#starry fics

Not because you were finally free from the burdens assignments for at least a couple of months, but because you had to pack everything up before you could feel that freedom. Just as it was in your first year, you had accumulated far more possessions than would fit in the back of your parents' car, and they were going to kill you. Unlike in your first year, however, you had the experience of shoving everything in just one suitcase for your year abroad, so your packing would be far more efficient and perhaps you stood a chance at fitting everything in.

You'd cleared out your wardrobe that morning, your housemates having agreed that just doing all the laundry in one day would be easier, especially since you'd been blessed with a dryer. All your clothes were on the floor of your room with you—to your left, an unfolded pile; to your right, neat stacks organised into categories. You had a system, and it would make it into your suitcase, eventually.

Frantic steps scramble up the stairs and to your open door, barely stopping before missing it entirely. You don't look up—this is pretty normal chaos.

"Hey," your housemate, Austin, almost wheezes, pausing to nurse his lungs. "Is this yours? I've asked everyone else and no one has any idea where it's from."

Expecting a spare sock or something as insignificant, you glance up, but instead your eyes find something that would have knocked you to your knees had you not already been on them.

A hoodie you recognise all too well hangs from your friend's hand, dangling back and forth with the force of their previous run. It's not yours, but you are the one he left it to.

"Oh, yeah," you reply, your tongue heavy with the lie even as it leaves your mouth. "I, uh, forgot about it."

He tilts his head. "Huh. I've never seen you wear it. It's pretty nice."

You had worn it before. About a year or so ago. You just couldn't bring yourself after he'd left, so you'd buried it in the back of your wardrobe and hoped to forget about it.

But you just shrug as he tosses it to you, pretending the feeling of it in your hands doesn't burn. "Yeah, well, I…I haven't seen it. Must've been, like…hidden in the back of my wardrobe before I cleared it out."

"Huh. Okay." He's not convinced, but he can breathe now. Austin barely waves at you before running back to whatever he was doing; you barely catch the wave, your eyes firmly on the goddamn hoodie.

Throwing it away wasn't an option. It was a very nice hoodie, oversized enough on you for the sleeves to cover your hands but only when you let them, and it was a perfect shield against the cold of autumn in England, where you'd gotten it. Not too warm, but warm enough to not layer anything else on top of it. Then November came along and it wasn't enough anymore, and several things weren't enough by then.

You hold the item by its shoulders and examine it as if you were appraising a piece of art. Its white colour hadn't faded to grey, the small brand logo on the front hadn't been lost to the several washes it had been through, it looked good as new, like you'd taken care of it when in reality you'd buried it under everything else you wanted to forget, everything else time had taken away while this damn hoodie stood its test. And even then, you couldn't give it away, not unless you tore off some threads, the threads, and you knew it would be easier to shove it in the back of your wardrobe again than to rip your own stitches open like that.

With a deep breath, you searched for those threads, the definitive proof that this was indeed that hoodie, the one he'd left you with, almost hoping that you're imagining things. The right sleeve is in your hand and you turn it inside out only for the world to stop when you see them.

A messily embroidered 81 next to an equally messy 13.

A small sigh leaves your lips, but your shoulders don't relax when the air leaves your lungs. You're not sure why you trace your thumb over them. Perhaps it's to prove that they're real, etched into the hoodie forever, the threads holding memories you're trying really hard not to think about. But they've spent a year locked in a box in the back of your mind and these threads, these stupid numbers that meant nothing and everything, were functioning as the key.

You were a fool to think that you'd ever forgotten last year, that you'd ever forgotten how much you missed drowning in something temporary.

It starts in the spring.

Most academic years don't start in the spring, but your program did, so you land in England in the middle of everyone else's academic year as you start yours and try not to feel like you're horrendously behind everyone around you. And you are, because you overslept so much you had to rush for your right to study check fast enough for you to almost forget your passport. You'd gone swimming in the early morning, but apparently it had tired you out enough to block out your alarms and force you to run through campus. Even so, you weren't fast enough to avoid the line that formed outside the room despite the various desks doing the checks. You were behind everyone else. Good start.

It's not long before people are behind you, too, the line growing despite it being at a standstill. You wonder why they even asked you to book times, but you're slightly relieved that the line makes for a perfect excuse for your lateness. It barely inches forward, and soon you regret having rushed out of bed just to stand still. Curious, and bored, you turn to look at the line behind you and find that you are now basically the middle of it. You were going to be here a while, and you only had your passport, key, and phone.

While looking at the line, you catch the eye of the person behind you and shoot them a smile. Unlike you, they had left their room with more than one intention—their outfit, while just a comfy hoodie and jeans, was not quickly put together, and they carried a backpack with them. They shoot you a small smile back, but the rest of their expression is exasperated.

"Why even have us book time slots?" Their accent should give away where they're from, but it escapes you, and it bothers you that it does.

You shrug. "No idea. Maybe they didn't expect so many of us in one day."

"Not a very good first impression from them," they sigh. Their accent is just on the tip of your tongue, pricking at it, taking up most of your thoughts. You almost miss when they ask, "How long have you been waiting?"

You don't speak for ever so slightly too long. "No idea. Not long, I think."

They nod and you two fall silent, but you figure you may as well make use of this long line. Plus, you really want them to keep talking so you can finally get the pricking off your tongue and figure out what their accent is.

"I'm Y/N, by the way," you say, hoping you're not annoying them by continuing to talk, but their smile indicates you can continue. "It's nice to meet you, uh…"

With a growing smile, they point at a sticker on their chest. A name tag that reads Oscar Piastri, he/him has been sat there this whole time, giving you the perfect chance to be smooth, but you were too focused on his accent. Still are.

"Oscar," he says. "Nice to meet-"

"Australia!"

That was altogether too loud.

People turn to face you two as you cover your mouth, praying he found that a little funny and that it wasn't a bad impression from the university and you.

"Sorry!" you whisper, barely loud enough for him to hear. "I've been trying to figure out where your accent is from. It was annoying me."

Oscar's smile turns amused then, slightly lopsided. "Well, you are right, at least. Does that make it less embarrassing?"

You shake your head. "Only a bit."

"And you're from Spain, right?"

Shock runs through your body, and you freeze. "Now it's more embarrassing."

"Oh, don't worry, I'm just good with accents," he says, turning smug. "Also, I can read your passport."

You turn it upside-down and glare at him with a smile.

Though the length of the line was annoying, it allowed you to get to know Oscar better. You learn you're staying in the same building, on the same floor, you learn he's already made a couple of friends, you learn that you'll share some classes though you're on different degrees, and—critically—you learn that he's very easy to talk to.

In return, you tell him you'd only arrived yesterday, you tell him of the family you have in England, you tell him what building you're staying in and that your room number-13-is your favourite, and you'd intended to tell him more before his eyes went wide with realisation.

"You're the room opposite mine," he states as if something else has also clicked in his head.

"Your room number's 18?"

"Yeah." His expression is still pensive, looking for a missing puzzle piece. "It's my favourite number, but flipped. Mine's 81."

You smile. "I guess we both got lucky."

"Mhm." Then he pauses, thinking, and you doubt whether it's a pause or a stop until he speaks again. "Are you the one that left early this morning?"

"Yeah, for my morning swim. Then I came back for my nap." You figure you must be flustered—you'd been conscious about being quiet. "Does it bother you? I can-"

"No- wait." He blinks. "You…take a nap? After exercising in the morning?"

You nod slowly, praying that he doesn't judge you. "Otherwise I can't function the rest of the day."

Oscar wants to ask more but doesn't, though you can tell this will come up later. You make a mental note to ask him more about his favourite number and other things after you've gone through this check, if you do end up speaking again.

And you do.

You end up walking out of the right to study check side by side, since you were right behind each other and happen to have another international student event. Without arranging it, you go together, sitting next to each other in a lecture packed with other international students who are carrying backpacks and tote bags and are much more ready than you are. The discomfort settles in your chest like a pebble, small but with enough weight to bother you, before one of Oscar's friends shows up and sits on the other side of him. They're carrying as few things as you are, but they've got a name tag sticker like Oscar does, hanging onto their shirt for dear life. It reads Logan Sargeant, he/him.

"Right on time." Oscar rolls his eyes and gives him a smile, but he doesn't turn his back to you. "Where did you even go?"

"Sleep. That lecture was way too early," he breathes, stretching his hand out towards you as he sits. Oscar hadn't introduced you, but it was clear enough that you were there together. "I'm Logan."

"Y/N!" you shake his hand. "And you're from—let me guess…the States?"

Logan nods, but you barely catch it—your attention is taken by Oscar's chuckle. "Look at that, you've gotten better at identifying accents in the last twenty minutes."

You roll your eyes, trying desperately to think of some witty retort, but the lecture starts before you have to worry about it.

After the lecture comes an event right next door designed solely to allow international students to meet each other. Instead, you meet Lando Norris, a home student very reluctantly helping out with the new arrivals, doing only as much as he needs to for his paycheck to come in.

"At least you guys are staying a decent building," he mutters after you tell him where you're staying. "Some of the on campus rooms are mid."

But he happily shares other advice, like what time you should aim to get buses to the city to avoid the rush and where the best 'pres' (pre-club drinks, you learn) are usually hosted. It's not something you're particularly interested in, but Oscar and Logan are listening intently, so you at least make mental note of the information. He also, rather adamantly, reminds you to never leave your room key inside of your room. It's the kind that you can hang on your lanyard and leave on your door handle so you won't forget it, but Lando had anyway. He laments about his own 'locked out' story when he had to walk the twenty minutes to the 24-hour community support building at night, in the rain, alone. You stifle laughter at how he dramatises it—as do Oscar and Logan—but you once again keep mental note of the 'don't get locked out' information, this one in higher priority than the 'pres.'

For the rest of the event, you don't meet anyone, it's back in your shared kitchen where a small group of friends forms. Courtney, another student from the States, and Sofia, a student from Portugal, introduce themselves to you and the two men, but the three of you click the most as the two guys leave. Your room is the only one that has been unpacked, so you sit there and talk with the door to your room open so you can invite anyone who passes by. The invitation is extended to both Oscar and Logan, who join briefly only to greet the three of you before heading off to meet Lando as they had arranged. Despite the start to the day, you had met five people and you were sure at least three of them enjoyed your company.

Maybe you aren't so behind after all.

Settling into your routine doesn't take very long—by the time you turn your calendar to welcome the first full week of April you've learned where your classes are, when you've got time between classes to study, and you've only missed one day of swimming. As always, you nap after your swim and have a late breakfast, but one morning something changes, and your routine would change with it.

There was someone in the kitchen when you walked in filling the room with the warm and homey smell of a dish that had to be someone's lunch. Only once you see that it's someone you know by the stove—Oscar, concentrating on making sure his stirring didn't spill any of the food—do you start to gather the courage to compliment it.

"That smells lovely," you call out as you gather your utensils from the cupboard, ready to serve yourself some cereal as breakfast. Usually, you would cook, but the start of the year and its chaos has tired you out. "What is it?"

"Oh, thank you. It's really nothing special though. Just something I threw together." His eyes are sparingly on you as you go back and forth between the fridge and the counter, serving yourself the cereal. They turn from intrigued to judging as they narrow, the food on his pan forgotten.

"Are you…" Oscar pauses to blink. "…having breakfast?"

You tilt your head. "Yes?"

"At 11am?"

"It is still the morning."

"For the next…" he taps on his phone's screen on the counter, still not looking at the stove. "20 minutes."

You shrug and grab you bowl almost defensively. "Still the morning!"

He chuckles while you sit at the table, struggling to stifle your own laugh as he yelps when his food starts to sizzle aggressively, begging for his attention, but he barely saves it and sits in front of you once he plates it up.

"So," you start, speaking between mouthfuls of cereal. "Where are you headed today?"

"I wanted to check out the lake right behind this building." He taps on his phone and checks something, presumably his timetable. "I don't have any lectures till this afternoon, so I'm just going to sit there for a bit."

"Oh, that's nice. Apparently they get ducklings around this time of year."

"Yeah. I figure it'll be nice to just…look at them."

"Yeah." You can't recall your timetable off the top of your head, but you do know you don't have anything for a couple of hours, so you gather your courage again. Slower this time. "You mind if I go with you? We don't have to like, sit together or anything, but…we could walk there together."

"I don't mind." Then he shoots you a smile, and you don't like that it makes you stiffen as it flusters you. "I also don't mind if we do sit together."

So you sit together on a bench by the lake, settling into a comfortable silence between you two that quickly fills with ducks quacking and their ducklings making the smallest, cutest noises you have to stop yourself from squealing at. The university had done a good job of making it feel like the path and lake weren't on a university campus, having let the trees surround it so they could cover the buildings and give the illusion that this was in the middle of the woods and that there weren't classes happening a mere five minutes away.

"So," he starts, clearing his throat. "13's your favourite number?"

"Uh-huh." You manage to prevent yourself from reaching at him remembering.

"An unlucky number. Interesting."

"Yeah, well- It's not my fault that my favourite Formula 1 driver used that number."

He sits forward in shock. "Maldonado?"

You shrug. "Family's favourite. Didn't really have a choice but to support him."

Oscar chuckles, shaking his head. "I guess you didn't."

"And you. 81? That's kind of random."

"It is." he leans forward slightly, turning towards the lake. You choose not to display your excitement at the fact that he also knows Formula 1. "I genuinely didn't pick it for any reason. Just kept seeing it, and picked it. Getting 18 as my room number was very lucky."

"And I, getting my exact favourite number instead of it flipped, somehow picked the unlucky number?"

"Hey." He folds his arms and pretends to be upset, but his smile gives him away. "It's not my fault that the room numbers don't go up that high. Don't really have a choice but to be happy with it."

"I guess you don't." You shrug again, smiling back. "And, hey, it is 9×2, which you could reinterpret as 9 to the power of 2, which is 81."

"That's…" He blinks at you, first bewildered then every so slightly impressed. You choose to focus on the latter. "That's not how maths works."

"And that's exactly why I'm not taking a STEM degree."

He laughs earnestly and you join him, leaning back on the bench. It leaves a bright smile on both your faces even as he clears his throat to change the subject.

"So…Formula 1?"

That's how you get onto talking about why you did take the degree you're on, exactly what classes you're both taking, and the societies you plan on attending, finding that you've at least got Formula 1 society in common. This becomes your routine most weekdays. Sometimes you sit together, sometimes only one of you stays, sometimes you both walk on and separate from the lake onwards, but it becomes an unspoken agreement that you two will at least walk out of the building together. The routine helps you settle—you walk to your afternoon classes with Oscar, sometimes with Lando and Logan in tow, and you hang out with Courtney and Sofia in the evenings, sometimes with the guys dropping by to say hello. Sometimes Oscar opens his door, too, to offer extra space in the rare occasions when all of you hang out together. You tell them of your friends back home, they tell you about their families and dreams and you swear you see Courtney's gaze lingering on Lando for just slightly too long. It feels familiar, normal, and you finally know and truly feel that you can survive the year away from home.

"Courtney," Sofia says, dragging on the last syllable with a slight singing tune to it. Your room's door is closed now, meaning Sofia can finally say what you've both been thinking. "What was that?"

Courtney tilts her head in pretend confusion, a shocked blush on her cheeks. "What was what?"

"That…look." Her eyes soften and she pouts slightly, putting on a face of longing towards the entrance to your room where Lando had been standing. "The look you were giving Lando."

"I- I don't know what you're talking about!" Courtney folds her arms and turns away.

"No, no, Courtney," you chuckle. "I fear she does have a point."

She tuts at you in disappointment. "Oh, come on! Can you blame me?"

"No one's blaming you!" Sofia raises her hands. "I get it. Just…you know…"

"What?"

"He's from here, you're from the States…"

Courtney finally faces Sofia again. "Long distance is possible! Plus, I don't like him for, like…a committed thing. I think."

You chuckle. "Sure. Let us know how long that lasts."

And it's not very long, given how many nights Courtney spends at Lando's and how often you run into him in your corridor at night, but it doesn't interfere with your friendship at all. You and Sofia bet that they'll finally decide to officially date by the summer, and in the meantime you offer no judgement towards their exclusive but non-committal agreement. Courtney still hangs out with you guys most evenings, helping you continue to settle into a routine.

All that settling is worth nothing when you lock yourself out of your room one night.

With your phone in your room along with your room key, you don't know what time it is. You don't know if you can make it to the 24-hour community support building in your indoor slippers, and you don't know if you're decent enough in your loose shirt and shorts to even think about going out without some sort of jacket. Not that it would matter, you really hadn't packed as well as you should have for the colder end of the year and, even if it was late spring, the night in England was almost always cold. You'd lamented about this a couple of times when you'd gone out on late night snack runs, having had to borrow a jacket from one of the two girls.

What you do know is that both Courtney and Sofia are away, for one reason or another. Courtney is at Lando's again and Sofia is at an all-nighter event and you only know one other person on this floor. The door behind you.

With your eyes closed in a wince, you slowly turn.

The fact that you were almost a month and a half through the year makes it worse—you should know better by now—but you have no choice but to hang your head and knock on the door with the '018' on it. You knock loud enough to hope it wakes no one else up, quick and desperate because you were out of options. The knock is followed by complete silence, however, and your hope deflates as you prepare to brave the elements in nothing but your slippers and pyjamas.

Then you hear shuffling.

You feel light return to your eyes when Oscar opens the door, rubbing his eyes and moving like he's half asleep until he blinks and sees you, eyes widening with a worry that surprises you.

"What…" He blinks again as if to make sure he's not still asleep, dreaming this up. Then he whispers, "Are you okay?"

"Yes! Yes, god, I'm so sorry I just-" You inhale sharply, trying to slow down, but it's to no avail. At least you manage to lower your voice to a whisper, matching his. "I locked myself out. Do you have any shoes I can borrow? I'll return them as soon as I'm back. Or tomorrow, so I don't wake you up. God, I'm so sorry-"

"Just shoes?"

"Yeah. Just-"

"It's 3am. You'll freeze out there."

"It's not that long a walk-"

"Hold on." He gestures for you to hold his door and you oblige, watching as he grabs a white hoodie from the chair by his desk, the only thing out of place in what you could see of his room. He also grabs some trainers for himself and a pair of slippers for you, more fit for the outdoors than yours. "Here. And I'll go with you."

"Wait-" You look down at the hoodie in your hands, then the shoes by your feet, then back at him, only then processing his offer. His statement. He had already slipped the trainers on. "You don't have to-"

"It's okay, really." He checks he's got his own key as he puts on his jacket, closing the door once you've stepped back into the hallway and left your slippers in there. "I'll sleep better if I see you going back in your room safe."

No words come to mind. Your mouth dries, and you clear your throat.

"…I could just text you." Guilt sinks into you as you borrow his slippers, getting even worse when you pull his hoodie on. Having him next to you would serve as an even more constant reminder of how you'd inconvenienced him. "You really don't have to come."

Oscar pauses for a moment, examining you. If you had to guess, you looked terrified in a hoodie and slippers too big for you and eyes wide with the fear of being any sort of inconvenience to anyone. Perhaps he felt bad for you, hence why he wanted to come with you, but he probably felt equally bad forcing you to appreciate his company.

He raises his hands in defeat. "If you don't want me to go, I won't. But it really doesn't bother me. It may even be a nice walk."

Given that he was offering, and that you really would like the company, you admit defeat, too. "Only if it really won't bother you."

"It won't, I promise." Oscar leads the way through the hallway, towards the exit. "Come on. You need your sleep before you go swimming tomorrow, right?"

You sigh. "I've given up on going at this point."

He chuckles quietly; you feel your guilt ease bit by bit.

Oscar wasn't wrong, the walk was nice. It was a clear, starry night, too cold even with his hoodie on—curse pyjama sets with shorts. You're shivering and he notices, but you only have to reject his offer to wear his jacket twice, which you appreciate almost more than his chivalry. To distract yourself, you point out the few constellations you recognise and Oscar listens, pointing out that he's not used to seeing these this time of year back in Australia. That reminds you that, despite how close you two are growing, your respective homes are on two different hemispheres, but you catch sight of the building you're looking for and dismiss the thought. Relief washes over you when they give you a replacement for your key, warning you that the old one won't work anymore but you don't care. You have access to your room again, and Oscar can now go back to sleep knowing that you're safe. You thank him and say goodnight—"or what's left of it"—as you close the door to your room, relieved twice as much.

Until you realise you've still got his slippers and hoodie.

Before you can process your actions you're texting him with an urgency that isn't needed, this could have waited until the morning.

You: hey!! I've still got your hoodie and slippers You: sorry :(

Three bubbles bounce at the bottom of your screen, making you jump. You supposed it made sense that he was still awake.

Oscar: Don't worry Oscar: I've ALSO got your slippers Oscar: We can swap tomorrow before we go to the lake You: okay :) sorry still Oscar: And don't worry about the hoodie

As you blink at the message, you think you must be dreaming. You read it once, twice, making sure you've got it right before replying.

You: ??? You: are you SURE Oscar: Yeah Oscar: I've got others Oscar: You didn't bring many jackets, right? Oscar: You need it more than I do

Again, you examine the message. Again, you're convinced you must have fallen asleep and that you've imagined this whole text exchange.

You: thank you!!! You: I'll give it back when I buy a jacket lol Oscar: You don't have to, genuinely Oscar: Gn, I'll see you tomorrow

That hoodie is the first of many things you two end up sharing, as he continually insists that you keep it.

You're relieved when, a couple of days later, you finally get a chance to call your best friend from home, Zoey. Her voice is slightly muffled by her phone's microphone. Her face isn't at all to scale. It still feels like she's right there, however, which makes you almost feel at home. Hearing someone else speak Spanish feels like nostalgia, making you miss being surrounded by it, but seeing Zoey—even if on a tiny phone screen—makes how much you miss home a little better.

"Well, he sounds nice." You'd been telling her about Oscar, about how embarrassed you'd been when you got locked out. "Glad you've got someone looking out for you."

You tilt your head, fully focusing on the phone that was carefully balanced on your desk suddenly. "I think he was just being nice. No…special treatment, or looking out for."

Zoey raises an eyebrow. "God, he must be a saint, then. Even I wouldn't have done that for you in the first month of knowing you."

"Hey! You better be kidding."

"I am, I am."

Looking out for you. The statement sticks in your brain like a band-aid, though you're not sure what wound it's covering. More importantly, you're not sure why you can't bring yourself to take it off. Instead, you let it stick to your mind, you let it keep haunting you. It's fine.

You swear it means nothing.

It heats up in the summer.

You're not sure exactly when it started but you know the nights are longer, the air is warmer and your calendar reads 'July' when you notice Oscar looking at you for longer than you think is normal. Just as before, you swear it means nothing. The warm feeling in your stomach means nothing, and are those butterflies fluttering in there, too? No. Nothing.

It means nothing that every day the space between you on the bench by the lake shrinks from centimetres to inches to nothing without either of you saying anything. It means nothing that you know which class he's going to and where, that you've considered running into him there by 'coincidence,' that you know he's been late because he's stayed at the lake with you too long. It means nothing that you can hardly catch your nap after swimming, unable to sleep with the low hum excitement running through your body because you'll be seeing Oscar in a few hours. It means nothing that whenever you do go to Formula 1 society events together, you know for a fact his eyes are barely on the sessions and are mostly on you instead.

It means nothing that you're guilty of that, too.

It's a silly crush at best. Oscar was an attractive man and he'd shown nothing but his good side since you met. He's been nice, he's looked out for you, you both get along and make each other laugh and, on a surface level, you two are compatible. On a surface level. One date, perhaps, assuming he'd even want to take you (and you're confident enough to assume so). You pretend you don't know enough about him to know it could definitely make it to at least two. Or three.

You swear it means nothing.

Okay, fine, maybe it is something.

But you keep swearing it means nothing when you wave at Oscar as he leaves your room one night, leaving just you and the two girls and a weird tension in the air as the door closes behind him.

Sofia sighs, taking you out of your thoughts. "It's happening again."

"What? What's happening again?"

But Courtney doesn't help you—she just shakes her head solemnly. "We've lost another one."

"Lost? What?" You look at one then at the other and find no answers. Only mourning looks.

Sofia puts a hand on your shoulder, head low, and sighs. "You're giving Oscar the same look that Courtney gave Lando."

It's meant to land as some sort of revelation, but you already knew what you were doing; he was doing it right back.

You roll your eyes. "So what if I am?"

The room stills. Both girls blink at you, baffled by your lack of defensiveness; you just shrug and sit on your bed, leaning against the wall.

"Huh." Sofia tilts her head, almost as if she's trying to get the thoughts in it to move around, but quickly gives up. "I was expecting some resistance."

"I get it, though. No point in denying it." Courtney relaxes again. "But…you know…"

You sigh. "The distance?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, god." Sofia grabs one of your cushions and hugs it to her chest. "I mean- Courtney has a whole ocean to deal with, but you, you guys have-"

"Hemispheres."

Sofia nods, agreeing with Courtney. "Yeah. Not saying you shouldn't do anything, just…be careful."

"I know." And you are being careful. You're merely dipping your toes in the water, testing it, not daring to even guess how deep it is yet. "I don't really know what it is yet. It could mean nothing. And it may not even be a long term thing."

Courtney snorts. "You saw how long that lasted with me and Lando."

"About as long as I thought it would," you giggle.

"Exactly."

"Just…" Sofia shifts uncomfortably, unsure what to say. "We're here for you if he ends up being an asshole."

You giggle, sure that he's anything but. "Thank you."

At this point, denial isn't working in your favour. You let the warm feeling in, you sit on the metaphorical dock and let the water up to your calves, still not feeling the bottom. Perhaps it all means something, and that's okay, but it makes you do things you wouldn't normally do, so long as Oscar brings it up.

"So…there's that club night this week." Oscar says when you're sat by the lake one day, avoiding your eyes as a nervous pink tint coats his cheeks. "It's meant to be a fun one, since it's technically summer break for most people."

"Right." And you already know where this is going, but you wait for him to say it anyway.

He shifts, his arm pushing against yours as if you could get any closer. "Were you thinking of going?"

Normally, the answer would have been no, but Oscar was asking; if he was going, it couldn't be that bad.

"I figured I should try going to one in England. At least once." You're not lying. You were just going to leave it until later in the year, originally. "This one…doesn't seem like a bad first."

He smiles, finally looking at you again. "I'll go if you go."

There's the warm feeling in your stomach again. You dip further into the water, allowing it up to your knees, but you're very much still on land. Regardless, that warm feeling makes you do things you wouldn't normally do. Like going to the club.

"Sure." You smile back, and you swear his grows wider in response. "I'll go."

Clubs aren't your thing. But, apparently, Oscar is your thing. Someone you have a thing for. So, once you know Courtney and Sofia were going, you fully decide to go.

It's normal. It's the classic university experience. Your friends will be there, Oscar will be there, but you swear that's not why you're going, no. You want to go. For your own, Oscar-independent reasons, you want to go. You're supposed to want to go. In front of the mirror in your room, you repeat this to yourself over and over in your mind as you grip the sink. You look flawless, having re-done your make up at least once to make it perfect, and wearing a dress that shows off just enough of 'what you've got' to be classy but still fit for the club. You wear a thin jacket over it, though. Not enough to fend off the cold, but enough to cover you up if you need it. Just in case.

'Pres' come first, which comprises mostly of you trying not to drink too much—you barely drink at all—and trying to ignore the way Oscar's eyes linger on you for just a little too long. He's admiring you, maybe even intrigued by what sits under your jacket, but you can tell he's not imagining it. Not without your permission. After a couple wiggling eyebrows from your friends, you down one more shot. Or two.

You ignore that the water is up to your waist and you don't mind it at all.

The club feels like a sea of people, dark and dense and hard to breathe in. It's not your first time at a club, but you've never loved the sticky floors and bright lights and blaring music of it all. Your earlier carefulness around alcohol backfires—you're not drunk enough to enjoy this. You stay on the shore of people as Courtney drags a more sober Sofia to the middle of the crowd, closely followed by Lando and Logan. Oscar doesn't follow, staying next to you instead; you should feel surprise but you almost expected him to slot right next to you, shoulder to shoulder as if there wasn't plenty of space to his left. To your right, there's a pillar. It's his move, and he chooses the space right next to you.

He leans even closer, only so you'll hear him. Of course. "So the middle of the crowd isn't your scene?"

You shake your head. "I like my personal space."

"Very fair." As if listening to you, he moves so he's facing you instead. "What do you usually do, then?"

"People watch." Your eyes meet his even in the dark; by people, you suddenly mean watching him.

He nods, you watch him swallow hard. His eyes hold that same admiration as before, that intrigue hidden behind them, and you suddenly grow bolder. You let the jacket fall of your shoulders, you let Oscar watch as it reveals the skin beneath, only spaghetti straps holding the dress up. If he blushes, you don't see it, which means he can't see your blush either.

"It's really warm," you say as your reason, your excuse, and he nods as if he believes you. "Figured I might as well take this off."

He doesn't speak for several beats; you let yourself be flattered as he clears his throat. "Did you, uh, want to leave it in the cloakroom? There's a pile of our stuff there."

So you follow him towards the quiet of the cloakroom and 'cooldown area,' in which some people sit and take a break from the speed and volume of the night ahead. You set your jacket where Oscar tells you to but keep your bag on you, figuring you'll be in a worse situation if that gets taken than if your jacket does.

As you turn back towards the blaring music and bright lights, Oscar inhales sharply next to you. You tilt your head with a hum and he stiffens as if he wishes you hadn't noticed.

"You know, I…" He stops with another inhale, shorter, intense, like he's gathering courage from the air around him. In this light, you can see a light pink dusting his cheeks. "…When I brought up the club night, I meant to ask if you'd come with me."

The admission doesn't make the world stop. You're still holding on to the metaphorical dock for dear life, wondering why you can't feel the bottom, but your lips curl into a teasing smile anyway as another hum escapes them. Oscar presses his lips into a thin smile, annoyed that you're making him spell it out.

"So…" He holds out his hand towards you, thin smile turned lopsided and perfect like the ones that struck right through you. "Would you give me the honour of walking back in together and pretending this was a date all along?"

It takes you a mere moment to decide. You take his hand and don't care that it makes you sink deeper, only one hand holding onto solid land now. "As long as I can tease you about it for at least the rest of the night."

Oscar chuckles as he leads you back towards the crowd. "You can tease me about it forever if you don't let go of my hand."

Forever. The three syllables are loaded even if he doesn't mean it that way. In your head, you lose your grip on safety as he pulls you forward, but you don't let go of either.

Not yet.

Together, you go back to your people watching, though you spend most of the time with your eyes on each other. You're still hand in hand, which you're sure you'll have to explain to your friends tomorrow. How would you explain it? It was a date. It was casual physical contact. It didn't mean nothing, you'd worked that out, but it didn't have to mean everything. It doesn't mean everything. It's just your hand in Oscar's, warm and comfortable, the sensation making every other feeling around you—the bass at your feet, the lights blinding you—worth gritting your teeth through. Except you find yourself swaying along to the music, singing the lyrics you know. You find yourself enjoying it, tipsy on something that isn't alcohol or quite love but just as addictive as both.

Growing even bolder, you lean closer to him. Just so he can hear you. Of course. "A date, huh?"

"Starting the teasing now?"

"Uh-huh," You chuckle as you grin. "It's not exactly common to ask someone on a date when you're at the place you meant to ask them to. How does that happen?"

He huffs out a laugh and turns to face you. There's a pillar behind you now; you know he's aware of that. "I can explain that."

You glance up at him; he's so close that you have to glance up. "Enlighten me."

"You, with everything you do, and everything you say," Oscar steps closer, his grip on your hand tightening. "Make me nervous."

It's another admission that doesn't surprise you, but it makes heat rise to your cheeks anyway. You try to maintain composure as you force a laugh. "Everything I do, like locking myself out and having breakfast at midday?"

"Like exist."

Your breath catches; his smile turns smug as you falter. He decisively wins this exchange, but you can still try to salvage it with an eye roll and a grin and some witty line that isn't coming to you. Instead, you swallow and stammer, "I-…uh… that's nice. A nice compliment. I…thank you."

He grins, you blush deeper, and he's standing so close he can probably see it even in the dark. As if he hadn't already won, he places his palm on the pillar, leaning on it as his grin grows when your eyes widen. A lopsided grin.

You're in trouble.

His voice deepens. "And, apparently, I do the same to you."

"Glad to know your observation skills are intact."

"And I'm glad to know your humour is also."

Behind his eyes is desire, but above it all is a question. Oscar will not move until you do. In your head, you finally let go of safety: one hand on the side of his face, the other still in his, none securing you to land, making his eyes widen and your grin grow as if you've recovered this exchange. It doesn't feel like falling, not when it's water you've let yourself fall into, not when you know how to swim. You can swim back any time, you tell yourself. Your head is still above water.

That is, until he places his lips on yours; you find that drowning is actually quite pleasant.

You're not sure when it goes from just a peck to several kisses, slowly gravitating towards each other again and again, like you aren't in the middle of a crowd. It had been a long time since it felt like you were in a crowd, like it wasn't just the two of you dancing around each other's feelings, anywhere but at the club with friends you now had even more to explain to. You're also not sure when your hand wandered to the back of his neck, followed by his on your waist, followed by pulling each other even closer. A part of you that feels shy about this gets silenced by the bigger part of you that wants to stay underwater forever, especially if it feels like this. You're drunk on the feeling immediately, desperately wanting more, convincing your lungs that they can get oxygen from water, and he matches your desperation by placing a hand on the back of your head—through your hair—to pull you closer. That's when something shifts. As soon as it starts to turn slightly hungry, Oscar pulls away like he's suddenly remembered where he is. There's still desire in his eyes when he grins at you. Lopsided still. You get the sense he's not done with you yet, and you don't want him to be.

"You okay?" He asks, his breaths short and warm against your face.

You nod, still dazed and unsure if you can even form words. There's concern all over his expression and he takes a small step back. The space helps, but your body misses where his hands were. You nod again, sure this time.

"Yes, I'm okay," you say, watching as his shoulders drop in relief. "You?"

"Perfect," he replies with an exhale. "I've…kind of wanted to do that for ages."

A giggle escapes your lips; you catch him glancing at them. "I could tell. That explains how close you've been sitting next to me lately."

"I had to take my shot at some point."

"I'm very glad you did."

There's still that desire in his eyes, on the surface now that he knows you're okay, and you're sure your eyes hold the same want.

Suddenly, he clears his throat awkwardly. "Did you, uh… want to head back to mine?"

You tilt your head with an amused smile. "Already sick of the date you invited me to?"

"I just think somewhere more private might make a better place to…continue it."

And this is something you're supposed to want. It's something part of you wants, enough of you to persuade the part that feels uneasy about it.

"That's true," you say after a beat, still fighting yourself when he stretches his hand out for you to hold.

You inhale; one side wins the fight. This is something you want, you convince yourself.

So you take his hand again, you forget about whatever land was behind you and whether you can even reach it again, and follow him to wherever he takes you.

The night is starry like it was when you'd locked yourself out; you don't stop to stargaze. You don't even slow down to look up at the twinkling lights, to bask in the relief of the quiet outdoors, to put your thin jacket on to attempt to shield yourself from the cold. It's not like either of you are in a rush, it's that you're afraid the spark will die out by the time you're able to tend to it again and you desperately want to do whatever it was you were getting yourself into back in that crowded room. Judging by the grin he shoots you every so often as you walk back, he wants to do just that, too.

Just like going to the club, you're supposed to want this. Just like going to the club, it is the normal university experience. You can handle a one-night stand. You want to handle a one-night stand.

At least until your lungs suddenly yearn from air again.

It's somewhere between the kitchen and his room that the uneasy part of you starts to gain ground. His hand is still in yours when he opens his door, gesturing for you to go in and you do before you even think about it. The door closes behind you and you flinch, so much that your grip on his hand tightens as if searching for comfort. There's a change in him then.

"Hey," he says, voice soothing; it would work if it didn't feel like you were in a fishbowl. "Are you alright?"

Lying crosses your mind. You could probably pretend your way through an encounter, but that didn't feel fair. Not to either of you. Firstly, you don't want this; secondly, he wouldn't want this if he knew you didn't. You don't want this. Instead of lying, you inhale and blink rapidly, finding a hint of tears that you're really hoping will dry before they fall.

"I don't think so," you admit with a shaky voice. You let go of his hand and slip your jacket back on, feeling too exposed in the spaghetti straps so you hug yourself and force the fabric to cover more of you than it was designed to.

Oscar just watches you, worried and careful as if he thinks he could scare you if he examined you too hard. There's no space in your mind to lament the spark that is certainly now gone, but there's plenty of space for frustration. Any confidence you had before is gone; you're not drunk literally or metaphorically. You barely notice that you're standing in silence—your thoughts are too loud.

"I don't want to have sex. Or- anything like that," you blurt out suddenly, letting it out so there's a little more space in your mind. His expression is bewildered as he opens his mouth to speak, but you're quick to speak again. "I'm sorry if I led you on-"

"No- hey, you didn't, it's okay." He takes an unsure step forward as if he wants to hold you, but he doesn't move his hands. "We never set expectations. It's okay if we just kiss. Or just sit around. Or if you want to go to your room and sleep. Anything you want is okay, I promise."

Your arms fall at your side, letting go of the jacket. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

It takes everything in you not to let the tears fall in relief. "Okay."

"What do you actually want?" He asks gently. "Literally anything. Even swap beds, or go back, or something. Just say the word."

What you actually want. You haven't actually asked yourself that, but you don't want to spend too long thinking about it. What you want, not what you're supposed to want, is a cosy night in, and you want Oscar to join you.

"I want to go back to my room, and I want to get the hell out of this dress." He tries not to let it be evident, but you can tell there's the slightest bit of disappointment as his face drops. It flatters you. "But, um… If you wanted to join me after that, for a movie or something… I certainly wouldn't say no."

His face lights up again, more than before. That flatters you more. "I'd certainly enjoy that."

It's not long before you two are sat on your bed with some random film on your laptop, carefully placed at the foot of the bed. You're as close as you would be on that bench by the lake, wearing what you were on the night you got locked out, but it's loaded this time. The spark hadn't died, it was just dormant, humming between you like electricity. Your head is on his shoulder and it's easy and new all at once. If not for that humming, you'd be dozing off by now, safe and comfortable.

Oscar shifts next to you, his arm moving with intention to wrap around your shoulders. His eyes meet yours with a question and you nod, letting him hold you. You're sure it's the most comfortable you've ever felt in what is, in your mind, the deep end of the pool. But there's thoughts behind his eyes, and he's also not watching the movie at all. He opens his mouth then closes it, then does it again, as if debating what to say or if to say it at all.

"Why didn't you say anything at the club?" He asks suddenly, elaborating when he catches your body tensing "I'm not upset, or anything, just…worried about, um…did I force you?"

You sit up so suddenly you almost hit your head on the wall. "No! God, no, Oscar- you're okay. I swear."

"Okay." He nods, more to himself, and you feel his grip on you tighten. "Okay, that's good."

"I didn't say anything because...I don't know." Except you do know. You're just not sure how much you should say for a second, eventually landing on everything. "It just… felt like something I should want."

Oscar tilts his head, eyes narrowed in curiosity, and you sigh dramatically and lay your head on his shoulder again. It was time to unpack.

"I like you. I mean, I really enjoyed kissing you. One figures that the logical follow up to that was… more. Especially after a couple of drinks at the club, except I guess I didn't have enough drinks, or something. I don't know. Either way, I thought I was supposed to want to sleep with you tonight, but… I don't. And I know that's okay with you, just… felt like the next step in the script, you know?"

After a beat, he hums thoughtfully, gently rubbing your arm. "But it's not the next step in yours."

You laugh. "I guess not."

"And that's okay."

"Yeah, I know." As best as you can, you smile up at him. "Just… feels weird to not want something I feel like I should."

"Right." Behind his eyes, the cogs turn in his head, but you'd drive yourself insane trying to figure out in which direction and to what end. "And…kissing me. Back at the club. Was…was that something you were meant to want, or something you actually wanted?"

"Something I actually wanted." You stiffen, stunned by your own quick reply, but you just as quickly relax. The admission is like a weight of your shoulders. "Like I said, you didn't coerce me into anything. Really."

"Okay." Again, the cogs turn, but this time his cheeks warm up, giving you a hint as to where this might be going. "So, uh…hypothetically, if I asked if I could kiss you again, what would you say?"

You know what you want to say.

Of course it's a yes, but you don't say that. Instead, you lean in closer, raising an eyebrow as his blush deepens. He wasn't getting away with hypotheticals. "Is that something you're hypothetically asking, or something you're actually asking?"

"Something I'm actually asking."

His breath is warm on your face as he speaks, looking at your lips with an impressive restraint. For a moment, you're tempted to see how long he can hold it, but you're not sure you're lasting much longer, either.

You take in a deep breath. "Then my answer is yes, you can."

Only when you're done speaking, when he's processed your answer, does Oscar gently place his lips on yours.

It's different this time. It's delicate and careful, like he's waiting for you to give permission for his every move, so you lead. You deepen the kiss with a hand on the back of his head, reassuring him you want this as much as he does. Again, you enjoy the feeling of water in your lungs, and you become curious as to how deep you have to go before you hit the bottom. Drunk off his lips again, you figure you never will. You figure that this is infinite, until you pull away, resting your forehead on his.

"What is this?" You murmur, mostly asking the universe, but hoping Oscar has the answer anyway.

"Honestly?" He laughs, shaking his head. "I've got no idea."

You blink. "That can't be good."

He counters with a shrug. "It can't be bad, either."

Laptop forgotten, you bounce off your bed and begin to pace.

"We really don't have to define this," he insists, still smiling, but it drops when he sees that you're serious.

You shake your head to yourself. "You will not situationship me."

"I don't want to."

"But you're from Australia-"

"I know."

"-so we can't relationship this, either." Two hemispheres. Two oceans. Several hours. Thousands of miles. You don't even entertain the idea, and he nods along.

"What do you suggest, then?"

You stop pacing to roll your eyes at him. "Just- we're supposed to define stuff like this."

"Didn't we just go over how things that you're supposed to do aren't always right?"

"I'm pretty sure this one is."

"But what if it isn't?"

It's a terrible idea. Even someone who's somehow found pleasure in drowning in him knows that, and yet the temptation is too strong. You bury your face in your palms briefly and fail to keep your voice down.

"What if we just- oh, I don't know, let it sweep us away? Just let it happen?" You huff, pausing your pacing to turn towards him. "Does that sound stupid?"

Oscar shakes his head, that lopsided grin on his face making your cheeks heat up. "It sounds perfect."

This is where the problem starts.

You two never define it. You don't waste time on the intricacies and the details of it all, instead you live it, you let yourself be consumed by it. Why bother defining something that would soon no longer exist?

That logic is sound then.

You take your spot in the bed again and lean on him. "Zoey is going to tell me this is a bad idea."

"And how often is she right?"

"Always."

He laughs, wrapping an arm around your shoulders again. "Guess we're screwed, then."

"Maybe if we communicate clearly, it'll be fine," you reason, humming to yourself in thought. "Exclusive?"

"Absolutely."

You smile and bury your face in his neck. "Then I think we're okay."

Optimistic as you are, for as long as you can, you let yourself drown in it, whatever it is, and eventually you will enjoy it so much that air will feel foreign in your lungs. But, for now, you're just falling asleep on his shoulder, mumbling that he can stay over as long as he puts your laptop away. You don't know just how far into the deep end you've just thrown yourself, you just know that he's really warm and comfortable to sleep on, and that whatever this is can't be so bad if it's this pleasant.

When you wake up the next morning—far too late for your morning swim—he's not next to you, but he hasn't just abandoned you. Right above the pile of texts from Courtney and Sofia and even Logan—not concerned texts, just overly excited and curious ones—is a text from him from earlier in the morning.

Oscar: Hey, sorry I left you Oscar: Got hungry and went to make breakfast Oscar: I've got your key, I'll be right back

"Morning."

You jump, eyes darting towards the source of the voice.

Oscar is sat at your desk, eating what look like very good pancakes. Sitting up, you rub your eyes, and you're a little surprised that he's still there.

"You're here," you say. "I thought you were still in the kitchen."

"Yeah. Sorry." His eyes flick from you to his food, then back to you. "I was going to make you breakfast, but I didn't know what you wanted."

"Aw. I appreciate the intention."

Oscar shakes his head, putting his fork down. "I still intend to. What do you want?"

"You really don't-" but he raises his eyebrows at you, signalling that this argument will go nowhere. You sigh. "Okay. What are the options?"

"Anything you want." As smooth as that was, he clears his throat and mutters. "Ingredient dependent, unfortunately."

You hum as you stretch. "Any pancakes left over?"

"Yeah. Did you want some?" You nod enthusiastically, making him chuckle. "Okay. Did you want anything on them?"

"I can go get them-"

"I'll get them for you." His smile warms when he sees your unease, trying to reassure you. "I promise it's okay."

You believe him. "Okay. There should be honey somewhere in my cupboard."

And he knew which one it was. He'd watched you make your breakfast while he made lunch enough times to know where all of your stuff was. You tell him to knock before he comes back—you want to get changed—and he goes to the kitchen, leaving his pancakes half eaten.

You stand, checking your phone again. It was just about 10am—whatever lectures you had weren't until much later, so you don't rush to change, but there's another reason you don't move. The date on your phone reads August 13th, and you're supposed to be leaving in January.

You swallow and double check it on your calendar, finding that it is indeed August and pretend that you're not aware that it's four months. Sixteen weeks. How many days? Whatever seven by sixteen is. You never were that good at maths, and that doesn't matter because you really don't want to know the exact number of days anyway. Giving yourself a shake, you get on with getting changed, trying to get the four months off your shoulders. They wrap around you like chains instead.

Just as you pull a shirt over your head, leaving only your shoes left, there's a knock at your door. You let Oscar in, smiling at the plate in his hands.

"You could have finished your breakfast first," you tell him teasingly, taking the plate from him. "Thank you."

"It's no problem, really." He gestures towards the desk, offering it to you, but you shake your head and sit on your bed instead. With no further insistence, he takes the desk. "Look at that, we can have breakfast together now."

"We eat together all the time."

"Usually, I'm having lunch."

You roll your eyes with a smile and take a bite of the pancakes, trying your hardest to disguise how difficult it is to do while sat on your bed—you do not want to make him feel bad for taking the desk.

When you manage to eat a little, you hum. "These are really good. I'll need the recipe."

"Oh, sure." Oscar picks up his phone, a smirk tugging at his lips despite him trying to disguise it. "The first step is going to the shop on campus and buying them."

You feign shock with a gasp. "You didn't make them?"

"I never said I did."

"Touché."

He finishes eating before you do, setting his plate aside. It's then that you notice he's dressed and ready for the day, his backpack next to him on the floor, and you remember—it's one of the days on which he has an earlier lecture.

"I'll do washing up when I get back-"

"No, don't worry." You stand and stack your plate on his. "You made breakfast, I'll wash our plates."

With a raise of your eyebrows, you get him not to argue. Instead, he grins. "Sounds like an arrangement a married couple would make."

"We did say exclusive!"

"True." He leans down to grab his bag and walks past you towards the door. "I promise I will exclusively make you breakfast."

Then he turns towards you, standing in front of you, one hand on the strap of his bag and the other tentatively moving towards yours. His eyes flick to your lips, and you blush.

"Is this something we're going to do?" You ask, grabbing his free hand. "Goodbye kisses?"

"If it's something you want, and not…"

"Something I'm supposed to want," you fill in for him.

He nods. "Yeah."

And you don't have to think much about it. Using his hand, you gently pull him down towards you, intending to kiss him. Somewhere along the way, you change your mind—you end up with your arms around his neck and chin resting on his shoulder; his arms end up around your waist, pulling you towards him. An embrace felt more fitting, at least for now. It ligers for longer than your usual embraces—which weren't frequent but happened nonetheless—because everything is different now. Or at least, it will be.

For four months. You hug him tighter as if that'll muffle the time ticking by.

He gently rubs your back. "As much as I'd love to continue this, I unfortunately do have somewhere to be."

"Yes- sorry," you say, moving away from him suddenly. "Go be- academic, or whatever it is you do."

"You know what I do," he chuckles. "Unless you never listen to me."

"I always do. Impossible not to. Your voice really carries."

You only hear him scoff in amusement—he's already heading out, standing in your doorway. "I'll see you later."

But something was missing. Something you wanted.

"Wait."

You're not sure what comes over you then, but before you know it you're standing beside him again and that's when you kiss him. Quickly. Shyly. Like he didn't have you pinned against a wall last night.

Oscar smiles into it even if did last just a second. "So we are doing goodbye kisses."

A nod is all you can manage.

"Noted." Then he kisses you again, because he wants to, because he can.

But this time, there's a yelp down the corridor.

You peek your head out of the door and find that Courtney had left her room just in time to catch what had happened, and now she was looking at you and then at Oscar and then back at you, blinking furiously as if she'd hallucinated it.

Eventually, she decides she didn't.

"I'm getting Sofia," she says decisively, turning on her heel towards Sofia's room before you can protest. "Stay. There!"

Oscar leans towards you. "I'll leave you to deal with that," he says into your ear before turning and heading out of the building.

"Traitor!" You call out, but he doesn't turn back, just laughs. He does have a degree to pass, after all.

It's not long before Courtney and Sofia force themselves into your room, rambling incoherently about 'what happened last night' and 'how dare you not tell us.' They take their spots—one at your desk, the other on your floor with a pillow—and look at you with their eyes like spotlights. You don't know what they expect. You don't know what they want. Hell, you don't even know how to explain what you and Oscar decided on

You sit cross-legged on your bed and sigh. "Ask away."

Courtney cleared her throat. "You left together last night. Did he-"

"Did he spend the night here?"

"Yes, and-" Courtney inhales suddenly, pointing at your desk. The plates. "There's two plates on this desk!"

Sofia gasps rather dramatically, you roll your eyes. "You had breakfast together. Did you make it? Did he? Oh my god-"

"Are you guys, like-"

"Dating. Exclusively? Are you dating?"

Courtney and Sofia had a lot of questions; you couldn't answer them all, you couldn't even dream of getting a word in. They were speaking too fast for you to even process them.

Except for that last one. You catch that one.

You shrug, and you can't believe that you do. "Something like it."

They tilt their heads and exclaim in unison, "Something like it?"

"Yeah. Exclusively."

In their opinion, you're too calm. They blink at you like you're speaking a different language until Courtney tilts her head side to side and accepts what you've said.

"I give it a week till he's calling you his girlfriend." She shrugs, lounging on your chair.

"He can do that if he wants," you counter, scared that you half mean it.

"Really?" Sofia hugs the cushion to her chest. "I mean, you still have the whole…hemispheres thing to deal with."

Two hemispheres. Two oceans. Several hours. Thousands of miles.

You flop on your back with a sigh. You'd always been sceptical of long distance relationships, especially with that much distance. Courtney and Lando could try to be the exception all they wanted, it didn't mean that you had to. "Not if we just…don't make it that far."

If they're shocked, they only show it on their faces and you don't catch it. The silence carries the shock for them, since they don't say a thing. You don't blame them. What are you supposed to say to that?

"Well," Courtney starts, trying to lift the mood of the room. "Nothing wrong with a summer fling!"

The room fills with laughter; you pretend to find the humour in willingly drowning in the deep end of a summer fling.

Your routine doesn't change much at all even if everything between you and Oscar has. You still swim in the mornings, you still walk by the lake with Oscar, you find your study breaks in the same places, you hang out with Courtney and Sofia in the evening. Except your evenings most often end in Oscar's or with him in yours, not always spending the night but often cuddling until one of you—always you—started to doze off. It was a fine addition to your routine, besides the fact that he made sure you stuck to your swimming routine like the considerate asshole he is, always looking out for you. You choose to ignore how every moment with him has a ticking clock as its soundtrack.

Your call with Zoey is a stark reminder.

"This is a bad idea."

"It's not-"

"Y/N." She cuts you off with a harsh tone, full of tough love. "You like him. That's not going to just…disappear when he flies off south. It's going to hurt."

Though she's only pixels on a screen, you can't bear to look at her. "It's not that serious."

"Girl."

"It's not!" You fold your arms, still not looking at her. "It's just a bit of fun for the year."

"'A bit of fun' surely would have involved the sex."

"Does making out count?"

"Yeah. That's casual, that's fun, but the-" she inhales, taking a deep breath, and her exhale comes in the form of frustrated words. "The cuddling. The cuddling is practically asking to fall in love with him."

"I won't."

"How do you know you haven't already?"

You don't. But you're not going to tell her that.

"I'm not in love with Oscar," you state with your tone as determined and certain as you can make it. "And I won't be. We both agreed it's just…for fun. Just until we leave."

She sighs. "Is that what you want?"

You feel her glare, her judgement, but you don't meet her eyes. Again, you don't know what you want, you just know what you and Oscar agreed to; you know that you don't want to change the terms of whatever it is you two have. It's what you're supposed to want—a connection, only for the next four months. This what you're supposed to want.

So you say, "Yeah. It's what I want."

Zoey's eyes narrow as she examines your intentions, analysing every syllable and the way it was said. Eventually, she shrugs.

"Alright," she says, tone indicating that she was not expecting this to work out in your favour. "But don't get mad when I'm feeding you ice cream with some rom-com in the background and I say, 'I told you so.'"

You roll your eyes and laugh with her, pretending to find humour in how right she was.

The flames dwindle in autumn.

At first, you think it's just your anxiety. Exams are upcoming and final assignments are over the horizon and campus is full of a roster of new people. At first, nothing changes but the weather as it becomes colder, making it harder to will yourself out of bed to go swimming in the morning. Luckily you'd gotten yourself actual layers by then, but it was only going to get colder from here. As the new students—'freshers'—piled onto campus, occupying every study spot and making the swimming pool even busier, you found yourself envying them. There was excitement in their eyes, a light only sparked by new beginnings. You'd had the same light in your eyes in the spring, but the leaves were falling and a cold chill was coming in and your beginning was ending. The freshers had too many days ahead of them to count them; you were all too aware that January was only three—almost two—months away. Suddenly, everything changes, and you start to think that maybe you should just block out that ticking clock.

But it's everywhere. It's in the turning over of calendars and leaves, the changing colours of campus, the ducklings that had almost grown up to adults. You pull the sleeves of your too-thin sleeves as you stare at them, wondering where the time went, wondering when everything changed.

"You're gonna need another layer," Oscar says, his hand finding yours. "You're shivering."

You shrug, eyes still on the ducklings that were now ducks, trying very hard to stiffen your body. You fail, and your voice comes out shaky. "Haven't got any. Laundry day is tomorrow."

"You have the hoodie I gave you somewhere, right?"

Right. You did. It was folded neatly on a shelf in your wardrobe, separate from your own new layers, as if kept on a pedestal. You'd always been too embarrassed to actually wear it, even if he refused to take it back.

You shrug again. "Yeah."

Oscar leans forward to look at you; you don't turn to make it easier. At that point you figure he must know something is off with you, but he doesn't push, always looking out for you silently.

"Come on." Gently, he lets go of your hand and stands, but you don't look up. "There's still time before your lecture, we can go get it."

Your hands move to your lap, gripping the fabric of your shirt as you inhale deeply. The cold air hurts when you let it in, and you wonder if your lungs had already made the transition from air to water. You wonder how long it'll take to get used to going back to normal, back to shore, back home without Oscar just across the corridor.

His shadow shifts as he crouches in front of you, and you finally meet his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Just cold," you lie, making him tilt his head and raise his eyebrows. You raise yours too, a challenge, but he doesn't back down—he knows you're lying. Fine. You sigh and tell the truth. "And stupidly sad that the ducklings grew up."

"Ah." He turns to look at them briefly and a nostalgic smile crosses his face when he turns back. "Passage of time?"

"Yeah." They were just ducklings when you'd first sat here with him. Tiny little things grouping around their parents for safety, barely capable of holding their own, an now you didn't even know which ones were siblings. They'd grown up, some had left, and somehow you were still the same and didn't know how to move forward. "Passage of time."

He stands and he offers you his hand; you only take a moment before you take it, standing beside him. You squeeze it as you glance at the lake again, feeling like it was just yesterday when the trees were thick enough to cover the buildings. Now they had lost almost all of their leaves, revealing the truth of your little spot. It was still the same, but it was different now. And maybe you coped with change less well than you thought. You ignore the ticking clock. And the two hemispheres, the two oceans, the several hours, the thousands of miles.

With time, you ignore it as wisely as you'd ignore a medical concern, procrastinating the inevitable confrontation for as long as you can. It haunts you at night, ticking away whether you're alone or with Oscar, but you silence it as best you can and before you know it you're halfway through October and you don't even notice.

You start wearing Oscar's hoodie more often. It was a damn good hoodie, so comfortable you kind of felt bad for taking it. You figure that the least you can do is put it to good use, so it quickly becomes your main layer. It was just thick enough to shield you from the chill of English autumn, and comfortable enough to wear at home. Oscar doesn't mind, only smiles and teases when he points it out, rejecting your offers to share it. Every day, whether in his room or yours, you have a small discussion about the hoodie and it's the closest you ever get to a fight. Every time, it ends up staying in your care, but you weren't giving up as easily this time.

You sit at your desk and face him, the hoodie in your outstretched hand towards him on your bed. "I mean, it's just- it's yours. You could at least wear it sometimes."

"Ours." He corrects with a smug grin. He always did wear that smirk when you wore his hoodie, but you often ignored it.

"Fine. Ours." You roll your eyes and hand it to him, placing it next to him on your bed. "So wear it."

Oscar laughs as he takes it in his hands, clearly finding this whole situation absurd. "Okay, okay. We'll share custody."

"And if it's ours," you start, folding your arms. "I want to decorate it a little."

He catches your glance at your small sewing kit on your desk. "Sure."

"What, really?" You'd been joking. You'd been joking, really, but now you weren't.

The hoodie is in front of you on your desk as he nods, clearly not overly invested in what you plan to do with it. You grab a needle and some black thread, but you're not even sure what you want to sew on it.

"Who gets to keep it?" You ask, holding the thread in your hands. If you don't know what you're doing with it, you can't exactly measure how much you need. "After…you know…"

It's the first time you see him consider the end of this, the end of whatever you two are, and he just shakes his head, dismisses it just as you have. "We can decide when the time comes."

Silence falls between you two then and you ignore as the ticking clock makes its way back to the forefront of your mind. Instead, your eyebrows furrow as you consider what you could decorate this hoodie with using your very limited knowledge of sewing.

"You know," he suggests when he notices your struggling expression. "We could always put our names on it."

You raise an eyebrow. "I'm not that good with a needle and thread."

He shrugs. "Favourite numbers?"

"Huh." 13 and 81. Those weren't super difficult to sew on. "Not a bad plan."

It's clear as crystal then, exactly what you were going to do with this hoodie—you were going to brand it. Small, subtle, with symbols only you two knew meant represented the two of you. You grab its right sleeve and pull it inside-out, focusing on the cuff.

"I'm thinking of putting it here." You spin your chair to face him. "Small. But still there."

"Good placement, I think."

You nod, but something was still off. "Did you want to do yours? I don't mind teaching you."

He tilts his head with a pensive hum, hesitating for only a moment. "Sure. I think I can handle sewing two numbers. Where should I start?"

It turns out he knows about as much as you do—the basics of repairing holes on socks—so you don't teach him so much as you guide him. Once he's done, he admires his work with a proud smile. It's messy—he'd tried to make the eight circular and had landed on more of and octagonal shape, and the one was obviously not a straight line—but it's his, and it's wonderful, so you smile back.

"You didn't have to try to make the eight look circular, you know," You tease him with a nudge. "You could have used the style on the-…wait, the…oh my god. The clocks with screens."

"Your phone?"

"No, no, the- the alarm clocks with the massive numbers on them."

He chuckles. "Digital clocks?"

"Yes! That." You laugh as you turn towards your desk. "That's what I'm doing for the three."

He stands behind you as you start sewing, watching you work with his hands landing comfortably on your shoulders. Yours doesn't end up looking much better—again, the one isn't as a straight a line as it should be, and those right angles on the three always came out too acute or too obtuse, never perfect—but it's yours. A messily embroidered 81 next to an equally messy 13.

It occurs to you that you definitely do not want to keep this hoodie.

"Do you feel less bad wearing it now?" He asks, sitting back down on your bed. Originally, he'd been getting some reading done, but he had either finished it or ignored it in favour of listening to your hoodie rant.

"Yes." You put away your sewing stuff and sit next to him on the bed, setting the hoodie on his lap. "But only if you wear it, too."

He nods with a chuckle and puts it on right then, right before you two settle into your evening routine of cuddles you had to pretend weren't too intimate. You could still hear Zoey's voice claiming so, and you knew she was always right.

Once it's your turn with the hoodie, you regret your arrangement—you find that it smells exactly like him.

The end of October comes along with a vengeance, and you find yourself holed up in the library surrounded by various textbooks more often than not. Sometimes, Oscar is with you—as he tends to be—and one of you is wearing that damn white hoodie every time. Sometimes, your friends join you (though you truly do wonder whether Courtney and Lando get anything done) and Logan is such a rare sighting that you and Oscar keep a tally of when he shows up.

Eventually, you bring new people along.

First, you bring Ollie, a 'fresher' you met while helping out at an introductory event for your course, just as Lando had done for you but without the nice bonus of a paycheck at the end. Though you're not on his exact course, you're still able to offer some help with his own upcoming exams. You ignore the side glances Oscar keeps giving you two as you help him, knowing that you're both very well aware he's got no reason to be jealous.

Despite you knowing that, it still feels like revenge when he introduces you to Lily.

They'd met at the one Formula 1 society event you'd missed. Lily was a second year like you two, but she'd only just started going to the society this year. Like the very nice guy he was, Oscar had brought her along to your study sessions at the library, offering his and your company. Never in your life had you felt such an irrational dislike for someone who had been nothing but nice to you. Just as you're jealous of the freshers and their new beginnings, you're jealous of Lily's closeness to Oscar as if he's an item only one of you can have. You feel ridiculous as you try your best to avoid giving Oscar the same sideways glances he gave you and Ollie.

It's around here that you realise Zoey maybe did have a point after all.

You had no reason to be jealous. In fact, you'd noticed that Oscar had gotten slightly more clingy since meeting Lily, insisting you spend longer at the lake than you should or tagging along to study with you even at times when he usually didn't. Lily wasn't even that close to Oscar physically. You'd only seen them in the same room at the library and occasionally in your shared kitchen, but she was over often enough to serve as a fantastic plot device for your lore—the plot device that made you realise that you were, in fact, in love with Oscar, and you were actively sitting in a train on a collision course. But you don't move. You do as you did with the ticking clock—you procrastinate the confrontation for as long as you can. There's a part of you that wonders if Ollie made Oscar feel the same, part of you that remembers the side glances and re-frames how clingy he's become. Maybe Ollie had made him jealous, but you were certain Ollie had not served as a plot device in Oscar's life as Lily had in yours.

There's no shift in your dynamic when you accept you're in love with him. Maybe you really had loved him all along.

You had two months to get over it.

Halloween brings several parties and club nights; you attend none. Your group organises a picnic on campus with snacks and drinks, after which the group would separate and attend the other events around campus. You invite Ollie and Oscar invites Lily as if it's some sort of fair trade, and you hardly bother with a costume with so much else on your mind. Before you know it, it's the 31st and you're doing your best to get into the mood of the holiday just as Courtney and Sofia are. They had gladly adopted Lily and invited her over to get ready at yours. She wouldn't be sticking around for long—she had her own plans for the night—but she'd appreciated the place to get ready.

"Thank you so much for the invite," she'd said again as she borrowed your mirror, smiling brightly. "Really. I was worried I'd have to get ready alone."

"Aw, it's no problem!" It had been Sofia's doing, of course, as she'd been the one to steal Lily away from Oscar whenever she was in your shared kitchen.

Courtney stood up, basically ready. She'd had this planned for weeks. "Are you excited for your plans afterwards?"

"Oh, yes." Her eyes glanced at the ceiling dreamily and your heart did an annoying flip, bracing for what words would come next as if they could hurt you. "There's…well, this is kind of embarrassing, but a guy from my course I kind of like invited me to go with him. Like, just the two of us."

The room fills with squeals and you join in as best you can. You even manage words. "Girl, that's great! Would we know him?"

"I doubt it. But I promise he's lovely."

"If he isn't," Sofia said, pretending to glare threateningly. "We've got your back. Promise."

Lily giggles and thanks you guys again as your brain facepalms at your heart's earlier reaction. What had it thought? That she's say Oscar's name? That Oscar wouldn't have told you if he wanted to date Lily instead? You two weren't even dating, not officially, not really. And you wouldn't be whatever it was you two were in about two months.

There it was. Tick tock, like it always did.

You pick up on how your friends don't bring up Courtney and Lando, probably to avoid bringing up you and Oscar. You were too complicated to explain, and you certainly didn't have enough time to defend all the reasons why it was that complicated. There's a knock at you door and you guys head out as you continue to ignore the ticking as best as you can.

The group settles in a circle, partners and not really partners finding spots next to each other. Jealousy seems to be a theme this autumn—you find a twinge of it in your expression towards Courtney and Lando's interlaced hands, how she lies on his shoulder, how they can't keep off each other, how they'd even planned a couples costume. All you have to prove that the man next to you is a little yours is the fact that he's wearing the hoodie you'd spent the better part of last week wearing, under the excuse that it was perfect for the costume he'd been planning. You still hadn't figured out what it was.

"Wait, Oscar." Ollie leans forward from next to you to get a better look at him. "Isn't that hoodie Y/N's? She wears it at the library like, all the time."

The circle falls silent and you feel your cheeks burn. You shoot Oscar a look as he flinches, but his mouth was already open to respond without missing a beat.

"Technically, we share it." Oscar replies, brushing right over the flinch you're sure only you noticed. "She didn't bring enough layers for the year, so…"

"Oh, sure." Ollie grins and rolls his eyes. "You happened to sit next to each other, you happen to share a hoodie…and there's no romantic reasons for it."

You and Oscar exchange a glance, panic only you two see flashing across your eyes. It would take too long to explain, too many troops to defend whatever it was that you two had. Lying was much easier, so you clear your throat.

"He never said there weren't," you say in your best nonchalant tone, but you catch Courtney and Sofia's worried looks. "But that was the main reason. I was an idiot, needed a hoodie, and now we share it."

Ollie nods, satisfied, and that's when Lily cuts in. "I did think you two were dating! Why did you never mention it?"

Because we're not. At least not much longer.

Oscar shrugs. "I guess it never came up."

"Sure you weren't just keeping it secret?" Ollie teases again, blissfully unaware of the weight his words were putting on you two. "I mean, it's not going to be easy-"

"Alright!" Courtney pounces in before Ollie can bring up the distance, sitting up quickly. "Whose are those brownies, and could I please have one?"

You nod a thank you towards her and she smiles sympathetically, continuing to swiftly move the topic away from dating. The concern from the rest of the group slowly fades—and the topic doesn't come back up even as Lily and Ollie leave—but the lie hangs heavy between you and Oscar. Without really thinking about it, you reach for Oscar's hand and he doesn't move it away, he squeezes yours back. In the middle of this thing you had thrown yourself into, his hand was the only anchor.

Ironically enough, it was also the only thing pulling you further in.

You all head back together, Lando taking Courtney back to his and Sofia tagging along with Logan's group to some pres in a different accommodation block. Again, it's just you and Oscar, and you can fall back into your usual routine. Except you're not sure if you can. You definitely didn't want him to stay the night, and that was okay, but you usually spent the evening together and you definitely didn't want that either.

"Are you okay?" He asks as soon as you're alone, opening the door to his room. "I'm sorry, I didn't know what to say-"

"No, it's okay, I'm okay." You give him a faint smile and his eyebrows furrow; he doesn't believe you, so you insist. "Really. We should've had an answer ready. I think that one's…good enough."

"Yeah." He's still standing at his door, confused as to why you weren't following him in. "Uh…did you want to go to your room tonight instead?"

You nod, stepping away from him. "Just…by myself, though."

"Oh." There's something in his expression you can't decipher—it's closest to confusion, but there's a twinge of concern. "Okay. I guess I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah." You feel the explanation pushing its way up your throat like bile, so you quickly add, "It's just- this isn't going to last much longer."

Your words take a moment to sink in. Then his eyebrows furrow and his expression falls, his concern growing; you continue explaining with your eyes glued to the floor this time.

"I don't…I don't want to do this too often." It wasn't as if you had to sleep over, you didn't always, but even spending the evening with him seemed like too much. "To avoid getting attached to…something that only has two months left."

You look up just in time to see him frown at the reminder. Awkward silence falls between you for the first time since you'd met, filled with the weight of things unsaid, and you can't bring yourself to give them a voice.

"Right." He swallows back his own words and adverts his eyes, stepping back into his room. "Very…reasonable."

You hum in agreement, dragging your feet on the floor. Sensing the awkward silence creeping in again, you cut the interaction short with a wave. "I'll see you tomorrow."

You barely let him say it back before you open and close your door and bury your face in your pillow. A few moments go by before you hear his door click shut, as if he'd lingered for a while. You don't let yourself wonder why. You just take a deep breath, get up, and start to get changed.

It's not like you hadn't spent nights without each other. You certainly didn't spend every night with each other, but neither of you had ever rejected an invitation for that reason. To get attached less. As if you hadn't literally stitched yourself to him by now, both metaphorically and literally on that damn hoodie. Once you fall into bed you groan into your pillow, almost regretting not going to Oscar's if only because he could take your mind off things with his lips.

Take that, Zoey, you think, it really is just for fun now.

But you remember the flip your heart did at the idea of him dating someone else and realise you're terrible at lying even to yourself. You want to kiss Oscar because you love him. And you want to kiss Oscar so you can forget for how little time you can.

At 3am, you wake up as if it's the morning. You toss and turn, you flip your pillow, you even try swapping your head to the end of the bed, and nothing seems to work. You place your hands on your face and groan, kicking your legs as if throwing a whole tantrum. Sleep was needed—you couldn't stay up, not with the haunting of the ticking clock—and you were upset that your body wasn't cooperating. When you eventually settle with a deep breath, ready to try the same things again, you hear a knock at your door.

You bolt upright immediately, standing and glancing at the door with eyes narrowed in suspicion. At this time, it could've been anyone, and maybe they'd been unlucky and locked themselves out like you had. You're mentally preparing for the walk required until you open the door and your eyes widen.

Why would it be anyone other than Oscar?

"Hey," you say, ready to tease him before you catch his key dangling around his neck and your eyes narrow. "Wait. You're not locked out."

He shakes his head, offering no further explanation.

You blink. "So…what's up?"

"I couldn’t sleep." His tone is small, almost pitiful as if he's admitting defeat. "I…needed to talk to you. I just- I couldn't let you say all that and not…respond, I guess."

It seems that the things left unsaid were serving as an uncomfortable bump in both your mattresses.

"It's okay if you don't want to let me in," he continues. "I just need to let this off my chest."

"I…" You inhale, thinking back. You'd missed him, you'd wanted him to join you. "No, come in. It'll be more comfortable."

He follows you into your room with a small thank you, his whole body stiff in discomfort. He'd never pushed back like this, never really asked you for anything, and it was clear he wasn't used to it. You wonder what he's going to say, what kind of thing would make him this anxious. You don't like any of the choices your brain lands on.

Once he's sat on your bed, you beside him, he inhales. "I think we should use the time we have."

You close your eyes and inhale. His logic is sound and it aligns more with what you actually want, but you're supposed to want to detach yourself. To wean yourself off the addiction before it gets worse. To slowly make your lungs used to air again before all they know is water.

"Obviously it's okay if you want to spend nights alone," he says quickly as if to ensure that you're comfortable. "But not for that reason. We don't have to…kill this off before it dies."

But you do. You have to kill it off before it hurts. But you don't say that. Instead, you lean towards what you want.

"You're right," you say. "And I do want you to stay tonight, it's just…I can feel time slipping away every second."

"I feel that, too," he admits, shifting closer to you. "I guess, my logic is…"

You give a short laugh. "Time will pass anyway?"

Oscar nods. "Time will pass anyway."

The passage of time had taken enough away by now. It had turned new starts into endings, it had turned over new leaves, it had made ducklings grow into ducks. At the very least, you could let yourself have whatever it was you and Oscar had without constantly staring at the clock.

"I suppose…" you start with an inhale, finding yourself hesitating. "…we might as well watch the passage of time together."

"Are you sure?"

You nod. "Yes, I'm sure."

Then he looks you up and down as if you're hiding your refusal somewhere, but obviously he finds nothing. He offers and embrace and you take it with enough force to almost knock him over.

"Okay, okay," he chuckles, placing a hand on the back of your head. "But first, I have a question."

"Yeah?"

"Why the hell is your pillow in the wrong place?"

You laugh and shake your head. "It's not the 'wrong' place. It's different."

He pulls away to narrow his eyes at you, hands on your shoulders. "Wrong."

"Different."

"Maybe I should reconsider sleeping over."

You shrug. "You're not going to."

"You're right." He lifts his hand to put it on your on your cheek, stroking it with his thumb. Like it's instinct, you lean into the touch. "I'm not going to."

In the spirit of going along with what you want, you lean in until your forehead is resting against his. You catch his smile grow and you kiss him then, quickly and sweetly, testing exactly what the mood is. His eyes hold the same desire they did the night he first kissed you, and you entertain the idea of going that far. For the first time, you don't run into an immediate no.

Then, you yawn.

"Right," He says with a chuckle as he pulls away. "We're going to bed."

"But-"

"And you're going swimming tomorrow."

You pout. "I hate you."

"You do not," he scoffs with amusement.

"I do! Only someone I hate would make sure I stick to my commitments."

"Someone you love would look out for you like that," he corrects. "And you love me, really."

"Fine," You shrug in defeat. "I do."

It hangs between you like the strings you swore weren't attaching you two together. His eyes—no, his pupils—widen ever so slightly, and he opens his mouth to speak.

Suddenly, it occurs to you that you don't want to hear him say it back.

You quickly add, "But I also hate you."

He grins. The lopsided one. Whatever he was actually going to say, he swallows back. "I'll take that."

Without moving the pillow back to it's original—correct—place, you go under the covers and settle into the rest of your usual routine. You place an arm over his body with your head on his chest and he holds you to his side with an arm around you. The silence is comfortable, allowing your ears to catch the soothing rhythm of his heartbeat.

And there it was—the ticking clock.

It's soft, distant, like it's mourning the end of this as much as you two are. The clock isn't at fault for the passage of time, it merely ticks by to record it as it slips away. It brings you some peace to know that it doesn't want to take this away from you—it's just warning you. You've only got so much time left underwater.

"The universe is very cruel," Oscar mutters suddenly; you feel the hum of it in his chest and shift to look at him as he continues. "It's not fair that we'll be… So far away from each other."

You inhale, but then you laugh sharply, pretending to find humour in your situation. "I think it's even more cruel that it let us meet just to separate us."

Oscar doesn't disagree. You both stay on the track, on the collision course, underwater, and neither of you even suggest moving. You wonder if watching the time pass together would ever be enough to make the ending easier.

You convince yourself you'll be able to cut the strings when the time comes.

The morning after, you do indeed go swimming, and you're the only person you know—besides Oscar—that is up before midday. Your calendar reads 'November,' marks out all the exams and assignments due in the month, and it's stark reminder that two months will soon tick down to one. You inhale and ignore it as your phone vibrates. A message from Ollie.

Ollie: hey!! Ollie: i am SO SORRY about last night Ollie: i just realised how pushy i came off

A smile tugs at your lips. You hadn't been expecting an apology, but it was appreciated. You lounge back at your desk and type out a reply.

You: hey!! no worries You: we've just never had to explain it before and it was sudden You: that's why court cut you off when you almost brought up the distance lol

His reply doesn't take long to come through.

Ollie: oh!! Ollie: i'm sorry!! You: nws!!

Ollie was so apologetic; you almost feel bad. You play with the idea of telling him why you'd been so secretive, why the distance was a problem. Oscar had never told you that there were people you couldn't tell.

You: before you ask You: the plan is no plan lol Ollie: oh??

And it felt good to have someone else to tell. Someone that also wouldn't judge your decisions, someone that just gently warned you but let you stay underwater.

Someone that isn't your best friend, Zoey, who is always right and keeps reminding you of this every time you call.

"Am I seriously the only person telling you this is a bad idea?"

"Yeah." Zoey huffs in response. "Everyone else just gives me mildly concerned and judging looks."

"And they should. You're going too far with this."

You roll your eyes. "Are we going to talk about anything else?"

"No."

Your eyebrows raise in judgement as you sit up. That's when Zoey catches you red-handed.

"And that's his hoodie, isn't it?"

You freeze and slowly look down at your body. It had become so natural to wear this damn hoodie that you hadn't thought to change to avoid Zoey's very correct comments. With your eyes on the phone again, you nod in shame.

"Cute." Her lips form a thin line. "You sure you aren't in love yet?"

Your silence is admission enough.

You know it'll end by winter.

Halfway through December means you've survived your exams; it also means there are just weeks left now.

By this point, you've accepted your fate. You've accepted that it'll be so difficult to get your lungs used to air again that the process will definitely leave bruises and scars. You've accepted that this will end when you leave, and that there's nothing you can do to make it work across two oceans. Watching the time pass by wasn't enough. You've accepted your fate.

The air grows colder and shifts your routine. That damn lake, that precious spot, had frozen over, and it was often too cold outside to sit by it as you and Oscar used to do. Now, you go straight to where you need to go in the afternoon; you can no longer afford to linger. It's also too cold for swimming, so you stop doing that, too, meaning that you and Oscar's breakfast/lunch routine no longer line up. Just as you two had decided to take advantage of the time that you have, the universe decides to give you less of it. The water is freezing over and you're slowly making your way back to shore before you're stuck under the ice because the universe has given you no choice. Even the hoodie, which had been so perfect for the last few months, was no longer enough of a shield against the cold.

Despite this, you take advantage of no longer going swimming and stay up later, morning routines be damned. The number of events dwindle as people go home for Christmas, but you've still got some things to attend in the new year to serve as a transition for your next year of university. You're lucky none of them are in the morning, allowing you to stay up late with Oscar.

You don't do much talking.

Your lips are like magnets, meeting again and again as you savour the time you have left in the water. Hands start to wander under fabric until there isn't any fabric in their way at all. Again, you entertain the idea of going further and, again, you don't run into an immediate no. It's closer to a yes, actually, held back only by the very little amount of sand left in the hourglass.

Telling him about your little countdown wasn't something that ever crossed your mind. Why waste time on the intricacies and the details of it all? You had agreed to watch the time pass together, and that seemed to be enough for him so it had to be enough for you, too. Eventually, the countdown gets loud and, in that space between Christmas and New Year's where time hardly matters, you decide to admit that it wasn't enough, and that you were still counting down.

It proves difficult to, especially when your back is on his bed and he's on top of you, every breath you take shared with his on account of your lips hardly ever separating and tongues intertwining. That kind of makes it difficult to talk; you don't mind until the ticking gets even louder and you're desperate to get it out of your mind.

"I'm leaving in 18 days," you manage to mumble before he takes your lips in his again.

"Don't," he whispers into your mouth. "Don't remind me."

"And you leave in 13-"

He kisses you hard, pushing you into the mattress with the force. "Don't. Please."

"I can't help it." With a quiet sigh, he rests his head on your chest and, as if rehearsed, you run a hand through his hair. Your breaths are heavy and loaded just as his are; you wonder if it's more than a side effect of all the kissing. "All I've been doing for weeks is counting down."

His hand reaches for the one still at your side and squeezes it. "What can I do to make you stop counting?"

"I will always be counting. It's like there's a damn clock in my brain."

"Okay," Oscar sighs, heavy with defeat but not quite giving up yet. "What can I do to distract you from it, then?"

There was nothing he could do, you knew that, but most of you wanted him to try.

You inhale. "More than this."

He rests his chin on your chest to meet your eyes with his; their expression is the same as back at the club. You've not even entertained the idea of going that far before you've already said yes to yourself, and the resolve in your eyes makes his widen.

But he needs you to say it out loud. "Are you sure?"

You inhale to make sure it comes out as certain as you mean it. "Yes."

And with that lopsided grin on his face, his lips are back on yours, his hands wander under your shirt until it's discarded on the floor, and the ticking clock fades into the background like a muffled warning siren that you're choosing to ignore. That night, you give too much of yourself to someone you're sure you'll never see again and, somehow, you're okay with him keeping part of you forever.

Afterwards, when he's holding you close and you're halfway to sleep, the soundtrack of the ticking clock comes back to the forefront, a rude reminder that the water is getting dangerously cold. Again, you're counting. Oscar couldn't silence it forever.

Two hemispheres. Two oceans. Several hours. Thousands of miles.

"This isn't going to make it across two oceans," you mumble into his chest, looking down to avoid his eyes.

"I know," he replies into the top of your head, but he doesn't elaborate, instead holding you tighter as if that'll make your words any less true.

Neither of you ever make an effort to prove you wrong.

Your dates of departure are close enough that they loom over everyone now, not just you. The ticking clock had made itself known to all of you, and Courtney was taking it the hardest. Lando had gone home for Christmas, cutting their time short, and she was getting a taste of what their relationship would be like from January onwards and was finding that it was quite bitter.

"I want to do this, it's just-" she takes a shaky breath between you and Sofia, holding one of your cushions to her chest. "He's barely been gone a week. How am I gonna deal with months?"

Sofia squeezes her tightly. "You two will be just fine. It'll be hard, but you'll make a five hour difference look like nothing."

"I know, it's just-" she gasps. "You guys will be gone, too! Oh, January is gonna suck so much."

"At last we still have New Year's Eve!" Sofia replies, trying to shift the mood. "We're not there yet."

"You're right." Courtney tries to smile, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. At least she's trying. "We've got plenty of time before our only communication is through reels and memes."

"I will never stop texting you guys," you say with resolve, a part of you desperate to tug the conversation away from this long distance business. "You're going to get sick of me."

Courtney smiles faintly. "We could never. And we still need to meet Zoey in person."

"Oh, you will."

Suddenly, the air in the room changes. Sofia shifts on your bed and Courtney turns her body to face you fully. You get the sense that this is an intervention, and you want to tug the conversation away again.

"So- um…" Sofia clears her throat. "You and Oscar-"

"Still ending what we have when we leave, yeah."

Their expressions don't believe you, and neither do they. All that matters is that you do.

Courtney clears her throat. "You know you don't have to. You can-"

"Yeah," you interrupt, desperately tugging the conversation in any other direction still. "But it's what we want."

It's final, a truth you will convince yourself of, and they don't press any further.

The number of days you have left in England ticks down to 13 as New Year's Eve comes along, and the number of times you and Oscar give too much of yourselves to each other is too high for something that has such an imminent expiry date. There's a screening of the London fireworks show on the outdoor screen on campus, so you agree to attend together. You wake up in Oscar's room and it's just you in bed—he's up and on the phone with a bright smile on his face.

"Yes, I'll call you guys in a few hours. Yeah. Oh, yeah, I'll send the details over. I can't wait to be back either. I love you too, bye."

You've sat up by the time he's turned to face you. "Family?"

"Yeah." Oscar sits next to you. "New year over there is at 1pm, so I'll call them again."

"Oh." You can't help your wince. "I always forget how big the difference is."

"Yeah. 11 hours."

Two hemispheres. Two oceans. Several hours. Thousands of miles.

Just as you did with the girls, he tugs the conversation away from the distance. "Lando texted me."

"Oh?"

"He needs our help sneaking in to surprise Courtney."

A noise leaves your lips, something between pleasantly surprised and downright shocked. "He's- coming back?"

Oscar nods. "He'll just need us to tell him where Courtney is so he can avoid her."

"Shouldn't be too difficult," you say with a shrug, your tone harsh. "She's just been sulking in her room most days. Missing him."

His eyes narrow and he tilts his head. "You're saying that like it's an irrational response."

"It kind of is, to me. I just don't understand why they're putting themselves through this."

"Because they're in love."

You hate that he says it like it's easy. Like it's the answer and the key when it's just a chemical reaction. So, you scoff and speak bitterly.

"That's not enough to get across the Atlantic."

The emotion in his eyes is beyond judgement—it's pity. Oscar feels sorry for you and your perceived weakness of love. "So- what, you're just gonna cut them off when you go back?"

"Of course not, but-" you huff and stumble over your words, unsure of where your anger is bubbling up from. "That's- different."

"Is it?"

You roll your eyes and take a deep breath. Though you recognise that he's right, you haven't got the capacity to admit that to him out loud, so you stand up and walk towards the door, hoping you're not leaving anything behind.

"I'll let you know where Courtney is," you say as you open the door. The sound of it makes him almost leap from his spot towards you. "Let me know if you need me to keep her here-"

He gently grabs your wrist. "Wait."

"Oscar-"

"Are you okay?"

"Yes." You lie too quickly. "Probably tired, or something. I'm sorry."

There's no reason for him to believe you, but he nods and pretends you're telling the truth. "That's…it's okay. I'll see you tonight?"

You give him the most genuine smile you can. "I'll see you tonight."

And he gives you a peck on the lips before you turn. You do goodbye kisses, remember?

Courtney spends the day with you and Sofia, pretending not to sulk, and you make sure she doesn't see the updates from Oscar about where Lando is and where she shouldn't be. The sun sets by the mid-afternoon and it truly dawns on you that your year abroad is over, and you are so incredibly angry. You don't get it. You don't understand why they're doing this to themselves, don't understand how Oscar can think that love is enough to overcome the distance, don't understand how he can compare what they have to your friendships. Friendships are different, lower pressure, easier to maintain in your eyes. You view platonic love as having a stronger foundation than romantic love, less passionate but solid and sustainable. Romantic love may be more passionate but it walks a tightrope the whole time, and it stood no chance at crossing thousands of miles.

That evening, when Courtney finds Lando in the crowd and her eyes light up like fireworks, you start to understand.

She squeals so loud it makes you jump, and by the time you think to turn towards her she's already sprinted past you, stumbling into Lando's arms like she was meant to fall there all along. Then he's spinning her around in the air as if his strength comes from her presence, both of them giggling like they hadn't just spent the last week longing for each other. You suppose that this is the point. The reunion, the resolution to the longing, the embrace as the distance finally becomes mere inches.

Oscar's looking at you from across the crowd, from where Lando used to be standing before Courtney changed his course. His expression is satisfied when your eyes meet his; he can tell you're starting to get it and that makes your eyes narrow. Slowly and carefully, as if your glance could kill, he makes his way towards you and takes his place beside you.

"They're in love," he says gently as if that will soften the blow. "I personally think it can cross the Atlantic."

"Good for you," you reply bitterly, folding your arms, but then you sigh. You give up immediately. "And…fine. Good for them."

It doesn't mean anything for the two of you.

His smile turns smug as his hand slips into yours. It stays there as midnight ticks closer, the only time in which all of humanity seems to celebrate a clock ticking away. At 11pm, you call home and do your best to pretend that you're happy you're going back. Part of you is. Part of you misses your family and your friends and the weather and, oh my god, the food, but then your hand slips back into Oscar's and you seriously wonder if you could put up with gloomy England just to stay with him. Except he's not from England. He's from Australia, and he'll be back there in eight days.

Two hemispheres. Two oceans. Several hours. Thousands of miles.

He's not staying and neither are you.

There's only a few minutes left until midnight when Oscar asks, "So you're excited to go back?"

"Yeah," you reply as earnestly as you can, though the way you squeeze his hand betrays you. "It feels like it's about time, you know? To go back to normal."

He hums and squeezes your hand in return. "Back to normal."

Life without him hadn't been bad. You'd done it for two decades. Surely, eventually, you could learn to go back to normal. The end of this calendar year marks the end of this adventure, and now it was time go home. To go back to normal.

The crowd starts chanting when it's ten seconds to midnight and Oscar gives you a loaded look. You raise an eyebrow at him and his expression insists, the distance between you two getting smaller as you gravitate closer. What's coming is inevitable and you're okay with being helpless to stop it. He gives you a lopsided grin and you think, fuck it.

What's one more cold plunge in the deep end?

When the clock finally strikes midnight and the crowd erupts into cheers, you're already kissing him with a finality that scares you. His arms pull you closer from around your waist and your heart swells, flies up into the sky like a firework with the rest of them, but it's just as fleeting as the display on the screen. It's the spark, the flight up, the explosion, and the sudden end, and you're at that last stage now. You're reaching the shore, and it's time to go home. Back to normal.

When you pull away, despite your smile, you find yourself resolved to never kiss him again.

"Happy new year," he whispers as he pulls you in for a hug. From there, you can see Courtney and Lando are still kissing. You sigh.

"Happy new year." It's less earnest than you mean for it to be, but you hope hugging him tighter will make up for it.

He keeps his arms around your waist when you pull away to look at the fireworks. Your eyes end up on his instead, and you take in a sharp breath at the emotion in his eyes. Whatever is behind them is heavy with words unsaid and you find that you really, really, don't want him to give them a voice.

"Hey," he inhales, rubbing his thumb along your back like he's nervous, and you know that the last time he'd admitted he was nervous was what got you into this mess. "I-"

"I- I should really go find the others," you chuckle awkwardly, desperately, as you untangle yourself from him. "I'll see you later?"

You hate the way his face sinks. Whatever words were unsaid fall right back to what you're sure is now a pit in his stomach that you have to live with causing. "…Yeah. I'll see you later."

Oscar turns away from you before you step back, as if he's avoiding your gaze. You ignore that it hurts you slightly; you deserved that.

You reconvene as a group and hang out until past 1am, still avoiding finding yourself alone with Oscar. Far earlier than the rest, you head back to your room, hoping that Oscar doesn't knock or text or do anything that expresses desire to continue your usual routine.

Bizarrely, you're disappointed when he never does.

That morning, you turn your calendar to January and the date of your return hits you like a slap across the face. You'd been so excited when you'd first filled it in—the several exclamation marks indicated as such—but now that feeling mocked you. In two weeks, you were leaving. In one week—just seven days—Oscar was taking part of you with him.

Those few days are a blur. You do spend every night with him, including the last, but he never even tries to say what he'd almost said on New Year's Eve again, and you're thankful. It makes easier to pretend that he'd never meant to try to say it, that he was just drunk on the one drink he'd had, anything but that he could possibly mean those words. Anything but that. On your part, you stick to your resolve of not kissing him again, and he barely reacts to the space between you as if he's numb to your rejections at this point; you've become numb to rejecting him. On the last few days, you insist on staying in your room—his looks too depressing with everything packed up and put away, as if he'd never been there in the first place. Back to normal.

When the dreaded day comes, you say goodbye at the bus stop. You could get on the bus with him to the train station, you could take the train with him to airport, but it didn't make a difference. Whether you said goodbye here or at the train station or at the airport, he was still leaving you today and you saw no point in dragging the string on any further. He is leaving you today. Nothing is changing that.

It doesn't hit either of you until his bus is there, waiting to take him away. Oscar holds you tighter than he ever has, disregarding his suitcase entirely, and you hold him back like it's the last time you'll ever see him because you're convinced that's the truth. You don't kiss though your lips are still magnets and it takes all of your strength to keep them apart. But it was over—you must keep your head above the water. Then he inhales, deep and sharp as if bracing for something. You imagine that the look in his eyes is, again, heavy with things unsaid, but you're too numb to interrupt him. You let him say whatever it is that's been weighing so heavily on his mind.

"I love you."

It would have all been easier had he never said it out loud.

All you can do scoff, but you hold him tighter anyway.

"That's mean," you manage to say, voice breaking. Any other reply drowns in the knot in your throat. You don't say it back. You can't say it back, or you'll mean it. "That's really mean."

Oscar sighs as he lets go of you; you're sure you imagine the tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry."

With a small wave and a thin-lipped, polite smile—as if he was just an acquaintance—you turn and walk away without even watching him get on the bus. Oscar doesn't run after you and you never turn back. The only thing that satisfies you is that, at the very least, you walked away first.

You wince when the bus drives past you and avoid looking in, afraid of meeting his eyes. With that, the band-aid that had stuck to your brain by him looking out for you is ripped off, painfully, and one reminder is replaced with another.

At least the ticking clock has finally stopped.

Oscar texts you when he lands, short and polite. You reply that you're glad he's safe and wish him luck regarding the upcoming release of grades you'd both forgotten about. That is the extent of your text conversation, and you don't try to revive it.

The next week feels like years. You get very good at packing clothes and feelings into small spaces, determined to take everything back with you. Before you know it, suitcases are packed, feelings are compartmentalised and dealt with by ignoring them, and your friends are leaving you, too. Sofia leaves first, then Courtney. You cry in their arms both times, making earnest promises to see each other when you get a chance, to call as often as possible, to keep each other updated. It doesn't feel like an ending, and you're glad about that even when your jealousy creeps up as Courtney and Lando head off together. He's taking her all the way to the airport, making use of the time they have left. Justifying why you didn't go with Oscar becomes harder after that.

You don't remember anything about the days between then and your own flight. You barely remember the faint smile on your lips when your grades come in, or your brief text conversation with Oscar about them. You just remember packing, burying, longing, and repeat, until you're finally ready to fly back home and your room looks as it did when you found it, back to normal. No tears are shed; you're very good at holding them back, even when you walk out of your room and stare at the 018 on the door across the corridor as if it's an insult.

As you pack, you find the hoodie.

It should feel like a punch in the gut, but you just sigh in disappointment. What you feel is almost pity—the hoodie must feel abandoned, having been left behind by its original owner. You text Oscar to ask what you should do with it, and what he says in response burns itself into your mind.

Oscar: It's technically ours Oscar: Keep it

Ours.

You feel you should burn the hoodie instead; you wonder if that will hurt you more than letting it haunt you. That is how it ends up in the back of your closet for a year, ready to force you to remember when you least expect it. You cry on the flight, more than happy to let the flight attendant believe that it's because of the turbulence. You cry when you land and hug your parents, more than happy to let them believe it was because you were so delighted to be back. Everyone gets a text when you land, even Oscar, but you stop texting him sooner than you stop texting even Ollie. Your conversations are short, strained, forced, and neither of you do anything to fix it. You force yourself to be okay with that.

Zoey comes over and doesn't let you go, jumping up and down with you in the embrace. There's not much to catch up on given that you were in contact as often as you could be, but she still essentially stays over for a sleepover with movies and gossip. Going back to normal feels easy, possible, especially back in your childhood bedroom with your childhood best friend.

But eventually, briefly, Oscar comes up. Your answers are just as brief.

"So…you ended it?" Zoey asks between handfuls of popcorn. "He's fully gone, took his hoodie back…just like that?"

You swallow. "Yes. We ended it."

Her eyes narrow, questioning your answer, but she doesn't push. "Okay. But if it hits you suddenly…I'm here. No judgement."

Though you believe her, you never take her up on that offer; you never speak Oscar's name again.

You really were a fool to think that you'd ever forgotten last year.

The hoodie had dragged you right back underwater, everything flooding back to you with such force that you don't even notice the tears forming in your eyes. Had you even cried about him? No, not really. You'd buried yourself into your last year of university and buried whatever you two had deep underground, never to be processed.

How healthy of you.

You'd only texted on birthdays, liked posts, you'd done the bare minimum that two acquaintances would do, ignoring the fact that you could hardly watch Formula 1 without thinking of what Oscar would say. And the fact that you suddenly liked swimming a little less, just like how pancakes weren't as good anymore. You swore it meant nothing and quickly pretended you'd forgotten him.

But you hadn't, and it was hitting like a gut punch that had been winding up for the whole year, waiting for its opportunity.

A different set of footsteps run towards your room, more urgent this time, and you do sit up for those. It's Zoey, hair half unbraided and eyes wide.

"That's Oscar's, isn't it." She doesn't ask. She just says it.

You want to say it's not. You want to say 'actually, it's ours.' Instead, everything you say catches on the knot in your throat.

Instead, you cry.

You let out all the tears you'd been holding in for the last year in Zoey's arms, sobbing as if you were grieving. Never in your life had you felt more stupid, more hopeless, because how had you gone and entire year without noticing any of this? You were—are—in love with Oscar. You're in love with him, and you're in love with him, and you never stopped being in love with him, and falling for someone eventually has you hit solid ground. Usually, someone is there to catch you.

But it was too late to call out to anyone, so now you're a pile of broken bones on concrete.

"You told me you hadn't kept it," Zoey whispers while she strokes your head to comfort you. "You're-"

"An idiot," you sob angrily. "I know-"

"No," she sighs. "You were just in love."

You don't have the heart to correct her past tense.

Zoey's prophecy comes true—you're on your bed with your packing neglected eating ice cream straight out of the tub with a steady stream of tears running down your face, the hoodie serving as a plush in your arms. You're at least calming down now, letting our small and pitiful laughs at the bad jokes in the rom-coms as your tears dry. Though you still feel like a pile of broken of bones, you're at least being treated now. You're smiling and ignoring the fact that you'll need a more permanent solution.

It's around halfway through the second film that Zoey straightens up beside you. "Is it too soon?"

You tilt your head. "For what?"

"To, um…" she poorly stifles a snort. "To say I told you so."

You let out a gasp, pretending to be hurt, and nudge her hard. Even that doesn't stop her breaking into laughter.

"Come on! I did say I would."

"You did, you did," you giggle. "but…ouch."

She giggles, too, but eventually falls back into serious, problem solving mode. "So…you're gonna text him, right?"

"I can't."

"You need to talk-"

"No, Zoey-" you sigh and hug yourself, tears pricking at your eyes again. "It's too late."

"But what if it isn't?"

"Zoey-"

"I'm being serious, Y/N." She grabs your hand and you turn away, unable to meet her eyes when they hold such care in them. "You clearly care a lot about this guy. The least you can do for yourself is give yourself the closure of knowing whether he still cares for you."

You wipe your face before you turn back to face her sympathy. Though the idea of texting him without an excuse like a birthday or a holiday makes you want to throw up, you take a deep breath and nod as Zoey continues.

"You're gonna text him." She grabs your shoulders, her eyes gentle. "You're going to ask him if he wants his hoodie back, you're going to talk, and see how to move forward."

You open your mouth to say something—not even to protest, just to speak—but Zoey's glare shuts your mouth up again. With a satisfied nod, she hands you your phone.

"Text him. Come on. At the very least so that you don't have to keep that hoodie."

You know that Zoey's always right, so you text him, ignoring that your last message had been a short exchange of 'happy new year's.'

You: hey! sorry, I know it's a been a while. I'm packing to go back home and I came across your hoodie again. I know you said I could keep it, but I feel bad. Is there any way I can send it back to you?

Your breath catches when he reads it immediately.

Thank you guys SO much for reading, I know it was long. Sorry (kinda) for the cliffhanger!! Part 2 coming SOON I promise. Any and all interactions (reblogs + comments especially!!) are appreciated!!

PART TWO - Come Back (To What You Need)

MASTERLIST, OC MASTERLIST

Maomao honestly hardly recalls how their position came exactly to be. It was one of the many times Jinshi stopped by to visit Maomao’s place of work. Even if Maomao can’t work in the palace under the Moon Prince, Jinshi still willingly obscures his face in travel to sit in front of her. Typically, his presence was a distraction at best. But he’s made a habit of supplying hard to acquire herbs and ingredients that she could only dream of getting! Maomao would probably let a lot of things slide if someone brought her things so magnificent, she drools in her sleep cataloging all the ways to make use of them.

They were talking. The topic wasn’t very important… he asked for Maomao’s attention, so Maomao gave him once over, traced his healing scar that was fading into a noticeable line… her dad had stitched well, instead of a jagged line or forming raised shiny skin, it seemed to heal more thin and minimal, though still visible. Proof of experience, battle…

And the second she came to her senses, fingers on skin, Jinshi had captured the hand tracing him and leaned close. Extra close. He smelled softly fragrant as always, though Maomao would call this new blend even more… revealing. Sandalwood? A soft fruity scent too, not obnoxiously so, but something you’d catch the barest hint of when he walked by… while up close it retained its scent more like soft incense. Still not overbearing even in its proximity. It seemed revealing his upbringing allowed him to be more lavish.

Maomao wouldn’t consider it a bad change. It’s pleasing to the nose, certainly.

“You’re not paying attention to me at all, are you?” She hears, a hint of irritation in that silky smooth tone. She blinks into focus, though before she can speak a word to explain her observations, she feels the world tilt.

Cradled by the head, laid onto the wood while Jinshi’s other hand settles on her lower back. Ah… this position was…

“What do I have to do to be the one on your mind?” Jinshi whispers, head dropping beside hers so his voice goes directly into her ear. At the same time, his grip tightens. Maomao clasps his arms in retaliation, a cold sweat dripping down her face as she turns her head away.

“Well I was thinking about your scent…” she grumbles, petulant, and Jinshi hums, pulling his face back just enough to gaze directly at Maomao’s. Ugh. So close. Still handsome. Maomao wonders if others nearly faint getting this close to him. Perhaps viewing him from a distance was for the sake of everyone’s health.

“My scent?” Jinshi echoes. Maomao reluctantly explains with a furrow to her brow.

“Your scent is different.”

“Mm. Of course you noticed. Is it bad?” Jinshi asks. Why did he have that expression? It’s strange. Not mere curiosity. A hint of sadness, maybe. Why did he need Maomao’s approval anyhow?

“There’s nothing of concern in it. The blend was crafted quite well,” she answers. Jinshi’s lips twitch upward, yet an odd melancholy lingers. He’s both an open book and incomprehensible some days.

“Not what I meant. Was my old one better?” His fingers dance along Maomao’s lower back. Up and down. It tickles a little. His nervous tick done on her?

“Better is subjective. But if you want the opinion of a lowly commoner, this new scent befits your status. Neither was bad.” There. That should satisfy him, right? Jinshi seems to ponder her words a moment, that crafted, gentle thoughtful look he often does, before he descends and his nose is on her neck. What…. Was he doing…

Maomao’s face is unamused at best as he gives her a few light sniffs, running the underside of his nose featherlight against a vein. Many would probably squirm from the sensation.

“And you smell like such a mix of herbs I can barely distinguish one from the other,” he says. It’s normal (is any of this really normal?) otherwise… until she feels something far more soft on her neck, just slightly moist. Urgh, if he bites her again, she swears….

“Master Jinshi…” she warns. She isn’t even sure if it’s more for herself or him. He gets far too overzealous, doesn’t he?

“If we got closer, would our scents blend? Would I rub off on you? You, me?” Jinshi ponders, breath hot and lips soft against her neck as each syllable travels up to her ear.

“Well, science dictates that’s how scents work…”

“Maomao.” Jinshi says. Deep. It’s… rare he calls her directly. Very much so. It catches her attention, and he pulls back just barely. Are his hands shaking? Maomao thinks she discovers a slight tremor, though Jinshi manages a look far more composed than his body suggests. His gaze, frustrated before, seems to soften into what Maomao would probably classify as... fondness? At least, as much as she’s come to know it. Whatever that means.

He leans closer. The large hand that cradled her lower back let go to instead settle at her leg. He nudges it apart easily, settling his body between them. This was…

“Didn’t you promise me something?” he murmurs. He looks almost cheeky, but that look speaks of a heat that Maomao definitely has to smother!

“Did I? I have no clue what you’re talking about…” she feigns, absolutely not meeting that gaze. That would just enable him!

“Funny, I seem to remember perfectly. Is a district apothecary with limited memory trustworthy for medicine?” He goads. Ugh. He won’t give Maomao a break, will he…? She finds herself stiffen, brow twitching alongside her smile.

“Well, I listened without interruption last time…” she tries. She remembers some promises, sure. To listen. The hairpin. One unfortunately somewhat broken, but… come on! Can’t he take the hint?!

“And I recall someone who said we could continue where we left off,” he hums. Hard to say if this look is smug or almost yearning… wait wait not the point! His lips are getting closer!

“Master Jinshi, really I’m not befit…” Maomao begins. Odd. In the past she would immediately slap his hand away and claim he shouldn’t touch her because she was of lowly birth. A valid reason, be it escape or no. She hasn’t done that in a long time, even when he’s only become touchier...

“Just once,” Jinshi murmurs. He’s too close…! Maomao trembles, caught between a myriad of feelings from status (a pleasure district apothecary kissed by the Moon Prince?!), and merely the person in front of her (Master Jinshi holding her precariously yet cradling her like she’s something precious, lips closer) and somewhere between the panic of imminent danger, when his lips ghost over hers, her breath stills.

The gap doesn’t close immediately. Maomao thinks to voice something, but… no words come out. No, Jinshi just hovers there for moments far longer than necessary, enough for Maomao to gulp. When… did she close her eyes?

It feels like an eternity before soft warmth brushes over her own lips. It’s fairly predictable. His breath smells faintly sweet. Fruity tea. And his lips are soft and plump, nothing like the servant girls who often hosted dry lips unless a good balm came along. Maomao was hardly picky about her own lips, just enough salve to keep her lips plush and soft to avoid cracking. Nothing compared to the exquisite tastes of Jinshi, of course.

“Jeez, do you not know how to kiss someone?” Jinshi grumbles against her lips, and it’s then Maomao thinks… right. A kiss. He’s kissing her. Maomao was so focused she didn’t really process…

“Have you considered it’s because you shouldn’t lay your lips on a mere apothecary?” she snaps back, while Jinshi adjusts his hold with an equally snippy,

“Funny. I didn’t see you pulling away.”

Did Master Jinshi know his place? Really, he was in such a position where practically no one could truly refuse him if he came onto them.

Well… not like Maomao ever had an issue doing so before.

“I meant considering your place—“

“Shall we try again, then?” Jinshi interrupts easily. Without delay, Maomao finds her vision filled with a devastatingly, annoyingly gorgeous face and lips on hers once again. This time she feels more than the mere softness. The movement, something Maomao would almost describe as… a little clunky? For how suave his words are, he isn’t fully confident in the way he moves his mouth. While Maomao might not have a ton of first-hand experience, she absorbs information like a wet sponge and every practical technique she became aware of at the Verdigris house flickers through her mind.

Her hands cradle his face, something to give her leverage. He’s clumsy. That means she should lead. She pulls away only to pepper his lips softly at first, something her sisters would describe as “cute” and draws a shaky breath from Jinshi, before she presses deeper. The lips are a sensitive part of the body. It’s why lip injuries are particularly painful, and why many enjoy kissing. Handled with care, they can illicit quite the reaction. Like when she kisses with more purpose, and when she unobtrusively uses hints of her tongue. It draws these soft noises from Jinshi that make her drag him closer.

If he opened his mouth…. He seems to get the hint when Maomao pulls away less than a breath’s distance to part his lips with her thumb. There. Good. Maomao rubs his face just a little, silent praise, Jinshi seems to tremble, and it’s hard to fight her own voice when their lips, breaths, and tongues find their way to each other. He tastes mildly sweet and those breathy sounds from his mouth would be enough to send anyone into cardiac arrest. Wow. Her sisters really did put so much thought into perfecting this. A combination of breath work, reading your partner, not too much and not too little…

Then he’s pulling away with an urgency, panting and wiping excess saliva from his slightly swollen lip. His cheeks are flushed. Maomao blinks at him calmly in response, and somehow that seems to irritate him even more.

“Are you… used to this?” he asks between heavy breaths. Maomao purses her lips, annoyance mirroring his as she shakes her head.

“While I had good teachers, I’m merely a good listener. Sometimes ladies practiced on each other in the Verdigris house, but as I wasn’t a courtesan-in-training, it wasn’t necessary,” Maomao clarifies. Besides, she orally tested new poisons often. It wouldn’t do good for even residue to make any of the ladies ill, the old lady would have her head. Jinshi looks a mix of embarrassed, relieved, and still unsatisfied with Maomao’s response. Well Maomao did properly respond, what more did he want? Besides, he kissed her first! Mind the fact they shouldn’t even be kissing! Seriously!

“Anyway with that out of the way, I really should—“ she tries to turn away and escape. No good. Jinshi holds her firm. He presses… even closer. Even through the fabric of her bottoms, the thickness of his robes… surely she isn’t imagining what’s pressing against her. And so the frog returns…

“You’re so calm after. Meanwhile…” Jinshi murmurs. Is he embarassed? Prideful? Even men can get flustered after kissing. It’s a very normal biological response to even that level of stimulation, combined with emotional attachment. Maomao… supposes she’s known Jinshi a while by now. Then again, some people are more thrilled by the thought of strangers than friends. Jinshi though… Does he treat anyone else like this? Maomao’s never seen it. In fact, it’s even hard to imagine. He’s rather—

And his lips are on hers again. Hmm. Well. Looks like Jinshi is a quick hands-on learner too. He catches on quickly, mirroring the techniques Maomao tried and even seems to do a few of his own. The trace of his tongue against delicate parts of her lips and mouth, never too deep or too probing, just soft enough to elicit a sigh as his hands anchor at her hips. Hmm. Maomao must be a good teacher. He’s nowhere near as good as her, of course. But for it being their first exchange of kisses, she supposes it internally deserves some praise.

“You look smug…” Jinshi grumbles. Maomao blinks. Oh. Was she too obvious? Perhaps she was preening a little too hard…

Jinshi sighs and traces her lip, lashes dipped as he gazes at Maomao’s mouth, then back into her eyes. His cheeks are mildly flushed, pupils blown. He kisses the corner of Maomao’s lips. This one more tender.

Jinshi has made a variety of faces this encounter alone. He was rather expressive, though not unusual for when they’re alone… his brow furrows as he shakes a little, before letting out a heavy groan and putting his hand to his head.

“And here I thought I was doing so well…” he grumbles. It seems to be to himself. What a reaction. Last time he had that one… Maomao’s eyes trail from his face to between his legs. Hmm. Something of that size must be a little uncomfortable confined, huh?

It’s not her job. She should leave it, make some excuse and scurry out of the room before they engage in something irreversible…

Instead, her fingers move to his robes. With a firm push he actually, willingly yields to, she props herself upwards alongside him and undoes them in earnest.

“H-Hey, you—“

“Is this not what you wanted?” Maomao murmurs. Really, worrying about chastity now? Who’s the hypocrite? Layer by layer is peeled off and the top falls. Jinshi, chiseled as ever. Despite the scar that decorates his face, his body is relatively untouched. A few small scrapes here and there so well taken care of and faded they’re negligible. Not the focus though. Lower.

Even his undergarments are expensive. The cloth wrapping him is high quality. Well woven. She’s careful undoing them, can’t tear his highness’ clothing. She’d lose her head for less.

There’s hardly any shame. It’s good to see what she’s gotta work with.

Which is… a lot. Touching it clothed might not have done it justice. It’s about as pretty as the rest of him, which comes off as a shock to absolutely no one. Almost textbook perfect. Maomao hasn’t seen many physical examples of male anatomy in front of her aside from books or animals, so… she can’t help the way her mind studies. The color. Curve. The veins running along the shaft and the way he’s standing pretty high to attention from only kissing. He enjoyed it that much, huh…?

“Are you just gonna keep staring at it?!” Jinshi says, a little louder than his usual. Maomao’s eyes flicker to his, calm as ever.

“There’s no need to be embarrassed. It looks quite good. You would be perfect for an anatomy diagram,” Maomao recites honestly. She would think it’s a compliment, but Jinshi doesn’t seem all too pleased at her words. Tough crowd.

Must ache. Suppressed for so long. Maomao reaches her hand out, fingers barely brushing the erection and it twitches between the two of them. Jinshi tenses, lips parted like he wants to say something but has no clue what.

Jinshi doesn’t seem to have any objections. And if anything, this is a double learning experience. Her first time properly feeling up a man’s body, first hand anatomy lesson… and to test the passed along techniques of courtesans past applicable to her. Sure, she can’t exactly make use of larger assets, but hands are a very effective tool.

Well. All or nothing! Maomao inhales sharply, puts her game face on, and wraps a firm hand around Jinshi’s length. It sits warm and thick and very much alive in her palm. Jeez. Can’t even close her fingers around it fully. Her eyes flicker up to Jinshi’s face, who’s watching her with quivering lips and wide, slightly surprised yet embarrassed eyes. She squeezes, eyes directly on him, and a rasp catches in his throat, shifting in embarrassment. He was like this before when her touch was a little more accidental. He must be sensitive…

It starts with a few strokes, Maomao settled between his bent knees as her fingers move in unison. Not too rough, she doesn’t want to damage his skin. But Jinshi seems pleased, if his tensing was any indication. There’s generally two realms of men in this department; those who keep their composure and are critical of touch. Perhaps how the current emperor may be, or… Jinshi’s hips twitch upward when Maomao drags her thumb across the pink-tinted head. Just over the slit, back to the sensitive skin where the crown connects to the shaft, a soft noise escaping him.

Those who are sensitive and lose themselves in the touch. To be honest, Maomao prefers this. Much less pressure when the person to ‘impress’ is already taken apart by a few soft strokes.

“T…the way you look at it… is unnerving…” Jinshi whispers. His chest rises and falls with each breath, heavy. And when Maomao moves her hand just so, words seem to escape in the hitch of his breath.

“If you want someone to take care of you, I suggest you not be picky about the way they observe you,” Maomao says. Jinshi stiffens, indignant and flustered and looks ready to bicker back and forth as always, but Maomao needs to take care of this in front of her first. Frog? More like a snake…

She drags wetness from the beading tip down so she can move easier. Right. The goal isn’t purely technique, but adjusting to how the body adapts to it. To find what’s liked most, least. Even if it isn’t verbalized, the body is telling. She watches Jinshi’s adam’s apple bob as she adjusts her hold slightly. Now, she works one hand lower to his balls. A sensitive yet often neglected area, and picks up a rhythm. She must be doing well. He grasps her, fingers enclosing around her lower back as he sighs, rolling into the firmness of her palm. He pulls her close, lips by her ear to whisper in a half-moan, “it feels good,” and Maomao twists her hand just the right way so his voice comes out high-pitched and choppy, fingers trembling. He’s been shaking this entire time, actually. Maomao’s hands are steady, but even his lips by her ear tremble.

Dual sensation is effective. She goes from one hand on his balls to rubbing her palm on the crown as she jerks a more faster, unforgiving rhythm. She’s rewarded with noises, a dipped head with pretty wet open lips, and eyes clouded in pleasure as he jerks into her touch more than a few times. He’s far better when words elude him. And when he does try to speak, she just happens to squeeze him a little harder, get an “ah…”, and settle a little closer. He’s so thick in her palm, he must’ve gotten bigger the more she excited him, and the way he’s getting more tense and looks more flustered, borderline squirming, he must be close.

She doesn’t stop. Not when he’s clutching at her, not when he’s whispering, “hey, I think I’m going to…”, and not when his breath catches and his body goes stiff. Wetness coats her palm, milky in sight and slightly thick in texture. She continues, through each twitch and trembling sigh as Jinshi clings to her and whispers soft things she can barely name out.

Maomao must admit, the face when he comes might be one of his most devastating. Those blissed out eyes, the complete loss of his composure, the shyness in his gaze, his embarrassment… it really is the most perfect blend of ingredients in human form. Equally healing and poisonous in its effectiveness.

As his hips twitch and she drags out the last droplets, her eyes narrow. Hmm. This technique is partial to what the man enjoys. Usually he’s the first to suggest it, it could make him almost angry otherwise, and yet… Maomao’s eyes lock with Jinshi’s. So shy and unobtrusive.

She drags her palm to the head and circles it without break. Jinshi’s hips twitch up, almost desperate and a noise that seems to surprise him comes from his throat. He puts a hand to his mouth, but Maomao strokes with even more vigor with a significant amount of attention to the head and Jinshi jerks, brow furrowing as his legs nearly kick out.

“What are you doing—hey—wait-“ he rasps, voice shot, and squirms like a mouse caught in a cat’s claws. To think a mere hand is so effective at disarming someone. Jinshi moves his hands to hers but Maomao pushes through his weak attempts to still her with the most strength she can muster to jerk him with an intensity that makes his thighs quiver.

“Seems like a cat’s got your tongue,” Maomao hums. Or rather, captured something else. Her fingers close around the swollen head and squeeze (never too hard), practically massaging with an effectiveness that draws a sound almost akin to a cry from Jinshi’s lips as he shakes his head, face flushed.

“Wai—ah—idiot, you’re not supposed to..! It, ngh, shit, you—“ Jinshi’s hands seem to tremble with the strength to not shove Maomao away as he bucks beneath her fingers. Yeah. The body becomes so sensitive right after orgasm it can almost be painful. But maybe Jinshi can consider this retribution for biting her. He whimpers, hand shaking at her shoulder with a soft pressure like he wants to escape but that option is worse than enduring. Whether it’s pleasure or pain, Maomao finds herself satisfied either way. The extent of human sensation is a fascinating subject in its own right. She strangely can’t bring herself to stop, like an addictive blend she wants to take over and over… whether the addiction is funded by his raspy whimpers or the desperate, pleading expression in those sinful eyes.

Ah, she manages again. Semen spills out, weaker and thinner, while Jinshi nearly sobs in front of her, trembling and twitching up into her incessant hands. Each breath is staggered, so is the tense and release of his muscles until he grits his teeth, rasps “you—!” And her world is tilted once more. Rougher this time, though Jinshi always knows to cradle her head so it doesn’t bang on the floor.

He glares at her from above, face and ears deeply red with a spread to his chest. He really was such a work of art… He hangs, half-hard, and Maomao might have provoked him a little too far this time.

“You… were you trying to torture me?!” he exclaims, meanwhile Maomao shrugs, though perhaps her cheekiness comes through. Just a little.

“It would be improper of me to leave you with only one orgasm. I was doing you a favor,” she says. Well. Usually the standard was to wait until sensitivity decreased, but it wasn’t so bad seeing Jinshi unable to formulate a sentence.

“One orgasm my ass. That hurt, you know,” Jinshi hisses. Yep, definitely mad. He descends and of course her neck is a victim once more. Maomao paws at Jinshi with a yelped “no biting!” But he isn’t that sharp, just rough. He attacks her neck with kisses like it specifically did him wrong and this is the only way to get payback. Maomao’s head tilts up a little, the skin is sensitive, and he trails down with moist lips, pausing to suck a mark that will definitely bruise. Ugh, is he some dog marking his territory? Maomao bats at his head, and Jinshi retaliates with a nip that makes her twitch. Annoying.

Jinshi pulls away and before Maomao knows it, Jinshi’s already tugging at her clothes. Indecent… but she supposed she nearly stripped him as well. He doesn’t stop at her outer layer, he stares at her underlayer, slips a warm palm beneath her top at her waist, and hooks his other finger into the top of her bottoms. Ah…

“If you wanna give me another one, maybe you should do it this way instead,” he grumbles, and he once again does the thing where he stares at Maomao a long hard moment. Maomao’s not sure if her face is blank or mildly disgruntled, but whatever it is, it’s enough for Jinshi to tug off her lower layer.

And now, she is exposed. This is probably the first time she’s been exposed in this manner to a man. The air is cool, but Jinshi’s warm. He drags himself close, erection pressed against her bare wet heat (arousal is a natural involuntary response to a sexual situation), and once again he’s back to these pursed lips and trembling. With nerves? The strength of holding himself back?

His hair falls to her own cheeks and tickles her. Smooth and silky, the color of plums. While Maomao’s no stranger to his height, when she takes the time to focus on the size of his palm lifting her thigh, the build of his body, and the thickness pressed against her heat… well, even she has to gulp. The human body can handle much. Including an entire tiny human being. The canal expands with proper arousal (is Maomao aroused enough?!) but that doesn’t make the prospect any less intimidating.

Maomao chews her lip and sharply inhales. Another task to conquer, one she shouldn’t even attempt completing and there’s no logical reason she shouldn’t stop before it’s too late, but naturally, she doesn’t. He drags himself against her, her own arousal coating his already wet shaft.

Maomao will have to take pills after, good thing she has a stock on hand.

Jinshi puts a hand beneath her bottom, lifting her to him, and works his hips so the head presses at her entrance instead. While Maomao’s somewhat wet — she’s not sure if it’s enough wetness to accommodate…. Her eyes flicker from between her wide spread legs to above her, Jinshi looking at her with these still needy, aroused yet somewhat antsy eyes. She’s pretty sure he wants to say something, but he remains mute still.

It’s only when Maomao meets his gaze directly he dare pushes.

Yeah. That won’t be easy. Maomao trembles, lower half going a little stiff while Jinshi grunts, abdomen tensing. Relaxing is better, but fighting her natural response proves a little difficult. Even when he just barely breaches, her thighs quiver. Dammit. It aches. She’s not exactly used to large things entering her. It would frustrate her to simply end it though. Initial ache often gives way to pleasure soon after. Her brows furrow in concentration to relax, not tense… maybe squeeze something. No sheets beneath her, so she grasps at Jinshi’s neck instead with a weak sound. He presses just a little further in, at least the crown, and she lets out this little choked noise as her hips arch. Thick. It… Maomao’s fingers clutch him, trembling.

Maomao hears a heavy sigh from above her. Carefully, Jinshi withdraws, and cradles her body as he lifts her up.

“Master Jinshi…?”

“This isn’t working. And I don’t like the look on your face,” he huffs. Clothes askew, he carries her out of the medicinal area and to her resting chamber instead. He lowers her against the softer bedding, sitting up between her legs. He seems to cycle through a ton of emotions before settling on “if it hurts, you can tell me y’know.”

“I was fine,” Maomao objects. They might’ve only needed an external lubricant. Preparation could also make the insertion easier, though some women also find fingers are far more uncomfortable than a penis. Maomao… well… she honestly can’t remember the last time she tried for herself. She didn’t focus on internal as much as external. And at a point she got bored and the sensitivity came in before she could even reach proper orgasm. She considered that particular experiment a failure and had little interest in repeating it.

“You were shaking.”

“So were you.”

“That’s different!” Jinshi retaliates. He lets out a heavy, harsh sigh and instead lowers his head. Not to Maomao’s face like usual, but… between her legs. She blinks. Wait. He wants to… her?

“That’s unnecessary Master Jinshi,” she says, a hand to his head. Really. She doesn’t need it. But Jinshi just glares up at her from between her thighs as though she insulted his manhood.

“And what kind of man would I be if I couldn’t pleasure you too?” He barks. Okay. So maybe she inadvertently did. But it wasn’t like Maomao would be frustrated without it, it was more interesting when she could catalogue the experience on someone else and—

“Just quit being stubborn and let me take care of you,” he says, softer but no less determined. Maomao, tense before, blinks at him in mild surprise as her body relaxes in his hold. Jinshi takes that as a sign, lips finding her thigh.

Sensitive. Another human’s touch can feel so different from merely touching oneself. Her thighs are held open for him to mark with his lips even when she trembles — ah — what mess was he making down there?! She feels a combination of sharp nips followed by a warm tongue, sometimes the suction of his lips, and her fingers are a little unsteady as they settle on his head. Jeez. It’s good even her undergarments cover that area…

Then he’s higher. A broad tongue across her vulva. It’s… warm. Unfamiliar. And he grasps her thighs to anchor himself as he goes quick from a flat tongue to razor focus on the bud of her. Jinshi looks far too pleased when Maomao’s hips jump a little into his touch when his tongue presses. Experiments. Well. At least Jinshi knew the right places to… mm…

Maomao brushes her fingers over Jinshi’s bangs thoughtfully before moving to stare back up at the ceiling. If someone had came and told her a year and a half ago the emperor’s brother would be between her thighs, she’d call them a madman. If someone told her a month after that Master Jinshi would be between her thighs, she’d think they were on a hallucinogen. It’s been such a gradual shift it’s hard to document. When did they get to a point where this was strangely natural…?

Jinshi uses his tongue to circle her, firm with soft flicks before gently sucking, a constant pressure whether he’s dancing around or focused only on the bud. His hands come to rest on her folds, pressing, massaging and Maomao exhales shakily as her hips press into his mouth, seeking more of their own volition. He’s really determined to bring her pleasure, huh? She feels the bed wet beneath her as she drips onto it, and it’s hard to describe the feeling. Not exactly embarrassment, but she’s a little reluctant for a smug Jinshi to see her face and hear how fast her heart is beating… it’s all natural responses… but… but…

When he keeps moving with that pattern her arousal starts to climb. Higher. More. One massaging hand dips down to her entrance while his tongue remains busy. He tests, just brushing his thumb over the wetness. Then he carefully sinks in a strong finger and curls, making Maomao’s body curl in turn as her breath hitches. The pressure and pleasure are an unfamiliar combo and the way her arousal rises, she almost wants to escape. Her hips tremble and Jinshi blinks up.

This was probably…

“Master Jinshi… I’m more than fine…” Maomao rasps, finding her body more restless. The arousal itself she isn’t unfamiliar to. But she doesn’t want to disappoint Jinshi if he can’t bring her to orgasm.

“Fine? Well I’m not satisfied at all,” he grumbles, and he curls his finger in a way that draws an unceremonious squeak from Maomao. Oh. She’s never made that noise before.

Urk. Maomao can certainly feign the bodily reaction of an orgasm, but…!

“I really-!”

“If you really want to stop, you can pinch me. Otherwise…” Jinshi murmurs against her, barely pulling away enough to not be muffled. Maomao honestly does consider pinching his ear, it protects his own ego! But he slips two fingers inside and never relents on his pressure. The skill of his tongue, the suction of his warm mouth. It grows steadily, and the silence Maomao is used to retaining when she’s on her own suddenly gets a lot more impossible. Her breaths, short and ragged, sometimes come out with barely held back noises as he thrusts two digits in and curls against her deep in the area that makes her utterly breathless. It’s hard to control her body, she’s rolling into him so shamelessly.

Maomao catches Jinshi’s eyes, just for a moment. She’s not sure what her own face looks like, but however it does, it makes Jinshi drag her closer with his free hand and hold her as he practically devours her. For how clumsy he was at kissing…! He was annoyingly skilled! Her back arches and she’s somewhere between stiff and squirming, these high sounds that never come from her escaping even in her instinct to bite them back. Shit… she’s never felt like this before… usually she’s used to hitting a point until she can’t do anything more. And nothing ever proceeds beyond that peak of pleasure. Perhaps her supposed former peak was merely the middle of the mountain…

Somehow Jinshi slips in three fingers. Oh. Full. She clenches around them as he moans around her clit and she rasps “Master Jinshi…” fingers clutching his hair for purchase desperately. Is she hurting him…? He doesn’t seem to mind. His name is only encouragement, his own hips rock against the bed as he seeks his singular goal Maomao can’t deter him from no matter how much she squirms and rasps or squeezes the life out of him with her thighs.

It climbs and climbs until it collapses without her control, all at once. She pulses rhythmically around his fingers that continue to thrust. Almost uncontrollably her legs tremble, body otherwise tense as she reaches what she thinks could be classified as an orgasm. It fills her whole body, mind, arousal so thick she can barely breathe as wetness coats Jinshi’s chin. He doesn’t stop throughout, he holds her and sucks until Maomao is shaking. And even then, he holds her hips and swirls still so she’s whimpering and squirming against his hands. Ugh! His own revenge?! But after a few oversensitive laps and curling his fingers deep, he relents. They slip out, pruned, and he licks a stripe down to her own wetness and tastes her in earnest… Was he a fan of the taste…?

He cleans her with his mouth shamelessly, making Maomao’s hips twitch, weakly pulsing around his tongue, until he finally comes up for air.

“I didn’t know you were the type to make quite the mess,” he teases, eyes narrowed in a blissed out satisfaction practically equal to when Maomao pleasured him. He swipes a thumb across his wet chin and licks the excess. Was doing that to her really enjoyable for him too…?

She glances down at her supposed mess. Oh, that was wet. Really wet. Like… soaked even. She’ll need to wash this. Maomao didn’t even realize when his mouth was latched onto her… she wasn’t aware her body had the ability to do that. It wasn’t something all women managed, after all.

She blinks up at Jinshi’s face. Mouth wet, chin wet, even the top of his neck wet. Her own doing. She sits up slowly, exhaling.

“Apologies, I didn’t realize… ow!”

Jinshi chops her straight on the head.

“Don’t apologize for feeling good. Idiot,” he chastises. Frustrated as always. Well.. she supposed that was a way to describe it. Sexual pleasure was so strange. It’s good in the same way a sting from poison was. The feeling in the moment is almost addictive, intriguing, even if “pleasure” might not be a direct description in its entirety.

“I’m impressed. You were able to make me come. Even I couldn’t manage that,” Maomao hums indifferently. She looks down at her body, top still covered but lower half exposed. Would she be able to on her own? Or was it perhaps a matter of fingers lack the suction a mouth can provide?

“You… never…?” Jinshi might as well be looking at a stranger who made the most bizarre claim in existence the way his gaze settles on Maomao. Jeez. He should take it as a compliment. It really was one! Maomao’s heard more than a few stories of men who were eager to be pleased and not so keen on pleasing, or they simply didn’t have the determination to learn to be good.

“My own fingers weren’t sufficient. I suppose your mouth does the trick,” Maomao says, observing her nails. Well. At least she can derive pleasure from Jinshi even if she hits a wall with her own.

Jinshi stills, breath gone. Suddenly, Maomao yelps as she’s dragged towards him and her head hits the bedding. Her hips are lifted in the air, legs over his shoulders as Jinshi’s mouth hovers so close she can feel his breath. Didn’t he just?! He looks like a mad man!

“Once more.”

“You just did it!”

“It would be improper of me to leave you with only one orgasm.”

“You…!” Maomao squirms while Jinshi looks absolutely ready to devour her once more. One mouthful wasn’t enough? How greedy was this man?!

“Y’know.. the faces you make when my mouth is on you… when my fingers are in you…” Jinshi murmurs, nuzzling his nose into the marks he left. “They’re beautiful, Maomao.” He drags his teeth up her sensitive inner thigh, fingers soothingly stroking her. “You’re gorgeous.”

“…” Whatever squirming Maomao was doing, it softens just a little. His compliment combined with her name rings in her ears, and she chews on her lip, expression tense. Maomao’s not exactly most men’s first pick. She lacks assets, curves. She’s scrawny, rather short and malnourished. She considers herself unattractive by most standards.

And here, the man people would argue is one of the most beautiful in all the land, enough to make men and women alike melt, is calling her beautiful. Is it pity? But was Jinshi even the type?

“You’re one to talk…” she grumbles, head turned to the side. Maomao thinks her cheeks feel warm… no. Impossible. It’s just the heat from being so close to Jinshi, is all.

“Yeah. I’m sure I am,” Jinshi laughs softly into her skin. Yet Maomao can’t deny the way he buries his face against her thigh and higher still… almost feels like worship.

“May I?” He murmurs, hands encouraging Maomao to wrap her legs around his neck. Maomao grits her teeth, frustrated at the way her thighs shake and she feels that heavy arousal sit in her gut, unsatisfied. Dammit all to hell.

Maomao refuses to meet his gaze. She merely lifts her hips to his hovering lips.

There are lots of ways Maomao could spend her time. And many people Maomao could spend her time with.

This was far from the worst.

Author’s Notes Conclusion,,, Maomao is oblivious. Lol. Lowk it was gonna be penetrative after, but ending here felt more right! Jinshi is a certified munch, a connoisseur of loving his meal (Maomao)

You don’t remember much about your father. His appearance in your memory is a vague, blurry silhouette… even when you pass by portraits in the palace, he feels like a distant stranger. Despite being flesh and blood, you don’t know if you ever knew him at all.

You’re the second heir of the Cosmic Empire. Born and raised to potentially rule or secure alliances with neutral nations, a physical representation of its prosperity. Despite your very existence being an asset to the empire, the person who rules it has only looked at you with contempt.

Even at your young age, you noticed these looks weren’t limited to your father. Did people think you were too young to notice? The suffocating air of a false smile, a grin too sharp, and eyes too power hungry. That same gaze in all those your father invited to the palace for diplomatic meetings, whom he’d introduce his two children to, the jewels of the Cosmic Empire. The pretty name didn’t befit the way strangers looked upon you.

Only one person never looked at you this way. Not once. Instead they were these open, honest eyes, equivalent to a bitapup. Gorgeous. They mimic a supernova in the galaxy, and sparkle like starlight.

You once told him, “Caleb. Your eyes are like the whole galaxy!”

He just laughed and responded, “it’s because I’m looking at you.”

Your big brother wasn’t like anyone else you knew. He was an heir too. Older, first in line. But he didn’t see you as something bad. Instead, he’d sneak your favorite fruits to your room after dark, and find ways to acquire your favorite toys after negotiating with the maids. He was the kindest to you! He’d even play dolls no matter how “girly” it was, and let you put bows in his hair. Caleb treated you like you were the best thing to ever happen to him.

He’d tell you it’s what brothers are for when you asked him why he was so nice. When you asked what fathers are for, then, he’d just pat your head and remain quiet. So even Caleb didn’t have all the answers.

Days later, when you stubbornly told him you were too old for toys now (the maids had told you so…), Caleb flicked your head and laughed, like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “You haven’t even hit the double digits yet. Let me spoil my little sister a little more, okay? If you hate my next gift, you can throw it right back in my face.”

…You didn’t.

No. You cherished Caleb’s gifts. Even when you glared at him and acted like they were no big deal, or you were far above childish toys.

You should hate Caleb. You really should. While your father looked at you with these resentful, mournful eyes… he never gave Caleb that look. Instead, Caleb really did seem like a crown jewel of the Alore Galaxy. To father, at least. You wonder what it’s like, to have father’s favor. But Caleb looked like he enjoyed being with you lots more…

Caleb was a pretty hard guy to resent when he gave you the attention, love, and care no one else dared to. Spoiled you rotten. No matter how many times you tried to push him away. Then clung to him the next day. He’d embrace you when you thought he was the best brother. And laugh, agreeing when you claimed he was the worst brother. Whether you praised him, or glared at him in suspicion, Caleb was rarely off put by your mood. He seemed happy to just be with you, no matter how you approached him or what you were feeling that day.

You think… Caleb taught you the idea of unconditional love.

—

Your father died when you were ten years old. An accident on a flight. No survivors to tell the tale.

There’s quiet whispers of it potentially being a covert assassination. Those who speak the rumors clam up when your eyes bore up into them, wide and not shy.

When people complimented your bravery for not crying at his funeral, you had to fight back a grossly inappropriate laugh. Your brother had squeezed your hand, and despite being your father’s favorite, it was impossible to miss the sharp look in your brother’s eye.

The same look others gave you two. On your father’s death bed, your brother touched his hand once, more of a courtesy, before laying him to rest next to the late empress.

Is it romantic to be buried together? Perhaps it’s more romantic to perish together.

“Now that he’s gone, will you…” you murmur after the funeral. You gently push on a swing they had installed at Caleb’s request, for you, naturally. Caleb chuckles and shakes his head, poking between your brows.

“I’m too young. There will be an interim leader for now. Until we’re old enough, at least,” he explains. You figured… but Caleb painted himself as so poised and mature, you thought maybe he really could be a leader at his age. He got a growth spurt, stood tall, and started carrying this same cold look to strangers befit of everyone in the court…

“Yeah? I think in that time I can become empress instead,” you declare, pushing yourself in a gentle swing. It’s not the first time you’ve said it. You joked it a lot, and Caleb would joke about how you have to grow a little taller to catch up to him. This time though, Caleb gives you this complicated smile and grabs the arms of the swing, leaning down so you have to crane your neck up at him.

Is the way your heart thumps normal?

“Still think you’d catch up to me?” Caleb asks. You give this fake, thoughtful look, like you’re actually considering the possibility. Can you? Well… when Caleb looks at you like you can’t, you want to out of spite.

“Maybe I’ll win the court’s favor, and they’ll support me instead,” you say. You’re still getting daily politics lessons as you learn more about The Empire. Power struggles, at long time strife with another nation. That sounded so dull… but wearing the crown. Being beloved. Even the one to bring peace and prosperity… and to see the look on Caleb’s face. You want it all.

“If you wanna be the next empress…” Caleb lets go of one arm of the swing to gently cup your cheek. His glove is cool. You wish you felt the warmth of his hand instead. “Then you really gotta quit falling asleep in your lessons.”

From then on, Caleb never again joked about you needing to catch up to him. Was that when he chose his new goal? Was his new goal of his own doing, or to compliment your own? Maybe both. He always did say he’d get you anything you wanted.

—

No one dared tease you the way Caleb did. Perhaps no one else had the right to, and that’s one of the many reasons he was so special. When you were with him you weren’t an heir to teach or appease. You were just yourself. Someone Caleb would pat on the head, hold his gifts to you over his head to make you jump for them until you glared, before he gave it to you with a stupid grin.

The older you both got, the busier you were attending meetings to show face, dinners, and proper lessons. So every stolen moment felt like a gift. A reprieve from everything official. All duties and obligations melted away when you had Caleb.

Caleb gave you what no one else could. A sense of comfort. Security. Even if the world turned on you — Caleb would always be part of your life. It felt like Caleb was always yours, the person who would be part of your life, in your orbit.

In the hidden corner of your greenhouse — the scent of flowers (these came from a duchess trying to introduce her young son to you. Caleb’s smile seemed to twitch as he accepted them in your steed) envelop you. Caleb pushes a new dessert — a trial run of a new confectionery from a popular bakery, apparently — past your lips. Caleb gets his claws into the strangest places, all you did was eye a dessert a little too hard. Now his fingers guide you to bite what he offers in secret. You would protest you don’t need to be fed like a child… but it tastes so divine you can almost forgive him. It has a sweet apple, jammy filling that graces your tastebuds, decorated quite cute too, with little hearts. Practice for a new dessert for the annual day of love, Caleb said.

“A future empress can’t make a mess when she eats her food,” Caleb murmurs affectionately, swiping away a bit of jam from your mouth. You merely glare at him, shoulders going stiff.

“I wouldn’t if you weren’t feeding me. You should treat me with more dignity,” you retort. Future empress. Caleb says it with certainty. An inevitable future you’re racing towards. What was once a childish fantasy you were born into felt like something you were now vying towards. Caleb was the crown heir, it should’ve been him, but he watches you with an air of reverence every time you speak of your grand future. And you wonder…

“If I become empress, what shall you be? The empress’s brother? His highness who deferred the crown?” You query, peering up into his eyes. A rather funny conversation for two teenagers crouching in the depths of a greenhouse, the one place you’re rarely interrupted.

That thought sits bitter. You want the crown because of your worth, not because of Caleb’s complacency.

“Our nation has been at odds for a long time…” he hums. He looks up, almost wistful as he considers this. Well. Of course. You’ve learned much about the Glory Federation at this point. A nation born of inner discontent that boiled over. Resulting in war and has been bordering the cusp of it ever since. You’ve been given every reason to see them as the enemy. History will always favor the side that writes it.

“Scared of taking over this kinda nation?” you tease. Caleb just exhales lightly through his nose with a knowing, unbothered smile.

“If I was High Marshal, imagine what we could do,” he chuckles. So casual, you almost think nothing of it. Then the words hit you and you blink. More than a few times. Was that a joke…?

…That is not the look of a teasing Caleb.

“You’re joking, aren’t you?”

Caleb just feeds another bite into your mouth. You should hit him.

“You know, there’s only so much to achieve here solo. And if I was emperor, what would you be? The emperor’s younger sister?” He queries. He catches the wrinkle in your forehead and laughs, swiping his thumb over it. “You’d never be satisfied with that.”

You grit your teeth. No. You wouldn’t. You want many things. And you’ve decided long ago no matter who the heir in front is — even your brother, you will wear the crown. Beyond the crown, you’ve been writing things down. Perhaps still naive ideas, implementations, opinions… but you think you’d be capable of leader. You’re as capable, no matter how people compare you to Caleb. The current placebo leader… he doesn’t deserve the throne. He’s rather complacent. The public looks upon him lukewarm. Nothing to praise, not enough to criticize. You wouldn’t be a useless sitting duck, you would…

Caleb catches your attention again by feeding you the last crumbs of the dessert.

“The current High Marshal…. They’re nothing to write home about. The Glory Federation has so much potential locked behind a mediocre leader. Same here. So why not leave here to whom I trust most?”

You hastily swallow your bite and your brain piles with a jumble of thoughts. Complaints. Ways to refute. Every reason he’s wrong that he’ll simply laugh off and deny.

“We’d be enemies.”

“Mmm… my baby sister, my most formidable opponent. How will I ever cope?” he teases. His light-heartedness makes you want to shake him so he can understand the frustration brewing in you. Is everything a joke to him?

“They… but you can’t just become High Marshal one day…” you murmur. It sounds weak, even to you.

“The Glory Federation has the best military academy in the cosmos. I’ve been studying hard to apply. It’s the perfect in to work up from there,” he says. All the way in the Neezier Galaxy, light years apart from the one person you never want to be apart from… how is it Caleb can both give you everything you want and everything you don’t want?

“You won’t be here,” you whisper. Dammit. You sound pitiful. You shouldn’t show your weakness so carelessly…

Caleb’s eyes soften. He scoots over, and pulls your head to rest on his shoulder. Larger arms wrap around and hold you close. His warmth is like a warm summer day. Caleb’s always reminded you of the sun. What you need to grow and thrive, who revitalizes you. Though now, he might burn you…

Caleb’s hands splay across your back. His voice is soft by your ear, that seems to burn when he speaks.

“I know. I’ll visit when I’m free. You’ll still have lots of people here, you know,” he says. So soft. You squeeze his top, unconvinced. What’s he trying to say? That you won’t be alone? Won’t be lonely? Doesn’t he understand that without him, you…

“But I’ll…” miss you sits on your tongue. Too raw. Instead you hold him tighter.

“You can’t get rid of me that easy. Whether I’m holding on to you, or I’m light-years away, I’ll always be here for you,” he soothes. Caleb has this featherlight voice that always seems to make you relax. Even as it grows deeper, the richness is only easier to melt into. No one. Nothing and no one ever compared to Caleb. His adoration. His care. Trust. Support. It’s his fault you’re so greedy for him, so he can’t blame you for not wanting him to leave.

“…Caleb,” you murmur. Just his name. You can’t see his face, but you feel a small tremble in his hands as he squeezes you harder.

“We’ll always have each other,” he says. You want to believe it so desperately. It has to be true. Your brother, your future enemy, your fellow heir. No matter what title Caleb adorns, he’s yours, isn’t he? Your Caleb.

Even if his image belonged to the entire cosmos, his heart belongs only to you.

—

Once, two maids were helping to dress you in a fancy gown for a ball you had to attend. A bit gaudy for your taste, but it called for the occasion, and you were still a bit too young to refuse. The maids lace your corset delicately, chatting gossip with you.

“Has anyone caught your eye yet, your highness? A duke’s nephew from this nation seemed to fancy you. But there was also the archduke of the Zovari Galaxy’s child…” she prattles on. You wonder why the courting status of a fresh teenager catches her interest, but you’re not much in a mood to reprimand either.

“I don’t have to think about courting for a long while,” you huff. The other maid laughs as she finishes lacing your corset, switching to adjusting your petticoat.

“It doesn’t have to be courting just yet. Even a small crush. Her highness can have feelings. We wouldn’t tell,” this maid winks. Ah, how irritating. Even hearing the names of irrelevant people sour your mood.

“They’re a bore. None compare to Caleb anyhow.”

Their fingers pause for a brief moment, then the two of them continue doting over you, a fondness in their eyes. You’re made to lift your arms, and they gently pull the dress over you.

“His highness is very kind. Surely, he’d make sure her highness was happy with whoever she favored. Ah, perhaps we’re pestering you too soon? Maybe those feelings haven’t developed yet…”

“That’s true... And here we were interrogating her poor highness. Forgive our imprudence,” the other maid finishes off. You hold your tongue from biting their heads clean off, an ire you’re not used to filling you. Kind. Happy. Feelings…

These emotions. Caleb was your brother, and yet…

He’s the only one who’s stirred these types of thoughts before. Though if you voiced it, you’re sure they’d laugh and say you were just confused and haven’t met the right boy yet.

Is that true? Could anyone ever compare to what Caleb has given you your entire life?

—

You’ve read many books and many plays. Literature was equally as big a study as politics and the general state of your nation. There were a number of historical masterpieces (those were usually yawn-inducing), to fables, to romance novels, to action, to consume. When you had nothing to do, as you grew, the second best leisure Caleb would bring you were books you hadn’t heard of, but the public approved of.

You’ve even read fictional stories of other regimes in a world’s past, without advanced technology or warp tech. Depictions of royal families. Of loving families. A mother. A father. Sometimes a brother or sister alongside the protagonist.

It was alien. Fiction truly felt like nothing more than fiction with how disconnected your experience seemed. A parent who spent plenty, willing time with their child? Siblings who didn’t get along? Who merely tolerated each other? You bickered (more one-sidedly) with Caleb quite a bit, but he was quick to concede to you in a way books typically didn’t depict. Even if the siblings were protagonists, they were never quite as close. Is this how you and Caleb should be? What people expected of you two?

The paper — old, but less strain on the eyes — makes a quiet whoosh as you turn the page. Sometimes one protagonist finds a lover. Someone who makes them enamored, an inability to stop thinking about them, their appearance, their lips. The sibling in the story would either tease akin to the way the maids stick their noses in your business, be protective, or perhaps gag and roll their eyes at the sight.

Is this right? One day you marry someone of a different empire to secure a neutral nation’s alliance, one day Caleb similarly marries an heir to some distant galaxy, and the stability of The Empire is guarantee during your livelihoods. And you’d tease each other over the other’s partner, a pair of playful siblings.

…

You place a bookmark (it contains a pressed flower from the time Caleb left one on your pillow after a nastier spat), and let out a low sigh. None of these siblings were like you and Caleb. So how could it be the same?

How could a stranger outdo the person who knows you best and you need the most? If you’re not supposed to feel these feelings, why do they claw at your chest begging for relief like they’re exactly what you should feel?

If they had a sibling like Caleb, wouldn’t their hearts be enamored too?

—

A conversation second only to your greatest memory in this greenhouse… you sit on the white bench, flowers scattered sporadically about. Caleb is typing up an essay on his holoscreen, but he made time to do it around you still. You kick your feet, bored, before deciding to bother him anyway.

“Caleb?”

“Hm?”

“There’s many things I want.”

“Mm. You gonna tell me something I don’t know?” He doesn’t even look up from his screen. The jerk.

“But sometimes I want something people tell me I shouldn’t have,” you rasp. Your voice didn’t crack. It didn’t. But Caleb looks up from his screen anyway. In a little over a year, he might be at some far off academy you can’t reach. While you stay planted here, working your way to the crown. For some reason, the idea feels emptier than it had in the past.

His gaze sticks to you. A persistent, scrutinizing thing. You should’ve shut up while you had the chance.

“And when has that ever stopped my willful little sister? You’ve asked me for quite impossible things, you know,” Caleb laughs. Like the idea is ridiculous. He dismisses the screen for a moment, just to trace your brows with his thumb. It’s only then you realized they’re raised in quiet surprise. “You’re the future empress. You’ll be able to have anything your heart desires,” he says. The thought sits disgusting in your throat — what if that thing is your future adversary, your brother, the man sitting beside you — but you say none of it.

His words paint a simple, clear picture.

When you’re the empress, who can stop you? Would anyone dare stand against an empress who loves her own brother?

You’ve been looked upon with unease or covert judgement your entire life. You wear the gaze of scorn like a second skin. Could one more sin damn you worse than the ones you already hold? The ones you were assigned from your very birth?

Your existence is labeled by death, power, and politics. If the one person to grant you peace within it is Caleb… what right do they have to tell you no? You were both born, confined to a gilded cage. Even nestmates would become attached.

“Does that mean you could have anything you wanted too?” you ask. He’ll become High Marshal, after all. Caleb has this strange look you can’t exactly place, but his hand finds your cheek, thumb on your temple.

“If I put my mind to it,” he says. It’s so casual for how grand his plans are. But you can’t recall one time Caleb didn’t make good on his word, even if it took a little longer due to some unexpected hiccups.

…Are your desires aligned? Or are they so far from each other, making them entwine in the future without chaos is impossible?

Whatever the future holds, you’ll savor your time with him a little longer.

—

When you first kiss him, his lips are slightly chapped. Just barely. Hardly noticeable compared to the warmth of his mouth, his breath, the quiet sound of surprise he lets out. You wonder if he’ll refuse, yet the greediest, grabby hands of your soul are equally as certain he won’t. Caleb said anything, didn’t he? It was bad faith to go back on his word.

You pull back, a soft exhale, and Caleb’s eyes are half-lidded, drifting from your lips back to your eyes. He’s given you these soft looks before, but this… this was new. You hope he only gives this look to you.

“Is a kiss what you need to be satisfied?” he murmurs. His fingers creep up the back of your neck and tickle. They’re large and keep you close in his orbit. You wouldn’t want to drift away anyhow.

“A few more, perhaps,” you retort. A lot more, you silently voice. His laugh dances across your skin, breath warm, and his lips find yours again. This time he’s the one kissing you, a little deeper and a little needier. Mmm. Internally you sing… perhaps your desires weren’t so far off from his after all. The warm press of his lips drowns out every thought of ‘wrong’. Of guilt. What guilt is there to feel when Caleb’s always been yours? And you, his in a way no one else could fulfill. His lips feel good… you tremble and he barely pulls back, lips ghosting yours in a quiet laugh.

“Aren’t I lucky, what you want this time is so easy for me to give you,” Caleb breathes against your lips. You laugh too, a mix of affection and bitter frustration melted into a hot, molten mix.

“Are you sure it’s not because you want it too?” you say. Maybe he senses the barest hint of insecurity in your words, because he presses another softer, more tender kiss against your lips. Then he kisses the corner of them. If he kisses you like that, you’ll just miss him more…

“Of course I do,” he whispers. A secret only for your ears. Plain and honest in his adoration. You could attach and never let go of him, hold him until the flowers wither and blossom over and over… in the sanctuary of your garden, nothing matters save for the warmth of your brother’s skin.

—

Did much change after that? Yes. No. You’re not sure some days. He’d visit home with the most dazzling gifts and fruits native to the Neezier Galaxy. He wasn’t an heir anymore, abandoned his title for his studies. But he always had clearance as her highness’s brother, whether people gazed in suspicion or not. You would talk about your days, have dinner like he never left… and at night you’d back him into your room to kiss him silly against the door until you were both noisy and breathless. And he’d gently pull away, dispelling the heat with a flurry of gentle, affectionate kisses to fan the flames, murmuring he’d make up for leaving you frustrated with another gift.

It wasn’t fair. You told him to satisfy you, yet instead he always left you craving more. Calming your rush every time. Even when you once blatantly came onto him, crawled onto his bed and pinned him, sure he wanted you just the same; he just laughed. Grabbed and kissed you until you melted into putty, then pulled you to cuddle him to sleep with nothing more.

The worst, definitely. And you have to pretend you’re not frustrated for the millionth time Caleb stopped at nothing more than his lips on yours when you attend lessons the next day.

—

Two years after your first kiss, there’s a night you’re especially impatient. The maids had introduced you to the cutest sleeping camisole with a lace trim and shorts, bottoms that cling and a top that compliments your skin perfectly. You had waited in Caleb’s room when he came to visit the Empire for a few days, draped in a way impossible to misinterpret.

When Caleb enters, his eyes go wide, breath hitching. Eyes travel from your face, downwards, before he manages to direct his gaze in the opposite direction. A wry smile spreads across his lips as he pulls off his gloves and strips himself of his outerwear.

“You get all dressed up like this for me?” he asks. Light and airy, a sharper edge hidden in those words. You huff and shoot him a little glare, even if you’re the one scarcely dressed in his space.

“No, I had hoped someone else would enter,” you grumble. Caleb’s eyes darken just barely, a challenge, and you briefly wonder if maybe this was enough to finally make him quit his little game of leaving you wanting every time he comes to visit, never giving you enough. He crawls onto his bed, arms on either side of you, and the heat of satisfaction envelops your being as you cradle his face with both hands.

“Good thing it’s my room,” he laughs. More of a guest room now, yet still reserved only for when he visits. The one he grew up in. He lets out a shaky sigh and nuzzles your neck, breath warm. His hand cradles the back of your head and he sighs, gently bringing you down to bounce against the sheets. His body covering you only makes you want him more.

“Caleb…” you murmur. You know. It’s pathetically needy. Your legs wrap around him, to hold him closer. Caleb laughs softly, lips brushing your neck.

“I know. You really can’t make this easy for me, huh?” Caleb murmurs. He nibbles on your neck and you curl up, arms clutching him. Yeah. You’re unfair and lustful and Caleb is what you want most of all right now. The crown, one day… but right now, Caleb is the one in your arms.

“If you didn’t deny me every time…” you grumble. Caleb is petting your neck soothingly. Though he has you thoroughly pinned, he lays on you more like a weighted blanket than someone who might finally satiate your need.

“Let me be a good big brother for something. At least for this,” he whispers. He pulls back to look you in the eyes. They’re dark. A blend of want, of restraint, and this complicated look that almost speaks to self-ramification. The look manages to fan your flames a little, yet make them simmer low in equal measure. Equally as complicated as the look he gives you. “I know. You’re greedy and I spoil you rotten. It’s my fault,” he accepts. He places a gentle kiss on your forehead. A fragile apology.

You blink. A feeling of uncertainty, and perhaps a tinge of guilt sits in you. You know. Of course you know. you just figured if Caleb kissed you back, he’d…

You exhale. All you can offer is a soft nod, you don’t know what you’d be able to say while keeping your dignity.

That night, you cuddle him without complaint. And decide if Caleb has the ability to wait, maybe you can too. The wait makes it all the sweeter.

—

Years. Painstaking years after you first touched lips for Caleb to finally kiss down your skin, rake up your nightgown and devour your lips until you’re whimpering so loud you think the maids outside might hear a hint of it… his moans mingle with yours and you’re sure his noises must be the sweetest of them all.

Years for Caleb to spread your thighs and hover between them. For his lips to travel up the side and pull a soft, molten laugh from him when you rasp and squeeze around his head.

You’re not sure when things changed. Maybe they never did. While some would say your brother should never be like this… Caleb between your thighs feels like all you ever wanted. And when his tongue finally touches you, you decide nothing can convince you this is wrong.

It’s slick and soft, an unfamiliar sensation that makes you grip his hair and him murmur against your slick skin. He’s warm. So warm. The sun between your thighs worshipping you with each drawn out lap of his tongue, savoring you while he moves his thumb to circle your clit, rub it real slow and make you grind up against him. You’re already so turned on, your hips twitch into any contact he gives you.

“Mmm… am I the first to taste you?” he speaks against your arousal. You yank his hair a little hard for that ridiculous question, and nearly lie just to get that smug look off his face. He grunts — a half moan, actually — and looks up at you with hungry eyes. A beast hardly satisfied. You look away, pursing your lips.

“Like any other man has the right to my bedchamber,” you grumble, and that’s all the affirmation Caleb needs to reward you by dragging your body to his lips, holding you as his tongue laps like it’s his last supper. He pauses to fuck his tongue inside and make you curl up, then focus his suction on your clit, a probing tongue and a consistent suction that gets you squirming the more he continues. He almost looks reluctant to use his fingers, like he wants to devour every inch of you simultaneously with his tongue alone, but he drags up his hand anyway to trace your entrance, wet with arousal that drips onto the bed more and more… ah… it will be a bit embarrassing having the maids clean the sheets. Maybe you should bundle them up first…. And he slips a finger in nice and smooth.

Attentive as ever, Caleb was. He moans sinfully against your folds and swirls his tongue experimentally, languid, then focused, paying attention to what draws the best gasp out of you. He decides on this persistent, gentle but building rhythm where you can’t tell where your pleasure in receiving ends and his pleasure in giving begins. He savors you like a gift, grateful for the whine pulled from you when he inserts two fingers. Pumping in and out methodically, curling appropriately to find the most sensitive spots deep inside. Spots you’d only sometimes reach thinking about his fingers inside you instead… Curled up on your side, lonely nights while he was nose deep in his studies across galaxies, and you were knuckles deep in your cunt moaning his name into your pillow.

Dammit… these high noises keep leaving your mouth even as you try to bite them back and you’re trembling, the wet sounds of his fingers and tongue filling the room and fueling your mild embarrassment. Why was he so good… the sight is enough to drag in closer and trap him with your thighs (not that he looks like he wants to escape). You’d certainly never forgive him if he’d been practicing… but you’re arching up and can’t quiet down, so whatever Caleb learned, he’s doing it right.

“Mm.. this view is only mine, right? The future empress whining on my tongue…” he murmurs, kissing the bud of your clit like an apology for pausing to speak.

You could say the opposite — the future High Marshal moaning like his enemy is the best meal he’ll ever taste, but he gets right back to putting all his focus on you before you can retort, so you only squeak out some embarrassing noise instead, fluttering around his fingers. Ah… he… if he keeps…

“Caleb…” you whimper, turning your head to the side as your body jerks into his touch, instinctively squirming a little away, but Caleb grips your hip with his free hand. You don’t know if his encouraging moans do it more, or the agonizing build up of his lips and fingers that stack and stack until it bubbles over. You go tense, fluttering and twitching as you spill onto his fingers. Hard to breathe, your heart is pounding… And Caleb lets out a groan of satisfaction. His fingers keep pumping, mouth remaining latched on to prolong the arch of your back.

When you come down, he must be in some kind of trance. He just keeps pleasuring, won’t stop even when you’re whining loud and pushing at his head, complaining how sensitive you are. This… this wasn’t… ugh, Caleb was the worst even when he does give you what you want! You whimper and struggle against his persistent fingers and tongue that he’s decided to personally torture you with. When his mouth pulls off, the rub of his fingers replace them, a different kind of torturous stimulation as his arms pin your thighs down with his weight.

“I was so patient. Let me be a little selfish too,” he laughs against your stomach like he isn’t stimulating you to the point of overwhelm! You’d kick him if you could, instead you’re jerking and oversensitive and squirming in place.

“I was more patient you useless—“ you whimper, feeling yourself curl up. What was overwhelm starts to feel a weird blend of oversensitive pleasure that feels better… but almost too much.

“Mmm. Look at you. You’re the cutest.” He thrusts his fingers harder, mean. “No matter how hardened of an empress you become…” his mouth kisses back down between your legs, letting his breath fan over you. “In these moments, you’ll always be mine. My adorable, sweet baby sister,” and his mouth latches on to you, as though to prove his point. An effective, non-stop onslaught of pleasure that ends in you crying out and squirming as you arch, making a damn mess of the bed and Caleb’s mouth. He soothingly laps you even as you twitch and look totally spent. You use the bit of your strength to glare.

“Messy girl,” he murmurs as he finally pulls away, a trail of your arousal following him. He bears this dark, satisfied look while he wears your arousal on his face and fingers like a badge of honor.

Yeah. The absolute worst brother ever.

He moves up to kiss the corner of your lips (he gets a glare for that, he’s wet with you), murmuring that you have all the time tomorrow to melt into each other. Mmm. You’ll get your equal payback tomorrow. You wonder briefly about him, but a clear wet spot settles against your bare thighs as he cuddles up next to you. Seems his moans against your skin we’re for his own pleasure too…

Cradled in his arms, finally able to have him the way you’ve wanted (he might’ve still left you wanting. But at least he’ll satisfy that want before he departs this time…) it brings a serenity you weren’t sure was even possible before achieving the crown. Maybe your wants were more embedded into Caleb than you were willing to admit.

Even if your moments are stolen and scarce with how often he’s busy with The Federation. When he visits and sneaks you kisses, gifts, and now his touch; you’re reminded that even as he chases his own goals, even if you walk separate paths destined to meet in strife…

You lean over and peck the corner of his lips. They curl into an indulgent smile.

Caleb’s yours. He always has been.

I heavily debated posting to my main but figured ah what the hell, I unabashedly love Caleb anyway. What’s one more fic. Sue me.

I in fact did have to inhale and exhale when I did the math and their first kiss was about the same time as yearly nostalgia LMAO. Infold, you test me every day.

18+ Love and Deepspace Server, chill, queer friendly, and very vibes :3

Um if you enjoyed, comments and reblogs are mega appreciated!! :D

He left it with you consciously, as some sort of gift, but perhaps also to avoid the constant reminder of you. He knew he'd have enough of those just in his own head; he didn't need a physical reminder to go along with them. The near day long flight had done nothing to soothe the sting that your lack of response had left. Oscar had tried to hand you his heart and you hadn't even reached out to grab it from him. You'd almost flinched away from it in fear, not ignoring it but not giving an appropriate response, either. At least you hadn't dropped it, hadn't intentionally thrown it on the floor, at least you didn't want to hurt him. But as you turned and left with a forced smile you'd give someone you'd hardly met, his heart shattered in his hands anyway and left cuts that stung, the glass sinking deeper as he realised that you weren't turning back.

Somehow, that was worse than you dropping it.

Being back home, seeing his family again, that had helped numb it a little. They knew of you but not about you so he didn't have to answer any uncomfortable questions, but his phone grazed the metaphorical cuts as he let you know he'd landed and was safe.

Oscar: Landed, met with my family, so I'm all good You: nice!! I'm glad You: I'm currently suffering through packing up lol

His thumb twitches, intending to type out a response, but he gets caught on the cogs of his thoughts. Did you expect him to text like normal, as if his heart wasn't a pile of glass because of you? Did you want to talk like you hadn't happened? He'd heard once that the five stages of grief weren't linear and, if he hadn't been in denial for the last half year with you, he'd have said he'd just skipped right to anger. You hadn't promised to keep in contact, and he didn't owe you that.

Oscar: Good luck

When you leave him on read he wants to find satisfaction, but instead he finds that the cuts are just as deep as when they formed. The relief your reply brings makes it all worse.

You: thanks!! you too You: with grades, I mean

With your message, a horrible feeling blooms as Oscar finds that leaving you on read brings the satisfaction he was searching for.

The next time you reach out is about those grades, and he keeps that conversation just as short. He hates that it's satisfactory, hates that it's because he'd like to think that he's hurting you back, but he's too angry at you to care; he hates that, too. The anger isn't white-hot, either—it simmers under the surface, moving but not unstable. It wasn't showing on his expression and it certainly wasn't detectable in his texts. Did he wish it was? Did he wish you'd push a little more, ask what was wrong, ask why you weren't speaking like normal? Oscar isn't sure, but he is sure that ignoring the questions is easier.

Though he tries to distract himself with getting used to his routine back home, the anger continues to simmer. His siblings being back home as well help make the place feel crowded and lively like university accommodation back in England, and he slowly looks forward to going back to university in a few weeks. It doesn't take effort to keep up with Lando and Logan despite the time difference, but then Lando will talk about Courtney and he'll inhale sharply as if alcohol had been poured into his cut-ridden hands. On one of those occasions, it earns him a side glance from Hattie across the couch.

With her legs folded up to her chest, she glances up from her phone with furrowed brows. "Did you get hit with, like, the England version of post-Paris depression?"

"What?"

"You know, did it not live up to your expectations?" She leans forward with her arms on her knees, squinting at him. "The way they show it on TV?"

He finally looks up from his phone. "What makes you say that?"

Hattie shrugs. "You look like hell."

"I'm fine," he says, insisting when she huffs in response. "Genuinely. Probably just jet lagged."

"It's been a week."

"It's eleven hours difference."

"Still been a week." She shuffles closer, showing no signs of giving up. "So what's actually up?"

Oscar was just as stubborn. "Nothing."

"You were only gone a year," she says, folding her arms. "I still know you. I can tell when something's off."

"Is there anything I can do to convince you that nothing's wrong?"

"Nope!"

He finds himself suppressing a chuckle. "Glad to see you're still as annoying as when I left."

"Thank you! Now, cut the bullshit." Oscar rolls his eyes, but his sister persists. "What's wrong?"

Hattie didn't just know of you, she knew about you. Not all of it, no one back home knew all of it, but she'd known enough to caution him against getting attached; she didn't know her warning had come too late.

Suddenly, Hattie sits up straight, eyes wide for a moment before they soften with a sigh. "When's the last time you heard from Y/N?"

Just your name makes the simmering anger bubble, his grip on his phone tightening enough for her to notice. With that, she sits back, his reaction having been enough of an answer.

"Few days," he replies, trying to act as if he doesn't know the exact number. "Why?"

She raises her eyebrows at him in judgement and he sighs. Fine. Reluctantly, he continues. "It just…hasn't really been the same. The conversations die out quite…fast, I guess. And we're not trying to keep them going or anything."

"Huh." Hattie tilts her head, pensive for a moment. "I didn't think that you guys 'ending it' meant, like…no contact."

Oscar shrugs. "Neither did I."

It was his fault, though. Or was it yours? For not trying, for letting him get away with cutting your conversations short? The anger simmers again, burning this time, persisting long after Hattie eventually leaves and it's just him and your ghost, brought forward by yet another one of your messages

You: hey!! you left your hoodie You: how do i send it back lol

The most prominent thought in his mind is how badly he doesn't want it back, how he hopes it haunts you, but he just sighs. He really did like that hoodie, really liked seeing you in it, and though it's only been a week he doesn't have the energy to be constantly mad anymore. The anger flickers and fades out like you two had. Oscar supposes he's skipping right to depression, and you haven't even left England yet.

Oscar: It's technically ours Oscar: Keep it

He doesn't hear from you again until you let him know you're back home, and then he doesn't hear from you again for months, until he's back at university, until the Formula 1 season starts again and he has to resist using that as an excuse to text you, avoiding the races altogether.

Autumn starts to hit and it's cold enough for him to long for that hoodie again.

He wonders where it's gone, but decides to worry about it once he's fully unpacked back at university. For now, he has more important things to worry about. In his phone.

sunnie.hattie's story (reposted by oscarp_81)

yourusername.13 replied to your story:

You: happy birthday!!

He pretends his heart doesn't skip a beat and replies like it's nothing.

Oscar: Thank you!

You'd bothered to text him. He wonders if he'll bother to text you on yours. He wonders if he'll remember it, knows that he will, and decides he'll extend you the courtesy.

Then it starts to get colder. He'd failed to find hoodie and was unable to ignore his longing for it anymore though he certainly had other jackets. As every person with a sibling does, he immediately suspected one of them must've taken them by accident. Or on purpose. Either way, he was lucky that he asked Hattie first, saving himself the embarrassment of being told no by all of them.

Oscar: Did you take my white hoodie by accident? Hattie: no. ??? Hattie: bro wtf :( Hattie: u left it in england? i think Hattie: with ur ex Hattie: did u forget

Oscar freezes.

He had forgotten. At least briefly. It gave him hope that he'd be able to forget you, too. But to be able to forget you, he had to know what you were, and he knew what you weren't.

Oscar: She's not my ex Hattie: ye sure Hattie: either way the hoodie isn't with me Hattie: sorry bud

He knew what you weren't, but what were you? You weren't his ex, but you certainly weren't his, either. Did he still love you? He mulls over the words in his head, round and round in circles until he's ground them down to their finest details, their syllables, their letters, until their original meaning is indiscernible. They're a fine layer of dust over his brain, something he'll brush away. Eventually, he's unsure if he meant the three words at all.

Maybe he was just desperate to keep you and hoped that those words would be enough. Maybe he did mean them and was afraid to admit that even after they'd tumbled out of his mouth. Either way, he doesn't answer any of his questions, he doesn't know what you are to him. Not quite exes, never quite lovers, certainly not anything in between but instead something much less. He decides he's not getting anywhere, so he moves on, not hearing from you personally for months, only catching your few social media posts.

If you looked in his head you'd think he saw you every day.

Several months pass and you're buried under the rare snow of winter.

Oscar manages to not forget that he'd left the hoodie, but he also manages to not miss it as much as he used to. His heart is mending, the cuts are healing, he can actually watch Formula 1 races again without thinking of you. Hell, he can even see one of your posts and not overthink too much.

yourusername.13

Liked by oscarp_81, zoeyyyy_21, and others

yourusername.13 it's been too long girls </3

Comments:

zoeyyyy_21: we basically live together but okay >yourusername.13: doesn't count. move in. sof.73_xx: come to portugal again then!!! >yourusername.13: omw literally asap _xx.court89: girl how do you think i feel >yourusername.13: simply come back right now lando.4.n: oi stop stealing my girlfriend >yourusername.13: she was mine first :(( sunnie.hattie: <3 >yourusename.13: <3 <3

You were happy. You had clearly kept in contact with the girls and introduced them to Zoey and Oscar could see that you at least looked happy. He doesn't hope you're sad in secret, doesn't hope that you're hurting behind that smile—he's recovering, slowly, and he hopes you are too. The simmering anger becomes a low, longing hum, not depression but also certainly not something happy either, but he can block it out easily enough. Soon enough his hands will forget the sting and his heart will be whole again, even if chipped and cracked around the edges.

More months go by, skipping right through spring into summer and way past your birthday (which he didn't forget), melting the snow and bringing the low hum back to the forefront. New Year's Eve.

It was such an unusual trigger, but he supposed it made sense. It was where you'd last kissed, where his hope has swelled the most. Looking back, he'd been stupid to think that seeing Courtney and Lando would make you suddenly realise that you could make long distance work. He should've talked about it more directly to get proper closure, to see if you truly wanted to end it. Then again, you could've said you loved him back.

The anger simmers again for the first time in months, but it quickly settles into that hum.

Throughout the gathering, he looks at the door as if you'll surprise him like Lando surprised Courtney a year ago. As if you'd crossed the two oceans for him. You hadn't, of course. And to be fair, he hadn't done it for you, but he keeps looking at it as the time ticks down. It's there, looking at that door, that he moves on to the next stage and bargains with the universe. He'll take the haunting hoodie back only if you bring it so that he can see you again. He'll let you leave him again if you come through that door to repeat your last kiss. He doesn't care if it's illogical, doesn't care if his heart becomes a pile of shattered glass all over again, he just needs to see you come through that door even if it wasn't going to happen.

The clock strikes midnight and you're still not there and his heart had the audacity to drop and crack as if it hadn't known that was going to be the outcome all along.

The clock strikes midnight and Oscar realises he hasn't kissed you for one full calendar year.

He tries to bury that thought as he goes around the room wishing people a happy new year, grounding himself in this continent and not the one you were in. Spending so long on what he didn't have was useless; he may as well cherish what he did have. With the intention of reaching out to friends, he checks his phone to find various messages from the usual suspects, but he almost drops it when he reads yours.

You: happy new year !!

His heart jumps despite its fragility. It wasn't the new year for you, nowhere near, and yet you'd texted him anyway. You had remembered; you were still thinking about him. There was a world in which he still had you.

This was the worst possible outcome.

He cuts the conversation short. He needs to cut whatever thread of hope is left—his hands still remember the sting from the last time he decided to take a chance on that hope.

Oscar: You too

You leave him on read until after both of your graduations, after you leave comments on each others' posts. He's long moved back home permanently now, at least until job prospects and all that finished lining up, and he's arranging to meet Lando and Logan over the European summer. He and Lando don't call often, but it's nice when they do, even when they're doing their own thing on completely different schedules and even when he brings up Courtney every other topic switch.

Today is the first time that Lando makes the connection between Courtney and you.

"Hey, speaking of Courtney," Lando says, tilting his head. "How's Y/N?"

Oscar chokes on his drink.

He splutters and coughs while Lando stifles a laugh, though his expression turns concerned when Oscar doesn't stop. "How's- what?"

"Y/N," Lando repeats. "You know, your…huh. What are you guys, actually?"

He shrugs, having debated that question for far too long. "Don't know."

Lando hums and brushes the comment under the rug as if it's normal. "Right. Anyway, how is she?"

How is she, indeed.

How could he know? How could he know when he'd made a point to avoid knowing anything, when you'd decided to go along with it? He supposed that is what he caused, but the anger simmers right back up to the surface anyway.

"Alive?" Oscar says with another shrug. "She posted on Instagram recently."

On the other side of the screen, Lando is stunned. He blinks with eyes so wide it's almost audible, mouth hanging open and full of shock, leaving no space for words. No reaction comes from Oscar even as Lando furrows his brows and begs for elaboration with his expression alone.

Oscar sips his drink. "What?"

A noise leaves Lando's mouth, a high pitched expression of shock and judgement. "What do you mean, 'what?!' You guys were together before we left and now you've heard nothing?"

"Uh-huh."

"Mate."

"What?"

"That's fucking insane."

"Why?" Oscar says, a little too snappy. "We said we wouldn't be anything afterwards."

His friend blinks. "Yeah, like, not be together. Did you mean…nothing nothing?"

He doesn't answer for a very long time. He doesn't know what the answer is, so he manages with, "I guess."

You two hadn't, at the time, but it had been a year and it was too late to take back all the times he'd intentionally let a conversation run dry and all the times you'd let it happen. He puts those skills to use again as Lando presses, giving something for his efforts, and he eventually drops the topic, never bringing it up again.

Through the rest of the summer, though your message from new year's still hangs heavy, Oscar does a really good job at convincing himself he's over it. The low hum that had been the depression stage, though he wouldn't call it quite that bad, had finally begun its final transition into acceptance that maybe you just were a very considerate acquaintance.

That is, until he's sat in his room and he gets the longest text he's gotten from you in a year.

You: hey! sorry, I know it's a been a while. I'm packing to go back home and I came across your hoodie again. I know you said I could keep it, but I feel bad. Is there any way I can send it back to you?

He reads it once, twice, blinks, and drops his phone on the bed without answering.

You were a mess.

It had only been a couple hours since you'd texted him, but you know the time difference off by heart and if he wasn't in bed already he was about to be and he still hadn't replied. He wasn't even typing and you'd watched at least two films and eaten far too much ice cream. By this point, your phone is on your bedside table with the screen face down and on silent. You don't want to be waiting for it endlessly, so you've put it out sight and out of mind. Not quite out of mind, but you were trying.

"Still nothing?"

You shake your head at Zoey, hugging your pillow closer to your chest. "Maybe he hates me."

"Hey, I'm sure he doesn't." She takes her spot next to you on your bed. "How long has it been since you checked?"

"Like…over half an hour."

Your friend raises an eyebrow. "And what if he's texted you in that half hour?"

"I wouldn't know."

"When were you planning on checking?"

You shrug. "3 to 5 business days?"

With a sigh, she leans over you and grabs your phone, ignoring your weak protests. Her face changes, turning into sympathetic disappointment, when the screen lights up.

"He got back to you twenty minutes ago."

Immediately, you scramble to grab the phone from Zoey as if she's withholding it, making her raise her hands to claim innocence as you get your hands on your goal. Four messages. You don't remember the last time he sent you more than four words.

Oscar: Sorry, was figuring out logistics Oscar: I'm meeting up with Lando in July-August, if you're meeting up with Courtney you could give it to her to give to him? Oscar: Shipping costs will be quite a lot Oscar: But you can also just keep it, you don't have to feel bad about it

"He doesn't want me to have to cover shipping," you whisper as if its sacred proof of something, reminding you of how he'd always looked out for you.

Zoey rolls her eyes. "That's basic decency. What else?"

"He's meeting up with Lando, so if I'm seeing Courtney, they can pass it on. Unfortunately-"

"You're not," she sighs. "At least not yet."

"I should-"

Then your phone rings, interrupting you and your thoughts. As if she'd heard you, Courtney was calling. A group call, with Sofia included as well.

"Well, look at that." Zoey sits up and sorts out her hair with her hands, preparing for the call. "Maybe you are meeting up."

The only way to find out was to answer the call, so you do.

"Hey girls!" Courtney is sat at her desk, her phone propped up so neatly that you question whether it's a laptop. Below her on your screen, Sofia appears though she's barely in frame, clearly walking to or from somewhere. "Sorry this is so sudden."

"It's okay!" Sofia finds a bench, or something to sit on, and her camera stabilises. "Are you okay?"

"Yes! Yes, don't worry. How are you guys?"

"All good," you lie, and Zoey nods next to you. You wonder if your phone camera picks up the dried tears on your cheeks. "Just packing."

Sofia sighs. "Yeah. I'm actually sat next to some empty boxes right now." She moves the camera to show you and all of you wince.

"Good luck," Courtney says sympathetically, clearly already settled back home. "I wish I could help you guys."

"It's okay. Listen- I do need to head back with these boxes. What's up?"

"Okay! It'll be quick, promise." She straightens up and clears her throat, suddenly looking very serious. "So, as you know, summer is coming up, and I cannot go a year without seeing you guys. However…I also haven't seen Lando in like a year, and his parents have got this wonderful place in London that we could stay in as a group? As a sort of uni reunion now that we've graduated?"

Sofia gives her a very intrigued squeal as you speak. "That sounds great! How many people are you thinking?"

"Uh…" She flicks through a notebook in front of her. "Everyone. Like, not just us four, but Lando's friends as well. Logan, Oscar…oh! Y/N, would you happen to know if Oscar's free this summer?"

For a moment, all you can do is blink and ignore the stare that Zoey gives you. "Um. No, I don't. I feel like Lando would know."

"Damn, Lando wasn't wrong," Courtney mumbles. "You really haven't heard from him?"

"Nope. Wait-" You shake and sit up, playing her words back in your head. "Why'd you hear that from Lando?"

All three of you give her expectant glares and she gulps even if it is just three people on a screen. "He called Oscar a couple days ago, found out you two hadn't heard from each other, and was just…baffled. I figured I'd check in case Oscar reached out, but I guess not?"

"Actually," Zoey cuts in, trying to relieve you of the pressure of answering. "Y/N reached out, since she found that hoodie. So they're texting now."

"Ooh!" Sofia squeals. "Exciting!"

"No- not exciting. Just-" You inhale and feel every molecule of air against your throat. This was too soon, the realisation too raw, and you weren't ready to talk about how you were actually, definitely, still in love with him. "…Just trying to return the hoodie. Nothing else."

You watch as Courtney and Sofia exchange a concerned glance. "So you really haven't heard from him at all?"

"I've heard more about him from you today than I have from him all year." It comes out more snappy than you mean for it to, and you sigh. "I'm sorry, it's just…a lot."

They both nod, and Sofia offers you a warm smile. "It's okay."

"Yeah, don't worry," Courtney says, her reassuring look matching Sofia's. "I'll get Lando to ask him when he's free. And, girl, if you need anything, we're here."

"Thank you," You reply, breathing easier now. "And- just cause I haven't heard from him doesn't mean I'd like, hate to see him. I don't mind if he's invited."

"I'll make note of that." Courtney smiles and writes something down. "I'll see when we're all available and we can plan flights and such? How do we feel about two weeks in August?"

Sofia hums. "Good for me, I think."

"Same here." You turn towards Zoey and tilt your head, she nods in response. "For both of us."

"Great! I'll check with everyone else and let you know in like, a group chat or something."

You nod and say your goodbyes as Sofia rushes off to continue packing and you figure you should do the same. Zoey keeps you company every now and again while you finish folding that pile of clothes you'd neglected; by the time you've finished it's dark outside and you get ready for bed and yet more tidying tomorrow, but then it hits you—Oscar's message.

You've left him on read.

After a panicked scramble to find it, you finally reply to Oscar's message, knowing (and hoping) that it was far too late (or early) for him to have noticed being left on read.

You: I may be seeing the girls in the summer, but it'll be after you see Lando I think? Or at the same time lol, in which case I'll just bring it You: I'll keep you updated on it. I genuinely feel too guilty keeping it :')

It was the most that you'd texted in over a year. You allow hope, even if that hope is as fragile as glass, to occupy some space in your brain as you settle into bed, ready to pack in a rush tomorrow. Even if you couldn't go back to what you were, maybe you could be more than what you've been for the last year. You desperately wanted to be more than that, wanted to make up for lost time, but you were too caught up on whether he wanted to or not. Most of the night, you're overthinking every small interaction, wondering why you didn't ask more or push harder to stay in contact; then you'd wonder why he didn't. Much like that one night back when you two were on the same continent when you couldn't sleep, you toss and turn, you groan and kick your feet until you put your pillow at the foot of your bed and beg your body to fall asleep already.

The next morning, you wake up to one of his texts, and it cracks that hope.

Oscar: Sounds good

You suppose you're back to the two-word blunt responses from him, which likely meant he didn't care that much, and your heart sinks before the day has even really started. A small part of you, the hope that you let in yesterday, wants to push harder, even if it risks shattering it further. This whole time, you've let him cut the conversations short, thinking it was easier to just sever the connection entirely, but you find that you need the connection back. You want to push to see if he pulls away or to see if it works.

So you do.

You: nice :) You: so how have you been? it's been a while

It's almost 9pm where he is, so you put your phone down and get on with your own day which will consist of nothing but suitcases and boxes. Enough time passes that you manage to forget you'd texted him until it's time to pack the hoodie among the rest of your clothes, as if it belongs there and not among his. You check your phone then, surprised to find an answer at all.

Oscar: I've been good Oscar: How are you?

Oscar had spent the year hoping for this.

Not actively, but quietly, in the background of his thoughts, as the soundtrack to his days, he hoped you'd text him more than two words, he hoped you'd actually make conversation just like you were now. Alongside the hum of anger and depression was a quiet hope, a quiet 'what if,' and it had just come true. If it was everything he wanted, why did it almost feel like being dragged back to the shattered glass he'd been trying to mend for a year?

He's glad to hear you were doing well, though he's honestly just happy to hear from you at all, but there's still an anger bubbling just under the surface that doesn't show in his messages. It's almost insulting, the way that you don't acknowledge the year of near radio silence, the way you don't even bother to explain why you hadn't reached out meaningfully until now, why you'd let the conversations die so easily, why you'd left him hanging. He wonders if you feel insulted by the way he doesn't acknowledge it either, but part of him is convinced your offence is worse. Though he'd been the one to leave you on read for months, you'd been the one to accept that with open arms.

And yet, here you were, talking. For a week, without stopping.

He waits for it to stop, for you to change your mind and leave him hanging again, but the most you do is beg him to go to sleep when you knew it was too late for him. Eventually, he stops waiting for it to stop and tentatively trusts you with his glass heart. Part of it. He still holds it, barely showing it to you, afraid it'll shatter with just a glance.

Nothing had changed to cause you to talk. Not on his end, anyway. Maybe finding the hoodie stirred some feelings in you, but clearly they were unwanted since you were so desperate to give it back. God, he can't figure you out, and your small talk isn't giving him any more clues. You don't bring up the group trip either, and he wonders about whether you'd want to see him there.

Then again, he wasn't bringing it up, either.

It's not long before the group organises that trip and decides on the week of August 10th until August 24th. By February, Courtney makes a group chat to arrange flights and transport to where you'd be staying; you're not in the group chat, though, which is how he learns you can't make it this summer. He should be relieved, he's sure that seeing you again would bring back the sting, but he can't help the slight disappointment. Maybe you could've spoken, healed together, but he supposes he'll have to settle for doing that at a distance. Or not doing it at all, because maybe you didn't want to see him.

Though he knows he won't see your reply until the morning, he texts you about the trip, admittedly curious about what you were doing instead. And also as an excuse for continuing your conversation.

Oscar: I heard you can't make the group trip Oscar: I'm sorry, it would have been nice to see you

But you read the message immediately, and he decides that going to bed after midnight once isn't going to kill him, and you aren't telling him to go to sleep yet.

You: what?? You: I can!! I got told you can't though?

His eyelids suddenly aren't heavy anymore and he sits up in his bed. He rubs his eyes to make sure he's reading your message correctly and, sure enough, your 'I can' doesn't magically turn into 'I can't.'

Oscar: Wait, you're going? You: yes!! You: and you're going? Oscar: Yes

Oh. They didn't know you were in contact again, did they?

He hasn't mentioned it to Lando—they hadn't called and it didn't come up over text—and he guessed you hadn't mentioned it to Courtney or anyone, either. It was easy to conclude that they had planned to surprise you both with each others' presence, hoping for…something.

Whatever they were hoping for wouldn't happen. What would happen, on his end, is a heart attack.

Oscar: I think I see what they were trying to do You: lol yeah You: some sort of dramatic reunion or whatever You: should we let them know that their surprise is ruined?

He considers it, he genuinely does, but a smirk tugs at his lips instead. If they wanted to trick you two, surely you had the right to turn it around on them.

Oscar: Nah, let them deal with the separate group chats and the stress of having to lie You: oscar You: you are evil You: I love the way you think

Love. He ignores the flip his heart does, and he warns it against doing such tricks while in such a fragile state.

You: it'll be nice to see you again :)

That warning is immediately disregarded.

Oscar: You too

But there's little nagging part of him that doesn't quite mean it. He can't let go of just how much you haven't addressed yet, and suddenly there's a very real possibility that you'll address it in person around two years since he'd first kissed you.

That night, sleep proves to be near impossible.

When he next calls Lando, just for fun, he mentions he's been talking to you on and off. The panicked expression is amusing enough to make the following questions worth it, even if he does just dodge them all. Despite his teasing, Lando offers to pick him up from the airport since Courtney is getting there slightly earlier—something about having much worse jet lag to deal with, which Oscar supposed was true. He brings you up to Logan, watching him panic in the same way, and wonders what their little group chat must look like, and he also wonders if you're doing the same to your friends. Soon enough, flights are booked and transportation is arranged and, before he knows it, February becomes July and the trip is around the corner.

Your conversations had dwindled in that time, but it felt natural. You'd send him a meme and he'd reply and then you'd talk during a race and he'd complain about the fact that they were so late, but you could go a couple days without saying anything. Despite the three words that he'd definitely meant, he starts to convince himself that he can live with this—you, in the background of his life, as a nice constant presence he could rely on. His heart and its sharp, shattered edges would be the toughest to convince, especially as he boards the flight to England and lets the group know. Due to their little plan, he has to let you know separately.

You: yay!! You: I'll text you when I'm on mine You: though you'll still be on yours then lol You: anyway! have a safe flight and see you soon!! Oscar: You too Oscar: See you soon

It doesn't feel real even as he's in the air and actively heading towards you. A near-day long flight feels eternal and as short as a blink. Oscar is restless, bouncing his leg and scripting and re-scripting what he'll say when he sees you. Too casual, too formal, too heavy, too much, not enough, and so he eventually gives up on having the perfect thing to say and instead prioritising being well rested enough to say anything coherent at all. When he does eventually fall asleep, towards the end of the flight, he dreams of you, and the warmth of you next to him feels so real that he thinks his brain must be punishing him. He stirs awake just before he's about to kiss you, probably because it's been so long that he can't quite remember what it's like.

Of course, there's no guarantee he'll ever get to do it again.

When he lands, two hemispheres, two oceans, several hours, and thousands of miles suddenly become nothing. You're on the same hemisphere, on the same landmass, no time difference in sight, only a couple of miles away, and he just as suddenly has to swallow back nausea though the plane isn't moving anymore. Rain gently trickles down the side of the plane window, and he wonders how long it had been raining without him noticing and prays hat Lando isn't waiting outside. He texts the group and you that he's landed, and pretty much everyone is already on their way to Lando's. You included, with Sofia and Zoey. To focus on getting his bags, he has to put his phone away and stop thinking about seeing you, but he has to balance that with keeping Lando updated.

Oscar eventually makes it to where Lando had parked, luckily an underground car park that had been a challenge to find. It smells of rain on warm tarmac and fuel and the business of the car park is clear by how many engines he can hear revving up. After the relatively sterile environment of the plane, all of his senses are overwhelmed and blaring, and he narrows his eyes and scrunches his nose in response to it all. It's not long until he spots Lando waiting and ready to load his bags into the back of his car, his eyes lighting up into a smile when he spots Oscar. His friend gives him a firm hug and several pats on the back and he tries his best to return the gesture while still holding onto his bags, delighted to see him again.

"Welcome back, mate." Lando holds onto is shoulder with a smile. "Very nice to see you."

"Nice to see you, too." Oscar nods as his friend starts to load his bags, met with very little protest from the man who had just spent a day on a plane, though he tries his best to help. "Sorry, all of my limbs feel like they're going to fall off."

Lando chuckles. "Nah, don't worry. Car's unlocked, go take a seat."

He opts to stretch his legs instead, pacing next to the car until he hears the trunk slam shut, signalling that they were ready to leave.

"I am so glad you can drive," Oscar sighs as he settles further into the passenger seat. "I don't think I'd make it on public transport. Thank you."

"You're very welcome. How was the flight?"

Oscar lets his head fall back onto the headrest. "Long."

His friend laughs as he starts the car, moving away from the airport and towards his place, towards you. "At least it's over."

"Until I have to go back."

"Oh, come on, that's in two weeks." Lando gives him an amused smile. "You can't be counting down already."

"True." He shrugs, his eyelids too heavy to offer any protest. "Hey. You mind if I just…close my eyes for a bit?"

"Go for it, mate. You look like you need it."

As he closes his eyes to try to rest, you appear as the main character of his thoughts, as you always did. Just as he tried to do on the plane, he scripts and rescripts what he'll say to you and comes across the exact same problems that he did when he first started scripting. It's worse now that he knows it'll be less than an hour before he has to face you once and then every day for the next two weeks or so. After many moments, he lands on something like, 'hi, nice to see you again,' ignores the fact that he'll have to put up with everyone's disappointment at the ruined surprise, and tries to rest without you as the main character of his thoughts.

Except Lando is right next to him, and he can make it easy on himself and you if he just breaks the news to him now.

Oscar hums, his eyes still closed. "So…seeing Y/N again."

Lando chokes on air.

Even with his eyes closed, Oscar can imagine the colour draining from his friend's face, and a smile tugs at his lips.

From the driver's seat, Lando hopelessly tries to recover by chuckling and acting confused. "Huh? She's not-."

"You can drop that, I know she is."

A wince escapes his mouth, followed by a deep inhale. Oscar keeps his eyes closed, but he knows his friend has tensed up, too.

Eventually, he lets the air leave his lungs. "How'd you know?"

"She told me."

"Damn," Lando exhales, letting out a noise that sound like a laugh, though there's no amusement in it. "You really did just…start talking again."

"Yeah, we did."

"That's good."

His friend doesn't say anything else, so Oscar lets the silence fall between them. All he had to was break the news, and he just had, but more words were forming on his tongue. Apparently, months of not talking about his conflicted feelings made them want to be given a voice and maybe even manage to sort the conflict. His thoughts are like tangled wires and maybe he could untangle them if he lay them all out in the open. Instead, he keeps his eyes closed, his head on the headrest, and his mouth shut, doing his best to block out the rhythmic squeaks of the windshield wipers.

"So…" Lando clears his throat. "How do you feel about it?"

Oscar tenses and inhales, suddenly blinking quickly like he'd just woken up.

His friend quickly adds, "It's okay if you don't want to talk about it."

"No, I do, it's just…" He shakes his head and sits up, rubbing his eyes as if it'll make anything in this situation any clearer. "I don't know what to say to her."

"What have you been saying over text?"

"Nothing that addresses…us."

Lando gives a small hum, quick and firm as his lips form a thin line. "You think she'll address it in person?"

"No idea."

"Do you want to address it in person?"

Huh. He hadn't actually considered that. Oscar thought bringing it up was inevitable, the right thing to do, but did he want to, or did he feel like he should want to?

Oscar faces his friend with furrowed brows, humming thoughtfully for a while. "I'm afraid I'll be too harsh. She…she did hurt me, you know? And I haven't seen her since then, so I'm worried it'll just…spill over."

Lando's fingers drum along the steering wheel for a beat of silence. "Right, that makes sense."

"And, you know, things are fine as they are," he sighs, thinking over the last few months and how he swore he could convince his heart to be okay with texting you like that forever. "What would talking about it change?"

"I dunno." Lando shrugs. "Feels like the right thing to do, though, especially with everything you feel. Clear the air, start from zero."

Start from zero.

Oscar blinks once, twice, each time more certain that starting from nothing was not what he wanted.

"No," he says. "I don't really want to just…talk about it and brush over it. I want…not that."

He catches the glint of a smirk on Lando's lips. "You want to continue where you left off."

And Oscar's first instinct is resistance, but those walls are quickly brought down. It doesn't hit like a truck or a bomb or anything like that—it's like he's standing at the shore and suddenly there's cold water at his bare feet, waking him up to the reality of the tangled wires of his thoughts.

Despite his anger, he isn't ready to let you go.

"Yeah," he admits, determined and certain, making Lando's eyes widen. "I'd like that."

Lando chuckles and holds back the lecture he was going to give his friend. "I was expecting some resistance."

"Well." Oscar tilts his head back and forth with uncertainty. "I've done that for most of the year."

His friend chuckles again, more of a laugh this time. "You won't have to for much longer."

Oscar swallows hard and keeps his eyes on the road, the road to the inevitable reunion and confrontation with you.

"You look like hell."

You stop pacing to give Zoey a glare, she raises an eyebrow at you, and you huff in response.

"Gee, thanks Zoey." You immediately resume your pacing, having found that the middle of the living room is the perfect size for you to walk circles around it.

Courtney's eyes follow you from one end of the room to the other. The four of them were watching her like she was some sort of fascinating exhibit of anxiety. "There'll be a dent in the carpet from how much you've paced on it. Are you-"

"I'm fine-"

"You're not," Zoey cut in, standing up from the couch. "You've known Oscar was coming. Why didn't you pace back home?"

You grab her shoulders firmly and glare at her with such intensity that her eyes widen. "Because it's real now. He's in this continent. Hell, same landmass. Do you know how long it's been since we were in the same time zone?"

Zoey swallows as she steps back from your grip, slowly shaking her head. "My god."

The group blinks at you like you're absolutely insane—Courtney had been the one to show the most disappointment at your knowledge that Oscar was coming, Sofia and Zoey had to put up with you bouncing your leg so hard that were convinced you were making the train shake, and poor Logan was just along for a ride that he didn't sign up for. And what a ride it was, one on the one-track road towards the inevitable reunion and confrontation with Oscar.

You were going to pace so much you would erode the carpet and floor and soil beneath it if only to hide yourself from the inevitable.

"How long until-"

"Still around five to ten minutes since you last asked," Courtney interrupts you. "Which was around a minute ago."

"Are you-"

"Yes, we're sure!" Sofia suddenly exclaims, tone bordering on desperate. "Please, sit down. Relax. It's going to be okay."

You stop pacing and meet her concerned eyes. With Zoey leaning next to the couch and Logan sat on a different seat, there's a space for you on the edge of the couch next to Sofia and Courtney. Slowly, like a suspicious animal approaching food, you take that spot and sit up straight. Knees together, hands tightly clasped and neatly placed on your lap, posture so perfect and stiff that you were almost shaking. You do your best to ignore the worried glances from the women and focus on the one person that is just confused—Logan.

"I had no idea whatever you and Oscar had was this…" he vaguely gestures in front of him, huffing when no words come to mind and settling on, "…big."

His words make you flinch and the narrowed glares from the other three make him flinch, too. He mumbles a small 'sorry' mostly at you; you do your best to give him an acknowledging nod.

Zoey places a comforting hand on your shoulder, though it just makes you stiffen more. "He's not going to kill you, or anything like that. You've been talking, right?"

"Yeah," you mumble in admission, barely able to get the words out. "But I don't know what he will do."

"It won't be anything you don't want," Logan says quickly, bracing for more glares, but they don't come. After looking around for any disapproval, he continues. "He did talk to me about you. Back then, I mean. And he cares. A lot. Whatever he does or…says, it won't be to like…hurt you, y'know?"

And you knew Logan was right. You knew, at the very least, that Oscar didn't want to hurt you. However, you also knew that trying to breathe fresh air after months of drowning had hurt anyway, that him leaving those three words for you to carry had hurt anyway, that you having to push him to have an actual conversation with you after a year of silence, putting your hope of glass on the line, had hurt anyway. Regardless of intent, it had all hurt anyway, and you had no doubt that you'd done the same to him. But you don't say all that. You just nod with a forced smile, everything from your posture to your expression made of plastic, and keep your attention on any noise coming from the front door.

The room moves on after that, the awkwardness of the change of topic eventually leaving the space. They're quite happily discussing your plans for the upcoming weeks while you drown in your thoughts. It's funny to think of it as drowning when the very thing you'd drowned in is over, but it's the only way to describe how you overwhelmed your emotions are making you. Processing them all is near impossible, but there is one blaring thought that lands at your feet among the fast currents surrounding you.

Despite your fear, you weren't ready to let him go.

You didn't know exactly what that meant—which is kind of exactly what got you into this mess a year and a half ago—but you knew what your first step had to be. Both of you had to talk about it. You had to discuss and explain the silence and decide on the next steps, even if there simply would be none. You swallow hard at the thought of you and Oscar being nothing even after talking, but it was a possibility you had to be ready for.

Then you hear the front door click and you flinch as though it was a gunshot.

Four pairs of eyes land on you, presumably aiming to comfort you but achieving nothing but pressuring you instead. The mumbles at the door about 'just leave your bags here' and 'they're just through there' grow closer and closer and you find yourself cornered by perceived threat that you don't want to run away from. It's not long before that very threat appears at the door and locks eyes with you.

A year and a half ago, you'd been wrong. You would see Oscar Piastri again, and it would be nothing like you imagined.

Your first reaction is to cry.

You don't actually cry, though. Tears just well up as his eyes widen, but his attention is taken away when Logan almost tackles him. Because you stand up last, feeling as if Oscar's gaze had frozen you to your seat, you're last in line to greet him. Courtney and Sofia give him a small hug, the former immediately taking her place next to Lando with their hands interlaced, and Zoey shakes his hand and introduces herself as your friend. You watch as his smile thins when your name leaves her mouth and your hope nearly shatters as it falls to the bottom of your stomach.

And, suddenly, you're face to face with him, and you have nothing and everything you want to say.

Your gaze lingers on his, as does the silence between you, until you decide that an embrace would be too much though you long for it so you stretch out your hand. Oscar's smile falls as he looks down at your hand, then at your eyes again, and you swear a bit of hurt crosses them before he smiles politely.

"Hi," he says, smooth and confident as he shakes your hand. "It's nice to see you again."

You get caught up in the warmth of his hand, familiar even after all this time, so your response is delayed. "Hi. It's, uh…nice to see you, too."

And you know Zoey well enough to know that she's barely suppressing a judgemental facepalm.

You're not sure how you move on, how you end up on the floor to make space for Oscar on the couch and much less how you end up spectating some kind of card game. What you do know is that, as much as you are actively dreading it, you need to talk to Oscar sooner rather than later.

You needed to get him alone.

Seeing you again was nothing like he'd imagined.

The awkwardness was expected and the distance you placed between you two hurt but made sense. His own feelings, however, were proving to be barely containable. He was still praying that you hadn't noticed his misty eyes or the way his hand tightened around yours. Holding your hand again had stung as if the cuts had never healed at all, and they weren't even really there. You were really there, though. Right across from him, poorly pretending not to stare. It would have been endearing if it wasn't utterly terrifying and if he wasn't doing the same. Behind you, the summer sun sets and, though the clock indicates it is late in the evening, Oscar's body has no idea what time it actually is. It wasn't helping him at all, and he quickly finds that he just needs a minute. Over twenty hours alone on a plane and he still couldn't take seeing you. Not in such large doses.

"Right, we're out of crisps," Lando declares; Oscar immediately sees an escape. "I'll-"

"I'll get them," Oscar states quickly, already standing up and shutting down Lando's protests by raising his hand. "Just point me to where."

His friend blinks at him from the couch, tilting his head. "Uh…sure. Down the hall and to the right."

He's barely heard the directions by the time he's walking towards the corridor, speed-walking his way to the kitchen but mostly away from you and whatever your expression was trying to tell him. It's only once he's in the kitchen that he realises he doesn't know which crisps to get and where the crisps even are, but that doesn't matter. Oscar just needs to breathe, and he needs to know you're not watching him do it.

He's scanning the cupboards, crouching down to look in the lower ones, when footsteps quickly approach from behind him.

"Hey-"

You.

Oscar stands immediately, just as immediately hitting his head on the top of the cupboard he'd been looking in. He winces as you gasp and step towards him tentatively.

"Oh!" You leave plenty of space between you as if you'd caught yourself doing something you shouldn't be doing. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's okay," he says though he's still rubbing the back his head slowly, trying to hide the grimace on his face. "Really-"

"Are you sure? I can-"

"Yes, it's okay, don't worry." As best as he can, he smiles at you, trying to reassure you.

"Okay." You look anywhere but at him, glancing between various details around the kitchen that you were pretending were interesting. "So, uh…how was your flight?"

"Good." But he can't blame you; he can't look at you either, not directly. "Long."

You hum, dragging one of your feet back and forth across the floor. Your arms stretch behind your back, forcing you to stand impossibly straight. "Right. Yeah."

When the silence stretches even a little, letting awkward silence creep in as it had back when you'd first really spoken of the limited time after Halloween, he quickly clears his throat. "Um- yours?"

"Good! Good." You reply quickly, almost relieved. "I had Sofia and Zoey, so…it was fun. Except for…" You flinch and swallow your words, determined to keep this a polite conversation between two people pretending to be strangers, and he convinces himself that he's not at all curious about what you were going to say. "…you know…flight stuff."

And he doesn't ask you to say it. He can't bring himself to. "Ah, right."

"Yeah."

Your smile thins and his falters, both of them fake even if in different ways, and he can't believe how hard this is. Hadn't you guys been texting normally? Hadn't you crossed that bridge at least? How can it be possible that you'd felt comfortable letting him hold you while wearing nothing, and now you could barely look at each other? One of his fists closes—not clenched, just closed, protecting what's inside it—and he feels the damn cuts again as his heart of glass develops new cracks.

But then you speak, and his hand opens.

"Hey."

This time, you're looking at him. Really looking at him, eye to eye, and he forces himself to hold your gaze though he's nothing but afraid of the feeling behind them. Whatever words you intended to say were words you'd heavily considered, and your hands falling in front of you and clasping each other tightly indicated their weight.

"I just wanted to…oh, just…" Your chest rises and falls with a heavy, nervous breath. He feels his own inhales shake within him. "I'm sorry. For the silence the past year. I…wasn't sure what to do, to be honest. I just thought that would be…easier for me, I guess."

"Oh," he says at first, because it's all he could say.

First, he understands, he appreciates your apology, your acknowledgement. He wonders what to say in response, deciding that an apology in return was appropriate, but before he forms his own words they catch on your last sentence. On the fact that you weren't sure what to do, on the fact that silence was easier for you.

Oscar inhales shakily, the hum of the anger simmering and then bubbling and, unfortunately, now it had a very clear target. His words are sharp and calculated and omit his apology.

"So you acknowledge it now."

"I- yeah." You blink, confused, followed by an awkward and forced laugh. That makes it worse. "What?"

"The silence." His jaw tightens as if in an effort to withhold what he really wants to say, trying to give him enough time to understand that you didn't want to hurt him, but it's no use. The anger had been bottled up for too long and his heart wanted to use its sharp edges for revenge, so he wears it on his tone. "You spend months ignoring it, and now you just-"

"Oscar, are you-? Oh." Lando stands at the doorway behind you, though you quickly move aside, startled. "Sorry, I…" He shoots Oscar a glance, then one at you, then raises an eyebrow at your serious expressions and takes one step back. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No," you and Oscar say simultaneously, too fast, too defensive. You continue, "No, I was just…never mind. Listen, I- I have this, like…massive headache suddenly? I'm just gonna- yeah, I'm just gonna head to bed."

"Are you sure?" Lando asks, but you've already walked past him and left his outstretched hand hanging. He tilts his head then turns towards Oscar and narrows his eyes. "What did-"

"Nothing," he snaps, not taking it back when Lando's eyes widen. "I'm heading up, too. Long day."

Just as you had, he leaves his friend hanging and trails behind you up the stairs, though you have entirely different destinations and he has no interest in speaking to you further. But business remained unfinished, and his heart would remain sharp until conversation dulled it.

Not tonight. Not yet.

You stargaze from the window in your room.

You're on your knees on the bed, chin resting on your arms as they're crossed on the windowsill. There's patches of tears on your sleeves—small ones, since you hadn't cried for long. For once, you manage to to streamline your thoughts into a singular tracks, staring up at the sky as if you were using them to connect the dots.

Oscar was mad at you. It made complete sense.

Throughout the year, you thought you were doing what he wanted. He was the one leaving you on read, after all, and you figured that he wanted the distance. But that wasn't all, and you knew it—it had been for mostly selfish reasons, mostly to protect yourself from the part of you that still hadn't let him go. If that part couldn't ache with longing, then neither could you; cutting contact with him was the easiest way to make that happen. Never once had you stopped to consider that maybe he didn't want a sudden end to the small link you two had, and maybe he didn't want an end at all. You owed him an apology for more than just the silence, too—you owed him an apology for leaving him hanging back at the bus stop. Then a thought nags at your mind, pulling away from the stars and towards something darker, something unfair but so cathartic that you can't resist.

Why hadn't he said this before?

Why hadn't he brought up the silence when you started speaking again? Why hadn't he asked why you didn't say it back? Why had he just let it all go? Most importantly, why was it suddenly on you to grovel for his forgiveness to stand a chance at maybe getting him back? You freeze at that thought. Get him back. Is that what you want?

For now, you'd just have to ignore that resounding yes and figure out how to even speak to him.

And return his (your?) hoodie, too.

There's a knock at your door—Zoey, asking if she can come in. You wipe your face before you say yes, turning to face her with a smile you hope is convincing.

"Figured you wouldn't be with Oscar," she mumbles as she closes the door and makes her way to you, mirroring your position at the window. "Are you okay? Did something happen?"

"I'm okay," you reassure, not even really lying. You weren't perfectly okay, but you were okay, and the answer convinces your friend. "Just…he's mad at me. Obviously."

"Obviously?"

"Wouldn't you be mad at someone if you told them you loved them and they said 'that's mean' and then they proceeded to be incredibly short over text to the point of complete silence?"

Zoey's eyes go impossibly wide. "He told you he loved you?"

Oh. You hadn't mentioned that yet. "Not the point-"

"Then fuck the point!" she then grabs your shoulders firmly and pulls you closer. "And you responded with what?"

Sensing you were in deep trouble regardless of what you said, you shake your head, refusing to speak.

"You- you said- 'that's mean.' To a man who told you he loved you. And you didn't tell me?"

Her glare makes you tense. You try to swallow your fear and fail. "It…may have slipped my mind…?"

"Girl." Zoey drops her hands and sighs with a disappointed shake of her head. "You've been way too good at suppressing this guy. Also, 'that's mean' is the worst response that you could've thought of."

"I know," you groan, burying your face in your hands. "But I can't take it back now. I just…need to talk to him."

"Did you try that today?"

You nod, face still behind your palms.

"And how did that go?"

"It…" You rest your arms back on the windowsill, dropping your chin on them. "…could've gone worse?"

Zoey sighs and puts a comforting arm around your shoulders. "At least there's that."

"I just don't what I'm meant to do." Several options run through your head, but you don't know how to weigh them out or if he'll even respond to them positively. There was also the matter of whether you should do anything at all. "I tried. I apologised, and he just…snapped. I just- you know…he didn't text me, either. I don't think it's all my fault."

The stars twinkle as silence stretches between you two and she holds you tighter; the sky begins to blur again as tears well up in your eyes and you find yourself hopeless and desperate. You were drowning again. It had been a year and a half and maybe you'd just been by the shore this whole time, walking away from the tide. However, the tide was catching up to you and the cold water at your feet was a rude awakening.

"Hey," Zoey says softly, pulling you into a hug when she sees the tears glimmering in your eyes. "Listen. It's going to be okay. You heard Logan earlier, he doesn't want to hurt you. He's just…hurt too, you know? And you said it yourself, he has a right to be. And, sure, it's not all your fault, but I think you need to try and talk to him again."

Your breath trembles as you inhale, suddenly too aware of how much they longed for the water. "I'm scared," you admit, holding onto her. "I'm scared that there's nothing I can do."

"I know," she says gently, pulling away to gently hold your shoulders. "But…letting it all happen without saying anything got you here. You can't do that again. Not to you, and not to Oscar."

"I know."

Zoey nods, her expression comforting but expectant. "So what's your plan?"

You sniffle, but you find a determination in you that you hope will stick around. With a gaze towards the stars you take a deep breath, less shaky this time, and you go back to that resounding yes from earlier.

"I'm gonna try to talk to him."

For such a short sentence and such a simple action, it was proving to be incredibly difficult.

There's absolutely no chances, no openings, no opportunities to even try to get Oscar alone for the next three days, let alone to start the conversation you were sure was going to be more than difficult. But if you can't get him alone, thinking of the conversation is useless. You're mostly doing stuff as a group, which means that the group sticks together and when you do separate it mostly ends up with the women going one way and the men going another. In some cases, Courtney and Lando go off together, hand in hand, but that still leaves five of you and Oscar always stuck beside Logan. It was even worse when you met up with Ollie or Lily or other people from university—more people for you and Oscar to talk to instead of each other.

You exchanged words, sure, like polite 'good morning's and occasional 'excuse me's, but there hadn't been a chance to really talk, not yet. Sure, you could use the hoodie as the perfect excuse, but that felt too loaded. You know, bringing the one thing you still shared into a room for a conversation about other things you may still share and about whether you want to share more things. It was definitely too much.

Part of you was convinced he was avoiding you, having spotted the nudges and side glances Lando gave him whenever the group split up, but you also hadn't insisted on going anywhere with him though you wanted to, so he probably wasn't avoiding you. This was just unlucky for you. For three days straight, until the calendar reads August 13th and you pretend not to flinch.

"So you haven't talked yet?" Sofia asked from her spot on the floor of the living room. The guys had gone out to get some more snacks and such, and they were lucky to have gone by car—the rain battering the windows didn't sound pleasant, though it changed between a downpour to a slight mist constantly.

"No," you huff, resting your head on the back of the couch and looking at the ceiling. "There's been no good time."

Courtney pouts from beside you. "We can try to arrange something? Lock you two in a room until you talk."

"That sounds terrible."

"It sounds like it would work."

"No, it's okay." Something like that would be a last resort. For now, you wanted it to arise as organically as possible to ensure it wouldn't go remarkably sideways. "This is…serious. I don't want to have you guys meddling too much to force it, you know?"

"Someone has to." Zoey is sat on another seat, arms folded and serious. "And if you don't want us to do it, then…"

"I have to?" She nods and you groan. Of course you did, especially if he wasn't going to. And you really wanted to, it was just harder than you signed up for.

Sofia stands to crouch in front of you and offer support. "Listen, I'm sure he wants to talk, too. Someone just has to… start a conversation."

"Without getting interrupted by my boyfriend," Courtney adds.

"And you want to start the conversation, so…do it." Sofia is aware that it's easier than it sounds, but you're both aware that it's the only choice you have. "You have to push for it."

Zoey's standing next to you, a firm hand on your shoulder. "You've got this. And you've got over a week to do it."

You nod, though you know you don't want to wait that long. You're going to talk to Oscar tonight. August 13th.

Again, you pretend not to flinch.

But, again, short sentences and simple actions prove to be incredibly difficult.

When the guys get back, the whole group settles into the living room as they had on the first day. Courtney and Lando sat beside—almost on—each other on the couch, with Sofia taking the remaining space and Zoey and Logan taking the other scattered seats. You and Oscar sit on the floor, you on your knees and him with his legs crossed, but you're at opposite corners of the small coffee table in the middle. No one stood or sat between you, and yet you'd let space take that place anyway.

You can't focus on what the group is doing, not with your constant side glances at Oscar as if you needed to check that he was still there. Sometimes, he'd be glancing at you at the same time and your eyes would meet and you'd immediately look away from him. It was like putting your hand in the fire to check if it was still hot even though your hand was riddled with burns.

"Y/N walks around London like she knows it," Courtney remarks with an amused eye roll, snapping your attention back towards the conversation with your name. "We keep losing her because she keeps walking away!"

You quickly shake your head to defend yourself, though that does nothing to stop the snickers and giggles. Oscar stays silent. "I do not."

"You do!" Sofia chimes in. "You always walk in front and then away like we're not there sometimes."

"I get distracted," you mumble, keeping your eyes on Sofia but suddenly very aware of Oscar's eyes on you. Not a flicker, not a glance. On you. "I don't mean to walk away."

"You're good at that."

Your head snaps to your right, meeting Oscar's gaze immediately. It's cold and calculated and that's how you know he's definitely talking to you. The whole room tenses, bracing for the inevitable collision.

You swallow. "What?"

"The walking away. The silent treatment." His lips are pressed into a thin line, almost a smile as if he's pretending to joke around. You know he's not. "You're very good at that."

The hope of glass cracks.

What did he mean by that? Why is he doing this here, in front of everyone, like this? Why is he forcing you to go on the defensive? You had apologised, and you were going to say more, but not here and not like this—the rest of the group didn't deserve this. You force your shoulders to relax and your wide eyes to narrow in response to his own glare.

You had plenty of reasons to be mad, too.

"And you're very good at just-…" An inhale, then an exhale. Enough time to consider not saying your next words, knowing that they're mistake, but they tumble out anyway. "Accepting it and stewing in your anger until it's convenient for you to bring it up."

Oscar doesn't even flinch. "And you're very good at acknowledging issues only when it's convenient for you."

"Listen- I just-" But he's better at this than you, being angry. It's like he's got more of it stored away, ready to fire at you, so on the defensive you went. "I thought it would be better to cut things off for a bit. Now I know it wasn't, and I apologised-"

"When it was convenient for you."

"Oscar-"

"No," he interrupts, standing up and turning away from the group. He mumbles a small 'I;m sorry,' likely more for the rest of the group than for you, and heads out through the front door without so much as a coat or an umbrella.

The only noise in the room is everyone's stares and blinks, so dramatic they were audible. You don't offer an explanation and keep your eyes on the doorway as if Oscar still lingered there. You're scared. Terrified. Though his glare was cold its image was burned into your mind, intimidating you and deterring you from following up on this whole thing. Above all, though, you're determined, because this is your chance, your opening, your opportunity. You turn back towards the group; all of them nod and wave their hands towards him, desperate for you to follow.

So you follow Oscar into the rain.

Oscar just needed to breathe without you watching.

He also needed to keep his mouth shut.

Though it had been cathartic, it had been mostly unfair. Though what he'd said wasn't strictly wrong, you didn't deserve to hear it like that, not in front of everyone and not so harshly. At least for that, he owed you an apology, but not yet, not tonight.

There's a part of him that knows it's not all your fault, but his still wounded heart is wailing at him to hurt you back, to make you feel like he'd felt, and he couldn't resist the call anymore. After a short walk—in rain that wasn't bad enough to warrant a coat, not yet—he would head back inside and apologise to you, ready to tackle the issue like an adult. Like this, he'd get a minute. Or at least he thought so, until he heard frantic footsteps splashing through the light rain behind him.

"Oscar!"

You.

He doesn't stop. In fact, he speeds up, hands in his pockets, not even turning to face you. That's when you break into a run with a huff of frustration.

"Oh, come on! Look who's walking away now!"

That makes him turn to look at you, already face to face with him. Oscar narrows his eyes and doesn't bother to mask the anger in his tone. "Don't."

"Don't what? Say the truth? Talk about it?"

"Follow me," He snaps, though he doesn't move away from you. "Say I'm walking away. Just don't."

You roll your eyes, but it's not confident. "It is what you're doing, though. And I will keep following you, because I want to talk to you."

Oscar inhales sharply as the rain increases enough to start soaking through his clothes. Your words remind him of what he'd said to Lando as they drove from the airport. He wanted to address you two in person and, despite his anger, he wanted to continue where you'd left off after talking it all through. The longer he stays silent, the more fear he sees in your eyes, slowly turning into a borderline desperation, so he exhales.

"Fine," he half scoffs, harsher than he means to be but as gentle as he can be. "Go on. Say what you want."

Your eyes close in a wince, as if bracing for his response before you'd even spoken. "I'm sorry. For walking away without a goodbye, for basically not talking to you for a year. I really am sorry, I just- I didn't even tell Zoey about the goodbye, that's how much it hurt to remember, and-"

"It hurt like hell to experience," he retorts. "And to ignore. For a year."

"I know," you reply, suddenly blinking faster. You're about to cry, and he wishes his heart didn't feel some satisfaction at it. He didn't want to hurt you. "I know, and I'm sorry. I…don't know what else to say, Oscar, I- I didn't want to walk away, I had to. I had to protect myself-"

"Oh, so fuck my feelings, then?" Oscar snaps before he can help it, not backing down even when you flinch. It irritates him, the way you keep saying you did things for you as if he hadn't mattered. "You pulled away in the last couple of weeks, then over the whole year apart, pretending like we never happened, and you only bring it up because it's convenient-"

"Because I'm ready. Because I couldn't before. And I know, I know that sounds incredibly selfish and it is but- why- why didn't you say anything?" You ask desperately and he scoffs at the idea, but you don't stop, instead sniffling to will yourself to continue. "We both didn't reach out, and I'm sorry-"

"You left me hanging. You let me say I love you and you said nothing back. Of course I wasn't going to reach out." He watches as you wipe your eyes, the rain doing nothing to disguise your tears, and he resists every urge to comfort you. "I spent a whole year thinking I meant nothing to you, that you never loved me back-"

"I did. I do." You exclaim through the rain, voice shaky with sobs. "I- I love you."

The admission strikes right through his heart and dulls its edges.

Oscar had always known, on some level, that you must've loved him back for at least a little bit of your time together. If you didn't, if you had been faking, then he had no business loving you as much as he did, not if you could pretend so well. And there you were, shivering in rain that had turned into a downpour, with a determined yet sad look on your tear stained face, telling him you loved him; he believed you. Oscar wanted to believe you.

"You can- you can leave me hanging. If you want," you mumble to fill the silence, wiping your face with your head down. "I- I really deserve it, and then- then we're…even. If that would- make you feel better."

He sighs, finding that he's blinking back tears of his own that make his voice tremble. You were clearly willing to do anything to earn his forgiveness, but he wasn't going to leave you hanging in return. "Is that what you think this is about? Being even?"

"I don't know," you admit weakly, desperately, still sniffling through half your words. "I really don't know what else to say, Oscar, I'm just- I am so sorry. For everything. For hurting you. For putting you through this. For being so- really selfish about it. Hell, I- I'm sorry that we even met because if we hadn't then this never would've happened and I never would've hurt you, and…I'm sorry. I'm rambling, and-" You pause to take a deep breath but it doesn't stop your sobs; you just speak through them. "And I completely understand if that's not enough, because it really doesn't make up for anything. Just- just know I'm sorry, okay? I really am."

The rain splatters the ground and both of you through the silence between you. He says nothing, you bite your bottom lip as you wait for him to respond, but he doesn't. There's too many thoughts in his head, too many words he could say, and an overly cautious heart begging to not be handed over just yet. Oscar just watches as your shoulders fall with your shaky sigh, and you give him a polite, sad smile before turning to walk away. Just like you had a year ago, back at the bus stop. He didn't stop you then, and he's regretted it ever since.

He doesn't want to make the same mistake twice.

"Wait."

So he stops you now, reaching for your wrist and gently pulling you back towards him. Your eyes are wide with shock and don't know where to look, flickering between various parts of his face.

"Why are you-"

"I am not letting you go again."

His voice shakes, surprising you both, and his inhale is just as shaky. Before he knows it, he's holding your face with his hands and pulling you even closer. As if by instinct, you rest your forehead on his and he feels every trembling breath you give.

"I don't care if it's- doomed by distance, I don't care what we agreed to two years ago after that- that kiss at the club, I don't-" Oscar swallows even through the painful knot in his throat. "I don't want that anymore. I am not letting you go again."

You place your hands on his shoulders as if he's the only thing you can hold on to. Through his misty eyes and the rain he watches the cogs turn in your expression as you slowly relax, breathing with more stability. He wipes your tears with his thumb and that makes you smile just a little.

"I meant it, when I said I was sorry," you whisper seriously, meeting his eyes, making sure the apology reaches him and it finally does. "And I meant it when I said I love you."

I love you. Present tense.

With that, he moves his hands from his face to around your shoulders and pulls you to his chest. Your sobs make you shake in his arms and grip onto his back desperately, as if he might disappear any second, and he holds you just as tightly to reassure you that he's not going anywhere. The embrace helps reassure him that you're going anywhere, even through sobs of his own. He's not letting you go again

"I love you too," he mumbles into your hair, voice trembling as he places a comforting hand on the back of your head. "I don't think I ever stopped."

Then you laugh, a relieved sound more than anything else, and you shift to glance up at him. "Me neither. We're so screwed."

"Maybe." You were. This was going to hurt, not because it would end but because your destinations after this holiday weren't the same and they wouldn't be for a very long time. Even despite that, he keeps you securely in his arms. "But…not if we talk about it. About how to move forward."

Your hand moves to his cheek and wipes something off it, a tear or a raindrop or—most likely—both. "I'd like that. But- away from the rain. Please."

"Okay, okay," Oscar laughs, but he nods in agreement, using one of his hands to wipe his face and taking a deep breath. He looks down at you, hair stuck to your face and clothes soaked onto your body because of your downpour, still gorgeous despite it all, and he can suddenly only think of one thing. "But first. Can I do something overly dramatic?"

You tilt your head with a sniffle. "Sure? As- as long as it's not kissing me."

"It's not."

"Then- go for it."

In one swift movement, he moves his arms to wrap them around your waist and lifts you up with little effort. You shriek and then laugh as he spins you around, you arms around his neck and your smile so bright and beautiful that he's convinced he's dreaming. He must be dreaming even as he sets you down on the ground, careful not to cause the water at your feet to splash.

"You're insane," you say with your forehead against his, still giggling.

"I'm in love," he corrects, making you roll your eyes. "And incredibly happy to see you again. I think the occasion earned the dramatic, romantic spin in the air."

"It did," you agree, taking a step back to start heading indoors. "And the rain was definitely a paid actor."

That makes him laugh as he takes your hand in his. "It was. Now let's get the hell out of it. I'm cold."

You follow him back to Lando's in a fir of laughter, not bothering to run out of the rain since you were already soaked in it. There was still stuff to talk through, and things to apologise for on his end, but if you both loved each other then he knew it could all be worked through.

He leads you into the house, both of you ignoring the way your friends scramble to pretend they hadn't been watching from the living room window.

You can't believe you've made it out of the water, and Oscar is still beside you. You can't believe that you don't have to be drowning to be with him.

You'd both gotten changed into fresh clothes and dried off as best you could. It all plays back in your head: the yelling and the anger, the way he pulled you back and held your face like you were going to disappear any second, the fucking spin in the air. And all in the rain, of course, because water had been haunting you since you met him. With all of that racing in your thoughts, you look for something to slip on to replace the clothes that were now drying on the radiator, and then your eyes land on the best idea you've ever had.

The hoodie.

You'd intended to return it, you really had, but you smirk at the idea of him seeing you in it again. It was just as comfortable as you remembered, oversized enough on you for the sleeves to cover your hands but only when you let them, and on the right sleeve was the main event. A messily embroidered 81 next to an equally messy 13.

There's a knock at your door and you force yourself to suppress your squeal. Oscar stands in your doorway, hair still damp from the rain just as your is, and his confident grin slightly falls when he spots what you're wearing. His eyes flicker between the hoodie and your smirk like he's trying to figure out how they fit together.

"Is that…?" he asks, voice small with shock.

"Uh-huh."

But you should've known he wouldn't let himself be defeated this easily, and you definitely know it when his grin comes back. That lopsided grin that meant you were definitely in trouble. He closes the door behind him—a second sign that you were in trouble—and pulls you in by the waist.

"You," he says, voice low with determination as he pulls you closer, his intentions clear. "Are really mean."

It takes everything in you not to kiss him, putting a finger over his lips instead. "Nuh-uh. We have to talk to first."

"It'll be really hard to focus if you're wearing that."

"Then try really hard."

He pouts. "I reiterate my earlier point. You're really mean."

"I'm just trying to make sure we communicate." You sit on your bed and pat the spot next to you. "Sit."

Oscar does as you say, his eyes still flickering back to the hoodie every now and again. "I'm sat."

"Good start," you exhale, reaching for his hand and feeling a nervousness suddenly sets in. As if sensing it, he squeezes your hand and smiles encouragingly. "Okay. What are we?"

He snorts; you nudge him hard.

"And you're not allowed to say you don't know," you continue, ignoring how his smile is concealing further laughter. "That's how we got stuck for a year."

"Okay, okay." Oscar shifts so that his body is facing you and grabs your other hand. "I know what I…want us to be."

"And not what you should want."

He nods. "Correct."

"And that is?"

It's his turn to be nervous then, showing in how he drops his gaze to your interlaced hands. "It would be- crazy to just…carry on as if nothing happened, without addressing anything. Right?"

"I'd argue we just addressed a lot of it in the rain," you reassure him, squeezing his hands.

"True. But not starting from zero feels insane after a whole year, but- god, I want to continue where we left off." His eyes land on yours again and you find a fiery determination in them, entirely unlike his attitude when this had first come up a year ago. "Does that sound stupid?"

You shuffle towards him, hoping that your eyes show the same determination that his do. You're going to need it if you hope to overcome the two hemispheres, the two oceans, the several hours, and the thousands of miles.

You grin, thinking back to a year ago. "It sounds perfect."

Then you're in his arms and it feels like a home you never left.

You feel his chest rise and then fall with an exhale of nothing but relief as he holds you tighter, closer, as if he really isn't going to let you go again. Slowly, he pulls you towards him as he falls back on the bed and you don't protest, more than happy to end up with your head resting on his chest. It kind of feels like you never left, like you were back at your room in university during one of the many evenings where you just rested together. Both the rain's rhythmic droplets against the window and his hand stroking your hair lull you into a state of calm, a state where the ticking clock can't scare you into counting and running away.

"I'm sorry," he mutters suddenly, breaking the silence. "For what I said in front of the group. You didn't deserve that."

You can't help your snort. "I kind of did."

"Okay, well-" He laughs, too, but he makes a clear effort to keep his next words serious. "You did. But not in front of everyone. So…I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I'm sure they enjoyed the spectacle."

"Both the inside and outside scene."

"Yes!" You laugh at the image—your friends pressed against the window trying to catch a glimpse of whatever you and Oscar were doing outside. "I'm sure they're mad that we didn't kiss."

"I'm mad that we didn't kiss."

You nudge him, looking up at him with wide eyes. "We needed to talk first!"

"And we've talked." One of his hands moves to gently stroke your cheek, his intentions clear once again, but he exercises restraint. "Unless there's something else you want to cover."

"Hm." You move so your chin is resting on his chest and drag out a thoughtful hum. "We're exclusive?"

His face twists into a grimace, presumably at the idea of anything else. "Please."

"Okay, good. There's still some logistics with the timezones and seeing each other and how often-"

"Y/N."

He uses his hand to tilt your chin so you're looking at him and his eyes, full of a longing that suggested you weren't right there next to him. Then his lips move to form a lopsided grin and all you can do is blink in response.

"Can we discuss that after we kiss for the first time in a year?"

After composing yourself, you decide you won't let him have the upper hand here. You move so you're on top of him, watching with satisfaction as his eyes go wide. "Okay."

His move is to grab your face and pull you in, crashing his lips into yours, and you let him do it.

It's messy, desperate, urgent, but above all it's relieving. This time, kissing is Oscar is nothing like a year ago—you're not drowning, you're finally coming up for air, breathing against his lips like they hold oxygen. You didn't know how much you needed this until his lips are pushing against yours again and again, chasing whenever you were any distance away. His hands wander from your face to your hips, then under your clothes and onto your back, the warmth of it making you gasp as if you hadn't felt it before. But you had, you'd felt him in more places than you'd ever felt anyone else, and even then his fingers running up and down your spine were just as electric as it felt the first time you let him have all of you.

It slowly grows more stable, grounded, as if you've both realised the other isn't going anywhere, not yet. You place one final, firm kiss on his lips, then you rest your forehead on his and bask in the feeling of his short, warm breaths against your face. He's here, you're here, you're both here together, and feeling him everywhere is helping it sink in.

Oscar's gaze on you is heavy with awe, like you're the only thing in the world worth looking at, while his hand is drawing circles on your back absentmindedly. "We're gonna have to change the sheets."

"Jesus," you chuckle out of shock and rest your chin on his chest, though you knew he was right. "Someone's greedy."

"Of course I am," he says, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist. "I've only got you for the next, what, nine days?"

Nine. Nine times two is 18, which is 81 flipped.

He continues, but you hardly hear him over the numbers. "I'm gonna-"

"Nine times two is 18, which is 81 flipped…" You mutter suddenly, making him tilt his head before he realises what you're doing. "We're being haunted by your favourite number."

An amused chuckle, more of a huff, leaves his lips. "You really like bending numbers to your will, huh?"

"Uh-huh. Also-" Your eyebrows furrow as you count the days, tapping your fingers against his side. Quickly, you realise his initial count is wrong. "It's 11 days, not nine. No haunting for us today, and apparently I'm better at maths than you."

"Oh, sure, sure. Think you can turn 11 into 81? Bring the haunting back?"

"Not now." With a small smirk, you move so that you're next to his side again, whispering right into his ear. "You were saying something about changing the sheets?"

Though his cheeks turn pink, there's a confident smirk on his face that matches yours. "Now who's greedy?"

"Just making sure you stick to your word."

"Oh, I will." He turns to his side and pulls you closer, almost speaking against your lips. "For as many hours of the next 11 days as I can."

You raise your eyebrows. "We've got other friends to spend time with."

"Fuck them."

"Hey! I thought we were exclusive."

Oscar breaks into laughter with that and pulls you closer, his hands finding their way under your layers again and taking their place on your back. You laugh into his chest and eventually settle to rest against it, nuzzling occasionally and sighing with relief and comfort.

"I didn't actually mean that, by the way," he says suddenly. "I love our friends."

"I know. I love them too."

"I just…" Oscar sighs into the top of your head and places a kiss there, a tentative and careful one as if he's afraid you might disappear. "I've missed you."

"I missed you too," you mumble, moving so that you can meet his eyes. "I really am sorry that I didn't reach out sooner."

"It's okay. What you should apologise for…" he shifts a little, not thinking, just building suspense with a teasing smile on his face. "…is ruining Formula 1 for me."

You gasp. "No! You had that, too?"

"It sucked. I don't even know who won last season, I only watched some races and resisted the urge to text you."

"I'm sorry." In response, he strokes your back slowly, comforting you and telling you it was okay without words. "I…found the hoodie and suddenly anything remotely related to you was like a trigger, but even before then I just avoided that stuff almost entirely. I couldn't even eat pancakes."

He gives a sudden and quick chuckle. "Pancakes? I didn't even make them!"

"It was sweet!" You pout at him, which just makes him laugh more. "And like, a core memory."

"I'm glad the store bought pancakes meant so much to you."

"Shut up."

You laugh and settle into the crook of his neck, sighing when his fingers tangle in your hair. The silence is comfortable, so much so that you close your eyes and settle into him, slotting into place like you belonged there. Then Oscar pulls you closer, impossibly closer, and the sense of belonging finds its rightful place in your heart. You belong here, and he's not going to let you forget it.

"My big one was New Year's." You feel the sudden hum of his voice and move to look at him again, surprised to find a shy smile on his face. "I…kept wanting you to show up and surprise me."

"Aw. God, I'm so sorry." The apologies keep tumbling out of your mouth, no matter how many times he accepted them, no matter how much they couldn't make up for anything. "I think that's why I texted you, actually, I…couldn't stop thinking about you, but I ignored it. Pretended it was just because I wanted to be polite."

He shakes his head with a small laugh. "Damn. We really are screwed."

"We could be more screwed, if you…" Immediately you freeze, face cringing into regret, and you swallow the rest of that sentence while burying your face in his neck again. "…no, no, that was bad."

"It was," he winces, shaking his head in disappointment. "Maybe I need to reconsider us."

"Oh, good luck," you scoff. "You're not getting rid of me that easily."

Oscar kisses the top of your head, firmly this time. "I wouldn't dream of it."

You bury your face into the crook of his neck again, but there's a smirk on your face this time. You place a kiss there, slow and deliberate, chuckling when he inhales sharply and tenses all while holding you tighter as if asking for more.

And, god, you would love to give him more.

"So." You place another kiss on his neck, quicker to tease him, and slip a hand under his shirt. "About changing the sheets…"

Oscar gives another sharp inhale, though this time it's to restrain himself from doing anything else. "Would you like to do that?"

You shift so you can meet his eyes, so he can see that you mean yes before you've even said it out loud. "I would. If- if you would."

"God, of course I would."

After he says that, after he slots his lips into yours—where they belong—and after he moves so that you're under him, it's not long before all of your layers of clothing are discarded on the floor and you're as close to each other as you'd longed to be for over a year. You find that he'd taken very good care of that part of you that you'd given him all those times, so you let him keep it still. You trust him to hold it along with your heart and your hope, all made of glass and all safe in his hands.

Afterwards, when he's holding you close and you're halfway to sleep, a quiet fear creeps in, reminding you of the tightrope that romantic relationships walk. Though you feel so safe in his arms, like you could stay there forever, you know that the universe is going to rip you away from it with the cruelty of two hemispheres, two oceans, several hours, thousands of miles in a mere 11 days.

"This isn't going to be easy," you mumble shakily, gripping onto him tighter as if that'll change the fact that you're from different continents.

"I know." He holds you tighter, too, resting his forehead against the top of your head, hoping for the same thing that you are. "But there's no one I'd rather do it with."

Oscar's room is empty for the rest of the holiday, his stuff slowly migrating to yours as the days go on. It's as if the group has breathed a collective sigh of relief as they tell you of how hard they'd tried to push you two together and how glad they are that you're acting normal now. Normal is Oscar's hand always in yours, preventing you from walking too far ahead on your own unless you want to, it's some part of you two always touching whether you're standing or sitting, it's spending every night together and sharing a space in a way that feels right. Normal.

What would normal look like when you went back home?

This time, you had given it plenty of thought and had talked about it. A ten hour difference wasn't going to be easy, but you had to try even if it might not work out in the end. Courtney and Lando offer both of you advice, though they're aware that five hours is more manageable than ten. Every time you think of the time difference with dread, you remembered Oscar's words and shared their sentiment—there is no one you'd rather do this with.

11 days very quickly turn to none.

You hadn't been counting, so August 23rd makes you stop in your tracks when you see it. What had been 11 taps along his side was suddenly just one and he's leaving after that night. Neither of you acknowledge it out loud, only in the desperately tight grip you have on each other even in your sleep. Morning comes too quickly and days turn to hours and you suddenly find yourself understanding why you did what you did when he left last time.

It hurt to watch him walk away. It was easier to walk away first. But you wouldn't. Not this time.

"You're leaving today."

He turns towards you, leaving his bags by the bedroom door and sitting next to you on the bed. You're ready to go, ready to take him to airport, and you hate it. The bags by the door and the clothes on your body are too many signs of the truth that you'll have to live for the next few months. Or years.

His hand on yours grounds you a little. "It's not forever."

You hum, more in acknowledgement than in agreement, and you keep your eyes on your lap. "Part of me wonders if that would be easier," you admit, gripping the edge of the bedsheets and tightening your grip on his hand to keep yourself from running away again. "But I don't think that went well last year."

"It didn't, no," he chuckles sadly, his thumb softly stroking your hand. "And you're right, maybe it would be easier to never see each other again. Remove the longing."

You turn to smile at him. "You get it."

"But I want to long for you." He squeezes your hand and meets your eyes, nothing but determination in his expression. You hope you can match it. "And it's going to suck for a while, but knowing we'll get to see each other again will make it better."

"Yeah." Your other hand finds his and you hold them both. "Next summer?"

"Next summer."

You groan and drop your head on his shoulder. "That's too long."

"I know," he mutters softly, shifting his arms so they're holding you close. "I know."

Before you know it, you're being driven to the airport. Not everyone fits in the car, and people still have to pack, so it's just you and Oscar in the backseat while Lando drives. Your leg bounces just like it had when you were on the train from the airport and Oscar's hand in yours isn't quite as grounding because he is leaving today. No amount of holding onto each other is changing that.

You blink and you're at the airport, the rush of people in several directions just as fast as the rushing of your own thoughts. Another blink and Oscar's bags are checked in and you can't follow him any further, which means it's time. Lando says goodbye to him and gives you both plenty of space, and it suddenly feels like the airport is just you, Oscar, and the cruel plane that's about to take him away. You reach for both of his hands and grip them tightly though you know he is leaving in mere minutes and no amount of holding onto each other is changing that. You hate that you keep remembering that.

A sharp inhale is all you can manage, staring at your interlaced hands, before you meet his misty eyes. "You have to text me literally every update."

"I will." He nods, swallowing hard.

"I mean it," you insist, blinking back tears though it's pointless—your crying is obvious in your voice. "I want to hear everything."

"I know, I know."

"And you got the hoodie, right?"

"Yeah," he says, briefly glancing at his bags and then back at you, blinking quickly. "Yeah, I've got it."

"Good," you say, voice trembling. "That's the only reason I even came here."

Oscar laughs and shakes his head. You only catch a glimpse of tears trailing down his cheek before he pulls you in tightly, desperately, and you do the same. Hell, you're worried you're clawing at his shirt too much, but he doesn't complain about that or the tear stains you're leaving.

"Can I say something mean?" he asks into your shoulder and you nod, not confident in your ability to form words.

With a shaky inhale, he pulls back and holds your face while resting his forehead against yours. There's a smile on your face even if you're sniffling as you hold his shoulders, never wanting to let go. He takes a moment, slowly wiping your tears, and then he breathes again.

"I love you."

You chuckle, though it comes out more like a sob. Your throat hurts as though the words are physically climbing out, fighting you the whole way to your tongue because they feel wrong. Not because you don't love him, god no, but because you love him so much that letting him go at all feels like ripping stitches open and surely you can't mean it if you're letting him leave. But you know that's not true. You know you'll see him again, and you know you want to say it even if it hurts to love someone so far away.

So you sniffle and exhale, "I love you too."

A relieved exhale leaves his lips before he places them on yours, soft and quick. "We'll…we'll see each other soon."

"Yeah," you sigh, smiling despite the longing already settling into the pit in your stomach. "We better."

Then you kiss him, tasting tears on his lips and trying your best to memorise the feeling and store it safely for when you long for it. It's not desperate or urgent, it's two people who already miss each other despite being right there still.

"I love you," you say, taking a step back. "And remember, you need to-"

"Tell you everything," he chuckles, wiping his face now that his hands are free. "I know. I love you too."

Pulling away does feel like ripping stitches open, but you're both still smiling as he grabs his bags and starts to walk away. You stand by Lando as you both watch him walk away, waving as he gets smaller. For a moment, he stops, turning towards both of you with a sad smile and small wave. You watch as his chest rises with a deep breath, bracing for what comes next—turning away from you. When he does, you let out a shaky breath and wipe your face; before you know it, he's disappeared through security.

"This sucks," you sniffle, crossing your arms. Next to you, Lando gives you a sympathetic chuckle. "How do you do this?"

"Well- this part doesn't get any easier," he warns gently, a sad smile on his face as he places a hand on your shoulder. "But- that also means that running towards them in arrivals never gets old."

You hold on to that. Through your packing, through your own flight, through saying goodbye to the rest of friends, through getting home and breaking down again, through getting used to Oscar being ten hours ahead, you hold on to that. You hold on to the fact that you will see them all again, you will see him again, and all you had to do was hold on until one of you landed at the others' home and got to run towards them at the airport. Even if now, and for the next year, you'll only hear from him on a screen, that would be better than the radio silence after the year at university that had meant more to you than you could've dreamed.

You really were a fool to think that you'd ever forgotten that year, and an even bigger fool to think it hadn't changed your life forever.

have a cute little epilogue, as a treat <3

A year and a half later and Oscar still hasn't changed his mind about longing for you.

It wasn't easy. At its worst it tugged at his heartstrings with enough force to leave tears, and at its best it hummed in the background of the silence after your calls ended. You had seen each other again since—he'd gone to Spain for a couple of weeks to see you for your anniversary, give the hoodie back to you so you could have it for a year, enjoy the summer, and try his best to understand and speak Spanish to surprise you (that last part could've gone better, but it had made you smile and that was all that mattered). Now it was summer in his half of the world and the warmth was doing nothing but reminding him of how much he already missed that summer.

The holiday season was busy, so you had been communicating only through text for most of December. It's as hard this year as it was last year, but you feel more distant this time, like you're even further away than the thousands of miles between you. You hear his concerns, saying that you're just stressed and busy and apologising over and over about letting it seep into the few calls you got to have; he'd tell you it was okay and offer his help every time. Among it all, you were both trying to figure out how to turn this long distance situation into something more sustainable, something without the distance, which was definitely adding to your plate.

There was no easy solution. One of you was going to be away from your home, from your family, no matter the place you picked. When Courtney announced she was moving to England for work and for Lando, however, something clicked for the two of you. Maybe you could do the same. Move to England. That's what you'd both been so busy arranging, trying to make the plans concrete and live your own separate lives at the same time, and the holidays on top of that probably weren't making that any easier for you.

He figures that's why, on December 30th, it is radio silence.

It's not unexpected but it is new. You definitely weren't asleep, not for that long, and if anything happened to you he knew Zoey would let him know, so he isn't worried. Oscar just misses you, and he always did, but it was louder this time. It was always louder around New Year's, even if he wasn't looking for you in the crowd like he had been two years ago.

On the 31st, at around midday, you text him.

You: hey so oh my GOD yesterday was chaotic You: so so sorry I didn't say anything I SWEAR I'm alive You: and I still love you

And he's relieved to finally hear from you, texting you back immediately despite being in the middle of early new year's preparations.

Oscar: I love you too Oscar: It's okay, I figured you were busy

But then he does the maths in his head, a reflex that had very quickly developed since he left England after you two got together. Midday take away ten is two. As in, 2am. Two in the morning.

You were never awake at two in the morning.

Oscar: Wait, shouldn't you be asleep? You: what? Oscar: It's like 2am over there?? You: oh You: shit lol You: sleeping now You: text you soon!! <3

He ignores how out of character this is for you and gets back to helping with preparations. If anything was wrong, you would've told him, and he'd check again in a few hours after you'd gotten some sleep.

Oscar: Text you soon, sleep well <3

But it lingers in the back of his mind, poking at his thoughts every now and again and making him play through different explanations, none of which satisfy him.

You: so I fucked up and texted him You: forgot about the time difference lol You: think he's too smart to not notice something's up You: I never stay up that late unless it's planned Hattie: girl no dw he's absolutely clueless Hattie: he thinks no one can tell but he is MOPING Hattie: sopping wet cat style Hattie: please tell me i can go pick you up soon Hattie: i can't take this anymore You: OKAY OKAY You: I'll take a nap and then I'll be ready You: soon You: soon I PROMISE Hattie: MAKE THAT SOONER >:(

Evening rolls around without another message from you and that starts to tug him towards concern.

He distracts himself with greeting his friends and family, offering to serve drinks and clean up so much that his mum side-eyes him. Anything to keep his hands off his phone and his mind off you and whatever it is that you're hiding. Oscar hates that it's familiar, this pushing you away from the forefront of his mind and hiding you in its corners. He hates that had to do it before, sure, but having to do it again was something he hated more, because it was different this time. Now, he's allowed to think of you, to long for you, so using all of his will to not do that felt wrong. He knows everything is okay, deep down, and he has to admit that he mostly just misses you. But the worry is in the background still, not showing on his expression, or so he thinks until Hattie walks in and raises her eyebrows at him as she crosses the room.

"You good?" She asks, nudging him before resting her back against the wall like he is.

"Yeah," he replies though he doesn't really reply at her, his eyes are still glued to the doorway beyond the small sea of people. "Where have you been?"

"Nowhere. Anyway-" Hattie shrugs and dismisses his question. "When's the last time you heard from Y/N?"

Oscar inhales at the sound of your name and his sister snickers at his reaction, not even giving him a chance to answer the question. He turns towards her and rolls his eyes. "What?"

"Oh, nothing, just-" she quickly tilts her head towards the doorway. "There's a good reason it's been such a long time."

His eyebrows furrow at her, asking for an explanation; Hattie insists and tilts her head towards the doorway, twice this time, begging him to just look, goddammit, so he does; he's immediately glad that he does.

You.

Immediately he pushes himself off the wall, standing up straight and stiff, impossibly so, blinking to check that his eyes aren't playing cruel tricks on him and he finds that they aren't. You're there—just you, no one else—every time his eyes open again, it's you whose face lights up when you realise he's seen you, it's you that starts walking a little faster towards the quiet corner he'd settled in, it's you and it's you and it's-

"You," he breathes when you've reached him, barely, not entirely convinced you heard him even if you're right in front of him; he's not convinced of that either.

"You," you reply with an exhale, a relieved one as if a weight had been lifted off your shoulders the moment you saw him.

"What are you-" you interrupt him with an embrace that pushes him back into the wall, his arms flying to wrap around your waist before he's even decided to move them. It's instinct to hold you, to check that you're real and actually there, chuckling into his chest like you've pulled off some master plan. "Y/N, what are you doing here?"

"Doing what I should've done two years ago." You meet his eyes with a wicked grin, hands firmly on his shoulders like you're checking he's real too. "Surprising you on New Year's Eve!"

There's no one in the room anymore, or at least it feels like it, because all Oscar can think about is you, how you're in his arms, and how you came all this way just because, a year ago, he told you he stared at that door with a little too much longing for almost a whole night. All because he wanted you and you wanted him and that was worth crossing two hemispheres, two oceans, several hours, thousands of miles.

"How?" he chuckles, sure that his smile would never leave his face, not as long as you were there. "Last minute tickets are-"

"I bought these as soon as you left in August."

All he can do is blink. Once, twice, once more, but you hadn't taken your words back.

"You- what?"

"I bought these tickets as soon as you left in August," you repeat but it doesn't help the words click at all, his stare is still blank, so you continue with a chuckle. "I texted Hattie, landed yesterday, stayed at hers, and tried desperately fend off jet lag."

"You've been here since-" then it clicks, less like pieces into place and more like two neurons finally firing after ages of being dormant. Oscar exhales, his head tipping back before he rests his forehead on your shoulder with a long oh, prompting you to laugh. "That's why you texted me."

He feels you nod, sighing when one of your hands tangles into his hair. "And why I didn't text you."

You break into quiet laughter then and he pulls you closer, keeping his face buried in your shoulder and he's somehow shocked that all he can smell is you.

You. You're actually here, holding him. You.

A sniffle escapes him, then you, his eyes growing misty as his grip on your shirt tightens. Your head rests on top of his and he feels you shake in his arms, sniffling again, likely just as overwhelmed as he is. You're not crying, not really, not like you do when one of you leaves the other, but you're still gripping onto him like you can't believe he's there and like he could leave any second.

"I love you," you mumble softly against his head, only for him to hear, to feel. "And I really missed you, dammit."

"I love you too. And I missed you too. God-" Suddenly, he raises his head so his eyes are on yours and, sure enough, it is still you that he was holding on to. You. "I'm so happy you're here. Though, uh, I-…I haven't exactly arranged for you to-"

"Meet the family?" you interrupt, your hands moving down his arms and eventually stopping to hold both of his hands. "I know."

He tilts his head, expression curious and full of questions he doesn't have words for, so you continue.

"Apparently, Hattie told your mum and, apparently, she 'took care of it.' I…don't know what that means."

"Huh." He sways your arms back and forth, thinking but coming to no conclusion. He figures that's why everyone in the room had given you so much space, and he makes a mental note to thank them when he gets the chance. "I guess that means you have to come over next winter."

You blink, mouth opening and closing again though no words come out at first. "It is winter. Now. It's December. Do you mean-"

"Nuh-uh," he chuckles and shakes his head. "Southern Hemisphere, remember?"

"Ah, shit," You giggle at yourself, evading his gaze for only a moment. "God. I guess it is warm. Bad time to bring that hoodie back."

He nods with a chuckle. Of course you brought it; it was his turn, according to your 'custody agreement.' "Yep. But I did miss it, so thank you."

"Of course, it's your turn," you reply with a grin, but there's confusion in your eyes. "What…time is it, by the way?"

"Around 10pm." He feels himself grow amused, then curious—he'd never seen the jet lag of a near-day long flight hit you. "What time do you think it is?"

"Uh." A yawn escapes you then, noisy and exhausted and causing you to squint your eyes shut. You're still blinking slowly when you answer his question. "The…the other 10."

Oscar gives a small, sympathetic laugh. "Jet lag hitting you hard?"

"Extremely." You let go of his hands to rub your eyes. The excitement and adrenaline of seeing him again had worn off and tiredness had taken over instead, something he was very familiar with. "And you'd think I wouldn't be tired, since it's the morning in my head, but I barely slept last night, and my nap earlier just didn't work, so-"

"You can take a nap now," he offers, but you're already refusing with furrowed brows.

"Oh, no no," you shake your head and move one step closer, suppressing a yawn. "I can't miss midnight. Didn't come all this way just to miss giving you a New Year's kiss."

"Okay, okay." He holds your hands again and gives them a squeeze, reassuring and comforting, and you return the gesture. "But afterwards, immediately afterwards, we're going to my room, and you're resting."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely sure."

You navigate the rest of the night together, easing into meeting relatives and family friends if you ran into them, but the two of you were mostly left alone. When he catches Hattie's eye later in the night, your hand still in his, he gives her a thankful nod and she replies with a shake of her head and a smile, as if to say don't worry about it. Eventually, the clock ticks closer to midnight, to a new year, and you're still there beside him—he still can't quite believe he didn't make you up and imagine you here with sheer will and longing. You find a quiet corner again, watching the clock tick down and for once knowing that it wasn't ticking down your time together. It was just a clock.

The clock strikes midnight and you're there in his arms and his heart swells just looking at you, feeling the affection in the way your arms wrap around his neck to pull him closer, resting your foreheads together.

"Happy new year," he whispers against your lips, not quite closing the gap just yet.

"Happy new year." You smile with a glint in your eyes, a dare, a challenge, as if implying you won't give in first and that you're waiting for him to.

And that's a challenge that he doesn't mind failing.

The clock strikes midnight and Oscar is kissing you, slow and steady, like he's got all the time in the world, like he knows you're his, like he could do this forever, and like the fireworks outside aren't worth looking at, not when you're right here to lay his hands on.

"How long are you staying?"

"Uh…About that…" You're lying on your side on his bed and he is, too, facing you. When you had first made it into the room he was staying in, your lips had been on his or on his face and then his neck, but you had very quickly remembered how tired you were. You settled into bed, not quite cuddling but arms lazily draped over each other anyway, and now you were blinking at him with the most awake expression you'd had since the beginning of the night. "…I didn't get return tickets."

Oscar gasps, more of a small inhale. "You-"

"I'm not like, moving in or anything!" You chuckle awkwardly, your blush obvious even through the limited light coming in through the window. "Just…I don't have anything until late January, so I figured I'd…leave the option for me to stay that long. If I can. If you want me to."

There's nothing but silence in his brain for a moment. Hell, it short circuits at the idea of you, just the two of you, sharing a space for so long. A whole month. He inhales then exhales a chuckle, one that relieves the tension in your shoulders, and he pulls you closer by the waist. "Y/N, I- Of course you can stay. You'll stay at mine, and we can…live together. For a month."

"A month," you repeat, you eyes full of disbelief. He's sure his are, too.

Oscar pulls you into his chest, tangling a hand in your hair and feeling you melt into his warmth. "A month."

It feels like such a long time after so many months apart split only by a couple of weeks in the summer. He still hadn't gotten used to you not being right across from him even though it had been years since; he missed having you right there to talk to no matter what time it was. Being so out of sync when all he wanted was to have the same meal at the same time as you—such a simple thing that the time difference hadn't allowed, among many others—had been hard, but he'd learned to live with having dinner while you had your late breakfasts.

But now you were here, you would be for a month, and soon there wouldn't be any distance between you at all. The two hemispheres, two oceans, several hours, and thousands of miles would become nothing. They'd become something you two had conquered, together.

"Speaking of…" you shift so your eyes meet his, resting you head on his arm. "…Still set on England?"

"It's lining up," he answers, smiling confidently. "Courtney is helping a ton, along with Lando. I think we'll end up living close to them by accident. And I need to look at the visa stuff, too, though I believe that comes after the job offer."

"That sounds good."

"And for you?"

"Yes, it's going well. Really well." Your smile grows, failing to hide the fact that you had something up your sleeve. "We need to get on finding a place, actually."

"Yeah?"

You inhale and squint your eyes, bracing. "I got an offer."

You were full of surprises and you were the surprise of tonight. All of them had stopped him in his tracks, changed his plans in the loveliest way, but this one—this one froze him.

This one changed his life.

"I still gotta sort the visa stuff, but-"

He doesn't let you finish, pulling you into his chest with an impossibly tight grip that you reciprocate. You squeal and try your best to rock him back and forth, like your excitement can't be contained and he's sure you'd be bouncing off the walls if he wasn't holding you so tightly.

"Oh my god," he breathes into your head, then he chuckles and places a firm kiss in your hair. How is this real? How hasn't he woken up? "Oh my god."

You giggle and bounce up and down as best you can, pulling back to look at him with a smile so bright he swears it lights up the room. Any tiredness you felt had been discarded. "Yeah! I know!"

"We're really doing this."

"We are!" you set your forehead on his for just a moment before you decide you can't sit still, shifting to place a kiss on it instead. And then another. "We really are."

"We should tell Lan-"

His phone vibrates at his bedside table, loud and insistent, so he groans as he sits up to pick it up. All of his annoyance fades when he sees it's Lando, probably calling to wish him a happy new year.

"Speak of the devil," he mumbles and watches your eyes widen. You nod insistently, your smile somehow growing bigger as you sit up beside him to watch him pick up the call. "Hey mate."

"Oh, thank god, you're both awake!" Courtney's voice comes through first. She's sat next to—probably on, judging by the angle on the video call—Lando, smiling at you both with relief. "So sorry. We miscounted the time difference."

"My fault," Lando said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I completely forgot."

Oscar gasped with feigned hurt. "Lando. After all these years…"

"I know, I know." He shakes his head and sighs with a slightly bashful smile, a blush creeping up his cheeks when Courtney rests her head against his. "Happy new year, by the way. Living in the future as always."

"Happy new year!" You parrot back, leaning on Oscar's shoulder by instinct.

Courtney pipes up next. "Y/N, how's the jet lag?"

Oscar turned to you and muttered, "They knew you were coming?"

"Only once I landed," you confirmed. "Couldn't trust Lando to not tell you."

His friend sighed again, lowering his head. "Guilty as charged."

"Anyway. I've got more news," you state, making the couple's eyes light up near identically. Oscar suppresses a chuckle at just how similar they'd grown. "I…got an offer for a job out there, near you guys! So…we're definitely moving there sometime this year."

The glint in their eyes disappears, replaced by worry as they exchange a glance. Oscar looks at you too, more confused than worried, and you only offer a shrug in return.

"Y/N, honey," Courtney says gently, tone sweet as if she's trying to keep your excitement intact. "You…already told us that, remember? When you called me with Sofia and Zoey?"

Oscar can't help his snort, which transforms into laughter when you bury your face in your hands.

"Oh, the jet lag is hitting you," he states sympathetically, patting your back.

"It's okay!" Courtney says quickly, her high-pitched reply coming through crackly over the phone's microphone. "Just…we knew!"

You sigh when you lift your head, a small amused smile on your face despite it all. "Uh-huh. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Lando replies, faking some disappointment in his tone. "Now you owe us another surprise, though, like a-"

"We're still excited!" His girlfriend cuts him off with an awkward laugh, nudging him off-screen. Oscar had two guesses as to what Lando was going to say, and both of them were things he wanted with you, eventually, if you did as well. "We'll help you with everything. Promise."

"Thank you guys." You give Oscar a quick glance, directing your gratitude towards him, too. He has no idea what you're thanking him for—you're the one that had changed his life tonight. "Really."

Lando nods. "Anytime, mate. To both of you."

"Now!" Courtney says suddenly, intensely, and all directed at you. "Go to sleep! You need it."

"Okay, okay!" You raise your arms to claim innocence.

"I'll make sure she does," Oscar reassures your friend and that satisfies her, shown through her thankful nod. "Happy new year, guys."

"Happy new year!"

"We love you guys!"

Then Oscar hangs up, letting the room go dark once again, with just the two of you and your whole future ahead of you.

You fall back into bed dramatically with a loud sigh, exhausted, and he follows you gently. As if it was instinct, you find your spot next to him, slotting against his body perfectly as he holds you there, warm and comforting.

"We're really doing this," he murmurs against your hair, feeling your hum of agreement against his neck. "It's…"

"Terrifying?"

"Among other things. But yeah. That's one of them."

"Yeah," you whisper, nuzzling against his neck and falling silent for a moment; he knows you well enough to know that you're thinking, to feel the buzz of your thoughts even though you're not saying anything out loud. "It is terrifying. But you know what?"

"What?"

You shift to look at him, nothing but determination and affection all over your face. If you were scared, it was masking as excitement in your smile and the glint in your eyes.

"There's no one I'd rather do this with."

And he knows then—knows for sure, somewhere deep in his heart of glass that he'd entrusted to you so long ago—that going to university in England for a year is the best decision he's ever made. Second only to not letting you walk away again.

He rests his forehead against yours. "God, I love you."

"I love you too," you reply, stealing a quick kiss from his lips. "I…I can't wait to get to do this, like, whenever we want."

"Me neither," he whispers softly, a promise, and one only for you.

The electricity of a new start lingers in the silence, dangerous and exciting all at once, but you both ignore it for now. Oscar just holds you, lulling you to sleep with the steady comfort he knows you find in his arms, and stays in this moment with you. It was a new year, a new start, yes, but for now it was just the two of you cuddling in a bed like you'd first done all those years ago, something that had led to the edge of this massive change you were jumping into together. Hand in hand, where you belonged.

And there's no one he'd rather do it with.

And that's it. That's them - for now! If you guys want to see any more of them, my inbox is open for suggestions for other things I could write for them (I already have several ideas - should I do a poll...) As ever, any and all interactions (reblogs and replies especially!!) are very appreciated. Thank you so so much for reading this far!!

MASTERLIST, OC MASTERLIST

Usually, you just banged wheels. One of you would make the other brush the wall, impede the other in qualifying, insult each other on the radio. Inevitably it would make it to the media, continuing your season long rivalry that meant nothing for either championship but everything to the two of you. Technically you'd started it with a comment that, in hindsight, should never had made it out of your mouth.

"Well, if Norris is blaming me, then he needs to get his eyes checked."

He'd heard of the comment and replied to it with a chuckle and a grin that made your anger burn. "Well, I can get them checked if it would make her feel safer, but ultimately we'd all be safer if she learned to check her mirrors."

It had been both of your faults, and hadn't even ended in either of you out of the race, but it started a rivalry that carried on even off track. Part of you was embarrassed by your comment and his flawless reply to it, but a majority of you was mad that he hadn't taken even a bit of the blame even though you hadn't, either. You stood as far away as possible from him during the driver's parade, the national anthem, whatever media events happened to coincide, and avoided him wherever else you could. When you couldn't, it usually went like this.

You'd accidentally bump into each other, exchange half-apologies and pretend everything was okay, but when you'd walked past him, he'd mutter under his breath:

"It would help if you watched where you're going."

You'd turn and roll your eyes at him. "Would help if you watched where you're driving."

"Oh, come on," Norris would chuckle, making you narrow your eyes and resist with all your might the smile tugging at your lips. "I didn't impede you, mate. You know it."

"Oh yeah?" You'd stomp back towards him, your glare meeting his confident grin and doing nothing to affect it. "We'll let the footage talk, then."

And then the footage would talk but you'd say far more than was warranted and then something similar would happen again at the next race. Rinse and repeat, every week, like clockwork.

By the time you were halfway through the season, you hated him, and he at least disliked you, and you'd keep banging wheels on and off track until the season ended. If you'd met under different circumstances—circumstances in which you didn't have to deal with his shitty driving, for example—maybe you could've gotten along. Sometimes you did wonder if this was just banter between the two of you, which he certainly seemed to think, but you swore that having banter required being friends first, and you weren't sure if you were more than fellow drivers. You'd often caught yourself wanting to get to know him beneath the annoying driver he was on track, and recently you'd stopped trying to resist that want and you'd left yourself wonder how to get there. Nothing weird, nothing romantic—god forbid—just you wanting to get to know Norris better.

Maybe you could hang out more, off track. Make your on-track rivalry a little funnier off-track instead of it being blow after blow. You did get along with Oscar, after all, and you were sure you and Norris could be cordial. Maybe friendly. Maybe. The difference was that Oscar was polite and easy to talk to and Norris was a loud menace, so maybe that wasn't a good comparison. There was also the fact that Oscar had never annoyed you on or off-track whereas Norris seemed set on getting on your every last nerve and then some, but you'd started to wonder whether you were making that up. After all, there was something almost electric, sparking like the skid block of your car against the asphalt of the track, about whatever it was you and Norris had. He wasn't trying to get on your nerves to piss you off, he was continuing your little back and forth, the friction you always had, like he didn't want it to stop.

Very quickly, you find that you didn't want it to, either. You just needed the spark to be controlled, for you two to be on the same page.

Before this race, you'd considered trying to cool down your off-track rivalry, thinking of how to go about it, even being friendlier with him during the drivers' parade which he didn't even bat an eye at. Just a couple of races ago, you'd avoided him like the plague at every event and now you were standing next to him and finding that it didn't feel weird. It was as though this was normal to him, too—you exchanged polite smiles and, in your head, you decided that the rivalry would be more fun if it was just on-track with some actual off-track banter between friends. You had the hopeful thought that maybe this race would start and end without any incident between you.

But then here you were, watching him skid into the barriers and kicking up a trail of gravel behind him, crashing with such a horrible noise that it makes you flinch even with your helmet on.

And it was undoubtedly, indisputably, your fault.

For a moment, you almost forgot the race, which wasn't ideal since you were actively still in it. The crash was in your mirrors and then several turns away before you knew it, but you could still see it in your mind—the sheer speed, the noise, the aftermath, and all you wanted to know was how heavy your guilt had to be.

"Is he okay?" You asked over the radio, having to put in a surprising amount of effort to keep your voice steady, and it wasn't because you were driving.

"We're waiting to hear," your race engineer replied and you held your breath. The silence stretched over several turns and it felt like several laps before the radio comes back on. "Yes, he's okay. He's okay."

You exhaled with relief but your guilt still sat heavy in the bottom of your stomach. Even if you knew Norris was okay the crash looked bad. Really bad. Like the kind that could make you unfit for a race or two.

And it was undoubtedly, indisputably, your fault. You had taken him out of this race, and maybe out of the next one. You.

It wasn't not long before the race was red flagged and you can't even remember what position you're in. The points hardly mattered to you. Your little rivalry went out the window, replaced by noting but worry for your fellow driver who you were realising you cared for more than you knew. Before the race started up again, you made up your mind—it was your fault, so you were going to find him and you were going to apologise to him. You took a deep breath as you put your helmet back on, blocking out the outside world to focus on the race, on the points tat you did want to bring back despite it all.

God. You usually just banged wheels. It wasn't supposed to ever be like this.

Very rarely did your scrapping land Lando in the hospital.

He was fine—it wasn't a 'you're lucky to be alive' type of crash—but it also wasn't your every day trip into the barriers. The speed, the g-forces, the angle at which he hit the wall, all of that had come together to injure one of his hands enough to take him out of at least one of the following races.

And it was undoubtedly, indisputably, his fault.

Since the crash, he'd been in the hospital long enough to stop sulking about it. At the very least, the team wouldn't miss out on any points for the next races, so long as his replacement was good. He felt guilty about losing this round of points, but he couldn't take that back anymore. Many people come to check up on him and wish him well, which does help take his mind off the guilt.

"You'll have to carry the Constructor's now," he'd joked when Oscar came by, putting on his best smile to reassure his teammate that he was as okay as he could be, all things considered. "Straight wins till I'm back."

"I'll try my best," his teammate chuckled, but the smile on his face faded quickly than it had appeared. There was something on his mind, and Lando urged him to say it with a tilt of his head. Oscar cleared his throat. "Has…uh…Have you seen what Y/N said? About the crash?"

"Nah, but I'm assuming she blamed me. I'll just-"

"No, actually. She took full blame."

Lando blinked and stiffened. You'd never taken the blame for your little scraps, no matter how consequential. It was always his fault, and he always said it was your fault, and so on, regardless of which way the ruling ended up going. You taking blame for any incident—an incident that was clearly not your fault, no less—was entirely out of character.

"I…" he cleared his throat, finding that his mouth had gone dry. "Mate, are you sure?"

"Yep. She said it was entirely her mistake that got you in the barriers." Lando figured his expression must look disbelieving, because Oscar immediately continued as if trying to convince him. "Even the interviewer was stunned."

Lando still didn't believe him, not even when he looked it up himself and found the clip of you saying it was your fault, not even when Oscar left and told him that you'd come by to apologise. He convinces himself you only did it for the cameras, that you're only acting guilty because you feel like you should be and not because you actually are. Even if you'd been friendlier earlier today, which he was still trying to figure out the reason for, he didn't believe that you suddenly got along well enough for you to take blame for something that wasn't your fault. It wasn't in character for you or your rivalry, but it made him hope that your off-track relationship could improve anyway.

He wondered when he'd started to hope for that, when the back and forth became endearing with a warmth that he hadn't expected would result from the first time you bashed him to the media. Though he'd never admit it, he'd started looking for you after races, just for a chance at continuing this dance you'd both started without meaning to. You blaming yourself for a crash wasn't a step you'd ever taken, so he was thrown off rhythm. He was convinced you must be dancing to an entirely different song when you came to visit and he found his own guilt in your expression.

"Hey," you said with a small wave and equally small voice, shy like he'd never seen you. It made him sit up with slight shock. "How're you doing?"

"Good, good." He lifted his bad hand, bandaged already, as you took a seat beside his hospital bed. "Except for this."

You winced and rubbed the back of your hand as if you could feel his injury. "Ouch. I assume that's not…you know…"

"Gonna heal in time for the next race?" He chuckled and shakes his head. "Not a chance. I'm out for at least one."

"Damn." Your eyes fell to your lap, your hands still interlaced protectively as if his injury is contagious. "I'm sorry. About the crash. That was…that was my bad. I'm… I'm really sorry."

There it was again. You taking responsibility for something for once, except this one wasn't your fault at all. Lando tilted his head, face scrunched up in confusion, and he cleared his throat.

"It was my fault."

Your head snapped up to face him, eyes wide. "What?"

"I drove into you. Turned right into your apex."

"No, I should've given you space-"

"Not when it's your corner-"

"Norris." Your determined eyes stopped him, nothing like the uncomfortable and shy attitude you had before and everything like the you that he was used to. "Do you always have to be right even if it means that you're wrong?"

"Yep."

You scoffed and turn away from him. "You're insufferable."

"Insulting an injured man?" Lando winced, pretending to be hurt. "That's low."

Instead of some witty retort or joking insult, you flinched and faced him again with an expression just as guilty as when you first walked in. "I'm sorry."

"Hey," he said softly, leaning forward as you sat up straight in your chair as if trying to pull away from him, all despite the great distance between you. He swallowed and moves back. "I was kidding."

"I-…I know," you stammered, showing that you didn't know and that you kind of sucked at lying. Maybe you could only bluff if it involved making sure he was at fault and you weren't. "I'm still sorry about the crash."

Lando shook his head. "You don't-"

"No." The determination poked through when you met his eyes again, a fiery frustration bubbling in them. It's familiar to him—it's the same expression you pull when you say something like, 'let the footage talk,' but it's towards the opposite direction. Towards you, and not towards him. "I don't care if you don't think it's my fault. I played a part in you being injured, and I'm sorry about that."

"Don't," he stated firmly, matching your fiery determination but trying to make his not so sharp and hot, leaning towards gentle instead. "Don't do that."

Your eyes narrowed, but your frustration cracks around the edges as your shoulders relaxed. Sensing that he just may be getting through to you, he continued, "Don't blame yourself. Or feel guilty about this. It's…it's not good for you."

"I took you out of at least the next race, of course I-"

"No, don't," he interrupted quickly, maybe too harshly. "Seriously."

You folded your arms and turn away from him with a short exhale, more of a scoff, and you remained silent. Again, it's nothing like you—Lando had been under the impression that letting him have the last word would be like a physical wound to you, but there you were, not even attempting to take the last word for yourself. He just observed you, catching that you're definitely staring back even if through your periphery while pretending to stare off into the distance. Why you hadn't just left is a question he can't quite answer, so he just examined you like you're some puzzle he's definitely missing pieces for.

"I'll still feel guilty," you muttered suddenly, still looking away from him. "No matter how many times you tell me not to be."

"I know," he sighed. "Just know that…I don't hold it against you, y'know? So…no point in holding it against yourself."

Something lit up in your eyes then, some sort of realisation, and you turned to face him again. Your expression had softened and something like a smile sits on your lips. Then discomfort replaced it, and you swallowed hard.

"Can I…" You stopped and scoffed at yourself, shaking your head as if you're embarrassed. "God, this is stupid. Can I make it up to you?"

He blinked. "Um. I don't-"

"I can't exactly heal your hand-"

"Well no, but-" Lando chuckled awkwardly, desperately steering the conversation in a more lighthearted direction while also appeasing you. "I guess, y'know- if you insist, you can do… stuff on track. Win every race I can't be in?"

"Norris. Have you seen the car I'm driving?"

"You can call me Lando."

"Uh-huh. What else can I do?"

"I wasn't being se-" you glared at him, forcing him into silence without a word. Then, he entertained you. "Okay, so…help Oscar on track?"

"I'm driving a damn tractor, Norris."

"Lando."

"Okay, Lando. I'm still driving a tractor."

"Okay, then. Dinner?"

"What?"

You actually looked offended, like his question had wounded you more than anything he'd ever said against you in the media. It stuns him into silence, a silence that stretched out for so long that you filled it to fend off the awkwardness.

"Are you…" you blinked and shook your head quickly, checking that you'd heard him correctly. "Are you guilt-tripping me into going on a date with you?"

A date? When had he said that?

"No! What? I wouldn't-" he shook his arms in front of him with a strong, determined denial of her accusation, barely minding his injury. "You're the one insisting for a way to make it up to me! And I didn't say it had to be a date!"

You scoffed and rolled your eyes. "It was implied-"

"No, you heard it as a date, I didn't-"

"Well, maybe I wanted to!"

You were blushing furiously before the words even hit him, making Lando wonder why on earth your cheeks had gone so red for a mere moment before he finally hears you.

You wanted it to be a date. You, his pain on and off-track, wanted to go on a date with him.

He almost yelled, "What?"

"You heard me," you stated as confidently as you could manage, and he had to give you credit for how well you pretend. "I…if I do go to dinner with you to make it up to you, it- it has to-…be date. If you want! If you want, dinner can be…a date."

This has to be a dream, he figured, because a world in which you wanted to go anywhere with him was strange at best, but a world in which you wanted that to be a date was impossible. All he could bring himself to do was look at you, searching for the faintest hint of deceit in your expression, but he found nothing aside from your blush deepening as you grew increasingly flustered.

"Please say something," you insisted, rolling your eyes as if you weren't nervous. "The silence is killing me."

"Sorry, it's just…" I don't think this is real, was all he could think for a moment. He bit that back, settling for something less desperate-sounding. "The concept of you wanting to spend time with me is…weird."

You snorted. "Right back at you."

"Seriously." Lando sat up, finding that he needed to concentrate. You and your sudden shift in attitude were a riddle to solve, and the longer he pondered it the more he was realising that maybe the shift was not sudden at all. "I swear you've been avoiding me since forever."

"I have," you admitted, small and embarrassed. "But I've been…I've been thinking that maybe I shouldn't anymore."

"So at today's parade, when we talked…" He trailed off, waiting for you to confirm

"Yeah." The affirmation was heavy and yet it settled in him so easily, like some part of Lando had known it all along. "That was me…trying it."

Maybe you'd been dancing to the same song all along.

He relaxed again, satisfied with his conclusion, only needing to hear you say it. "I'd say it worked pretty well."

You swallowed and nodded, not quite yet at ease like he is. "Yeah, I think so too."

Courage gathered at the tip of his tongue, pushing his question out of his mouth. "So…dinner?"

You shifted in your seat, not quite meeting his eyes until you inhaled and brought yourself to speak. "That…depends."

"Right," he cleared his throat. "Only if it's a date."

"Only if you want-"

"I do," he cut you off confidently with what he hoped is a comforting smile on his face. "It's a date."

"Okay," you exhaled, the tension finally released from your shoulders and a small smile finally forming on your face. "Okay. I'll text you?"

Lando took a moment to nod, too caught in his own disbelief. "Yeah, that sounds good."

You nodded once in return, certain, as you stood up. "Okay! Um. I'll…hear from you soon then?"

"You will. A lot." He raised his arm with an exaggerated frown. "I've got nothing else to do."

That made you laugh sympathetically and he couldn't help but join you. Yes, his situation sucked, but he had long stopped sulking and you had definitely cheered him up even more. You took a deep breath, a bright smile on your face as you lingered in the doorway.

"Rest up, Norris."

He raised his eyebrow and corrected you. "Lando."

"Lando," you teased with an eye roll, waving him goodbye and walking out with a bright smile.

His gaze lingered on the door as if you were still there, your smile making him sigh involuntarily. It was then that his smile faded as it hits him—he really liked you, more than he thought, he really liked the way his name sounds on your tongue, he was really scared that he'd fuck this up by saying something stupid and returning to the first stages of the little back and forth you two had. If he could, he'd interlace his fingers and fidget with them, but the bandages don't give him that choice; the nervousness built up inside him and made his muscles go impossibly tense. But then you texted him, you texted him though you've only just left the room, so he smiled and relaxed.

You must have been as nervous as he was.

Thank you guys so much for reading (and Merry Christmas!!). Nina, I hope I did your prompt justice!! Any and all interactions (reblogs + comments especially!!) are appreciated!!

It’s almost infuriating, how everyone thinks he’s this perfect sweet saint and probably the kindest in bed too. No, Caleb is mean. For all the sweet things he did growing up and now — behind that is an insatiable man who revels in your tears.

He loves to pleasure you senseless — he’s got a thing for kissing every part of you, for lavishing your entire body. He could spend an entire night neglecting himself just to spread your thighs and make you come apart from his mouth and hands. He’ll spend an eternity sucking at your chest until your nipples are puffy and swollen, stroking your trembling thighs and lavishing you with his mouth until you’re trembling and begging for reprieve. He’ll make you come over and over and over until you’re an oversensitive mess — and the only thing that stops him is a genuine plea for mercy or you on the cusp of blacking out.

Fucking you is even worse. He’s the sort to spread your legs and hold you in positions that make you take every thick inch or kiss away your tears in missionary as you babble from his cock. He’ll watch you tremble, quiver, tear up from the overwhelming pleasure and call you adorable as you’re squirming, begging. He’ll hold you close and sing the softest praises on how well you take him, how cute you look squirming from his cock, how every little thing about you is perfect and you’re a bonafide fucked out mess. He’ll hold you on his lap and make you ride him, laugh as you quiver and chew your lip from the utter embarrassment. He likes embarrassing you — the asshole, watching you almost tear up from frustration as you try to ride him but you’re so sensitive you can barely lift yourself. And he’ll help you, hold your hips as he fucks up into you over and over, kissing at your collar bone, telling you how perfect you are as you groan and cling to him for dear life.

He loves tears too — is another thing you learned. You can’t remember the last time he didn’t fuck you to the point of sobbing, him kissing away salty streaks and whispering sweet praises as he makes you take his cock again and again until you physically can’t. If you were crying because of pain or emotional hurt? He’d turn the world over to find the cause, hunting down whoever or whatever hurt you. He’d comfort you and hold you as long as you needed. But when the tears are because of him and how overwhelmed he makes you feel? He makes it his goal to fuck them out of you.

It’s not one or two times either — it’s almost every night he’ll leave you spent, sobbing, and sleep-deprived with cum leaking from you. And the next morning he’ll look perfectly unbothered, busy in the kitchen and flashing you the sweetest smile as you stumble with shaky legs over to the counter. You glare and curse at him, but he just laughs and gives you your favorite breakfast, kisses your cheek before plating his own food.

You learned quickly Caleb was both your biggest lover and biggest bully. He adored every thing about you, from seeing you happy and making you feel adored and loved to seeing you a mess from his fingers, mouth, cock, using toys on you. He never made you feel unloved, he spoiled you rotten in the day and cuddled and cleaned you sweetly after wrecking you at night.

He desires every aspect of you an unhealthy amount, from your love to your feigned hatred at his constant bullying. And when he makes a small joke — a little innuendo only you understand in front of strangers and you smack him — he merely laughs, unknowing audience none the wiser.

Everyone sees utter perfection from him. The kind of man you could bring home to your parents, loved and adored by all. The charmer that gets along with everyone — flawless in every sense of the word.

Only you know just how mean he can be.

btw check out Linkon Lounge, an 18+ Lads Themed Otome Discord Server! We rave about the boys a ton, and chill! Super inclusive and lgbtq+ friendly!

"I think it's too late for that," Oscar answered, staring at the ceiling of Lando's room from his vantage point—lying on the small amount of space on the floor—as if it would give him answers. Or solutions. Anything, really. "It'll be too embarrassing to backtrack."

Lando's bed creaked as he sat up suddenly. "We're past embarrassing at this point, mate. I mean, you somehow managed to tell the person you wanted to ask out-"

"I know-" Oscar shut his eyes tight.

"-that you already had a date-"

"Yep-"

"When you, in fact, don't." It was such a stupid screw up, something he could've easily corrected in the moment, but he instead doubled down like the victim of sunk cost fallacy he'd become. "If you weren't currently lying on my floor in distress, I'd be laughing."

"You already laughed plenty."

"The way I see it, you've got two options," Lando said. Oscar raised his eyebrows at him and he swatted his hands, begging Oscar to hear him out. "You either keep lying, or make what you said true. The secret third option is to just come clean, but you've just said no to that."

"How on earth am I going to 'make what I said true'?" He added air quotes, which made Lando roll his eyes.

"You find a date for real, dude."

Oscar sat up, face deadpan and unimpressed. He looked at his wrist, at a watch he did not have, then back at Lando. "The thing is tonight. Less than six hours."

"You're an attractive guy!” He gestured towards the door. “Go fish!"

"Not happening. What's my other option?"

"Keep lying." He grinned like it was the best thing he had ever thought of. "Pretend you're going with me."

Oscar dropped himself on the floor again. "No. You have a date, don't you?"

Lando shrugged. "She wouldn't mind if I like, walked towards Nina with you. I can spend the rest of the night with her, as long as I check it's okay."

"Right." Fucking hell, Oscar was considering it. The cogs in his brain worked, imagining the scenario. Going up to Nina and saying 'Yeah, I'm technically here with Lando. Initially we were coming together cause we both couldn't find dates, but then he cruelly found himself one.' Then he technically already had a date and an excuse to spend the night with Nina. It was perfect. 

"Holy shit," Lando broke into laughter. "You're seriously considering it."

"You suggested it!"

He raised his hands in innocence "I didn't think you'd go for it!"

"Do you think your date will?" Oscar couldn't believe this. It was so stupid. But it might just work. 

Lando stared at him wide eyed with disbelief. "Mate. Are you seriously, actually considering this?"

Oscar cringed at himself. "Yes. Yes, I am."

"Jesus." Lando couldn't believe him. Oscar couldn't believe himself either. His friend sighed, regretting his offer but going along with it. Sunk cost fallacy had claimed another victim. "...I'll text Courtney."

The event said they'd have to bring a date, but the club surely wouldn't police it.

For Valentine's day week, the university's local club night had advertised a "Date Night." It was all anyone could talk about, but Nina had to be talked into it. She didn't have a date, wouldn't find a date, had turned down at least two, and the guy she'd considered asking already had one. She decided to be the group's 5th or 7th wheel, depending on whether Courtney was coming with them. She'd kept her date a secret with a mischievous smirk, and that was the most exciting part of the night. They had all dressed on theme with reds and pinks accented with some black—Sofia had even drawn hearts on her cheeks with pink eyeliner. Though Nina didn't go out to the club much, she was excited for this night, if only because it was a change in her tight schedule.

After it was decided that Courtney would meet them there, the girls walked from their shared home to the club. The closer they got, the more students on theme there were, many already drunk or actively drinking. Nina figured that the walk back home wasn't long—if she wanted to leave, she could. If her friends needed help, she could easily come back. This was okay. They met up with her friends' partners and walked in, the couples in pairs and Nina behind them like the welcome extra she was. The club was packed with already-drunk students too close to each other for comfort. Before even trying it, Nina had decided she wouldn't go towards the crowd, thankful when her friends skirted around it and headed for the bar. They made some comments about Courtney's mysterious date, Nina's lack of one, and collectively gasped upon seeing who Courtney was with at the bar. 

Campus sweetheart and ‘heartbreaker’, Lando Norris. 

Courtney sat with her elbow on the bar, head on her palm, staring at him endearingly as he spoke. But Nina was focused on who was on Lando's left, the guy who said he had a date but clearly didn't—Oscar Piastri. He tensed when their eyes met like a child caught red handed, poorly hiding his flinch with a smile. Her friends had been too busy squealing and shrieking at Courtney to notice him, and Nina joined them eventually. Several greetings and teasing jokes later, Nina and Oscar fell into talking to each other as they had a habit of doing. She leaned in close to him so he could hear her over the music and so she didn't have to sacrifice her voice.

"So, no date?"

"Actually," he said, a grin forming on his face. "I was supposed to be coming with Lando."

She blinked. Her eyes fell on Lando's actual date. Did Oscar think she couldn’t see her? Did he think she was stupid enough to believe that? All parts bewildered and not insulted, she blinked again.

"I- What?"

"Yeah. But he cruelly found a date, so I'm here alone."

"You..." Nina shook her head quickly, trying to snap out of whatever reality she'd fallen into. He was doubling down. "You said I wouldn't know who your date was."

He laughed awkwardly. Forced. "I...Did I say that?"

"Yes."

"I...must have forgotten that you know Lando."

He was actually doubling down. He dug his grave, lay down in it, and smiled up at her as he buried himself with the soil.

"Oscar," she sighed. "You are a really bad liar."

He gave her a look, pleading, begging her to believe him. She raised an eyebrow, and he finally broke with a sigh. "Fine, yes. I never actually had a date in the first place. I just...slipped up while telling you."

A second went by, a second in which she considered whether he was telling the truth, then she snorted. Nina was not letting this go. "And, my god, did you commit."

"God, I know," he groaned, colour rising to his cheeks. "I didn't know what else to do."

"It was almost believable."

"Was it?"

"Nope."

Oscar gave her a chuckle, his eyes lighting up despite the darkness of the club. "Okay, fine. I'm sorry."

"Nah, don't worry. It didn't hurt me, it’s okay."

And it really didn't. At worst, it mildly inconvenienced her. Having no date was no different than having one, in this case. Nina would be here either way, speaking to Oscar as a date or as a friend. The fact that she'd really prefer the former didn't matter—they ended up here either way. But now the silence was strained, awkward, filled with bass so loud she felt it in her teeth. Oscar shuffled from side to side as if just to have something to do. Her discomfort didn't come from him, or from her friends having made their way into the dance floor. It came from the general energy of a club, an energy she already wasn't feeling despite having just arrived.

"Should we just ditch this?"

Oscar whipped around to face her suddenly. "What?"

"Your 'date' is having fun with his actual date, my friends have each other and their girlfriends, neither of us are drunk enough for this. Want to just...fuck off with me?"

"I..." he trailed off with hesitation, his brain working through the offer. "...the ticket wasn't cheap…"

Nina rolled her eyes. "I'll reimburse you."

His eyes widened. "You don't have to-"

"I will if it'll get you to leave with me."

Oscar faltered for only a moment, surprised by how forward she was before smirking and meeting her in the middle. "Okay. What's the plan?"

"Mine's only a few minutes from here, if you want."

And then he looked her up and down obviously enough to make her nonchalance crack, a blush creeping to her cheeks. Oscar liked her, Oscar had wanted to ask her out and hadn't, Nina knew this and yet the way he was looking at her made that too tangible to process. He reached his hand out with that lopsided smirk that she knew meant that she was in trouble. 

"I'll follow you, then."

Nina accepted her fate and his hand and led him out, her palm burning in his.

Fumbling asking a woman out so badly as Oscar had should not usually end with him in said woman's room, but here he was.

In Nina Reyes' room.

It was generic on the surface but showed off personality in the small details—the well-watered plants at her windowsill, her course textbooks still neatly laid out at her desk next to her jewellery as if she'd been getting ready while studying, the small Lego figures of various flowers on her shelves. Her bed was well made, pillows and throws neatly displayed on the space the double provided. 

"It's not much," she said when she caught him staring. Quickly, as if he wouldn't notice, she closed the textbook on her desk and put it back on the neat stack. "Sorry about the mess."

"If this is a mess, mine is a dumpster and Logan's is a biohazard."

Nina sat on the far end of her bed, right by the pillow, patting the space next to her. "My room is not that tidy."

He obliged, leaving plenty of space between them. "It looks like a very gently lived in IKEA showroom."

"I'll take that as a compliment," she chuckled, looking anywhere but at him. Though she looked far more comfortable here than at the club, her leg bouncing and playing with her hands told him she wasn't exactly in her element. "So..."

"So?"

"I’ve never gotten this far before."

Oscar couldn't hold back his snort and disbelief, making Nina frown.

"I've so kindly let you into my room and you're making fun of me?" She folded her arms in mock disapproval. "Rude."

"No, no, just....surprised by your honesty."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I guess that means you don't know where things go from here?"

"Oh, I know where they...usually go." She interlocked her fingers and played with them again. "But that wasn't my intention."

Oscar stayed silent, thinking she'd continue, but her eyes widened in a panic. 

"God, did I lead you on? I-"

"No, God no," he said, a reassuring smile on his face though she was still on edge. "I genuinely figured we'd just talk."

She finally relaxed, finally actually looking at him, finally letting herself calm down, only to smirk at him. "For now?"

Oscar tensed in surprise. "You're impossible."

"Don't worry, I'm kidding." She paused. Deliberate, calculated. "Unless you'd like me not to be."

He smirked. "We'll see."

At that, Nina laid back on the bed with her legs dangling off the side, groaning into both her palms. 

"It's you that's impossible," she said, muffled into her hands. "All of this is."

"Flirting is not that hard."

"It is when it makes you malfunction."

"If we're both malfunctioning, then it's working."

She lowered her hands to glare at him. "You don't look like you're malfunctioning."

"I'm good at hiding it." His blush was betraying him, he was sure, but just the fairy lights being on meant that she likely couldn't see it. "Mind if I join you?"

"If you'd like."

Then they were both on the bed, plenty of space between them, facing the ceiling. It was speckled with glow in the dark stars and planets, yet another detail peeking through the room to show off Nina’s personality. 

"Did you put those up?" He asked. "They're nice."

"Landlord left them up," Nina replied, elaboration briefly catching on her throat. "But I picked the room because of them."

"So you're a stars person?"

"Yeah."

"In what way?"

"What do you mean?"

"As in, astrology or astronomy?" This was not where he thought the conversation would go. "I know you're not a star signs person, but are you into the mythology or science behind them?"

"Huh." Nina was deep in thought for a moment, examining the stars like they held the answer. "I guess...both? I love the way they look, the fact that different cultures have different constellations, but I'm also fascinated by the science of space in general."

"They are really pretty." Some of the stars had been put back on the ceiling with blu tack, as if Nina had been taking good care of them. "How does someone so fascinated with the stars end up in law course?"

"Money."

"Ah."

"How did you end up in history?"

Oscar hummed, considering his answer. "A freakishly good memory."

"Oh no." Another one of her calculated pauses, the ones that came before a punchline. "I need to be more careful what I tell you, then."

He shrugged, smirking at her. "I don't need a freakishly good memory to remember every word you say."

She turned to face him with a grin she couldn’t hide. "Even the insults?"

"Yep. Though I'll remember them as compliments."

"Damn. You must really like me."

Consciously, he turned his smirk into a sincere smile. "Yeah, I do."

Turning to face the ceiling again couldn't hide her blush, but she did it anyway. "Me too."

The confession hung heavy in the air like a mist, but neither of them were shielding themselves from it. Oscar took in the sincerity of her words, the slight intimacy of lying on the same bed even if half a person apart, the fact that she'd invited him back and no one else. It was too much and just enough all at once and, for now, he'd disregard their earlier teasing promised about them going further. Instead, he'd talk. 

"How're your friends doing? You live with Zoey, Sofia, and Courtney, right?"

She turned towards him with a surprised smile. "You really do remember everything I say."

"It's useful for when I need things to talk about."

She gives him a small laugh. "Well, yes, they also live here. Despite that, I had no idea Courtney and Lando were dating."

"Eh," Oscar scrunched his face in thought. "I wouldn't describe it as dating."

She mirrored his expression. "Hooking up?"

"Something between that and dating."

"Situationship."

"That." It felt like too mean a description, so he quickly added. "But with communication."

"Really?"

"Enough to not hurt either of them."

"I guess that's good." Neither of them were very familiar with that side of the dating world. Oscar had gone on a date or two, some had made it back to a bedroom, but Nina was clearly at least one step back in that regard. "Did you know?"

"Yeah. He told me as soon as he did it and then pushed me to ask you, which..." he raised his arms and gestured vaguely. "...I guess went well, in the end?"

"Most people would consider ending up in the girl's bedroom to be quite good."

"And they say you miss all the shots you don't take," he chuckled. "I ended up here without even lining up a shot.”

She laughed at that, the smile staying on her face, contagious and beautiful. "You're lucky I wasn't completely heartbroken that you didn't shoot your shot."

"Were you disappointed?"

"A little." Nina turned her eyes towards the ceiling. "But only for a bit. I distracted myself with studying and tried to convince myself I didn't have a lowkey massive crush on you."

"I gather that didn't work."

"Well, you're here, aren't you?"

He nodded with a genuine smile as she turned to face him again, returning the same smile. Despite catching himself staring at her lips, he kept his gaze there and caught her blush darkening. Part of him would've sworn she was leaning in. His hand wandered towards hers, but didn't make it there.

The front door clicked open, making them both jump and sit up.

"They did mention they'd have afters here," Nina muttered bitterly. "Unfortunately, I share a wall with Courtney."

He winced. Lando was downstairs, he was sure. They’d texted their friends so they knew they were safe, but they also knew they were in here. "We should probably go downstairs. Say hi."

"Yeah, probably."

But there was ‘should do’ and there was ‘wanted to do,’ and Oscar was very much leaning towards the latter. Her eyes told him she was leaning in the same direction, anywhere but downstairs, anywhere but not here with just the two of them. Ignoring what they had just agreed on, he resumed what he was doing and rested his hand on Nina’s. It didn't feel new, not after she'd dragged him by it on the way out of the club, but this had a different implication. There was barely space for their hands between them. It was as if the laughter and clinking glasses coming from downstairs didn't matter.

"But we don't have to," he said, lowering his voice. "There's nothing stopping us from just...staying up here."

She nodded and leaned in closer, finding the page he was on despite him not  "They know I'm home safe, so...we can just...yeah, stay up here."

That hung in the air as heavy as their earlier confession, like they were surrounded by the implications, leaving them with no choice but to face them. Her eyes weren't even on his, they were on his lips and it was driving him insane. Nina always knew what she wanted and Nina always got what she wanted; right now she wanted him and the implications of that were suffocating in the way good kisses tended to be.

"We can," he finally said, his breath catching slightly when he felt her own on his face. "If you want to."

"Oscar?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you please just kiss me already?"

That’s all it took. 

He didn't say yes. He just grabbed her face and kissed her.

There was a moment where they kept it slow, a moment where they left space and time to breathe, but it was only a moment. Though unsure of herself with every move, she tangled her hands in his hair, pulling him closer with each kiss, barely breathing. Oscar had never kissed someone as if he needed them like his body needed water, but here was Nina, getting exactly what she wanted and giving it back with a hesitant desperation he welcomed. Their earlier teasing didn't feel like teasing anymore, it felt like a promise. God, he was getting ahead of himself. How couldn't he? How couldn't he think about going further, about getting his hands under her shirt, about getting to talk about anything until the sun rose and she was still in his arms, as beautiful as she'd been when she'd asked him to kiss her? How couldn’t he imagine laying next to her underneath the plastic stars she’d so carefully hung back up, making her infinitely more endearing than she already was? He was a mess, his hair was a mess, and he was sure she was, too. There was hesitation in her kissing still, like she was afraid she’d come off as too desperate, but the longer they went on the more that fell away and she let herself do exactly as she wanted. One of her hands moved his from her face to just between them, holding it tightly, slowing down. She then pulled away hesitantly, chasing his lips for a couple last pecks before letting herself breathe. More like heave, really, long enough to concern him until she spoke. 

"That about what you had in mind?" She asked, panting like she'd just run a marathon as she gripped his hand for support. 

He grinned, stroking her face. "I wouldn't mind a little further."

"We're not doing that tonight," she replied with an edge, snippy like he'd upset her. Instinctively, he lifted her hand from her face and she quickly spoke. "Sorry. I'm okay, just..."

"That was a lot?"

She exhaled heavily. "That was very fucking good."

He kept his grin but made it more comforting. "Couldn't have done it without you.”

“Ha ha,” she laughed sarcastically, trying to act confident but clearly still struggling to breathe. “Glad it was fun.”

Knowing she was overwhelmed, he moved the hand that was still on the side of her face to wrap around her shoulders, trying to provide some comfort. Nina leaned into it with a deep breath, letting him know it was okay.

“I’m sorry.” She relaxed slowly, still slightly on edge. “As I said—never gotten this far.”

“It’s okay.” 

She got even more comfortable, hesitantly resting her head on his shoulder. Though he knew her, there were still things about her he had to learn, such as how to comfort her. Oscar made a mental note that physical touch seemed to work when she was overwhelmed, but he’d properly ask her tomorrow. Well, later today. It was already well past midnight, and he decided to ignore the fact that his last bus home was fast approaching.

Nina read his mind. And the clock. “You can stay over, if you want.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” She sat up away from him to stretch, though they were still shoulder to shoulder. “Totally just because it’s safer for you to not get the bus this late and not because you’re insanely comfortable.”

“Of course, of course, just because of that,” he chuckled and he felt her join him, shuffling a little closer. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

After some time, they both tensed simultaneously, as if what they had just done and were doing had just hit them. Oscar had never been into the whole ‘no strings attached’ thing like some of his friends were. Between him and Nina there were plenty of strings tied with knots as strong as steel—he’d be stupid to let this go, to not communicate clearly.

“Should we, uh…”

“Define this?” She was on the same page as him once again. “Probably.”

“Yeah.” But he sensed it wouldn’t be the best idea to do it now. Nina was still quite overwhelmed and his body was all too aware of what time it was. Tomorrow, after a reset, would be better. “How about we go out for coffee tomorrow?”

“Sounds good. I’ll cover it, as the reimbursement I promised.”

“You don’t have to-”

“Nah, don’t worry.” she cut him off, reassuring him. “I said I would, so I’ll get you whatever drink you want.”

“And you’ll get ‘iced hot chocolate’ like it isn’t just chocolate milk?”

“As always.” She giggled with a tinge of guilt. “I…feel bad. I don’t remember what you usually get.”

He shook his head, taking his turn to reassure her. “I don’t have a usual order to remember, don’t worry.”

She tilted her head. “No pattern?”

“None that I know of,” he replied with a shrug.

“I’ll find one,” she said. “So I can remember it.”

“So this is the first of many coffees?”

Her eyebrows raised as her smile grew, judging him for finding flirtation in every sentence but unable to help herself from returning it. “If you’d like that.”

Oscar gave her a grin. “Of course I would.”

Comfortable silence settled between them, the commotion downstairs and the texts that they were definitely going ignored and unnoticed. As far as they were concerned, all that mattered was right in that room, even if they weren’t saying anything.

“Hey.” Nina broke the silence, the permanent blush on her face darkening again, her smile remaining confident. “Could I, uh…Could I kiss you again?”

This time, it was slow. He nodded and she leaned in like she had all the time in the world and she did, because he knew he’d stay in that room with her forever if he could. It’s shorter, too, not because she wanted him any less but because she knew she could have him whenever. As many times as she wanted, for as long as she wanted, and he’d follow her lead. All of her touches were gentle, and her hand stayed on the side of his face when she pulled away with a smile.

“You can do that whenever you want,” he whispered. “For as long as you want.”

“Careful.” The corner of her mouth lifted into a small smirk, but her blush betrayed her like it always did. “I might not let you breathe again.”

“Sounds like a fantastic way to go.”

BONUSES: texts time!

That night, Oscar lets his housemates know he’s not coming home that night:

Oscar: Heads up, I’m not going home tonight Lando: same Logan: . Logan: oscar. Logan: oscar immediately provide more context. Lando: he tripped and fell into nina’s bed 😭 Logan: ⁉️⁉️⁉️ Logan: DUDE WHAT THE FUCK Oscar: Tripped and fell, yeah Oscar: Given how hard I fucked up initially Logan: how did you even recover from that Oscar: A shit ton of luck Lando: nah Lando: nina’s always been down bad  Logan: aww Logan: so are you guys like… Logan: official, or… Oscar: We’re talking about it tomorrow Lando: ??? you’re in her bed rn and you’re still wondering if you’re a thing Oscar: Are you not in Courtney’s bed right now? Lando: …fair enough 💔 Logan: good luck!! you’ve liked her for so long  Logan: this feels like a season finale Oscar: Thank you Oscar: I think

The next morning, Nina’s housemates become very curious:

Sofia: @ Nina  Sofia: Girl Sofia: GIRL  Sofia: Did Oscar stay the night?? Zoey: chill Zoey: shes probably still asleep Zoey: hardly ever stays up that late Sofia: But I’m so curious Courtney: he did :) Sofia: COURT ❤️ Sofia: HOW DO YOU KNOW Courtney: lando told me that oscar told him that he wasn’t going home last night Zoey: damn nina Zoey: that was quick Courtney: as if they haven’t been eyeing each other up since they met Sofia: COURTNEY DID LANDO ALSO STAY Courtney: girl duh 😭 Courtney: nina if you heard anything no you didn’t Nina: Dw we didn’t Courtney: :) Zoey: morning to u too Sofia: NINAAAAA 🥺 Sofia: NINA ARE YOU OKAY Nina: Yes? Why would I not be Sofia: You guys haven’t come down for breakfast Nina: I’m sleeping in till lunch Courtney: you keeping oscar with you?? 👀 Nina: Well yes 😭 Nina: We’re going out for lunch Zoey: aw nice Sofia: Can we hound you with questions afterwards pls pls pls Nina: Fiiiine

Thank you guys so much for reading!! Any and all interactions are very appreciated <3