#part 32

Lando swallowed hard and inhaled slowly. And in that quiet, the ache settled in his chest.

He could have woken up like this every day. He could have believed last night was about anything but desperation, adrenaline, and grief. He could have convinced himself that he hadn’t climbed into her bed bleeding and broken—asked her to soothe both his wounds and his darkness.

But Lando knew better. Always had.

Last night had never been meant to happen. Not like that. Not ever.

Y/N stirred, a soft murmur escaping her lips, and then her eyes fluttered open—still heavy with sleep—as she blinked up at him with that uncertain, waking look. Her hair framed her face in a tangle, her cheeks flushed with warmth, and when she offered him a sleepy smile, his heart nearly stopped.

She smiled as though it were the most natural thing in the world to wake beside him. As though she could never know fear as long as she was beside him. 

He could hardly breathe.

“Hi,” she whispered, voice rough with sleep, her eyelids half-lidded. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead as gently as if he were handling a flame. 

“Hi.”

A breath caught in his chest as he took in the quiet weight of her gaze. The barest tenderness he could allow himself stirred in him, and before he even fully realized what he was doing, his thumb ghosted along her cheekbone, barely grazing her skin. It was as though the motion wasn’t something he controlled, but something that moved through him, a gesture as soft and fleeting as the glow of the early morning.

For a second, it felt as though the world held its breath. There, in the dim morning light, he cradled her face as though she was the most precious thing he’d ever held—her skin warm, her expression soft, eyes wide with something he couldn’t name. He watched her blink slowly, the warmth of his touch and the tenderness in his eyes passing between them silently, until she did the same, her gaze softening.

They were so close that the space between them felt like a breath waiting to be taken. She was the only thing in his world, the only thing that had ever felt real. He admired the curve of her lips, the gentle flush of color on her cheeks, and, for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to simply appreciate the warmth of her—of them.

She did the same. Her gaze traveled slowly from his lips to his eyes, and he saw her hesitate, unsure if she should say the things her eyes were clearly begging to ask. Her hand, as if it had a mind of its own, reached up to touch his chest, her fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of his shirt, where his heart beat too quickly for her to ignore.

He could feel the moment shifting in the space between them, pulling them closer without a single word.

He let his thumb trace her cheek again, slow and gentle. Her breath hitched. And it was there, in that quiet, that he realized he’d never needed anything more than he needed to hold this. Hold her.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice tender in a way he hadn’t allowed himself before, afraid to shatter something too fragile to be handled by someone as rough as him. There was something in the sound of her soft breaths and the feel of her warm skin that had him so careful, too aware that this was something too precious for hands as rugged as his to hold. "For answering the door... for letting me in. For putting me back together piece by piece until I became some semblance of a man again."

Her chest rose and fell with a breath, and though she said nothing, he knew she felt it too.

For a heartbeat, she looked as if she might reach out again — like last night’s intimacy still belonged to both of them. But he couldn’t let her slip back into that illusion.

He sat up instead, pressing his palms flat against the mattress to steady himself. He shifted away just enough to hide the need in his eyes. “I… I shouldn’t have stayed.”

Her brow furrowed. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, voice low and resolute. “Last night… it shouldn’t have happened.”

She drew the sheet tighter around her bare shoulders, searching his face. He swallowed. “I was emotional. I’d just lost someone—someone I loved—and I didn’t know where else to go. You were kind to me, and I took advantage of that. Of you.”

Her mouth opened, but no words came. He kept his gaze anywhere but her – the divots on the sheets, the lights and shadows, the small details around her room that made it hers. “I’m not that man. I don’t cry on someone’s doorstep and end up in their bed because I can’t face my own grief. That isn’t fair—to you, or to me.”

She remained silent, and he dared not look at her.

Finally, he turned just enough to meet her eyes. “I’m grateful,” he whispered, lifting her hand and brushing his fingers across her wrist. “I mean that—thank you. You helped me when you didn’t have to.”

He paused, letting the moment hang between them. Then, he continued, his voice softer still, “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Oh.

Oh.

She let the words settle like heavy stones. "...Yeah. Yeah, f’course,” she tried to bring herself to give him a convincing smile. When she looked up at him, his gaze had drifted away from her face, his mind elsewhere, somewhere far out of reach.

His fingers ghosted over her wrist once, lingering.

“It won’t happen again.”

The corners of his lips turned up in a smile that appeared sad and hopeful at one somehow. Like there was something he was losing even now, but holding on to wherever he had left, clinging to it with the hope even of something lesser in its place. And then, softer, as if he was trying to make it hurt less—

“It wasn’t real.”

Even if, for him, it might’ve been the realest thing he’d ever felt.

The silence after their conversation lingered longer than either of them knew what to do with.

The quiet stretched. Neither of them moved.

Eventually, she slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb the silence between them. The sheet wrapped loosely around her frame, her back turned to him as she crossed the room in search of something to wear, her steps light, almost apologetic. She didn’t look back—not because she didn’t want to, but because she wasn’t sure she could stand what she might see in his eyes.

Lando sat up against her headboard, shirtless, all tan muscles and toned shoulders with a spatter of beauty marks and purple brushstrokes constellated across the expanse of his torso. There were fingerprints on his ribs from a fight that had nothing to do with her—and yet she’d been the one to tend to the aftermath. She’d kissed those bruises. Held him while his hands shook and his mouth refused to explain.

They moved slowly—her toward the bathroom, him toward the edge of the bed — careful not to brush shoulders, not to speak unless they had to. It wasn’t hostile. Just… unsure. Like two people navigating the edges of a room neither of them had ever walked through before.

And still, she couldn’t stop noticing things.

The way his hair stuck up in places from sleep, a soft mess of curls he hadn’t bothered to smooth down. The faint imprint of her pillow against his cheek. The way he looked at the floor, not with shame, exactly, but like he was bracing for something—like he'd already begun constructing the wall he’d need to survive the day.

He was beautiful in the kind of way people didn’t expect until they really looked. Not just in the sharp angles of his face or the gold tint in his eyes, but in the unexpected softness. There was the way he hadn’t let her go entirely, even as he tried to put space between them. There was the way his voice dropped when he said her name. There was the way his thumb had lingered on her cheek like he wasn’t sure he’d ever get to touch her again.

And maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe that was what this was – one night, one rupture, one version of him she wasn’t meant to see.

She told herself it was enough.

That it was already more than most people got. That she should feel lucky to have been let in at all. That being chosen by him, even in desperation, even just for a moment, was a kind of rare honor.

Because it was clear now how little he let people in. How guarded he kept himself, how practiced he was in deflecting and disappearing and never letting anyone see the seams. But he’d come to her. He’d stood bleeding at her door, eyes hollow, heart somewhere in ruins, and he’d asked for her.

And she'd been enough. For that moment, she'd somehow been the one he needed.

That thought alone was enough to do something strange to her chest.

She wandered into the kitchen and stood barefoot on the cold tile, fiddling with the buttons on her flannel — one of his, actually, she realized belatedly. He’d tossed it over a chair weeks ago and never bothered to take it back. But it had been washed with her clothes enough times now that she figured it Liam probably wouldn’t even notice.

Now she moved about her space with practiced ease. The kettle clicked on. The cupboard opened. Mugs clinked as she set out two mismatched ones. The soft morning noise that usually filled her solitude now felt different, as though the air had thickened in his presence, slowed down around the edges.

It was awkward, undeniably. The two of them were like actors fumbling through a script they hadn’t rehearsed, unsure who was meant to speak first.

When he finally padded into the kitchen, hair tousled, shirt pulled back on, she felt it all over again—that impossible ache.

Because she couldn’t stop seeing him now. Not the version the world got—the man with the hard stare and sharper tongue—but him. The curve of his collarbone, the slope of his nose, the way his brows furrowed as he stood uncertain in the doorway. The way he still hesitated in her space, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to step into it.

And then there were the little things. The way he fidgeted with the different flavored teas in her kitchen cabinet. How his eyes scanned her face like he was making sure she was still okay. How he stood silently while she reached past him for the sugar, like he didn’t want to crowd her.

Those small mercies. Those small signs that he cared, even now, even after everything. 

Even after drawing that line in the sand.

Y/N tried to tell herself that it was enough. That she was lucky to have been let in at all. Because it was clear now—painfully so—how rarely he let himself be seen. How much of him was locked behind iron bars no one else even knew existed.

But she had been the one he came to. She had been the one he’d needed. If only for a moment.

And maybe that was her consolation prize. Maybe that’s all she’d get.

The kettle hummed softly as he hovered awkwardly near the counter, pretending to be preoccupied with her spoons like it required delicate strategy. They both moved around each other like amateur dancers, unsure where to place their hands or how to read the next step.

“You, um… sugar?” she asked, voice catching just a little on the first word.

He blinked, then gave a small smile, almost shy. “Two. If you’re offering.”

She nodded and grabbed the little jar, spoon clinking softly as she measured it out. And just like that, the tension shifted—not gone, but quieter. Like something in the air had taken a long breath in and was holding it steady.

He stood in her kitchen like he wasn’t quite sure if he belonged there, but also didn’t want to leave. His fingers tapped the edge of the counter, restless, and she saw the way he scanned the space—the peeling corner of the cabinet, the magnet crooked on the fridge, the plant on the windowsill that she forgot to water unless it dropped dramatically.

His name’s Bernard, she’d fondly told him. 

He also remembered telling her it was a stupid name. 

This wasn’t a space meant for people like him, he thought to himself. He didn’t belong in this life of potted plants and fridge magnets and slow mornings. But there was also something familiar about it, if he looked at it from an angle. The mug he used every time he came over sat there like some miniscule, divine sign – not that he already belonged, but like he could. Like he might, if things were different. 

If he let himself.

She passed him the tea without meeting his eyes, and he accepted it with a quiet, “Thanks,” his voice was rough from sleep. Their fingers brushed just slightly at the exchange. Neither of them pulled away immediately.

“You okay?” she asked, and instantly winced. Too much. Too soon.

But he just looked at her, not with irritation or that cold, unreadable mask he wore so often—but with something gentler. A small, reluctant crack in the armor.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I’m better than I was yesterday, I think.”

She nodded, wrapping her hands around her own mug. “That’s something.”

A pause. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Just uncertain.

He leaned against the counter, eyes scanning the chipped tile beneath his bare feet. “I don’t usually…” he started, then stopped, jaw working. “I mean. I’m not good at this. At being—  erm, whatever this is.”

“I know,” she said softly.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, just full of things not said. But it was companionable, too. She liked the way he looked standing in her kitchen, hair messy, tea in hand, eyes soft in a way the world rarely got to see.

She liked that he let her see it.

She didn’t know what came next. Probably nothing. Probably this was it—an anomaly. A glitch in their dynamic. A one-time kindness born of grief and timing and need. He would pull away, like he always did. He’d wrap himself back up in distant expressions and white lies and make himself untouchable again.

Because maybe she couldn’t have all of him, but at least she had this, right?

He didn’t quite fit in her space.His steps were still a bit too loud against her wooden floors, his frame a bit too lanky for her small space.

But there were moments, fleeting ones, when she imagined he could.

The way his hand lingered on the fridge door, the way his eyes flicked toward the window like he was memorizing the view. The way his voice softened when he asked if she still liked honey in her tea.

He remembered. Of course he did.

She watched him lean against the counter, mug in hand, eyes down, and for a moment she felt suspended in time—like they existed in a pocket the rest of the world couldn’t touch. No blood. No grief. No walls between them. Just this quiet, humming morning where he didn’t have to be anyone but himself.

It wouldn’t last. She knew that.

But she would let herself have it, just for now.

Once she set down her mug of half-finished tea, she went back to moving around the kitchen with a kind of purpose — barefoot, flannel slipping from one shoulder, sleeves pushed up as she cracked eggs. 

She hummed to herself as she cooked — a soft, low, barely-there melody that drifted across the small apartment like the warmth off the stove. He didn’t recognize the tune. In fact, he didn’t think she even realized she was doing it.

The smell of toasting bread and scrambled eggs filled the air. Lando busied himself by looking around the modest living room—not intentionally snooping, simply observing. He let his eyes trace all the ways her space had changed since that first night he stepped inside, her hands shaking so badly she couldn’t even unlock her door.

He wandered slowly through her space, letting his fingers trail along the edge of a shelf, a framed painting, the back of a worn sofa cushion.

It wasn’t grand or luxurious, but it had finally started to appear lived in now. She’d begun to make it a home somehow, and he’d watched it happen without quite realizing it.

There was the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch — navy, soft, clearly well-loved. A tiny stack of books on the coffee table, spine cracked open on the topmost one. A candle nearly burned down to the bottom. A pair of fuzzy socks crumpled near the armrest, like she’d kicked them off mid television episode. The scent of something warm—vanilla, maybe cinnamon—lingered faintly in the air, and it wrapped around him gently, like her voice often did.

The first time he’d stood in this apartment, she’d barely spoken. Her hands had trembled so violently that she couldn’t hold the mug he made her. The walls were blank then, any furniture sparse like she hadn’t let herself get comfortable, like she didn’t believe she was allowed to stay.

Now?

Now there were little things. A scarf thrown over the back of a chair. Mismatched mugs in the dish rack. A stack of law textbooks, dog-eared and underlined, beside a scrappy little bowl of dried lavender and a clay dish to hold her rings.

He didn’t even remember noticing the bookshelf before.

He stepped toward the bookshelf, trailing a finger lightly over the spines — well-loved copies of old classics, a few familiar law textbooks, a worn copy of The Phantom Tollbooth that made him smile for some reason. And tucked at the end of a line of books, he found a small, slightly faded photo in a worn wooden frame.

He reached for it carefully. 

The photo showed two girls—one a bit older, maybe in her early teens, and the other much younger, perhaps only a year or two. Both of them wore mismatched pajamas. The older one had her arms wrapped tightly around the smaller girl, their cheeks pressed close, smiling so wide it looked like their cheeks might’ve hurt. The little one’s smile was missing two front teeth.

It wasn’t posed or professional, just a candid moment of two young girls, frozen in time. One slightly older, all tangled hair and scraped knees, grinning with the kind of reckless joy only children knew. The younger clutched her hand and beamed up at her like she hung the moon.

The resemblance was unmistakable. 

“This is you,” Lando realized aloud. 

“What?” she asked, leaning back from the stove to try to look at what he was referring to.

“You were cute,” he said quietly, glancing toward the kitchen before looking back at the photo. “Who’s this other one?”

Y/N turned with a spatula in one hand, brow furrowed until she saw the photo in his hand. Then her face softened. “That would be my sister.”

He turned back to it. “She looks like you.”

She smiled faintly, but there was something else there. Something older, a bit tired, maybe.

“Uh, her name’s Mila. I’m pretty sure I’ve always called her Mils though,” she murmured, voice dipping into something softer, something sadder.

He hummed in acknowledgement. “She’s adorable.”

“She’s everything,” she said, and the words landed in the room like truth, like prayer. “The coolest kid in the world.”

“What happened to her?” he dared to ask. Y/N paused, searching for any sign that he was asking as a formality or mere courtesy before she laid one of the innermost parts of her bare before him, but found none. His expression was careful, curious, patient. 

She turned back to the stove, voice quieter now. “She, uh, still lives with my parents. That’s kinda why I don’t really have any more recent pictures of her.”

Lando approached closer, the frame still in his hand. “She lives with your parents?”

“I left when I was nineteen,” she said, flipping a piece of toast in the pan. “So she stayed with the people I couldn’t keep living with. And I know— I know that makes me sound like a coward. But I couldn’t stay, Liam. I kept trying but I just couldn’t.”

Her voice wavered, just once.

“And I tried —I really, really tried— to bring her with me. But I was still a kid to them, and they wouldn’t let me take her.” 

She inhaled steadily before continuing, plating the toast. “I didn’t have proof, or custody, or any power at all. I just had… me.”

A beat passed.

“I left her behind. When I moved out. I— I didn’t want to. But I had to get away, you know? It wasn’t safe, not for me. Not for either of us, really. But she was still too young. And I… I couldn’t take her with me. Not legally. Not safely. So I left.”

She set a mug down a little harder than necessary.

He said nothing, sensing she wasn’t finished.

Y/n looked over her shoulder again, carefully meeting his gaze. “I couldn’t protect her. Not really. So I made a promise to myself that I’d get out, get through school, get into law, and make something of it. So that one day I could go back with something to offer – a plan, a way out. Really out. Not just from the house, but from the whole cycle. The guilt, the smallness, the silence. All of it.” 

“One day,” she breathed, but Lando had a feeling that she was saying that to herself more than him.

Lando stared at her — this girl who never asked for anything for herself, never expected comfort, who stitched herself together quietly. He pictured a younger version of her, small yet fierce, clutching her sister’s hand with all the bravery a child could fake.

And then he looked at her now — her shoulders squared, her expression one of practiced nonchalance. She had already turned back toward the kitchen, probably to stir something, probably to keep her hands busy.

Lando looked at the photo again. This time, he didn’t see just two kids. He saw her. Saw the beginning of the girl he now stood across the room from. A smaller version of Y/N, brave beyond her years, stronger than anyone should ever have had to be.

The soft shield between pain and someone smaller, more fragile.

The protector.

His chest ached with something fierce and sudden.

Someone should’ve stood beside that little girl from the photo and said, you don’t have to do this alone anymore.

He wanted to be that someone now.

He wanted to keep her safe, to make sure she never had to want for anything again. He wanted to build her a world where she could laugh without worry, sleep without locking the door twice, study for her exams without wondering if someone needed saving from the life she escaped. He wanted to make sure no one could ever hurt her again.

And selfishly — he wanted to keep this version of her, soft smile and all, just like this.

Almost all his.

He stepped closer to her before she could turn away and tugged her gently toward him. She blinked up at him in surprise, hands still slightly damp after the mug she'd just rinsed.

Then, Lando Norris did what was probably one of the most foolish and selfish things he’d ever done. He wrapped his arms around her and gently pulled her into him—close, warm, steady. Tentatively, as if unsure he was doing it correctly, he forced himself to lean into the embrace and tuck his chin over Y/N’s head as she fit perfectly against him like he was anchoring her there. 

Before she could register what had happened, her body was already relaxing into his, some subconscious recognition of a presence as perfect for her as the person it belonged to.

It was the breath of air reaching her lungs in what felt like months.

“You will,” he murmured against her hair, before leaning back to look down at her. “We will, yeah?”

She looked up at him, confused.

“M’gonna make sure you keep that promise. I don’t care what it takes, alright? You are gonna study your ass off, and we are going to make damn sure you’re the best fuckin’ lawyer this city’s ever seen,” he said, his tone firmer now. “You’re gonna have that life, and when you go back for her, s’not gonna be with empty hands.”

She didn’t respond at first, just let her forehead drop gently against his chest. One of her hands found the hem of his shirt, fingertips curling lightly into the fabric like she needed something to hold onto.

This feels too good to be true.

“You really think so?” she asked, muffled.

He exhaled, hesitantly letting one hand trail soothing circles along her back. 

“I know so,” he said firmly

She said nothing at first. Just let herself be held, breathing in sync with him, cheek pressed against his chest like maybe this was the safest place in the world. And for a moment, it was.

He didn’t want to let go.

He didn’t want her to ever feel unsafe again.

And god help him—he didn’t want anyone else to be the one who got to keep her safe. Didn’t want anyone else to see her soft smile in the kitchen light. Didn’t want anyone else to earn that little piece of her trust.

But he didn’t say that.

He just held her tighter.

And in that quiet, the morning stilled around them – not quite a beginning, not yet an ending.

Just something real, for as long as it was allowed to last.

All the makings for breakfast that she’d had on hand were set out at the small kitchen table, their legs tangled beneath mismatched chairs. By the time they sat down to eat, the light through the window had gone soft and gold. The kind that kissed the tops of furniture and warmed the mug in her hands, pretending for a little while that the world outside didn’t exist.

Liam looked entirely out of place and somehow completely at home, bare-faced and hair tousled, wearing a t-shirt that wasn’t his and sipping from the same mug he did everytime. She always told him he could use any of the other ones in her collection, but he didn’t seem to care. Instead, he just took a quiet sip and leaned back like he was trying to pretend this was normal.

It wasn’t, not really. But also maybe it was, in a parallel life where he wasn’t this person wrapped in danger and decisions and she wasn’t made of this soft starlight and stubborn dreams. Maybe in that life, breakfast like this was a Thursday thing. 

Maybe even an everyday thing.

After plating two matching plates off eggs, hash brown, and toast, Y/N handed one to him and tried to avoid eye contact. She tried not to wonder if this was the last time he’d be here like this — if the bubble would pop the second he walked out that door.

When she set her own plate down and tucked in her chair, getting ready to eat, Liam glanced at her place before giving her a confused look.

Without a word, he slid his plate toward her and swapped them out. Gave her his hash browns and took the eggs for himself. 

She blinked. “How’d you—?”

“You weren’t gonna eat them,” he said casually, already chewing.

“You don’t know that.”

“I dunno why you even made ‘em f’yourself. You don’t even like eggs,” he said flatly.

Her mouth opened in protest.

He raised an eyebrow.

“I could like eggs,” she argued weakly, sounding unconvincing even to herself. By now, she was mostly just arguing for the principle of it.

He tilted his head, unamused. “You keep tryin’ to like eggs, but you don’t. Don’t lie to me after I’ve seen you pretend to like café egg bites and then hide them in the napkins.”

She tried not to grin, but failed.

“Fine,” she muttered. “You can have them, happy?”

She nudged the plate closer to him and gestured to it with a grandiose wave, as if she were doing him some great big favor by giving him the food she’d never wanted to eat in the first place.

He plucked the remaining scrambled eggs off her plate without a word and dropped a slice of buttered toast in their place — his perfectly golden, a bit over-toasted just the way she liked it. He didn’t even blink. Just handed her the plate back and resumed sipping his very bad coffee.

She stared at the toast. Then at him.

“You didn’t even ask.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t have to. You picked around them at brunch that one time too. When you dragged us to that ridiculous bougie place with the edible flowers.”

Her expression softened—half amusement, half something she couldn’t quite name. “That was months ago.”

“I remember,” was all he said, shrugging.

She paused. “And I like your hash browns?”

“You stole half of mine that day,” he said between bites, his aching body too happy at the prospect of getting to enjoy a warm, home-cooked meal. “You said yours were ‘emotionally unsatisfying.’”

The breath caught somewhere in her throat.

“Oh my god. I can’t believe you remember that,” she flushed. After a moment, she asked quietly, “Do you always do that?”

He looked up. “...Do what?”

“Notice things. Like that.”

He looked like he was going to deny it at first. But then his expression shifted—barely, subtly. He tapped a finger against the side of his mug, not meeting her eyes. He seemed to consider it for a moment.

“Only the important shit, I guess? I dunno. But of course I notice you,” he shrugged casually, before reaching for another bite.

She felt the blush rise hot in her chest and looked down at her plate, suddenly very interested in her toast.

He peeked up at her as he leaned down to take another bite, pleased with himself, and shoved another forkful of eggs into his mouth like it was a personal victory.

She narrowed her eyes, fighting a smile. “You’re so smug.”

He merely nodded, like a dramatic acceptance of his fate. “Speaking of important things, can I tell you somethin’?” he asked, his voice a little rough.

She looked up.

“This coffee’s actually crap.”

She looked up, scandalized. “Excuse me?”

“It is,” he insisted, holding up the mug. “It’s burnt and bitter and tastes like regret.”

She gaped. “I made it!”

He grinned, all teeth. “Still crap.”

“You literally watched me make it.”

He gestured toward her, triumphant. “Exactly. Which means I know your actual coffee is good. This”—he motioned to the sad, steaming mug—“is a betrayal. This is sabotage. I trusted you.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s not my café, Liam, it’s my kitchen. You want fancy, rich-people, €7 espresso? Go buy me a machine then.”

“Oh, I will,” he said, too easily. “Top of the line. As long as you’re the one using it.”

“You better. How dare you come into my apartment and insult my coffee machine?” She threw a napkin at his head and he let it hit him, not even flinching.

He just rolled his eyes and let her.

She didn’t need to know that hated the taste of coffee, always had. She didn’t need to know that somewhere along the way, he’d learned to identify a cup of coffee made by her hands by taste alone, because it was the only one he could seem to tolerate.

“Might have to, out of survival,” he said, mock solemn. “Because every time I try to have coffee in this place, I get this… shitty hot bean water.”

She laughed, and something in his chest loosened.

“You literally called my pour-over technique witchcraft that one time I made you one,” she insisted through her smile. “Then asked for a second cup.”

“Yeah, well,” he leaned back in the chair a little, arms crossed. “The witch got me addicted. To good coffee.”

She tilted her head, grinning. “Is that your way of saying you do like my coffee?”

“What? Of course not,” he scoffed, like she’d suggested something absolutely preposterous. He went to take another sip, smiling behind the rim of his mug. “S' jus’ my way of saying if I ever open a café, you’re the only one allowed to touch the beans.”

She laughed again, and the sound settled something inside him, like he hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until then.

For a few minutes after that, they just ate. Forks scraping quietly. Steam curling off mugs. The distant hum of the city beyond the window—cars, morning birds, the faint clatter of a garbage truck in the alley.

She looked at him then, properly. She took in the lazy sprawl of him across her tiny kitchen chair, the quiet smirk tugging at his lips. He looked at her too.

It was oddly domestic. It felt strangely normal.

He didn’t know how long he had in this little pocket of peace. Didn’t know what the day would bring once he left this apartment and re-entered his world.

The aftermath would be waiting - Leclerc. Questions. Maybe blood. Maybe worse.

But here, now—he still had this. Her, in this flannel with the little tea stain near the hem. Her, in this light. Her, laughing like last night hadn’t happened. Like maybe she’d carry the weight for him just a little longer if it meant he could breathe for a moment more.

He took a long sip of his coffee and leaned back in the chair, wondering if this is what home was supposed to look like all along.

a/n: i'm sorry if this one feels too exposition-y... hopefully it's still readable tho?

--

The rest of the party went as smoothly as it could with a bunch of pregnant Hybrids milling around in the same space. Robotnik made a mental note to have the whole place scrubbed of all the dog hair.

Good thing he wasn't allergic.

Since he was now the proclaimed head Alpha, every one of the Hybrids he had saved from the facility wanted a moment with him.

Most wanted to greet him, thank him for rescuing them, while others began talking of the future. They all seemed excited to be part of his pack; they believed he would be a great role model for their children.

One sharp look from Stone had Robotnik simply nodding along to that last statement, not popping any bubbles.

However, there was one Hybrid that had been different.

He had strolled up to where he and Stone had been sitting, waiting for the party to wind down and send people on his way. As soon as he approached, Robotnik could feel Stone's claws poking his skin through his shirt. His arm tightened around Robotnik's, his once friendly expression dropping into hostility. Frowning, Robotnik looked the newcomer over.

Robotnik raised an eyebrow at the new German Shepard Hybrid. He stood taller than Stone, his shoulders broad and his stance proud, if a bit cocky. His tanned skin seemed to shine under the light as he tossed his tossled hair back.

Maybe under different circumstances, Robotnik would have called him handsome.

At the moment, all he could feel was irritation.

"Dr. Robotnik," the Hybrid flashed him a sharp smile. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. I feared out brave savior wouldn't return."

Raking his eyes over the Hybrid, Robotnik frowned when he didn't see any pregnancy bump on the Hybrid. Opening his mouth to respond, Robotnik didn't get a word in before Stone's growl filled the space.

"The doctor can't be held down," Stone bore his teeth. "It'd be pure stupidity to believe otherwise."

Robotnik's frown deepened. What was going on?

The newcomer's once friendly smile dropped as his lips pulled back as well.

"I wasn't talking to you, omega."

Robotnik's hackles rose instantly. It was undeniable that he was the only one in the room that couldn't tell whether this Hybrid was a beta, alpha, or whatever. But it didn't matter. Nobody talked to Stone that way.

Balling his fists, Robotnik stood, ready to tear the misbehaving dog apart.

Only to watch the Hybrid's eyes widen in pain, a loud yelp bursting from his lips as he tried to jump sideways. He was unsuccessful as he tripped and fell sideways, curling up into a ball and caressing his tail.

Robotnik blinked.

Rockwell shook her clawed hand, small clumps of dog hair falling away. She didn't hesitate to step towards the now whimpering Hybrid, her boot lifting to rest on top of his head. She wasn't gentle as she ground his head into the floor.

"How fucking dare you talk to the Alpha's mate that way!" She snapped, her teeth in full display, spit flying. "After everything they did for you! They should've left your sorry ass in that facility to sire pups you'll never see."

The Hybrid under her foot whined, tears streaming down his face. His eyes darted over to them.

"I-I'm sorry," his voice thick was tears and pain.

"Rockwell, release him," Robotnik huffed. When she didn't right away, he met her gaze evenly. She sneered at him before finally stepping off the pathetic man.

Watching the Hybrid whimper and flinch away from Rockwell, Robotnik stepped up to him. Staring down at the poor excuse of a Hybrid, Robotnik bore his own teeth.

"If you ever speak to Stone that way again, I'll make sure you can never sire pups."

The Hybrid stared at him with fearful eyes as he nodding vigorously in understanding.

"Now, get out of my sight."

Robotnik didn't both watching him scamper away. Instead, he turned back to Stone.

Who was staring at Robotnik as if he had performed a miracle. His tail thumped against the couch with such force, Robotnik had to wonder how it wasn't becoming brusied. As soon as Robotnik sat down again, Stone plastered himself to his side.

"Thank you, doctor," Stone whispered into his ear, nuzzling his face into Robotnik's neck. Gasping, Robotnik tried to push Stone away, but felt his strength waning at the onslaught of attention from Stone.

A derisive snort pulled Robotnik out of the haze of pleasure, only by a fraction. Glancing up, he met Rockwell's eyes.

"Belgian Malinois," she drawled.

"What?"

"He wasn't a German Shepard," Stone explained, not letting up his scenting as he continued rubbing his face into the crook of Robotnik's neck.

"He was an alpha," Robotnik was confident in his assessment, but he looked to Rockwell to confirm. She nodded.

"Sometimes other alphas believe a pack should have two alphas running everything," she huffed. "But since you already have a mate, he was making it obvious he wanted to challenge the pack hierarchy."

"I could have put him in his place," Robotnik narrowed his eyes at her. Rockwell gave him a flat look.

"You couldn't even handle me in heat, I doubt you could have taken a healthy Hybrid in a fight."

Feathers thoroughly ruffled, Robotnik strengthened his glare. However, it began to weaken as he felt Stone's arms wrap around his chest, his hands petting his sides.

"I think it's time we wrap this thing up," Rockwell smirked, sending Robotnik a wink.

He wanted to snap at her, insult her, but he found his train of thought going hazy as Stone began to kiss right his ear.

--

Carol was the one to finally usher everyone out, including herself. If Robotnik didn't have his arms full of an incredibly affectionate Stone, he would have remembered to revoke her access.

As it stood, he was quite busy.

Stone hadn't let go of him for the rest of the party. At times, Robotnik feared the Hybrid would do something scandalous.

However, instead of disapproval from the other Hybrids, Robotnik saw many of them smiling fondly at them. A few even giggled, tittering to each other about something before looking away when they saw Robotnik staring.

Was this a Hybrid thing? Or a social cue he never bothered learning?

"Stone," Robotnik pushed against the furry octopus wrapped around him. He wasn't sure when Stone had crawled into his lap, but he was refusing to budge. "I want to go to bed. Get off, you insufferable puppy."

Stone's head snapped up from where he had been sucking a bruise onto Robotnik's clavicle. His ears were perked as excitement sparked in his eyes.

"Really?" His tail was picking up in speed.

"Yes?" Robotnik furrowed his brow. "I want to sleep in a real bed."

Stone nodded quickly, slipping off Robotnik gracefully before holding out his hand. Slightly baffled by Stone's enthusiasm, Robotnik hesitantly took the offered hand. Stone's face lit up.

The entire trip to their own bedroom, Stone never once broke contact. Both his arms were wrapped tightly around one of Robotnik's, his head resting on his shoulder.

Robotnik wasn't sure how to respond. Yes, the attention was heady and went straight to his head, but it was also unusual for Stone to be this clingy outside of the bedroom. He knew Robotnik loathed public displays of affection.

"Doctor, how about you take a shower first?" Stone batted his eyes up at him.

"All right..." Robotnik didn't trust this in the least.

He was right not to.

Stepping into his bedroom, toweling off his hair, he was met with an odd sight.

Rockwell was standing next to the bed, her arms crossed and a scowled etched into her features. Next to her on the bed was Stone. His head hung as he hugged himself, his ears flat and tail laying in his lap.

"What happened?" Robotnik immediately asked. Stone glanced up at him through his lashes, expression guilty.

"He's on the verge of heat," Rockwell glared down at Stone, who flinched.

"What?" Robotnik took a step closer, but Rockwell blocked to his path. "How can this happen? Is this a side effect of White's drug?"

"No," Rockwell sighed. "This is a side effect of Stone wanting to get fucked."

"Rocky!" Stone whined. "Could you please not say it that way?"

"How else should I say it?" She snorted. "You want to be knocked up, just like everyone else? You want his spell juice inside you?"

"Stop!" Robotnik blurted out, face on fire. "This hasn't happened any other time we..."

"The forced heat messed up our hormones," Rockwell begrudgingly admitted. "With the formation of the pack, Stone being your mate, and then your display of dominance, well. His body thinks it's a great time to have a natural heat."

"How do we stop it?" Robotnik looked between the two. He couldn't help but see the flash of disappointment on Stone's face. Rockwell must have seen it too as she reached over and yanked on one of Stone's ears.

"Ow!"

"Stop it," she snapped. "I know you haven't been on birth control. If you two share a heat, you're gonna end up knocked up. That's the last thing we need right now."

As much as Robotnik hated to see the sorrow in Stone's eyes, Rockwell was right.

He was far from ready or willing to be a father. While having a horny, lustful Hybrid in his arms would be nice, he didn't need yet another pregnant Hybrid simpering for him.

Even if Stone was the only one he really wanted in that position. He quickly shook himself of those ideas.

"To stop the heat from starting, you two have to stop touching. The more physical touch, the more signals you're sending to Stone's body to start a heat."

"Rocky--"

"Meaning, he doesn't sleep in here tonight," Rockwell finished, flicking Stone's ear.

An easy enough fix.

Totally fine.

One night apart wouldn't hurt them.

Only that Robotnik hadn't been able to hold Stone for so long and he wasn't sure how he would sleep without his emotional support agent wrapped around him.

Stone looked equally miserable.

"Doctor?" Stone turned his begging eyed on him.

Robotnik could feel his resolve dissolving at the sight. Maybe Stone would be lucky and wouldn't end up pregnant. There was always a chance.

"Ugh," Rockwell groaned and rolled her eyes. "You two are hopeless. Fine, another way is for me to chaperone you two."

"Meaning?"

"I sleep in here with you two."

Stone brightened.

"Absolutely not--"

"Please, sir?" Stone pleased. "There's enough room. And she's already stayed with us before."

Between Rockwell's squared shoulders and stubborn expression to Stone's hopeful tail wag, Robotnik didn't have the energy to argue.

"Fine."

“The ship is on an easy and straight course for its arrival. The master spoke of how I should bring you to shops and buy you something nice.” A smile played on his lips.

You gave him a sweet smile. “You don’t have to.”

“I don’t know, I may want to.”

You rose your eyebrows. “We have bought so much for our home. Are you sure?”

He nodded. “My dear wife, I do believe I should have given you something a long time ago.”

Taking his arm you followed him as he led you away from the docks.

You looked around making sure you stepped carefully. “Us, here and safe is enough.”

He squeezed your your hand. “As much as I do not enjoy extreme excess, you need some possession especially since you are the lady of our household.”

“Thank you, my love.”

*******

“Good day, Sir Julien.” Greeted a kind looking older man, he was wiping his hands on a cloth. He stopped upon seeing you. “Oh? Is this the lady of the house?”

You nodded and glanced up at Enjolras. He smiled down at you.

“Dear, this Mr Jameson. He has supplied our home with many treasures.”

“You have parted with many different items.”

He nodded. “I am sure your house is much grander for it.”

“It is.” You nod. “Thank you.” Slipping your arm free, you wandered away as the two began to speak of other items he may or may not be receiving soon.

The house, that you and Enjolras were now were residing were becoming quite grand. It reminded you of your home before the disappearance of your father. It had held several treasures before having sell them so that your mama and you could keep the home.

You sighed and continued to look at all the great items that remained. Some of which shifted your mood and made you relieved that Enjolras had such good eye. You would have been aghast to have them.

You were drawn to an array of some powder boxes. They made you smile. Looking at a few, you were reminded of one night when mama was preparing for one of the parties her and father would be hosting. She had opened one of her elegant boxes and gave her bosom a dusting. You had been watching, peering actually in from the bedroom doorway.

“I see you my sweet little cabbage. Would you like to be like mama and have some perfumed powder tonight?”

You nodded. You hurried over. Stopping, you stood tall while also attempting to be as elegant as you could.

A warm giggle came from her. “Ok. Close your eyes.”

You squeezed them shut. Next you felt a soft brush on your nose. The sweet scent of honeysuckle filled your nose.

“Perfect.” She said with a gentle air. “Now you are all ready for the party.”

******

He was pleased to hear that the cradles had come in. You being here was timely. He could not and would not have wanted to decide on one or even two without your guidance.

“I will go and find her. I am sure she is enjoying the sight of your treasures.”

“Treasures.” He made a dismissive gesture. “They are what makes a household, a home.”

He nodded. “They are that.”

The floor boards creaked under his boots as he walked down another aisle where he spotted you. As he drew closer, he saw a faraway look eyes.

“Ange?” He whispered, wrapping an arm around you.

You glanced up. “I…I…”

He smiled. “You looked terribly faraway my love, where were you?”

“I was.”

You replied with a soft smile that had a trace of sadness to it. You pointed to the powder boxes in front of you.

“They remind me of mama.”

You pointed to the porcelain boxes in front of you.

“Oh? Look at those.”

He drew from you and looked down at them and back at you. He knew how he treasured the glass bottle that held the sharp aftershave that his father gave him.

“Choose among them what you wish to have and they will be yours.”

You brought a gloved hand to your lips, in the muted light he could see happiness brighten them.

“Yes.” He nodded. “They will have a wonderful place on your vanity.”

*****

You held onto two of small boxes and were wrapped tightly in cloth. You could not wait to place them on your vanity. They were perfect.

******

Now, a new happiness filled you at the sight of them sitting there. Berceaux, cribs bassinets all for you and Enjolras to choose from for your baby. You brought a hand to your growing belly as you considered them.

It took some time, testing the ease of the rocking and evaluating the size. Also, you had to make sure none made too much noise when it moved. In the end, Enjolras and you settled on three of the five that stood in front of you. One for you Enjolras’s private chambers, one for the child’s respective nursery and another that they could easily move around if they wished to sit in the gardens or the library and wanted to have the baby with them.

“I will wrap these up in haste.” The man older man patted one of them. “I will fetch Edmund. Together, we will bring these down the docks.”

Enjolras nodded. “Good. Thank you.”

******

The ship surely has arrived by now, if he had learned anything these last few months the timing of ships in clear weather was becoming familiar to him.

Turning to you. with a gentle ease of his hand on your lower back. He made his way with you out to the cobbled street.

“Angel, I will walk you to the perfumery. That is where I found the ones that have already brought the most pleasant scents to the airs of our chambers and for you to feel even lovelier.”

“Is it close?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “And then I will return to the docks and check on the arrival of the boat.”

******

You watched as he spoke warmly with the gentleman in the worn brown coat whose collar looked especially stiff. But had a soft demeanor.

Turning, Enjolras closed the distance between the two of you once more. “Love, this is Mr. Barlowe. He can assist you while I go and check on things with the harbor master.”

“Thank you.” You turned and smiled at the man.

********

Enjolras enjoyed having you along. Though a cloud, a shadow of worry did chase his ankles. Though keeping you tucked away at the estate disliked more.

With it being such a lovely day, he was relieved you were having a good day. The baby was being good to their mama by not giving her any light headedness. That pleased him.

“Oh! Excuse me good sir.” He quickly said as he collided with someone stumbling out of the bar.

Turning in the direction in which the man fell, the man had sprawled.

“I am terribly sorry, sir. Thoughts had clouded my vision.”

He offered his hand. The man took it. He had a very firm grip.

“And drink had made my feet unsure of themselves.”

Their eyes met and chuckle had blossomed and was shared.

“Well, I must be on my way.” He gave the man a quick smile.

******

He had been right. His pleasure on being correct, gave him a flush of confidence. He needed it.

The boat after its journey groaned and creaked as it anchored at the dock.

He’d never breath the words into existence but fleeing had give him a thorn of discontent in his side. Logic, his heart told him he had made the correct decision. There was no doubt or second thoughts lingering in his heart.

Though there was a sliver of pain that sometimes cut deep as the thoughts, the memories of Courfeyrac or Grantaire or even small Gavroche or the elder Mabeuf paid him a visit. He glanced down at his scared hand that he used to lean against the wooden posts at the dock while he waited.

******

“Sir, I mean Officer Gerard, are you alright? I knew I shouldn’t have allowed you free of my arms this early.” The bar maid fluttered around him.

He dusted himself off, eyes narrowing as he watched the younger man walk away. He gave the barmaid who had been warming his bed a half smile.

“Do you know who that is my sweet cabbage?”

The woman glanced and smiled back at him. “Of course, I do my love.”

The woman dragged out that last word, love. He wasn’t quite sure how it made him feel. In the past, he’d backhand some for using it so casually. Yet, now It had been an age since anyone spoke of him in such a manner.

“That is Sir Julien. Newly arrived on our ground with a wife who is blossoming with life while he has the flair of a gentleman.”

With a tilt of her head he could see a tide of worry was over her.

“Is there something the matter? You would surely like him. He drinks and plays cards as well.”

He shook his head. “No but our paths did just crash and it left me curious. He seemed almost too polite for this region.”

“He sounds like you.” A giggle came from her. “Am I too polite too since you took a liking to my company?”

“Perhaps.”

********

“Sir, sir is that steady enough?”

A sharp voice took his attention away from the water that slapped against the wooden haul.

It was his mother. His heart leapt as his stomach churned. His feet ushered him over to where she would step foot.

“Mother?” All that he could possibly remained in his mouth.

Despite a tiredness having blanketed her usual refined and elegant appearance she smiled. “It took some arguing but I convinced your father to allow me passage to go and see you.”

“I did get my stubbornness from the two of you. What made him finally allow you?”

“Reason. Someone needs to keep an eye on the estate.”

“And despite him always being quite cold, you always brought some warmth from him however small.”

“It is my charm and wit that I feel blessed to have passed onto you, my son.”

******

With the occasional sniff from a handkerchief you finally were able to settle on eau de Cologne for Enjolras. You were not sure what he would think of it. But it did remind you of him. Memories, of how he had looked striding over to you with that white billowy shirt, those trousers and black shiny boots still stirred your heart.

“I will wrap this so it is ready when he returns.”

“Thank you.” You replied softly.

*****

The door jangled as you went to stand just outside the shop. The air with all of its scents had grown too heavy for you. Gently wrapped and tucked away in your reticule, the cologne was safe. You held the strings that

Shops, streets were different in England, you mused looking at your new surroundings, the urge to explore was strong.

Though a fluttering came from the baby as they shifted within you.

“Are you awake?” You whispered, gently patting your stomach.

The warmth of your love for them came over you. You were learning that you had to keep not only yourself safe but them as well. Waiting, for Enjolras’s return you took in the small street and other shops. Distantly, you could hear hushed voices with the occasional peel of laughter from opening and closing of a pub’s door.

You watched as Enjolras rounded the corner. As you watched he paused heavily against a wall. He looked as if something happened. Your heart squeezed hard. Not uttering a word you began to make your way over to him.

His eyes met yours as you neared. A few of his curls fell into his brow but didn’t hide the look you saw in them. It stole your breath.

******

The arrival of his mother excited him and worried him. He knew how she was rather particular with how she liked things. He knew the two of you had seemed complimentary of each other during those short moments at Oliver’s.

However, after the package from his father he would not expected this. It was not something, he particularly wanted to worry about. It was enough that he was keeping an ear open for the possible arrival of the French solider who was looking for revenge. He chewed on the inside of his cheek as he made his way back to you.

“Sir Julien, sir Julien.”

He resisted the urge to ignore the barmaid, calling to him. This was not the time to close himself off from all the new people he was meeting. He swallowed, stopping and turned towards her.

“Yes?”

She was breathless and red faced as she caught up with him. Her hands fluttered around her like birds as she found her breath.

“I’m sorry.” She muttered swallowing some breathes.

“It is ok. There was something you wanted?” The urge to get back to you grew.

“A man, like you. Sounding like you has been staying with me.”

A chill came over him, he tried not to shiver. “Like me?”

A broad, lopsided smile that only she could muster spread across her fleshy face as the flush of running over to him finally faded.

“Yes, sounds like you and also likes to play card games. You should come one night. I told him, you did too.”

He blinked. “You did.”

With the excited nod of her head, the bun that held her hair in place loosened some.

“I did. You two would get along. Both very charming.”

He had to get away and now, he needed air desperately.

“I will consider it.

“You will?”

“Yes! But now I must be off. Fare thee well.”

He heard her call the same and he nodded and made it around the corner just out of eye sight and slumped against a stone wall. He felt like what little bile was in his stomach could leave at any moment. He took several breaths to calm his racing heart and churning stomach.