#reader pov

“Jason, I’m tellin’ you—she’s perfect.”

Jason Todd doesn’t even look up from the busted transmission he’s elbows-deep in. “You say that every time someone with tits walks through the door.”

Roy grins, unoffended. “Yeah, but this one wrote in a glitter pen. That’s commitment.”

Jason snatches the paper from him. The thing sparkles under the fluorescent lights like it’s mocking him.

-Interests: fashion, manipulation, being the center of attention, and pink. What’s a carburetor?: I don’t know, I don’t care, and I don’t give a fuck.

Jason drags a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ, Harper.”

“She’s honest! Refreshing, even.”

“You wanna hire someone who thinks a carburetor is a mood.”

Roy shrugs. “We need someone who won’t scare off customers. Half the people who walk in here think you’re gonna eat their souls.”

Jason glares. “Maybe because you keep telling them I used to kill people.”

Roy grins, unapologetic. “Technically true.”

Before Jason can respond, the sharp click of heels echoes through the garage. Both men look up.

You’re framed in the open bay door, sunlight behind you like some divine joke. Pink miniskirt, cherry lip gloss, tiny heart-shaped purse swinging from your wrist. You smell like vanilla, chaos, and trouble.

“Hi!” you chirp, voice bright enough to make the lightbulbs hum. “I’m here about the job.”

Roy’s smirk widens. “Told ya.”

Jason mutters something that sounds suspiciously like fuck me under his breath.

You stop in the middle of the shop, taking in the grime, the oil-stained rags, and Roy’s “tasteful” pin-up calendar. “Well,” you say with a grin, “it’s definitely… rustic.”

“Welcome to Red Line Auto,” Jason deadpans. “You any good with paperwork?”

You flash him a smile that could melt asphalt. “I’m great at making things look good. Paperwork’s things, right?”

Roy’s practically glowing. “See? She’s got initiative.”

Jason groans. “You’re unbelievable.”

You tilt your head, sweet and unbothered. “Look, I’m not gonna pretend I know how to change a tire or whatever it is you people do here. But I can keep your appointments straight, make cranky old men spend more, and smile through just about anything. You’ll thank me later.”

Roy whispers, “She’s already doing better PR than we ever have.”

Jason shoots him a look that could kill. “We don’t even have a desk.”

“That’s fine,” you say, pulling a pink pen out of your bag. “I can improvise. Or you can build me one. You look like you have strong arms.”

Roy nearly chokes on his laughter. Jason just mutters, “You’re buying the damn desk, Harper.”

A few hours later, there’s a “desk”—if you can call a tool cart with a clipboard and half a phone a desk. You’re perched on a stool that wobbles if you breathe too hard, sipping cherry Coke from a straw, pretending you don’t notice Jason glancing your way every few minutes.

When the bell over the door jingles, you’re up before he can move. The guy looks like every impatient customer Jason hates dealing with—suit, Bluetooth earpiece, zero patience.

You beam, leaning on the counter with that smile that could sell air to a drowning man. “Afternoon! What’re we ruining your day with today—oil change, tire rotation, or a general lack of manners?”

The man blinks, then laughs. Roy whistles low. Jason hides a smile behind his hand.

As the customer fills out a form, Roy leans against Jason’s shoulder. “Told you, man. She’s customer-service magic.”

Jason doesn’t answer. He’s too busy pretending not to notice the way your pink pen glitters every time you write a number down, the faint scent of perfume hanging in the air, or the fact that—for the first time in months—the shop feels alive.

He mutters under his breath, “She’s gonna give me an aneurysm.”

Roy grins. “Yeah, but you’ll die happy.”

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The morning sunlight cuts through the cracked windows of the shop, slicing the dust like lazy, golden knives. The air smells like hot oil, stale coffee, and the ghost of cigarettes from tenants past.

Jason Todd’s under a Dodge, half awake, muttering at a bolt that refuses to turn. He’s been up since seven. His patience died around seven-thirty.

The door chime jingles.

He slides out from under the car, wiping his hands on a rag. “One week on the job and you’re already—”

You sashay through the doorway in platform boots, caramel latte in one hand and a pink bakery box in the other. The smell of sugar and caffeine follows you like a halo.

“—late,” he finishes flatly.

“Not late,” you correct, setting the donuts on the nearest workbench. “Fashionably delayed. There’s a difference.”

Roy’s already peeling the lid open. “Bless you, angel of mercy.” He stuffs half a cruller into his mouth before Jason can even form a complaint.

Jason wipes the grease off his fingers, glaring. “It’s your first week, and you’re—”

“Improving morale,” you cut in with a smile that could blind a saint. “Step one: donuts. Step two: makeover.”

He groans. “No.”

“Yes,” you sing, sipping your latte.

Roy looks up, powdered sugar on his cheek. “Makeover sounds good to me.”

Jason mutters something about quitting his own damn shop.

You start before he can stop you. The first casualty is the pin-up calendar hanging crooked over Roy’s toolbox. You pluck it off the nail, flip it closed with two fingers, and hand it back to him with the bored grace of a queen returning a peasant’s trinket.

He straightens immediately. “Uh… yeah. Sure. Been meanin’ to take that down anyway.”

“In this century, we celebrate professionalism,” you say, pulling a dry-erase board from your oversized tote. You hang it with pink thumbtacks you absolutely did not ask permission to use.

In neat cursive, you start filling columns— Appointments — Parts ETA — Call Backs— all in rose-colored ink.

Roy whistles. “You actually… remembered all that?”

“Of course.” You dot a little heart over the “i” in Friday. “Organization is sexy.”

Jason passes behind you, pretending not to look, but his eyes keep drifting back to the board. It makes the chaos look almost manageable—like a real business instead of two guys white-knuckling a dream.

Next comes your desk—the battered tool cart Jason swore was junk. You roll it to the front window and lay down a strip of pink-gingham cloth. A fake succulent. A cup of glitter pens. A tidy stack of trash magazines: Vogue, People, and Mechanic Monthly, purely for irony. Beside it, your nail kit gleams under the fluorescent lights.

Roy peers over your shoulder. “You bringin’ a spa to the shop?”

“Maybe I’m bringing taste to the shop,” you shoot back, smoothing the cloth.

Then you pull the next miracle out of your bag: a mint-green thrift-store turntable.

Jason blinks like you’ve just announced a séance. “A what now?”

“For ambience,” you say.

“It’s a garage.”

“It’s a pièce de résistance, darling.” You set the record player beside your desk, drop the needle, and let the faint crackle of Fleetwood Mac hum under the clank of tools. “We’re manifesting prosperity.”

Roy nods sagely. “Manifest the hell outta it.”

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

By midday you’re leaning against the counter, scrolling on your phone. “Okay, morale improvement, step three: hydration.”

Roy perks up. “Beer?”

“Mini fridge.” You turn the screen toward them—your cart already loaded with a bubble-gum-pink model. “Look at her. She’s perfect. Chic. Inspiring.”

Jason groans. “This isn’t a spa, it’s a real business.”

“It can be both if you have taste,” you shoot back. “We deserve nice things.”

Roy’s already on your side. “She’s got a point, man. My Red Bull’s been warm for weeks.”

Jason pinches the bridge of his nose. “Absolutely not.”

Cut to ten minutes later: you supervising like a tyrant while both men wrestle the box through the door.

“I can’t believe you convinced me to buy this,” Jason mutters, trying not to drop it.

“Consider it a business expense,” you say, batting your lashes. “I’ll invoice you.”

“You have never successfully used our invoicing software,” he fires back.

“That’s because it’s ugly.”

Roy’s laughing too hard to help. They finally set it down beside your desk with a heavy thud. You plug it in, the little hum blending with the music, and ceremoniously stock it with cherry Cokes, bottled water, and one mysterious yogurt cup.

After making sure the refrigerator he “absolutely didn’t want” was in place, Jason rolls his shoulders and bends back into the guts of a Honda. It’s hot. The air smells like metal and summer. You let yourself look for half a second too long before you get a grip and turn back to your desk.

An hour later he’s still there, jaw tight, fighting a rusted bolt like it insulted his mother. Sweat runs down his temple, catching the light. You pop open the new fridge and grab a cold bottle.

You don’t say anything when you walk over. You just press it to the inside of his wrist.

He startles; then his shoulders drop like someone cut a wire. He takes it. “Thanks,” he says, quiet.

“Hydration’s hot,” you murmur. “Try it sometime.”

He almost smiles. Almost.

Fleetwood Mac keeps playing. The fridge hums. Outside, the neon sign flickers; for once, the shop doesn’t feel like a tomb—it feels alive.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The summer heat hits different in week three. The shop’s fans hum like lazy hornets, and every surface is sticky with either grease or humidity—or both. You’re perched behind your makeshift desk, painting a fresh coat of bubblegum pink over one thumbnail, the record player murmuring something low and dreamy in the background.

Jason’s under a car again, radio static buzzing from somewhere near his feet. Roy’s elbow-deep in an oil change, singing off-key to whatever’s playing. The rhythm is comfortable now, familiar.

Then the peace dies in a screech of tires.

A silver sports car slides into the parking lot like it’s trying to make an entrance. You can hear the ego before you see it.

Jason mutters something under his breath. “This’ll be fun.”

The guy who steps out looks like every overpaid Gotham executive rolled into one: fitted polo, mirrored shades, loafers that have never touched asphalt. He storms in like the shop owes him rent money.

“My engine light’s on,” he snaps, tossing his keys on your counter. “Fix it. Now.”

You glance down at the schedule you spent half the morning color-coding. “The main mechanics are tied up with pre-booked work, darling,” you say, polite and professional. “You’ll just need to hang tight until our other tech clocks in—shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes.”

He laughs once—sharp, condescending. “Listen, sweetheart, you seem like a pretty decent little eye candy for this place, but I need someone who actually knows cars. Now.”

The sound that comes out of Jason is low, dark, and way too close to a growl. From across the shop, he straightens, eyes locked on the man like a scope finding its mark.

Roy mutters, “Here we go.”

You don’t flinch. You’ve seen this before—guys who think loud voices and big wallets can buy respect. You keep your tone sweet, sugar-laced with venom. “I’m so sorry, sugar, but I don’t take orders. I barely take suggestions.”

You tilt your head toward the mason jar at the corner of your cart— SUGGESTIONS / TIPS (cash only)—the label glittering under the fluorescent light. The jar is stuffed with bills.

“Feel free to drop your feedback right in there,” you say, flashing him your most dazzling smile.

The man’s mouth works soundlessly, as if his brain is buffering.

Jason’s already halfway across the floor before Roy catches his arm. “Let her handle it,” Roy hisses, but Jason’s jaw stays clenched.

Finally, the customer clears his throat. “Fine. I’ll wait,” he grumbles, voice thick with resentment, and snatches his keys back.

“Perfect!” you chirp. “There’s coffee over by the fan, and reading material right here.”

You hand him a magazine from your stash—glossy, pink, and absolutely titled 10 Signs You’re the Problem.

Roy snorts so hard he nearly drops a wrench. Jason actually—almost—smiles.

The man slumps into the waiting bench, defeated by your sugar-coated precision. You turn back to your nails, humming under your breath, unbothered.

Jason watches from the bay, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He tells himself he’s just impressed by your people skills. He doesn’t admit the real thought: that he’s proud of you, and that scares the hell out of him.

Roy leans over his shoulder and whispers, “She’s customer-service Batman.”

Jason shakes his head, smirking just a little. “Nah,” he mutters, turning back to his tools. “She’s scarier.”

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

By the fifth week, the shop hums like a living thing. The new record player crackles quietly through the haze of exhaust—Madonna one day, The Runaways the next. Your whiteboard gleams in pink cursive, every appointment stacked and organized, every call logged with a heart over the “i.”

Jason won’t admit it out loud, but things actually run better now. He still grumbles every morning when he walks in and sees the fake plant and the pink fridge glowing like a neon sign of chaos, but the jobs get done. The bills are paid. Customers actually come back.

And then the jocks show up.

The glass door jingles and in they stroll—five of them, all varsity smiles and matching letterman jackets, smelling like cologne and entitlement. You recognize the type immediately: daddy’s cars, mama’s money, and an attention span shorter than a TikTok.

You smooth your skirt, tilt your head, and smile the kind of smile that makes men do stupid things. “Welcome to Red Line Auto, boys! What can I do for you?”

One of them—tall, all jawline—whistles low. “Damn, sweetheart, you actually work here?”

You beam. “Of course I do. Someone’s gotta keep these grease monkeys in line.”

They laugh—exactly the response you wanted. You lean a little on the counter, elbows just so. “Now, I’m sure handsome young men like you must have lucky girlfriends already. Why not buy them a few extra things to put in your car? A glitter-dice air freshener, maybe one of those heart keychains—make ’em happy.”

Within minutes, they’re arguing over colors. You keep your tone soft, teasing, all honey and manipulation. By the time they pay, the counter’s half empty and they’re out almost four hundred bucks in unnecessary accessories.

As the door jingles closed, one of them slides a slip of paper toward you. “My number. In case you, uh, wanna ride in a real car.”

You pick it up with two fingers, still smiling. “Aww. That’s precious.” They swagger out, laughing. The moment the glass door clicks shut, you drop the number straight into the trash can.

Jason’s there before you even look up. You didn’t hear him walk over, but you feel his presence—warm, heavy, grounding.

“Question,” he says gruffly, wiping his hands on a rag.

You glance up, pen still twirling between your fingers. “Shoot.”

He nods toward the door the jocks just left through. “Why d’you act like you’re suckling dumb pills around guys like that? You’re not.”

“Please,” you say, capping your pink pen with a click. “Of course I’m not. But do you want to sell more to rich jerks or have me lecture them about internalized misogyny?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. His brow furrows like he’s trying to argue but can’t find the angle.

You grin. “Didn’t think so. They tip better when they think I can’t spell receipt. I can. Shockingly.”

Jason stares for a beat, and the corner of his mouth twitches. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s damn close. “You’re scary good at this.”

You wink. “I enjoy paying rent. The rest is theater.” You twirl the pen once and gesture at the impulse rack stacked with glitter-dice and lip-balm toolboxes. “Besides, I got them to pay five times as much thanks to this rack—” you tap the display “—and this rack.” You point to your chest.

Roy, passing behind with a tire slung over his shoulder, stops mid-stride and lets out a dreamy sigh. “God, I love capitalism.”

Jason drags a hand down his face, muttering, “I hate both of you.”

You just laugh—bright and easy—and turn back to rearranging your display. He watches a moment longer than he means to before heading back to the bay, jaw set, pulse just a little faster.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

By mid-afternoon, the air tastes like metal and heat. The record player hums something low and crackly, and you’re filing receipts while Jason and Roy bicker over who misplaced the torque wrench this time.

Then Roy freezes mid-argument, eyes wide. “Shit. I forgot to pick up the valve regulator.”

Jason groans. “You promised that job’d be done by five.”

Roy wipes his hands on his coveralls, already backing toward the door like a man walking into his own funeral. “Across the street’s got it,” he says quickly. “I can run—”

“I’ll go,” you chirp, already grabbing the purchase order and your bag. “I need steps. My watch yelled at me.”

Jason straightens immediately. “I’ll go.”

You turn to him with both hands on your hips, eyes narrowed like you’re about to scold a child. “Jason, you’re knee-deep in an alternator and Roy’s too busy pretending to be useful. This is exactly what I’m here for. Just because I don’t know what a fucking turbine looks like doesn’t mean I can’t handle picking up a part. I’ve survived rush hour at a Forever 21 on Black Friday. I’ll live.”

Roy whistles low. “She’s got a point, man.”

Jason steps forward to argue again—right into one of the glass hanging planters you installed last week. The thunk echoes across the shop.

You wince. “Oof. Sorry. That one’s glass. Don’t bleed on anything cute.”

He freezes, hand over his temple, grimacing. You take a step closer, guilt flickering under the sass. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he mutters, rubbing the spot.

“You sure? ’Cause I don’t think OSHA covers decorative injuries.”

That earns you a half-growl, half-grumble that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, and you take it as your cue to head out before he can protest again.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The rival shop—Iron Claw Auto—sits across the street like a bad omen: sign half-flickering, windows tinted too dark, the kind of place that smells like stolen hubcaps and cheap cologne. You can feel Jason’s eyes burning into your back from the doorway even before you cross.

Inside, the air is heavy with exhaust and bad flirting. A mechanic with slicked-back hair—Trent, according to the grease-stained name patch—leans on the counter the moment you walk in.

“Hey there, doll face,” he drawls, eyes dragging down your outfit like it’s for sale. “Don’t usually see a face like yours around here. You sure you’re in the right shop?”

You smile, light and professional, the kind that hides knives behind pearls. “Positive. I’m here for an order pick-up from Red Line.” You slide the purchase slip toward him with manicured fingers.

He doesn’t take it right away. “I could think of better ways to spend my afternoon than handing over car parts.”

“Lucky for both of us, I can’t,” you say brightly. “Now, about that part?”

Trent chuckles, finally turning to fetch it, his movements deliberately slow. You catch yourself glancing toward the open bay door, half expecting Jason to appear in full body armor and throw the man through a wall.

Across the street, he’s planted in the garage doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight. Jason can’t hear words, only cadence—the bright lilt of your voice, the polite laughter you use when someone’s pressing your boundaries. The longer he watches, the tenser his shoulders get.

Trent leans closer when he hands over the bag, voice low and smug. Whatever he says makes you laugh once—sharp and empty. Then you sign the receipt, pivot, and walk out with the poise of a queen leaving court.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

Back at Red Line, Roy’s on his knees searching under a workbench for a socket when you stride in. You toss him the bag. “Got it! He tried to flirt. I tried not to yawn.”

Roy peeks inside, smirking. “Did you get his number?”

“Yeah,” you say dryly, grabbing your cherry Coke from the mini fridge. “It’s 1-800-blocked.”

Jason doesn’t move aside fast enough when you pass him, so you shoulder through, perfume cutting through gasoline and ozone. His brain goes static for half a second before the noise settles.

You’re already back at your board, scribbling the part number in pink bubble letters, Coke sweating in the light from your mini fridge. Jason stands frozen, watching from the doorway, memorizing the faces across the street.

Roy sidles up beside him, wiping his hands. “You look constipated, man.”

“I’m fine,” Jason says automatically.

“Sure,” Roy says. “And I’m celibate.”

Jason doesn’t look away. “They’re dirty.”

Roy’s grin fades a fraction. “Yeah. I know.” He glances sideways. “Patrol duty on them next time?”

Jason’s eyes flicker darker. “Yeah. Maybe.”

For a long moment, they both just watch the rival shop in silence, the low hum of your record player filling the air behind them.

Jason finally looks back inside. The planter that nailed him earlier still sways gently from its string, a tiny leaf brushing the glass every time it turns. You, at your desk, are humming under your breath, completely oblivious to how much space you’ve taken up in his head.

“You okay, boss?” you call without looking up.

He blinks once. “Yeah.”

“Great,” you say. “’Cause you’re changing that lightbulb I told you about. I’m not risking breaking a nail on a ladder.”

He snorts despite himself. “I’ll get the ladder.”

You grin, slow and wicked. “Good boy.”

Roy immediately drops a wrench on purpose, just to make Jason flinch.

The record player crackles, the pink fridge hums, and sunlight bleeds gold across the floor. For the first time since the sign above the door started flickering, Red Line Auto feels like more than a business. It feels like the start of something dangerous and almost—almost—warm.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The day feels longer than it should. It’s end-of-month chaos—three cars behind schedule, one customer who screamed about oil stains on his floor mats, and Roy swearing he can “feel the caffeine vibrating in his blood.”

When the last car rolls out and the bay doors rattle shut, the shop finally exhales.

Roy slaps his paycheck against the counter, grinning wide. “We survived a month with Miss Sunshine here. We’re celebratin’.”

Jason doesn’t even look up from the invoice he’s signing. “We have work tomorrow.”

You glance over from your desk, one brow arched. “No booked appointments. We can schedule maybe two guys for a half day just in case we get walk-ins and take the weekend off.” You stand, stretching your arms over your head with a dramatic sigh. “Besides, it’s my one-month anniversary of dealing with you idiots. I deserve a toast.”

Roy whoops. “She’s got a point, boss!”

Jason mutters, “She’s got too many of those,” but his mouth twitches.

When Roy starts shutting off the lights, you groan dramatically, looking down at your carefully picked-out work clothes. “Wait, we’re going now? I can’t go to a bar looking like this. I look like a goddamn grease-goblin.”

Jason glances over his shoulder. “You don’t even have a stain on you.”

“That’s not the point!” you protest, waving a hand. “I can’t flirt with anyone in mechanic drag.”

Roy’s laughing. “We ain’t goin’ to flirt; we’re goin’ to drink.”

You narrow your eyes. “Then you can both drink without me looking like a swamp rat.”

Jason folds his arms, leaning against the workbench. “We’re not drivin’ across town just so you can change.”

You huff, dramatic as ever. “Fine. Watch and learn, boys.”

You grab your tote bag and march toward the bathroom, muttering something about “aesthetic integrity” under your breath.

The second the door shuts, Roy smirks at Jason. “You’re so whipped.”

Jason shoots him a glare. “I’m not whipped.”

Roy tosses his keys from hand to hand. “You act like you don’t care, but you’ve been watchin’ her since she walked in day one.”

“She’s trouble,” Jason mutters.

“She’s fun,” Roy corrects. “Besides, Red Line’s been boring as shit since before she showed up. Now we’ve got customers who actually smile at us.”

Jason doesn’t answer, just glances at the light flickering in the back corner. As if trying to steer the conversation somewhere that isn’t his fucked-up love life, he growls, “I still think Iron Claw’s dirty.”

Roy nods, expression sobering. “Patrol tonight after we drop her off?”

“Yeah,” Jason says quietly. “Just in case.”

They lapse into silence, the hum of the record player filling the background—a David Bowie classic, the needle popping softly in the groove.

The bathroom door creaks open.

You emerge ten minutes later, a completely different creature—bare shoulders catching the dying sunlight, glossy lips, a skirt that should be illegal in three states. The pink neon from the window paints you in light like a stage spotlight.

Roy’s mid-sentence and just stops. “Holy hell.”

Jason’s holding a wrench; he forgets what for.

You smile sweetly, twirling your keys. “What? This old thing? It’s just my emergency outfit I keep in my bag.”

Roy’s already shrugging on his jacket, grinning ear to ear. “Truck’s out front! Let’s go before she changes her mind.”

Jason just exhales through his nose, muttering under his breath, “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You catch it, of course. You always do. “Good. At least you’ll die looking at something cute.”

You saunter out first, Roy following, still laughing. Jason lingers a beat longer—because the record’s still playing, and he’s realizing for the first time that when you left, you took all the noise with you.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The bar’s the kind of place that smells like whiskey, sweat, and lost paychecks. A jukebox groans something old in the corner.

You and Roy lead the charge, Jason trailing behind like a reluctant babysitter. He scans the room automatically—exits, corners, faces he doesn’t trust. He spots them instantly: the rival shop crowd, Trent included, laughing too loud in the back booth.

You head for a different one, only to find it already occupied. The solution? A smile, two sentences, and a tilt of your head. Within moments, the group vacates like you’re royalty.

Roy whistles. “She’s terrifying.”

Jason grunts. “Stay close. Don’t leave her alone.”

Roy snorts. “Relax, man. She’s fine.”

He’s not convinced.

You slide into the booth first, smoothing your skirt, ordering a round before the boys even sit down. Roy starts recounting some chaotic story about accidentally overfilling a radiator; you laugh so hard you nearly choke on your drink.

Jason watches the way your hand flicks against your glass, the way your laughter fills a space that used to feel too big. Roy’s clearly your favorite, and it needles him more than he’d ever admit.

When Roy excuses himself—“gonna hit the head”—Jason’s left with nothing but the noise of the bar and you across the table.

He clears his throat. “So… Venturi or some bullshit like that.”

You blink, confused. “Venturi?”

“The magazine,” he says, nodding toward the glossy cover peeking out of your bag. “You were reading it earlier.”

A slow grin spreads across your face. “It’s Versace, you dense little man. And it’s just another article about the brand’s new summer runway show.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Right. Well… you’d probably make it look better than they do anyway.”

You go still, that grin faltering just a little—because that wasn’t flirtation, not really. It sounded like honesty, quiet and clumsy.

“Don’t laugh,” you warn, fiddling with your straw, something close to nerves slipping through, “but I actually wanted to study fashion. Didn’t work out, though. Money was tight, and the whole industry’s a rich-kids-only club anyway, so fuck that bullshit.”

You shrug it off like it’s nothing, but Jason sees it—the mask of your bedazzled, dive-bar bravado cracking for a moment, revealing a girl whose dream got taken too fast by an elitist machine.

“But how do you still dress in fancy stuff all the time? Do you make your own?” Jason leans back, watching you, gently nudging you open.

You nod. “Most of it. Thrift stores, fabric bins, a sewing kit from hell. You’d be surprised what you can pull off when rent’s due and all you’ve got is a broken machine and a dream.”

Something in his expression softens. “Yeah. I get that.”

You tilt your head. “You?”

“Believe it or not, I didn’t exactly grow up in luxury either,” he admits. “Before Bruce, it was just me and the streets. Parents didn’t give a crap. Ate if I could steal food, slept if I could find warmth.”

You study him—really study him—for the first time. The tired eyes, the old scars peeking from his sleeve, the weight he carries like it’s welded to his spine.

“You know, you’ve got that look,” you say quietly. “The one people get when they’ve lived through too much and still decided to keep going. It’s weirdly sexy.”

He blinks, utterly thrown. “That’s… one way to put it.”

You giggle, leaning in. “It’s a compliment, Jason. Take it before I revoke it.”

He looks away, ears burning red. “You’re impossible.”

“Thank you.” You grin, knowing.

Before he can recover, Roy reappears, sheepish and empty-handed. “She had a boyfriend. Tragic.”

You pat his shoulder, laughing. “You’ll survive, Casanova.”

Jason shakes his head, but he’s smiling—barely. For the first time, it’s not an almost. It’s small and crooked and real.

He stands. “I’ll get us another round.”

You watch him walk away, heart doing something inconvenient in your chest. You tell it to shut the fuck up, but your pulse disagrees.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

He peels away from the booth and threads through the crowd to the bar, shoulders loosening as he goes. He leans against the scarred wood and orders with that low rasp of a voice that could probably wring a confession out of a saint. The bartender slides him three bottles. Jason nods, eyes distant, the weight of the night settling.

Roy might be right, he thinks, watching bubbles climb through amber. She’s trouble.

But she’s also warmth. Color. Noise. Things he hasn’t let himself want in a long time. He hates how easy it’s getting to like you—how you don’t take his shit, how you always find the light in the cracks. Maybe he’ll let you through. Maybe.

He’s halfway back to the booth when his stomach drops.

You’re not alone.

Trent from Iron Claw Auto is tucked beside you, grinning like a snake. Roy is nowhere. Trent’s arm drapes the back of the booth, his body too close, his voice too loud.

Jason’s whole body goes tight. His fingers flex around the neck of a bottle, half-ready to smash it.

He doesn’t move—yet. He watches. Measures the distance. Trent laughs at something you didn’t say, his hand creeping toward your thigh.

And then you move first.

You don’t even flinch when his fingers brush you. You just smile, the kind that makes men nervous. “You’ve got something in your eye,” you say sweetly.

He blinks. “What?”

Pssst.

The pepper spray hisses before he can blink again.

Trent howls, stumbling back, hands flying to his face. The booth screeches as he kicks it, someone’s drink toppling in a splash. “You—bitch—”

He’s half-blind, reaching for you.

Jason’s there before the word finishes leaving Trent’s mouth.

He fists Trent’s collar and slams him into a pillar hard enough to rattle it. “Say that again,” Jason growls, voice low enough to shake something loose in Trent’s skull.

“Jay,” Roy’s voice cuts through the chaos, sudden and sharp. He’s back, catching Jason’s arm before things spiral. “Let the bouncer handle it, man.”

The bar erupts—shouts from every direction, someone yelling to call the cops, the bartender vaulting the counter. In seconds, Trent and his Iron Claw buddies are herded toward the door, still cursing and pawing at their eyes. The bouncer shoves them over the threshold and slams it, muttering about banning those assholes for life.

Silence lands heavy. Glass crunches under Jason’s boots as he turns, jaw locked, anger buzzing off him like static.

You’re already straightening your top, checking your reflection in your phone screen. “Well,” you say brightly, flipping your hair back into place, “that was a fucking waste of mascara.”

Roy’s still catching his breath, looking between you and Jason like he’s watching a bomb tick down.

Jason rounds on him first. “Where the hell were you?”

Roy throws his hands up. “I was talking to a girl! You told me to stay close, not glue myself to her hip, man!”

Before Jason can light him up, you cut in. “Hey—I told him to go. The blonde at the bar was eyeing him all night, and I wasn’t about to cockblock the poor guy. Plus, I can breathe without a fucking six-foot man beside me at all times, you know?”

The words hang there, sharp and unapologetic. Jason exhales through his nose, chest still tight.

A long, awkward beat. Then you hitch your purse higher on your shoulder. “Anyway. Night’s ruined. Let’s go.”

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

Outside, the air’s cool and sticky with summer. The parking lot glows orange under the flickering streetlights. You spot Roy leaning against his truck, grinning sheepishly while the blonde from earlier twirls her hair beside him.

You smirk. “I’m glad he’s gonna get laid. That girl’s hot. But I kinda lost my ride home. Still—no way I’m cockblocking that poor, desperate little man.”

Jason shakes his head, a quiet laugh escaping before he can stop it. “Come on. I’ll take you.”

You arch a brow. “On the bike?”

“On the bike.”

You grin. “Yeah, fuck it. Why not?”

He helps you onto the back seat, steadying your hand as you swing your leg over. When your arms wrap around his waist, he goes absolutely still. The soft press of your chest against his back short-circuits every rational thought in his brain.

The engine roars to life, cutting through the silence of the night. Wind rushes your hair as the bike glides down nearly empty streets, city lights streaking past in gold and red. You laugh—an unrestrained, wild sound that makes something in Jason’s chest unclench.

He’s in trouble. He knows it

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

When he finally stops outside your apartment building, you slide off the bike, tugging off the helmet and shaking your hair loose. The night’s quiet again—just the hum of streetlights and the faint buzz of traffic a few blocks away.

You hand him the helmet. “You know,” you say softly, “I did mean it when I said I can take care of myself. I’m used to that kind of bullshit anyway.”

Jason looks at you for a long time, eyes dark and unreadable. “You shouldn’t have to, though.”

That lands heavier than either of you expect. For a second, neither of you moves. Then you break the tension the only way you know how—by making him laugh.

“Well,” you say with a crooked grin, “if this turns into a regular thing, I’m gonna need a custom helmet. Hot pink. Big bow on the back for flair.”

He exhales a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”

You pause, blinking at the word. Then your grin sharpens. “Sweetheart, huh? Normally I’d drop-kick a guy in the balls for that.”

He’s already opening his mouth to apologize when you continue.

“But you…” You tilt your head, eyes glinting. “You can keep it. I like it when it comes from you. Good night, Jay.”

You turn toward the stairs, heels clicking on the pavement, leaving him standing there with the helmet still in his hands and his heart doing somersaults.

Jason watches you disappear through the doorway, the echo of your laughter still caught in his chest.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck,” he mutters, kicking the bike into gear and roaring off into the dark—faster than he needs to, like he’s trying to outrun the way you make him feel.

It had been 279 days since you died.

At least, that’s what Sebastian tells you — your portrait, anyway. It was all that was left of you after the devastating battle you had fought and never walked away from. You hadn’t even known he’d had a portrait of you commissioned when you were alive until you woke up, your body cold, your face illuminated by the flickering candles of the Undercroft.

He comes to visit you every day — some days, he simply sits in front of you, cross-legged and silent. You creep into the frame and study him, the shadows on his face, a haunted look in his eye — unfamiliar. You can only recall a bright, talkative, charming boy with whom you were once close. You didn’t recognize him the first time he visited you, yet his presence brings you comfort.

On other days, you see traces of the boy he was before. He bursts in through the gate talking nonstop about everyone who misses you, about something he saw that you would have liked or that reminded him of you. Sometimes, he even brings you gifts and places them in front of your frame so you can admire them when he’s away.

That’s where he keeps you — hidden behind a wooden crate in the Undercroft like a sacred shrine, untouched by anyone but him. He only speaks with you when he is alone.

Another boy comes in on occasion, and you only know because of the sound of his voice and the pulsing red light of his wand that you can see from behind the pile of crates. Ominis, you remember Sebastian telling you, another friend from when you were alive. Sometimes they argue, other times they refuse to acknowledge each other. But Sebastian always keeps you tucked away, his own personal secret.

“It’s almost Christmas,” he sighs as he plops down in front of you. “300 days since you…well, since— ”

He could never bring himself to finish that sentence, even after almost a year. You never finish it for him.

“Are you going back to Feldcroft?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t leave you here alone. I couldn’t do that to you.”

You knew he probably hadn’t been back since that dreadful day. He had only spoken of it once to refresh your memory. He never brought it up again.

“Sebastian,” you say, and he perks up at the sound of his name leaving your painted lips, “how come you always hide me away when Ominis comes in? Doesn’t he want to talk to me, too?”

His eyes flash with something — anger, perhaps, it was hard to tell from your two-dimensional world — and he stands, approaching your portrait. “He wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m only a portrait,” you tease, trying to lighten the mood. “It’s not like you’ve been practicing necromancy.”

It wasn’t the right thing to say, but you don’t completely understand why. He turns away from you, fists clenched, shoulders tense and hunched over, before running his fingers through his hair and repeating himself more adamantly. “He wouldn’t understand.”

You remember him uttering a similar statement throughout your short life at Hogwarts — secrets that only the two of you shared, unbeknownst to Ominis until it was too late. “Surely he misses me, too— ”

“Did you love him?”

The question takes you by surprise, though you think it’s not the first time he’s asked it. “What?”

Sebastian whirls to face you, his gaze intense, demanding. “Did you love him? Or did you love me?”

Your portrait blinks, confused. Truthfully, you hadn’t been alive nearly long enough to confirm your feelings for either of them, but you knew that both boys had been important to you during your last few months of life. The portrait of you had only been a time capsule of your fifteen-year-old self — undecided and immature. You’re not even certain if the emotions you feel now are real or remnants of what you experienced when you were alive. “I…I cared deeply for both of you if that’s what you’re asking.”

Your answer nearly breaks him, as if he’s heard it a million times before. He tugs at his hair, the movement causing him to look frenzied and mad. “That’s not what I asked! Who did you — ”

“Sebastian?”

The voice of the intruder causes both of you to freeze. Sebastian pulls himself out from behind the crate and holds a finger to his lips before pushing it in front of you once more.

“Over here, Ominis.”

You hear footsteps and see the red glow of the other boy’s wand, then shuffling as Sebastian strategically places himself in front of the wooden box. The echoing footsteps grow closer, and you straighten at Ominis’s frantic tone as he speaks.

“Who were you talking to?” he asks. “I…I thought I heard…her.”

“No one else is here but me,” Sebastian says, guarded.

You can practically feel Ominis’s internal struggle to believe him. You decide that there have been enough secrets between the three of you — you’re not going to let it carry on post-mortem.

“Ominis? Is that you?” you call out. You hear Sebastian press his body against the crate in front of you. Ominis pushes past him, and they both tumble into it, knocking it over and exposing your portrait.

Chaos ensues at Ominis’s realization. The two boys are shouting at each other in front of you as you are helpless to stop them — Ominis, for having yet another secret kept from him, and Sebastian, for defending his reasonings. You aren’t sure if it’s because of jealousy, grief, or some combination of the two, but all you want is for the noise to stop.

You call out helplessly from your portrait, wishing you could step between them, just as you had done time and time again all those months ago. Before everything had gone so wrong.

Suddenly, hot, angry tears are pouring down both of their faces, and you are overcome with just how useless you are at this moment — a fragmented memory, trapped within the confines of your magical canvas. You want nothing more than to hug each of them, to let them feel your arms around them in comfort and take their pain away.

But you are gone.

The two boys now stand solemn and silent in front of you. Ominis takes a step closer, his wand hovering over your portrait before he runs his fingers along the gilded frame. “Is it…really you?”

“No.” You can hear the flatness in Sebastian’s voice, how tired and worn he truly is. He repeats exactly what you thought only moments before as if to confirm it. “She hardly remembers what happened, or even who we are. She’s just a fragment. A memory.”

You want to argue that it is you, but you know that he’s right. You barely remembered your living self until Sebastian explained everything to you on his daily visits. Whispers of your personality still shine through on occasion, but you are otherwise simply existing.

Ominis sighs, and you can hear the weight behind it, as if he had been holding his breath and finally allowed himself to release it. He traces his fingers along the divots of the frame once more, and you try to will yourself to feel it.

The two boys exchange an unspoken conversation that thickens the tension in the air. They seem to come to an agreement, and you let out a small breath — if you can call it that — of relief when they sit down in front of you and appear to bask in your presence. You stay quiet and allow them this moment — it’s the only thing you can do.

The days that follow are the same. No longer is Sebastian coming in alone for covert meetings with your portrait. Now, you see both Sebastian and Ominis at the same time every single day, a religious appointment that they’ve set aside just for you. They take turns talking to you, even if they can only manage a few words, and you learn to appreciate their company, knowing that you were loved by both of them in life.

Just like old times, Sebastian says, and the three of you laugh.

Christmas approaches quickly, or that’s what they say when they come to visit a short while later. They bring your favorite things from when you were alive — chocolate frogs, flowers, even books, which Sebastian reads to you — and they tell you stories about you and the kind of person they knew you to be. You wonder if it’s true, or if they have created an idealistic image of you since you are no longer there with them. Not really.

Kind, they say that you were, thoughtful, loving, self-sacrificial, and maybe a bit idealistic. You were friends with both of them, after all, the mischievous pair that they were, before everything was taken away from them, before life was unfair. They try to smile for you and remind you that Christmas at the castle is a time for celebration, but you can tell that it’s a weak facade.

You smile back at them anyway.

The anniversary of your death approaches. Neither of them can bring themselves to say anything, aside from a few words to honor you. So the three of you sit in tearful silence, admiring the flowers that they decorated your portrait with. You think you can almost smell the sweet aroma of the bouquets.

Something changes in the air — you can sense it — though you aren’t sure what. You notice it when their visits become shorter, with fewer stories to tell, and fewer presents left in front of your frame. Sebastian and Ominis start showing up at separate times, stopping in for a brief hello before leaving with an excuse. You start to wonder what they are doing when they are gone, but you are unable to leave your frame — only one portrait of you was ever commissioned.

Soon, they start missing days, returning at a later time with profuse apologies about how life was busy, but they still miss you. Difficult classes, detention, studying for NEWTs, and preparing for a career — all of these seem to take precedence over you. But they still manage to make time in all of the hectic day-to-day activities, and you look forward to the days when they do come.

You wake up one morning and realize you are in a different location — Feldcroft, most likely, though you hadn’t seen it since that fateful day. Sebastian hangs your frame up on the wall, promising that he and Ominis will come to visit you more often now that they have graduated.

They don’t.

The length of time in between seeing them grows longer, you’re certain of it. Each time one of them arrives, they look a little bit different — sometimes they have longer hair, other times a bit of scruff around their chins, but they always come in looking more weathered than they had when you last saw them.

You realize that they are doing something that you will never again be able to join them in — growing older. You start to wonder about their lives outside of you, yet your painted mind cannot comprehend what an adult life looks like, forever frozen in your adolescent state. You find that you are unable to relate to any of their stories, and they seem to be holding back in what they choose to share.

I wish you were still here, they always say before they go, and you start to wonder if they mean it.

At long last, the visits from your once two closest friends become scarce, and you aren’t certain how much time has passed since someone last spoke to you. The bright flowers that once decorated your golden frame wither and die, and the little gifts they used to leave stay untouched and unopened. The tiny cottage in Feldcroft becomes a sepulcher of your essence — a permanent reminder that you are no longer among the living.

You can’t help but wonder if it was something you did, if their reasons for not returning were your fault. You can feel the stories that they used to tell you fading away, unable to retain the memories in your current form.

You decide that it’s time to rest.

In the quiet house, just south of Hogwarts, your portrait closes its eyes. You do not wake again.

You can’t help but notice how perfect Park Sunghoon's hands are as they trace across your waist. Still, calculated, not a sliver of doubt in his movements.

You stood nearly naked in front of him, but he didn’t seem fazed. He’s faced this countless times with countless models, so what makes this time any different? 

The cold measuring tape traces your skin as he wraps it around your waist. He drops down on one knee, holding his pen between his lips. 

“Exhale for me.” His voice cuts through the near silence. 

You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until his words rang through your ears. On command, you let out a shaky breath. Sunghoon pulls the measuring tape tight around your waist before jotting down the number. 

He doesn’t even look at you as he sinks to his knees. Dirt brushing across his dark slacks as his hands pull the measuring tape between your thighs. 

You shift nervously, arms burning as you hold them out at your sides. He pulls the measuring tape tight, jotting down the measurements onto his notepad without a word. 

You don’t look at the number, you can’t. It’ll only hurt you more. 

“Thank you. I’ll have your designs tailored promptly.” Sunghoon says professionally. He stands up without giving you a second glance.

You freeze, feeling overwhelmed and confused in the same. Why is he being so cold? Is he like this with every model? 

You even realize you're staring into nothingness. Not until Sunghoon clears his throat, snapping you out of your spiral.

“You can get dressed-“ he says again, cold, harsh.

“Oh yes! Sorry—“ you stammer out as you nearly trip off the fitting stand. Your bare feet brush across the cold floor as you cross the room, swiftly grabbing you’re robe to cover your exposed skin. 

Sunghoon watches his expression stoic, unchanging as he notices your shaking hands, tying the robe tight in front of you. 

“My assistant Sunoo will be with you shortly to go over the run for Saturday's show. We’ll—see where you fit in.” Sunghoon says as he grips his notebook and pen tightly before leaving out the door. 

It shuts quietly, the sound cutting through the hum of silence as you’re left alone in the fitting room.

You exhale, finally. 

Park Sunghoon was Prada’s youngest designer. His designs caught the attention of the higher ups early, and since then he’s been designing piece after piece, show after show. 

It’s like he never runs out of designs; you can’t figure out how he juggles it all. 

The catch, though? He keeps to himself. 

While the other staff were friendly but professional, Sunghoon was cold, calculated, sharp, and harsh. 

You can’t tell what he’s feeling, can’t sense what he’s thinking. He’s like a blank white canvas with no paint.

He didn’t even look at you. 

You let out a frustrated groan as you hear the door creak open, but this time, a different energy flows through the cracks.

“I’m Sunghoon’s assistant Sunoo, it’s so nice to meet you!” He says, grinning from ear to ear, notebook in hand. 

It feels like whiplash, the stark coldness of Sunghoon being replaced with the warmth of his assistant.

You force a smile back, mind still lingering on Sunghoon’s calculated touch.

You kindly give Sunoo your name as he extends his hand to yours. You take it, and in return, he shakes your hand with enthusiasm. 

“I am so excited to have you as a part of the team! You are going to kill it on Saturday, just look at you!” Sunoo says, giving you a soft look up and down. Nose scrunching with excitement.

You stutter at the generous comment, immediately pushing the words to the back of your mind. It can't be genuine. He's just saying what he's told to say.

“Well, but—“ 

“Those legs? Gorgeous. Let’s figure out where you’ll be in the lineup.” He interrupts with a smile and a compliment? 

You shift nervously, aching to steady your footing as he licks his fingertip, flipping the pages of his notebook.

“How tall are you again?” He asks curiously, his eyes locked on the pages in front of him.

“Uh..I’m…” you stutter, still trying to recover from the emotional whiplash.

“Ahh, it’s written right here! You’ll probably be in the middle, not first but not last. So no pressure this time around.” Sunoo says with a smile. 

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” You say as your arms cross over your chest. Your foot is tapping anxiously against the ground.

“Looks like you’ll be in design 23—SO excited, let me grab it for you. I’ll get you situated before the boss comes back.” Sunoo says, clapping his hands together with excitement. He slips out of the room, leaving you again in silence.

It doesn’t last long, soon Sunoo is rolling in a cart of designs, you’re eyes light up as you see the colors of the dresses hanging on the rack. 

Did Sunghoon design all these beautiful pieces? 

Guess he does live up to his reputation.

Sunoo flips through the designs as the sound of metal hangers clicking together echoes. You watch as the white light of the fitting room shines on the textures of the fabrics. 

You can’t lie to yourself, Sunghoon is talented.

“Number 22—Ah, number 23...” Sunoo mutters under his breath as he takes the garment off the rack and holds it in both hands.

It’s a stunning piece, lots of sheer white fabric draped almost like a Greek sculpture. It’s got a gentle sheen, catching the light in a flattering way. 

Sunoo hands you the piece, and you take it gently, feeling the brush of the smooth, silky fabric beneath your fingertips. 

You step behind the curtain. Slipping off your robe and sliding into the piece. It’s not the best fit. Some places are too tight, others too loose. But that’s what the measurements are for. 

You step out into the open. The white dress, sheer, complimenting the undertone of your skin. It’s a high cut on the hip, showing off your legs. 

“Oh my God…Sunghoon has outdone himself—it’s stunning. You’re stunning.” Sunoo says as you stand back on the platform in front of him. 

You smile nervously at the praise. Your feet are shifting under your weight as the cool air sends shivers across your exposed skin. 

The neckline cuts low, showing off your collarbone and other assets. Your shoulders stand out against the sleeveless nature of the design. 

The dress looks like it’s made of stained glass, the sheen catching the light. The fabric flows like water pooling gracefully at your feet.

Sunoo’s right. 

It’s stunning.

So why do you feel the need for a rebuttal? 

Your spiraling thoughts are interrupted by the click of the door. Your shoulders hunch nervously, your heart rate picking up as you notice who it is. 

Sunghoon adjusts his glasses as he steps back into the sterile room. His steps are swift, quick.

Sunoo steps out of the way as he forcefully marches through the room. Not even giving his assistant a second glance. 

Your hands shake at your sides as he looks at you again. His gaze makes you want to claw at your own burning skin. 

“Turn around.” He asks coldly. 

You shiver again. Exhaling as you hesitate before making a shaky 180 on the platform. 

You were used to being exposed like this, but now you can’t help but tremble. The fabric cascades down your spine, exposing more than enough skin from the nature of the cut.

You flinch as he takes a step closer. His fingertips untying the back of the dress you messily attempted to tie onto yourself.. 

You suck in a sharp breath. Holding your hands over your stomach as Sunghoon’s fingertips untie the dress, only to neatly lace it back up into place. 

He pulls the dress tight. His hands lingered a moment longer than they should. 

He pulls away to look you up and down, his eyes running across the dress as it flows down your body. 

“The pleats aren’t lying straight on your hips..” he mumbles under his breath. You aren’t entirely sure if you were meant to catch it. 

“Sorry..” you mumble, dropping your head to avoid his gaze, not wanting to see him or yourself anymore in the mirror. 

“Don’t apologize, it’s not you. It’s an easy fix. Sunoo?” Sunghoon gestures. Sunoo knows exactly what he needs, bringing him a roll of white thread and a delicate needle. 

He bends back down, situating himself on one knee, pinning the fabric into place as he delicately stitches it onto your form. 

You can’t help but feel nervous, a shiver races up your spine as you feel his fingertips on your body again.

“You’re shaking…” Sunghoon whispers as his fingertips trace across your hip. His eyes stay narrowed on the fabric as he pins and stitches it to lie perfectly across your body. 

“Sorry I—“

“Stop apologizing..” Sunghoon says as he pulls the seam tight. You shut your mouth and eyes wide at his remark. Any comeback getting caught in the tightness of your throat.

“It’s a simple fix, you haven’t done anything wrong—trust me,” Sunghoon whispers weakly. You shudder, the words hitting the warmth of your heart. 

Sunghoon pulls the thread tight, ripping it with his mouth before pinning the needle to his shirt. 

He takes a few steps back, just looking at the dress. 

Looking at you. 

He lets out a shaky breath as his expression changes, enough for you to notice but not enough to read. 

“I want you—in this, on Saturday…” Sunghoon says softly. His voice no longer commanding. 

“You’re exactly the type of woman I had in mind for this design…” Sunghoon confirms. You can’t tell if he’s glancing at you. Or at the fabric cascading down your form. 

His eyes meet yours again. That's when you realize—

He's not staring at the dress.

He opens his mouth to continue, to say something—anything. But the words slide back down the back of his throat.

He awkwardly clears his throat again, suddenly cracking the tightness in his knuckles before tearing his eyes away from your body.

“Let Sunoo know if you need any help undressing. I’ll have the dress tailored for you before this weekend.” Sunghoon concludes.

 And with that, he’s out the door.

Your chest feels tight and you feel like you can’t breathe. But the feeling of Sunoo’s fingertips gently unlacing the back of your dress brings you back into reality. 

You exhale sharply as the fabric loosens around your waist, your skin hot, mind still running calculations on Sunghoon’s unreadable tone.

“He’s right, you know. This dress was made for you.” Sunoo says softly as his fingertips loosen the ties at your back, as you hold up the front of your dress.

“Thanks...” you say as his fingertips leave your skin. The dress is now only being held up by the weight of your hands. 

You step behind the curtain, carefully stepping out of the dress as you let it sink to the floor. You pull your robe back over your body, mind still lingering on the warmth of Sunghoon’s touch.

Your arms carefully tuck under the sparkling garment as you bring the garment back towards the rack.

Sunoo gives you a weak smile, his soft eyes turning up at the sides. You shiver, and he sees through the mask. Like he sees right through you. 

He takes the dress, hanging it back up with the rest of the designs without another word. 

“First fittings are always the hardest. Truly, don’t let it get to you. You’re amazing, I can tell.” Sunoo says with another gentle smile. 

Your heart feels like it’s being tugged in so many directions. You open your mouth to speak, but all you can do is reply with a soft nod. 

And with that, Sunoo rolls the designs out the door, letting it slam shut, leaving you once again alone in the silence. 

It hits you hard. Maybe because Sunghoon didn’t glance back as he left the door. Maybe you wanted him to. 

You can't shake the memory of his fingertips, gentle and steady as he sewed you into that dress.

You don’t know whether to be intimidated or excited for your first walk. 

୨୧

The Saturday show sneaks up on you quickly. Backstage is bustling with activity. Makeup artists, models, hairstylists. The loud backstage chatter only amplifies your racing thoughts. 

You push through the crowd. Gently clasping onto the edge of your robe for support. Until you find exactly who you’re looking for. 

Sunoo lets out a gasp of surprise when he sees you with your hair and makeup perfectly styled. His clipboard rests on his hip as he looks you up and down, jaw dropped, completely stunned. 

“Oh my God—Sunghoon is going to flip when—“

“I’m going to what?” You hear a deep voice slice through the noise. It makes you jump a few inches back. 

Sunghoon steps from behind one of the backstage curtains. Dressed in a sleek black suit—complimenting his dark hair and pale skin as he looks down at you. His expression unchanging. 

You watch as he steps through the heavy curtain, heart fluttering as you notice just how good he looks in this moment.

His deep brows furrow, his eyes taking you up and down like so many times before. 

“You’re cut.” He says bluntly.

You nearly gasp. Your heart sinks deep into your stomach at his words. 

“I’m—I’m cut?” You whisper. Voice trembling underneath all the backstage noise. Sunghoon lets out a sharp huff. His strong arms crossed over his chest as he looked down at you. Again. 

You can’t believe this is happening, never in all these years of modeling have you been cut, especially on the day of the show.

Sunghoon’s gaze stays stoic as he watches you compute, the words making so many emotions race through you at once.

“You’re not walking—You’re not ready,” Sunghoon says harshly. His words carve through your heart like a knife. 

Your legs tremble, but you fight it, holding back the tears as your chest only gets tighter and tighter. 

He’s serious, he's seriously cutting you.

You came here to prove yourself. To make it known that you were something worth seeing. 

Yet you haven't even gotten into the dress yet, and you’re scared. Scared to be anything bigger than small. Scared to break out of a mold you spent years training to fit into. 

You’re not ready.

That fucking hurts more than it should. 

Because you know deep down. He’s right.

You glance up into his dark eyes, silently pleading for him to change his mind.

He hesitates, brows furrowing, maybe in apology?

Sunghoon doesn’t give you another moment to think. He turns on his heel. Not giving you another glance as he disappears into the sea of chaos.

All of a sudden, your skin feels hot, your robe is too tight, the backstage lights too bright. Your mind chest feels like it's on fire, the loud backstage chatter only making things worse.

You have to get out of here.

You immediately push through the chaos in the opposite direction.

“Wait!” Sunoo calls out, but you don’t look back. The only thing on your mind is getting away from the chaos, getting as far away as possible from him.

Sunoo follows behind you, desperately trying to get your attention until he finds you in a dark hallway in the backrooms of the stage.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t know—“ Sunoo comforts. He tucks his clipboard under his arm as he steps closer. His expression was concerned as you fight back the tears aching to spill.

“It’s ok..really…” You choke out. A sob gets caught in your throat. You can’t hold back, the tears silently falling. Tearing a path through your professionally done makeup. 

“It’s not ok. He’s harsh, he truly means well—I think? God, he shouldn’t have done that to you. Not now.” Sunoo says with a gentle tone. His soft hands gently wipe the tears from your face as he tries not to smear any more makeup.

“He’s just—“ Sunoo mumbles, words getting caught in his throat as he searches for the words. 

You glance up at him, face tearstained as black makeup runs down your cheeks. There has to be a reason; he can’t just be doing this out of pure disservice.

Sunoo’s heart breaks as he looks down at you, his fingertips starting to tremble as he smears more tear-stained makeup across your face.

 “Never mind.” He whispers, replacing his concern with the usual soft smile in an attempt to make things better.

You cry, and he gently holds your hands as you sit on the dirty floor of one of the dark backstage halls. Tears falling into your lap. Chest aching with each sob.

Tonight was supposed to be your big debut here; you were supposed to wear the show-stopping design “made for a woman like you.”

You thought maybe this time—

You don’t know whether to curse or scream, or cry. 

Before you can do either, Sunoo’s gentle hands soothe your back. His voice was soft in the chaos and ruin.

“Do you want me to call you a car?” He offers. 

“Please…please thank you, Sunoo..” you reply as you wipe your sniffly nose with the back of your hand. Sunoo stands up, resting his clipboard on his hip as he extends his free hand to you. 

You smile through the tears at the kind gesture, gently taking his hand in yours as he helps you stand up from the dirty tile. 

The drive home is devastating. You glance out the window, seeing countless photographers and reporters doing interviews on the red carpet. The ache is inexplicably painful. 

That was supposed to be you out there.

The flashing lights soon disappear into a blur in the distance. 

With your luck, of course, it starts to rain. The city was soon enveloped in a cloud of murky gray. The water hits the car, the pavement, and the roads immediately get congested. 

You feel the tears starting to fall again, the driver rolling his eyes like you're not the only sobbing girl he's had to drive around tonight.

You try to be patient, try to wait. 10 minutes go by, then 20.

You’re itching to get out of the car, the rain already making the city feel more crowded than any other weekend night.

“You can just let me out here, I’ll walk the rest.” You inform the driver. 

He nods, unlocking the back door for you to step out of the car without another word. 

You step into the rain. Bare feet hitting the wet sidewalk as you hold your heels in your hand. The rain soaks your hair, ruining the perfect styling. You start to walk down the bustling city streets. 

Soaked, makeup running, no shoes. 

And you can’t even bring yourself to care. 

“You’re not walking—“

“You’re not ready—“ 

You squint. Tears mingling with the falling raindrops as you round the corner to your apartment building. 

You step into the lobby completely soaked. The receptionist yells something about you being soaked.

Maybe someone called out, maybe not. You couldn’t hear a single thing besides Sunghoon's words in your head. 

And that night, you cried yourself to sleep. 

Because you want to hate him.

But you know in your heart he’s right. 

୨୧

The weekend passes by in a blur. Missed calls, missed meals. You’re devastated and can’t bring yourself to do more. 

You sit lazily on the couch, scrolling mindlessly through the channels. One brain-dead show after another. 

It helps numb the pain, helps keep the thought of failure after failure out of your mind. 

At least one 45-minute episode at a time.

You feel your phone buzz under the blankets. Out of habit, you pick it up to check. 

Sunoo(7:49pm) The boss wanted me to send you this. He wants to see you.  291 Mildrige  Ln,   10007, Manhattan, NY APT 108 Come after hours.  -p.sh

Sunoo(7:50pm) You don’t have to go, but I think you might want to. Not sure if he’s trying to fix this. But he might be. 

You stare at the screen. Shooting back a thank you text out of courtesy.

After hours? Seriously? He’s got to be joking. 

You let out a deep sigh before unpausing your show. Trying to get your mind off of Sunghoon. Despite his brutal words, you linger on the gentleness in his touch. 

But your heart is tugging at you. The way his fingertips brushed against your waist. The way he said that dress was made for you.

So why would he cut you? Why sew you into a dress like you were the only woman in the world he could touch? 

Your curiosity gets the best of you. You throw on a coat over your dress. Grab your keys before making your way out the door. 

You’re already having second thoughts as you take the elevator up. Your hands clammy at your sides.

You hold your arms over your chest as you strut down the hall. Looking at the apartment numbers nailed to the outside of the doors.

You stop right in front of the door that says 108. You raise your hand to knock, but you pause. Mind racing with thoughts. Your brain is telling you to turn around and head back.

Before you can make that choice yourself, the door pulls open. Sunghoon's eyes widen in surprise as he sees you standing in front of him. 

A plain, casual minidress, paired with a long leather coat. 

He glances you up and down, eyes lingering on your exposed skin, the sheer elegance you exude even at his hour.

“You—you came?” He asks softly, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses as he studies you. Like he’s making sure you’re the right girl. 

“Make this quick before I change my mind.” You snap back. He doesn’t deserve sympathy. Not after the stunt he pulled at the last show. 

“Of course—Come in. This is my studio, I wanted to show you…” He says softly, stepping aside to let you inside the dimly lit room. 

You let your coat fall off your shoulders as you slip past him. Immediately, you’re hit with the faint scent of cinnamon and sage.

The large window immediately grabs your attention. The bustling city beneath you earns its name. Still dark—yet vibrant with life even at this hour.

You look around the studio as Sunghoon shuts the door behind you. Your eyes scan the large table by the window, the walls taped with countless designs of clothing and bags. Some are just sketches, others are fully fleshed out designs.

There are pastels and sketching pencils underneath the desk, Paints and other mediums scattered across the surface. And on the table, even more designs.

There's a small couch, the living area minimally decorated with a variety of greenery. Music softly playing on the television was nestled in the corner of the room. 

The last thing to catch your eye is a clothing rack packed full of dresses and designs. Your brows furrow with confusion. What designer keeps couture designs in their own apartment space?

“Sorry, this place is kind of a mess—” Sunghoon chuckles as he nervously bends down to pick up a rogue paintbrush and pencil off the floor.

“Why did you call me here?” You ask as you watch him messily try to stack up scattered designs and art supplies.

Your eyes linger on his arms as he rolls his white sleeves up to his elbows. Watching as he rakes his fingertips through his messy, unstyled hair.

“Because I need you to see what I see—” Sunghoon replies softly. He turns over his shoulder to see you stalking behind him, angry, exhausted.

You want to roll your eyes, how can he change his mind so fast, especially after the stunt he pulled cutting you last minute at the show?

He lets out a shaky breath like this is just as hard for him as it is for you. He drags his feet against the hard floor, stopping just a few inches in front of you.

He hesitates before gently offering his hand for you to take. Your gaze shifts from the palm of his hand to his eyes, no longer cold and harsh. There's a softness you didn’t notice before, maybe you were too caught up to notice it all along.

You let out a shaky breath, untying your arms from across your chest to offer him your hand.

He takes it, gently pulling you in closer. Your body brushes against his as he looks down at you.

“I know how I sounded on Saturday. I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t have done that to you.” Sunghoon whispers, his voice cracking in the silence as he gently brushes your hair out of your face, his fingertips lingering on the side of your face.

“I’m sorry. I can only imagine how badly that hurt you—all to prove a point.” He chokes out, his voice unstable as his chest tightens under his words.

You feel your eyes water at his apology, the shame and hurt flooding back through your system as he brings up the cut.

“It’s okay, Sunghoon…” You choke out, tears threatening to spill at any moment.

Sunghoon’s expression grew pained as he heard the hurt in your voice. He pulls you closer into his arms, his fingertips gently wiping the stray tears from your cheeks.

“No, don’t say that. What I did was not okay.” He states, his voice steady as he gently wipes the silent tears from your face.

“Please, give me one chance, let me show you what I see in you…” Sunghoon whispers, his voice barely audible over the soft background music.

You smile softly, warmth pooling in your chest as he pulls you into a gentle hug. His cheek resting on the top of your head as he holds you through the last few sobs of tears.

He smiles down at you, his heart racing as you nod. He gently intertwined your fingertips with his as he guided you towards the large window, taking you to the clothing rack placed right next to it.

“These are my own designs. Not for Prada, not for my team, or Sunoo or anyone.” Sunghoon whispers.

“Anything catch your eye?” Sunghoon says as his hand slides to rest on your lower back, gently guiding you towards the small rack of designs.

You glance over the shimmering metallics and velvet jewels, a sultry red catching your eye as you glance over the designs.

It’s bold, sexy, fiery against the other colors on the rack. 

“This one…” You say softly as you pull the design from the rack, letting it rest in your arms. The fabric is a delicate shimmering red, catching all the dim light from the room. 

“That one’s dangerous…” Sunghoon whispers into your ear, his fingertips lingering on your waist like before. 

“Want to try it?” He suggests deeply, gesturing to a small folded divider tucked into the corner of his room. 

You try to bite back your excitement as you nod. Swiftly stepping behind the divider to change. 

You slip your coat off your shoulders and lay it across the top of the barrier, the cold air of the room hitting your bare skin as you slip into the dress. Pull it up over your hips and chest. 

The dress is breathtaking, tailored exactly to your body. The sleeves fall off the shoulders, and the necking plunges just deep enough to shape your figure. 

The fabric bathes at your waist, framing your curves before it pools at your bare feet. 

The back is corset-like, needing to be laced up tight against your spine. You pull at the strings, arms cramping as you try to do it yourself. 

“I think I need help with the laces.” You call out from behind the barrier. 

You hear Sunghoon step against the hard floor as he strides across the room, pushing the divider out of the way to find you holding your dress up. 

You swear you noticed a soft slush across his cheeks as he stood behind you. Fingertips gently grabbing the strings, pulling you tight into the dress.

You can hardly breathe, partly from the top design of the dress, partly because of the way Sunghoon's fingertips feel on your body. 

Once he’s got you laced in, he grabs you by the shoulders, spinning you around to face him. 

His eyes scan up in the design. Noticing the perfect flow and cut of the fabric, but this time you know. 

He’s not looking at the dress. 

He’s looking at you, every part of you. 

He bites his lip as he pulls you closer, guiding you to the open space of his apartment. 

“You look so stunning…I—I don’t have words,” Sunghoon whispers intimately as his hands slide up your waist, brushing across the glittering brick red of the dress.

Your heart races at his words, not because he’s talking about your dress or your body. 

Deep down, you know he’s talking about you. 

“These dresses…you made them for me?” You ask as his hands trace the perfect stitching of the garment. Somehow hugging every curve perfectly. 

“After that first fitting, I hardly even slept. You just inspired me so much, you made me forget how to breathe. You were all I could think about.” Sunghoon confesses as he pulls you into his body. The heat is undeniable as he softly lets his hands trace over your curves. 

“Because even though you were trembling, I saw something in you, you have no idea how long I’ve been designing, waiting for a woman like you.” Sunghoon completes, his breath hot against your skin as he leans in, breath fanning across your cheeks and lips. 

He’s close, so close. It feels like your heart is going to thump out of your chest. 

“You have so much potential to be great…when they aren’t pressuring you. The woman in front of me right now? That’s not the same woman behind that stage. That’s why I cut you.” Sunghoon confesses, his breath heavy and unchecked. 

“When you wear these designs, I want you to look, to feel like you. Not like the version of you the magazines want.” Sunghoon finishes, his lips charting dangerously close to yours. 

“You have no idea how badly I’m falling for you,” Sunghoon confesses with an intimate whisper. 

The words cut through all the noise. It’s all you can hear as it echoes back. The way his hands hold your body, his lips, so close.

You close the distance, gently capturing his lips with your own. 

Sunghoon's breath hitches as his hand cups the side of your face. Lips soft and gentle against your own. 

You pull away, briefly, just enough to whisper against his lips.

“Why’d you say that like you mean it?” You whisper, voice cracking softly with emotion. 

“Because I do mean it, every word…” Sunghoon completes before he crashes his lips back into yours, hands steadying you as he gently sucks your lips into his own.

Sunghoon pulls your body into his, the warmth exploding between you as your lips melt perfectly against his mouth. Your heart races, heat rushing to the back of your neck. 

Sunghoon pulls away, breathless, lips swollen and flushed from tasting your own. 

“I don’t want to ruin this, not again,” Sunghoon whispers. His voice was shaky and hoarse.

“Is this too soon? To ask…” Sunghoon chokes out, his voice heavy like everything he’s ever wanted as laid out on the line in front of him. 

Your heart warms, and you know exactly what he means. 

And you realize you want it just as much. 

A smile spreads across your lips that you can’t hide you nod softly in reply. 

“It’s not too soon, Sunghoon, I want you too.” You confess with a shy smile. 

Sunghoon lets out a shaky breath of disbelief. He leans in, kissing you again, this time hotter, heavier. 

He smiles against your lips as he tugs at the shimmering fabric of the dress. His hands gently guiding you to the small couch in the corner.

Faint cinnamon and sage still linger, as well as the soft music. Sunghoon sits on the couch, gently guiding you into his lap.

As soon as you’re situated, his lips as back on yours, breathless as he drags them beneath your jawline. 

You throw your head back, letting him explore and trace your lines like one of his most intricate sketches.

You let out a soft breath, not of frustration but of immense relief. Relief at how gentle his touch is, how reverent it is as he glides his lips across the skin of your neck. 

His hands gently hold your waist as he kisses you lower. Over the sharp lines of your collarbone to the top of your exposed breasts. 

“Every inch of you…God, I could get lost in this body.” Sunghoon moans as he gently drags his lips over the soft skin of your chest, right above the hem of your dress.

Your breath catches as his hands slide to your back, shamelessly pulling at the ties to loosen your dress. 

The deep red slides down your body as it loosens, revealing more of your skin to his gaze. 

Sunghoon pulls you in, bringing his face to your chest as he favors the sweet scent of you. His lips dragging across the fullness of your breasts. 

“You have no idea how many times I sketched this neckline, imagining you sitting in it.” Sunghoon coaxes, his lips dragging from the underside of your breast to your nipple.

 He takes the sensitive bud in his mouth, warm and wet, caressing it with his tongue. 

Your hips tremble as the sensations rush through you. You’re breath is labored as he drags his lips under your chest, molding your warm flesh in his mouth. 

You arch into him. Moaning softly as the warmth spreads from your core. Sunghoon smirks against your skin, his lips hot and wet as they pull away.

He lets out a deep groan as he drags his lips across the other side, wet and messy, his hands pulling you down further into his lap.

You can feel how much he's straining against the zipper of his dress pants already. You grind down on his lap, just enough to catch yourself on his hardness, letting the pleasure build.

Sunghoon pulls his swollen lips away completely breathless, soft marks of blue and purple left on the fullness of your breasts in his wake.

You glance down, hands still gently resting on his shoulders as you take in the bruises left by his mouth. You feel yourself getting hotter at the sight of Sunghoon marking you as his.

Sunghoon's brows furrow as he notices you staring, your dress still loosely falling off your body, fabric crooked and pooling anywhere it can.

“Sorry, I should’ve asked—” Sunghoon whispers as his fingertips graze across the hickeys left on your skin. The blues, mixing with hues of green and purple as they darken.

Your breath catches at his words, you lean in, gently kissing the tension away as your mouth warmly melts into his.

“I love it… It's nothing the makeup team can't cover up.” You say with a cheeky smile.

Sunghoon chuckles against your lips as he leans in to taste more of you, his large hands sliding across the bare skin of your arms before resting on your thighs.

You straddle him in the dress, core loosely grinding against his clothed cock as hands trace you, memorizing every freckle and line.

“Every inch of you is just perfection. I want you to see that.” Sunghoon mumbles as he drags his lips down your throat.

You gasp, hands trembling as you hold onto him for support, sweat already forming a thin layer across your skin. The red dress feels hot, too hot, as you pant on top of him.

“I want to hear you, you’re not just my muse right now. I want this to be about us, no brand deals or labels. Just me and you.” Sunghoon mumbles into the skin of your neck. His hands gently slipping into the fallen straps of your dress, asking for permission before gently pulling it down.

You whimper as you feel his lips on your sensitive skin. It bruises more easily than you remember. Sunghoon pulls away, placing a chaste kiss to the darkening spot before looking back into your eyes. 

You don’t even know when the tears started to fall. Your chest pounds, maybe from embarrassment, you can’t truly tell. 

Sunghoon silently wipes your tears. This time, he doesn’t have flashy words or lavish compliments. 

And that’s exactly what you need to realize—this thing is real. 

And for the first time in a long time, you’re actually being seen.

Not through a camera lens, not through a magazine. 

Just you and a man who’s willing to change and give you everything he has because it’s true he’s been waiting. 

“Thank you…Sunghoon—“You choke out a quiet sob. Your hands are shaking as you try to wipe the tears. 

“I’m the one who should be thanking you,” Sunghoon mumbles as he gently wipes your tears with his sleeve. A soft smile tugged at his lips even after everything. His heart still swells for you. 

“I want you to undress me…” You whisper, your voice finally stabilizing as you ground it. This time there’s no more trembling, no more hiding. 

Sunghoon's expression melts at your words as you finally take control, finally own the version of you he knew was buried down inside. 

He looks up at you, grinning, his hands gently raking through your hair with affection. 

“There she is…” Sunghoon whispers before pulling you back down into another messy kiss. 

You match his enthusiasm, letting your tongue melt against his as he tears moans from your throat, moans you never imagined he would hear.

He slides his hands down your arms, pulling the straps of the dress down with them as more of your skin catches in the dim light. 

His lips stay melted on yours as his chest rises and falls with anticipation’s his fingers trembling for the first time as he forcefully removes the rest of the laces from your back. 

The dress immediately falls, you shuffle awkwardly to slip out of it, letting the dark crimson pool long forgotten on the ground. 

“Come here..” Sunghoon mumbles as he lies back down on the couch, pulling you back on top of him. You let yourself laugh softly as he pulls you back into his warmth. 

Sunghoon smiles into another kiss, your laughter making his heart race as his hands roam across your body in exploration. 

“I want you here if that’s okay?” Sunghoon pulls away to whisper, his hands gently rubbing your hips, pulling you up his torso to lie across his chest. 

You immediately feel hot as you catch on, the cool fabric of his shirt contrasting with the heat of your skin and core. 

“I want you to ride my face…” he confesses, his voice heavy, shaking as his eyes stay locked on you and only you. 

“You sure?” you question, biting back a smirk as you raise an eyebrow at him. 

“More than…” Sunghoon replies as his hands slide to your thighs, helping to guide you into position. 

Your thighs burn as they dig into the cushions of the couch, holding yourself up as you start to drip over his face. 

You let out a shaky breath as you sink down, his warm, hot mouth enveloping you, sending a shock of heat throughout your body. 

You let out a deep moan, unfiltered, unashamed, as his tongue drags through your folds. You grip the soft leather of the couch, trying to keep yourself from putting too much pressure on his face.

Sunghoon lets his eyes flutter shut as he memorizes you with his mouth. His tongue takes its time to glide through every fold, hitting every nerve to make you shiver. 

He moans deep with satisfaction as he feasts on you. Your essence dripping down his lips and chin as his nose buries further into your heat. 

He doesn’t come up for air; he doesn’t speak. He just devours you, getting off at your newfound sounds of pleasure. 

His tongue slides through your folds to gently circle your clit. You whimper, hips buckling against his face as his tongue slides down to your hole, gently fucking into you with reverence.

It feels good, too good. You start to grind your hips down on his tongue, chasing that same spark of pleasure.

You let go of the couch, your hands gently fisting handfuls of his dark hair as you let yourself shamelessly drop fully onto his face.

You let out a sharp exhale of relief, your thighs burning from the intensity as you slowly roll your hips against him, wetness dripping onto his lips, down his chin and neck.

Sunghoon groans into your pussy, his tongue picking up intensity as he feels you drop onto his face. His breath comes in short pants as he struggles to lap up all your dripping arousal.

“Fuck Sunghoon—” You moan, finding your voice as his tongue circles your clit again, giving the sensitive nub extra attention.

Sunghoon chuckles into your heat as you grind against him, letting his tongue circle your wet, glistening hole as his nose rubs against your clit.

Your grip on his hair tightens as you grind down on his face, rougher, harder. Sunghoon's hands slide to your ass, fingertips digging into the skin as he helps you fuck yourself on his tounge and nose.

You feel a knot pulling at your lower stomach, your pussy aching, clenching around his tongue as he struggles to lap up the dripping mess you're shamelessly making.

Sunghoon moans deeper, rougher as his hands help you ride his face harder and harder. He feels you clenching around his tongue, signaling you're close.

You’re hair starts to stick to the back of your neck, thighs still straining as you chase release. Your legs tremble next to his ears, leather from the couch sticking to your skin as you slide yourself up and down.

“Shit—Sunghoon gonna come, can I?” You ask, trebling on top of him, gripping him tight as your orgasm teeters on the edge.

“Fucking soak me—” He groans into your pussy, the sound barely audible as he pulls you down into him more.

You rub your clit against his nose one time, then two—it breaks you. You cry out his name, shamelessly letting every curse and moan spill from the back of your throat. Your hands pulling at his dark hair as you fuck yourself through your orgasm.

Sunghoon lets out a sigh of relief, his tongue spreading your slick all through your folds as you soak his lips and chin, arousal dripping down his neck, pooling on the leather of the couch.

“Fucking perfect—God.” Sunghoon moans as his hands help to guide you off his face to straddle his torso again.

His lips and chin are still glistening with your come, the collar of his shirt dampened from your mess. 

You feel that tinge in your stomach again as you look at him. So perfect, so wrecked. Cheeks flushed, slips swollen and glistening, hair tossled from your grip. 

“Mr. Park. If your goal was to make me feel confident, well—you’ve done a good job.” You say, teeth tugging at your bottom lip as you pick up the red dress from the ground. 

A shaky breath falls from your lips as you clean off his face with the hem. Your come catching on the fabric as you wipe Sunghoon's lips, chin and neck clean. 

 You toss the dress aside, letting your hips straddle his own as your hands get to work on his dress shirt. 

You remove one button at a time, his pale skin catching off the light one inch at a time. 

Sunghoon lies back, his hands resting on your hips, a smug grin on his face as he lets you take control

The soft fabric of his shirt is cool against your skin as you push it over his shoulders. Letting his bare back stick to the leather of the couch. 

A warmth hits your skin as his hands find their way back to your waist, on instinct Sunghoon tries to flip you over. 

“No..” you mumble. Your hands grabbing his wrists, your knee pushing his chest back down toward the couch. 

Sunghoon's eyes widen as you sharply pin his wrists above his head. This is new, this is exiting. Never in his life has he been with a woman like this. 

And that just makes him fall for you even more. 

“No touching, no guiding. Please Sunghoon—“ you whisper, voice cracking loud in the near silence. 

“Let me lead this.” You whisper, leaning down to capture his lips with your own, your grip tightening around his wrists. 

Sunghoon gasps into the kiss, his eyes fluttering shut as his mouth moves against yours.

One of your hands slips between your bodies, the other holding his wrists tight above his head. You fumble with the buckle of his belt, fingers brushing against his hard cock as you slide the zipper down. 

Sunghoon lifts his hips, letting you pull the fabric down just as much as you need. 

You straddle him, letting your hand guide his thick, aching cock towards your slick entrance.

“I want to see you wrecked a little more—“ you say as you bite back a smile. Your wetness teasing the sensitive tip of his cock. 

Sunghoon nods. 

And you don’t waste another second before you let your hips drop. 

The stretch is satisfying, and you let out a sharp moan as his thick cock drags against the ridges of your warm walls. 

Sunghoon moans your name, sharp and broken as he feels your tight channel enveloping him in his entirety. His head falls back, chest heaving as he struggles for breath. 

His wrists twitch under your grip, like he wants to reach out, like he’s aching to touch you. 

But you’re determined to draw this out.

Your thighs clench as you pull yourself up, only to sink back down with that same delicious sensation. 

“Holy…I’ve never—“Sunghoon chokes out, his wrists still trembling beneath your harsh grip. 

You lean down, letting your lips find his in another messy, wet kiss. You pull away, gasping as you let your hips rock against his own. His cock is dragging across all the spots that make you shiver. 

“Yeah? Feels good, doesn’t it?” You reply, placing a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth. 

Sunghoon nods, a weak chuckle falls from his lips, his chest still aching at the fill. 

“You feel like a perfect fucking fit—“ Sunghoon gasps as he crashes his mouth back into yours. Greedy, hot, and claiming. 

You match his enthusiasm, letting your tongue tangle with his between breathless moans. Your hips are still slamming down on his cock. 

You release your grip, pulling Sunghoon up with you. His back leaves the couch as his hands finally trace your sides and waist. His hands cupping your breasts, aching to savor every inch of skin they can. 

You ride him faster, panting against his mouth as you take charge of the rhythm. His hips thrust up in time with yours. The friction maddening as you slip in and out with ease. 

Sunghoon's head falls to your shoulder, his hands aimlessly roaming your hot skin. His jaw locked tight, and his brows furrowed as he struggles to hold back. 

You catch on, keeping that same fast, wet pace. He lazily thrusts up into you as you clench around him. 

You feel him twitching inside, and you know he’s close. 

“You’re so fucking perfect like this, so wrecked, made for a body like mine.” You coax. The words spilling from your tongue with no filter. It surprises even yourself; you didn’t know you had this side in you until Sunghoon brought it out. 

“Yeah..fuck yeah you were.” Sunghoon pants as his lips drag softly against your shoulder. 

You feel your core growing tight. The familiar tingling and warmth from earlier starts to take over. Your ankles feel numb, your thighs are burning and aching.

You know you’re close. 

Your sweat mixes with his as you lie him back, forehead resting on his, as you ride him faster and harder. Dragging out your own orgasm. 

“Yes…Sunghoon God—“You pant into his mouth as you feel the warmth rushing through your body, a wave of wetness flowing suit as you shamelessly come all over his cock. 

A shaky laugh falls from your lips as you grind yourself through the waves. Your body clenches around his, pulling him over the edge with you. 

Sunghoon moans deep as he comes, his cock twitching inside your heat as he spills into your wet walls. His hips jerking as his eyes roll back, his come spilling into your open channel.

Your name falls from his lips as he comes down from his high. His hips still jerking as you milk him for every drop. 

The moment between you is quietly charged. The sound of your panting fills the air. The smell of sex mingling with cinnamon and sage. 

You glance down at Sunghoon, panting, sweaty, and flushed.

He looks completely wrecked. 

And you couldn’t be happier that it was because of you. 

You pull yourself off of him, trying to keep the mess to a minimum. Sunghoon gently cups your face, his lips finding yours again. 

“I’d love for you to stay…” Sunghoon mumbles breathlessly against your lips. His eyes flicking up to glance into yours. 

This time, he glances at you like you’re more than just his muse. 

୨୧

Today is the big day, Your chance at finally getting redemption. 

You can’t hide your smile as the makeup artist bakes your face for the stage. Your hair perfectly styled to compliment your natural beauty. 

You feel a warmth in your chest, not entirely from the simmering stage lights. 

“May I?” You hear a familiar voice call out from behind the curtain. 

Sunoo steps through the curtain. Clipboard still rested at his side. His face still bearing same sweet smile and kind eyes as before. 

“You look like an angel in that dress—“ Sunoo compliments truthfully. 

This time? You smile back, the compliment warming your heart. This time there’s no tug for rebuttal, no pointing out the obvious puffiness under your eyes, or the shape of your hips. 

The stylists finish their work, leaving you camera-ready to walk. The same white dress from before is now perfectly tailored to your measurements, with your decolletage and spine as the highlights of the cuts. 

“Thank you Sunoo.” You reply kindly. Sunoo notices his smile beaming brighter. He offers you his hand with a soft laugh. The chatter of the backstage chaos swiftly fades into the background. 

Sunoo playfully spins you around, the dress fluttering as it catches in the air. You can’t help but exhale as he holds your soft hand with his. 

You feel ready, you know it. And Sunghoon knows it too. 

You pull away to glance at yourself in the mirror, smoothing out the small wrinkles around your waistline. Eyes lingering on the faded marks covered up professionally by your makeup team. 

Your heart beats faster as the memories flash, Sunghoon's warm mouth on your skin and cleavage. Marking you as his.

You feel a flush creeping up your neck. Sunoo raises an eyebrow. 

His thought process is interrupted when Sunghoon himself steps back into the room. A large garment bag in his arms. 

“Boss, what are you—“ Sunoo questions softly. 

Sunghoon's breath catches as he watches you twirl in front of the mirror. The fabric moves like a waterfall down your curves, the white bringing out the vivid undertones of your skin. 

“I want you to wear this—“ Sunghoon says, his voice soft, barely above a whisper. 

Your heart races as you turn around. Eyes are raking up and down his professionally dressed figure. His sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair perfectly styled out of his dark eyes. 

“And I want you to close the show.” 

Your lungs widen, and you can hardly breathe. 

Close the show? Sunghoon wants you to close his show. 

A flicker of dread and fear flickers in your expression, but it’s quickly changed out with something else. 

“You want me to close?” You ask softly, shaking your head to make sure you heard him right. 

Sunghoon smiles warmly, taking another step towards you as he peels the garment bag away from the dress. 

You recognize that familiar crimson red. The same from that night. 

The night he helped you see the version of yourself that has been hidden all along. You swear you hear Sunoo gasp in the background as the red catches the backstage light. 

His own design, not made for cameras or clients. 

The dress he made was only for you. 

Sunoo's eyes widen as you pull Sunghoon by the collar. Your lips shamelessly crashing into his. 

“I want you to close, in this…” Sunghoon mumbles into your mouth before he pulls away, cheeks flushed from the nearly public display of affection. 

“I will.” You say confidently. Tilting your head to look into his dark eyes. 

Sunghoon pulls you in for another chaste kiss before quickly dipping out the other side of the curtain, leaving Sunoo appalled.

“Did I miss something?!” Sunoo exclaims as he crosses the room to help you unlace the white dress in preparation for the red. 

“Yeah, I guess you did miss a chapter—“ you say playfully with a soft chuckle. 

“Listen, I knew something was different, but—wait. You’re not hooking up with him, are you?!” Sunoo gasps, like he just received the juiciest gossip of his life. 

“That’s…confidential," You reply, but you can’t hide the truth behind your expression. 

“Knew it,” Sunoo replies as he pulls the last of the back laces free. 

You change into the same red dress as before. It gently hugs your hips, frames your shoulders, and pools at your heels. 

It truly was made just for you. A perfect fit. 

You wince as you step onto the runway. Cameras flashing, faces hidden behind phones. 

You suck in a deep breath, exhaling as you put one foot in front of the other. Taking up space as you own the runway. 

Once you reach the edge of the stage, you’re hit with camera flash after camera flash. Your vision goes white as you get lost in the moment. Lost in the feeling of finally being seen. 

Your confidence follows you as you turn back. Smiling and waving at the front row guests without a care in the world. 

Then the lights go out, and applause erupts. 

For Sunghoon, and for you. 

You’re panting as you stand in the wings of the runway. Eyes darting through the crowd in search of Sunoo. 

But your attention shifts as you feel Sunghoon’s hand against your wrist. 

He pulls you from the crowd, ignoring all the chants and calls for photos and interviews. 

He pulls you into your dressing room. And without another word his mouth is on yours. 

You exhale as your hands slide up his chest to his face. Gently pulling him in for more as your lipstick smudges all over his face and yours. 

You pull away, gasping. Forehead resting against his as the sounds of the press grow louder and louder outside the door. 

“I’m so fucking proud of you.” Sunghoon whispers.

You kiss him again. His lips too sweet to resist, you chuckle against his lips as the adrenaline fades. 

And you realize you wouldn’t want to be in anyone else’s arms. 

“Me too…I’m proud of me too.” You break apart to reply. 

You never thought you were worthy of finding your perfect fit. 

But you found it. In Sunghoon—

And in yourself.

© brokenengene

kate's note: I hope you guys enjoyed this story! It was challenging to write, but I hope it's satisfying for you all. I just want to say thank you guys for all the support I've received, im so so grateful for all of it. And like always, take care.

written with love,

xoxo kate<3

perm. taglist: @aggarwaldrishti @kristynaaah @vanillaxbambi @ninistranaut @dulcetnostalgia @1-itsneverthatserious-1 @nesquikluvr @osakinanadesu @m1kkso @yazmike @lovcheol @luvksnn @taesnumber1 @kookiesnkim @skzenhalove @seungsoftly @sourkiki @ziiao

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Series Info: Title: Starlight Princess POV: Second-person (You x Poe Dameron) Genre: Action, Romance, Drama, Force lore, Canon Divergence Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader Warnings: Canon-typical violence, emotional trauma, pregnancy, slow-burn, Force visions

Chapters by Act:

Act I: Burning Stars and Broken Light

(The Force Awakens)

Chp. 1 Chp. 2 Chp. 3 Chp. 4 Chp.5 Chp.6 Chp.7

Act II: Echoes of Rebellion

(The Last Jedi)

Chp. 1 Chp. 2 Chp. 3 Chp. 4 Chp. 5 Chp. 6 Chp. 7

Act III: Seeds of a New Dawn

Chp. 1 Chp.2 Chp. 3 Chp. 4 Chp. 5 Chp. 6 Chp. 7

Act IV: The Rise of the Starlight Princess

(The Rise of Skywalker)

Chp. 1 Chp. 2 Chp. 3 Chp. 4 Chp. 5 Chp. 6 Chp. 7 Chp. 8 Chp. 9 Chp. 10 Chp. 11 Chp. 12

Epilogue

♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚｡⋆♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚｡⋆♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚｡⋆♡

RESERVATION RUN-IN

— Nina, 24, new Ferrari junior marketing coordinator, still figuring out the cafeteria coffee machine, and definitely not ready for what she saw at dinner.

It was supposed to be a celebratory night.

Nina had survived her first week at Ferrari. Five whirlwind days of press releases, brand decks, and learning how to properly pronounce Scuderia. Her small onboarding cohort decided to treat themselves to dinner at a little tucked-away restaurant in Modena. A place so charming it made pasta feel sacred.

They had just started on their second round of drinks when Marco, the guy from media partnerships, nearly choked on his Aperol.

“Holy shit. Don’t look now. Or actually, look. Just not all at once.”

Too late.

Every head turned toward the restaurant entrance, where a man in soft navy trousers and an unbuttoned white shirt was stepping in with casual ease. Tousled brown curls, sun-kissed skin, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Charles Leclerc.

But it wasn’t the sighting itself that stunned them. It was the fact that he wasn’t alone.

A woman was tucked into his side, hand interlaced with his. Her long, sundress swayed slightly as they walked. She looked relaxed. Happy. Gorgeous.

Charles pulled out her chair for her, kissed her cheek before sitting down. Then, like it was habit, reached halfway across the table with an open palm. She placed hers on top without hesitation. Their wedding bands sparkled subtly in the candlelight.

“Is that his wife?” someone whispered.

“He’s married?!”

“I thought she was a model.”

“She looks…normal. Like us.”

But she didn’t look ordinary. Not to Charles. Not by the way he watched her talk, leaning in like every word was the only one worth hearing. Not by the way he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear like it was muscle memory.

Nina tried to focus on her gnocchi. Failed.

At one point, Y/N laughed, head tilted back, nose scrunched, full-body kind of joy. Charles mirrored it instantly, a low laugh that sounded nothing like the polite one he used in press conferences. This one was real. Unfiltered. Like he hadn’t laughed that way in weeks.

Their food arrived. They shared everything. He offered her a bite, raised an eyebrow when she took too much, then immediately forked over another taste. She stole his drink. He didn’t mind.

When she got up to use the restroom, a waiter tried to clear her plate.

Charles stopped him with a soft, “Non ancora. She’s coming back.”

A few minutes later, Nina herself bumped into Y/N by the sink.

“Oh! Sorry,” Y/N said immediately. “I wasn’t watching where I was going. You okay?”

Nina nodded, starstruck. “Yeah. You just…you look beautiful.”

Y/N smiled warmly. “That’s sweet. Thank you. I’m still getting used to wearing heels again.”

She complimented Nina’s dress before ducking into a stall. Completely normal. Completely kind.

Back at the table, the mood between Charles and Y/N had shifted. Softer. Closer.

Her fingers trailed along the stem of her wine glass. His hand rested low on the back of her chair. She leaned in, whispering something in his ear that made his eyes darken instantly.

A beat later, he flagged down the server, dropped a stack of bills with zero ceremony, and stood to help her into her coat.

Their exit was quiet, but Nina caught it all—the way Charles held her hand like it was something sacred. The way he looked at her like no one else in the room mattered. The way her laugh floated back toward them as they disappeared through the door.

The table sat in stunned silence for a moment.

Then Marco muttered, “Forget TikTok edits. That was the real thing.”

And Nina, with stars in her eyes and a stupid grin on her face, finally took a sip of her now-warm wine and whispered, “I think I just witnessed a rom-com in real life.”

THE RAINY TRAIN RIDE TO MONACO

— Henri, 72, retired art teacher, hobbyist painter, and lifelong romantic with a sketchbook full of strangers.

The train rocked gently as rain tapped the windows in a steady rhythm. Henri sat by the window, sketchpad in hand, capturing the silhouettes of the passengers around him.

He wasn’t looking for anything special. Just shapes. Light and shadow. Faces in thought.

But then he saw them.

A young couple seated across the aisle. The man in a navy sweater and loafers, his arm draped casually over the shoulders of the woman tucked into his side. She had her knees drawn up, a book open but forgotten in her lap. Her head rested against his chest, eyes closed, their fingers lazily intertwined.

Henri watched them for a long while.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t scroll on phones. They just... were.

So he sketched. Quietly. Carefully. The tilt of her head, the curve of his hand on her hip, the ease in their closeness. Love looked different in every face he drew, but this one, it felt familiar.

When the conductor called out Monaco as the next stop, the man gently nudged the woman awake with a kiss to her temple. She stirred, blinking herself back into the world, then smiled up at him with a look that could warm marble.

Henri stood and approached them slowly, sketchbook in hand.

“Excuse me,” he said in accented English.

They looked up, surprised.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he continued, turning the book around to reveal the drawing. “You two... you reminded me of me and my wife. Many, many years ago. On this same train.”

Y/N blinked at the portrait. “Oh. Oh wow… this is beautiful.”

Charles smiled, touched. “Merci. That’s incredibly kind.”

Henri smiled back. “Hold on to each other. Make time to listen more than you speak. Kiss even when you’re tired. And never, ever stop choosing each other, even on the hard days.”

He handed them the sketch, carefully torn from the spiral binding. “You look like you’re just beginning something worth everything.”

They thanked him quietly as he returned to his seat.

When the train stopped, Charles tucked the drawing carefully into his bag. As they stepped onto the platform, the rain still gentle, Y/N looped her arm through his.

“That was lovely,” she said.

Charles nodded, a little quiet. “It was. I think I want to grow old like that.”

She looked up at him. “With me?”

He gave her a look so full of affection it made her chest ache. “Only with you.”

They walked on, the smell of rain in the air, hearts warm beneath their coats, a paper memory folded between them.

MEDIA DAY MADNESS

— Gianna, 31, freelance makeup artist, first Ferrari gig, not mentally prepared to witness Charles Leclerc in husband mode.

The media room at Ferrari HQ was buzzing.

Cameras, lights, clipboards, producers pacing like the fate of the universe rested on the exact timing of a five-second promo shot. Gianna was on her third espresso and her second emergency beauty blender, and it was only 9:12 a.m.

She wasn’t new to chaos. She’d done shoots for footballers, actors, even a royal once. But this, Formula 1 pre-season media day, was its own monster.

Her assignment: keep Charles Leclerc looking like he hadn’t just stepped off a red-eye from Monaco.

He was scheduled for his final touch-up after a round of interviews, but when the call sheet hit a ten-minute delay, Gianna found herself camped near the back hallway, grateful for the silence.

That’s when she heard laughter.

Not the stiff PR kind. The kind that made you want to smile even if you didn’t know the joke.

She glanced up just in time to see him.

Charles. Not in front of a camera. Not in fireproofs. Just… Charles. Hoodie pulled over his curls. One hand wrapped around a paper coffee cup, the other linked tightly with a woman walking beside him.

She was half-laughing, half-whispering something into his shoulder, and he was clearly trying (and failing) not to laugh back. It was the kind of laugh that made him bite his lip. Crinkle his eyes. Lean in like her words were gravity.

Y/N.

Gianna had heard her name floating around all morning. She wasn’t crew, but everyone knew she was coming.

The wife.

She didn’t expect her to be so… casual. In jeans and white sneakers, with her hair loosely tied and the kind of face that made natural look like magic.

They disappeared around the corner for a moment. When they reemerged, they were each holding a croissant, whispering like kids playing hooky.

Charles was smiling at her like there weren’t fifty cameras waiting. Like he didn’t have the weight of an entire nation on his back. Like nothing else existed.

When they passed by, Gianna tried not to stare.

Charles nodded politely. Y/N caught her gaze and smiled warmly.

“Sorry,” Y/N said, motioning toward the pastries. “We were on a very serious mission.”

“Vital carbs,” Charles added solemnly.

Gianna laughed. “Well, you look a lot more relaxed than everyone else here.”

Charles shrugged. “That’s her fault.”

He looked at Y/N like he meant it. Like that ten-minute delay had been a gift.

Back in the makeup chair minutes later, Gianna set to work while Charles scrolled through his phone.

“Can you hold still for just a sec?” she asked.

He nodded, put the phone down.

Gianna caught a glimpse of the screen as he locked it.

It was a photo.

Of Y/N. Wearing his hoodie. Holding the coffee she clearly didn’t want to share. Smiling at the camera like he was the only person who’d ever made her laugh that hard.

She didn’t mean to say it, but it slipped out anyway.

“You really love her.”

Charles blinked, surprised, then nodded once. “Yeah. I do.”

Gianna stepped back, brush in hand, heart weirdly full.

She’d done hundreds of faces. Watched hundreds of men step into their public personas. But in that quiet ten-minute window, she’d seen something else entirely.

Not Charles Leclerc, the Ferrari driver.

Just Charles. Someone’s husband. Someone who looked at his wife like she was the only peace he’d ever known.

Gianna made a mental note to text her sister:

You wouldn’t believe who I saw today. But more than that… you wouldn’t believe how he looked at her.

RAIN DELAY AT SILVERSTONE

— Freya, 22, student photographer, soaked to the bone, and emotionally unprepared for the Leclercs in the rain.

The sky had opened up over Silverstone in biblical proportions.

Freya was soaked, her camera strap sticking to her neck, her waterproof jacket failing miserably, and her feet dangerously close to pruning in her boots. The race had been delayed indefinitely, the grandstands were buzzing with energy and impatience, and umbrellas popped up like mushrooms across the paddock.

She was huddled under the eave of the Ferrari hospitality tent, trying to dry her lens, when she spotted them.

Charles Leclerc and his wife, walking hand in hand through the paddock like the rain had been invited.

No umbrella. No sprinting for cover. Just strolling.

Y/N was wearing an oversized Ferrari rain jacket—clearly his, if the way it swallowed her was anything to go by—and she kept tugging the hood back so she could look up at the sky.

Charles said something, and she laughed. Head thrown back, cheeks flushed, soaking wet and absolutely glowing.

Freya raised her camera instinctively. Not to shoot, not professionally. Just to remember.

Charles glanced up, spotted her, and offered a small smile. Not the PR smile. Not the podium smile.

Just… soft.

Y/N nudged him and whispered something.

He grinned. Turned toward her. Tucked a dripping strand of hair behind her ear.

And kissed her.

Slow. Steady. Rain clinging to their lashes. The kind of kiss that looked like a thank you. Like a promise.

Freya’s heart thudded.

Later, she spotted them again near the garages. Y/N stood on the edge of the pit lane, arms wrapped around herself, watching the water pool across the tarmac.

Charles came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back into his chest.

“I always liked the rain,” he said quietly.

She leaned back. “Why?”

“Because it slows everything down. Even racing.”

She turned in his arms, pressed her forehead to his. “You hate slowing down.”

“Except for you,” he said.

Freya snapped the photo before she could second guess it.

Back home, she kept the shot for herself—framed it even. Because no one else needed to see it.

Not the fans. Not the sponsors. Not the media.

It wasn’t for them.

It was for the kind of love that didn’t need a checkered flag. Just a rain delay and the right person to walk slow with.

THE PLAYGROUND SURPRISE

— Clara, 27, nanny with a mild caffeine addiction and a wild 3-year-old charge, not expecting to make a new mom friend.

“Hi! Is this seat taken?”

Clara looked up from her iced coffee, blinking in the midday Monaco sun. A woman about her age was standing beside the park bench, a toddler on her hip and a tote bag slung over one shoulder.

“Nope, you’re good!” Clara scooted over, wiping condensation from the bench.

“Thank you. I’m Y/N, and this little troublemaker is Colette.”

The toddler flashed a big grin, curls bouncing as she waved. “Hi!”

“I’m Clara. That chaos gremlin over there on the slide is Matteo. I nanny for his family.”

Y/N smiled wide, dropping onto the bench with a sigh. “God bless you. Seriously.”

“Right back at you,” Clara replied, amused.

As their kids played, they fell into easy conversation. Clara found herself surprised by how down-to-earth Y/N was. She swore like a sailor, offered Clara half her granola bar without asking, and immediately launched into a rant about the judgmental moms at the other park by the marina.

“Swear to God, if one more woman side-eyes Colette’s snacks or asks me if I’ve considered yoga for ‘postpartum toning,’ I’m going to fake my own death,” Y/N muttered.

Clara barked out a laugh. “Okay, where were you two months ago when I was trying to survive toddler teething alone?”

“Probably crying over a lost pacifier under the fridge,” Y/N replied without hesitation.

It was easy. Uncomplicated. Until Clara noticed the tote bag.

“Wait—is that the limited edition Gucci monogram tote?” she asked, eyes wide.

Y/N looked down, rolled her eyes fondly. “Unfortunately. My husband got it for me on ‘International Stay-at-Home Parent Day,’ which is fake, by the way. He just knows I yell if he buys me expensive stuff for no reason.”

Clara laughed but clocked the massive ring on Y/N’s finger next. It was gorgeous. Eye-watering.

Before she could say anything, Y/N’s phone buzzed. She picked it up without looking. “Hi, baby. Yeah. The park near the bakery. She’s on the slide in the pink overalls.”

Y/N hung up and looked at Clara. “My husband’s coming by. He has meetings later and wanted to see Colette before bedtime.”

“That’s really sweet,” Clara said, thinking of her own boss—who couldn’t be bothered to FaceTime.

Y/N just smiled, a bit dreamy. “Yeah. He’s really good to us.”

A few minutes later, Clara heard the soft rumble of a high-end engine pulling into the lot. She turned just in time to see a sleek Ferrari park like it belonged there.

Out stepped Charles Leclerc.

Clara froze.

Hair tousled, sunglasses on, casual hoodie and joggers like it wasn’t Monaco’s golden boy striding toward them. The man her employers followed like religion. The one with posters in every other shop window.

He didn’t glance at the bench. His eyes were on Colette.

“Hi, mon ange,” he called out. Colette squealed and sprinted toward him, launching into his arms. Charles lifted her with ease, doting and soft.

Y/N stood to greet him with a kiss. He tucked her into his side immediately, one hand slipping under the hem of her shirt to rub her back like it was second nature.

“Oh—Charles, this is Clara. We’ve been bonding over snack packs and judgmental moms.”

Clara tried not to choke. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

Charles gave her a kind smile and nodded. “You’ve got the good bench spot. Shade always disappears by 4.”

They chatted a few minutes more. Colette returned to the jungle gym, this time with Charles trailing behind like her personal security.

Clara turned to Y/N, eyebrows high. “So… you’re married to Charles Leclerc?”

Y/N snorted. “I know. Doesn’t fit the vibe, right?”

“Honestly, you’re way cooler than I expected a Formula 1 wife to be.”

Y/N winked. “Don’t tell the other ones. They still think I know what a diffuser does.”

Clara would end up texting her sister that night: Met the love of Charles Leclerc’s life today. Spoiler alert: it’s not F1. It’s her.

THE STADIUM GLANCE

— Lina, 25, team hospitality staffer at Ferrari, trying to keep her head down… until she catches sight of the man who once changed her life.

Lina didn’t mind her job. She liked the behind-the-scenes chaos, the espresso machines, the rush of getting everything just right. What she didn’t like was how invisible it sometimes made her feel.

Except once.

One night after a long debrief, she’d been hiding in a tucked-away hallway outside the paddock garage, trying to stop herself from crying after her student loan payment failed to go through again.

“What’s wrong?” came a voice—calm, accented, quiet.

She looked up to find Charles Leclerc.

She was horrified. Embarrassed. Tried to brush it off.

But he stayed.

Asked again.

She broke. Told him everything in a flood of panicked breath: about school, money, her brother she helped support.

Charles didn’t say anything at first. Just pulled out his phone, typed for a moment, and told her to check her email.

There was a Ferrari scholarship grant in her name. Paid. Approved.

When she looked up, he was already walking away.

He never mentioned it again.

Lina never told a soul. She didn’t want to cheapen it by turning it into gossip.

----

Months later, Lina was at a Monaco football match with her cousin, box seats, courtesy of a friend of a friend. She wasn’t expecting much.

Until she saw the Ferrari suite next door.

Just two people inside.

Charles.

And a woman.

Y/N.

She’d never seen him like that.

Not on a podium. Not in the garage. Not in full sponsor-mode.

Just… soft.

Y/N was visibly pregnant, cradling her bump in one hand and a hot dog in the other. Charles had his arm slung over the back of her chair, pressed so close it looked like he’d never moved.

They laughed at something together. Y/N nudged him with her shoulder and leaned back against his chest. Charles responded by wrapping both arms around her middle and dropping his head onto her shoulder.

For a full five minutes, he didn’t move.

Just rubbed small circles over the fabric stretched across her belly. Pressed a kiss to her temple. Let her feed him bites of cotton candy like it was a Michelin-star meal.

Lina watched, heart caught in her throat.

At one point, Charles pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of Y/N mid-laugh. He looked at it, smiled to himself, and locked the screen like it was something private. Sacred.

Lina had to blink back tears.

Toward the end of the match, Y/N looked sleepy. Charles helped her put on his jacket, held her hand while she stood, and tucked a hand under her belly with almost reverence as they exited the suite.

They never saw her watching.

But Lina never forgot.

She still has that grant email in her inbox. Still opens it on hard days. Not for the money.

But for what it meant: