Things to think about before bed

when you’d laugh or tilt your head toward him during group conversations, joe would lose his train of thought entirely. he’d get fidgety, tapping his thumb against the seam of his sweats, tugging at his sleeves, bouncing one knee under the table like he was running plays in his head. once, you’d accidentally brushed his arm while reaching for your drink, and he swore he didn’t breathe for ten full seconds. he replayed that moment in his mind for days, convinced it meant something. he’d linger in places he thought you might pass through—by the vending machines, near the quad, waiting just a beat longer in the hallway after practice was over and you were coming back from the gym—then pretend it was coincidence when your eyes met. he smiled every time, slow and sheepish, like he couldn’t believe his luck.

what killed him most was how easy you made it look, how you talked with that bright, effortless laugh and looked at him like he wasn’t about to combust under the weight of his crush. he’d lay in bed at night staring at the ceiling, replaying everything you’d said, wondering if you could hear how hard his heart was pounding when you stood close. wondering if maybe...just maybe...you felt the same kind of dizzy, giddy, butterflies-in-your-ribs kind of thing he did every single time you smiled at him.

it wasn’t until three whole weeks later, after endless teasing from his teammates, half-baked pep talks in the locker room, and at least four different times where he almost did it but chickened out, that joe finally worked up the nerve to ask for your number. it happened on a random tuesday, tucked in the back corner of the student union during a group study sesh, his knee bouncing under the table and fingers fidgeting with the seam of his hoodie. you were mid-sentence, laughing at something he’d said (probably dumb, probably charming), when he suddenly slid his phone across the table, screen open to a new contact, that sheepish, lopsided grin tugging at his lips.

his ears were pink. his voice cracked just a little when he said, “only if you want to,”.

you’d been smiling back at him for weeks, meeting his eyes in the dining hall, catching his glances at fred's, lingering just a second longer during group hangouts, quietly hoping he’d finally get brave. so when you picked up his phone with a grin and tapped in your number, joe looked like he’d just won the national championship. all the tension drained from his shoulders in an instant, pride and disbelief blooming across his face like he couldn’t quite believe he’d actually done it.

in that moment, the cool, collected quarterback? gone. all that was left was a nervous, giddy boy falling stupidly in love. and you? you were already halfway there.

── .✦ picked you up for dates in that tragically old truck

joe’s old pickup was a tragic kind of pride and joy. its faded paint chipped in places, the creaky door that never quite closed quietly, and a passenger seat that squeaked whenever you shifted your weight. but every time he had a date with you, he’d spend nearly an hour making sure that front seat was spotless. free from grass stains and the stench of post practice sweat. he’d scrub at the worn fabric like it was a sacred ritual, determined to make it perfect for you despite the truck’s rattles and quirks.

when he rolled up to your building, cudi blasting from the speakers—something nostalgic and familiar, like the soundtrack to all his best memories—he wore that signature athens high backwards hat and an easy, laid-back grin, pretending like he was cool as ice. but beneath that calm exterior, his hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white, and his heart hammered against his ribs like he’d just run a touchdown sprint. the truck rattled noisily when he shifted gears, and he could feel his stomach twisting nervously the entire drive to the diner, silently praying you weren’t bored, that the noise wasn’t annoying, that you didn’t mind the less-than-perfect ride. even though he acted casual, teasing you with jokes and playful banter to break the tension, every glance he stole at you in the rearview mirror was full of quiet hope, hope that these imperfect moments were exactly what you wanted, that you saw the guy behind the beat-up truck, steady and nervous and completely smitten.

── .✦ the softest drunk you’ve ever met

post-big win joe at LSU was honestly the softest, most adorably clingy drunk you’d ever met, and it was a side of him that made your heart swell in ways you didn’t expect. from the moment he spotted you standing by the bar, his whole posture softened, his usual confident swagger giving way to a kind of gentle vulnerability that was rare and utterly captivating. his arm slid around your waist like a lifeline, pulling you close as if you were the center of his entire universe. his cheeks were flushed this perfect shade of rosy pink, curls damp and sticking just a little at his temples from the buzz of celebration and the late summer, early fall humidity. he swayed lightly beside you, his wide grin lighting up his face like a kid who just scored the winning touchdown for the first time, eyes sparkling as they locked onto yours. his voice dropped to that low, husky murmur only meant for you, breath warm against your ear as he whispered sweet, sincere words that made your skin tingle,“’m so glad you’re here,” and “couldn’t do any of this without you,”. the world around you seemed to blur, the noise of the rowdy bar fading until all you could focus on was joe’s steady presence and the way his fingers gently squeezed your hip with quiet pride.

when someone approached to congratulate him, joe’s first instinct was to shift the spotlight onto you. with that trademark smirk and a proud squeeze of your side, he’d say, “my girl’s my good luck charm,” making you feel like the most important person in the room. his voice was thick with affection, a mix of exhaustion and elation that wrapped around you like a warm blanket. half the night, he’d lean his head against your shoulder or bury his face in the soft curve of your neck, mumbling sleepy i-love-yous that felt like whispered promises.

you’d try to coax him to drink some water, your hands smoothing his hair back, feeling the warmth of his flushed skin against your palm, but he was too caught up in the moment, too enamored with you, to care about anything else. as the night wound down and the crowd began to thin, joe stayed close, arms wrapped tightly around you as if he never wanted to let go. when the uber finally pulled up, he practically melted into you, resting his head on your shoulder during the ride home, every so often brushing your cheek with his thumb as he murmured half-jokingly, “promise me you’ll never leave,”. the soft haze of the buzzed haze made him more open than usual, more honest, and you could see in his eyes the deep gratitude he felt—not just for the win, but for you, for the way you’d been there through every pass, every tackle, every moment.

those nights revealed a tenderness beneath joe’s tough exterior, an emotional vulnerability that only you ever got to see. and in that quiet closeness, with his heartbeat steady against your side and his lips warm against your skin, you knew this was love, messy, sweet, and utterly perfect.

── .✦ the first time you wore his jersey

the moment you surprised joe at tiger stadium wearing his #9 jersey, the 9 tight and perfect across your back, everything shifted. you could almost see his breath catch, that usual confident front slipping away like a secret no one else was meant to see. the boy who owned the field—the one who led the team with quiet power—morphed into a blushing mess in an instant. his cheeks flushed a deep, flushed hue, and before you knew it, he was tugging you close by the wrist, like a protective golden retriever caught doing something adorably awkward. his face buried itself in the soft curve of your shoulder, hiding behind you with a goofy grin that made your heart flutter.

“you look way too good in that, stop it,” he grumbled quietly, voice thick with timidness and awe all at once. but even as he protested, his thumb was tracing the fabric lightly over your spine, as if trying to convince himself that this wasn’t some dream—that you really chose to wear him so boldly, so unapologetically. it was like he was seeing you in a new light, one that made his chest tighten with pride and nervous excitement all tangled together. throughout warmups, joe couldn’t keep his eyes off you. every few minutes, his gaze flicked up toward the stands where you sat, a mixture of thrill and terror sparkling behind those deep, intense eyes. he was proud, beyond proud, but also a little overwhelmed by the vulnerability of it all. this was more than just a jersey; it was a bold, public declaration, and knowing you were there wearing him like that made the whole stadium feel electric with possibility.

── .✦ “study sessions” were just an excuse to nap on you

joe swore up and down he was there to help you cram for midterms—armed with neat highlighters, meticulously color-coded notes, and a strategic stash of snacks—but honestly, those study sessions quickly became something else entirely. within twenty minutes, the carefully organized piles of textbooks and flashcards were forgotten, because joe would inevitably stretch out across your dorm bed, sinking into your space like he belonged there. his head would find the soft curve of your lap, eyes fluttering closed as your fingers absentmindedly wove through his curls, tracing gentle circles that seemed to lull him into a peaceful calm.

“you make it too comfy,” he’d mumble with sleep and contentment, that trademark grin tugging at the corner of his lips even as he drifted off. you’d try everything to wake him, lightly tapping his shoulder, softly calling his name, even a few playful kisses, but his arms would lazily wrap around your waist, pulling you closer until you were tangled up with him. it was like he knew, deep down, that these quiet moments nestled against your warmth were more restful than any bed, any blanket, any pillow. he’d whisper in a sleepy half-joke, “i swear, i sleep better tucked against your stomach than anywhere else,”. the room would grow quiet except for the soft rhythm of his breathing and the comforting brush of your fingers through his hair. sometimes, you’d peek down at his peaceful face and smile, knowing these naps weren’t just about rest—they were a way he felt close, safe, and home. and when you finally did try to move, he’d clutch you tighter, muttering sleepy protests that made your heart ache with affection. those “study sessions” weren’t about cramming facts or acing tests, they were about finding solace in each other, stealing moments of peace in a world that often felt too loud.

── .✦ refused to kiss you on the mouth before games (a silly superstition)

joe was weirdly serious about his superstitions, one sock inside out, the caramel apple sucker situation, and especially the one where he claimed full mouth kisses would curse his throwing arm. so before every kickoff, he’d press a soft kiss to your cheek, tap his helmet gently to your forehead, and whisper “see you after,”. what he didn’t warn you about was the way he’d make up for it later. sweat-slick and flushed, adrenaline still coursing through his veins as he found you in the parking lot or the stands after everyone left, grabbing your waist with greedy hands and kissing you so hard your knees buckled. he always cradled your face like it was something fragile, thumb sweeping your cheekbone while he growled against your lips, voice ragged and low, “waited all damn day for this shit,”. postgame kisses were everything he’d held back, poured out in full. the reward, the release, the ritual he’d never skip.

── .✦ he kept every love note you wrote him in a shoebox under his bed

you always assumed joe tossed your silly little love notes once they’d made him smile. those hurried post-it scraps stuck inside his locker, the crumpled dining hall napkins with quick messages like “good luck, baby,” or “proud of you my love,”. you thought they were just sweet, fleeting tokens, small reminders that brightened his day before being casually discarded. but one afternoon, while helping him clean his bedroom, you stumbled upon something unexpected, a worn, slightly battered nike box tucked away behind a pile of laundry under his bed. curious, you pulled it out and opened the lid, your breath catching as you saw what was inside.

dozens of your notes filled the box—each one carefully folded, edges softened and smoothed from countless readings. some were scribbled on torn scraps of paper, others on napkins stained faintly with spilled coffee or your lip gloss, the subtle smudges still visible where your lips had pressed. it was a private collection, a secret treasure trove of your words that joe had kept close to his heart. when he caught you holding the box, his face flushed a warm, honest shade of red, and a shy smile tugged at his lips as he admitted, “those are my lucky charms. rereading them before games, especially on nights when i can’t fall asleep without you, it helps calm my nerves, reminds me why i keep pushing,”. the quiet vulnerability in his voice made your chest tighten, realizing that these simple notes were more than words. they were a lifeline, a quiet source of strength when the pressure felt overwhelming for him.

── .✦ knocks twice before slipping into your dorm at 2am like it’s a secret mission

joe always approaches like he’s on a confidential mission, knocking softly twice before slipping into your dorm at 2 a.m., like he’s stealing moments no one else is allowed to see. he moves with a quiet confidence, sweatpants slung low enough to threaten a slow slide off his hips, a hoodie pulled up just enough to cast shadows over his damp curls, eyes half-lidded and glowing with the sticky warmth of those late baton rouge nights. his footsteps barely make a sound on the worn carpet as he eases the door shut behind him, the subtle click of the lock echoing like a whispered promise. then, turning toward you, he wears that sleepy-soft smile—the one that makes your heart skip and your knees weaken in equal measure.

with one big hand, roughened from practice but tender in the moment, he cups your jaw, tilting your face up just enough to meet his gaze. his voice drops to a hoarse whisper, the kind of tone reserved only for the darkest hours and closest confessions, “couldn’t sleep without you, baby,” the words hang in the air, heavy and true, like something he’s been holding back all day, too shy to say in the sunlight but impossible to keep inside now. in that quiet, stolen moment, the world falls away, and it’s just you two, bound by whispered truths and the soft rhythm of a love that’s as deep as the night itself.

── .✦ he cannot keep his hands to himself

his self‑control completely evaporates the moment the lock clicks. one hand braces against the wood behind your head while the other roams under your oversized t‑shirt, fingertips tracing the line of your spine until you shiver. he noses along your jaw, breathing ragged as he mutters how soft you feel, how good you smell, every syllable warm and damp against your skin. his palms are greedy as they slide up your thighs and around to grip your ass, tugging you flush against the hard shape of him as he whispers, “been thinking about you all day, couldn’t focus in meetings ‘cause i knew i’d have you like this tonight,”.

── .✦ he's awful at keeping quiet during sex

you’re constantly covering his mouth, fingers slipping between his lips or pressing firm over them, because joe is so fucking bad at staying quiet. especially when he’s buried deep inside you, all flushed and frantic, eyes blown wide with need. every sound he makes is desperate, obscene—low groans that vibrate against your palm, ragged moans punched out of him every time you clench around him just right. he loses it when you tug his curls or rake your nails down his back, hips bucking like he can’t stop himself, breath catching in his throat as he gasps your name like a curse. in your suite, walls thin and roommate far too close for comfort, he tries to hold it together, biting into your shoulder, voice muffled as he pants hot against your skin, “fuck, baby,” like you’re unraveling him from the inside out. and when you grind just a little deeper, a little rougher, his restraint shatters, he starts whispering broken things against your collarbone, “please...don’t stop...so good, fuck, please,” like he’s not even aware he’s saying it, every word dripping with raw, needy heat that makes it impossible not to give him exactly what he wants.

── .✦ obsessed with you sitting in his lap on your tiny full sized bed

there’s nothing in the world he loves more than pulling you into his lap, thighs spread wide on that cramped full mattress, knees hanging off the edge, your legs bracketing his hips. he’ll nudge his nose along yours, coaxing you to settle on top of him, big hands sliding up the backs of your thighs as he hums “there you go, pretty girl,” once you’re seated, he presses up into you slowly, deliberately, his fingers digging into your hips as he guides you in lazy little rolls. he loves when you brace your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself, his breath coming harsher, hotter, the deeper your hips dip, and murmurs how “sweet” you feel when you clench around him.

── .✦ draws patterns on your bare thigh while teasing

he takes his time, that lazy, confident joe burrow smirk curling his lips as he leans close but doesn’t quite touch, letting the tension build. his thumb moves in slow circles along your bare inner thigh, each gentle stroke sending little electric jolts straight through your skin. his eyes darken as he whispers, “that’s what you want?” with a voice soft and laced with promise, like he already knows the answer but loves making you beg for it anyway. the way his breath fans against your ear, warm and steady, contrasts sharply with the teasing, delicate touch of his fingers, drawing out your every shiver and soft gasp until you’re shaking beneath him. underneath it all, you can feel the solid, unmistakable proof of him pressed against you, a slow burn ready to ignite.

── .✦ secretly melts when you tug on his waistband

there’s something so effortless, so fucking lethal, about the way your fingers slide beneath the hem of his shirt, teasing just enough to make his muscles twitch beneath your touch. your nails trail over the firm ridges of his abs, featherlight but full of intent, and it knocks the air right out of him. his breath hitches, body going rigid for a split second before it melts, like your touch just short-circuits everything in him.

then comes the waistband, the slow, sinful drag of your fingers against his skin, right where his sweatpants hang low on his hips. you hook your thumbs there and tug, just a little, and he loses it. lips parting, jaw going slack, he exhales a soft, broken “fuck...god,” like the word itself is fragile in his throat.

his head tilts back ever so slightly, lashes fluttering, like he’s offering himself up without realizing it, completely undone by such a small, filthy little gesture. there’s awe in his eyes when he looks down at you, like he can’t believe how easy it is for you to ruin him. like your hands are the only ones that have ever touched him like this—teasing, confident, yours. and the worst part? he loves it. the way his stomach clenches when you pull again. the way his cock twitches in anticipation. every subtle tug makes him feel worshiped and wrecked, dizzy with need and helpless to anything else you might want from him.

── .✦ always insists on pulling his your hoodie back on you after sex

after every heated moment, every desperate gasp and lingering kiss, joe’s instinct is tenderness. when you’re both sticky with sweat, completely spent and dazed, and your breathing still uneven, he’ll carefully tug that oversized hoodie back over your shoulders, the fabric soft and familiar. his fingers brush the hair out of your face, and then he presses two gentle kisses to your forehead, murmuring, “wanna keep you warm,”. it’s such a simple gesture, but it holds all the weight of how much he wants to protect you, like you just rocked his entire world against the cramped dorm room walls and now he wants nothing more than to hold you close and keep you safe from everything else.

── .✦ falls asleep with his hand on your stomach and leg thrown over yours

even after the heat fades and the world quiets down, joe is still the biggest, gentlest presence beside you. wrapped around you like a warm shield, his large hand rests softly on your stomach as his leg drapes over yours, anchoring you together in a cocoon of closeness. his breath slows, lips still swollen and tinged pink from kisses, hair tousled in that charming, messy way. soft snores hum against your skin as he drifts off to sleep, utterly content and utterly yours by 3 a.m.

── .✦ he's grade A munch.

joe eats you out like it’s his life’s purpose. like your body is the only thing that makes sense in a world full of chaos. he doesn’t just go down on you, he sinks into you. slow, steady, with the kind of focus that makes your head spin. he starts by spreading you open, fingertips tracing along the softest parts of your thighs, his breath hot and heavy as he looks up through his lashes with that lazy, cocky grin—the one that says he already knows he’s about to ruin you.

his mouth meets you with soft, lingering kisses first. wet, warm, slow drags of his tongue that make your hips jerk and your breath catch. he’s not in any rush. he takes his time, learning and relearning you every time, tasting you like you’re honey on his tongue. when he licks a slow stripe up your center and his nose presses right up against your clit...fuck...your whole body arches. and he doesn’t move. he stays there, mouth wide and tongue deep inside you, nose grinding firm little circles right where you need him most, nudging and rubbing as his fingers dig into your thighs to keep you spread and still. and it’s so much. the pressure of his nose, the way he groans into you when you whimper, like the sound goes straight to his dick.

every moan from him sends heat flooding through you. he doesn’t just make you come, he drags it out of you, with his face soaked, mouth messy, eyes glassy with lust. and as you start to come undone, his hands move up—slow, sure palms gliding over your stomach, then higher, until he’s cupping your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples like he’s trying to make you fall apart in every way at once. sometimes he squeezes just hard enough to make your back arch, your chest pushed into his hands while his mouth works you over, and it feels so fucking overwhelming. you’re being touched everywhere, devoured everywhere, and it’s him, it’s always him.

and he loves it. he lives for the way you shake beneath him, for the way your thighs clamp around his head when he hits that spot just right. he lets you ride his tongue, nose still pressed tight against your clit, chin slick, fingers tugging gently at your nipples as you come apart. and he doesn’t stop. if anything, he gets more desperate. tongue flicking faster, nose rubbing harder, hands holding you down while you sob out his name like a prayer. he wants it all, every gasp, every cry, every twitch. and he wants to be the only one who gets to see you like this. wild, wrecked, and his. when you finally collapse back into the sheets, breathless and dazed, he pulls back just enough to look at you. his lips are shiny, chin drenched, eyes dark and blissed-out as he runs his palms soothingly over your thighs, your hips, your stomach. he presses a slow, wet kiss to your lower belly and mutters something like, “you’re so fuckin’ perfect. can’t get enough of you. never will,”.

and the worst part? he means every word.

── .✦ your makeouts always start slow, full of teasing touches

joe never rushes that first kiss. it’s a slow, delicious tease that sets your insides humming like a secret song. his fingers thread gently around your waist, pulling you close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, but he holds just enough distance to let the anticipation simmer between you. his thumbs drift over your cheekbones with a delicate, almost reverent touch, warm and soft like a whispered promise, as if he’s tracing the shape of you for the first time and wants to savor every detail.

his eyes lock on your lips with a mix of longing and restraint, like he’s holding back a tidal wave just to savor this moment with you. when his mouth finally grazes yours, it’s feather-light and searching, like a question, a gentle exploration of what it means to finally be this close.

then that small, knowing smile curls on his lips just before his kiss deepens, sending sparks crackling through your chest, stirring every nerve ending awake. his breath mingles with yours, slow and warm and utterly intoxicating, as if the rest of the world has melted away. one hand slips down your back, fingers pressing into your hip with a fierce, tender possessiveness that makes your heart flutter wild and free. every soft flick of his tongue, every feathered brush of his lips is a silent vow, an unraveling that leaves you dizzy, breathless, and craving more—even in the gentlest moments.

── .✦ flirty banter between heated kisses

between kisses, joe’s playful confidence flares like a match struck in the dark. hot, quick, impossible to ignore. when you pull back just enough to breathe, your lips swollen and your chest heaving, he grins like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. that cocky, half-lidded glint lights up his eyes, his fingers already sliding down the curve of your spine like he owns it. “you’re dangerous, you know that?” he murmurs, voice rough and low, like gravel wrapped in silk. you smirk, fingers brushing along the sharp edge of his jaw, your thumb dragging across his mouth like a dare. “oh, please. you’re the one who can’t keep his hands off me,”.

his laugh rumbles deep in his chest, a sound that vibrates against your skin, and before you can get another word out, he’s kissing you again, harder this time, like he needs to shut you up with his mouth. his lips crush against yours, all heat and hunger, his tongue sliding in with a groan as his hand fists in your hair, pulling just enough to make your toes curl. he doesn’t stay still. he kisses you like he’s starving for every inch, trailing his mouth along your jaw, down your neck, biting lightly before soothing the spot with his tongue. “talk too much,” he mumbles against your throat, lips brushing your racing pulse. “but fuck, i love hearing you,”.

you breathe out a laugh, but it turns to a moan when he sucks a mark into your skin, his teeth scraping just enough to make you melt. every kiss becomes part of the game—the way you tug at his shirt, the way he presses you harder into the wall or the mattress or anywhere, the way your bodies move like you’ve done this a hundred times and still can’t get enough. teasing becomes tension, every flirty remark sharpened by the fire building between you. and still, between every breathless kiss, every wicked grin, joe keeps pulling you closer like he can’t stand the thought of space between your bodies. like the only place he wants you is right there, tangled up in him, lips swollen, voice wrecked, utterly his.

── .✦ sex with him is a mix of fiery passion and tender connection

sex with joe is a fever dream, a raw, all-consuming fire that leaves you breathless and aching, like he’s trying to crawl inside your very soul with every desperate thrust. he starts slow, almost, lips ghosting over your skin like he’s tasting something sacred. those first kisses are gentle and worshipful, savoring every inch of you, every shiver beneath his touch. but that tenderness doesn’t last. soon it’s swallowed whole by a fierce hunger that rips through the quiet, turning kisses into something filthy and possessive. his mouth claims yours with teeth and tongue, quiet growls vibrating against your lips, desperate and demanding, marking you like his.

his hands are rough, gripping your hips like he never wants to let go, fingers trailing up to cup your breasts with a touch that’s desperate and tender all at once. his thumbs tease your nipples, drawing out sharp gasps and soft cries, fanning the flames burning between you. when he finally slides inside, it’s like a dam breaks—his rhythm brutal and relentless, pounding deep into your core, cock hitting every perfect spot with precise, bruising force. you can feel the unmistakable imprint of him, wide and thick, filling you so completely you swear you’ll remember it forever. his breath hitches, hot and ragged against your neck, voice a rough whisper tangled with praise and lust, “mine. you’re so fucking perfect. so tight around me. fuck, i can’t get enough,”.

his moans spill out uncontrollably, raw and guttural, mixing with your own helpless cries as his hips slam into yours with punishing power. he watches your face like he’s memorizing it, the way your eyes flutter with every drag of his cock, the way your mouth parts in desperate gasps, every little tremble and whimper carving itself into him. and when you unravel beneath him, back arching, nails digging into his skin, he’s right there, forehead pressed against yours, breathing you in as his hips stutter and shudder, spilling into you with a guttural groan—his voice raw, trembling, utterly undone by you and the way you make him lose control. when it’s over, he doesn’t let go, he kisses your shoulder, your cheek, your jaw, whispers “i love you,” into your hair, arms still tight around your waist like letting go would break him completely. the air stays dense with heat and the scent of sex, bodies tangled, skin slick, hearts pounding in sync—and in that breathless, boneless quiet, there’s no doubt left, you aren’t just his obsession. you’re his fucking religion, and it's in your lips, in your touch, in every part of you that you let him have.

── .✦ late night talks about everything and nothing 

sometimes, long after your dorm suite has fallen silent and the only light comes from your laptop screen or joe’s flickering phone, you two lie awake and talk for hours—about everything and nothing. joe’s naturally into the nerdier stuff you bring up, he listens wide-eyed when you get excited, explaining your latest favorite science fact or a weird historical tidbit, and he loves when you quiz him on random trivia like the physics of throwing spirals or the probability of certain plays succeeding. sometimes the conversation spirals into playful debates about whether he’d survive a fantasy world or which superpower would actually be the most practical on the field. those silly, random “what if” questions have you both laughing so hard your sides ache, but beneath the jokes is this quiet, special space where you can be completely yourselves. joe traces slow, lazy patterns on your arm as you talk, his voice soft and steady, and in those moments, no matter the chaos of football, classes, or expectation, you both feel this deep certainty that you’re facing everything together, as a team.

── .✦ the way he’s totally different around his teammates versus just with you

on the field and in the locker room, joe carries himself like the star quarterback he is, focused, razor-sharp, and with a teasing confidence that’s borderline cocky. he’s all quick jokes, friendly trash talk, and that subtle leadership vibe that pulls the team together. but the moment he’s alone with you, it’s like a switch flips. his shoulders drop, the tension in his jaw melts away, and the sharp edge of his voice softens into something especially reserved for you, as if he’s finally letting himself breathe, and it can only happen when you're in his space. you catch him smiling differently, less showman, more sincere, when he thinks you’re not looking. his eyes lock onto you with a quiet kind of intensity, full of warmth and a tenderness he doesn’t share with anyone else. in those moments, he’s not just the golden boy quarterback; he’s the guy who’s utterly and completely yours, and he savors every second of that. whether it’s a late-night walk across campus under the streetlights or sitting close in the corner of a nearly empty diner, he talks slower, listens harder, and laughs softer, like you’re the only person in the world who really matters.

── .✦ he’s the guy who memorizes your schedule so he can surprise you

joe isn’t just laser-focused on football and the roar of tiger stadium on saturday afternoons, he’s quietly tuned into the rhythm of your life at LSU. he notices how you carry your textbooks across campus from cedar hall to the business building, how you sometimes linger a little too long in the union bookstore browsing when exams are coming up, or the way you always grab a coffee from CC's before your morning classes. one random wednesday, without a word, joe shows up just as your history professor calls roll in himes hall, balancing a hot cup of your favorite caramel latte and a bag of fresh beignets, the kind you always sneak for midnight snacks during finals week. his grin is that unmistakable mix of pride and mischief, like he just threw the perfect touchdown pass, and when he hands you the treats, his voice drops to that soft, teasing tone, “thought you could use a little extra fuel before that paper, i'll see you later tonight,”. it’s never loud or showy; it’s the kind of quiet devotion that fills the spaces between classes, the kind that makes you feel like, even in the chaos of college football and academics, he’s your constant, your biggest fan, your secret weapon. and if you ever catch him slipping a little sticky note with a dumb joke or a “you got this, tiger,” tucked inside your notebook? well, that’s just joe making sure you never forget how much he believes in you.

── .✦ sassy man apocalypse.

lowkey sassy LSU joe is so fun because it’s not loud or performative. it’s quiet, bone-dry, perfectly timed, and exclusively for you.

like picture this, you’re both at a crowded party, music thumping, sun blazing, and some overly confident frat guy starts making conversation with you while joe’s grabbing drinks. joe returns, tosses you a water, and without missing a beat, eyes the guy and mutters just loud enough, “she’s got a type, huh?” he doesn’t even wait for a response—just hooks his fingers through your belt loop, pulls you back into him with a subtle little smirk. not jealous, just cheeky. that deadpan sass that makes your stomach flutter.

or when your roommate launches into another one of her wild conspiracy theories, “i’m telling you, the moon landing was staged”, and you and joe exchange that look. he leans in, raspy voice brushing your ear like a secret, “you really let her shape your worldview like that?” then acts totally normal the second she glances your way. but later, in bed, he’ll bring it up again, all warm and sleepy, teasing, “babe, you ever think about how you almost believed the moon’s made of cheese?”.

it’s that special brand of sarcasm that never feels mean. it’s just…joe. sharp. knowing. flirty in its own right. and it always makes you feel like you’re on the inside of some delicious, private joke, just the two of you against the world. like even when he’s roasting you, he’s doing it with stars in his eyes. it’s his love language, in a way. that teasing bite, that perfectly timed quip, it’s how he shows he’s paying attention. how he keeps you laughing. how he reminds you, without saying it, that he sees you. every bit of you

── .✦ he’s such a little shit, and you love it (more sassy man apocalypse)

it starts with the way he leans against the doorframe of your dorm room like he owns the place. he’s in a worn geuax tigers hoodie and grey sweats that hang low on his hips, arms crossed over his broad chest, one ankle kicked lazily over the other. his hair is still damp from practice, a curl falling boyishly across his forehead, and his grin is all slow mischief. his gaze drags down your body and back up with zero shame, taking his sweet time before finally drawling, “that’s what you’re wearing?” he clicks his tongue, feigning disbelief, like the sight of you knocked the air out of him.“didn’t realize i had competition tonight,”.

you scoff, turning away so he doesn’t see how fast your cheeks heat up. “you wish,” you toss over your shoulder, brushing past him, pretending not to be flustered. but you can feel the weight of his eyes on you, feel the way his smile grows, smug and knowing.

he follows without hesitation, long strides catching up before you make it three steps. he’s at your back in a flash, chest to your spine, the heat of him unmistakable. his breath ghosts over your ear as he dips his head, voice low and dripping with that cocky drawl. “you know no one else can handle you like i do,” he murmurs, and it’s infuriating how right he is. how your stomach tightens, how your knees weaken, just from his tone alone. you swear he smirks against your skin when he feels your breath hitch.

you push at his chest, trying to bite back your laugh, but he catches your wrist with ease, pulling you into him like it’s nothing. his grin turns damn near electric, soft around the edges but still laced with challenge. his nose bumps yours as he leans in, lips hovering, teasing.“you gonna keep talkin’ or are you gonna kiss me?” his voice is low and dangerous now, a velvet rasp threaded with heat and arrogance, like smoke curling off embers. it crackles in the quiet, makes your skin tingle and your stomach flip, something about the way it slides over your name like a promise and a threat all at once. when you finally give in, fingers in his curls, mouths crashing like you’ve both been waiting all day for it, he groans into the kiss, deep and satisfied. and then, just as you're catching your breath, he pulls back with a maddening smirk, “told you so,”.

he’s insufferable. but he’s yours.

── .✦ joe’s terrible but lovable attempts at cooking

joe insists he’s a natural in the kitchen, but every time he tries to whip up something for you, usually during those late-night study breaks when you both desperately need fuel, it turns into an adorable mess. like the time he confidently flipped pancakes only for them to burn on one side and stick stubbornly to the pan on the other, leaving you both staring at a half-charred, half-stuck disaster while he scratches his head and grins sheepishly. or the mornings he tried to make scrambled eggs but somehow managed to scramble them into the pan, leaving a sticky, burned layer that no amount of scrubbing could fix. the grandest catastrophe was when he ambitiously attempted gumbo, one of your favorite dishes, and forgot to add the seasoning, so the whole pot ended up bland and sad, much to your amusement. through every kitchen fail, joe’s midwestern charm shines bright, he flashes that crooked grin, shrugs like it’s no big deal, and promises to make it up to you next time, usually by ordering takeout. but honestly, those messy, laughter-filled moments where you’re elbow-deep in flour or scrubbing pans together are some of your favorites. they’re a messy, imperfect kind of love, full of warmth, teasing, and joe’s determined effort to take care of you, even if he can’t quite get the cooking part right.

── .✦ he loves to bite

sometimes joe tries to bite you, and it’s the most ridiculous form of affection you’ll ever get. it’s never serious or rough, more like playful little nips meant to tease and claim, but it catches you off guard every single time. maybe you’re laughing at something dumb he said, and suddenly his mouth closes just a little too close to your neck or your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin with a light pressure that makes you jerk and laugh all at once. his eyes sparkle with mischief, that half-smile tugging at his lips as he mumbles a barely-there apology mixed with a tease, “can’t help myself, you’re just too damn cute,”.

sometimes it’s during lazy afternoons when you’re sprawled on the couch, and he leans over, fingers tangled in your hair, then gently bites your earlobe like it’s the funniest thing he’s done all day. it’s awkward and sweet and completely joe, an odd little sign that when words aren’t enough, he’ll let his teeth do the talking, all while grinning like he just got away with the best joke ever.

── .✦ the way joe looks at you when you laugh at his dumb jokes

when you laugh at one of joe’s dumb jokes, sometimes so bad they’re almost painful, there’s this moment where the whole world seems to narrow down to just you two. he watches you like you’re the only person in the room, eyes locking onto yours with a softness that almost makes you forget the noise around you. his gaze isn’t just warm, it’s magnetic. like a quiet pull that draws you closer even when you’re already near. there’s a teasing sparkle in his eyes, mischievous but tender, like he’s silently daring you to laugh even louder. you can feel the heat radiating from him, subtle but undeniable, as he leans in just a fraction—enough to catch your breath, to catch the space between your heartbeats. his voice drops a little, deeper and rougher, when he murmurs, “i like hearing that,” the words barely more than a breath, but charged with a kind of electricity that makes your chest tighten and your stomach flutter. as he brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear with that careful, gentle touch, your pulse speeds up, and you swear your heart does a little flip, like a secret only he’s allowed to know. it’s simple, almost effortless, but the way he looks at you in that second tells you everything: that to him, you’re the whole world, and nothing else quite matters.

── .✦ he listens when you ramble

you’re sprawled out on the faded couch in his apartment, clutching a lukewarm cup of coffee that’s long since lost its bite, your voice spilling out about that brutal 8 a.m. lecture—the one where the professor drones on like the roaring crowd at tiger stadium, and your brain’s stuck in slow motion, caffeine barely nudging you awake. joe’s sitting beside you, eyes fixed on you with that slow, tender kind of intensity that makes your heart stumble in your chest, like the moment the tigers score in the last seconds of the game.

he’s not just hearing your words, he’s soaking them in, the frustrated sighs, the small laughs you can’t hold back, the way your fingers nervously twist the edge of your sweatshirt. his gaze is soft but fierce, warm like the golden sun streaming through the window, the kind of look that makes you feel wrapped in a blanket even when you’re exhausted and overwhelmed.

his lips curve into that familiar half-smile, the one that’s equal parts teasing and full of affection, and he leans in a little closer—just enough that you can feel the heat of his breath against your cheek, as if he’s trying to catch every syllable between your words. when you stumble over a detail or laugh at how wiped you are, his hand moves without thinking, brushing a stray piece of hair back behind your ear. his touch is so achingly gentle, and it sends a shiver racing down your spine, like the first cool breeze after a long hot summer day in baton rouge.

and then there’s the way he looks at you, eyes gleaming with adoration, a quiet hunger buried deep beneath his calm exterior. it makes your stomach flutter wildly, like you just caught the perfect pass in front of a screaming stadium crowd. before you even realize it, his low, husky voice cuts through your ramble, warm and steady like a slow southern drawl, “i don’t care about the professor’s annoying ex-wife. i just wanna know about you,”.

and in that moment, with the smell of old textbooks and coffee lingering around you, all the early mornings, the long lectures, the exhaustion—none of it matters. because he’s here. he’s listening. and that’s everything.

── .✦ marvel or dc movie nights where you both nerd out

joe’s always been a little surprised by how much you actually love his nerdy side, and how much you tend to nerd out with him. so naturally, movie nights centered around marvel or dc films are his absolute favorite way to unwind with you.

you two set up your dorm or his room like a mini theater—blankets piled high, pillows scattered everywhere, and a big bowl of popcorn that somehow turns into a battlefield for who gets the last handful. joe’s not picky when it comes to snacks; he’ll happily munch on whatever junk food you pick out (as long as it's balanced out with something healthy to abide by his diet) even if it’s questionable candy or chips you swear are just too salty. picking the movie? that’s where the real fun begins.

he teases you relentlessly when you argue over which universe has the better heroes or who would win in a fight—tony stark or bruce wayne. sometimes he pulls out his phone to fact-check your claims or show you fan theories he’s found, which only makes the debates livelier. between scenes, he’ll nudge you and whisper jokes, or mimic the characters’ iconic lines in his goofy southern drawl, making you burst into laughter every time. and during the emotional or epic moments, he pulls you closer, fingers threading through yours like he never wants these nights to end. it’s a perfect blend of nerdy passion, playful banter, and quiet intimacy. just the two of you, fully yourselves, wrapped up in the glow of the screen and each other.

── .✦ he always insists on a specific post-practice snack from the union

after draining, sweat-soaked practices under the relentless louisiana sun, joe’s mind zeroes in on one simple pleasure. a spicy chicken po’boy from the union’s little sandwich shop. the smell of toasted french bread and that fiery, tangy sauce has become his personal reward, and he drags you along with a grin that’s both teasing and sincere. you tease him about his sauce obsession, but watching him take that first bite, eyes closing briefly as the spice hits just right, makes you understand it’s more than food. it’s comfort, routine, and a small moment of joy after the grind. the two of you sit side by side on a worn bench outside, sharing fries and stories from the day, the afternoon sun warm on your skin as the campus buzz hums around you.

── .✦ joe has a collection of old game tickets and wristbands, and lets you keep them

joe’s sentimental side isn’t always obvious, but he keeps a hidden stash of game-day mementos tucked away. faded tickets with frayed edges, wristbands stiff from sweat, even a worn bowl game hat he only brings out on special occasions. when you started dating, he surprised you with a small pile of these tokens, pushing them across the table with that easy smile and a quiet, “now you’re part of this too,”. you tuck them carefully into your own keepsake box, scraps of memories that tell the story of his journey, the team’s highs and lows, and the moments you’ve shared along the way. every time you glance at them, you feel connected to something bigger, to him, and to the history you’re helping build together.

── .✦ he knows every shortcut across campus and loves showing you hidden spots

joe’s campus knowledge runs deep even though he spends minimal time actually there. he knows every shortcut, quiet quad, and secret bench that’s perfect for stolen moments away from the chaos. when you’re together, he’ll grab your hand mid-walk, tugging you down a narrow path shaded by ancient oaks dripping with spanish moss. the air smells of damp earth and blooming magnolias, and the late afternoon sun filters gold through the leaves. he’ll lead you to a little-known bench tucked behind hergert hall, where you can watch the sun dip below the treetops, the campus stretching out in peaceful silence. those small adventures are like secret escapes—places just for you two to breathe, laugh, and feel completely wrapped up in each other away from the spotlight.

── .✦ nerdy tangents

joe loves going on these random, nerdy tangents, and one of his favorites, totally out of nowhere, is about how fishes can’t drown. like, you could be sitting out on the patio of his apartment, just chilling after practice, when he suddenly gets this gleam in his eye and starts explaining, all serious and earnest, how fish breathe underwater by pulling oxygen from water through their gills, so drowning is literally impossible for them. he’ll get all animated, waving his hands around, maybe even doing some half-baked fish impression, and you’ll just watch, amused and completely charmed by how passionately he dives into these weird facts. then he pauses, looking at you like he’s just dropped some life-changing knowledge, and adds, “so basically, fish are the ultimate survivors..kind of like me, but less handsome,” and you can’t help but laugh, because that’s joe in a nutshell. equal parts goofy science nerd and cocky quarterback, and completely, utterly yours.

── .✦ stubble and silence

he lets you shave his beard in the quietest, most intimate kind of way, like it’s a ritual only meant for the two of you. he sits on the closed toilet lid in front of the sink in just a pair of gray sweats, towel draped over his shoulders, legs spread wide, arms relaxed at his sides while you stand between his knees with a warm towel and that little purple razor you always use on him. his eyes never leave your face. he watches you with that glazed-over eye, lovestruck look, like he’s letting you touch a part of him no one else ever gets.

the bathroom is foggy with steam and silence, broken only by the quiet scrape of the blade and the occasional brush of your fingers under his jaw. every time your touch lingers just a second too long, his lips curl at the corners, and he teases you in a low voice, “you’re really taking your time, huh? liking the view?”, but he doesn’t move. not even when you straddle one of his thighs for better access, or when your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth to steady him. he’s still, trusting, his skin warm and damp beneath your fingers. and when you finally finish, wiping away the last bits of shaving cream with a soft towel, he grins and pulls you into his lap like he’s waited the whole time just to kiss you smooth-faced. “how’s it feel?” you ask, running your hands along his jaw. “like i belong to you,” he says simply, mouth already on yours.

── .✦ he calls you during film study just to hear your voice.

he’s sitting in the back corner of the football facility, hoodie pulled up, headphones in, eyes fixed on the glowing screen where grainy footage of last week’s game loops endlessly—plays, mistakes, formations he’s already seen a hundred times. his pen taps absently against his notebook, and his jaw clenches tighter every time something doesn’t look right. he’s supposed to be focused. locked in. but his head feels crowded and his chest tight, like no amount of tape will make the noise go away. so he picks up his phone—thumb hovering for half a second—then calls you without thinking.

“tell me something good,” he says when you answer, his voice lower than usual, tired around the edges. “anything. what you ate for dinner. what song’s stuck in your head. what color your socks are. i don’t care...just talk to me,”.

you smile instantly, curling deeper beneath your blanket in your dorm bed, phone pressed to your cheek, your voice soft and easy as you start to ramble. you tell him how your professor went off-topic for twenty minutes, how you spilled iced coffee all over your notes, how you ran into that guy from welcome week who still can’t remember your name even though he tried to hookup with you. and as you talk, joe exhales slowly, shoulders dropping, pen forgotten beside him. he leans back in the chair, eyes fluttering shut for just a second, letting your voice wash over him like warm rain, familiar, grounding, the only thing cutting through the static in his head.

sometimes he doesn’t even respond, just lets you fill the silence while he watches the tape in the background, your words soft in one ear as game film plays in the other. and when you laugh—really laugh—he smiles for the first time all day. “you have no idea how much i needed this,” he says eventually, his voice quieter now, the tension in his chest finally loosening. “just hearing you...it’s like everything slows down,”. and in that small, quiet moment, between football and fatigue and the echo of your voice in his ear, it’s clear that no matter how much pressure he’s under, no matter what’s riding on the next game, you are his calm. his breath. the thing that brings him home, even when he’s still in the middle of it all.

── .✦ around his parents, he’s so soft with you it almost embarrasses you (in the best way)

it starts the second you walk through the door, his fingers loop gently through yours like muscle memory, and he doesn’t let go, not even when his mom pulls you into a hug or his dad claps a hand on his shoulder. you can feel the nervous energy rolling off him, not in a bad way, but like he wants so badly for this to go well, for you to feel at home here. and you do, especially when he’s like this. especially when he’s watching you with those gentle, love-sick eyes like you personally hung the stars.

he’s extra careful, pulling out your chair at dinner, sneaking glances to make sure you like what’s on your plate, rubbing small soothing circles into your knee under the table. when you let out a laugh at something his mom says about baby joe’s bowl cut phase, he doesn’t laugh with you, he watches you instead, eyes crinkling in that boyish way, mouth tugged up into the kind of smile that makes your whole chest ache. he’s younger around them. a little more playful, a little more easily flustered. teasing in that only-child-who-grew-up-too-fast kind of way. but the moment your fingers graze his or you rest your head on his shoulder in the middle of a movie, that softness blooms all over again—he’s leaning down to press a kiss to your temple like it’s instinct, like your skin is the place he always wants to land.

you catch his mom watching once. she doesn’t say anything right away, just smiles to herself like she knows a secret. later, while you’re drying dishes and joe’s outside tossing a football with his dad, she nudges your elbow and says quietly, “he’s different with you. softer,”. and the way your heart flutters in your chest. you feel it for days. and maybe the best part? he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. doesn’t know that the way he checks on you, makes your plate, or lets you borrow his favorite childhood batman blanket when you get cold, makes you feel like you belong, not just in his house, but in his life.

── .✦ joe never lets you carry your own bag when you're visiting his hometown

whether it’s a heavy duffle slung over your shoulder or just your tiny makeup bag clutched in your hands, joe is already reaching for it before you can even adjust the strap. it’s instinct now, part muscle memory, part soft ritual. the second your feet hit the tarmac in ohio or you’re climbing into his car for the long drive to athens, he’s there, palm skimming the small of your back, murmuring “i got it” with a quiet certainty that makes your stomach somersault.

he never makes a show of it, never boasts, never asks, just quietly insists on carrying it himself, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. and when you’re staying at his parents’ house? you barely get through the front door before your bags disappear entirely. one moment you’re greeting robin in the kitchen, and the next you’re being pulled down to the basement where his room is, only to find everything already unpacked, your clothes folded neatly in the dresser, your favorite robe hung on the back of his door against his faded kid cudi poster, your skincare laid out just the way you like it by the sink.

“baby,” you whisper, heart tight in your chest, “did you do all this already?”. he just shrugs, lifting your hand to kiss the inside of your wrist. “i want you to feel at home here,”.

because to joe, bringing you back means something. he wants his parents to see how well he loves you. he wants you to see the world that made him, to feel like you belong in it. when his mom asks what you want for breakfast, he’s already rattling off your coffee order and how you like your eggs. when his dad offers to set up a movie night, joe’s quietly tucking your favorite blanket over your legs before you can ask. he notices everything. remembers it all. because loving you, especially in the place that raised him, feels so special for him.

and watching him carry your bag like it’s nothing, like you’re everything, is just one of the many ways he shows it.

── .✦ stargazing on the levee

on quiet nights when the air is thick and humming with the heat of a humid afternoon, joe drives you out past campus, past the glow of tigerland and into the dark quiet of the levee. the truck bed’s been lined with old blankets he snagged from his apartment, worn cotton and faded fleece smelling faintly of his detergent and your shared life. he helps you climb in with a gentle hand on your waist, always guiding, always careful. you stretch out beside him, shoulder to shoulder, heat lingering between you as you both tilt your heads up to the stars.

his fingers find yours, thumb stroking lazily against your knuckle as he murmurs things in that silly, boyish voice—half science, half poetry. he tells you the names of constellations he remembers from grade school, points out the north star, then gets distracted watching your face instead. “you shine brighter than all of ‘em,” he mumbles with that crooked smirk, and you roll your eyes, but you’re blushing, and he’s grinning because he knows it worked. sometimes you fall asleep out there, tangled together under the stars, the sound of crickets and faraway trains the only thing keeping time.

── .✦ home.

when things got overwhelming for him, media, pressure, expectations, the mounting noise of being the guy on campus, he always found his way to you. even if you were all the way across campus in your dorm, even if it was the middle of the night, he'd send a simple, quiet text, “can i come over?” no punctuation, no small talk. and within minutes, he’d be there. hoodie on, hat pulled low over his messy hair, headphones around his neck, carrying all that weight in his shoulders.

you never asked questions when you opened the door. just stepped aside, let him in, and made space for him on the worn-out couch. it didn’t matter if you were in the middle of studying or halfway through folding laundry—you'd drop it all to pull him in (knowing he'd do the same for you), tangle your legs, and let him bury his face in the crook of your neck. his breaths always came a little slower there, a little deeper, like you were the only place he could exhale. sometimes he didn’t say much, just hummed a soft “hey” against your skin, or wrapped his arms around you tighter when you reached for the blanket.

and every time, without fail, after a while, after your fingers slid gently through his curls, after the silence worked its magic, he’d whisper, “i’m okay now,”. just like that. like you'd patched up whatever the world had scraped raw.

he might’ve been the guy out there, bright lights, cameras, expectations heavy enough to crush most people, but with you, he never had to perform. never had to prove anything or be anything other than yours.

long before the trophies, before the draft buzz, before the fans started painting his number on their cheeks...he already knew what mattered.

you.

you were his place to land. his calm. the one thing he didn’t have to chase or win or deserve. you were just his. his home, always had been.

always would be.

As unprofessional as it is, you’ve grown a little crush on the British driver in the time you’ve been with McLaren. How could you not have? 

Lando is kind and very down to earth, not to mention extremely talented at what he does. To say he’s charismatic is stretching it a bit, but his personality exudes comfort—the kind of comfort you’d felt even the first time you’d met him. Like the sun’s rays finally shining through the clouds after a rainy day. 

As part of the physiotherapy team, you’ve worked with him quite often, always on hand when he needs anything both at MTC and trackside during race weekends. He’s always been a little extra nice when you’re the one working on him, asks about your life away from work and actually listens when you talk. You just attribute it to his likeable nature, because if you let yourself think too deeply into the way he is around you, you’d never be able to get anything done. 

“What’s the worst that could happen?” 

You scowl. “Let’s not talk about this now. C’mon, we gotta load all the equipment into the trucks.” 

All of a sudden, a ruckus just outside the room gains both your focus. Someone’s shouting something about medical attention, which snaps you both to attention because, well, that’s your forte. The door swings open to reveal none other than the two people you’ve just been talking about. 

A worried looking Jon ushers Lando, who’s got both hands clutching at his upper face, into the small area. 

“Whoa, what happened?” You gasp, hurrying to pull out a chair for Lando to sit on. 

Jon rakes a hand back through his dark hair, pushing his glasses up on his nose with a grimace. “Incident with a photographer out in the pit lane. Would you mind checking him out?” You nod quickly, and he claps Lando on the shoulder. “Mate, you gotta show the doc.” 

When Lando just shakes his head no, the older man looks at you and your coworker helplessly. 

“Lando, she needs to take a look at your face. She can’t do that if you won’t show her,” He says slowly. Cautiously. Again, Lando shakes his head, this time more vigorously than the first. 

You lay a hand on his shoulder gently, crouching down to his eye level. “Hey, I gotta make sure you’re not hurt badly, yeah? If you’re in pain, I can help you, but only if you let me.” 

“Why don’t we give them some privacy?” Your coworker suggests, aiming her question towards Jon. It takes a few seconds, but he eventually gives in, tells Lando he’ll be right outside if he needs him, before heading for the exit. 

The door clicks shut behind them, leaving just the two of you. Lando hasn’t moved or said a word yet, and it’s starting to make you a little nervous.

“Lando, it’s me. Just me, no one else. Can you let me help you?” 

“It’s so embarrassing,” He groans finally, broad shoulders hunching in on themselves.

“You once came to me because you pulled your hamstring trying to do the full splits on a dare. I think we’re past embarrassing at this point, no?” 

“Don’t remind me about that, please,” Lando mutters, chin dropping towards his chest. You take the cap off his head and set it aside to get a better look, but he’s still got his hands over his face. “I was trying to get up on the fence to, y’know, say hi to some of the fans, show them the trophy. And then someone in front of me fell into me and the next thing I know the pointy bit on the top jabs me right in the face.”

He gestures a haphazard hand towards the golden trophy sitting on the counter, all sharp edges and protruding details that glint in the light. It’s beautiful, you think, but dangerous. 

Kind of like Lando. 

“Not your eye, right?” You press. It is very—no, extremely—important that he hasn’t been stabbed in the eye. 

“No, no, not the eye. My nose.” 

“You and injuring your nose seems to be a common theme, doesn’t it?” 

“Ha ha, very funny,” He deadpans, lifting his head to level you with an unimpressed stare through his fingers. You smile, and his shoulders lose a bit of their tension. The sign that he’ll let you touch him now is subtle, but you know him. 

“Let’s see what we’ve got here, shall we?” You hum, prying his hands away from his face gently. Upon first inspection, it looks pretty bad. A sizable looking gash sits right between his eyebrows, a rivulet of blood running down his nose, smeared onto his cheek from where he’d probably rubbed at it. 

In your experience, the sight of blood tends to make an injury look a lot worse than it actually is, and you suspect this is the case with Lando. 

“Is it bad?” He asks breathlessly, eyes squeezed shut. His chest rises and falls erratically, which tells you he’s nervous about the diagnosis. Or worried his handsome face will be scarred for life, you can’t tell. 

Even with blood streaking his golden skin and a face injury, Lando is still unfairly attractive. You don’t mean to stare at him outright like this, but you can’t help it. Long, thick lashes kiss his cheekbones, curls still damp with the sweet smelling tang of champagne hanging over his forehead artfully messy, pink lips pressed into a slight pout. 

You use your thumb to turn his head to one side, then the other, before stepping back and sighing loudly. If you spend any longer looking at him, you’d feel like a creep. “Terrible. We might have to cut the whole nose off.” 

“What?” He yelps. His eyes spring open, wide and disbelieving until he catches you giggling into the back of your hand. “Oh, you’re just taking the piss, aren’t you? That’s not funny!” 

“It’s a little funny.” Lando scowls weakly at your jest, and you roll your eyes playfully. “You’re gonna be fine, Lando, it’s not bad at all. I do have to clean it up, though.” 

“That’ll hurt like a bitch.” 

“Probably. But you’re a big boy, you can handle it.” You turn to grab the supplies you need to clean his face, completely missing the way he blushes. By the time you turn back, he’s got a little crooked smile on his face, like you amuse him. “What?” 

“Nothing. You just look happy.” 

“Happy that someone needs me? Yeah. If you boys didn’t get hurt, I’d be out of a job, wouldn’t I?” 

“I’d get hurt more often if it meant seeing you every time.” 

You falter, nearly fumbling the things gathered in your arms in surprise at his boldness. The roll of tape at the top of the pile topples over at the sudden stop, but Lando leans forward, snatching it out of the air before it falls even a foot. 

He holds it out to you like it’s a peace offering to what he’d just blurted out, cheeks already pink with sheepish embarrassment. 

You pluck it out of his open palm, setting it and the rest of the supplies onto the table beside him. “Thanks.” 

Lando likes seeing you. Lando wants to see you more often. Your brain doesn’t seem to comprehend that.

You give your head a little shake to refocus, busying yourself with organizing your materials nicely. “So how does it feel? To win your home race for the first time,” You ask, ripping open a packet of antiseptic wipes discreetly. 

You have the feeling you’ll need to distract him for this. 

“Absolutely fucking unreal, honestly. Like, it feels like I’m dreaming and I’ll wake up any second, and then realize it was all just in my head.” He’s grinning like a madman, still smiling like he’s replaying the whole thing in his mind as you nudge your way between his knees. “Is that crazy?” 

You smile warmly, shaking your head. “I don’t think so. You’ve been wanting this forever, and it’s finally happened.” You settle a gloved hand at the base of Lando’s jaw to keep him still, tilting his head up for a better angle. His lips part, tongue darting out to lick his lips nervously before quirking up into the tiniest of satisfied smiles. “You should be proud.” 

“Yeah, I am, for sure. But I owe it all to—fuck, ow!” He bites out, grimacing at the sting of the antiseptic as you dab at the cut gingerly. A hand comes up to the curve of your hip, knuckles curling into the material of your team jacket on instinct. To ground himself from the sudden pain.

For a moment, you lose yourself in the mesmerizing constellation of his eyes, lured into losing focus by the swirl of colors and the weight of what lies within them. Your hands fall still on his face. The way he’s looking at you makes you want to kiss him, just to see what it would be like. 

Fuck. No, you can’t. You have to remain professional, because you’re coworkers, damn it. 

“Sorry,” You murmur. You try really hard not to think about how his hand doesn't move from your waist. Instead he holds on a little tighter, giving you an almost imperceptible tug closer. “This is gonna hurt some more.” 

“I don’t mind.” His voice is impossibly soft, a little breathless as he stares up at you unabashed. 

You dab at the cut and the surrounding area until there's no more blood, letting you see the wound a little more clearly. Clean edges, not too deep, definitely no need for stitches. Some tape to close it up and a plaster should do nicely. 

“Did you know you scrunch your nose when you focus?” He asks some time later, as you’re getting ready to fix him up. 

“What? No, I don’t,” You scoff. 

“Yeah, you do. It’s cute.” 

You feel your face flame hot. “Shut up.” 

“I’m serious!” He insists, grinning. He seems to rather enjoy the reaction he’s elicited from you. “Look, I know we work together, but I don’t think I’m imagining the way things are between us. So I’m just gonna come out and ask. D’you—I mean, would you maybe…I dunno, wanna grab dinner with me tonight?”

You bite the inside of your cheek as you lay down the plaster right over his cut, fingers smoothing around the edges delicately. “We have the team dinner later.” 

The last thing you want to seem is too eager, but you wouldn't even dream of saying no. Not when he's looking at you all hopeful and nervous like this. 

Lando scratches his cheek, frowning. “Oh. Right. It’d be a bad look to skip out on that, wouldn’t it?”

“Reckon it would be, yeah,” You chuckle goodnaturedly. Three pieces of tape go on, right before he tilts his head to the side thoughtfully.

“Maybe tomorrow then? We’ve got the day off, we can do something together!” 

“You’ve got it off maybe, but I’ve got an exciting day of supply inventory at MTC.” 

“Sound riveting,” He snorts, shoulders shaking with laughter. “Alright, how ‘bout this? I can swing by in the afternoon, bring some food. We can sit out in that little garden in the east wing on your lunch break. Or I can pick you up after your day’s done and we can grab some dinner?” 

“Has anyone told you that you’re very persistent?” 

“Oh, all the time. But I do really like you, and today’s given me the courage to man up and finally ask you out, so…yeah, I’m persistent. Is that alright?” 

You try to fight the smile spreading across your face, but it’s no use. “Yeah, it is. ‘Cause I kinda like you too.” 

“Just kinda?” 

“Quit killing my mysterious vibe, Norris.”

“Mysterious! That’s hilarious, seriously.” 

“What? Why?” You’d be offended if it wasn't true. Now it just makes you giggle. 

“Don’t think I haven’t seen the way you’ve been staring at my lips this whole time. And might I add—” 

You lean forward, slotting your mouth against his before he can go on. It’s an impulsive spur of the moment kind of decision that stuns him into silence, short and sweet and effective. 

He looks utterly dumbfounded when you pull back. “I—you—that was…if that’s how you get me to shut up, I should start talking a lot more.” 

“Try it, see what happens.” 

“I could. Or I could just…” He trails off in favor of tugging you a step closer by the hand, leaning in slowly. 

Closer, closer, closer still, until—

“Mate, I heard you got smacked—” Oscar bursts through the door right before your lips touch, phone waving in hand. The sudden intrusion makes you both startle away from each other. You grab the remnants of your supplies to put back, Lando scratches the back of his neck in a poor attempt to look casual, and the Australian boy just stops, eyes flicking between the two of you in search of a connection. “Oh shit, sorry. I was—you guys were just—um, I can leave. Yeah, I’ll go.” 

“It’s fine, Oscar.” Although a little bummed the moment has been cut short, you smile as sincerely as you can manage. “We’re just about done here anyways.” 

“We are?” Lando asks, brows furrowing. He looks like he doesn’t want to go, but even you know he has to. 

You squeeze his hand. “Yeah, you’re all set.” 

“Thanks for patching him up, doc,” Oscar says, clapping Lando on the shoulder. “Dude, c’mon. We gotta get to the fan stage.” 

“But—” 

“We’re already late because of your detour, let’s go.” His tone leaves no room for discussion and Lando can see that, because he slouches and sighs. 

“Fine,” He huffs, shoving his hands into his pockets. His grumpy expression softens when he looks at you again. “See you later?” 

“I’ll be around.” He’s halfway out the door when you exclaim quickly, “Lando, wait!” 

Lando pokes his head back into the room quicker than lightning, looking hopeful. “Yeah?” 

“Don’t forget your trophy.” 

“Oh.” He shuffles towards you to grab it, ears turning red at just how excited he’d sounded as he hefts the giant thing into his arms. “Thanks.” 

You press a kiss to his cheek before he can get far, smiling fondly at him when you pull away. “See you tonight.” 

“And tomorrow?” 

“Yes, and tomorrow.” 

“Mint. Can't wait.”  

With a cheeky wink aimed at you, he’s gone, leaving you alone grinning like an idiot with your heart thrumming in your ears. 

You barely notice your coworker slip back into the room, but coincidentally, she’s also grinning. Though hers looks much more devious in nature. 

You roll your eyes. “Not a word out of you.” 

“I didn’t even say anything!” She protests, but the wicked gleam in hers tells you she knows exactly what went down. 

“Good. There’s nothing to say.” 

“Of course.” She nods. “But if I were to say something, which I definitely won’t, it would be about fucking time.” 

He needed that.

“There’s a party tonight,” he started, putting up both pointer fingers when she gave him a look, “and before you lose your shit, I’m only inviting you because I want you to meet someone,”

“Oh God, you’re not setting me up are you? I’m not dating one of your football bros,” she groaned, rolling her eyes. She knew of the guys Ja’Marr played with. Talented, but cocky. They got around. They were worshipped.

It rubbed her the wrong way.

“Bruh, like he’s not like that. Trust me. He’s different,” Ja’Marr swore up and down. He knew Joe wasn’t like what she pictured. He was nerdy. Quiet. But damn was he good at football.

Just her type.

“Whatever,” she groaned, “what time and where?”

“Are you serious?” Ja’Marr lit up, sitting up in his seat. He couldn’t believe it.

“Spit it out before I change my mind,” she sighed, “and I swear if you abandon me, I’m gonna tell the entire football team why you missed practice last week,”

“Okay okay I swear, I won’t abandon you,” he held up his pinky finger, a pinky swear. The two of them took them seriously. She hooked her pinky around his, giving a small squeeze.

“It’s at Josh’s place, 7pm,” He texted her the address. Ja’Marr knew parties weren’t her thing. They weren’t Joe’s either. Perfect.

“This better be good,”

Josh’s place

The music was loud. It shook the walls, vibrated through her chest. She clung to her shoulder bag, which held her keys, lip gloss, lotion, and a tampon. She was due any day.

Her eyes flicked across the venue. It reeked of sweat and alcohol, the occasional whiff of weed blasted her nostrils, making her curl in on herself. If they were gonna smoke at least make it the good shit.

“There she is!” Ja’Marr’s voice carried over the crowd, and a few eyes turned towards her. She couldn’t beat the dating allegations with Ja’Marr, even when he very clearly had a girl on his arm.

He walked over to her, the alcohol already pumping through his blood. She could smell it on his breath. She was already overstimulated and she’d just walked through the door.

“Aight down to business,” Ja’Marr slung an arm over her shoulders, walking her back towards his friends. She recognized a few of them, Justin Jefferson being one of them.

Joe Burrow being another.

“Y/N, you’ve met JJ,” Ja’Marr nodded to Justin, who gave a smile and a wave, “and this is Joe. Our fearless leader,”

The boy in question laughed. His cheeks were flushed, and a half-finished cup of beer sat between his fingers. He didn’t look drunk, then again, she wasn’t too good at deciphering that.

“Just Joe is fine,” Joe gave her an award-winning smile. He’d heard a lot about her. Smart. Witty. Stubborn as an ass. Ja’Marr didn’t mention beautiful. He didn’t mention how her eyes sparkled when they caught one of the strobe lights that Josh messily put up. His heart skipped a beat in his chest and suddenly his palms were sweaty.

He wasn’t that great with women.

“Alright Just Joe,” she grinned, “Y/N,”

He offered her his hand. She took it and gave it a firm shake. She didn’t know what that single handshake would do for their future.

Summer 2022

The sun was warm. It kissed the ground. It made the air thick and undesirable, but perfect for a pool day.

“Give me that!” Joe grunted, rounding around the island in his kitchen. He had his friends over, particularly his core four. Justin came up to visit them for the weekend, and she already lived in Ohio. Columbus, to be exact. They just wished that Justin hadn’t been drafted to the Vikings. To keep the gang together.

It felt better when it was the four of them.

“No! You’re being an asshole!” She accused him, holding onto his hoodie. One she stole, of course. It smelled like him, reminded her of how she got to see him every weekend since he got drafted. It made her heart race and her mind fill with dreams.

He didn’t know that.

“How am I being an asshole?” Joe lunged for her, only to have her dodge him. This game of cat and mouse had been happening for about 5 minutes while Ja’Marr and Justin made drinks.

“You finished our lego set, that you promised we’d do together, without me!” She tried to hold a laugh back. He’d gotten bigger, somehow. The muscles in his body were toned, making him look taller and wider. It sucked her in.

Joe was honed in on her. Her fingers clutched his hoodie like a lifeline, her eyes sparkling with a sense of mischief. Beautiful. Adorable. It made his heart skip a beat. She was his world and didn’t even know it. He’d bring the sun down to her just to see her face glow like this everyday.

“Oh come on,” he groaned, finally catching her, his arms wrapping around her middle, “you’re being dramatic,”

“Let go of me!” She laughed. He did the opposite. He picked her up, marched her towards his back door. She wiggled in his grasp, breathless giggles leaving her lips as he opened the door with one hand. The heat blasted them, but Joe didn’t care. He knew where he was going.

“Think you need a dunk,”

“No,” she squirmed, “no no no, Joseph, put me down,”

“No can do,” His voice is honey in her ears. For a moment, she focuses on his arms and how they’re secured around her. He’s strong, effortlessly carrying her around, even while she’s wiggling. It’s impressive, making her cheeks heat up. She can feel her heart rate increase in her chest.

Little does she know that Joe was also losing his damn mind. Every step he took he just wanted to keep her in his arms. Her skin was warm, and she was so close to him. Pressed against him like a perfect puzzle piece. He couldn’t help himself as he breathed against her neck, his nose brushing against the shell of her ear.

But before she could react, he tossed her into the pool. He grabbed the hoodie as she let it go, saving it from being soaked.

She, however, was soaked.

“Oh my God,” Justin laughed. She wiped the chlorine out of her eyes, ran her hands over her hair. She was freezing, and as much as she hated Joe for it, she couldn’t deny that his smile and laugh was contagious.

“Yeah yeah, laugh it up, asshole,”

“You look like a soaked cat,” Joe laughed, his hands going over his stomach. She looked adorable, her hair soaked, her arms crossed over herself. He felt bad. He walked over, offering her his hand.

“Thanks,” she hummed, grabbing ahold of it. He knew something was up the moment she didn’t have a witty comeback. Her hand gripped his, but she tugged him into the pool with her.

He let her tug him into the pool.

He fell in, the cold water wrapping around him. His clothes uncomfortably stuck to his body as he surfaced, flicking his hair out of his face.

“Who’s the asshole now?” Joe splashed her, earning one of those award winning giggles from her. God she was beautiful. She held the sun in her skin and the stars in her eyes. She was his sun, and he orbited around her.

“Shut up,” she groaned, “now we’re both soaked. genius. That Master’s degree was for nothing,”

Joe only laughed. He knew she was joking. Not based off of words alone, but the way she looked at him. Like he was her towel to dry her off. The napkin to wipe her tears.

For a moment he believed that the world revolved around them. Around her. Maybe he had a shot with the girl who hated football players at first.

Ja’Marr got them towels, still relentlessly giggling over the fact that they both ended up in the pool fully clothed. What was even funnier was that Joe had obviously let her pull him in with her. Ja’Marr was shocked that she didn’t think Joe liked her.

Joe didn’t just like her. He’d fallen in love with her.

Joe wrapped a warm towel around her first. He wiped off her face, watched as she tucked herself into the soft fluff of the fabric. His fingers pushed her hair out of her face, lingering a millisecond longer on her cheek.

He wanted to take care of her. To make sure that even amidst the pranks, he’d still make her safety and her joy his priority. He didn’t know if he could survive without her smile or her presence.

They padded into his home, the cool AC brushing over her skin. She wrapped the towel tighter around her, following Joe up to his bedroom. He’d promised her with his expression that he’d make up for it. That he’d give her warm clothes and make sure she felt comfortable.

He opened his bedroom door, the familiar scent of his cologne filling her nostrils. She’s been in his bedroom plenty of times, taken naps on his soft, grey duvet. She’s worn his clothes and used his shower.

His home was as much hers as it was his. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Here,” he tugged at-shirt out of his luxury closet, flinging it at her. It’s an old LSU one. It smelled like him. The rustling of clothes fills the room, and he pulls out some boxers.

“So helpful,” she smirked, gently shaking her head.

“It’s no biggie,” he shrugged, “I just…do whatever I can to make you happy, and in this case it’s staying dry,” she might have been joking, but he wasn’t.

He’d do anything to see her smile.

The boxers were oddly intimate. Made his heart clench and his breath catch. He hesitated before he threw them at her, overwhelmed with the strength of his feelings for her. He closed his eyes, squeezing the fabric in his hands. It wasn’t a sexual thing. It was domestic. A wish for something he didn’t have.

Her.

“Joe? Am I just gonna walk around without pants on?” she called from his bedroom. He snapped back into it, tossing the boxers at her. The domestic image still stayed.

“Here,” he smirked, “you like that?”

“Weirdo,” she rolled her eyes. He laughed, shutting himself in his closet. He changed, stripping himself of his shirt and his shorts. He dried himself, changing into dry, comfy clothes.

“Didn’t say no,” he called from the closet.

“You’re a pervert,” she huffed as she started stripping, neatly keeping her clothes in the same pile.

“Only for you,” he called. He meant it, not the pervert part. But he was only anything for her. Happy. Smiling. A gentleman.

He stepped out, except she wasn’t done yet. She was still slipping the shirt over her body, her back to his eyes. Her skin was soft, glowing in soft sun of the room. He felt his breath catch, his teeth sinking into his lips.

No. He couldn’t look at her. He turned away from her, but his mind was still racing. His body ached to hold her, to touch her. His eyes locked in on the half-closed door of his closet. But he couldn’t stop thinking of her. She’d taken root. She’d sprouted a flower in his chest.

“Joe?” her voice cut through the air again. He squeezed his eyes shut. Then her hand touched his arm. Then she stood at his side, her eyes on his side profile. His skin twitched like he’d been shocked.

“I don’t think the closet door is that interesting,” she joked, her smile bright and warm. Joe snuck a look at her, her body dressed in his shirt and boxers. She looked like she was his.

And she wasn’t.

“Sorry,” he cleared his throat, gently moving out of her grasp so he didn’t make a stupid decision, “guess the door was a little too interesting,”

She chuckled, shaking her head at him. She didn’t notice how red his ears were. How the skin of his neck turned cherry red. She didn’t see how his pupils were so dilated he could get high off of just her presence.

So when she turned to go, he felt like a limb had been ripped from his body.

Winter 2023

It was cold. Snow was forecasted for that evening and into the next day. It was January, prime snow-time for Ohio.

Except Joe wouldn’t be playing in the snow.

He sat on his couch, watching as a game played on the screen. A game he was missing. He should be there. His heart ached to be with his team, to support them, to play. Jake was doing okay, doing stellar for picking up where Joe left off.

But Joe wanted to be playing. He wanted to be out there.

“Hey,” she hummed softly. She’d come over earlier that morning since he’d asked her to. He was lonely. He needed her.

“Here’s that gross, green drink you like,” she smiled softly, sitting next to him on his plush, grey couch. Joe smiled softly, taking the drink out of her hand with his left hand.

His right hand was still in a cast.

“Thanks,” he sighed, “it’s really not all that gross, you know,”

“It tastes like grass, Joey,” she smiled, sliding her body under the blanket he had across his body. He scooted closer to her, making sure she had enough blanket.

He leaned against her. Ever since his injury, he’s relied on her. She made the clouds disappear, she helped the sun come out when there wasn’t any in his head. He felt forgotten. Dejected.

But she never made him feel that way. He never felt alone with her. He didn’t feel lonely. She was all he needed.

“You should stay,” he murmured, “I may like being alone, but I feel lonely whenever you’re not here,”

She looked over at him. His eyes weren’t meeting hers. He stayed locked in on the screen. But she didn’t miss his words. She smiled softly, a blush forming on her cheeks.

“If it snows I’ll have to stay,”

“Then I’m praying it snows,”

Summer 2024

“Please tell me you’re joking,” she gaped at him. Joe was visiting her apartment, showing her photos from his fashion show in Paris. They were sat on her couch, her legs curled under her, eyes glued to his phone.

“What? Can’t believe I walked in a fashion show?” Joe smirked over at her. Her cheeks were flushed, the tips of her ears tinted the same shade of red. She was blushing.

“I just didn’t think you’d have your whole back out,” she told him. He looked good, really good. His hair was perfectly golden, his muscles rippling under his skin. She caught herself locking in on his muscles, on the way he held his fingers up. It was delicious, sparking unholy and intense images in her mind. She’d seen him shirtless before, but something about how much bigger he looked now made her pupils dilate.

“You’re drooling,” he pointed out, even though she wasn’t literally drooling. In her head? Yes, yes she was

“No, I’m astonished you’d wear those crusty bracelets,” she covered up. Joe didn’t believe her, not for one second. Maybe he showed her those pictures to her on purpose. Her reaction was priceless.

It was also exactly what it dreamt it would be.

“Oh come on,” he teased, shoving her shoulder, “you don’t think I look good?”

“I’d be feeding your ego,” she quipped back. Her eyes met his, and for a second there was something between them. A spark. Electricity. He felt it, he leaned into it.

But she cleared her throat and shifted away. His heart sunk.

She stood up, grabbing her empty water tumblr and walked into her kitchen. He wouldn’t like her. There’s no way. Joe was well, Joe. Soft eyes and gentle smiles, muscles and gentle touches. Girls fawned over him. There was no way that he’d like her.

“I’m gonna buzz my hair,” he blurted, more to get her attention again than anything.

“Shut the fuck up,” she turned to face him, her eyes wild and wide. Joe smirked, leaning back against her couch.

“Nah, I’m serious,” he shrugged, “need a little spice,”

“Okay, spicing up your life might mean getting another car or wearing something crazy. Buzzing your head? No,” she argued, screwing on the cap of her water tumblr. Joe couldn’t help but smile, enjoying this banter with her.

“Oh come on,” he smirked, “don’t wanna see me bald?”

“If you go bald I’m blocking you on every platform known to mankind,” she replied, making Joe’s jaw drop. He laughed as she came back over, sitting back down next to him.

“You wouldn’t,” he groaned.

“Try me, Joey,” she challenged.

So he did.

He showed up a week later to a dinner with her and his parents, she let her jaw slack. His head literally glowed. The warm lights of the restaurant didn’t dim the brightness of his head. He sat down, laughing as she kept her bewildered look.

“You’re so insane,” she laughed, shaking her head. She ran her hand over the buzz cut, letting the soft prickles of his short hair prickle her skin. It sent shivers down his spine, making his fingers and toes tingle.

“You said to try you,” he smirked, leaning back, “I see I’m not blocked yet,”

“Yet, Joseph,” she teased. She’d never block him. Not really. She couldn’t. Joe just laughed, keeping his eyes on her. She looked beautiful in this light. Her eyes sparkled, her skin glowed. There wasn’t anyone else like her. Nothing compared to her. The sun dimmed in her presence and the moon glowed brighter.

The night went on. Laughter and fond memories filled the table. Joe’s arm rested across the back of her chair, a familiar gesture. It looked intimate, like the two of them were finally an item. Robin’s smirk reflected her thoughts.

“You two together yet?” Robin asked, taking a sip of her wine. Jimmy and Joe gave Robin a look, but she just shrugged. She shook her head, her fingers tapping against her wine glass.

“No,” she felt her cheeks heat up, “don’t think that’ll happen,”

Joe looked over at her. He was shocked. His eyes widened, his heart stuttered in his chest. Was she serious? Had he not been obvious enough?

“Why not?” Robin asked, seeing the look on her son’s face. Y/N, clearly, didn’t see it.

“Don’t know,” she shrugged, “I think he likes someone else,”

“Yeah, you,” Joe told her, chuckling awkwardly. She chuckled along with him, completely missing it. Joe exchanged a look with his mom, who shrugged. He thought he’d been clear with how he felt. He thought he’d been so blatantly obvious with how she made his heart slam against his ribcage. How she made his world tilt.

Winter 2025

A marvel movie played in the background. The scent of popcorn filled the living room, buttery and warm. They were wrapped in a blanket, curled against one another. She’s focused on the original Avengers movie. His eyes are there, too.

But his mind is on her.

The season was hard. It brought him down so low. He played the best he’s ever played and they still didn’t make the playoffs. She was there for all of it. Not once did she make him feel like he’d failed her. She was at every home game, supporting him everywhere she could.

“Cap always looks so good in this movie,” she sighed, “what did that girl say? He looks like a glazed donut?”

“What?” He laughed, finally flicking his eyes to her. She was in his hoodie, curled under the blanket. She looked so soft, so warm. She smelled of cherries and vanilla; home.

“Can’t a girl thirst over a fictional character?” she hummed. She settled against him, earning a laugh. He slung an arm over her shoulders, keeping her close to him. His fingers drummed on her arm, a dull touch that sent matched the rapid fire rate of her heart.

And his heart was also pounding in his chest. He needed to say something. He needed to tell her how he felt because she clearly didn’t get it yet.

“Y/N?” he spoke up, softly. His tone was different than it had been in the past. His palms were sweaty, his skin hot under his hoodie. His eyes flicked over her face as she looked over at him.

“Yeah?” she asked. She could see it in his eyes. The tension. The intense emotions. Something weighed on him.

Joe gathered his thoughts. The movie still played, the scenes dancing in her eyes. His breath caught in his chest, and suddenly he felt nervous. She was a supernova, a once in a lifetime experience that he wanted to capture. She was the definition of beautiful, of a star being born.

“I’ve not made it clear enough, have I,” he stated plainly. She swallowed, her eyebrows knitting together.

“What?” She asked, turning her body to face him. Joe’s heart pounded in his chest, straining against his ribs. He swore he was going to pass out.

“I don’t just say the flirty things I say because they’re funny,” he started, “I say them because I mean them. I don’t just get bored and ask for you to come over because no one else can. I want you to come over. I don’t like anyone else. I don’t have eyes for anyone else,”

Her eyes widen with every word. Each syllable punctuates against her chest, drilling in the realization that Joe had feelings for her. Her chest tightens, her lips part with uneven breaths. She doesn’t speak. He’s not done yet.

“You…you’re the sun in my solar system. The stars in my night sky. There’s only you, Y/N. Only you. I’m in love with you, I have been for a long time,” his voice cracked, his hands shook. He awaited her response, his eyes flicking desperately over her features.

She was rendered speechless. No one had ever told her that before. No one’s ever told her that she was the center of their universe. It made her eyes prickle and her chest tighten. She wasn’t just wanted, she was needed. She wasn’t sure if she’s felt this needed before. She didn’t expect to hear it from Joe.

“You’re not joking,” she swallowed, her voice small. She couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact that he liked her. That he chose her above every model, above every other girl that wanted him. She was normal. There wasn’t anything special about her. Yet to Joe, she was more precious and more beautiful than the Hope Diamond.

“No,” he shook his head, “I’d never joke about that,”

His hand lifted. He cupped her cheek softly at first, silently asking if it was okay. His eyes drunk her in, all warmth and vanilla waves. He took a deep breath, his thumb tracing over her cheekbone. Her skin was soft, as he’d imagined it. Her eyelashes twitched, her eyebrows were still knitted together.

But she looked at his lips first.

The air around them buzzed. The world held its breath, waiting for the moment that everyone seemed to be waiting for.

“Can I kiss you?” Joe whispered, inching closer, his breath fanning her face. She was nervous, but damn if she wanted him to kiss her.

“Yes,” she nodded. He leaned in, his lips gently brushing hers. A whisper. A hint of his affection for her. He pulled back, only to kiss her again. A little deeper. Her lips were warm and she tasted sweet. His hand slid to cup the back of her neck, his head tilting, his nose bumping against her cheek.

His stomach churned. His mind exploded. Colors danced in his brain as his lips moved in effortless sync with hers. He’d been needing this. Her lips. Her touch. Her.

She deepened the kiss. One of her hands threaded through his hair, forcing shivers down his spine. Her body thrummed, nothing but affection and a deep warmth filling her veins. It was if she took a deep breath, cool and fresh air filling her lungs.

He was her fresh air.

He gently leaned her back. His arms hooked under hers, hands keeping her hair out of her face. Her arms looped around his, fingers delving into the thickness of his curls.

He kissed her deeper. Desperately. His tongue nudged against her bottom lip, and as soon as her parted lips bid him welcome, he sighed. His muscles relaxed, his brain seemed to have one thought. Her. His stargirl.

He kissed her like his life depended on it. He held her like she’d disappear. His lips moved with hers like they’d done with dance before, a tango that only they knew. Soft lips and desperate kisses signed the bottom line of a contract that read the evidence of his love.

He pulled away and she chased his lips, kissing him one more time before their lips separated. His forehead rested against hers, his nose brushing hers. He couldn’t believe it. He was so overwhelmed, so filled that he swore he was going to cry.

He wouldn’t though.

“Wish you’d realized that earlier,” he croaked with a laugh. She shared in that laughter, nodding her head against his. She’d been stupid, oblivious even. She hadn’t seen the obvious signs staring her in the face. She missed all of it.

“I know,” she moved her hands to cup his face, “but I’m glad I see now,”

“Mornin’,” he leaned down, hands pressed against the mattress, kissing the crown of her head, “sleep well?”

“Mmhm,” she hummed, stretching her limbs under the pillow. He was tempted to slide back under the covers with hers to feel her skin against his. He wanted to touch her, to feel her around him. He wouldn’t get that chance all day.

Joe slid his sweats back off, leaving him in his elastic boxers. He slid back onto the bed, his hand sliding across her back. He kissed between her shoulder blades, his hand roaming the expanse of her hips. Her skin was warm, perfumed with a scent of roses. She hummed under his touch, a soft smile blossoming on her lips.

“What’re you doing?” she asked, her voice a rasp as he kissed down her spine.

“I won’t be able to see you ‘til later,” he hummed against her skin, “just wanna be with my girl,”

She hummed, stretching her arms under her silk pillow. She loved mornings like this, that even though he’d leave for the stadium soon, he still found time to love her.

“You’re a mess,” she chuckled softly. Joe smiled, kissing back up her spine, his lips finding a home on her neck. He could feel her heartbeat under his lips, and he hummed against her skin. Joe pressed his weight on top of hers, making her grunt. His skin was warm, a reminder that she’d not feel it all day. Game days were torture.

“What’s wrong?” He hummed, running his hands up and down her sides. She let her eyes slide shut, letting his touch and his body become one with hers. This was the downside of keeping things private. She could go to the game, watch him play, cheer when everyone else cheers, but she’d never be able to greet him in the tunnel or on the field. She’d never be that girl.

“Nothing,” she sighed, “sometimes I hate this whole privacy thing,”

Joe remained silent. He felt the same. He pressed kisses to the skin between her shoulder blades, his mind roaming. He brought her up once to his mom, when they were friends, and it didn’t go well.

Flashback to a year ago, winter break

“Any of your friends in town?” Robin asked her son as he perched on a barstool. His hair had grown out, thick curls billowing at the very top of his shoulders. His dad wanted him to cut it; mom didn’t seem to have an issue with it.

“Yeah,” Joe contemplated, sitting on his hands, “one of them,”

Joe knew how his mom felt about his female friends. If they had a boyfriend, then she didn’t care. She was more open to having someone like Lola over, who Joe had known since Ohio State, and who was engaged.

But Joe wasn’t talking about Lola.

“Joey,” she smiled, pausing her fingers, “tell me who. You’re not bound to the house, you know,”

But to him, he was. His mom wanted him there all the time, she wanted him to do these events and talk to those people. She wanted him to go shopping with her, to have “mother-son” dates before he got big in football.

“Her name’s Y/N,” he started, settling his hands on the counter, “she’s in my political science class,”

“Does she have a boyfriend?” Robin asked. Not a beat skipped. Her fingers steadied on the knife, chopping onions for dinner.

“Mom-”

“Joe, you know how I feel about your single female friends. They’re a distraction, you need to focus on your career, on football. That’s what’s important,” She interrupted him, her eyes flicking up to meet him. She was serious. The lines of her face deepened, the knife pausing in her hands.

For some reason, it felt like a threat. It wasn’t, but the knife in her hands added to Joe’s hesitancy.

“She doesn’t have a boyfriend, mom,” Joe insisted, finding himself growing irritated with her, “but she’s smart. She’s helping me with political science,”

“Is she helping you with football?”

“Mom, please, she’s nice, okay? She’s not gonna make a move. She doesn’t even watch football,” Joe sighed, his fingers playing with the bracelets around his wrist. Joe found Y/N’s lack of football knowledge refreshing, even a challenge. He’d promised her one class that he’d get her fluent in football by the time they graduated. The more Joe interacted with her, the stronger her pull was. Joe got anxious, but with her it was warm. Easy. Y/N made him feel like he was the only man in the world.

“See? You can do better than her,” Robin softened her tone, as if that would help her son, “I don’t want you going on a date with her,”

“I’m almost 22 mom, I can date her if I want,”

“Excuse me?” Robin’s eyes went wide. The silence in the kitchen is deafening. It was thick with tension, and Joe felt his heart quicken inside of his chest. He was a grown adult, capable of making his own decisions. He didn’t know why his eyes widened, why his palms all of a sudden became sweaty. He didn’t know why he felt fear.

“I just meant that I’m an adult, and I like her. I really do, and I want to ask her out,” He corrected, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He was beginning to regret even mentioning Y/N, but he found himself wanting her right there. It was pathetic, and they weren’t dating, but Y/N was the breath of fresh air he so desperately needed.

“No,” Robin scoffed. Her eyes were hard, unforgiving. She wasn’t going to let her son date someone that wouldn’t further his career. She wasn’t going to let Joe, her Joey, leave her. The youngest son. The last to fly the nest.

“What do you mean no?”

“You’re not dating her, Joe. She’s going to be bad for you, she’s not going to help you. If you date her, we’ll pull you from LSU,”

“Mom,” Joe widened his eyes, his heart skipping a beat, “you wouldn’t,”

“I don’t want to, Joe. You’re thriving at LSU, but she’s going to tear you down,”

“You don’t know that,”

“I know how women think, Joe. Just leave her alone. Don’t even talk to her,”

Joe’s lips parted, shock evident on his face. His heart shattered, his chest heaving with his breaths. He’d appease his mother, but he wasn’t going to shut Y/N out. He couldn’t. He needed her.

“Fine,”

In that moment, when he stood from the barstool, he made the decision to ask her out when school was back in. They’d keep a secret. No one would know. Their own little world.

Present day

That argument with his mother often replayed in his mind. Every game, every fan interaction, every win he wished Y/N was there. He needed her there. Ever since he met her, she’s been more than the girl who sat next to him in political science class his junior year. She was the reason he went out onto that field and won.

“I know, baby,” he hummed, sliding his hands under her stomach, “I wish things could be different too,”

He really wished they were too. Y/N was the light of his life. His reason to get up. His reason to play as best as he could. He wanted to show her off, to talk about her in press conferences. He was so proud of her, and keeping this a secret felt like he was hiding her, that he was ashamed of her.

Silence crept in. They laid there, warmth enveloping them. Joe knew he needed to get up, but her body was warm. She didn’t want him to leave, knowing she wouldn’t see him until much, much later.

She couldn’t even talk about him.

She flipped, shifting under him so she faced him. His blue eyes were soft, an ocean under the soft pull of her moon. He rode the waves of her love, let her string him along and make his life easier. Routinely.

“Promise me one thing,” she hummed, cupping his face in her hands. He was growing stubble, the soft scratch of it under her fingers making Joe hum. He wanted to go baby face again, but she insisted he keep it. For now.

“Anything,”

“Be safe,” she whispered, words spoken in desperation, “be careful. I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep my hands off of you if you get hurt,”

Joe smiled, angling his face to kiss her palm. She was a worrier, but he didn’t care. Her concern meant the world to him, even if he always assured her there was nothing to worry about.

“I will,” he promised, “as best I can. It is football,”

“I know that,” she rolled her eyes with a playful tone, “but just…try, okay? Please?”

“I will, pretty girl,” he hummed, softly sliding his lips against hers. Her kisses were always warm, always seasoned with their need for one another. It went beyond any surface level emotion like lust or toleration, Joe needed her to breathe. Every kiss they shared, their breaths mingling together, was him letting her breath fill his lungs.

Joe pulled away, softly, the tingling in his belly begging for more. He couldn’t. Not even if he needed to.

“I’ll see you later?” he propped himself up on his hands, his arms bulging. His chest was chiseled, his soft hair falling in simple curls on his forehead. He was beautiful.

“You better,” she hummed, bringing him down for one more, tender yet passionate kiss, “you know what seeing you in your jersey does to me,”

“Oh don’t start, darlin’,” he drawled, the southern accent he’s picked up slipping into his tone, “you’ll have me later,”

He got up off of her, reluctantly, and changed into LSU sweats and pulled a shirt over his head. It wasn’t his gameday fit, but it was packed away in his bag. She’d picked it out too.

“Go get ‘em, tiger,” she smiled, hoisting herself up on her elbows. His sheets were perfect around her body, shrouding her like a goddess in the low morning light.

“As always, my love,” he murmured. Joe walked over, pressing a quick kiss to her lips.

“I love you,”

“I love you, too, J,”

5 minutes before kickoff

He always looked for her in the stands. She sat in the same place every time, knowing that he’d try and find her. She was his comfort, his good luck charm. Seeing her in the stands would ease his anxieties, would reassure him even. Sometimes he just needed to see her.

But he didn’t. She wasn’t there. She was always there.

“Bro,” Justin clapped him on the shoulder, snapping Joe out of his confusion. For a moment. Why wasn’t she there? Was she okay? Did something happen?

“Who’s got you in a trance?” Justin teased. He didn’t know about Joe and Y/N. He didn’t even know that Joe liked her. He just knew that they were once friends and now they weren’t. Supposedly.

“No one,” Joe murmured as time started. He grabbed his helmet, a simple aggression to his movement, sliding it over his head.

“Let’s kick their fuckin’ asses,” Joe murmured, watching special teams lined up for the kick. Justin didn’t know what had gotten into Joe, but whatever it was, Justin wasn’t going to mess with it. He knew Joe well enough that once he was in the zone, there was no getting him out of it.

2nd Quarter

It’s tied. Florida is putting up a fight. A good one, but LSU is better. Joe gets up from his run, and on instinct, he looks into the stands. She’s still not there.

“Where the fuck is she?” he mumbled as his teammates clapped him on the shoulder, shouting praises into his ear for making another 1st down.

End of 3rd Quarter

35-28. LSU lead. A hard fought game, and Joe’s focused. He’s locked in on throwing to JJ and Ja’Marr, and his success has put them ahead.

Except when he flicks his eyes to the stands again, she’s not there. Still. He can’t see her. Did she move spots? Did she come late and have to sit somewhere else?

Or, God forbid, she didn’t show up. Like she promised. The feeling sat heavily in his gut, pinching his chest. He needed her there, and she promised. Did the pressure get to be too much? Was this her Irish goodbye?

End of Regulation

She hadn’t shown up. LSU beat the Florida Gators 42-28. The crowd went insane, the cheers echoing in the stadium. His teammates clapped their hands on his helmet, and he did his best to enjoy the win.

Even when his girl wasn’t there.

He jogged back into the locker room alongside Ja’Marr and Justin, who were already making post-celebration plans.

“We’re going to the bar,” JJ announced, “and you’re joining us,”

Joe wanted to join them. He needed to. But he needed to figure out why she wasn’t there.

“Not tonight,” Joe nudged him back, “got something to take care of,”

“Ohhh he’s got a lady back home,” Ja’Marr teased, not knowing the truth in his own words.

“No,” Joe lied with a chuckle, “my parents are meeting up later. They want to celebrate with me,”

It was a lie. Flat on his face. Maybe it would come back to haunt him, maybe it wouldn’t. All that mattered is that Joe got his explanation from Y/N.

“Right right,” JJ sighed, “well, next time bro,”

“Next time,” Joe conceded, offering a close-lipped smile. He walked over to his locker, pulling his phone from his bag. There were several texts from her.

‘I’m so sorry J, but I had a meeting for an internship come up.’

‘It’s mandatory, and they weren’t willing to reschedule.’

‘Pls forgive me baby’

The string of texts soothed his irritation. Just a little. Just enough that he could text her back in that moment. Playing without her being there felt like driving a car that needs a little TLC. He played good, but he needed a little oil in his joints.

‘Are you done now?’ he texted, watching as the grey bubbles immediately appeared.

‘Yeah, I’m back at my apartment. Babe I’m sorry’

His thumbs hovered over his keyboard. He envisioned her, sitting on her bed, legs crossed under her. He could almost feel her skin under his, the warmth and the scent of vanilla filling his head. Her wide eyes as she watched her screen were plastered in his head.

Because she was wide eyed. She was freaking out.

Her internship coordinator sent out an email for an emergency meeting to be held that evening. It went over logistics of the internship and changes to policy. They were adding another trip, a longer one, to Germany in the summer. Something about analyzing old war technology.

The meeting, in retrospect, could have been an email. She thought it was useless other than getting to know others on her team better, but sitting there and going through rules and policy changes (like yes, don’t touch a centuries old document) was boring. She’d rather be supporting Joe.

‘Hang tight’ her phone buzzed with a text from Joe.

Guilt ate at her insides. She sat there on her bed, legs crossed under her, her hair freshly washed and damp down her back. Her room smelled of cherries and chai, a new scent of body wash she was trying. Though none of it seemed to relax the tight muscles in her shoulders.

While she was waiting on Joe, she went to YouTube. Maybe the highlights would be posted. Maybe someone would have made a video about it. Her eyes flicked over the screen, cursing under her breath when she didn’t find the highlights yet. Of course not. The game just ended.

She buried her face in her hands, running them down her skin. She should have just not gone to the meeting and went to see Joe instead. She should have kept her promise to him. All she wanted was to be a supportive girlfriend, to be the one that loved him even when no one else saw it. It was hard enough keeping things secret, to not love him in public.

A knock echoed in her apartment. She knew it was Joe. Her heart raced, her eyes widened. She stood from her bed, walked out of her bedroom and through the living room. The door opened, Joe standing in front of her. His hair was damp from his shower, his body adorned in comfier clothes.

But his expression wasn’t as soft as his outward appearance was.

“Joe-”

“I know,” he interrupted, stepping inside. He knew she was sorry. She nog only told him, but he could see her guilt carved into her face. Her eyes held every ounce of remorse, of genuine apology.

“You tried to reschedule?”

“I did,” she sighed, closing and locking the door behind her, “there were too many complications,”

“How mandatory was it?” He crossed his arms over his chest, facing her. The living room was lit by a single table lamp, casting warm shadows on their bodies. The atmosphere between them wasn’t at all warm.

“Like I’d lose the internship,” she replied. She could see it on his face; his irritation. She swallowed, taking a hesitant step closer. She wanted to make it up to him, to somehow make it better. Her chest hurt, and she’d already had her share of tears shed.

“So, what? The internship was more important than me? Than your promise?” He argued, his nostrils flaring, his jaw tightening.

“Joe, it’s not like that,”

“Y/N, I needed you there. You’re telling me some fuckin’ internship meeting lasted the entire three hours?”

“Well, no-”

“Then why weren’t you there?” he argued, his voice raising with every passing second. His blood was hot, rushing through his veins. He needed to be rational, to try and see her side of things, but it was so damn hard when all he could think about was her not being there.

And her silence spoke volumes.

“If you didn’t want to come, just say that,” he scoffed, shaking his head.

“I wanted to be there!” she snapped, “I wanted to watch you, I planned on it too. I went to that meeting with my gameday fit on. I expected to make it to the game,”

“But you didn’t,” he worked his jaw, shaking his head, “you didn’t, and I was left alone,”

His words are growled out, his throat raw from the game and his tone now. Silence filled the air again, and not because she was afraid of him. She wasn’t. She was baffled. She felt her guilt choke her.

“Let me make it up to you,” she whispered. She wasn’t the type to beg, to plead for forgiveness. No one deserved to see her on her knees.

Except him.

“How? How Y/N? Want me to go out there and play another four quarters just for you?” He snapped, raising his shoulders, his hands slapping at his sides. He appreciated that she wanted to make it up, that she felt bad, but it didn’t make the empty feeling in his chest much better.

“No, no Joe that’s not what I want,” she groaned. She ran her hands through her damp hair, the conversation between them more tense than she originally bargained for. She just wanted to apologize and it turned into an eruption.

Silence filled the air. It pulsed between them, alive and dangerous. It threatened to push them apart, to break them. But Joe had something else in mind.

Something that would get her on her knees.

“There’s something you can do,” he proposed, stepping forward. The charge in the air shifted, hot and intense. His eyes bore into hers, making her skin crawl. She knew that look. He wanted something.

Wanted her.

“What?” She asked, swallowing.

Joe didn’t answer. Instead, he showed her. His hands gripped her shoulders, applying just enough pressure so she got the memo. She sank to her knees, her heart skipping in her chest. She knew what Joe wanted; he didn’t have to ask.

Her fingers clenched around the waistband of his sweats, tugging them down his hips. Her eyes were wide, glossy with a desire to please. No one ever saw her like this, and he rarely ever saw her like this. Supple. Submissive. She wasn’t the type.

It fired his blood up.

His skin prickled as his boxers were done away with. He sat down on the couch, spreading his legs. Her head between his thighs was a magical sight, especially the way her eyes glowed.

His cock was swollen. Pre-cum slid down his red, sensitive tip, all down his shaft. He smelled like arousal. Musky and sweet. Despite the submissive stance she was in, Y/N never fully submitted to anyone. Not even Joe. Not even when he was this upset at her.

She dipped a finger into the pool of pre-cum at his slit, making his hips buck. He inhaled sharply, watching as she slid her finger into her mouth. So much for being submissive.

She grabbed the base of his cock, flattening her tongue against his shaft. His whole body had a reaction. His stomach coiled, his fingers flew to lace in her damp strands of hair. Her mouth around his cock sent electricity straight through his veins, making him twitch.

“Fuck,” he groaned, widening his legs. Her mouth engulfed him, sliding down his cock until the tip kissed the back of her throat. She repeated the action. Up and down. Her tongue swirling around his slit. Hands squeezing his base.

All of it making Joe’s thighs ache and his stomach churn.

“Look so good, baby,” he managed to rasp, focused on her thick eyelashes and flushed cheeks, “like a fuckin’ goddess,”

Her mouth and hands traded off. She’d suck, then she’d stroke. On and off again. Bringing him closer to that brink of pleasure. His arousal thickened, soaking his cock with hints of her saliva. When his balls tightened, when his cock twitched, he pulled her head from him.

“Gonna fill you up,” he rasped. Her clothes were shed, discarded somewhere on the floor. She climbed into his lap, cunt dripping with her own thick arousal. Breaths mingled together, moans filled the room as she settled down on top of him.

“My girl,” Joe gritted his teeth, thrusting up into her. Her gummy walls were hot, soaked with her arousal. She swiveled her hips, her hands gripping the muscle of his shoulders. He guided her movements, keeping her steady.

“Just like that,” he praised, his lips brushing hers, “keep ridin’ me,”

It was slow. Sensual. Filled with unmet promises and forgiveness. With every drag of his cock, every bounce of her hips, their tension unwound. The earlier argument dissipated into air, and what instead filled their chest was a primal need to feel each other.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered as her hips bounced, ass meeting his hips. His hips thrusted up, creating such a force between them that he could barely speak. The ache, the electricity, the way her pussy felt around his swollen cock all made his head spin.

“Shh,” he cooed, his hand sliding up her back, “just feel good right now, pretty girl, just keep going,”

And she did. Whimpers fell from her lips, their bodies shifting to be pressed against each other. His arms held her in place and he fucked up into her, balls slapping her skin, his cock hitting her g-spot. This was what he needed. Her closeness. Her scent. Her.

“Joe,” she moaned into his neck. She was close, teetering on the edge of the knife.

“Let go,” he whispered in her ear. Her orgasm flooded over her, the force of it making her body tremble. His cock pulled out, her body convulsing as a mixture of squirt and cum fell from her slit, soaking his stomach. He reinserted, his hand cupping the back of her neck.

“So good,” he moaned, chasing his own release, “so sexy, so beautiful,”

With one final thrust, he spilled into her. He moaned into her neck, keeping her flush against him. Everything quieted. The buzz. The static. All of it fell from its crescendo. Their breaths filled the room, the soft, sticky sounds of their bodies coming undone flickering in and out.

“I love you,” Joe murmured. His hands cupped her face, his eyes boring into hers. He wanted her to see it, to feel it. He needed her to. That despite their argument, he’d always love her.

“I love you,” she whispered. Their lips met, soft and gentle. Their skin still pressed against each other, hearts beating in sync. His hands pushed hair out of her face as his lips moved in gentle rhythm with hers.

“I’m sorry for yelling, and I do forgive you for not making it,” he murmured once he pulled away.

“It’s okay,” she sighed, melting against his skin. His fingers traced patterns on her back, each touch, each pattern soothing and bringing her down. They grounded each other, kept each other sane.

Moments passed. Bodies shifted. The two of them ended up in her bed, limbs tangled together. She laid on his chest, drawing shapes while his fingers curled into her hair. They didn’t need to say words. Their bodies spoke for them. Warm and soft. Satisfied with their lovemaking. Satisfied with each other. That’s all they’d ever need.

It’s 8:43 in the morning and Lando’s standing frozen in your doorway like he’s just discovered the eighth wonder of the world.

You’re completely hidden under your duvet. Like, completely. Head, hair, ears, everything—except for the tiny tip of your nose poking out on the side like a little periscope.

The rest of you? Absolutely encased in blanket. Mummified. Like a cryptid in hibernation.

Lando stares. Blinks once. And immediately starts laughing.

“What is that?” he whispers to himself, voice cracking from holding back. “Is it… is it breathing?”

He takes a cautious step closer to your bed, still clutching the mug of coffee he went to make while you were asleep. Your room is quiet. Soft morning light filters in. The only sign of life is your nose, barely moving with each sleepy exhale.

“Oh my god,” he whispers again, and sets the coffee down before he drops it. “It’s just a nose. It’s literally just a nose.”

You shift slightly under the covers, just enough to twitch the blanket.

Lando gasps—like you’re a mythical being and he’s just seen it move.

“I’m sleeping,” you croak, voice muffled by several inches of cotton.

“Are you?” he says, grin wide. “Because all I see is a nose. A single, suspicious little nose. Is it attached to a person? Unknown.”

You groan and burrow deeper.

“Stop.”

He kneels beside the bed like he’s examining rare wildlife. “Is this… a defense mechanism? Like a turtle? Is this a new human subspecies? Blanketus Maximus?”

You let out a half-snort, half-laugh from under the duvet, despite yourself.

“I do this every time I sleep, Lando,” you mumble.

“Yeah, but I’ve never seen it in its natural habitat,” he says. “This is so much better than I imagined.”

“You imagined it?”

He shrugs. “You always say you like to be ‘cozy cozy burrito warm,’ but I thought that meant, like, wrapped up. Not full-on blanket cocoon with just the nose of truth poking out.”

He gently boops said nose.

You twitch away like a gremlin. “Rude.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “I just… I need to understand the science behind it. Is the nose out for ventilation? Like, you need one small breathing hole so you don’t overheat and die?”

“Exactly,” you mutter.

Lando sits back on his heels, stunned. “Wow.”

You finally peek your eyes out from the blanket, brows furrowed.

“What?”

“That’s adorable. Like. Stupidly adorable. I’m fighting for my life here.”

You duck back under with a loud sigh. “Stop making it weird.”

“You’re the one who sleeps like a secret agent avoiding infrared lasers.”

“You’re the one standing in my room monologuing to my nose.”

“I think I’m in love with it.”

You burst out laughing under the covers.

“Lando.”

“Y/n.”

“Go away.”

“I can’t. I’m emotionally attached now. You don’t understand. This nose? She’s my best friend.”

You peek one eye out again. “She?”

He nods solemnly. “She guided me through darkness. When all hope was lost, your little nose said: ‘breathe, Lando… there is light still.’”

You throw a pillow at him, which he catches midair like a smug little brat.

“You’re such a menace,” you say, grinning despite yourself.

He plops down next to your bed, resting his chin on his arms like he’s settling in to keep talking to you forever. His smile softens just a bit.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Stop flirting with my nose.”

“Never.”

You roll your eyes, then go quiet for a second.

Lando notices.

You break the silence first. “Most people made fun of it.”

He blinks. “What?”

“The blanket thing. Like. In sleepovers or trips. I’d always get called weird. Or dramatic. Someone would pull it off and I’d freak out. It’s not really a joke to me.”

Lando’s expression softens immediately. “Hey. I’m not making fun of you.”

“I know,” you say, voice quieter. “It just… it feels better when you say it’s cute. Even if you’re teasing.”

He nudges your shoulder through the blanket.

“I mean it, though. I’ve never seen anyone sleep like that, and now I don’t ever want to see you sleep not like that. It’s so you.”

You smile.

A beat of silence.

Then he adds, deadpan:

“I might get matching nose holes in my blanket. Solidarity.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“I’m just saying. Nose buddies.”

“Lando—”

“Let me in the burrito.”

You laugh so hard the blanket shifts completely off your face.

“Absolutely not.”

He grins wide. “One day. I’ll earn it.”

“You’ll need a nose pass.”

He taps his own nose. “Already got one.”

You shake your head, still laughing, still buried.

And Lando watches you, warmth blooming quietly in his chest, like maybe—just maybe—he already loves you a little more than he should.

⸻

It’s a week later when Lando makes his move.

You should’ve known he was planning something. He’s been weirdly quiet all evening, suspiciously well-behaved—not trying to steal your snacks, not playfully kicking your foot under the coffee table, not calling your hoodie “the world’s saddest blanket with sleeves.”

Which means, of course, that he’s plotting.

And that theory is confirmed when you’re halfway asleep in your bed, snug in your Certified Nose-Only Sleep Position™, and your door creaks open with the quiet menace of a horror movie.

You groggily lift the corner of your blanket. “What are you doing?”

Lando’s standing in the doorway in a hoodie three sizes too big and a mischievous glint in his eye.

“I come in peace,” he whispers.

“Do you?” you mumble suspiciously.

He holds up a fuzzy blanket of his own like it’s a peace offering.

“I’ve come to learn the ways of the burrito.”

You blink.

“…what?”

“I’m ready,” he says solemnly, stepping closer. “To be one of you.”

You squint at him. “You’re not serious.”

He’s already kicking off his socks and climbing onto the mattress beside you. “I brought my own blanket. I’m a respectful guest.”

“You’re invading sacred ground.”

“I’m here to apprentice under a master.”

You snort. “There are rules, Lando.”

“Teach me.”

“You’re not ready.”

“I am the blanket now.”

“Oh my god.”

But he’s already halfway under his own blanket, dramatically mimicking your sleeping style—pulling it over his head and leaving just his nose peeking out.

“Like this?” he muffles.

You pause.

Okay. It’s… weirdly cute.

The tip of his nose is all you can see, just barely sticking out from the fleece. He looks like some kind of cozy shark emerging from the depths.

“You’re not bad,” you admit. “But your nose is crooked.”

“Rude.”

“And it’s too far out. You’ll get chilly.”

“I need nose guidance, Sensei.”

You shift slightly and tug your own blanket tighter around your ears. “Okay. Rule one: full coverage. No hair, no eyebrows, no rogue ears. You are one with the blanket.”

“Got it,” he nods. “No stray limbs. Maximum burrito integrity.”

“Exactly.”

“Rule two?”

You hum. “Temperature regulation is key. Nose stays out. Just enough to breathe. No mouth.”

“I almost suffocated a minute ago.”

“That’s part of the training.”

“Holy sh—okay.”

He adjusts again. His blanket rustles as he wiggles into place, trying to match your form. You watch with a raised brow as he squirms, shifts, and eventually knocks a pillow off the bed.

“Is this a test of endurance or flexibility?” he asks through the muffled fabric.

“Both.”

He groans.

There’s a long pause, the kind of quiet that only exists when it’s late and soft and the room is dark and filled with the smell of shared comfort.

Then Lando breaks the silence.

“…I’m cold.”

“Because your nose is too far out.”

He peeks one eye at you. “Can I—can I come into your burrito?”

You go still.

For a second, you don’t say anything. Your heart jumps up into your throat and stays there, pulsing warm and nervous.

“…You want to be in my burrito?”

He nods seriously. “I’ve realized mine is inferior.”

“You’re the one who said you wanted your own.”

“I was cocky. I see that now.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s your blanket’s thread count?”

“I dunno. Soft?”

You shake your head slowly. “Disgraceful.”

“Please,” he begs. “Just five minutes in yours. Five. I won’t move. I won’t breathe loud. I’ll be respectful.”

You consider. He’s already halfway leaning toward you, face still mostly hidden, eyes wide with exaggerated innocence.

You sigh. “Fine. But if you move too much, you’re banished.”

He salutes you, then immediately slithers under your blanket like a man on a mission.

There is zero grace. He drags half the duvet off you in the process, elbows you in the side, and nearly faceplants into your pillow.

“Lando—!”

“Sorry! Sorry! I’m adjusting! I’m aligning my soul!”

Eventually, he settles. He’s awkwardly squished up beside you now, both of you facing the same direction, noses barely peeking out, sharing the same warm space.

He exhales slowly.

“…Wow.”

You blink, trying not to focus on how close he is. His foot brushes yours. You don’t move it away.

“Yeah?”

“I get it now,” he whispers. “This is the peak human experience.”

“Told you.”

“You’re warm.”

“You’re squishing my shoulder.”

He pulls back half an inch. “Better?”

You nod.

A few seconds pass.

“…You smell nice,” he mumbles, quieter.

Your breath catches.

You want to say something back—anything—but your throat’s suddenly too tight.

Instead, you just shift slightly closer, the tiniest lean, until your forehead brushes against his.

He doesn’t move away.

“Thanks for letting me in,” he whispers.

“…You’re not so bad, for a burrito rookie.”

He chuckles. “Don’t fall in love with me in here.”

You scoff. “Too late.”

He goes quiet.

Your heart stumbles.

And then—

“Me too.”

⸻

It happens again.

And again.

The first time, you think it’s a fluke. He stays the night, claims it was too late to drive home, and you catch him quietly sneaking back under your blanket burrito at 2 a.m. like a gremlin in socks.

The second time, he doesn’t even bring his own blanket.

“Not gonna pretend anymore,” he says casually, holding a bag of snacks in one hand and his phone in the other. “I’m joining yours. Make room.”

You try to act annoyed. You really do. But your heart’s already thumping at the sound of his voice. You only huff and roll over, lifting a corner of the blanket without saying a word.

Lando grins the whole way in.

It becomes a thing. A routine.

You don’t even talk about it anymore. He’ll show up late, hoodie loose, socks mismatched, and just give you that look—the one that means, scoot over, I’m cold, I come in peace. And without thinking, you do. You always do.

Sometimes, he pretends to take it seriously.

He’ll solemnly ask, “Are you ready to guide me once again, Master Burrito?”

And you’ll nod with mock gravity. “Only if you bring offerings.”

He hands you a cookie and calls it a sacred rite.

Sometimes you laugh so hard you knock heads and both yelp like children.

Other nights, you’re quiet. You don’t need to talk. He just curls around you, forehead to your shoulder, legs a little tangled, noses peeking out like two conspirators under one roof of warmth.

And somewhere in the space between “just friends” and “definitely something else,” you start to crave the silence. The closeness. The way he always fits just right under your blanket like he was always meant to.

But you never talk about that part.

Until the fourth night he stays over.

You’re both under the burrito—your burrito, obviously—and watching a movie on your ipad, screen dimmed, faces inches apart. It’s late. You’ve both stopped pretending to care about the plot. The screen plays on, but neither of you are watching it.

You feel Lando shift a little.

His nose brushes yours.

You freeze.

So does he.

“…Was that part of the sacred ritual?” he whispers, voice barely audible.

Your breath hitches. “Might be.”

“I think I’m ready for the next level, then.”

You turn your head slightly, not quite meeting his eyes. “There’s only one more level.”

“What is it?”

“…You stop pretending it’s a joke.”

The silence is thick now. You can hear your heart. You can feel his.

Lando exhales, slow and unsteady.

“I’m not pretending,” he says softly.

Your stomach flips.

You turn your face fully to his. You’re still hidden under the blanket, your noses still the only thing exposed, but now you’re nose-to-nose. Barely a breath of air between you.

“You’re not?” you whisper.

He shakes his head the tiniest bit. “Not even a little.”

You blink once. Then twice.

And then—

He leans in.

It’s not a kiss, not really. It’s the promise of one. A brush of his nose against yours. A press of his forehead to yours. The way his hand finds yours under the blanket and gently, so gently, twines your fingers together.

You don’t move away.

You don’t want to.

“You make it hard to sleep,” you murmur.

He smiles. “You make it hard to leave.”

You let yourself tuck into him, pulling the blanket tighter around you both.

“You’re staying?”

“I’m never leaving,” he whispers into your hair.

And for the first time, you believe him.

⸻

The morning after is a gentle kind of chaos.

You wake up to the soft glow of sunlight seeping through the blinds, your face buried in the warm, comforting space where Lando’s chest meets your cheek. The blanket is still over both of you, and somehow, it’s stayed intact through the night, a fortress of warmth. His hand is still loosely holding yours, the skin of his fingers cool against yours in the early morning.

For a moment, you think you’re dreaming. That the whole night was just some product of your imagination. The way his thumb gently brushes over the back of your hand, the quiet rise and fall of his chest beneath your ear.

But no. He’s here. You’re here.

You stir slightly, trying to shift without disturbing him, but the movement wakes him up anyway.

Lando groans softly, the sound muffled by the blanket. “Morning,” he mumbles, voice rough from sleep.

“Morning,” you reply quietly, still half-dazed, unsure of what to do. You’re tangled in the blankets, in his arms, in the soft, fuzzy warmth of this moment. Is this real? you think.

His eyes flutter open, bleary and slow, before they meet yours. He blinks a few times like he’s not sure if this is real either, but then his lips curl into a sleepy smile.

“Hi,” he says, like he hasn’t seen you in a thousand years, even though you’re right here, inches apart.

“Hi,” you reply, unsure whether you want to laugh or stay quiet. 

What now?

His hand moves up to your cheek, fingers brushing your skin as if testing the waters. It’s light, hesitant. But it feels like a promise in the way he holds your gaze.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asks, still not quite pulling away, still close enough that the proximity feels dangerous but comfortable.

You nod. “Yeah, surprisingly.” Then you add with a teasing smile, “You’re not so bad to sleep with.”

He grins, his eyes lighting up. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Before you can reply, there’s a loud noise from the other side of the room.

“Y/n! You up yet?” A voice shouts from the doorway, too cheerful for this early hour.

You both freeze.

Lando’s expression shifts to pure panic, his eyes wide as he slowly pulls his hand away from your face. “Shit, Carlos.” 

You sit up in a hurry, yanking the blanket further up around you like it could somehow protect you both from whatever is about to happen.

The door swings open, and Carlos’ head pokes around the frame, his eyes immediately landing on you and Lando, still tangled in the blanket, clearly a bit too close for comfort. His eyebrows shoot up, then fall into a dramatic frown.

“Uh-huh…” he says slowly, as if analyzing the scene. “So, this is what’s been happening under my roof?”

“We share rent for god’s sake, Carlos!” You say while rubbing your eyes with both of your palms.

“Carlos!” Lando exclaims, his voice pitchy in panic as he scrambles to sit up, his hands trying to straighten his messy hair. “We were just—”

“You were just, huh?” Carlos interrupts, a smirk curling at the corners of his mouth. “How’s that blanket burrito working out for you?”

You’re blushing now, the embarrassment flooding your cheeks like a tide. “We—we were just sleeping?” you reply, fumbling for something to explain the situation that makes it sound less… weird.

“Sure,” Carlos says, rolling his eyes. “Looks like the burrito’s a little too cozy for just sleeping, huh?” He gives Lando a teasing look, his smirk only growing. “Well, I’m glad to see my friend is finally learning how to share his blankets.”

Lando glares at him, trying to make himself presentable. “Carlos, seriously, can you not?”

“Fine, fine, I’m going,” Carlos says, his grin never fading. “But next time, try to keep it under wraps a little better, yeah?”

With that, he pulls his head back through the door, leaving the two of you in stunned silence.

Lando lets out a breath, half-relieved, half-embarrassed. “I’m sorry. He’s just—he’s just teasing me.”

You laugh softly, the tension finally breaking. “It’s fine. Honestly, it’s not like he doesn’t know what’s going on. I just… didn’t expect him to barge in like that, he never does.”

“Yeah, well, you get used to it.” Lando’s smile is lopsided, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “So, uh, should we talk about what happened last night?”

You blink at him, a mixture of hesitation and curiosity swirling in your chest. “What do you mean?”

He shifts closer again, his tone suddenly more serious, more vulnerable. “I mean, we kinda got… close, didn’t we? In more ways than one.”

You nod slowly, unsure of how to put into words the mess of emotions that’s slowly growing inside you. “Yeah. We did.”

The quiet between you both feels heavy now, like it’s asking for something more.

Lando clears his throat. “So… um, I don’t know what that means for us. But I want to figure it out. If you do, too.”

His eyes search yours for any sign of uncertainty, but all you see is sincerity. And maybe something more.

You take a deep breath. “I think I want to figure it out, too.”

The smile that breaks across Lando’s face is enough to make your heart do a funny little flip in your chest. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You let out a quiet laugh. “But you’re not getting any more blanket space unless you stop teasing me.”

“Deal,” he says, leaning in again, this time with more purpose, more certainty in his movements.

And this time, you let him. This time, when his lips brush against your forehead, you feel the warmth spread through you like wildfire.

“Just know,” Lando says softly, still close, “that this is only the beginning, okay?”

You can’t help but smile. “I’m counting on it.”

The two of you settle back into the blankets, the world outside fading into the background as you both stay wrapped in your little cocoon, a place where no one else can intrude. And maybe, just maybe, this is the start of something more than either of you expected.

Until you hear a pan dropping to the floor in the kitchen, echoing through the whole apartment.

“Carlos!” You and Lando groan at the same time, and after a beat of silence, burst out laughing.

God, how you love this.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

You felt it before you saw him — that pull. Like the room shifted ever so slightly to accommodate him. The hairs on your neck rose, sharp and alert, trained to recognize his presence even after everything. Especially after everything.

You turned.

And there he was.

Oscar fucking Piastri.

He was leaning against the opposite side of the bar like he hadn’t ruined you in a hotel room a month ago and vanished like he hadn’t kissed your throat like it meant something.

Black dress shirt, sleeves casually pushed up to his elbows, a few buttons undone — enough to expose the sharp line of his collarbone. He looked clean, but not untouched. Eyes dark. Jaw tight.

He was looking right at you. eyes on you like he hadn’t almost just thrown a career out the window for you a month ago.

Like you were inevitable.

You scoffed under your breath and turned away, lifting your glass again.

“Didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to show up,” you muttered, not sparing him a glance.

There was a pause. A single, loaded second. Then his voice — quiet, clipped, familiar in a way that ached like bruises you didn’t want to check for.

“Didn’t think you’d be here either.

But then again… you’ve never been great at staying gone.”

You rolled your eyes and raised your drink in a lazy, mocking toast.

“Aw. Still bitter I didn’t stay for breakfast?”

He moved before the glass even reached your lips — smooth, silent, suddenly beside you, like your proximity was inevitable. The smell of his cologne hit you first. Clean. Sharp. Too precise for someone who had once kissed you like he couldn’t get close enough, fingers digging into your skin like he was trying to memorize you.

“Still pretending it didn’t mean anything?” he said, voice low. Just for you.

You smiled without warmth. Didn’t even look at him.

“Still pretending you didn’t like it?”

You felt it — that tiny flicker in his jaw. A twitch. Nothing most people would notice. But you did.

You always noticed.

“You're switching up now? You said no strings,” he bit out.

“And you said just once.”

Finally, you turned to him. Met his eyes.

They didn’t look away. Neither did yours.

Seconds passed. The silence stretched and settled between you like smoke curling off a lit match.

“You look good,” he said eventually. Voice quieter this time. Like a truth slipping out against his will.

You tilted your head, letting your lips curl.

“And you look like you’re still trying to convince yourself I was a mistake.”

“You were.”

It was meant to hurt. And it almost did.

You smiled instead — something sharp and dangerous.

“So why are you still staring at my mouth like that, pretty boy?”

That shut him up.

His tongue slid slow across his bottom lip, gaze falling for half a second — exactly where you knew it would.

You stepped in just slightly. Enough for the tension to thicken. Still not touching.

“You came here to forget me?” you whispered.

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

“I came here to remind myself.”

“Of what?”

“Why I shouldn’t want you.”

Your smile turned crueler. Prettier.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But you could feel it.

That barely contained thing between you — want, resentment, need.

Like both of you were daring the other to break first.

You leaned in, close enough that your shoulder brushed his chest, slow and deliberate as you grabbed your clutch from the bar.

“You still play pretend real well,” you said, softly, as you turned your back to him. “But I see right through you.”

You didn’t wait for a response.

You walked away — hips swaying, heels sharp on the marble — knowing he was still standing there, eyes burning into your back.

...

The camera clicked like a heartbeat, fast and deliberate, and the lights pulsed hot against your skin.

You didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

You didn’t have to. Not when you were in front of a lens. You’d mastered this years ago — the art of control, of looking straight into a camera like you could ruin someone with just a glance. And you often did.

“Beautiful. Hold it—perfect. Chin up. Eyes on me—yes. That’s the one.”

You shifted slightly, jaw tilted, mouth parted just enough. Another click. Another pose. Another perfectly rehearsed expression that would end up plastered on a billboard in Milan or New York or Monaco — maybe all three.

Your stylist stepped in to adjust the collar of your oversized blazer, smoothing the silk lapel. Hair and makeup hovered nearby, watching every strand, every smudge.

But you didn’t break. You didn’t drop character.

Not until the photographer finally said, “That’s a wrap, love. You killed it.”

You let your shoulders drop slightly — the smallest release of tension — and stepped back from the set, the bright light fading behind you.

“You always make it look so easy,” one of the assistants murmured as she handed you a bottle of water.

You gave a quiet, tired smile. “It is.” Not cocky. Just true.

You pulled your phone from the dressing table as you sat down, flipping through a few texts, ignoring most of them — PR messages, another designer asking if you’d walk their show, and a photographer begging for another campaign.

And then your screen lit up.

[CALL INCOMING: N/n 🩶]

You raised an eyebrow. Lexi never called.

You swiped up. “What’s up?”

“Are you sitting down?” she said instantly, her voice practically buzzing.

You looked around. “N/n, I’m literally in full glam with a six-person team around me. Yes, I’m sitting. What happened?”

“You’re gonna love this. Or hate this. Or both.”

“N/n—”

“Oscar just signed with IMG Models.”

You blinked. “…What?”

“Yeah. Like your agency. As in, the one you’re the face of. As in, your team now works with him too.”

“You’re joking.”

“I wish I was. But nope. My manager just texted. Apparently it’s part of a whole ‘new talent crossover’ thing they’re doing — more athletes, more faces, more ‘modern masculinity’ or whatever.”

You leaned back in the chair, jaw tight.

Oscar. Here. Now?

In your world? Your space? Your territory?

“Did he ask for it?” you asked quietly.

Lexi paused. “…I don’t know. But it’s official. He’s one of you now.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

You stared at your reflection in the dressing room mirror — red lipstick still flawless, eyes still sharp, hair still perfect.

And for the first time in a while, your heartbeat ticked up just slightly.

Oscar Piastri.

“Oh,” you murmured, voice cool as glass, “this should be fun.”

...

The conference room smelled like citrus water and damage control. You were still in full glam, post-campaign shoot, long legs crossed in your seat at the head of the table like you owned the place — because honestly, you kind of did.

Your manager sat beside you. IMG's brand PR sat across from you, grinning too much for it to be good news.

“So,” the PR girl started, all polished teeth and tone, “you know how the internet is. They’ve been… spiraling lately.”

You raised a perfectly shaped brow. “About?”

“You and Oscar.”

That earned a pause. Not because it surprised you — the rumors had never fully gone away. Pictures. Sightings. A few blurry shots of you leaving a hotel at the wrong hour. Someonecatching you two talking in a hallway but your face wasn't visible.

Nothing ever confirmed.

Nothing ever denied.

Just enough to keep the internet guessing.

“We haven’t commented on anything,” your manager said evenly.

“Exactly,” PR Girl chirped. “Which is perfect. It’s all so mysterious, and no one knows what’s true or what’s fake. So we figured… why not lean in?”

You blinked. “Lean in.”

“Just a little! Lightly! In a fun way! You two already broke the internet without trying. So we’re thinking… shoot together. Just one. Minimal press. Something cheeky. Like, 'Look! The rumors were silly and here we are just being hot together for fun!'”

You stared at her.

“You want us to shoot together so people stop thinking we’re involved?”

“Yes! Exactly! Like reverse psychology. Play into it so they stop believing it.”

You had to bite back a laugh.

If only she knew.

“And you think that’ll work?”

“Totally! It’ll be iconic. A moment. The whole internet will be like, 'wait, are they or aren’t they?'”

You tilted your head. Thought for a second. Then:

“And he said yes?”

The PR rep faltered. “We… haven’t asked him yet.”

You hummed, looking out the window. The LA skyline was washed in golden-hour light. It should’ve felt calm. It didn’t.

He was the last person you wanted to be in front of a camera with.

Because you knew what would happen.

The tension. The sparks. The way he’d look at you like he still remembered the way you tasted.

The way you’d look back.

You swirled the condensation on your water glass with a finger.

“I’ll do it,” you said finally, cool and unreadable, “if he does.”

“So like… if he says yes…?”

You turned back to her with a small smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

“So Oscar,” the agent across from him said, grinning a little too brightly. “We wanted to bring something to you — low-pressure, totally optional.”

“Okay…”

“You’ve probably seen the rumors. Online. About you and Yn.”

Oscar didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Just held their gaze, neutral.

“Right.”

“Well, obviously we’ve never confirmed anything. But the buzz is still insane — the engagement, the edits, the conspiracy-level breakdowns of your paddock interactions—”

“People get bored,” he said flatly. “They’ll move on.”

“Sure, sure. But while the attention’s there, we thought… why not have fun with it?”

Oscar didn’t say anything.

So the agent leaned forward a little, hands clasped like they were pitching something harmless.

“One shoot. With her. Just something cheeky and clean — like, ‘this is all a joke, right?’ Sort of playing into it without confirming anything. Everyone wins. You look good. She looks good. The internet dies for a week. Boom.”

Oscar’s throat was dry. Not that he’d let it show.

She was here.

She was still in this building. Maybe down the hall.

He hadn’t seen her in weeks. Not since that night. Not since the afterparty where she looked at him like she wanted to bite and kiss him all at once. Not since she walked away with his name still caught between her teeth.

“She agreed to this?” he asked, voice cool.

“Only if you say yes.”

Silence.

He exhaled once. A single breath through his nose. Short.

He thought about the last time they were in front of a camera — not for work. Just someone catching them in the background of something. The grainy footage, the way her hand curled into his hoodie. The way she was laughing. The way he was looking at her like the world had quieted.

He thought about the fact she didn’t deny anything.

He thought about the fact he hadn’t, either.

Oscar shifted slightly, leaned forward.

“I’m in."

The agent blinked. “Just like that?”

He nodded once. No emotion. Like it meant nothing.

“If she’s in, I’m in.”

...

The studio was quiet when you walked in — sterile, cold, bathed in soft white lights and humming equipment. Stylists buzzed around, photographers adjusted angles, assistants clutched mood boards with references taped to the corners.

You walked like you owned the floor.

Because you did.

Outfit number one was sleek — Grey dress pants with matching shirt, Dark dirty Green leather Coat. You didn’t say a word as you stepped up to the monitor to glance at the set. The background was minimal. Industrial. Clean. Deliberate.

He was already there.

Oscar stood to the side, mid-conversation with the creative director, dressed down in all black of ysl's new collection — wide-legged trousers, a fitted white shirt with a dark blaser. Hair slightly messy like someone had styled it to look like he just rolled out of bed.

Which, to be fair, was exactly how he used to look when he was in yours.

He didn’t turn. But he felt you. The moment your heels hit the floor. His shoulders stiffened just a little — subtle — but enough. You caught it.

You always caught it.

“We’ll start with spacing,” the director said. “Some tension. Back-to-back maybe. Then we’ll play with angles, bring you closer. We’re thinking like… casual intimacy but with bite. Like you don’t trust each other but you’re obsessed.”

You smiled slightly.

“Typecasting,” you murmured.

Oscar didn’t look at you. But his mouth twitched.

The first few shots were simple.

Back-to-back. Arms crossed.

A little distance between you.

“Closer,” the photographer said. “Look at the camera.”

You obeyed. Head high. Eyes cold. You felt Oscar shift behind you, shoulder brushing yours. Heat bloomed in your spine.

“Now turn toward each other — not facing. Just slight. Like you’re mid-argument.”

You turned. So did he.

And for the first time in weeks, you were face to face.

His eyes dropped to your mouth, just for a second. You noticed. You didn’t move.

“Don’t look at each other,” the assistant said quickly. “Look slightly off. More… detached.”

But neither of you listened.

“Shouldn’t have said yes to this,” you muttered under your breath.

Oscar’s voice was even lower.

“You told them you would if I did.”

“Didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

“You always underestimate me.”

“You always follow me.”

He didn’t answer that.

“Alright,” the photographer said, oblivious, “now we want him behind you — just slightly. Hand on her waist. She’s leaning back like she doesn’t care.”

You turned your head slowly. Raised a brow.

Oscar’s jaw clenched. He stepped into position.

His hand found your waist.

It was nothing. Light. Professional.

But your skin remembered.

And from the way his fingers flexed — so did his.

“Relax,” you whispered, not looking at him.

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

“Neither are you.”

The next few shots blurred.

Touch. No touch. Closer. Shoulder grazing chest. His breath at your ear. Your lips parted just slightly — and not for the camera.

The room was full. But it felt empty. Just you. Just him. Just the version of this moment you lived through before, without the lenses and the stage lights.

“Alright,” the director said, more excited now. “Last few. Real close.”

You turned to face him. Oscar’s eyes didn’t blink.

Your hands lifted — one at his chest. Just barely there.

“You’re good at pretending,” you murmured.

“So are you.”

“Is that what this is? Acting?”

Oscar didn’t smile. Didn’t breathe. His voice was low.

“You tell me.”

The shutter clicked.

...

You arrived just before Quali — early enough to be seen, late enough to be talked about.

McLaren staff were already buzzing around the paddock like clockwork, drivers in and out of press pens, team radios crackling in the background. And then there was you — stepping through the McLaren hospitality entrance like it was a runway.

White trousers. Cropped black top. Hair effortless. Sunglasses sharp. The lanyard around your neck glinted in the sun:

IMG MODELS — GUEST OF MCLAREN

The cameras caught you immediately.

So did the fans behind the barricades.

You paused just long enough to smile politely, wave once, let someone snap a photo of you beside the papaya-colored car parked outside the garage. Casual. Easy. The kind of effortless presence people couldn’t look away from.

Inside, the PR girl from IMG smiled like this was all going according to plan.

“We’ll do a few photos by the car, then if you’re down, maybe say hi to Lando — he’s always good with guests. You can hang back for a bit if you want, no pressure.”

“No problem,” you replied, voice calm, already scanning the garage.

Oscar wasn’t there.

You took the offered spot beside the car, one hand on the halo, your other slipping into your pocket. You smiled — just slightly — as a photographer clicked a few shots for socials.

“Can I post one?” the comms guy asked.

“Go ahead,” you said. “Tag my agency, not me.”

You walked inside a moment later — greeted warmly by a few team members, all of whom looked a little too excited, a little too rehearsed. The kind of welcome that said we’re pretending this is casual but nothing about this is casual.

That’s when Lando spotted you.

He grinned, pulled his sunglasses up, and crossed the garage.

“Well, well. What a surprise,” he said, arms open in mock drama. “We’re letting the runway elite into the garage now?”

You smirked. “Didn’t realize this place had a dress code.”

“It doesn’t,” he said, giving you a quick hug. “But you might’ve just set one.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the smile.

“How long are you here?” he asked, leaning casually against a tire stack. “Just today?”

“Weekend. IMG wanted me to ‘soft tease’ the campaign. Whatever that means.”

“Oh, it means chaos,” Lando said, grinning. “It means half the grid is going to start pretending they’ve been fans of yours for years.”

“What about you?”

He shrugged. “I’m still recovering from seeing the unedited shots on the agency drive.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

A few team staff came over, asking politely if you’d mind taking another photo — this time with the McLaren banner. You posed effortlessly, answered one or two questions from the embedded F1 media, and slipped right back into your “guest mode” posture.

Polished. Beautiful. Untouchable.

Just like a normal celebrity.

And yet…

Every few minutes, someone stole a glance toward the entrance.

Waiting.

Oscar stepped into the McLaren garage like he always did on race weekends — focused, quiet, sleeves half-zipped, fireproof top clinging to his frame. The headset around his neck bounced gently as he walked past the engineers, nodding at a few familiar faces.

He was mid-step when he saw her.

You.

Leaning against the back wall near the monitors, sunglasses pushed to the top of your head, chatting lightly with Lando like you didn’t just make the entire internet combust by showing up. One of your hands casually held a cold drink, the other gesturing mid-sentence.

Oscar paused. Just for a second.

Barely noticeable.

But she noticed.

Of course you did.

Your gaze flicked toward him, unreadable behind perfect lashes, then back to Lando, as if you hadn’t seen him at all.

As if you hadn’t touched his waist last week like it still belonged to you.

As if his hand hadn’t lingered just long enough to hurt.

He exhaled and kept walking.

“Oscar! Can I grab you for a sec?” a staffer called. “Driver brief’s ready.”

“Be right there,” he said, slipping past the tire stack—just close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours.

Neither of you spoke.

The silence burned.

Then—of course—the one person who had no idea what they were interrupting appeared.

“Hey hey!” chirped the McLaren content admin. Early 20s. Bright smile. Dangerous energy. “Can I get a quick photo of you two for the team page?”

Oscar froze. You blinked.

Lando visibly smirked and stepped back like he wanted no part of it.

“Just one shot!” the admin said, holding up their phone already. “The fans are gonna lose it —We’d be dumb not to.”

Oscar glanced at you. You looked at him.

Brief. Electric. Painfully awkward.

“Sure,” you said first, already adjusting your stance.

You stepped beside him, not too close, but not far enough to make it weird.

Your hands fell to your sides.

His stayed tucked into his race suit.

Then — right before the shutter clicked — you turned slightly, threw up a peace sign, and scrunched up your face in a little ironic ‘please end me’ kind of smile.

Oscar huffed out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sigh.

“Perfect,” the admin beamed. “Thanks, guys!”

You stepped away instantly, already reaching for your water bottle like nothing happened.

Oscar opened his mouth to say something — maybe — but before a word could come out, the speakers in the garage crackled to life.

“Green light at the end of the pit lane. Qualifying begins now.”

And just like that, he was being pulled back into the chaos — helmet in hand, engineers swarming, mechanics giving final checks.

He looked back once.

You were watching the monitors now. Calm. Still. Untouched.

...

Race day

The sun was blinding.

The crowd roared so loud it felt like the concrete shook under your heels.

And somewhere through all of it — the orange of the team uniforms, the headsets and the champagne on ice — you heard someone yell:

“He’s done it!

Piastri wins the Grand Prix!

What a drive from the Aussie!”

Your stomach dropped before your heart could catch up.

You hadn’t planned on being this close to the garage. Hadn’t planned on watching that closely. But the moment the checkered flag waved, the moment Oscar laughed across the radio, the moment his engineer shouted “That’s P1, baby!” — you couldn’t look away.

The McLaren team erupted around you.

People yelling, hugging, jumping, crying.

Then the screens changed.

His car pulled into parc fermé.

Helmet off. Eyes wild. Grinning like a boy again.

Hair messy. Sweat dripping.

And then he looked straight into the camera.

Dead center.

Through the lens. Through the monitor. Through you. Your breath caught.

Because somehow, you knew. He wasn’t just looking at the camera.

He was looking at you.

He pumped a victory fist in the air.

...

It took time — too much time — for the garage to empty.

For the cameras to pack up. For the champagne to stop flowing.

For the celebration to finally, finally fade.

But when it did, you slipped away. Quietly.

To the back corridor — the one behind the media room, where the fluorescent lights buzzed softly and no one ever bothered to look.

You leaned against the wall.

Eyes closed.

Pulse still steady from the chaos.

And then —

you heard him.

Before you could open your eyes, he was there.

Oscar’s arms slid around your waist, firm and quiet, and his face dropped into the curve of your neck like he was trying to remember how it felt to breathe.

His lips brushed the skin just below your jaw.

Not a kiss. Not quite.

But close enough.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

“Come with me,” he said, voice hoarse. Low. Wrecked.

Your breath hitched.

“Oscar—”

“At mine,” he said, softer now. Like if he said it any louder, he’d break.

You pulled back just slightly, just enough to look at him.

His face was flushed, eyes still bright with adrenaline. Hair messy. He looked exhausted. Raw. Real.

“You just won a race,” you raised a brow. “You should be celebrating.”

His hand tightened against your waist.

“I don’t want to celebrate,” he said, eyes on yours. “I want you.”

The words hit you square in the chest.

You searched his face, looked for the tell — the mask, the smirk, the dismissal.

But it wasn’t there.

Not this time.

Still, he added:

“Just tonight.”

You laughed once — sharp, soft, broken.

“It’s never just anything with us, Oscar.”

His jaw clenched. His hand moved to the side of your neck. His thumb dragged across your skin like he was trying to memorize it.

“Then lie to me,” he whispered.

“Please. Just this once.”

You stared at him for one long, aching second.

Then you nodded.

And let him lead you out the side door.

No words. No cameras. No headlines.

Just him. And you.

And every lie you both wanted so badly to believe.

...

The door slammed shut behind you.

You didn’t even get a full breath in before Oscar’s mouth was on yours — fast, desperate, no hesitation. His hands gripped your waist, tugging you forward, like he couldn’t stand another second of space between you.

“Oscar—” you gasped against his lips, but he didn’t let you finish.

He kissed you harder. Like an answer. Like a plea.

Your back hit the wall, cool paint against overheated skin, and his mouth broke from yours just long enough to breathe against your neck — hot, open-mouthed, hungry.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about this,” he muttered, voice low and wrecked.

“All day. The podium, the cameras—you.”

You pulled his shirt up, nails dragging along his spine, and he groaned into your shoulder, teeth grazing the skin just above your collarbone.

“You said just tonight,” you whispered, head tipped back. “You lied.”

He nodded once against your skin. Didn’t even try to deny it.

His hands slid under your top, fingers splaying across your stomach like he was relearning you.

“You’re not mine,” he said quietly. “But fuck—you feel like you are.”

Your lips found his again, fiercer now. Like punishment. Like surrender.

The jacket you wore dropped to the floor.

Shoes kicked off. His shirt peeled over his head. You didn’t remember who undressed first, only that it wasn’t fast enough.

“This means nothing,” he muttered, breath shattering across your collarbone.

“Then stop touching me like it does,” you shot back, hand tangled in his hair.

He pushed you harder against the wall.

Didn’t stop.

Your back hit the wall again, and this time, Oscar dropped to his knees.

There was no warning. No teasing. Just the sound of his breath catching as his hands pushed your pants down and his mouth followed — fast, greedy, desperate.

“You’ve been driving me insane,” he murmured against your skin, voice so low it vibrated.

“Wearing that smug little peace sign smile in the garage like you didn’t know what you were doing to me.”

You laughed — breathless — and threaded your fingers into his hair.

“You won a race,” you whispered. “You should be celebrating.”

He looked up at you through thick lashes, lips already parted.

“I am.”

And then — nothing but tongue and teeth and heat. Wrapping his pretty mouth around you, ge dove right in, didn't bother starting slow, he knew you hated easing into it.

You gasped, legs trembling, one hand braced on the wall behind you, the other buried in his curls. He held your thighs like he was anchoring himself there, groaning low in his throat every time you shifted your hips toward his mouth. Following your movement so you rubbed on his nose, making your leg twitch.

It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t soft. It was craving.

He knew every spot.

Every sound.

Every way you tried not to fall apart.

And when you did — when your knees buckled and your breath stuttered out in a broken gasp —

he pulled away just enough to kiss the inside of your thigh like it was a secret.

Then he stood.

You were still dizzy when he caught your face in his hands, forehead pressed to yours.

“You always come back to me,” he said, so quiet it hurt.

“You always let me,” you breathed.

He kissed you again. Slower this time. Mouth open, deep, messy. You could taste yourself on his lips. You didn’t care.

You pulled his sweats down and palmed him through his boxers, making him hiss between clenched teeth.

“Don’t tease,” he muttered.

“You don’t get to beg and give me rules.”

“You think I’m begging?” he growled, backing you toward the kitchen.

You hit the counter edge. He spun you around.

“Oscar.”

“Tell me you didn’t think about this,” he said, pressing against you. His hand wrapped around your throat, gentle but firm, holding you still as he rutted his hips into you.

“Tell me you didn’t imagine it every night since that fucking shoot.”

You couldn’t speak.

“That’s what I thought.” he said, his grip tightening around your throat, breath hot against your ear, hips grinding into you like he was already inside.

But then—

Your hand came up fast and hard against his chest.

“Back off.”

Oscar froze. Shocked.

Just for a second.

You turned, your eyes locked on his, and then shoved him — hard — until his back hit the opposite edge of the kitchen counter.

“You think you can keep doing this,” you said, breath heavy, mouth swollen. “Push me up against every wall like I’m yours.”

His jaw clenched. His hands twitched at his sides.

“Aren’t you?”

Your laugh was dangerous.

You stepped closer.

Slow.

Hips swaying with calculated cruelty.

“You want control so badly,” you whispered, dragging your fingers across his chest, nails scratching just enough to make his breath hitch.

“But you look so fucking pretty when you let go.”

Before he could answer, your hand wrapped around his throat — firm, unrelenting. You pushed him further back until he was pinned, head tilted up, eyes dark and wide.

“Let me hear you beg for it, Piastri.”

His throat flexed beneath your fingers.

His lips parted — breathless, stunned, wrecked.

And then he smiled. Crooked. Dangerous.

“You’re a menace.”

“You like it.”

You kissed him — teeth clashing, lips bruising — and palmed him through his boxers again, this time slower, dragging every motion out like punishment.

He swore under his breath.

Your grip on his throat didn’t loosen.

“You gonna stop me?” you asked, nipping at his lower lip.

“No,” he breathed. “Don’t.”

You dropped to your knees.

He barely got a warning before you had him in your mouth — no teasing, no hesitation. Just taking him, deep and fast, until his head dropped back and one hand tangled helplessly in your hair.

“Fuck—” he gasped, already shaking.

You pulled back just enough to speak, lips slick, eyes burning up at him.

“Look at you,” you said, voice soaked in pride. “So fucking obedient.”

“I’m not,” he rasped.

You licked the tip, slow and mean. “Liar.”

Then you took him again, hand gripping his thigh to keep him where you wanted him. He was panting now, jaw clenched, trying not to fall apart too fast — trying to pretend like he was still in control.

But he wasn’t.

Not right now.

Not when you had him like this.

And when his stomach tensed, hips twitching, that broken noise slipping out of his mouth?

You stopped.

He nearly choked.

“What the—” he started, breathless, wrecked.

You stood. Pressed your body against his. Tugged his head back down to yours.

“You don’t get to come,” you whispered, lips brushing his. “Not until I say so.”

Your hands were already on his chest when you shoved him down onto the bed.

Oscar landed with a grunt, legs falling open, hair a mess, pupils blown. He tried to sit up, but you climbed on top before he could even breathe right.

“No,” you said, voice low, steady, already tugging your shirt off. “Stay down.”

He obeyed.

Of course he did.

You straddled his thighs, nails dragging across his stomach as you leaned forward. His hands skimmed your sides, up, up—

“Off,” he said, voice rasping. “Please.”

You raised a brow.

“My bra?”

He nodded. Just once.

You let him reach. His fingers fumbled with the clasp — too eager — and when it finally slipped off, he pushed the straps down slow, eyes locked on your chest like it was the only thing tethering him to Earth.

“Fuck,” he whispered, hands now splayed across your back, pulling you down until your breasts brushed his chest. “You’re unreal.”

“And you’re too cocky for someone about to whine into the mattress,” you smirked.

He opened his mouth — probably to deny it.

Too late.

You reached down, lined him up, and sank down in one long, slow motion that had both of you gasping.

His head hit the pillow.

His hands gripped your thighs, hard.

“Holy shit,” he choked out. “Fuck—wait—wait—”

“Nope,” you purred, rolling your hips slow. “You said you could take it.”

You didn’t give him a chance to adjust.

Didn’t let him settle.

You just moved — smooth, deliberate, pace building with each bounce of your hips, each grind of your body against his.

His hands scrambled for purchase — your waist, the sheets, your back.

But you were faster. Meaner.

You pinned them above his head.

“Hands off,” you whispered, breath hot in his ear. “Be good.”

He whined.

Oscar fucking Piastri whined.

His head twisted into the pillow, lips parted, voice caught in his throat as you rode him harder, deeper, rhythm dragging him toward the edge with no mercy.

“You look so pretty like this,” you said, licking across his jaw. “Under me. Useless.”

“I’m not—” he tried to argue, but you clenched around him and he groaned.

Back arching. Face twisting. Destroyed.

“What was that?” you teased. “Did you say something?”

He swore again. Loud this time.

“Please,” he rasped. “Let me—fuck—let me come, please—”

You tilted your head. Smiled.

“Beg better.”

“I need you,” he gasped, thighs shaking. “Please. Please, let me come. I can’t—I need to.”

You slowed your hips just slightly. Enough to make him twitch.

“Good boy,” you whispered. “Come for me.”

He did — hard, breath shattered, whole body tensing beneath you as he groaned your name like it was the only word he knew.

You didn’t give him a moment to catch his breath.

No time to recover. No pause for his body to stop shaking from the first round.

You wanted him just like this — trembling, desperate, wrecked.

And you didn’t let him get comfortable.

You shifted off him slowly, almost teasing, as he lay there, chest rising and falling in quick breaths, looking up at you like he was waiting for your next move.

His eyes were full of that cocky charm he always had, but you knew better. This wasn’t the same guy who’d walked in here all cool and confident.

He was about to get broken again.

You crawled back onto the bed, straddling his waist, and pressed your palms into his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your fingers.

“Ready for round two?” you asked, voice a smooth, low command.

Oscar’s lips parted, eyes already clouded with need. He reached up as if to grab you, but you slapped his hands away.

“No touching,” you warned. “You’ve had your turn. This time, you’re mine.”

He swallowed, eyes blazing, but he nodded.

You sank back down onto him, but this time, you moved even slower, feeling every inch of him stretch you, his body reacting to yours in ways that made your head spin. His hands fisted the sheets, knuckles white, holding himself back as you ground down, circling your hips in a way that made him throb inside you.

He gasped. “Fuck… you’re gonna kill me…”

You just smiled, leaning down to kiss him, slow and deep, forcing him to taste himself on your lips as you rocked your hips harder, quicker.

“You’re gonna have to beg for it again,” you whispered against his lips.

Oscar’s eyes went dark, the challenge flashing in his gaze. “Don’t make me.”

You bounced on him with deliberate rhythm — slow at first, then faster. Every movement had him groaning through clenched teeth, eyes squeezed shut like he was fighting himself just as hard as he was holding back.

You leaned down, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“You gonna be a good boy and ask nicely?”

He shook his head — a lie.

“I don’t beg, please—,” he rasped, barely above a whisper.

So you clenched around him.

Hard.

And dragged your hips slow — torturously slow.

Oscar gasped — sharp, shaky.

You grinned.

He writhed beneath you, chest heaving, fingers clawing the sheets like they could save him. You grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look up at you, all flushed and wrecked and undone.

“Come on,” you said sweetly. “You know the words.”

He blinked up at you, lips trembling.

And then—

“Please,” he breathed. “Please, let me come. I can’t take it—fuck—I need to, I swear—”

You moved harder.

“More.”

“Please, let me come—please, I’ve been good, I’ll do anything, just—fuck—please, please, I’ll say it, I’ll say anything—just let me come inside you, I need to, I can’t—please.”

It came out ragged. Broken. Honest.

Oscar Piastri: Begging. Whining. Falling apart.

For you.

You leaned down, mouth at his throat, licking the salt of his desperation.

“That’s it,” you whispered. “Good fucking boy.”

And then you gave it to him — fast, hard, rough — watching his face twist in relief and ruin as he came with a choked groan, your name all tangled in it.

He’s lying flat on his back, ruined.

His hair’s a mess — curls flattened in some places, wild in others from where your fingers tugged.

His face is flushed pink, deepening down his neck, collarbones slick with sweat.

There’s a faint bite mark on his shoulder.

Your lipstick smudged across his jaw like a claim.

His chest rises and falls fast — like he still hasn’t caught his breath.

There’s a vein in his throat you didn’t notice before, pulsing from how hard he tried to keep it together.

His lips? Red. Kiss-bruised. Slightly parted.

His tongue keeps darting out like he’s trying to swallow down a whimper.

One of his hands is still tangled in the sheets, knuckles white. The other’s resting on your thigh, thumb twitching.

He’s bare, completely open to you, eyes glassy and dark.

And he’s looking at you like he doesn’t know what the hell just happened —

but he’d beg for it all over again.

“You look smug,” he breathes, voice wrecked, eyes dragging down your body.

“You should.”

He tries to sit up. Can’t.

Falls back, groaning.

“You’ve actually broken me.”

You lean over him, and his fingers dig into your thigh like instinct — needy and helpless and still hard.

“You’re not done,” you whisper.

“Fuck.”

...

The room was still warm with the echo of everything they'd done.

Sheets rumpled. Breathless tension slowly cooling in the air.

But your body no longer ached.

Only your chest did.

You sat on the floor, back against the bed, Oscar’s shirt draped over you — sleeves too long, hem brushing your thighs. You didn’t bother buttoning it. Your cigarette burned low between your fingers, and the wind from the open balcony kissed your face in soft intervals.

Behind you, Oscar was half-covered in the sheets, one arm folded underneath his pillow, the other reaching toward the side you’d left empty again, staring at the wall like it had answers he couldn’t ask you for.

Then—

“...You can never give anything up, can you.”

You blinked, gaze fixed on the cigarette.

“What? The smoking?” you said with a light scoff. “Yeah, I know. I’m working on it.”

He didn’t respond.

You turned your head slightly. The silence behind you stretched too long.

And when he spoke again, his voice was lower. Tired.

“Not just that,” he said. “Everything.”

You frowned.

“Oscar—”

“This tension. Us. Your grudges. Your anger. You never let go of anything.”

His voice wasn’t cruel.

But it was honest.

Too honest.

“God forbid someone tells you something you don’t want to hear—suddenly everyone’s your enemy. Suddenly you disappear. Again.”

“Oscar, drop it.”

“No,” he snapped, sitting up. “I’m the angry one this time. I’m the one upset.”

You stood, crushing the cigarette into the ashtray.

“You don’t get to pull that shit—”

“Why not?” he cut in. “Because I’m not your fucking ex?”

You froze.

He stood too. The sheet dropped from his waist, but neither of you noticed anymore. Not with how loud the silence became.

“You know why you’re like this?” he said, stepping closer. “Because of him. Because of the way he twisted you into thinking love meant control. Meant silence. That letting someone take care of you was weakness.”

Your jaw clenched.

“Stop.”

“You survived him. You fought your way out. That’s fucking strength.”

You tried to walk past him. He blocked you.

“Oscar, I swear to God—”

“But you haven’t let go of the war. You still fight everyone who tries to get close.”

His hand reached for your arm — not to hurt, not to stop — but to hold.

To say I see you.

You yanked it away.

“Let. Me. In,” he pleaded, voice breaking. “Just once. Let me be gentle with you. Let me caress you.”

You snapped.

“No.”

The word hit the room like a slap.

“I don’t want soft,” you hissed. “I don’t want gentle. I don’t want to be fucking held and kissed and told it’s going to be okay like I’m some broken little thing you can glue back together.”

Oscar stared at you. Hurt blooming behind his eyes.

“That’s not what I see when I look at you.”

“No? Then what do you see?”

“Someone who’s still bleeding.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

The wind picked up. The curtain fluttered.

Your breathing was uneven, lips parted, hands curled into fists.

He stepped closer again — slower this time, cautious like you were wild and wounded.

“You don’t have to be like him,” he whispered. “With me, you don’t have to control every part of the room just to feel safe.”

The worst part wasn’t that he said it.

It was that he meant it.

“Just let me try.”

That sentence.

So small. So soft.

And it ripped through your chest like a blade.

You moved. Fast.

Faster than your breath.

You grabbed your underwear from the floor, stepping into it like it burned. The hem of his shirt slipped up, exposing the bruises blooming across your thighs — his fingerprints.

Oscar flinched.

“Wait—what are you doing?”

You didn’t answer. Just reached for your pants, pulling them on inside out first, cursing, ripping them off, and shoving them on again — the right way this time. Your hands were shaking so hard it took three tries to zip the fly.

“Hey—hey, talk to me,” he said, stepping off the bed, barefoot, voice climbing. “You don’t have to go. Just—just stop for a second.”

“No.”

You grabbed your bra. Snapped it on too tight. Didn’t care.

“I need to leave.”

“You’re not thinking straight—”

“No. You’re just used to me not thinking straight.”

You reached for your top, still wearing his shirt, and that’s when he reached for you — his hand around your wrist.

“Please.” His voice broke. “Just stay.”

You yanked away so hard it left a red mark.

“Don’t touch me right now.”

“Why not?” he snapped. “Because I’m the first person who ever told you the truth? Didn't make you believe a lie and fuck you after?”

You stopped dead.

Then turned slowly.

“Fuck. You.”

“You already did,” he bit back, pulling his own boxers on.

You pulled your own shirt over your head, too fast, nearly catching the collar on your chin. His shirt was left crumpled at your feet.

“You think I’m running?”

You grabbed your bag from the chair, slinging it over your shoulder.

“I’m fleeing, Oscar. There’s a difference.”

He followed you to the door.

“Then stay. Fight. For once, don’t bolt the second it gets real.”

“And do what?”

Your fingers fumbled with your bag. “Let you sit there with your soft hands and your kind words and—what—fix me?”

“I never said you were broken.”

You spun.

Now fully dressed. Fully armored. Fully pissed.

“Then stop looking at me like I am!”

He reached for you again, slower this time, both hands hovering like he was scared to touch.

Like you might shatter if he did.

You backed away like you might burn if he didn’t.

“You don’t have to prove anything, you know,” he said, softer.

You opened the door.

Paused.

Then slammed it shut behind you.

The echo of it bounced off his bare skin.

And all that was left was the scent of you. The sound of you.

And a shirt on the floor he couldn’t bring himself to pick up.

There was always someone new.

Models, influencers, heiresses, you’d seen them all. Blonde, brunette, redheads, tall, short, sultry, polished. Faces blurred together after a while, barely distinguishable from one another in the parade of photo ops and club exits. They came and went like pit stops momentary distractions before the real race resumed. They wore his hoodie for a week, posted cryptic captions with champagne emojis, and disappeared just as quickly. You knew the pattern. You watched it play out like clockwork.

Headlines followed him like smoke, inevitable, choking, impossible to ignore. Paparazzi shots of him slipping into back doors of nightclubs, lip-locked with someone who’d be labeled a “mystery woman” for twelve hours until internet sleuths figured it out. Tabloids loved him. “F1’s Wild Child.” “Heartbreaker Verstappen Strikes Again.” And he never denied it. Never corrected the record. In interviews he wore that playboy reputation like armour. Let them believe what they wanted. Flashed that sly, sideways grin and shrugged when asked about the girl from the weekend before.

“Just friends,” he’d say. Or, “I don’t remember,” with that maddening smirk that made people want to slap him or kiss him or both.

He walked into a room and the air changed. People noticed him. Women wanted him. Men envied him. He didn’t have to try, and maybe that was the most dangerous part he never had to try. He craved connection the same way he craved speed, intense and immediate, but never built to last.

He broke hearts without meaning to. Gave people memories they’d replay for years while he forgot their names. He wasn’t malicious. Just... restless. Always moving. Always wanting. Always leaving.

And still, people fell for him. Hard. Like you did.

Even when you swore you wouldn’t.

You saw it all up close in the shadows of his chaos, tucked just behind the cameras and the curated smiles. The one he called when things inevitably crashed and burned. When the sparkle wore off and the girls realised they were nothing more than another fleeting thrill. The one who waited outside hotel rooms, keys in hand, while he cleaned up another mistake with tired eyes and a muttered, “Can we go now?”

You knew the rhythm. You lived it. The cycle. The drama. The aftermath. You told yourself it didn’t hurt. That being the best friend was better than being temporary.

But Max made it hard. He always made it hard.

With you there was no performance, no pretending. With you he was real. Raw. Honest in ways he never showed anyone else. You saw it in the quiet moments, when the world wasn’t watching. The nights in his Monaco apartment when the lights were low and his voice went soft. When you asked each other questions about things no one else cared to know, dreams, fears, family. When he looked at you like you mattered.

He learned your moods, your silences, your tells and knew exactly when to make you laugh or when to sit beside you and say nothing at all. Once when you got sick he flew back as quick as could and he stocked your freezer with your favourite soup and sat on the floor of your apartment watching old movies with you, refusing to leave until you promised you felt better.

He laughed with you in a way he didn’t with anyone else, loud, unguarded, tears in his eyes as he doubled over at some stupid inside joke that would’ve made no sense to anyone else. He remembered the names of your cousins. Your favourite flower. The way you always tapped your fingers twice before answering a hard question.

It happened slowly, then all at once.

One smile at a time. One stupid smirk, one inside joke, one sleepy “goodnight” over the phone. Until one day you looked at him and realised you were completely and utterly ruined. Heart gone.

You buried it deep with sharp-edged sarcasm and playful teasing. You clapped for him on podiums, rolled your eyes at his bravado, kept your late-night talks locked up tight like something fragile.

Lately however, it’s been harder to breathe around him. Harder to ignore the way his hand lingers when he touches you. The way his voice dips low when he says your name. The way he looks at you like he knows. Like he’s been watching you just as long, and he’s finally seeing it too.

Still, you don’t let yourself believe.

Because you remember the girls. The flings. The ones who thought they were different. You remember the rumours, the morning-afters, the hungover apologies. You don’t want to be another girl on a list he swears he never made. You don't want to become just another story Max forgets when the next race comes.

You want to matter, and that’s the scariest part of all.

It happens one rainy night in Monaco.

The rain taps gently against Max’s floor-to-ceiling windows, streaking down the glass like it’s too tired to fall properly. The world outside is blurred, soft around the edges like maybe even Monaco is holding its breath.

You’re curled up on the corner of his massive sectional, legs tucked beneath you, his hoodie swallowing you whole. It smells like him, something sharp and expensive and faintly like motor oil. Familiar in a way that hurts if you think too hard about it.

Max moves through the space like he owns it, barefoot on hardwood, quiet in a way he rarely is. He hands you a drink without asking, the same one he makes you every time you're here. Like clockwork. Like ritual. He settles in beside you with a soft exhale, the kind he only lets out when it’s late and you're the only person in the room. He doesn’t sit on the other end, he never does, he sits close and his thigh brushing yours.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he says, low and careful, like he’s easing into a conversation he’s rehearsed in his head a hundred times and still isn’t sure he’s brave enough to have.

You keep your eyes on the rain. “I’m just tired.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just lets the silence stretch, broken only by the steady hum of the storm outside and the soft clink of ice in your glass.

Then, flat and certain. “Bullshit.”

You blink. Look at him.

He’s already watching you with that frown he only gets when something’s wrong, but this one’s different, more confused.

You force a shrug, weak and defensive. “You’ve been busy too. With your… dates.”

It comes out sharper than you meant. You hate the way it sounds, like an accusation, betraying how much it hurts.

You sip your drink quickly, like maybe that can swallow the truth down before he notices it.

“I haven’t been seeing anyone,” he says eventually, and there’s a strange tension in his voice, as if the words are uncomfortable on his tongue. Not because they’re a lie, but because they’re heavier than he expected them to be once said aloud.

You scoff before you can stop yourself. “Since when?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

You glance over, prepared to catch him in some vague half-truth, but he’s not squirming or flinching. He’s just… still. He’s choosing his next words carefully, whatever he says next matters more than he knows how to explain.

“For a while now.” He swallows, eyes fixed ahead. “Since I realised no one else is you.”

You blink.

“I don’t know the exact moment,” he says slowly. “It wasn’t one thing.”

He turns toward you, gaze steady despite the nerves thrumming beneath the surface.

“I think it started after that night in Austin,” he murmurs.

You blink. “What night?”

“You don’t remember? We stayed up talking until 4 a.m. You were ranting about FIA inconsistencies, and I—” He cuts himself off, smiling faintly. “I looked at you and for some reason, it hit me like a fucking truck. That none one else has ever made me feel the way you do. Like you always do… without even trying.”

He shakes his head, almost like he’s embarrassed. “Every room I walked into I was just looking for you. Every conversation I had I’d compare their laugh to yours, their eyes, their timing. And it never matched. Nothing does.”

Your heart stutters. Just once, but enough to make you feel dizzy. You blink down at your glass like maybe the answer’s there, maybe if you hold still enough this moment will pass.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t do this, Max.”

“This isn’t a joke.” His voice is steady now. “I’m not drunk or confused. I’m just… done pretending.”

“You’ve always pretended,” you say, retreating emotionally even though your body hasn’t moved an inch. “That’s your thing. Fast flings, fast cars, fast goodbyes. You know exactly how to make someone feel wanted… for a night. For a weekend. And then it’s over.”

Max’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You’re good at it,” you add, voice brittle. “You don’t even look twice Max. You never have. One weekend, one story, and then it’s on to the next.”

You breathe out shakily, eyes falling to your lap. “I’m sorry if I’m being harsh, but that’s what I’ve always seen.”

“That’s who I was,” he corrects, and now there’s something sharp in his voice. Not angry but wounded. “I didn’t know what I wanted. Not really. So I kept trying to fill the gap with anything else, with people. With things that didn’t mean anything, I was... trying to outrun something.”

Your voice shakes. “And what were you running from?”

He looks at you like the answer should be obvious. “You.”

Silence crackles between you like static.

“You’re it,” he says, softer now, the words catching on the edge of his breath. “Every race. Every late-night call. And I—I never saw it until I couldn’t not see it. I didn’t know how to look at you and not want more, and then it was everywhere. You were everywhere.”

“I’ve ignored it for years, I shoved it down so deep I forgot where I’d buried it. I told myself I didn’t need you like that. That I couldn’t afford to need anyone like that, but I can’t do it anymore. I don’t want to spend another day without you.”

“Max…” Your voice breaks on his name.

“I’m in love with you

He says it like it costs him something. Like it’s been sitting just behind his teeth for years and this is the first time he’s let it out.

You meet his eyes and it’s a mistake, it always is, because he’s not guarded. Not this time. He’s wide open, bare, like he’s laid every version of himself on the table and is just waiting for you to decide whether he’s enough.

Your voice is a whisper. Shaking. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“You think you do,” you say quickly, desperate to stop the ground from shifting beneath you. “But this, this is just timing Max. It’s proximity, you’re lonely and I’m here, and we’re comfortable, and you’re—”

“No.” His voice cuts clean through your spiral. It’s sharp, but not cruel. “That’s not what this is.”

He leans forward slightly, and you can feel the heat off his body now. He’s close enough to touch, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t push.

“Don’t do that,” he says, quieter now. “Don’t make it smaller than it is just so you can walk away without feeling guilty.”

You inhale sharply, chest tight, vision blurring just a little at the edges, because he knows. Of course he knows. He always sees straight through you.

You look away, blinking hard, willing the tears not to come. “You’ve never looked at a girl twice,” you murmur. “I can’t—I won’t be the next one you get bored of.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, his whole body tenses. His jaw clenches like you’ve struck something soft inside him.

“Is that really what you think of me?” he asks, and this time the hurt is impossible to miss. It lingers between syllables, bruised and bleeding.

You swallow. “No. It’s what I think of your history Max.”

And then the words tumble out faster than you can stop them. Words you’ve been biting down on for years.

“I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. I’ve watched you stumble out of beds with girls whose names you couldn’t remember. I’ve sat outside hotel rooms while you cleaned up your mess. I’ve looked them in the eye and told them they were going to be okay when they were clearly not.”

You shake your head. “So no it’s not just me being insecure. It’s me knowing exactly how this story ends.”

Max drops his head into his hands, rubbing his fingers roughly through his hair like he wants to tear the frustration out by the roots.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers threading through his hair in frustration. “I was a fucking idiot alright? I didn’t know how to handle the one thing I actually wanted and so that’s what I did instead. I kept hooking up with girls I didn’t care about, letting them believe I did just to keep myself from thinking about you. It wasn’t fair to them. I know that. They didn’t deserve to be placeholders.” He shakes his head, almost to himself. “But I couldn’t open up to them even if I tried, because deep down I knew none of them would ever be you.”

Max shifts toward you again, slower this time, gentler, like one wrong move might send you bolting for the door.

“I would never hurt you,” he says softly.

This time, it isn’t just a promise, it’s a plea. A desperate truth pulled straight from the core of him.

There’s no bravado in his voice, no charm.

You close your eyes. “You can’t be sure of that.”

“I am sure,” he replies instantly. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You open your eyes slowly.

“I’m done pretending I don’t need you,” he continues. “I do. I need you like air, and I’m tired of suffocating.”

“I don’t want to be a phase,” you whisper, eyes burning. “I don’t want to be something you look back on one day and realise was just a detour. A lesson. Some girl you had to lose to grow up.”

“You’re not a mistake,” he says, voice hoarse. “And you’ll never be a lesson.”

You try to look away, but his hand follows, gently guiding your face back to his. He’s so close now, and yet everything in you feels like it’s bracing for impact.

“I’ve messed up a lot,” he continues, breath unsteady. “I’ve hurt people. I've pushed away every good thing that came near me. But this, you, I swear to God, I’ve never wanted anything like this before.”

You say nothing, but your silence isn’t empty. It’s heavy. It’s waiting.

Max swallows hard, his thumb brushing just below your jaw as his forehead tips to yours.

“Give me a chance,” he breathes. “Please.”

It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic. It’s quiet. Honest. The sound of a man who’s never begged before, but would drop to his knees if you asked.

He cups your jaw gently, his palm warm and steady against your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. Like he’s trying to soothe a bruise that hasn’t even formed.

“You’re it for me,” he says.

His voice falters at the end, not from doubt, but emotion. Like the confession is still too big for his chest. Like he’s still surprised he got it out at all.

There’s a beat. A heartbeat.

Then slowly, cautiously, you lean forward. Just enough to bridge the space between you, to show him you’re not running. That the weight of everything he’s said hasn’t crushed you. That you’re still here.

Your lips brush his, tentative and trembling, and it feels like exhaling after years of holding your breath.

The kiss is soft and shaky. Full of everything you’ve both been holding back. Regret. Hope. Love that’s been simmering quietly for years beneath shared laughter and almosts.

For a moment, the world stills.

Even the rain outside seems to hush.

He doesn’t move at first stunned that you’re actually here, kissing him back, but then something shifts in him.

Whens he kisses you back, really kisses you, it feels like the one thing he’s been waiting for his whole damn life. His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you in with a confidence that makes your chest ache. His mouth moves slowly, carefully, but with the urgency of someone who finally knows what he wants and is terrified it might slip away.

When you finally pull apart, barely inches away, you stay close. Foreheads almost touching. Breathing the same air.

Your voice comes out as little more than a breath. “If you break my heart Max…”

He doesn't hesitate.

“I won’t,” he whispers.

In this moment you believe him, because this doesn’t feel like a game it feels like a beginning.

You don’t tell anyone at first.

Not because you’re hiding, but because there’s something special about having him to yourself. Something about the way Max looks at you when no one else is around, the quiet awe, the unguarded affection, that makes it feel like a secret too precious to share.

The world knows him in noise. In flashes. In fire and fury and front pages. But you get the quiet version. The early-morning version. The one who kisses your shoulder before you’re even awake. The one who rests his palm on your stomach at night like he needs to feel you breathing to sleep properly.

He holds your hand under the table at dinner with friends, thumb tracing gentle circles against your skin. He presses kisses into your hair when you lean into him, murmurs little things under his breath just for you, things that make you smile when you’re supposed to be paying attention to someone else talking.

And he looks at you.

God, he looks at you like you’re the only person in the room. Like everything else is just background noise. Like he’s memorising your face in case he ever wakes up and finds this was all a dream.

He’s softer with you now.

Gentler than the world gives him credit for. He still moves like a storm, still yells at the TV during football matches, still throws his gloves down when a race weekend doesn’t go to plan, still mutters sharp Dutch curses under his breath when the sim doesn’t respond the way he wants it to, but when you’re nearby something in him eases.

It’s like you’re the only thing that quiets his engine.

You start noticing the smaller things. The way he brings you your drink in your favourite mug, even though it’s chipped. The way he pulls you onto his lap during movie nights, hands on your waist like he just needs you close. The way he checks to make sure you’re covered by the blanket before he lets himself fall asleep.

One morning you wake up tangled in his sheets, your leg draped over his hip, his arm slung heavy around your waist. The sun is just beginning to spill into the room, pale and sleepy.

You blink yourself awake and find him already watching you, head propped lazily on one arm, his other hand tracing light shapes into your spine.

“What?” you mumble, voice hoarse and sleepy.

He grins, slow and fond. “You drool.”

You slap his chest, groaning through a laugh. “Asshole.”

But he just laughs quietly, eyes still on you like you hung the stars. “Yeah, but I’m your asshole.”

He tugs you closer, pressing a kiss to your hair, then your temple, then your jaw. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth.

“Still cute though.”

That’s when it hits you, how simple it is being loved by him in moments like this. How all the noise of the world disappears when it’s just him and you, and the warmth of something real.

Three weeks later and you’re perched on his kitchen counter in nothing but one of his oversized shirts, bare legs swinging, a half-eaten punnet of strawberries in your lap. The sleeves hang past your hands, stained faintly with syrup from earlier, but Max doesn’t mind. If anything, he looks at you like that hoodie belongs there.

He’s standing by the stove, flipping pancakes with one hand, barefoot and half-distracted, the other hand sweeping his hair back off his forehead.

“Did you just flip that pancake with your fingers?” you ask, incredulous.

Max shrugs without looking, unbothered. “Hands of a champion.”

You snort, grinning as you reach forward and steal one before it even hits the plate.

He narrows his eyes, swats at you with the spatula. “Thief.”

You just giggle and take a dramatic bite, swinging your legs like you’re immune to consequences.

When he slides the final plate in front of you, he leans in and kisses your temple, soft, instinctive, and then he leans back against the counter with a sigh.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had breakfast with someone before you,” he says quietly.

You blink, looking up from your fork. “Seriously?”

He nods, eyes distant for a second. “They never stayed the night. Or if they did I left before the sun came up.”

“Oh,” you say, and it’s small, because you’ve seen that version of him. The messy morning-afters. The goodbyes he never struggled to say. But then he glances back at you.

“I’m glad it’s you.”

The air stills, and you know he doesn’t just mean in his bed or in the morning. He means in his life. You didn’t come and go. You didn’t stay for the night and disappear with the morning light. You’re still here, you always were.

You look down, heart thudding. “Well… I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

Max steps closer. His hand lifts to tilt your chin up with quiet care, and when he looks at you, there’s nothing left to doubt.

“I love you,” he says.

Your smile is soft. “Good, because I’m in love with you too.”

Early next month he kisses you in the garage, quick, sharp, just behind a monitor while no one’s looking. It’s reckless and brief and completely perfect.

You barely have time to catch your breath before Christian walks past, giving Max a suspicious glance.

Without missing a beat, Max blurts something about, “tyre strategy” with the panic of someone who’s just been caught stealing state secrets. You double over laughing, one hand on your stomach, the other covering your mouth. “You are the worst liar.”

“I panicked!”

“Am I gonna get you fined?” You tease, pulling him in again.

He grins, smug. “Worth it.”

You roll your eyes and steal one more kiss before shoving him back toward the car. “Now go get that win.”

He winks over his shoulder. “See you at the podium.”

When he lifts the trophy that afternoon, face flushed with adrenaline and champagne, he doesn’t look at the crowd. He looks for you.

Two months in and it’s raining again in Monaco, lazy, unhurried raindrops tapping against the windows as Max drops his keys on the kitchen counter and kicks off his shoes.

“Let’s just stay in,” he mutters, stretching like a cat. “Order pizza, I’ll pretend to care about rom-coms.”

You snort. “You love rom-coms.”

He squints. “I tolerate rom-coms.”

“Max you cried during The Notebook.”

He collapses beside you on the couch with a groan. You’re both laughing by the time you’ve curled into each other, limbs tangled, your hand lazily threading through his hair while his arm wraps around your waist like a promise.

“I like this,” you whisper into the quiet. “Us.”

He hums in agreement, forehead pressed to yours. “Me too.”

Later that week you’re brushing your teeth in his bathroom, bare feet against the cool tile, sleep still clinging to your skin.

He appears behind you in the mirror, sleep-mussed and shirtless, one hand rubbing at his eyes. He wraps his arms around your waist from behind, presses a kiss to the back of your neck.

“You know…” he mumbles, voice still gravel-rough from sleep, “You can leave a toothbrush here… permanently I mean.”

You turn in his arms, brushing your nose against his. “You sure?”

His eyes are heavy-lidded but clear.

“I’m sure,” he says.

And when you smile at him, he smiles back like it’s the easiest thing in the world, because loving each other is.

You fall in love with Max again and again in the quiet moments. Not during the grand gestures or the champagne-soaked victories, but in the stillness. The ones that aren’t meant to be romantic but somehow end up that way because he’s in them.

When he rolls over in the middle of the night, still half-asleep, and starts rubbing your back with slow, lazy circles like his body just knows where to find you, even in his dreams.

When he texts you ‘How you feeling?’ before every race, like you’re the one about to climb into the car. Like your nerves matter more than his own. Like his day doesn’t fully start until he hears from you.

When he sends you voice notes while traveling, some mundane, some ridiculous, just because he wants to hear you laugh at them later. You’ll be alone in your kitchen, earbuds in, grinning like an idiot because he’s making some terrible impression of some influencer he met in the paddock just to make you smile.

You never knew this version of him existed.

Not fully.

The Max you knew was fast and loud and untouchable. Reckless, impatient, always moving. But this Max, this one is quiet. Present. Soft in a way the world never gets to see. He lets you in without even realising he’s doing it. A hand on your thigh while he’s on a call. A glance across the room that says there you are. A small smile when you walk through the door, like the storm in his chest settles just from seeing you.

That’s what scares you most, because this kind of love, this steady, real, fragile kind, it feels too good. Too rare.

You know somewhere deep down in that quiet anxious part of your mind that happiness like this usually doesn’t come without cost, but you let yourself fall anyway. Over and over again.

The first crack doesn’t shatter.

It hums. Soft. Subtle. A tremor beneath the surface. A splinter in glass you don’t notice until the light hits it just right and suddenly it’s everywhere.

It starts after Silverstone.

Nothing dramatic. Just a silence.

He doesn’t text you goodnight after press. Doesn’t call when he lands back in Monaco. Doesn’t tell you he’s safe, or tired, or that the car felt like shit in the corners today.

You only find out he’s home when you see a blurry photo on Twitter, sunglasses on, walking alone.

Your stomach knots because he always calls. Even if it’s just a two-minute check-in. Even if he’s exhausted.

You wait.

Tell yourself not to spiral. He’s probably tired. Jet lagged. Burned out from the media.

But the second day passes.

And the third.

And the fourth.

Your texts go unread.

And you feel it, the ache creeping in through the cracks. That old fear, the one you buried deep under love and laughter and whispered confessions in the dark. The fear that this was always too good to be true.

When you finally show up at his apartment, heart hammering, throat dry, he looks… surprised.

Not angry.

Not guilty.

“Hey,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t expect you.”

You force a smile that feels too tight. “Yeah. I kinda figured.”

The apartment is a mess.

Not Max-messy. Not the usual clutter of a man who lives in fast lanes and hotel rooms. This is off. Empty Red Bull cans crowding the counter. Dishes in the sink. His sim rig sits abandoned, paused mid-race, one corner frozen on-screen like he just walked away.

Everything looks… unfinished.

You glance around. Then back at him.

He won’t meet your eyes.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly.

His jaw tightens. “I’m fine.”

You sit down slowly on the edge of the couch, his couch. Your usual spot, but somehow it feels different now, like you don’t belong in it anymore.

“I didn’t hear from you,” you say after a long silence. The words are gentle. Not accusatory. Quiet enough that they tremble a little in the air.

Max exhales hard, standing a few feet away, arms folded tightly across his chest. “Yeah. I just… I needed some space.”

You don’t react right away because the words take a second to land. You nod slowly, swallowing hard. “Okay.”

He still won’t look at you.

You glance down at your hands. “Do you not want me here?”

That finally makes him look up.

There’s something in his eyes, something fractured. Regret? Fear? Shame? You don’t know. You can’t tell anymore.

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

Max paces a little, dragging a hand through his hair like it’s suddenly too heavy on his head. “I don’t know alright? It’s just been… a lot latley. The races. The press. Everything’s moving so fast, you, us…”

He says the last part quieter. Barely audible.

You flinch, chest tightening. “Do you regret it? Us?”

“No.” His answer is immediate. Too quick, almost. “God, no. I just… I didn’t think it would feel like this.”

“Feel like what?” you whisper.

Max looks at you, finally, really looks, and the fear there knocks the wind out of you.

“Like I could lose you.”

That silences you for a beat, but you still angry at his silence.

“So your solution to that is pushing me away?”

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting away. “I know it makes no sense. I know I sound like an asshole. I just… I needed space to figures things out.”

You laugh bitterly. “Of course.”

“I’m scared,” he chokes. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I just—I panicked”

You stare at him, your throat raw. “I’m scared too,” you whisper. “But I didn’t run, I didn’t shut you out, I chose you to trust you.”

Max blinks hard, tears slipping out despite his best efforts. “I don’t know what to do. I just I’m confused, I fucked it up.”

You nod, chest heaving, the ache in your throat threatening to choke you, and maybe that’s what finally makes the decision for you, because he still hasn’t apologised. Not really. Not in the way that counts. Not in the way you need.

You take a shaky breath and step back, and for the first time since this started he doesn’t stop you from walking toward the door.

You try to move past it.

You tell yourself it was just a bad week. A rough patch. Pressure from the championship. Jet lag. Burnout. Anything but what it really was, him pulling away.

So you adjust.

You stop staying over every night. You give him space like he asked for. You sleep in your own bed again, wake up alone again, try not to flinch when you roll over in the morning and your phone is still empty.

You keep texting. Short things. Safe things. "Good luck tomorrow." "Need anything from the store?" You try to keep it light. Try not to ask for too much. Try not to make him feel cornered, and for a while, you convince yourself it’s working.

But things don’t go back to normal.

He doesn’t touch you the same way, doesn’t reach for your hand when you’re walking side by side. Doesn’t lean in to kiss your cheek at red lights anymore. He still holds you when you’re in his bed, but it feels different now.

He misses your cousin’s birthday dinner and when you finally ask him to come with you to a wedding one of your best friend’s, someone who’s known him for years, he hesitates.

“Do I have to?”

You freeze. The question knocks the breath from your chest like a slap.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you say slowly. “But I thought you’d want to.”

Max sighs, rubbing at his jaw like the conversation is hurting him. “It’s just… a lot. Weddings. People. All the questions.”

You frown. “What questions?”

He hesitates.

“You know people will assume things,” he says not looking up.

You blink. “Like what?”

“That we’re serious.” he says too quickly.

Your heart stutters. “We’re not?”

He looks up at you now, and you watch the realisation of what he’s said dawns on his face.

“Fuck, that’s not. That’s not what I meant—”

“No,” you cut in, voice tight. “I think it is.”

You step back without meaning to. Just a few inches, but it feels like miles.

“You love me,” you whisper. “But you don’t want people to know we’re serious?”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I’m just scared alright? I’ve never done this before. I’ve never been this with anyone. I don’t know the rules.”

“I’m not asking for rules,” you say, trying so hard not to cry. “I’m not asking for perfection. I’m asking you to show up. To stand next to me and let people know I matter to you.”

“You do matter—”

“Then why are you acting like being with me is something to hide?”

He doesn’t answer. He looks down, jaw clenched, shoulders tight.

“So what?” you ask, voice cracking. “I’m just supposed to wait until you figure it out? Until you decide if I’m worth claiming in daylight?”

He flinches like the word physically hits him.

“That’s not fair—” he starts, voice rough, eyes red.

“And you think all of this is. I told you I was scared too,” you whisper, your hands now clenched tightly in your lap. “I told you from the beginning I didn’t want to be another girl you hurt.”

“You’re not—”

“But you are hurting me, Max.” Your voice shatters, and you hate the way it sounds. Like begging. Like heartbreak. “You said you wouldn’t do this to me. You promised you wouldn’t.”

He winces, stepping toward you, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You promised,” you cry. “You said, ‘I would never hurt you. Give me a chance.’ And I did. I gave you everything. And now you’re backing off because it’s real? Because it scares you?”

He looks wrecked. Eyes glassy, jaw clenched, fingers twitching like he wants to reach for you but knows he has no right. Silence falls between you, sharp and immediate. A pause that drags one second too long.

That’s all it takes to know.

“I need time,” he says again.

It sounds like a door clicking shut.

You nod, barely holding yourself together. “Then take it.”

You grab your bag off the floor, your fingers numb, your throat burning.

He doesn’t stop you.

You don’t speak for two weeks.

When he finally texts, it’s short.

Can we talk?

You type three different responses before you settle on:

I don’t know else there is to say.

No reply.

Two days later he shows up at your door and you’re still not sure if it was the right decision to let him up. You see his shadow before you see his face. The shape of him through the peephole. The weight of him in your hallway.

You don’t open it right away. Instead you press your forehead against the door, eyes shut, your hand hovering near the handle, heart thudding painfully against your ribs. Then softly, almost broken, he says,

“Please.”

You open it.

He looks like hell. His hoodie is wrinkled, like he’s been sleeping in it for days. There are shadows under his eyes that no amount of good lighting could hide. His posture is all wrong slumped, guarded, but still reaching, like guilt has wrapped itself around him like a second skin.

He looks at you like he doesn’t deserve to be standing there and he knows it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice hoarse. “I’m so sorry.”

You nod once, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “For what?”

“For freezing. For being a coward. For everything.”

You step aside, wordless, and let him in.

He paces at first, back and forth like he’s trying to burn off nerves he can’t outrun. You don’t speak.

“I didn’t know how to hold onto something I was so terrified to lose,” he says finally. His voice is uneven.

You sink onto the edge of the couch, arms wrapped tightly around your knees. “You made me feel like I was too much.”

His eyes snap to yours. “You aren’t.”

“You aren’t,” he says again. “You’re everything. I know that. I knew it then too, but I was so fucking scared. I thought if I kept you at a distance… if I didn’t let myself want it too much… then maybe it wouldn’t hurt if it ended.”

His voice breaks, just slightly. “I know the logic is messed up. I know it’s selfish. But I didn’t know how to get out of my own head and all I did was ruin the best thing I’ve ever had anyway.”

You turn your head slowly. “And what do we have now?”

Max hesitates. His fingers twitch in his lap.

“I guess it depends,” he says quietly.

“On what?”

He meets your eyes. “On if you can give me another chance.”

He’s not hiding now. There’s no mask, no ego. Just Max. Completely exposed. Heart on his sleeve. Hands trembling slightly like he’s terrified of your answer.

“Max…” you whisper.

“I love you,” he says, voice low and trembling. “I love you more than I know how to say. More than I ever thought I could. And I know—” he swallows hard, eyes glassy, “I know I fucked up. I know I shut you out, and I hurt you when you trusted me not to. That’s on me. All of it.”

He takes a step closer, hands shaking slightly at his sides. “But you have to know it was never because I didn’t care. It was the opposite. You scare the hell out of me. What I felt—what I feel it’s real in a way nothing else has ever been, and I didn’t know how to handle that. I panicked. I pushed you away because I thought that would make the risk of losing you hurt less.”

His voice cracks then, and he looks down, like he can’t bear to see your face.

“I was wrong about everything. Because I can’t—” he looks back up, desperate now. “I can’t do this without you. You’re the only thing that’s ever made any of this make sense.”

He takes a breath like he’s steadying himself before the fall.

“I don’t deserve to ask I know that, but I’m asking anyway, because if there’s even the smallest part of you that still believes in me, still wants us, then I swear I will spend every single day proving how much I love you. Not just in words. In every way I know how. Please... give me a chance again.”

Your heart splinters all over again.

Because it hurts to love someone who’s scared of loving you back properly.

Because that first chance was already hard enough to give.

And you don’t know if you can survive handing him your heart again.

“I can’t… at least not now… I need to think,” you say, voice cracking like glass.

He nods.

“I’ll wait,” he whispers. “As long as you need.”

Then he leaves and this time, you’re the one who doesn’t stop him.

The days bleed into weeks.

You keep telling people you're fine, you say it so often it almost sounds believable.

You go to work. You answer texts. You show up to dinners and birthdays and work events you wish you could cancel. You smile in the right places. Laugh at the right jokes. Drink just enough to dull the ache but not enough to let the truth spill out.

But you’re not living, you’re just existing.

Floating. Fragile. Half-hollow.

He texts you still. Cautiously. One or two spaced out over days like he’s testing the water. Then more. They’re never demanding. Never pushy. Just… him.

Hope you had a good day today.

I saw your favourite cafe changed owners. Made me sad.

You’d laugh if you saw what I cooked for dinner. Burned half of it. Still ate it.

Do you remember the time we got lost in Belgium and you swore Google Maps was gaslighting us?

I miss you.

I miss us.

Each one lands like a pebble in your chest, small, but shifting everything underneath.

You don’t respond. You can’t. Because replying would mean reopening the door, and after everything, staying broken feels safer than risking being shattered all over again.

Still, he keeps trying.

He sends you flowers, simple, beautiful, no name on the card, but you know. Of course you know. A few days later, his friend drops off one of his hoodies. Clean. Folded. The faintest trace of his cologne still clinging to the fabric. You hold it in your hands longer than you mean to. Almost bring it to your face. Almost give in.

Then comes the book, your favourite book. You find it on your doorstep, wrapped in plain brown paper. Inside, the page is dog-eared to your favourite quote. You sit on the floor of your hallway and nearly cry. Not because it’s romantic, but because it hurts, because you know he remembers, because a part of you wants to let him back in.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

Meanwhile, Max is not fine.

He tells the world he’s focused. Locked in. Gearing up for the next race.

But the truth is uglier.

He doesn’t go out. Doesn’t answer most calls. He cancels plans with with his friends, ignores texts from his engineers. He spends hours in the sim, running the same laps on the same track until the lines blur and his fingers ache from gripping the wheel too tight.

He stays up past 3 a.m., staring at the ceiling, heart racing from things that have nothing to do with speed. Replaying everything he said to you. Everything he didn’t.

He keeps your contact pinned at the top of his messages. Reads the last thing you ever sent him on a loop like maybe if he stares hard enough, you’ll text him back.

Christian asks what’s wrong.

Lando asks if he’s dying.

Even Helmut frowns and tells him to "sort it out before he drives like that again."

He’s so tired. Tired of the silence. Tired of the way his apartment still smells faintly like you even after he’s finally changed the sheets.

He’s tired of being without you.

Two weeks before Zandvoort, Max does an interview.

The reporter asks about his mindset. His focus. How he’s changed over the last few months. He hesitates. Then, for once, he lets a little truth slip through the cracks.

“I think real connection can change the way you drive,” he says softly. “Makes you sharper. Calmer. When you’ve got something real to come home to.”

The quote goes viral.

People call it poetic. A sign of maturity.

Your fingers hover over your phone for nearly an hour after you see it.

You type a reply.

Delete it.

Type it again.

Delete it again.

In the end you say nothing because you’re still not sure if wanting him back is the same as trusting him again, and love, you’re learning, isn’t always enough.

Then it happens.

It gets worse before it gets better.

The photo.

You’re scrolling idly one afternoon, trying to feel normal, trying to feel anything and then suddenly there it is.

Blurry, looks like it’s been taken from the inside of a car, somewhere in Monaco. Probably by a fan who didn’t realise they were about to ruin your entire day. Max, outside a restaurant. Laughing. With a girl.

You freeze mid-scroll. Your body goes still before your mind can catch up. Your breath catches, sharp and ugly in your throat, and your stomach twists into something dark and acidic, nausea rising fast.

She’s beautiful. Of course she is. She’s touching him. One hand on his arm, casually, she looks comfortable. You swear she’s wearing his jacket. The one that used to smell like you. The one that used to be folded on your side of the bed.

You blink. Once. Twice. But the image doesn’t change. If anything, it burns itself in deeper.

You click it open. Then you open Twitter. Then Instagram.

It’s all there.

The girl posted something on her story, nothing blatant, nothing tagging him, but it doesn’t need to be. A selfie, smiley and sun-kissed, and in the blurred background there he is. Max. In the corner of the frame. Head turned, not looking at the camera, but it’s him. Clear as day. Clear enough to hurt.

Your phone slips from your hands and hits the floor with a dull, lifeless thud.

You don’t move to pick it up.

You don’t cry.

You don’t scream.

You don’t call a friend or throw something or give into the heartbreak clawing at your ribs.

You just sit there.

Staring at nothing.

Frozen in place like your body doesn’t know how to function now that your heart’s short-circuited.

You lie in bed, eyes wide open, the ceiling a blur as your mind replays every word he ever said to you in that low, steady voice that used to sound like safety. “You’re it for me.” “I’d never hurt you.” “I’ll wait.”

He didn’t wait. Of course he didn’t. Of course he went back to what was easy. What was familiar.

Maybe that’s what hurts the most, knowing deep down in the quietest part of you that this was always going to happen. That you knew. That something in your gut warned you, and you still believed, still hoped anyway.

When Max texts the next morning, your heart stutters in that horrible, traitorous way it always does when his name lights up your screen.

Can I see you today? I’ve got something for you it’s stupid but I think you’ll smile.

You read it three times in disbelief.

You see the photo again in your head, her hand on his arm and something in you snaps. Your hands are shaking as you type back, but your fingers don’t hesitate.

Don’t bother. I saw the photos. You don’t have to lie. I don’t want to hear from you anymore.

There’s a full minute of silence.

Then—

What are you talking about?

Almost a minute passes.

Then a second message.

Please let me explain.

You can see the dots, he’s typing, but you don’t wait to read the rest.

You block his number.

And this time, you do cry.

Not just because he hurt you. Not just because you lost him. Not even because it hurts to know he moved on so easily, but because deep down you’re terrified that you never really had him at all.

You don’t get out of bed for two days.

The curtains stay drawn, your room dim even in the middle of the afternoon, like the light itself knows it isn’t welcome. Your phone sits face-down on your dresser, untouched except for the few times you glance at it, only to glance away again. The hoodie Max returned lies at the foot of your bed, folded too neatly, as if it doesn’t belong to the chaos he left behind. You tell yourself you’ll throw it out. Burn it, maybe. But instead, you bring it to your nose, just once, just to see and when it still smells like him, like cologne and warmth and the memory of every quiet morning you spent wrapped up in his arms, you hate yourself a little for checking.

The world, predictably, keeps spinning. Cars pass by outside. The neighbour’s dog barks. On Monday you go to work because your boss would notice if you didn’t. You lie to your friends on autopilot, tell them you’re just “tired,” just “burned out,” that work’s been “crazy,” and no, you’re fine, you swear.

You don’t mention the photo. You don’t mention the way it knocked the air out of your lungs or the way your stomach twisted so hard you had to sit down or the way you still see it in your mind every time you close your eyes.

You try not to look at the tab you left open. “Max Verstappen Monaco mystery girl.”

You don’t click any links. You don’t read the comments. You don’t want to know what people are saying about him, or about her, or think about the way your chest still aches like a bruise that won’t heal.

Still, the images play on an endless loop in your mind.

Your best friend shows up three days later, uninvited but not unwelcome, letting herself into your apartment with the spare key you gave her years ago for emergencies. You’re curled up on your couch, legs under a blanket, the TV playing something you’re not even pretending to watch. You haven’t told her anything, but she just… knows.

“What happened?” she asks gently, lowering herself onto the couch beside you.

You don’t answer right away. You don’t look at her either. You’re too tired to lie, too hollow to make it sound okay. So instead, you pick up your phone for the first time in hours. You unlock it and hand it to her.

The photo.

The messages.

The last thing you sent him before you blocked his number.

She reads it in silence. Once. Then again. Her brows pull together. She lets out a slow exhale.

“Okay,” she says carefully, “but… this doesn’t make sense.”

You blink. “What?”

“I mean—I’m not saying he didn’t fuck up, I’m on your side. But this girl? I’ve seen her around. She’s one of those Monaco hanger-ons. She posted that same selfie with like five other drivers. Always around the “hot-spots”. Always tagging locations, trying to be seen.”

You shift on the couch. “So?”

“So… maybe you saw what you thought was happening. Not what actually was.”

You shake your head, heart pounding. “She was wearing his jacket. She had her hand on him.”

“And? Max lends stuff out all the time, maybe he lent it to her outside like the gentleman he weirdly is sometimes. Maybe it was someone else’s and it looked similar. Maybe she grabbed his arm for two seconds and the photo caught it at the worst possible moment. You don’t know.”

You sit up straighter. “But he didn’t deny it.”

She looks at you then. Really looks.

“To be fair,” she says slowly, “you blocked him before he could.”

You go quiet. The guilt creeps in like cold water seeping through cracks in the floor.

“What if I didn’t want to hear his explanation?” you whisper.

She gives you a look that’s too knowing to be comfortable. “Then you have to ask yourself something.”

You already know what she’s going to say. You hear it before she even says it.

“Do you want to stay angry or do you still love him?”

You open your mouth. Close it again. Because you want to say it doesn’t matter. That you’re done. That it’s too late.

But the truth is louder than your pride.

You still love him.

You always have.

Meanwhile Max is pacing like a storm in a bottle. Restless energy coiled in his spine, unspooling with every step across the hardwood floor. His phone is clutched in his hand like it might break if he squeezes any harder, his face flushed not just with frustration but with something closer to panic.

“She blocked me,” he says again, like saying it aloud will make it sound less insane. “She actually blocked me. I was on my way to surprise her with her favourite flowers and that stupid stuffed koala she laughs at in the airport gift shop every time we see it and then boom gone. Just cut off.”

Lando is sitting on the edge of Max’s sofa, legs spread, elbows on his knees, watching his friend spiral with the wide-eyed expression of someone who’s been dropped in the middle of a house fire with a plastic spoon. “Alright. Breathe. Start from the beginning. What happened?”

Max swipes angrily at his phone, pulls up the blurry photo that’s been circulating for the past few days. “That’s Julia,” he snaps. “She’s my trainer’s girlfriend’s friend or something. I barely even know her. She showed up out of nowhere while I was grabbing lunch with him, said she was meeting someone else, asked if she could wait there for a minute. She sat down, we made small talk, and then hug goodbye. Five minutes. Tops. Flash of a camera.”

He runs both hands through his hair, yanking the roots like he could force the shame out of his head. “I didn’t even see the camera it looks, it looks bad. The jacket, the arm, it’s the worst possible moment.”

Daniel, who had arrived five minutes ago and already regrets it, scrolls through the messages Max had sent in the days before everything blew up. He lets out a low whistle, his face pinched in sympathy. “Shit. These are… a lot.”

Max grabs the phone back. “She thinks I’m lying. She thinks I went back to being that guy. The one who says what he needs to get what he wants and then disappears when it gets real. She thinks everything I said was just noise.”

“And do you blame her?” Daniel says carefully. “I mean, not to kick you when you’re already bleeding out here, but… you did disappear on her for a while.”

Max looks like he’s been slapped. “I know that. I know. I handled it like a fucking coward and I’ve been trying to make it right ever since.”

Lando leans back on the couch. “So what now? You just sit around and mope?”

Max glares at him. “What do you want me to do, force it? I already made her feel like shit. The last thing she needs is me showing up uninvited.”

“Maybe,” Daniel says. “But she also needs to see that you care. That you’re not just sending sad little texts and hoping she forgets.”

“I’ve been trying!” Max snaps. Then lowers his voice. “I’ve been trying. But everything I do feels too late.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Daniel tilts his head. “What about her best friend?”

Max looks up. “What about her?”

“Talk to her,” Daniel says. “Not to get the friend to do your dirty work, just… find out if there’s anything you can do that wouldn’t make things worse, or maybe she can suggest a way in, wouldn’t hurt to try and get someone in her corner to understand your side.”

Max hesitates.

Lando shrugs. “It’s better than sitting here waiting for her to magically unblock you.”

Max nods slowly, like something clicks into place. “Alright I’ll try. I’m not giving up on this. On her.”

Daniel smirks. “Good. Because it’s about time you started acting like it.”

The next morning Max makes a call he’s been dreading. It’s awkward as hell, and the conversation doesn’t go the way he practiced in his head, but he owns it. He tells the truth.

And somehow, it’s enough.

Because a day later he’s standing outside your building in the shadows of early evening, hoodie pulled tight, cap low, heart pounding harder than it ever has behind the wheel of an F1 car.

Your best friend lets him up without a word and then disappears.

You don’t even know she’s done it until you hear the knock, three quiet raps against your door, hesitant, almost like he’s not sure he deserves to be heard. When you open it, he’s standing there, his eyes are bloodshot and his hair is a mess, flattened from the cap. His mouth opens, then closes again before he finally finds the words.

“Before you slam the door,” he says, voice shaking, “just let me explain. Please.”

You freeze. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the door. You don’t move, don’t speak, but you don’t close it.

So he keeps going.

“She’s not someone I’m seeing,” he blurts, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush. “I barely know her. She’s my trainer’s girlfriend’s friend, I didn’t invite her, I didn’t ask her to sit with us. She showed up at the restaurant, said she was waiting for someone else. We made awkward small talk for five minutes. I didn’t even realise how close she was sitting until I saw the photo. And the jacket—” He pauses, swallows hard. “She said she was cold. It was draped over the back of my chair. I didn’t think. I just—” His voice cracks. “I was trying to be nice.”

You blink at him, vision going blurry. “Then why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you come here earlier?”

“Because you blocked me, and I didn’t think you wanted to see me.” he says softly.

“I thought you gave up,” you say, arms folding over your chest to keep from falling apart. “I thought you moved on. That it was just easy for you.”

“I would never,” Max says, and it’s not a plea, it’s a vow. He steps forward, carefully, like he’s afraid to spook you. “You have no idea how hard it was not to show up every day. How many times I sat in the car ready to drive here, wondering if I had any right to knock. I only stayed away because you asked me to, because I thought you needed time.”

“I did.”

“And I wanted to to give that to you,” he says. “But it’s been killing me.”

His voice cracks on the last word. He’s not holding it together anymore. Not even close.

“I didn’t want anyone else,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “I don’t want anyone else. Not now. Not ever. You’re it. You always were.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the flood building behind your eyes. “You promised you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I know.” His voice is barely above a whisper now, cracked and shaking as tears trail slowly down his cheeks. “I know I hurt you. I let the fear win. I let my past, my pride, my bullshit get louder than everything we had, and I’ll hate myself for that until the day I die.”

He swallows hard. “But if you gave me another shot… if you ever could I would spend every single day earning it. Proving I’m not the same coward who let you walk away. I’d show you what I should’ve from the beginning. That I’m in this. That I meant every word I ever said to you, even the ones I was too much of a mess to back up.”

Max steps forward slightly, like he’s bracing for rejection but can’t help chasing hope anyway.

“I don’t know how else to ask. I keep trying to think of the right thing to say but none of it feels like enough, but this, you, you’re everything, and I’ll take whatever version of us you’re willing to give me, even if it’s just the chance to try.”

His voice breaks completely then. “Please. Give me a chance.”

It breaks something in you.

Because you do love him. Even now. Even after all the silence, all the distance, all the aching disappointment. Your heart still beats louder when he’s near. But love isn’t enough, not when you’re still bleeding from the wounds he left behind.

“I can’t,” you say, and your voice shakes.

Max’s face crumples like he’d prepared for this but prayed against it anyway. He nods, slow and steady, like each movement hurts.

“I understand.”

He nods. Once. Twice. Each movement slower than the last, like gravity’s working harder on him now.

“Yeah,” he breathes, barely audible. “I thought maybe I could earn it back.”

His eyes are red, glistening, but he doesn’t wipe them. Doesn’t hide. He just stands there, hollowed out. “I knew that coming here was a long shot. I just hoped…”

He steps back, nodding again like he needs to convince his body to move.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice tight. “For everything.”

He steps back and turns away, but just before he disappears down the hall, your voice breaks through the silence, shaky, quiet, but impossible not to hear.

“I never stopped loving you.”

He halts mid-step. Stiffens. For a long moment, he just stands there, back to you, head bowed like the weight of your words physically hit him.

His shoulders rise and fall with a breath that sounds like it hurts to take.

“Me neither.”

A pause. The kind that stretches forever.

“Not for a single second.”

Then he walks away, with the same realisation you’ve been battling for weeks, that love alone was never going to be enough.

It’s been two months since you closed the door on him.

Max hasn’t called. Hasn’t texted. Not once. He hasn’t tried to push, hasn’t knocked at the door or slipped another note under it, and in a strange, cruel way, it hurts. It means he heard you. It means he listened, he’s respecting your boundaries. But it also means he’s gone.

And yet, he’s everywhere.

You still find pieces of him buried in the quiet corners of your days, like ghosts you’re too tired to chase away. His name doesn’t appear on your screen, but his voice plays in your head when you drive past the petrol station where he used to stop for your favourite gum. His laugh echoes in the back of your mind when you open Spotify and the playlist you made for him starts and somehow it still knows which songs make your throat close.

You keep his shirt in the back of your drawer, forgotten, then remembered, then deliberately not moved. It still smells like his skin in a way that makes your knees weak. You pass the little café he loved and your heart stumbles over itself because you can see him leaning against the window, tapping the lid of your drink so the steam wouldn't burn your lips, eyes already crinkled in that half-smile he never gave to anyone else.

He's there when you open the fridge and automatically reach for the orange juice he always used to keep on the top shelf so he could tease you about not being able to reach and then act all macho when he got it down for you. He’s in your dreams when sleep forgets you’re supposed to be angry and lets him back into your arms. He’s in the ache just beneath your ribs when someone asks, “Are you okay?” and you smile and nod and hope they don’t hear the lie rattling behind your teeth.

But today… today you can’t do it anymore.

You can’t keep carrying the silence like a shield when all it’s done is cut you off from the one person who ever made you feel that kind of love. You’ve tried the distance. You’ve tried the pretending. You’ve tried to be fine.

You don’t know what you’re going to say.

You don’t know if it’ll come out as forgiveness or fire, or if you’ll be able to speak at all when you see him again.

You do know this, nothing hurts more than this in-between. Nothing is worse than wondering what might’ve happened if you’d just tried one more time. Maybe you’ll get hurt again. Maybe he’ll break your heart all over. But what you had was rare, and that kind of love? That kind of connection? It’s worth the risk. It’s a chance you’re willing to take, for how special you were together. If there’s still a chance, you have to take it, you have to try.

Because waiting might protect your heart.

But not giving the two of you another chance, not finding out what this could’ve been.

That’s the kind of regret that would haunt you forever.

It’s late.

Almost midnight, Monaco quiet, rain threatening the cobblestones. You take the steps to his apartment two at a time, heart pounding so hard you can hear it echoing in your ears.

When you reach his door, you hesitate.

Then you knock.

It only takes a few seconds.

The door swings open.

He’s there. Hair tousled, hoodie hanging loose off one shoulder, barefoot, eyes wide like he thought maybe he was dreaming.

You’re both frozen.

Then you whisper, “Hi.”

“You’re here,” Max says, voice wrecked.

His eyes are wide, disbelieving. He looks thinner than you remember, tired in a way sleep can’t fix. One hand grips the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“I didn’t think you’d ever—” He breaks off, breath catching. “I never thought…”

You shift your weight, arms folded tightly across your chest. You want to say something comforting, but instead, what comes out is honest.

“You hurt me so badly, Max.”

His shoulders drop. “I know,” he says immediately, his voice cracking at the edges. “And I’ll never stop being sorry.”

You look away, just for a second, long enough to stop yourself from crying. “I wasn’t asking you to be the perfect boyfriend. I never expected you to be anyone but yourself. I just needed you to show up for me. I needed you to stay. To choose me, even when it wasn’t easy. Especially then.”

“I know,” he says again, more desperate this time, stepping forward without thinking. “I thought I was doing the right thing, pulling back, then trying not to mess it up more. I was scared. Scared of what it meant to need someone like I needed you. I thought pushing you away would protect us, but all it did was destroy what we had.”

His eyes are glassy, voice trembling. “You were everything I ever wanted and I handled it like someone who didn’t deserve you.”

You take a breath and step past him, into the apartment.

It still smells like him.

Still feels like home, in the way a bruise still hums beneath your skin, aching when you press it, reminding you of everything that came before. You look around, and your voice is soft when you say, “I told myself I was done. That I deserved better. That I shouldn’t come back.”

His breath catches.

“And I still don’t know what’s right,” you admit. “But I know this, waiting didn’t make it hurt any less. Pretending not to love you didn’t help, and maybe I’ll regret this. Maybe we’ll fuck it all up again, but I would rather risk everything than spend one more night wondering what might’ve happened if I’d just given you that second chance.”

Max is crying openly now, but he’s smiling, too, this broken, beautiful kind of smile that only comes from relief so overwhelming it knocks the breath from your lungs.

“You still want this?” he asks hoarsely. “You still want me?”

You nod, stepping into his arms. “I want us. I want messy and real and worth it. But only if you choose me this time. Every time. No more halfway.”

He pulls you into him like he might never let go again, his whole body trembling. “I choose you,” he breathes against your temple. “Forever. I swear to God, I’m all in. I don’t want a life where you’re not mine.”

Without any warning you're crashing into him like waves that have waited too long, too long to break, too long to finally come home.

There’s no pause, no hesitation, no careful approach just your body folding into his, arms winding tight around his neck, his wrapped around your waist like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go. You’re both trembling, not from cold but from the sheer weight of it all, weeks of silence, of pain, of love held back like a dam on the verge of breaking.

Your forehead presses against his as your fingers twist into the familiar fabric of his hoodie, breath caught in your throat, tears slipping hot and silent down your cheeks.

“I missed you,” you sob, the words cracking in your chest as they leave your mouth.

Max lets out a sound like something inside him is breaking open. “I missed you every fucking second,” he says, voice thick with desperation and relief, like he’s been holding that sentence inside his lungs and can finally exhale.

Then his lips are on yours, messy, raw, and a little too hard, but you don’t care because it’s not careful, not poised, not the kind of kiss you save for clean slates or picture-perfect moments.

It’s real. It’s everything.

All the love, all the grief, all the fear and the hope and the need you’ve both been swallowing since the second things first cracked, it's all there, spilling out between your mouths in gasps and saltwater tears.

He kisses you like he’s starving.

Like his heart has been aching for this one small miracle.

When he finally pulls away, your chests are heaving, noses still brushing, his hands coming up to cup your face, his thumbs swiping away your tears, his fingers trembling against your skin like he still can’t believe you’re here.

“I’ll do it right this time,” he whispers, voice breaking like glass in the quiet. “Whatever it takes. I’m yours, completely, stupidly, yours. As long as you’ll have me.”

You don’t answer with words.

You kiss him again instead, slower this time, deeper. Not rushed. Not panicked. Just full of everything you couldn’t say before. Then you rest your forehead against his, eyes closed, tears still drying on your cheeks as you both stand there in the silence, in the safety of each other’s arms.

It’s steady.

Sure.

Home.

Later, when the adrenaline has settled into something softer, when the tears have dried but the weight of everything still clings to your bones, you lie curled up beside him, limbs tangled beneath the duvet, the room dim and hushed, like the universe itself is catching its breath.

His arms are around you and your head rests on his chest, rising and falling with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The same heart that's trying truly, desperately to piece you back together again.

You tilt your face up toward him, your voice quiet but steady, raw from crying, scraped from truth.

“It meant a lot that you waited,” you whisper, your fingers drawing soft shapes along his ribs like you're still trying to memorise the feeling of being this close again.

Max looks down at you, and there’s something different in his eyes now, not panic, not fear. Just presence. Just him. A boy who’s made mistakes. A man who’s trying to do better. Someone who is choosing you, fully and without flinching.

He reaches up and brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb, gentle.

“I hoped every day you’d walk through that door,” he says, voice low, eyes locked on yours like they’re the only truth he knows. “I swore I didn’t care if it was weeks, or years… or never… I would’ve still waited.”

You don’t speak. You just kiss him.

It’s hope.

It’s trust.

It’s the belief that maybe, just maybe, love can survive the storm and still be true.

And for the first time in weeks, in months, in what feels like lifetimes, you both finally believe, truly believe, this will last.

Your dad was the Yankees’ hitting coach. He was intense. Respected. The kind of man whose stare could silence a room and whose standards were etched into every swing the team took.

The players called him old-school, no-nonsense, and most importantly: off-limits.

Especially when it came to you.

You had always been the exception. The little girl sitting in the dugout before she could even read the scoreboard. The one who grew up collecting batting gloves like souvenirs and chasing foul balls like they were treasure.

But now you weren’t just Coach’s daughter.

You were twenty four. You had your own opinions, your own rhythm, and a killer swing of your own.

And Aaron Judge had definitely noticed.

You’d seen it in the way his eyes lingered too long.

In the way his voice dropped slightly whenever he talked to you lower, softer, careful.

In how he immediately looked away the second your dad walked into the room.

Aaron was good at keeping his composure he had to be.

But not around you.

Not when your laugh made him glance over from the cage.

Not when your hoodie fell off one shoulder and he nearly tripped over his own cleats.

Not when he saw you in your favorite worn-in cap, curled up in the dugout with sunflower seeds and a book like it was your own personal safe haven.

You weren’t supposed to be off-limits to him but you were.

And that made it worse.

⸻

One sticky July afternoon, you were pretending not to watch him during warmups. You leaned against the gatorade cooler, scrolling through nonsense on your phone, but your eyes drifted to him every few seconds rolling his sleeves up, adjusting his grip on the bat, doing absolutely nothing and still somehow making your heart flutter.

He jogged over toward the cooler with a bottle in hand.

“Thought you might need one,” he said casually, but his eyes were anything but casual.

You reached out, brushing your fingers against his. He didn’t let go right away.

Your eyes met.

Lingering. Warm. Way too dangerous.

“You know my dad would kill you, right?” you teased, a smile playing at your lips.

Aaron gave a slow grin. “Only if he found out.”

You squinted at him. “So you are thinking about it?”

“Thinking about it?” His voice dropped a little, barely above a whisper.

“I think about you all the time.”

Your breath caught.

It wasn’t a joke anymore.

He meant it. You could see it written all over his face the hesitancy, the longing, the quiet ache in his eyes.

Your teasing smile faded. Something settled in your chest some combination of want, fear, and realization.

Before you could respond, Volpe walked past, slinging a towel over his neck.

“Coach’s heading this way,” he called out with a smirk. “If you’re gonna risk your life, maybe don’t do it next to the bullpen.”

Aaron blinked. Stepped back. Cleared his throat like the moment had never happened.

You stared at the ground, flustered and flushed.

And you both walked away like nothing had changed.

But everything had.

⸻

That night, the stadium lot was almost empty when you left.

The buzz of stadium lights shutting down filled the air, and the air smelled like cut grass and late summer.

Aaron caught up with you beside your car.

Hands in his hoodie pocket, head slightly bowed.

“I didn’t mean to make things weird,” he said. “Earlier.”

You shook your head. “You didn’t.”

The quiet stretched between you. Not uncomfortable just thick with everything unspoken.

“For what it’s worth,” he said softly, voice full of something that made your chest tighten, “I’d treat you right. If he ever gave me the chance.”

You didn’t say anything.

Instead, you leaned up slowly, brushed your lips against his cheek, and lingered just long enough for him to know it meant more than a thank you.

When you pulled back, his eyes were wide.

Hopeful.

You slipped into your car and drove off, your fingers trembling slightly on the steering wheel and a stupid smile on your lips.

You didn’t see the shadow across the lot.

Didn’t see your dad standing still, arms crossed, watching everything unfold from twenty feet away.

But he saw.

And for him, it wasn’t just a stolen moment.

It was a warning shot.

⸻

Everything became a secret.

A sweet, reckless, breathless kind of secret. One that lived in your lungs like smoke hard to see, impossible to ignore.

There were late night FaceTime calls where you whispered beneath your blanket, earbuds in, your lamp off to hide the glow of your screen. You’d talk about everything baseball, your favorite movies, his childhood in Linden. Sometimes, you’d just lie there in silence, listening to his breathing like it was enough to make you feel safe.

When he was on the road, he’d sneak off the team bus to call you from hotel hallways. He’d text you selfies from batting cages with a soft smile and a simple: “Miss you.” You sent him pictures of your coffee orders, your dog in your lap, your face without makeup no filter, no walls.

You met in parking lots, diners two towns over, and quiet parks after dark. Once, he even drove an hour past his apartment just to sit in your car for twenty minutes, kissing you like it was the last time, his cap pulled low and his thumb brushing over your cheek.

You became fluent in the language of secrecy.

Inside the clubhouse? You were friendly. Respectful. Boringly neutral. You never lingered too long, never laughed too loud. Aaron kept his distance never touched you, never even looked at you longer than anyone else.

But the second no one was watching? It was like a switch flipped.

You shared private glances during bullpen sessions. You stole kisses in staff rooms during team events. He’d brush your hand gently as he passed behind you, just enough to make your breath hitch, just enough to remind you he was yours.

You’d sneak out of family dinners at your dad’s condo under the pretense of “errands” or “early study sessions.” In truth, Aaron would already be waiting in your driveway, engine idling, soft music playing as you climbed into the passenger seat. You didn’t even have to speak just reaching across the console and slipping your hand into his was enough.

He once waited in the rain for nearly forty minutes because your dad stayed late on a zoom call. You tried to apologize as you slid into the car, soaked from sprinting to meet him.

“Worth it,” he said, brushing a raindrop from your forehead and kissing your knuckles.

But the longer it went on, the harder it became to hide.

One afternoon in the weight room, your dad walked in just as Aaron had his hand resting on your lower back barely a touch, but intimate enough that he sprang backward like he’d touched a live wire. In his panic, he knocked over a row of dumbbells.

“Everything alright in here?” your dad had asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Y-Yeah. Just dropped something,” Aaron had said, voice rough.

Another day, your dad walked past just as Aaron slipped his hoodie off and tossed it toward you. It was casual innocent, even but the way your dad’s brow furrowed said he noticed.

It was small. But it was enough.

You felt the shift in your dad’s tone. The questions that came too sharp, too fast. The way he asked where you were going more often. Why your phone was always upside down on the counter. Why you smiled at texts and didn’t explain who they were from.

You and Aaron talked about it one night on his couch.

You were curled up in one of his Yankees sweatshirts, your legs draped across his lap, his fingers tracing soft lines down your calf.

“I think he knows,” you whispered.

Aaron didn’t deny it. He just nodded slowly. “Yeah. I think he’s piecing it together.”

You turned toward him, cheek pressed against his shoulder. “Do you regret it?”

His hand stilled. “Being with you?”

You nodded.

“Not for a second,” he said. “Even if it costs me everything.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’m not ready to give you up,” he said.

“Neither am I.”

He leaned in, kissing you softly, like he wanted to remember this exact moment.

And you kissed him back deeper this time like maybe love was worth the risk.

Even if it came with consequences.

⸻

It was a rainy Tuesday. The kind of day where the sky never really brightens and the air smells like wet asphalt and expectation. Practice had ended early. The players scattered to the showers. The staff had cleared out.

You and Aaron had stayed behind.

You were tucked beneath the bleachers at the far end of the field, rain pattering softly against the metal above. His hoodie hung off your shoulders, still warm. Your back was pressed to the wall and his forehead rested gently against yours.

You had just kissed him.

Lips brushing. Smiles forming. Everything feeling like it was just starting to fall into place.

“I don’t want to hide anymore,” you whispered.

Aaron nodded, his breathing a little heavier than usual. “I’ve been thinking the same thing.”

His fingers were laced with yours. He was about to kiss you again when a voice shattered the moment.

“What the HELL is going on here?”

It wasn’t a shout. It was a growl low and furious, the kind of voice you hadn’t heard from your dad since you were a kid sneaking into team transport vans.

Your heart plummeted. Your stomach turned cold.

You turned slowly, eyes wide.

Your dad stood at the end of the tunnel, soaked from the rain, his cap dripping, his arms rigid at his sides. His face was pale with anger. His jaw clenched so tightly you thought he might break a tooth.

“Dad—”

“Get away from her,” he barked at Aaron. “Now.”

Aaron didn’t move at first. He opened his mouth, struggling to form words. You could feel the tension rippling off his body.

“Sir, I—”

“Don’t ‘sir’ me,” your dad snapped, voice sharper than lightning. “I trusted you.” His eyes darted between the two of you. “You knew the rules. You knew what this meant. And you—” he looked at you now, eyes glassy with fury and something that looked a lot like betrayal. “You lied to me. Both of you.”

“I wasn’t—I swear, it wasn’t just—” Aaron’s voice cracked.

Your dad pointed a trembling finger at him. “I took you in. I treated you like family.”

You stepped forward, heart in your throat. “Dad, please, just—”

“Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t make excuses. Don’t pretend this was harmless.”

You stopped, the air between you dense and suffocating.

He shook his head, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “I want you out of my house. Tonight.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Then he turned to Aaron. His voice dropped, but somehow it hit even harder.

“And you don’t even look at her again. Not at practice. Not at games. Not in passing. I don’t care how many homers you hit stay the hell away from my daughter.”

Aaron looked like he’d just been punched. He didn’t speak. He just nodded once then dropped your hand like it burned.

And walked away.

Leaving you standing in the cold rain, heart split wide open.

⸻

Aaron stayed away.

Not because he wanted to. Not because he stopped caring. But because he thought it was what you needed.

He thought stepping back would protect you. Give your dad space. Buy time.

He was wrong.

You didn’t blame him.

But it still broke your heart the night he didn’t answer your call.

The phone rang. And rang. And rang.

Then it stopped.

You stared at the screen, your hand shaking, willing it to light up again.

It didn’t.

You cried into your pillow, biting back the sobs because your dad was in the next room. Because you didn’t want to admit out loud how badly you’d let yourself fall.

You scrolled through pictures you couldn’t post. Texts you never sent. Notes from him that still sat in your drawer like relics from another life.

His hoodie still hung on the back of your chair.

His contact still starred at the top of your favorites.

The ache wasn’t sharp.

It was dull. Heavy. Like carrying a weight you couldn’t put down.

And the worst part wasn’t the silence.

It was the absence.

You missed his laugh deep and low, the kind that rumbled in his chest and made you feel like you were the funniest person in the world.

You missed how steady he was. The way he always stood with his feet planted like he was ready to catch you if the world tilted.

You missed the way he made you feel safe. Even when you were lying to everyone else. Even when your world felt like it was stitched together with secrets.

The first few days, you half expected him to show up anyway. To knock on your window. To send one last text.

But he didn’t.

And after a week, it started to feel permanent.

After two, it started to feel like grief.

You sat in your room most nights, staring at your phone, trying not to give in to the part of you that still believed he might fight for you.

But deep down, you knew:

He was hurting, too.

And staying away?

That wasn’t his way of letting go.

It was his way of protecting you even if it meant breaking his own heart in the process.

⸻

You found your dad alone in the clubhouse.

It was after a home game. The field lights were off. Most of the team had cleared out hours ago. You knew he always stayed late checking stats, going over film, or just sitting in the quiet like it grounded him.

You stood in the doorway for a long moment before stepping inside.

The room smelled like sweat and turf and the faint ghost of sunflower seeds. Your dad sat on the bench outside his office, elbows resting on his knees, fingers wrapped around a paper coffee cup that hadn’t been touched in at least an hour. The steam was gone. So was the fire in his eyes.

“Dad,” you said softly.

He didn’t look up. “Shouldn’t you be home?”

You walked closer. “I needed to talk to you.”

He sighed, rubbing his thumb along the rim of the cup. “Let me guess who this is about.”

You sat down across from him. The wood creaked under your weight. Your hands folded in your lap, clenched together like you were bracing for impact.

“Dad,” you began again, your voice trembling slightly but clear, “I love him.”

He finally looked up. His face was tight, weathered with exhaustion. He didn’t look angry anymore.

Just… tired.

“You’re young,” he said. “You think everything that feels good must be love.”

You didn’t flinch. “Maybe. But I know the difference between a crush and something that makes me feel safe. Seen. Worth it.”

His jaw twitched.

“I’m not asking you to throw a parade,” you continued. “I’m not even asking you to like it. But I’m asking you to believe me. To believe us.”

He leaned back slowly, the cup now dangling from his fingertips. The silence between you was long, brittle.

“Do you know how many players I’ve watched rise and fall?” he said finally. “How many of them burn hot and then disappear?”

You nodded. “But Aaron’s not like that.”

He looked at you again. This time, there was something different in his eyes.

“I didn’t want this for you,” he said, voice low. “The spotlight. The pressure. The heartbreak.”

You blinked hard, refusing to cry. “But what if it’s also joy? And safety? And real?”

Another beat passed. Then another.

“I was scared,” you admitted. “That if I told you, you’d shut it down before it even started. But it already had. And it meant something. It still does.”

He exhaled. Closed his eyes briefly like the weight of your words was pressing directly against his chest.

“You could’ve told me,” he said. “You should’ve told me.”

“I know,” you whispered. “I’m telling you now.”

He let the coffee cup drop into the trash beside him and ran both hands over his face. When he dropped them, you saw something shift.

A softening.

A surrender.

“If he ever hurts you—”

“He won’t,” you said, immediately. Without hesitation.

Your dad’s gaze locked on yours. Not as your coach. Not as some hard-edged guardian.

But as your father.

“He better not,” he said, quieter now.

You nodded, a breath catching in your throat. And for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel like you were choosing between the two men who mattered most.

You were finally choosing both.

⸻

He was packing up his locker when he heard your voice.

“Hey.”

He froze.

At first, he thought he’d imagined it. He’d been doing that a lot lately hearing your voice in places you used to stand, seeing glimpses of your silhouette in the corner of the dugout, only to blink and find you gone.

But this time, when he turned around, you were there.

Really there.

Backlit by the hallway lights, damp hair curling slightly from the rain, wearing that same Yankees hoodie he hadn’t had the heart to ask for back. His mouth went dry.

You looked like everything he’d tried to stop himself from missing. And failed.

“You’re back?” he asked, the words catching in his throat.

“I’m back,” you said, stepping into the clubhouse like you belonged. “And I told him. Everything.”

Aaron blinked. The world narrowed to the space between you. The ghost of your absence still lingered in the way his shoulders tensed, in the weight in his chest that hadn’t lifted in weeks.

He took one hesitant step forward.

“And?” he asked, carefully.

You smiled. Not a smirk. Not a brave front. A real smile the kind he hadn’t seen in too long.

“He didn’t kill you. Yet.”

A short laugh broke out of him, a laugh tangled in disbelief and something close to relief. The kind that cracks open something inside you and lets hope flood in.

“I’ve missed you,” he said, voice low, aching.

“I know,” you whispered, moving closer until the space between you vanished. “Me too.”

He didn’t wait this time. He pulled you into him like muscle memory, arms tight around your waist, chin buried in your shoulder.

And for the first time in weeks, he breathed.

Fully.

You felt solid in his arms. Warm. Real. The kind of real he had tried to bury under routine, training, distraction and failed every time.

You tilted your head back to look at him, and he kissed you right there in the clubhouse. No hesitation. No fear. No one to stop him.

The kiss wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t rushed.

It was slow. Steady. The kind of kiss that says:

“I still choose you.”

Even after everything.

His hand cradled the side of your face, thumb brushing along your cheekbone, like he needed to relearn every part of you.

And you let him.

When you pulled away, you stayed pressed together. Foreheads touching. Arms still locked tight.

“It’s really over now,” you whispered. “No more hiding.”

He nodded, eyes searching yours.

“No more hiding.”

A pause. Then, quieter:

“Does he hate me?”

You shook your head. “He doesn’t. Not really. I think he’s just… scared. But he sees it now. Us.”

Aaron closed his eyes for a moment. Let the weight fall off his chest.

“I don’t care if he never smiles at me again. As long as I don’t have to lose you.”

“You won’t,” you said.

And standing there, still holding you like you were gravity itself, he believed you.

Finally.

“You think I’m blind?” Joe challenged, stepping towards him. The visitor side locker room was small, shrinking with the time as the wide receiver and quarterback duo inched closer.

“We could have won the game if that call wasn’t made!”

“We could have won if you kept your damn mouth shut!”

“Hey!” Coach Taylor stepped between them, hands pressed against their chests, “cut the shit. We lost. Now’s not the time to see whose dick is bigger,”

Silence filled the room. Heavy breaths clouded the space between players. The plane ride home wouldn’t be a fun one.

Cincinnati, Ohio

He doesn’t give her much of a choice. His text to her before his flight said enough.

‘I’m coming over.’

Their relationship was complicated. They were best friends, had been since LSU. He was the star quarterback, lifting LSU from the depths of their losses, and she was the girl who got straight A’s and was in bed by 10pm. But Joe was always fond of her. Her laugh and her ability to comfort. The way her brow furrowed when she concentrated.

She was his steady. His constant. His stress relief. He was her hope. Her motivation. Her first love.

And those things didn’t mesh as well as she’d wanted them to.

She was dressed comfortably. Sweats hung on her hips and a t-shirt wrapped around her shoulders. A TV show was on, something unimportant. Her phone vibrated again, her eyes flicking to it next to her on the couch.

‘5 minutes away.’

She didn’t know why she was nervous. Her stomach bubbled, hands grew clammy. It wasn’t that she didn’t want sex, she just didn’t know what to expect. He’d lost the game. He was angry. She was his outlet.

The first time he’d come over, it was just an overabundance of touch. His hands around her waist, head on her chest. He sought comfort from her. But each time, it grew more heated. He never kissed her, not properly. Always her neck. Always below her chin. Never marking her. Never staking his claim.

Because she wasn’t his. She was just his best friend.

She stood up, padding over to her front door. She unlocked it, walking back to her spot on the couch. Joe was her best friend. They laughed together, shared in their love of Star Wars. She let him show her chemistry videos, his commentary on the compatibility of different elements she found intriguing.

But once he got a taste of her skin, there wasn’t any going back.

‘Door’s unlocked.’

She curled under her blanket, letting her body sink into the couch. It wasn’t long before the doorknob to her apartment turned. Before Joe stepped through, his cologne wafting into the small space.

She sat up, watching him. His movements were stiff and ragged. His eyes were hard and unforgiving. More of himself. How could he have lost such a game? By one damn point?

He tossed her blanket aside, crawling on top of her. There wasn’t speaking. No words crawled out of the depths of his throat. His lips attached to her throat, his hands sliding up her shirt. She was all warm and soft edges, pliable under his touch.

The complete opposite of himself.

His touch wasn’t foreign. The way he touched her, calloused hands against soft skin, it ignited something in her. Something it shouldn’t. She imagined that he was touching her because he loved her. Because he wanted her.

But she was an outlet. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Joe’s hands pried her shirt off, tossing the fabric aside. His lips kissed down her chest, swirling around a nipple on her breast. Her breath caught in her throat. Her stomach tensed, but she forbade herself from making a single sound.

This wasn’t pleasure for him. This was his stress relief.

He kissed down her stomach, his tongue velvet against her skin. Shivers crawled down her spine, her hands fisting the fabric of the couch. The ache that built between her legs was undeniable. The arousal that stuck to her cunt was hot, making her grit her teeth together.

Clothes came off with ease. They were discarded on the floor, forming a disorganized pile. Joe’s bare chest was pressed against hers, his cock hard and leaking against her slit. And yet, his eyes never left hers.

His hands held her hips, his fingers pressing into her skin. He guided himself into her, the friction sending electric currents down the length of his spine. He wanted to take his time, to let her feel every inch and every thrust, but his anger drove him. As soon as he bottomed out, he pulled back just to slam into her again.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his hips snapping at a relentless pace against hers. Wet sounds filled the living room of her apartment, her soft and contained mewls floating between them. His hair, the bleach growing out finally, stuck to his forehead. His lips were pink and parted, his cock dragging in and out of her with a ragged and intense pace.

To him, every thrust was cups of his anger poured into her. A release. He could always count on her to be what he needed. To hold and to comfort. To let him do what he needed to do.

To her, every thrust was a reminder that he never loved her. She grit her teeth, her mind in other places as he slammed into her. She didn’t feel the burn, not like she used to. She couldn’t concentrate, not enough to send her over the edge.

So, she faked it. Her legs shook, her back arched, and even though the pleasure was real, the orgasm wasn’t. She clenched around him, her breaths shuddering as she squirmed.

He believed it. There was nothing that changed about the way her face looked, or how her back arched into his chest. His own orgasm built, twitching in his belly, and just as he was about to spill over, he pulled out. He sat up, wrapped his hand around his cock, and brought himself to that point of ecstasy.

He was completely satisfied. She, however, wasn’t. It was proof to her that he never paid attention to her body. That he only wanted to get himself off. It was selfish fucking ambition that drove him.

It was a sour taste in her mouth.

She shifted, pushing herself out from under him. His mind was clearer, blue eyes meeting hers. There was something wrong, something sitting under the current of her eyes. He didn’t know what it was.

She sat up, tugging her legs from under him to swing over the couch.

“Wait,” he paused her movements, a steady hand placed on her arm, “let me take care of you,”

Her eyes met his. She could see the sincerity behind his gaze, the need to do something right. Joe was a fixer, always had been. He wanted to fix problems right then and there, he wanted to make people feel better. After a loss, it was what he especially needed.

At her silence, Joe stood. He slid back on his boxers and sweats, padding into her kitchen. His mind wandered, exploring the depths of his thoughts. She didn’t seem satisfied. She didn’t seem okay. She was his best friend, and he’d always take care of her. So why did she look like she’d been punched in the gut?

He grabbed a glass of water and a warm, soaked towel. He brought it back over to the couch as she slid her shirt back on. He set the glass down, holding the towel awkwardly in his hands.

“Something’s wrong,” Joe pointed out. She took the cloth from his hands, setting it down on the table. Her mind spun. It always did after sex. But it spun faster now, a realization that she deserved better surfacing. It choked her, pressing down on her chest.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, standing from the couch. She grabbed her panties, tugging them over her hips. A practiced motion, something she wished held more meaning. She wished she could bask in the warmth of his body without worrying about him.

“No, you’re not,” he continued, “did I go too hard? Did it hurt? Y/N, tell me,”

“So now you’re worried about how I feel,” she snapped. Months of sex, years of yearning, and she was finally ready to boil over. Her fingers flexed at her sides, her toes digging into the carpet under her.

“What?” Joe’s eyes flickered, widening ever so slightly. He was still on the couch, watching her as she stood above him. He didn’t need this. He didn’t need her to stop being his constant.

“You come over when you need me, and I’m here. Always. When you need someone to hold you, I’m here. When you need sex, I’m here. Have you ever thought about what I need?” Her question hung in the air, and yes, Joe did think about what she needed. All the time. But something told him she was going somewhere else with this.

“Y/N-”

“Whenever I need you, you’re not there. I’m never angry. I’m never upset. But this, whatever this is, it’s not 50/50. I don’t deserve that,” she continued, and her words set a deep fear within him. He could see the end of the tracks, the cliff she was about to take them down.

“Please, just give me another shot,”

“No,” she shook her head, stepping away from him, “you don’t notice things. You’ve never picked up on the small things, Joe. You’ve only come over to satisfy yourself,”

“What the hell are you talking about?” He argued, standing up from his spot. Her chest heaved, her head cocked to the side. Her legs shook, her mind still swimming with both anxiety and anger.

“You know how many times I’ve faked it?” she asked, “how many times I’ve made it look like you’ve made me orgasm?”

Her question hit him like a punch to the gut. It shouldn’t be that offensive. They weren’t a couple, but she’d been lying to him, he’d even go as far as she was deceiving him.

But it was true. He’d never noticed. His face fell, his chest tightening even more. He came to her to find peace away from the storm when she herself was the storm.

“My favorite flower isn’t lilies, it’s dahlias. I’ve told you that. My favorite book isn’t True Colors, it’s The Nightingale. You’ve seen my annotations,” she continued. Every word struck deep within both of them, realization hitting them both in different ways.

“You never corrected me,”

“I shouldn’t have to correct you, Joe,” she snapped, “we’ve been best friends for years, how much do you actually know about me? Or is it all about sex?”

He froze. A bad time to freeze, but his mind couldn’t function. Joe knew a lot about her. He was sure of it. He wasn’t perfect, but he knew her. Now, as he stood in front of her, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, he looked like an idiot.

“That’s what I thought,” she sighed, stepping away from him. Her heart ached, cracking down the middle. She’d loved him for so long, only for him to not have a single thing to say about her. It hurt, it made her organs twist inside of her.

“Y/N, wait-”

“Get out,” she hummed, words like venom. Joe clenched his jaw, the unwelcome silence of his tears blossoming in his chest.

“Please-”

“Get out, Joe. This is over,” she stood firm on her words, even if it killed her. Joe grabbed his shirt, shaky hands tugging the fabric over his head. He wanted to scream, to shake her, to make up for his stupidity, but she seemed final in her decision. His stomach churned, aching deep within him. He couldn’t go anywhere but home now.

He slid on his UGGs, grabbed his keys from the bowl next to her door, and left.

She stood there, bottom lip quivering. Her fists clenched at her sides, tears filling her eyes. She’d ripped a limb from herself, the pain nearly unbearable. She covered her mouth as a cry left her throat, unable to fully articulate what she just did.

You’re asleep on the sofa behind them, head resting on one of your friend’s shoulder. He chuckles at the sight, one of the many ways you and he are similar—you can both fall asleep basically anywhere. 

Your friend spots him approaching and waves, patting your knee gently to wake you. You don’t stir one bit. You don’t even stir when Lando slides in next to you, maneuvering your weight against him so she can continue having a good time. 

“Baby, wake up,” He says right next to your ear, rubbing a hand over your thigh. 

Your brows furrow at the action as you inhale a deep breath, eyes flutter open groggily. You blink a few times to regain your bearings, sitting up straight.

“Lando?” You mumble, squinting at him. 

“Hey, you. Ready to go home?” 

“Did I call you?” 

“You texted me to come get you,” He says amusedly. You remain unmoving for a good few seconds, staring at him like he’d just grown a second head. “I can show you the text, if you don't believe me?” 

“No, I do. You just—” You inhale a deep breath, reaching out with childlike wonder to touch his cheek gently. “You’re so pretty, Lan.” 

Lando feels his face turn hot at the compliment, even though you tell him all the time. “Thank you, love. You’re very pretty too.” 

“No, but like, you’re…so pretty.” 

He lets out a breathy chuckle, blanketing the hand currently stroking his cheek with his own. “Alright, I think it’s time we get you home, yeah?”

You nod wildly, face brightening as he helps you to your feet, muttering something about nachos. Before Lando can urge you out of the place, you just have to say goodbye to each and every one of your friends for at least five minutes (Lando would know—he counted) while he waits patiently with your purse in hand. 

When you finally do make it outside, the two of you barely get ten feet from the door before you stop suddenly in your tracks. 

“What? What’s happening?” He asks, alarmed at your abruptness. You gesture at your feet halfheartedly, but don’t say anything. “Baby, what?” 

“I wanna take my shoes off,” You whine, pouting. 

“You can’t walk to the car barefoot.” 

“What if I run?” 

Lando scrubs a hand down his face, shaking his head. “Please don’t.” 

“But my feet hurt!” 

“You’re sure you can’t make it to the car? It’s just down the block, you can take your shoes off there.” 

He could leave you here and run to grab the car, but he can’t rule out the possibility that you won’t wander off in the short time it takes him to pull it around. You’re as curious as you are cute when you’re drunk. 

“Positive.” 

“Alright, fine. Go on, take your shoes off then. I’ll carry you to the car.” 

You beam and bend down to undo the strap, but your drunkenness seems to have impaired your balance, because you nearly topple over, only able to right yourself because of Lando’s hands steadying you by the waist. 

“Oops,” You giggle, hiccuping. 

Lando kneels down, taking your ankle and undoing the strap with gentle fingers before you try again and actually fall. 

“Step here,” He urges, gesturing to his own trainer for you to put your foot on. You oblige, planting both hands on his shoulders for support, reveling in the sturdiness of them as he unbuckles the other shoe swiftly. He doesn’t miss the way your hands travel down to his upper back, fingers toying with the hood of his jumper. 

“You’re so nice to me, Lan,” You sigh happily. 

“Yeah, well, that’s because I love you. Now c’mon, jump on.”

You let out a little squeal like you’re on a roller coaster when Lando lifts you off the ground with little effort, winding your arms around his neck with another drunken giggle and a smattering of sloppy kisses pressed to his cheek. He chuckles amusedly, making sure you’re holding onto him tightly before starting the short trek back to the car. 

There are sure to be pictures circulating on the internet by tomorrow morning, but hey, it could be worse. At least the aforementioned photos would be of him being a doting boyfriend. 

The passenger door opens upwards with a hiss when he tugs on the handle, and by the way you’re gawking slack-jawed at it in amazement, one might think you were looking at a damn spaceship. Lando chuckles to himself at the thought as he deposits you as best he can into the low sitting car, reaching over you to click your seatbelt into place. 

“Hi, baby,” You hum, running your fingers through his hair. “You’re pretty.” 

“So I’ve been told many times tonight.” 

You scowl suddenly, nose wrinkling. “By who? I’ll fight them.” 

“By you, my love.” 

“I think I would remember calling you that, don’t you reckon?” You ask, tapping your temple like your memory is airtight. 

“Mhm, yeah. ‘Course you would,” He says airily, bobbing his head. Then, under his breath, more to himself than anything as he rounds the car to slide into the driver’s seat, “Damn, your hangover is going to be wicked tomorrow morning.” 

The purr of the smooth engine is familiar as the car roars to life under Lando’s fingertips. 

“Can we get nachos before we go home? Please, Lan?” You ask eagerly, turning in your seat to face him when you realize you’re about to leave. Without even looking at you, Lando knows you’ve got your puppy dog eyes trained on him, most likely paired with the jutted out lower lip that he’s never quite learned how to say no to. 

Lando flicks on his blinker, pulling out onto the road, towards the place you always go to whenever you’re craving nachos, where the people there know him by name and his order by heart, and not because of what he does for a living. He’s memorized the way there the same way he’s memorized every circuit he’s ever raced on. 

“Who’s the best boyfriend ever?” He asks. Rhetorical, of course. 

“You are!” You cheer, leaning over to kiss his cheek. You actually wind up kissing the side of his chin, but Lando will take it gladly anyways. When you’re happy, he’s happy, and that’s all he really needs. 

Fifteen minutes and a rather long conversation about Lando’s impressive car with the old man that always works the counter on late nights later, you’re finally on the way home. You’ve got your nachos on your lap, humming happily in the passenger seat as you munch on them. 

“Lan, here,” You urge, tugging at his sleeve the moment he stops at a red light. One glance tells him you’re holding out the best chip in the whole tray—the cheesiest one with the most toppings on it. 

It feels vaguely like a testament to how much you love him, really. You love him so much that even when you’re drunk you want him to give him your favorite bite. 

Warmth thrums through Lando’s chest at your offer, and he grins but shakes his head. “It’s alright, love. It’s your food.” 

“But I want you to have it.” 

Well, now how can he resist that? 

He takes the bite gratefully, not even minding when a bit of salsa misses his mouth and splatters onto the seat, even when you gasp like it’s the worst thing in the world. The chip is good, but not better than the person who gave it to him. 

If he’s being completely honest, he’s still getting used to being treated like this—to being loved so much. You’re the type of person who would give the shirt off your back if someone asked, kind and caring and always looking out for others. It still blows Lando’s mind that he’s one of the people you’ve chosen to care about. 

You make sure he’s eating on race days because you know sometimes the nerves get to be so much that he forgets. You do his laundry the morning after he gets in from another redeye flight because you know how much the jet lag messes with his body and want him to get as much sleep as he can. You tell him how proud you are of him after every practice, every qualifying session, every race, because you know how hard he is on himself when it comes to even the smallest mistakes. 

You love Lando in ways he’s never been loved before, and he’s damn lucky for it. 

Right now, as you sing offkey to the song playing on the radio with crumbs all over your lap and your hair blowing around everywhere from the wind of your open window, he feels like the luckiest guy alive.

As if you weren't an adult, perfectly capable of making your own decisions, of reading people, of caring for your own heart.

On paper, you and Mattheo Riddle made no sense. You were quiet and calm, friendly and compassionate, quick with a warm smile and a hug. You were light and laughter and goodness.

By contrast, Mattheo was rough and edgy, quick to anger with a firecracker temper and a biting sarcasm like a venomous snake that kept everyone but his closest friends at an arm's length. But around you? He melted.

It was like you held the key that unlocked his defenses, allowing you to walk straight into the dark center of his heart. He would have mocked any guy who fell for a girl the way he fell for you: immediately, irrevocably and hard. And once he had his mind made up about you, there was little you could say in the matter (not that you were arguing).

He showered you with a depth of affection that was rare for anyone, let along the brooding bad boy of Hogwarts.

Suddenly, he was just there, beside you in class, next to you at meals, and keeping you company in the library as you studied. Before long you began to crave the feeling of his presence, of his warmth next to you, of the low rumble of his voice meant only for you to hear as he shared an inside joke or complimented you. He'd eagerly watch your face light up in return, the twinkle in your eyes, the lift of your lips and your happiness became a high for him that he wouldn't stop chasing; making you happy and keeping you happy became his mission, one that he succeeded at in every way.

Then late one night in the library you were huddled close together as a storm racked the castle outside, sending wind and rain against the large windows. Your heads were close together as you spoke in whispers. You looked at him and smiled and for just the breath of a second your eyes flitted from his eyes to his lips, and that was all the invitation he needed. He leaned in slowly, winding his hand to cup the side of your face as he pressed his lips to yours and he kissed you with tenderness and hunger, the combination of which pulled you out of your seat and onto his lap. And once he realized how bright you shined after he kissed you? He was a goner. And so were you.

There wasn't a thing anyone could say to you about Mattheo after that that you would have listened to, because he had you, heart and soul. He treated you like royalty, he protected you like treasure and he loved you with everything he had in him. What more could a girl possibly ask for?

You fell in step with Mattheo's long strides on your walk to breakfast, the early morning light beaming through the stained glass windows.

He wrapped his arm around your shoulder and pulled you into his side, right where he always wanted you, as close to him as possible. You nuzzled into his neck and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

As usual, the sea of students in the corridor dipped and dodged out of your way, leaving a wide berth for your group out of deference and intimidation. It was odd for you at first joining the group that held the rest of the school in such rapt fear because it was immediately obvious that they were just like everyone else, they just didn't care to show that side of themselves to the world; they were fun-loving, goofy, affable and caring and they quickly adopted you as one of their own.

You rounded the corner to the Great Hall and Mattheo went crashing into a figure that hadn't had the wherewithal to get out of his way. He tightened his grasp on you out of instinct and narrowed his eyes towards Seamus Finnegan who had dropped the entire stack of books he'd been holding and looked ready to argue about it until he saw who he was confronting. He bit his tongue instead, averted his eyes, and stepped out of your way.

Mattheo moved by him without a word, the slight already forgotten, but you glanced back with the smallest ounce of pity in your eyes as Seamus knelt to the floor to gather his books and a few Gryffindors came to help him.

"M'fuckin' sick of it" Seamus said quietly once you were out of earshot. "Him, them, walkin' around like they own the school" he shot a nasty glare in the direction of the Slytherin table.

"Good luck doing anything about it" Ron sighed, resigned. "Nasty temper, that one" he added, eyes shifting warily towards Mattheo like he might actually have the ability to hear him from the other side of the loud hall.

"It's cruel is what it is! Neville is still trying to recover from Nott hexing him. He claimed it was an 'accident', but we all know the truth. He should be expelled!" Hermione added hotly, her cheeks flushing at the idea of anyone breaking the rules and getting away with it.

Seamus grimaced as he stared at your group, at the ease with which you had all carried on with your morning, laughing and joking, boisterous, without a care in the world because you knew you were all completely untouchable, above reproach or reprimand.

He knew there wasn't a thing he could do in retaliation without ending up in the infirmary or worse he thought solemly.

What I wouldn't give to take them down a notch his mind whirled, to make them feel something, to feel vulnerable, on edge, afraid like the rest of us.

His eyes narrowed.

Surely there was a weakness, a vulnerability he could find, something something to level the playing field. His eyes skated over Draco and Blaise, over Theo's large frame and Lorenzo's tall figure before they landed back on Mattheo, and finally on you.

You.

He watched the way Mattheo kept his arm around you, as he always did, keeping you close to his side like you were two parts of one whole and Seamus thought about the way he'd seen Mattheo pull you even closer when he'd run into him. He watched, really watched him turn to look at you when you talked and saw a surprising softness in his normally cold, dark eyes.

It was no secret that you two were together, Mattheo loved kissing you openly, unabashedly, anywhere and everywhere he pleased: in between classes, after quidditch matches, at meals, even in class from time to time with a complete disregard to anything the professors said about it.

If there was one thing anyone knew or had learned the hard way it was that you were one hundred percent off limits and to think otherwise was a death wish.

Seamus remembered the transfer student several months ago that had unknowingly asked you out, and how Mattheo had broken his nose over it. Twice. Never mind the time Mattheo happened to overhear a Ravenclaw compliment your outfit, and he ended up puking slugs for weeks.

Seamus shuddered.

Mattheo had an appetite for violence and a temper that never burned hotter than when it came to you, sending him into a fitful spiral.

She's his weakness he realized.

"I have an idea" he said to the group around him.

Weeks later, your feet carried you quickly down the winding stone staircase from Divination. You were first out the door, eager to spend every second of the short break you had between classes with Mattheo as you always did at this time in the neighboring stairwell of the North Tower.

You turned the corner to see him leaning against the wall, waiting for you and your face lit up as you strode toward him in the small, empty space. He stood up straighter as he took you in and he fidgeted with his hands in an unusually nervous way that had you laughing as you approached him and pressed into him, winding your arms around his neck.

"Hi handsome" you breathed against his lips before you kissed him.

But it was like kissing a statue.

His lips sat unmoving against yours, his hands awkwardly at his side.

"Matty?" you asked, pulling back to look at him to see the same look of genuine nerves on his face, his cheeks flushed.

You laughed again, totally confused at his reaction.

"Are you okay?—"

"—Y-yeah" he mumbled before running his hands slowly up your sides. "Yeah, m'so good" he confirmed before tugging you into him.

His lips met yours but something was still off, he was stiff and awkward. You moved to pull away from him again but his grip on you tightened, holding you in place until he swung you around and pushed you against the stone wall so quick and so hard your head knocked against the surface painfully.

Mattheo was a lot of things.

But careless with you was not one of them.

Your heart raced in your chest as your head throbbed. You pushed against him, but he was unwavering as he deepened his kiss aggressively, sloppily, despite your growing protests. And then he bit your bottom lip. Hard. And you tasted blood.

"Ah! Mattheo - what the fuck!" you said, shoving him hard this time as your hand flew to your bleeding lip.

He looked completely disheveled, flushed, his eyes glazed as he stared at you. Your stomach roiled.

And then you earnestly began to panic because for the first time in the year you'd been together you were keenly aware of how tall and how big he was, and how helpless you were in comparison.

Your heart began to race and your breaths came fast and shallow as you searched his face for any sign of the boy you loved and every cautionary word you'd been told came racing back to you: Be careful. He's dangerous. You don't know what you're getting yourself into.

Those fears mixed with how fiercely you loved him in a cocktail of confusion that left tears burning in your eyes as you tried to hold back a sob.

At the sight of that he smirked and a chill ran down your spine.

You tried to run.

He grabbed you.

"C'mon dove" he said, caging you in with his arms against the wall despite how you squirmed. "I know you like it like this" he muttered as lips attached to your neck and he began to suck and bite you.

Dove?

He'd never once called you that.

You scraped against his chest. You tried to shout until he put a hand over your mouth and it was like he was intentionally trying to mark you, sucking your skin so hard you could feel the bruising as you pushed and punched him to no avail. He reached for the top of your shirt and yanked, tearing it as buttons flew off.

You were crying hard now as you fought his hands when suddenly voices echoed in a nearby corridor and he pulled away from you.

His grip loosened and his eyes flashed with fear, and then he left, taking off down the corridor without a word.

You sunk to the floor in disbelief, gasping to catch your breath as cries ripped from you and you wrapped your arms around yourself, your brain a mottled mess as you tried to comprehend what the fuck had happened to your boyfriend.

As soon as you could steady yourself, you grasped your torn shirt with shaking hands and made your way as quickly as you could to the common room through a series of passageways and abandoned corridors to avoid running into anyone.

You snuck into the dungeons, head down, desperate to get to your room, when you heard your friends' voices.

"There she is. Hey! YN!" Blaise shouted.

Shit.

You tried to ignore him, to act like you didn't hear anything.

"YN!" Theo called after you, louder. "Hang on, I'll get her" he said, standing to come after you.

You tried to walk faster, doubling your pace.

"Hey, hey!" Theo said, catching up with you easily with his long strides. "Have you seen Mattheo? He—"

He reached for you and you pulled out of his grasp, turning to face him and he stopped in his tracks, the words dying on his lips as his eyes widened and the color drained from his face.

"YN" he said quietly, intently. "What the fuck happened to you? Holy shit."

He reached for your face, taking your chin in his warm hand, his touch so soft and gentle, so completely opposite of everything you'd just experienced that you immediately began to cry.

"Bella, your lip" he said, panic slipping into his tone both at your reaction and the sight of the blood there. "Who the fuck did this?"

You closed your eyes and shook your head and he slowly wrapped his arms around you. Your head fell to his chest as you grasped him, soaking his jumper with your tears.

By now, Draco, Lorenzo and Blaise had come over and were muttering softly.

"Bloody hell."

"This is fucking mental, mate."

"Matty is going to kill them."

And at just the mention of his name, you pushed further into Theo's chest, burrowing there like you could hide from the world.

"Bella, you're going to have to tell him, you can't protect whoever did this" he said, misreading your reaction.

"Well, we'll have to find him first. He'd better hear this from us" Blaise said.

Find him?

"W-what do you mean find him?" you muttered against Theo's chest.

"Haven't seen him since breakfast. Wasn't in class this morning and didn't come for our smoke" Draco replied.

Your head ached as much from your tears as it did from where he'd pushed you into the wall as you tried to process that. What had he been doing all day? And what the hell had gotten into him?

A burst of laughter, shouts and a loud wolf whistle echoed from behind you and pulled the group's attention to the door. You peeked from the comfort of Theo's arms to see Mattheo walking in... in his underwear.

"Thank you, thank you" he smirked, bowing cockily to the group of onlookers who cheered and gawked at his half-naked body, moving to make his way towards his room until he saw your group.

"There you fuckers are" he said as he approached. "I have had a fucking day - someone's getting their face rearranged—" but he stopped midsentence when he got close enough to see you in Theo's arms.

"What's going on? What's wrong?" he asked, stepping towards you immediately.

Theo moved to let you go but you gripped him tighter, hiding yourself, refusing to move.

Mattheo stopped, startled by your reaction like he'd run into a brick wall. He stood at a distance from you, completely unmoored by the sight of you grasping onto someone else for comfort. His heart began to thump heavily and angrily in his chest and his cheeks flushed in irritation and embarrassment.

He let out a steadying breath, his jaw clenched as his eyes slid to Theo, the decided object of the brewing anger he felt.

"What. The fuck. Is going on?" he asked again, his fury palpable.

"It's not—I don't—" Theo stumbled.

"—She hasn't said anything, mate" Enzo clarified.

You could feel yourself begin to shake and a dam of pressure welled up behind your eyes at how angry Mattheo was, at how afraid you were to be near him, at what he might do or say next and yet at the same time, how much you craved his comfort, how you knew he was the only person who could truly make you feel better.

Your tears came hot and wet down your cheeks as you cried into Theo's chest and Mattheo felt something crack inside of him. He'd never once seen you like this and he felt a wave of nausea wash over him, sick over how upset you were, sick that you were in pain, sick that you didn't seem to want him or to be anywhere near him, sick that he didn't know what to do or how to help.

"B-baby, please?" he said, nearly begging as he tried to move closer.

The tone in his voice and the affectionate nickname tugged at your heart.

You swallowed and turned your head to look at him, gently, tentatively letting Theo go.

Mattheo's eyes met yours before they wandered over your face.

His face fell.

And he stopped breathing.

A cold sensation like the ooze of a cracked egg ran down his body as he looked at you.

Your mascara was smeared, caught in the tears that were running down your face. Your cheeks were red and flushed and your lip was swollen and bleeding. He catalogued the bruises down your neck and marks that looked an awful lot like bites there too that led to your ripped and tattered shirt.

Mattheo had been angry plenty of times in his life, and for good reason. But this was the first time he felt it. He could have told you where and how quickly the rage pulsed in his veins, blooming hot in his chest, pumping into his arms, into his hands that curled into fists and ached to hit something, into his stomach, his legs that wanted to run, to cause chaos and destruction until he fixed this.

But he didn't expect the next emotion that hit him like a dark wave in a stormy ocean, all consuming, nearly bowling him over: deep and overwhelming sadness.

"N-no, no no no who-who did this? Baby" his voice ached with pain as he moved to step towards you again, desperate to hold you, to make it better as quickly as he could.

You took a small, hesitant step back and looked at him with confusion, with trepidation.

And you said the next words so quietly he was certain he'd heard you wrong.

"You" you whispered.

His face scrunched in confusion.

"It was you" you said louder and all the boys turned to look at you and then back to Mattheo.

"In the stairwell? Our spot?" you said pointedly, trying to get him to remember.

"You were there, waiting for me, but you were... off. Different. And then y-you..." you gestured to yourself as you tried to keep from coming undone again at the memory.

Theo took a protective step closer to you.

Mattheo carded his hands through his hair in exasperation where they rested atop his head as he paced a step back and forth before stopping in front of you. It was taking his entire willpower not to lose his composure, and not to launch at his best friend.

"I got jumped this morning" he said patiently, evenly, though his underlying anger was still very much there. "I woke up in a broom closet ten minutes ago with no fucking clothes."

"B-broom closet?" you muttered, confused.

"Yeah, it was maddening, had to break the door down and— look, that doesn't matter. Please please tell me you believe me."

Your mind was reeling. You opened your mouth hesitantly to reply, but you couldn't find your words, your emotions, your fear, everything you felt far too raw.

He let out another deep breath and then crouched in front of you, making himself smaller, less threatening as he met your gaze directly.

"You are the most important person in my world. You know that, right? You are everything to me. Everything that is precious and perfect and right. And I would never ever hurt you."

You met his dark brown eyes that were shining intently up at you, unflinching in their truth and you nodded despite your tears and sniffles. Of course you knew that, which was why everything that happened this morning was so fucked up.

He slowly extended his hand to you, palm up, wordlessly asking you to believe him, to trust him.

"You're okay now, you're safe. No one can hurt you, no one can fucking touch you when I'm here, when we're all here, okay?"

And gods you'd needed to hear that. You nodded again, more strongly now.

"We're going to figure this out. And I'm going to fix this, I can promise you I will fix this. Hey, can you look at me?"

Your eyes met his and more hot tears fell down your cheeks at the gentleness and patience in his expression, the way he was nearly on his knees begging for you to trust him, to believe that the boy in front of you in no way could have been the boy from this morning and you pursed your lips.

"I love you" he whispered.

And those words alone healed a significant part of your hurt.

You slowly placed your shaking hand in his and it was like your body immediately registered the difference in his touch, how he tenderly ran a thumb over your knuckles as he continued to speak softly to you as he stood up.

"I've got you, you're going to be okay. It's me, I'm here" he said as he slowly pulled you toward him.

You took one step, and then another, and then you curled yourself against his warm chest and you let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding as you grasped him. He held you tightly to him, squeezing hard, and his hand held the back of your head as he pressed his lips to your temple.

You sniffed and let out a few more shaky breaths, letting him consume you, trying to replace every memory from this morning with his touch like it could pull the fear from you as you listened to his heartbeat and took in his familiar smell.

Theo cleared his throat as politely as possible.

"Really hate to break up the moment, but if you spent the morning in a broom closet, then how the fuck were you also walking around the North Tower?—"

"—Polyjuice potion" Draco said, without missing a beat, his brow furrowed in thought. "It's the only logical explanation, would also explain why they had to take your clothes" he gestured to Mattheo's half-naked body.

"What?!" Blaise exhaled in disbelief.

"So you mean to say someone planned all of this? Went through all of this effort just to get to her?" Theo asked, and you could hear the fury rising with his tone.

Mattheo's arms squeezed around you, a subconscious reaction to the thought.

"What kind of sick fuck?—"

"—I'm going to kill them" Mattheo said flatly.

And it wasn't a turn of phrase.

He'd said it so plainly, so matter-of-factly that you nearly believed him and hugged him back a little tighter.

"Do you have any idea who it was?" Lorenzo asked.

"No you dipshit, don't you think if she knew it wasn't him this wouldn't have happened?" Draco replied, smacking him in the back of the head.

Theo and Blaise chimed in, arguing the point with one another.

"He did say something weird" you mused quietly, silencing them all as they turned to look at you. "He called me dove" you said, shaking your head at the memory, like you could make yourself forget it.

Mattheo held you that night in a way that made you wonder if he'd ever let you go again. Every minute you spent back with the real him seemed to stitch you together again, to heal and comfort you as you snuggled further into his arms.

He'd apologized no less than a thousand times by now, the guilt steadily eating away at him, even though he had nothing to be sorry for, which you continually reminded him.

"You're a fucking angel" he sighed, unable to stop thinking about it as he traced a thumb over your cheek, his expression sorrowful and raw. "Someone did this to you because of me."

"Matty, that's not—"

"—I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I should have been there."

"It's okay, it's not your fault. I'm okay now" you said, smiling, feeling the words as you said them, tracing a finger down the bridge of his nose.

You tried to reassure him the rest of the night, managing to coax a few smiles out of him, but his eyes never left you, like he feared looking away for a single blink would leave you in danger. And although a spell had mended your lip and healed your bruises, he continued to trace his fingers over where each mark on your skin had been, like he was reminding himself, committing them to memory.

Nothing could have prepared you for the tension of the days that followed.

The whole group was on edge, like a pack of rabid dogs, ready to snap at anyone that got too close to you. One if not all of them walked you to every class, to every meal, to every event, to Hogsmeade and back again; Mattheo even insisted on showering with you and sleeping with you every night, much to you sincere enjoyment.

The boys spent their days eyeing everyone with suspicion and their nights trying to plot out who might have attacked you. Five guys were walking around the castle with black eyes, but no one had come clean and it was slowly driving them mad; the lack of answers was taking the situation from a serious problem to a personal vendetta.

Two weeks passed. And though the tension remained, you were settling into the heightened level of protection, finding a sense of calm in the way the boys surrounded you like a security blanket. You had every confidence that they would figure this out and until then all you could do was seek a return to normalcy, to focus on the present.

You grounded yourself with the task at hand, potting bundles of dittany during Herbology class shoulder to shoulder with your friends at a long table in the warm greenhouse, the boys acting as a veritable wall between you and the Gryffindors.

Your eyes caught Mattheo's across the narrow table from you and you watched the way the spring sun caught his dark locks. He sent you one of his signature smirks and a quick wink that made you blush and smile.

Your classmates chattered back and forth quietly until a phrase wafted down the table as Seamus Finnegan leaned over to Hermione Granger.

"C'mon dove, help me out?"

And it was like someone sucked the air out of the room. The warmth in the greenhouse suddenly felt stiflingly hot and you could hear the blood rushing to your head as it whooshed in your ears.

Time slowed to seconds like the tick of a broken time-turner.

Five.

Your eyes lifted and met Mattheo's whose had lost all warmth and peace in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. They were devoid of color, clouded, jet black. His jaw ticked as he looked at you, asking you wordlessly to confirm what he'd just heard.

The trill of Finnegan's voice, the accent was all too familiar, it was undeniable and it sent you spiraling back to that morning in the stairwell in a way that had you woozy on your feet. You nodded, small and quick back to him.

Confirming what you'd thought so many times before, that there was an inexplicable bond that linked the boys together, four sets of eyes wordlessly confirmed the same.

And then chaos erupted.

Four.

Lorenzo ran for Finnegan and Theo dropped the plant in his hands, sending shattered pottery and dirt flying in his rage, hot on Enzo's heels.

Three.

Your eyes followed them both but fell to Draco who had started moving in the opposite direction, frantically pushing past classmates who were looking around in panic as he tried to reach Mattheo.

Two.

You glanced at your boyfriend.

He hadn't moved.

He wasn't making a scene, but he'd pulled out his wand, and for the life of you, you couldn't remember a time when he'd favored his magic over his fists.

Oh no you thought as you began to move towards him yourself.

One.

Mattheo stood straight and tall, brandishing his wand with unflinching confidence and surety as he pointed it directly at Finnegan's head.

"AVADA KE—" his voice boomed.

"—Not like this, mate!!" Draco shouted, grabbing his arm at the last possible second.

"Get the fuck off of me!" Mattheo roared, the contact breaking him out of his stupor as he thrashed in Draco's arms.

By now the others had wrangled Finnegan whose face was as green as the detail on their robes; he knew he was utterly and hopelessly fucked, and if you weren't sure before you were certain now that it had been him, the guilt so clear on his face it might as well have been written on his forehead. Your skin crawled.

The rest of your classmates were running and screaming, tearing by you to flee the room as your feet kept you cemented to the floor.

"You're dead! You're fucking dead!" Mattheo's voice echoed, as he screamed and thrashed in Draco's arms.

"You're going to wish for death, you're going to beg me for it, Finnegan! How dare you, how fucking dare you!!!"

Draco was barely holding onto him as they all walked quickly towards the back of the greenhouse.

You moved to follow until Blaise came up beside you and gently reached for you, pulling you into the throng of people fleeing.

"C'mon" he said, softly but firmly guiding you the other way, back towards the castle. "They've got this, you don't need to be here for this—"

"—But this is because of me, Blaise" you urged, pulling back, frantically looking between him and the disappearing figures of Mattheo and your friends, his raging threats echoing off the glass walls in a way that amplified them.

"No, this is because of Finnegan" he said coldly, following your gaze. "And he'll get what's coming to him."

Blaise guided you quickly back to the castle, back to the common room and he tried his best to keep you company, to keep you occupied, though neither of you could properly focus on anything else.

"It'll be alright, right?" you asked quietly, for the hundredth time.

He nodded steadily. "It'll be alright, YN" he reassured you.

You sighed.

"This is just... a lot" you admitted.

"Babe, if you wanted someone to be level-headed and normal about you, you're with the wrong guy" he said in attempt to make you smile.

You smiled weakly and toyed with the fringe of the blanket that you pulled into your lap.

An hour passed.

And then four more.

You skipped dinner and sat in the secluded corner of the common room with Blaise until it emptied and the embers in the fireplace burned low, nearly out. You had sat quietly together now for hours. You were exhausted of conversation and exhausted from the wash of emotions from the day, a mix of relief, of pain in reliving the memories upon hearing Finnegan's voice, of worry about what exactly was going on.

You'd never seen Mattheo like that; he had been completely unhinged and you recalled his words the day it all happened. "I'm going to kill them" spoken like a vow, an oath.

It was beyond late before the door snicked open quietly and the four boys walked in without a sound. You and Blaise stood and they met Blaise's eyes first, nodding at one another before your friends departed, leaving you with somber smiles to be with Mattheo.

You navigated around the couches to him, your footsteps quickening to close the distance and you pulled him into your arms. His body was stiff with tension, but you felt it begin to melt away the second you touched him; he nuzzled into you and you could feel the tired on him, mixed with a burdened sense of relief.

"Come on" you said, taking his hand and leading him to your bedroom.

He sat down on the corner of the bed in the dim light and let out a sigh like he was trying to unload the weight he'd been carrying, his shoulders slumped as he ran his fingers through his hair. You stepped between his legs and reached for his hands the way you always did, ready to tend to them.

"They're fine" he croaked, his voice hoarse as he met your gaze, smiling softly at you, taking you in. You could tell he was trying to distract you and when he rested his hands on your hips and moved to pull you into him, he almost succeeded.

You pressed a quick, searing kiss to his lips and then reached to pull his hands off of your hips and he relented, sighing again.

His knuckles were badly bruised and bloodied, at least two of them looked to be broken from what you could tell and a frown crested your lips to know that the same hands that were so gentle with you could be capable of such violence.

But it was the crimson blood that stained his palms, that gathered under each fingernail that made you pause. That was new.

"Mattheo" you whispered, the question lingering in the air unspoken. What did you do?

"He's gonna be gone for awhile" he said plainly in response before his eyes met yours straight on, intense.

"And he is never, ever going to touch you again."

You pursed your lips and nodded, acknowledging that this was his way of apologizing, of making things right, of balancing the scales of justice as judge, jury and executioner.

He brought his bloody hands to your face, cupped it gently and kissed you.

Seamus didn't come back until well after spring solstice, weeks later.

Despite the rampant rumors and speculation, he didn't say a single word about what happened, like the boys had taken his very voice from him.

His face was still mottled with multicolored bruises, one eye swollen shut, evidence that even magic couldn't heal the extent of the damage they'd caused.

But even despite that, something you'd learned about your friends is that they were not quick to forgive and they never, ever forgot...

You were lounging by the Black Lake on an unusually warm afternoon, sprawled on a large blanket with your friends, your shoes and socks forgone and your skirt and shirtsleeves rolled up in an effort to catch a tan.

Mattheo himself was shirtless beside you, his eyes closed against the warm rays as you rested your head on his bicep. Theo, Enzo and Draco were sitting next to you playing exploding snap while Blaise flipped through a book, and you sighed, reveling in the rare moment of peace, which didn't last longer than fifteen minutes.

"Bit warm for a jumper, isn't if Finnegan?" Draco shouted.

Your eyes fluttered open and you turned your head to see a group of Gryffindors nearby.

Sure enough, the group was dressed like you, short sleeves, bare feet, but for Finnegan who was covered head to toe and was visibly dripping sweat. His faced flushed even redder at the comment as he averted his eyes, immediately shrinking in pure terror.

"Should take it off, mate" Lorenzo chimed in cheekily. "Enjoy the sun, no?"

Seamus swallowed but wouldn't meet their eyes.

You turned to look at Mattheo but he hadn't moved. His eyes remained closed though you could see a muscle tic in his clenched jaw.

"C'mon then" Theo said, sitting up like he meant to move. "Need our help? We'll come lend a hand."

Seamus looked like he was about to cry as his face crumpled.

You didn't know what they were playing at, but you could tell it was torturing him, and for the briefest moment you pitied him, until your memories came wading back, threatening to overwhelm you with the feeling of sickening fear and betrayal.

And it was like Mattheo could sense it, his eyes fluttering open to look at you as he tried to tug you back into his arms.

"Just ignore them" he said, his voice still scratchy.

But you saw Seamus pull his sweater over his head out of the corner of your eye and as it came away from his body you noticed the crimson lines covering his arms. Even at your distance you could feel the sickness of them, the curse of dark magic in the air and several people gasped and scrambled away from him.

You sat up and stared closer as you realized the lines spelled something.

On his left arm, MUDBLOOD in deep angry jagged letters, in wounds carved into his skin.

On his right, RAPIST.

He took one fateful look at your group and then got up and nearly tripped over himself as he ran back to the castle.

"Aww, was it something I said?" Draco cried after him.

"Bye!" Lorenzo waved cheerfully.

Blaise blew him a kiss.

And Theo watched his every move under dark lidded eyes.

But Mattheo was looking solely at you, trying to gauge your reaction, your understanding. He reached for your hand and twined his fingers in yours, pulling you back to lay down with him as he looked at you with vulnerability and caressed your cheek. Now you knew the truth. You knew just how dangerous he could be, just what lengths he would go to for you.

Your heart thumped wildly in your chest and your mind raced and for a moment it occurred to you to be scared.

Be careful. He's dangerous. You don't know what you're getting yourself into.

You thought about broken knuckles and black eyes, of blood-stained palms and the lingering feeling of dark magic in the air. You heard his voice rattling the panes of the greenhouse with his rage, 'You're going to wish for death, you're going to beg me for it!'

And then that same voice, from the same boy, sweetly, softly ‘No one can hurt you, no one can fucking touch you when I'm here, when we're all here. I love you, YN.'

And you thought about the caress of his lips against yours on a stormy night, of his warm arms around you, of the feeling of his calloused hands on your bare skin, and the rumble of his voice in his chest as your head lay on his heart.

"It'll never heal" he said quietly, bringing you back to the present moment. "No magic can fix it. He'll wear that reminder on his skin for the rest of his life."

His chocolate eyes warmed as they looked at you, asking you, one more time, to trust him, to tell him that you understood.

You smiled softly, and traced a finger over his lips and a calm comfort settled over you, a reassurance that no matter what life threw your way, this boy would be standing by your side, that he might burn the world to the ground but would never let a flame touch you, that this was simply how he loved: deep, sincere, serious and unrelenting.

“I love you” you whispered in reassurance before leaning in to press the sweetest kiss to his lips that melted his heart and proved to him that every sin he committed along the way would always be worth it, for you.

mclaren

Oscar Piastri 

Oscar didn’t cry often. Special events required crying; terrible crashes where he genuinely felt scared for his life, his dog dying, missing his sisters’ graduations. 

And apparently this. 

You were ranting, not even raising your voice, just frustrated. You were so damn understanding too, so aware of the fact that it wasn’t his fault, that he couldn’t control his schedule. You just missed him. You just wanted him there for one of the biggest nights of your life, and he couldn’t be there. 

He felt the emotion building in his throat, foreign and clunky. Uncontrollable. He tried to swallow it down, but he just made this weird choked sound, and he felt the tears on his cheeks. 

You’d somehow sensed it, like you did with everything else about him. Always, after every race, every tough day, every great day, you always knew just what he needed. You stopped talking. You whipped your head around, and you were already in front of him with wide eyes and more patience than he thought he probably deserved.  

A soft hand on his shoulder, a tentative breath. “Oscar?” You practically whispered. He nodded, wiping his tears away, only for more to appear seconds later. “Oscar, it’s ok, I’m sorry,” you whispered, your hand reaching up and running through his hair, coaxing him to lean into you. He did. He dropped his head to your shoulder, his tears soaking your shirt. You didn’t seem to care. 

“I’m sorry,” he croaked out, not entirely sure what he was apologising for. You shook your head as he fisted your shirt, trying to hold onto something so he wouldn’t fully fall apart.

Your voice came soft and soothing. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” you tightened your grip on his waist. “Please don’t apologise.” 

“I just-“ hiccup- “I feel bad,” God, he sounded like a child to himself. You didn’t judge. “I want to be there so bad.”

“It’s alright Osc,” you hushed. “It’s okay. I know you support me,” you said it against his temple like a prayer, and it made him want to believe you. “I know you love me.”

He nodded, pulling his face out of its solace in the crook of your neck. “Okay,” he nodded, breathless. Your eyes were wide, but trusting. Truthful. “Okay.”

You hadn’t seen Oscar cry many times, mostly because he didn’t like to. He knew now, if he needed to, he could come to you. 

Lando Norris  

It was a dumb argument. Somewhere in your brain, you knew that. 

But it’s hard to remember that when you’re that angry, and that frustrated. 

You shouldn’t have shouted. You shouldn’t have stopped looking at him. You shouldn’t have let him go quiet. There were a lot of things you shouldn’t have done. 

He listened as best he could, truly. He wanted to solve the problem, to make it better, to make being with him easier. He can’t control his schedule though. He can’t control where he’ll be day by day. He can’t leave at a moment's notice. He has people who rely on him, too many people who rely on him. It weighs on him, and somehow, it’s started to weigh on you. You’ve become a background character in your own partner's life, and you couldn’t take it anymore. He feels like more of a roommate than a boyfriend, and he’s hardly ever home. He wanted to fix it, but when so many parts of your life are out of your control, you start to feel helpless. You start to believe the things people say online, the ones online telling him he should just break up with you since he only gets to see you twice a year. The ones who tell him he’s not a good boyfriend. The ones who remind him of his failings, and all the second chances you’ve given him without even thinking about it. 

He teared up and just left. The bedroom door locked behind him before you’d even notice he’d fucking left. 

Then the guilt settled, right down in your stomach, so deep you felt like you couldn’t breathe. You cupped a hand over your mouth, like it would reverse all the things you’d said. Like it could take it back. It couldn’t. You couldn’t. 

Time passed as you stared at that fucking door, debating about what you’d even do if you went in there. You didn’t know, but you knew you had to make it right. 

You knocked against the wood. “Lan,” your voice was breaking. “I’m so sorry,” you leaned your head against the door. “I’m such a fucking idiot.”

Slowly, you heard footsteps, and the door opened. He looked cosy, but the sad kind of cosy. The kind of cosy he looked when he was overwhelmed. 

He cleared his throat. “Don’t talk about my girlfriend like that,” his usual sentiment lacked any conviction, but there was a soft kind of humour in his words. “She’s a genius.”

You shook your head, that guilt clawing at you from the inside out. “I’m not sure I am,” you chuckled out, but it lacked any kind of humour. “I’m sorry,” you looked up at him, his red-rimmed eyes, his soft expression, his sunken shoulders. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

He shrugged. “Probably not,” he let out a breath. “But I’ve said a lot worse, and you’ve given me another chance every time without thinking about it,” he admitted. “And I think we’re both exhausted.” 

“You’re too nice to me-”

“You’re not nice enough to yourself,” he corrected, wrapping his hand around your waist and pulling you into his chest. “I just needed a minute, I’m sorry I left.”

“I think we both needed a minute,” you admitted, that warm feeling in your chest somehow choking out the feeling of guilt. “I’m sorry again Lan.”

“Thank you,” he pressed a kiss to your cheek. “We’ll work through it. We always do.”

mercedes:

George Russell 

George argued like he drove; completely controlled until he wasn’t. He liked to think he could keep his cool, that an argument with his girlfriend wouldn’t shake him so much when he could make split-second decisions while driving 300km/ h. He couldn’t. Every word coming out of your mouth seemed to rattle him, make him falter, make him lose his mind. 

He didn’t realise he was crying. It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t being overwhelmed. He was frustrated. He wanted to be what you needed, he wanted to be there for you, he wanted to always be able to drop everything for you, but he couldn’t. Yes, it was his dream to drive, but sometimes, it left a sour taste in his mouth on the nights you texted him sad and lonely, or exhausted and in need of affection. It made him feel… ashamed. He wanted to be the perfect fiance, be there for you more than anyone else. He couldn’t. And it made him feel like shit. 

“George,” your voice pulled him out of his shame-spiral, and he felt your hand on his cheek, wiping away the wetness. “Breathe,” you demanded, your voice full of fear and eyes wide. “You’re going to have a panic attack, George, breathe.”

He did as you asked, grounding himself with his hands on your hips, squeezing your shirt in time with his breaths like you’d made him do several times before. He focused on your eyes. Exploring the colours he knew so well, reminding himself that an argument is just an argument, and you were just frustrated, he was just frustrated. You’d both lie down together tonight, he’d kiss your shoulder, and you’d pretend to hate the way his hand sneaks up your shirt. You’d still be there. You’d still love him. 

He nodded. “I’m alright,” he sighed out, the tension finally breaking. You didn’t look convinced, you never did during one of these. “I’m alright,” he spoke slower again, reassuring you. 

You nodded, then pressed your face into the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice,” you let out, soft and small. Like you were scared he'd fall away if you didn’t hold onto him. 

“I’m sorry I can’t be there,” he whispered, a humorless chuckle in his lips. “You’re always there to support me and I can’t fucking be there for you. Ever.” He spat out the last word like he was embarrassed, or disgusted with himself. 

You looked up and pressed your lips to his. He kissed you back like it could maybe make up for it. Like he could show you how much he cared, how much he wanted to be there. “George,” you were breathless, he tried to kiss you again, and you stopped him. “You’re always there for me,” you smiled softly, the kind of smile that made him see into the future, wrinkles and kids, everything he wanted. “Even when you’re a million miles away, you’re always checking up on me. You care so much it scares my friends sometimes,” you chuckled and pressed a kiss against his forehead. “I’m just…” you couldn’t finish your sentence, you didn’t even know how you felt. 

“I know,” he whispered, his forehead against yours. He always knew when it came to you. 

Andrea Kimi Antonelli

Kimi hated arguments. He hated making you upset, hated not knowing what to say. 

“You can’t say shit like that Kimi, it’s not fair,” you scoffed, fluffing the pillows of your couch. Moving in together had been tumultuous. You both loved it, but it was a long process to figure out the balance between being together all the time, and not ripping the heads off each other. He’d said something stupid, some off-handed comment that made you see red. He sat on the couch as you rage-cleaned the apartment, ranting all the way. He felt too much like a child for his liking, sitting on the couch as you scolded him. 

Kimi was an emotional person, and you’d only had so many arguments in your relationship. He hated seeing you upset, and knowing it was his fault just started a guilt pit in his mind, picking apart every single thing he did that upset you. 

“I think I just need some time alone,” you sighed, putting down the towel in your hand. “I’m going to go for a walk-“

“Don’t go!” He shot up, the emotion building behind his eyes as panic surged through his chest. You couldn’t leave, not like this. He grabbed onto your wrist and pulled you against his chest. “Please don’t leave, talk to me, scream at me, just don’t leave. Please.” His eyes were wide and pleading, and his grip was practically bruising. 

You’d never seen him like this. Begging. Pleading. Like if he didn’t convince you to stay, you’d never come back. You cupped his cheek, the beginnings of tears falling from his eyes as he tried to blink them away. “Kim,” your voice was soft. “I’m not leaving,” you assured him, stroking his cheek as he kept his eyes fixed on your face. “I’m right here.” You took his hand and placed it on your waist, showing him you weren’t leaving. 

“I hate it when people leave,” he admitted, breathless. “I don’t-“ hiccup “-want you to leave,” he closed his eyes. “I never want you to leave,” he pressed his forehead against yours, like it could somehow stop you from running. 

“I’m not leaving,” you whispered. “I’m not leaving, Kim,” you shook your head. 

He tightened his grip on your waist. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was just tired, I didn’t mean it-“ 

“I know,” you nodded, voice full of warmth and understanding. He wasn’t sure he deserved it, but he took it all the same. “You don’t have an angry bone in your body Kimi, I know you didn’t mean it,” you chuckled, and he felt lucky to ever hear the sound. “It just… upset me.”

“I didn’t mean to-“

“I know you didn’t,” you cooed, and his frown relaxed. “Again, I don’t think you have a mean bone in your body either. It just… it was what it was. And it’s done now.” 

Forgiveness, it had never tasted so sweet. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you,” he repeated, on his lips like a chant. 

williams:

Alex Albon

It’s haunting how strange Alex looks when he cries. That’s what he thinks anyway. He’s almost sure you think it too. He’s just so used to not being upset, that he really doesn’t know what to do with himself when he is. You were there for him, through everything. Through RedBull. You’ve seen him cry. You’ve seen him rise up from it, rise up to Williams, rise up to P5 being a genuine result, a constant result. He’s proud, of course, but there’s always that voice in the back of his head that sounds surprisingly like Will Buxton, telling him that he’s a problem. 

Even in his relationships. Even in your relationship. 

That’s what this stemmed from. He didn’t feel good enough. He shut you out again. He didn’t text for a full week. 

“Alex, you can’t just not text me for a week, alright?” You were exhausted, exasperated, and downright pissed. Frankly, you had every reason to be. He was in the wrong, he knew that, but he just couldn’t help feeling slightly justified. He would’ve caused a fight either way, especially when he got like that. “I want to hear from you, the good, the bad, the ugly, the mundane! I don’t care once it’s coming from you,” your words were raw with emotion, and it almost shocked him. He sometimes forgot the fact that he made a difference in people’s lives. 

He didn’t feel the tears falling until one landed on his shirt, and he almost thought it was somehow raining inside. “I know,” his voice broke despite himself. “I’m sorry.”

Your head whipped around and you were beside himin seconds. “Alex,” you whispered out, his name coming out like a secret. “It’s okay,” you wrapped an arm around his neck, your heart breaking as you felt him hiccup against you, trying against his better judgement to stop himself from crying. “You can cry.”

And he did. He wrapped his arms around your back and pulled you into his lap, and cried into your shirt. He didn’t know what to do after carrying this… hurt, for so long. But for some reason being beside you, having you hold him, it didn’t seem so heavy. 

“What’s wrong?” You whispered once his crying has subsided. Your expression was full of care, of understanding, of love. He wondered how he’d gotten so lucky. 

He shrugged. “I just… I don’t know. Sometimes there’s this voice in my head that, no matter what I do, tells me I should still be more,” he admitted, and immediately, he felt out in the open, and not necessarily in a bad way. You nodded your head, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

It took you a few seconds to formulate a response, but it didn’t make him panic like he’d thought it would in the millions of times he’d gone over this very scenario in his head. Your hand smoothed up and down his arm, and he knew you cared. You wouldn’t run away. 

“Thank you for telling me,” you smiled softly. “And I always want you to talk to me about these things, because I’m here for you,” you took a deep breath. “I’m going to say something that I know you won’t like, and that’s how you know I genuinely believe it. Alex, I think you should see someone again,” you placed a soft hand on his cheek as he stiffened. “Not right now, maybe not even in the next few months, but I think it would be good for you. I can love you as much as I can, and do, and evidently, I can’t make it go away. Race results don’t make it go away. Progress doesn’t make it go away. Nothing is going to make it happy, and if I’m understanding right, you can’t just turn it off,” you pressed your lips to his cheek again. “I think seeing someone would help.” 

He felt like you’d opened his eyes. You were right, nothing would make it go away, other than him. For the first time in his life, he was happy about an argument. 

Carlos Sainz

When he argued, he got quiet. Whether he meant to or not, he did. So there was nothing out of the ordinary when it seemed like you were talking to yourself as you listed out the problems. You didn’t want to go to a race when you knew a certain other girlfriend would be there, because she made you feel like shit. Carlos didn’t seem to understand that, and he fought you on it. He called you selfish. You walked off. This was part two of the argument, what you called the reconciliation, but Carlos was silent as he leaned against the counter, his back to you. 

“You’re not even fucking listening, are you?” You scoffed, feeling more than dejected. “I don’t know why I try,” you mumbled, starting to walk away again, but a strong hand gripped your waist and pulled you into his chest. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered out. He hadn’t paid much attention before, when you’d said you didn’t want to go. He just felt rejected, and he ignored your reasoning. He stopped listening. He didn’t know it was because of the group chat you had been added to and humiliated by a girl you thought was your friend. He would’ve never fought you on it. He would’ve just agreed and moved on, asking you to come to the next one. “I didn’t listen, I’m sorry.”

“Carlos-” you reached up and cupped his face in your hands. “What’s wrong? I-I’m sorry-”

He sighed, that hole of guilt in his heart aching with every word out of your mouth. Of course you’d start worrying about him. You should get angry, but of course, you chose to be soft, to care, to love. Sometimes he wished he could do that. He wished he could think like that, instead of going straight for an argument. “You don’t need to apologise,” he shook his head, his big brown eyes dropping with tears as you tenderly wiped them away. “I’m in the wrong,” he reminded you, almost as if he thought you forgot. Maybe you had. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you, and I’m sorry I started an argument,” he sniffled. “I love you,” he pressed a kiss to your shocked cheek. “I love you so much, mi cariño.”

“Car,” you were wordless, not even sure how to react. “It’s alright,” you answered, your eyes focused on him, only him. “It was a mistake.”

His heart ached. The world didn’t deserve you, your friends didn’t deserve you, he didn’t deserve you. You should scream. You should tell him to shove his apology up his ass. But you don’t. You chose to forgive him. 

He wasn’t sure he deserved it, but you kissed him like he did, and he couldn’t really complain from there. 

redbull racing:

Max Verstappen 

Max probably wasn’t the best person to go to about emotions, and you knew that. Not only was he emotionally stunted, he was also Dutch, a nationality famous for being blunt.