#desi!reader

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Simon! who learns how to make proper chai and throws away every teabag in his kitchen. Don't mind him flexing on his team in base.

"Proper tea. Not the crap you lot drink", he goes looking at their faces. Everyone equally shocked as to why their Lt. prefers grinding gingers, cardamom and spices violently instead of just boiling water and throwing a bag...

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Desi! Reader who wears a saree in front of Simon for the first time. And had to wear another one, because that man went rabid the moment you walked in looking oh so sensual. Silk falling and wrapping your body just right.

"I've never seen anything hotter than this", he whispers caressing the drapes and pleats.

"Is this supposed to be so..exposed", he mumbles kissing your neck as his thumb brushes against your waist.

"Yeah, it uh usually is like this".

He tugs at your front as you let out a gasp feeling hours of your hardwork unravel, just like that. Before you could protest he frowns tugging it more and more till it comes out flowing.

"The hell it's endless or what", he groans trying to get it all down. But oh, he was beyond thinking straight. So he does what he could, fuck you while you grab onto your slipping fabric. Bangles clinking, anklets chiming and Si was in heaven. Yeah, don't wear a fucking saree again. Unless you plan to get late.

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Simon! who hears you call him 'jaan'. He never asks you upfront what it meant. But yes, he did google it.

Later – you overhear him bragging to the team.

"My bird calls me Jaan."

Soap snorts,"You sure that’s not an insult?"

Simon scowls.

"It means life in her language. Yeah? Like — not January-Jan. It's Jaaan."

She calls me her life...

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Desi! Reader who lays down in front of him butt naked for him to draw henna patterns all over her body. Don't mind him writing "Riley's" on your bum knowing you can't see it.

Rest, he would try his best to draw little hearts and flowers on your thighs and back as you drift to sleep. A disfigured skull on your nape. And admires his own work grinning ear to ear.

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Simon! who thinks you have the biggest family on Earth. Each time he discovers a new cousin, a new uncle or a new aunt at your family get togethers. But oh, your family loved him from the first meeting itself.

"Pyara Gora chora", you hear your old grandma say as she laughs. You look around the hall to see Simon bending down and touching feet of every damn adult in the room...jesus you did not teach him that!!

Everyone stops what they were doing the moment every kid in house makes Simon their personal jungle gym. All of them hanging by his biceps as he stands tall amused.

He grins spinning as a little girl sits on his shoulders grabbing his hair giggling.

Despite the differences. Despite the fact you both grew miles apart. He tries for you. Learns how to say words in a language that commands full use of tongue.

Broken words sure, but full of adoration. And he'll die trying if that means having you forever.

And you go from a 'fucking coloniser' to 'fucking a coloniser'. 🌷🫣

A week passes the way storms pass over the ocean.

Not all at once—but everywhere.

You learn, quickly, that grief can wear lipstick. That betrayal can smile back at you in fluorescent hallway light. That the body keeps score in places you didn’t know it could count: in the tightness of your throat when someone says dating, in the way your ribs ache when laughter lands too close to the bruise.

So you become good at fine.

You become devastatingly good.

You show up to training with your hair tied neat and your jokes sharpened bright enough to blind. You spar like nothing is wrong. You greet Rachel like you aren’t swallowing glass. You nod at Damian like the world didn’t tilt on its axis the moment he stood beside her and called it truth.

And the worst part is this:

Damian doesn’t stop watching you.

Not openly. Not in a way anyone could accuse. But you feel it— the way you feel heat near flame.

A presence. A line of attention pulled taut.

Sometimes you catch him looking when he thinks you won’t. Sometimes you catch him looking and he doesn’t look away, it feels like a dare—like he’s asking you to name the wound out loud.

You don’t.

You do what you’ve always done when the universe gets cruel.

You perform.

On day two, your cup shatters in your hand.

Not dramatically—no explosion, no heroic spectacle. Just a quiet, ugly crack as your fingers tighten around ceramic and your power answers the way it always wants to answer:

Break it down. Separate it. Solve it.

The mug becomes pieces like obedient little truths, and everyone laughs like it’s a party trick.

You laugh too.

Because laughter is what you do when your chest feels like it’s filling with sand.

Kori watches you after that. Softly. Like sunlight that refuses to abandon you even when you’re standing in shadow. Dick watches you like a man who knows what survival looks like because he’s lived it in too many shapes.

And Rachel—

Rachel watches you like she’s waiting for you to throw something.

You don’t.

You don’t throw anything except jokes and smiles and the occasional bright, harmless “I’m fine!” that lands a little too perfectly.

Damian speaks to you less than he used to.

But every time he does, the nickname slips out like a sin.

 “يا قلبي.” (yā qalbī — My heart.)

It’s always quiet. Always like he forgets the room exists. Like he forgets the world has rules.

And every time, it hits you somewhere behind the sternum— somewhere private.

You still don’t understand Arabic.

But you understand that it isn’t casual.

And you understand, with the dull horror of someone reading an omen correctly too late, that he hasn’t stopped calling you that even now. Even after her. Even after the announcement.

Like he’s either cruel—

or desperate.

By day five, you’re exhausted in a way sleep can’t fix.

Your body is doing the thing it does when it’s hurt: it tries to become useful enough to be unbreakable. You volunteer for extra patrol shifts. You organize supply drawers. You help M’gann with mission reports. You let Roy poke at you for entertainment and you laugh because it’s easier than letting silence ask questions you don’t want to answer.

And at night, when the Cave dims and the Tower settles into its hum, your thoughts become louder than your footsteps.

You tell yourself you’re over it.

You tell yourself you’re not the kind of girl who falls apart over a boy.

You tell yourself you are not a comet, desperate to be caught.

And then—because the universe loves irony like it loves war—

the Alfred invites you to dinner at Wayne Manor.

'Miss Y/N, it has been far too long. Please do give us the joy of your company for dinner at this old manor. Master Bruce won't admit it, but he misses you. As do I.'

— Alfred Pennyworth.

Not mandatory. Just… tradition. A ritual of family pretending the world isn’t always ending somewhere.

You go because Wayne Manor has always been safe.

Because Alfred’s tea tastes like mercy. Because the halls know your footsteps. Because Bruce’s quiet nods have always been their own kind of affection. Because Tim will argue with you about movies like it’s sacred duty. Because Jason will steal food off your plate and call it love.

Because you were raised by legends, and this place is one of the few corners of Earth that ever made you feel… cared for.

So you go.

You laugh at the table. You tell a story that makes Dick choke on his drink. You let Kori braid your hair at the end of the night like you’re still small enough to believe gentleness fixes everything.

And when the house starts to quiet, when everyone drifts to their rooms, you wander the hallways with a cup of Saffron Milk— a quiet comfort.

You turn a corner.

And your feet take you somewhere without permission.

A door. A familiar stretch of corridor. A muscle-memory path worn into you from years of being allowed to exist here.

Damian’s room.

You stop so abruptly it feels like you hit glass.

Your hand is already halfway raised— to knock, to tease, to slip inside the way you used to when you were younger and braver when the world hadn’t taught you this particular kind of cruelty.

You stare at the door like it’s a trap.

You shouldn’t be here.

You shouldn’t—

The handle turns.

The door opens.

And Damian stands there like the house conjured him on your mistake.

He’s barefoot. Hair damp like he showered and didn’t bother drying it properly. A black t-shirt clinging to his shoulders like the fabric knows it’s lucky to be there. The soft light from his room catches the sharpness of his face and makes him look unfairly human.

Unfairly beautiful.

He freezes when he sees you.

For half a second, something like relief flashes across his expression so fast you almost convince yourself you imagined it.

Then his gaze drops—automatically—to your hands.

To your wrist.

To your face.

To your eyes, like he’s searching for a crack in your smile he can finally name.

 “يا قلبي.”, he says, and it is quiet as a confession (yā qalbī — My heart.)

Your breath catches on the word.

You are so tired.

So tired of pretending the universe didn’t just make a joke out of you.

So tired of pretending your closest friends didn't betray you.

So, so tired of keeping up this lie.

You try to step back. You try to leave with dignity.

“Oh—sorry,” you say, brightness snapping into place like a mask you’ve worn so long, it won't come loose. “I didn’t mean to—habit. I was just—walking. Sleepwalking. Spirit-walking. Whatever.”

You turn.

His hand shoots out—fast, controlled—catching the edge of your sleeve.

Not your wrist. Not the bandage. Like he remembered not to touch where you hurt.

to late, he already punched a hole in your heart.

“Do not go,” he says.

It isn’t a request.

It’s a crack in the wall.

You stop anyway, because your body has always listened to him before your pride can argue.

You don’t look back yet. You keep your gaze forward, jaw tight.

“Damian,” you say carefully, “you’re dating Rachel. This is… inappropriate.”

Silence.

Then, from behind you—close enough that you feel heat—

“I am not,” he says.

You blink, and laugh comes out of you—one short, broken thing.

“Okay,” you say, forcing lightness into your voice like it won’t shake. “Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.”

His grip on your sleeve tightens by a fraction.

“Turn around,” he says.

You do.

And there it is: the way he’s looking at you like he’s been starving for a week and you’re the only thing on the table.

It should make you feel powerful.

It makes you feel terrified.

“Why are you calling me that?” you blurt suddenly, because anger is safer than heartbreak and you are running out of places to put the ache.

Damian’s brows knit. “Calling you what.”

“That,” you snap, gesturing like you can swat the nickname out of the air. “ قلبي (Qalbi). I looked it up.”

His expression goes still.

Dangerously so.

And something bitter twists in your throat because of course you would look it up—of course you would try to translate the one thing he gave you that felt private.

And now you’re standing here, eyes blazing with the kind of fury that only comes from pain you refuse to admit.

“It says,” you continue, voice rising despite yourself, “that you’ve been calling me your dog.”

Silence.

Then—so faint, so unbelievably out of place you almost miss it—

Damian blinks.

Once.

Twice.

And something like a sound almost happens in his chest. Not laughter. Not quite.

More like disbelief—caught between annoyance and the strangest, reluctant amusement.

“…No,” he says slowly.

You fold your arms, defiant, even as your throat burns. “Yes. Kalbi. you've been calling me that. no?” You, bite. Venom in your words.

His jaw tightens.

“It is قلبي (qalbi),” he corrects, clipped. “With a ق (qaf). Not a ك (kaf).”

You stare.

He steps closer, just enough that you have to tilt your head back to keep eye contact, just enough that the air between you becomes an intimate thing.

“كلبي (Kalbi) is ‘my dog,’” Damian says, voice low and precise like he’s teaching a lesson he never wanted to give. “قلبي (Qalbi) is—”

He stops.

Like the next words are dangerous.

Like saying them out loud will turn them into something irreversible.

Your heartbeat stutters.

His eyes hold yours, unflinching, and when he speaks again it’s quieter—rougher around the edges.

“My heart.”

The hallway goes very still.

You feel it—the way your body reacts before your mind can file it away. A warmth under your skin that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with recognition.

You swallow hard.

“That’s… dramatic,” you whisper, and you hate how small your voice becomes.

“I am not dramatic,” he says immediately, which is a lie so obvious it almost hurts.

Your laugh comes out thin. “Right.”

His gaze flicks to your mouth, back to your eyes—like he’s warring with himself.

“You should not have had to search,” Damian says, and something in his tone shifts. Not stern. Not teasing.

Regret.

“Then you shouldn’t have said it like you were allowed,” you shoot back, and the mask cracks—finally, finally. “You shouldn’t have said it and then—then stood beside her like—like it meant nothing.”

His face tightens.

“Do you think it meant nothing,” he asks, quiet, “when I said it to you?”

Your throat closes around the answer.

Because that’s the problem.

It never meant nothing.

Not when he said it. Not when he looked at you like a vow. Not when he touched your bandage like he was memorizing your pain.

Not when he chose her in front of everyone.

You hate the tremor in your breath.

“I told her,” you whisper, anger curdling into something raw. “I told Rachel. I trusted her. I told her that I—”

You stop, because saying it out loud makes it real in a way you can’t undo.

Damian’s eyes sharpen.

“You told her?” he repeats, like the words are a key turning in a lock.

you whisper— like if you were say it any louder, it becomes real. "that I liked you."

Something flickers in Damians expression that you can't quite name. " You—"

Your laugh turns bitter. “Yeah. Because she’s my friend. Because I thought—” Your voice breaks, and you shove it back into shape with sheer will. “I thought she wouldn’t do this.”

Damian’s expression shifts—minute, precise.

Hurt. Not at you.

At himself.

“Rachel did not ‘do’ this to you,” he says, controlled. “I did.”

You stare, stunned by the admission.

He takes a breath like he’s bracing for impact.

Then he says it, finally—each word like a stone dropped into water.

“Rachel and I are not real.”

Your brain stalls.

The hallway tilts.

Your pulse pounds so hard you feel it in your teeth.

“What,” you say, and it doesn’t even sound like a question. It sounds like your body forgetting language.

Damian’s jaw works once.

He looks… angry.

Not at you. Not at Rachel.

At the world. At fate. At himself for having to say it this way.

“It is a ruse,” he says, too sharply, and then—like he realizes how that lands—his voice lowers. Softer. Still controlled, but less cruel. “A performance.”

You blink.

A laugh tries to climb out of your chest and dies in your throat.

“A—” You swallow. “A performance for what? For fun? For entertainment? Because Roy needed a hobby?”

Damian’s eyes flare.

“No,” he snaps, and then catches himself, shoulders tightening like he’s restraining a storm. “Because I needed certainty.”

The words hang between you.

You stare, mouth dry.

He continues, voice low, steady, like he’s testifying.

“You are warm to everyone,” Damian says. “You smile as if smiling is a law of nature. You touch people’s arms, you laugh, you tease—” His gaze cuts into you, unyielding. “And you do it so effortlessly that it makes it impossible to know when you are sincere.”

Your chest tightens.

“That’s not fair,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says immediately, like the admission costs him blood. “But it is true.”

He takes a step closer.

You don’t move.

You should move.

But you don’t.

“I asked you,” Damian says, voice quieter now, almost rough. “I told you I did not know if you meant it with me.”

Your throat burns.

“And I said—” you start, furious, “I said you were my friend—”

“And you said it,” Damian cuts in, sharp as a blade, “too quickly.”

Silence.

He exhales through his nose, and when he speaks again the anger has turned inward.

“I have been trained my entire life to anticipate threats,” he says. “To read deception. To measure loyalty.”

His eyes drop for a second—just a second—before lifting again.

“But you… are not a battlefield. You are not a tactic. And still,” he admits, voice low, “I treated you like one.”

Your heart twists.

Because you want to hate him.

You want to slam the door in his face and call it justice.

But this is Damian— the boy who learned art because you loved it, the boy who watched you like you were sunlight he didn’t deserve, the boy who called you my heart when he thought you wouldn’t understand.

“You used my friend,” you whisper.

Damian’s face tightens.

“Rachel agreed,” he says, careful, “because she believed it would force the truth into the open. She thought it would spare you uncertainty.”

A bitter laugh slips out of you. “Spare me?”

Damian’s eyes flash. “It was an error.”

A pause.

Then, quieter—almost like he hates that the words are gentle—

“I did not anticipate,” Damian says, “how much it would wound you to see me stand beside her.”

Your breath shakes.

“Because you don’t think about me,” you snap, the truth sharp enough to cut the air. “Not really. Not the way I—” You stop, because the rest is too naked.

Damian’s voice drops.

“I think of you constantly.”

The sentence lands like a prophecy.

You freeze.

His gaze holds yours like he’s finally decided cowardice is worse than pain.

" I think of you from the moment I wake to the moment I rest. I think of you and your brilliant smile, your vibrant eyes. I think of your voice, when you speak to me."

All that was on Damian's mind this week was you. You. YOU.

“I did not know how to ask for you,” Damian says, and there is something ancient in the confession—like a prince admitting the curse he’s lived under. “I did not know how to survive the possibility that you would say no.”

Your throat tightens.

“So you chose strategy,” you whisper. “You chose control.”

“Yes,” Damian says, brutal in his honesty. “And I was wrong.”

Silence stretches.

You stare at him, chest heaving, because your body wants to fall apart and your pride is holding it together with shaking hands.

Damian steps closer again—slow, deliberate. Giving you every chance to retreat.

You don’t.

He stops just short of touching you, like he’s afraid to take what he hasn’t earned.

“Tell me what you need,” Damian says, voice low. “I will do it.”

You laugh, wet-eyed. “I need you to undo it.”

He flinches—almost imperceptible.

“I cannot,” he says quietly. “But I can—”

His gaze flicks to your mouth again, and you hate that your body reacts to it.

“I can be honest now,” Damian finishes, rough.

Your heartbeat stumbles.

“Say it,” you whisper, because if he’s going to wreck you, you want it clean. You want it true.

Damian’s eyes narrow, like he’s choosing the blade that will hurt least.

“Rachel and I are not real,” he repeats. “And we never were.”

A pause—thin, trembling.

Then he speaks like he’s naming the only truth he trusts.

“I want you.”

The world goes quiet.

For one heartbeat, you are not a hero or a princess or a weapon in training.

You are simply a girl in a hallway at night, staring at a boy who has always been there like gravity, admitting he has been afraid of you in the only way that matters.

Your laugh comes out broken.

“You’re so unfair,” you whisper.

Damian’s gaze softens—just a fraction, just enough to feel like the sky cracking.

“I know,” he says. “But I am yours in the ways I am capable.”

Your throat aches.

You step forward before you can stop yourself.

Damian goes still—like he’s bracing for a slap.

Instead, you grab the front of his shirt and yank him closer, furious and shaking and so, so tired of pretending you don’t want him.

Your mouth crashes into his.

It isn’t gentle.

It isn’t careful.

It’s a collision—two storms deciding to become the same weather.

Damian’s hand comes up to your jaw, slow enough to be permission, careful enough to be reverence. He doesn’t deepen it until you do—until you tug him closer like you’re the one making the choice.

When you break apart, you’re both breathing like you’ve been running.

Damian’s forehead rests against yours for a second—too intimate to survive daylight.

“يا قلبي.”, he whispers again (yā qalbī — My heart.)

This time you understand it.

This time it hurts in the best way.

You swallow, voice trembling with the last scraps of anger you’re not ready to let go of.

“You’re going to fix this,” you say. “With Rachel. With everyone. With me.”

“Yes,” Damian says immediately.

“And you’re going to stop trying to manipulate the universe like it’s a chessboard,” you add, because you need to say it out loud.

His mouth tightens. “I will try.”

You huff a laugh through your nose, eyes stinging. “Try harder.”

Damian’s gaze drops to your lips again.

Then back to your eyes—steady, dark, devoted.

“Come inside,” he says, voice low. “Please.”

You hesitate, because the hallway is full of ghosts.

Because you can already imagine the morning. The explanations. The consequences.

Damian’s thumb brushes your cheek—gentle, grounding.

“I will not take what you do not give,” he says quietly. “But if you stay… I will not let you be alone with this.”

Your chest caves in on something soft.

You nod once—small.

Damian steps back just enough to open the door wider.

And when you cross the threshold, he closes it behind you with a sound that feels like fate choosing a different ending.

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His mouth finds yours with the same discipline he wears like armor—measured at first, as if he’s afraid of taking too much and being hated for it.

You take his lower lip between your teeth and bite, just enough to remind him you’re not fragile, not porcelain—just bruised in places no bandage can cover. Places, that will fix with time.

Damian’s breath stutters against your mouth.

“Say it,” he murmurs, voice rougher than you’ve ever heard it. “Tell me you want this.”

You swallow, eyes burning with everything you’ve swallowed for days, weeks, years. “I want you.”

His pupils flare like you’ve struck a match in a room full of gasoline.

“Again,” he demands—softly, lips trailing along your jaw dangerously. Not because he didn’t hear you. Because he needs to.

“I want you,” you repeat, and the words come steadier this time. “I’m here. I’m choosing.”

His forehead presses to yours for half a second, like a prayer he doesn’t believe in but can’t stop making.

“يا رب…”

he breathes. (yā rabb — Oh Lord…)

Then his hands slide to your waist—warm, sure—and he lifts you the way he moves through combat: controlled, precise, no wasted motion. He settles you back on the bed, and the mattress dips with his weight as he kneels between your knees, gaze locked to your face like he’s memorizing it.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” Damian says, and the tenderness in it makes your throat tighten. “Tell me to stop, and I stop.”

You nod, mouth parted, heart thundering. “Okay.”

His fingers hook under the hem of your shirt—slow, asking—and he pauses.

“May I?”

The question lands like reverence. Like worship. Like he’s undoing every brutal thing he’s ever been taught about taking.

You lift your arms.

“Yes.”

Damian exhales like it costs him restraint and slides the shirt up and off, eyes tracking every inch he reveals, as if he’s learning you anew. His gaze drifts down your body—not greedy, not dismissive—devout. He lowers his head and kisses the inside of your thigh, then higher, then higher still, each kiss placed with deliberate patience.

You shiver, hands fisting in the sheets.

He looks up at you from between your legs, lashes dark, mouth too close to where you’re already aching.

“Look at me,” he orders softly.

You do. Of course you do.

Damian’s thumb brushes along your hipbone like he’s tracing a boundary, and his voice drops—an admission he can’t quite swallow.

“يا قلبي…” (yā qalbī — My heart…)

The words hit you right under the sternum.

You catch his wrist and pull him up, like you can’t stand the distance, like you need to see him when he wrecks you.

Damian climbs over you, bracing himself on one elbow so he doesn’t crush you, and kisses you again—deeper this time, hunger finally allowed to be hunger. His hand cups your jaw, and his other hand slides down your side, over your waist, pausing at your thigh as if he’s still asking.

“Tell me,” he murmurs into your mouth. “Do you want my hand? My mouth? Or—”

“Don’t make me pick,” you whisper, breathless and half-laughing with nerves you can’t afford anymore.

Damian’s mouth twitches, almost a smile—gone as fast as it appears.

“تبّاً…” he exhales, like he’s cursing himself for how much he wants you. (tabban — Damn it…)

Then his hand slips between your thighs.

You gasp, hips lifting on instinct, and Damian stills immediately, eyes snapping to your face.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “Breathe.”

He spreads you open with the gentleness of someone handling a wound, not taking a prize—two fingers gliding through your slick, warm and slow. His thumb finds the sensitive point that makes your entire body jolt, and his gaze stays glued to yours as he learns you in real time.

You make a sound—small, broken—and Damian’s jaw tightens like he’s holding back violence, the kind that would be turned toward anyone who ever made you feel unwanted.

“Is this okay?” he asks, and his voice is strained, like asking is torture.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes—Damian—please.”

His name on your tongue does something to him. You watch it happen: his control slipping by degrees, his breathing going rough, his hand moving with more certainty—still careful, always careful, but no longer hesitant.

“Tell me what you like,” he murmurs. “قولي لي.” (qūlī lī — Tell me.)

Your nails dig into his shoulder through the fabric of his shirt. “That. Keep doing—Ah!—exactly that.”

Damian’s eyes darken, and his mouth drops to your neck, teeth scraping lightly over skin before he kisses the sting away. His fingers keep working you open, slow at first, then deeper—pressing into that perfect angle that makes your back arch and your breath turn into a plea.

“Damian—” you gasp, voice breaking. “I’m—”

“I know,” he says, voice low and wrecked. “I feel it.”

He watches you come apart like he’s never seen anything more beautiful, thumb relentless, fingers steady, mouth murmuring soft, filthy encouragement that feels like permission to stop pretending you’re okay.

When you finally shatter, you do it with your eyes open—staring straight into his.

Damian freezes for half a beat, like the sight hits him in the chest.

Then he curses, shaking.

“يا الله…” (yā Allāh — Oh God…)

He pulls his hand away slowly, like he’s afraid of overstimulation, and presses his forehead to yours while you tremble beneath him.

“Breathe,” he whispers. “I have you.”

You’re still chasing air when you catch his wrist and tug him down, needy and furious and soft all at once.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper. “Please.”

Damian’s throat works. He looks at you—really looks—and then his gaze drops, as if he’s checking that you’re still with him, still choosing.

“Condom,” he says, voice tight. “Wait—just—wait.”

He moves quickly, controlled even in desperation—reaching into a drawer, tearing open the foil with the impatience of someone who has never wanted anything this badly. He comes back over you, bracing himself again, careful not to jostle your bandaged wrist, like he remembers every place you’ve been hurt.

He strokes himself once, twice—then pauses at your entrance, breathing hard.

“Tell me,” he demands, eyes fierce. “Tell me you want me inside you.”

You swallow, still trembling. “I want you inside me.”

The words are barely out before Damian presses in—slow, slow, slow—like he’s terrified of hurting you, like he’s savoring the fact that you’re real and warm and here.

You gasp, hands clutching at his shoulders, and he stills immediately.

“Too much?” he asks, voice shaking with restraint.

“No,” you whisper, breathless. “Just—just… give me a second.”

Damian’s eyes soften, and he kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth—gentle little anchors while your body adjusts.

“Good,” he murmurs. “You’re doing so well.”

Then, when you nod, when you lift your hips like a yes he can feel—

He starts moving.

Not frantic. Not sloppy. Controlled thrusts that build like a storm you can’t outrun, each roll of his hips measured to the sounds you make—each little gasp, each shiver, each desperate “Damian” like a compass.

“You’re so—” he grits out, voice breaking. “So—beautiful.”

You laugh weakly, teary and wrecked. “You’re such a liar.”

His eyes flash. “I do not lie.”

He kisses you hard, like he needs you to believe him, and the bed creaks beneath the rhythm of him—steady, relentless, devout. His hand slides down between you again, thumb circling with the same precision that made you fall apart the first time, and you choke on a sob.

“Damian—”

“Look at me,” he orders, and there’s something pleading under the command. “Look.”

You meet his gaze, and it’s like staring into a vow.

“Mine,” he breathes, then catches himself—jaw tightening like he’s about to apologize for wanting you. “If you want to be.”

You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him deeper.

“I do,” you whisper. “I want—you.”

That does it.

Damian’s control slips. His thrusts turn harder, hungrier—not careless, never careless, but finally allowed to be desperate. He buries his face in your neck, breath shaking, and the Arabic spills out like a prayer he can’t stop.

“يا قلبي… يا حبيبتي…” (yā qalbī… yā ḥabībatī — my heart… my beloved…)

Your body tightens fast, the pressure coiling low and sharp, and you clutch him like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you loosen your grip.

“I’m gonna—” you gasp.

Damian’s hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye like he’s catching tears before they fall.

“Yes,” he whispers. “Come for me.”

You do—hard, shaking, your whole body pulling taut. Damian groans, bitten-off and broken, and drives into you through the aftershocks like he can’t stand the distance even for a second.

Then he chokes on a curse, hips stuttering.

“لعنة…” (laʿna — damn…)

He comes with your name like it’s a confession, like it’s the only truth he trusts.

For a moment, he goes still over you, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours, as if he’s holding himself together by sheer will.

Then the softness returns—immediate, almost startling.

Damian eases out carefully, disappears just long enough to dispose of the condom, then comes back and pulls you into his arms like he’s building a shelter around you. He tucks you close, hand splayed over your stomach, thumb tracing slow circles like a lullaby.

You’re trembling, spent, heart loud.

Damian kisses your temple.

“Are you alright?” he asks again—quiet, sincere.

You laugh, faint and wrecked, and press your face into his shoulder. “I’m… yeah. I’m good.”

His grip tightens, protective and warm.

“Good,” Damian murmurs. Then, softer than breath—soft enough it feels like a secret just for you: “يا قلبي.” (yā qalbī — my heart.)

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Part 3 Masterlist Part 5

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Taglist! (Don't hesitate to ask if you'd like to added ☺️):

If I was going to be on my feet, running around all day, I at least deserved pancakes. And Anika,too, I guess

I poured batter into the pan and watched it sizzle, flipping each one before it browned too much. By the end, I had a stack of twenty. Ten for me and ten for Anika.

Though realistically, she’d eat twelve and pretend she didn’t. I sliced berries over the top because food too deservse to look nice.

Then I grabbed two mugs and reached for the spice shelf. Cardamom, Cinnamon, Cloves, Peppercorns and Ginger.

I crushed everything together while humming one of the songs my parnani used to sing whenever she cooked or cleaned or wanted everyone else to hurry up.

The beautiful smell alone woke me up. I tipped it into a pot, added milk, then pointed two fingers at the stove.

A small angular flame sparked from my fingertips which the burner caught instantly. And heated it up niccly, just enough to keep the the chai simmering.

While it brewed, I sat on the floor and closed my eyes. The sun warming my body sweetly.

I loved mornings for this exact reason—my body and mind enjoyed the glaze of warmth the sun gave. But today I had a lot to do, I have rehearsal, have to help my parents set up their stand, checking costumes and makeup for tomorrow, answering the tourists questions, and making sure everything’s perfect.

Oh and getting some necessities for the house.

But tomorrow, it would be the start of the festival.

Tomorrow, the avatar would arrive

I inhaled deeply, finding silence before the chaos arrived and ate at my brain.

Outside, the city was waking up. Vendors were already shouting in the streets below. Bells rang somewhere in the distance, and beyond all of it, the sea hit the cliffs in slow heavy waves.

I stayed there for another minute.

Then I got up, stretched until my joints stopped making thise disgusting sounds that made me think my body was older than it actually was, and headed to bathe.

When I came back out, I dressed in a rose-red linen skirt with embroidery near the hem, a cropped blue top, and enough jewelry to make noise every time I moved.

My belly chains rested low on my waist, bracelets stacked at both wrists, and my nose ring flashed whenever I turned my head towards the sun.

I rubbed scented oil into my skin and went to the kitchen feeling almost human again.

Anika was awake, with her hair sprayed everywhere. Half dead yet somehow fully awake enough to be evil.

Half of my pancakes and fruits were gone.

I stared at her, bobsmacked.

She blinked slowly once, gave me a smile, and said, “Morning, hotstuff.”

I shook my head and sighed, dragging my feet into the kitchen and taking the remainder of what I had left for myself before my shower.

Glaring at Anika, who just gave me a small smirk.

She reached towards the pot and poured the chai for me into a mug. And handed it to me and grabbed an apple and took a bit into it.

“I am so grateful that today’s a half-day.”

I raised my brows at her statement, a gulp of chai already warming my mouth, I gulped it down.

” What time will you be done with the little ones?”

I asked placing the mug down to take a bit of my pancakes.

“Hmmm I think at around 1 or 2, then I’ve got to come back home get changed for practice.”

I nodded,” Okay, cool I think I’ll open the studio at 2:30-ish but before I’ve got to check out Parnani’s place see if its ready for the tours and before that check up with our parents at mom’s.”

Anika cleared her throat and gave me a smile, “Hey, don’t worry about it Kaayvsa, the tour is going to turn out great—you know what seeing as it’s my half-day I’ll go check up on her—”

“No, you don’t need to, Annie, I’ve got it and enough your little break before rehearsals. Its just a quick check up to see if everythings in order, and if I need to get some things but other than that its going to be fine.” I reassured my friend.

That made her hum in agreement.

“Don’t overwork yourself,” she said, softer now.

I gave her a look.

“You’re literally saying that while working two jobs.”

She smiled. “Yes, but Its me and I’m better at it.”

I rolled my eyes, but there was no malice in it.

By mid-morning, we had split ways, with Anika dressed in a simple dress. I only did my hair and bits of makeup so that I’d be a bit presentable.

My hair tied into a low-messy with a middle part and loose face-framing strands. And a bit of rouge on my cheeks and lips and kohl lining my waterline.

The city outside was already louder, brighter, more chaotic in that festival-week way where everything felt slightly unhinged but also alive. People ive seen my entire life—shouting and waving as I made my way past towards my mother’s house.

The walk there was so peaceful, I almost immediately regretted wishing for peace that morning.

The moment I stepped inside, it was chaos—but the organised kind.

The kitchen smelled like spice, oil,something sweet burning and perfumes…. LOADS of it.

My mother stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, completely focused on meal prep like shes about to find a starving army—well she is.

My father was at the table nearby, mixing body oils and face paints like a scientist.

Around them, my aunts moved like they had ten hands each—chopping, stirring, shouting instructions across each other.

My uncles were outside arguing over some mechanical stall setup. While my cousins were already fighting over who got to do henna first.

And somehow, everything was still… clean.

Just so fucking loud. Oh how happy I am to be home.

“Vysa!” one of my aunts called the second she saw me. “Come here, taste this, lovey.”

Before I could even breathe, I was handed something spicy, warm, and weird tasting.

I coughed, my lips puckering at the taste.

She nodded proudly, a smile on her lips. “Perfect, just the reaction I wanted.”

That’s when it started, barely a foot in, I removed my shoes and walked further into the kitchen moving towards the lemon water and pouring myself a drink.

“So,” my aunt said casually, far too casually, as she leaned on the counter. “I heard something interesting in the capital.”

“My friend went to trade in the Fire Nation the other day,” she continued, “and guess who she saw?”

My aunts and mom raised their eyes in question momentarily stopping their work, before one of them responded.

“What? Her imaginary rich noble man from the earth kingdom.”

And the room erupted into cackles, my lips twitching into a smile before grabbing a dishtowel and using it to lightly smack the culprits back, who gave me a naughty grin and shrugged her shoulders

She rolled her eyes at her sisters. ”No, you gossip. The fire lord was in the market centre—in a horrible disguise and she was telling me that there are rumors around in the capital that he’s looking for a bride.”

Silence.

Actual silence.

I felt her eyes before ours met. The way attention shifted from the food towards me. The way her eyes slid from her cutting board to her sisters… then to me.

Oh no.

Out of everyone in this house, she was the only one obsessed with the idea of me getting married. Not my siblings. Not even my parents.

Just her. Always her.

“…and?” I said slowly. My aunt’s grin widened.

“He’s very handsome.”

I froze as she continued, delighted.

“Like—very. Long dark hair, sharp face. Very intense. Very brooding. Very—”

“No,” I said immediately.

“Oh yes,” another aunt added.

“No,” I repeated, stronger this time.

My mother finally spoke without turning around.

“He’s probably your type.”

I turned to her so fast I nearly dropped my cup.

“Excuse me?”

The kitchen erupted.

“He is your type,” one aunt confirmed.

“Tall,” said another.

“Serious,” said someone else.

“Traumatised,” my cousin added helpfully.

I stared at all of them. “…I hate all of you.”

The kitchen erupted into giggles.

“He is so your type,” my aunt insisted, pointing at me like she had just proven something.

“No,” I said, shaking my head, already backing away like distance would save me. “No,no, agni, no!.”

“Come, lovey he probably has that long hair that you like,” someone added.

“Maybe a very serious face,” another added.

“He also probably stares off into the distance for no reason,” my cousin said.

I covered my face for a second. “That means nothing.”

“That means everything,” my aunt teased back.

I groaned. “You are all projecting.”

My mother finally spoke, calm as ever, not even turning around. “You said that last 5 times, sweetly. Should I tell everyone what your boyfriends used to look like?”

The room went feral.

I dropped my hands and stared at her. “You were supposed to be on my side.”

“I am,” she said simply, a smile gracing her face. “I’m just not lying.”

“Traitor,” I muttered.

Just then my uncle walked in like he always did, already reaching for food before he even greeted anyone.

“Oi—” my mother snapped without turning. “That’s not ready.”

He ignored her, of course, popping something into his mouth anyway.

Then he saw me.

“Vysa.”

He crossed the room in two steps and pulled me into a hug before I could even say anything, one hand coming up to the back of my head like he used to when I was younger.

“You came early,” he said against my hair.

“Yeah,” I mumbled into his shoulder.

He pulled back, giving me a once-over, then jerked his head toward the hallway.

“Come,” he said. “Too loud in here.”

That alone told me it was not just a casual check-in.

I followed him out, the noise of the kitchen dulling the second we stepped into the next room.

He shut the door halfway behind us, leaning against the table.

“What’s up?” he asked, quieter now. “You alright?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Just… festival chaos.”

He hummed, not fully convinced, but let it go.

“And Anika?” he added. “She still screaming the place down or has she calmed?”

I huffed a small laugh. “Worse, actually.”

“Good,” he said, deadpan. “Tell her I said hi, will you.”

That earned a proper smile out of me.

He pushed off the table then, reaching into the bag he had slung over his shoulder.

“I went by Nani’s place yesterday,” he said, pulling out the keys to her house. “Dropped off the robes you asked for. Hung them up for you as well.”

I blinked, a little caught off guard.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” he said simply, handing them to me anyway.

I ran my fingers over the keys.

“Thank you,” I said, quieter this time.

He watched me for a second. Really watched me.

Then his expression shifted.

“You’re doing this on your own this year,” he said.

Not a question.

I nodded.

“Yeah.”

He let out a slow breath, then stepped forward again, pulling me into another hug. This one tighter. Longer.

“I’m proud of you,” he said into my hair.

Something in my chest twisted.

“Yeah?” I tried, light, but it came out smaller than I meant.

“Yeah,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at me. “Not everyone could do that. Not like this.”

I swallowed, looking down at the robes in my hands.

“She’d be proud of you too.”

That one hit.

Hard.

I nodded before I could say something stupid, or worse, honest.

“Okay,” he said after a second, clapping his hands once, like he was physically resetting the mood. “Come on. Before they eat everything.”

The second we stepped back into the kitchen, the noise hit again like a wave.

My dad turned the moment he saw me.

“There she is,” he said, already grinning. “Our star performer.”

“Hi, dad.” I grinned back at him, going up to him to receive a hug and he places a kiss on my forehead.

His eyes crinkled with his smile as he looked down at me.” “What’s the plan for tomorrow?”

He wiggled his brows, “What are we giving the people this year?”

“Don’t,” I warned, already narrowing my eyes.

Too late.

He straightened up like he was about to step on stage, then started mimicking my dancing. Badly. Completely off rhythm, hips going in directions that made no sense.

I let out a giggle before I could stop myself.

“Dad stop—”

He didn’t.

“Oh, like this?” he said, doubling down, somehow making it worse.

The entire kitchen erupted into laughs and giggles at my father’s antics.

Even my uncle shook his head.

“I’m thinking Apsara’s Breath,” I said, laughing despite myself. “With my own little twist.”

My father froze dramatically.

“A twist?” he repeated like I had just insulted tradition itself. “You’re upgrading now,huh?”

“Relax,” I said, still smiling. “It’s not that deep.”

“It is that deep,” he insisted, placing a hand over his heart. “This is art.”

My mother didn’t even turn around.

“What it is,” she said, tossing a cloth straight at his chest, “is embarrassing.”

He caught it, offended. “You wound me.”

“I would burn you,” she replied, calm as ever.

He grinned anyway, tossing the cloth over his shoulder like he had just won something.

She didn’t even try to hide her smile this time.

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The airship hummed steadily beneath my hands as I steered us toward the island, following the route the captain had mapped out.

Behind me, the familiar chaos had already started.

With Sokka talking too loudly, Katara was correcting him, and Toph was making it worse on purpose while Suki just enjoyed.

I allowed myself a small smile anyway.

Movement outside caught my eye.

I glanced to the side to see Aang, riding alongside us on Appa, one hand gripping the reins while the other waved at me like he had not seen me in years. Momo clung to the saddle behind him, asleep, like an infant.

I lifted a hand in return.

Katara spotted them a second later and rushed to the window, lighting up immediately.

“Aang!” she called, already waving.

He tilted his head slightly to one side. And she leaned the opposite.

He mirrored her again, and she did the same in the opposite direction.

They repeated it like idiots.

I exhaled through my nose.

Then she blew him a kiss.

He caught it. Actually caught it. And pressed it to his chest like it was something valuable.

She turned back into the room, smiling.

Sokka looked like he had just witnessed something deeply disgusting.

“Ew,” he said immediately. “Katara, no one wants to see that.”

She rolled her eyes and shoved him lightly. “Your commentary is completely unnecessary, Sokka. As if I have not seen and heard you do worse.”

His expression shifted instantly. Embarrassment. Then pride.

“Well—”

Toph cut in, grimacing. “Do not even start. My poor feet.”

Sokka froze.

“Next time,” she added, “try not doing it in the middle of the day.”

Suki made a small, strangled noise, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Why am I getting dragged into this? I did nothing.”

“Guilty by association,” Sokka said quickly.

“That is not how that works,” Katara shot back.

“That is exactly how that works.”

Their voices overlapped again, louder this time.

I let out a quiet chuckle, shaking my head as I adjusted our course slightly.

Then—

Suki cleared her throat.

“Woah,” she said.

That got everyone.

They shifted toward the front windows almost at once. Their faces planted onto the glass, I need to clean that once I get home.

Everyone except Toph.

I stepped forward, resting a hand against the frame as the island finally came into full view.

For a good second, no one spoke.

Blue water crashed against dark volcanic rock, waves breaking white against the shore. Inside the ring of stone, the land opened into something… so beauiful.

A city.

Buildings clustered together, colour spilling between them, smoke rising in thin lines. Beyond that, smaller towns stretched outward, broken up by lakes that caught the sunlight and forests that moved with the wind.

It was… ethereal.

Sokka leaned closer to the glass. “Okay wow, just wow.”

“It’s so beautiful,” Katara said quietly.

“Very.” Suki added

Sokka said. “I think I just found my retirement spot.”

“That is one way to put it,” I said.

Near the edge of the city, something came at us.

I narrowed my eyes, before rapidly shifting the airship to the side.

Making everyone and everything inside the airship shift to the side.

Shouts of surprise echoed, “Hello! Warning next time, sunshine.” Toph growled

Fire.

But they were thin streams of it, arcing upward into the air.

Thankfully now not attacking, but they were signalling.

Or pointing towards the path to land.

“Those are for us,” I said.

Sokka blinked. “You are telling me they are guiding an airship… with fire?”

“Yes.”

“That feels very wrong.”

“It is working, is it not?”

“Uh, I guess.”

Outside, Appa let out a low groan, dipping slightly as Aang adjusted his direction to follow the same path.

I angled the airship down, lining us up with the trail of fire.

The closer we got, the thicker the air became.

The island did not just look alive, it felt alive too.

“Everyone ready?” I asked, not turning around.

“No,” Sokka said immediately.

“Good.”

The engines slowed as we descended, the deck vibrating beneath our feet before settling.

And we landed, I moved to open the doors.

And the second I did—Heat hit us.

Thick, humid air rolled in, clinging instantly.

Sokka was stunned. “Oh this is just great.”

Katara pushed past him, already scanning the space. Suki followed, steady as ever. Toph stepped out without hesitation, like she already knew exactly where she was going.

Infront of us, waiting stood at the edge of the landing platform stood a line of officials, dressed far lighter than anything worn in the Fire Nation.

Loose fabrics. Breathable. Silks and wraps that moved with the wind instead of holding shape. Bare arms, open collars, jewellery catching the light in small flashes.

Gold, beads, metalwork—ones that didn’t match just one nation.

At their centre stood a man, way younger than those behind him.

Watching us with a large smile, oh he was definitely our age just by his facial structure.

The Head Magister.

Arms open with a wide and welcoming smile.

“Fire Lord Zuko,” he said, voice carrying easily over the noise of the city behind him. “Avatar Aang. Masters Katara, Toph, Sokka… Captain Suki.”

He inclined his head to each of us, precise but warm.

“Welcome,” he continued, gesturing to the island behind him, “to Enjima.”

Sokka leaned slightly toward me. “Okay, this is way nicer than what I envisioned.”

“Oh hush,” Katara muttered under her breath.

“All things considered,” I said, meeting the Magister’s gaze, “this is a better reception than I expected.”

A flicker of something passed through his eyes. Amusement I recognised.

“We aim to improve upon expectations, Your Highness,” he replied smoothly.

I glanced past them, toward the city.

Toward the colour, the movement, the liveliness of just it’s buildings.

Aang stepped up beside me, softer, but certain.

“It is beautiful,” he said.

The Magister’s smile deepened, just slightly.

“Yes,” he said. “It is.”

next chapter →

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notes: i feel like this chapter is a little bit lacklustre idkkkk, buts it’s not edited AT ALLL and i will go over this….. just not rn hehehehehe

but ty for the love

xoxo

kiki 🩷🩷

taglist ;

55. Carlos Sainz Jr.

Off-season meant vacation—sleeping in, eating well, enjoying the sun, spending time with family and friends, and simply resetting after another chaotic year at the pinnacle of motorsport.

For Carlos, the off-season meant Madrid. It meant home. Family, warmth, familiarity—and her.

She had taken to his family quickly, almost suspiciously quickly, and they to her. Sometimes Carlos genuinely wondered if they loved her more than they loved him—not that he minded…most of the time. But the thought brought him peace too, because it meant they had accepted his choice without hesitation. They loved her as though she belonged there, as though she’d always been there, and not just for a handful of months.

His mother had even begun whispering to him—usually when they were shoulder-to-shoulder drying dishes or when she was proudly cooking an Indian dish for everyone—“She is the puzzle piece our family was missing.” And Carlos couldn’t agree more.

Of course, she wasn’t without her quirks. He had noticed them from the start—welcomed them, cherished them. One of the most defining ones was her devotion to chai. Not tea. Chai.

She had once confessed that chai in the morning was heavenly, almost sacred—something only truly perfect back home in India because the European version of “tea” simply wasn’t the same. And although she had tried to teach him—on his insistence—the results had been…memorable, but not in a good way.

But this morning, in Madrid with the sun just beginning to stretch across the sky, something shifted in him. So he padded downstairs in a plain T-shirt and sweats, armed with his phone and approximately a thousand chai recipe videos.

Twenty minutes of pausing, rewinding, replaying, and following the instructions like he was defusing a bomb—and he had a mug of chai. Strong brown against the vibrant colours of the mug she had claimed as hers from the very first day of the off-season. Steam curled upward, carrying a scent startlingly close to hers.

She was still asleep upstairs, wearing one of his T-shirts and a pair of worn shorts that had definitely seen better days. Her hair was a mess, her lips parted, mumbling incomprehensible half-dream sentences. Utterly adorable, he thought.

He settled beside her and placed the mug on the bedside table. His hand—large, warm, calloused—slid into her hair, gently stroking. She shifted, her lips twitching into a small smile.

“Bebé, wake up,” he whispered.

She groaned dramatically, rolling away from him in protest. But then—she froze. Nose twitching. Sniffing the air like Piñón, which made Carlos choke on a laugh.

“Is that—”

“Yes.”

He had never seen her sit up that fast in the morning. Her eyes glittered, bright with excitement, and the grin on her face made something inside him melt. She looked younger like this, almost childlike, as she wrapped both hands around the mug with near reverence.

She took a tentative sip. Her eyes fluttered closed, a soft stunned laugh slipping out of her. When she looked back at him, there was wonder in her expression, her lips parted in astonishment.

“How did you…?”

Carlos only smiled, tilting his head with an air of mystery.

“That’s a secret, cariño.”

81. Oscar Piastri

Oscar wasn’t much of a cook.

He could cook enough to survive a day or two on his own, sure, but cooking—real cooking—wasn’t really in his skill set. That was something his girlfriend excelled at. Not that she minded; she liked cooking for him. She watched Australian recipes on YouTube and added subtle touches of Indian spices, each creation reducing Oscar to a blissed-out taster sighing into a world of exotic flavours and mouthwatering warmth.

She loved food too—loved tasting new things, discovering little tweaks and techniques she tucked away for later use. And despite the wide range of flavours she adored, one stood above the rest: chai.

Oscar had tasted it before—sips here and there, and one full cup when he’d been sick. But never had he tried to make chai. He never needed to. She liked her chai precise, crafted with muscle memory, impossible for anyone else to replicate.

But today, he needed to try.

Not because she was sick, or it was a special occasion, or he was trying to be romantic. No. It was because last night, curled into him beneath their blankets, she’d admitted in a small, tired voice that she was feeling homesick. That she missed her mother’s chai—the comfort, the warmth, the familiarity of waking up to a cup made with love.

For the first five minutes that morning, Oscar stood in the middle of the kitchen staring at the milk and the fresh tea leaves she’d brought from India—staring at them as though they were plotting against him. But then he grabbed his phone, thumb tapping straight into YouTube. Straight to the one chef she trusted above all others: Ranveer Brar.

For twelve minutes, he watched “Masala Chai – Ranveer Brar.” Then he rewound. Watched again.

Twenty-four minutes in total. Researching, analysing, gathering courage like he was preparing for a qualifying lap.

Eventually, he moved—still lacking confidence, but fueled by determination—following the instructions with a level of precision he usually reserved for Zandvoort’s banking. The minutes stretched endlessly as he grated ginger, crushed cardamom, stirred the simmering milk, and prayed he wasn’t ruining it.

By the time the clock blinked 8:00, and he faintly registered her alarm going off down the hall, the chai was finally ready. He poured it into her favourite mug—the cute Winnie the Pooh one—and hurried to their bedroom while the steam still curled from the top.

She was sitting up on the bed, rubbing her eyes, hair messy, blanket still pooled around her waist. When she saw him standing there, her whole face brightened—until her eyes dropped to the cup in his hands, and she frowned in confusion.

“What’s that, baby?” she asked, voice soft and raspy with sleep.

He approached with a shy smile and sat beside her legs still tucked under the covers, the mug held out toward her like an offering he desperately hoped would be accepted.

She took it gently, eyebrows shooting up as she studied the swirling brown liquid. Steam curled into the air, letting the familiar scent of cardamom and black tea gradually fill the room. A small, surprised smile tugged at her lips. She let out a quiet chuckle before leaning forward to press a tender kiss to his cheek.

Oscar flushed immediately, smiling despite himself.

“Careful—it’s hot,” he murmured, leaning in to place a soft kiss on her forehead. “Good morning, baby.”

She looked down at the chai, then up at him, her eyes warm and soft in a way that made his heart stumble.

“Good morning indeed.”

16. Charles Leclerc

Charles had never been a morning person—not really. Race weekends demanded it, sure, but left to his own devices he preferred to wake slowly, curled into warmth, buried under blankets, and especially when she was beside him.

But today, he was up first.

Because today, he had a mission.

Her family had flown back to India two weeks ago, and although she tried to hide it, Charles had noticed the small signs creeping in—the long silences when she scrolled through old photos, the little sigh she tucked into his chest at night, the way her eyes softened at the smell of cardamom in the grocery store. Homesick. Just a little. Just enough that it tugged at him.

So Charles, prince of Monaco, Formula One driver, man who could tame a Ferrari at 300 km/h but couldn’t boil pasta without supervision, had decided he would make her chai.

He had spent the better part of the night watching Ranveer Brar and a dozen Indian aunties on YouTube explain the “proper” technique. He had taken notes. He had tried his best.

And now, standing in their kitchen, he hovered over a simmering pot like it was a live bomb.

“Slow… slow… don’t let it spill,” he whispered to the milk as though it could hear him. “Please, s’il te plaît.” (Please.)

When it finally behaved, Charles exhaled dramatically, poured the chai into her favourite mug—one she had bought in Mumbai with little lotus flowers painted on the sides—and padded back to the bedroom.

She was still asleep, curled on her side, wrapped in the blanket like a spring roll. Her hair was a halo of chaos, one strand stuck adorably to her cheek. Charles smiled, the kind that softened everything sharp in him.

He knelt beside her and brushed a finger across her forehead.

“Amour… wake up,” he whispered.

Nothing.

He tried again, a little firmer.

“Baby… il fait jour.” (it’s daytime)

Still nothing. A tiny grumble slipped out from under the blanket and she pushed her face deeper into the pillow.

And then—her nose twitched.

Once.

Twice.

Then she shot upright so fast that Charles almost dropped the mug.

“Chai?” she demanded, eyes wide, hair wild, voice hoarse.

He blinked, impressed and a little terrified. “Uh… oui.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You made chai?”

He offered the mug like a peace treaty between nations.

“I tried,” he admitted. “Please don’t be angry if it tastes like… Monaco tap water.”

She giggled—still half-asleep, but already glowing. She wrapped both hands around the warm mug and lifted it to her lips.

One sip.

Her eyes closed.

A smile bloomed slowly, softly, like sunrise.

When she opened them again, Charles felt his heart do that stupid, painful squeeze it always did around her.

“This is…” she whispered.

“Terrible?” he winced.

“This is perfect,” she said instead, leaning forward to kiss his cheek, her lips lingering just long enough to make him blush. “Good morning, sweetheart.”

He exhaled, relieved, pleased, glowing.

“Good morning, mon amour.”

She cupped his face with one warm chai-scented hand.

“Charles?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re making this every morning now.”

His eyes widened. “Quoi?!” (What?!)

She only smirked and sipped her chai again.

04. Lando Norris

Lando wakes up with a grin already on his face.

It’s her birthday.

Which means—according to his rules—she’s not allowed to lift a finger all day. Which also means he’s going to try something completely outrageous for her: making chai.

He tiptoes out of the bedroom, nearly tripping over his own foot in the process, then darts to the kitchen like a man on a mission. He pulls out the ingredients she keeps organized in the cupboard—tea leaves, spices, ginger—and sets them on the counter with the determination of someone about to perform open-heart surgery.

“Alright,” he mutters, opening YouTube. “Masala chai. Easy. Easy, right? Right. Oh bloody hell—nine minutes? Why is it nine minutes?”

He watches the video. Rewinds.

Watches again.

By the time he finishes brewing it, the kitchen looks like a war zone—ginger bits on the counter, milk almost overflowing once, Lando whisper-yelling “DON’T BOIL OVER, PLEASE” like he’s negotiating with it.

But when it finally reduces to that perfect chai colour, Lando beams proudly.

He pours it into the special mug he bought for her birthday—the one that says “World’s Best Girlfriend.” He knows she’ll tease him for it, but he also knows she’ll secretly adore it.

Holding the mug carefully, he sneaks back into the bedroom.

She’s still asleep, wrapped in the blanket, lips parted slightly with those little soft breaths he loves listening to. He sets the mug down before crawling onto the bed beside her.

“Birthday girl…” he whispers, brushing a stray curl off her forehead.

She shifts but doesn’t wake.

He leans closer.

“Babeeee… wake up. I made something for you.”

Nothing.

Then—her nose twitches.

Sniffs.

She sits up instantly, eyes wide, hair messy, blanket falling to her lap.

“No way. Lando. Did you—?”

He grins, chest puffed in pride.

“Made chai for the birthday princess.”

She takes the mug, eyes shining as she inhales the steam. The first sip makes her sigh—deep, warm, content.

“Oh my God… you actually did it.”

He flops onto his back dramatically.

“You have no idea what I went through. I fought milk. I fought ginger. I fought for my life.”

She laughs, leaning over to kiss him.

“Thank you, baby.”

He grins up at her.

“Only the best for you. And before you ask—yes, you’re staying in bed. The whole day. I’ve got plans.”

Her smile softens.

“Best birthday ever.”

44. Lewis Hamilton

The morning light filtered gently through the London penthouse, golden and soft—the kind of sunlight that felt intentional, as if it knew today mattered. Their anniversary. Another year of love, patience, shared growth, and stolen moments in the quiet.

Lewis was awake before her. He always was, but today there was a certain spark beneath his calm, the quiet buzz of someone planning something small yet meaningful. Large gestures were easy; he’d done them a thousand times in his life. But the real intimacy—the real romance—lived in the ordinary.

And today, that meant chai.

He padded into the kitchen barefoot, hair tied up messily, wearing an old white T-shirt and grey sweats. The kitchen was still, the city outside slow to rise. He breathed out, rolled his shoulders, and began.

She had taught him years ago—standing behind him, laughing softly every time he added too much ginger or too few cardamom pods. Now, he knew the process by heart. Not perfect, never quite like hers, but close enough that she always smiled and said it tasted like home.

He set the milk to warm, sprinkling in tea leaves, the aroma immediately rising like a memory. He added cloves, cardamom, ginger—freshly grated—and a touch of cinnamon the way she preferred on colder mornings. As the mixture simmered, he leaned against the counter, watching swirling trails of steam curl into the air.

He couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips.

“Anniversary chai,” he murmured to himself with soft pride. “Look at me.”

He poured it carefully—slow, steady, like it was something sacred—and filled her favourite mug. The navy blue one with tiny gold lotus flowers she’d bought at a Mumbai street stall years ago. Steam rose delicately into his face, and without thinking, he leaned in and took a sip.

Just one.

…Then another.

“Damn,” he whispered, closing his eyes briefly. “I did good.”

A sleepy voice drifted from the doorway.

“You really did.”

He froze mid-sip.

She stood there in one of his shirts, drowning slightly in the fabric, hair messy and eyes heavy with sleep. But the gentle smile on her lips was warm enough to melt him where he stood.

“Baby,” he whispered, caught like a kid stealing cookies.

She crossed her arms, pretending to be stern. “You’re stealing my chai.”

“This is quality control,” he defended, holding up the mug like evidence. “Very professional. Very important.”

“That’s my mug,” she pointed out.

“Your mug,” he agreed solemnly. “Our chai.”

She snorted softly, shaking her head as she walked toward him. When she reached him, she wrapped her arms around his waist from the side, leaning her head against his shoulder.

“You made chai for our anniversary,” she murmured. “That’s so…” Her voice softened. “…so you.”

He kissed the top of her head, hand gently cupping the back of her neck. “You once told me your mum used to wake you up with chai on special mornings.”

He tilted her chin up. “So today is a special morning.”

Her eyes glistened just a bit—warmth, nostalgia, and love blending all at once.

He offered her the mug, and she wrapped both hands around it instinctively, inhaling deeply before taking the first sip. Her eyes fluttered shut, a soft sigh leaving her lips.

“Oh,” she breathed. “This is perfect.”

Lewis’s smile grew tender, proud, boyish.

“Happy anniversary, Mrs. Hamilton.”

She leaned up and kissed him—slow, grateful, lingering.

“Happy anniversary, love.”

He stole the mug back for another sneaky sip.

“Lewis!” she protested, laughing.

“Baby,” he said, backing away with exaggerated caution, “you married a man who shares—”

“You don’t share anything.”

“I share myself,” he corrected dramatically. “And also the chai. Sometimes.”

She chased him around the kitchen island, laughter echoing through the morning sun as he held the mug hostage, the two of them glowing with the soft joy of a love that had settled deeply, gently, beautifully into forever.

01. Max Verstappen

The house was quiet in that special, reverent way that only new parents understood—like the world itself was tiptoeing around the newborn sleeping inside it.

Max moved through the hallway slowly, socked feet silent against the hardwood floor. The morning sunlight was spilling gently through the curtains, casting long golden shapes across the living room. Everything felt softer today, calmer, as if the universe was intentionally turning the volume down.

Because today…today she was home.

Both of them.

He had barely slept the night before—not because of the baby (who, miraculously, slept better than he did)—but because every time he looked at either of them, his chest tightened with a kind of happiness he had never known how to hold.

His girlfriend, now dozing peacefully in their bedroom, had only been home from the hospital for twelve hours. Recovery was slow, painful at moments, and he could see the exhaustion etched into every line of her face last night. Still, she had kept insisting she was fine.

He didn’t believe her.

He knew her too well.

Which was why he was standing in the kitchen now, sleeves pushed up, hair a mess, staring far too seriously at a saucepan of milk, ginger, cardamom, and tea leaves.

Chai.

Her comfort, her home, her everything-in-a-cup.

She hadn’t been able to have proper chai at the hospital—too many interruptions, too many visitors, too many responsibilities. But this morning, when she shifted in her sleep and whispered a soft, tired “I miss home,” Max had already made up his mind.

And unlike his first few attempts months ago—when he had practically boiled the milk into oblivion—he had learned. She had taught him gently, laughing when he burned his tongue, guiding his hands when he crushed the spices the wrong way.

Now, he worked with a strange sort of intensity. Like he was preparing his tires for qualifying, but… softer. More careful. More important.

He lifted the saucepan off the heat and poured the chai through the strainer into her favourite mug—the hand-painted one with marigolds that her mother had gifted her.

The smell filled the kitchen: warm, spiced, familiar.

Perfect.

He padded down the hallway until he reached the bedroom door, nudging it open with his shoulder.

There she was.

Propped up slightly on pillows, hair messy, wearing one of his oversized shirts because she claimed they were the only things comfortable enough right now. Her eyes were half-open, still glazed with sleep, still tired in that new-mother way.

And tucked onto her chest, tiny and bundled in a soft cream blanket, was Lily.

Their daughter.

Their miracle.

Her fist no bigger than Max’s thumb.

He swallowed.

“Good morning, liefje…” he whispered.

She blinked up at him, confused for a moment—then her gaze dropped to the steaming mug in his hands.

Her breath caught.

“Max… you made chai?”

A tiny, shy smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Yeah. I tried to make it like you do.”

He crossed the room carefully—he was so different now, so gentle, as if one wrong move might crack the world—and sat on the edge of the bed. She shifted Lily a bit, making room, and Max placed the mug on the bedside table.

“Let me hold her,” he murmured softly.

She nodded, guiding Lily into his arms. He cradled the baby with a tenderness that would have shocked anyone who knew him only on track. His wide hands looked enormous around her tiny form.

She watched him—watched the way his face melted, watched how his thumb brushed over Lily’s cheek like she was the most precious thing he had ever touched.

And then, when he was staring at the baby with awe, she picked up the mug and took a slow sip.

Her eyes fluttered shut.

It tasted like home.

It tasted like peace.

It tasted like him trying—really, really trying.

When she opened her eyes, Max was staring at her with that small, hopeful expression he rarely showed anyone.

“Is it good?”

Her smile trembled. “It’s perfect.”

He felt his shoulders drop in relief. Then, with a playful glance, he leaned over slightly.

“Can I… maybe taste?”

She raised an eyebrow, amused. “You want chai at eight in the morning?”

“I want your chai,” he said simply.

She lifted the mug and brought it closer to him. He leaned in—not too fast, because Lily was asleep—but enough to take a tiny sip.

He blinked.

Then smiled.

“That’s really good. I think I’m getting better.”

She laughed softly and pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

“You’re getting perfect.”

Max’s eyes softened.

He looked down at Lily, then at her.

“Everything is perfect now.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead, lingering there, breathing her in.

For the first time in days, she felt the tension in her body ease. The warmth of the chai, the warmth of him, the tiny weight of their daughter between them—everything made her feel grounded again. Safe again.

Max shifted, placing Lily gently back on her chest, then curled himself behind her, wrapping one careful arm around both of them.

His voice was a whisper against her hair.

“Welcome home, mama.”

She closed her eyes, smile softening as she clutched her daughter and leaned back into him.

Home.

Yes.

There was a profound, uncomplicated satisfaction in laying hands on machinery, in feeling an engine respond to his adjustments with a purr or a roar. It was a realm of clean problems, where issues could be solved with the right tool, a precise oil change or the decisive smack of a wrench. Here, he was in control—a stark contrast to the tangled, human complexities that otherwise defined his life, problems no toolkit could ever seem to fix.

He was deep in the rhythm of it, sleeves rolled up and focus narrowed to the motorcycle before him, when a voice cut through his concentration.

“Sorry to bother you but do you know where Jonah is?”

Jason looked up, wiping his hands on a rag. The man in the doorway was unfamiliar—around his own age, perhaps a few years older, with a relaxed posture and mid-length hair and a tan complexion that suggested origins far from Gotham’s perpetual gloom. But it wasn’t the man who fully captured Jason’s attention.

It was the machine beside him.

An absolutely stunning Kawasaki Ninja ZX-10R, custom-painted in a deep, iridescent purple that seemed to swallow the workshop’s feeble light. The bike was a masterpiece of aggression and elegance. Jason felt an immediate, almost electric connection to it. His eyes, usually sharp with suspicion or guarded coolness, lit with genuine, unguarded appreciation.

“It’s his day off,” Jason said, straightening up. His curiosity, piqued by both the man and the machine, got the better of his customary reserve. “And you are?”

“Name’s Krish,” the man replied, easing the magnificent bike forward. “I wanted to drop her off for repairs. Jonah mentioned you’d be around if he wasn’t.” A casual, trusting gesture accompanied his words. “Mind taking a look?”

Jason gave a noncommittal shrug and pushed himself up from the creeper seat, the well-worn leather of his jacket creaking with the movement. He ambled over to the bike, his earlier focused intensity shifting into a more appraising, professional curiosity. Jonah knew him too well—knew that a machine of this caliber was an irresistible lure, a puzzle and a pleasure rolled into one. Still, a flicker of caution cut through his appreciation. Trust was a brittle currency in Gotham and Jonah giving out his name, even casually, pinged on Jason’s internal radar. That name could be a thread and threads had a way of unraveling back to places best left in the dark.

He pushed the thought aside for now, circling the Kawasaki. Up close, its condition was even more impressive. The custom paint was flawless, the chrome gleamed and the engine, even cold, spoke of meticulous care. A quick visual inspection suggested it needed little more than routine maintenance—maybe a fluid change, a chain adjustment. It was less a project and more a privilege to handle.

“You don’t look like you’re from Gotham,” Jason remarked, his voice casual as he ran a thumb along the edge of the pristine fairing. Krish let out a warm, easy laugh. “Oh, god, no. I’m based out of New York these days, but my work has me on the road more often than not. A bit of a nomad, really.”

“That business sent you to Gotham?” Jason cocked an eyebrow, his tone lightly skeptical. Few legitimate enterprises required a voluntary stop in his city.

“No, this trip is personal,” Krish clarified, his expression softening. He placed a hand on the bike’s fuel tank, a gesture that was both possessive and tender. “I’m just here to drop this baby off. She’s been sitting in my garage for too long and it’s time I let her go.” A sigh, wistful and genuine, escaped him.

Jason straightened up, crossing his arms. He couldn’t mask his bewilderment. “I don’t get it. Why part with something you’ve clearly put this much of yourself into?”

Krish’s smile turned a touch melancholy. “Let’s just say I got one of those requests you just can’t refuse, y’know?”

A knowing, slightly crooked smirk played on Jason’s lips. His time on both sides of the law had schooled him in the many meanings of an ‘offer you can’t refuse.’ “Good money,” he ventured, his tone laced with implication, “or someone special?”

“The latter,” Krish confirmed, his eyes holding a glint of private happiness. Then, as if shaking off a reverie, he clapped his hands together lightly. “Oh, that reminds me—do you sell helmets here?”

Jason tilted his head toward the far wall, where rows of helmets were mounted in a spectrum of colors and designs, from sleek full-face models to vintage open-face classics. “Take your pick,” he said, gesturing with his chin. “Just don’t go for the cheap stuff. A head’s worth more than that.”

Krish walked over to the display wall, his gaze traveling appreciatively over the orderly rows of helmets. He didn’t just look; he studied them, his fingers lightly tracing the contours of a matte black shell then the sleek racing stripes of another. “Do you have anything on the… cutesy side?” he asked after a moment, turning back to Jason with a playful, almost conspiratorial glint in his eye. “Something in pastels? Or… maybe, anything with a bit of glitter?”

Jason couldn’t suppress a rough chuckle—a rare sound in the oil-scented gloom of the shop. “Pastel and glitter in Gotham?” he mused, wiping his hands again on a rag. “That’s one way to make a statement. Might be the brightest thing in a five-block radius.” He scanned the wall, his eyes landing on a particular helmet tucked slightly to the side, almost as a novelty item. It was a vibrant pink number adorned with a cluster of cheerful Sanrio characters. With a half-smirk, he unhooked it and held it out toward Krish. “This cute enough for you?” he asked, the question dripping with friendly sarcasm.

To his surprise, Krish didn’t laugh it off. Instead, he took the helmet, his expression shifting to one of serious contemplation. He turned it over in his hands, examining the weight, the interior padding, the quality of the visor mechanism, ignoring the flamboyant decals. His gaze narrowed thoughtfully, as if he were visualizing it in a context Jason couldn’t see.

“You know what?” Krish said finally, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. “This fits. I’ll take it.”

Jason’s other eyebrow joined the first in a look of pure, unvarnished disbelief. “Wait, what? Seriously? You’re picking this?” His gesture encompassed the garish pink helmet as if it were a radioactive artifact. His tone clearly questioned not just the aesthetic choice, but the man’s entire sense of judgment.

Krish’s grin only widened, infused with a strange delight. “Oh, trust me,” he said, his voice warm with amusement. “When you see her, you’ll get exactly what I’m talking about.”

Her. The word hung in the air, and Jason’s mental image shifted. This wasn’t some generic gift; it was for a specific person. He gave a mental shrug, the judgment fading into pragmatic acceptance. Ultimately, what did he care? If this guy wanted to buy a ridiculous helmet for his significant other, that was his business. And Jason had to grudgingly admit that beneath the eye-searing design, Krish had instinctively chosen one of the most durable, high-spec models on the wall—a helmet that prioritized safety and quality construction over everything else. The man might have eccentric taste but he wasn’t a fool.

“Your money, your head,” Jason conceded with a final, dismissive shake of his head, already moving to ring up the sale. “Or, I guess, her head.”

Jason finished the minor tune-up, accepted the cash with a nod and watched as Krish prepared to depart. The transaction was complete, but the stranger lingered for a moment by the door, the soft Gotham dusk framing him from behind. Though the more Jason talked to him, the more he felt like he knew the man. Not the way that you’ve met them before but the type you’ve seen before, somewhere, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“Hey,” Krish began, turning back with a look of casual consideration. “You’re around the shop often, right? Since I won’t be in the city, I’d feel better knowing there’s someone trustworthy I could reach out to for any bike troubles down the line. You seem like a solid guy.”

Jason leaned back against the workbench, crossing his arms. The request was simple, but in his world, connections were liabilities. “Jonah’s usually here,” he stated, his tone carefully neutral. “But honestly, for a… lady,” he said, subtly referencing the helmet’s intended recipient, “I wouldn’t recommend this part of town for a roadside rescue. It’s not exactly welcoming.”

He moved to the chipped shop counter, rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a slightly grease-stained business card. With a pen snatched from behind his ear, he scribbled down one of his many untraceable, burner-like numbers—a line that routed through several buffers before it ever reached him. It was a concession, small and controlled.

“Here,” he said, sliding the card across the counter. “If there’s an issue, call this number. I’ll make sure someone reliable gets sent to help.”

Krish took the card, tucking it securely into an inner pocket with a grateful nod. He swung a leg over the magnificent Kawasaki, its custom paint job seeming to drink in the shop’s fluorescent light. In a move that perfectly captured his contrasting sensibilities, he carefully secured the pink Sanrio helmet to the rear seat with a bungee net. Then, he pulled on his own helmet—a sleek, professional piece in matte black and dark blue that perfectly matching his bike’s stunning color scheme. The engine purred to life with a deep, respectful growl.

“Thanks, Zack,” Krish called out over the muted rumble, giving a casual two-finger salute from his temple. “You’re a real one.”

Jason blinked. The name landed like a misplaced gear. Zack? Jonah’s latest hire who mostly handled invoices and coffee runs. “I’m not—” he started, the correction automatic.

But Krish was already gone. The bike leaned into a smooth turn and disappeared into the gathering evening, the sound of its engine fading into the city’s perpetual hum.

Silence reclaimed the shop. Jason stood there for a long moment, the ghost of a wry, relieved smile touching his lips. The misunderstanding wasn’t just amusing; it was a relief. It meant Jonah hadn’t given his name away after all. His identity, fractured and precarious as it was, remained tucked behind the anonymous walls of the repair shop, shielded by a simple case of mistaken identity. He was just a mechanic to Krish. For now, in this small space, that was all he needed to be.

“Y/N.”

The voice was a lilting, melodic chime, cutting through the fog of deep sleep. Y/N jerked awake with a soft gasp, the world swimming into focus—the familiar wood grain of her desk, the warm glow of her study lamp and the screen of her laptop where Vani’s amused face peered out at her.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m—I’m up,” Y/N mumbled, pushing herself upright and rubbing the lingering stiffness from her eyes. A faint line from the edge of a textbook was imprinted on her cheek. “What time is it?” She’d been deep into her latest project, a intricate digital design that had consumed the evening, before sheer exhaustion had finally pulled her under right there at her workstation.

Vani and Y/N had a pact, an unbreakable ritual born of mutual necessity and comfort. Their video call was a near-permanent fixture, a shared digital space that bridged the distance between their rooms. For Y/N, it was the perfect alternative to braving the trip to the library; she could burrow in her favorite blanket fort and still be ‘at school.’ For Vani, it was a failsafe against procrastination—a friendly, watchful presence that kept them both vaguely accountable. It was less about constant conversation and more about the quiet, comforting hum of another soul being present.

“It’s time,” Vani said, her voice dropping into a stage whisper, a knowing smirk playing on her lips, “to get up and look out your window. There’s a gift waiting for you.”

Y/N’s brow furrowed in sleepy confusion. A gift? At this hour? Pushing her chair back, she padded over to the window that overlooked the quiet, tree-lined street below. The scene was mostly shadows and the soft pools of streetlight. But then her eyes locked onto a silhouette leaning casually against a parked sports bike—a silhouette whose posture, whose very outline, was etched into her memory. Her breath hitched.

For a second, she was frozen, a statue of disbelief. Then, movement. She scrambled, snatching up the worn outdoor slippers by her door and bolted from her room. The journey down the stairs was a barely controlled stumble—she nearly tripped over her own feet three times, her heart hammering against her ribs. She fumbled with the heavy main entrance door before finally wrenching it open.

Then she was flying. Across the small front yard, through the gate she didn’t bother to close properly, a direct line to the figure who was now turning toward the sound of her frantic footsteps. She launched herself at him with the full, unrestrained force of her momentum, wrapping her arms around his torso in a tackle-hug that knocked a soft “Oof” of air from his lungs.

“Krishu!” Her voice was muffled, pressed into the familiar leather of his jacket. “What are you doing here?”

He staggered back a step, laughing as he regained his balance and returned the hug just as fiercely. “What can I say?” he murmured into her hair, his voice warm with affection. “I missed my chotu too much.”  nickname used for someone tiny/small

At the old, teasing nickname, Y/N finally leaned back just enough to swat his chest. “Stop calling me that!” she protested, but the effect was ruined by the beaming smile she couldn’t suppress. The smile then wavered, giving way to a playful pout. “And do you even realize mujhe aapki kitni yaad aati thi? No calls, no texts… it’s like you forgot all about me!” she complained, the Hindi slipping out in her earnest, half-exasperated scolding. how much I missed you

Krish held up his hands in a gesture of playful surrender, his grin unrepentant. “Accha, accha, maaf kardo, meri ma,” he said as a smooth counterpoint to hers. “I was hiking in the Atacama in Chile. Trust me, the network there is basically non-existent. You’d have had better luck sending a message by carrier pigeon.” He gave her hair another affectionate ruffle, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “But see? I’m here now. And I come bearing actual gifts, not just my charming presence.” alright, alright forgive me mom

"Gift? What gift?" Y/N asked, pulling back from the hug to look at him, her eyes still wide with sleepy surprise and lingering disbelief at his sudden appearance.

Krish just gave her a mysterious, lopsided smile and held up a single finger—wait for it. He stepped back, creating a little space between them and pulled out his phone. With a few swift taps, he dialed a number and put it on speaker. It rang only once before Vani’s voice, now laced with triumphant glee, crackled through.

“Is she there? Did she faint? Do I need to call an ambulance?” Vani’s rapid-fire questions spilled out.

Without a word, Krish handed the phone to Y/N, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Vanshita,” he announced to the air, as if presenting a formal witness. “Explanations, please.”

 Y/N took the phone, pressing it to her ear, her gaze darting between Krish’s expectant face and the stunning motorcycle gleaming under the streetlight. “Vani di,” she said, her voice a mixture of confusion and dawning suspicion. “What is all this about? What’s going on?”

“Okay, listen,” Vani began, her tone shifting to one of conspiratorial delight. “Our dear Krishna here was committing a cardinal sin. He was letting that absolutely gorgeous Kawasaki just… rot in his garage. A tragedy, right? And we were talking and I may have mentioned that I knew someone—someone brilliant, someone who’s been working herself to the bone, someone who could really, really use a spectacular win in her life right about now.”

Y/N’s breath caught. Her eyes flew to the bike, then to the keys Krish was now dangling from his finger, the metal catching the light. “No,” she whispered, the word more a puff of air than sound. It was a denial of the impossible, a rejection of a happiness too large to accept all at once.

“Yes,” two voices chorused in perfect unison—one from the phone in her hand, rich with sisterly satisfaction and the other, warm and steady, from the man in front of her.

Krish stepped forward, the keys swinging gently. He offered them to her, his expression softening as he saw the sheen of tears instantly welling up in her eyes. The moment her lower lip began to tremble, he was there. He gently cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the first treacherous tears before they could fall.

“Rote nahi,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a soft, pleading command. “Rona nahi, Y/N. Mai bol raha hoon, rona nahi.” His words were a frantic, loving mantra. “If you start crying, I swear I’ll put it right back on the trailer. I’ll take it back to New York. Don’t make me do that!” Don't cry, Do not cry, I'm telling you, don't cry.

From the phone, still clutched in Y/N’s hand, Vani’s dry commentary floated out. “Stellar way to console a person, Krish. Truly top-tier emotional support.”

“Oh, shut up, Vani!” Krish retorted, his eyes never leaving Y/N’s watery ones, a flicker of panic in his own. “You know how I get around crying people! Women in particular! I’m not equipped to deal with this!”

The comical desperation in his voice, the tender way he was holding her face and the absurdity of the situation finally broke the tension. A wobbly laugh bubbled up through Y/N’s sniffles, the threatened downpour of emotion receding into a glitter of unshed joy in her eyes.

“Aur haan,” Krish continued, his tone shifting from playful to purposeful. He reached into the inner pocket of his worn leather jacket, his fingers emerging not just with the gleaming key fob, but also with a slightly worn business card. He pressed both into Y/N’s palm, folding her fingers over them with a firm, meaningful squeeze. “This is important. The card is for a repair shop in the city—a place I trust completely. The owner, Jonah, is a good man.” and yes

He flipped the card over, tapping a finger on a series of numbers handwritten in a quick, utilitarian scrawl. “And this,” he emphasized, “is the direct number for one of the employees there. His name’s Zack. If anything at all feels off with the bike or if you just need a second opinion, you call him. Tell him you know me. He’ll make sure you get the help you need.” He paused, ensuring he had her full attention. “I’ve already spoken to Jonah. He’s expecting you. He’s the kind of guy who knows everyone and he’s going to help you navigate getting your full license sorted out. No shortcuts on the paperwork but he’ll make the process smooth.”

Before she could fully process the practical flood of information, Krish turned back to the bike. From a secure net strapped to the rear seat, he carefully extracted the final piece of the gift. It was the helmet—the gloriously, unabashedly pink Sanrio helmet he’d chosen with such specific intent. A soft laugh escaped him as he presented it.

“And this,” he said, his voice softening, “is non-negotiable.” Gently, he placed the helmet onto her head, his fingers deftly fastening the strap under her chin, checking the fit with a practiced tug. The world outside muted slightly, filtered through the visor. “Never. Without. A helmet. Samjhi?” His eyes, visible through her visor, were uncharacteristically serious, all traces of his earlier panic gone, replaced by a bedrock of protective concern. “Not for a two-minute ride around the block. Not ever. This is the rule.” got it?

Y/N nodded enthusiastically, the movement making the cheerful characters on the helmet bob slightly. The promise was easy to make, fueled by a lifetime of conditioning. Her father had been a devoted motorcycle enthusiast, his passion filling their garage with the scent of engine oil and the low rumble of classic engines. Y/N had grown up not just around bikes, but on them, learning to balance on a cousin’s tiny dirt bike long before she’d learned long division.

Her mother had always disapproved, citing safety and unladylike conduct, but her father’s world of freedom and wind had been too magnetic. He’d taken her on countless rides, her small hands gripping his jacket as the world blurred into a stream of joyous sensation and that love had been irrevocably imprinted on her soul.

Knowing Krish had only poured accelerant on that spark. He was the only person in her life whose bikes were faster, whose stories of open roads were more thrilling and who never once dismissed her fascination as a phase. He was always happy to indulge her, explaining mechanics, letting her sit on his machines, and now… this. This was more than indulgence; it was an investment, a passing of the torch wrapped in glittering pink plastic.

From the phone, still loosely held in her hand, Vani’s voice cut through the moment, warm with approval. “See? I told you he’d come through with the full safety lecture.”

Krish shot a mock-glare toward the phone. "I'm hanging up on you now, Vanshita. My emotional support duties here are done." He reached over and ended the call, plunging them into a sudden, significant quiet, broken only by the distant city sounds. 

The reality of the moment, so joyous just seconds before, began to settle with a sobering weight. Krish’s smile lingered, but it had softened around the edges, tinged with a melancholy that Y/N felt echo in her own chest. “I should get going, Y/N,” he said, his voice quieter now, pitched for just the two of them in the dim evening light.

The words landed with a dull thud. So soon? “Why?” she protested, the plea slipping out before she could temper it with reason. “You just got here. At least… at least come up for some chai. I’ll make it the way you like it.” The offer was automatic, a thread of normalcy she desperately wanted to cling to, even as she knew it was futile. She understood the mechanics of their lives all too well. Krish’s work was a demanding, globe-hopping entity and her own academic pursuits were a vortex of deadlines and projects.

Their worlds orbited on different axes and the gravitational pull that had once kept them close was straining under the distance. Growing apart felt less like a possibility and more like an inevitable, slow-motion drift she was powerless to stop. As a child, Krish and Vani had been her constants. She had sworn silent oaths to never let them go, but adulthood, she was learning, was a series of gentle, necessary goodbyes.

“You know I can’t, yaar,” he said, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder. The regret in his voice was a tangible thing. “I have a flight to Taipei first thing tomorrow. Clients waiting, deadlines breathing down my neck.” He shrugged, attempting a casualness that didn’t reach his eyes. In their deep, familiar brown, Y/N could see a mirror of her own reluctance—a sadness that this stolen hour was all they could manage. dude

“I understand,” Y/N nodded slowly, the words tasting like ash. There was no point in arguing with logistics, with the tyranny of schedules and responsibilities. Together, in silence now, they carefully wheeled the magnificent Kawasaki into the designated parking area of her apartment building, the quiet rumble of its tires on concrete feeling like a final, solemn ceremony.

A soft beep from his phone broke the stillness. Krish glanced at the screen, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly. “The cab’s here,” he announced, not looking up, his focus on the glowing rectangle as if it could shield him from the goodbye. “I should go.”

But before the distance could formalize, before he could take that first step away, Y/N moved. She crossed the short space between them and threw her arms around him in another tight embrace, this one devoid of the earlier giddy force, filled instead with a clinging, wordless plea. She buried her face in his jacket, inhaling the familiar scents of leather and distant places, fiercely holding back the hot press of tears.

The impact made him let out a soft, grunting laugh. “Arrey, what is with you and body-slamming me tonight?” he chuckled, the sound warm and strained as he brought his arms around her, one hand coming up to pat the top of her head, right over where the pink helmet had been. “Trying to give me internal injuries as a parting gift?”

“Shut up,” she mumbled into the fabric, her voice thick. He didn’t reply, simply holding her, his own cheek resting against her hair, savoring the quiet, precious moment of connection, memorizing the feel of it.

Finally, as the cab’s headlights swept across the street, he gently loosened his hold. Pulling back just enough to see her face, he brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek, his thumb briefly grazing her skin. “Alright,” he sighed, the playful mask gone again. Then, a flicker of his old self returned, a last attempt to leave her with a smile. “So… duty-free run. Do you want anything from Taipei? Skincare? Those weird flavoured Kit-Kats you’re obsessed with? A decorative sword? Name it.”

She pulled back, sniffling once but managing a wobbly smile. "Just for you to comeback safe and sound. And maybe a postcard. A really ugly one."

"That's my girl," he said, his own smile finally reaching his eyes again, if only for a second. "Ugly postcards are my specialty." He tapped the side of her head gently. "Remember. Card. Jonah. License. In that order."

He gave her one last, long look, as if etching the scene—her standing next to the beautiful, impossible bike, the ridiculous pink helmet now clutched in her hands—into his memory. Then, with a final, decisive nod, he turned and walked towards the waiting cab, its engine idling with impatient warmth.

Y/N stood rooted to the spot, watching as he slid into the back seat. He didn't look back as the car pulled away from the curb, its taillights shrinking into two red pinpricks before dissolving into the river of Gotham's night traffic. The sudden silence felt immense, a vacuum left in the wake of his vibrant energy.

Her gaze drifted from the empty street to the motorcycle beside her. It wasn't just a machine; it was a promise, a tether. He couldn't stay, but he'd left a part of himself behind—a roaring, purple and black fragment of his world, now parked in hers. The cool metal of the key bit into her palm, a tangible anchor.

If the weekend's surprise had felt like a burst of radiant, impossible color, Monday morning was a harsh, high-contrast black and white photograph. Y/N L/N’s reality snapped back with a vengeance and it was currently embodied by her boss, Timothy Drake Wayne, who was in a mood so foul it seemed to warp the very air of the office. The cause was a mystery—a crappy client meeting, a traffic jam, a critical email from god-knows-where but the effect was painfully clear: Y/N was his designated pressure valve.

While the other junior associates were across the office, clustered around senior architects’ screens, eagerly observing the early-stage digital reconstruction of a property recently damaged in one of the Red Hood’s more explosive disputes— allegedly a result of his latest face-offs with one of the rogues, leaving Y/N was anchored to the small pantry. Her primary architectural contribution for the morning was achieving the perfect steep time for a cup of chai, Tim’s third in two hours.

“Hmmm,” she mused under her breath, stirring a generous spoonful of her precious, personally blended chai mix—a cardamom-and-ginger concoction Tim had once tasted and now felt aristocratically entitled to—into a pot of simmering water. “Should I spit in it or is this finally the day for rat poison?”

“Poison, definitely,” a cheerful, unfamiliar voice agreed directly behind her.

Y/N jumped, nearly sending the pot clattering into the sink. She whirled around, her prepared glare dissolving into stunned silence.

Leaning against the pantry doorway was a man who seemed genetically engineered to disrupt the monotony of a Monday. He had a relaxed, athletic grace with mid-length hair that looked artfully tousled rather than unkempt. But it was his eyes that halted her—a vast, brilliant blue, the kind you saw in travel posters for tropical skies. They were nothing like Tim’s icy, assessing glare; these were open, warm, and currently crinkled with amused apology. 

He was dressed simply in a well-fitted blue shirt and dark trousers, but the clothes hung on him with such easy perfection they might as well have been a tailored suit. He looked like if Hrithik Roshan and Brad Pitt had decided to collaborate on a greek god of a love child. Ghoorna band kar, she mentally scolded herself, tearing her gaze away from his smile. Stop staring.

“Sorry about that,” the masterpiece said, straightening up and taking a step forward. His voice was as pleasant as the rest of him, friendly and laced with that same easy charm. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I’m Dick.”

A new, entirely different reaction bloomed across Y/N’s face. The awe, the shock of his appearance, was momentarily vaporized by a wave of profound, cosmic pity. Dick. Of course. It was a universal law, apparently. The universe had to nerf the devastatingly handsome ones. Why did all the unfairly attractive white men come saddled with the most godawful, conversation-stalling names? Josh? Chad? Tim? Dick? It was like a built-in humility feature. 

She managed to school her features into something resembling professional neutrality, though a spark of her earlier mischief remained in her eyes. “Right,” she said, her voice dry. “Of course you are. Can I help you… Dick? Or are you just here to advocate for workplace toxicity?” She gestured vaguely with the spoon still in her hand.

“I was, uh—just here to grab myself a…” His sentence trailed off as his gaze swept the small pantry, landing on a nearly empty snack rack. He snagged a lone, slightly stale-looking oatmeal cookie from a crumpled cellophane packet. “This. Yeah.”

The move was so transparently improvised that Y/N had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. She gave a noncommittal shrug and turned her attention back to the simmering pot, the rich, spicy aroma of cardamom and ginger beginning to fill the small space.

Instead of leaving, however, Dick moved. He casually sidled up to the counter next to her, closing the distance with a natural ease that made the cramped pantry feel even more intimate. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a stage whisper that was warm and conspiratorial. “So,” he murmured, as if they were old allies planning a coup. “Who are we poisoning and why again? I need the full briefing if I’m going to be an accessory.”

The proximity, the low timber of his voice, the playful glint in those impossibly blue eyes—it was a concerted assault on her composure. Y/N leaned back instinctively, creating a few crucial inches of space. A faint, unwelcome blush heated her cheeks. She was accustomed to handsome men, sure. She worked for Tim, whose sharp, aristocratic features were a study in cold perfection and she’d grown up with Krish, whose roguish charm was its own brand of compelling. But in both cases, their personalities—one icy and demanding, the other mischievous and overbearing—had instantly neutralized any superficial appeal. This was different. This was a handsome man who was also… genuinely, disarmingly nice. It was an unfamiliar and slightly overwhelming combination.

“Take a guess, would you?” she finally managed, her tone drier than the cookie in his hand. Seeking a small, petty revenge, she deliberately scooped an extra spoonful of sugar into Tim’s tea, knowing full well he preferred it bitter. The petty act, witnessed by this charming stranger, felt both childish and satisfying.

“A name does come to mind,” Dick mused, nodding thoughtfully as he watched her stir the sugary revenge. He took a bite of his cookie, his expression one of sympathetic contemplation.

That tiny hint of solidarity was all the invitation she needed. The dam of her professional frustration, already weakened by the morning’s tedium, gave way. “He’s the worst,” she hissed, keeping her voice low but letting the venom flow. “He acts like I’m his personal errand girl, not a junior architect… intern. And on top of the actual mountain of work, there’s just this… sheer avalanche of bullshit he dumps on me. I get it, he’s a control freak and I’m his assistant, but there’s a line! Somewhere! A very clear, bright line that he joyfully pole-vaults over every single day!” She punctuated her rant by clanging the spoon a little too hard against the rim of the mug. “And then there’s his stupid, smug face. God, I could just—” She made a brief, violent wringing motion with her hands.

Dick didn’t just smile or offer a polite nod. He let out a loud, hearty, unreserved laugh—the kind that filled the small pantry and seemed to bounce off the tiles. It was a sound of pure, unfiltered amusement.

Y/N immediately cut off, her furious momentum halted. She glared at him, the blush returning full-force, this time from indignation. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he said, raising his hands in a placating gesture, though his eyes still sparkled with mirth. “It’s just… you seem to have some very strong feelings for him. Passionate. Visceral, even.” He took another bite of the cookie, looking thoroughly entertained. 

“Against,” Y/N corrected with a sharp huff, giving the simmering pot a final, aggressive stir. “Very, very much against.” As if on cue to prove her point, her phone buzzed on the countertop with the specific, dreaded tone she’d assigned to one contact. She glanced down, and her expression hardened into a mask of pure, simmering fury.

Mendhak:

Make an extra cup. I have a guest coming. 

The sheer, casual audacity of it—the assumption, the lack of a ‘please,’ the fact he was texting her from approximately thirty feet away—sent a fresh wave of irritation through her. She could practically feel her molars grinding together.

Dick, who had politely averted his gaze from her phone but couldn’t miss the storm cloud that settled over her features, offered what was probably meant to be a mitigating observation. “I mean,” he ventured, his tone still light but shifting slightly towards diplomacy, “you have to cut the guy a little slack. He’s only nineteen and he’s basically the acting CEO of a billion-dollar empire. That’s got to do… something to your personality. Puts a certain kind of pressure on a person.”

Y/N slammed the spoon down on the counter with a definitive clack. She turned to face him, the last vestiges of her earlier flustered blush gone, replaced by the fiery righteousness of the perpetually put-upon. “That,” she declared, jabbing a finger in the general direction of Tim’s office, “might explain the ego, the impossible standards, maybe even the permanently smug expression he wears. What it does not explain, or excuse, is his pathological refusal to use the perfectly functional, top-of-the-line espresso machine in his own private cabin!”

She gestured wildly toward the pantry’s sad, drip-style coffee maker, as if presenting Exhibit A. “He bought it! He had it installed! It makes coffee that probably costs more per cup than my hourly wage! But no. Instead, he demands I make this,” she pointed at the pot of chai, “from a personal recipe. And he doesn’t ask. He commands. ‘Make an extra cup.’ Not ‘Could you?’ Not ‘When you have a moment.’ It’s a text order, like I’m a drone in his personal beverage air force.”

Dick’s lips twitched, his earlier full laugh now tempered into a smile of genuine, shared commiseration. “Well, I should probably get going,” he said, his tone light. “But truly, I wish you all the best in your… ongoing campaigns.” He gave her a final, friendly nod that felt like a genuine salute before turning and slipping out of the pantry, leaving behind the faint, clean scent of his cologne and a palpable void of charm.

Y/N deflated slightly, the brief spark of camaraderie extinguished. She stared at the empty doorway. Why couldn’t her professional life be filled with people like that? People who laughed easily, who whispered about poison with a twinkle in their eye instead of just doling it out in passive-aggressive memos. Her mind, seeking distraction, began to categorize him. What department was he with? Finance? No, he lacked the predatory sharpness, the hollow sheen of a finance bro. Sales, then. It had to be sales. Companies always hired the incredibly attractive for client-facing roles—a classic tactic, weaponizing charm and good bone structure for persuasion. The theory satisfied her, neatly filing Dick away as a pleasant, transient anomaly from a different, more glamorous sector of the corporate machine.

With a resigned sigh, she turned back to her duty. She prepared a second cup, then carefully reheated the first, knowing from bitter experience that Tim Drake considered anything less than scalding to be an personal affront. Arranging both mugs on a tray with mechanical precision, she carried the loaded peace offering down the hall to his office.

She knocked softly, the careful tap-tap-tap of someone balancing hot liquids and their own simmering resentment. A muted “Come in” filtered through the door.

Pushing it open, she stepped into the sleek, minimalist space—and froze.

There, perched casually on the edge of Tim’s immaculate desk, one leg swinging slightly, was Dick Grayson. He was in the middle of a story, gesturing animatedly, a bright grin on his face. And Tim—her Tim, the Mendhak, the source of her morning misery—was leaning back in his chair. He wasn’t just listening; he was relaxed, his arms crossed, wearing an expression of open, unguarded amusement. It was a face she’d never seen him wear in her presence.

The scene was so dissonant, so utterly wrong, that the tray in her hands gave a dangerous wobble.

“Oh, Y/N, perfect timing,” Tim said, his voice still carrying traces of that unfamiliar warmth. He gestured casually between them. “I have someone to introduce you to. This is Dick Grayson.” He paused, and a smirk touched his lips—a real one, not the cold, calculated kind she was used to. “My brother.”

The words landed not as an introduction, but as a physical blow. Brother. The air left her lungs. The carefully maintained tray tilted; china clinked a frantic, perilous alarm before she managed to steady it through sheer, white-knuckled will. The feeling that surged through her wasn’t just shock. It was a hot, humiliating wave of betrayal. She’d just unloaded her professional grievances, painted her boss as a petty tyrant, to the tyrant’s own brother. He’d stood there, nodding along, sympathizing, laughing.

Somehow, her body moved on autopilot. She set the tray down on the corner of the desk with a soft, definitive clink. Every movement was measured, robotic. She turned to Dick and manufactured a smile. It was a polite, professional, utterly hollow stretch of her lips that didn’t touch the storm in her eyes. “Nice to meet you, sir,” she said, her voice unnaturally even. A vein pulsed dangerously at her temple.

Dick’s reaction was immediate. All the easy charm had evaporated. His eyes had gone wide, his easy posture stiffening. He looked at her not with amusement or sympathy but with deep, genuine concern—and a flicker of something that looked like alarm. He opened his mouth as if to say something, to explain but no sound came out.

Y/N didn’t give him the chance. She pivoted back to Tim, her spine straight as a ruler. Her face was a mask of impeccable neutrality, but her tone was so carefully, chillingly devoid of inflection it was more scathing than any shout. “Sir, I need to confirm the details for your four o’clock conference call with the Tokyo investors. I’ll be at my desk if you require anything further.” Not a question. A statement.

Without waiting for a dismissal, she turned on her heel and walked out, closing the door behind her with a soft, precise click that echoed in the sudden, stunned silence she left in her wake.

Work ended early, a small, unexpected mercy and Y/N refused to let the lingering shadow of the Wayne brothers—one a micromanaging prodigy, the other a charming, duplicitous enabler—taint what came next. The solution to all her misery, she decided, was waiting for her in the parking garage.

It was finally time to take her baby for a spin.

A part of her, the sentimental part nurtured by years of shared adventures, wished Krish were here for this inaugural ride. His whoop of approval, his inevitable critique of her posture, the shared ritual of it—it would have felt more complete. But his life was a series of departures and hers was learning to be a series of arrivals in his absence. Besides, she reasoned, she had practicalities to attend to. The food rations ran dangerously low and the nearby supermarket was only a fifteen minute ride away. Surely a quick, careful trip for essentials, license still pending, wouldn’t hurt. It was a test drive with a purpose, not a joyride. That’s what she told herself.

In her apartment, she strapped on the cheerfully bright Sanrio helmet. The pastel and cartoon characters were a stark, almost absurd contrast to the Kawasaki’s purple and cobalt severity, a touch of childish whimsy against a machine of pure, adult power. But Krish had chosen it and that connection made it precious. She loved the dichotomy. Securing the strap under her chin, she felt a familiar, comforting enclosure.

Downstairs, the bike waited. She swung a leg over, settling into the seat that felt like it had been molded for her. Her thumb found the ignition. The engine didn’t just start; it awoke with a deep, throaty purr that vibrated up through the frame and into her bones. It was a feeling that transcended mechanics—it was a conversation, a potential energy humming under her control. She let it idle for a moment, soaking in the sensation, then gave the throttle a gentle, experimental twist. The responsive growl that answered was electric. 

The sound transported her instantly to her memory back years, across an ocean, to the heat-hazed tarmac of the Delhi expressway, tucked behind Krish on his old Triumph, the wind screaming past her helmet as they chased the horizon. To the feeling of limitless asphalt ahead and the wild, weightless freedom of speed. Y/N could almost hear Vani’s frantic calls afterward. She’d always been their unwilling accomplice, left to craft elaborate lies for her parents, put in what she called “morally precarious situations.” She’d swear, every time, that she was done, finished, never covering for them again. And yet every time, she’d be bribed back into compliance with a packet of imported cigarettes and a plate of steaming, spicy momos from their favorite roadside stall. The memory drew a small smile from Y/N.

With that warmth in her chest, she eased the bike out of the parking spot and into the dusky Gotham evening. The trip to the small Indian supermarket was a short, cautious navigation of side streets, every stop and start a new lesson in the bike’s sensitive controls. She pulled into a spot right out front, killing the engine. The sudden silence felt loud.

Pushing open the shop’s door triggered a familiar, welcoming chime. The air inside was thick with the comforting scents of sandalwood incense, fresh herbs, and spices. And there, emerging from behind a stack of ghee tins emerged a man who could only be described as a giant, Sikh golden retriever. Baldeep Singh was built like a wrestler, with a beard that rivaled a king’s and eyes that perpetually crinkled with good humor. He looked, she always thought, like if the chirpy innkeeper from Frozen. 

“Satsriakal, Paaji!” Y/N called out, her earlier troubles melting away in the warmth of the place. “Sabh changa?” Hello sir (used informly for an older brother figure), everything good?

His face split into a beam so wide it seemed to generate its own wattage, brightening the entire aisle of lentils and dried beans. “Y/N!” he boomed, his voice a baritone of pure delight that vibrated in the air, making the nearby jars of pickles and spices hum in sympathetic resonance. He lumbered out from behind the counter, wiping hands on the apron stretched over his broad chest. Before she could utter another word, he closed the distance and delivered a welcoming thump to her back that rattled her teeth and nearly sent her stumbling into a display of pappads.

“Wah! Look at you, breathing our air again!” he laughed, his eyes twinkling. The hefty slap was just Balpreet Singh’s version of a handshake—a little overwhelming but brimming with uncomplicated affection. Having spent decades at his family’s dhaba in Delhi before transplanting his family and his hospitality to Gotham, he treated Y/N with the proprietary warmth of a hometown elder. In his eyes, her Delhi roots earned her the coveted ‘local’s discount,’ a currency far more valuable than dollars.

“I’m just here for the essentials,” Y/N said, catching her breath and pulling up a list on her phone. “Half kilo of arhar daal, maybe some rice… and a few of those minute-made curry packets for the week.” Balpreet’s magnificent smile instantly inverted into a formidable frown. His bushy eyebrows drew together like two caterpillars in a conference. 

“Aunty is well, I hope?”

“The missus is in radiant health, waheguru ki kripa se,” he declared, waving a dismissive hand. “Which is precisely why she would box my ears if she learned I let you walk out of here with those… those emergency rations.” He said the words with the distaste of a master chef presented with a microwave dinner. “Growing young people, working hard with their brains, need proper fuel! Real food! Not powder in a packet.” by the grace of waheguru

Y/N offered a sheepish, pragmatic smile. “The internship stipend hasn’t hit my account yet, Paaji. The budget is… austerity-level this week.”

It was as if she had casually insulted his ancestors, his culinary lineage and the sacred cow all at once. Balpreet’s expression shifted from disapproval to profound personal offense. He drew himself up to his full, impressive height.

“Bas cha kar putter! No more of this talk,” he commanded, his voice softening even as his resolve hardened. “You come with me.” Enough kid

He snatched a basket from a stack and began a purposeful march down the aisles, a general on a war campaign. Y/N trailed behind, a smile tugging at her lips, knowing resistance was futile. Into the basket went a fresh bundle of coriander, plump tomatoes, a bag of onions, a bottle of his house-blended garam masala that smelled like heaven, and a container of ghee he insisted was medicinal.

“My own Arshpreet,” he said as he selected a bag of the finest basmati rice, “is off at Berkeley, becoming a big-shot engineer. Her mother, my Roop, she calls her every night and her first question is always, ‘Beta, what did you eat?’ We cannot be there to put a plate in front of her, so we worry.” He placed the rice in the basket with a gentle pat. “But you… you are here, in my shop. If I cannot ensure my own daughter is fed like a sher, I can at least make sure someone else’s child, far from home, does not eat like a… a sparrow.” He glanced back at her, his eyes crinkling with a warmth that melted any remaining protest. lion

“With all due respect,” Y/N said, her voice thick with a mixture of gratitude and gentle scolding. “You are going to run a thriving business straight into the ground because of me. I’m a liability to your profit margins.”

He let out a hearty laugh that shook his broad shoulders. “Profit? Pah! This is not profit. This is seva. And what is a business for, if not to take care of its own?” He stopped at the counter and began ringing up the items at speeds that defied logic, his thick fingers flying over the ancient cash register. The total he named was a fraction of the actual cost, a number so symbolic it was practically a fairy tale. selfless service (one of the core principles of Sikhism)

He bagged the groceries with practiced efficiency, tucking in a small container of homemade ginger candy “for digestion.” Y/N paid the token amount, the transaction feeling less like commerce and more like accepting a blessing. As she hefted the bags and turned to leave, a violent, cacophonous crash shattered the quiet evening from the street outside. The sound of rending metal and shattering glass was unmistakable.

Balpreet’s head snapped up. “Oye! What is this now?”

“Paaji, you lock the door,” Y/N said, her voice tight. Her heart leapt into her throat, a single, terrifying thought eclipsing all else: her bike. She dropped the bags just outside the doorway and bolted outside, the shop’s bell jangling a frantic alarm behind her.

Relief, swift and dizzying, washed over her first. The Kawasaki stood untouched, gleaming under the streetlight, a solitary island of beauty amidst the sudden chaos. The destruction came from the narrow, trash-strewn alley that ran alongside the spice shop. From its shadows came the grunts of impact, the sickening thud of fists on flesh, and the clatter of a metal dumpster being slammed into.

Against every screaming instinct of self-preservation, she found herself moving toward the noise. She clicked her helmet’s visor down, the simple action feeling like donning a thin layer of armor, and crept closer to the alley’s mouth, pressing herself against the rough brick wall to peer around the corner.

The scene was a blur of violent motion under the sickly, intermittent glow of a Gotham streetlight that flickered as if gasping its last breath. A group of men, hulking shapes in the gloom, were swarming a single figure. It was impossible to make out details—except one. A flash of streetlight caught on a familiar, stark shape: the unmistakable, domed curve of a red helmet.

Red Hood.

The recognition was instant, a fact filed away from news clips and hushed, fearful conversations. Before the thought could fully form, one of the attackers was hurled backward as if from a cannon. He sailed past Y/N’s hiding place, missing her by feet and crashed onto the asphalt with a nauseating crunch of bone and a pained groan. She flinched back, scooting deeper into the shadow of a stone pillar, her breathing shallow behind the helmet.

As the fight ebbed and flowed, she watched with dawning horror. Red Hood was a cyclone of brutal efficiency but he was moving wrong. There was a hitch in his step, a favoring of one side. A dark, wet stain was spreading across his leather jacket. He’s hurt. And he was severely outnumbered. He’d beat several down, but they were like roaches—stunned, then slowly, shakily rising again.

The man who had landed near her was one of them. He pushed himself up, swaying, his face a mask of rage and pain. His hand dipped into his jacket and emerged clutching a pistol. He raised it, the barrel wavering as he tried to steady it, aiming directly at Red Hood’s back. The vigilante, locked in combat with two others, was completely exposed.

Logic was a clear, cold voice in her head: Stay hidden. Get on your bike. Go home. This is not your fight. This is Gotham.

But another voice, louder, born of a childhood watching her father and Krish tinker with engines and talk about fixing what’s broken, screamed back. These people fight every day to keep the city from swallowing itself whole. And you’re just going to watch?

Her eyes scanned the ground. There, beside a fractured piece of curb, lay a half-brick, discarded and ordinary. Without another thought, her fingers closed around its rough, gritty surface. It felt heavy. Final.

A prayer her father used to mutter before tackling a stubborn engine block surfaced from her memory. “Jai Mata Di,” she whispered, the words a quiet breath against her visor.

Then she stepped out, just enough to get a clear angle. With a grunt of effort that was part fear, part fury, she hurled the brick.

It sailed through the dank alley air in a short, brutal arc. It didn’t whistle; it was too clumsy for that. It just thudded against the back of the gunman’s skull with a sound like a rotten melon hitting concrete. His arms flew out, the pistol clattering away into the darkness. He stood frozen for a surreal second, then his eyes rolled back and he crumpled to the filthy ground, out cold.

Silence, sudden and profound, descended for one heartbeat. Then all remaining eyes in the alley—the dazed thugs and the slowly turning, bloodied red helmet—swung toward the alley’s mouth, toward the figure in the absurdly cheerful pink helmet, standing with empty hands and a racing heart.

Civilians, in Jason Todd’s extensive and brutal experience, followed a simple rule: see the Red Hood, run the other way. Their fear was rational, a survival instinct he often relied upon to keep them out of the crossfire. Direct intervention was rare, and almost always stupid. Not that he was ungrateful, in a distant, abstract way, but a panicking civilian usually became a liability, a hostage, or a stain on the pavement—three outcomes that just made his night more complicated.

So when the figure in the pink helmet spoke, his first reaction was a surge of pure, exasperated irritation.

“Uh, Mr. Red Hood. Hello, I—uh—” Her voice was muffled by the helmet, young and tight with adrenaline. She gestured vaguely toward the unconscious gunman. “I just wanna say… thank you for your service? And uh… yeah.”

Service. The word almost made him bark a laugh, if every breath didn’t feel like a knife in his ribs. He’d just shattered a man’s knee cap and likely broken another’s orbital bone. This wasn’t a community outreach program.

“Go,” he growled, the voice modulator in his helmet layering the single syllable with metallic menace. It wasn’t a suggestion.

She nodded, the cheerful Sanrio characters on her helmet bobbing rapidly. “Yeah. Totally. Great idea. I’m just gonna… go.” She let out a high, awkward laugh that was pure nerves, turned on her heel and began speed-walking back toward the mouth of the alley.

Good. Smart. Finally.

Jason turned his attention back to the remaining thugs. Two were still down, but one was staggering upright and the sounds of shouting and converging footsteps echoed from the far end of the alley. Backup. His comms were fried, his bike was three blocks away and currently on fire—courtesy of an earlier, separate disagreement and the deep gash in his side was leaking through the Kevlar weave. The tactical assessment was grim: he needed to disengage and he needed to do it now.

He took a limping step backward, putting weight on his bad leg sent a white-hot spike of pain up his spine. One of the thugs, seeing his vulnerability, let out a ragged yell and charged. Jason pivoted, channeling the pain into the movement and drove his fist into the man’s jaw with a crack that echoed off the bricks. The man dropped like a sack of cement, but the exertion cost him. He swayed, the world tilting for a dangerous second.

“Um, Mr. Red Hood?”

He stiffened. That voice again. He turned his head, the red lenses of his helmet fixing on the pink-helmeted woman who had, inexplicably, returned. She was standing just outside the alley now, one hand on the seat of a motorcycle he hadn’t registered before—a custom-painted Kawasaki Ninja that glowed like a jewel under the streetlight. Of course.

Why didn’t she leave? Can’t she see the ‘Welcome to a Bloodbath’ sign flashing over this alley? The thoughts were a furious, internal roar. Was she pathologically kind, suicidally naive or just spectacularly dumb?

“Do you… need a lift?” she asked, the question so absurd it seemed to hang in the smoke-tinged air.

He stared at her. A lift. From a civilian. On a iridescent purple sports bike. It was the kind of scenario that belonged in a particularly deranged cartoon. He opened his mouth to tell her to get the hell out for the second and final time.

But then a bullet whined off the dumpster beside him, showering sparks. The shouts were closer. The math, however insulting, was simple: pride and protocol versus not bleeding out in a garbage-filled alley where his body would likely be looted before the Bats even got the alert.

The choice was humiliating. It was also the only one he had.

Slowly, gritting his teeth against the pain and the sheer ignominy of it, he gave a single, curt nod.

He began limping toward her, each step a study in agony and stubborn will. The woman didn’t freeze or flinch. She sprinted the few feet to the front of the spice shop, snatched up two heavy-looking grocery bags that had been abandoned there and was back at the bike in seconds. 

“Please hold these,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady as she thrust the heavy grocery bags backward toward him without looking.

Jason stared at the woven handles dangling in the space between them. The absurdity of the situation reached a new, crystalline peak. “Are you serious?” The modulator couldn’t fully mask the sheer, flabbergasted disbelief in his tone.

She tilted her head just enough for him to see the serious, determined set of her jaw beneath the helmet’s edge. “Want that lift or not?”

A groan, part pain, part profound existential frustration, rumbled in his chest. With his free arm—the one not currently applying pressure to the weeping wound on his side—he snatched the bags. They were deceptively heavy, pulling at his shoulder. “Lady, you feeding a family of seven or what?” he grunted, the mundane question feeling surreal amidst the scent of his own blood and alley filth.

She didn’t grace him with a response. Instead, she shifted forward, making what little space existed on the seat. Unfortunately, one of the few design flaws of a Kawasaki Ninja—a machine built for speed, not for passenger comfort—was its complete lack of second-passenger real estate. He was pressed flush against her back, his thighs bracketing hers, the contact unavoidable and intensely personal for two strangers. Almost immediately, he felt her stiffen. A damp, cold patch on the back of her shirt, right between her shoulder blades, was growing steadily cooler against his leather-clad chest. Blood. His blood. She’d definitely felt it.

He heard her take a sharp, bracing breath, as if steeling herself against the sensory violation. You just had to play hero, huh? Her own brain was probably screaming the same thing his was.

Then, she didn’t just ease the bike forward. She floored the accelerator.

The Kawasaki leapt forward like a startled panther, the sudden G-force slamming him hard into her back. A pained hiss escaped him as the impact jolted his injuries and he felt her own shudder at the full, wet press of his wound against her spine. The sensation was unmistakable now—a sticky, chilling dampness seeping through fabric. The ‘ick’ was almost a tangible wave coming off of her but she didn’t slow down.

What followed wasn’t a direct route. It was an evasive maneuver worthy of someone who’d watched one too many chase scenes or who possessed a surprisingly sharp instinct for survival. She wove through narrower side streets, took sudden, sharp turns down one-way alleys going the wrong way, and circled blocks in dizzying patterns. Her head was on a constant swivel, checking mirrors and glancing over her shoulder, not at him but past him, scanning for tails. She was running interference and she was doing a damn competent job of it.

Finally, after a circuitous journey that left even his seasoned sense of direction slightly scrambled, she slowed and guided the bike into the deep, shadowed mouth of an alley behind a nondescript café called ‘Sip and Savour.’ The engine’s roar dropped to a low, uneasy purr as she killed the ignition. The sudden silence was heavy, broken only by the distant hum of the city and the sound of their breathing—hers slightly ragged, his deliberately controlled through the pain.

She sat perfectly still for a moment, listening, watching the alley’s entrance. Then, seemingly satisfied they were clean, she let her shoulders slump a fraction. The makeshift rescue mission, it seemed, had reached its temporary terminus.

“The GCPD headquarters is about three blocks that way,” she said, her voice muffled but practical as she pointed with a gloved hand down the main street. “There's a public hospital two blocks east of that. And if you take a right out of the alley, there's a bus stop where the next one leaves in...” She lifted her wrist, checking a sleek, sporty watch. “...five minutes. Should get you wherever you need to go.”

Red Hood had been a statue of silent, pained intensity for the entire ride. As soon as the bike stilled, he moved. He swung his good leg over with a grunt, dismounting with a stiffness that spoke of serious injury. The grocery bags, which he’d clutched like bizarre, life-preserving totems, were unceremoniously dumped onto the grimy asphalt of the alley.

He didn't offer thanks. Instead, his hand went to a back pocket of his tactical pants. He pulled out a small, damp billfold and extracted two crumpled hundred-dollar bills. Without a word, he placed them neatly on the seat of her bike, right where he’d been sitting.

“For your troubles,” his modulated voice grated out. A bloodied finger, its leather glove stained dark, pointed vaguely at the center of her back. “And the shirt.”

Y/N twisted, trying to crane her neck to see the damage. Thankfully, she’d worn black. In the low light, the stain was invisible but the damp, chilling patch against her skin told the whole story. A shudder she couldn’t suppress ran through her. “There’s no need for—” she began, turning back to face him, ready to refuse the money.

But the space where he had been standing was empty.

He was just… gone. Vanished into the deep shadows of the alley as if he’d never been there at all. No sound of footsteps, no rustle of fabric. One second he was a solid, bleeding reality; the next, he was a ghost. A classic Bat trick, she thought, a mix of irritation and awe curling in her gut. She’d heard the stories but seeing the unnerving precision of the disappearance firsthand was something else.

Alone now, she looked at the two bills on her seat, then at the abandoned grocery bags on the ground. With a sigh, she picked up the money—it was soaked at the edges with a concerning coppery dampness and stuffed it into her own pocket before retrieving her groceries.

Three blocks away, perched on a rusted fire escape landing in a pool of darkness even deeper than its surroundings, Jason Todd pressed a freshly packed wad of gauze against his side. The world had a fuzzy, tilting quality, a combination of concussion and significant blood loss that made thinking in straight lines a chore.

But it was in that muddled, pain-hazed state that the puzzle pieces finally clicked together.

The woman’s voice, the way she held herself, the absurdly cheerful helmet… and the bike. The bike. The custom-painted Kawasaki Ninja ZX-10R with the cobalt and purple. He’d seen it before, just days ago. It had been wheeled into the shop by a tan, traveling man who’d asked for Jonah. The man who’d bought the ridiculous pink helmet for his… whoever.

‘When you see her, you’ll get exactly what I’m talking about.’

The stranger’s words from the repair shop echoed in his memory. He’d said it with a knowing grin, handing over cash for that pink shell.

A low, pained chuckle escaped Jason, the sound rough and humorless even to his own ears. He shook his head, the movement making the world swim. The universe had a truly deranged sense of humour.

He looked down at the blood seeping through the fresh gauze, then back in the direction of the alley where the bike’s purr had now faded into silence.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered to the empty night, the modulator off, his own voice raw. “It does fit.”

╰ ┈➤ A/n: Sorry to keep you waiting, but I hope you enjoyed it! With this chapter, all three Batboys have officially made their entry. Let’s see where the story goes from here. Also I tried to make the translations as accurate as possible but please do correct me if i made any mistakes. And credits to @swamiiyasssss for the biker Y/N idea.

╰ ┈➤ Masterlist | Chapter List

╰ ┈➤ Tags: @hana-no-seiiki @swamiiyasssss @lilyalone @cxcilla @one-pea-in-a-pod @cooki3dough @misaki-kira8 @br0ke-b1tch @fictionalwhor3 @cherriespopsicle @lilithskywalker @multifandom-simp @hayleym1234 @sukaretto-n @idontwantthis22 @sarveshishwarishsuta @eclipse-msoul @aaaashiiii (this one's for you) @miuangel @joekitsu @bluepartywobblernickel @breadmilkegg @hayleym1234 @sleepydang @ferchu0406 @iamabeaner @lu-zo-san @darkflowerrebelhorse @103you @isabellamorettosworld @animegoddess15

© cheriecelestial - arabelle | 2025

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yourusername

liked by user6, glossier and others

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glossier

liked by yourusername, user6 and others

check out our recent video with yourusername 🤍 out now on youtube !!!

user6 i'm about to spend all my money on glossier just to copy y/n's makeup routine !! ‪‪‪‪❤︎‬‬ liked by glossier

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user19 y/n is apparently dating someone !?! and they're apparently spanish ??

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f1gossip

liked by user55, user6 and others

influencer y/n l/n seen entering the miami paddock ahead of the miami grand prix !

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yourusername

liked by carlossainz55, lilymhe and others

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carlossainz55 💙

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f1gossip

liked by user70, user55 and others

fans have speculated that carlos sainz and influencer y/n l/n are currently in a relationship after y/n was spotted in the williams hospitality at the miami grand prix. the two also recently interacted on her latest instagram post. many fans however are unhappy as y/n is significantly younger than carlos. share your thoughts in the comment section !

user55 interacted?? baby, he liked and commented. she didn't even reply!! but i still love them 🤍

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⤷ user6 🤣 y/n has over a million followers on instagram and has close to five million tiktok followers !! i don't think she needs carlos to be famous !! ❤︎‬ liked by yourusername

carlossainz55 has added to their story

[caption: 💙]

yourusername replied ➜ carlos this is not your close friends !! 😑

⤷ carlossainz55 oh shit ! 😥

alex_albon replied ➜ mate!! what the hell?? you should have told me you were announcing your relationship !!! but congrats 💙🤣

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⤷ alex_albon oh y/n is going to kill you !! good luck 🤗😜

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charles_leclerc replied ➜ happy for you mate ❤️

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lando replied ➜ bro is down bad 😏😂

⤷ carlossainz55 atleast i have a girlfriend

⤷ lando 😧

f1gossip

liked by yourusername, lando and others

carlos sainz just uploaded this photo of y/n l/n to his instagram. did he accidentally reveal his relationship with y/n?

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yourusername

liked by carlossainz55, lilymhe and others

since the old man decided to doxx our relationship 😑here's a look into it ! i love you carlos 💙

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comments on this post have been limited

sorry i've been gone for so long y'all ! but i'm back now xx

requests are still open! so please consider requesting something ♡

𐔌 . ⋮ xavier .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

TRANSLATION: mujhe bhook lagi hai = I'm hungry

𐔌 . ⋮ Zayne .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

TRANSLATION: Daard ho raha hai = It's paining

Maaro mujhe = kill me

𐔌 . ⋮ Rafayel .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

TRANSLATION: mujhe baat hhi nahii karni = I don't even want to talk

𐔌 . ⋮ Sylus .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

TRANSLATION: Varna marungi = Otherwise I'll hit you

𐔌 . ⋮ Caleb .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

TRANSLATION: mein ro dungi = I will cry