhat introverted person that has a passion for drawing, and when Logan asks to see one of their drawings, the reader shows them a drawing of a Wolverine (the animal :3)??
Author’s Note: Okay this is probably one of the CUTEST requests I have ever gotten! I’m also an introverted artist, so this might be somewhat self indulgent… Anyway! Thank you so, so much for the idea anon! I love it <3
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CONTENT WARNINGS: Reader is able-bodied, Reader is pretty shy but not excessively, Logan drives a truck instead of a motorcycle in this fic, use of the pet names bub and darling, speeding in a car (no harmful intent/consequences).
Logan knocks on the doorframe with a soft smile on his face. “Hey, bub,” he greets before jingling his car keys and raising a brow. “Wanna head to the book store with me? I don’t got anything else to do today. I thought it’d be nice to take you out somewhere,” he proposes in a knowing tone. You nod your head yes—of course you agree to go! He’s known you too well for too long. You raise your eyebrows and let out a low whistle before turning to your bedside table. “Let me grab something really quick,” you tell him. He hums in acknowledgment while walking away from the door. “I’ll go get the truck started. The weather out there isn’t the best right now,” he calls out to you before the door shuts behind him. You’re quick to pick up your bag and pack it with whatever you need, including your sketchbook and some materials to draw. You smile to yourself as you get an idea of what to draw while you and Logan relax at the bookstore. You zip up your bag and walk down the hall, then outside to Logan’s truck.
“Got everything?” he asks. You nod your head and mumble a soft “yep,” the hum of the engine almost silencing your voice. Logan pulls the stick and reverses the vehicle while looking over his shoulder. You snicker, and the man groans. “What’s so funny? Did I do somethin’ stupid?” he questions while shifting to drive. You shake your head while covering your mouth. “You always look behind you when you pull out as if anyone lives close to us,” you explain in a half-sigh, half-laugh. Logan chuckles softly as he begins to make his way to the bookstore. “Pfft. Alright. I’m just trying to make sure I don’t hit any trees. This baby might be paid off, but I plan on keeping her as long as I can,” he tells you. You exhale deeply as you cross your arms to your chest.
After a few minutes of somewhat awkward silence, you state the obvious: “It’s way too quiet in here.” Logan hums in agreement as he gently taps the leather of the steering wheel. You pick up your bag from the floor of the truck, unzip it, and pull out your small CD holder. “I’ve got a few burned CDs with our favorite songs. What are you in the mood for?” you ask sweetly. The mutant looks at you and shakes his head before focusing his attention on the road once more. “Oh, please. You should know this by now,” he teases. You roll your eyes at him and pick the one that has “LOGAN’S ‘DAD’ ROCK” written in sharpie. You put it in the player and go through the songs before he pushes your hand away. “Ah, ah. No. We’re listening to this,” he states in a slightly stern tone. It’s one of his favorite songs that you catch him singing or humming while you make dinner for him: Self Esteem by The Offspring. You lift your hands up to your chest in defense while widening your eyes. “Alright, old man. We’ll listen to it,” you groan despite enjoying the song yourself. You and Logan both get into the lyrics and find yourself relishing in the moment. The windows are down, he’s driving almost 10 over with barely any other cars on the road, the music is blasting, and the wind in your face feels so amazing.
Eventually the two of you arrive at the large bookstore. You pop the CD out of the player and put it back in the case as Logan parks and turns off the truck. He walks over to the passenger side and opens the door for you as you finish zipping up your bag. “Thank you, kind sir,” you say in a fancy accent. He smiles at you as you take his hand to step out. “But of course, darling,” he says in an equal manner. The two of you share a snicker before approaching the double doors of the bookstore. You’re both hit with the memory-filled atmosphere of the shop; the scent of wood, carpet, and fresh paper, the soft chatter scattered around, and the sound of clinking dishes at the café. Logan releases a deep sigh before his eyes set on you. “I’ve got a bit of extra money,” he says in a bit of a whisper. You look at him with a wide smile, grabbing onto his hand tightly as he walks with you towards the café. “How ‘bout you go find us a spot, bub?” he asks as the both of you enter the line. You nod softly while turning to go find somewhere to sit. You look around carefully, anxiously sticking to Logan’s side until you find a cozy corner area. Once your gaze settles on it, you make a plan in your head on how to get there without moving behind people, tripping, or being in someone’s way. You carefully make your way over and sit down. Logan looks over at you and shoots you a half smirk as you give him a thumbs up.
About five minutes later, your scruffy partner comes over holding a sweet treat in two waxy-looking brown bags. “Got us a little treat. Hope ya’ like it,” he says. He sits next to you and sets your bag in front of you before opening his own. He got the two of you delicious, glazed croissants. You guys have been getting them for the longest time, despite Logan saying he’ll surprise you with whatever he orders for you. You look at him and smile sweetly. “Awe! Thank you, Logan. I really do appreciate when you get me sweet things like this,” you slightly ramble. He hums in acknowledgment before lifting your hand to kiss it, causing you to blush. He chuckled as he felt your flesh warm and saw the way you froze up.
Once the croissants were long gone and thoroughly enjoyed, Logan sat next to you while scrolling through his phone. You, on the other hand, were drawing a little something for your partner. You hummed softly as your pencil skipped across the page to create a picture. Logan raised his brow suspiciously upon seeing your goofy smile. “What’re you drawin’ there, bub?” he asks as he sets his phone on the table. You shrug and chuckle softly. “It’s nothing! I promise,” you tell him shyly. He doesn’t falter and tilts your sketchbook down. “Let me see this,” he mumbles as he looks down at it. “What is that thing?” he asks with furrowed brows. His eyes look to you in search of an answer, and you fidget with your hands. “It’s a—a wolverine,” you whisper. He fixes his posture before wrapping an arm around you, pulling you closer, and kissing the top of your head. “I love it, bub,” he whispers in return. You blush once again as he displays his affection for you in the comfy corner of the café.
