#elllano

          miraculously, she had managed to survive yet another week of school. unlocking her door through a series of practiced motions, leah immediately slipped her shoes off, threw her backpack down, and let her body collapse onto her bed stomach first. it felt so good to be in her bed again in the air conditioned building, and with how much sunlight still left outside, she still had plenty of time to enjoy her friday without any worries of impending deadlines and assignments. she could take a nap right then and there, honestly, but a single thought made her suddenly rise and grab her phone from her bag. she almost forgot — she was suppose to reply to someone!

          this wasn't the first time something like this had happened; when it came to chatting with her online friends, everyone was guilty of forgetting to reply once in a while. but in this particular case, leah really wanted to reply, especially because she seemed to have been hitting it off with the other since they first accepted each other's friend requests.

          [ message from leelee win ] hi hi omg i completely forgot to reply but i'm home now!! thank god, i'm so tired 😭

A silence takes over for a second

“Don’t get me wrong! It’s not my business! …but you look at him like you do” (f1 au)

⟡ ݁. ⊹ ₊ ݁ unprompted ✦ @elllano ₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡

She should not be here. The air feels too tight in her lungs, too aware of the space she occupies; caught between what was and what is. It would be easier to slip away, to fold into some quiet corner where no one expects anything of her. It would be easier to vanish. But she does not.

Instead, she lingers at the edge of the track casually, watching Nate ready himself for training. She keeps careful distance, mindful and small, as if even her shadow might give Atlas reason to push him harder. She tells herself she’s only being practical. Sensible. Following the plan. It has nothing to do with the way her gaze softens when Nate laughs at something a teammate says, or how her shoulders relax when she sees he looks well.

She almost startles out of her skin when Saffron speaks.

❝Saffron?❞ Her voice catches, wide eyes lifting to meet his. The panic fades quickly, he’s harmless, warm in that bright, unassuming way. But his question lingers heavier than she expects. ...Do you like him for real?

Her breath falters.

She turns her face away at first, as if the answer might spill out visibly if she isn’t careful. Silence stretches between them. She hides inside it for a moment, because quiet is safer. But her cheeks warm anyway, blooming pink, and she knows she has never been very good at hiding the gentler things.

Her gaze drifts back toward the track, toward the familiar shape of her glimpse of sunshine beneath the morning sun.

❝I do,❞ she says at last. The smile that follows is small and tremulous, but real. ❝ I really like him. ❞

There is something almost reverent in the way she says it, no drama, no grand declaration. Just a simple truth she carries carefully in both hands.

Then her eyes flick back to Saffron, suddenly earnest. ❝But you can’t tell him. Please. You can’t talk about it with anyone.❞ True, some others already know. Secrets like this rarely stay perfectly contained, no matter how gently they’re held. But the more it’s spoken aloud, the thinner it becomes. The easier it is for a passing ear to catch a single piece and twist it into something dangerous.

It isn’t shame. It’s caution. It’s the understanding that feelings, once spoken too loudly, can be twisted into something sharp.

She draws in a small breath, now is not the time for long winded explanations. Now is not the time to explain the past, the hurt, the way affection doesn’t disappear just because it’s inconvenient.

“i’m not sure i like how much time you’ve been spending with my togepi.” in between a bite of her lunch, leah was eyeing how the small egg-shaped creature was nestling against saffron, its little eyes closed and sleeping away the afternoon. underneath the big tree they were sitting under, it was quite the perfect napping spot.

Atlas doesn't even eat mcdonalds and they are at least around the globe so he would not be inclined to eat anything at whataburger, but he'd try a bite simply to please Saffron. He would not be surprised about Saffron wanting to go to Whataburger, he'd see it and be like "this seems like the kind of place you two idiots would love" ( two idiots being Saffron & Nate of course ) and the whole time he'd sit there with a :| expression and when i say he'd take a bite it would literally be one bite of his burger then he'd be done. "It's fine. It's a fast food burger." Is all he'd say about the taste.

How many days had passed since she had fallen? She could no longer say with certainty, the passage of time becoming difficult to measure when every morning greeted her with the same unfamiliar horizon and every evening ended beneath a sky she was no longer part of. It had long enough to understand the people around her well enough to imitate them, to borrow their speech and customs until she resembled nothing more than another unfortunate stowaway with an elusive past she had little desire to discuss. It was a story the crew had fashioned for her before she ever considered offering one of her own, piecing together the cruelty of fate and forgotten memories into something that made sense to them. She had never corrected them. The truth, that she had fallen from the heavens themselves, was far less believable and far more dangerous than anything they could have imagined.

Nightfall remained both a comfort and a cruelty. Once the ship had quieted and sleep claimed those aboard, she would climb silently onto the deck, settling wherever she could look upward without obstruction. Her home was still there, unchanged despite everything that had happened, scattered across the darkness in brilliant constellations that looked close enough to touch and impossibly distant all at once. And every night she simply wished to go home, repeating the same impossible hope with the naïve certainty that perhaps this time fate would kind. It never was. Dawn always came instead, washing the stars from the sky until all that remained was another day spent upon an unfamiliar sea.

Land eventually broke the endless horizon, though it brought with it little comfort beyond the promise of solid ground once again beneath her feet. Whatever kingdom claimed the island was merely another name she had never heard before, the sovereign who ruled it held no more importance than any other stranger, and the laws by which its people lived remained as foreign to her as the language had once been.

While the crew busied themselves repairing sails and gathering supplies, she slipped away in search of something she had thus far failed to find. She no longer expected answers to present themselves so easily, yet hope remained a difficult thing to abandon. Somewhere, there had to be someone who understood the impossible. Someone who could tell her why she had fallen, or more importantly, how she might return.

The answer she found was not the one she had hoped for. A weathered merchant, eager for conversation, spoke of a mystic said to possess knowledge beyond ordinary understanding. Whether the tale held any truth she could not say, though it was the closest she had come to a direction since awakening upon that lonely shore.

By the time she turned back toward the harbor, the winding streets had long since become confusing. One turn gave way to another until the scent of salt all but disappeared, exchanged for warm stone and narrow passageways that seemed to twist into one another without reason. She slowed almost unconsciously, her attention wandering from the path ahead to the buildings surrounding her. Only after a moment of admiration, fingertips lightly brushing against sun-warmed stone, did she remember she was, in fact, lost.

Turning to retrace her steps, the afternoon sun catches upon the delicate gold rings and cuffs woven throughout her dark hair, scattering ribbons of light across the alley. It would be another serene scene that makes her smile if not for the man standing a few paces away.

She lifts her gaze, any trace of fascination quickly melts into confusion. She does not know the man standing before her, nor can she understand why the mere sight of her seems enough to draw such unmistakable anger across his features. An instinct in her screams to run, she would if he was not blocking her only exist. A moment of hesitation, the silence becoming oppressive before she speaks, voice gentle as starlight.

❝ I was trying to find my way back to the docks. I believe... I may have taken a wrong turn. ❞

⋆˙⟡ closed starter ✦ @elllano

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She is still trying to make sense of it all, the fragments laid neatly before her, refusing to connect into anything coherent. Something about this entire evening feels instinctually wrong in a way she cannot ignore. The event itself, the sea of tailored suits and carefully curated dresses, the unspoken undercurrent of influence traded beneath half-finished champagne glasses, the sudden violence that shattered the illusion of civility... all of it leaves a bitter unease churning in her guy. Most puzzling of all is the man now standing before her as their supposed savior.

When had he arrived? Had he been woven into these circles of wealth and influence from the beginning, or had he slipped into the event under guise and unnoticed? She does not see a hero when she looks at him, not yet. There is appreciation, certainly, but beneath it rests suspicion; the instinctive understanding that men like him do not simply materialize at the perfect moment by coincidence alone.

❝ ...They are not my friends. ❞ The confession is hushed, spoken more to herself than necessarily to him. Her gaze drifts toward the small cluster she had been quarantined beside moments earlier. Powerful people. Constituents. The sort who greet her eagerly at galas and private dinners because they want access to what she knows, to the conversations she can arrange behind closed doors. Their kindness has always been conditional, polished into something palatable for public view. ❝ …And I do not think they are yours either. ❞

Only then does Ophelia look back at him fully, replaying the night piece by piece until the pattern finally begins to emerge. One of them had managed to keep hold of a cellphone. Hidden from the intruders, untouched amidst the panic, yet somehow still accessible enough to send a message. At first she had mistaken it for a perfectly timed distress call, salvation arriving moments later. Now the image rearranges itself into something far less comforting. Not a plea for help, but coordination. A mirror facing another mirror.

Without hesitation she reaches for his hand, gently pulling him away from her so-called companions. ❝ There is another exit. Only a handful of the staff know about it. ❞ And apparently her, though she offers no explanation for how she came to possess that knowledge firsthand. Her fingers tighten faintly around his as she guides him forward. ❝ I doubt whoever is tailing you knows it exists, and by the time they figure it out, you should already be gone. ❞

vroom vroom closed starter ✦ @elllano

❝ Don’t be intimidated by him. ❞ Saffron is hardly the timid type. Atlas knows that better than anyone, yet the warning leaves him with unusual sincerity. Something about him feels off today. The man who is normally composed down to the smallest detail carries a quiet strain beneath the surface, tension tucked neatly behind practiced calm.

And he has reason for it. This is not the media. Not some overeager reporter fishing for headlines or controversy. This is someone with actual weight behind his opinion, someone whose influence reaches far deeper than public perception ever could.

The decision to bring Saffron onto the team had been criticized from the moment the offer was made. Atlas ignored most of it. He did not particularly care what journalists or rival teams had to say about his choices. Their opinions meant little. The board, however, was harder to dismiss.

Signing the young driver had created far more upheaval than he originally intended, with one investor in particular openly opposed to the decision. Atlas does not take the criticism personally. Motorsport has never been sentimental. This is an investment above all else, and Saffron is either going to become a champion worth every cent poured into him or an expensive mistake that drains the team dry.

That reality makes today important.

❝ Be polite, ❞ Atlas says evenly, voice lowered as they approach the meeting room, ❝ but don’t be shy. ❞ His gaze stays fixed ahead. ❝ I picked you for a reason. He needs to understand why. ❞ The seriousness of it all is made painfully obvious by the fact Atlas is attempting reassurance at all.

His hand settles against the door handle before he pulls it open, allowing the prodigy to step inside first.

The older man waiting within looks thoroughly unimpressed by the entire situation. Cold eyes settle onto Saffron with immediate scrutiny, the smile he offers nothing more than polished formality devoid of warmth. He is the sort of man who has long since stopped caring about fan favorites, media buzz, or inspirational narratives. All he cares about is winning.

❝ How strange, ❞ Allen remarks casually, gaze drifting over the fresh team colors spread across Saffron’s shoulders. ❝ Must take some getting used to wearing that. ❞ His expression never changes, though the meaning behind the words lands hostile enough regardless. ❝ Hopefully the team's colors make it easier to tell your teammates apart from the competition. ❞ And just like that, the meeting is off to a tense start.