🐆

it was a rainy morning, dark clouds had covered the sky, and the atmosphere was melancholic. you had just stepped out of the book cafe you usually went to study or read in, it was a hidden gem in the ever-crowded streets of new york city, usually quiet and peaceful. this time, you’d just paid a visit to buy a drink with some pastries.

today’s gloomy weather felt right to you, somehow, it spoke to your soul and fit your mood. you’d stuffed the pastries you’d bought into your bag, and you were going to walk around a little bit, holding your drink in one hand, your umbrella in the other. you thought you might sit somewhere, maybe go to a park after walking for twenty or so minutes, you enjoyed the smell of rain mixing with earth to bring life to the world.

and that’s when you saw him.

he was standing at the other side of the road, wearing a simple hoodie, getting wet from the rain. an expression on his face as gloomy as the weather. he’d grown, his face had taken a sharper shape, his hair had curled on the tips from meeting with water.

peter parker, the boy from your ap chemistry class, from days long forgotten, and much less destructive.

you froze, your gaze set on his face, which had been painted in subtle and few scars, and bent downward from either the rain getting into his eyes, or life. the regular noise of the city was reduced to background buzzing in your ears, all the pedestrians walking past you, and the people waiting to cross roads around peter had turned blurry and faceless, the cars passing by had become trails of colors. the boy, or perhaps now man, you had just noticed, was someone you’d never thought you’d see again.

peter parker had been the smartest student in the class you took together, you used to keep notes and read ahead before every lesson, and he’d come sleep-deprived, busy himself with unrelated trinkets, and answer every unexpected question coming his way correctly. later, when you learned that he was spiderman, you realised he must’ve been so tired and out-of-it every day for saving lives and fighting crime.

you had learned of his superhero activities, like everyone else in the world. you didn’t use to see him outside of your shared lecture hours, not because you were actively avoiding him, fate just hadn’t coincided a conversation between you two. after you’d passed the course and stopped seeing peter entirely, you hadn’t busied your mind with thoughts of him, until that incident with mysterio. learning that he’d been trying to help people every step of the way, back when you used to see him, had changed your view of him.

and then, suddenly, no one remembered anymore. you saw it all happen. you saw the sky shatter and shadows watch the earth through its cracks. you saw what you could only describe as hundreds of aliens preying on your planet. you knew spiderman fought to save the world from their clutches. yet when it was all over, no one remembered the hell-torn skies. or peter parker.

no one remembered he was spiderman. no one remembered he was peter parker. no one remembered peter parker was. no one from your old high school, not even his best friend, not even his girlfriend. they all looked at you as if you spoke of a ghost, he was a painted over memory, he’d escaped from the weak grasps of the growing brains of the youth and the ever-tired minds of the grown.

he’d even escaped from records and photos, like how short-lived cherry blossoms disappeared in a week, as if trees had never been pink. like how spring never lasted. you’d questioned whether you’d made him up, if something was wrong with you. but how could you make up a whole person, that you simply never had a relationship with? he wasn’t an imaginary friend, he had never been a friend.

trying to catch a glimpse of his existence had been like trying to catch smoke with bare hands. and yet, now, he was standing right in front of you, waiting to cross roads. waiting to come towards you.

the lights turned green for pedestrians, and peter snapped out of his stillness, he gained motion, he slowly came closer. people around you made noises indicating they were annoyed at your inaction, but you could barely hear any of them. you were focused completely on one person only.

he crossed the road, and started walking the opposite way from where you had been nailed to the ground, unable to take your eyes off him.

no, don’t go. i must know. i must talk.

you ran after him, forcefully making yourself a way amongst bodies covered in layers of clothing. you closed your umbrella, so it wouldn’t get tangled in others’. you caught up to peter, and grabbed his arm.

he turned instantly, gripping your arm in return, a shocked expression on his face, ready to take you down, had you posed a threat. he looked into your eyes; questioning, confused, hesitant… sorrowful? how had he grown so solemn? how had he lived forgotten?

“peter?” you asked, “peter parker? is that you?”

his eyes widened, grip loosened, lips parted. he looked completely dumbfounded, drops of water dripping down strands of his hair, and the tip of his nose. he searched for something in your eyes, just silently thinking. trying to process, you assumed.

he opened his mouth to talk, and his breath hitched.

“you…” he started, seemingly talking feeling like labor to him, “you know who i am?”

you couldn’t help giving him a sincere smile, he really was peter parker. the boy from your class who was remembered by no one. he was real.

“i was in the same ap chemistry class as you in high school,” you explained, he might not have remembered you, as you’d never interacted outside of topics regarding course materials, “if you don’t remember.”

“no, no,” said peter, his voice still laced with shock, and a tune that dropped a tiny piece of despair into your chest, “i remember. you were the smartest student in class.”

“that’s… debatable,” you said, your surprise clearly read from your face.

“it wasn’t,” he said, defensive, “everyone borrowed your notes, and you always had the correct answers.”

“so did you,” you said softly, the bitter taste of nostalgia repainted with a blue hue catching up to you, tightening your chest, placing a lump in your throat. “what happened, peter?” you asked, “why have you disappeared?”

peter closed his mouth, and his grip slightly hardened, he hadn’t let your arm go. you hadn’t let his go, either.

he lowered his head, and fixed his gaze on the grey stone ground. you couldn’t quite name the emotions you saw in his eyes, but they made you tear up. what must it have been like to suddenly cease existing? what must he have been through? what must he have thought, watching his chosen family from afar, like a vampire looking at a mirror, erased from his own reflection?

the cloudy weather truly felt fit for the day, maybe peter had been feeling it too, today. raindrops fell on earth like shattered glass pieces, you thought you might’ve been bleeding with your umbrella down, but peter wasn’t, was his skin thicker?

“would you like to sit down somewhere, peter?” the tale must have been long, how else could a person, and a rift in the atmosphere, be erased from the minds of billions? “like a bench at the park, or maybe my place?”

he looked deep into your eyes, thinking.

“okay,” he said at last, determination adorning his words now, “we can. we can,” he said while nodding.

“okay,” you repeated after him, and finally let his arm go.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

peter had been on his way to his small apartment, by himself, as always, after another long, sleepless night, that rainy morning. clouds had covered the sky, obscuring the sun, as if to match the weather inside his ribcage. the sun hadn’t shone on him since it had seen space ripped apart because of him, for his mistakes.

it was a day the same as any other; he was walking in the crowd, unseen without a mask, faceless. then, someone he hadn't sensed had touched him, must have been because no harm was intended, yet he'd felt alarmed.

a girl, he'd realized, a familiar face. that wasn't strange, he was used to seeing people he used to know, what was strange was... the look you had in your eyes, almost like you recognized him. a kind of tiny beam of light in your irises, aimed at him.

and then you called out his name.

the world tilted. he felt as if hit by a shockwave, rolling backwards, losing the tightness of his grip on reality, on you. he’d been completely dumbfounded, he could barely process what was happening. someone remembered him. you remembered him. you knew.

he looked you over again, he remembered, too. he remembered how you sat at the front seat, carefully trailing the teacher with your eyes, focus unbreakable. you didn’t use to look his way unless he was asking or answering a question related to the course, he wouldn’t think you would recognize him under normal circumstances, without happenings made foggy through magic, let alone when the whole world has left him behind. the whole multiverse.

he couldn’t get out of the shock he’d been thrown into, not even enough to wonder the why, the how, or think of the implications of the possibility that someone(s) might not have forgotten. he had been erased even from stone and paper, ink had evaporated, computers had lost their binary numbers. human memories couldn’t even be held, they must’ve been so easily broken apart and mended without wholeness again, didn’t people always forget things, anyway?

that had been hard to accept, of course. the fact that the feelings people reserved for him were fragile and unresistant, that they could be so fully erased, that they could be erased at all. but you remembered, was your mind stronger, or was it the impression he’d left on you? was it you, or him?

he hadn’t even been able to ponder if this was a good thing at all, if he should be worried, if he should accept this, how he should react. the past year had been so soul-crushing, so lonely, that after slightly getting over the initial shock that had hit him, holding back his tears had been all he could manage to do. you were wet from the rain, a drink forgotten and an umbrella folded in one of your hands, the other one holding him, looking at him expectantly, worried. you had come after him. you were holding onto him. he tightened his grip again.

you’d even wanted to talk more, to learn of his story, to listen. so he’d agreed, he suspected he would chase you on that road if you’d walked away. his chest had been closing in on his veins and heart, increasing the pressure and twisting his organs, breathing had become harder every day for the past year, he was suffocating. you’d held his arm like a tree branch offered to a drowning kid, an olive branch offered to a warring people, a willow… willows were hunched and weary, weren’t they? he was like a willow, layers of leaves covering his face, unseen.

he didn’t have anywhere to go, or anyone waiting for him. he hadn’t wanted to let you go, now that someone had finally, truly seen the shape of his face. so he had just followed you, let you draw a destination for two.

you had brought him to a small apartment, similar to his own, in an austere street lined with buildings that were short compared to the signature buildings of new york city. you’d told him you were staying there for the time being. your place, as you’d put it. the inside was much nicer than his living space, expectedly, and it contrasted with the grey view of the street from your windows and the pipe-filled outer layer of your apartment building. the floor was covered in soft carpets, the living room was filled with books, its walls covered in bookshelves, academic books left open and stationary scattered about on a table, notebooks filled with your handwriting, it was lived in.

you had taken him to the kitchen, said you’d just bought pastries and had some leftovers to reheat for him, he’d insisted it wasn’t necessary, but you’d shut him down. “how could i send my guest off on an empty stomach?” you’d asked, made him sit down at the kitchen table, and gotten to work on the countertop. the living room had smelled of a flowery incense he couldn’t name, the kitchen was now smelling of baked dough and vegetable soup, making him feel his hunger. he hadn’t eaten anything for breakfast, or during the night.

“i apologize for the mess,” you said, while putting two bowls of steamy soup on the table, “i wasn’t expecting a guest.”

“oh, no, no,” he quickly scrambled to apologize himself, “i don’t mind at all, i’m sorry for… for…” he gestured around himself, trying to find the right words. being a burden? interrupting?

“for accepting my invite? i’d say that was the polite response,” you said, finally sitting opposite to him, having brought the pastries you’d sliced and placed on plates nicely, and the fruit salad you’d quickly put together. “thank you for that, by the way.”

he didn’t know what to say, he looked down flustered, “i- of course- i mean, thank you for inviting me,” he said, gesturing towards you with his hand, a slight smile on his face. how long had it been since he last smiled? it sure didn’t feel like an every day occurrence.

you gave him back a smile that made him… feel warm. he was still on the verge of tears, he was barely holding it together, focusing on the moment, trying not to let all the overwhelming feelings leave his body.

“please, enjoy,” you said, as you slid the plates closer to him, and he nodded in gratitude. he was hungry, and looking at the warm vegetable bisque… he hadn’t eaten a homemade meal in a very, very long time, especially one that was delicious, one that was warm.

and it was delicious. it tasted like a hug, a hearthfire, a blanket. it tasted like something you would eat at your home, like something your mother would cook for you. “this is,” he started, in between spoonfuls, “this is great. you’re a good cook.”

“thank you,” you said, and then started explaining. “i roasted tomatoes, carrots, zucchini, potatoes, bell peppers, and an onion, and blended them with vegetable broth and cream, so probably the easiest way to make something like…” you trailed off as you realised peter was… crying. he was looking down on the bowl of soup in front of him, and tears were silently rolling down his cheeks, as he kept taking spoonfuls.

peter was mortified at his reaction, he quickly scrambled to wipe his face with the tissues you’d placed on the table, and apologize. you told him it was fine, and he could take however much time he needed or wanted. you let him eat and think in silence for as long as he needed, you gave him time and space as he filled his stomach with warm food and sweet fruits. he didn’t know why tears had won against his willpower this time around, considering how good he’d gotten at holding them in. he didn’t know why just eating in your kitchen, with you, had made him feel emotions overwhelming enough to rush out of him. he was embarassed, despite your reassurances. it was the first time he was meeting with you in years, the only person who still remembered him, and he had started crying over a soup. he wasn’t a teenage high schooler anymore, why was this happening?

after a silence long enough to make someone less patient uncomfortable, he finally felt he could talk, and decided to tell you everything that had happened. all of it. you were the only person who knew him now, was it wrong to want to be known fully? to be understood?

so he told you everything, from the start… from a time too early, one might’ve thought; from before he even became an avenger. there had been people in his life who knew of his journey, how he became a hero, how he became an avenger, who he fought against, who he fought with, what really happened with mysterio, and then… then aunt may’s death… then everyone else’s little deaths.

peter used to be talkative, he used to converse with even the people he was actively battling, yet telling you all he wanted made him realise it had been a long time since he’d spoken so much. so transparently, willingly. had life crushed him under a fallen bridge without him noticing? he had been feeling it, but couldn’t guess how dire his cuts and walls had been drawn.

you listened all of it, without looking away once, without looking at the time. and then, once he concluded his speech and drifted off to silence, you let it fester. it seemed as if you had a hard time proccessing everything peter had dumped on you, or maybe couldn’t find the right words to continue with. this time, peter left you in your own silence, his hands slightly shaking in nervousness. what was your reaction going to be? what were you thinking?

“i’m truly sorry,” you said at last, a rueful expression adorning your face, making you look older than you had when telling him of the soup recipe. you had grown older, peter had noticed, more beautiful. “i’m sorry about your aunt, too. i had no idea. i thought… i guess i assumed at least your family would remember you.”

“yeah,” said peter in defeat, “there is no one.”

you looked deep into his eyes, pain visible on your face, “i remember,” you said. “and now i know.”

peter sighed and put his face in between his hands, closing his eyes in despair. “there is nowhere i belong, now. i fight for this city, and… and no one cares.”

this was horrible. truly horrible. a weight had been lifted off his shoulders when you’d recognized him, listened to him, welcomed him into your home. but he also felt bothered by it, too. had being known always been so scary? he hadn’t meant to say the last bit, he hadn’t even thought that to himself before. he’d been on the verge of it, but hadn’t actually thought it. why did he say it out loud now? why did he tell you?

you took a deep breath, “a lot of people care, especially the ones you save. you’ve been making a huge difference, peter. yours can be a thankless job sometimes, but many are grateful.” you paused for a moment, “i’ve always been grateful. when i learned how you’d been fighting for people this whole time, my respect for you skyrocketed. i thought i would help you in any way i could if it ever came to that.”

peter pressed his hands harder on his eyes, he didn’t want to start crying again. he didn’t know if you realised how your words had fallen into the deepest part of his soul. it was strange, how only a few words could help people keep going, how humans could be built merely by caring, and how humans could be so worn-out that they could stop tasting without even realising.

his phone vibrated silently in his pocket, taking him out of spiraling. he sighed again, what was it now?

strong fire in a building, spreading speedily, authorities unable to protect the citizens despite doing their best. he stood up abruptly, “i should go,” he said.

“what is it? what happened?”

“fire in a tall building, i need to save those people,” he said while walking towards the door, you trailing behind him.

“okay- be careful, peter. and come back here after you’re done there, okay? even if it’s late, because i’ll wait for you, and if you don’t come back, i’ll wait until morning,” you said quickly as he was wearing his shoes, the door to your house open.

“okay,” he said, stuttering slightly, “thank you.” truly. you’ve made breathing possible for me again. thank you.

and he left you behind like that, because he never had a break. he didn’t know if he deserved a break. none of that mattered though, there were people suffering, and he couldn’t leave them behind, no matter what.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

you were leaning on the metal handrails of your small balcony, looking at the few people and cars that passed by the road in front of your apartment. it was desolate, compared to most of new york, but it was steadily never-ending, there never was a time when people stopped in this city. your view was made up of other grey apartments like yours, sharp corners and square shapes, nothing tasteful added to their designs. could this be good for the soul?

you looked up at the sky, to watch the stars, but as always, not many were visible. you counted four stars that could be clearly seen from your balcony. the same as yesterday. you sometimes wondered: if you could reach greater heights, would more of them shine on you? the city had offended the stars in an effort to be independent from them, brighten night time, they didn't show their faces anymore. even if they wanted to, they couldn't be seen.

peter had been shining since he was a kid; clever, kind, righteous, fair-faced in a way the cleanness of his heart had reflected on his features. how big of a loss was it for the world to be forsaken from his face? it was lucky that peter was good-hearted, for he kept showing up under a mask anyway, offering those who looked a glimpse into his light.

it was past midnight already, and peter was still nowhere to be seen. he'd left you a little past noon, the fire had been extinguished by now, and spiderman had left the premises after saving dozens of lives (that the firefighters would've been too late for, despite their best efforts), and yet, peter was nowhere to be seen. it worried you, you wished you had asked for his phone number; you'd considered asking, but decided against it, thinking he might be bothered by the request.

after you'd talked to michelle, his girlfriend, some time back, and she hadn't remembered the boy she’d been in love with, you'd been thinking of peter regularly. even if you had made him up in your mind, it had just flooded your chest with such profound sadness, that you had decided at least you would remember him, whether it would matter to him or not.

and, he was real, he was spiderman. and he’d been so lonely. graveyards had become his only sanctuary, teenage diaries and late night messages had been buried next to the corpses of anyone who'd ever taken care of him, and he did not know their hiding spots. he just wandered around graves, knowing they were somewhere under his feet, to stay there forever. if he tried to dig them out, he would be swallowed up by lava, dooming the rest of the world to a volcanic apocalypse.

it seemed like volcanos had already been erupting behind his eyes, in his lungs. the peter you remembered used to be a jolly kid.

your head perked up as you heard your doorbell ring, and quickly rushed to open the door. a smiling peter greeted you, clothing changed. he looked more put-together than he had in the morning; a clean shirt under a black jacket and denim pants, not the baggy sweats he had on before.

you welcomed him inside, and brought him to sit on your couch, in the living room.

“are you all right?” you asked, “does anywhere hurt? do you need anything?”

he hesitated for a moment, a little surprised. “no, no- it’s fine. i didn’t fight anyone, so didn’t really get injured… much. it’s fine. i took care of it.”

you looked at him in silence for a few seconds, thinking. “liar,” you said.

“what?” he said in low voice, sounding worried. did he think he’d messed up somehow?

“you gave me your word that you would come straight to me, instead you took your sweet time tending to your injuries and changing your outift? you showered too, didn’t you?”

“i… i-” he quickly started talking, and then stopped to think. that was fine, he didn’t need to rush a response, never with you. he would learn that you’d always wait for him patiently. with time, he’d become more comfortable. you assumed this must be… somewhat of an uncomfortable experience for him, after being alone for so long. “i thought-”

he didn’t know what to say, you supposed.

“did i sound mad? i’m sorry. i was just worried. i.. uh, i’d wanted to help you with your injuries and stuff, too,” you weren’t exactly used to these kinds of conversations either. “since you’re not alone anymore… and all.”

“oh…” was all he could say.

“i mean, i’m glad you’re okay, and you look great, and i don’t mind that you had some alone time before coming and all, but you could, uh, if you want to, just come straight to me as well. after a fight or whatever. and you can take care of… your stuff here,” you forced the words out, you had to take these kinds of initiatives, if you wanted to have a closer relationship with him. because he wouldn’t impose anything on you. “if you want to, of course,” you added.

“i… thank you, i would, uh, yeah,” he said. you supposed that was a positive answer.

“so, what happened?”

he recounted the fire and the struggles in detail, how he saved the people trapped, how he had to deal with the authorities after him, how he got injured (only a little, he emphasized), and then how he went home to wear something better to come back to you. he’d wanted to rid the smell of ash and soot off his skin.

“i got tired just listening to you,” you said.

he chuckled slightly, “ah, yeah, things like this happen sometimes.”

“would you like anything to eat or drink?”

“no, no. not necessary, thank you,” he said quickly, raising his hands.

“okay, just tell me if you need anything.”

“all right, thanks… again,” he had a beautiful smile, but it looked like guilt had mixed into his skin, stopping him from smiling fully, with his eyes, or eyebrows. you wanted to tell him that none of this was his fault, he wasn’t responsible for the cruelty of others, he wasn’t at fault for being a victim. his aunt hadn’t died because he’d shown mercy, he was just being humane, the fault lied solely with the… whichever supernatural freak had done that, it was getting harder to keep track of them now. and the spell hadn’t gone wrong because of him, couldn’t doctor strange tell that he obviously wouldn’t want his own family to forget him? why wouldn’t he automatically add that to the spell? and the second time? surely he could’ve just kept two people out of his spell. none of it was his fault.

but you couldn’t bring yourself to, you didn’t want to push too hard, or overstep your bounds. peter didn’t know you, not really. you assumed he must be happy that someone remembered him, but you wouldn’t be too surprised if he had forgotten you.

why had you remembered? you weren't magical, as far as you knew, so what had gone wrong? wasn't this... somewhat bad news? if you remembered, could it be possible that someone evil might, too? you didn't know, you supposed maybe you should try to ask doctor strange, somehow.

after a while of silence, you decided telling him how you feel, being straightforward, should be better than leaving thoughts to go back and forth in your head, bothering you. “peter,” you started, “i know what kind of a person you are for the most part. i know that you have a good heart, and you’re loyal, and honest. i… don’t doubt that you’ll be a good friend, that’s why i can be… this comfortable with you. i know, because i’ve been able observe you quite well until now.”

he was listening to you, eyes getting wider and smile dropping slowly, as you went on.

“i also know that you don’t really know me as well, so i’ll have to prove my character to you, in the way that you’ve already proven yours,” you quickly added, which was the point you’d wanted to make. “so, uh, i just wanted to say that… is the reason why i would like to be… good friends with you, even though we didn’t interact much back then. telling you just in case… you were wondering.”

he gave you a shy smile. "thank you," he said, occasionally glancing away.

then a small chuckle escaped his lip. “all i’ve been doing the whole day has been thanking you."

you giggled in return, "i thank you as well."

"for what? i haven't done anything."

"for saving this city and the world over and over again."

his expression turned serious, thoughtful. "i just do what i should. it’s my responsibility."

you leaned back on the couch, observing him. was it? did he really have to do what he did? he didn't have to, no one had to do anything. but it was right that he did. you supposed, being able to help people did mean you should, would it be wrong if he didn't interfere?

"what are you thinking?" he asked.

you hummed. "i think you are right, but then it's our responsibility to be grateful, and to help you in any way we can, even if that's just emotional support." you looked into his eyes carefully, "you've been doing your duty, but most others in the city haven't."

"that's all right," he said. "i don't expect anything. i don't do this to get anything in return."

"well," you started, "you can expect things from me, and feel free to let me know."

the shy smile returned to his face, "thank you again," he said. "you as well," he hastily added, raising his eyebrows while gesturing at you.

you were glad he seemed to be in a better mood now, compared to this morning. he was more put together, and somewhat more confident. you assumed having more time to process your situation must've helped.

the two of you talked for around another hour, peter got more talkative as you went on, and by the end, he was the only one talking. he'd started to tell you all about the various villains he'd been fighting, and you were very interested; you enjoyed listening to him.

but the time was getting closer to two in the morning, and you were having to fight your own eyelids to keep yourself from dropping to the floor right at that moment.

peter stopped abruptly mid-sentence, looking at you concerned. "oh," he started "i'm sorry, it's really late, i talked too much."

"no, no," you said, shaking your hand, "i really want to know about all of these things. let's continue tomorrow?"

"okay, sure," he said, smiling. "i'll get going now, and uh, see you tomorrow."

"get going? i could arrange my living room for you, if you'd like to stay the night? should you be alone when you're injured?"

"i don't want to bother you," he said as he stood up. “it’s fine, this isn't really all that bad, I've had much worse."

"okay, but call me if anything happens. i'll be more upset if you don't," you said as you followed him to the door.

"i will. you call me too," he said, having gotten out, wearing his shoes.

"deal."

“good night."

"good night."

and he was gone.

and you were so sleepy that you could fall asleep standing there. as you made your way to your bed, you decided to go over today's events tomorrow, when your braincells wouldn’t be forming a union to counter your abuse.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

peter opened his curtains to look outside, as soon as he managed to get out of his bed.

the sun was shining down on him, bathing his room and face in its light. he opened the window, and took a deep breath in. the air had the beautiful smell of rain, still lingering, left from yesterday.

he leaned on his window, and for the first time in forever, a smile graced his lips for the sun, for the day ahead of him.

he wanted to put on his spiderman suit and swing around in the city, not out of obligation or because he didn’t have anything else to do; he had an unfamiliar motivation in him to do something with his day.

so he did. he quickly got ready for the day, and all the steps felt less intimidating today. even brushing his teeth had become a tiring chore. he'd supposed it must've been because he was so tired all the time, but today, it had been easier, all of it. even breathing.

and it wasn't like he'd gotten more sleep than usual, either. sleeping was something out of routine for peter. sometimes he could only get a few hours at night, having to be spiderman. sometimes he would stare at the ceiling, unable to drift off to sleep. sometimes he would end up sleeping for more than ten hours, not wanting to get out of his bed, forcefully scraping his body off of it with a mental spatula, skin tearing apart from muscle, using every bit of his willpower. but, no matter which scenario happened to play out, peter would never feel rested.

he got mad at himself sometimes. for sleeping. or not sleeping. surely none of this was supposed to be this hard, everyone always did them just fine. so why was he like this? what was wrong with him?

he shook his head, getting out of his window as spiderman, and started wandering new york from the tops of buildings. not today, though. today he felt rested. and like something good could happen, strangely. and his chest could host the air he breathed in, unlike any day he could remember in months. he hadn't realised how air had been refusing to get into his lungs, until it finally did today.

he watched people walking towards their destinations without looking anywhere else. the streets of new york were always overfilled with motion and a million faces, and no one stopped to look at one another.

how had you seen him, yesterday? were you looking? were you always looking at people? were you searching for someone, something?

clouds had poured more rain on the city at night, and towards the morning. it was almost as if they had only stopped momentarily for the fire in the building to spread.

peter had gone to his apartment as soon as he was done rescuing civillians from the fire. he'd wanted to wear something nice, look cleaner for you. he was sort of embarrassed that your first meeting had been when he looked... less than ideal, let's say.

while showering, he'd spaced out, and ended up thinking for almost an hour. mostly about you.

he'd tried to remember everything about you, any kind of clue about your exceptional situation, but there was nothing. you used to mostly keep to yourself, peter hadn't even interacted with you all that much.

despite that, you'd been so accepting of him so quickly yesterday. he had wondered why, before you explained that you… knew him.

not only remembered, you knew him. not completely, but enough to trust. his heart fluttered in his chest, making a gentle movement for the first time since the last time he'd been called peter by anyone at all. thinking about your words excited him, energized him, made him move faster,

you wanted to get closer. you offered to patch up his wounds. you weren't afraid or displeased. you wanted to be close. his friend.

he would call you around noon, he'd decided. he'd kept you up quite late and didn't know when you would wake up. then maybe you could meet up this evening. outside, perhaps? he could take you to... he would come up with some ideas, by then.

he stopped and perched on top of a building, examining the back alleys. he knew the way to your house from where he was, he was really looking forward to seeing you again. was that why waking up had been easier today?

he shook his head and took a deep breath, preparing himself for the day, and the task in front of him. he needed to focus, do his job. he would get to see you when the time came for it. you would respect him more for his service, anyway... or at least he hoped so.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

the the sun had just started setting, the orange hue of dusk hadn't settled in the sky yet. you were sitting on the stairs at the entrance of your apartment building. the ground was still wet, but the upper part of the stairs had been protected from yesterday's rain thanks to the architecture of the building. you would just need to dust off its filth once you stood up.

peter was supposed to come any minute now, he'd called you around noon and asked if you'd like to meet up this evening, and he could take you to see some places. you had started preparing some hours ago. you hadn't known what to wear, or what he had in mind, and had been too nervous to feel completely good about an outfit. you didn’t want to mess this up. at last, you'd just decided to get out of your house and wait. sitting on cold stairs. you were beginning to regret your choices slowly.

“hi,” appeared a head suddenly in front of your nose, making you yelp in surprise and slide backwards on the stairs. you put your hand on your mouth, wide-eyed, and finally processed what the dangling head in red was: peter. he was hanging from your building, held by his web, upside down, in his spiderman suit. he wouldn’t be as instantly recognizable from afar, as he was wearing a jacket, pants, and sneakers on his suit. it looked good.

“sorry,” he said, landing next to you, but not moving towards you. “sorry,” he repeated quickly. “i didn’t mean to scare you.”

“my goodness, peter,” you said, exhaling a deep breath. “no, sorry, spiderman.”

he chuckled lightly. “did i make you wait too much? sorry about that, too.”

“no, no, you are…” you looked at your watch, “right on time, actually.”

“uh,” he started, then hesitated for a moment before taking out a piece of cloth… no, a mask from the pocket of his jacket. “this should be really comfortable, i brought it in case you wanted to, you know, keep your identity hidden.”

“oh, you will stay in your spiderman costume?” you asked, taking the mask, and putting your hand in it so see what it looked like.

“yeah,” he said, “i can’t do what i want to do with you without my suit.”

you looked at him questioningly, “what is it that you want to do with me, peter?” you asked with mock seriousness.

he made a low-volume laughing sound. “i was planning on carrying you in the sky with me. if that’s okay.” he raised his hands in hurry, “it’s okay if you don’t want to, of course. just… i just thought you might like it, is all.”

you looked at the mask, and swiftly wore it. fixing it on your face, you looked at peter. “how do i look?” you asked.

“wait, let me help,” he said as he came closer to you, and fixed the back of the mask.

“thank you.”

so peter took you to the skies.

you held onto him like your life depended on it (it did), arms wrapped around his shoulders. his movements in the air were fast and sharp, the wind felt like a slap to the face at points. yet, you didn’t feel an ounce of fear, if anything, excitement and joy would be descriptive of your feelings. peter had a strong grip on you, somehow, you trusted that without doubt, he would never drop you.

──────

he had taken and placed you on top of a skyscraper, with a view of busy streets and the decorated balconies of shorter buildings. having ascended on the city as rain yesterday, clouds in the sky had thinned, and the atmosphere was clear. the sun was half gone by now, and all your gaze rested upon was dusk-touched; bathed in the burning scarlett of the sun’s farewell.

you smiled, looking over at the city. the wind was caressing your face gently, and breathing had become easier since seeing peter. being where you stood now, it felt freeing.

“this is amazing.” you glanced at peter briefly, and saw he’d been looking at you.

“i’m glad you like it,” he said, then joined you in gazing towards the horizon.

──────

you’d been sitting where peter had caried you to, on top of the skyscraper, for a while now. topics chased each other with ease, built onto each other, and you ended up talking about things you’d never told anyone before. but peter listened, contributed, he seemed truly interested, and then he outclassed your yapping, so words ended up spilling out of your mouth naturally.

“my favorite tree is willow, actually. i love willows, they are so pretty, they have leaves like drapes. they look magical," you said, adding onto the conversation that you’d ended up talking about because… the city layout, then parks, then trees, then if many people have favorite kinds of trees, then his being olive trees…

he looked into your eyes carefully, like you'd said something that struck a cord, something he'd considered before.

"really?" he asked, then turned his gaze towards the city again, eyebrows laying heavier, eyes looking below. "willows look hunched," he said, "they look weary."

was he hunched? had he grown tired? was he trying to tell you that was how he saw the world now? hunched, instead of magical?

"hmm, " you thought for a moment, "do you know why willows are hunched?"

he looked at you questioningly. "no?"

"i've been told a story from someone who'd been told a story; there once was a willow next to a lake. you know how willows like wetlands. and there once was a child sweet as a sugar beet, yet did not know how to swim. choose one day from the countless days the old willow had seen, the sweet child fell into the lake right next to its roots, he couldn't stay on the surface, so he asked the willow for help. the willow bowed its leaves as fast as it could, to offer a branch to hold onto, but it was too slow, and the leaves touched the water too late. after that day, the willow's leaves never rose again. word spread to every willow with time, and they lowered their branches one by one, so if a child were ever drowning, they would never be too late."

he was still looking down, but his expression had changed lightly. his brows were slightly tented, his eyes seemed watery. you studied him, it looked like the story had touched him; he was quietly in thought.

was he a willow? had he failed to save a drowning child? had he been hunched?

had he realized being hunched didn't have to be ugly?

"stories are great," you said, not to fill the silence, but because you now felt comfortable enough to share your thoughts with him. "they can verbalize things you keep in your head, and make you realize; oh, someone else thought the same thing back when who knows how many years ago, and i’m not the only one."

he nodded after another moment of silence. "that was a beautiful story," he said, looking at you, "do you know many like it?"

"short tales like these? not many. i generally read novels."

"maybe i should start too."

you perked up. "you could!" you said, voice coming out too excited for your liking, "i'll lend you some."

"okay," he said, smiling in his usual, reserved way, "thank you."

poor, innocent peter. he had no idea what he'd just signed up for, basically accepting to be subjected to a reader's propaganda of their favorite books.

"i should be thanking you," you responded, "for bringing me here."

the sun had fully gone down, no traces of orange left in the sky, although it hadn't gotten fully dark yet. the moon could be seen, finally getting out of the sun's shadow. or more so, light. too bright for anything else to stay visible near it, yet nothing on earth would be visible without its light, including the moon.

you looked down at the ant-sized citizens of new york, ever-moving, flowing like a river. the wind was caressing your face, chilly, up here was colder than down below, yet it didn't feel as hostile.

"i used to really like it," he said while nodding, a half-smile left on his face from your previous conversation, and perhaps memories of years gone.

"sitting atop buildings?"

"yeah. sitting or swinging or... just height."

"it is kind of freeing."

"and just... you know, a different kind of perspective."

"yeah, i get it," you said, looking at your ant subjects, "why don't you like it anymore?"

he seemed to search for words for a moment, looking around. and then shrugged. "i guess i just... don't really like things anymore."

you sighed, nodding. "well, it's a miracle that you liked my below-average vegetable soup, then."

"it was very much above average!"

"as i said, a miracle."

"why am i having to defend my tastes in the middle of a date right now?"

he stopped abruptly, his smile fading, eyes widening. "i mean!" he quickly scrambled to fix his mistake, "not like- not a date like a date date, you know, i was just saying... just-"

was this a time for you to interrupt? he didn't seem like he wanted to finish that sentence.

"i know," you said, chuckling, "don't worry. i'm also really glad we're doing this. take me soaring the skies more often."

"i wouldn't necessarily call it soaring."

"well, whatever it was."

and then, once again, hours chased one another, carrying your long-winded conversation back and forth, and the deep black of night had fallen on the two of you like a blanket.

peter was sweet, it was like honey dripped from his lips; you hadn't found a conversation so enjoyable in years. you were glad he'd opened up more, back in high school, you had no idea he was so talkative.

you had brought a homemade meal with yourself, considering how much he'd appreciated that yesterday. and you’d shared it over the hours you’d spent together.

peter seemed to relax more and more around you, smile actually coming naturally to his face now, dangling his feet with comfortable, quiet joy.

“ah,” he said at some point, “this is… somewhat hard.”

“what is?”

he thought on it for a moment. “no, nothing. forget i said anything.”

“nooo,” you grabbed his arm and slightly shook him, “i’m curious now!”

he chuckled, “no, it’s embarrassing.”

“peter, listen to me,” you started with mock seriousness, “whatever it is, it cannot be as embarrassing as my cringeworthy memories, so i won’t even register it as embarrassing.”

“okay,” he said after a short silence, “i guess… i guess i got used to being alone too much, now i find it kind of hard to… be known, i guess. it leaves me with a kind of anxiety.”

“it wasn’t like that before?”

“no,” he turned his gaze to the city, “i don’t remember it being like this.”

you hummed, nodding your head. you were going to tell him that you understood, that you felt similarly occasionally, that it was normal, but he kept going before you could.

“at least, the bad parts.”

“what bad parts?”

“you know, my mistakes and flaws and other such things,” he took a deep breath before continuing. “i told you everything but… i wish you didn’t know some of it, now.”

you studied his face; he definitely looked more youthful, like the weight of the world wasn’t crushing him anymore. like he could put his burden down for a moment, take a break. peter didn’t seem like a person who would have a hard time being vulnarable, or being known, but pain did change people. was it just being alone, or being alone with what he thought were his mistakes, scenes repeating over and over in his head as he stared at empty walls, with no one to talk to?

“i like you as you are,” you said, “with your mistakes and flaws; that’s being human, and you’re not lesser for any of it. not objectively, and not in my eyes.”

he was looking into your eyes now, he’d become more comfortable resting his gaze upon yours; you found it comforting, you tried to make him feel the same.

“isn’t that the part of being known that matters?” you asked. “knowing the imperfect parts, the harder to accept parts, and accepting anyway, and loving anyway. doesn’t it make you feel better that i know you fully and like you even more for it?”

peter seemed truly lost for words, for the second time since you’d met. you’d wanted to make him feel welcome into your life, so you’d done your best to tell him things you’d wish to hear yourself, and they were the truth, but you really hoped it would come across right. he wasn’t the only one to overthink conversations.

he opened his mouth to give an answer, and then, suddenly, chaos erupted.

the thunder of a bomb going off shook the ground and the buildings around you. screams mixed into a deafening whistle of the wind that carried them as people ran away from the sound collectively, pushing each other.

peter stood up instinctively, looking towards the explosion. it had happened close enough that you’d felt the shockwave.

“what was that?” you yelled, trying to be heard over the sound, clumsily standing up next to peter, as you were quite high up. he held your arm to steady you.

“i’m not sure, but i think i know who’s responsible for it,” he said with a serious expression on his face, brows furrowed, thoughtful, voice lower than yours, but you could still hear him.

“are you going to go?”

“i have to, this is… these people are dangerous, you should go home.”

he grabbed you by your waist and brought you down to the ground in a hurry, gently placing you. “i’m sorry,” he said, “i’ll come back, uh, to your house, if that’s okay?”

“of course,” you responded, “i’ll be waiting. and don’t be sorry.”

and he dissapeared into the sky, swinging.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

peter hated villains, truly. criminals who committed heinous acts of terrorism, knew nothing but cruelty, unashamedly hurt people, kidnapped, wounded… there were so many of them, too. he kept defeating those hurting new york, and new ones kept popping up.

well, he thought he hated them, but he didn’t know how exactly he felt. he remembered a time when feelings so negative and irritating hadn’t ever been inside him, it was like they added onto each other. one would think it would get easier with time, that he would get used to repeated things. like losing… but not only had losing aunt may been harder than losing uncle ben, he was now more bitter, and more mournful over the past deaths he’d thought he’d gotten over, as well. or, how instead of growing numb to seeing horrible crimes unfold, every act of abuse and cruelty made him angrier, every time he hated… he hated more, although he wasn’t sure exactly what he was hating.

when he tried to track the target his hatred was pointing at, he saw blurry pictures. villains were a part of it, surely, but he didn’t feel a burning rage while fighting them, it was more so weariness, or disgust, mostly, he just wanted all of it to be over. he didn’t want to… ponder more on it, after that point. he had tried once, and then felt an untangible pain. he couldn’t admit it to himself, but he was afraid of what else he could find in that blur. himself? tony? aunt may? mj? new york? the world?

so the picture stayed anonymous, and he couldn’t fully direct his fury at anything, and he disliked all the villains, but could hardly muster up the energy to truly hate them. and perhaps it wasn’t in his nature, either. anger and hatred, he’d never been very good at those. was that why his heart was withering? because he couldn’t feel well? because those were all there was to feel in his life now, and he failed at it?

he felt so done with everything, currently. was he not going to be able to spend time with you uninterrupted? the conversation was going well, too. or at least he thought it was. he hoped you would agree.

back in high school, he knew you were smart, and funny, and would be a good friend if anyone could approach you, but you’d prefered to stay away from him, and he hadn’t had the courage to initiate a relationship with you, he’d found you intimidating. now getting to know you better, he wished he’d just done it, back then. but maybe not. maybe then he would lose you too.

would he lose you now, as well? he’d lost everyone, hadn’t he?

or he’d break your heart, maybe. he’d left liz, he’d left mj, he’d left ned. thrice taken, something was wrong with him.

he arrived at the site of the explosion, looking from above. the thick, suffocating hotness, the pain-filled wails of the survivors, the rubbles of the building crumbled down, his eyes searched for certain signs in between the horrors. he would first save those who couldn’t save themselves, then he would stop whoever was responsible.

as he started carrying survivors out of flames and rubble, he also started scanning everything around him carefully. a sign, a clue, a mistake on the culprit’s part… he knew who it was, he was almost sure the organization he’d been tailing down for the past few months was responsible for this. they were onto him, too, they knew.

he’d found out the position of their base was last week, a site with several factories and buildings in it, towards the border of the city, in a mostly desolate area, as it used to just be an industrialized site, but had now turned into an unpreferred place for bussiness. he’d wondered if they had something to do with that as well, but he supposed that didn’t matter much, in the grand scheme of things.

he would go there, and… and confront them. fight them. end them. something. somehow. the police were rendered useless for the most part, when it came to these underground syndicates, some were bought puppets, some were too powerless, peter knew better than to give away his knowledge now. he’d been burned enough. he would have to do it himself, and do it quick, before any other disasters struck his city.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

you hadn’t gone back home, you were waiting next to a shop near the place peter had left you, looking at the exploded building from afar. you were growing more worried by the second; peter had seemed serious, and talked about a criminal organization who would bomb a whole building like it was a normal thing. was he engaged in a fight, currently? how often did things of this magnitude happen to him?

your phone buzzed, you immediately looked at the screen, it could be important in these circumstances. peter. peter was calling. he’d gone to fight, said he’d come back to you, and now was calling-

“peter?” you answered before you made any assumptions.

quick gasps cut short responded to you, and peter’s voice had taken the shape of slow, low wailing, or wheezing, or… regardless, it was obvious he was in pain.

“i…” he started, clearly having a hard time speaking, “i’m stuck. it was a trap.” he was breathless, his voice kept cracking.

“you- where?” you asked, choosing your words carefully. he was stuck. trapped. time. time was important. ask only for the information that matters right now.

“the building- that- there were people, i wanted to save them,” he was crying, it was obvious. “but i couldn’t, they are stuck too, and unconscious, some are dead. i couldn’t-” he cut his sentence short, taking quick breaths, most likely trying to keep himself awake, or too pained to continue. you understood it anyway.

“where are you, peter?”

“the building crumbled down, and it’s all rubble- but, it’s a huge- a huge, i don’t know. i’m under a heavy part, big, i can’t move it. not safely. i can’t try anything too dangerous, or the- the others might get crushed,” he managed to say in between his gasps and pained groans.

your heart sank, an awful dread dropped into the pit of your stomach. what to do now?

“i’m sorry,” he said, “i just- i didn’t know what to do, and i’d told you i’d come back, i don’t know. there is no one else i could call, i’m not- i’m sorry.”

no one else.

“don’t apologize,” you said, voice firmer, having gotten slightly angry. you weren’t angry at peter, you were angry at… at the reason why peter was hurt. it had only been two days since you’d truly gotten to know him, and you wanted to scream into a void at the top of your lungs already.

you started walking towards the road, looking for a taxi, or you would call one. the initial chaos had subsided, but now people wanting to immediately go back home around you had taken its place, taxis were working, you just didn’t know how fast you could go to wherever peter was.

“send me your location or describe where you are,” you said.

you could only hear his gasps for a moment. “no,” he said, “no, no, i don’t want you to come, that’s not why i-” his breath hitched, he started coughing.

your eyes had gotten teary, you blinked harshly a few times to get rid of the blurriness. would a bicycle be faster? a… motorcycle, perhaps? you started looking around to see any unclaimed ones, you could maybe pay someone-

“i’ll come either way, i’ll help you,” you said, as you started walking towards the site of the explosion, you thought finding an abandoned vehicle might be easier there… maybe even one that no longer had an owner. maybe even a gun. “send your location or i will go into the flames and try to find a clue.”

another pause.

“okay,” he said, exhaling in pain, “but be careful, run away the moment you see anyone dangerous. okay?”

“all right.”

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

it had been a long while since peter had been in such peril, had he underestimated his opponents? had he been too rash, reckless? it was highly unlikely that his street-level work would be as dangerous as the avengers-level threats, and he’d survived those, hadn’t he? so why was he crying now?

when he’d arrived at the site, and looked around a little, he’d found people, kidnapping victims, being sent to somewhere. he’d thought he’d needed to act fast to save them, but he’d fallen into a trap. not a trap specifically set for him; it more so looked like a last resort to cover up their traces while killing anyone at their tail, just destroying the building with evidence and their enemies in it. peter was just one person though, was that enough for them, or had they not bothered to check?

he didn’t know where exactly he was wounded under the rubble, everything was hurting. somewhere on his abdomen, he assumed, and legs, they were stinging like a thousand needles were sinking into his flesh at the same time.

he sighed, putting his forehead on the fallen stone in front of him.

he hated himself. that was it, yeah. that was the true target of his hatred. more than anything else. he realised so when he admitted it to himself; hating had suddenly gotten much easier, much deeper.

he’d just killed the last person on earth who knew him. why had he called you, anyway? he should’ve just… done as he always did before meeting you, deal with it himself. or die. the world wouldn’t lose much if he did, there was no one to mourn him. well, maybe you could get a little sad, but it wasn’t like you were particularly close to him, you’d never really been friends before. and you had a life, other people around you, you had no reason to hold onto him like he did you. so why were you even coming? why would you do this to him?

he killed everyone around himself. he would kill you. he would kill you. he would lose you.

no, no, stop. you could survive this, right? sinking into despair had never been helpful. he would need to stay sharp for you. he would… you could survive this much, right? and then he would never see you again. he would block your number, and… good thing he hadn’t brought you to his apartment.

he’d been so selfish, thinking only of himself, the happiness he felt at being remembered. what was he thinking? he should’ve never talked to you. he should’ve told you to raise your umbrella and go home without getting wet. he’d been erased from existence for a reason, hadn’t he? had he forgotten why he hadn’t gone back to mj and ned? how could he do this? how could he keep doing this? why did he never learn from his mistakes?

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

you were breathless, having ridden a bicycle (that you really had managed to find abandoned next to the explosion) until a point where traffic wasn’t jammed, then taken a taxi to the point where the driver would be willing to drive to, then ran until you could see the eerie factory site peter had told you about. you’d stopped to catch your breath briefly, your throat was hurting, sweat was coming down on your face like rain had been on the morning you’d grabbed peter’s arm. you put your hand on the right of your abdomen, you had a bad case of side stitch pain. you were holding a metal pipe in your other hand, you hadn’t been lucky enough to stumble upon a gun lying around, unfortunately. you had wanted to find a shield of some sort, but the blown off car bits were mostly too heavy, and couldn’t be carried on a bicycle.

there it was, the area of a dangerous mafia organization. how many cameras were there? you wore the mask peter had given to you, even though you really didn’t want to when you needed so much air.

you could see the remnants of a big dust storm behind a few buildings, you would need to get closer to truly figure it out, but you assumed you could go towards that direction to find peter. your heart was drumming against your chest, your fingertips had suddenly gone cold. a tiny portion of it was because of your previous marathon, mostly your nervousness and… fear were the cause.

but you had to do this. there was simply no other choice. someone needed to save peter, and the authorities wouldn’t do it, and the heroes wouldn’t do it, and you were there already. so you got a move on.

you mostly walked behind walls and next to corners, nervous about being seen and shot dead on the spot before you could even get into the mafia’s base. you reached… a chain-link fence, surrounding the complex.

“NO TRESSPASSING” the sign on the fence read, “PRIVATE PROPERTY”.

well, you’d already stolen a bicycle.

you took a shaky breath, and put your foot into one of the chains. you’d never climbed over a chain-link fence before, but everything had a first time, right? so you gripped the chains for dear life, and although you probably looked ridiculous and unnatural doing it, managed to climb to the other side. you did scratch a few places on your legs and hands, but it was mostly a success.

now you needed to sneak deeper into the complex, somehow.

you walked half-crouched down, mostly next to walls, looking around yourself nervously, yet as fast as you could. as you got closer to the collapsed building, you started hearing screams, and gunshots. there was a commotion going on somewhere close to you, was it the kidnapped people? the ones peter had been able to save, the ones who’d gotten out? you stopped where you were and pressed your back to the building next to you, where did you go from here? where were the gun noises coming from? what did you need to do to avoid that, yet still reach peter?

your hands had started shaking, would it be possible to find an abandoned gun as you walked closer? it would be so easy for them to kill you.

you'd only managed to make a few turns from that point before you were caught. by a man with a gun in his hand.

"look at that," he said, as he pointed the gun at you. “it seems a little mouse sneaked in, in this chaos."

you stopped, completely frozen. your heart was beating in your throat, your hands were trembling, you'd forgotten how to breathe. you'd never been so fear-stricken in your life.

what could you do? one shot and you would be dead, what could you do with the metal pipe in your hand? you couldn't look away from the man to see what else you could use.

he started walking towards you slowly, saying things that would only distract you and make you more nervous if you focused on them, so you blocked them out.

he was clearly enjoying cornering you like a prey animal, that must have been why he was walking closer to you; to scare you. you fought against your urge to back away, to protect a distance between you two; you had a metal pipe. a gun was a long-range weapon, being closer might make it harder to run away, but would make it easier to fight back, and running away in this situation would do you no good. if he missed the first time, he would get you in the second. so you forcefully nailed your feet to the ground, ignored the alarms setting off in your mind, and tried to prepare yourself for a confrontation. your legs were trembling; you hoped the man would just think you'd frozen in fear.

he came close enough to put the gun to your head, just an arm's length of a distance between you. “you can't run even when the gun is in your face?” he asked mockingly.

would begging work? would it keep you alive long enough to catch an opening?

you would die. you would die.

you hadn't opened your mouth to form a single sentence since this man had found you, and you didn't think you could now. one wrong word and it would be over. you needed to act.

was there anyone else around? why was he alone? had you lucked out, somehow? they weren't going to take you into custody, you were a transgresser, they were going to kill you. you assumed this man had stumbled into you coincidentally in the ruckus, and hadn't felt the need to call for reinforcements. even if there were others in places you couldn't see, you had no choice but to act now.

the gun's tip was touching your forehead. seconds. i must act in seconds. by bending your knees, you ducked your head faster than he could process what happened and pull the trigger, and while ducking, swung the pipe in your hand as fast as you could, with as much force behind it as you could muster, and hit him in the groin.

you immediately made a move to get behind him while he buckled over; there was no running away from someone with a gun.

should you hold his hand with the gun, or hit it with your pipe? he was turning his face towards you, and would shoot you the moment he got a good view.

no, you’d taken too much time to think, and he’d already directed the gun at you, pulling the trigger. you immediately hit his hand with your pipe. the shot wasn't completely wasted, however, and grazed your leg.

you screamed in pain.

he reached for you with his other hand, grabbing your hair.

no time.

you gripped your pipe with all your strength, and hit his hand again while he was yanking your hair. and then kept hitting his hand, lest he direct the gun at you again. one, two, three, four, five— he kicked your leg. you buckled over in pain as he put your head to the ground, your hair still entangled in his hand. he was saying something, eyes bulging, looking very mad, but you weren’t proccessing any of it. your ears were still ringing because of the gunshot, and the pain in your leg was so powerful that you couldn't focus on anything. it was as if endless knives were constantly stabbing you. it was unbearable.

his hands were occupied with your head and the gun, you were nowhere near strong enough to set free from his grip, but he'd forgotten you were still holding onto the pipe. or maybe he'd just thought you'd be in too much pain to use it now. or maybe he just hadn't had the time to do something about that yet, everything was happering in seconds.

you swung it again in one last, reckless effort to fight back, and hit his head. the momentum tossed him to the side while taking you with him as he hadn't let go of your hair. before he could turn to face you back, you hit his head again, with all your might. he let go of your hair while balancing himself with his other hand, and hit you across the face before you could land your third hit, but you planted yourself to the ground, and landed another hit anyway. his head was bleeding, and he was clearly distraught.

what now? a few seconds. this had given you a few seconds of decision time. what now? should you keep hitting him? take the gun, somehow? how could you get rid of him?

you tried to move reflexively, to get away. but your leg was done for, you couldn’t get up. no. no. you couldn't move.

your heart was going to burst out of your chest, your nerves were completely wrecked; you couldn’t get up.

what, then? did you have to… kill? you were going to throw up. your hands started trembling even more violently. you couldn't. you just couldn't.

you wished you could yell for help. but you were supposed to be the help. it was as it had always been before, pick yourself up and dust yourself off.

no time to think.

you hit his head again, and when he flailed, this time you put his head to the ground, climbing on top of him, twisting his gun-holding arm under his body. now… now you could... how could you stop him? if you managed to take the gun, and told him to stay put until you could run away... you couldn't move, though. you couldn't even properly restrain him because you were having to drag one leg. the concussion he had was doing most of the heavy lifting.

an idea did come up in your mind. you supposed you had no other choice.

──────

you were lying on the floor, your back towards the sky. you’d left your unconscious attacker where he was lying, and managed to drag yourself for a few centimeters before you’d stopped, and leaned your forehead against the ground. you needed to get away, you knew. at least near a wall, somewhere you wouldn’t be seen so clearly, but your leg was hurting too much to use.

you couldn’t raise your head, and just started sobbing openly. you’d already been crying, but trying to hold back, keep quiet. you needed to sit up, and look at how bad the wound was, and how much blood you’d lost. the pain was all you could think about, your head was hurting from stress and forcing yourself to think through the pain, your eyes and throat were hurting from crying (and maybe also sleep-deprivation, as time was diving deeper into the night), your face was hurting from the hit you’d taken, and yet, nothing could be compared to the pain you felt in your leg. you wanted to take off your mask, it was suffocating enough even without it, but any cameras catching your face would be more of a disaster long term.

you took a deep breath, and put your hands on the ground. you pushed yourself up while shaking, and turned around. you looked at your leg, and immediately regretted it. it was bleeding a lot, and your flesh had been ripped apart. you didn’t know what to do, there was no one you could call.

you took out your phone from your pocket, and found peter’s number. you really didn’t want to, but you had no other choice.

peter answered by calling out your name questioningly, his voice came across better than last time; it still did sound like he was in pain, but he was calmer.

“peter,” you said, failing to sound like you weren’t crying. “a guy shot me. my leg is hurt.”

“a- what? where are you?”

“i’m near the collapsed building you should be in.”

“i- i-”

you took a second to breathe. “no, no, i… i just don’t know what to do,” you said, sniffling and gasping, “i can’t get up. i, uh, should i wrap something around my leg?”

“yeah,” he said, “a piece of cloth until you can get out, how close are you to the exit? you should call an ambulance or a taxi or—” he also had to stop to take a breath in pain, “i don’t know— i’m sorry. i’m really sorry.”

“what are you sorry for? it’s the fault of this piece of— well, garbage. at least i have a gun now.”

“who was it? is he still there?”

“i don’t know, some random guy. he’s unconscious.”

“… how?”

“well, i… kind of strangled him? he was,” you huffed, “he fainted because he couldn’t breathe, he’s alive though. i did hit his head a few times, i don’t know how that bodes for him.”

“probably not well,” he said, now with a hint of surprise and amusement in his voice, “you, uh, you did well. very well.”

“huh, thank you.”

good, this was good, hearing peter’s voice had been good for you. you pushed yourself up somehow, and sat up straight.

“what happened?” he asked, “why is the pain worsening?” probably because of your increasing groans.

“i was trying to sit up. i need to find a piece of cloth.”

you looked around, and decided to take anything you could from the man who attacked you. you went through his pockets, and sure enough, found a knife. you cut a piece off of his shirt, and used it as bandage.

“how tight should it be?”

“you should be able to slide a finger under it.”

next, you needed to drag yourself away from the middle of the road, to somewhere you could hide—

no.

no, that wasn’t why you were here.

“how are you doing, peter?” you asked, but couldn’t add that you would be there soon.

“i’m…” he started, but drifted off. and then you heard silent sobbing. “i’m sorry,” he said.

“you have nothing to apologize for.”

“no, it’s all my fault. i never should’ve dragged you into this mess.”

“you didn’t drag me into anything, i stole a bike and ran a marathon to get to you,” you’d sounded firmer now, although still couldn’t stop your crying; the pain just wasn’t getting any better.

“i let you down along with everyone else,” he wasn’t listening to you, “and i don’t know what to do, i can’t come to you, i don’t know how to get you out,” his voice had gotten frantic again.

you sighed, trying to get your sobbing under control, and think of a reply. was it his fault? no, you were certain it wasn’t. had he let you down? no, the thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. should he stay away from you? were you afraid of pain or death? would you rather live a more stress-free life than stay with peter?

you closed your eyes to let the tears roll down your cheeks as the realisation that you couldn’t immediately say “no” set in, you felt betrayed by yourself. you’d thought about this, yesterday… or two days ago, you supposed, as it was past midnight. he’d told you everything, so you knew the risks, and you’d thought about it. you’d decided it would be fine; worrying for his safety or being at risk yourself. and if you got injured, then you could handle some pain. and if you died, well… there was no getting ahead of death. if you died, that would mean your time had come.

so where had your conviction gone to? had the pain been too much, after all? it was the pain, the stabbing sensation was making your brain foggy, demanding all the attention be on it. you hated it, you hated everything. you were mad at yourself; why couldn’t you just be better?

“peter,” you cut him off, “i know i can’t understand you fully, but i get it,” you’d decided to just ramble. you couldn’t come up with the perfect answer to make his worries disappear, so you would just… tell him whatever was going through your mind.

“i lay awake some nights, randomly afraid of the dark. then i curl up under my blanket, and try to comfort myself. because there is no one to lie next to me. i look out from my window and see grey walls. i look up at night and see no stars. i walk outside and hundreds of people just walk past me without even looking at my face, and i don’t remember any of theirs the next hour. all i hear all day are the honks of cars, and depressing news. abuse. crime. kid died. alone person went missing. don’t go out at night. don’t talk to anyone. there is no one anyway, who would i talk to?” you paused to sniffle again, and catch your breath.

“i come home and say ‘hello’ to emptiness and darkness, i turn on the lights myself, then think about what i’ll eat. and i don’t properly eat most days, because i just don’t want to prepare something only for myself. yesterday, i was so happy you liked the food i made, i wanted to cook something for the first time in months while waiting for you,” words were just coming out of your mouth without restraint now, was it the sleep deprivation?

“in high school, i used to watch you and your friends, and wish i could find someone who would be in sync with me too. i used to wish i had a reason or an excuse to join in when i saw you three laugh or talk. i go to university now, and i attend lectures, and i make small talk with a few people, and then i drown in my own thoughts the whole day. i tell myself that i’m fine by myself, but i feel like my soul is getting thinner by the day, looking at walls. is it just me, or is everyone just disconnected now, i don’t know.”

you finally stopped, and let silence stretch after your words. your crying had gotten worse as the suffocation of your life had built up enough to rush out of you; you didn’t cry much, not really. sure, you sometimes shed silent tears, sitting by yourself on your couch, but normally, you just kept going without thinking much about it. you had your exams, and job, and volunteer work, and projects to worry about, so pitying yourself was at the bottom of your to-do list. but now? you were crying waterfalls. was it because you’d finally found someone to tell what you were really thinking? no, it was probably because of the pain you were already in.

peter didn’t answer, for a long while, it was just silence.

“you were right,” you said, “being known with your negative sides sucks.”

“no,” he said, “you were right. i’m glad to know you as you are.”

he didn’t sound good. he didn’t sound good at all. you sighed in resignation, closing your eyes tightly shut to clear your view of tears. “i’m closing now, peter, wait for me,” you said, and closed the call before he could reply.

you looked at the ground, and furrowed your brows in concentration. you would get up. you had to. you had no choice. peter had called you for help. he had no one. no one else to call. no one else to save him from making a choice between death and killing innocent victims under rubble. no one else to save him from death.

you gritted your teeth, your leg hurt as the deep cut touched the bad guy’s shirt, and in some parts, the cold air of the night. the wound kept bleeding, and hurting more by the second. but you gritted your teeth anyway, through your tears and gasps for air that you had an abundance of, but your lungs refused to take in. you put your hands on the ground, and pushed yourself up, using all the strength you had.

you whimpered and groaned in many attempts to stifle your screams before they could come out, and alert whoever was close enough to hear, and managed to set your back straight. it was unbearable, the pain was holding you from the collar, trying to drag you down, making your vision red, exploding in your brain.

it’s just pain, you kept repeating to yourself, it was just a feeling, you could move through it. so you would walk now. towards peter. as quickly as possible. you needed to reach him, that was why you’d come this far, how could you let pain make you forget? it was simply unacceptable, the thought of peter dying under that rubble.

so you put one foot in front of the other, and made your way to peter through every force working against you.

──────

"peter?" you asked, trying to walk through the rubble, and then heard your name back.

"i'm here!"

you tried to reach him at least enough to see his face, as fast as you could, but it was still taking too long with your injured leg. too long for your impatience currently, anyway.

"i'll remove the victims so you can get out of there," you said as you stretched your head enough to see his face, not being able to get closer. he was... he'd taken off his mask, and he looked horrible; his eyes had become red from tears and most likely his injuries, his face was covered in dust and some drops of blood. looking at him stung your chest. "tell me where they are."

──────

peter was strong. he truly was. not only mentally; you were currently watching him lift what was essentially an entire ceiling with other pieces of rubble on it off himself, with most likely many crushing injuries. insane. he was insane. no wonder he couldn’t move with all with those unconscious people around.

you had somehow managed to move them out of his way, seven people in total, much more than you’d anticipated. how could you get them out of here now? you were injured, peter was probably in worse condition… although he did seem to be able to carry significant weight. maybe you could carry them until the exit and call an ambulance, for yourselves, too.

──────

peter walked towards you until he was a breath away, his face was covered in sweat on top of everything else, and he was gasping for air, as were you. he looked at your leg.

“i’ll carry you,” was all he said. he seemed so tired.

“we need to carry these people first.”

“no, i’ll carry you first. until you’re out of this complex.”

──────

you were sitting on the sidewalk, waiting for the ambulance you had called. well, ambulances, as they’d be carrying nine people. you had, also, finally taken off the mask you’d come to despise at this point, associating it with very negative feelings.

you saw peter swing down with the last one of the survivors. he landed, placed the unconscious man on the sidewalk, and sat right next to you.

you sat together in silence for a while, until you took a deep breath, and chuckled lightly. it was over. you’d done it. everyone was alive.

peter looked at you questioningly, although it was hard to read his face; he’d turned mostly expressionless. because of how much effort it must have been taking to even stay awake for him, you assumed.

“it’s over,” you said, “we did it.”

he looked away again, to the desolate road in front of you. “you did it,” he said, “i messed up.”

“how so?”

“i acted rashly. i should’ve been more careful. now they’ll find a new base, and i have to start from nothing to track them down again. and they know i’m after them. and i couldn’t change anything in the end, i just made things worse. all of this was for nothing, it could have been completely avoided. it started with the collapse of one building and then it ended with the collapse of another for no reason.”

you were watching him carefully. lines of exhaustion had formed on his face, the sorrow and… and whatever it was that dropped a boulder of burning despair into the pit of your stomach from when you first met had come back; you’d thought the youth had somehow returned to his face this evening.

“so,” you started, taking another deep breath, “you came here after they exploded a building to stop them, like, end them in general, or at least weaken them, do something. that makes sense to me. then you acted rashly here? why?”

“i saw… the kidnapped victims, and they were suffering, so i wanted to save them.”

“then you didn’t mess up, right? you saved them.”

“not all of them, and i wouldn’t have without you.”

“well, a big majority of them, you did save. all of them would die without you. and what else could you have done but to directly interfere? you did the only thing you could.”

he just stayed silent, was he not convinced?

“i don’t think this was a failure, peter. i think you did well and saved many people, and i think it was worth it.”

his eyes were teary, but he didn’t look at you again, he turned his gaze to the ground, and just stayed silent.

──────

you had decided on what to tell the authorities before the paramedics had arrived, and then you’d been separated, put into different ambulances.

then… well, the rest was as you imagined it would go. still a lot of pain, and a lot of hasty doctors as they asked questions and barked orders. it was horrible, really, with the way your head had been aching, but at least they were numbing your leg. and you would most likely be allowed to drift off to sleep at some point, right?

──────

you lied on the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling. it was almost noon, and you’d waken up not so long ago. you just kept playing what happened again and again in your head, trying to make sense of every detail.

it was a miracle you were alive. you’d faced off a gun. an actual gun.

it was good that all you could do by yourself in this hospital bed was think; you’d been asking yourself the same questions for a while now. did you still want to be involved with peter? you’d known him only for two days, and you’d ended up in a hospital already.

you’d considered every outcome and every reason, every choice you could make. in the end, it boiled down to a few core options. would you rather live a less risky life by yourself, or risk getting hurt like this to be with someone? someone who can meet you as deeply as you crave?

not just that, human bonds were too important to be disregarded because of what external threats might arise. the reality now was that you loved peter, he was a good person, he didn’t deserve to be abandoned because of what evil people did. your choice didn’t come out of loneliness; even if you had a dozen bonds like this, you would still choose to stay with peter, because you’d formed a relationship with him now. and that was that.

out of every outcome you considered, the worst one was definitely living your life without peter, and then getting news that spiderman just died somewhere, by himself. even the thought of it was nausiating. then again, the thought of just him getting hurt like this, and having no one to go to was just as horrible. so you needed to choose the opposite of what would cause that outcome to happen.

it hadn’t been that hard a decision to make; staying involved with peter. you’d already been tangled, it wasn’t much of a possibility to untangle yourself now, a part of you would be left behind.

besides, you somehow remembered him, didn’t you? that had to mean something. there had to be a reason for it.

──────

after finally being discharged, the first thing you did was look for peter, but he’d somehow gotten out before you. not because his wounds were less severe, quite the opposite, the nurses had said he’d been restless to get out, and they couldn’t keep someone against their will.

the orange of dusk had faded away, although it wasn’t fully dark yet. you were on your way to your apartment while you kept ringing peter’s phone, he was stubbornly refusing to answer.

you huffed as another attempt turned out to be in vain. you looked at the taxi driver, who did not acknowledge your existence, and then turned back to your phone.

“peter, are you okay? is everything all right?”

you messaged him. then waited for him to see. aaand waited. still waiting.

you huffed again, three minutes of staring at your screen impatiently and he wasn’t responding.

although you’d asked him if he were okay, you knew the truth. it wasn’t that he couldn’t answer, it was that he’d decided to go through with his stupid “i’ll never see you again because i’m ruining your life” nonsense. in your heart of hearts, you knew. so you sent another message.

“if you’re thinking about cutting ties with me, then do it properly. come and talk to me about it.”

and then looked out the taxi’s window for the rest of your journey.

────── 𓆩˚.⋆🕸⋆.˚𓆪 ──────

you were right, peter knew. after everything that happened, opening up to you and accepting you into his life, if he wanted to step away now, he needed to respect you, and tell you about it properly. so he was standing in front of your door now, trying to gather up the courage to ring your bell, and tell you he’d never see you again. this door had seemed so inviting one night ago, and it had tricked peter. he was not supposed to be invited into any house, didn’t your house know that?

he took a deep breath, and rang the bell. when you opened the door, you looked tired. not your expression, but the lines on your face and the look in your eyes gave it away. that was his fault, wasn’t it?

you stepped aside to welcome him, and he followed you into the living room, the couch he’d sat on the night he’d told you everything.

bidding you farewell was going to be hard, he didn’t know if he could be brave enough, or selfless enough. he’d been so when he had been wiped from the memories of every living being, and that was much harder a task, wasn’t it? so couldn’t he do it a second time?

but he hated waking up every day, and hated… well, he couldn’t even properly hate. getting up, putting one foot in front of the other was becoming harder every day, he didn’t want to do anything, anymore. so circumstances had changed since then, but he still kept fighting every day, and he still kept doing what he thought was right. so he could do this too.

or you would die. he’d lost enough people. to love was to lose. to love was the possibility of loss eventually.

he shouldn’t even have sat on this couch, actually, why had he done so? he should’ve just told you he was leaving, and then leave. he made a move to get up again, you grabbed his arm to stop him.

“you should stay seated,” you said, “i’ll bring something to eat for dinner.”

“please don’t, i’ll be on my way shortly anyway.”

“no,” you said as a statement, firmly, and left him alone in the living room.

peter never should’ve come. you deserved to have one last conversation, but how could peter move on from you? he supposed it would’ve been impossible even if he hadn’t come to your place today, even if he’d told you to turn back without getting wet the day you first recognized him. he would just have to live missing you forever, and that wasn’t unrealistic. it’s what he was doing now, missing everybody he’d ever known. and he was living, wasn’t he? well, he was alive.

you brought pasta with chicken, obviously freshly made, and put down two plates on the couch.

“we could eat in the kitchen,” he said.

“couch is comfier.”

he sighed, looking at his plate. he really didn’t want to eat anything made by you again, he didn’t need more things to miss. you’d said you didn’t feel like preparing a meal just for yourself, that he made you want to cook something… he remembered everything you said, of course. that you’d apparently wanted to get closer to him in high school too, why had he been so nervous? afraid?

it was for the best, though. otherwise, you might’ve died years ago. no matter what you felt, he couldn’t be selfish enough to assume he could be there for you, or good for you.

“so,” you started, “you decided to go forward with your plan of ignoring my existence for the rest of your life?”

“it’s not ignoring,” he had a defensive tone, “i was wrong to even confirm i’m peter at the start, i’ll fix my mistake.”

“it wasn’t a mistake, how can you say that? would you prefer i believed i’d lost my mind?”

you had a hard time walking now, limping although you tried to hide it, and several wounds were visible on your face. you’d beat up a man with a metal pipe, what kind of damage did that leave on your psyche? peter didn’t know, he’d been warring since he was fifteen.

“you wouldn’t be in pain, at least.”

“you’re unbelievable,” you sounded exasparated, and seemed offended, but peter didn’t know what else to say. it was the truth. “i’d rather know the bitter truth, or suffer from its consequences than believe a lie any time. besides, you couldn’t have known this would happen, it’s not on you.”

“you can’t tell me you would still get a gunshot wound yesterday if we hadn’t met two days ago.”

“maybe not, but i don’t blame you for it and i don’t care.”

“you don’t care?!” peter was getting angry, was it because you were getting angry? he was angry at himself, was it dripping out of his chest into his tongue as poison?

“no,” you backtracked, “i mean, i’m fine with it. i can live with it. and i don’t hold it against you, i don’t have any resentment for you. i don’t know how else to explain this.”

he took a deep breath to hold back his tears. he couldn’t let your words get to him, make him feel better about what had occurred. he needed to protect you, he kept reminding himself.

“i can’t put you in harm’s way,” he said.

you paused for a moment.

“do you take care of your wounds by yourself? you did so after the fire the other day, and you basically ran away from the hospital this time around.”

peter was taken aback. “uh, yeah?” he answered.

you grabbed a bag that was positioned right next to the couch on the floor, and took a… first aid kit out of it. and then a salve, and bandages, and… what was going on?

“i bought these today after being discharged, figured you might need some.”

“i’m… fine?”

your expression was very unimpressed when you looked at him.

“so you think i don’t see your arm, or the way you have a hard time eating or breathing, or even just your hands?”

ah, right. his hands were bruised, not enough to warrant bandaging though, this happened regularly. and his arm did hurt, but the pain would go away in a few days or so. his abdomen… that was taken care of, too, the dressing they did at the hospital would be enough.

“it’s all taken care of,” he said.

“we need to put salve on your hands, and then wrap-”

“we don’t, this happens all the time.”

you looked at him in surprise for a moment. “this happens all the time and we don’t need to treat it?” you repeated with your eyes wide, tone something between offended and shocked.

he didn’t know what to say, so you just started doing whatever you’d set your mind to even before he came to your house. you gently held his hand, and started applying the salve. he sighed, and closed his eyes, leaning his head to rest on the couch. he shouldn’t have, but you didn’t give him much choice.

“i’ll learn how to suture,” you said, “and anything else that’s necessary.”

peter spoke your name, “i’m sorry,” he said, “i am so, so sorry. i don’t want to leave you either, but you saw what happened. mj and ned have forgotten me, and they are happier for it. this is what i need to do.”

“peter,” you said, as you started wrapping the bandage around his hand, “i haven’t forgotten you, and if you leave now, i still won’t forget. i don’t know how mj and ned are doing, having forgotten, but you can’t compare me to them. and even if i had forgotten, i still would want to know. how else can i put this?” you searched for the words, “i care about you more than i care about happiness. i’d choose you over happiness, i’d rather be in pain with you than be painless by myself.”

peter had straightened his back, his gaze fixated on your eyes, as you spoke. a lump in his throat, tears threatening to roll down his cheeks in his eyes, his hand in your hands… a warmth in his chest, how he hadn’t felt in so long. your words did soften his edges, but he couldn’t accept it. he still held back his tears, and still wanted to escape. run away. was that why he wanted to leave you? was his true reason to protect you, or his fear? he wanted to run, he wanted to run as fast as he could and hide, from anyone who could see him.

it was too much, but he couldn’t exactly tell what was too much. he was afraid of hurting you, but that wasn’t all he was afraid of, yet he couldn’t recognize what else scared him so.

“but,” you continued, “being with you will make me happy anyway, do you understand? i’ll be happier with you than alone, even if my life is at risk, and even if guns chase my back.”

you had teared up too, peter realised, but were wiping your tears away, to keep your vision clear while working on his now other hand, he assumed.

and that was it, the last drop of water to make his glass overflow. silent tears started finding their way to his chin, his gaze lowered in embarrassment. he’d already cried a dozen times in front of you, and he wished he hadn’t, he wished he could be stronger, firmer, he wished he could aspire confidence instead of silently crying. he hadn’t been able to cry for a while, before meeting you. even when it hurt deep inside his bones, his tears had dried up. were they all spilling out now?

he wanted you to stay, too, he was tired of being alone. he was tired of imagining “what if”s. he was tired of walking directionless with his hoodie covering his face, face a blur in crowds, never known by anyone. if you could bandage his hands every time after a fight, or have your textbooks scattered around in his room, then-

he didn’t want to imagine it. he just couldn’t accept it.

you were done with his hands, even though peter didn’t want you to let go. “how about this,” you started, “why don’t we give it some more time? i mean, how many times did mj or ned get wounded while knowing you?”

“… never, really.”

“yeah, so, either i’m also cursed, or this was a rare occurrence. either way, me staying with you won’t change anything. so, instead of making a rash decision like this, why don’t we try to be friends first? and if it doesn’t work out, then you can put some distance?”

that was… peter thought on it. and then his silent tears turned into straight-up sobbing. because that could work. he could accept that, it made sense to him.

he leaned down and buried his face in his hands. you started caressing his hair, which made it impossible for his tears to stop.

when everyone had forgotten, you'd remembered him. when faced with a gun, you'd survived. when injured, you'd walked. maybe he really was cursed, considering what had happened to you after you just met, but you seemed determined to break it.

and it might not be perfect, but it would be.

it must’ve been hard for you to make such a decision, you must’ve thought about it; staying with peter. you’d chosen him anyway. he could do the same, too. despite his fears, his horrible instinct to shrink and escape, he could stand his ground, and choose to stay, as you had. and maybe with time, it could get easier.

he stopped his sobbing, calmed down enough to face you, and raised his head.

“i don’t know what tomorrow will bring,” he said with a hint of nervousness in his voice.

“right,” you smiled, “exciting, isn’t it?”

ghost towns (youtube music) by radical face... as we part ways for now.

Not because the physician had said so. Not because the maids had begun moving too quickly through the corridors of Bridgerton House or because Violet Bridgerton’s calm voice had sharpened ever so slightly with concern.

No.

Anthony knew because the sound that left your mouth did not resemble pain.

It resembled fear.

Pure, blinding fear.

He was beside you instantly, crossing the room in two hurried strides just as your knees threatened to buckle beneath you, and the moment his hands settled around your waist you clung to him with trembling fingers, burying your face against his chest while another contraction tore through you hard enough to force a cry from your throat.

“Anthony,” you gasped, your voice cracking apart. “Anthony, I cannot do this.”

His heart nearly stopped.

Anthony wrapped both arms around you immediately, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other pressed firmly against your spine, grounding you against him as though he could physically shoulder some of your pain himself.

“Yes, you can,” he whispered, though his own voice shook violently. “Yes, you can, my love. Look at me.”

You lifted tear-filled eyes to his, and Christ, the terror in them nearly destroyed him.

“I am frightened,” you admitted in a whisper so small it sounded childlike. “Something feels wrong.”

Anthony felt every ounce of blood drain from his body.

But he could not break.

Not now.

Not when you were already trembling apart in his arms.

So he cupped your face with both hands and forced himself to become steady, even while panic clawed viciously at his ribs.

“You listen to me carefully,” he said softly, brushing damp strands of hair from your face. “You are not alone in this. Do you understand? I am here. I shall remain here. You may scream, cry, curse my name if you must, but I will not leave you.”

Another contraction hit.

You cried out sharply and doubled forward, clutching at the front of his waistcoat while Anthony held you upright, his jaw clenching painfully at the helplessness of hearing you suffer.

“Breathe for me,” he whispered desperately. “Please, sweetheart, breathe.”

The hours that followed blurred together into something feverish and endless.

The bedroom grew unbearably warm despite the rain battering against the windows outside. Candles flickered low. Maids rushed in and out carrying fresh cloths and steaming water. Violet remained near the bed with a composure Anthony suspected was only held together by years of practice, though he noticed the way her hands shook whenever your cries grew too loud.

And through all of it, Anthony never once let go of you.

Not once.

He held your hand through every contraction until his fingers were numb. He wiped tears from your cheeks with trembling thumbs. He pressed shaking kisses against your forehead whenever the pain became too much and you began sobbing openly into his shoulder.

At some point during the night, your fear began infecting him completely.

Because the physician had stopped reassuring him.

That was what Anthony noticed first.

The older man had initially spoken calmly, confidently, but as the hours dragged on his expression grew increasingly grim. He exchanged too many looks with the midwife. Too many quiet whispers. Too much silence.

And Anthony Bridgerton had always been clever enough to recognize when people were hiding the truth.

Another scream ripped from your throat, raw enough to make Violet close her eyes briefly in visible anguish.

“I cannot,” you sobbed, clutching Anthony’s hand so tightly it hurt. “Anthony, please, I cannot do this anymore.”

“Yes, you can,” he said immediately, though tears were already burning behind his own eyes. “You are the bravest woman I have ever known.”

“I am tired,” you whispered brokenly.

Anthony nearly shattered right there beside the bed.

Because you sounded defeated.

Because your voice had gone weak.

Because beneath the sweat and pain and exhaustion, your face had begun losing colour in a way that made terror crawl steadily up his spine.

Then the physician approached him quietly.

“Lord Bridgerton,” he murmured carefully. “A word, if I may.”

Anthony’s stomach dropped instantly.

You noticed too.

Your hand tightened around his weakly. “No,” you whispered immediately, panic flooding your exhausted features. “No, do not leave me.”

Anthony bent down at once, pressing his forehead against yours.

“I am not leaving,” he promised quickly. “I shall be right outside the door. Only a moment.”

You looked unconvinced.

Terrified.

Anthony kissed your forehead shakily before forcing himself upright and following the physician toward the hallway, every instinct screaming at him not to walk away from you even for a second.

The moment the door shut behind them, Anthony turned sharply.

“What is happening?”

The physician hesitated.

That hesitation alone nearly drove Anthony mad.

“My lord,” the physician said carefully, “the labour is not progressing as it should. Her Grace has lost a concerning amount of blood already, and the child remains in distress.”

Anthony stared at him.

No.

No.

“She is frightened,” Anthony said immediately, as though saying it aloud could somehow fix the situation. “That is all. She has been in pain for many hours.”

The physician’s silence was unbearable.

Then came the words that would haunt Anthony for the rest of his life.

“If matters worsen…” the physician began quietly, “I may need to know who you wish me to save.”

Anthony stopped breathing.

The hallway tilted violently around him.

“What?”

The physician lowered his gaze. “I pray it shall not come to that. But if I am forced to choose between mother and child, I must have your instruction beforehand.”

Anthony physically recoiled.

“No.”

“My lord-”

“No.”

His voice cracked so violently that Violet appeared at the far end of the corridor, alarm flashing across her face immediately.

Anthony dragged a shaking hand through his hair, breathing hard now, panic threatening to suffocate him whole.

“You save my wife.”

The physician nodded once.

Anthony grabbed his arm before he could leave.

“But you save them both,” he said, his voice suddenly vicious with desperation. “Do you understand me? You do not let her die.”

Violet reached him just as the physician disappeared back into the room.

Anthony looked utterly destroyed.

His mother had not seen him like this since Edmund died.

“Anthony,” she whispered softly.

He turned toward her with red-rimmed eyes.

“I cannot lose her.”

And suddenly he was no longer Viscount Bridgerton.

No longer the composed head of the family.

He was simply a terrified husband.

A frightened little boy who had already buried one parent and could not survive burying the love of his life too.

Violet cupped his face gently.

“You must be strong for her now.”

Anthony let out a broken laugh.

“I am trying.”

Then another scream tore through the door.

Anthony was moving before thought could catch up to him.

He rushed back into the room and immediately crossed to your bedside, taking your face into both hands as tears spilled freely down your cheeks.

“There you are,” you sobbed weakly. “You left.”

“I came back,” he whispered instantly. “My love, look at me. I came back.”

Your fingers clutched desperately at his sleeves.

“I do not want to die.”

The words hit him like a blade directly through the chest.

Anthony’s composure broke entirely.

“You are not going to die,” he said fiercely, though tears were streaming down his own face now. “Do you hear me? You are not leaving me. I forbid it.”

A weak sound escaped you that might once have been a laugh.

“You cannot command death, Anthony.”

His mouth trembled violently.

“No,” he whispered hoarsely. “But I shall fight it for you if I must.”

The physician instructed you to push again.

Anthony held you through it all.

Through the screams.

Through the tears.

Through the moments you nearly gave up entirely.

He whispered constantly, desperate encouragement spilling from him between shaking breaths.

“That’s it.”

“You’re doing beautifully.”

“I have you.”

“Just a little longer.”

“I love you.”

And when your body finally began failing beneath the strain, when your head lolled weakly against the pillows and the physician’s expression turned urgent, Anthony felt true terror consume him for the first time in years.

“Stay with me,” he begged, gripping your hand tightly enough to hurt. “Do not you dare close your eyes.”

“I am so tired,” you whispered faintly.

“No.” Anthony bent over you immediately, his forehead pressing desperately against yours. “No, no, no, sweetheart, stay awake for me. Look at me. Look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered weakly.

Anthony was crying openly now.

Violently.

Helplessly.

“You promised me forever,” he whispered brokenly. “You cannot leave me here alone.”

Then suddenly, chaos erupted.

The physician barked orders.

The midwife moved quickly.

And a sharp cry split the room.

The baby.

Your baby.

Anthony barely heard it, because his eyes were fixed entirely on you, on your frightening stillness. “Why is she not moving?” he demanded, panic rising instantly. The physician was saying something. Violet was praying quietly somewhere behind him.

Anthony could not hear any of it over the roaring terror flooding his ears.

Then finally.

Finally.

Your eyes opened.

A weak breath left your lips.

And Anthony collapsed. Actually collapsed beside the bed with a broken sob tearing from his chest as he seized your hand and pressed it desperately against his mouth. “There she is,” he choked out through tears. “There you are. God, do not ever frighten me like that again.” You smiled weakly despite your exhaustion. Then the physician carefully placed your daughter into your arms.

The room fell silent.

Anthony stared at the tiny infant in complete disbelief, his entire face crumpling with emotion as your daughter let out another soft cry.

“She is beautiful,” you whispered tearfully.

Anthony looked between the two of you, utterly devastated by love.

His wife. His daughter.

Alive.

Both alive.

He reached out with visibly shaking hands and touched the baby’s tiny fingers.

And then he cried harder than he ever had in his life.

—————

Ever since your father passed away, Anthony had taken his role as your legal guardian with absolute seriousness. He managed your inheritance, oversaw your estate, and ensured every detail of your life was protected. But over the months, the quiet evenings in the library and the shared glances in the drawing room had shifted into something far more dangerous. You had fallen completely in love with him, and deep down, you knew he felt the exact same way.

Yet Anthony Bridgerton was a man bound by honor and duty. In the eyes of society and the Queen, taking advantage of his position as your guardian would ruin your reputation forever. The scandalous whisper of a trustee courting his own charge would destroy your standing in the ton before your life even truly began.

He could not let that happen.

Anthony cleared his throat softly, keeping his gaze strictly focused on the papers in front of him. He refused to look up at you, knowing that one glance into your eyes would melt his resolve.

"I have arranged a meeting for tomorrow afternoon," Anthony said, his voice measured and tight. "Lord Thomas will be visiting Bridgerton House."

You paused near the doorway, your heart sinking as you looked at him. Lord Thomas was a distant cousin of the Bridgerton family, a perfectly respectable gentleman who lived far away from the gossip of London.

"Lord Thomas?" you asked, taking a hesitant step into the room. "Why is he coming here?"

"Because he is a suitable match," Anthony replied, finally looking up. His expression was a rigid mask, though the slight tension in his jaw betrayed the war raging inside him. "He possesses a fine estate, an impeccable name, and the favor of the court. He will make a fine husband."

"A husband?" You felt a sudden ache in your chest. You took another step closer to his desk. "Anthony, I do not wish to marry Lord Thomas. I do not even know him."

Anthony stood up abruptly, leaning his hands against the wood of the desk. He was trying so hard to be the proper Viscount, the honorable guardian who did what was right. But every word he spoke felt like a blade turning in his own chest. Sending you away to marry another man was tearing him apart, yet he believed it was the only way to save you from himself.

"It does not matter if you know him yet," Anthony said, his voice dropping to a low, strained whisper. "You will get to know him. He can offer you a proper life, a position in society, and a spotless name. I am your trustee, and it is my duty to ensure your future is secure."

"Is that all this is to you?" you asked quietly, your voice trembling slightly. "Just a duty to fulfill? Just a responsibility to pass on to someone else?"

Anthony closed his eyes for a brief moment, breathing in deeply as he fought the overwhelming urge to cross the room and take you in his arms. He wanted to tell you the truth. He wanted to tell you that he lay awake every night tormented by the thought of you, that he was desperate to keep your honor intact even if it meant breaking his own heart into pieces. If the Queen ever suspected a scandal, your life would be ruined, and he loved you too much to let his own desires destroy you.

When he opened his eyes, the cold mask was back, though his hands trembled slightly at his sides.

"My opinion does not alter what is right," Anthony said, looking past you toward the door. "Lord Thomas arrives at two o'clock tomorrow. Please ensure you are prepared to receive him."

You searched his face for any sign of hesitation, but he kept his gaze fixed on the wall behind you. With a quiet sigh, you turned and walked out of the study, leaving him alone in the dim light of the fire.

The moment the door clicked shut, Anthony sank back into his chair. He buried his face in his hands, letting out a heavy breath in the quiet room, completely heartbroken by the very decision he had forced himself to make.

The next afternoon, the drawing room felt suffocatingly quiet. You sat near the window, dressed in a soft silk gown that Anthony’s servants had meticulously prepared for the occasion. Across from you sat Lord Thomas, speaking pleasantly about his country estate and the upcoming hunt. He was polite, cultured, and thoroughly uninteresting to a heart that already belonged to someone else.

Anthony stood near the fireplace, playing the perfect host. His posture was stiff, his face an unreadable mask as he watched Lord Thomas lean forward to compliment your smile. Every laugh you gave out of courtesy felt like a physical strike against Anthony's chest.

He was doing what honor demanded. He had brought a wealthy, well-connected gentleman into the house to secure your standing before the Queen could hear a single whisper of impropriety. Yet watching another man attempt to win your affection was an agony he had severely underestimated.

"You must visit the estate in the spring, Y/n," Lord Thomas said warmly, placing his teacup onto the saucer. "The gardens are quite magnificent."

"I am sure they are lovely," you replied quietly, your eyes fleetingly shifting past him to meet Anthony’s gaze.

For a fraction of a second, Anthony failed to keep the mask in place. His dark eyes flared with an intense, raw emotion that made your breath catch. But just as quickly, he blinked, smoothed his expression, and stepped forward to intervene.

"Perhaps a walk through the Bridgerton gardens first, Lord Thomas?" Anthony suggested, his tone smooth yet tight with unspoken tension. "The weather is exceptionally mild today."

"A splendid idea, Viscount," Lord Thomas agreed, standing up and offering you his arm.

You hesitated, looking up at Anthony, hoping for any sign, any subtle gesture that would tell you to stay. But Anthony merely offered a polite, formal nod, holding the door open for both of you. As you brushed past him into the hallway, his hand briefly brushed against yours. The heat of his touch was electric, making both of you freeze for a tiny beat before Anthony pulled his hand back, clenching it into a tight fist at his side.

He walked a few paces behind as Lord Thomas escorted you down the stone path outside. When Lord Thomas paused to admire a row of roses, Anthony leaned in slightly, his voice dropping so low that only you could hear it above the rustle of the leaves.

"You are conducting yourself with great grace today," Anthony said, his words forced out through a tight throat.

"Is that what you want?" you asked softly, not looking back at him. "To watch me walk away with him?"

Anthony swallowed hard, his jaw tightening until the skin stretched pale. He wanted nothing more than to grab your hand, send Lord Thomas away, and declare his feelings to the whole of London regardless of the ruin it would bring upon his noble name. But he had sworn to protect you, and protecting you meant saving you from the scandal of his own desires.

"I want you to have the life you deserve," Anthony whispered, every word breaking a piece of his own heart. "A life without whispers, without shame, and without the judgment of the court."

"Even if it means I do not get to be with you?"

Anthony stopped walking entirely, forcing Lord Thomas to take a few steps ahead unawares. Anthony looked down at you, his eyes filled with a desperate, unspoken devotion that no society rule could ever truly erase.

"Especially then," he murmured, his voice cracking just enough to betray the immense sacrifice he was forcing them both to make.

Lord Thomas continued to chatter about the estate, completely oblivious to the silent storm brewing just steps behind him. But Anthony had reached his absolute limit.

Every breath he took felt like inhaling glass. He had told himself that seeing you with a respectable man would give him peace, that knowing your reputation was safe from royal scrutiny would be enough to sustain him. He was wrong. The image of Lord Thomas taking your hand, of Lord Thomas taking you away to some distant manor, was a torture far worse than any scandal society could ever whisper.

"The library at the manor is quite grand as well," Lord Thomas said, turning back to you with an easy smile. "I believe you would spend hours there, Y/n."

"She prefers the small alcove by the south garden," Anthony interjected suddenly. His voice was no longer the calm, collected tone of a dutiful guardian. It was sharp, dark, and laced with a dangerous edge that made Lord Thomas blink in surprise.

You turned to look at Anthony, your eyes widening slightly.

Anthony took two slow steps forward, his gaze locked entirely on you, ignoring Lord Thomas altogether. The tight composure he had maintained for weeks was snapping strand by strand. He could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, loud and frantic, screaming at him to stop this madness before it was too late. Honor be damned. The Queen be damned.

"Viscount?" Lord Thomas asked, sensing the sudden shift in the air. "Is something wrong?"

Anthony did not look at him. He could not. If he looked at Lord Thomas, he would simply tell the man to leave his house and never return.

"The weather is turning cold," Anthony said, though the sky was completely clear. His jaw was set, his breathing heavy as he fought a desperate, losing battle against his own instincts. "I believe it would be best if we concluded this walk."

Lord Thomas looked confused, glancing up at the sunlit sky, but he offered a polite nod. "Of course. Perhaps we might resume our conversation inside over tea?"

"No," Anthony snapped, a bit too quickly, a bit too fiercely. He caught himself, taking a ragged breath, trying to force the polite mask back onto his face, but it was useless. The sight of you standing there, beautiful and out of reach because of a rule he was imposing on himself, was driving him utterly mad. "I believe Y/n requires rest. And I have urgent matters to attend to regarding the estate."

You stood still, watching the violent conflict playing out across Anthony's face. The posture of the unyielding Viscount was crumbling, revealing the raw, desperate man underneath who was choking on his own restraint.

Lord Thomas bowed, sensing he had somehow overstayed a boundary he did not understand. "I see. Then I shall take my leave for today, Lord Bridgerton. I look forward to calling again tomorrow."

"Do not," Anthony blurted out.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Lord Thomas froze. You caught your breath, your heart leaping into your throat.

Anthony swallowed hard, his dark eyes fixed on yours with a wild, tormented intensity. He had built a fortress of propriety to protect you, but standing there in the garden, watching the love of his life being handed away to another man, Anthony realized he would rather tear the whole world down than endure another second of this torture.

Lord Thomas cleared his throat, thoroughly baffled by the abrupt display, before offering a stiff bow and taking his leave.

The moment the front door closed, the heavy silence of the grand hallway descended upon the house. Anthony turned on his heel and strode back toward his study, his steps fast and agitated. You followed him closely, the rustle of your silk gown trailing behind his hurried pace until he crossed the threshold and turned around, attempting to shut the door.

You placed your hand flat against the wood, stopping the door from closing.

"Anthony, wait," you said, stepping into the dim light of the room.

He backed away toward his desk, refusing to meet your eyes. His chest heaved with shallow, uneven breaths. The iron grip he had kept on his emotions for months had finally fractured, leaving him entirely undone.

"What just happened out there?" you asked softly, taking a cautious step closer. "You practically drove Lord Thomas out of the garden."

"I did what was necessary," Anthony replied, his voice raspy and strained. He grabbed the edge of his mahogany desk, his knuckles turning white as he tried to anchor himself. "I am trying to protect you. I am trying to keep your name clear."

"By forcing me onto a man I do not care for?" You took another step, narrowing the distance between you until you were standing right in front of him. "Look at me, Anthony. Please."

Anthony let out a ragged breath and finally lifted his gaze. The mask of the noble trustee was completely gone, replaced by a desperate, tormented hunger. His dark eyes swept over your face, tracing every detail as if he were memorizing you for the last time.

"I cannot do this," he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his own agony. "I thought I was strong enough to watch you walk away. I thought I could sacrifice my own happiness to ensure the Queen and the ton never breathed a word of scandal against you. But seeing him near you... hearing him talk about taking you away..."

"Anthony..." you breathed, reaching up to lay a hand against his cheek.

The slight warmth of your palm broke whatever tiny thread of restraint he had left.

With a low groan, Anthony closed the remaining space between you. His hands found your waist, pulling you against him so tightly that no space remained between you. All the rules, the strict propriety, and the fear of society vanished into the air as his lips met yours in a deep, desperate kiss.

It was wild and unyielding, born from months of unspoken longing and tortured restraint. Anthony held you as though you were the only solid thing in a collapsing world, his fingers tangling into your hair as he poured every ounce of his suppressed devotion into the kiss. He had spent weeks trying to save your reputation, but in that quiet room, holding you close, he knew he was completely powerless against the temptation he had tried so hard to fight.

The kiss ended as breathlessly as it had begun, leaving both of you silent in the warm, dim light of the study. Anthony rested his forehead against yours, his hands still holding your waist, his heart hammering wildly against his chest.

He took a slow, deep breath, trying to steady the frantic rush in his veins. The overwhelming tide of emotion had finally broken through his defenses, but as the quiet settled over the room, the reality of what they had just shared began to sink in.

"I swore I would not do that," Anthony whispered, his voice thick with emotion, though he didn't pull away. His thumbs traced gentle circles against your sides. "I swore I would keep you safe from every scandal, even if the danger was me."

"I do not want to be saved from you," you replied softly, leaning into his touch.

Anthony closed his eyes, a tiny, pained smile touching his lips. He lifted one hand to gently trace your jawline, his gaze searching your face with an intensity that made your pulse race.

"If society finds out, if the Queen hears even a rumor..." Anthony began, the protective guardian in him struggling to regain its footing.

"Let them talk," you interrupted quietly, placing your hand over his. "I do not care about Lord Thomas, or the ton, or any grand match you think I deserve. The only future I want is right here."

A heavy silence stretched between you, but the cold distance that had filled the room for weeks was completely gone. Anthony let out a long breath, finally letting the burden of his rigid propriety melt away. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple, wrapping his arms securely around you, no longer willing to break his own heart just to play the dutiful trustee.

❁✿❀❁✿❀ 

Nicole is exactly the way you imagined her to be. 

Warm. Funny. Effortlessly kind. 

The sort of person who somehow made an unfamiliar room feel welcoming within seconds of stepping into it. Which, somehow, did nothing to calm the nerves currently sitting somewhere between your ribs. 

You had spent the entire drive here reminding yourself that this was not an interview. 

She was not judging you. 

She was not some intimidating figure whose approval you had to earn. 

She was just Oscar's mum. 

The woman who raised him. 

The woman who knew every version of him you would never get to meet. Which, somehow, made it both better and significantly more terrifying. 

The moment the apartment door opened and her eyes landed on you, her entire face lit up. 

"There you are!" she beamed, already crossing the room before you had even fully stepped inside. 

You barely had time to smile before she wrapped you in a warm, genuine hug. 

Not polite. 

Not cautious. 

Just the kind that made it feel like she'd already decided you belonged there. 

Behind her, Oscar quietly exhaled. 

Not because he had been worried. 

Somehow, he had known this would happen. 

But because seeing two important parts of his life meet was still something different entirely. 

One hand rested briefly against the back of your shoulder as she pulled away again, smiling at you like she was already delighted to finally put a real person to all the stories she'd been hearing. 

"I've heard so much about you," she said warmly as she pulled back just enough to look at you properly. 

You smiled, "Hopefully only good things." 

Nicole let out a laugh that sounded so much like Oscar's it caught you off guard. Not the sound itself but the rhythm of it. The little breath before the laugh. The slight shake of her head afterward. The exact same mannerism. 

Your eyes flicked instinctively toward him before returning to her. 

"Oh," she smiled knowingly, "you have no idea." 

Her eyes drifted past you toward her son. 

"You've been a very frequent topic of conversation." 

You instinctively looked over your shoulder. 

Oscar was standing exactly where he'd been a second ago, one hand shoved casually into the pocket of his shorts, hip leaning against his kitchen island, quietly watching the two of you interact for the very first time. 

Warm hazel eyes settled on you. 

Not anxious. 

Not waiting for anyone's approval. 

Just... happy. 

Content in a way that softened every line of his face. 

His expression hadn't changed in the slightest. 

Only the faint pink creeping over the tops of his ears betrayed him. 

Your heart skipped. 

Because somehow that tiny blush felt infinitely more endearing than if he'd looked embarrassed outright. He knew exactly what his mother was implying. And apparently had decided the best strategy was simply... 

...to outlast it. 

You couldn't stop the small smile spreading across your face. 

"Well," you laughed quietly, looking back at Nicole, "let's hope everything he told you was actually true." 

"They are," Oscar answered before his mother even had the chance. 

The certainty in his voice made both you and Nicole fully turn toward him. 

He finally crossed the last few steps toward you without seeming to think about it. No hesitation. No announcement. Just the unconscious pull of someone who had spent enough time beside you that distance now felt vaguely incorrect. 

His hand found your waist almost absentmindedly, fingers warm against the silky fabric of your skirt as he drew you gently against his side. 

Not possessively. 

Not protectively. 

Just familiar. 

Like this was simply where he expected you to be. 

His thumb brushed once across your side — the same small, checking motion he always made. Like reassurance went both ways. 

Then, completely without thinking, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss against the side of your head. "Hi," he murmured quietly against you, lips lingering for the briefest moment before he straightened again. 

A tiny gesture. 

Almost nothing. 

Except Nicole noticed. Of course she did. 

You saw it the second you looked back at her. 

The tiny pause. The amused silence. The knowing smile that slowly spread across her face — not surprised, just quietly, completely satisfied. 

"Oh," she said softly, the corners of her mouth curling even higher.  

Oscar blinked. "...What?" 

"Hattie was right." Nicole's smile only widened. "You’ve got it bad." 

"Mum." 

Oscar's protest came automatically. The blush that had only colored the tops of his ears moments ago had now spread all the way across them, disappearing beneath the curls at the nape of his neck. 

Nicole only laughed — and it was his laugh again, the same shape of it, and you filed that away because it did something warm to you that you hadn't prepared for. 

"What?" she said innocently. "I'm just making an observation." 

You couldn't help but chuckle softly, while Oscar let out a long sigh through his nose, somewhere between resigned and amused. 

"You two are going to get along far too well." 

"I certainly hope so," Nicole replied cheerfully. 

And somehow, that sentence meant more than you expected. Because that was exactly what you had hoped for. 

A proper connection. 

Not just politeness. Not just “meeting the girlfriend” formality. But something real. 

Because she was the one who had raised him. 

The one who had created the boy you had fallen in love with. 

The quiet one. 

The thoughtful one. 

The one who reached for your hand without thinking and kissed the back of your head when he thought nobody was paying attention. 

If there was anyone whose opinion suddenly felt impossibly important, it was hers. 

Not because Oscar needed her approval. 

You knew he didn't. 

He'd made that abundantly clear the moment he'd told you she wanted to meet you, not the other way around. 

This wasn't about permission. 

It was about belonging. 

About hoping that one of the people who loved him most might one day also decide you made sense beside him. 

As if sensing exactly where your thoughts had drifted, Nicole reached over and gave your forearm a gentle squeeze. 

“I’ve been looking forward to this,” she admitted warmly. “It’s nice to finally meet the woman I’ve heard so much about.” 

Oscar tilted his head slightly at that, brows lifting. 

“You make it sound like she’s been a weekly report,” he said dryly. 

Nicole smiled without missing a beat. 

“Not quite,” she said, shaking her head lightly. “But I’ve definitely heard enough about you that I was… more than intrigued.” 

Her eyes flicked to you, amused and soft at the same time. 

❁✿❀❁✿❀ 

One thing you had looked forward to most was hearing Oscar's childhood stories. 

Mostly because they belonged to a version of him you'd never get to meet. 

The little boy before Formula One. Before interviews and cameras and race engineers. Before the careful answers. Just — Oscar. 

Nicole did not disappoint. 

She started gently — the way good storytellers always did, easing you in before you realized you were already invested. A detail here. A small anecdote there. And then, somewhere between the coffee she'd made herself at home preparing in Oscar's kitchen and the afternoon light shifting gold across his living room floor, the floodgates had quietly, cheerfully opened. 

"He was the quietest baby," she began, settling back into the corner of the couch with a warmth that suggested she had been waiting for exactly this opportunity. "Didn't cry much. Didn't fuss. Just... watched everything. Very serious eyes, even then." 

She smiled to herself. 

"People always assumed something was wrong because he was so quiet. But no." She shook her head. "He was just... taking the world in." 

"That tracks," you said. 

Oscar, from his position on the sofa next to you, looked up at the ceiling as though asking it for patience. 

"He'd sit in his high chair," Nicole continued, clearly delighted to have an audience, "and just observe. Like he was taking notes. You'd almost forget he was there and then you'd look over and he'd be staring at you like he was solving a problem." 

"Also tracks," you said. 

"I'm right here," Oscar said. 

"We know," you and Nicole said at the same time. 

A beat of surprised silence. 

Then you both laughed. 

Oscar pointed between the two of you with mild alarm. "That was — you can't do that already." 

"We just did," Nicole said serenely, and took a sip of her coffee. 

She laughed softly. "He also hated asking for help." 

Oscar sighed. 

"Mum." 

"It's true." 

She looked at you. "He must've been five, maybe six. He spent almost twenty minutes trying to reach a cereal box from the top cupboard." 

"Twenty-eight," Oscar corrected automatically. 

You turned to him. 

"You timed yourself?" 

"I was committed." 

Nicole smiled. 

"He dragged a chair over. Then another chair because the first wasn't tall enough. Then a broom." 

"A broom?" you repeated. 

"To pull the box closer." 

"Did it work?" 

Oscar looked offended. "Eventually." 

Nicole laughed. "After it fell on his head." 

❀ 

The stories came in waves after that, arriving between stretches of easy conversation. 

Nicole asked you about your work, about Monaco, about how you'd met. She listened with genuine attention rather than polite patience, asking follow-up questions instead of simply waiting for her turn to speak. 

She remembered details from earlier in the conversation and circled back to them twenty minutes later as though they'd never left her mind. 

She laughed easily. 

Often. 

At some point you'd completely forgotten that, only an hour earlier, you'd been terrified she wouldn't like you. 

She was, in short, exactly the kind of person whose child would turn out the way Oscar had. Which somehow made you love him even more.  

Something you hadn't expected to happen over coffee on a random Monday afternoon. 

"Can I ask you something?" Nicole said a little later. 

You had drifted into the kitchen by then. 

Not deliberately. 

Just naturally. 

She had stood to start dinner, insisting she'd already bought everything she needed, and before you'd really thought about it, you'd followed her in to help. 

Oscar, meanwhile, had somehow been recruited into chopping vegetables. 

He accepted the task without complaint. 

Standing at the kitchen island with a chopping board in front of him, looking way too handsome for being dressed in a simple white shirt and some shorts, knife moving with surprising precision. 

You watched him for half a second longer than necessary. 

Even chopping vegetables, he somehow looked like he was preparing for qualifying. 

It was ridiculous. 

And, annoyingly adorable. 

"Of course," you replied, turning your attention back to Nicole. 

She stirred the pan slowly, letting the onions soften before speaking again. For a moment she didn't say anything. Like she was deciding whether to ask. Then she glanced briefly toward Oscar. 

He was pretending not to listen. Pretending being the important word. 

She looked back at you. 

"Are you happy?" she asked. "With him. Are you actually happy?" 

The question was so direct and so genuine that it bypassed every instinct you had to deflect. 

You looked across the kitchen at Oscar, who had his back to you and was apparently extremely focused on a courgette, though the slight stillness in his shoulders suggested he was listening. 

A smile tugged at your lips before you even realized it. 

"Yeah." 

You almost laughed at yourself. 

"Yeah," you repeated, quieter this time. 

"I really am." 

Nicole nodded once, like that was exactly what she needed. Simply taking in the way your face had changed without your permission. 

"Good," she said quietly. "He deserves someone who means that." 

From the counter, Oscar said nothing. 

But the back of his neck slowly turned pink beneath his curls.  

And he was very deliberately cutting the courgette into pieces slightly smaller than necessary, which you had come to understand was his version of feeling something he didn't quite have words for yet. 

You looked back at Nicole. 

She was already looking at you with an expression that had moved past warmth into something closer to recognition. Like she'd been assembling a picture of you from everything Oscar had told her, every small detail and careful description, and now she was looking at the finished thing. 

"Thank you," you said quietly. "For — I don't know. For wanting to meet me. For making it feel like this." 

Nicole shook her head slightly. "He made it feel like this. I just showed up." 

"You did more than that." 

She smiled — the real one, not the performance of one. The one that looked exactly like his. 

“He talks about you,” Nicole said softly. 

“Not all the time,” she added quickly with a small smile, almost like she could already see you getting embarrassed. “Don’t worry. He’s still very much himself.” 

A quiet laugh escaped you. 

“But the way he used to talk about racing when he was small. Not loudly. Not constantly. Just — whenever something happened that mattered, you were in the next sentence." 

Your throat tightened unexpectedly. 

"You'll be talking about Singapore one minute..." 

Nicole smiled. 

"...and then somehow, two sentences later, he's telling me about this little restaurant you insisted he try in Monaco." 

A beat. 

"Or the flowers you bought because you said the apartment looked too sterile." 

Oscar groaned quietly from the island. "Mum." 

"What?" 

"I liked the flowers." 

"I know you did." 

Nicole looked at you triumphantly. 

You looked down at the counter, pressing your lips together because you weren't entirely sure what to do with the sudden warmth spreading through your chest. 

"That's—" you started, then stopped yourself, shaking your head slightly because you weren't even sure what you were trying to say anymore. "I don't know." 

"Please don't cry in my kitchen," Oscar said, from the counter, without turning around. Though there was no harshness there. Only softness and readiness to turn around in case you did in fact start crying – wanting to be the one holding you if that was the case. 

"I'm not crying," you said immediately. 

Your hand found his back as you stepped closer, fingers lightly catching the fabric of his shirt. Not because you needed saving. Just because you needed to touch him for a second. 

A reminder. 

A quiet I'm okay. 

“Your voice did the thing,” Oscar said. 

You immediately looked offended. 

“My voice does not do a thing.” 

“It does a very specific thing.” 

“It does not.” 

“It absolutely does.” 

Nicole pointed at him with her wooden spoon. "Leave her alone." 

Oscar finally glanced over. 

“I’m just saying—” 

"You're chopping." 

Oscar turned around enough to look at his mother. 

She lifted one eyebrow, then gestured back toward the courgette with complete authority. 

He turned back around. 

You caught Nicole's eye. She pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh. 

You failed completely. 

Oscar glanced over his shoulder again at the sound. "There it is." 

"What?" 

"The laugh." 

"What about it?" 

"I missed it." 

The words came so casually he probably didn't even realize he'd said them. 

Nicole certainly noticed. She smiled to herself but said nothing. 

Just turned back to the stove, giving the sauce another gentle stir. 

And in the warm, unhurried quiet of Oscar's Monaco kitchen, surrounded by the smell of something good cooking and the low hum of an evening falling into place, something settled — soft and certain — in the middle of your chest. 

Not relief, exactly. 

Something quieter. 

Something that felt, unexpectedly and completely, like being known. 

❁✿❀❁✿❀ 

Sol’s Insta Story 

❁✿❀❁✿❀ 

✿❀ Let the Light in ❁✿

The witch is back!! 🧙‍♀️✨

Well… at least to some extent. 😌

I’ll be trying to upload regularly again, but please don’t be mad at me if I end up skipping a week here and there. Life happens, and I’m still trying to find my rhythm again 💛

But I’m so excited to be sharing this story with you again!! 🥹✨

Let me know how this chapter made you feel in the comments!! I can’t wait to read all your reactions, thoughts, theories, and feelings — and I’ll do my best to reply to everyone!! 💌🫶

Thank you for sticking around and welcoming me back 💕

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The woman's colleague sorted you out with the microphone, provided you with a few cue cards containing prompts and questions you could ask Kimi yourself and pointed you to where you should stand, next to the boys who were already there. You greeted them both quickly and took your position, waiting for the audience to arrive. You had to admit it was a little daunting seeing the sheer volume of bodies filling the space opposite the barrier that sat in front of the platform, but you were sure you were going to provide everyone with some entertainment.

"Hi everyone!" Ollie was the first to speak, "We're going to be answering your questions today, with help from our special guest, Y/n." People cheered upon hearing your name, causing your cheeks to heat up, but you tried to give them a confident wave nevertheless. After Kimi said his piece, various people started chatting, you could make out a few phrases in the cacophony of noise being thrown at the platform but the staff at the front of the crowd were forced to settle them down, encouraging them to ask questions one at a time.

"Do you find the training to be more intense now you're in formula one?" was the first question. Ollie looked over at Kimi, urging him to answer first. "Uh.. well I think the competition is a lot harder and the stakes are higher so I kind of expected to have to work more. The training exercises are the same but I guess they are more frequent, it can get tiring." The person who asked the question nodded, and Kimi eyed you, wondering if you had anything to add.

"Yeah I'd agree, it's not super different but you can feel it has ramped up a bit," Ollie agrees, "I know Andrea took it in his stride better than me. I was really tired at the beginning, it took me so long to adjust".

Kimi froze hearing his name, and looked at Ollie with wide, confused eyes. He elected to say nothing though, not wanting to disrupt the flow of the interview. You were struggling to hold back your laugh, beaming at Ollie, who you had exchanged a triumphant look with. "Yeah, you guys work very hard, I couldn't do it," You smile, eyes searching the audience for the next question.

Meanwhile, Kimi had almost stopped listening completely. Had Ollie really called him Andrea? Maybe he'd said "And, yeah"? They did sound somewhat similar, but even Kimi couldn't convince himself fully of that.

"Andrea," A voice cut through his thoughts, "You've been asked if you'd rather drive in extreme heat or rain?" You were looking at him encouragingly, prompting him to answer. "Uh... Rain?" He shrugged, "It's wet?" You had to bite the inside of your cheek to prevent any laughter from escaping, you hadn't anticipated Ollie calling him his government name would throw him off so much. "What about you Ollie?" The person who asked the question continued. "I'd have to agree with Andrea, the heat would be unbearable."

Kimi's head snapped around to look at Ollie, mouth slightly agape. "I'd imagine you already sweat a lot just being in the car!" You giggle, trying to distract the audience from Kimi and act naturally. Ollie nodded, laughing a little.

"Now I believe Y/n has a few questions for you?" A member of staff quickly cut in, to which you began pulling out the cue cards. "These were sent in by fans online," you tell the audience, selecting the perfect question. "This is a good one," you glance at Ollie, he was already looking at you with a slight smirk on his lips - he knew this was going to present him with a golden opportunity. "mercedesfan83 asks, 'Who is more likely to get lost while driving?'"

"Oh, definitely Andrea," Ollie interjects, not allowing Kimi even a second to react and answer first.

"Wha-" Kimi starts, looking between you and Ollie for answers.

"He'd end up in a different country or something," Ollie continues, "I remember once he went to the wrong garage."

"It was very early in the morning. I was sleepy," Kimi defends himself, trying his best to continue normally, ignoring whatever the hell was happening.

"Ferrari is bright red," you tease him, "I think it would be very hard to mix it up with Mercedes." At this, a ripple of laughter passed throughout the audience.

"Okay, I have a question actually," Kimi states, "Why is everyone calling me Andrea?" Ollie turns around quickly, his back facing the audience, to mask his laughter - he was nearly red in the face from holding it in. "That's your name?" Ollie shrugs, as if the question was a stupid one, "I believe we have some more audience questions?" Kimi ignores this completely, "No one ever calls me Andrea."

"It's on your birth certificate," You smile innocently, blinking up at him before turning back to the audience. "Moving on, before Andrea has an identity crisis.." You scan the crowd, looking for the next person with a question, tuning out Kimi's protests.

"Uhhh...I'm your boyfriend??" Kimi raises an eyebrow at you, shuffling his feet on the platform. "That is correct." You affirm, lips pressed together in a tight line as you tried to maintain a neutral expression.

"So... why is Ollie calling me Andrea?" He tilts his head expectantly as you struggle to hold your nerve. "Only you call me that? How does he know?"

Both you and Ollie stay silent, and the crowd follows suit, letting Kimi figure it out for himself.

"Wait..." Kimi said quietly to himself, "I'm being pranked! And you're all in on it!" He shakes his head, narrowing his eyes, and looks between you, Ollie, the audience and the cameras accusingly. You crack first, it was impossible to hold the laugh in at this point - the way his eyes widened, the way he was so deep in thought trying to understand what was going on - the prank had gone perfectly. The audience cheered and clapped at his realisation, having known beforehand that this was the point of the interview - they considered it a success.

"You should've seen your face," Ollie hit him lightly on the arm, doubling over in laughter. "Unbelievable..." Kimi muttered, as the staff began clearing the people out now that the prank was over. You all smiled and thanked everyone efficiently before leaving the platform. Ollie immediately went off to tell the other drivers about the prank and started looking online to see if it had already been posted.

"I can't believe you would betray me like that," Kimi pouted, folding his arms across his chest. "Aww," You step into his space, wrapping your arms around him, "You know I had to do it for the content, the marketing guys practically begged me to."

"I kind of liked having something that was just ours," Kimi smiled sheepishly, gazing down at the floor. "Andrea was your thing." He shrugged, "No one else called me that."

"It is still ours," You reassure him, but he frowns, "It doesn't really feel like it."

"It is, today, that was just for the prank." You cup his cheek, rubbing your thumb over it soothingly, "Tomorrow it goes back to being ours, I promise."

"Hmmm..." You could tell he wasn't sure how to feel, "You're all so annoying. But I believe you, Y/n."

He pushes your hair out of your face and gives you a peck on the lips, "But I guess I don't mind being annoyed by you."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“Oscar, look! The sky is finally clearing,” she’d said, pulling him toward the bench by his sleeve. She was breathless, her cheeks flushed with a pale, fragile pink that he’d learned to dread. She clutched a tiny bouquet of daisies, her fingers trembling slightly.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he’d countered, his voice thick with the medical textbooks he’d been studying until 3:00 AM. “The humidity is bad for you.”

She just laughed, a sound like glass chimes in the wind. She sat down, pulling her knees to her chest. “I’m fine, Dr. Piastri. Just look at the clouds.”

He looked at her instead. He looked at the way the light caught her eyes, the way she was already beginning to fade, and he felt a cold, hard knot of terror tighten in his throat. He had been studying cardiology for six months specifically for her. He memorized heart valve diagrams and oxygen saturation levels, convinced that if he just knew enough, he could build a wall around her that death couldn’t breach.

“I’m going to be a great doctor, you know,” he told her, grabbing her hand to warm it. “And you’re going to be a patient that’s remarkably difficult to deal with.”

“I’m not a patient,” she whispered, staring up at the darkening sky. “I’m your girl.”

“You’re my everything,” he promised, and he meant it so hard it hurt.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Oscar adjusted his scarf. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a single, perfect peony. He placed it gently on the bench next to the coffee. It looked out of place in the gray winter, a splash of vibrant, defiant life.

"I finished the order for the Browne wedding," he said, shifting his gaze toward the playground in the distance. "I used the technique you wrote about in your red notebook. The one where you wire the stems to get that specific tilt. Everyone loved it. It’s funny. They think I’m some kind of flower whisperer now."

He let out a short, hollow chuckle. He wasn't a whisperer. He was just a man following a blueprint drawn in faded ink by someone who wasn't there to correct his mistakes.

"I walked the route this morning," he added, his tone conversational, as if she were simply looking out the window of their old apartment. "The balcony light was burnt out. I fixed it, but only in my head. I didn't want to get arrested for trespassing.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“Text me when you’re inside,” Oscar said, standing at the base of the apartment stairs. It was dark, the streetlights flickering with a low hum.

She turned around, already halfway up the flight of stairs, her hair a wild, beautiful mess. “Oscar, it’s ten feet. I’m literally within your line of sight.”

“Still. Text me,” he insisted, crossing his arms. He watched her shadow move across the wall. He waited until he heard the metallic click of her deadbolt.

He stayed for a moment longer, looking up at her balcony. A silhouette appeared behind the glass, waving. He waved back, felt the vibration of his phone in his pocket, and only then did he allow himself to breathe.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

He stood up now, his joints stiff. He left the coffee on the bench. He always left it. By the time the janitor cleared the park, it would be cold and bitter, but it had served its purpose. He walked away, not looking back, heading toward the flower shop that still held the scent of her perfume and the dust of her absence.

The shop was a time capsule. When he took over, the landlord had asked if he wanted to renovate, maybe brighten the place up, make it modern. Oscar had looked at him like he was insane. He kept the crooked shelf because that was where she kept her shears. He kept the faded sign because it was the first thing she’d hung up after she got the lease. Even the radio station was locked onto the frequency she liked, a mix of soft jazz and local news that buzzed in the background of his long, silent shifts.

"Oscar, you're doing it again," his sister, Jade, said from the doorway, her voice tight with a mixture of pity and frustration. She didn't come by often. The place suffocated her.

"Doing what?" Oscar asked, not looking up from a bouquet of carnations.

"Standing in the dark. Listening to that radio. You’re rotting in here. It’s been two years. Mom says you haven't even looked at a new girl. You haven't gone back to your residency."

Oscar stopped mid-arrangement. His hands were steady, his movements precise, exactly how she would have done it. "I’m not rotting. I’m working."

"You’re preserving a museum," Jade countered, walking over to the cash register. She tapped the wood. "She wouldn't want this for you. She would have wanted you to be happy."

Oscar looked at his sister, his eyes flat. "I know she would. You tell me that all the time. But tell me, Jade, how? How do I be happy when the only person who knew how to make me happy isn't here? Is there a manual? A course I can take at the med school I dropped out of?"

"You didn't have to quit," she whispered.

"I did," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "I entered medicine to save her. When you take away the goal, the path doesn't make sense anymore. It’s just... mechanics. I don't want to fix other people’s lives when I couldn't even keep her heart beating."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The room was too quiet. That was the thing he remembered most. The absolute, suffocating silence of the ICU. His hand was wrapped around hers, her skin feeling like cool porcelain against his palm.

He had spent years memorizing how to hold her. He knew the pressure she liked, the way her fingers would lace through his. But now, they were limp. She had been drifting for hours, her breathing a rhythmic, stuttering drag.

“I’m here,” he whispered, leaning his forehead against her knuckles. “You don’t have to stay, okay? You don’t have to fight anymore. I know it’s hard. I’m right here.”

He felt a single, weak squeeze. And then, the steady tone of the heart monitor flattened into a continuous, piercing hum. He didn't scream. He didn't call the nurses. He just kept holding her hand, feeling the heat slowly leave her skin, locking the sensation into his memory until it was burned there, forever.

He had let her go. He let her go then, he let her go at the funeral, and he let her go when the dirt hit the casket. He had mastered the art of losing her.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

"I’m not delusional, Jade," Oscar said, turning back to his flowers. "I know she’s gone. I saw the burial. I paid the bills. I know she’s not coming back."

"Then why keep all this? Why the park? Why the route?"

"Because," Oscar said, picking up a pair of ribbon scissors, "loving someone isn't a light switch. You don't just flip it off because the person isn't there to receive it. If love only exists while someone is breathing, then it wasn't love, it was a transaction. And this? This is just me continuing the life we were supposed to have. It’s not about waiting for her. It’s about keeping the promise that I’d be hers, even if I’m the only one left to keep it."

Jade sighed, leaning against the doorframe, her shoulders dropping. "It’s just so lonely, Oscar."

"It's not lonely," he said softly, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "I talk to her every day."

That night, the sky was clear. He drove out to the ridge, the place where they used to go for the meteor showers. He packed the blankets, the chairs, and the mugs.

He set up the chairs side-by-side. He poured the coffee into the left cup, the hot chocolate into the right. He sat down, wrapped his scarf tighter, and looked up.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The meteor shower was legendary that year. The Perseids, bright and erratic. She was wrapped in three blankets, her head resting on his shoulder. Every time a streak of light cut across the darkness, she would gasp, her fingers digging into his arm.

“I wish,” she whispered, her voice bright and full of a terrible, beautiful hope. “I wish for a house with a garden. I wish for us to be eighty years old. I wish for 5 dogs. I wish for 10 kids. I wish for a million boring, quiet mornings where you’re still there when I wake up.”

Oscar had looked at her, his stomach churning with the knowledge of her labs, the prognosis that he had read on his own laptop in the middle of the night. He had felt the tears stinging his eyes, but he smiled anyway.

“That’s a lot of wishes,” he said.

“I’m greedy,” she laughed, leaning into him. “I want it all with you.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Now, sitting on the ridge, the stars began to fall. One by one, they streaked across the atmosphere, tiny, dying embers of light.

Oscar didn't make a wish. He hadn't made a wish in two years. He just watched.

"Did you see that one?" he asked the empty chair. "It was huge. You would have screamed."

He sipped his hot chocolate, the bitter sweetness hitting his tongue. He looked at the empty chair again. The blanket was folded perfectly, just like she liked it.

"I don't need to wish for anything anymore," he said to the wind. "I already had the best thing. I’m just... I’m just waiting for the sky to stop falling, I guess."

He stayed until the horizon began to bruise with the light of pre-dawn. He stood up, folded the blankets, and poured the cold coffee onto the dry, frozen grass. He walked back to his car, moving with a steady, quiet purpose.

He’d be back at the shop in an hour. He’d check the peonies, clean the shelves, and listen to the radio. He’d live the life they were supposed to share, one day at a time, keeping the space beside him warm, even if it stayed forever, beautifully, painfully empty. He wasn't waiting for a miracle. He was just honoring the reality of a love that didn't know how to end.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Seasons shifted without asking for permission, dragging Oscar into yet another year of silence. The calendar on the back of the shop door was a graveyard of crossed-out dates, each black stroke of his marker a quiet testament to the fact that the world kept spinning even when he wanted it to stop. It has been three years now. Three years since her laughter had been replaced by the hum of refrigerator coils and the soft rustle of wrapping paper.

People still talked. They did it in that low, hushed tone, thinking he couldn't hear them over the running water of the sink.

"He’s still there," his mother would whisper to his aunt over the phone, her voice thick with a worry that had grown heavy and stale over thirty-six months. "He’s thirty years old, and he’s spending his prime years arranging baby’s breath. He was supposed to be a surgeon. He has the hands for it. He’s just... wasting away."

Oscar would just keep cutting stems. Snip. Snip. Snip. The clean, sharp sound of the shears was the only thing that made sense. It didn't require medical ethics, or triage, or the agonizing realization that sometimes, no matter how many books you memorized, people still died.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

"Oscar, please," his mother said, stepping into the shop on a rainy Thursday afternoon. She didn't buy flowers. She never did. She just stood by the counter, her wet umbrella dripping onto the floor, looking at him with eyes that were identical to his own, tired, stubborn, and desperately searching for a way out. "The dean called me. Personally. He said the board is willing to overlook the gap in your residency. They know what happened. They want you back, Oscar. They think you’re a prodigy."

Oscar didn't look up from his workstation. He was working on a sympathy wreath, weaving white lilies into a damp foam base. "Tell them I lost my stethoscope."

"It's in your closet," she said, her voice cracking just a little. "In the velvet box. Where you left it. You haven't touched it in three years, Oscar. It’s covered in dust."

"Then tell them I forgot how to use it," he murmured. He adjusted a lily, his fingers steady, though his chest felt like someone was tightening a ratchet strap around his ribs. "I like it here, Mom. It's quiet."

"It's a mausoleum!" she snapped, the sudden volume of her voice making him flinch. She immediately softened, her face crumpling as she reached across the counter to touch his arm. Her hand was warm, a mother's hand, smelling of lavender and the rain from outside. "Oscar, honey... you’re not living. You’re just waiting. And I can't watch you wait anymore. It’s killing me."

"I’m not waiting," Oscar said, and for the first time, he looked her in the eye. "I’m working. There’s a difference."

"Is there?" she whispered. "Because every time I see you, you look like you’re trying to disappear. You walk the same streets. You sit on that bench. Your sister told me about the coffee, Oscar. You’re buying coffee for a ghost."

A cold sensation washed over his neck, the familiar, defensive wall rising up instantly. He pulled his arm back gently, returning to the lilies. "It’s just coffee. It’s not a crime."

"It’s a symptom," she said, her medical background slipping through, her tone turning analytical in a way that made him want to scream. "You’re stuck in a grief loop. You’ve built a fortress out of her memories, and you’re letting yourself starve inside it. She loved you, Oscar. She loved you so much. Do you really think she’d want you to spend the rest of your life in this damp little shop, pretending the rest of the world doesn't exist?"

"I don't have to pretend," Oscar said, his voice flat, devoid of the anger he usually felt when they pushed him. He was just tired. So incredibly tired of defending his love. "The rest of the world doesn't exist. Not the way she did."

She let out a long, shuddering sigh, realizing she wasn't going to win this round. She never did. She reached out, patted his hand one last time, and walked out, the little bell above the door chiming a cheerful, mocking goodbye.

Later that evening, Jade showed up. She brought takeout, greasy noodles in cardboard boxes that smelled of garlic and ginger. She didn't say anything about his mother's visit, but she didn't have to. The silence between them was comfortable, built on a lifetime of shared secrets and scraped knees.

"You look like hell," Jade said, shoving a forkful of noodles into her mouth. She was sitting on the old wooden stool by the register, her legs swinging.

"Thanks," Oscar said, leaning against the counter. He hadn't eaten all day, but the smell of the food made his stomach turn. He forced himself to take a small bite. "Mom was here."

"I know. She called me crying." Jade sighed, staring at her noodles. "She’s just scared, Oscar. We all are. It’s like... we lost her, and then we lost you right after. You’re physically here, but you’re not here. You know?"

"I'm here," he insisted. "I run the shop. I pay the taxes. I talk to customers."

"You talk at customers," Jade corrected gently. "You give them their change, you make beautiful arrangements, and then you retreat behind the counter like a turtle. You don't go out. You haven't been to a movie, or a bar, or even a different coffee shop in three years. You’re thirty, Oscar. You’re supposed to be making mistakes, getting hangovers, falling in love with people who are completely wrong for you."

Oscar looked down at his calloused hands. There was green sap stained into his cuticles, a permanent mark of his new trade. "I don't want to fall in love again."

"I know," Jade said, her voice dropping to a whisper. She set her food down and walked over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. She rested her chin on his chest, looking up at him. "But you have to at least try to live. Even a little bit. For her. If you won't do it for yourself, do it because she can't."

Oscar hugged her back, burying his face in her hair. He didn't promise anything. He couldn't. The thought of letting go of his grief felt like letting go of her hand all over again, and he just wasn't strong enough to survive that drop a second time.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Rain continued to batter the storefront the next day, turning the streets into a blurred, gray canvas. Business was slow, which was fine by Oscar. It gave him time to do the deep cleaning he’d been putting off for months.

He decided to tackle the back storage room, the place where she had kept her extra pots, ribbons, and old gardening journals. It was a dusty, cramped space, smelling of dry soil and old paper. He had avoided it because it felt too intimate, too much like stepping into her private thoughts.

He was moving a stack of heavy ceramic planters when he noticed the crooked shelf in the corner. It was the one shelf he had never touched, the one she had hung herself using cheap plastic drywall anchors that had long since given up their grip. The wood was warped, tilting drastically to the left.

"I should probably fix you," Oscar muttered to the shelf, a faint smile touching his lips.

He reached up to lift the heavy metal toolbox she’d left on the top shelf, but as he pulled it forward, the entire unit shifted. With a dry, splintering crack, the wooden backing of the shelf pulled away from the wall. A flurry of old receipts, dried flower petals, and dust bunnies cascaded down onto his head.

Oscar coughed, waving his hand to clear the air. He began picking up the debris, throwing the faded receipts into a trash bin. But then, his hand brushed against something thick. Something that didn't feel like a receipt.

It was a small, square envelope, tucked into the tiny gap between the wooden backing of the shelf and the drywall. It was covered in a layer of gray dust, but the handwriting on the front was unmistakable. It was messy, the letters leaning aggressively to the right, written with a blue ballpoint pen that had bled slightly into the paper.

On the front, it simply said: For my favorite doctor.

Oscar’s breath hitched in his throat. His heart, which usually beat in a slow, heavy rhythm, began to hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird. His hands shook so violently he almost dropped the envelope.

He sat down right there on the dusty floor, his back against a stack of soil bags, his legs pulled up to his chest. He carefully slid his thumb under the flap of the envelope, trying not to tear the paper.

Inside was a single sheet of yellow legal paper, folded into thirds. He unfolded it, the scent of her, faint, almost imperceptible, but still there, like dried lavender and rain, rising from the creases.

The letter was dated just two weeks after she had been diagnosed.

Hi Oscar,

If you’re reading this, it means you finally decided to fix that shelf. I told you those plastic anchors weren’t meant for a lifetime, didn’t I? You’re probably giving me that look right now, the one where your brows knit together and you look like you’re trying to solve a puzzle.

I’m writing this while you’re asleep. You look so peaceful, and it makes me think of all the things we were supposed to be. I’ve been thinking a lot about the way we work, about us. Honestly, it feels like I’m a honeybee and you’re the most beautiful, steady flower I’ve ever found. I’ve spent my whole life buzzing around, restless, looking for a place to land, and then I found you. You were the bloom that held me steady, the one that made sense of all my frantic energy.

But here’s the thing about flowers and bees, Oscar. The flower doesn't exist just to hold the bee. It exists to grow, to turn toward the sun, to be wild and vibrant even when the season changes. I’ve been watching you lately, and you’re trying so hard to be the stem that holds me up, but I’m fading. I’m the petal that’s starting to curl at the edges, and I’m terrified that when I finally fall, you’re going to decide that the garden doesn't matter anymore.

Please don't do that. You have such a vibrant, golden heart, don't let it go dormant just because I’m not there to land on you anymore.

You’re a honeybee, too, my love. You’re meant to fly. You’re meant to go out and find new gardens, new sunrises, and new fields that haven't even bloomed yet. I don't want to be the reason you stop moving. If I’m the flower you loved, then let that love be the nectar that gives you the strength to keep flying. Go find the world. Don't just sit in the shop waiting for a summer that’s already passed.

I’ve always been so scared that I’d be the one to wither while you were still in full bloom. I know you think if you just study hard enough, or hold my hand tight enough, you can keep the winter away. But even the most beautiful flowers have to let go of their petals eventually. It’s part of the cycle. It’s not a failure, it’s just the way it goes.

So, promise me. When the wind takes me, don't let it take you, too. I wish for you to live, Oscar. I wish for you to be happy. Go be your own garden. Find the places that make you want to buzz with excitement, find the colors that make you want to dance. I’ll be there in the way the sunlight hits the leaves, and in the way you remember to be kind to the world.

I love you more than all the fields in the world. Now, go on. Fly.

Always & forever yours

Oscar sat in the silence of the storage room, the letter clutched in his hand. The tears came slowly at first, hot and silent, tracking through the dust on his cheeks. Then, they came in a wave, a violent, chest-heaving sob that ripped through him, shaking his entire frame.

He buried his face in his knees, letting the grief wash over him. But this time, it felt different. It didn't feel like the cold, suffocating weight of the hospital room. It felt like a release. It felt like her hand, warm and gentle, pulling him up out of the deep, dark water he’d been drowning in for three years.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Morning came with a soft, watery light that filtered through the front window of the shop. Oscar stood behind the counter, looking at his hands.

They were dirty. They were calloused. They were the hands of a man who worked with soil, who nurtured things, who helped them grow.

He realized, with a sudden, startling clarity, that he didn't want to go back to medicine.

He had spent years believing that his love for the shop was just a symptom of his grief, a desperate attempt to preserve her memory. But looking at the flowers now, he realized the truth. He loved this. He genuinely, deeply loved being a florist.

He loved the way a nervous teenager’s face lit up when he handed them a perfect, single rose. He loved the quiet comfort he could offer a grieving family by choosing the exact right shade of blue hydrangea. He loved the creative puzzle of blending textures, colors, and scents to tell a story that words couldn't express.

He wasn't just a placeholder anymore. He wasn't a ghost-tender.

"I am Oscar Piastri," he said out loud, his voice echoing in the quiet shop. "And I am a florist."

The words felt good. They felt heavy, solid, and real. They didn't feel like a compromise. They felt like an identity.

He walked over to the front window, where a single, blooming pink peony sat in a glass vase. It was her favorite. It had always been her favorite.

He reached out, his fingers gently tracing the soft, paper-thin petals.

"I'm going to learn how to be happy," he whispered to the empty, quiet room. "But I'm going to take you with me."

He didn't need the park anymore. He didn't need to sit on the right side of the bench, leaving the left side empty like a physical scar. He didn't need to buy two coffees and watch one go cold. He didn't need to hike up to the ridge for every meteor shower, shivering in two blankets while one remained folded and untouched.

He realized that love wasn't a static thing, preserved in a jar like a medical specimen. It wasn't a museum exhibit he had to dust every day to keep from fading.

Love was a fluid, evolving force. It was the way he remembered to be kind to the lonely old man who came in every Friday just to talk. It was the way he noticed the beauty in a single, crooked stem of eucalyptus. It was the way he kept his heart open, even when he was terrified of the pain.

He had let her go at the hospital. He had let her go at the funeral. And now, finally, he was letting go of the need to mourn the life they were supposed to have, so he could start living the one he actually had.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

"You changed the radio station," Jade said, stepping into the shop a week later. She stopped in her tracks, her eyes wide as she listened to the upbeat, acoustic indie music playing from the speakers.

"Yeah," Oscar said, wiping down the counter with a damp cloth. He wasn't wearing his old, faded gray sweater. He was wearing a dark green apron, his sleeves rolled up, his hair pushed back from his face. "The old station kept playing the same five jazz songs. It was driving me crazy."

Jade stared at him, her mouth slightly open. "And... the shelf. You fixed it."

Oscar looked over at the storage room door. The crooked shelf had been taken down, the wall patched and painted, and a sturdy, level iron rack now stood in its place, holding neat rows of terracotta pots.

"It was a safety hazard," Oscar said, a genuine, easy smile breaking across his face. "I didn't want a customer getting concussed by a ceramic planter."

Jade walked over to him, her eyes shining with tears. She didn't say anything. She just reached across the counter and grabbed his hand, squeezing it tight.

"You look... lighter," she whispered.

"I feel lighter," Oscar admitted. "I found a letter. She... she told me to fix the shelf. And she told me to live."

Jade let out a soft, watery laugh, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "Of course she did. She always was the smart one."

"Yeah," Oscar said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "She was."

He wasn't "moving on" in the way his family had meant. He wasn't erasing her. He wasn't trying to pretend she had never existed so he could feel normal again.

He was integrating her. She wasn't the center of his universe anymore, because the universe was too big, and he was finally ready to explore the rest of it. But she was, and always would be, the most beautiful, tragic, wonderful part of it. She was the foundation upon which he was building his new life.

That evening, Oscar walked home. He didn't take the old route past her apartment. He took the long way, through the bustling downtown streets, watching the city light up in shades of gold and amber.

He didn't look up at the empty balcony. He didn't say "goodnight" to a shadow behind a pane of glass.

Instead, he stopped at a small park he had never visited before. He sat down on a bench right in the middle, spreading his arms out along the backrest. He looked up at the sky, where the first stars of the evening were just beginning to pierce through the twilight.

He closed his eyes, and for the first time in three years, the image of her face wasn't accompanied by the sharp, stinging memory of the hospital monitor’s flatline.

He didn't see the pale, fragile skin, or the tubes, or the cold hand he had held so desperately.

Instead, he saw her laughing. He saw her standing in the middle of a field of wild peonies, her hair catching the wind, her eyes bright and fierce. He heard her voice, clear and loud, shouting wishes at a falling star.

“I wish for you to live, Oscar. I wish for you to be happy.”

Oscar opened his eyes, a deep, steady breath filling his lungs. The air was cold, but it didn't hurt anymore. It felt clean. It felt like a beginning.

He stood up, tucking his hands into his pockets, and walked forward into the night, ready to see what the rest of the story had to offer.

Oscar stands near the drinks table, nursing a cup of lukewarm lemonade and trying to look vaguely interested in the streamers above the kitchen doorway. Hattie had already been whisked off to dance by someone in a navy jumper. Edie had found the girl who always brought homemade brownies to school. Mae was giggling wildly with a trio of kids Oscar vaguely recognized from the street down. 

No one notices him lingering by himself. That suits him just fine.

Still, he can’t quite shake the restlessness crawling up his spine. The noise is too loud, the lights too warm. With a quick scan of the room and a glance over his shoulder, Oscar slips behind a long, velvet curtain that cordons off what seemed to be the study.

Except there’s already someone there.

He realizes it a moment too late, nearly landing on top of you.

“Oh my God—sorry!” he blurts out, practically leaping backward. His foot catches on the edge of the curtain and he stumbles a bit, arms flailing before catching the side of a bookshelf. His cheeks burn. “Didn’t see you. I didn’t think anyone else—sorry. Again.”

You blink up at him, wide-eyed, legs curled beneath you on the armchair he had almost sat on. There’s a half-eaten biscuit on a napkin beside you, and your fingers are wrapped around a glass of ginger ale. Contrary to everyone else at this godforsaken event, you’re not a familiar face. 

“It’s okay,” you said, voice quiet. Accented. Affirming Oscar’s theory that you’re not a Melbourne native. After a pause, you tentatively joke: “You didn’t sit on me, so that’s a win.”

Oscar huffs out a laugh, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah. Close call.”

The silence after is not awkward, exactly. Just shy. The two of you are tucked away behind a curtain, neither fully sure what to do next. Oscar takes the plunge first, figuring it’s the least he could do after intruding on your escape.

“I’m Oscar. Piastri,” he adds unnecessarily. He gestures vaguely toward the chaos outside. “Dragged here by my sisters.”

“I figured you were with the girls,” you reply amusedly. “I’m new. Just moved here a few weeks ago.”

Oscar’s brows lift. “So this is your introduction to the madness?”

“Pretty much.” You offer a sheepish shrug. “I don’t really know anyone, and pretending to be cool isn’t really my thing.”

“Mine neither,” he says quickly, maybe a bit too quickly. “Hence the hiding.”

That earns him a soft smile. It’s a pretty smile, Oscar privately notes. 

He gestures to the empty bit of couch beside you. “Mind if I sit? Promise to check for limbs first.”

You shift slightly to make room. “Be my guest.”

He sits, careful this time, knees bumping slightly against yours as he settles. The party noise feels far away behind the curtain—muted like a dream. Oscar glances at you from the corner of his eye, curiosity bright beneath his awkwardness.

“Got a name, new kid?” he asks, because even though he had agreed that he doesn’t like feigning coolness, he’s still just a teenage boy with a god complex. 

You tell him your name. He repeats it back to you, careful with the syllables like he’s folding them into memory.

A few more minutes pass, filled with idle chatter. You talk about your move, the weird smell of paint still lingering in your new house, and the fact that none of the cupcakes at this party have chocolate frosting, which is a tragedy. Oscar, in turn, tells you about his sisters. How Mae once tried to dye her hair green with a highlighter and how Hattie got banned from school discos after she snuck in a smoke machine.

The laughter between you is easy. Unforced.

Then you say it, maybe without thinking too hard. “We should dance,” you muse, finishing off the last of your biscuit. 

Oscar freezes. His eyebrows shoot up, alarmed. “Dance? With me?”

“Unless you’d rather go back to pretending the streamers are fascinating.”

“I don’t dance with strangers,” he says, half-laughing, half-panicked.

“We know each other’s names now,” you point out. “That makes us not-strangers.”

With a beleaguered sigh and a scrunch of his nose, Oscar comes clean. “I’m bad at it,” he grumbles. 

“Who cares?”

“My sisters. They’ll see. And I’ll never live it down.”

You purse your lips, tapping your glass lightly against your knee. Then, a spark lights in your eyes. It’s the kind that spells trouble; Oscar has seen it in his siblings’ faces, right before they do something so invariably stupid and reckless. “Come with me. I have an idea,” you urge. 

He hesitates, a part of his brain screeching something like stranger danger! in flashing, neon lights. In the end, he follows.

You slip out through the back door, motioning for him to stay quiet as you lead him down the wooden steps and out onto the wrap-around porch. The party sounds are muffled here, only the faint thump of bass slipping through the walls.

“Out here,” you say, turning to him with an expectant grin. “Nobody to laugh. Just us.”

Oscar stares at you. “This is crazy.” 

“Shut up and dance.”

And so he does.

Awkwardly, at first, because you start them off with wild moves and dance skills that are much more abysmal than his. It gives him the confidence to start swaying a bit, his laughter poorly stifled as he watches you flail like an octopus. 

You take his hands, and he lets you spin him gently, sneakers squeaking against the porch boards. There’s no rhythm to it, not really. Just swaying and clumsy steps and the faint thrum of music in the background.

The porch light flickers above you, casting long shadows. Somewhere inside, someone cheers. But out here, it's just you and Oscar.

Two kids dancing badly and not caring.

“You’re a weird one,” he says with a smile that splits his face open.

“Takes one to know one,” you shoot back, fingers squeezing his as you twirl yourself through his arm. It’s a gross miscalculation and you end up stumbling, the two of you cackling as you attempt to detangle from the mess of limbs you’ve entangled each other in. 

For the first time that night, Oscar thinks he might actually like this party after all.

Christmas morning in the Piastri household always comes with a sort of chaos—the kind born of slippers skidding across hardwood, sleepy giggles, and the rustle of wrapping paper long before the sun climbs properly into the sky.

This year, however, there’s something new. A wicker basket sits on the porch, ribbon-wrapped and dusted in the faintest layer of frost. 

It’s heavy with gifts, each one handmade and meticulously labeled in curling script. Hattie, first to spot it, gives a shriek loud enough to wake the neighborhood. Within minutes, the whole family is gathered in the living room, the basket placed like treasure at the center.

“It’s from the new neighbors,” their mum announces, plucking a card from the basket. Her voice is touched with surprise and delight. “The old man and his granddaughter. Isn’t that sweet?”

Hattie unwraps a pair of knitted socks, blue and gold. Edie lifts out a jar of spiced jam. Mae discovers a hand-bound notebook. Each gift is simple but exquisite, the sort of thing you only receive from people who notice details.

“She’s the one who doesn’t talk to anyone,” Hattie says knowingly, curling her legs beneath her on the couch. You were in the same level as her, it seemed—a year below Oscar. 

“That house is huge.” Edie glances out the window, towards your home. “Do you think her parents are loaded?” 

“I heard they aren’t even around,” Mae whispers. “Just her and the grandfather. He looks ancient, though. Like, fossil ancient.”

“Girls,” their mum cuts in sharply. “That’s enough. They were kind enough to send gifts. We will be kind in return.”

Oscar, perched on the armrest of the couch, stays quiet through the speculation. His hands toy with the tag on his gift—a simple wooden bookmark, engraved with an amateur sketch of a stick figure dancing. He doesn’t say anything about the study, or the curtain, or the ginger ale.

But the memory floats to the front of his mind: the soft hush of the party behind a curtain, the brush of knees, your laugh when he had called you weird. 

“We should make friends with them,” Oscar says finally, looking up. “It’s Christmas, after all.”

The girls pause. Hattie raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you care about new neighbors?”

He shrugs, trying not to look too interested. “Just saying. It wouldn’t kill us to be nice.”

Their mum smiles, pleased. “That’s the spirit.”

Oscar glances back down at the bookmark, running a thumb over the edge.

He finds your family acquainting with his soon enough.

On a sunny afternoon, right as Edie is pouring cereal into a bowl and Oscar is elbow-deep in the dishwasher, the home phone rings. Hattie picks up, listens for a moment, then calls out, “Mae’s at the neighbor’s. She fell off her bike.”

There’s a rush of clattering cutlery and footsteps, and in no time, Oscar finds himself trailing behind his sisters down the sidewalk, toward the big house next door—the one with the sprawling lawn and mismatched wind chimes on the porch.

When they arrive, Mae is perched on your front steps, a bandage already wrapped around her knee and a juice box in hand. She waves lazily as Hattie and Edie fall upon her with a dozen questions. Your grandfather, white-haired and kind-eyed, stands nearby, looking amused by the commotion. He introduces himself and ushers them all inside despite their protests.

Oscar hangs back for a moment until he spots you just behind the door, barefoot and half-hidden by the frame. You glance up, catch his eye, and grin.

“You again,” you say, stepping out onto the porch. “Is she alright?”

“Yeah, just scraped her knee,” Oscar replies, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “Thanks for patching her up.”

“We had a pretty solid first aid game back at my old school. I’m well-versed in playground accidents.”

He chuckles, leaning against the porch railing. “That so? Must be a pretty rough school.”

“Brutal,” you agree solemnly. “There were snack thieves and dodgeball champions. It was a jungle.”

“Sounds terrifying.”

“It built character,” you say with mock seriousness, then flash him a grin. “Want to come in? I made too much lemonade.”

Oscar nods and follows you inside. The kitchen smells like lemon zest and fresh biscuits. Hattie and Edie are now harrowing your grandfather with questions about the old piano in the corner and whether the house is haunted. He answers everything with a twinkle in his eye, clearly enjoying the attention.

You hand Oscar a glass and settle across from him at the kitchen table. He takes a sip. “You weren’t lying,” he says through another swig. “This is good.”

“Of course not. I take my beverages very seriously.”

“You’re weird,” he says, but there’s no heat behind it.

“You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m starting to think it might be a compliment.”

You clink your glass against his in cheers. He smiles, and something warm unfurls in his chest. A startling kind of certainty. Like something’s taking root—a real friendship, honest and surprising and entirely unplanned.

Oscar is surprised to find that he doesn’t mind. 

It happens gradually, like most real things do.

You begin spending Saturday afternoons with the Piastri bunch, lounging on their back deck with Hattie and Edie, gossiping about the neighbors or watching Mae attempt increasingly dangerous trampoline flips. You get good at knowing who takes how many sugars in their tea, when to duck because Edie’s chucking a tennis ball, or when Oscar is about to try and quietly leave the room.

You’re there for board games on rainy days and movie nights on Fridays. You help Hattie with her French homework, braid Mae’s hair when her fingers get too clumsy with excitement, and lend Edie your favorite books. Their mum always saves you an extra slice of cake, and their dad asks how your grandfather’s garden is faring this season.

It starts to feel like you’ve always belonged there, wedged into the rhythm of their household like a missing puzzle piece finally found.

Oscar is often quieter than the others, but he’s still a constant. You and he become fixtures in each other’s orbit. Trading messages about school, tagging each other in silly videos, or sending one-word replies that only make sense to the two of you. 

Despite being one year his junior, the two of you are close in a way that you aren’t with the girls. He swears it’s because he met you first, because the two of you have emergency dance parties and cricket watch parties that nobody else knows about.   

He leaves for boarding school, and the absence sits awkwardly on both your chests at first. But he never really disappears. He always texts when he’s back. Always walks you home at least once before he has to leave again. Always makes you laugh, even when you don’t want to.

And then—one summer—he comes home and something’s different.

It isn’t dramatic. You don’t swoon. He doesn’t speak in slow motion. It’s just... subtle.

Oscar stands taller. His shoulders are broader. His voice has deepened slightly. There’s a small scar at the corner of his lip you don’t remember, and when he grins, it strikes you—how he’s grown into himself, soft and sharp all at once.

You catch him staring at you too, once or twice. Like he’s trying to recalibrate what he thought he knew. Your hair is a little longer, and your skin is tanned from all the days in the sun. He remembers the freckles; he doesn’t remember when they became so prominent.

But it never becomes a thing. You don’t talk about it. You fall back into your usual rhythm.

Because even if your faces are a little older, your banter is still quick and familiar. You still chase each other down the street. You still squabble over the last biscuit. He still rolls his eyes at you, and you still prod him for his terrible taste in music.

Whatever has changed, whatever is beginning to, you both keep it tucked away. For now, it’s enough just to have each other nearby.

It’s a fact Oscar remembers as digs his toes into the hot sand. His jaw is tight; he watches the waves break in even swells. The sun’s beating down hard, but he barely feels it. Not with the way his chest still burns from the shouting match earlier.

Hattie had stormed out of the house with her towel clutched like a shield, and Oscar had followed, only because everyone else was pretending like nothing had happened. His sisters always expected him to be the reasonable one, and today—he hadn’t been.

He’d snapped. Something petty. A dig at her choice of music in the car. Then something sharper about her always having to be right. And before he knew it, she’d looked at him like he was someone else. 

He hadn’t apologized.

Now, he sits beneath the shade of a crooked umbrella, arms wrapped around his knees. He watches the group scatter across the sand and into the waves. Hattie’s already out with her board, paddling strong into the break like she’s trying to prove something. Edie is further down the shore, half-buried in a sandcastle war. Mae’s running between them, laughing.

You drop into the sand beside him, skin glinting from seawater, hair tied back and still damp. “You two going for the title of Most Dramatic Siblings today?” you ask, unsurprisingly up to date. Hattie probably told you all about it while the two of you were getting changed. 

Oscar sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I was a bit of a tosser this morning,” he says dryly. 

You nod, not offering him an out. Just letting the honesty settle.

“She’ll forgive you. Eventually,” you add. “You Piastris always find your way back.”

He tilts his head, watching you. The sunlight makes your nose wrinkle when you squint toward the water. Your shoulders have lost some of their shyness from when he first met you. You’ve become more sure of yourself, laughing louder, teasing easily. Comfortable. Confident. Certain. 

He likes that. 

The two of you sit in silence until Oscar stands, grabbing his board. “I’m going out.”

“Be nice,” you call after him, and he flashes a grin over his shoulder—tight but genuine.

In the surf, Oscar feels the tension bleed out with every push through the waves. The water’s cold and biting, salt sharp in his mouth. He catches sight of Hattie up ahead and paddles after her, trying not to let the guilt slow him down. Hattie notices him, grimaces, and rushes on. 

Trying to prove something. 

The waves pick up. Hattie catches one, standing briefly before wiping out. She resurfaces quickly, almost laughing, but Oscar watches her expression shift just moments later. There’s a sudden pull in the water, subtle but unmistakable. A riptide.

She paddles against it. Wrong move.

Oscar feels the fright hit like a tsunami. 

He’s been scared before. Of course he has. He’s terrible when it comes to horror movies. He’s seen his karting peers fissure into pretty nasty accidents. But this, the fear of this, of his younger sister— 

He starts shouting, but the wind carries his voice sideways. Instinctively, he glances to shore—and sees that you’re already running. Board abandoned, feet flying across wet sand. You make it to him in record time, that crazed look in your eyes mirroring his.

Together, you plunge into the surf. Oscar’s strokes are strong, slicing through the current. He reaches Hattie just as she starts to panic.

“Float! Don’t fight it!” you yell, coming up on her other side.

Oscar grabs her wrist, firm but steady. You’re on the other, speaking calm, clear instructions, guiding her body as the three of you angle sideways out of the current. 

You’re the voice of reason; Oscar is the force that perseveres. 

It’s slow. Exhausting. But eventually, the pull lessens.

You reach the shore heaving, salt-stung, and shaking. Hattie collapses onto her knees, coughing up seawater, and Oscar sinks beside her, heart hammering. His hands rest at her back, as if he’s scared she’ll go down under the moment he lets go. 

Hattie says nothing at first. She just looks at him with wet, furious eyes.

It’s a look Oscar is used to seeing on Hattie’s face. They’re siblings. Of course they squabble, and they fight, and they know where to hit for it to hurt. Such was the curse and blessing of being a brother. 

Underneath all that, though, Oscar goes back to two cardinal truths: Being the eldest, he made his mum and dad parents—but when Hattie came around, they made him a sibling. 

And a sibling he would always be, come hell or high water. 

“You didn’t even say sorry,” Hattie sputters, like that’s still the worst thing that has happened this afternoon. 

Oscar can’t decide if he wants to cry or laugh. You hover nearby, giving them space. But not too much.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s I’m sorry for picking a fight, and I’m sorry for being a bad brother sometimes, and I’m sorry I never taught you about riptides. 

Hattie sniffles, then swats at him. “You better be.”

And that’s how they make up.

Later, as the sun begins to dip, casting everything in amber, Oscar finds you rinsing your arms at an outdoor shower.

“Hey,” he says, stepping close with your towel in his hands.

You look over your shoulder. “Hey.”

He shuffles awkwardly. With salt in his hair and gratitude tangled in his ribs, Oscar thinks there’s no one else he’d rather have next to him when the tide pulls under. 

But there’s something deeper, something closer to guilt gnawing at him. 

You sense it, in the same way you know when Oscar’s about to have a bad race weekend or when he’s overwhelmed with schoolwork. Stepping out of the shower, you take your towel, wrap it over your shoulders, and gesture at Oscar to follow you. 

The two of you walk along the shore, away from where Edie is snapping photos of her sandcastle and Mae is reading some trashy romance novel. Hattie is passed out on a beach blanket, the excitement of the near-drowning taking the fight out of her. 

“If she had died,” Oscar tells you, his tongue heavy as lead, “it would’ve been my fault.” 

It’s the kind of thought he figures only you will understand. Not because you have any siblings of your own, not because you had been there, but because you’ve always read Oscar like he was a dog-eared book you could keep under your pillow. 

“She’s fine, though,” you say delicately, but he’s started and he can’t stop. 

“What is wrong with me?” A laugh escapes Oscar—the self-deprecating kind, one that grates more than the sand beneath your feet. “I’ve made so many resolutions and written sad notes and confessed my sins, but it doesn’t seem to help. When I get in a passion—” 

A passion. A fit. With his siblings, with his mates, with you. He can’t count the amount of times his sarcasm has offended you. The instances where he’s made you cry, intentionally or not. 

And when he’s racing. God, when he’s racing. 

In a couple of months, he’s slated to join Formula 4. He has a stellar karting career behind him, one he can barely even remember—because he had seen red throughout it all. Oscar was clinical and cutthroat and cruel the moment he got behind a wheel, and a part of him worries that’s who he’ll always be. 

A man who would stop at nothing to be at the top step of any podium. A boy who would insist on being right like his life depended on it. 

“When I get in a passion,” he tries again, “I get so savage. I could hurt anyone and enjoy it.” 

It’s a damning confession. The kind that could absolutely ruin and unravel Oscar. But he knows, he trusts that it’s safe in your hands. You hum a low sound like he hadn’t just bared his heart out for you to sink your claws into.

“I know what that’s like,” you say, and he has to do a double take. 

“You?” He studies the side of your face, as if checking for insincerity. “You’re never angry.” 

You’re annoyed with him often and you’ve got a hint of fire in everything you say. But there’s never been rage, never been the sort of flame that could incinerate. And so it shocks him all the more when you confess, “I’m angry nearly every day of my life.” 

“You are?” 

“I’m not patient by nature. I just try to not let it get the better of me,” you offer, glancing up at Oscar. 

The two of you have come to a stop at the edge of the shoreline. Soon, you’ll have to get back to his waiting sisters. For now, though, he surveys your expression and finds nothing but the truth. 

He files the facts away in that mental cabinet he has containing what he knows about you. Angry, nearly every day. And then he takes to heart the rest of your words, the roundabout advice of not letting it consume him.

The blaze in him stops roaring for a minute. With you, it’s like a campfire. Inviting and warm. 

Better. You make him better.

“Look at us,” he says, tone almost awed. “After all these years, looks like I can still learn a thing or two from you.” 

There’s something in your eyes that Oscar can’t quite place. You’ve always looked at him a certain way, but he could never really put a word to it. It’s tender and pained all at once; subtle, ultimately, buried underneath whatever he needs you to be at the moment. 

“It’s what friends are for,” you respond, your voice catching on the word in the middle. He pretends not to notice. 

Friends.  

Oscar’s Formula 4 debut is everything he thought it would be.

The pressure, the lights, the nerves so sharp they buzz under his skin—it’s all there, and then some. He tries to soak in every second, from the chorus of engines roaring around him to the feel of the wheel under his gloved hands. But even with everything happening so quickly, even in the blur of adrenaline and pit stops, there’s still time for his thoughts to drift back home.

More specifically: To you.

It starts small. Just a notification that you’ve made a new post. A photo.

You with your boyfriend.

A guy Oscar’s met once, maybe twice. The sort of guy who plays guitar at parties and wears cologne that smells like department store samples. He isn’t bad—just doesn’t fit. Doesn’t match the version of you Oscar has always known. The one who once danced on a porch, hair a mess, daring him to keep up.

He doesn’t know what to do with the bitter feeling that curdles in his chest. You’re not his, per se. You’ve never been. But surely you could do better than this Abercrombie-wearing, Oasis-playing asswipe. 

Summer arrives like it always does—hot and sprawling, with cicadas humming in the trees and long days that stretch lazily into nights. Oscar is home for a few weeks between races. 

You’re still around, too. A little less, though, because your boyfriend is a demanding thing who insists he “doesn’t like Oscar’s vibe.” You fight for the friendship, citing it as a non-negotiable, and when Oscar finds out, he doesn’t even try to hide his smugness. 

The two of you steal away one evening, climbing onto the roof of the Piastri house with cans of lemonade and a bag of sour candy. It’s tradition by now. The tin roof is warm beneath you, and the stars blink faintly above, a faded scattering against the navy sky.

You sit close, your shoulder brushing his every so often.

“You’ve changed,” you say, head tilted toward him.

“Have not.”

“You look taller.”

“I’ve always been taller.”

You laugh, a soft sound. “Okay. You’ve changed in a good way.”

Oscar bumps your knee with his. “So have you.”

The two of you are older, now, more accepting of the facts of life. Time is not your enemy. It’s just time. You’re still in school, and Oscar is still racing. Your paths have diverged, but the road home is one you both know like the back of your hand. 

You go quiet, fiddling with the tab on your lemonade. He watches you closely, trying to read what you’re not saying. You’re nervous. He figures that much out from the fiddling. Nervous about what, though, he can’t— 

“I want to run away with him,” you say suddenly.

Oscar stiffens. He wants to call you out for making such a stupid joke, for not having all your screws on straight. You go on, eyes fixed on the dark street below. “Doesn’t sound too bad. Eloping,” you muse. “I’ve never been one for big weddings, anyway.” 

“Why?”

“Why don’t I like big weddings?” 

“No, stupid. Why the sudden plan of eloping?” 

“Because I love him.”

He looks at you, really looks at you, the slope of your cheek in the half-light, the determination behind your words. It doesn’t sit right. This isn’t you. You make rash decisions, but none so life-altering. Not anything that would give your grandfather grief, and most especially not anything that would disclude Oscar. 

“You’ll be bored of him in two years,” Oscar says flatly, “and we will be interesting forever.”

You don’t respond right away. Instead, you let the words hang between you. Those two things could co-exist. Your love for this loser (Oscar’s word; not yours), and the fact that there was nothing in the world that could electrify quite like your friendship with Oscar Piastri. 

He doesn’t know where this is coming from. He hadn’t realized this would be so serious, that he’d been away long enough for you to start considering marriage with what’s-his-face. 

“I don’t expect you to know what it’s like, Oscar,” you say eventually. “To want to be shackled.”

And there it is. 

You’ve always supported Oscar’s career. You have years worth of team merchandise for all his loyalties; you’ve been there for every race that mattered, each one that you could make. 

But you were also selfish in ways that his family wasn’t. You got moody whenever he had to go away after breaks. You made snide comments about him always being the one who leaves. He’s grown to tolerate that petulance, to take in stride your fears of him failing to come back in one piece. 

For the first time ever, Oscar feels what you do. And, God, it doesn’t feel good. 

“I just hate that you’re thinking of leaving me.” The words are past his lips before he can reel them in. 

It sounds desperate, so unlike him, that he understands the shock that flits across your face. There’s a split-second where he sees a hint of anger, too, like you’re mad at Oscar for being honest, for saying all this after his redeye flights and janky timezones. 

He goes on, because what’s the point of backing down now? “Don’t leave,” he presses. 

“O…”

You’re the only one who calls him that. O. OJ, when you’re feeling playful—Oscar Jack. He’s teased you time and time again about not falling back on Osc, as if you were desperate to carve out a nickname that belonged to you and you alone. 

“God,” he interrupts, eyes turning skyward, as if the stars might hold answers. “We’re really not kids anymore, huh?”

You were kids together. Now, you’re teenagers—young adults. Complicated, messy. Entangled in more than limbs and waves.

“Our childhood was bound to end,” you say, and then you reach out to put a hand on his knee. He considers joking something like Careful, your boyfriend might try to pick a fight and you know I have a mean left hook, but then you might come to your senses and pull your touch away. 

He doesn’t say anything more, and neither do you. You just sit there on the roof, side by side, listening to the quiet hum of summer and the distant echoes of who you used to be.

You break up with your boyfriend sometime in early spring, citing incompatibility in a text that Oscar reads while lying flat on the floor of his hotel room in Baku. 

He blinks at the message, reads it twice, and then tosses his phone across the bed. The relief that floods through him is disproportionate, almost unsettling. He chalks it up to instinct. Or something like that.

He tells himself it’s just the same feeling he gets when Edie starts seeing some guy from her literature elective, a summer not too long after you joked about eloping. Maybe it’s the older brother in him, wanting to be protective of the women in his life. 

That’s what he’s muttering to himself when you catch him scowling at Edie’s date from across the local food park. He was chaperoning once again, though this time Edie had banished him to hang out with you while she was making heart eyes at this lanky transfer student. 

“I thought you’d be pleased,” you tease Oscar, popping a chip into your mouth.

Oscar doesn’t look away from where Edie is laughing at something the guy just said. “At the idea of anybody coming to take Edie away? No, thank you.”

You smirk. “You’ll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away.”

He finally glances at you, one brow raised. “I’d like to see anyone try.”

“So would I!” you shoot back, grinning as you sip your soda. Oscar’s withstanding singleness was something the two of you joked about often, even though he always reasoned that he was busy. Busy with racing, busy with family, busy with you. “That poor soul wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Oscar opens his mouth to reply, but then you pull a cigarette from your coat pocket. It’s a thing you picked up since you got to uni, and Oscar’s frown deepens at the sight of it. At your audacity. Before you can light it, he snatches it from your fingers.

“Oi!” you protest.

He waves it out of your reach. “None of that.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

You lunge for it, but he’s already up and jogging backward, the cigarette held aloft in triumph. You chase after him with a string of cusses, half-laughing, half-serious, and Edie and her date pause to watch you and Oscar bolt down the street like kids again—legs flailing, shouts echoing against the sidewalk.

“Are they—?” Edie’s date asks, and the Piastri girl only heaves out a sigh.

Oscar doesn’t stop until he hits the corner, chest heaving from laughter. You skid to a halt beside him, hair wild in the wind, eyes bright. The cigarette’s long gone, tossed in a bin somewhere behind them. 

“That was expensive,” you whine. 

“More incentive for you to quit it, then,” he responds. 

You glare up at him. He rubs a knuckle into your hair, his free hand snaking to your pocket to grab the rest of the pack. You screech profanities as he bins it, but he makes it up to you with a meal of your choosing. It takes a sizable chunk out of the racing salary he sets aside for leisure, but you’re unrepentant and he’s wrapped around your finger. 

You’re both older now. But sometimes, it still feels like nothing’s changed at all.

Albert Park is golden in the late afternoon. 

The sun spills through the treetops, casting shadows across the path as Oscar kicks absently at a stray pebble, hands buried in his jacket pockets. You’re walking beside him, careful to match his pace even as his strides grow longer with whatever is bubbling up inside him. 

A new year. A new contract. A new team, new plan, new person he has to be. 

“It’s all happening so fast,” he mutters. “The Renault thing. Tests. Travel. They said it’s everything I ever wanted—and it is, it is—but I can’t stop feeling like I’m coming apart.”

You glance at him, brows furrowed. “Coming apart how?” 

Oscar raises one shoulder in a shrug. He doesn’t know how to explain himself, but you’ve always had this philosophy that helped him be more honest around you. Say it first, you’d say. Backtrack later.

“I’m just not good like my sisters,” he blurts out, reaching and settling for a familiar comparison that might make him more comprehensible. “They’re—Hattie’s top of her class, Edie’s already talking uni offers, Mae’s got that whole ‘brightest light in the room’ thing. And me? I’m angry, and I’m restless, and I drive fast cars because I don’t know how to sit still.”

“You don’t have to be, O.” 

He lets out a dry laugh. "Why? Are you about to tell me that I’m patient and kind, that I do not envy and I do not boast?"

You stop walking. He does too, when he notices.

You’re just a step or two behind him, the afternoon sun bathing you in a light that practically rivals the warmth you radiate. But there’s something so utterly stricken on your expression, something so undeniably raw that Oscar feels everything click into place.

The look on your face is one his parents sometimes give each other. He’s seen it in movies, seen it in the photos of his mates with long-term relationships. It’s the expression you’ve given him for years, and years, and years, and he feels like the world’s biggest fool for missing all the signs. 

“No,” you say softly, denying him of his cruelty, of his failures. You think of him like that—patient, kind, humble. 

The makings of a person who deserves—

Oscar begins to shake his head, saying, “No. No.” 

“It’s no use, Oscar,” you say, your fingers curling into fists at your sides, and that’s his first sign that this is really about to happen. Not O, not Piastri, not any of the dozen annoying nicknames you’ve assigned him over the years. 

“Please, no—” 

“We gotta have it out—” 

“No, no—” 

Your conversation overlaps. It’s a twisted kind of waltz, as if the two of you are out of tune and out of step for the first time in your lives. Oscar starts pacing. Like he might somehow be able to run from what’s about to come. 

You barrel on. “I’ve loved you ever since I’ve known you, Oscar,” you breathe, following his panicked steps. “I couldn’t help it, and I’ve tried to show it but you wouldn’t let me, which is fine—”

“It’s not—” 

“I’m going to make you hear it now, and you’re going to give me an answer, because I can’t go on like this.” 

He flinches, takes a half-step back. Tries to say your name with more of those despairing please, don’ts, which fall on deaf ears. 

You step toward him like the whole park is tilting and he’s the only thing keeping you upright. The words pour out too quickly now, too long held back. Years worth of yearning, bearing down on an unassuming Saturday. 

“I gave up smoking. I gave up everything you didn’t like,” you say. “And I’m happy I did, it’s fine. And I waited, and I never complained because I—”

You stutter, swaying on your feet like the weight of your next words was too heavy for you to shoulder. You soldier through like a champion; that’s why Oscar listens, hears them out, even though they rip through him as if he’s crashed right into a wall. 

“You know, I figured you’d love me, Oscar.” 

A damning confession. The kind that should be safe in Oscar’s hands, but his fingers are shaky and his eyes are wide and he thinks he’s going to die, then and there, over how absolutely heartbroken you look that he’s not agreeing with you immediately. That his love was something vouchsafed, a promise for a later time. 

“And I realize I’m not half good enough,” you whimper, “and I’m not this great girl—” 

“You are.” Helplessness wrenches the words out of Oscar’s chest. It’s the same emotion that has him surging forward, his hands darting out to hold your shoulders and keep you upright, keep you looking at him. “You’re a great deal too good for me, and I’m so grateful to you and I’m so proud of you. I just—”

He falters. You gave him your honesty, so he fights to give you his. 

“I don’t see why I can’t love you as you want me to,” he confesses. “I don’t know why.” 

Your voice gets impossibly smaller. “You can’t?”

His eyes close, just for a moment, before he answers. “No,” he says slowly, each word measured against your frantic ones. “I can’t change how I feel, and it would be a lie to say I do when I don’t. I’m so sorry. I’m so desperately sorry, but I just can’t help it.” 

You step back; his hands fall to his sides. The distance opens like a wound.

“I can’t love anyone else, Oscar,” you say dazedly. “I’ll only love you.” 

“It would be a disaster if we dated,” Oscar insists. “We’d be miserable. We both have such quick tempers—” 

“If you loved me, Oscar, I would be a perfect saint!”

He shakes his head. “I can’t. I’ve tried it and failed.”

And he has. He’s had sleepovers with you, wondering what it might feel like to wrap his arm around your waist. He had once contemplated holding your hand during a movie. He figured it would be a given; no one would bat an eye. You and Oscar. 

Except his heart had never fully gotten the memo, and now he pays the price for only ever being able to love the thrill of a race. 

Your voice catches on your next words. “Everyone expects it,” you say in a ditch attempt to change his mind. “Grandpa. Your parents, your sisters. I've never begged you for anything, but—say yes, and let’s be happy together, Oscar.” 

“I can't," he repeats, each syllable heavy. “I can’t say yes truly, so I’m not going to say it at all.”

The evening light keeps on glowing. The world doesn’t end. But you feel like it might've anyway, and he’s right there in that boat with you. You’re willing to settle for scraps, while Oscar refuses to give you half-measures. The silence between you stretches taut, pulling thinner and thinner until it threatens to snap.

“You’ll see that I’m right, eventually,” he says. Like he believes it will make the truth hurt less. “And you’ll thank me for it.”

You laugh bitterly. “I'd rather die.” 

He looks like you slapped him. “Don’t say that.” 

You’re walking, now, your pace quick as you hurtle down the park pathway with the vengeance of a woman scorned. He calls your name and follows, keeping a sizable distance between you should you not want him too close. 

“Listen, you'll find some guy who will adore you, and treat you right, and love you like you deserve,” he pleads, skidding in front of you and forcing you to do a full stop. “But— I wouldn’t. Look at me. I’m homely, and I’m awkward, and I’m mean—”

“I love you, Oscar,” you say, as if you’re savoring the first and last times you will get to say the words.  

He goes on. He can’t answer that, can’t say anything to those words. “And you’d be ashamed of me—” 

“I love you, Oscar.”

“And we would always fight. We can’t help it even now!” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I’ll never give up racing, and you’ll have to hide all your vices, and we would be unhappy. And we’d wish we hadn’t done it, and everything will be terrible.” 

He gasps for air. You blink back the sting in your eyes. “Is there anything more?” you ask. 

He meets your gaze, and finds nothing there but rightful heartbreak. “No,” he murmurs. “Nothing more.”

You shoulder past him. He tilts his head back and eyes the sky for a moment, praying to be struck down by any higher power that exists. “Except that—” he starts, and you turn around so fast. 

You turn, retracing your steps, and the guilt wells up in him like a faucet that had burst. He realizes—you think he’s going to take it back. You think it’s going to be a … but I love you instead of an I love you, but… 

“I don’t think I'll ever fall in love,” he manages. “I’m happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in any hurry to give it up.”

Your expression crumples. “I think you’re wrong about that,” you sigh.  

“No.”

You shake your head, slowly. “I think you will care for somebody, Oscar. You’ll find someone, and you’ll love them, and you’ll live and die for them because that’s your way and your will.”

Oscar’s way. Oscar’s will. Two things he’s believed in wholeheartedly, until they’ve both failed him. Failed you. 

You take a step back. The anger you once claimed to always have is somewhere, there, beneath all the hurt and the love. Oscar sees it, now. All of it; all of you.

“And I’ll watch,” you add. 

Oscar will love someone— and you’ll watch. 

The wind rustles the leaves above. A bird sings somewhere in the distance. But all you hear is the sound of something breaking open, and bleeding between you. 

The deep and dying breath of the love you’d been working on. 

Oscar doesn’t see you much after that night in Albert Park. 

You’re still around, still next door. He hears you laughing with Hattie, helping Mae with a school project, or chatting idly with his mum over the fence. But it’s not the same. Something fundamental had shifted.

He tries. God knows he tries. He greets you when he sees you on the street. Makes light jokes. Keeps it easy, breezy, friendly. But every conversation feels like a performance, a pale imitation of what it used to be.

He’d broken both your hearts. He knows that too well. 

Oscar doesn’t tell anyone, not even Hattie, who always had a sixth sense for these things. He lets you control that narrative; he’s sure you’ll tell his sisters, and they’ll all have something to say. Surprisingly, none of them bring it up. He wonders if that’d been your condition with them, and he is grateful, and he is angry, and he is so, so sorry.

He channels everything into racing. He throws himself into his training, enough that it gets him trophies and podiums and a contract with a frontrunning team. 

His dream—the one he’d chased his whole life—is here. 

And it’s everything he ever wanted. Almost.

A few days before he’s due to fly out for testing with McLaren, he finds himself in the backyard, watering the garden with Mae. She’s picking mint leaves with the same dramatic flair she does everything. He doesn’t notice when she says your name until the silence that follows makes him realize he’s been staring blankly at the hose.

You have a part-time job now, Mae had said. Oscar knows. Not from you. Rarely does he know anything about you from you nowadays. He watches your life in fifteen Instagram stories, in the Facebook posts of your grandfather. He hears about you from his parents and whichever of his sisters is feeling particularly brave that day. 

It’s so sudden, his urge to be honest. And so, for the first time since what happened in the park—he lets himself speak his mind. 

“Maybe I was too quick in turning her down,” he says, voice low. Contemplative. 

Mae looks up from the mint. She looks a bit surprised, like she hadn’t expected to be the one to get Oscar to finally crack after over a year of dancing around the topic. 

“Do you love her?” she asks outright. 

He fucking hesitates. 

His throat feels dry. 

“If she asked me again, I think I would say yes,” he says instead, his gaze fixed on the poor tomato plant now drowning in water. “Do you think she’ll ask me again?” 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Mae straighten. She brushes her hands against her jeans and stares straight at him, willing him to look at her. “But do you love her?” she repeats, and he knows it’s not a question he’s going to escape. 

“I want to be loved,” Oscar admits. The words taste like copper.

Mae doesn't flinch. “That's not the same as loving. If you wanted to be loved, then get a fucking fan club,” she spits. 

Her voice is firm, but not cruel. It lands with the weight of care disguised as exasperation. And Oscar feels so much, then, but above all he feels gratitude that his sisters love you like one of their own. Their fierce protectiveness of your welfare—in the face of Oscar’s indecision—knocks some much-needed sense into him. 

“You’re right,” he says quietly.

“She deserves more than piecemeal affection, Oscar,” Mae adds, softening. “You can’t go halfsies with someone like her.”

Oscar knows his sister is right. 

Something aches in his chest, then. He can’t tell if it’s loneliness or the shape of losing you, still carved somewhere in his chest. Beneath the ache of what he turned away is the terrible fear that he never really understood what he was saying no to.

“I won’t do anything stupid,” he promises Mae. 

Later that afternoon, Oscar is pouring himself a glass of water in the kitchen when movement catches his eye through the window. He turns and sees you biking past with Hattie. Your carefree laughter carries across the breeze, light and familiar. Your hair catches the sun.

You glance up and see him. There’s a pause. Beyond the cursory small talk, the two of you haven’t really talked much this break. He understands why you need your space., and so he never presses, never pushes. 

Even though he can’t help but think of how a pre-confession you might have reacted. How you would’ve ditched your bike and slammed into the house, demanding he pour you a drink, too. Or how you would’ve goaded him into a race until the two of you were spilling onto the pavement, all breathless laughter and skinned knees.

As it is, all Oscar gets is a polite smile and a half-wave. He doesn’t know if it’s a hello or a goodbye. 

He raises his hand, waves back. He watches until you disappear around the corner.

And then he keeps watching, long after you’re gone.

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: Stupid stupid stupid 

I hope this email finds you well. 

Actually, I hope it never finds you. This is a bit stupid. A lot stupid. But I’ve just had my first proper testing and I wanted to text you about it, except I wasn’t sure how you might feel to hear from me. I reached for my phone, opened our text thread, and then decided to fake an email to you instead. 

You’re right. It’s definitely more orange than papaya. 

And Lando Norris is not so bad. I think you’d like him. But not like like him. I’m not sure, actually. We could find out. Or not.

This is stupid. Bye. 

— O. (McLaren Technology Centre)

---

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: I don’t know what to call this one

Hey,

Doha's airport smells like cleaning chemicals and tired people. I watched a family fall asleep upright on a bench. The dad had his hand curled around the kid's backpack like he was scared someone would run off with it. I don't know why I'm telling you this. 

Maybe because it's 2AM and I'm tired and I can't sleep on planes unless you're next to me. Which is stupid, because you were never on that many flights with me. But the ones you were? I slept like a rock.

I hope you're well. I hope you're sleeping.

—O. (Doha International Airport) 

---

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: New Year 

Happy New Year.

I watched the fireworks from the hotel rooftop. I wish I was back in Melbourne, but stuff made it not-possible. 

It was cold. Everyone had someone to kiss. I had a glass of champagne and a view. 

You came to mind. You always do when things start or end. I'm starting to think that's what you are to me. The start and the end.

Love, O. (Hotel de Paris Monte-Carlo) 

Edited to add: It was midnight when I wrote all that stuff. I’m rereading it now, hungover at the breakfast buffet. Guess I can be a bit of a romantic too, huh? Although I think it’s only ever with you. 

---

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: You're in my dreams 

I dreamed about you again. You were wearing that ridiculous jacket you got on sale for $5, the one you claimed made you look mega. You did not look mega. You looked like someone lost a bet.

You hugged me and told me everything would be okay. Then I woke up and it wasn’t.

I know I don’t get to tell you this anymore, but I miss you.

—O. (Tokyo Bay Ariake Washington Hotel) 

---

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: Hahaha

I heard someone with your exact laugh. Turned my head so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash.

It wasn’t you.

You’d tease me for how dramatic that sounds. You always said I was a little too sentimental for a boy who liked going fast.

Still thinking of you.

—O. (Silverstone Circuit) 

---

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: If I had said yes…

Sometimes I think about what would have happened if I’d said yes that day in Albert Park.

I don’t know if we would’ve worked. Maybe we would have burned bright and fast and hurt each other in the end. Or maybe we would’ve grown into each other like roots. I don’t know. I just know I still think about it.

And that’s not fair. And I would never tell a soul. I just 

wonder.

Sometimes. 

Always your O. (Yas Marina Circuit)

The glitch hits sometime between 2 and 3 a.m. local time.

Oscar doesn’t notice at first. He’s still jet-lagged from the flight from Abu Dhabi, half-awake on his phone in bed, replying to a team manager's message. It's not until he opens his inbox to forward a document and sees the string of outbox confirmations—all with your name in the recipient line—that he realizes something is very, very wrong.

His breath catches.

He stares at the screen for a long, stunned moment before scrambling up from bed, heart in his throat. He checks the Sent folder. It’s all there. Every last one. The emails he never meant to send.

They'd been his safekeepings. His way of getting through the ache without adding more weight to yours. Some were barely a few sentences; others pages long. And all of them, every last word, are now sitting in your inbox like little bombs waiting to go off.

He Googles it with trembling fingers. Gmail glitch sends drafts. 

He sees the headlines flooding in. Tech sites confirm that a rare global sync error had triggered thousands of unsent drafts to be sent automatically. They call it “an unprecedented failure.” Users are up in arms. Memes are already spreading.

Oscar wants to fucking hurl.

He’s home for the winter holidays. Back in Melbourne, back in his childhood room with the familiar creak in the floorboard by the desk. And you—you’re just next door.

You. With those emails.

He covers his face with both hands, dragging his palms down slowly.

“Holy shit,” he mutters to himself. 

There’s no escape to this. Just the silent, inescapable weight of every unsaid thing now said. Every truth, every maybe, every I thought of you today signed off with hotel names and airport codes and times when he was still trying to figure out how to stop missing you.

And now you know. Every word of it. Every selfish, unfair thought that he didn’t deserve to have about you, not after he’d ripped your heart right out of your chest. 

He peeks out the window before he can stop himself. Your lights are on. 

For some reason, Oscar is reminded of the book you had been so obsessed with as a child. The classic Great Gatsby; the millionaire with his green light at the edge of the dock. Oscar never really cared much for the metaphor of it until now, until he stares at the filtered, warm light streaking through your curtains like it’s something he will forever be in relentless pursuit of. 

But then your light flickers off, and Oscar stumbles back down to his bed. 

You’re going to sleep, he realizes with a breath of relief. He sinks into the mattress with a thousand curses against modern technology. 

Oscar tells himself he’ll talk to you tomorrow. Explain everything. Try to salvage what’s left of the peace you’ve both learned to live in, however shaky and distant it is. He’ll explain that he didn’t send them on purpose. That he’s sorry. That he didn’t mean to—

A soft knock at the window makes him bolt upright.

He hasn’t heard that sound in years. Not since you were kids and the ladder in his backyard was your shared secret. 

His breath catches. He doesn’t move right away. 

He has to be dreaming, he thinks dazedly, but then he hears it again. Three quick taps. A familiar rhythm.

Oscar throws the covers off and crosses the room in two strides. He pulls the curtain aside.

You’re standing on the top rung of the ladder, and he briefly contemplates making a run for it again. 

Instead, he throws the window open. You climb in without a word, landing on the floor of his bedroom with the same ease you always had. You’re in cotton pajamas with a hastily thrown-on hoodie, which—whether you remember or not—had been one of Oscar’s from years and years ago. 

“It’s the middle of the night,” he breathes. 

“And you’re in love with me,” you say without preamble. 

Accusation. Question. 

Fact? 

Oscar is frozen like a deer caught in headlights. You’re staring up at him, searching, with that same matchstick flame of anger that has carried you through life so far. 

When he doesn’t immediately counter you, you go on. “Do you love me because I love you?” you ask, and the question knocks the wind out of Oscar. 

“No,” he says quickly. “It’s not like that.”

He— he would never forgive himself, if his affection for you was nothing more than an attempt at reciprocation. 

You stare at him through the darkness. “Why, then?” you press, because of course you deserve to know why. 

His throat works around the answer. It’s a confession that’s been in the making for more than a year. In some ways, it’s been there since he almost sat on you at that damn house party. The words tumble out of him, overdue but not any less sincere. 

“I love you because you’re a terrible dancer,” he says, “and you know how to swim against riptides, and you’re the person I think of when I’ve had a bad free practice and when I'm on the top step of a podium. I love you. It just took me a little while to get here, but I do.” 

“O,” you start. He’s not ready to hear it. 

He steps back, as if to give you space he should’ve offered long ago. “I don’t expect you to have waited,” he says hastily. “I would never—I would never ask you to reconsider, not when I know the type of person I am and how much time it took for me to get here.”

“Oscar.” 

“But I love you. I don't know how not to.”

The room is silent, but it feels like it holds the weight of a thousand words left unsaid. The ones he wrote. 

You remind Oscar, gently, of what you said in Albert Park those many years ago. “I can’t love anybody else either,” you say, your eyes never leaving his face even as he begins to panic, starts to retreat. 

He swallows hard, his throat moving with the effort. “I should have realized sooner,” he babbles. “I should’ve known. I—” 

You reach out, your hand slipping into his. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

It feels so good—your fingers in between the spaces of his. He wishes he could appreciate it more, but his race-brain has kicked in, and he’s suddenly not the calm, cool, and collected Oscar that everybody in the world think they know. 

No, he’s your Oscar. The one who’s a little bit of a wreck. The one who is always racing away from something. 

“I wasn’t kind,” he says, voice tight. “I let you go. I thought I was doing the right thing. and maybe I did, but it still hurt you. It ruined everything.”

“We’re here now,” you say simply. “That means something, doesn’t it?”

“What if we ruin what’s left? What if it doesn't work?”

You smile at him, soft and sure. “Then it doesn’t. But I don’t think we’ll fail.” 

“I’m still homely, and awkward, and—” 

Mean, he meant to say, but then you’re pressing your lips against his. 

It silences all his fretting, all his guilt. For a second, he doesn’t move, stunned into stillness, and then he kisses you back like he’s falling into something he’s wanted his whole life but never believed he could have. Like he can’t breathe unless he's doing this, unless he’s kissing you.

When he’s more sane, when he’s less panicked, this is something the two of you will talk about. He knows that. 

In this very moment, though, he can only watch his sharp edges dull; the fury of his rage, extinguish. The softness of your understanding, the kindness of your patience, the gentleness of your kiss. It’s all he wanted, all he needs.

His hands frame your face, hesitant, reverent, like he can't believe you’re really here with him. That you waited. That you still want him. 

In his head, he makes a promise: If he must hit the ground running, he will make sure it’s towards you.

When the two of you pull back for air, you murmur teasingly against his lips, “Your emails found me well.”