pov: you're the girl being sung to and sung about in 'glimpse of us'
PART 1 (you can't skip reading it lmao)
⚬ pairing: architect! kim mingyu x med student fem! reader
⚬ word count: 18k
⚬ warnings: alcohol, drinking, food, spice/nsfw mentions and smut, slight corruption kink, body worship, mentions of sexual trauma, harassment, revenge porn and other mature themes MDNI
⚬ genres: acquaintances with benefits (lol), forbidden romance, slow burn, angst, one sided pining, hurt/comfort, autumn in nyc, corporate!au ft. Joshua, Vernon, Lisa and a few OCs.
mingyu's playlist <3
sure thing by miguel (main)
whataya want from me by adam lambert
somethin stupid by frank and nancy sinatra
too much to ask by the arctic monkeys
fade into you by mazzy star
reader's playlist </3
clementine by halsey (main)
love hangover by jennie and dominic fike
midnight rain by taylor swift
virgin veins by coma cinema
author's note <3
apart from the characters' playlists, i have added one/two songs i'd recommend you to listen to after you're done reading that chapter for maximum vibes lmao.
this fic deals with heavy discourses about sexual harassment and the trauma it inflicts. please refrain from reading this one if that triggers you, pls take care and i love you!
P A R T II T H E S U B W A Y G I R L
CHAPTER 10 || love at first sight, heartbreak at second
song recommended: roslyn by bon iver and st. vincent
(Autumn, four years ago)
Mingyu would never take a seat in the subway.
With a frame that tall and sturdy, and the train being packed with commuters at the rush hour of the evening, it was the most gentlemanly thing for him to do.
He would just lean against the cold pole, pull his phone out and simply answer a few emails. One less thing to stress about the next morning with bitter coffee sloshing around his mouth.
He seldom looked up because he knew what he’d see if he did—long faces as tired as his cursing life behind pursed lips yet coursing through it regardless.
But that day, when the train halted at a particular station, something twisted in his chest. Something primal, unexplainable, tugging at his soul that if he didn’t lift his eyes up now, he might forever lose a part of himself.
So he flipped his gaze up.
And God, it almost knocked him out.
A girl, maybe the same age as him, got up just when the doors were about to slide close. She didn’t hurry though, just lingered like she’d be fine either way if she had to wait for the next one.
It wasn’t like she was the prettiest woman ever with a face moulded in perfect symmetry or a skin which glowed ethereal even in the sterile shadows of the subway.
She was quite simple. Just there. An existing collage of everything Mingyu had ever adored.
Her face was softened with exhaustion, long hair damp from the mist and frayed in a messy braid. She tugged at the sleeves of her coat, checking with an old man if it would be alright for her to occupy the vacant seat next to him. Mingyu watched how even the wrinkles around the old man’s temples crinkled deeper with a newfound kindness.
A faint shadow rested under her eyes.
Mingyu blinked, as if that could clear the unreal shimmer his mind had concocted around her image.
‘She’s just a girl.’ Except, she wasn’t.
Mingyu was never the one to believe in “love at first sight.” The idea was too fickle for him—to just look at someone and decide “this!...this is who I will worship all my life.”
Unfathomable. Ridiculous. Unrealistic.
Love, to him, was Mayella’s endless caring disguised as nitpicking or Lisa’s unnerving self-confidence which hid her fear of mediocrity or Hansol’s armor of non-chalance which dusted into a veil of panic when no one was looking. All this love only came to him with time spent around their humanity.
Love was familiarity. Not fantasy.
So this fluttering feeling in his chest…one which felt like it was going to wreck all his beliefs and faiths, leaving him with a void shaped like a woman he was currently, unabashedly, staring at—it couldn’t be love, right?
The world always tilted its head when Mingyu walked in. Polite giggles of the baristas when he had to duck through the door of a coffee shop, greetings from clients which didn’t have to be so warm, personalized gifts on his birthdays from friends he had known for less than a year…way too many numbers from women at the bar scribbled on scrunched up napkins, lying forgotten deep in his pockets.
Even the old man in the subway had tipped his hat politely when Mingyu smiled at him.
But the girl? She didn’t even spare him a glance. She just sighed, leaned back in her seat like the exhaustion set deep in her bones was knackering her spine. Her eyes fluttered close with silent defeat.
Mingyu took a single step closer, palm gliding over from one strap handle to the next one.
Barely an inch nearer to the girl than he was before.
But he could gauge the movement of her irises behind her closed lids, the warmth of her shuddering breath settling like dew on her faintly glossed lips.
She drew in another slow inhale, this one slumped her shoulders—briefly—before they straightened back up, like she was carrying the entire sky on them. Only now, the weight of a single cloud had dissipated with that one exhale that followed.
But her expressions were stoic, not even a hint of emotion tugging at them.
He couldn’t tell if the girl just had a frustrating day, a tiring argument, a disappointing interview or just a heavy life in general.
His grip fluttered around the strap handle, itching to reach out to rid her of that density. With a friendly hug? Perhaps a joke? Maybe a slight compliment?
Finally, her cheeks puffed with air of one last breath. Deep and audible.
Had she looked up from the tangled fingers in her lap to her slight left, she would have seen a guy who towered above everyone else, looking at her with a devoted curiosity—like she had told him that the stars he saw in the night sky were her earrings and he believed her.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she pulled out a book from her tote bag and immersed herself into the dark smudges on the weathered, browned pages.
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. It wasn’t even blocking her view of the book, but she seemed like the type of person who would smooth a hand over a crisp, blank paper before she could begin writing. Undisturbed and meticulous.
Before Mingyu could register it, there was a slow, easy curve dipping his smile.
He almost forgot how to blink while memorizing her—how her posture sank further into the seat like she was trying to shrink herself small, how her forehead furrowed with a tiny wrinkle when she read something interesting and then flipped the previous page to reread it again.
She seemed to be in a timeline of her own. No rushed fingers gliding across a screen, no judgemental analysis of the people around her.
She was a deep sigh personified with soft hair and those large, doe eyes in a world which panted.
Pitch black took over the orange evening curling inside through the glass windows when the train entered a tunnel. It began rocking to a slow, tender halt like a harrowing wave calming down to kiss the beach.
The girl began shuffling in her seat, ready to get off. She stretched the tote bag open, searching for something. Her eyes skimmed through the entirety of its contents several times before she pulled it back over her shoulder, displeased.
She must’ve been searching for a bookmark for her book, Mingyu concluded. Because she then took off one of her actual earrings, one which had a big tear shaped ruby dangling off of it, and hooked it over some twenty odd pages she had finished reading.
Of course, she would rather use a gem to mark her book instead of just dogearing it like normal people would.
Tucking the leatherbound copy under her arm, she got up and Mingyu’s breath clogged in his throat. He wanted to speak to her, say anything.
But his voice betrayed him.
A gush of air brushed over her face, causing the wisp of loose hair curling over her forehead to flutter, when the doors slid open. A nauseatingly familiar wave of crowd cut in around her.
Mingyu’s chest tightened, he made the rash decision of getting off on this platform which was two stations before his actual destination.
But then—as if even God decided to turn his back on Mingyu—the doors closed right in his face, just when he bumped himself through a pack of stuffy bodies.
The old man chuckled, going back to reading the newspaper like the boy in front of him wasn’t just exalted to the delights of heaven and then pushed down back into the hellish realities of life in a matter of minutes.
—————
The second time Mingyu got a glimpse of her was the following week.
Right after he had given up on all hopes of seeing her again.Right after he had convinced himself that he wasn’t, in fact, haunted by her in his dreams every night.
Same route, same tired girl.
Only this time, her hair was let open, cinched half up with a butterfly shaped claw clip. A large blue knit sweater had replaced her pale coat.
It was a particularly chilly early-November evening. The teeth of a little boy pressed close to the icy metal pole, clutching a juice box, chattered every time the doors slid open.
And then, too sudden, too quick. “Oh no!”
Occupied in their same old mundane, no one paid much attention when the little hands of the kid shivered too hard from the cold and the juice box slipped down with an audible thud. Yellow liquid seeped out on the floor in defeated spills from the straw.
Someone tsked as the spurts of juice got on their snow dusted shoes. Another boarder kicked the half empty box, still stabbed with a sad plastic straw, to the side to avoid any accidents. The subway cart was already wet enough from all the melting snow their heavy boots carried in.
Mingyu felt bad for the child when he hung his head low, heavy tears dripping down his cheeks on to the floor, right next to his spilled juice.
Had he been standing nearer to the kid, he would have reached out, patted him on the head and consoled him with a “hey buddy, it's alright” or “chin up little guy.”
But the crowd had fattened at the subway girl’s platform and the only reason Mingyu could even see what went down was because of his advantageous height.
So he averted his eyes from the kid and back to who seemed like the center of the universe now. Her.
Surprisingly, she was already on the move.
She had also seen the boy drop his little snack.
And unlike Mingyu, or the other commuters, who just swept their eyes over the kid instead of comforting him with a hope that softness existed even in the frosty, suffocating cars of a subway, she was already spearing through the bodies like the first beam of sun.
Mingyu watched when she crouched as best as she could, muttering something to the boy. Her palm gently wiped over his puffed up wet face.
Reaching down in her purse, she pulled out a glossy pack of something sweet. The crinkle of that wrapper was louder than the robotic announcements booming across the train.
The boy beamed up to her, the kind of smile only kids can offer—unashamed of gratitude, untouched by guilt.
The girl smiled back, ruffling the kid’s hair.
The cold settled between Mingyu’s fingers dissipated. The calm under his ribs bloomed. Because that smile—it unraveled Mingyu right then and there.
Before he could scrounge for his senses back and build them up into coherence, it was already the time for her to leave him behind, again.
This time, though, Mingyu moved.
Or, at least, he attempted to.
His hand unfurled from the handle, foot wrestling against the legs planted steady and unmoving in front of him. When he couldn’t find space to walk after her, he called out.
“Hey!” But there was no name for him to accompany that with.
Even if there was, the girl wouldn’t have heard him over the hissing of the doors which shut with a cruel finality. The train jostled harshly into motion, catching him off balance.
Mingyu blinked. He lost her. Again.
Stupid. Stupid. How utterly stupid.
He exhaled exasperatedly, craning his neck up to look outside the glass panels, hoping to see even a shadow of her.
But the sea of humans outside seemed to have swallowed her whole. Not even a single strand of hair fluttering in the wind. Not even a glance.
Just…nothing.
She was there one moment, radiant and real—and then the world caved in around her like some sacred, fleeting secret.
Mingyu stood there with his fingers curled into his palms and his jaw clenched over everything he should have said. Everything he could have done.
A soft giggle broke him from his trance.
Mingyu glanced to see the little kid—the one with her sticky chocolate smeared all over his mouth—trying to muffle his snark under his sleeve.
He gave the kid a sheepish grin, crooked and flustered, like he didn’t have the courage to admit what he just lost.
The kid shook his head. Almost with…pity.
Mingyu only blinked down at the kid’s brave audacity, walking back to the cold metal of the pole to ground himself. He couldn’t believe his pout was more prominent than that of the kid when he spilled his juice.
Love at first sight wasn’t real, he used to think.
But heartbreak at second? Maybe that was the only kind that ever really was.
—————
Mingyu didn’t lie to anyone about the third time he saw her.
He simply concealed the truth and let his friends believe that it must’ve been the subway again.
But the reality was sharper. Quieter. More permanent. Far away from the fleeting bumps of destiny or the nauseous rattling of the tracks.
Mingyu saw her two years after the subway.
And since then, he has never been able to sleep without cursing himself through hell and back for ever befriending Mayella.
For the girl he could have risked everything for, was the girl forbidden away from him.
CHAPTER 11 || not yours to take
song recommended: happier than ever by billie eilish
(present day)
“Watch out asshole!” you call over your shoulder, not caring if that curse landed on a random fratboy or some chemistry professor.
Because to you, whoever had just bumped into your shoulder and made all the contents of your bag spill over on the concrete was, indeed, the human equivalent of a diarrhea dispenser.
You crouch down, hurrying to shove everything back in as you wait for your call to connect with Mingyu through the phone clutched between your ear and shoulder.
A passerby almost steps on to the little packet of sweet treats that you always carry in your bag for sad children or crying girls. You push at his shin, making him tumble and saving the chocolate successfully.
The same couldn’t be said about the paper clip on your assignment though.
You bunch up the loose sheets in your hands, flipping through them to set them in the right order when Mingyu picks up the call.
“Hey nibblebug!” He chirps.
Had you not been so horny, you would have ended the call and blocked him right then and there. “You’re three strikes down for calling me that.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that I had to give a presentation with a visible bite mark on my cheek at eight in the morning.” He retorts.
“Well, I told you I bite under pressure but you insisted on discussing my residency plans in the morning so who’s the one at fault here Mingyu?”
You undid one of your earrings and hooked it over the loose sheets in your hands.
It was an old habit, one you didn’t even think much about until you realized one of your earrings was missing only to find it tucked between some book, serving as a bookmark.
“Guilty as charged.” he chuckles, “So, what’s the plan?”
“Just got free after three painful lab hours. I need your dick like right now.”
“Right now?” he repeats.
“Yeah, right now. You should appear right in front of me and dick me down here in this quad full of miserable med school losers.”
A warm laughter reverberates through the phone. Expensive and smooth, just what you prefer to hear all night after a day as stressful as this one.
“My place?” He asks and you hum affirmative.
You both prefer the vast space and warmth of his apartment anyways—you don’t even remember when was the last time you spent more than half a day at your own one.
Especially not since that particular night over a month ago, one which Mingyu had to spend huddled on your flimsy bed talking about the character arcs of your plush toys until three in the morning.
“Great! I booked you a cab. It should be waiting outside for you by the time you walk out.” he informs.
“Wha—you didn’t have to!” You begin to start a losing argument.
“I know,” he insists, “but I wanted to.”
It is just a small, vague gesture—one you can’t even argue over, one that doesn’t feel like smothering. Just gentle, stable support. Maybe that’s why you’re always more than eager to spend these drained evenings with him.
“If only I had a car,” You sigh, almost dreamily. “you wouldn’t have to—”
He cuts you in immediately, “If only you knew how to drive a car.”
“Well, teach me then.” You banter.
“I tried to, and you ran us into a mailbox.”
The corners of your mouth tug upwards at the memory of his driving lessons from last week.
Speaking of tugging, something—or rather someone—catches your sleeve.
“I–” you whip around to find Julianna holding you hostage in the buzzing parking lot of the campus.
“Hello?” Mingyu’s voice fades, not because he’s speaking slow, but because your phone has started to slip off from your hands which are trickling with sweat all too suddenly.
“I…uh, I’ll call you back.” You blurt, ending the call with a haphazard click. Exhaustion hisses from between your pursed lips, masking the nervousness that you don’t want to show.
“What do you want, Julianna?”
You retrieve your hand back with more force than necessary.
She instantly drops it, folding her fists over her chest instead. Like she doesn’t know what to do with them. You scoff at this odd display of innocence from her, like she isn’t the reason you haven’t stepped a foot into a club since the last three months.
“Please, just hear me out.” she begs. “I just need two minutes.”
“You had three months.” You snip.
Her lower lip wobbles, “I came to your house...”
“You barged into my house. That too, in the middle of the night.” You correct her, “What were you expecting, Julianna? That I’d hug you? Give you some closure that can kickstart your sorry ass redemption arc?”
Her fist uncurls to press over her brows instead, her expressions teetering on the edge of utter distress.
“Yes, no, maybe! God, I don’t know…I just never know with you. Nobody does. You’re so hard to read.” she admits, her voice hoarse. “No, scratch that. You’re unreadable!”
Her rant catches you off guard. You blink, then let out a hollow laugh–one which scrapes at your throat.
Your reaction stings her, but she goes on regardless. “You know what people see when they look at you? You’re…you’re this web of lies. Someone who never even treats her classmates like humans but goes out to drink with them on a random Friday—”
“Julianna don’t you dare turn this around—”
Her voice rides over yours, “My name isn’t even Julianna. It's Juliette. But you decided one random afternoon that it was Julianna and that’s the only one you acknowledge me by.”
You stagger behind, just by an inch, too stunned to even comprehend this newest piece of information.
It is her time to scoff now. She shakes her head like she’s pitying your petty ignorance, “You’re this impossible puzzle…one which none of us can ever solve. You act like we’re all beneath you but then you smile and flirt.”
Her words tumble out now, brittle and broken. “You stare daggers at Rory like she ruined your life but then you go around gifting her YSL lipsticks. You look at me like I am some monster for not apologizing earlier but the second I do, you’re holding this gun to my head.”
You let her words hang in there, until they die down under the distant shouts of two guys throwing frisbees at each other.
The faint rot of autumn invades your lungs when you inhale.
“So that’s the reason why you assaulted me, Juliette. Because I am this mysterious girl you can’t wrap your head around…so I have to be broken to be understood, like a toy?”
Her breath catches, she almost gasps. “Wha—no, no! I was drunk, it was a mistake. I misread the signs and—”
“Save it Julianna.” You mispronounce her name, dragging it longer, with purpose this time. “Because whatever you’re gonna say, trust me, I have heard it before. Verbatim.”
A lone tear slips down her cheek when Juliette realizes that you’re not going to place a crown on this gravestone. That she has to live with it forever.
And as if to hammer your point home, you continue. “I don’t care that you hate yourself for the rest of your life. I only care that you made me doubt my own signals for a night.”
You look at her, really look at her, and you see a girl crumbling under a burden that isn’t entirely hers. A burden that has a darker history that dates way beyond that night in that stingy alley three months ago.
You exhale, it comes out like steam. “The only relief I can give you is this—I am not broken. Not by you. Not by the hands before you. I survived that night and will keep on surviving them all. So you can free your conscience of having ruined some girl’s life because I never gave you that power to.”
Your phone buzzes with an unknown number, it’s the cab Mingyu ordered for you.
You glance at Juliette briefly, watching your rant seep deep into her veins, replacing blood and painting her white.
There’s a steady press of soothing peace in your chest. Clear as a summer sky in the middle of a cloudy autumn.
Those are the last words Juliette would ever hear from you because your forgiveness—like everything else she ever wanted from you—was never hers to take.
CHAPTER 12 || give up forever to touch you
song recommended: mia and sebastian’s theme from la la land
There’s a slight possessive edge in your voice when you complain. “I still hate the fact that you don’t have a wall of fame which has the name of every girl you’ve slept with. I wanna see what model I’ve replaced as your go-to.”
Mingyu’s shoulders slump at your crass greeting as he shuts the door behind you.
“Why is objectifying yourself your sole coping mechanism?” He asks, raw curiosity dripping more than sarcasm in his voice.
You let him take your bag off your shoulder and hang it neatly over the coat-rack right by his Armani blazer.
His apartment is as clean as you remember—not sterile, but not stinking with a sweaty jacket draped over a chair or a bowl hosting its own ecosystem in the sink.
It is well organized, but not in a curated way, not with an intention to flaunt.
There’s genuine care and warmth that exists between these beige walls. It's in the kitchen counters which are always wiped clean. Or the fresh pile of laundry, fragrant with detergent, half folded on the couch.
It comforts you more than you would like to admit.
“Oh I am sorry, is self deprecating humor not sexy anymore?”
“It never was.” He laughs, soft and low, before dipping his head down to place a chaste kiss on your temple.
You don’t want to alert him that now, your other temple aches for a kiss too.
So you avert your eyes from his too endearing ones and clear your throat, toeing off your shoes.
“Yeah, yeah, go ahead. Have your ‘Nicholas Sparks novel’ moment.” You place a hand over his chest, trying to swallow the smile that threatens to break.
“I wasn’t aware forehead kisses were copyrighted by emotionally constipated paperbacks.” He snides, nudging your side playfully.
As you walk past him, he silently sets your boots upright before padding behind you.
You crash on his couch, burying your nose into the faint sweetness of fresh washed linen.
“Want some wine?” He calls out from the kitchen.
It’s not much of an offer when you can already hear the clinking of the glass and the telltale sloshing of your favorite cherry liquid.
“Give it to me before I combust.” Your voice muffles under the heap of fabric.
“Only if you drink it away from my laundry.”
With the type of day you’ve just had, you deserve to chug down the entirety of whatever no-price-tagged-bottle he just poured you a teeny-tiny sample from. But you know Mingyu wouldn’t take you to his bed if you were intoxicated. So you settle for the mere two sips of the wine he offers you.
His nose scrunches up with disdain when you snatch the flute from him, sit on your haunches right by his very white and recently ironed shirts, and clink your glass with his scotch.
You roll your eyes, huffing and puffing like you do when you are talking to your grandma and scoot away before Mingyu bursts a nerve from you drinking red wine near his white cotton shirt—one which he owns at least seventeen replicas of.
When he sits down on the single love seat, you don’t think much before getting up and settling down on his lap like it's your right.
His arm curls around your hips before your legs can fold over his thighs. He pulls you in, tucking your head under his jaw like this moment is exactly what his limbs were made for—to hold you before you can even ask him to.
“Rough day?” He questions, freeing your now empty flute from your unwilling grip and setting it down on the mahogany coffee table.
You suck on the skin of his exposed collarbone you had just nipped at before detaching your lips for a brief moment.
“How d’you know?” you mumble with a pout you don’t even know you have.
He smiles at you, it brims with endearment, before tucking back a loose strand of hair behind your ear which is missing an earring.
He doesn’t question you about it, like he knows exactly where it might be—holding some important pages for you.
“Well for starters, you haven’t stopped biting me ever since you walked through that door Miss Chompette.” He corks his brows at you.
Your eyes flicker down to the shallow teeth marks over his exposed forearms, the recent one on his neck, then back at him.
You didn’t plan on speaking anything remotely relevant to what happened earlier, but his inviting warmth just cajole the words out of your throat before you can gulp them down. It is scary, to be honest, how he unravels you by just being there.
“Do you think it's weak to not forgive someone?” You murmur, almost embarrassed.
“Depends.” he shrugs, savoring the last sip of his drink.
He sets the glass down next to yours with a soft clink, then leans his until his cheek rests over the crown of your head.
“On what?” You press.
His arm tightens around you. “On whether that unforgiveness turned into a grudge. Because grudges weigh you down, unforgiveness flows.”
That prompts you to think, do you hold a grudge against Juliette?
“What if…what if you just don’t want to forgive them?”
You prod after carefully considering your true emotions about this whole ordeal.
His breath fans over the wisps of hair on your forehead as he takes his time to ponder.
Then, softly, he asks. “Well, why don’t you want to?”
“I dunno…maybe because it didn’t feel sincere? Like, even while apologizing, she tried to put the blame on me.” You burrow your cheek further into his neck, silently praying that he didn’t hear your slip up and decode that you were talking about a girl.
“Well, then it's not weak.” There's a clear finality in his tone when he says that.
You pull away to look at him, searching for any signs which indicate that he’s just trying to make you feel better. There’s none. “You think?”
“Yes.” He nods, “It would have been a grudge had you denied her forgiveness just to hurt her. But it seems like the apology didn’t feel real to you. Forgiveness isn’t some holy grail—it's a tool. If it isn’t useful, you don’t need it.”
His words land at your chest with a thud. So matter of fact. So earnest. So Mingyu.
You laugh even when there’s nothing funny because you’re at a loss of words which could mean something here. Unbeknownst to you, there was moisture building up under your lids and this sudden movement only jerks it out, spilling tears on your cheeks.
He doesn’t therapize you further, he knows he doesn’t need to. Not after you’ve got the assurance you wanted.
All you need now, is some warmth after surviving all the icy lashes that this day has rendered on you. And he gives you that, no questions asked.
Even if it means cradling you here on this chair all night long, then so be it. He’ll hold you until his arms go sore, and when they do, he'll still hold you even after life begins draining out of them.
Because there was once a time where he longed for even a glimpse of you for two whole years. Then, he ached some more to be able to touch you.
And now you are on his lap like a blessing he never expected but always prayed for.
He knows not to make a home out of borrowed moments, but he still lines the walls of this one with the softest parts of himself—secretly hoping you’d decide to stay even when you’ve convinced yourself about the fleetness of this…arrangement.
The nimble fingers toying with the collar of his shirt dull until they weigh down with sleep on his chest, your breath steadying as you slip into slumber. The creases around your eyes relax like they do only when you’re hiding away from the world in a safe corner.
Mingyu wonders if you know just how sacred you are.
He wonders if you know that he’ll wait here on this very chair to hold you like this everyday, till the end of his days.
He kisses your temple—the other one—the one he didn’t kiss before, and feels the thudding pulse finally relax under his lips. Content. Satiated.
CHAPTER 13 || i see a woman || explicit smut warning
song recommended: virgin veins by coma cinema
“I just never know with you. Nobody does. You’re this puzzle that none of us can solve.”
You should be focusing on the sweet sounds of pleasure eliciting out of Mingyu’s parted lips as you drag your tongue across his abs.
But your mind keeps on drifting back to the quad.
To the day before yesterday.
To the complaints you’ve heard several times before, just expressed in different words.
Mingyu’s hand buries in the mess of your hair, not to push you down but to pull you up, make you straddle his lap on the bed.
It is his turn to savor the smooth expanse of your skin now.
He flips you around so that you’re on your back now, hair sprawled over his pillow like midnight while he hovers over you like a full moon.
It distracts you for several seconds, the way his teeth scrape down on the marks he had left earlier—reigniting them with need and just the right amount of pain.
But then his lips brush over a specific spot on the swell of your breast, the one which still hosts the ghosts from that wretched night. The one which Juliette had thought was hers to claim.
Your breath hitches…the guttural sound makes Mingyu halt altogether. That wasn’t a moan of pleasure—it seemed to him like you just choked on plain air.
He pulls back, just by an inch, the haze of want still wrapped around your bodies.
“All well?” He asks.
“You’re so hard to read. You’re unreadable.”
Juliette’s voice rings without an alarm. The statement must be true–everyone you know has said that to you at some point.
But then again, if you’re so hard to read, why is it that Mingyu can read a single skipped breath of yours like it's the only language he ever learnt?
You attempt to nod in answer, but the overwhelm has already settled in your spine like frost on a mountain’s peak, leaving you frozen with trauma on the spot.
Your eyes flicker away from his, down to the mark on his collarbone, the one you had left with your teeth earlier. You rest your palm flat over it, tracing its border, and then with a voice that’s barely above a breath, you ask him.
“What do you see when you look at me, Mingyu?”
Not–’how do I look?’ Or, ‘do you want me?’But ‘do you see me?’
The slight jerk of his head tells you that he hadn’t anticipated you to ask that.
Honestly, you didn’t either.
It is a question you have never voiced because you’re afraid you already know the answers—’a complicated child’...‘a girl too independent for her own good’...‘a woman unfathomable’.
What’s worse is the fact that you cannot even turn to your mother to ask who you are, or your father about what makes you, you.
Because you don’t have them.
You don’t know them.
Everyone else would just give you some generic answer, some well rehearsed nursery rhyme. But something chafes at your lungs, this nervous thrill wrapped in hope, which tells you that Kim Mingyu is about to read you like a fucking sonnet.
He takes a deep breath, the way he does when he’s about to give something of himself he can’t take back. Then he leans down, still holding your eyes. His breath comes closer to you, becomes one with yours.
He murmurs, almost as if addressing someone sacred, “I see a woman who always wears bangles, anklets, as many rings as she can…and those dangly earrings, which get caught in my sheets.”
He shifts, brushing his thumb over your wrist where a single, thin silver chain jingles faintly. “I love that your body sings when you come to me.” He hums.
Your eyes widen.
Mingyu is nowhere near finished though.
“I see a woman who is so easy to catch in a lie.” He chuckles, “Because you always reach out to touch things around you when you lie, as if feeling something solid would make it real, turn it into a truth.”
The coffee cup at the brunch when you lied about losing your virginity.
The decorative vase that you reached out for at Mayella and Josh’s villa when you lied to him about being okay.
Thistle being choked between your fingers when you told Mingyu that you weren’t scared the night he spent in your bedroom.
The deathgrip over his gear in his car when you said you didn’t see him, see this, as anything beyond a source of stress relief—soulless and safe.
Oh God. He saw right through you all those times? He knew you were lying all along…?
The air shifts into something lighter when he watches you squirm under the captivity of his watchful gaze. He tries to lighten up the intensity. “I see a woman whose teeth itch when she’s having some intense conversation. Like right now, I know you’re dying to bite me, nibblebug.”
He laughs, sitting up to gaze down at your semi nude self. A curved finger of his drawls lazily between the valley of your breasts, trailing all the way down to your navel where he rests his palm. Heated with desire. This…this is where he gets to give you all he has. This is how deep he touches you when he’s buried inside you.
“I see a woman who hates nicknames yet loves the sincerity of a real one—who names her teddy something profound and meaningful.”
He softens, “I see a woman who embodies Persephone in Lisa’s art studio, who is spring wrapped in a cotton dress. Who can even make the ruler of the underworld yearn for a glimpse of her.”
His knuckles brush over your cheekbone like a secret before he tucks back your hair behind your ear so delicately that you think you imagined it.
“I see a woman who longs for open gardens, but has to make do with Manhattan’s concrete jungle. Someone who thinks Maye’s friends are stupid, yet sticks around with them to not disrespect her cousin.”
You cut in, “I don’t think you’re stupid.”
He places his hands on either side of your head, caging you down on his mattress with his body.
“I know,” he whispers against your cheek, his lips pressing a blurred kiss there. “But I am…so, so stupidly in lo—”
You turn your head around before he can finish that sentence to capture his babbling lips between yours. No warning. No space.
The heat of your kiss melts his words into a puddle which dribbles down one side of your mouth. It is messy, hungry and brimming with the weight of things unsaid.
You slide your hands to hug his shoulders, but he laces his fingers with yours and pins them back down on the mattress by your ears, disallowing you any pleasure of feeling his rippling muscles.
A whimper flutters past your throat when he pushes your eager tongue back into your mouth, overpowering you.
There’s no rhythm to it, not this time around.
Just passion, desperation and need—all slathering up both of yours’ raw bitten lips which refuse to part even when your chests burn for air.
He kisses you with the frustration of being disrupted mid-speech.
With the fervor of every moment he has to restrain himself around you.
With the patience of every night he has longed for you.
Like if he kissed you just hard enough, you’d know how much he needs you. Like it would make up for the time lost with him deliberating over how to touch you without scaring you with the passion he harbors for you.
He allows you some mercy of a breath by pulling away, his wet mouth gleaming with your spit more than his own.
His fingers curl around your hips like they have multiple times before, but this time they are a little frantic—digging in deeper. Like he was afraid you would slip away from his hold like a thread of smoke.
Shifting a little lower, it's your abdomen that faces the heat of his kisses now.
You sink further down into the bed, as if it’ll engulf you like water and save you from this fire he is igniting.
Mingyu is relentless tonight—wouldn’t loosen his grip in the slightest even when you begin to writhe under him.
“Mingyu…” you plead, unsure what exactly you are begging for.
He isn’t being cruel or harsh on your skin, it’s just this…love…pouring out of him that is tightening your heart with jagged knots.
Or maybe, there’s a slight possibility that you’re the one emitting that love. Does it even matter who is lighting up who?
You don’t know anymore. There’s a choking smoke billowing all around, soot filling up lungs until all that once mattered suffocates. Until all the water is murked and the air polluted. Until all the norms of survival collapse.
When a forest burns down, who stops to ask where the initial spark of fire came from?
Your back arches off the bed when he licks at your navel and he uses that opportunity to reach around your chest and clasp your bra open. He tugs the garment off your arms like he despises the mere existence of it.
When he busies himself with palming your naked breasts, his jaw loosening with wonder as your nipples go taut at the slightest touch, you unbutton your jeans, pulling them down as far as you can.
He helps you out by jerking them off your ankles and throwing them somewhere on his beige rug. Your fingers wrap around the waistband of your underwear next but his longer digits curl right above yours.
“These are mine to take off.” He warns, stretching the elastic of your underwear, “Always, mine.”
Fleeting moments like this one make you think that Mingyu is possessed by something sharper than lust. A phantom, old and aching, which constantly claws at his skin to be let out; but he restraints it back.
The darkness seeps out regardless—sometimes as this heady possessiveness, sometimes as his eagerness to corrupt you.
You meekly nod, retrieving fisted palms back to your chest as he holds your eyes with his hooded ones, peeling off the soiled fabric in a smooth motion.
“Open your legs for me, baby.” is his next command, spoken slowly, with care.
It leaves you a wreck. Not because he's asking you to do something unusual, but because it's his palms which are always in charge of parting your thighs.
You stare up at him, breathless and bewildered. There’s no challenge looming over his sinful expressions, just a tiny hint of wonder about whether you’ll do as he says.
That hint morphs into an amused smirk when you follow his command and shift your thighs further away from each other.
It's barely a few inches, but he doesn’t expect you to turn into a bold mess within a single night.
Large, calloused palms glide down your pliant thighs, pulling them further apart to expose your blushing core for him.
“Only I get to see this…”
It is a question. It is a prayer. It is a poem. It is gratitude. All tied together in a hushed whisper. He speaks it more to himself than to you.
“Tell me to stop when you need to?” He mumbles the usual protocol.
“Yes, yes I will.” You pant, barely strumming your words together because if you don’t vocalize your consent, you know he won’t proceed.
“Thanks darling.” he whispers, a gentle smile at his bruised lips.
His fingers begin teasing the delicate folds between your legs, another palm mapping out every inch of your body with shuddering curiosity. He watches you keenly as you dip your head further into the plush pillow, soft sighs flowing out of your lips like symphonies of his favorite opera.
And when his thumb encircles your clitoris, his fingers sliding up and down gathering all your moisture, and you mewl, he instantly coddles your face with his free hand.
“Shh, sweetheart, s’okay.” he croons, continuing to stroke your cunt—even though your thighs tremble, threatening to close.
He knows that it's just a false alarm, that you wouldn’t shy away from him and continue to take it like the good girl you are.
You prove him right—relaxing your hips after a few more flicks, the heels of your feet digging into the sheets but never pushing him away.
Your fingers are bunching his duvet, knuckles draining white as he continues working magic over your swollen petals. He hasn’t even touched your entrance yet beyond a brief brush of his thumb, but it is already leaking with heat and drenching the sheets below—clenching around nothing.
Mingyu sees that, of course he does.
Slowly, very carefully, he slips a finger inside with such elaborate patience that it draws a gasp out of you. Your body welcomes him with eager hunger, walls tightening around him with a sure insistence, refusing to let go when tries to slide it out.
He chuckles low, “Baby, relax. We have all night.”
That promise eases you almost instantly. You lean into him even more—a sudden gush of liquid warmth spurting around him when he adds a second finger.
He stretches you out, rubs your clitoris with his thumb, praises your everything, all while keeping his focus trained on your face. He memorizes every crook of his fingers that makes you mewl, every hard push that scrunches up your face painfully.
Soon, the rough digits jutting in and out of you become slick and slimy with your arousal. A sinful squelching sound, constant and loud, overpowers your moans.
That’s when he pushes further in until he’s knuckles deep, flirting with that one specific spot that always makes you forget your own name.
Your lower body bucks and thrashes, eyes flying open when he begins fucking you open with his fingers. An unintentional kick from you lands over his bicep when he rams into that gummy spot repeatedly.
“Behave!” He reprimands, free hand catching your flailing ankle and using it to hook your leg over his hip.
“Sl-slow down…” You choke.
He instantly obeys, but not without adding to your predicament by introducing a third finger. He doesn’t shove it in, but you can feel it prod around your hole, coaxing to be let in.
To help you take it, his lips wrap around your puffy nub, flicking it with his tongue before proceeding to suck on it like a man gone animalistic.
You’re crying with pleasure, opening yourself more and more until all three of his fingers sit snug inside your warmth. It is truly impressive how much your cunt stretches and lubricates to adjust to him.
He contributes to your wetness by spitting down on your sensitive folds before diving back in, allowing the embarrassing mixture of his saliva and your juices to soak you both in a sheen of carnal hunger.
At a particular thrust of his fingers, some liquid splutters past his fingers, landing on his face.
“Mingyu!” You cry out, mortified at what just happened.
He’s looking at you, wild eyes upturned to you and wet smirking lips clamping down on your abused clit.
“You just squirted baby.” He groans right against your cunt, like he couldn’t remove his lips from you for even two seconds to speak properly.
The vibrations only make you release another spurt. Your jaw has widened to a point of dislocation, yet he keeps going, free hand rubbing warmth over your tummy like he’s asking you to give him some more.
Unlatching one of your hands from his head, you brush back the loose hair falling over his eyes. He makes you weep some more by making you take his third finger at a new faster pace he sets, but he knows it's necessary to prepare you for what is to come.
You recognize the telltale signs of your orgasm—it brims in your belly chasing down south until you fall apart for him with a blubbering sob of his name.
Mingyu is busy digging into your flinching hole trying to scoop out all your wetness—wanting to drown in it. He slurps and sucks every bit of it, fingers unplugging out of you so that his mouth can take over your sopping entrance.
Once he has sucked you clean and there’s nothing more that you can give him without getting overstimulated beyond your limit, he leaves you be. Wet. Ruined. Aching.
He doesn’t want to tire you, or scare you away. Not yet. Not tonight.
Your body begins to panic when his warmth departs but then it lulls back when he hovers above you, his broad chest and shoulders blocking the view of anything that isn’t him.
You don’t care that his fingers are still soaked with your musky arousal when they cup your face, nor do you mind that his lips carry the heady scent of yours when he leans down for a kiss. Instead, you find yourself enjoying tasting your remnants on him.
Mine. You affirm.
“You did so good sweetheart,” He praises, “Keep yourself relaxed for me, will you?”
Your thumb traces the edges of his lips as he waits for your answer.
With shy eyes blinking the tears back in, you ask him. “Yeah, but…can we try something new?”
Usually the one to follow his lead, this the first time you have asked him for something in bed. Pride shines in his grin when he quirks his brows at you. “Go on?”
Thorns scratch at your throat but your voice is honey when you speak. “Is it okay if I turn around?”
There is no personal grudge or a vehement disdain that Kim Mingyu harbors towards the position you’re referring to. He just doesn’t want to be unable to see your face when he makes love to you. He can’t kiss your tears that way.
It is part of a reason why he has tried almost all the basics with you by now—taking you against the wall, making you ride him until you cried, showing you that your legs can sure as hell reach your ears.
But your face…those ruined eyes, those plump lips, that flushed skin—a unique shade every time—is where he draws the line. He physically can’t get himself to push you down, to muffle your moans, into a pillow.
But tonight isn’t about him. And he recognizes that. Swallowing his protests, he helps you turn over on your knees.
A giant pillow is stuffed right under your hips as a precaution while you’re given the liberty to do whatever you want with your arms—elbows or palms, mattress or the headrest—he even offers to hold them for you behind your back if you want to.
You resort to folding them under your forehead instead, fists bunching up the sheets below. Once you’re settled comfy, back arched, sensitive breasts smushed down on his duvet and knees spread and stable, he reintroduces his fingers to open you up into this new position.
It’s a new sensation, but not an unwelcome one.
He digs at new angles, finding new spots that make you moan before he finally locates his favorite one—the one that makes gushes of liquid splurge out of your body.
You sigh and hum, knowing that now that he can’t see your face, your sounds are the only ways you can tell him what works and what doesn’t. You gave up on words the moment he laid you down on his bed anyways.
Once he is content with what he sees and the pillow under your hips has a damp spot beginning to grow, you hear the telltale sound of the rustle of his tee being discarded followed by the unzipping of his pants.
There is some kind of sick, twisted pleasure Mingyu finds in touching your naked body while he’s fully clothed for as long as he can.
He lines himself up with you, nudging his hardened dick up and down your quivering cunt and collecting your slick.
It was a mutual decision of yours to not use the condom given that you’re on the pill. Yet he makes sure. “Want me to use a condom?”
“No, no!” you keen, shaking your head frantically.
His palm smoothes down over your back, a gentle assurance. “Alright.”
The blunt tip of his dick presses down on your entrance and unlike his fingers that had to coax you to be allowed in, your hips thrust back on their own—taking his cock halfway in.
A feminine gasp echoes throughout his bedroom, followed by his painful hiss. He tries easing himself out, but you have him in a vice grip.
“God, baby, you’ll hurt yourself.” He cajoles—warmth in his words, reverence in his palms kneading your soft flesh. “Calm down.”
You trust him, you really do. Your shoulders sag and your taut hips slump on the pillow, letting him decide the pace.
He begins to push in, with more patience than you ever could, making you feel every drag of his veiny girth.
The pure white of his sheets is a harrowing contrast to the hollow stars blurring your vision. So you clench your eyes shut, breath stuttering through clinched teeth as he settles in full, defined hips pressed against your plump ass.
“Feelin’ good?” He asks, rubbing your lower back.
You nod, hoping he’s looking at your head, because you can’t do anything else. If you open your lips now, you’ll sob from the overwhelm and that might cause him to stop.
“I am gonna move baby.” His voice sounds strained like he is having a hard time giving the naive girl in his bed all these warnings instead of just fucking her however he wants.
And as if reading through his pain;
“Do whatever you want, Mingyu.” You whisper, tears pooling down over your hands.
That was all he needed.
His fingers dig inside your hips, holding you down, as he pulls out until only the tip remains. Then, he leans forward until the cold metal of his chain pools down on the hot skin just under your hairline, and he slams back in. With just how strong Mingyu is, even the slightest of force is brutal on your body.
“Ahh!” You puff out, scrambling to chomp down on the skin of your own arm to not alert him about the painful pleasure you’re experiencing.
But he stalls, only moving again when you begin to whimper with complaint.
He sweeps your hair to a side with a swift motion of his hand to expose your sweat slicked neck for his wet lips to feast upon.
Another drag out, another thrust in. Careful yet precise.
This time, with his arms locked around your waist while his mouth burns a hickie between your shoulders.
“I love the way you stretch to take me.” He drawls, his words vibrating against your skin as you tremble under him.
“And I…I love the way you m–make me feel, Gyu.” You hiccup. It might be the most honest thing you have ever said to him, and for once, you’re not holding anything in your clammy hands.
He answers you by running his large palm over the expanse of your back, picking up a curated rhythm which feels good to you both. Slow and deep, like he wants you to enjoy it to your heart’s content tonight and then never ask him to take you like this ever again.
But you whine with your face buried into his bed. “Go harder, Gyu.”
It is muffled, but doesn’t go unheard when he is practically pressed flat on top of you.
His hips begin to snap rough against your bottom, lewd smacks making your head spin. Your knees give out the moment he hits your sensitive spot and you fall flat on the mattress—sandwiched between his heavy, hard body and the poor, squished pillow.
“No baby, you gotta stay up on your knees.” He mocks. “You were begging to be fucked like this, you don’t get to lay back down.”
With his hands locked around your waist, he hauls you back up until you’re sitting—back pressed firm to his chest, lips never leaving the sweet spot he’s suckling on.
The heat burning into the g-spot in your walls that he brushes over and over, oozes out across your core. Your insides are burning for him as he carves out a not so small space for himself. Each thrust aimed with an intention of etching himself on your very soul.
You get it why people go crazy over backshots—it just hits different this way.
His coarse fingers come down on your abused clit, rubbing it over and over like he’s polishing a scrap of metal. God, you love it when he loses control and just goes wild on you.
“Feels s’good Gyu!” You cry out, digging your nails into his forearms. The same forearms press down on your belly when he fucks you deeper, making you keen.
Every single inch of your body that can be stimulated is being given all the love and attention by him—the spot he keeps on bumping inside your walls, the scarlet folds stretched for him being soothed by his fingers, the skin on your neck that is never left unblemished by his lips and teeth.
You’re aware of it all. In fact, too aware to a point that every fibre of you begins pulsing with what he’s giving you. He senses your orgasm before you do and begins syncing all his movements with practiced care, merging them whole to push you past your tipping point.
You are silk in his rough hands—lush and slippery. But he contains you like you’re his salvation. Grounding you here, calling you back.
The brilliance of a thousand stars explode at once behind your eyes when you fall apart for him. Wet lips mumbling incoherent prayers to the Gods you abandoned years ago. Nails digging into him like he’s the sole reason you haven’t lost all faith.
He doesn’t falter, just holds you upright through it all, even when your knees lose all sensations and strength. Your arms fall loose over his, head slumps down over his shoulder, too fucked out to even open your eyes. You just nuzzle your face under his jaw as he chases his own release now.
“Baby, you with me?” He asks, slowing down for a beat.
“Y-yes…don’t stop…please don’t stop.” You gurgle, a streak of drool dripping down your chin when his hand grabs one of your bouncing tits.
He doesn’t even get the chance to reply to you when a scream cracks through the air and you orgasm for the third time tonight. This time, you clench around him so tight that he follows suit, staring down at how your forehead scrunches up with desire which teeters on the edge of agony. You’ve ruined his ability to be able to come undone without seeing your face.
Warmth floods inside of you when he fills you up with ropes and ropes of his hot semen. It is so much, so messy—even trickles down your legs onto the bed.
“Don’t spill it.” He tsks, laying you down gently.
His hips don’t stop rutting, but they’re lazier now, tuned in with each hiccup of yours.
You thought being unable to see his face tonight might make it easier.
But Mingyu’s devotion will find you even when you turn your back to him, curling over and sweeping under every wall you put up. It is terrifyingly inevitable…like doom.
(a/n: to the anon who said that mingyu being observant and clocking reader’s fake nonchalance in pt 1 scratched their brains right, i hope you’re happy with this one lol)
CHAPTER 14 || a sketch, a girl, a subway
(a/n: i really recommend listening to midnight rain by taylor swift after reading this chapter)
Mingyu never said that you can’t tour around his house while he sleeps.
So you’re technically not swooping when you find yourself in the middle of his study with one of his satin sheets wrapped under your arms like a wedding gown.
Just a curious gal trying to see what goes on in his head when a lovesick architect in New York City designs homes with random subway girls in his mind.
Besides, Mingyu had been so weird in bed tonight, humanizing you and what not. He deserved to get his privacy invaded for making you feel loved like that.
You start slow, harmless. Just flipping through the unfinished blueprints on his study, reading the incoherent notes scribbled in the margins of each map, digging through the drawers stuffed neat with stationary. When you find nothing more than indecipherable mathematics and precise angles in his main work folder, the investigation picks up pace.
You try not to voice out what it is that you’re actually looking for. It is embarrassing. But there’s a silent prayer perched on your pursed lips, “Show yourself subway girl.”
You almost flinch at your own reflection when it catches in a mirror you hadn’t spotted before.
There is maroon splashed all across your body, spluttered in patches and marked by teeth. The sweet amber of his citrus and berries shampoo, from the bath he gave you just a couple hours ago, still lingers in your hair. The post-coital glow on your skin is his doing, too.
Your heart squeezes, the rhythm of your breath falters. From each wet thread of your hair dripping with his perfume to each patch of skin stamped with his name, you are utterly, and completely—his.
And it is tragically pathetic, honestly, that you’re here searching for the woman who, in turn, owns him.
Whom he would forget your entire existence for if she knocked at his door right now.
You look away before you can berate yourself even more and go back to distracting your mind with this demeaning pursuit.
A slew of loose papers fall down like hail when you accidentally knock a book over. You crouch down, the fabric on your body rustling as you try to gather those sheets back in order.
When you try to get up, you can’t. Something hinges at the corner of your makeshift dress. You tug at it, only to be replied back to by a threatening sound of satin ripping.
The only source of illumination in this wood panelled room is the soft moonlight of a full moon streaming in from the large, open window. You try feeling around what hooks your sheet, fingers wrapping around what feels like a knob.
You pull harder.
This time, your sheet comes loose, but so does what appears to be a hidden drawer at the bottom of his bookcase.
You wait for a beat for a mouse to jump out. When it doesn’t, you reach in to see what buried treasure Mingyu hides here.
The surface you graze is rough and sturdy, thick with glossy pages. You pull it out to examine it better—its a photo album.
With quivering fingers, like your body knows the importance of this moment, you flip it open.
There are things so inexplicably pure and delicate in this world, that they slow time down. Like the large, glassy eyes of a baby Mingyu staring back at you when you turn the first page over. Cheeks puffed out with something sweet and sticky, little fingers curling around the hem of his pink pajamas that swallowed him whole. The picture stuck adjacent to it pulls at your heart even more—a toddler in a lion costume. Hands stretched out into paws, lower lip caught between teeth as he pours all his concentration into the performance he is in. Then one in his mother’s arms, another on his father’s shoulders. Kissing the forehead of his newborn sister, proudly flashing a giant A+ on his first report card.
The album is heavy, not with the photographs, but with the love it holds. The stories it carries.
Childhood skips into teenage in a matter of seconds with a few flips of pages—awkward sometimes, rowdy the most. The sweaty and spent soccer squad throwing fries at their man of the match, the clumsy robot which bagged third place in nationals, the smug grin squished into the fair cheeks of the blonde girl he took to prom, a vacation to the Bahamas where he scowls down at his sister—snapped mid eye roll.
A proud father standing outside the main gate of a prestigious university with his chest puffed out next to a son who just got accepted to study architecture there.
Mayella makes an appearance before anyone else does. Her hair is dyed electric green—sophomore year—as she attempts to strangle a laughing Mingyu at some party, a clump of spaghetti on her shoulder.
On the next page, Lisa, surprisingly without her curtain bangs, is sandwiched between them in a polaroid, beaming wide with a trophy. The fading note scribbled with a dark marker below it reads: ‘me and maye coddling li for winning @ the art exhibit.’
The page turns and takes you to New York with Mingyu.
Hansol and him before the Empire state building, buff arms slung lazily over each other’s shoulders. Chiseled by time and tanned deeper with the toils of adulthood, Mingyu looks firmer now. His smile is easier, more natural and mature, not burdened with the weight of pleasing his parents, or charming his high-school girlfriend, or impressing his uni peers. This air of self assurance serves him well.
There are fewer pictures now, there ought to be. Once real life takes over, one forgets to pause and catch moments behind the lens.
But still, Mingyu’s attempts to cherish his life don’t stop altogether. There are a few fragmented shots here and there—Hansol mid laugh on a rooftop bar, the smudge of paint on Lisa’s blazer as she greets the Mayor, the entire squad with Mayella and Joshua immediately after the proposal.
You’re in none of them. You don’t expect to be. You always step away into a corner the moment someone pulls out a camera.
The sigh you let out is laden with the weight of the life you’re carrying in your arms. A life so majestic, so full of love. How vain it was for you to think that this man relies on a single woman for inspiration when he is surrounded by homes all around.
A lonesome tear you didn’t even know was drenching your lashes finally slips down when you shut the album close. The droplet lands on a frail sheet of paper which was tucked in between the last few pages you didn’t explore and has slipped out in your lap like it couldn’t bear not being looked at.
You pick it up, thinking it's just a loose page, but the faint beam of moon pools over it at an angle that highlights the faint smudge of charcoal on the other side.
There’s a tug-of-war between your gut and your heart in the split second which ticks just before you turn the sheet over. Like what lies on the flip side of this paper is about to hit you like an uncontrolled truck on slippery asphalt.
But you turn it over regardless.
The moon hanging low outside Mingyu’s window crashes down on Manhattan’s concrete with a loud bang.
Or maybe that was just the sound of your gasp.
A sketch. A girl. A subway.
The drawing drips with reverence like even before he knew her, Mingyu somehow figured out the subject of his sketch hated cameras.
He had to capture her from memory and sight alone because he couldn’t bear not including her in this kaleidoscope of his life. So he drew her and kept her here, away from his overbearing childhood, away from his rowdy teenage years, away from the mares of his adulthood. Guarded and cherished.
Ruby earrings—shape of a tear. Wuthering heights, with a spine colored silver clutched between ringed fingers. Her eyes downturned. Her lips glossed cherry, half hidden under her soft scarf.
You.
Unmistakably. Awfully. Truthfully…you.
——————————————
(4 years ago)
Mayella loved her family name more than she loved breathing. It came with history, studded with honor and followed by a legacy to upkeep. So it was truly a stupid decision for you to purchase a ticket to New York after everything that went down.
Thankfully, you hadn’t told her that you were here because if you did, she would have insisted you stay with her.
And then what would you tell her?
“Hey sis, so in true bastard fashion, the adopted daughter of the family finally botched its reputation. I hope grandma still sends me her ugliest sweater this Christmas because the prettiest ones are always reserved for her true grandkids, the ones who share her blood.”
Or, “Maye, I am here because everyone is practically spitting at me. I know it should die down, it's the last semester after all, but I don’t know.”
Or simply, “How do you survive being the campus slut?”
You didn’t even have your luggage with you, had left the moment you stepped into your friend’s place and found that video playing on a laptop balanced between her and her two roommates like it was some harmless prank on YouTube. Like it wasn’t a skin splitting humiliation you had never signed up for.
Your friend had halted mid giggle when she saw you, gave some excuse like “it was already playing when I got here.”
You didn’t fight, you didn’t scream, you didn’t even snap back when one of her roommates jutted out a tongue against his inner cheek and made the vile gesture of sucking a dick at you.
You just ran. Ran away to New York and hid there for a month.
You didn’t go to Mayella. Didn’t even let her know you had found a month to month sublet in the Lower East Side and spent your days stitching yourself back together, piece by piece.
It smelled like piss and paint thinner in the stairwell there. The lock on your door stuck. There was one window that barely opened, and the radiator screamed like a dying animal every few hours.
But at least no one here knew your name. No one called you the girl from the video. No one watched you and saw a punchline.
You once came across a rat on a random street. It looked at you with beady eyes full of challenge. Then, it scurried away. There wasn’t much difference between you and that rodent. Both filthy and disgusting.
Only it had the guts to hold the eyes of potential danger. While you had just run away.
You rode the subway once or twice, here and there. The train always rattled harder than your chest, it weirdly put you at ease. You could always excuse the shivering in your calves to the icy interior of the subway instead of the overdose of fear in your nerves.
Too wary of being stared at, you had perfected the art of folding into yourself. Shoulders tucked, eyes withdrawn, Heathcliff and Catherine your only company.
You didn’t even meet your own reflection in the transparent glass windows because every time you did, all you could see was the face of a girl pixelated in shame.
Had you succumbed to the warmth that brushed you, or your heart that twisted…you would have looked up from your book and could have seen a guy—too tall to not hover, broad enough to lean against the pole without even truly leaning—watching you like you were the first fairytale he had ever known but forgotten.
You should have looked up. But you never did.
CHAPTER 15 || annoying roomie rory
song recommended: twin by jennie
Rory is a girl who tries hard.
Academically, socially, mentally (yeah, try juggling med-school with a raging ADHD before snickering at her).
But her attempts often flop.
She scrapes by each term, thanks to the last minute flashcards of her roomie. She is the one whose memes get ignored in a group-chat. She needs a twenty minute stretch routine and a five minute gratitude meditation to be able to sleep.
She doesn’t expect visitors. Ever.
So when a frantic knock at the front door at three in the morning echoes around her modest apartment, Rory shrieks and stumbles down her bed, tangled in coarse cotton sheets and even coarser panic.
Looking around, she grabs the nearest thing that could double as a weapon—a single badminton racket which she stole from her friend Seungkwan. Her socks betray her twice by making her slip on the way from her bedroom to the front door. She can’t even blame her roomie for the water splashes near the couch, she hasn’t seen her face in over two weeks.
Rory peeps through the keyhole, but instantly flinches back because whoever is on the other side chooses that exact moment to rap the wood harder than before.
The odds of it being a serial killer behind the door? Likely.
The odds of her next door neighbour Mr. Gibson hearing her screams? High.
The odds of her being saved by Mr. Gibson? Quite low.
Maybe her mother was right. Maybe Rory should have stayed back in her humble hometown in Wisconsin instead of moving here to the lair of hobos and druggies.
Another round of knocks. She gulps, rehearses her 911 call. Offering what could be the last few prayers to the lord almighty, she unlatches the door and opens it just enough to peek out with one eye.
A man, tall and tanned, heaving like someone scooped at his chest with a blunt spoon and took his heart out. His shirt is half buttoned, angry scratches disappearing down his collar. The scarlet in his eyes isn’t a result of heavy drinking, but stress behemoth enough that it bursts veins. He is almost doubled over, like someone shattered his ribs. Maybe he was crying. Maybe he was screaming. Maybe he ran here with half his organs missing.
Rory recognizes him from the occasional luncheons her roomie has organized at their apartment. She always thought he looked handsome, now he just looks like a roadkill.
“Mingyu?” She asks, brows furrowed. “Wow, you look…terrible.”
He ignores the condescending observation. “I-is she here?” He stammers, barely keeping his breath stable to sound like a human.
“Who? Roomie?” Rory questions. Mingyu nods urgently, hope flashing all across his face. His grip on the doorframe tightens, like he is holding himself back from pushing Rory to the side and searching the place himself. Rory digs her feet deeper into the carpet to avoid being ambushed when she admits, “I haven’t seen her in days.”
Mingyu deadpans, “Days? And you weren’t concerned about her?”
Rory blinks, unsure on how to respond to that. “I am not her babysitter. Maybe you should check with her cousin.”
“She’s not at Mayella’s.” Mingyu quickly dismisses it. “Anyplace else she could be at?”
Rory sucks at her lower lip, now fully awake, yet her brain spends a considerable amount of time to sync with her thoughts and memories.
“None that I can think of…” she trails, realizing just how irresponsible she sounds. She quickly defends, more to herself than to Mingyu, “I mean, she never really tells me where she’s going, what she’s doing.”
Mingyu sighs, exhausted and spent. From the looks of his state, one could easily tell that he has already searched half of Manhattan at this crazy hour.
Rory’s heart twists, she hates being of no use. Especially when a situation at hand involves someone she truly cares for.
When her fixation over Mingyu’s devastation fades, dread grips her. You were missing. Her roomie, a young beautiful woman, was missing in a city which came with a warning siren blaring all over it.
“Maybe if you–if you give me more details.” Rory can slowly feel her brain alerting, continuous streaks of adrenaline pumping throughout her small body. “Like, did you guys fight? Why was she with you in the first place? I thought you didn’t like her. Mingyu, did you—”
Mingyu’s jaw clenches, then unclenches. “We didn’t fight Rory, not exactly. But I think…I think I upset her.”
“Upset her by doing what?” Rory’s blonde hair looks like ice under the feeble blue light streaming in from the hallway. Her skin, dry and patchy, tightens with angry frowns as Victoria ‘Rory’ Alberhasky gears herself to take down a six foot two man with a single badminton racket if he admits to having hurt you.
Mingyu scratches at the skin above his left brow. “It’s complicated, Victoria.”
The badminton racket moves an inch. “Un-complicate it.”
“You can put the bat down, I didn't harm her.” Mingyu sighs, startling her even further.
Oh, of course, he saw the bat clutched behind her back…motherfucker was literally looming above her like the ghost of the statue of liberty with all that height.
Rory meekly lets the racket drop, it lands with a hollow clatter. But her grip on the door tightens, ready to slam it in his treacherous face.
“I just…well, I think she figured out I love her.” Mingyu can’t believe your annoying roommate is the first real human being he is confessing his true feelings for you to.
Rory blinks, blindsided. “I’m sorry, what?”
Mingyu pinches his nose bridge, looking away from the ghastly grey eyes of the girl, but the crimson is already flushing his sweat sheened skin.
“She found this sketch I made of her…”
“Where?”
“At my apartment.”
“What was she doing at your apartment?”
“Um…”
“Mingyu,” Rory folds her arms before her chest, he curls into himself even more, “you tell me she’s missing. And that she was at your place last. What. Was. She. Doing. There?”
Mingyu mumbles something jumbled. Rory prides for a brief second—she has never caused a man to cower like that.
“I can’t hear you.” she reprimands.
Mingyu takes a deep breath, making peace with the fact that when he finds you—and he is certain he would, even if it means he has to flip New York upside down—you are going to kill him for letting your annoying roommate Rory in on this.
“We were sleeping together.” He states.
“Like, cuddling or…” she trails, her brows arching up with each drawl.
“We were having sex in my apartment, Victoria.”
“Oh,” She flinches, “oh yeah. Yes, of course.” she clears a web of awkward tension in her throat. “You mentioned a sex—I mean, a sketch?”
Mingyu prepares himself to sound like the most pathetically down bad man awake in Manhattan right now.
“She was snooping around my place after I fell asleep. She found this sketch I made of her four years ago—”
“You didn’t even know her four years ago.” Rory scratches at her head.
“That’s why I said it's complicated, Victoria.” Mingyu exhales. This entire back and forth feels pointless—Rory hasn’t given him anything that could help him search for you…she’s just standing here, eager to gobble whatever juicy gossip he throws her away. “Anyways, that sketch is missing now. So is she. Any idea where she could be?”
“What I’m getting is that you overwhelmed her.” Rory mumbles, “She doesn’t handle it well.”
Mingyu’s head dips down with shame. “I know.”
“I am sorry, Mingyu. I really am.” She begins, “But roomie just shuts herself away whenever it's too much. I don’t know what goes on in her head at times like these. She doesn’t talk about that stuff. It’s her pattern—emotional overload equals radio silence.”
Mingyu’s clutch on the door tightens like that alone could steady him while a whirlwind knocks at his ribs. The possibility of you being out there somewhere, hurt and numb, all alone in a city too dark is too grotesque for him to even think about.
He closes his eyes, life wilts behind them.
You were shut out—but not in the safety of your room, not even in the sterility of Mayella’s house.
He did this. He tried breaking your walls, but ended up destroying your home instead.
“What if she’s unsafe, Rory?” He voices out.
It hits Rory like a cold gust. She wants to deny it, call it paranoia, tell him he’s being dramatic—but the raw desperation in his eyes isn’t something one can fake. Not when his voice breaks at every third word he speaks.
Rory flinches like an oracle who just received a divine epiphany from the heavens.
“You should look near water.” She speaks as soon as that idea hits her, doesn’t even consider how ridiculously terrifying or mystical it sounds.
His head snaps up, blood drained and frozen. “What?”
“Water. It's just a wild guess and maybe a hopeless venture…but I have observed that she always takes longer showers when she’s overstimulated. And when I was going through a rough breakup, she even suggested I go take a walk by a lake or something. She says water washes away unwanted emotions.”
Rory wanted to go on about the significance of water and how it made spiritual sense for you to do so, but Mingyu is already on his feet, booking it down the hallway.
His heart hammers in his ears, he almost tumbles over nothing. The night was so dark. So cold. And you were near water.
You didn’t even know how to swim.
The icy night air bites him through his jacket but it’s nothing compared to the dread that must be pinching at every single inch of your soft skin.
What if your feet slipped…what if there was no light near you…
Water and air, how many tragedies have they concocted when they wear each other’s skins at dark nights like these.
When a forest burns down, no one stops to ask where the initial spark came from.
But the one who lit the match must live with the blood of a thousand scorched birds on his hands.
(a/n: rory is actually based on my real roommate lmao and unlike in this fic, my rory and i vibe to the moon and saturn.
love you riri, even though you’re not reading this <3)
CHAPTER 16 || to build a home
songs recommended: wanna be yours by the arctic monkeys
(lmao i am so corny and basic BUT TRUST ME)
The night is a long, long one for everyone.
For Mayella, who calls everyone she knows, barely masking her panic, as she asks them about you.
For Rory, who sits back in the apartment, eyes wide and a cup of water sitting idle on the coffee table, waiting for you. A discolored ring of condensation stains the wood under it.
For Lisa, who refuses to trust Rory’s instincts and takes it upon herself to look for you in a different neighbourhood altogether. “She always goes to the Bronx.” She insists.
For Joshua and Hansol, who are on the same page as Lisa and search for you in the places you frequent, not in a theory your roommate pulled out of her ass.
But Mingyu has a hitch, he trusts you to succumb to the embrace of nature–the flow of water, the calm of trees, the cleanse of wind.
So he drives even when his fingers shake, slips on the coast of East river, stumbles over a rock near Astoria Park.
“Please be safe…please come back.” the prayer loops in his mind like a mantra.
A body of water.
A girl who can’t swim.
The roads turn into rivers before his bleary eyes—every turn a tsunami sized wave.
A few girls dressed in sequins and stilettos stumble out of a nightclub and attempt to hail him like a cab before dissolving into bubbly giggles. Somewhere, an old man has already begun opening his shop—dusting the counters with a rag as old as the street itself. The world turns around Mingyu like it usually would, even when his own has been blown into smithereens.
His chafed palms burn when he presses them tight over the steering wheel. A rusty smudge of sweat and blood wipes over the leather. The slight discomfort of his scraped palms or bleeding knees sticking to the coarse denim of his jeans are nothing compared to the you-shaped hole in his chest, though. That cavity has been bristling ever since he registered the absence of your warmth in his bed, when he found out that his nose had been nuzzling into the pillow which smelt like you instead of being buried into your plump chest.
A full exhale hasn’t succeeded his shaky inhales ever since he saw your clothes missing from the chair he had put them on.
The moon is a forgotten sticker plastered on the lilac sky when the sun begins to come up, bright and full, mocking his sleepless night.
He pulls over to an unnamed, ungrailed park near some bay. Doesn’t even bother checking what the tattered signboard fixed outside says. The noise of a city waking up thins out behind him, leaving him with the unbearable knocking of his pulse.
The wild grass looks too inviting to his stiffened legs. His lids weigh down, seducing him to surrender.
On the other side of the city, Mayella’s phone has died and Joshua is urging her to return back to bed, assuring that you’ll come back well. Hansol is driving back on a deserted road to his place after dropping Josh off. Lisa doesn’t even bother returning, just books a room for six hours at a shady motel to crash in. Rory is curled up on the couch—the spot you never let her sit down on because it was yours—and has dozed off with the lights open. The glass of water waits for you regardless.
But Mingyu continues to walk by the shore. Every snap of twig under his own boots makes his head jerk, thinking it's you. Every gust of wind sounds like your whispers muffled in the crook of his neck each night.
It is only six in the morning, but the sun is streaming down at him with an intent to burn him or to blind him—like you instructed it to keep everyone away from you.
But when have your attempts at running away from facing the truth ever stopped Mingyu? You can bring whatever suns and moons you want in his way, and he’d simply offer you every inch of his skin to bite on until your teeth sink into his bones.
He will ensure to make you know that this isn’t the insincere, soulless manner he wanted to confess his love for you in.
The park is essentially deserted, devoid of any joggers or dogwalkers or marathon trainers even at the break of dawn. One might doubt his judgement of wasting his efforts here. But ever since the first time in the subway, Mingyu has learnt to trust his gut when it tells him to look in a certain direction when it comes to you.
His steps falter when his vision tunnels over a swan. Or maybe it's an angel.
All the stone benches are empty…so it doesn’t really make sense for the girl to be crouching down on the mud. Her cardigan and jeans already sullied to a point that it's impossible to ascertain what their original colors were.
Well, impossible for anyone who isn’t the man who had peeled those clothes one by one off the girl’s body with reverence and care.
“You…” He begins, but his voice betrays him at that exact moment by clogging up with all the unshed tears. The thought of never being able to see you again had begun creeping up in his head some thirty minutes ago. For once, Mingyu is glad someone proved him wrong.
You are only a few steps away from him. The half side of your face visible to him is tired and streaked with tears that dried hours ago, the other side turned away from him masks the bruise from when you fell down somewhere.
The single sheet of paper—the sketch— which etched a rift of a thousand miles between you both still flutters in the morning winds under your palms. You had long stopped caring about it, don’t even put any pressure to try and prevent it from being carried away by the wind.
But Mingyu’s art is as stubborn as him—wouldn’t leave you when the gust blows strong. Even the wind refuses to steal his love away from you.
You get up, pulse thundering with anger. Anger that makes you want to screech at him for being so stupid. For driving all night looking for you. For not cursing your name when he found his photo-album splayed open on the floor.
For still standing here like a fucking saint and looking at you like you’re the beginning and the end of this thing called love.
“You’re not supposed to be here.” He finally speaks, voice hoarse.
“No, I am not supposed to be here.” A lifeless fist extends the scrunched up sketch to him. Then, a jab of your finger thrust with all your strength at his chest, right where his heart pumps, “Or here.”
Mingyu doesn’t flinch at your rage, lets you stab at him, claw at him, call him names. And once you’re done, caving inside of your own self until you’re nearly doubled down, he just reaches out to brush the fresh bruise on your cheek. A single blade of grass is still clinging on to the skin there. He plucks it out gently.
“Too late,” he mumbles, “you’re already in every fiber of my being.”
“I never asked for that.”
That lands worse than any slap. “I know, and trust me, I have only ever tried to give you whatever you asked for.”
“Then why—”
“Because love isn’t something you can hold back…it breaks, it spills, it—”
“You don’t even know me, this isn’t love.” Your voice begins to rise, frustration lacing each word that echoes out.
“Really? You were always the one to cheer for me, root for me, whenever someone mentioned the subway girl. ‘Pure, patient, devoted love’—that’s what you called it. But now that it turns out that she’s you, it isn’t love anymore?”
“It is not!”
“Why?” His voice booms, just by a beat.
“Because you love her!” You scream, “The prettiest girl on the commute, the elegant girl who is studying medicine, Mayella’s cousin with a reputable last name.”
Your breath hitches like your body is contorting you to not speak what you’re about to say next. But he needs to hear it.
“You don’t love the girl who hates cameras because her boyfriend made her go down on him, recorded her without consent and then leaked it when they broke up. You don’t—you don’t love the girl whose grainy face appears on the screen when you search ‘amateur college girl gives her first blowjob’ on Pornh…” the cruel word fractures in your mouth.
Reciting this incident still makes you gasp the way it did all those years ago. Like the air must be forced into your windpipe through your mouth for you to be able to breathe. Like your lungs are shrinking until they collapse.
You can’t even meet his eyes anymore, just buckle on your knees. “You don’t love the girl who stopped existing the day a man turned her body into some cruel content.”
Your body prepares itself to hit the ground and be unable to support the fall. But that never happens. Mingyu is there—catching you with a splinter of grief lodged in his throat. He doesn’t know what to do other than to hold you, to contain you while you fall apart in his arms.
Your breath returns when he touches you. Steady. Fast. Familiar.
The air is thick with the perfume of sweet grass and late lilacs frothing white and magenta along the unruly shore.
A broken gasp of your name is all he can manage, like he is in as much pain as you are. Albeit your agony is laced with tragedy, his emerges from rage. Deep seated, primordial rage.
“I didn’t know…I—I am so sorry.” His voice breaks around your name. “You were carrying all of that all alone?”
You never thought that you’ll ever let Mingyu, of all people, in on the darkest parts of your life let alone anticipate what his reaction would be to it. You’d expect him to flinch, perhaps double take or even accuse you of lying. Maybe pity you?
But there is no disbelief in the way he cradles you. No pity in his question. More than anything, he seems to be moved by your strength of still standing here even after having gone through hell and back.
“I never wanted to be alone.” You say flatly, emotionless. It is the only way you can say it. “I reached out…cyber cells, peers, staff…but they told me it was an internet thing. Anonymous. Viral. That they couldn’t do anything to help me.”
You gulp dry, fingers curling tighter over the fabric of his hoodie. “My friends gave up on me, they couldn’t bear the shame that came with my name, I don’t even blame them. I begged him, Mingyu…begged him to take it down, to stop it. But he never acknowledged that he was the one behind it.”
Mingyu’s jaw tightens. He presses you closer to his heart, like he wants to safekeep you in there, like he wants to cleanse you of all those memories, wring your soul dry of any heaviness and then have you rest on his chest.
You don’t stop. Your voice has sat dormant for long enough…four years, to be exact, because everyone was busy watching—the girl on the screen, the girl crying outside the library, the girl pleading to her ex on her knees. Always watching. Never listening.
“Some girls would recoil when they saw me, some would get angry because their boyfriends wanted to record them too. I was a trend on campus. Some would pity me but worse were the ones who ignored it when I’d scream in my dorm room. Like I was an apparition, a ghost, haunting their dormitories. All the boys snickered, asked me to help them out with this ‘videography assignment’ and those who had the decency not to, just looked away.”
The silence that follows after you’ve let out a beast that had been gnawing at your insides for four whole years is strangely peaceful.
You breathe, taking in the fading scent of lemons on his skin. Your lips are chapped and aching from the harsh winter and an even harsher truth.
Strong arms circled around you are steady and stable. They don’t falter—not even when you recall the most grotesque details out loud.
It is so safe with him. So warm in the misty morning air of October.
But when have you ever not shredded every cocoon that could wrap around you, afraid that you’ll suffocate in it? So you push at his chest.
Your nose has turned pink. You sniffle and wipe some thick tears with your sleeve so that your vision unblurs, looking up at his wrecked expressions with your big, watery eyes.
“I am not telling you this because I want your pity…or because I want to fight you for loving the idea of me. But because you deserve to see this version of the girl you’ve spent half a decade pining for. The version that picks all her load alone, even when her back breaks, because she didn’t have anyone to give her a shoulder when it mattered.”
You weep for that girl, “The version that will always feel like filth—rotten and discarded. No amount of medical degrees or accolades will ever make up for that title of a whor—”
Mingyu hasn’t interrupted you throughout your speech. But that one word. Cruel and ugly. One that no woman, not even the one who sells her body, deserves to hear with such contempt. That’s where he draws the line. That’s where he has always drawn the line.
A finger presses down on your lips before you can even finish those two syllables.
“Don’t.” His voice dips lower, “Don’t ever disrespect yourself like that…you’re saying this about the woman who helped you survive it all. Who carried you through it.”
“I was the one who put myself in that situation in the first place.” You argue back, your lips quiver under his finger.
“The situation of trusting someone you loved…in what world does that deserve this cruel repentance?” Then, he softens, like he is carefully undoing a knot in your brain. A knot that shouldn’t have been there in the first place. “When we reach out to help a wounded animal, and that animal bites us back, it’s not the kindness in our heart or our tender humanity that should be blamed. Stop burdening yourself with the shame of his sins.”
His palms on your waist, his heart on his sleeve, you stand there stunned.
His words settle like dust in the air, but a part of you—the one you have disserviced and dehumanized for so long—wants him to continue speaking.
And so, he does;
“Those versions that you keep talking about, I want to see them all. Meet them all. Spend all my evenings talking to them. From the wilted subway girl to the exhausted doctor in the making—call me greedy, but I want them all. You think I fell for your beauty all those years ago?” He laughs, like those were the most ridiculous words to have ever come out of his mouth.
“How do I tell you that it was your softness towards a heartbroken kid that I was trying to etch on paper when I was sketching you—not the perfect symmetry of your eyes. Even in your worst times, you carried the grace of a thousand Gods.”
He cups your face to redirect your attention to his honest words when you begin to avert your eyes from him, “Push me all you want. Lie to me all you want. Bite me all you want. Call me your fuck-buddy and hide me from your friends like a secret. I don’t care. But don’t give up on the possibility of us just because you think I wouldn’t be able to find beauty in your scars. You’re not a myth, or a muse. You are my whole religion. All my beliefs start at your lies and end at your sighs.”
A gush of cold wind blows between the two of you like a farewell. All of a sudden, there’s only heat around you. Not the kind that singes and burns, but one that nurtures life.
You choke onto a sob and throw yourself at him.
Mingyu is aware that it isn’t just a girl who smells like salt and exhaustion that is crashing on to him—but a lifetime of abandon, of neglect, of betrayal. He carries her like an honor he has earned.
Your head thuds down on a shoulder—strong and reliable, like that of a father you never had.
The bruise on your cheek rubs against the coarse wool of his hoodie, he instantly reaches out to soothe it…soft and careful, like the touch of a mother you have never known but read a lot about in poems.
Home is in his heartbeat thrumming between your mashed chests, mellowing out your frantic one gently.
And on a frosty morning at the shore of a forgotten bay in New York, surrounded by the autumn rot and the hush of a shy winter approaching, spring blooms for the first time in a barren heart.
“I don’t love you.” You mumble in his collar.
You both know it is a lie by the way you clutch onto him when you say that. Tremor in your fingers, sweat in your palms. Like touching something physical would make it real, turn it into a truth.
“That’s okay,” He chuckles, cradling your head, “I love you enough for the both of us.”
“I don’t know how to stay,” you whisper, voice barely above a breath.
He nods, forehead resting gently against yours. “Then I’ll come look for you every time you leave. And when I find you, I’ll build a house for us to stay wherever you are.”
New York never stops for anyone, but even the city seems to hitch for a moment and smile at him with a breeze that sweeps at his cheek like a kiss. Your possessiveness flares, the honey skin glistening under the golden morning rays is only yours to kiss.
You stretch on your tippy toes, even as your entire form trembles. His grip tightens when you struggle, but softens like clay the moment a delicate peck is pressed on the corner of his mouth.
He doesn’t kiss you back, not because he doesn’t want to. But simply because he can’t do anything but revel in your softness. He shatters when you kiss him again, this time on the edge of his jaw.
When his eyes meet yours, heaven sighs. Nothing has changed in those brown irises, even when you showed him the devil residing in your veins.
“That was intense.” He remarks, then his tongue pokes playfully inside his cheek. “You wanna bite me, nibblebug?”
You snort, not caring about the snot and saliva that blubbers from your nose. “I am gonna gobble you whole.”
(a/n: did it clock to you guys that i was standing on business when i told you to listen to ‘wanna be yours’ while reading this??)
CHAPTER 17 right here|| When a forest burns down
song recommended: i’m just ken by ryan gosling (lol)
(Six months later)
Calling Lisa’s art show a success would be an insult when she has the most elite art collectors and the most refined billionaires of the New York High Society warring with each other over the bids.
You’d rather call it a phenomenon.
The center piece, the one you and Mingyu posed as Hades and Persesphone for, sold out within the first ten minutes.
Which is stunning to say the least considering ten minutes is barely enough time for someone to walk in from the entrance of the gallery up to where the painting actually hangs.
You clink a flute of champagne against her wine glass and hug her tight while you have the upper-body mobility to do so. Because you know that the moment he comes back with the assortment of snacks you sent him to hunt for, Mingyu will coil himself around you and whine every ten minutes if you don’t pat him on the cheek.
Well, that might be an exaggeration.
But courtesy to you, the group gets to see the rare sighting of a lovestruck Mingyu in a relationship.
And god is he annoying.
He hovers, he lingers, he clings, he whimpers.
His face almost never leaves the curve of your neck and when it does, his hands are all over you. It is like he is magnetized to your very soul.
And as much as you’d love to flaunt your “boyfriend <3” in public, today is the first time in a long, long while that you’ve been able to get together with your friends—your brutal residency schedule is to blame.
“Have you been able to adjust to the rotations yet?” Mayella asks, swirling her rosé.
You press your lips and squint your eyes at the dome glass ceiling, pretending to think.
Then, you hum, “My dinner last night was Rory’s half finished birthday cake which later also served as my pillow when I dozed off on the kitchen floor—you tell me.”
Lisa chuckles, then lowers her eyes like she has found the perfect opportunity to help strengthen Mingyu’s case and shamelessly grabs it. “Well, not to play the devil’s advocate, but if you accepted his offer of moving in together, you’d always come back home to fresh meals cooked by Mingyu.”
Mayella rolls her eyes, “Stop pressurizing her, their relationship is still new.”
It is still taking time for Mayella to adjust to your relationship.
She’s skeptical, afraid that if you guys break up, it might cause rifts within the friendgroup, might force them to choose. Lisa almost fought with her when she expressed that concern.
But you’re not cross with your cousin for saying that. You know it doesn’t come from bitterness, but a place of total protectiveness. Though, it would be nice if she stopped being so pessimistic for once. Man, fuck wall street for turning all the investment bankers in the world into a bunch of skeptics.
“Ladies, we are not failing the bechdel test by discussing boys.” You laugh, awkwardly swatting your palm through the tense air. Then you tip your head at Lisa, “Besides, I love living with Rory.”
The artist scoffs in her wine, “Please you only like her because she lets you dominate her.”
“Kinkyyy…” Hansol drawls, joining in with Joshua in tow. A shiny flask sways in his hands. “Although, you do know loverboy will let you dominate him too, if you wanted to.”
You shoot Hansol a sharp look, trying not to laugh. "Why are you like this?"
He shrugs, utterly unbothered, and takes a dramatic swig from his flask. “I’m just saying, don’t sleep on the benefits of dating a simp. They’re loyal, they’re soft, and they probably come with a Costco-sized emotional support subscription. Ask Maye, when was the last time Josh let you do your own laundry?”
Mayella finally breaks into a reluctant smile, tries to mash her cheek on her fiance’s blazer, and the tension in the air loosens like a knot coming undone with a single mention of love. “You guys are so immature.”
Your inbuilt radar goes off when the giant pup, towering above anyone and everyone in the room, spots you from across the room.
Balancing a plate of fancy cheese and crackers in one hand and mini crostini in the other, he makes his way towards you with a grin that can light up a billion galaxies. You smile back, melting already.
“Hey.” He breathes, beaming down at the love of his life.
“Hi.” You whisper, glossed lips pressing to his jaw.
It is a new feeling when he wraps his arm around you in front of everyone, insisting on making you try the smoked gouda with his own fingers. Good, new.
There used to be a time when your glances towards him at group hangouts like this were stolen at best. And his concern towards you undetected under the radar— an aloof napkin passed towards you when the pizza crumbs bothered your fingers, a detached shrug ‘I’ll drive her home’, greetings lukewarm at best.
But now?
Now he presses your back to his chest like it is the only place for you to be while you talk to your friends, feeding you bites of cheese in between and wiping off the corners of your lips with his thumb—carefully not to smudge your lipgloss.
His passion flames like a dormant volcano which was suppressed since the beginning of times and which erupted when a single lily fell in and triggered its core. Now, the fire promises to burn till the end of times.
“Bro, you’re not even looking at us!” Lisa exclaims, a threatening wrist angled at Mingyu in a way that implies she is not afraid of painting him red with a splash of her wine. “So inconsiderate.”
Mingyu’s fingers, which were threading your hair from behind, pause mid stroke. He scoffs, “Look who’s talking?”
Lisa rolls her eyes, “You still hung up on a single dot? I told you I wasn’t going to paint your faces on those figures.”
He takes a deep, sharp breath. “I posed for you, for free, with little miss torture here in my lap…the only thing I ever asked in return was for you to include my nose mole in the painting, and this is how you repay me?”
You know Mingyu is just being annoying, not actually arguing, when there’s that slight lisp lilting his voice as he rambles.
“Oh get over it, you didn’t even know you had a mole until I pointed it out in freshman year.” Mayella joins forces with Lisa to take down a common enemy.
You let them banter back and forth and turn to Hansol instead.
“I don’t even have a mole on my face.” You shrug.
Before Hansol can reply, Mingyu pauses mid-speech, drops down his attention to you. “Yes you do,” He ascertains, quickly pecks a patch of skin beneath your left ear, “right here, a little red mole.”
“You know you could have just pointed at it like normal people instead of slathering her with your DNA.” Joshua rolls his eyes.
And just like that, Mingyu goes back to holding his fort down against his catty friends, unaware of the fact that he just added another item on the list of a million things you love about him.
He delivers some dumb joke. No one laughs, you don’t mean to either. But something about the way he tries to suppress his smirk, so proud of saying what he said, so unapologetically and unabashedly, him—that it slips out of you before you can stop it. He lights up like a winter carnival, like your validation was all that mattered.
The day fades, the bidders leave, the artificial lights have to be brightened, but you stay there, bubbling with laughter in a corner among the only people that matter, with the arms of your universe wrapped around you.
There’s no rush to compete in stories today, no panic to hide what flourishes. Just here, a calm love cushions your life.
When it is finally the time before someone asks you all to get the fuck out with the most polite poshness they can manage and when the dim stars begin dotting the azure sky, someone suggests you all take a group photograph.
Hansol naturally extends his digital camera towards you out of habit, like he has done several times.
You always insisted on not being photographed and were happy being on the other side of the lens, telling your friends to smile as you clicked them. But today is not the same as the days that preceded it.
Your fingers almost flutter, reaching out to take the camera, but then you hesitate.
Mingyu notices, he always does.
“Uhm, actually…” you begin, voice small and unsure, “Is it okay if someone else takes the picture today? I want to be in it.”
You’re staring at Mingyu the entire time, like the pools in your eyes are drawing strength from the stars in his.
No one reacts. The sheer purity of this moment, the subtle strength of it, is enough to render them wordless. Mingyu’s hand only tightens over your hip, his smile softening — not in some big dramatic gesture. Just naturally, instinctively. Like something built into him.
And then, he flicks Hansol’s forehead. “The fuck are you waiting for? Go take the picture.”
No one makes a huge deal of it, though their bumbling bodies give away their excitement of being photographed with their youngest, most adored, friend for the first time. It is in the quiet way Mingyu tucks you under his arm, your bodies slotting so perfectly together. It is in the way that Lisa instantly plops down on the floor in front of your legs, not caring about the dust garnering on her expensive Louis Vuitton dress. It is in the way Joshua looks over Mayella at you, his way of saying he’s proud. It is in the stability of your cousin’s shoulder when you lean your head down on her, like she’d still trade all your ugly sweaters for her pretty ones sent by Grandma.
It is in the soft curve of Hansol's smile when he chokes, “Say cheese!”
Outside the gallery, you all find an old man walking back home with a little boy hopping beside his cane. Mingyu thinks he has seen them somewhere. But you guys don’t pay much mind to his pondering, not when they serve as the perfect opportunity to include Hansol in the photograph too.
The little boy clicks an unfocused picture of your group.
The old man clicks a blurry one with his weak fingers that seem to have a shiver settled deep in them.
But the preciseness of it doesn’t matter, you all still grin and thank them both.
Mingyu excuses himself from the group when you’re all busy pouring down on the shiny screen of the camera, checking the pictures out. He jogs up to the old man and the little boy, catching up with them just in time under a magnolia tree on the sidewalk.
“Excuse me, sir!” he calls out, slowing down. The sweet summer air ruffles his hair, his dress jacket crumpling at the elbows.
The two tiny humans—one hunched over and another trying to wobble in the shoes which might be a size too big—turn around with spirited smiles. “Yes, mister?”
Mingyu can’t help this tingling feeling of familiarity knocking at his temples. “Have we met before? It seems to me that we have.”
The little boy looks up in the weathered, wrinkly gray eyes of the old man. The old man winks down at the little boy’s glassy ones.
And then, they both break into a fit of soft giggles.
Mingyu stands there, dumbfounded and lost. Like there was some secret canopy of flowers and fairy-lights around them, one which Mingyu was barred from entering just yet.
The little boy puts his palm up to his forehead, shaking his head with disbelief and pity as the old man waddles towards Mingyu, each step surer than anything Mingyu has ever known.
And then, he pauses just in front of the tall young man. Something about those three seconds which stretch with silence tells Mingyu that whatever the old man is about to say is something he should remember. Always.
“Son,” the old man sings like he is delivering a sermon, “sometimes when a forest is riddled with decay and the death of the heavy roots which once were, it has to be burnt down to make way for life to flourish. And when it does, the man who ignited that first spark of fire doesn’t have blood on his hands, but the nectar of the first honeysuckles that bloom there.”
All the subways in New York sway with elation that night. All but the one taking you back home where you sleep with your head lolled on Mingyu’s shoulder.
Yours just glide through time like it doesn’t even exist.
jk, but i always make a moodboard for all of my long fics, here's the one for this one:
also, here's the dress which gave me the idea for that Lisa's painting plotline (pc: sophia birlem on instagram)
on a more serious note,
pls consider reblogging this.
i always appreciate your reblogs, comments and messages in my DMs or inbox. while the reblogs help me reach more readers, your messages just fill my heart with love so if you enjoyed reading this, please please please help me out by sharing this fic and your thoughts about it.
i work really hard on them :)
TEASER FOR MY UPCOMING FIC "LOST SAINTS"
MASTERLIST
lemme know if you'd like to be added to my permanent tag list, i am planning to write a few short fics (around 3k-ish words for other members in the meantime)
now i will go hibernate (study the coursework i have been avoiding lmao)
take care, i love you, never think twice before reaching out <33
pov: you're the girl being sung to and sung about in 'glimpse of us'
PART 2
⚬ pairing: architect! kim mingyu x med student fem! reader
⚬ word count: 24k (part one), 18k (part two)
⚬ warnings for part one: alcohol, drinking, food, spice/nsfw mentions and smut, mentions of sexual trauma, violence, harassment and other mature themes MDNI
⚬ genres: friends (??) with benefits, forbidden romance, slow burn, angst, one sided pining, hurt/comfort, autumn in nyc! au ft. Joshua, Vernon, Lisa and a few OCs.
playlist for part one <3
glimpse of us cover by mingyu
champagne problems by taylor swift
crazy in love by eden project
pretend by cnco
you and me by lighthouse
souvenir by selena gomez
author's note <3
- i cannot emphasize how central sexual trauma is to this story. though, i have not written any explicit scenes depicting assault and have tried to handle it with utmost care, i'd still advise you to refrain if it is a sensitive topic. pls take care, i love you.
- pls be a decent human and don't steal my work
- pardon any grammatical errors, i still refuse to ask people to beta read my work because i am shy and sensitive :3
PROLOGUE
The first thing Mingyu notices after waking up is the silence—not the type that emerges from wordlessness, but one which falls down on his chest, choking out any sound he wants to make.
It's like someone has stuffed sand in his throat.
Even while he’s half asleep, he doesn’t want do something that might stir the girl lying on his pillow, a curtain of midnight strands sprawled over half her face and and cascading down the smooth slope of her shoulders.
You.
Your small hand is outstretched, too far from your own chest, too close to his, but not touching. Like you wanted to reach out for him sometime during the early hours before daybreak, but even in your sleep, you knew not to.
Mingyu wonders if you had any sleep last night, not that he was hyper aware of the winces you made whenever your hips moved even a little on the bed. Or the way that your other hand was lying idle over your pelvis, as if it had gone tired soothing the area.
He took all the precautions, not just sexual but once that could shield you both emotionally, last night. Then why is his heart clawing at his ribs every time your chest rises with a breath deeper than the one before?
In theory, he should be smug…maybe even pat himself on the back. This was you whom he had successfully bedded.
You, who would make strangers stumble on their words each time you smiled that soft, disarming, guarded smile of yours. You, whom half of his friends were already knee deep in love with.
The untouchable, and untouched.
But no such cheap pride flutters within him.
Mingyu might be a player, a flirt, someone who loves attention which comes without any strings attached. But he’s not cruel.
No matter how much people try to box him in the same category as those fuckboys, he can never think of any girl being a milestone to achieve or a mere name added to his list.
And this was you, after all.
He debates if he should wake you up to ask if you have classes today, it's almost ten already. But then he decides to mind his own business.
Flinging his legs off the bed, he fluffs the duvet around your periphery, not daring to touch or disturb you in any way.
He fishes for the shirt he wore last night from the tangled heap of fabric on the floor, not for himself but for you.
Then, he places it carefully next to your ripped dress on the bed, as if offering you to put it on if the tear on the hem of your dress was too bothersome.
Your single anklet with little hearts charms, the one you had almost broken when you attempted to climb on his lap and got tangled in the duvet, looped reverently on top of the clothes.
An invisible cloud of citrus and fresh shower follows as he pads out to his kitchen—grey sweatpants riding loose on hips and wet hair flopped over his head, almost getting in his eyes. The scratches on his back, courtesy to you, sting a little when he stretches in front of the open cabinets to grab two ceramic mugs.
He pulls out the remaining two eggs from his refrigerator, thinking how would you like them. He rakes his head for a memory of any of your several hangouts with him which should give him the answer to the dilemma of making it scrambled or boiled.
So far, nothing turns up.
Sure, he knows what cuisine is Lisa’s favorite, what mushrooms cause Joshua to flare up, what brands of instant ramen Vernon places superior to Buldak. But he has no idea about you.
Not because he doesn’t listen to you even when he’s pretending not to. But because of your casual guardedness.
You give what you want to give, never succumbing to peer pressure of the group hangouts where it's a competition to see who says the most interesting thing.
“What are you even doing? Remember, this is casual, right?” A voice in his head, which sounds suspiciously like you, but more mature…like a ghost of you from decades ahead, travelled past in time to whisper that in his ear.
The haunted rebuke jerks him out of this daze. The scent of you from last night invades his senses.
He slams the refrigerator door and flinches at his own reflection. There it is, that ghost of you. Not in your shape or physicality. But in the lovebites blooming on his chest where you had buried your teeth over and over. On the trails of dug and drawn out nails that start from his back and end on the broad expanse of his shoulders from when you had tried to cling on to him as he drove in and out of you.
God, he thinks, it seems like someone plucked the now twenty six year old Kim Mingyu out of his current timeline and chucked him to a random Saturday morning at his frat during college days.
He should put on a shirt before you arise.
With that thought, he creeps back into his bedroom, carefully enough to not cause any commotion.
But you are already stirring up—rubbing your closed eyes with one curled palm while the other latches on to the bunched up sheet on your chest. Even unguarded, you do not fail to knock all the air out of his system with your beauty.
Something in his gait shifts.
He seems taller now, his demeanor more lousy—a stark contrast to the caution with which he had entered.
Its like a switch flipped within him.
He hides his strange nervousness around you under curtains of fake indifference.
“Sleeping beauty’s finally up, I see.” he can’t help but mumble with all the nonchalance in the world.
But it isn’t enough to veil how unnecessarily hard he is gripping the door of his closet. Or how his fingers tremble when they grab the first shirt they can feel.
“Morning…” you almost whisper and it takes everything in him not to whip around and check if there’s anything lingering on your face which could indicate regret.
“I hope I didn’t snore.” your voice sounds clearer now and it makes the ache in his chest dissolve with the next exhale.
Good, at least you’re still talking to him.
His smile is lopsided when he’s done unnecessarily smoothing out the fabric on his abs. “I would have thrown you out if you did.”
He instantly regrets saying that.
You don’t look too hurt, your face doesn't fall, but you laugh like you’re unsure about how to respond. For some reason, he doesn't like that he confused you, even with a joke.
For a moment, he considers ridding you of any possible future confusions about last night by leaning down and kissing your forehead. By telling you just how much last night meant for him and he doesn't want you to think it's casual.
But Kim Mingyu hasn't done the "not casual" in a long, long time. And the last thing he wants you to be is an experiment, a trial, a guinea pig.
Besides, didn't you tell him that you didn't want this to mean anything? That you just wanted to borrow one of his nights?
Then why is he even thinking about overwhelming you by complicating this?
You wouldn't even believe him if he told you the truth, though.
He pretends to not even see you when you're around, never responds to your jokes, never asks for your opinions. He shuts up about his problems the moment you walk in the same rooms as him.
You'd think its because he doesn't want to share his life with you. He knows that its because he doesn't want you to see the ugly parts.
So he chooses to focus on pretending to be enamored by something else, again. This time, the clasp of his watch.
"I...uh, I gotta go, work thing."
There is no ‘work thing.’
You nod, tucking your hair behind your ear, not even a sliver of dejection on your face.
"Do you want me to call you a cab?" He offers, then quickly adds, "You can stay as long as you want. There's some food in the fridge."
You smile at him, the soft, honest one which brought him here in the first place. "I need to do some studying."
"Yeah, right." He nods, grabbing his car keys from the dresser beside you. This is the closest he has been to you since the morning.
You turn around, watching his every movement. Not curious, not nervous. Just there. Like you had been there several times. But you hadn't.
"Mingyu," you mutter, "...thanks for last night."
"Anytime." He smirks, allowing his hand to ruffle your hair.
On his way out, he switches off the kettle simmering next to the two ceramic mugs he had pulled out earlier. Dumping the tea bags, your favorite earl grey that you ordered at every brunch, he pretends not to listen to his heart thudding in his ears.
CHAPTER 1 || the anatomy of kim mingyu
With guilt poking at your ribs like a spear, you pick up the flashcards you had slammed against the wall.
It wasn’t the fault of the poor inanimate object that all your neurons have fused together into an useless coil rendering your brain nothing more than a lump of jumbled thoughts.
Anyone would struggle focusing on revision after a week of daily eight hour lectures, two hour labs and a constant slew of flashbacks of the salacious night spent in Kim Mingyu’s bed.
Mingyu.
Just the memory of his name makes you huff out louder than you should.
It took around three full days for the marks he had left all over your body to fade.
Four days for you to forget what brand of detergent his warm bed smelled like.
But the ache incited by even the most feathery touch of his fingers still lingers on your skin.
You settle back on your seat, rumpled up flashcards glaring at you from your polished table.
Your thighs clench instinctively on the plush chair, trying not to remember his knuckles brushing under your arms as he whispered, “you sure you wanna do this?”
Turns out, just clenching your thighs isn’t enough. You have to actually cross your legs, tighter, and take deep breaths…focusing on each inhale and every exhale, until your mind redirects itself towards the anatomy of the thorax from that of Kim Mingyu’s.
It helps, a little.
You talk yourself out of it, for a while.
You are a medical student, after all. You know that it is a rush of blood down in your pelvis, induced by your racy thoughts, which is causing you this agony.
It is not like your body needs him fundamentally.
You spend another hour of this specific Saturday evening making notes and doing revisions surrounded by the smell of wet ink and coffee gone cold.
You don’t have to. There were no lectures or quizzes scheduled on weekends. And while your peers are indeed always studying like one would expect them to, they also tend to take these two days off.
Not you, though. Never.
Even if you were hungover, you’d still crawl into your desk in the morning, trembling like a zombie and retching whenever something even remotely pertaining to “bodily fluids” popped up in your text books.
But you’d never shut it until you crossed off a major chunk of your to-do lists—assorted meticulously into days and weeks on your Notion.
The only Saturday morning, in the last two years since you started med school, which wasn’t spent with you pouring over your books was the one last week. Because that was the Saturday when you had woken up in a bed stiffer than yours, wrapped in a duvet heavier than yours, in an apartment much more expensive and neat.
You blink at the pending chemistry reading.
You were supposed to finish it off seven days ago instead of ogling at his abs while Mingyu peeled his shirt, button by button, holding you captive with his eyes.
Someone taps at your door twice, effectively diverting your mind back to the current timeline.
The first tap is hesitant, like whoever is on the other side is questioning if they should even be there.
You would have ignored it, refocusing your eyes on the thick binder. But that second round of knock startles you.
It sounds more determined, like she is not going to relent until you cave in.
The chair creaks as you drag it behind, your fuzzy socks almost causing you to slip on the uncarpeted floor.
The metallic bangles hugging your wrist clink with a balked symphony when you unlatch the door and open it just enough to reveal half your frown.
The overwhelming lilac of her perfume wafts in before her words do.
“You promised you’d come.” Rory, your flatmate, gets straight to the point like she was expecting you to turn her away instantly if she began with the usual ‘hey! What's up?’
People who don’t know you tend to act prudently around you.
But this little mouse has been sharing your apartment for eight months now.
There is no reason for her to be flinching when you turn around to check the rustic wooden clock hanging above your bed.
It isn’t like you are going to shove her or slam the door in her face.
“It's time already?” You sigh, dangly earrings clinkering against the wood when you lean against the doorway. “I guess I got too carried away studying.”
You eye her up and down—blonde hair curled in soft ringlets, a hint of something shimmery under the layers of her heavy polka dotted coat, lips painted red with a single faint coat of the Saint-Laurent lipstick you gifted her this summer like she knew it was gonna get wiped off eventually but put it on regardless because it complimented the orange undertones of her skin.
“Seems like you’re already all dressed. It would be a waste for you to wait on me while I get ready…” you say, and her shoulders begin to slump like she knows exactly where this is leading.
“How about you go without me?” You finally suggest.
“But roo—”
You glare at her before she can finish that word.
You’ve had this conversation with her before, multiple times, there is no reason for a grown twenty five year old woman to address another grown twenty five year old woman as “roomie”.
She corrects herself quickly with an apology and your name. “You said you’d come so I didn’t invite anyone else, and I can’t go to a basement party alone.”
“I didn’t make any promises, I said I’ll consider it.” you cross your arms, “Besides, why did you even agree to it in the first place, Rory? Those guys are like five years younger than us.”
“And cute!” she quips.
“And sophomores at NYU. I am so sure there is a new strand of chlamydia floating around somewhere in whatever dungeon they’re hosting this thing in.”
“But it could be fun and we don’t ever really do things together…” Rory’s voice trails off getting dimmer and dimmer with each word until, “...nevermind, I am not rich or interesting like your cousin and her friends. I am sure you guys only hangout at restaurants that have months long wait lists or go clubbing with actual models—”
It makes you roll your eyes with a huff and cluck your tongue against your teeth, signaling her to stop already.
You were running on a mere four hours of nightly sleep for the whole week and it has really started catching up on you—everything itches. It is the kind of overstimulation that stiffens your neck muscles like your head weighs a hundred pounds, and no amount of craning or cracking helps.
Your hair feels too greasy, the claw-clip holding it up pulls at your scalp vindictively, and what remains of the candle lit in your room smells more like burnt wick than vanilla.
The last thing you need is for Rory to manipulate you.
She shifts her weight from one heel to the other, gnawing at her stained lips, as she waits for you to do what she expected of you—relent.
“Fine.” You grumble, “Give me twenty minutes.”
With that, you turn around.
Rory flinches, almost breaking her heel, when you slam your door on her face.
CHAPTER 2 || didn’t say no
content warning: sexual trauma, harassment, mentions of knife
The party is exactly like you thought. Tacky.
Thumping like a heartbeat from under the earth in someone’s basement that you had to climb down a rattly iron ladder for.
There are burnt out cigarette butts littered everywhere around the floor, the remnants of their smoke still slumping fresh on the sooty walls.
You knew it was going to be like this—chaotic and muggy so you came prepared with a phone fully charged, a razor sharp pocket knife and a powerbank all tucked neatly in your clutch.
Though what you didn’t prepare yourself for, was to come face to face with Rory’s blatant lies.
The only reason why you even put on this ruby mini dress and paid around two hundred dollars for a cab was because she had given you the impression that she would have to go alone if you didn’t tag along.
Turns out, the very first sight you see, before your eyes can even adjust to the dim green lights of the place, is Rory hugging her friends.
Bodie, Amerie, and Julianna greet you one by one while Rory avoids your eyes.
You consider leaving the moment Bodie hands you an unopened can of beer with a grimy slime coating. But that would mean clambering up the rusty, wobbly, iron stairs fixed haphazardly under the manhole-like entrance of this place—all on your own.
Your ribs were still recovering from the unnecessarily tight grip of the guy who had helped you and Rory descend.
So you wait for a cue.
You smile along to whatever was being said about Professor Derby, add on to a few of Amerie’s puns and go as far as taking a hit from the blunt Julianna rolls and offers to you.
It gives Rory the impression that you were finally allowing yourself to open up—talking to people who aren’t your cousin Mayella’s friends. Showing off to people just how witty you could be, laughing along and shattering their impressions of you being what they called ‘a cold bitch who thinks she is better than everyone.’
You and the group are huddled together in a corner, clearly standing out as a much older chunk amidst the swarm of overenthusiastic NYU undergrads.
The crowd seems to increase by the minute as dusk settles deeper outside. The dancing throng of drunk, sweaty bodies inches closer and closer to where you are standing. It pushes your group until your back is pressed to the wall. Your right arm squeezes to Rory’s left while Julianna is standing facing you, a hair’s breadth worth of difference between your chests.
At this point, with everyone standing mouth to ear with each other, you don’t have to yell out loud if you want to say something.
The place reeks of desperation and recklessness and thumps with music you don’t recognize.
The temperature in the bunker rises, natural and slow. If only the lights here were a bit brighter, the fumes of body heat swirling above the dance floor could be visible.
It makes you want to take your heavy, fleece jacket off. And maybe even peel your skin out, if that’s possible.
Resisting the grotesque image from getting more vivid in your head, you wriggle around a little to rid your arms out of the sleeves of the coat.
Julianna notices you struggling against the dense fabric and helps you out. You smile at her thankfully, wrapping the coat over your elbow.
When she announces that she’ll step outside because the blunt was starting to make her heady, you offer to come with her.
Not because you care about Julianna. But because it is the cue you had been waiting for all night to leave this place, once and for all.
Julianna grabs your hand, even when you don't offer it—her grip around your wrist tight with a strange possession.
She pulls you along, expertly navigating your ways in the crowd until it grows thinner and eventually disappears behind you.
“Climb up.” she orders, clutching one side of the rickety ladder.
The sudden change in her demeanor is alarming, it forms this uncomfortable fog around you which smothers you down.
You put on your jacket regardless, avoiding her red rimmed eyes which are watching you like a hawk. Flicking your hair out of the collars, you wipe the sweat pooling in your palms against your skirt before beginning to climb up.
Julianna should have waited a bit more before climbing up behind you to not make this inappropriate. But she doesn’t.
From her position, she can easily see whatever is hiding under the short skirt of your dress. Her breath fans against the back of your thigh, too high up for your liking.
It makes a breath hitch in your throat and no matter how much you try to get it out, it doesn’t unclog.
By the time you’re up and out, you’re panting like a dog—nervous and wrecked.
The straps of your heel tied around all the way up to the knees slice into your skin when you scramble on your feet, trying to put as much distance as possible between you and the girl behind you.
Julianna emerges out with a smile wider than a barn door, dusting the rust off herself.
You don’t mention whatever the hell that was—the unnecessary violation of your personal space—thinking that maybe you just imagined it.
Maybe she didn’t mean to leer up your skirt.
Maybe she miscalculated the height.
The gravel crunches under your heels when you try to get far away from the weird place and an even weirder situation.
You don’t want to stop, not until you’re out of the dark garage and in the alley. A neon “open” sign pulses from top of a building somewhere in a puddle. The alley, a stuttering wash of red and yellow.
Your steps slow down on their own because the street is too uneven, littered with discarded plastic scraps and aluminum cans threatening to roll under the flimsy sole of your heels. The purple sky, devoid of any light from the newly emerged half moon doesn’t help either.
The phone shakes, even while you’re clutching it with both palms, as you try ordering a cab for yourself.
It almost slips out of your grip when an uninvited palm lands on your butt with a tight slap. Under your skirt.
“Planning to leave already, princess?” The taller girl leans down over your shoulder, the earthy smell of pot on her breath making your insides recoil. “Or is this all an act to make me chase you?”
“Wh…what are you doing?” You take a step away, but it only puts you into a much riskier position because you find yourself bumping into the wet brick wall.
“Gosh, you’re so pretty when you act innocent like that.” Julianna’s eyes rave all over you, demeaningly, as she smiles.
Her blown out pupils are the last thing you see before she plunges into your shrunken body.
One of her hands grabs at the collar of your jacket, shoving it aside with such a force that you actually stumble over your legs. Her other hand comes down to grab your waist to prevent you from falling while her cold lips start laving at your collarbone she just exposed.
You freeze like your own limbs have betrayed you, the scent of sweat and weed clogging your senses. Your eyes bulge out as she continues to stick wet kisses all over your skin, pulling at it with her teeth while cooing the same compliments you have heard way too many times before.
You want to dig your fingers down your throat, thinking that it’ll elicit some kind of sound out of you.
Sound of disapproval.
Sound of help.
Nothing comes out, you just reduce within yourself even more. Not even daring to touch her. Your nails are clawing at the wall behind you, can’t she see you’re actually repulsed by this? That you don’t want any of this?
“God you smell so expensive…you rich girls…you’re just something else.”
Julianna’s lips depart from your chest momentarily as she bends down on her knees, tugging at the fabric of your safety shorts.
The accidental scratch of her acrylics over your hips when she grunts at the tight material, is what jolts your lungs to open up.
This can’t be happening. No. Not here in this alley. Not again.
“No, no no no!” You are shouting as soon as your throat regains its ability to produce sound.
Julianna jerks, instantly dropping her hands away from your shorts.
She stumbles back, or maybe it's you who shove her…but you get the room to stagger to your side, pulling at the hem of your dress and wiping away her disgusting spit off your body.
It's not the loud snap which tells you that you’ve broken your heel. It’s when you scramble around for your dropped clutch, twist your ankle and thud down on your knees, that the imbalance registers.
Julianna, baffled by these recent turn of events and horrified by the blood seeping out of one of the nails you cracked, picks your clutch up and hands it over to you.
This should assure you that she didn’t intend for this to turn out how it did. But you don’t care.
Anger is still blooming over your skin in patches of shame wherever she has touched you. And it makes you pull out the pocket knife from your purse without a second thought.
“Don’t come near me!” You yell, uncaring about a group of asian ladies who are peeking at your commotion from the end of the alley.
“Don’t you dare touch me…I’ll slice you up, bitch!”
“I won’t!” Julianna instantly puts her hands up in surrender, “I won’t!”
She should leave. It's not like she did something really bad to you other than kissing your collarbone. But something about your wild eyes, your hysterical heaves and the disgusting, moist ground muck smearing your palms and knees urges her to stay until you aren’t as vulnerable as this.
Julianna just stands there, shaken and small, like she didn’t just cause your body to malfunction so violently that your breath still hasn’t evened out.
Your heart is exerting itself to drain out the adrenaline and pump blood back in your limbs. Slowly but surely, life comes back to you as your skin prickles with the gravel digging at your knees.
“I…I didn’t mean to force you into this.” she gulps dryly, “I thought…I thought you were hitting on me inside the club all the time...the blunt, the smirks—”
“Hitting on you!?Julianna, I was just being polite for fuck’s sake!” your voice booms, like the volume of it can create a protective shield around you.
You rip at the knots of the heel straps on your calf, leaving it pink and raw. Finally, you get up, covered in sooty mud, your hand clutching the knife still outstretched in a menacing warning towards her.
“You…you were rubbing yourself on me in there…” As soon as those words leave her mouth, Julianna realizes just how stupid they sound.
Of course, your body was mushed with hers, there was no room inside for you to prevent that from happening.
You don’t answer, just watch the mental machines whirring behind her horrid eyes. You know that it has dawned on her that she mistook her own underlying lust for you as sexual advances from you.
But that makes her a villain.
A predator.
And she wasn’t going to wear that title so easily.
“You didn’t even protest when my face was practically buried inside your ass on the stairs!” Her voice regains conviction, she crosses her arms under her chest.
“You could have said no many times, but you didn’t! And as soon as you did, I pulled awa…”
“Go get fucked, Julianna.” You scoff humorlessly cutting her sorry explanation off.
It is so evident that she’s saying all that not to apologize, but to persuade herself that she wasn’t in the wrong.
You continue, “You saw me calling a cab, wanting to leave, but you thought it was some sick game. So yeah, go get fucked Julianna. And maybe try looking for someone who consents.”
Her legs wobble when she steps farther away. She really didn’t want it to result into this…she wishes she could rip her heart to show you that.
But not even a simple sorry echoes out.
You pull your jacket back over the shoulder she had exposed, it bristles. You’ve been here before. Different hands, same bile.
Julianna just walks backward, slow and cautious, until she’s on the far end of the alley. She watches you call the cab and considers telling Rory about her grave misunderstanding before you get the chance to present your version.
Only if she knew you…Only if Julianna knew that you had learnt to carry nights like these in your bones, ages ago.
That night, your scowl deepens more than it ever had. The cab driver doesn’t even attempt to start a conversation, leaving you be. Nervously glancing at his rearview mirror every two minutes—he’s so obviously scared of you.
Good, you think.
You’d rather have people confuse you for a psychopath with ice in your veins than have them think you’re a delicacy for them to rip and sink their teeth in.
CHAPTER 3 || a brunch of lies
Imported ivies curling over the unsmudged glass windows and wooden interior which looks like it was varnished just this morning—its a type of place where one might spiral if they accidentally squirted a drop of ketchup on the embossed linen.
But you don’t have to care about the faint blemish of mud caused by your boots. Not when your friend Hansol’s aunt owns this place.
The ones who argue that coffee tastes the same everywhere clearly never had a cup somewhere like this—a cafe where the aroma of it is never burnt, where cinnamon isn’t just dusted over the sugary desserts for aesthetic, but actually balanced with other spices and golden butter in every bite.
You observe Lisa’s pensive expression which borders on glorious boredom as she converses through her Dior encased iPhone with her assistant. Besides her, your older cousin Mayella sits slumped back in the plush chair. Her shapely nails gliding over her work laptop with such smoothness that not even a single tap is heard.
Mayella is sly like a cat, when she’s busy. It's hard to remember she’s even there. The giant diamond sitting on her ring finger, courtesy of her fiance Josh, is more noticeable than her entire existence these days.
A trio of caffeine rich drinks, which was ordered without any consultation from you because the older girls already knew your preference, steams on the artsy table top.
After the recent rendezvous in your life—where you were almost assaulted by your roommate’s friend outside a club after having committed the incestuous act of sleeping with a friend (you doubt if you can even call Mingyu that), all in the span of ten days, it's a wonder that you still agreed to this brunch.
But Lisa is back in the city after two whole months of nursing a killer tan and trying to find her inspiration in Athens and Rome. How could you say no when she called you up, right at the airport, before the New York sun could even graze her skin?
The phone is held precariously between Lisa’s manicured fingers, like she doesn’t care if it shatters down on the marble floor. Even though there is enough distance between the two of you, and she’s talking in fluent Thai, you can make out that it isn’t a pleasant call based on her languorous drawls and eyerolls.
The call drops dead after a sigh too grave from your friend’s lips indicating you can finally peel your eyes from the arduous document you have been pretending to read on your iPad.
“I am gonna be unemployed soon.” Lisa muses, finally warranting her coffee worthy of some attention as she wraps her fingers around the now cold ceramic. “Who’s coming to apartment hunt with me in the Bronx?”
“You’re not moving to the Bronx.” Mayella’s jaw sets into an unamused line as she takes a long sip of her vicious black drink. “Just put out some of your old work to make up for what's not there.”
It was Mayella who introduced you to her friends of over half a decade when you first moved to the city for med school. So, it's baffling to you just how little she knows them.
Lisa is someone who would cancel her entire sold out art exhibition if even a single light fixture flickered dimmer than the rest at the gallery.
And here, Mayella is suggesting she disrupts her meticulously curated dream project by putting some random old art for a centre piece.
Lisa’s jaw locks, she raises a perfectly sculpted brow at your cousin.
“Oh?” Only Lalisa Manoban could make a single syllable sound so challenging.
Mayella has no choice but to meet it. “Come on, Lisa, there’re artists who would kill to get their works at that gallery. All your other paintings are nothing short of genius, and you wanna risk years worth of preparation over an unfinished centre piece?”
Lisa prickles at that but doesn’t push.
Mayella has had one moment of bliss in a long, long time after having booked her dream wedding venue, and Lisa doesn’t want to rain on that by starting a cat fight.
She rather shifts her attention to the revolving door.
You don’t have to follow her gaze to see him enter, the shift in the energy is enough for you to know that Mingyu’s here.
Since the very start, your body had developed this strange radar just for him.
And now that you’ve experienced his touch, it seems like that radar has bumped up its efficiency.
Your shoulders drop down on their own and your gut relaxes. A smile threatens to tilt your glossed lips when you realize he has no choice but to take the only vacant seat available at the table—the one next to you.
Lisa has her long arms already suspended up in the air to greet her best friend after two whole months. “Where’s Hansol?” she quips as soon as Mingyu is a foot away from the table.
“Stuck at a meeting, running late.” he answers, removing his sunglasses and tucking them in between the collar of his blue linen shirt, “You know you can’t just pull us out of work in the middle of a weekday?”
Mayella works from home most days.
Lisa has all the flexibility that only comes with being an independent artist.
And while you’re arguably the busiest of them all, they still treat you like a college kid.
Fair enough.
Lisa rolls her eyes, “Oh come on, it's not like a little time off work for brunch with your favorite ladies is gonna dent on your clientele, Mr. Kim-most demanded architect in the New York high society-Mingyu.”
A chuckle, that rich gentle one, fills the tensed spaces between the girls as he gives them both hearty, half hugs–one by one.
When it comes to you, he just nods, lips pressed into a polite smile that only appears for a second or two.
Kim Mingyu greets you like he’s greeting one of his clients.
He takes the seat next to you, but not before shifting it away just by an inch, like he couldn’t even risk brushing his elbow against yours.
The girls notice but don’t comment. They stopped trying to cozy the two of you up a long time ago. It just was never gonna happen—Mingyu chooses the people he wants to befriend. He wouldn’t buddy up some girl just because she was his friend Mayella’s cousin.
But then, when Lisa gets busy asking a waitress to reheat her coffee and Mayella is struggling against the excel file that won’t download, Mingyu’s long legs stretch under the mahogany table as he adjusts in his seat.
And your knees, tucked elegantly together to a side, brush against one of his.
You wait for the humiliating withdrawal that should follow—a quick apology under his breath and the instant retraction that occurs everytime he touches you on accident.
But it never comes.
Mingyu’s knee stays there, pressed lightly with yours.
You’d like to amend your earlier statement:
Kim Mingyu greets you like he’s greeting one of his clients whom he fucked last week.
“Bad day?” He asks.
You ignore that question because it is so obviously addressed to Lisa who is wearing dejection like a pearl necklace.
When it goes unanswered for five more seconds, you look up to find all three of them waiting for you to reply.
Oh…?
Oh.
“Me? I am fine.” You chuckle, unsure and disbelieving.
You set your coffee cup down before its dainty handle snaps between your fingers. Clearing your throat, you further prod, “Why’d you ask?”
Mingyu shrugs, like it is the most normal thing in the world. Like he isn’t the first person—friends, roommate, cousin, peers and professors included—to ask that in a long, long time.
“You look…tired.” He says.
It isn’t a statement, it's not even a question. It's more of an observation from him—an observation that he is open for you to call wrong if you want to.
“Med school being brutal, the usual.” You try to play it off, shrinking yourself in the corner so that the spotlight can shift back to Lisa or himself.
Truthfully, your insides are burning with more questions. You want to ask him what makes him say that you’re tired.
Is it the undereye bags? The slouchy posture? Do your limbs look too loose?
It's not like sleeping with you has unlocked some newfound sympathy for you in his heart and this isn’t the first time Mingyu has looked out for you.
Not that it would matter to you if he didn’t. But Mingyu’s borderline nonchalance towards you couldn’t be mistaken for unkindness.
In the past, he has passed you napkins when no one else noticed that the breadcrumbs on your fingers bothered you. He has driven you home when he thought that a mere flute of champagne was too much for you to hail a cab alone. In fact, he was the one out of all your friends who made that grocery store run when you got your period while hanging out at Hansol’s bachelor pad.
But this time isn’t like the rest. Because this time, it matters more than you’d want to admit. It makes you want to climb onto his lap and cry, for some reason.
Mingyu is unconvinced by your answer, like he can see through that blatant lie, but he doesn’t smother you further. Just looks at you with inquisitiveness…like you’re some enigma he’d give all his hours to crack, but then contradictorily averts his eyes to the menu within seconds.
Yet, there’s this air settled around you now—warm and fragrant, like his cotton sheets from days ago—assuring that you can tell him what bugs you, if you want to. He just gives you that space where you can decide for yourself. It's like he knows how much you value your freedom, your agency and respects it.
“And what’s ruining your day, Li?” he turns to Lisa who is scowling unimpressed at her torn apart muffin.
Lisa exhales, freer to have this conversation with Mingyu than Mayella. “Not even two months spent in the hearts of my subject matter could give my dense brain an idea for the centre piece.”
“It’ll hit you when it hits you.” Mingyu shrugs, “Don’t push yourself too much, you still have time.”
That eases Lisa to some degree. She gives a small smile to Hansol and Josh, who have just walked in. A few cheek pecks and back pats are exchanged while a waiter arranges two additional chairs at the table and another brings out your eggs benedict with parsley and pepper.
Maybe it's just your imagination, but you think Mingyu eyes your order rather curiously.
Josh and Hansol don’t need a disclaimer or a heads up to know what the ongoing conversation is about—Mingyu’s stance matching that of a therapist and Lisa’s somber eyes are enough to tell them that her European quest didn’t give her the revelation she was looking for.
“I just want it to fit perfectly, y’know?” Lisa sighs.
It's Hansol’s turn to join the conversation, “Sounds suspiciously like what I told the girl I was losing my virginity to. Needless to say, that didn’t go well.”
That earns a chortle out of the group. Not you, though.
Because you brace yourself for what’s about to ensue—another inherently competitive discourse where everyone shares their “first time stories” trying to one-up each other’s experiences.
And as if she was right on cue;
“Mine was with a guy who didn’t know where to put it in and I had to point it out for him.” Lisa laughs like she’s talking about something as casual as seeing someone trip over air on the street.
Joshua would have steered clear of this mildly crass discussion had he not been coerced to spill his guts by your cousin’s frosty glare. “I…uh, yea it was weird for me too, man. It was in college, we were both kinda drunk, I ended up puking in her fishbowl.” He flushes.
“Fishbowl?!” Lisa and Mingyu are practically wheezing at this point.
Joshua just scoffs it off, but his ears pinch pink.
“Yeah? Tell me about it,” Mayella chuckles dry, “At least it wasn’t your high school girlfriend trying to shove a dildo lathered in coconut oil up your vagina.”
“Oh my god, Maye!” you almost choke on your latte.
The group might laugh, because it's just another tale for them. But you knew the girl your cousin dated in highschool—you even went shopping with them in Milan. So that image that Mayella just put in your head is plain inconsiderate and distasteful.
“Oh come on, stop being such a prude. What was your first time like?”
Mayella turns the tables on you with a single flick of her manicured fingers under her pin straight hair which flail like a whip over her smooth shoulder.
And just like that, there are five pairs of eyes staring daggers at you.
You wish the wall next to you could swallow you whole, but you don’t let that reflect on your face.
Tucking your hair behind your ear, you let your finger encircle the rim of your empty cup as you speak. “Just some guy I dated for a month during pre-med. Sophomore year, his dorm room, pretty standard stuff.”
Everyone just nods, like they expected such an answer from you. You’ve never given them something scandalous, or even slightly interesting for that matter, to talk about anyways. Sometimes you wonder if they only keep up with you because you’re Mayella’s cousin. Always plain and boring. So they believe your story.
But not Mingyu, though.
Not when his bare hands had washed your blood off his sheets just a few days ago. My little liar, he thinks to himself, a smirk concealed by his tea cup.
CHAPTER 4 || a wish granted
It seems to you that Mayella wasn’t all too satisfied with the way most conversations during the brunch were centered around Lisa’s artblock crisis. Because within twenty-four hours of it, you had received an invitation from her and Josh to come see the wedding venue they have finalized.
It was some aristocratic estate in Hudson Valley, renovated and remodeled less than a decade ago by the same firm that Mingyu now works for.
Mayella claims that it was Mingyu who had helped shrink the waiting list to accommodate the date your friends wanted to book it for.
Large iron gates, black and sturdy, open to reveal a mile long drive lined with cypress trees and luminous marble statues of little singing angels. At the end of it, the manor stands like a symbol of Victorian aristocracy—fresh ivy entwining around perfectly symmetrical honey hued stone columns.
Inside, the ceilings soar high in a dome adorned by intricate paintings—an egoistic American’s rendition of the Sistine chapel—as you call it.
That earns a deep chuckle from Mingyu.
Hansol bailed out and Lisa hasn’t arrived yet so it's just the two of you trailing behind the engaged couple as they bore you with all the details.
Like the fact that the chandelier hanging above the mosaic marble of the grand foyer was salvaged from an abandoned Venetian opera house.
“We don't know who they are,” Josh laughs pointing to the gilded portraits of imagined ancestors, “but they looked expensive, so we adopted them.”
“Maye, are you okay with the portraits of random strangers overlooking your matrimonial rites?” Mingyu asks, an amused grin dancing along his lips as he watches your cousin’s face turn paler under her perfect concealer. “What if one of these is haunted?”
“You think?” Mayella, who is sunshine personified today in a rayon yellow dress and a loose braid fraying apart over her shoulder, seems like she has already seen the ghost Mingyu is talking of.
Looking at the distressed furrow of her brows activates the maid of honor instincts in your gut. Before you can even think it through, you are swatting Mingyu lightly on his bicep.
“Don’t scare her, you know she gets anxious about the paranormal.” You scold.
This is the most physical touch you’ve had since that night, and it seems to affect Mingyu much less than it does to you.
Unlike you, he isn’t shaken at all—his eyes just flicker from his bicep to the tiny palm that hit it, a crooked smile slanting his mouth.
And as if he really enjoyed that smack and wants another one, he juts his tongue against his inner cheek before adding—
“Maye, what if the whole place is haunted by these dudes?”
“Mingyu, come on, stop being a dick,” Joshua sterns, before turning to his fiancee who is now eyeing one of the oak paneled rooms to shift the portraits in.
“Baby, you’re seriously gonna let a man, who thinks the subway girl is his soulmate, convince you that these paintings are haunted?”
Mingyu’s smile falters at the mention of this supposed soulmate.
Ah yes.
The subway girl.
Mingyu’s only lore that was ever made known to you.
That too, because you had walked in, unannounced and still half asleep from your nap, to the drawing room where the group was teasing Mingyu about his one true love—her.
As the lore goes, some four years ago—way before you met any of them, a 22 year old Kim Mingyu had just moved to Manhattan for his first job. He had bumped into this girl on a subway during one of his evening commutes.
Initially, he thought she was beautiful—just a random subway crush you spot one day and forget about the other—and wished only if he could see her again…ever.
That wish must have landed on a falling star because he did see her again, after a few days. Same route. And then again…for a third time.
All the three times, she got off just two stops before him.
All the three times, he just stood there glued to his pole, dumbfounded.
Mayella said he had been so insufferable throughout that fall.
That regret and desperation of not chasing what he wanted had seeped into the icy winters which followed.
And as Mingyu rotted in despair from October to January for this mystery woman whom he never saw again, your friends stated that it was so shallow of him to fall for someone just for their looks and hook himself on the idea of spending his life with a pretty stranger.
Eventually, Mingyu recovered from this love coma by February of that year. He even took a girl from work out for dinner on Valentine’s day.
But they broke up—didn’t even last three months.
His next relationship fell apart at an even shorter notice.
When you moved to NYC to start med school and met Mayella’s friends—Mingyu included, he was two weeks into his third breakup in the last sixteen months.
When they were telling you this story, around two years ago, everyone began teasing him again. Then they turned to you, to see what insane insult you could throw at him for being such a simp (because of course, that conversation had been a competition too).
You just shrugged and said that it was such a Ted Mosby thing to do.
That had them amused, with Mayella going as far as to pat you on the back for this apt comparison of Mingyu with “TV’s most pathetic male lead ever.”
You just sipped on your beer.
With it, you gulped down your verity that to you, Ted Mosby, in actuality, was a dream come true.
You sometimes still think about Mingyu and the subway girl when you think too deeply about love at midnights…and you can’t help but be jealous of them both, actually.
Of her, because just how majestic her presence must have been to strip a guy off all his senses just by being in his vicinity for less than an hour.
Of him, because how can someone carry so much love in his heart for someone he doesn’t even know the name of?
Mingyu often laughs it off whenever ‘subway girl’ is mentioned now, and it's more of a running joke than a belief. But his eyes still warm up, just by a degree, like he’s witnessing the first snow of his life and his smile still falters, like it just did, at the mention of her.
And for some reason, what used to be this simple observation now boils bile in your throat.
Because you don’t think anyone could ever perceive you that way…like you’re the purest stream flowing through life–untouched, unguarded and holy.
You’re the girl whose smile is seen as a flirtatious invitation to be touched.
You know it's not your fault that the world is such an evil place to exist as a woman. But it's also not fair that you’re licked by lewd eyes who view you as just another body to be owned, used, watched and discarded. While there are women like the subway girl who are worshipped by men like Mingyu for just breathing in a corner.
At this moment, right under the painting where Adam reaches out for God’s hand in “the creation of Adam,” your gluttony takes over you.
You wish that Mingyu never sees her again.
You pray that it lands on some falling star somewhere—like Mingyu’s wish did all those years ago.
But before you can finish that prayer, Mingyu is calling out for your name.
“Hey!” He snaps his fingers in front of your eyes.
You flinch, blinking rapidly. The subway fades and the villa materializes around you again. The gloss on your lips has completely evaporated and there’s a slight sheen of sweat slicking your nude back, making strands of your open hair stick to it in uncomfortable swirls.
Mingyu is staring down at you with deep creases between his brows.
He’s standing close, too close. And it's only when it drops down, leaving a trail of blazing goosebumps behind, that it registers to you that his arm has been on your shoulder.
“Uhm…uh, wh-where are…” you rummage your brain, but no name other than Mingyu pops up.
“Mayella and Josh went to the open terrace to see if they should have the string quartet play there.” Mingyu answers, still standing close to you, though there’s no physical touch involved anymore.
Your body wilts at that.
His tongue darts out to wet his lips before explaining, “I stayed behind because I thought you were still checking out the paintings…but you’ve been staring at the wall for five minutes now.”
“Oh.” is all you can muster.
“Seriously though, are you okay?” he asks with earnest sincerity in his eyes.
It isn’t the casual question that Lisa or Mayella might ask you when they see you dragging your feet and then drop it once you answer that you’re just tired from med school.
It is firmer and silently demands honesty.
Like if you wanted to share what bothered you, he'd sit right here, next to you, on the marbled floor and listen to you.
But if you lied to him by telling him all’s well, he would see right through it and be disappointed.
“I am okay,” You lie, regardless. “…just tired ‘cause of school and these brunches and hangouts never stop.”
You try to laugh that off like a joke—coming to visit the place your cousin plans to tie a knot of forever with the love of her life shouldn’t be an errand.
Mingyu doesn’t reciprocate it though. It seems like he stopped listening once he noticed your nimble fingers tracing the rim of a vase since you said ‘I am okay.’
You retrieve your arm back and let it fall by your side, your fingers cinching over the fabric of your dress instead. His observation follows like you’re some lab rat under his unwavering study.
Why the hell is he staring at my arms? You think. Your fingers aren’t even shaking and the color, the skin, the texture—everything looks pretty fine.
Thankfully, he drops it.
The sole of his shoes are soundless against the marble as he gently steps back. With a tilt of his head, you’re wordlessly ordered to follow him out of the hall.
Mingyu slides his shades off, points it towards the ceiling before tucking it between his collar as he asks, “So what do you think of the remodeling?”
“It’s pretty neat.” You nod, “Almost as if a historic church had an affair with Athens and birthed this place.”
A chuckle, balmy and with amusement curling around its edges, reverberates through the dome ceilings. The smiles of the angels painted up above you deepens when Mingyu laughs.
“I can never get tired of hearing you describe buildings.” He looks at you, gaze lowered to yours.
His pace slows down to match your feeble steps. The tension radiating from you is so thick that you’re worried it is going to weigh him down, too, even when he’s trying to put you at ease with these casual conversations.
Pressure builds up in your throat, choking you and forcing you to say something witty yet easy in reply.
Though, nothing but a puff of air with a low hum of fake laughter comes out.
You just hope to join Mayella and Josh soon and rid Mingyu from the herculean task of trying to keep this boat afloat. But Mingyu drags open a large wooden door instead of leading you towards the spiral staircase.
“Wait, are we not going to the terrace?” You ask.
He holds the door open and looks over his shoulder, “Not unless you wanna hear Maye and Josh argue over their playlist for the ceremony.”
He says that, like for him, hearing his friends discuss wedding music is equivalent to a million nails scratching against thousands of blackboards at once.
Tipping his head towards what lays outside, he ropes you along to have you see what he wanted you to see. Mingyu pushes the door ajar, unveiling the view of the backyard lawns.
You don’t know what chills your spine more—the gush of cool breeze that swishes past your skin without a warning, or the view that hypnotizes your very soul.
Lush green gardens separated by rows of flowering shrubs and pinched by specks of polished ivory which you assume must be little statues fixated in between tiny fountains. The afternoon sunrays frolic lazily from one pool to another, draping the garden and everything within it under its shawl. A stronger gust wind causes the flowers to lose a petal or two, but the breeze that follows it is like an apology—whispered yet devout.
This is a scene plucked out of Eden and dropped here on Earth.
Your mouth falls ajar…were humans ever supposed to witness something as magnificent as this?
It is the same sun, the same breeze, the delightful yet familiar scent of vanilla dipped honeysuckles that you can come across at any well kept garden anyday.
Yet, witnessing something so beautiful today just feels ethereal. Maybe the man standing next to you adds to the charm of it all.
You don’t know because you are already tearing up. The view blurs, like you're viewing it from behind a piece of polished glass.
“Oh my god.” You whisper, already entranced.
CHAPTER 5 || today, you’re prettier than yesterday
Mingyu stays behind, with hands pocketed in his dark jeans.
He watches your glassy eyes reflect the little rainbows dancing over the sculpture of a baby cupid shooting arrows in between the small pond in the centre of the lawn. His breath mellows down looking at you because he’s afraid that any slight disturbance—even that of his breath—might break the sanctity of this moment.
He waits for you patiently with stars in his eyes, breaths held and a smile that stays sincerely tugged at his lips instead of being suppressed until it fades.
Today, you’re more beautiful than yesterday—he thinks that everyday.
Wearing a pearly maxi dress which cascades over your body, hinting at your curves only when you move. A glint of gold of the frail chain hung loose over your hips flirts with the sunlight one moment, then shies away the other.
He doesn’t even know how to feel about the fact that the color of your dress matches his shirt which he had put on thoughtlessly in the morning. It is when you take a step forward, leaving him behind with nothing but the jangle of your large earrings, that he feels like dying—the dress is practically backless.
Its back neckline scoops down until it kisses your lower waist, pooling around just above the curve of your butt.
Even though he had held you just for a night, if handed wet clay, Mingyu can sculpt out the form of you with his eyes closed.
He doesn’t have to push away the curtain of your open hair to recall the positions of the dimples on your back.
You don’t notice any of that though. Of course you don’t.
The gardens are a wonderland…dotted with classical sculptures, private pavilions, and an actual reflecting pool shaped like a lyre. He knew you’d love it as much as he did the moment he proposed this place as a prospective venue to Mayella and Joshua.
Such places always charm you, he has observed.
Like how a robin perched on top of a branch above her head fixates you more than Lisa’s rambling ever could.
It relieves him to finally see you breathe easier today.
He doesn't know what went wrong, but you have been frowning more these days. At first he thought it was because of the night you spent with him, but that possibility deflated when he felt you lose up around him instead of stiffening or recoiling like he expected.
Now to your defense, you have always been cagey like you are holding something discreet in your ribs—something that doesn’t belong there. Coming up with obvious lies and fake tales, only speaking what you wanted to be known…not even a single dent on the iron walls you have built around yourself.
But since the last two weeks, it has gotten worse. He can feel it in his bones. He can see it in how you’re barely keeping it together…like someone forcibly shattered those walls and now you’re holding them up together with wet glue.
Your eyes, though always cold, seem more distant. You barely ever smiled your true smile, but it is even rarer now.
And only God knows the lengths Kim Mingyu would go to just to get that smile to blossom back on your face.
Because he just did.
Even if it took him scrounging through his firm’s database to look for the details of the client whom this villa was renovated for.
Even if it took him several desperate emails and calls to set an appointment with that said client.
Even if it meant him begging Mr. Kaiser, the owner of this estate, to book this venue for Mayella and Joshua.
Even if it meant him offering a hefty down payment, the amount of which was unknown to the couple, for this place…
Kim Mingyu would do that all over again, time and time again, if his toils transpired into this view before him—the view of you smiling like the moon and sun were dancing in circles around you.
A particularly frosty wind carrying shrapnels of that October cold brushes past you, but you’re too focused on admiring the bulbs of yellow flowers on round bushes to soothe the goosebumps on your skin.
Mingyu peels his jacket off and, without a second thought, puts it over your shoulders. His knuckles graze your naked skin.
The goosebumps that his touch elicits are nothing compared to the ones caused by cold. You shiver at that, he mistakes it for a flinch and quickly apologizes.
“No, no, thanks. I was freezing.” You hum, curling your fingers tighter at the edges of his coat and pulling it tighter over your chest. Reaching mid thighs and burrowing your entire upper body, it's almost a second dress to you.
The silhouette of his jacket on you is like that of his shirt from all those days ago, which he had laid out for you besides your ripped dress. You had put it on, even buttoned it all the way down, almost.
But then you were reminded of the promise you had made to yourself…that you wouldn’t drag yourself through hell again. Borrowing his shirt would mean coming back to return it. And if you went back to him, you were so sure you’d end up getting addicted to him.
You couldn’t do that…
…not when you were still a shadow of yourself, trying to piece yourself together one by one…
…not when you knew that Mingyu’s heart belonged to someone else.
“This place was meant to be one where lovers come to unite.” You comment just as you reach the largest pavilion in the lawn.
Wooden and rustic, draped with little light bulbs and lilies, this is where Joshua and Mayella will be cutting their wedding cake.
“It is,” Mingyu speaks, almost too low for the usual strength of his voice.
You feel his breath fanning over your hair when he steps forward, points at the glass ceiling from over your shoulder and whispers, “look…”
The glass is a stained heart cut, crystal patches of red and white.
Even the sunrays seem to pad over it with caution and featherlight steps.
You avert your eyes before you can turn around and kiss Mingyu right under it.
“Seems like the architect who designed this was a hopeless romantic.” You chuckle, now taking note of all the heart motifs plastered all over the woodwork in the pavilion.
Mingyu laughs, “He is, actually. I worked under him on my very first project at the firm…he told me he remodeled this villa right after getting married. Hence, the romanticism.”
“What about you, Kim Mingyu? Have you designed anything with your subway girl in mind?” Your mouth feels chalky when you utter that last phrase. This is the first time you have teased him about her.
You expect him to bark out a laugh or roll his eyes and ignore that question but, "I have.” He says, his voice lower than before.
There’s no shame in it—just reverence that makes your skin prickle.
Not even a single ounce of timidity on his face. It feels like you’re getting to know mingyu all over again, the man he is under that devil-may-care smile…the man who admits to building houses with a voiceless girl from four years ago as his muse.
Before you can ask him more about this unrequited devotion, you hear a distant gasp ringing from across the lawn.
———————
Lisa arrived some ten minutes ago, toured around the villa and for all her inner turmoil, looked temporarily cured by the grandeur of the place.
But it is the scene in front of her at the moment that has revived her.
Her eyes, once worn and weathered, are shining with a newfound purpose as she charges towards the pavilion, practically sprinting towards the two of you.
Instinctually, you step away from him, like you’re afraid that the unusual lack of space between Mingyu and you might alarm her with a hint of what went down at his house two weeks ago.
Mingyu is already walking down the stairs, brows knitted in confusion at this bizarre surge of enthusiasm in Lisa. He catches her by the elbow before she can tumble over the slippery grass right outside of the pavilion.
“God, Lisa are you okay?”
You hurry down to hold her too.
“I am fine, I am fine.” She heaves, clutching her stomach with her free hand, while tapping at Mingyu’s bicep with the other.
She then turns to order you, “Take off your coat.”
“Huh?” you raise your brows at this strange demand.
“Just take it off!” She steps forward, her breath coming out as a white puff of cloud in the cold air.
You do as you’re told, gingerly slipping the outer layer off and handing it back to its owner. Your face flushes when Lisa’s eyes follow the movement of your hand and the shade only deepens when Mingyu’s finger tips stroke your palm when he accepts his jacket back.
“Good, now you two, step closer.” She commands again.
Mingyu and you exchange a look, his leans more towards bewilderment while yours is mortified. Does she know…
Regardless, Mingyu stands closer to you. You feel the ghost of his presence icing up the air around you until you choke.
“There it is…” Lisa claps her hands under her chin, grinning ear to ear. The breeze whips the short hair haphazardly over her beaming face. “My center piece…You two. My studio. Saturday, 5 pm.”
CHAPTER 6 || a myth retold
Apparently, the view of you sauntering those heavenly gardens in that particular white dress with Mingyu by your side had struck Lisa like a thunderbolt charged with everything she had been searching for.
As you look around her studio, it is so evident that Lisa’s zeal had gone blue.
It's not like she was drawing stick figures or monochromatic messes hoping it would land.
But she had just drawn hands. And nothing but hands. For months straight. Sketches of lopsided fists, gnarled and crooked fingers are strewn all over the room.
But according to her, these hands are about to get their bodies—ones inspired by the forms of you and Mingyu.
“It is because the two of you are never together so it never hit me just how well your bodies compliment each other.” Lisa remarks, adjusting a canvas two third of her own height on the wide easel.
You are unsure how to answer that, so you just lean further back into the giant window sill, tucking your knees beneath your body, relaxing under the fizzling out warmth of a setting sun. Thankfully, there’s a shawl warped over your upper body for now, or you’re so sure you’d freeze to death in her airy art studio.
Mingyu is standing a few feet away from you, arms crossed over his chest, unamused and obviously finding this entire thing bogus.
“You couldn’t find two models?” he almost scoffs, but the underlying fear of Lisa, has him hold it back in. “I mean, Maye and Josh are arguably the better choice if you wanna draw some romantic marble statues, Li.”
Regardless, that earns him a glare for Lisa.
“Despite what the internet might try to tell you, no two bodies are exactly alike so no, models who look like the two of you won’t cut it.” Lisa explains, “Besides, I want there to be that subtle awkwardness in my reference for this one, one that exists between the two of you.”
“We’re not awkward around each other.” You jump to clarify, but the refusal of your gaze to meet him doesn’t help the case.
“Yeah, right.” She doesn’t even deem it worth her time or energy to argue with an unbudging opponent. Once she has her several pencils lined in the correct order, like a ferocious warrior gearing up her spears, Lisa orders the two of you to huddle around her.
When you’re both on either side of her tall stool, she pulls out her phone to show you an image of a marble statue and the different angles she has clicked it from.
The white sculpture is that of a distressed woman restrained, almost held up in the air, by the tight grip of a muscular man while her arms push him away—an unmistakable depiction of some sort of struggle or abduction.
The details of the flesh of her waist and thighs oozing out from between his strong palms, the flutter in her stone carved toes as her delicate legs are lifted off the ground, the strain on his knees as he hoists up her entire weight on his waist and the bulge of his veins…it is all so beautiful yet grotesque.
“‘The rape of Proserpina’ by Bernini?” Mingyu questions, recognition glinting in his eyes as he studies the images closely.
You flinch back, gulping dry as your skin suddenly begins to crawl. Mingyu notices your sudden discomfort.
“Rape as in rapture, or kidnapping…” He quickly explains, a gentle soothe lacing his slow voice as he watches you ease up.
“Exactly.” Lisa switches off her phone, darts her feline eyes between the two of you, then speaks, “The theme for my show is a contemporary reimagining of stories as told by these ancient statues. I use the original structures, but I also wanna depict something else entirely—with color, with their eyes, even if it's a slightly different slant of their mouth.”
Mingyu nods, a slight hum of approval reverberating through his neck as Lisa’s vision dawns on him.
“I don’t understand.” You mumble, it's almost a whisper like a single off key note in the middle of a symphony.
You’re painfully aware of how little you understand as the two older, much refined, friends talk in brushstrokes and marble—a language you never learnt. Lisa softens, then signals you to come closer with a crook of her index finger. She taps vigorously on her screen.
“Have you seen Michelangelo’s David?” she asks and when you nod, pushes the screen in front of you.
It is a painting of Michelangelo's David in color. The posture, the resemblance, the angles, it is all there.
But somehow, it is an art which couldn’t be further away from its reference.
Maybe it’s the lines—breezy and tranquil, or maybe it’s the placid expression on his face or maybe the pastel and serene colors but…Lisa’s David, as opposed to Michaelangelo’s heroic and burly one, looks like just some other dude.
It’s a disorienting visual, honestly. So familiar, yet so bizarre and clearly deliberate.
Lisa points to your agape mouth like your bewilderment is the highest honor you could have bestowed upon her, “That right there! That confusion is exactly what I want to see on my audience’s face on the day of the exhibition.”
Mingyu rolls his eyes, again, almost. Then straightens up like he remembers who he is talking to. “And how are we supposed to help you pull that off?”
Lisa places a hand over his shoulder for leverage and jumps off the high cushioned chair, gesturing you both to follow her back to the window-sill you were sitting on. “I just need the two of you for the initial lines, don’t worry, I am not using your facial features, just the bodies…and that slight apprehension that exists between you both.”
Mingyu and you, trailing behind her turned back, exchange a look. The air between you weighs down with something thicker. The last time your eyes had flickered to each other this way was around a month ago after the last guest of his small party had departed from his house.
Lisa whips around, places a firm palm over Mingyu’s chest, guiding him to sit down where you were sitting a few minutes before. “You, Pluto or Hades, are not the almighty abducting God of the underworld. You’re sitting down in leisure, waiting and amused, instead of standing up with a woman trapped between your hulking arms.” She directs.
Mingyu sits down, awkward and stiff.
“Gyu, losen up!” Lisa scolds.
His shoulders sag, barely.
It's your turn to receive her instructions now. “You, Proserpina or Persephone, are not the damsel or some victim. You’re his descent. You are the dare.” Lisa turns you around until you are standing in front of Mingyu, your back blocking his view.
Eyeing you up and down with nothing but appreciation, she continues. “In that waterfall-like dress, that rose blush on your cheeks and that golden sunlight undertone of your skin, you are the spring.”
Then, she shoves you.
You land on Mingyu’s lap–on his left thigh, to be precise–a soft yelp escaping your lips. His arm lifts on its own to clutch your waist, to stabilize your fall.
While his other arm lands over your thighs to hold you from slipping down.
There’s a slight flutter in his fingers when they recognize the skin they’re touching, they had mapped it out thoroughly for hours in the past after all. But his stronghold doesn’t waver.
Swift. Fierce. Sure.
Mingyu’s gaze softens around the edges when your breath shudders. Sensing your overwhelm, he removes his hand from your thighs and turns to Lisa. “So…she’s not the one being taken down?”
“Nope.” Lisa smirks, reaching for his arm and placing it right back on your thigh. “There’s a subtle shift in the power dynamic here. Not entirely, she’s not a seductress. But the depiction of abduction becomes one of rebellion. And what bigger rebellion there is than love?”
She turns to you, moves one of your hands to Mingyu’s face and whispers, “You’re not pushing him like in the original statue, rather caressing him…but don’t make it look inviting, either.”
“Lisa, I really can’t follow...” Embarrassingly, you know just how much you’re tensing up right now. You nearly recoil from him like you’re torched.
“Just pat him like he’s your dog.” She grumbles.
Your fingers find their way over his jaw again, like even they couldn’t bear to stay apart for much longer.
All of a sudden, his thumb is brushing circles over your hip. Like he is coaxing you to relax. To trust him. And you do… allowing yourself to sink deeper down into him.
Your other arm has draped itself across his shoulder on its own accord. Or perhaps it was your body’s reaction to stabilize you.
But it’s there, hugging him like a garland or a rope—it’s really hard to tell when he’s holding you like a promise but burning holes in your eyes as you hold his face.
He is either extremely turned on. Or incoherently repulsed. You can’t tell.
“I will add the details in the eyes, the expression, the smiles…you two, just hold this posture for a bit.” Lisa’s heels are already tapping away from you, knocking dully against the polished floor. “Gyu, adjust your stance…your free knee should be slightly bent in motion…like you’re about to be led somewhere.”
“I want the tension still there,” she continues. “But it’s the tension of choice. Desire. Risk. Not violence.”
Mingyu blinks twice, thrice, before shifting his eyes away from your parted lips and adjusting his legs as per Lisa’s instructions, like even that requires him to compose strength. The back of your thighs sink deeper into his firmer one when he moves. A sudden gush of air fans over the hair on your neck when he exhales in this embrace.
“How long do we have to hold this for?” he clears the web of hesitation clogging his throat, “can’t you just click a few pictures from different angles?”
“She doesn’t like getting a camera pointed at her.” Lisa mutters, pointing at you with a conviction that leaves no further room for argument.
She grabs a thick charcoal pencil from behind the canvas, stares at the two of you with an intensity that makes a tiny wrinkle crease her otherwise perfect brows, then gives her chin a little scrub before she begins scratching black on the canvas.
Sexually frustrated and feeling utterly rejected, you were a woman scorned.
It has been a month.
A month since you came on to Mingyu and offered him your virginity on a silver platter. A month since he hovered above you on his bed, silver chain gripped between his teeth to prevent it from hitting your face as he rutted his hips against yours. A month since your knees brushed against his under a mahogany table and forgot how to support your weight.
A whole week since Lisa pushed you onto his lap like that was the most sensible place for you to be and your body hasn’t stopped craving his touch ever since.
What’s worse is that you seem to be the one bearing the brunt of it alone.
You’re so sure Mingyu doesn’t even think of you when he wants to satisfy himself…probably just calls some modelesque woman off the roster he presumably has, pretends she’s his subway girl in the dark and be done with it.
That is one harmful assumption to make, considering you don’t even know him that well. But it's also true that you haven’t seen him be in a single relationship in the last two years you’ve been around and you’ve never seen him frustrated.
It is safe to say that he has his own channels of relieving those frustrations beyond just a game of tennis with Mayella here or a night at the bar with the boys there.
For a moment, this conceited feeling of consciousness slithers up your mind. Was it not as pleasurable for him as it was for you?
Did you fail to satisfy him the way he satisfied you?
Before she got engaged to Joshua, Mayella would always gloat about the men and women she hooked up with and how they were always frothing at their mouths to have her back.
It makes you doubt your sexual prowess and if your inexperience disappointed Mingyu.
It shouldn’t matter this much, you think. You’re not selfish, but you also know that you deserve at least some grace for keeping up with him that night. He was well endowed and way above average in every aspect that matters.
You thought your thirst for Mingyu would die down by now. Spoiler alert, it hasn’t.
And now, it's almost midnight when it dawns on you that you’ve become the thing you feared the most—an addict of his touch.
You are heaving after another gloriously tanked attempt at satiating your carnal desires.
Sheets rumpled up in one corner of the bed and a pillow lying puckered up in the other, the salacious moans of the porno you had put on, unrealistic and gross, fill the dark hollows of your room.
Your good old humping pillow just doesn’t cut it anymore.
Not when you’ve had the real deal (that too, one of the finest specimens) ram inside you with such expert precision and at a pace which rearranges one’s guts.
His skillful tongue, his callous fingers…his big, thick, veiny cock had made you produce sounds you didn’t even know your throat was capable of making.
But it has been so many days, and the memories of his touches are becoming hazy under the weight of all the study material you’ve had to cram.
Yesterday, while you were at it again, with the memories of his face and body plastered hot behind your closed lids, you had failed to satisfy yourself for the fourth time this week. What echoed from your room was a grunt so animalistic, you’re sure that’s what pushed Rory to pack a bag and leave to stay the weekend at one of her friends.
You don’t even bother putting on some other pornographic movie (not just because it disgusts you, but because you know its not gonna be enough—not when you’ve been fucked so thoroughly by Kim Mingyu) and just text him the dreadful two words.
You: You up?
It's humiliating.
It's desperate.
It’s the first text you have ever sent him.
But it is what it is.
If he doesn’t reply in fifteen minutes, you are considering blocking him and buying the best reviewed sex toy on Amazon.
It takes him seven minutes to reply.
Kim Mingyu: Yeah, just got home
Kim Mingyu: Is everything okay?
You don’t even wait seven seconds to text back.
You: all well…tho do you mind if I come over?
Kim Mingyu: at this hour?
You’re at a loss for words. Is that blatant rejection or…
Wait…
Did he just misinterpret your text? Does he not know the implications of the infamous you up and come over?
Before you can combust what remains of your brain cells after the brutal lab work today, your phone pings with another text.
Kim Mingyu: its almost midnight, better if i drive to your place instead…what do you think?
Your heart shouldn’t be drumming in your throat like that. It is just an offer, similar to the one you made.
Albeit yours was crass and direct, his is coated with careful consideration.
…almost midnight…better if I drive to your place…
He’s just being decent, there are no underlying subtexts to be looked for and interpreted here, you tell yourself.
You: cool…rorys not here either.
Kim Mingyu: Perfect
You practically fling out of the bed when that one word lights up your screen with a ping.
Scrambling on your feet to change out of your sullied oversized tee and into the silk nightie that you only wear when you are ovulating and feeling like a Goddess of skincare and femininity.
The slinky dress pools around your thighs like a satin fountain.
You brush your hair, spritzing a floral mist into it then ruffle it up again—an illusion of effortless elegance.
A few dabs of vanilla body oil on the inside of your thighs, under-breasts, and wrists are enough to make the pressing weight of not having thought this through vaporize out of your open window.
You fluff your pillow—the one with the silk case for your head—and discard the old one which had spent an embarrassing amount of hours being squeezed between your thighs.
But then you remember how Mingyu had put a pillow under your hips the first time you did it, and it makes you wonder if he has a preference for that.
So the cotton pillow, traumatized and squished, stays put under the now straightened blankets.
The wick of your newest rose scented candle barely flutters with a nascent amber flame when a sharp knock from the front door fractures the silence.
Every single dormant goosebump on your skin jolts back to life.
Three deep breaths is all you allow yourself before putting on your matching robe and padding barefoot towards the front door where your sinful indulgence for the night, something other than a greasy pizza for once, awaits.
Your heart pounds in your fingertips as they undo the latch and pull it open to reveal him.
Mingyu is already leaning against the doorway with a sunny smile slanting his lips lopsided.
A hint of knowledge dilates his pupils when he takes in the image of you…like he knows that the smooth strand of hair curled over your collarbone and disappearing in the valley between your plump breasts isn’t entirely unintentional.
He’s not wearing a linen button down today, a rare occasion. But the white cotton tee stretched over his sturdy chest and hidden under the rugged leather of his dark jacket isn’t lacking either.
You gulp down when he straightens up to his full height, the sheer enormity of him never fails to twist your gut.
He is still smiling down at you like he’s here to play darts and drink some beer.
Seriously, doesn’t the fact that you two are about to hook up again make him nervous in the slightest bit?
But then you remember what followed the last time he was towering over you so close…this is like expecting your mathematics professor to be scared of an eighth grade level differentiation problem.
“Hey,” you mutter, suddenly feeling your lips parch and lash with deep ridges under those seven layers of gloss you just lathered.
He only hums in response, slowly bringing up his knuckles to your face. They linger there, an angel’s kiss away from your cheek, like they’re hanging in the abyss awaiting your permission.
You tilt your face down, quietly approving and surrendering to his touch.
He lets his fingers graze your face, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before he fully presses his palm to your softness.
Cupping one side of your lolled head as he whispers. “God, you make me wanna get down on my knees and pray right now.”
Whoa, whoa, whoa.
That’s not a common response to hey. Whatever happened to - hi? Good evening? Hello?
Your response is a laughter–unsure and breathy like it always is when your brain is malfunctioning.
You step aside when his hand drops from your cheek, letting him in with a single motion of your neck.
“You actually drove all the way up here from your place?” You ask, attempting to make small talk—anything to mask the tension crackling between you.
You’re so sure that if not distracted, you will pounce on him in the very next second.
Or he will, on you.
With his eyes storming a hurricane of emotions you have yet to learn the names of, you don’t know whose patience is going to crack first.
“Of course, why would I expect you to leave your house for me at this hour?” he replies, not steering away from you for even a moment as he shimmies out of his jacket.
The leather is still slightly damp from the melted frost of the outside wind, so he drapes it over your crowded coatrack.
“I guess I am just so used to men being assholes that a decent one surprises me.” You chuckle but there’s no humor behind it, more designation than mirth.
The boyish amusement drains from his face for a brief second when he nods in acknowledgement.
Then, his calloused palms find you again, this time, finding purchase on either of your shoulders. He looks at you, really looks at you, then speaks softly, like he’s promising a vow. “I’ll drive here whenever you want me to.”
The answer to a promise like that exists only in a kiss as delicate as the little flake of snow perched over the tip of his nose, just by his red mole.
Your toes stretch up with the shaky elegance of a novice ballerina at the same time as his head dips in reverence.
Your fingers curl around his biceps while his loop over your waist, pressing you closer to himself. Like if he doesn’t bridge even the slightest of distance between the two of you, he’ll forget how to breathe.
The brush of your lips is eager against his gentler ones, like someone starved of tenderness is now overdosing on it.
Though it doesn’t take him long to match your fervor once he’s fully aware of what’s happening. The fingers around your waist shift to sprawl possessively across your back and head as he wedges his lips deeper with yours.
Your breath, warm and shallow, fades into his—cool from the night air yet laced with the smoke from the bar he must’ve been at.
He pulls away, just for a moment, to quickly peck the corner of your mouth like he doesn’t want even a single pore of yours to feel ignored or unappreciated.
But you take that moment to collect your thoughts and place a palm over his pecs, a silent plea for some space.
Disappointment flashes across his eyes but it's gone as soon as it came. Only a calm, breathless hollowness remains when he breaks the kiss.
One of his hands is still buried in your hair like its home, while his other is massaging the small dip of your back just above the arch of your butt. He lingers there, just an inch apart, stunned and burning under your spell.
“Everything alright?” He asks, pressing his forehead to yours.
You nod. Lashes, still wet with the single stroke of mascara, fan over your cheeks when you close your eyes to seek strength from the void behind your lids. When you open them again, they’re glossier than before—you can feel it in the pearl of moisture that begins to form in the corners.
You thought Mingyu’s hold on your body couldn’t get any gentler, but it does when he sees vulnerability overtaking you like mauve in the evening sky.
His palm is cradling your head now, like he’s holding a porcelain Russian doll—rare and hauntingly beautiful.
“I need to know that you also want this…that I am not the only one desperate for—” you almost choke with shame but his thumbs are already over your blushing cheekbones, pressing circles.
He looks utterly wrecked. Even the notion of you believing that he wouldn’t want you like this slices him open.
“Shh,” he whispers, too softly for a man of his height and build.
Then, he bites his lips like what he originally wanted to say might be too dangerous.
After a full second of careful reconsideration, he murmurs, “You don’t know how much I’ve wanted this since after the first time…and even more so when I had to sit there with you wearing that dress on my fucking lap.”
You exhale like the memory of the day still singes you like burning coal.
The reminder that you have to be there again stabs your inside like an icicle.
“I don’t know how am I supposed to do it again tomorrow without wanting to take you right then and there.” he mumbles, this time, much closer to the periphery of your lips.
Already too drunk on the scent of his citrusy cologne and raw musk, the heat from those words is what finally tips you over the edge until you’re wet mud in his hands.
You reclaim his lips with a low moan—wetter, hungrier, much more unabashed than before. He kisses you back with the intention of consuming everything you’re giving to him, and then some more.
Your fingers slither up from his shoulders to his hair when you feel his hands travel down your spine to settle over the back of your thighs, leaving trails of hot lust behind.
Then, with a tug that is a much rougher contrast to this otherwise benign moment, he hauls you up in his arms for his own convenience.
Your legs wrap around his slim waist like an instinct.
He doesn’t have to bend down now that you’re exactly where he wants you to be—eye to eye, heartbeats bumping in uneven rhythms between your mashed chests.
The hem of your little dress rides higher. There’s nothing delicate about the way the flesh of your ass folds into his hungry palms when he gathers your entirety into his embrace.
You move your much plushier hips around his defined ones to find a position that isn’t as nerve wrecking as this one—one which comes with the daunting realization that Mingyu is carrying all your weight and his breath hasn’t faltered even once.
This casual testament of his physical strength should scare you, but it only turns you on.
Unbeknownst to your naive ignorance, you just grinded mercilessly against his hard on. The rigidness poking the expanse of your pliable thigh gets harder, more defined. You shift again to relieve this discomfort.
This time, he breaks the kiss with a wince, pressing his eyes shut.
“Mingyu, remove your phone!” you complain, wriggling in his arms for the third time as the hard thing digs deeper in your thigh.
His forehead creases with lines so deep that it looks like he’s being made to walk through a burning forest.
He groans, “That’s not my phone for fuck’s sake.”
Oh.
Your movements halt at once.
Your left leg—the one which has to face this bullying from his hard dick—threatens to unwrap itself from around his hips.
But his iron grip over your ass keeps you still. Your uneven, hot breaths fill in the awkward spaces.
“S-sorry, so sorry.” You stammer, helpless and confused. Anything you do in this position is going to make him pull that agonizing face again.
“It's…okay,” he exhales, moving his lips over your cheek instead, “just don’t grind on it like that already.”
You meekly nod, trying to still your hips and endure that ache the best you can.
His kiss darts to your neck when he walks, taking you further into the house.
Bits of the apartment whirl around your half lidded eyes like objects in a washing machine. The only audible sounds are the faint, wet smacks of your lips and the feeble jingle of your lonesome bracelet decked with innocent charms.
Your legs around him tighten, ankles crossing over each other on his lower back making your chest smush closer to his. He can feel the drag of your erect nipples over his pecs through the flimsy silk and cotton of your clothes.
That makes him almost whimper against your thrumming pulse…no, scratch that almost…
That was most certainly a whimper; why else would the nerve on his neck be thrumming under your fingers shudder like that?
Regardless, he is quick to suppress it by grinding his teeth over the skin under your ear instead. You shiver when he nips at you and sigh when he laps over it to soothe the bruise.
You feel the wind from the quick jerk of your bedroom door behind your neck, his sweeping arm displacing the air.
He closes the door before sliding you down against the wall next to it.
His hands come on either side of your head as he traps you there. Dark eyes hooded with lust rave at your body. A grunt reverberates through his throat watching you bat your lashes at him, all doe eyes and flushed cheeks, lower lip trembling with anticipation and desire.
He stares at the hair tangled in your ruby earrings, then your disheveled body which can’t stay still.
“God you’re so hot.”
One side of your robe has completely come undone, barely hanging from the curve of your elbow. It lays open, exposing your silk nightie–the treacherous strap of which has slipped uselessly over your shoulder, leaving the upper half of your breast open for his starved mouth to feast on.
Your fingers are still fisting the fabric over his shoulders as you try to stabilize your breathing.
“The hottest woman ever…” he hums, trailing the back of one of his palms over your ribcage tentatively, like he’s afraid the invisible ink on his hand will smudge a beautiful painting.
Mischief, the kind that only sprouts when you’re alone with him, bubbles in your guts as you blurt out. “Well, now I feel bad for your subway girl.”
The sharpness of his jawline is lethal under the hazy bedroom glow. Dangerous, even, when it locks with the slightest clench.
“Thinking about another woman while I am fucking you with my eyes?” he corks a brow at you, a corner of his mouth lifted up in half a smile, “I feel offended, darling.”
He punctuates that last word by bringing both his hands over the soft mounds on your chest, thumbs already finding and pressing teasing circles over your nipples before you can even think of a catty comeback.
You arch yourself more into his touch, surrendering your body like an offering.
The other sleeve of your robe slips off too leaving the material to flop silently on the floor. Your head slumps to the side, eyes finding a corner of your dimly lit room. You don’t have it in you to face his intensity anymore.
Your breath stutters out in broken sighs and almost whimpers as he continues worshipping your upper body with his lips and fingers.
Collarbones peppered with wet kisses, neck splotched with blooming red that gets darker every moment, nipples erect and impossibly sensitive from all the tugging and rubbing.
One of his palms cups your cheek, gentle yet steady, as he redirects your gaze back to himself. You last a total three seconds before clenching them shut again.
It is impossible, you decide, to see dark desire hooding his stoically tame eyes and knowing that you’re the reason behind it.
His breath hovers over the shell of your ear again, this time to ask a question.
“I’m gonna take this off, okay?”
One of his hands skims the hem of the dress dangling inches below your hips while the other holds your waist, grounding you back into the moment.
When you nod, he places a chaste kiss over your exposed shoulder and bunches the dress in his hands, dragging it up to your hips.
Surprisingly though, he halts there.
You feel the curl of his fingers hooking around the waistband of your underwear instead.
“Mingyu,” You blink at him, startled and gone. “Wh-what—”
But he’s already on his knees before you. Just like his greeting on the door.
The ruined panties are dragged down your thighs and it hits you that it wasn’t your dress that he wasn’t referring to when he said ‘I’m gonna take this off’.
The dainty fabric swishes down from between his fingers onto the carpeted floor.
“Is it okay if I kiss you here?”
He is fucked out already. Holding your hips like it's his anchor, barely holding his senses together. His mouth is slightly ajar, eager to lave at your arousal the moment you give him the permission to.
You nod, breathless yet ready. The sight of him on his knees, lips parted and hair tousled as he studies your each shiver and smiles at every approval, is jarring to say the least.
It makes your head spin–the most intimate parts of you are so exposed to his lips, his breath, his gaze while your dress rides halfway up your hips.
Your knees buckle, but his giant palms are already stabilizing your stance by splaying over your upper thighs.
“H-how are w—” it dissolves at the back of your throat when he loops his fingers around your thighs, slightly pushing the flesh apart.
You feel, and he sees, a mortifying pearl of liquid roll down from your core in a silent weep.
“God…you’re literally dripping.” he observes like you’re a miracle unraveling before his eyes.
You wish you could turn into a puddle right there.
Your body bucks harder this time—falling weaker into his stronghold.
He nuzzles his nose in your hip, rubbing his forehead on your stomach like the sight of what he just saw drove him to insanity and now it is taking everything in him to crawl back.
Then, he pinches a corner of your dress between his fingers and jerks it up to you with expectant eyes, “Hold this up for me, please?”
You do as you’re told—the shyness transforming into curiosity that ebbs in your lower body, sending waves of warmth and wetness down your core.
Another tear slips down from between your legs and with it, Kim Mingyu’s patience.
Large palms grab either sides of your hips with firmness substantial enough to keep you unmoving even through a fucking earthquake as his face buries between your thighs.
An explosive sensation that you’re yet to familiarize yourself with bubbles in your abdomen and leaps out of your lips with a scream.
One of your hands finds home in his lush hair. You clutch at his locks at first when he’s placing open mouthed kisses all over your cunt but then you start pulling at it when his tongue darts out, licking you across your slit in repeated motions.
The left side of your face presses harder against the wall, your moans partially muffled by your mushed cheek.
Your thighs clench, effectively warding off his invasion even when you don’t want to.
Kim Mingyu is a possessor of insurmountable persistence though—keeps on nudging at your folds with his cold nose and velvety tongue soaked with spit and your slick.
He smooches at your fluttering fold, an almost french kiss down there, and gauges your reaction with upturned gaze only to find you struggling with silk in both hands—of his hair, of your dress.
Then, his lips pucker up around your oversensitive clitoris with a gentle yet firm suction.
Your head finally detaches from the wall, a loud gasp slipping out with all the air in your system when you catch the mirror in the corner of your room which reflects every single detail of this debauched act.
Your hand shivering over his hard skull, fingers buried deep into his dark hair as his face digs deeper and deeper into you like it’s his pillow.
You can’t see the expert flicks and flat strokes of his tongue in the mirror from this angle, but lord, do you feel them.
Every single one of them.
You don’t know what’s more blasphemous—the hand holding up the skirt to give him all the access to your body he wants, or the way his knees are planted on the ground as he worships you like you’re the last holy shrine on Earth and he’s the only man who knows how to pray.
Mingyu has the nerve to pause like he catches you looking in the mirror, then darts his pink tongue out with a smirk to circle your nub at the same time as he winks at you, a sinister promise glinting in his orbs.
Your lower lip is seized between your gnashing teeth. With the intensity of the liquid that gushes your mouth, you think that you’ve drawn blood. But there’s no metallic taste on your tongue.
Oh, you’re just drooling like a dog watching him suckle on your cunt.
His lips leave your lower ones with an audible, wet smack that sends humiliating chills down your spine.
What's even more shameful is the string of saliva that is stretched lewd and lazy between his lips and your cunt—still linking the two of you even when he’s inches away.
It's like your body refuses to let him go.
He’s heaving, watching you whine at this sudden loss, a thick sheen of gloss smudged all over his lip, saliva dribbling down his chin…slick smudged even on the tip of his nose.
“You keep on trying to hide away from me.” he huffs, but doesn’t sound like he’s complaining.
It is rather an explanation for what he’s about to do next. You try to relax more.
But Mingyu has a more permanent solution—the fingers, which were earlier massaging you, circle around one of your knees as he throws your right leg over his shoulder, another hand splayed over your stomach to steady you.
“Baby, as much as I’d love to continue kissing these thighs,” he says, pressing his cheek deeper into the plushness, “I’m gonna need you to part them if you wanna cum.”
You squeak, almost losing balance from the sheer shock and embarrassment of this position, of his unfiltered words.
But his palms travel up and catch you in a flash. His mouth goes back to town—kissing, sucking, lapping, and moaning as you gush with cream more openly than before.
The squelching of your dripping cunt against his tongue is louder than ever now that you’re practically stretched open for him.
Instead of trying to shove his head away, you feel a slight tinge of shock through the haze when you boldly cradle his head closer to your core, shame thinning along with your vision.
Every single vein, every single nerve trembles with the heavy pressure that shoots from your cunt at his licks.
You’re nothing but a puddle of intense heat and breathy moans in his hands as his tongue explores the untouched nether regions of your body.
You’re practically leaking against his mouth, soaking the lower half of his face with an arousal so thick, so salacious that it is unbelievable you did it…and that too, in such quantity.
Your needy moan intensifies until it morphs into a desperate cry.
Your chest arches away from the wall and the blush in your face flows down south until your breasts, your abdomen, and even your cunt are all colored red when he goes wild against you, desperate to taste your orgasm.
There’s no technique to it now, just plain old sucking and nibbling. His head moves from side to side as he parts the petals leaking for him. He increases the speed, getting more merciless, when he feels you edge closer to your unraveling on his tongue.
The leg hooked over his shoulder shakes so hard that it almost slips down when you come, your back sliding down the wall as the cry turns into a loud sob.
But he holds you up for his own pleasure—continues to taste the fruit of his efforts as it spurts with sweetness around him.
Obscene waves of lust which he happily consumes and revels in, doesn’t even let a single drop touch the ground.
With cold and drained tips of your fingers, you caress his scalp and let him suck and kiss you clean to his heart’s desire.
The skirt that had slipped from your hold long back now cascades over his head like a curtain, providing him a more intimate privacy with your cunt.
You sigh, barely keeping afloat in the ocean of white, hot lust he has plunged you in.
Your body tightens when you realize this isn’t the end of it when his nose nudges against your folds, again. The tip of his tongue prods at your entrance, already slithering up. It eases back, then slowly presses forward again.
This time around, you lean into him, threading his hair and encouraging him to go deeper.
“Mingyu…” you sigh, about to say something but all your thoughts thrash violently down your throat when a loud tapping at your door halts his movements.
“You in there roomie?”
The moment Rory’s grating voice reaches you, the heel of your palms push deeper into his head with restraint.
He detaches his lips from you, brows tangled in confusion, bleary eyes as unfocused and disheveled as his hair.
You’re about to shoo her off, tell her to go away before she can further ruin the mood.
But then, after a hesitant beat which crumbles under heavy discomfort palpable from the wall away, “Jules is here too, she needs to talk to you.”
CHAPTER 8 || stay
A chilling frost overtakes all the heat Mingyu had flamed within you.
Your head whips around, hair lashing over your almost naked skin like leather whips.
All of a sudden, everything is too overwhelming, too overstimulating. Your leg falls off his shoulder almost hysterically, and you scramble away from the door, almost hitting him with your knees when you do.
Mingyu begins to get up, the grooves on his forehead deepen further as he watches you pale whiter.
His eyes dart towards the door at another round of knocks.
An almost hushed whisper of your name succeeded by a plea; “We should talk…we really should.”
It's a different voice than the one before, still feminine but loaded with skepticism and…guilt?
But this is not the place for Mingyu to be practising his favorite pastime hobby of psychoanalysing people and their tones.
Not when you’re nearly hunched over in a corner, hair cascading wild over your shoulders, shielding you away.
You look so small and it mauls at his chest.
He gingerly picks your robe back up from the floor and is about to put it on you when you flinch at the brush of his knuckles. He pauses, simply extending it to you instead of trying to wrap it on you.
You try to focus your eyes on him, mouthing a soundless thank you, afraid that even the swishing of the fabric in your hands might alarm the girls outside of your presence.
He steps back to allow you room, running the back of his palm over his sticky lips to tidy up as much as he can while you stitch back your fallen dignity, thread by thread, with shaky fingers.
God, you don’t want to look so dismantled, not in front of him.
Not when he has given you, so selflessly and generously, what you had been craving for weeks.
No matter how hard you try to straighten up, there’s this primal urge in your body that keeps on clawing under your skin, telling you to shrink more.
But this isn’t some endless wilderness and you’re not a prey of Julianna.
You hold onto his strapping shoulder, sweaty palms instantly crinkling his t-shirt but by the surety with which he circles your wrists, keeping them there, he doesn’t seem to care.
“Do you want me to tell them off?” he whispers, so slow that despite the close proximity, even you have to take several moments to comprehend him.
“No, God, no! Don’t say anything.” you beg, “let's just wait it out until they leave.”
A nod as his lips purse into a thin line, “I’m here.”
He bends down a little, and there it is again—that openness, one which screams that he will sit here, holding your hands, and listen to whatever that is distressing you. Even if it takes forever.
But it's hard to picture him doing that, simply because he has never done that for you before. Though, it is also true that you had never been as wrecked as you seem now.
Physical exhaustion looks so different from the one induced by emotional trauma.
You should know that.
Right now, your eyes must be hollow and dry from all the screeching images of the night at the club–Julianna–continue to flash past them like jolts of thunder.
Your breath mustn’t be normal–either too rapid and shallow, or not there at all…
Wait, are you even breathing?
And why can’t your fingers stop trembling even when you’ve clenched them in fists over his shirt?
“Look at me,” Mingyu is inches away from your face when your consciousness touches the present.
Both his hands are holding you now, gentle yet firm. He wouldn’t let go, not until the temperature of your skin drops back to normal.
“Breathe.” He commands.
The fragility of your mind is clear to him, so he demonstrates what he wants you to do—takes a deep breath with you and then lets it out through pursed lips, urging you to do the same with his eyebrows raised in encouragement.
Another deep breath, taken together—nice and slow.
Good, this feels good.
Your clutch over his shirt loosens and you gulp. Too many emotions, too little time to process them. But a shaky breath that moves in tandem with his grounding one.
A small flame of gratitude flickers in your heart, it feels better to have him here.
You’re clinging on to him, emotionally and physically, even when your psyche screams at you not to.
Depending is always a bad idea. Always.
So you push him away, rubbing the pad of an unsure finger between your brows, scratching at the skin that doesn’t even itch.
“Uhm, bathroom’s that way,” you nod faintly towards the en-suite, “you can go wash up if you want.”
Mingyu studies you for a moment longer, concern etched across every frown on his face. “You’ll be alright?”
“Yeah, yeah, I might change into something more…” you trail off, arms flapping by your sides at the sweat sodden clothes which are barely hanging on your frame.
“Okay.” He whispers, quiet and reverent.
The honeyed glow of your soft bathroom lights cast over him as he looks at you over his shoulder once, before the door clicks shut.
As you scurry around your room, dimming the lights and digging through your drawers for clean clothes, your ears tune to the muffled clinking of cutlery in the living room.
They're still out there, lounging around as if nothing’s happened.
Probably sharpening their claws to rip apart what remains of a once ecstatic evening.
You grit your teeth, pulling a clean sweatshirt over your head with more force than necessary.
The clinking of china and cutlery reaches your ear.
You don’t know if Rory is aware of what went down, but Julianna is.
Hell, she is the orchestrator of it.
And it is beyond baffling that she can have the guts to just waltz into your home, knock on your door with a voice dripping in counterfeit regret, and then go snack in your kitchen like it’s her right.
Like she didn’t just detonate the last fragile bit of your peace.
Bullshit.
You’re brushing your hair, silently seething in rage after hearing another muffled giggle from the living room when Mingyu walks out, droplets of water clinging on to the edges of his face.
His t-shirt is damp in patches, hugging the curve of his collarbone. His hair, tousled after being run through with wet hands, sticks to his forehead with curled rivulets.
It feels significantly more familiar this way between you two—no lip bites, no lustful gazes, no begging, no tension teetering on the edge of collapse.
Just him, stripped of seduction.
And you, stripped of performance.
Quiet. Worn down. Human.
For the first time in what feels like weeks, you're not navigating a minefield of glances or decoding the heat behind his hands.
You're just two people sitting with the aftermath. No pretending. No scripts.
And it’s a strange sort of comfort.
His lips, still a bit bitten and raw, tug into a polite smile.
“I should get going.” He suggests.
You immediately protest.
“They’re still out there,” and then, you pause for a beat as he lingers, “I don’t want to deal with them and I don’t want them to know you’re here.”
Lie.
You want to prolong his company as much as you can because it feels safer this way. Not just because of his reliable physique, but also the ease that comes with him; one which smells like lavender and linen.
“Okay, that’s…reasonable.” he clears his throat before saying out loud the same conclusion that had been storming both of yours’ minds, “Do you want me to stay here?”
“I don’t mind if you do.” You give him a subtle shrug, one which comes with a wry, pathetic smile.
“Cool.” He says, seemingly unfazed by this out of character request from you.
You’re someone who always has one foot out the door whenever another human is in the room. Yet here you are, asking him to stay. That too, so deep inside your safe space.
He leaves no time for you to second guess your decision when he settles down on your bed.
The room shrinks now that he’s here—too tall, too present. The mattress dips dangerously low.
“Woah, you really sleep on this marshmallow?” he quips when the bed creaks.
He carefully pulls his legs up, resting his elbows on his knees.
You can’t help but snort, not because there’s an obvious 6’2 center of gravitation on your bed pulling everything in for a collapse.
But because you really fluffed your bed, lit up the candles and pulled out your best sheets thinking that he would be able to fuck you on your twin bed without breaking his back or the frame. Or both.
Once your hands are fully lathered with the honey scented lotion, you pull out another blanket to join him.
Settling in front of him, you offer him the fresh blanket which he throws around his shoulders in a swift motion, and wriggle your legs under the unmade duvet you share with him.
The bed squeaks even more and it cements you frozen, afraid that it might give up under your weights combined.
But then a laughter bubbles out of you. His low chuckle mirrors yours like a shadow.
He scoots further back, even though he doesn’t have to, and pushes most of the duvet to cover your legs, even if it leaves half his knee poking out.
The boy is surveying your room with the same curiosity that he maps your body with. Inquisitive. Interested. Eager.
The book collection on your bedside table is approved with an appreciative dip of his head. An extra moment spent staring at the spine of your old, withered copy of Wuthering Heights. He reaches out to trace the indented flower pattern on the spine, tiniest speck of its original silver catching the amber of your fairy lights.
“It was a gift from the supervisor at my orphanage when, y’know, Maye’s family adopted me.” You explain.
His finger retrieves like it has been singed by something sacred. It is obviously a sentimental relic to you and he doesn’t want to malign it with a thoughtless touch.
You almost laugh at that.
You don’t mind mentioning that you’re adopted, or talking about the things that follow that topic. But it is something almost prohibited to be brought up—simply because it upsets Mayella.
Sometimes you wonder if Vernon and Josh are even aware that you’re not bound to her by blood.
She has made her distaste about you still not fully claiming her family’s name very evident.
I literally know you more than I know my own mother, she often says.
“It’s a thoughtful gift.” he remarks.
Mingyu shoves his hands back into the duvet like he’s tucking away a secret he just touched, the blanket wrapped around him slipping over one shoulder.
Another loud clang from the living room which stiffens you for a moment, the ‘thank you’ on the tip of your tongue meant for his compliment vaporizes like acid.
Mingyu has gotten a hold of this situation now.
You’re beyond bothered by the presence of the girls outside and there isn’t much he can do to distract you other than talking to you.
“I like your room,” he says like it is the quickest thing he could whip up. Simple yet sincere.
“I try to make it mine.” you beam, voice barely audible.
His attention sweeps from the vintage lamp basking your half finished notes in soft gold on the study table, over the delicate persian rug upturned in a corner, all the way to the blinking little bulbs of string-lights hung in haphazard patterns over your bed.
You’re proud of the comfort of it. Warm, cozy, lived in…faint scents of rose and eucalyptus wafting in batches from the candles in the corners.
But at the same time, you don’t want him to read too much into it—notice the torn pages smudges with ink shoved under your leatherbounds, or catch a glimpse of the half empty bottle of sleeping pills on your shelf which you need more often than you’d like to admit.
So you turn the intimate inspection on him.
“Mingyu, the other day, at the villa, when I asked you if you designed a place with the subway girl as your inspiration…you said you did.”
The rampant fidget of your thumbs over the hem of your sweatshirt is concealed from him under the duvet.
“Do you mind if I ask what you designed?” You finally ask.
His eyes are trained on you, making you lose your train of thoughts even more. Then, he breathes, a faint smile streaking his face like purple in the evening sky.
“A home.” Mingyu exhales, “One where the windows are low, so that she can watch the sun set down the horizon for as long as she wants. One where every room can have a bookcase, because she was always carrying something to read each time I saw her. Warm lights and open spaces…somewhere that feels like waiting for someone who might never arrive, but you keep the porch lights on anyways.”
Your breath catches, you weren’t expecting that at all.
You avert your eyes from his passion to your lap…even death would turn its eyes away from the patience he bears for her then what are you but a mere human?
“Wow, that’s unbelievable.” You mutter, “Do you own that house? Like, is it waiting for the day you…you bring her there?”
He leans back over his palms, shaking his head with denial. “Oh come on, I am not that delusional. It was for a client…sold to a family of four—parents, a toddler, and their mean pet cat. I was just thinking about her a lot when I worked on it.”
“Makes sense.”
Even though it doesn’t—not at least to you.
“So,” he stretches his hands over his knees as he pins you down figuratively, “what’s the deal with tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum out there?”
You roll your eyes. “That’s just my roommate and her friend being annoying.”
His brows lift, amused. “Why were you so scared of them?”
“No, I wasn’t.”
His eyes fall to the plushie you’re pinching between your arms then back at you and he smirks.
“Yes you were.”
“Please,” you scoff, “It's Rory who loses her voice if I glare at her for even a split second.”
“Well, that doesn’t discard the fact that you looked like you had seen a ghost when she knocked.” He shrugs.
You stare at him. “Maybe I was just taken aback because I was in the middle of a hookup and didn’t expect them to be home?”
Mingyu looks unconvinced but doesn’t argue, just files it away.
He yawns, leaning his hands back again. The duvet rustles between you both.
“Didn’t think your bed would survive us both.” He murmurs, voice tendered with tired humor.
You snort, your words flooding out before you can think them through. “Yeah, I wasn’t really thinking about the structural integrity of it when I lit up the candles and queued a playlist.”
His eyes light up like Christmas. “There was a playlist?”
You roll your eyes again but there’s that familiar warmth creeping up from the warmth of your chest to the cold of your cheeks.
“Of course there was. It's my first time having a guy over, you think I wouldn’t vibe it up a notch?” You quip.
He just chuckles, head hanging low. Then points to the purple teddy cradled between your arms. “And how are these innocent plushies contributing to setting the mood?”
You should have put the soft toys away, you realize, but you quickly cover it up.
“Sex education.” You shrug, then stare down at the button eyes of your favorite teddy, “Thistle was gonna watch mommy get railed tonight.”
Mingyu immediately winces at that like he didn’t expect that crudeness.
But the laughter erupting in his chest is too strong to be suppressed.
“I sometimes forget it, but that sailor mouth keeps on reminding me that you’re related to Maye.” He reaches in your lap, patting the weathered violet fur of the plump bear. “I’m assuming this is Thistle?”
You nod, a strange tenderness settling in your chest as you watch Mingyu hold the small toy too carefully, with nothing but reverence and awe, between both of his enormous palms.
The sight is comical, to say the least.
“Yeah…had him for as long as I can remember, named him after the flower because of the color.” You say.
“You’re such a dork.” Mingyu snorts before proceeding to place Thistle next to himself on your bed.
Unlike him, you don’t hold back your laugh watching the two of them sit side by side—a towering man with damp hair and feet too long for your bed, and a little violet teddy bear slouched against his thigh like a weary witness.
“Okay,” you wheeze, “that visual is cursed.”
“I don’t know,” Mingyu muses, tilting his head at Thistle like he’s genuinely considering it. “He’s got a presence. Kind of a ‘seen some shit’ vibe. Very alpha.”
You argue. “I literally had to stitch him with dental floss once.”
“See? He’s a survivor.”
You grin fondly at your little buddy. The glimmer in his round plastic eyes dulled over time, but the comfort radiates the same. He truly is a survivor, you want to elaborate, he stuck with you during a time when even the breeze refused to enter your muggy room.
But you don’t want to weigh this moment down, so you tuck it back into a pocket in your mind which is already stretched full of words unsaid.
You shift a little closer without meaning to, like your bones made the decision before your mind could veto it.
Your knee brushes his, and Mingyu doesn’t move away.
“Thanks for not asking too many questions,” you murmur.
“Thanks for letting me stay,” he replies just as softly.
Thistle flops sideways in the middle of the bed, landing against Mingyu’s thigh. He gently picks the bear back up, then looks at you with a crooked smile.
(a/n: i just realized while editing this that this is the first chapter where these two talk for real…yikesss)
CHAPTER 9 || coping mechanisms
The convertible Aston Martin stands out in the sea of white in Lisa’s cathedral sized garage for three reasons:
One, because it is the only thing not drowning in pastel. It is sleek, dark and smells like warm cedar and cinnamon as opposed to the usual flowery, vintage cadillacs Lisa collects like shoes.
Two, because it is almost too pristine.
Unscratched, engine serviced just last week and almost as good as new, it doubtlessly belongs to Kim Mingyu.
Three, because unlike the rest of the cars which are resting put in the darkness, this one’s shivering with movement.
Today was the third sketching session at Lisa’s art studio and a tamer, more comfortable one than its predecessors.
You didn’t move around much in his lap, or rub yourself against his hard on like you would in the first two sessions. This borderline dry humping would earn you a grasp so savage that the imprints of his fingers would blush red for hours over your hips and thighs.
Though, for being on your best behavior today, he had thanked you even—a faint note of gratitude sung under his breath towards the end of the session, muffled effectively by the scratching of Lisa’s easel against the marbled floor as you got off his lap.
Your “you’re welcome” was your tongue shoved down his throat the moment you got inside the secure privacy of his car.
And now, his wet lips pepper the soft edge of your jaw with eager hungry kisses. You sigh, tracing his cheek with the fingers of one hand while the other buries deeper into his hair.
The driver seat is warm, humming and trembling with the weight of two bodies which aren't supposed to fit on it.
But clinging on to him like a koala, you somehow make it work.
“It tickles!” You laugh, knees sinking deeper into the leather on either side of his thighs when he nips the soft flesh just under your ear with feverish precision…he has already memorized what patches of skin trigger your loudest moans.
“I know,” he says, and does it again anyway, grinning into your skin with a playful smirk and a tighter grip under your ribs.
His lips trace the dip of your neck.
Damp, urgent.
Your eyes flutter shut, your fingers bury deeper at the nape of his neck.
Your knees dig deeper into the leather, straddling him, spine arching with a jolt. Your naked back presses against his steering wheel when you lean back—the cold, hard leather biting your spine.
But he doesn’t let up. Not even in the slightest as you squirm.
His breath never hovers further away from you—always there, warm and reckless, it continues tickling the goosebumps on your collarbone.
He embellishes your skin with two more lovebites, pink for now but bound to ripe maroon by the night, before he pulls away after placing a soft kiss in the valley between your breasts.
This pause isn’t appreciated by you.
Neither is the rational responsibility of the words that follow.
“We should talk.” He says suddenly, voice too low and shaky, like the thought had just sprouted in his mind.
You blink, your expression teetering at the edge of desperation at this sudden loss of his body heat. “About what?”
“About whatever this is.” His hand gestures between your bodies, low voice treading through the chaos crumbling into the calm.
All of a sudden, a dark, heavy cloud is engulfing the sun you were looking forward to bask in for a few more minutes.
He begins sliding up the sleeves of your dress which he undid as soon as you stepped into his car…now reaching not for your body, but for answers.
Cold sweat begins to replace the dotted goosebumps. You gulp, nervousness and reluctance lodging in your throat like dry wood.
And then, an idea strikes you like a thunderbolt.
But you have to be sly and careful, don’t wanna alert him about the tried and tested trick under your sleeve.
So you loll back, eyes turning up to the ceiling of the car like you’re thinking about an answer to his query.
Finally, after enough time has passed in this act of you deliberating over nothing and his body is off-guard, a sigh emerges from your exhausted mouth.
You snake all ten of your fingers behind his skull and coax him forward with a jerk until his face is smushed between your breasts.
The words still teetering on the edge of his throat are muffled against you.
His tongue reacts on an instinct, lips wrapping around your perked up nub, teasing it between his teeth with gentle deliberation.
Good.
You both love this—he gets to suck on your pretty tits while you get to escape his surveillant eyes.
But Kim Mingyu is armed with the patience of a saint today…won’t let you take a breather for long.
He parts away from your aching nipple with a wet pop, his rough thumb replacing his tongue to continue stimulating the raging nerves over your sensitive mounds. Lazy in motion, yet focused.
There’s no urgency in his movements like it doesn’t matter to him how much you squiggle if you don’t let him finish what he wants to say.
“We can’t keep doing this without knowing what it means. Let us act like adults for a moment, not some horny teens who just discovered the concept of making out.” He almost scolds.
You can roll your eyes at him, shuffle off his lap and out of his stupid car simply because you don’t want to talk.
But the fierce tenderness in his voice pins you still in your place—straddling him like he’s your comfiest chair.
You scoot back, which is comical because between his huge body and the sturdy steer, there’s not much space for you to do that.
“What do you want?” You huff.
The drag of his palm over you as he puts the top of your dress back in its place over your chest is almost religious—like the final fragile showers of rain kissing the earth goodbye at midnight with a promise to return with the next sunrise.
His focus is pinholed on you, “I wanna know what does this mean to you…if you—”
“There is no meaning to it.”
The quick eagerness of your reply throws him off for a bit, but you just run a hand through your hair and continue.
“Look, Mingyu, we both enjoy this. It takes the med-school edge off from me and you don’t have to follow the whole protocol—you know, jumping through hoops—dinner, dates, sweet-talking someone into bed. This skips all of that.”
He visibly winces at the sheer sterility of your rant but doesn’t interrupt you to dust up his reputation—that of a gentleman who doesn’t take a girl out with the sole purpose of bedding her.
So you continue with a shrug that doesn’t quite convince your own self, “This…arrangement, it's efficient for the both of us. We’re both emotionally unavailable—I got all my stuff and you have your unrequited love or whatever—so let’s just enjoy this till it lasts. Till one of us either eventually gets bored or finds something, or someone, better.”
Maybe it's the rose colored sheath tinting your vision, nerves still buzzing with pleasure, but he looks gutted.
There’s an unsure movement in his lower jaw, like he wants to correct you but doesn’t know how to.
He lets your words fuse with the cedar fumes emerging from the diffuser as the fog on the window glass condenses.
His hand drops from your shoulder to the space between you, like he’s letting go of more than just contact.
Then, he nods, like that’s the only thing you’ve left him capable of.
His face falls visibly–the sharper lines softening until they’re gone, a corner of his mouth drooping down ever so slightly that if you weren’t staring at him, you’d miss it.
You glance away.
Because you hate that there’s a possibility that you just misread this situation.
That you didn’t let him finish first before basically asking him to be your glorified fucktoy and hoping he’d share the same page as you.
Maybe that was too much. Too fast. Maybe you should’ve let him speak first, instead of defining this thing in bloodless terms and expecting him to nod along like it doesn’t affect him.
But that was smart—the thing you just did, right?
After all, it is the truth that you haven’t allowed yourself to think about relationships after the absolute shitshow that was your senior year at pre-med.
It is equally a fact that Mingyu still longs for his subway girl like the sun longs for the horizon.
You see it in the evening when he doesn’t feel like himself and leaves early to catch the subway instead—like he would do that a million times every day if it meant he could see her once again.
You see it when it's autumn—he joins you all for coffee and there’s charcoal on his fingers, like he was busy etching that face from four autumns ago on some discreet canvas.
A ghost. A muse.
You’ve never been anyone’s muse.
Just a reprieve. A body.
The closest you’ve gotten to a reverence like that was when you had crawled into Mingyu’s bed that night and begged him to take you.
And maybe it was this jealousy towards the faceless woman or the image of a wounded Mingyu yearning for her that was smoldered into the edges of your brain that night, but just before he had kissed you for the first time, you thought his eyes contained the glimmer which was reserved only for his subway girl.
Or maybe, worse—Mingyu was trying to look for a glimpse of her in you, just like he did in every other girl.
Well, that hurts. Insulting, even.
But you will take it in fragments, even when it’s not meant for you.
Even if you’re just another stop on his way to her.
Even if his reverence, his touch is owned by someone else…
…you’d still take it second.
Because before Mingyu, and even after him, no one has ever touched you like you are worth the effort—the effort of being carried up a flight of stairs in a careful embrace, the effort of being driven for in the middle of the night, the effort of calming you down when even your own breath betrays you.
You have been groped at, clawed on, pushed and pulled. Never held.
Maybe what you just suggested was selfish. Or desperate.
Maybe the mention of her name, and the label you just stuck to his head—the one of emotional unavailability—a tad too cruel.
But that seemed like the wisest definition you could offer him at the time. And he wouldn’t relent, so you had to.
He’s quiet for a long time. You can hear his breath. Feel the tension rolling off him.
Then, softly, “Is that really how you see this?”
You nod, then lie. “Yeah.”
You are unaware of the death grip your fingers hold over the console, knuckles draining white.
But he catches it and there’s a subtle shift in his face.
The sag of his jaw, an unreadable light which flicks but then dims within the same second in his eyes. A crack cratering polished stone.
Like your hold over the gear, those fingers cupped tight, just spoke more to him than your words ever did.
He looks straight at you, blinking slowly like your soul has unraveled before him...all through the tips of your cold fingers.
“Okay,” he murmurs, a ghost of a wry smile dances over his pink lips. The window glass fogs around the singular word.
His fingers drop down like the weight of them might be too much on your shoulders and he instead laces them with yours turning bloodless over the gear.
He cups your shivering palm in both his hands, warm skin kneading your colder flesh, before he brings it up to his lips.
“Okay.” He whispers, lips moving over your nimble fingers when he kisses them like he is confiding his deepest secret in your pulsing veins, hoping they carry it to your bitter heart.
Something falls deep in your gut, and the descend is eternal, cursed.
You nearly flinch your fingers away from him, but he only presses a more sincere kiss over them before returning them to your chest.
If your veins didn’t carry his message, he himself would.
The intimacy of this moment roars with a flame hungrier and higher than the fire that burns at the friction of your naked bodies.
God, this man is too disarming for his own good.
And you, well, you don’t handle overwhelm particularly well.
There’s that itch in your teeth. Air catches in your throat, and a ridiculous, familiar pressure building in your jaw.
“Can I bite you?” You blurt out before you can swallow those juvenile words.
His head jerks back slightly and he blinks, almost breathless. “Come again?”
It is too late to back out now, he certainly heard you. “Just a little nibble.” You mumble.
“D-do you mind if I ask why?” He raises his brows, still processing.
You try to describe to him that you bite on things when emotions surge higher than the height of your own physicality.
“You might think that this is weird but...” you reply, thick liquid brimming your eyes, “this was the most intense conversation I have had in a long, long time…and now I just need to chomp down on something.”
A pause too long to dissolve the humiliation in the air until it's knocking against the windows of the car.
Shock wars with adoration in Mingyu’s eyes.
“Oh…” He chuckles, the laughter soft but disbelieving. “Well, a better coping mechanism than lighting up a cigarette, I suppose.”
You shake the urge off with your head and look anywhere but him as you begin climbing off his lap and on to the passenger seat. “Nevermind, that was so creepy. Forget I said anything—”
His hands fly back to your hips to still you back down on his lap before you can slide off fully.
“Hey, hey vampire princess, no–stay.” And then, he tilts his head towards you, exposing the tanned curve just above his collar like an offering. “Go on, if it helps.”
“Really?” you sniffle, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, eyes skimming the freshly exposed citrus scented smooth skin with disbelief.
He nods, hesitant and cautious, but he nods.
“Just, not too hard…well, I trust you s—OW!”
You grin, placing a chaste kiss over the recent, faint, pink imprint of your incisors on his neck. Then, a gentle soothing massage follows.
“There, there. You finally have the official seal that certifies you as my fuck-buddy.” you giggle.
welcome to the concert collaboration of the century. this is formula one: the eras collab, where stories of love, loss, and everything in between find a home across taylor swift’s various albums. below the cut, you’ll find our stops and special guests. see you on tour!
🎵 tour stop: faded blue jeans
🎼 special guest: max verstappen ft. @amyelevenn
🎸 surprise song: tim mcgraw
🎧 spiel: fresh out of graduation, a summer spent lazing under the sun next to max creates tension and longing that not even the country scene can help avoid. can the underlying romance in an otherwise platonic relationship survive the trials of tanning and stargazing?
🎵 tour stop: til we run out of road
🎼 special guest: oscar piastri ft. @piastriprincess
🎸 surprise song: fearless
🎧 spiel: oscar’s been your best friend your entire life. so when he shows up on your doorstep during summer break with a proposal for a spontaneous road trip, what can you do but go headfirst, fearless?
🎵 tour stop: when yuki falls in love
🎼 special guest: yuki tsunoda ft. @tsunodaradio
🎸 surprise song: ours
🎧 spiel: your workmates don’t know why you have a laminated cherry blossom petal on your desk. that’s okay. somewhere in the world, a man driving 230mph has the same relic in his wallet. the stakes are high, the water’s rough, but this love is yours.
🎵 tour stop: touch and go
🎼 special guest: carlos sainz ft. @musicallisto
🎸 surprise song: the last time
🎧 spiel: your next-door neighbor is famous. it makes sense, given how he’s always coming and going from your apartment complex, never in maranello too long. what surprises you more is how he always finds himself coming and going through your door, too.
🎵 tour stop: coffee at midnight
🎼 special guest: oscar piastri ft. @lvrclerc
🎸 surprise song: you are in love
🎧 spiel: oscar piastri is far too practical to play the romantic, which is why he isn’t your co-host on your late-night romance radio show slash love hotline. instead, he’s the true crime host stealing your audience after hours. but when your co-host quits and your ratings plummet, teaming up with oscar becomes your only chance at saving the show and keeping your job. so, the question is: are you ready to help oscar piastri find love?
🎵 tour stop: sunset and vine
🎼 special guest: lando norris ft. @spiderbeam
🎸 surprise song: king of my heart
🎧 spiel: you and lando are friends. so, when he asks for your help with his public image, you accept. you and lando are friends—but fake-dating in the media storm has a way of blurring the lines.
🎵 tour stop: but it’s golden (like daylight)
🎼 special guest: carlos sainz ft. @cinnamorussell
🎸 surprise song: daylight
🎧 spiel: no matter how hard you tried, you could never shake carlos sainz from your periphery. or, a story of finding love again and again (and again).
🎵 tour stop: dreamt of you
🎼 special guest: lando norris & oscar piastri ft. @papayadays
🎸 surprise songs: august, cardigan, betty
🎧 spiel: oscar was a constant in life: first the quiet kid in class before he was your f1 driver boyfriend. but one day in the warmth of august, a car stops by and it’s not oscar’s.
🛑 hey, there; you’re a little too early for this stop. come back when tickets go on sale! (DETAILS TBA)
🎵 tour stop: i find myself runnin’ home
🎼 special guest: lando norris ft. @daydreamsharry
🎸 surprise song: sweet nothing
🎧 spiel: it’s not always easy having the world’s eyes on you, to have every little move and comment dissected. sometimes it can all get a little too much. luckily, lando gets to come home—home to you, and your familiar embrace.
🎵 tour stop: redux: hands on the throttle
🎼 special guest: alex albon ft. @hello-car-fandom
🎸 surprise song: the prophecy
🎧 spiel: two truths and a lie: lewis hamilton won the wdc seven times, you hate americanos with a passion, and you are the only person in the world who has seen alex albon crash three times in a row during the same race. no one seems to believe your disgust of watered down coffee is the truth, nor do they believe that you are stuck in a time loop. figures you have to do everything by yourself around here—including persuading a very stubborn driver who clearly thinks you are off your rockers.
🎵 tour stop: something borrowed
🎼 special guest: isack hadjar ft. @tsunodaradio
🎸 surprise song: ruin the friendship
🎧 spiel: who had the bright idea of holding five weddings in the same year? (or: the one where you and isack reluctantly agree to be each other’s de facto dates to the 2025 rookies’ weddings.)
box, box! ⸻ all fics will be linked back to this masterlist once completed. please make sure to support all the lovely writers who are part of this collaboration!!! incredibly grateful to have friends who were extremely willing to embark on this with me <𝟑 let’s get this show on the road!!! 🎵
| I've got a tight grip on reality, but I can't let go of what's in front of me here [...] I'm on my way to believing.
the only exception! starring: actor! oscar x actor! reader
▹ you’re a little bit in love with everyone and everything. if love was a person, it would be you. in some ways, everyone is a little bit in love with you too. you can’t help that you’re just so lovely. love love love love love! so when you get casted as the female lead in a rom-com, you are certain you’ll be perfect for the role. you don’t expect to be acting alongside the illegally handsome and overly polite oscar piastri, though. who is very very skeptical about ‘it all.’ that, being love. which isn’t ideal.
▹ word count: 13k (ish!!)
▹ what you’ll be watching: fluff, co-workers to lovers, grumpy x sunshine, miscommunication, sort of fake dating. disgustingly undeniable love. figured out the theme of this fic yet? non f1 au, female!reader. COMPLETELY UNREALISTIC TIME FRAME!!!! BC screw timelines
▹ the soundtrack : ‘the only exception’, paramore. ‘piano concerto no.2’, rachmaninoff. ‘a lovely night’ and ‘mia and sebastian’s theme’ from la la land. ‘bye bye baby’, bay city rollers. ‘blessed’, daniel caesar. + every love song ever. playlist here!!
▹ notes from the director: when this idea came to me, you should’ve seen my little grinning face. this is entirely self indulgent but i hope someone else enjoys this too! i’d like to dare you to find someone who loves the idea of love more than me, cause you won’t. i am the love loving final boss. i also adore the idea that love comes back to you (‘you give a little love and it all comes back to you, nanananananana’-bugsy malone!) and i firmly believe the people most full of love are so easily loved back. hence why reader is literally just adored. i love these two, and i hope you loooove them too! -via
25th August, 15:35.
“THE ONLY EXCEPTION,” begins Angie firmly. “Do you know it?”
You give your agent a casual hum, not bothering to look up from your book.
“Autumn and Louie, right? Louie is rather like Seb from 'La La Land.'” you murmur, ignoring her red nails drumming on the desk.
She nods, clearing her throat.
“Got news today, they’re turning it into a film. Paramount reached out.”
You still don’t meet her gaze.
“Let me guess, they want me to read for Isadora?” you quip, hoping she can’t hear the defeat in your voice.
You were meant to be a historian. You’d always loved history.
Well, you’d loved everything- still do.
But when you’d first traded museum trips for auditions, you hadn’t felt the toll of losing something.
Now, being asked to play the same character over and over again, you were beginning to wonder if admiring Greek pots could’ve been a more fulfilling use of your time. At least you’d never find yourself expecting more from the depictions of charioteers.
Isadora was Autumn’s best friend. In all seriousness, she was one of your favourite book characters. She was a lot like you- a little bit in love with everyone.
Before Isadora, it was Sofia. And then Emmeline, and Mia. Gwen was still your favourite, your first break out role as the slightly shallow, overly optimistic, head-empty friend of the protagonist.
Angie inhales sharply, something between anxious and excited.
“You’re their first choice for Autumn, if you want it.”
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25th August, 16:47.
Oscar Piastri does not call himself a brooding man, but those close to him may disagree. Not that he had that many close to him. Sure, he had many surface-level friends. Came with the trade. People he’d met on set last year, someone he went to film school with. An old personal trainer, from when he’d played a boxer a while back. A new personal trainer, helping him prepare for a superhero movie he’s pessimistic about landing.
“So,” Mark exhales. “You’re not feeling confident about it?”
Oscar looks up briefly.
“I think Norris is better for the role, frankly. Even though he seems to be better for every role, recently. And, as much as I respect Verstappen’s creativity, I didn’t enjoy his last few films.”
Mark pauses.
“Well, something new came in. Not your usual type of project and not particularly highbrow. But I think one of the reasons why Norris is so easy to cast is because he shows some versatility, so I think it would be beneficial-”
Oscar cuts him off with an impatient sigh.
“Mark.” he says pointedly.
“‘The only exception.’ Rom-com type thing, but the male lead is quite a deep character. You’d still get to glower for half the film.” he says finally, and Oscar has to stop the corners of his lips from curling.
He just raises an eyebrow expectantly, and Mark continues.
“The main male lead is Louie, the main female lead is Autumn. Set in a city like New York, but is unspecified. I’ll send a full summary, if you’re interested?” he states cautiously, and Oscar inhales, thinking.
“Do you know who’s auditioning for Autumn?” he asks, after a pensive silence.
Mark nods, but Oscar doesn’t find himself recognising your name.
“They offered her the role, no competition. The author requested her, saying she was the person in mind when writing the character. It would be her first main role, but she has experience. She’s adored, it seems. Not saying you aren’t, but it’s not hard to find unnecessary criticism of you online. For her? Nothing. She must be somewhat special.” he comments, shrugging slightly, and Oscar narrows his eyes.
“Or she’s completely, utterly, un-special. That’s normally fairly safe. Send me all of her work, if you can.” he requests, firm but still polite, and Mark nods.
“Let me know if you’d like me to call them.”
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27th August, 11:19.
Janie Greenwood tumbles into the room ungracefully, brandishing a script with ‘Autumn Mavers’ written in bold, and your name scribbled underneath, alongside a copy of the original book.
She barrels into you excitedly, ignoring the slightly stunned look on your face and she casually brushes a rogue strand of hair back behind your ear.
Placing down the pages absent-mindedly, she plants an excessively dramatic kiss to your cheeks, and you hate that you can feel them warming.
Her short black hair makes her already rounded face seem even smaller and circular, and her bangs look just like a tutorial gone slightly wrong. Her outfit is a mix of dots and colourful tights and her shoes are scuffed flats with cats depicted on them.
She looks more fit to star in a quirky romantic comedy than you do, but you can’t help but admire how she’s a walking pinterest board.
“I am so so so! pleasantly surprised that you agreed to be my Autumn, darling. I truly thought that you might politely decline, and I’d look rather like a fool, requesting you. Considering, even though I also had a certain Louie in mind, that I left his audition open. Just let the casting director do her thing, you know? Now, no matter what, I want you to star in this. So, we can go through many a meticulous chemistry reads, until you find who works best with you, understand? You are my vision for this, yes!” she rambles, beaming so brightly you can practically feel her happiness helping light the room.
You nod gratefully, giving her a graceful smile. It's endearing, how affectionate she is, even though she can't be more than a year or two older than you.
“I really loved the book. I hope to do her justice. Isadora was my favourite, actually.” you admit quietly, like you’re giving her a chance to change her mind.
She lets out a sharp laugh.
“I actually used your interviews to help me get into Autumn's mindset. She is almost entirely based off of you, if you excuse how strange that makes me seem. Shame, you prefer Isadora. She is too superficial, I thought. She deserved more development- my fault, of course.” Janie drawls, waving away your look of insecurity.
You swallow.
“Who’d you have in mind for Louie, then? How come you didn’t offer him the role?” you ask hesitantly, and her eyes gleam.
“Well, he’s never done a film like this before, so I figured I wouldn't get my heart set on it and delay filming waiting for a response. But Louie Jones was actually inspired by Oscar Piastri, can you see it?” she replies quickly, her hands moving rapidly to accentuate her words.
You can’t tell whether to be impressed or intimidated by her eccentricity, but your heart quickens at the mention of his name.
She must notice your sheepish grin, because she chuckles quietly.
“Celebrity crush of yours? Or, well, just crush? How does it work up there, if you’re famous too? Although I suppose he’s more of an A-lister, no offence meant darling!” she asks, trailing off into some nonsensical chattering, and you give her a gentle nod back.
You find it would be unnecessary to mention you’d actually been secretly pining for him since he’d helped you up after an unfortunate trip over wires at fifteen, for an episode he probably can’t remember now.
Still, the look Janie gives you suggests she already knows.
“I doubt he’ll be interested.” you reply firmly. Whether you’re talking about the film, or something else, you’re not entirely sure.
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27th August, 15:46.
Oscar picks up reluctantly when he sees Mae’s name flash on his phone.
“What do you want?”
She scoffs down the phone.
“Is this how you treat everyone, or just your least favourite sister? Maybe I’d just like to check in with you, you know?” she says, with faux-outrage, and Oscar’s glad she can’t see the smile slowly spreading across his face.
“No,” he corrects, “you just only call me when you want something.”
She pauses.
“Fine, you got me. I do want something.”
Oscar sighs. “Go on.”
“Janie posted that ‘the only exception’ is going to be a film soon. I mean, the casting for Autumn is inspired. And I know you don’t do these kinds of films because of your disgusting superiority complex, but it’s like, my favourite book ever. I’d lose my shit if you were playing Louie.” she explains, all in one single exhale.
Oscar laughs at the plea, while pre-emptively regretting what he’s going to say next.
“Sure, I’ll give it a try.”
He hangs up while she’s mid exclamation, promptly messaging Mark.
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31st August, 10:24.
Angie’s reminder pops up cheerily. 11am, the first chemistry test, acting out two scenes you’d been given. Janie evidently didn’t mess around, having whittled down the possible contenders for Louie down to a mere six. Then again, you’d got the role, without contention. Maybe she just really had a vision.
You think back to when you first read the book. What you’d admired of Autumn and Louie’s dynamic. He was so closed off, but not mean. Just cold, in a way. Reading Autumn’s unwavering determination to slowly show him what love could feel like- well, it was comforting. The way he changed his routine, opened himself up to her in a way he hadn’t before. Done the scariest thing of all; trusting someone.
And now, you had to portray that as best you could. You’d have to pretend to be in love.
You’d figured it would be a breeze, because that was just how you were anyway. But now, as you tap the coffee table beside you, the nerves crawl up your face.
“Okay, you guys can have some time to figure out what approach you want to take, how you want to do the scenes.” comes Janie’s excited voice, giving you a thumbs up as someone enters the room.
You recognise him from an ice-skating film you watched last year- Charles Leclerc. Typical heartthrob, and an understandable choice.
To you, you had thought Louie would look a bit less obviously attractive. With a face that grows on you, more than knocks the air out of you instantly.
“Mornin’.” you say cheerfully, grinning at him as you feel the sofa sink next to you, and he smiles back warmly.
“Good morning. Congratulations on the role. My girlfriend was ecstatic to see you on the posters- she’s a big fan.” he replies, and you take the compliment gratefully.
After some more brief small talk, Janie introduces the team of people sitting opposite, all wearing shiny smiles.
“This is Albon. Alexander. Although I’m sure you’ve met. He’s helping me direct this. And to my left is my primary producer, Clara Nelson. Also, my partner, which is why she’s here. I’ll need moral support. And finally, Chloe Chambers is the casting director.”
You smile politely at the two women, before giving Alex a familiar nod. You’d been in a film with him a few years back, as aforementioned Sofia. He was kind, but efficient.
Charles does the same, turning back to you promptly.
The two scenes are fairly standard- an argument, and a confession.
The first goes by smoothly, and you’re pleasantly surprised by how easy it is to slot yourself into Autumn’s mind, feeling your anger flare at Charles’ frowning face.
The second scene isn’t as great. Sure, the acting is good. But the air feels flat, there’s no real tension. You just want to give him an affectionate pat on the shoulder and buy him a coffee, not give up your family bakery.
And clearly, the panel agree.
It feels like you get no break before the next man walks in. His accent is British and heavy, unlike Charles’ gentle French one.
“George.” he says loudly, offering a hand, and you shake it vigorously. By the time you’ve made it halfway through your screaming match (not the direction you thought the heartfelt argument would go), you’ve already laughed at his facial expressions twice. He doesn’t take it to heart, but you both realise it’s hopeless, so you just spend the rest of the time improvising a situation where you mysteriously swap accents. Janie relaxes, cackling with you both, before Chloe ushers Yuki Tsunoda in.
“Yuki!” you exclaim gleefully, pulling him into a quick embrace. You’d wound up in the same youth theatre with him, and he’d remained a friend ever since- through casual messages and stupid videos.
“Aren’t you too annoying to play this character?” he asks, his tone deadly serious, but his eyes glitter.
You bark out a sharp laugh.
“Aren’t you too short?”
Yuki gives you a sheepish grin, before promptly rattling off lines. It’s casual, and easy, and you flow nicely. You wouldn’t mind doing this with Yuki, you think. Bit awkward, like kissing a cousin, but at least you get along well. Assuming Janie will be happy, you quickly cast a glance her way, but she looks deep in thought. Overly serious.
Clara whispers something into her ear, tapping her notepad, and you just swallow before flicking your eyes back to Yuki.
Once you’re both done, with plans to get dinner on Friday, Janie calls for a break. You hear the names of the last three actors you’d meet today. Pierre Gasly, known for his recurring role in a spy series, and Carlos Sainz, who had just killed off in his telenovella. You didn’t catch the last name, lost in thought about the whole process.
The first two men are a blur of shouting and cheap laughs and dry air and you want to rip out your hair and cry simultaneously by the time Carlos walks out, dejected.
In the back of your mind, it eats at you, this horrifying idea that it’s you. That you are the problem, and no matter how hard you try to be loved, no one can even pretend and make it convincing. Not even the best actors around.
And then the door swings open, and you focus again.
And standing there, looking pensive and stoic and painfully beautiful is Oscar Piastri.
You flash Janie an alarmed look, and she grins. You groan quietly to yourself as he sits beside you, hating how you can feel your heart rate speeding.
“Hey, I’m Oscar.” he says quietly, casually. Like you wouldn’t know.
Your voice wavers in response, giving him a careful handshake, and you’re convinced your hand is on fire when he lets go.
“Can we roll them into one, the scenes?” he asks, clearly aimed at the team, but his eyes stay on yours.
Janie looks up, intrigued. “That would be interesting. Go ahead, if you’d like.”
You give him a gentle nod and he smiles, and then it begins.
“I don’t understand you.” you say sullenly, admiring his dark eyes, and he sighs.
“I don’t expect you to. I’m not asking you to.”
“I don’t care. I want to.”
He exhales sharply.
“What if I don't want you to? I’m tired of this shit, I’m tired of you. You just keep following me around, like a fucking dog, or something. This, us, whatever you think we are, it doesn’t exist.” he exclaims, aggression seeping into his words, and you have to remind yourself it’s the same lines you’ve heard five times before, but it feels different.
“Then leave.”
It’s bitter, and it’s perfect, and you can’t help but feel some excitement in the flow of it all.
The silence is poised, but you can tell he hasn’t forgotten what to say next. It’s strategic.
“Are you really going to let me go, if I try that? You didn’t last time. I left, and you chased me down.”
“Because I wanted to make this work. I wanted you!” you yell, arms flying out and narrowly missing his head. You watch him hold back a laugh and you give him a momentary shy smile, before frowning again.
“And you don’t think I wanted you too?”
You let it hit. You let yourself glance at Janie, who looks close to tears.
“What do you mean, Louie?”
He looks away from you.
“Forget it. I’ll see you around.”
“Sit back down.” you say, firm, but your eyes are glassy.
He sits hesitantly, and you lean into him.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
You open your mouth to reply, the line formulating in your head, but you’re cut off by some loud, slow , claps.
Janie is standing, smiling ecstatically.
“Oscar, do you want the role?”
You inhale sharply, your mind whirring. What about Yuki? What about everyone else? Surely, there’s some level of process before this?
Albon gives her the same panicked look, but it’s too late, because Oscar clears his throat.
“Um, yeah? Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
He turns to you, and you’re not totally sure what to do, so you give him a small thumbs up and a wide smile.
And so, you become Autumn Mavers, and Oscar Piastri becomes Louie Jones.
Somewhere deep inside, fifteen year-old you screams.
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2nd September, 18:33
There’s a knock at the door, and you open it with as much casual-ness as you can muster.
Janie had promptly forced her entire social media team to announce you both as her beloved characters, and had then simultaneously told you to get to know each other before filming and promo started in about a week. Again, you admired her efficiency.
And so, Oscar Piastri is standing in your doorway with confidence you envy.
“She sure is quick, right? We’ve already been invited on a radio show this weekend.”
You give him a courteous laugh.
“Good thing we’ll get to know each other now, then?” you suggest, walking out of your apartment and closing the door quickly.
He hesitates, before offering you an arm, which you take.
You try to avoid meeting his eyes as they trail downwards, admiring your outfit. It was a fairly standard dress that a friend had made for you, but you knew it looked good, and you needed any shred of strength you could find.
He leans into your ear as you feel the breeze of the evening hit you.
“You can relax, I promise I won't bite. And I picked somewhere pretty underground, so we shouldn’t be disturbed. And people know it’s business, with all those posters.” he whispers, raising his eyebrows at a shot of him laughing, his name written in bold underneath a large ‘Louie Jones.'
You nod, exhaling, but you don’t loosen your grip on his forearm, and he doesn’t ask you to.
Instead, you listen to the bustle of the city streets and try to time the loud clacking of your boots in time with your heartbeat.
He stops rather suddenly, gesturing to a small door, and you realise he was being deadly serious about the restaurant being hidden. He follows you in, with a calm murmur of ‘ladies first’, and you’re taken to a table up some stairs and by a quaint window.
Once you’ve both ordered, you allow him a brief minute of respite before you blurt out a question.
“So, how come you haven’t done a rom-com before? You think it’s beneath you?”
Your tone is slightly over-accusing, and you immediately feel bad, but he takes it seriously, thinking.
“No, it’s not that. I just don’t think I’d be very good at them. Not really my kind of character, typically. Honestly, could you really see me as a regular love interest?”
Obviously.
“Sure, you’re attractive. Kind of all you need.” you reply, shrugging, and you hate how your stomach flips at his chuckle.
“Huh, thanks. But there’s more attractive actors out there.” he says humbly, and you raise an eyebrow.
“You’re just lucky I had no chemistry with Leclerc.” you nod, and he grins.
“You were supposed to go, ‘Oh, no, there’s no one more attractive than you.’” Oscar says jokingly, and you give him a half smile, because you’re inclined to agree.
He pauses.
“How come you haven’t done anything other than rom-coms?”
“Could you really see me in anything else?” you counter, but you don’t actually give him time to reply.
“I just really love them. I love everything love related. I don’t know, it just makes it feel a lot less like work. It’s just getting paid to be myself for a few months. I’ve been told that the way I look at the world like it's beautiful is sickening.” you admit quietly, afraid to meet his eyes. Wondering if he’ll look at you like that's stupid. Like you're stupid.
But instead, he’s looking at you in a way that makes your ears go pink.
“How do you do it?”
You give him an inquisitive look, so he continues with a cough.
“How do you not give up on it? On love, I mean. Surely, watching everyone fake it, watching every move, every touch, be scripted, does it not make you think it can’t ever be real if it’s so easily acted out?”
You let that sit with you, cautiously twirling a strand of hair near your face.
“Honestly? I’ve never really thought about it. I know love exists, because I’m full of it. Because I see it in my parents, I see it when my brother looks at his boyfriend. I hear it in the arguments between friends, and hear the way they care. It’s everywhere, if you’re brave enough to look.” you explain, with as much honesty as you can muster.
“I can’t see it.”
It’s a sad response, and one you don’t really know to reply to. So instead, you give him a gentle smile, and ask him if he has any siblings of his own. And so, you find out about his sisters, and his family, and when his breath hitches on the word ‘parents’, you realise why he might struggle to believe in it.
He walks you back to your apartment, and you firmly decide that he’s still as kind as he was back then. And that you don’t believe anything people say about him being cold, because he’s clearly just reserved. Untrusting of emotions, because they could lead to getting hurt. Maybe, if you weren't so you, you’d feel the same. Shame you’re far too optimistic and friendly for that.
“I’ll see you soon, okay?” he says, giving you a careful smile, and you nod.
“Goodnight, Oscar.” you say cheerfully, giving him a small wave before closing the door.
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September 4th, 09:24
“Alright, people. I love you, we love you, you love each other, but we need everyone else to love you!” Janie yells, interrupting your casual conversation with Oscar, her hands cupped over her mouth.
Oscar grimaces, and you give him an affectionate punch on the shoulder.
“Come on, it won’t be that bad. Just some videos, or something.” you reassure him, and he nods.
“I know. It's just weird. This is not my brand.” he groans, and you can’t help but giggle at someone perfect for playing Bruce Wayne conforming to Janie’s whimsicality.
But soon your expression turns to horror when she lists out various trends to choose from.
“I don’t post on TikTok.” Oscar says firmly, folding his arms, and you give him a sheepish grin.
“I do. It’s kind of my thing.”
Before he thinks better of it, he nods quickly.
“I know.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You stalked me, Piastri?”
“Wanted to know you before I auditioned. I would’ve said no if-” he begins, trailing off.
“No if what?” you push, shifting towards him, but he just gives you an awkward shake of his head.
Janie clicks her finger aggressively, and you laugh, before deciding which video to film.
It’s pretty standard, just recording clips of each other at various distances from the screen to a song Janie picked, one supposedly in the soundtrack, ending with the two of you standing next to each other, foreheads pressed together.
It’s right then, when you can feel his eyelashes against yours, that Clara yells.
“Albon! That, that right there. That’s the movie poster.”
Alex and Janie hurry over, and Janie squeals in approval, with Alex giving a nod.
“That’s great. Post that video, then we’ll take that photo after lunch and start filming. Bakery set is ready, and so is the jazz bar. We’re going chronologically, finds it works best for the characters.” he explains, and you nod dutifully. You give Oscar’s hand a quick squeeze, even though you don’t know why, and he returns the gesture.
The opening shot is simple. Autumn Mavers, closing her bakery for the day, and then being caught in some horrific rain. The water was warm enough, as it came pouring down, but you hate how your costume clings to your arms. You’re hyper aware of the microphones around you, the cameras circling, and you feel nervous. It hits you, rather suddenly, that you’re the lead in this film. Years worth of words, based around you, and you had to do it justice. And if you didn’t, the world would watch. The comments would pile in, unrelenting and horrific, word after word tearing your performance apart.
It’s rather disgusting, so you just swallow and re-focus, barging through the door in front of you and into a part of the set you hadn’t seen yet. And sitting there, amongst a pile of various instruments and a few other extras, Oscar is playing piano.
You know how the scene plays out; you take refuge in this bar, and you fall for him. Well, Autumn falls for Louie, of course.
But it doesn’t feel like you’re acting when your breath hitches as his eyes meet yours. You give him a rueful smile and go to sit on a barstool, watching him intently. A cameraman marches up to him, following his fingers, before turning to you. You keep your eyes focused on him, letting the music worm its way into your very soul.
When Alex yells out, and everyone flutters away, Oscar tilts his head to the side gently.
“I didn’t know you played piano. I figured they’d just edit it, or something.”
He shrugs. “It wasn’t required. Just a hobby.”
You give him a warm look, and you swear his cheeks flush.
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September 7th, 11:46
“Fans have been super excited to see you two play Autumn and Louie since that video you posted, will we be getting more content like that from you two soon?”
The question from the interviewer is a simple one, and you give her a grateful smile.
“In all honesty, I sort of forced him to do it. The casting is truly excellent, he is so much like Louie.”
“So she’s basically calling me a misery to be around.” Oscar accuses, and you laugh.
“He has trauma, Oscar. You’ve read the script.” is your quick response, and he stares at you for a second too long.
Your body betrays you, as usual, and you turn back to Faye.
“This is actually our first proper appearance together, so if they’re still excited after this, I’ll make him do some more.” you say with finality, and she nods.
“So, Oscar, how does it feel to be making your first non-depressing movie? I don’t want to say this film isn’t deep, but it’s certainly different to your other projects, no? A stark comparison from your work in Whiplash.”
Oscar pauses, as if to think.
“Well, Louie and Andrew aren’t super dissimilar characters, actually. Just a lot less romance involved for the latter.”
“So, how are you finding that?” Faye asks, nodding to you, and he smiles in a way that makes it seem instinctive.
“I’d heard so many compliments about working with her before I landed the role, and I was so curious how she’d managed to befriend so many people. But I think she might be the loveliest person I’ve ever met, to be honest. She’s brilliant to work with, and I couldn’t fathom doing it with anyone else, honestly.” is his quick response, and it feels so genuine you can’t help but beam back.
“Isn’t he adorable?” you quip, elbowing him in the side, and you watch Faye’s eyes narrow.
Once the cameras stop rolling, she places her cue cards down pointedly.
“That was brilliant! I would’ve thought you guys were really into each other. You actors really are something else.” she says positively, and you smile at her, but it doesn’t feel real.
Because you weren’t pretending, at all.
Faye is right, though. When the video drops, your first interview for the film, it explodes. Endless comments of people swearing you’re together, or accusing you of turning Oscar soft. The excitement for the film builds, people begging for a trailer or release date. But you’re too focused on the supposed signs everyone else is seeing, tying you to your coworker.
“You know, they shot La La Land in forty-two days.” Oscar announces loudly, and you look up, along with the rest of the team.
Janie stares at him, confused.
“Right, and we’re on day two. Your point is?”
“Look at these comments. They want this, sooner rather than later. Why don’t we reduce filming time, and then we can aim for it to be out for Valentines Day. That’s feasible, right? If we make this bit quick.” he explains, running a hand through his hair, and you inhale quietly.
It feels like a sucker-punch, and you don’t know why. You guess it’s because he seems desperate to get this over with, so he’s done here. He can go back to his highbrow cinema, and act like you never happened. Like this never happened, you mean.
“To get it out on Valentines would be a great release day. I was aiming more for an early summer film, but we could do it if we really pushed. Janie wants minimal editing anyway, like an indie-film type vibe, right?” Alex asks cautiously, and Janie raises a palm.
“I’m not willing to sacrifice the quality of this for time, Oscar. But if we can keep up a high standard, then that is a great idea. That means more promo, though. We need a trailer soon. And we need you to make more public appearances. We have seven months to complete this, and we need it to be big.”
You look at him determinedly, and he smiles back.
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September 9th, 13:46
“Alright people, look alive. This is where Autumn and Louie are officially born. Oscar, you need to stop looking at her in such a lovesick way, alright? You’re not even close to being together yet.” snaps Albon quickly, and Oscar clears his throat awkwardly.
When Janie raises an eyebrow at him, he looks away, back towards the set.
As the cameras roll, the beret on your head feels overly askew, and the tupperware bundled in your arms feels like weights, instead of a decorated tart.
Oscar is sitting lazily across a barstool, stretched out. His dark eyes gleam effortlessly under the low lighting, and you’re genuinely baffled at how he couldn't envision himself as a heartthrob, because it sure is working on you.
You sidle up to him carefully, brandishing the box.
And then, it begins. Talking to him as Autumn would talk to Louie, scripted and sequenced.
“Autumn Mavers.” you say loudly, over the sound of woodwind instruments and chatter, extending a palm.
“Louie Jones. Do I know you?”
His palm slips into yours easily, like two puzzle pieces.
You give him a lopsided smile.
“I’ve been here for the last couple of nights. Your music is captivating; I couldn’t help it.”
He doesn’t quite smile, but gives you an appreciative nod.
“Thank you, means a lot.”
The silence that follows crackles with an untapped energy, and you can envision the wicked grin on Janie’s face easily.
“Figured musicians liked pastries too?” you mumble, pushing a tart towards him, and he smirks slightly.
“You a baker?”
With a gentle laugh, you nod.
“Yeah, I am. My bakery is a couple streets down.”
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and you can’t help but admire how natural he is.
“I was joking, but that's cool. And yeah, I like pastries.”
He takes a dramatic bite, his eyes never leaving yours, and you’re glad the obvious flush in your cheeks fits the character, or you’d be screwed.
“So, is this it for you, performing here?”
“Realistically, yeah. It pays the bills, and I love it. Just me, and music. Not sure how much more I need.” he shrugs, and you drum your fingers on the table rhythmically.
“Interesting. But like, you’re not lonely, right?”
He shoots you a puzzled look.
“I don’t have a partner, no. If that’s what you’re asking. But I don’t really want one. I’m happy as is.” he replies firmly, and you wince.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I just know I’d be hopeless without people around me.”
“People are around me.”
You make an awkward face.
“You know what I mean, right?”
He nods. “Sure. Guess we’re different in that respect, though.”
You wait, pausing for a second. “Is it good?”
He looks confused for a moment, before giving you a half-smile.
“It’s sweet.”
You glare at him, slightly deflated.
“It’s a dessert.”
Amusement dances in his eyes.
“It’s good. But not really my kind of thing.”
You refuse to be undeterred. “I do other stuff. Come visit, yeah?”
He grunts, but it isn’t a no, and with that, you get up.
Janie hadn’t told you if leaving the container was intentional of Autumn or not, but as you smile to yourself, you decide it is.
A hopeless, shameless attempt at something you can’t even recognise.
That afternoon, you give yourself a moment to breathe on the balcony of the studio, letting the air hit your hot forehead.
“You alright?”
You recognise his voice instantly, but don’t turn. Instead, you mumble back a graceful response, and he comes up beside you.
“Louie is a bit of a dickhead. I read the book yesterday.”
You chuckle lightly, casting him a sideways glance.
“He’s alright, by the end of it. He’s just cynical. He just really needed Autumn.”
He pauses.
“So you believe in that soulmate crap?”
You purse your lips, and try to act completely unoffended.
“Sure. Why not? It’s a nice idea. There’s a million Louie’s around, and they’ll all have an Autumn somewhere. And sometimes people with disgusting optimism and too much love in their hearts need someone to tie them to earth.”
Oscar swallows thoughtfully, nodding.
“That makes sense. What if they never find their Autumn, though? Or they do, and it goes wrong.”
You shrug.
“What if it goes right?”
It clearly stumps him, and for a moment, you feel bad. Even though you don’t know why.
“I know you don’t really believe in it, and I’m not going to make you. But you’re deserving of love, y’know? It’ll find you. Just don’t disregard it so easily. It’s basic, but if it’s meant to be- then it will be.” you mutter, scrunching your nose.
You turn away from him, back inside, but you catch his strangled “Thank you.” before the door closes.
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September 12th, 11:12
The first time you kiss, it isn’t on set. It’s after a desperate plea from the pair of admins for the film's official account.
They’re waving their phones around erratically in the lounge, flashing a video of two actors you recognise making a video as their characters.
“Whats a hard launch?” Oscar asks curiously, and you have to stifle a laugh.
“That doesn't matter.” grumbles the boy, Isack, while Doriane gives a firm nod.
“We just need this level of engagement. That first video was cute, and works for you guys in real life, but we need them to want to see you as Autumn and Louie, all right?”
You nod slowly, and Doriane beams.
“Now, you’re madly in love. Just lipsync this, act it out, and, well. Yeah.”
Oscar audibly groans to your right, and can’t help but feel a pang in your stomach.
But you plaster a warm grin on your face and prop the phone up, playing the sound twice before hitting record.
The reluctance on his face is evident, giving you a calculated eye roll, but it works undeniably well even if he isn’t acting.
And your wide smile and slight bounce fits too, with no extra effort, and you wonder if he’s realising how perfect the two of you are without trying.
Perfect as your characters. Not together. Easy misconception to make.
And then, while you’re too busy thinking, his hands cup your face and he brings his lips to yours.
You gently push him out of frame, hands around his neck, and when the sound falls mute, you pull away quickly.
Maybe too quickly, from the way his face falls.
Then there’s a holler, and you give an approaching Janie a bashful smile.
A voice comes from behind her, one that’s familiar, and you can’t help but laugh.
“Dorks.”
Aurelia Nobels stands there, arms outstretched.
“Nobels here will be our Isadora.” Janie announces, and you run at the blonde girl, giving her a tight hug.
Oscar watches you tumble into her, and his heart swells in a way that’s slightly alien to him.
That evening, you and Aurelia dance around the kitchen, music up overly high.
You’re both trying to bake some grand, celebratory cake, but there’s flour all over the floor and egg shells littering the counter.
“How come you didn’t tell me you got the role?”
She laughs.
“I hadn’t got it. She wanted to see how you reacted to me being there, and that’s what decided it. I found out just when she yelled it out.” she admits, fiddling with her hoodie sleeve, and you make a choked sound of surprise.
“She didn’t even ask Chloe? I’d feel awful, being the casting director of this project. How much creative freedom does this woman even have?” you ask, bewildered, but you fold into laughter simultaneously.
When your giggles subside, she raises an eyebrow at you.
“How is it going with Oscar?”
It feels like a loaded question, presumably because it is, but you just shrug.
“It’s fine. He’s easy to get along with.”
Aurelia whacks your arm, hard.
“Oh, give me a proper answer. You’ve been thirsting over this guy for as long as I’ve known you!” she accuses, and your jaw slacks.
“I have not, that is outrageous. But that is a proper answer.”
Her eyes widen slightly.
“You’re properly into him.” she cackles, and you cover your face in embarrassment.
“Shut up. That would be bad for everyone involved.”
“You’re not denying it.” she counters, and you nod.
“I’m not, no.”
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September 14th, 10:42
“Louie, you made it!” you exclaim excitedly, rushing to the door.
He hesitates in the doorway, and you frown.
“Don’t just stand there like an inspector, come on.”
He pauses, his brows furrowing.
“Wow, this is a lot. Very pink. Very cute.” His nose scrunches judgementally, but you just whack Oscar’s shoulder and pull him in by the forearm. You smile unintentionally when his eyes meet yours, but if he notices, it doesn't show.
“That was the intention. Go on, sit.” you command, gesturing to a quaint table by the window covered with a chequered tablecloth and a small vase of flowers.
“Do you not find this place a bit cliche?” he asks, not judgementally, but seriously.
You stop to think, as you imagine Autumn might.
“Maybe, sure. But a cliche is a cliche for a reason, no? Beside, it attracts people. People with an ounce of whimsy in them, at least. Anyway, what do you want? On the house, naturally.”
He gives you a skeptical grin.
“Just a coffee will do, thanks. Black, no sugar.”
You hold back a laugh at his serious expression.
“You’re no fun, you know that Louie? But whatever you want.” you reply dutifully, with a dramatic sigh.
You return with a chipped mug, handing it to him carefully.
“So, what do you think? Is this what you were imagining?”
Oscar’s gaze falls to the couple sitting beside you on the nearest table.
“It’s bright. It’s very optimistic, I suppose. And busy, listen to all this.”
You shrug. “They’re just happy, Louie. You could try it sometime, you know? Instead of scowling so much and playing sad jazz.”
He jutts his jaw, offended.
“Not really my thing. I’ll stay how I am, thanks.”
Your voice becomes softer now. “It could be, if you try. Like opening a window. Let some light in.”
He meets your eyes now, warm and unsure.
“What if the light reveals things better off kept in the dark?”
You give him a gentle laugh. “Of course you’d say something cryptic like that. But in all seriousness? Then you deal with them. For the record, you wouldn’t have to do it alone.”
Without thinking, you reach across the table, taking his hand in yours. He tenses, and you can’t tell if it's in surprise or in character. But once he relaxes, rubbing a thumb over the back of your hand, your stomach flips.
You pull away carefully, giving him a lazy smile to try and hide whatever the hell you just felt, before getting up.
“Now, I made a new pastry this morning. It’s dark, and overly bitter. I think you’d like it.”
After hearing her cue, Aurelia crashes in with a tray of desserts, twirling from table to table, before landing at yours.
“Louie, this is Isadora. Closest thing to a sister I have.” you introduce, and he nods up at her.
“This is Louie, huh? I’ve heard a lot.”
He gives her a skeptical look.
“All good things, I hope?”
She doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a response, instead just placing down a tart and walking away with a sly grin.
“Ignore her. I haven’t said anything.” you assure him, but his lips curl upwards.
“Are you just going to abandon me here?”
“I have customers. I’ll be back.”
His hand twitches on the table, like he’s thinking about reaching out again. Like his palm already misses yours.
With that, you walk off, satisfied.
When Alex calls out, he sounds pleased, and Janie is beaming.
Oscar catches up to you, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder.
“You’re brilliant.” he murmurs, unprompted. Genuine.
Your cheeks warm instantly, but you flash him a proud smile nonetheless.
“We’re brilliant.” you correct, with some finality, and he nods in agreement.
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September 28th, 12:12
The rumours start circling in a way you find must be more vicious than sharks- they haunt your every breath.
Constant accusations, whispered truths of Oscar Piastri finally finding the person to melt his cold heart. No one could’ve predicted it would’ve been you, but they’re ever so convinced it is.
If the unspoken confirmation of your non-existent relationship reaches Oscar, you don’t notice it in the way he acts, on set or off.
Except for, when his hand accidentally brushes yours in run-throughs, or when you grip his arm for balance walking down the studio stairs, it seems he lets the touch linger long after it should have passed.
And when his fingers twitch towards yours, it doesn’t seem to be a character thing. It just becomes part of your energy, of the way you mould and morph into one entity.
And slowly, gently, the lines between Louie and Autumn blur, and you forget what it means to be watched by a camera.
You realise, after a torturous few weeks of this back and forth, of careful glances and flushed cheeks, you’re well and truly fucked.
There’s no need to tell Aurelia, or Janie, because you know they can see it written all over your adoring face. You just hope, to keep a shred of pride, that Oscar hasn’t noticed.
Or, if he has, that he’s being kind enough to ignore it, to keep going on as if nothing has happened. As if you’re not secretly glad that your relationship on the screen is developing as to have a reason to stay close to him, to stay wrapped in his warm arms.
What you don’t realise, is that somewhere deep down, he’s starting to feel the same.
He notices it after that initial tug at his heartstrings- the way you cradled Aurelia with such unwavering joy, such devotion, that he for a second, he saw it.
He understood it, when you spoke of love.
He watched it unfold, flow out of you as easily as oxygen. As if it was just as crucial to your survival as your blood. Maybe it was in your veins too. It sure seemed that way.
And for that fleeting moment, the world brightened. That weight on his chest, it felt more like an embrace than something crushing him slowly. Something daring his ribs to snap.
He chased it, after that. Any chance he could, anything to feel that again. That disgusting optimism which had seemed to fade with age; the very same thing that had made him watch an interview of yours, and hit pause.
In jealously, maybe? He didn’t know.
But it was curiosity, it was appreciation, that had made him hit play again.
And here he is, watching you carefully, and waiting for his breath to catch in a way that was shy, and earnest, and nothing close to a heavy exhale.
“It’s your favourite time of the week!” you exclaim teasingly, waving your unlocked phone around.
He fakes a groan, pairing it with a begrudged eye-roll, but his stomach warms as you blink expectantly.
What he’ll never admit, to anyone, is that he does enjoy this. The easy banter, even if it means stupid videos. Even it means his face dropping slightly when he watches you falter at the comments about you two being together.
He reads them all, and he doesn't hate them. Which is disgusting, and endearing, and terrifying, and nothing short of indescribable.
Based on the book, you figure you must be nearing halfway through the story. It’s sweet really, where Autumn is. Her evidently falling.
A piano sits in the corner of her bakery now, wooden and old. Completely out of place.
Completely perfect for Louie.
And he blames it on that, says he had an argument with the bar owner, as for why he spends so much time around.
When you look at Louie, you see Oscar. And to someone who isn’t an actor, that probably seems logical.
But when you’re pretending to be crushing, hard, that’s not ideal at all. If anything, it’s horrific, and totally daunting.
Still, it’s not like you to lock it away. You don’t hold it against him, this unrequited mess.
You just wear your heart on your sleeve, as you always do, and keep smiling.
You ignore the pitying looks that Aurelia offers you on the days he seems to be out of it, brows furrowed and arms folded.
You hate to say it, but you don’t like him any less, even though you’re not sure you fully understand him.
Oscar, however, does not do the same. Instead, it’s a visit from Logan that makes him decide what to do.
“Hey, Oscar, mate. You’re everywhere, you and your co-star. Never thought you to be the rom-com type, but look how it’s working out. They love you!” Logan announces cheerfully, sauntering into his apartment. He claps the Australian on the back, before sitting beside him.
“Yeah, yeah. It’s big. It’s good. Definitely a new experience.” Oscar replies casually, but his fingers are twisting nervously.
Logan clears his throat awkwardly.
“You wouldn’t mind if I asked her out, would you? We met last year, but nothing really happened, I don’t know. Seeing her everywhere has made me rethink it.” he confesses, and Oscar bristles.
“Why would I mind?”
“Cause, you know. For the image of the film?”
It hadn’t even occurred to him that he should be thinking about that.
“Oh, oh yeah. Good point. Maybe talk to her, and if she seems interested, she can ask for the green light from Janie, and Albon.”
Oscar doesn’t quite meet Logan’s relieved eyes.
He gets up, to rummage through Oscar’s cupboard.
“Are you sure it’s all good, like with you? I wouldn’t want to make it awkward, you being my best mate and all. I can lay off it until you’re done with promo, that’s okay. If it would be an inconvenience.”
It’s greedy, and mean, what Oscar does next.
He looks up at Logan seriously, giving him a slow nod.
“You know, that would be helpful, thanks mate. Once we’re done, she’s all yours to ask. But we’re so busy, it probably wouldn’t work right now anyway.”
Logan makes a muffled sound of agreement, shovelling in crisps and throwing the rest in a chipped bowl.
Oscar gives him a gentle smile, but there’s something ugly brewing behind it. Some guilt, some unknown reason as to why he stopped him.
But when he returns to set the next day, waving to you warmly, he shoves that down.
Somewhere dark, hidden, somewhere too hostile to ever be visited.
He tells himself it’s the proximity, the relentless schedule.
All of this? It isn’t real.
How he feels about you?
It’s just acting.
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October 11th, 14:32
It all explodes, one afternoon.
It had been going so well. Too well.
Bottled up feelings and blurred lines butt heads until they get the tension to snap, so it was bound to happen.
You just weren’t expecting it to happen quite like this.
It’s a quiet day on set, just a few domestic scenes. You’re sitting on an aged couch, legs stretched out, headphones in.
When the door swings open, it takes you a second to register Oscar entering.
He gives you an exaggerated wave, and you beam, getting up to greet him.
It was routine, at this point. He would come bearing an extra pastry (ironic) or a coffee, and you’d welcome him in with a tight embrace and a new song for his playlist, or some drama between the costume designers.
This time, as you move towards him, he looks distracted, unfocused.
And once his stuff is on the floor, drinks on an end table, he turns to you.
But instead of outstretched arms, his lips meet yours, in a way that feels new and beautiful and dangerous.
There are no cameras. There is no audience. You are not Autumn, you are simply you.
And kissing you, right now, is not Louie.
Oscar Piastri’s hands are planted on your hips, and your arms snake around his neck, and that is whose mouth is pressed on yours.
It tastes a bit like victory, with a hint of everything you’ve ever wanted.
And then, just as a pleasant laugh bubbles up your surprised throat, he pulls away.
Not in a gentle way, in a way that suggests that was a mistake.
And when you meet his panicked glare, you feel your heart shatter for the very first time.
“Shit, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking straight, and I was just reading the script on the way here-” he begins, faltering, but you just shake your head.
“Don’t worry. Sorry, I should’ve pulled away sooner. Kind of forgot we aren’t on set.” you reply quickly, and he runs a hand through his hair awkwardly, giving a polite chuckle.
“Your ridiculous drink is on the left, by the way.” he mumbles, walking off, and when you exhale, you feel an alien weight pressing on your chest.
After Oscar gives himself a moment of composure, shooting begins. And it kills him, that you’re looking at him with an expression he doesn’t recognise. Something bordering on mistrust. Something desperate.
And he wants to reach for you, so badly.
And so, he does. Hidden under the piano playing, the brooding, the deceit, he stands as Louie Jones.
And Louie Jones can reach out to Autumn Mavers, and brush the hair from her face, and plant a kiss to her cheek, and no one will care. No one will question it.
And so, maybe he is overstepping. Maybe he is dancing with a line that shouldn’t be crossed.
But in this moment, he doesn’t care.
He thinks of that roar in his chest, the horror, at the idea of seeing you on Logan' s arm.
So one with more roar, he is greedy again. He chucks out stage directions, and kisses you mid sentence, all breathless and brave.
He hopes it tells you what he wants to say.
But when Janie’s face is happier than yours, he wonders if somewhere, something went wrong.
If he lost more than he realised by one careless mistake.
The arguments begin after that. You tell Janie that you think the audience needs to connect to the characters individually, so you post videos alone. His playlist stops growing, you finally pay him back for the drinks. It’s little things, how you think the scene should be done. Asking him to step back, or forward, or not move at all. You stop giggling at his muttered jokes.
Luckily for you, you’ve reached where their relationship falls apart anyway. The conflict, before an optimistic resolution. Their bickering, when Autumn finds out Louie was being serious about not believing in love. That all of it, whatever it was, was only ever true to her.
She gave him so much, she gave him all of her.
Her love, her time, her broken strength.
Unrelenting, unrequited, unappreciated.
You try not to recognise your own faults within her. You stop seeing Oscar, and start trying to see the jazz musician who has just broken your heart.
It’s one and the same.
After an excruciatingly long time, an eternity (more like six days), Oscar begins to realise he may be losing his mind.
He reaches a conclusion he finds to be very logical; you have no interest in him, and he blew it.
He made you uncomfortable, and then ran away, and didn’t apologise. And so, he would do the mature thing.
“Hey, can we talk?”
Your heart twists at the nerves in his shaky tone. You want to say sorry, tell him it’s fine, you’re being irrational. But instead, you nod.
“I’m sorry about last week. We’ve been so off since. I should’ve apologised more sincerely. It wasn’t my intention to make you uncomfortable, I promise. It was lazy of me, I was just not paying attention. I got so used to having you around me, you know? With all the closeness of the scenes we’d been doing.”
You listen to him intently, and you pause. You could say it’s alright.
You don’t.
“It didn’t feel like a mistake.”
You know what that means. It’s big. But it’s also truthful- it felt right.
Like to kiss him as a greeting, to admire his eyelashes, to commit the curve of his lips to memory- it seemed right.
But to him, that is not what you are asking. Your tone is accusatory, your eyes narrowed in anger and not vulnerability. You know how he feels, and you don't feel the same, and view him as a coward for hiding behind the idea of making an error.
“It was, I promise. I didn’t mean to.”
Didn’t mean to, or didn’t want to? You’re desperate to ask, but you can’t.
You bite your tongue and take the rejection.
And so, with that, being in love with someone becomes an act, and not just an extension of everything you are.
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November 24th, 15:23. The last day of filming.
The filming process was still fast by industry standards, but you’d long missed the mark Oscar had set before. Instead, it stretched eighty-one days, to today. No one can pinpoint exactly when your scenes together went from one take wonders to gruelling hours, but it happened. And with each reshoot, each kiss you had to do again, that weight in your chest grew ugly.
You despised how you still found comfort in the heat of his arms around yours.
“Okay people, this is it. The final scene. Feels dramatic to say. Janie?” Alex shouts, brandishing his clapboard.
Janie coughs.
“I’m ever too sentimental for this. Thank you everyone for this momentous project, for your dedication and passion. It’s been an honour. And you have my whole-hearted gratitude, you two, for bringing my words to life. To watch Autumn and Louie fall in love again, in a way that feels both new and old, was nothing short of breath-taking. I hope through this, somehow, you have found a way to have more faith in the existence of love, Oscar.” she sniffles, giving Oscar a tight embrace, and he looks a bit stunned.
Then, she turns to you. And just as she had when you’d first met, she plants a kiss to your damp cheeks.
“And I hope for you, that you have found you are deserving of love. Just because you give it so readily doesn’t mean you do not need it back.”
She casts Oscar a sly glance.
“And I suspect, you search for it so intently, that you often can’t see it when it’s staring at you.”
You’re not sure what she means by that, but that’s because you don’t turn to the left.
For there, Oscar is standing, looking directly at you. And Janie’s words swirl in his head,
‘The existence of love.’ And then your voice joins hers, ‘I know love exists, because I’m full of it…It’s everywhere, if you’re brave enough to look.’ His empty response, saying he can’t see it. But he can, because he can see you.
He can see you now, tears leaking from your eyes, but not in sadness. In something more bittersweet. He can see your tattoo, for your brother. The matching one with Aurelia on your knuckle. The way you learnt every cast member's name, how you asked Doriane for a postcard when she went to France for a weekend. The way you embraced people as if it was more natural than breathing.
He sees you.
And so, as his eyes finally catch up to his heart, he realises something he should’ve come to terms with a long time ago.
Oscar Piastri believes in love now, because he’s in love with you.
It’s just a shame that after today, you will disappear, for you never felt the same.
And he will shrink back into his idea of safety, into darker films where his tone is bitter, and the days his heart stopped feeling so heavy will become a distant memory.
The set has changed- it’s a stage of sorts, thrown between foliage and flora. A piano stands in the centre, with stools surrounding it. Oscar sits proudly, but his fingers show nerves. His first two performances are with a group of saxophonists and other instruments. He’s searching the crowd for you, and when his eyes meet yours, you give him a small wave.
At this point in the story, it’s all gone to shit. But Autumn was never one to give up on Louie so easily, just because she was hurt. And so, she shows up.
When he sees her, her face contorts into something painful.
Soon, it turns to one of concentration, as his solo piece begins.
Maybe you’re biased, but you think it might be the most beautiful melody you’ve ever heard.
Something to rival Rachmaninoff, you conclude.
Tears well in your eyes at the familiarity of it all, the way he glances up at you between chords, to check you’re still watching.
To check you still want him.
When it ends, and the crowd of extras explode into applause, that’s your cue to leave.
So you turn gracefully, pushing past a branch, back out into the street.
But before you can make it any further, a warm hand grips your arm.
When your eyes meet his, the look is real. Not some polished version of how love ought to look like.
You wonder if he can see it now.
It’s just a shame it might be too late to come back from. There is something exhausting in the way pining eats at you. The way giving up all your love without it feeling returned drags you down to somewhere deeper than you thought possible.
“I love you.” he confesses, his voice breaking.
You know how you would respond. Maybe you’d move away, ask him to sit and talk it out.
But it is not you, it is not him. It is Autumn and Louie, and you did not write their story- Janie did.
“Did you only just realise?”
It’s a stupid line. It’s a barbed one.
“Yeah.”
Oscar’s voice is strained in a way you know will get him nominated for an award no one would expect from a romance film.
You can’t help but admire his talent.
“I love you too.”
When his arm stretches across your back, hugging you towards him, it feels like the beginning and the end rolled into one.
You press your lips to his gently, carefully. Almost like he’s a stranger.
When Alex calls to wrap, you pretend you don’t hear him.
You give yourself one more minute, enveloped in some bizarre world where your feelings become something you can’t fully trust, instead of your compass.
Oscar obliges, keeping his body firm around yours, and when you break away innocently, his expression is unreadable.
You know there’s no point in saying goodbye, but you say it anyway.
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December 8th, 18:12
You flick the ends of your hair nervously, staring in the mirror. The room smells of vanilla perfume and steam, and your neck gleams with a small strand of jewellery.
It had been a while since you’d been on a first date, and you were admittedly on edge.
Even though the person wasn’t a stranger at all, you still felt like it was all new.
The knock on the door made you jump, as you opened it.
You broke out into a smile on instinct, eyes dropping to a nice bouquet of flowers in his hands.
“Hey, Logan.”
He gives you a polite nod, while you take the peonies gratefully, and you welcome him in.
“Just give me a sec to find a vase, and we can go, ‘kay?”
“Of course. You have a really nice apartment, you know?”
You laugh. “Thanks. I love it.”
He looks around, admiring the pink cushions and framed film posters.
“Can’t get away from Oscar, huh?” he quips, eyebrows raised at the depiction of a drum on your wall, his name in bold underneath.
“Apparently not. But we don’t have any sort of promo now until February, anyway. So I haven’t seen him much.”
Logan pauses.
“I think you had a big impact on him. I’m no gambler, but I’m willing to bet he misses you.”
You give him an undignified snort.
“I doubt it. Anyway, I’m only one call away.”
“Oscar’s a proud man.” is Logan’s quick response, like that’s meant to mean something to you.
“Sure. Anyway, let’s go?”
He takes your hand as you walk down the city streets, averting your eyes from your own face staring back at you.
When he turns the corner, you realise where he’s taking you.
You really can’t get away from him, it seems.
By the time you get home, the photos of you two are everywhere. Laughing, hand in hand.
You stare at the posts carefully, analysing your wide smile and his adoring eyes.
It looks right. He looks stable. He is stable.
You think about your parents. A classic story, meeting in high-school, never quite giving each other up.
Maybe, they settled for stable. Maybe, they might not be soulmates.
But they’re definitely in love. Maybe that’s good enough.
Your fingers hover over his name, wondering if you should call. Logan Sargeant, a future boyfriend?
You think back to something he’d said just as the waiter had refilled his glass.
“Oscar had actually indirectly asked me to back off, a while ago. Some bullshit about the image of the film. I didn’t want to push, so I waited. It paid off.”
You hadn’t asked if he’d got his blessing now. You didn’t want to know.
It made you shut your phone off, though.
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December 12th, 11:08
“So, fans are fuming at the new discovery of you and Logan Sargeant. I saw someone say they blocked Gracie Abrams because of it, and another go as far as to say that they broke up with their partner because their whole conception of love is destroyed. For a romance film, is that the image you want? Were the fans seeing something that wasn’t there?”
You inhale.
“That’s a big question. I’d like to preface by just saying that Autumn and Louie are very much in love, even though Oscar and I weren’t. That's kind of how these things go. It’s easy to see things, because we want you to see them. They’re there to be noticed. I would hate to be at all to blame for any emotional distress, though.” is your calculated answer.
The interviewer sits up straighter, her leather trousers squeaking slightly.
“So, everything the audience saw in interviews, you were just putting it on? Even the hand incident?” she says it like it’s something dangerous, and you laugh.
“Well, yeah, sure. Brushing hands on an armrest was an accident, I’ll give them that.”
You swallow, your expression hardening slightly.
“I know that, for me at least, there could’ve been something there. It didn’t feel so much like acting. But again, it’s just part of the industry. Like my tiktoks, they were fun, but he hated them. We were really different. He was a pleasure to work with, though.”
She deadpans.
“So you did have a thing for him. They’ll go crazy about that.”
Your brow furrows, thinking of the blonde boy back home. The way your relationship dynamic is unspoken, unsure if you’re together or something in between.
“It’s pretty common, especially with the nature of the film. Hard to not feel a little funny about the person you’re spending weeks pretending to be in love with.”
The interview gives you a deep nod.
“Of course. So, about the film…”
Oscar switches his phone off then, dropping his head into his palms.
It’s impossible to tell if you’re telling the truth, but he knows he has to find out.
He grabs the first coat on his rack, slamming his door shut and hailing the nearest cab.
He isn’t nervous when he reaches your door, he’s something else entirely.
His fists are loud on the wood, and it swings open instantly, but it’s not you he’s grimacing at.
Instead, it’s someone else he recognises.
“Mate! What are you doing here?” Logan asks cheerfully, but his arms are crossed.
“Where is she?”
He hesitates.
“I don’t know, she’s out somewhere. Said she wanted a coffee, and she left.” he replies, and Oscar doesn't stick around- he turns and flings himself back down the stairs, into the pavements.
He doesn’t live here, doesn’t know where you’d go for coffee.
But you’re near the studio, and he remembers the small cafe he’d visited every morning.
So he barges in, a flurry of limbs and desperation, and there you are.
You have those same headphones in, wearing a faraway expression, and the sight of you hits him square in the chest.
It’s a view he’d got accustomed to, overly eager to see.
Like that flutter in your chest when you viewed the sunset; it was the same phenomenon.
He sits down, uninvited, and you make a little ‘o’ with your mouth when you notice him.
“Oscar, hi. What are you doing here?”
He pauses, only to breathe.
“Did you mean it?”
You tilt your head in confusion.
“Did you mean, what you said? In that interview?”
He shoves his phone under your nose, and you wince.
You meant it. You’re sure he knows you meant it.
But when you look up, his expression is ugly. Something almost angry. And you’re scared of what that means. If he might hate you, for dragging him into this.
So a white lie slips from you, in a way they never did before.
“I did it for Doriane. She was fighting for her life when Logan and I got spotted.” you say, matter of fact. You’re hoping your shallow breaths aren’t giving you away.
“Alright. So I’m okay to do the same?”
“What?”
“I have a radio show tomorrow.”
He doesn’t offer any more context. He just gets up, and leaves, before you can say anything else.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
December 14th, 12:14
“So, Oscar. ‘The only exception’ is set to release in cinemas on Valentines Day. Any advice on who to watch it with, and if it’s a good idea for first dates?”
Oscar gives a courteous laugh.
“I’m not really one to speak on dates. But you can go with anyone, there are so many different dynamics explored throughout this film, beside the obvious.”
The radio-show host clears his throat.
“Speaking of that first part, did you hear what your co-star recently said about you? It sparked more debating online, about a supposed secret relationship between you two during filming. Are you allowed to comment on this?”
“Allowed? Of course I am. Yeah, sorry to disappoint, but we never had that kind of relationship. I did hear what she said, though. And she articulated it brilliantly. Especially because I haven’t done this kind of intimate onscreen relationship before, not in this respect of being completely head over heels, it was natural. I was taken by her, sure. Could you blame me?”
You replay it, finger sliding left, over and over again. Until the words are burned into your mind.
You know it’s planned. You know it’s fake. He even had the courtesy to warn you, as an offering after what had made it all go wrong in the first place.
Or maybe you were clinging to something that had never existed at all, and it didn’t go wrong. You just stopped thinking it ever could’ve been right.
“What’cha watching?” asks Logan lazily, walking into the room, and you hesitate.
You sit down, gesturing for him to sit next to you, and he does. His fingers draw curves on your knee, and you give him a sad smile.
“Logan-” you begin, but he sighs.
“You finally realised?” he asks carefully, and you pause.
“Realised what?”
“That you’re in love with Oscar.”
You scoff.
“I already knew that, I guess. I just thought I was over it. And then I decided you were right, he’s going to be haunting me for a while. And it’s not fair to use you as a shield.”
It’s an honest answer, and not coated to be kind. He appreciates it.
“If you stop being plagued by Oscar shaped ghosts, you’ll call me, right?”
“Of course.”
Less honest, but kinder. He appreciates that too.
He doesn’t try to kiss you, or even hug you goodbye. He just leaves, like he was almost never there to begin with.
On his way out, his shoulders brush with someone else’s on the stairs.
“You’re fucking unbelievable.” Logan claims quietly, his eyes locking with familiar, dark ones.
Oscar pauses, giving him a confused glance, but he shrugs.
“Don’t fuck it up.”
“Logan?” you call, hearing the door open. You were just about to lock it, but had taken a second to breathe.
“Not Logan.” he admits, and your eyes widen.
You stand, and turn, but you know who it is.
“Oscar.”
He nods.
“Why are you here?”
He glances at the door.
“I don’t really know.”
You fold your arms, taking a tentative step towards him.
“That’s a shitty answer.”
“You’re right, it is.”
You let the silence settle like dust, waiting for a better response.
And so, he begins.
“What does being in love feel like?”
You let the question engulf you, before choking out a reply.
“I don’t really know.”
And it’s true- you don’t. You love, but being in it, disgustingly so? You weren’t sure.
You thought you’d felt it, once. And that once, is standing right in front of you.
“Oscar, why are you here?” you ask again, your lips pursing, and he runs an exasperated hand through his unruly hair.
“I was reading the comments, and I just, snapped. I don’t know.”
You give him an incredulous look.
“I thought Oscar was heartless, and now he’s changed. Wow, now I’m sure love exists. Can’t believe my favourite female actress is now huge, because she made Oscar Piastri blush on live television.”
He hesitates.
“No way Oscar Piastri fell in love and fumbled it, and his girl got taken by his best mate.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“That was the one that got you? It took Logan to rile something up in you?” you tease, but your eyes don’t soften.
“You got me. You had me. It was you. I was so convinced love was just one elaborate fakery, and you became the only exception.”
“What are you saying?”
He sighs.
“I think you know the answer to that question. You made me fall in love with you.”
“I made you do no such thing. That was all you.” you retort, giving him a lazy smile, and he laughs.
“For the record, I may have loved you since we were fifteen, when I-”
“-tripped over the only hazard on set? I remember. I remembered when I stalked you, y’know?”
“Naturally.”
He moves before you, pulling you into something deeper than a hug.
“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. I kept just pushing it down, because I didn’t know what it was. I was scared.” he admits, murmuring into your hair.
“It’s okay. You get why I didn’t say anything, right?”
“Because you were scared too?”
“Something like that.” you reply, pressing a gentle kiss to his neck.
“Are we obligated to let Janie know about this?”
You laugh into his chest.
“She already does.”
And, as if summoned, your phone rings. Her name, flashing on it, a welcome interruption.
“Hey, Janie. What’s up?”
“Darling! Lovely to hear from you. Oscar wouldn’t pick up, of course.”
“Hi, Janie. I’m here.” he croaks sheepishly, grinning.
“Ah. I won’t ask. Well, I will. In a minute. How would you feel about a second film? I’m planning on dropping the sequel book right after the release.”
You scoff.
“Do you understand the concept of taking a break?”
“Nonsense, no such thing. But are you both happy to pretend to be in love again?”
You give Oscar a nod, a silent question, and he nods back.
“Without a doubt. And it wouldn't really be pretending”
while on vacation, pato helps you get back at your douchebag ex—by being your designated ‘instagram boyfriend’ during the trip.
ꔮ starring: pato o’ward x reader.
ꔮ word count: 15.3k + smau elements.
ꔮ includes: romance, humor. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. fake dating lite, mentions of infidelity (neither pato nor mc), mc is elba’s friend, sibling dynamics!!!, feelings realization/denial, google translated spanish. title is from taylor swift’s better than revenge.
ꔮ commentary box: oh look at me i’m pato o’ward, kae’s newest favorite driver! boy fuuuck u.. anyway. this one has been on my mind for weeks. behemoth of a fic is well-deserved after the season he had. this also goes out to the anon who requested an adjacent plot 🏖️ 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
You’re not supposed to be on this trip.
Pato drags his suitcase across the tile, wincing when the wheels rattle with each step. It’s barely dawn, the airport shuttle is due in twenty minutes, and he’s still trying to wrap his head around the fact that you’re coming with them.
“You’re sure about this?” he asks for the third time, tossing his backpack onto the couch where Elba is zipping up her carry-on. “Vegas isn’t exactly a spa weekend. It’s obscene. It’s bright. It’s—”
“Fun?” Elba cuts in, arching a brow. She shoves a pair of sneakers into her bag without ceremony. “Relax, Pato. She’ll be fine.”
He leans against the armrest, arms crossed. “I’m just saying, I thought she was more of a… book-club-and-brunch type. Not a twenty-four-hour-casino-bender type.”
Elba rolls her eyes. “You underestimate her.”
“No, I don’t,” Pato says, voice dry. “I’ve known her for years. She’s been to our house a hundred times. She always helps Mom clean up, she never forgets birthdays, and she once turned down sangria because she had an early morning yoga class.” He tilts his head. “Does that scream Vegas to you?”
“She’s allowed to surprise you,” Elba bites back, hauling her bag upright.
Pato narrows his eyes. “What’s the catch?”
“There’s no catch.”
“There’s always a catch.”
Elba fiddles with the zipper, not meeting his gaze. That’s all the confirmation he needs. He straightens, invested. “You’re hiding something.”
“Pato.” Warning tone. Big sister mode.
“Spill.”
She exhales through her nose, annoyed. “Fine. She just... had a rough breakup, okay?”
His eyebrows rise. “Oh?”
“Yeah. Oh.”
Silence hangs for a beat. He shifts his weight, running a hand through his hair. “So this is like... a rebound Vegas trip?” he hums.
“Don’t say it like that.”
“How am I supposed to say it?” He gestures vaguely, words tumbling out faster than he can stop them. “Vegas is literally the rebound capital of the world. You want me to just—what—pretend she’s not going to be spiraling the entire time?”
“Pato.” Elba fixes him with a look sharp enough to cut through his dramatics. “Do not overreact.”
“I’m not overreacting.”
“You’re vibrating.”
He glances down at his hands, clenched tight around the suitcase handle. He is shaking, though it’s more of a physical manifestation of his shock to the news. “Okay, maybe a little.”
Elba sighs. “She doesn’t need your commentary, alright? She needs a break. Eso es todo.”
He presses his lips together, trying to reel in the hundred half-formed comebacks bouncing in his head. Still, one escapes. “You really think Vegas is a break?”
Elba shoves past him with her suitcase. “For her, maybe it is.”
Pato watches his sister go, torn between skepticism and reluctant curiosity. He tells himself he doesn’t care. He really doesn’t. It’s just you.
The airport smells like burnt coffee and too many perfumes competing for dominance. Pato shoulders his bag, trudging after Elba as she waves you over from the check-in line. You come bounding up with a grin that makes his sister light up, like you’ve just handed her a winning lottery ticket.
“Hey!” you say, practically squealing as you hug Elba. The two of you slip into that easy rhythm of rapid-fire chatter—weekend plans, outfits, the state of Elba’s nail polish—that makes Pato feel like background noise in his own family trip.
He lifts your suitcase without asking and rolls it toward the baggage drop. It’s heavier than his, which is impressive considering he packs three pairs of sneakers for every trip. He mutters something under his breath about weight limits and hernia risk, but no one’s listening.
By the time they’ve printed the luggage tags, Elba and you are still giggling about something he didn’t catch. Pato slaps the stickers onto the bags with the efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times and drags everything onto the belt. He’s sweating by the end, while you and his sister are comparing playlists like the departure gate is a sleepover.
Finally, a lull. Elba darts off to find a bathroom, leaving you beside him. The crowd hums around you—rolling announcements, a kid screaming about an iPad, the scrape of suitcases on tile. You glance at him, a little awkward now without your co-conspirator. “Thanks for hauling my stuff,” you say, voice softer than it had been with Elba. “That was nice of you.”
Pato twitches, caught off guard. People rarely thank him for things like this. Usually it’s assumed he’ll just handle it. He shrugs, trying to play it off. “Don’t mention it.”
But it sticks. The way you’d looked him in the eye when you said it. The way you’d meant it.
He tells himself he only tolerates you because you’re one of Elba’s constants. Unlike the revolving door of flaky friends and temporary party girls, you actually show up. You were there when Elba had to be hospitalized for typhoid. You once volunteered to drive their mom to the airport when Pato overslept. You’re easy to have around, like furniture that’s actually useful instead of decorative. Pato likes to think he tolerates you.
As you smile faintly and adjust the strap of your carry-on, he wonders—just for a second—if tolerating you has always been his word for something else.
The boarding process is chaos, as always. People shoving oversized carry-ons into overhead bins that clearly aren’t built for them, babies already crying before takeoff, the whole plane smelling faintly of stale pretzels and sanitizer. Pato slides into the aisle seat, buckles in, and closes his eyes like maybe if he pretends hard enough, he can fast-forward to landing.
Then Elba leans over from two rows ahead. “Switch with me. She wants the aisle.”
Pato cracks one eye open. “And I want the aisle.”
“You don’t even like the aisle.”
“I don’t like the window either. But I like sitting here.”
“Eres una persona terrible.”
“Hace falta uno para conocer a otro.”
Elba huffs. “Come on, just switch.”
“Nope.” He tilts his head back, smirking at the ceiling. “Enjoy row seventeen.”
“Pato—”
You laugh, cutting her off. “It’s okay, Elba. Really. I don’t mind.”
He glances sideways. You’re already tucking your bag under the seat, pulling out a paperback with that practiced ease of someone who knows exactly how to survive air travel. Your smile is genuine, not forced, and it makes his sister’s glare feel even more unnecessary. Elba mutters something about men being insufferable and disappears into her row.
The plane takes off. A short flight, barely an hour, but long enough for Pato to find himself watching you out of the corner of his eye. He tells himself it’s curiosity. Research, even. If you’re really spiraling post-breakup, there should be signs.
Tear tracks? None.
Listless scrolling through old photos? No. You’re reading, underlining sentences in the margins with a pen.
Random sighs of heartbreak? Nothing. You hum quietly to yourself when the beverage cart rattles by.
Honestly, you don’t look like someone falling apart. You look like someone holding it together with suspicious ease, which might be worse. People who are actually fine don’t need to underline entire paragraphs of some novel. People who are fine don’t smile like that when flight attendants hand them a ginger ale.
Pato shifts in his seat, suddenly aware of how intently he’s staring. He scratches at his jaw, looks out the window he swore he didn’t want, and tells himself he’s only noticing because Elba made such a big deal about it. That’s all.
Still, when you look up and catch him watching, he blurts the first thing that comes to mind. “That book any good?”
You grin, unperturbed. “Better than your company.”
He chuckles despite himself.
Vegas doesn’t greet you so much as it assaults. Strobe lights bleeding through the cab windows, people in sequins at three in the afternoon, the kind of heat that makes the air feel sticky even in September. By the time you check in, the hotel lobby reeking of dollar bills and coconut sunscreen, Pato can’t help but wonder what he’s agreed to.
The suite isn’t bad. Two bedrooms, decent view, balcony that looks out over the strip. Elba calls dibs on a closet before anyone can fight her for it and promptly disappears with her suitcase, mumbling about reorganizing her entire wardrobe for the weekend.
Which leaves him with you.
You step out onto the balcony, resting your arms on the railing. The street buzzes below, chaos wrapped in cheap plastic, and you sigh in a way that doesn’t sound sad so much as guilty. “Sorry for crashing your family trip,” you say lightly.
Pato leans on the opposite side of the railing, pretending the sun doesn’t cling to him like a second skin. “Elba didn’t mention plus-ones,” he responds, “but it’s alright.”
You glance at him, eyebrow arched. “You mean to tell me she didn’t explain why I’m here?”
He shrugs, casual. Too casual. “I don’t ask questions I don’t want answers to.”
“Right,” you say, turning back to the lights. “Because the two of you never tell each other everything.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it. You’ve got him there. He can practically hear Elba in his head, scolding him not to be a pest about it. He forces himself to grin. “Fine. Maybe I didn’t want to hear the sob story on repeat.”
It’d be calloused to anyone else, but you’ve had a front seat to the O’Ward show for what feels like years now. “Fair.” You nudge the railing with your hand, fingertips drumming absentmindedly. “Still. I don’t want to be a burden.”
Pato looks at you again, really looks, like maybe he’ll find the cracks Elba swore were there. He doesn’t. You look the same as you did at the airplane. Composed, too composed. Someone running a performance they’ve memorized word-for-word. It makes him feel bad for you, the same way one might anticipate a car crash is about to happen and brace for impact.
“I don’t mind,” he says, and it’s not a lie. Surprisingly. It’s a little annoying, but it’s true. You’re probably the best of Elba’s friends to get stuck with for an indefinite amount of time.
You glance at him again, that quick spark of a smile tugging at your lips. Then Elba yells from inside about someone stealing her conditioner, and the moment cracks like cheap glass. Pato huffs a laugh. Of course. Family vacation, plus-one or not.
Vegas doesn’t sleep, and apparently neither does Elba.
By the time morning shifts into late afternoon, she’s already dragged both of them through half the Strip. Slot machines clanging, tourist traps swallowing wallets whole, the sun bouncing off mirrored glass towers. Elba narrates everything like she’s a tour guide auditioning for a job she already thinks she deserves.
“This is where Celine used to perform,” she announces, pointing at a theater marquee. “Icónica.”
Pato mutters, “Yeah, so is a nap,” but she ignores him, tugging you along like her favorite accessory.
You play along. Laughing when Elba insists on souvenir sunglasses, gamely posing beside fountains, clapping when street performers breathe fire. Pato trails half a step behind, hands shoved into his pockets, offering running commentary mostly for his own amusement. Every now and then, you glance back at him with a grin that says you heard every word. And that’s enough to keep him going.
Dinner ends up at an old-timey diner with burgers the size of helmets. Elba insists on ordering milkshakes ‘for the vibes.’ Pato groans but drinks his anyway. You steal a fry off his plate without asking, and when he gives you a look, you just shrug.
Afterwards, when Elba disappears into a boutique because she absolutely needs a dress she’ll wear once, it’s just the two of you leaning against a railing, watching a fountain show blast water into the sky in choreographed bursts.
“You’re holding up,” Pato says nonchalantly.
You tilt your head. “That a surprise?”
“A little. Elba’s treating you like a charity case.”
You laugh softly, eyes catching the fluorescent glow. “She means well,” you say. “Besides, it’s easier to let her try.”
Pato studies you in profile, water glittering across your face. He still can’t find it. The aches, the cracks. Somehow, between Elba’s overcompensating energy and your polite deflections, he’s closer to you than he expected to be after one day.
He doesn’t say that part. He just grins, pushes off the railing, and says, “Hope you packed stamina. Vegas with Elba is like running the Indy 500.”
Your laugh follows him back into the neon, and he tells himself it’s just part of the trip.
Day two, and Elba wakes up like she’s been injected with pure caffeine. More landmarks. More attractions. More everything. Pato lasts until midday before staging a small rebellion in the hotel hallway.
“Elba, we need a break.”
“You’re twenty-six,” she snipes. “You don’t need breaks.”
“I do if you’re trying to kill me.”
You step in, merciful. “Maybe just a couple of hours by the pool?”
Elba narrows her eyes, considering. “Está bien,” she concedes, “but only because I want to even out my tan.”
The pool is an oasis compared to the chaos of the Strip. Loungers lined up, sunlight bouncing off the water. Pato thinks he’s ready for it—until you step out in a bikini. His brain trips over itself like a car hitting gravel.
He’s seen you a hundred times. Jeans. Dresses. The kind of casual sweaters people wear to brunch. Never this. Pato blurts in Spanish before he can stop himself. “¿Qué carajos? ¿Ella siempre se vestía así?”
Elba, sprawled on a lounger, doesn’t even look up from her phone. “Es su ‘hot girl summer’, idiota.”
Hot girl summer. Of course. He groans into his hands. You glance over, half-amused. “Should I be worried about whatever you two are plotting?”
“Nothing,” Pato says too quickly. “Absolutely nothing.”
You don’t press, just sit on the edge of a lounger with a bottle of sunblock in hand. “Could you help me with this?” you ask, a little shy. “Can’t really reach my back.”
He freezes. Elba snorts.
“Sure,” he manages, taking the bottle. He squirts too much onto his hands, mutters a curse, and tries not to notice how warm your skin is under his palms as he spreads the lotion across your shoulders. Too slow, probably. Too careful.
You say a soft ‘thanks’ when he’s done, glancing at him over your shoulder. His ears burn. He drops back onto his lounger, shoving sunglasses on to cover the fact he’s staring at the sky like it holds answers. He only stands when he’s fairly certain there’s nothing pressing into the front of his swim shorts.
The water is cool, a relief after the desert heat. Pato dives under, comes up slicking hair out of his eyes, and tells himself it’s just swimming. Just two people in a pool. Normal. Nothing to short-circuit over.
You’re there, treading water beside him in the deep end, laughing when he splashes too close. Sunshine cuts across the surface, broken into shards that glint against your shoulders. He forces his gaze away, focusing on the pool tiles like they’re fascinating.
“Alright,” you say, floating back on your heels. “I guess I should tell you the whole story. You’ve been polite about not asking.”
Polite. He almost laughs. More like terrified Elba would bite his head off. He shrugs, trying to look casual as he hangs on to the pool’s edge. “If you want.”
You take a breath, steady but not dramatic. “We broke up. Me and… well, you probably saw him. On my Instagram.”
Pato nods. Yeah, he remembers. The guy with the wire frame glasses. Always in button-downs. College boyfriend, if he recalls correctly. The kind of guy you thought you were supposed to end up with. He never paid much attention beyond that, except to note the way you looked happy in those pictures. Comfortable.
Then you drop it like it’s nothing. “He cheated on me.”
Pato balks. “Sorry—what?”
You glance at him, tone maddeningly even. “Yeah,” you say, the tidbit more fact than emotion. “Apparently for months.”
He stares, something hot spiking under his ribs. Months. He grips the pool ledge tighter, jaw flexing. He doesn’t even know the guy, never knew him beyond a name and a face, but the thought of anyone cheating on you is enough to make his skin buzz.
“Asshole,” he mutters, too sharp, too fast.
You laugh. It sounds soft, tired. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”
He wants to say more. To ask how you’re not furious, how you can tread water so calmly while dropping a bomb like that. Instead, he dunks his head under, comes back up with a shake, as if chlorine might wash the anger off. It doesn’t.
When he catches your eyes again, there’s something unspoken there. Like maybe you expected him to react exactly this way.
The pool glitters as you two climb out, water streaming down your arms, dripping off your hair in steady rivulets. Pato trails behind, hauling himself onto the deck with less grace than he’d like to admit. He tells himself he’s just following because it’s the only way out of the deep end—not because he doesn’t want to let the conversation go.
He grabs a towel, scrubs at his hair, then glances sideways. “So. Months?” he asks, his voice a little sharp. “You said he was at it for months.”
You wrap yourself in a towel, sit on the edge of a lounger. “Yeah. That’s what I found out, anyway,” you say, sounding almost bored. “Dating apps and all that bullshit.”
He frowns. “And you’re just… fine? Sitting here like you lost a bet, not like—”
“Like my whole life fell apart?” you finish for him, tone light. “Guess I’m just built different.”
Pato snorts, throws the towel around his shoulders. “No one’s built different about that.”
You glance at him, calm, steady. Too steady. “You’d be surprised what you get used to.”
It knocks the wind out of him, how you say it without blinking. He wants to shake you, or maybe shake himself for asking. Instead, he presses again. “Seriously, though. You don’t even sound mad.”
“I was.” You stretch your legs out, toes catching the sun. “Then I got tired of being mad.”
He bites down on a response, unsettled by how cleanly you say it. No tremor in your voice. No cracks. Just fact. He’s not sure why he wishes you were mad, wishes you were teary. Maybe he thinks that’d be easier to deal with.
Finally, you let out a small laugh. “Didn’t you say you didn’t want to hear the sob story?”
Pato winces, rakes a hand through damp hair. “Yeah. Sorry,” he grumbles. “I’m asking too much.”
You wave him off, like it’s nothing. “Don’t worry about it.”
Elba’s voice cuts across the pool deck, calling your name with that familiar urgency, as though the world might end without your immediate attention. You stand, tightening the towel around you, and head off toward her without looking back.
Pato watches you go, jaw tight.
The rest of the day goes by in a blur. Elba drags the three of you from one overstuffed itinerary stop to the next: iced lattes from a café where the baristas wear nothing but aprons, slot machines tucked in every corner of the hotel lobby, a slow crawl through Caesar’s where she insists on posing by every marble fountain. Pato goes along because he always does; his sister has the stamina of an endurance race and the social appetite of a golden retriever.
But today, he’s tuned in differently. He catches things. Little things.
Like how you laugh too quickly at Elba’s jokes. Or how your smile seems just slightly delayed whenever someone asks if you’re having fun. How your hand lingers at your cup a beat longer after a sip, knuckles whitening just enough. He isn’t pitying you. No, pity is cheap. He just… notices. More than he wants to.
It pisses him off. Not at you—never you—but at the idiot who made you learn how to wear that calm like armor.
At the slot machines, Elba pumps in coins with the vicariousness of a champion in the making. You lean on the side, arms crossed, watching with exaggerated fascination. Pato drops into the seat beside you, one eyebrow raised. “You know she thinks she’s going to beat the house, right?”
You crack a grin, eyes still on Elba. “She’s committed. I respect it.”
He lets the corner of his mouth curve. “You respect insanity?”
“Sometimes it’s charming.” You finally glance at him, the weight of your expression lighter than before. “Besides, she’s having fun. That’s what matters.”
He could say something. That fun isn’t supposed to look like desperation in heels. That you’re just propping his sister up because it’s easier than examining your own bruises. Instead, he raises his shoulders and a shrug and leans back in the chair. “Then I guess you’re a better person than me.”
The words catch you off guard, your laugh breaking sharp and real this time. “That’s generous.”
“I don’t do generous,” he says, but his voice has gone softer, betraying him.
Later, at another restaurant, Elba orders three desserts ‘or the table’ and takes the lion’s share. You nudge the last spoonful of tiramisu Pato’s way without a word. He looks at it, then at you. “What, you trying to bribe me?” he drawls.
“Trying to be nice.”
“Dangerous habit,” he mutters, but he eats it anyway. Because the truth is, every time you turn toward him, he can’t stop himself from softening.
Dinner is a production. Elba’s idea, obviously, because there’s no universe in which Pato would willingly sit through a two-hour reservation at one of the Strip’s most ostentatious restaurants. White tablecloths, chandeliers dripping crystal, menus that don’t bother putting prices because if you have to ask, you shouldn’t be here.
There’s you. Swept into some designer dress that Elba must’ve bullied you into. It looks like trouble. Looks like the kind of thing that makes Pato suddenly very interested in his water glass, or the bread basket, or literally anything that isn’t you.
He compensates to the best of his ability. Orders a bottle of wine for the table like it’s no big deal, as if that explains the sudden heat crawling up his neck.
“Qué generoso, hermano,” Elba needles, eyes glinting across the table. She raises her eyebrows like she knows exactly what she’s doing. “Mira nomás, acting like Mr. Rico Suave tonight.”
Pato rolls his eyes. “Cállate. I just didn’t feel like drinking soda water in a place that costs this much.”
Elba giggles, clearly satisfied she’s gotten under his skin. They bicker in low voices, the usual rhythm of siblings who can do this all night. Pato thinks it’s working, distracting him from noticing the way the soft restaurant light plays against your skin. Until you cut in.
“Thank you, Pato,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, fingers brushing the stem of your glass. Not loud enough to make it a scene. Just enough to hit like a punch to the gut.
He blinks, caught off guard. “It’s nothing,” he chokes out. “Just wine.”
He tries to make it sound casual, like you didn’t just unspool him with two words. Like he isn’t suddenly hyperaware of the fact that you’re sitting right there, and he’s running out of places to hide his eyes.
There’s too much wine, too much sugar at dessert, and Elba’s voice only climbs like she’s auditioning for the role of ‘angry best friend’ in a telenovela. She’s slamming her fork into cheesecake, eyes flashing, saying words Pato doesn’t think the surrounding tables need to hear.
“Ese cabrón! I swear, if I ever see him—” She points the fork like a weapon, and a bit of cream cheese flies. “Cheating? On you? He’s blind. He’s—he’s…” She’s out of insults, so she just mutters another string of Spanish curses.
Pato sets his wineglass down before she breaks something. “Alright, alright. Chill. Not everyone here needs to know about this dude.”
His tone is casual, but his eyes flick to you. He expects to see you shrinking. Instead, you’re giggling into your spoon, cheeks flushed from the wine. “It’s fine,” you say, blushing and tipsy and so out of reach. “Let her get it out.”
Elba slaps her palm on the table. “Fine?” she screeches. “It’s not fine. Who cheats on you?”
“Apparently him,” Pato mutters.
Wrong move. Elba rounds on him like he’s complicit. “Exactly! Who cheats on her?”
“You already asked that.”
“Because it makes no sense!”
Pato pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can you not scream about it like we’re on some reality show reunion?”
Elba doesn’t let up, sliding into Spanglish like she always does when she’s half-drunk and overdramatic. “Seriously, hermano, you don’t get it. She’s a catch. And this pendejo? He’s lucky she even looked at him. And then he—ugh. No. No puedo.”
You’re laughing harder now, which makes Pato feel weirdly protective and annoyed all at once. “She said it’s fine,” he reminds, voice sharper this time. But when your eyes flick to his, all warm and tired and a little too glassy from the alcohol, he gentles. “Right?”
“It is,” you say, smiling like you’re trying to convince both of them. “Really. I don’t care anymore.”
Elba exhales dramatically, takes another gulp of wine. Then, out of nowhere, she says, “And the worst part? He was obsessed with motorsports. With you, Pato.”
The air shifts. Pato freezes mid-reach for the bottle. “What?”
You wave your hand lazily. “Ignore her.”
But Elba is relentless. “No, no, tell him. This guy. Constantly asking about you. Always, ‘Do you get free tickets? Can we meet Pato?’ Él era una sanguijuela.”
Pato stares at you. “Hold up,” he says slowly. “That’s true?”
You groan, head dropping into your hand. “It’s not a big deal.”
“The hell it isn’t.” His voice rises before he reins it back, aware people are watching. He leans closer, seething. “So, let me get this straight. This clown cheats on you, but he’s in my DMs through you?”
“He wasn’t in your DMs.”
“He wanted to be!” Pato runs a hand through his hair, half laughing, half furious. “You’re telling me he was using you for tickets?”
You look up at him, eyes hazy but honest. “Maybe. Sometimes. I don’t know. He liked free stuff.”
Pato sits back in his chair, wine swirling in his glass, trying not to imagine punching someone he’s never even met. He tells himself he doesn’t care. He tells himself it’s stupid. But the heat beneath his ribs says otherwise.
By the time the plates are cleared, the wine has burned holes in everyone’s composure. Elba is still mumbling in Spanish about your ex being a disgrace to humanity. You’re slouched in your chair, cheeks pink, laughter bubbling too easily. And Pato—he’s staring into his glass like it holds divine inspiration.
Then it hits him. The brilliant, stupid, absolutely perfect idea. He sets his glass down with a little too much ceremony. “You know what we should do?”
Elba perks up immediately. “Revenge?”
“Kind of,” he says, pointing at you. “Take a picture of me. Post it on your story.”
You stare at him. “Why?”
“Porque.” He leans back, already halfway to a pose. “So that idiot sees it. So he knows you’re fine. Thriving. Hanging out with me in Vegas. Imagine the meltdown.”
Elba gasps dramatically, clapping her hands like he’s solved world hunger. “Sí! Sí, sí, sí. This is genius. I love it.”
You’re less enthused, shaking your head. “I don’t know. That feels… cheap. Like I’m using you.”
“You’re not using me,” Pato shoots back without missing a beat. “I’m offering. There’s a difference.”
You chew your lip, considering, and he catches the flicker of hesitation in your eyes. For some reason, it makes him want to insist even more. He leans in, treading lightly now. “C’mon. It’s just a story. No captions, no drama. Just… us.”
Elba is already fishing her phone out, drunk and determined. “Do it. Post him. Post his stupid face.”
You laugh, torn between resistance and amusement. Finally, you sigh, raising your phone. “Fine. But if this backfires—”
“It won’t,” Pato says, flashing the camera his best I’m-having-the-time-of-my-life smirk. “Trust me.”
Everything is buzzing and too bright, the three of you weaving through the crowd like you own the sidewalk. Elba is a comet blazing ahead, heels clicking fast, voice carrying over the noise. “Notifications are a good sign! Means it’s working!” she shouts without looking back.
Pato lags a step behind with you, his arm hooked under yours, keeping you vertical. You’re leaning into him, warm and giggly, your phone lighting up every three seconds in your other hand. “It won’t stop,” you complain, half whine, half laugh. “Every time I look, it’s another one. I regret everything.”
He snorts, tightening his hold when you stumble on the curb. “Welcome to the internet, cariño. Post me once and suddenly your phone is famous.”
You bury your face into his shoulder, muffling another laugh. “This is your fault.”
“Gladly taking the blame,” he says, trying not to grin too much, trying not to think about how natural it feels to have you leaning against him.
He adjusts his step to match yours, keeping steady while you’re anything but. Ahead, Elba throws her arms in the air like a conductor, commanding chaos. “For a good cause!” she yells again, practically twirling under the multicolored signs. “We’re building your legend!”
Pato rolls his eyes skyward but doesn’t let you go. Your weight is solid against him, your laughter hiccuping in his chest. For once, he doesn’t have a single complaint.
Morning hits like a truck, though.
The hotel room reeks faintly of tequila and bad decisions, all three of you nursing hangovers with greasy breakfast plates on the table. Elba wears sunglasses indoors, muttering about her head. You cradle coffee like it’s salvation, curled up sideways against Pato’s chest on the couch because standing feels like a war crime.
The boundaries are gone, blurred by wine and neon and bad choices. Touchy, co-dependent, soft in ways none of them have energy to call out. Your phone buzzes again and you groan, shoving it at Pato without lifting your head. “It hasn’t stopped,” you whine. “All night, all morning. I’ve created a monster.”
Elba peels her glasses down just enough to squint. “How many?”
You sigh dramatically. “Responses. Reactions. Like… a dozen? Maybe more. And he saw it.”
Pato straightens a little. “Wait. He viewed it?”
“Didn’t react,” you sigh. “But yeah. He saw it.”
Elba sits up like she’s been resuscitated. “Then we double down. Obviously. We post more.”
You groan, burying your face deeper into Pato’s chest. “Bad idea. Feels evil.”
“Evil is good,” Elba insists, stabbing a fork into her eggs. “He deserves evil.”
Pato chuckles, resting his chin lightly on top of your head without thinking. “I don’t mind,” he says, surprising himself with how easily he gives in. “If it makes him squirm, I’ll do it. Keep it going. ¿Por qué no?”
You tilt your head just enough to look at him, bleary-eyed and incredulous. “You’d actually do that?”
“Yeah.” He grins, though it feels softer than usual. “For the cause.”
The day unravels into chaos disguised as strategy, Elba operating with the conviction of a film director who thinks she’s capturing a once-in-a-lifetime romance. In reality, she’s herding two hungover idiots down the Strip while barking stage directions. Pato isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Probably both.
She insists on cafés strung with fairy lights that don’t photograph right in daylight, casino lobbies dripping in gold, fountains that mist too aggressively and leave him squinting as if he’s a drowned cat. Every few feet, Elba throws out orders: “Closer! Hand on her waist! No, not like a mannequin, like you actually like her. Dios mío, put some passion in it!”
It’s less romance and more farce, a comedy of errors where he plays the reluctant leading man. Pato swears you’ve snapped fifty photos of him in the span of an hour, all nearly identical, all equally unflattering in his opinion. His smile has begun to calcify into something that feels suspiciously like rigor mortis. He loses track after the third time he’s forced to lean against a marble column, pretending to brood like some tragic poet.
By midafternoon, he’s convinced your camera roll is now seventy percent Pato O’Ward, professional race car driver turned accidental Instagram model, trapped in witness protection.
You don’t look much happier about it. Every time you scroll through the growing collection of pictures, your frown deepens, and you mutter about how none of them look right. Elba, of course, dismisses all protests, already plotting the next photo op in front of some gaudy sign. Pato follows because he has no choice, half-amused, half-ready to collapse into the nearest seat with a drink.
By the time the Strip begins to glow with its evening electricity, the three of you are weaving toward dinner. The air buzzes with the shift from day to night, tourists flooding sidewalks, neon bleeding into the desert sky. You’re glued to your phone, scrolling with a dramatic sigh. “There are too many,” you remark. “I can’t pick.”
Pato leans in, shoulder brushing yours, eyes catching the endless grid of his own face. “That one,” he says instantly, pointing. “In the casino. Where I’m smiling.”
You zoom in. “Why that one?”
He shrugs, casual but not careless. Lips quirking like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “That’s probably how I’d look at someone I’m in love with.”
The words hang, heavier than he expects. For a second he worries he’s tipped too far into sincerity, but you recover quick, teasing. “Oh yeah? And what exactly does the ‘look of love’ entail, O’Ward?”
He’s about to craft some cocky retort when Elba, ever the saboteur, cuts in with all the subtlety of a megaphone. “You just know with him. He doesn’t hide it. Remember that girl he liked back in—”
“Elba!” The shout rips out of him, too sharp, too fast. He lunges before she can dig up the memory. Tourists glance their way as if they’re part of the evening entertainment. “¡No digas nada!” he hisses, scrambling to get around her arm.
She laughs, dodging effortlessly, tossing insults. “Qué dramático eres. You’re worse than when you lose a qualifying session.”
“Shut up!” He grabs her elbow, she twists out of reach, and suddenly they’re in the middle of a mock-wrestling match on the sidewalk.
He catches sight of you doubled over on the curb, clutching your phone to your chest, laughter spilling unrestrained. Wide grin, eyes shining. For once, you’re not carrying that careful mask you wear so often.
Pato knows he’s lost this round. No way to salvage dignity from this spectacle. But he tells himself it’s worth it, because your laughter feels like a winning lap. Better than any posed photograph Elba could orchestrate.
The morning is still soft, Vegas pretending to be calm before the city remembers itself. Pato tugs on his running shoes, half-asleep, ready to pound out a few miles and sweat off last night’s shots. But when he slides open the balcony door for some air, you’re already out there, knees tucked up, phone glowing against your face.
He pauses, one shoe half-laced. “You’re up early,” he greets. “Couldn’t sleep, or are you just waiting for the Strip to explode again?”
You don’t look at him, just thumb at your screen. “He reacted.”
Pato frowns. “Who?”
You finally turn, holding up your phone. The tiny emoji mocks him from across the screen. Just a laughing face. Nothing else. Like your ex didn’t buy it for a second.
“That’s it?” Pato blurts. “A laugh? After everything?” He’s more offended than you are, and it shows. “That’s—what? Him saying he doesn’t believe it? Or that you’re a joke? Qué idiota.”
You shrug, curling deeper into yourself. “Doesn’t matter. Really. It’s just a stupid emoji.”
Pato ties his other shoe tighter than necessary. “No. No, it matters. Because he’s not supposed to laugh. He’s supposed to choke on his regret. He’s supposed to look at that story and—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. Too much, O’Ward.
Your smile is faint, almost apologetic. “It’s fine, Pato. You don’t have to get worked up for me.”
But he’s already worked up. It feels personal now, this douchebag ex scoffing at what’s right in front of him. Pato straightens, a spark of determination lighting up where irritation sits. “Then we up the ante. You’ll see. He won’t be laughing next time.”
You stare at him, caught between amusement and hesitation. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe. But I’m committed ridiculous.” He points at you, grinning despite the tightness in his chest. “Leave it to me.”
Before you can argue, he jogs out into the morning, headphones in, needing the rhythm of his feet on the pavement to cool the fire in his blood.
Pato spends the run doing what he calls “research,” which is really just him sprinting on fumes while muttering to himself about emojis, then slowing to a jog so he can scroll Pinterest on his phone like a lunatic. He tells himself it’s a game plan. By the time he circles back toward the hotel, the desert sun frying his brain, he has tabs open about ‘Instagram boyfriend’ like he’s about to defend a thesis.
When he gets back upstairs, Elba and you are curled up in the suite’s living room, sipping iced coffee. Pato drops onto the couch between you with the air of a man about to deliver a sermon. “Okay. Listen. I’ve figured it out,” he says solemnly. “The only next step is soft launches.”
Elba immediately snorts, then actually slides off her chair, wheezing. “Soft launches? ¿Qué te pasa, Pato?”
You throw a pillow at his head, which he barely catches. “That’s ridiculous,” you snort. “We are not staging some fake PR campaign for my Instagram.”
“Yes, we are,” he insists, eyes alight, dead serious in a way that makes both of you laugh harder. “We have to play it smart. Strategic photos. Casual hand placement. Hints. A shadow here, a reflection there. It’s the art of the tease.”
Elba is choking with laughter on the carpet. You’re trying to hide a grin behind your coffee, shaking your head like he’s absurd. And maybe he is. But Pato leans back into the couch cushions, resolute, heart pounding for reasons he won’t admit out loud. This isn’t just a bit anymore. Not for him.
Pato decides that if you’re going to play this game, he’s the one calling the shots now. Enough of Elba’s ‘candid-but-not-really-candid’ instructions, enough of you fumbling with angles like you don’t know your best side. He’s in charge. Director. Cinematographer. Boyfriend-for-hire.
“You. Stand there,” he orders, pointing at a ridiculous marble fountain. “Tilt your chin. No, higher. Perfect.”
You give him a flat look but do it anyway, lips twitching as if you’re suppressing laughter. Elba, phone in hand, is already giggling behind him. “Pato, esto es ridículo.”
“Ridiculously good at this,” he shoots back, adjusting your arm until it’s looped through his. He leans closer, just enough that the warmth of your skin skims his, and gestures to Elba. “Take it. Quick. Before the magic fades.”
The photos that follow are far from magical. It’s him pretending to whisper secrets in your ear, you rolling your eyes but leaning in anyway. His hand resting just a second too long on your waist, your laugh caught mid-frame as he tries to lift you in a hug in front of a neon-lit sign. Each pose is more dramatic than the last, equal parts parody and commitment.
Elba is living for it, providing commentary like a reality TV host. “Oh my God, yes. The fake proposal. Do it, do it!”
You groan, putting some distance between you and the insane siblings, but Pato just grins. “Don’t tempt me,” he warns.
It’s comical. Over the top. Completely unnecessary. Yet, as the shutter keeps clicking, Pato doesn’t pull away as quickly as he should. His hand lingers at your back, his gaze catches yours longer than needed.
Once the photoshoot has wrapped up, Pato is scrolling through your phone like a ruthless editor, swiping past photo after photo with a shake of his head. “No. No. Definitely not. Dios mío, who even stands like that?”
You snatch the phone back, exasperated. “They all look fine, Pato. And by fine, I mean silly, which is the whole point.”
He leans back against the couch, arms crossed, expression infuriatingly smug. “If we’re going to do this, we’re doing it properly,” he protests. “The angles are off. The lighting is bad. Half of these don’t even look like I’m invested.”
Elba, sprawled on the floor with a bag of chips, snorts. “You’re too invested, brother. It’s called Instagram, not Vogue.”
Pato opens his mouth to argue, but then Elba waves her phone like a trump card. “Look at this one,” she proclaims.
On her screen plays a five second clip, shaky but golden. You and Pato in the hotel kitchen earlier that day, laughing while you half-dance, half-bump into each other. It’s chaotic, unplanned. He remembers it clearly. Trying to get past you to the fridge, spinning you around like a joke, both of you mocking Elba’s playlist. “Otra vez Kali Uchis?” he’d groaned, and you’d laughed so hard you nearly tripped over his feet.
Now, watching it back, the laughter feels different. Softer. Real.
You chew your lip, hesitant. “It’s not staged. Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?”
Pato pretends to consider, but he knows. He knows it’s the most genuine thing out of the whole batch. He catches himself smiling, almost unwillingly, and you catch it too.
“Only if he says yes,” you tell Elba, eyes flicking toward him.
He shrugs, feigning nonchalance even as something twists warm and reckless underneath his skin. “Post it,” he says. “Let him choke on it.”
Elba whoops, triumphant. Before Pato can rethink, the clip is live—proof that sometimes the best shots are the ones no one meant to take.
Pato wakes to the sound of Elba shrieking like she’s just hit the jackpot on a slot machine. He jolts upright, hair sticking in every possible direction, heart thudding like he’s missed a fire alarm. “What?” he sputters, stumbling out into the living space. “What happened?”
Elba is waving your phone like a victory flag. “Blocked! He blocked her!”
You roll your eyes from where you’re seated on the arm chair. “Can you not announce it to the entire hotel?”
Pato’s mind takes a minute to catch up. Blocked. He squints at you, noting the way you try to play it cool, shoulders shrugging like it doesn’t matter. Except your lips tug up at the corners, betraying you. It’s a small smile, but it’s there. It’s a good look on you.
Elba practically bounces. “Girl world translation?” she says excitedly. “He cared. He saw, he cared, and he couldn’t handle it.”
Pato can’t help it, either—he grins. It feels like a win, like crossing a finish line and hearing the roar of the crowd. Not his race, not his victory, but watching you glow like you’ve just stolen something back? It’s better than qualifying pole.
“Alright,” he declares, stretching his arms over his head. “We’re celebrating. Drinks, food, whatever you want. On me.”
You look up, surprised. “Pato, you don’t have to—”
“I insist.” His voice leaves no room for argument.
Elba snickers, shooting him a look in Spanish. “Mira nada más, el caballero.”
Normally, he’d roll his eyes, fire something back. But right now he doesn’t care. He’s too focused on the way you’re smiling, soft and triumphant, like you’ve just done something you weren’t sure you could. And if that means footing the bill for a night out in Vegas? He’ll happily pay twice over.
The hotel room turns into a pre-game war zone. Clothes scattered, hair products lining the counter, Elba flitting around like she’s a stylist backstage at Fashion Week. Pato buttons up his shirt, but he barely gets through rolling his sleeves when the real drama kicks off.
You’re standing in front of the mirror, tugging at the hem of a dress Elba has strong-armed you into. It’s all slinky fabric and bare shoulders, and you’re muttering that it’s too much, that you’re not wearing this out in public. Elba plants her hands on her hips. “Stop. You look gorgeous.” She spots Pato and immediately pounces. “Pato, tell her she’s hermosa.”
Pato freezes. Betrayal. He wasn’t prepared to be dragged into this.
His tongue feels too big for his mouth, his brain short-circuits like an engine blowing out mid-race. He catches your reflection in the mirror—how uncertain you look, how the dress frames you in a way that makes his throat dry—and he knows he can’t joke his way out of this one.
“Yeah,” he says, and it comes out more earnestly than he intends. “You… you look beautiful.”
Your eyes flick to him, quick and startled. There’s color blooming high on your cheeks, a shy smile tugging at your lips even as you duck your head. “Thanks,” you mumble. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I wanted to,” Pato blurts before he can stop himself. Too much, too much, too much.
He looks away, tugging unnecessarily at his cuffs, like the shirt suddenly needs adjusting. His ears feel like they’re on fire. He’s grateful for the chaos of Elba spinning back toward her closet, too busy crowing about how she knew it would work to notice his face spelling out what he can’t say. You let out a sigh, softer this time, and turn back to the mirror. “Fine,” you concede. “I’ll wear it.”
Elba claps her hands in victory, already plotting the night ahead. Pato pretends to be focused on his watch, but his pulse is hammering, and he tells himself it’s just pre-game jitters.
The restaurant he chooses is all velvet booths and golden chandeliers, the kind of place that makes Pato feel like he should’ve ironed his shirt but also like he owns the room. He doesn’t blink when he orders steak—medium rare, obviously—and a cocktail that sounds fancier than it probably tastes. He’s leaning back, legs stretched, watching you skim the menu to order the cheapest thing on it.
When the food arrives, it’s obscene. Plates the size of racetracks, portions that somehow disappear faster than he expects. He doesn’t notice he’s smiling until Elba points it out, kicking him under the table and calling him extraño. He ignores her, focused on you stealing bites from his plate and lighting up at the sight of dessert.
The real chaos begins when the check lands. You’re subtle—well, you think you are—sliding your card toward the server with all the stealth of a magician pulling a rabbit. Pato catches it instantly. “Oh, no you don’t.”
You glare. “I can pay.”
“And I can not let you,” he fires back, leaning across the table to physically intercept the poor server’s hand. Suddenly it’s a wrestling match, his fingers closing around your wrist, the two of you half-laughing, half-serious as you try to shove your card forward.
“Pato!” You hiss, laughing anyway. “Stop being difficult.”
“I was born difficult.” His grin is sharp, triumphant, as he finally snatches the check, swapping your card for his like a magician with a better trick. The server bolts, wisely deciding survival trumps customer service.
You slump back, exasperated but smiling, muttering something about stubborn racecar drivers. Pato just shrugs, a little smug, a little warm in the chest at the way you’re looking at him now.
Elba watches, eyebrows raised. She’s always been too perceptive for her own good. “¿Y eso qué fue?” she says pointedly, rapid-fire Spanish spilling like bullets. “Estás actuando mucho como un novio.”
Pato throws her a glare, the kind that says shut up without saying it. “Comes with the job description,” he mutters under his breath, stabbing his steak like it insulted him.
She cackles, leans back, and waves it off. “Fine, fine. Enough romance. We’re going to a club.”
The club is already packed when you arrive, bodies pressed together under shifting neon lights, the bass line so heavy Pato feels it in his ribs. Elba takes one look at the crowd, then turns to him with the authority of a general. “Ve por una botella. Something nice. We deserve it.”
Pato doesn’t argue. He never wins with her anyway. You’re already scanning the room, muttering something about finding a booth before someone else snags it. He watches you go, cutting through the crowd with surprising ease, and then he heads for the bar.
Ordering is quick enough—until someone slides into the open space beside him. She’s tall, glossy-haired, flashing him a smile that’s practically rehearsed. Exactly his type, if we’re talking stats: long legs, knowing eyes, a laugh that lingers just too long. She leans in, brushing her arm against his like it’s accidental, and shouts over the music, “You here for the weekend?”
He can play this game. Normally, he likes this game. He gives her a grin, answers something flirty, though his delivery’s off, a beat too flat. Because when he glances past her shoulder, his gaze snags on the booth across the floor. You’re there with Elba, laughing at something she’s said, head tipped back, phone tossed carelessly on the table. Neon paints you in blue, then pink, then gold.
Your eyes catch his. Just for a second. Quick, electric. Like maybe you hadn’t expected him to be watching. You look away almost immediately, pretending to fuss with your drink napkin.
The girl at the bar is still talking, her lips curving around words he doesn’t bother processing. Something about the DJ. Something about how crowded it is. He nods, tries to feign interest, but it feels like going through motions on autopilot.
All he can think about is that flicker of guilt crawling up his throat. Like he’s just been caught red-handed, even if there’s nothing to be caught for.
Pato comes back to the booth feeling as if he’s just survived a pop quiz in charm school. The girl at the bar had handed him her number scribbled on a tissue, complete with a kiss-print. He bundles it in his palm without a single glance, but when he slides into the booth, he notices your eyes catch the faint red mark. You don’t say anything. That silence is worse than any quip you could have thrown at him.
Elba, blissfully oblivious, claps her hands and pushes a bottle toward him. “¡Órale, hermano! Pour for her. Don’t be cheap.”
Pato sighs, but he takes the bottle, and you tip your head back with a grin that looks more like a dare than consent. He pours.
The liquid slips past your lips, some of it sliding down your chin, catching on your neck. It’s messy. It’s supposed to be funny. Instead, his pulse jumps like he’s missed a restart. You come up, choking and gagging a bit, and it does him absolutely zero favors. Unfortunately, Pato is still just a man.
He grabs the nearest thing—the tissue from the stranger—and presses it to your skin. You flinch, murmuring, “Hey, that’s… isn’t that—”
“Don’t need it,” Pato says quickly, wiping gently, ignoring the lipstick mark smearing faintly across your collarbone. The tissue crumples, useless now, but he doesn’t care. The number, the kiss-print—all gone. He tosses it aside and grabs a fresh one, this time working on cleaning the red from your skin.
You blink up at him, lips parted like you’re about to argue, but no words come out. Elba whistles low, grabs the bottle, and takes a swig herself. Pato leans back, heart hammering, pretending like pouring tequila down your throat and wiping your neck with someone else’s number is all standard procedure.
The booth turns into a pit stop: shots poured, glasses clinked, laughter already loosened by the alcohol humming through veins. Elba’s on a mission, tossing back her drink with one hand and grabbing yours with the other. “Come on, vámonos!” she orders, practically dragging you off the seat.
Pato stays planted, elbow on the table, watching the two of you push through the crowd. You look like you’re trying to remember how your limbs work, shoulders stiff at first, eyes darting around. Then the music swells, and the liquor does its job. Your hips start to move with more rhythm, more abandon. Elba spins you, hollering, her jewelry catching the strobe lights. People glance. Some stare. And maybe Pato’s imagining it, maybe he’s just drunk enough to be paranoid, but the attention lingers longer than he likes.
He tips back what’s left in his glass, jaw tight. Why should it matter? People look. It’s Vegas. That’s the point. Still, something unsettles him. He tells himself it’s just a protective instinct. That’s what he’ll call it, anyway.
Then you turn. In the swirl of bodies, you find him.
Your eyes catch his, and you crook your finger, a drunken, lazy gesture like you know exactly what you’re doing. Pato stills, heat crawling up his neck. He tries for cool, but his legs betray him, stumbling to his feet before his brain can catch up. The floor tilts under him as he shoulders past strangers.
The bass rattles through his chest and makes every thought arrive half a second too late. Pato doesn’t realize when he reaches you that his hands settle on your hips like they belong there, like this is some automatic muscle memory he didn’t know he had. He tells himself it’s just practical—crowd control, balance, whatever—but the lie barely lasts a beat.
You move against him with abandon, messy and free, as if the alcohol has peeled back whatever restraint you normally wear. Elba’s nowhere near, already swallowed by a cluster of laughing girls, leaving the two of you in the swirl of the crowd. The air feels wet, heavy, and Pato has to lean down to make himself heard.
“Are you trying to get us kicked out?” he teases into your ear, voice rough from shouting over the music.
You tilt your head just enough to glance back at him, lips curved. “Depends,” you slur. “Are you trying to keep up?”
He matches your rhythm, chest pressed to your back, hands steady at your waist like he’s bracing both of you. He knows he should pull back, give you space, but the song is loud and your laughter is louder, and it feels like gravity doesn’t give him much choice.
His hands shift without permission, sliding higher, fingers splayed along your ribs. The move is subtle, but you shiver all the same. For one dizzying second, he panics, until he realizes you’re not pulling away. You’re still moving with him, giving as much as you take.
Pato leans back down. His voice is half-mocking, half-sincere; his breath, warm against the shell of your ear. “Guess I am keeping up,” he hums.
Your answer gets lost in the music, but it doesn’t matter. He feels it in the way your body presses back, in the way the crowd dissolves, leaving just the two of you and a bassline that feels like it’ll never end.
The crowd swells and shifts, bodies pressing closer until the air feels like static. Pato’s hands stay firm at your hips, anchoring him when every drop threatens to scramble what’s left of his brain. You move against him without hesitation, and he thinks maybe you’re both gone past the point of return.
On some drunken, traitorous instinct, he dips his head and presses a quick, chaste kiss to the side of your neck. He doesn’t mean to. Or maybe he does. He can’t tell anymore. All he knows is the second his lips brush skin, you tip your head back onto his shoulder, your body grinding against his with a kind of surrender that makes his pulse stutter.
Pato’s entire chest tightens. He feels every gasp that slips out of you like it’s lodged directly in his own throat. He’s going insane—actually insane—and the worst part is that he doesn’t hate it. He doesn’t hate it at all.
And then salvation—or disaster—arrives in the form of Elba. She cuts through the crowd like she owns it, seizing your hand with zero preamble. “Bathroom,” she screeches, eyes unfocused in a way that indicates she probably won’t remember a thing tomorrow. “Now.”
You’re tugged from his grasp, leaving Pato standing alone, hands suddenly useless at his sides, the ghost of your warmth already fading. He stumbles back toward the booth, jaw tight, trying not to picture the feel of your hips rolling against his or the sound of your gasp in his ear. He fails miserably.
Heading home, Pato has never been so grateful to be the least drunk person in the group. Which is saying something. He’s not exactly sober, just… functional. In the cab, Elba’s slumped against his right shoulder, mouth open, snoring softly. You’re curled into his left, cheek pressed against him like his arm is the world’s least ergonomic pillow. Both of you are dead weight, and he’s the unlucky middle seat.
The driver’s muttering along to some late-night radio, lights blurring outside the windows, Vegas still screaming at them even though the night should be winding down. Pato keeps his eyes forward, jaw set. He tells himself he’s fine. He’s responsible. The only one holding it together.
Except his brain refuses to shut up. It’s busy cataloging things it shouldn’t. Like how you smell faintly of the overpriced perfume Elba bullied you into at Sephora. How your hair tickles against his neck. How he’s way too aware of the slow, steady rise and fall of your breathing.
You’re Elba’s friend.
That reminder loops like a mantra in his head. He’s not supposed to look. Not supposed to think. And yet—he thinks. About your ex, the whole stupid revenge plan, the way you laughed when he grabbed the bill at dinner. He thinks about the dance floor, about the way his self-control wavered when your body was pressed against his. He thinks about how you looked at him like maybe he wasn’t imagining it.
It’s Vegas, he tells himself. Everything’s louder here. Brighter. Hotter. Nothing is real. It’s all neon illusions and cheap tricks. When the break’s over, he’ll go back to racing his car, and you’ll go back to your life, and none of this will matter.
Your hand shifts in your sleep, fumbling across the seat, and without thinking, you lace your fingers through his. Pato goes completely still. His chest tightens, breath caught like the cab has suddenly forgotten how to pump oxygen.
He should let go. He knows he should.
But he holds on, thumb brushing your knuckles in the dark, quiet and tentative. He thinks to himself, everything else can be fake and plastic—but this, this, is real. Your hand in his, looking for him even in your sleep.
The next morning, Pato shuffles out into the living space, hair messy, still tasting the bad mix of whiskey and regret at the back of his throat. The hotel room is quiet. Too quiet. Elba’s not here, which is weird, because she’s usually the one orchestrating everyone’s suffering the morning after. Instead, it’s just you. Slouched on the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, remote in hand like you’ve claimed squatter’s rights.
You look up, caught, sheepish. “I may have lied to Elba about being hungover,” you admit. “She went shopping. I… didn’t want to.”
Pato lets out a laugh, rubbing his face. “Wow. Faked a hangover to get out of shopping?” he rasps. “That’s impressive. I’ve pulled that exact move before. Respect.”
You grin at him, but it’s small, guilty. He watches you shift on the couch, fiddling with the blanket, and for a beat he considers bailing. Ducking back into his room, pretending he’s got calls to make, avoiding the mess of thoughts still circling from last night. Because you don’t seem to remember. The dance floor. The closeness. The part where he nearly lost his mind when you tilted your head back against his shoulder.
Instead, his mouth betrays him. “So,” he says, leaning against the wall, crossing his arms, “what do you actually want to do on this trip? Because I feel like Elba’s been running the schedule, and you—” he gestures vaguely, “—you haven’t really gotten a say.”
You stare up at him, clearly not expecting the question. And Pato tells himself he’s just being nice. Just filling the silence. Just making sure you’re not left behind.
You give him your honest answer, and Pato takes it upon himself to inform Elba you’re hanging out with him for the day.
Except nothing about the day is what he expects. Vegas, in his head, is glitter, pool parties, overpriced cocktails, and maybe waking up with a regret or two. Not… museum tours. Not standing shoulder-to-shoulder with you while a guide talks about art stolen and reclaimed, or mob history told with a little too much enthusiasm. Pato keeps waiting to be bored, but he isn’t. Maybe because every time he glances at you, you’re lit up, grinning like this is exactly what you wanted. And that—it does something to him.
“Not gonna lie,” he says, hands shoved in his pockets as you walk through the Fremont canopy of lights, “this is probably the least Vegas-Vegas trip I’ve ever had. And I’ve been here Nolan.”
You laugh, shoulders bumping into his. “That sounds like trauma.”
“It was.” He grins, watching you snort at that. He can’t believe he’s actually enjoying this. Fremont Street smells like beer and fried food, there’s someone singing badly off-key two blocks away, and still he’s content. Annoyingly so.
By the time the two of you are weaving through the Paris Hotel’s perimeter, his legs are sore and his brain is running circles. You stop to stare at the faux Eiffel Tower, head tilted back, eyes wide in a way that makes him look twice. Like you’re not seeing plaster and steel, but something else. Something bigger.
“You know it’s fake, right?” he says, sidling closer, voice dry. “You’re such a cliché.”
You don’t flinch, just smile without looking at him. “I know. But I can’t help it. Part of me will always be a bit of a romantic, I guess.”
For once, he doesn’t have a smart retort locked and loaded. Just a sudden, sharp constriction in his ribs, like someone’s punched him and he forgot how to breathe. Romantic. Of course you are. That’s the whole reason you’re here, nursing wounds from some idiot who didn’t deserve you in the first place. Hearing you say it, it feels like something else. It’s a confession not meant for him, one that lands on him anyway.
He shoves the feeling down, laughs instead, because that’s easier. “So what, you’re gonna make me take a hundred pictures of you with the fake tower?” he teases. “You want to kiss under it too, for the full package?”
You roll your eyes but your cheeks pinken, and God, he shouldn’t notice that. He notices anyway. To save himself, Pato insists on the pictures.
You’re groaning, swatting at him, begging him to stop, but he’s relentless, tilting your chin toward the fake Paris skyline, telling you to stand a little closer to the rail. Every snap of his phone is a victory, even if you look ready to tackle him to the pavement. He tells himself it’s for the bit. He tells himself you’ll thank him later. He ignores the way his chest is doing that uncomfortable squeeze thing again.
Finally, you throw your hands up. “Pato, enough. Seriously,” you beg. “My phone is going to combust from all this.”
“Good,” he grins, lowering the phone only to immediately lift it again. The flash goes off. “That’s the point. Combustion. Viral combustion.”
You laugh despite yourself. He catches it all—your smile, your exasperation, the way you’re glowing under the fake Eiffel Tower light. He doesn’t think about how obvious he’s being until he hears his own voice asking, too casually, “How do you do it?”
You tilt your head to one side. “Do what?”
“Still believe in this stuff. Romance. Fairy lights. Eiffel Towers that aren’t even real. After—you know.” He regrets the question the second it leaves his mouth. It’s none of his business. Except it is, because he wants it to be.
For a second you’re quiet, eyes tracing the steel beams above you. Then, softly: “Because if I don’t, then he wins. He takes the part of me that wants to love and be loved, and that’s the only thing I can’t let anyone take. Not even him.”
Pato swallows.
The Strip buzzes around them—cars, music, laughter—but it all feels like background noise. He wants to say something, something to lighten the weight in his chest, but nothing comes. Just that squeeze again, unbearable this time.
You brush past him, heading toward the exit. He follows, phone heavy in his hand. You don’t notice when he lifts it one last time, catching you from behind, your gaze still caught on the fake Eiffel Tower.
Pato wakes up to impact. A pillow collides with his face, followed by the unmistakable sound of his sister’s hiss: “¡Levántate, idiota!”
He groans, dragging the pillow off his head. “What the hell, Elba?”
Another swing, softer this time, smacks against his shoulder. He’s seconds from starting a full-blown sibling wrestling match when Elba jabs a finger to her lips. “Shh. Quiet. She’s asleep.”
That stops him. Just barely. He sits up, rubbing his eyes. A quick glance at the wall clock shows it’s a little past midnight. “Then why are you trying to suffocate me in my sleep?” he hisses.
“Because,” Elba hisses, climbing onto the edge of his bed like a vengeful goblin. “What the hell was that Instagram story?”
Pato doesn’t mean to play dumb. He just woke up, for Christ’s sake. “What story?” he croaks.
“The one of her. Looking at the fake Eiffel Tower like you just shot a damn perfume ad.” Elba’s eyes narrow. “What are you doing, cabrón?”
He drags a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “It’s nothing,” he manages. “It’s part of the act, right? The whole ‘Instagram boyfriend’ thing? Her ex probably follows me. Quiero que se muera de celos.”
Elba gives him a look sharp enough to decapitate. “Estúpido. You know what it looks like. To her. To everybody.”
Pato wants to argue. Wants to say it’s fine, wants to shrug, wants to go back to sleep. But he sees her face—dead serious under the dim hotel light—and something twists in his stomach. “It’s not like that,” he mutters.
“Then prove it.” Elba crosses her arms. “Delete it.”
He scoffs under his breath. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being protective. For her. She doesn’t need people speculating, she doesn’t need you making her life messier than it already is.”
Pato reaches for his phone, stares at it for a moment, thumb hovering. The photo’s still up. Your face lit, something private in the way you’re looking at fake Paris. He feels a flicker of guilt, maybe even grief, but he doesn’t let it show.
“Fine,” he mutters. He deletes the story with a few taps.
Elba exhales, satisfied. “Gracias.” She slides off the bed, whispering as she heads for the door. “Try to think next time.”
Pato flops back down, phone clutched in his hand. Sleep doesn’t come easy after that. Not when all he can see is the image he saved for himself, the one that no one else will ever get to see. How that, too, had to be taken from him. He falls asleep, chest heavy with implication.
When he wakes up, he’s determined to prove a point to no one in particular. If Elba thinks he’s getting carried away, fine. He’ll swing the other way. Civil. Detached. So detached he could win a medal for it. You’re just his sister’s friend. You’re just here for Vegas. Nothing more.
For most of the day, he nails it. Elba, ever the puppeteer, makes it easy. She has you distracted with brunch plans, shopping detours, and a labyrinth of errands that keep Pato comfortably on the sidelines. He’s polite, even cheerful, like some guy who’s never in his life held your hand in the back of a cab. Neutral. Switzerland with better hair.
It’s only when the night folds into music again, the three of you sliding into a pool party, that the façade starts to crack. JHAYCO blares, the water glows an artificial blue, people splash and laugh. You turn to him with that earnest gleam, nudging his arm. “Come on, let’s play something. You’re not just gonna sit there.”
He doesn’t even know what possesses him. Some awful reflex, maybe. The need to overcorrect.
He scoffs, sharper than intended. “Play?” he echoes. “What are we, five?”
The words cut. He sees it—the flicker across your face, quick as lightning but unmistakable. The way your mouth opens, then shuts again. You try for a smile, brittle at the edges. “Right,” you say, “guess that was kind of dumb of me.”
Pato’s stomach drops.
Guilt crashes in, heavy and uninvited. He wants to take it back instantly, wants to say he didn’t mean it like that, but you’re already looking away, pretending to be invested in the pool lights. He’s left with the sour taste of his own mistake, wondering when exactly trying to be detached turned into hurting you.
The pool party thrills with a drunken rhythm, bass thudding through the water and the air sticky with chlorine and cheap cologne. Pato tells himself he doesn’t care. You’ve wandered off, you’re not his to worry about, and he’s already proven he can be detached. Detached and civil. A regular monk, if monks happened to lounge shirtless by lit-up pools. But then he spots you.
You’re crouched by a poolside table with some tall, too-handsome stranger, both of you hunched over a tray of colored kinetic sand like it’s the Louvre. The stranger laughs, dimples and all, as you press the sand into a little mold, your eyes lighting up as if this is the most important architectural project of your life. Pato feels something in his chest that’s less monk and more caveman.
Elba’s somewhere else—probably trading tequila shots with girls in pink cowboy hats—so Pato doesn’t have backup. It’s just him, stewing. Watching you laugh at this stranger’s dumb jokes, like it’s the funniest thing on earth. He tries not to, but his legs betray him, marching across the tiles until he’s standing over your masterpiece-in-progress.
“Seriously?” Pato says, voice dripping with judgment. “A sandcastle?”
You glance up, annoyance flickering across your face. “It’s fun. You should try it sometime.”
“I’d rather drown in the pool,” he fires back, crossing his arms. He can hear himself and he knows he sounds like a dick, but it’s too late.
The stranger raises an eyebrow, clearly amused at the drama. “She’s actually really good at this,” he says casually, as if Pato cares about sandcastle rankings.
Pato steps closer, gesturing at you. “Come on, let’s go. Party’s over.”
You squint up at him. “No, I’m fine here.”
There’s a bit of a squabble. Some sharp words exchange. None of it matters, not when his foot shifts, his balance tips, and his heel comes down right on the edge of your neon sand fortress. The turrets crumble in an instant, collapsing into a sad, shapeless heap.
You freeze, staring at the ruins. Then you look up at him, and the flicker of hurt in your eyes hits harder than any punch. He wants to blame the tiles, gravity, maybe even the bass vibrating underfoot, but the truth is simple: he just stomped on your castle like a jealous idiot.
Your tears start before Pato even realizes what’s happening. One second you’re blinking fast, jaw tight, the next you’re welling up, eyes glassy in the fluorescent wash of the pool lights. Great. Fantastic. He’s officially the villain of the pool party, and all because he couldn’t handle you sculpting a sandcastle with some random dude who probably has a PhD in jawlines.
The stranger does exactly what Pato wishes he could do—backs away, palms up, muttering something about drinks before vanishing into the crowd. Traitor. Now it’s just the two of you, you tearing up over a mound of kinetic sand like he just kicked a puppy. Which, to be fair, he kind of did.
“Hey, hey, no llore,” Pato blurts, reaching out like his hands can catch tears before they fall. He’s already scrambling for damage control, brain short-circuiting between panic and guilt. “I didn’t mean to—okay, maybe I did mean to, but not this.”
You’re babbling through breaths, words spilling faster than you can catch them. “It was making me happy, and you’re just—” you hiccup, “mean, Pato. You’re mean.”
That one hits worse than the sand crunching under his shoe. Mean. Out of everything you could call him, that’s the one that sticks like a dart in the middle of his chest. He sinks down, knees hitting damp concrete, palms scooping at the ruined little tower. He knows it’s pathetic. He does it anyway.
“Look,” he says, working with absurd precision, like the tiny turrets are fragile masterpieces and not chunks of neon-colored sludge. “There’s nothing broken I can’t fix. Nada. Give me five minutes, it’ll be better than before.”
You sniff, shaking your head, voice cracking when you try to stop him. “You can’t fix it. It’s—it’s ruined.”
Pato keeps building anyway, stubborn to the bone, piling sand back into crooked walls and lopsided towers. He glances up, grin trembling around the edges but still there, because that’s his armor. “Watch me. Architect Pato’s got this,” he insists, practically begging you to believe him. “UNESCO is gonna call me any second.”
Pato has no idea what he’s doing.
His hands aren’t exactly trained for delicate construction. Steering wheels, sure. Simulators, yeah. But a bucket and wet sand? The thing keeps collapsing on itself, like it’s mocking him, and his knees are already digging awkward grooves into the damp ground. Still, he mutters to himself, determined, because he said he could fix it. If there’s one thing he can’t stand, it’s being wrong in front of you.
“Stupid castle,” he grumbles under his breath, trying to pat a wall into place. It leans like it’s drunk. Maybe it fits the party.
When you shuffle down next to him, knees pressing into the ground too, he nearly breathes out in relief. You don’t say anything at first, just start smoothing one of the towers that looks more like a lopsided muffin. He steals a glance at you. Damp cheeks, eyes a little puffy. His fault. His stupid, jealous, running-mouth fault. Yet here you are, fixing his mess—literally. It makes him want to cry a bit himself.
Between the two of you, something resembling a sandcastle eventually rises. It isn’t half as pretty as the first one. Towers are uneven, moat is a mess. But when you sit back, brushing sand off your hands, there’s this quiet in the air that feels almost forgiving.
Your voice comes small, almost tentative: “Can we get ice cream?”
It shouldn’t undo him, and yet it does. That single, shy question feels like a lifeline tossed his way. Halfway forgiven, maybe more, if he plays it right. He scrambles upright so fast he nearly knocks over the new castle. “Yes. Sí. Whatever flavor you want, you got it,” he says. “Double scoop, triple scoop, I don’t care. You want sprinkles? I’ll get you all the sprinkles in Vegas.”
You crack the smallest smile, wiping the last of your tears with the back of your hand. Pato is quickly growing convinced he’d build you a hundred crooked sandcastles if it means keeping that look on your face.
The two of you end up at the fringes of the party, where the music is muffled and the only glow comes from lights bleeding across the pavement. Pato has a half-melted popsicle dripping down his fingers. You’ve already finished yours, lips stained cherry-red, and he’s trying very hard not to notice. Or think about. Or let himself spiral about.
He clears his throat. “I was a dick earlier.” The words come out blunt, no finesse. He’s never been good at apologies, but he figures honesty counts for something.
You glance at him, eyebrows lifting, then back at the pool. “I noticed you were… different today.” A careful pause. “I wondered if I’d done something. Overstepped.”
The knot in his stomach tightens. He made you feel like that. He shakes his head too quickly, voice rough. “No. No, it’s not you. It’s—” He stops, because what does he even say? That he’s confused out of his mind? That he wants to punch himself every time he notices you in ways he shouldn’t? “It’s me being dumb.”
You let out a soft laugh that doesn’t sound convinced. He despises that he put that hesitation in your voice. He fumbles, tries again. “You haven’t overstepped. You’re Elba’s friend, that’s all. I just—” His throat closes around the rest of it. He shrugs, helpless, like that explains anything.
Something flickers across your face. You nod anyway, voice flat in agreement. “Right. Elba’s friend,” you echo, and it sounds so utterly wrecking when you say it that way.
Pato shoves the rest of his popsicle into his mouth to shut himself up before he says anything even dumber. The cold bite doesn’t stop the fire roaring in his veins.
Elba is the only one who doesn’t pace herself, so by midnight she’s draped between the two of you like a very loud, very stubborn scarf. Pato and you are hauling her through the hotel, both of you half laughing, half groaning every time she tries to squirm out of your grip to yell something about tequila being her blood type. Heads turn. Security stares. Pato decides he’s not paid enough to explain this.
Back in the hotel suite, you finally wrestle her into bed. She goes down like a sack of potatoes, face half-buried in the pillows, already snoring. The silence that follows is jarring. Almost intimate. The two of you just stand there for a beat, breathing like you’ve run a marathon.
“Thanks for helping,” Pato mutters, rubbing his shoulder where Elba had been clinging like a koala. He’s expecting you to just say good night, maybe laugh at how ridiculous his sister is.
Instead, you linger in the living space. The glow from the lamp softens everything. It makes the whole scene feel warmer than it has any right to. You turn to him, and there’s this nervous curve to your mouth, like you’re debating something in real time. Before he can decode it, you lean in and press a kiss to his cheek.
Pato freezes. Absolutely short-circuits. His first instinct is to joke, make some crack about how this is a dangerous precedent. But the words never come because your lips hover, just inches from his. Your breath ghosts over his skin. Your eyes flutter closed like you’re waiting—waiting for him to close the gap.
And God, he wants to. He wants to more than he’s wanted anything all week. His heart is pounding so loud it’s humiliating. For a second, it feels inevitable, like gravity itself is pulling him into you.
But then he yanks himself back, as if distance is the only weapon he has left. He pulls away, swallowing hard, eyes darting anywhere but yours. His chest feels tight, like he’s made the dumbest mistake of his life in real time. “Good night,” he says, voice rougher than he’d like.
He retreats to his room before he does something he won’t be able to take back.
Understandably, Pato doesn’t sleep. Not really.
He lies there in the dark, sheets twisted around his legs, eyes burning from the evening bleeding in through the curtains. He’s never been good at shutting his head off, and tonight it’s worse. Your kiss on his cheek is on loop, phantom heat pressed to his skin. Every time he tries to close his eyes, he sees yours fluttering shut, waiting. He hates himself for pulling away. Hates himself for wanting not to.
By the time he finally knocks out, the sun is already sliding over the Vegas skyline. The reprieve lasts all of thirty minutes before his door bangs open, and Elba storms in like she owns the place.
“¡Órale, levántate, cabrón!” she snaps, flinging the edge of a pillow at him. He knows how this film goes, and he still falls for it. “What happened last night?”
Pato groans, dragging the pillow over his head. “What happened is you got drunk, we dragged your ass home, and I was finally getting some sleep,” he snarks.
“No.” Elba yanks the pillow away. Her eyes are sharp, arms crossed, all business. “She booked an early flight. Home. This morning.”
That lands like a sucker punch. His stomach drops, mouth going dry. You left. Just like that. He knows you enough to recognize you’ve done it because you don’t want to make things awkward, because you think you really have overstepped this time. He tries to play it cool, leaning back against the headboard. “So?” he says coolly. “Maybe she had things to do.”
Elba narrows her gaze. “Cut the crap, Pato. Something happened.”
He swallows hard. For half a second, he considers lying. He can’t stand the thought of Elba knowing, of her putting words to the thing he’s already tearing himself apart over. But she’s relentless, perched at the edge of his bed, jabbing questions in rapid-fire Spanish that make his temples throb.
Finally, it bursts out. “She tried to kiss me, alright?!” His voice cracks, too loud. He’s on his feet, suddenly, because this isn’t the kind of conversation he wants to have while splayed on his hotel bed. “And I didn’t let it happen. Because of you.”
Elba freezes, the fight draining from her face. Pato instantly regrets the words, chest heaving, jaw tight.
Pato’s starts pacing the room. His hands keep dragging through his hair, tugging like he can pull the right answer out of his scalp. He doesn’t even remember standing up, doesn’t even remember the first words spilling out, but now he’s on a tear and can’t stop.
“Of course I find her attractive. I’m not blind, Elba. She’s… she’s gorgeous. And smart. And funny in that annoying way that makes you want to keep arguing with her forever. She drives me insane, in the best possible way. You think I haven’t noticed? You think I haven’t wanted—” He stops, sucks in a sharp breath.
“But she’s your friend,” he pushes on. His chest is heaving. The rant keeps tumbling, raw and jagged. “That’s the line. That’s the one rule I’m not supposed to touch. And I haven’t, okay? I didn’t. Because you’re my sister. There isn’t a thing in the world I’d do to cross you.
“Even if she and I could be something… even if I haven’t felt this way in—God, I don’t even know how long—it doesn’t matter. Because you’re standing there. And you’d never forgive me. And maybe you’re right not to. Maybe you don’t want me anywhere near her because of my reputation. Because I’m the guy who jokes around too much, who flirts with everyone, who never takes things seriously. The playboy, right? That’s what people say. That’s what you’ve probably said. And you’re not wrong. I wouldn’t want me for her either.”
The words land like punches in his own stomach. He laughs once, humorless, and drops onto the edge of the bed, palms pressing against his knees like they’re the only things holding him up.
“I’m not good enough for her. I know that,” he concludes, “and I can’t even blame you for thinking it.”
Elba doesn’t answer. She just stares at him for a long, unnerving moment, her expression impossible to read. Then she turns and walks out, the door clicking shut behind her.
Pato’s left in the silence, his pulse pounding in his ears. He thinks maybe the worst part isn’t that he said it all out loud. The worst part is that it feels true.
He spends thirty more minutes locked in his room, pacing like a caged animal, rehearsing apologies that all sound stupid even in his own head. He’s decided that, fine, he’ll fix things with Elba first. Sibling détente, clean slate, no more explosions. That’s the plan. He opens the door with something almost resembling humility, an expression his face doesn’t wear well.
Elba is sprawled on the couch, scrolling through her phone like nothing in the world is broken. She doesn’t even look up when he clears his throat.
“Took you long enough,” she says. Flat, but cutting. “I booked you a cab. If you leave now, you’ll just about make it to the airport in time.”
Pato balks. “I—what? No. No, I’m not—”
“Yes, you are.” She looks at him, her eyes sharp in that way that makes him feel twelve again. “Get out of here.”
He laughs, sharp and incredulous, because it’s easier than admitting his chest has just cracked open. “That’s insane. You want me to chase after your friend?” he spits. “After the whole speech I just gave you about why I can’t?”
Elba raises an eyebrow. “You already gave me that speech. And I’ve already decided it’s garbage.”
Pato throws up his hands. “Elba, come on,” he says. “She’s your friend. You think it’s a great idea if I—if we—” He can’t even finish the sentence. Not without feeling the whole world tilt beneath him.
“I think,” Elba cuts in, softer now, “that I’ve seen the way you look at her. Look of love, remember?”
That quiets him. Knocks the wind out of his lungs in a way all her earlier jabs didn’t. Elba knows; Elba has always known. The way only siblings could. Before he could even catch it himself, Elba was already reading him like a book.
He’s still searching for something clever, some retort that can dig him out, when she stands and presses the cab receipt into his hand. “Go,” she says simply.
He hesitates, the coward in him scrambling for one more excuse. But then Elba adds, almost as an afterthought—
“For the record, I don’t think you’re not good enough for her.” A pause. Not dramatic, but thoughtful. “I think you’re the best person in the world, Pato.”
That’s what sells it. Pato steps forward and pulls her into a hug, tight and uncharacteristic. He mutters something about how she’s unbearable and he hates her, which is code for thank you, thank you, thank you.
Then he grabs his bag and heads for the door, heart hammering, chasing after a plane and a person who might already be gone.
Twenty-seven minutes later, Pato barrels through the sliding glass doors of the airport, already sweating like he just ran qualifying laps instead of sitting in the back of a cab muttering at every red light. He has no plan. Zero. Not a clue what terminal you’re at, what airline, what gate, what time. For all he knows, you could already be halfway through security, boarding pass scanned, sipping a tragic overpriced latte. Fantastic. A flawless strategy, O’Ward.
He storms past check-in counters, scanning faces, heart punching faster with every stranger that isn’t you. He tries departures screens like they’ll miraculously list: Flight to Get Pato’s Life Together – Gate 12. Nothing. Just a hundred numbers and destinations blurring until his eyes sting. He’s muttering half-Spanish curses at himself when he finally spots you.
There. By the rope lines of security, duffel bag slung on your shoulder, eyes red-rimmed like you didn’t sleep either. When your gaze lifts and catches him, you freeze. Shock, confusion. Maybe he’s a mirage conjured by lack of caffeine.
He comes up to a stop in front of you, and your voice cracks a bit when you greet him with, “Pato? Did I forget something?”
Here’s his moment. Time to deliver something suave, cinematic. What comes out instead is a rushed, graceless: “Yeah. Uh. Another flight. To Paris. With me.”
It hangs there, pathetic and wild all at once. He immediately wants to crawl into the floor tiles, but it’s too late. You’re staring at him like he’s completely lost his mind. Which, honestly, maybe he has.
You’re staring at him like he’s an escaped lunatic—and maybe that’s fair, because he just blurted out something about Paris, and not in a casual way. He knows he sounds like a deranged travel agent. Your eyebrows shoot up, your mouth quirks, and he can see you fighting back a laugh that’s one heartbeat away from spilling over.
“You know,” you say, voice lilting with amusement, “you’re kind of a cliché. Airport chase, flight to Paris. What’s next? Holding up a boombox? Running alongside the plane on the tarmac?”
Pato huffs, chest pounding like he’s sprinted the whole terminal. “I don’t mind if I’m a cliché. I’ll be the idiot at the airport, the guy in every rom-com you mock with your friends. I’ll buy the trench coat, I’ll stand in the rain, I’ll do the whole pathetic package.”
His throat goes tight, but he barrels on, because he’s already gone off the cliff and might as well see if he can fly. “I just want you to have good things,” he blurts out, “and if that’s a flight to Paris, so you can see the real tower that keeps you believing in love, then I’ll do it. I’ll do it, if it means someday you might want to give some of that love to me.”
The words hang there, ridiculous and raw, louder than the tinny boarding announcements scolding someone to proceed to Gate C17. He feels them echoing in his bones, feels the heat crawl up his neck. Part of him wants to laugh at himself, wants to reel the whole speech back and bury it six feet under.
But then—your expression changes. Softens. As if you’re seeing him stripped down to the wiring, and you don’t hate what you see. The kind of look that makes him feel like maybe, somehow, all the chaos and bad decisions of the past few days were pointing to this exact, absurd moment.
A look of love.
You take a hesitant step closer, the nervous kind that makes his pulse trip. He’s used to your sharpness, your deflections. This is something else entirely.
“Are you going to pull away again?” you say, voice barely above a whisper, eyes flicking from his lips back up to his eyes.
Pato’s heart spikes, hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to escape. His hands move before his brain catches up. He cups your face, thumbs brushing against your skin, like he’s anchoring himself to something real.
“Not happening,” he says, just as gently. “I’m not going anywhere you’re not, hermosa.” ⛐
summary: one of monaco’s finest wedding planners is hired to plan formula one’s most handsome drivers—carlos sainz—wedding. it’s just…his bride to be is the worse and you’re pretty sure you have a crush on the groom. and yeah! everything is totally not fine.
[word count] 17.3k
warnings: forbidden relationship | mentions of cheating | infidelity | wedding planner! reader | angst angst angst | mentions of weddings | kissing | mature themes and dialogue | carlos fiancée in this fic is completely made up and an original character | read at your own discretion
🎶 strawberry wine by noah kahan, i wish i knew how to quit you by sombr, it ain’t over, till it’s over by lenny kravitz, song for lovers by bachelors of science, peace by taylor swift, vodka cranberry by conan gray, don’t worry i’ll make you worry by sabrina carpenter, + halley’s comet by billie eilish
contrary to popular belief—and the title of your job—you actually hate weddings. maybe that's dramatic or controversial or whatever, but seeing crazy brides and uninterested grooms day in and day out for as long as you have—it's completely turned you off of weddings.
sometimes, after hours upon hours of near disasters and hearing the same cheesy bruno mars song and having your client—typically the one in white—shout at you throughout the reception because the flowers look weird, you really think about packing it up.
no more weddings. no more brides. no more eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the broom closet every summer evening, while the wedding party dances and indulges in lobster rolls and other delicious foods.
but then you get the good clients—the grateful brides who thank you with tears in their eyes and grooms who's shoulders aren't tense when they send you kind smiles. and that makes your job worth it.
it's moments like this very one—sitting in a quaint cafe, switching between sipping your latte and nibbling away at the fresh blueberry muffin while reading a grateful brides thank you email—that put a smile on your face, and make you think, yeah. you love your job.
the sun glints off the mediterranean, casting a golden glow over the glamorous streets of monaco. people move all around you—talking with one another and on phones—while the cafe you're in only increases with people.
you pay them no mind—not besides the occasional break of responding to emails to people watch. however, as the volume of people entering and exiting the cafe swells, it becomes increasingly harder to concentrate.
the cafe feels more like a train station at rush hour than a cozy place to work. when you really start to pay attention, you see that people are pressed into every corner—laptops open, coffee cups clutched like lifelines.
you got lucky with the corner window seat, your little oasis with just enough light and just enough space to breathe. unlike everyone else in this cafe, it seems like you beat rush hour.
you're scribbling half-hearted notes in your planner when a shadow passes across your table. you don't look up, not until you notice it lingering.
"do you mind if I sit here?" the stranger asks, his voice calm but threaded with hesitance—or perhaps something you can't decipher.
you glance up, a little caught off guard by the tone—and by him. he's annoyingly good looking, the kind of handsome that makes your cheeks heat up and palms turn clammy. tousled dark hair, matching stubble like he didn't bother shaving this morning by somehow makes it work, and big dark eyes that aren't afraid of the contact.
he's dressed in an unassuming black hoodie, cap pulled low, but there's something about him—something practiced and unbothered in the way he moves. like he's used to taking up space. like people usually say yes.
the stranger continues, "every other seat is taken."
you look around even though you know it's true. you arch a brow, a little taken back by him actually asking. handsome guys who live in monaco don't ask. they take.
you arch a brow. "you're not gonna just sit anyway?"
he chuckles, lowering into the seat effortlessly. "I mean, I could. but I like to think i'm more charming than that."
"jury's still out." you muse.
his takeaway cup hits the table top with a dull thump in favour of extending his large hand across the table. "carlos," he offers—not overly confident. just warm.
you shake it politely. his hand is calloused in a way you'd expect from someone who works with them in some way—but his grip is easy, no pressure. just present.
"y/n," you reply, and he repeats it like a secret.
“nice to meet you, y/n who’s saved me from standing with my coffee like a fool.”
you notice an accent then—warm like thick honey and most likely some kind of spanish. a smile pulls at your lips in spite of yourself, “well, now I feel like I need a medal.”
carlos tears a piece off his muffin and pops it into his mouth, eyes scanning your table. "planner or student?" he asks, nodding at your color coded notes and scattered to-do lists all around your laptop.
"planner," you say, closing your mac with a sigh. "weddings, primarily—the occasional corporate event—but mostly weddings. lots of white fabric, panicked brides, and relatives who think it's their day too."
he winces. "sounds... intense, no?"
"it’s a circus," you reply, a breathless laugh leaving your chest. "but I kind of like it. sometimes. I get to control chaos for a living…and making brides dreams come true is pretty spectacular.”
carlos’ eyebrows lift—like he maybe wasn’t expecting such a wistful response. either way, he doesn’t touch of the latter of your answer, instead he says—"control chaos. that’s a superpower."
"what about you?" you ask, sipping your half-melted latte. "professional seat stealer?"
he grins around his coffee cup, amused. "no, that’s just a hobby. my real job is kind of... fast paced."
"ah," you say, not pushing. "let me guess. you’re one of those people who jumps out of helicopters to snowboard down mountains."
carlos laughs, loud enough that the woman at the table beside you glances over. neither of you notice. "I wish. that would probably be less dangerous."
you tilt your head. "so mysterious. should I be concerned?"
"only if you're allergic to adrenaline."
you shake your head, pretending to scribble a note. "noted: mysterious adrenaline junkie who drinks his coffee black and takes up space uninvited."
he leans in a bit, eyes dancing. "you’re writing about me already? thought that was supposed to begin once I leave.”
"of course. I need something to mock in my memoirs."
there’s a pause—a beat of silence where the noise of the café fills in the space between you. the espresso machine hisses. a baby cries somewhere near the door. but carlos is still watching you, elbows on the table, fingers absently spinning his cup.
"you’re good at that," he says finally.
"what?"
"this. talking. making people laugh. you’ve got a bit of fire."
you raise an eyebrow. "is that your way of saying I seem difficult?"
he shrugs. "I like difficult."
you laugh, shaking your head. "what a line."
"I'm not trying to pick you up," he says, and that may be true, but there's a slight smile tugging at his mouth that has your heart thumping. "you just seem like the kind of person who doesn't get surprised very often. that’s all."
that has you pausing. he’s not wrong. you’re used to being five steps ahead, and you’re used to being in charge. but there's something about this stranger who's easy in his own skin—and on the eyes—whose identity you still can't quite place, that makes you curious.
you check your phone, then sigh and gather your planner.
"I should go," you say. "bridezilla at 4:00."
carlos chuckles. "godspeed."
you rise—alas reluctantly—and sling your tote bag over your shoulder. "thanks for imposing.”
he tilts his head, eyes tracking your every move as you push your chair in. "are you actually gonna write about me?"
"depends." you hum.
"on?"
"if you did something memorable today."
carlos tongues his cheek for a moment, and then—“and? is the jury still out?”
you laugh, but don’t respond—ha ha! you can do mystery too.
he watches you walk away, a smile still playing at the corners of his mouth. you don't look back. you don’t need to. besides, if you did, that would give carlos a chance to see the way your face has heated up and that your smile has grown times 10.
⸻ 4 WEEKS LATER
the air smells like roses and wealth—sweet, crisp, and mildly intimidating. intimidating yes, but also familiar. so with that, you tug at the hem of your navy pencil skirt and continue to walk the length of marble hallway, heels tapping against stone polished so smooth you're convinced slipping is a liability.
it's another wedding. another high-profile client with a pinterest board and most likely impossible standards. you can already see the vision—crystals, polished, white. a bride who's giving constant stink eye and her future husband who's blood pressure is too high for his own good.
it's a carousel, one you never seem to really step off of.
the last 4 weeks have consisted of four different things—eating, sleeping, planning, and being unable to stop thinking about carlos.
your interaction at the coffee shop almost a month ago had left you feeling off kilter and weak in the knees—in the best way. for the first time in a long time, it felt like you were making a real connection.
because carlos wasn't a drunk groomsmen who wanted to get in your pants, or an uncle with no filter commenting on the size of your breasts. he's real and funny and was looking at you like...maybe.
you didn't google him. too nervous about what you may find. you also don't have his last name, but a handsome spaniard living in monaco can surely only mean fame.
you don't see him again.
you go to the coffee shop every sunday afterwards, hoping you'll run into him again—or that carlos would interrupt your day and plop down across from you once more. but it never happens.
he haunts every thought in your mind—even now as you approach the lounge of the castle like building dubbed as a wedding venue, carlos is there—in the back of your mind serving as a persistent reminder.
you spot the bride immediately: tall, striking, and dressed like she's about to accept an award—not plan a wedding. her platinum-blonde hair is twisted into a sleek chignon, makeup flawless, posture sharp as a blade.
she's scrolling through her phone like it personally offended her, and from this distance, you can already hear the barely concealed sighs of superiority.
and then—your stomach drops.
because there, leaning casually against the window, his silhouette framed by soft morning light, is him.
carlos.
you blink once. and then again, as if your brain is trying to reboot itself.
at first, you think you may be seeing things. it's early and you haven't had coffee because you were too afraid of your breath smelling like vanilla creamer. maybe—just maybe—you're hallucinating.
but then in some cruel way, the light shifts, further illuminating his profile and yup. it's carlos.
same tousled curls. same easy, boyish posture. same damn smile you've been seeing in your sleep—because life is cruel. and apparently, so is fate.
"brilliant," you murmur to yourself, straightening your spine. "just... brilliant."
after taking a few and much needed deep breaths, as well as adjusting your top in a bad attempt at appearing put together (news flash! you're not), you step through the threshold.
the only thing that separated you from carlos.
"good afternoon," you say smoothly, clipboard tucked under your arm, smile firmly in place.
the bride looks up slowly, her gaze sweeping over you like she's evaluating a contestant on a baking show. her lips twitch into something that might technically be called a smile, but it doesn't make it all the way to her eyes.
"you're the planner?" she asks, her tone somehow both curious and vaguely disappointed.
you nod. "y/n. lovely to meet you."
she offers her hand like it's a royal decree, and you really have to force a smile while politely shaking it. the bride hums. "you're... younger than I expected."
you smile, professional and unbothered. "I get that a lot. I make up for it by being annoyingly good at my job."
she doesn't laugh, just tilts her head in that bless your heart way. "well, I hope so," she says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "because this wedding is not just an event. It's the event. I want it to feel effortless, but unforgettable. luxurious, but...with restraint. think vogue meets ancient rome."
and yup. you could've guessed that.
"well, that's a very specific vibe. one that I think will bode well in this location if that's what you both settle on."
before she can respond, carlos turns away from the window he was previously leaning against—and when your eyes meet, for the first time since the cafe a month ago, your breath stupidly catches.
you hadn't looked in his direction since walking through the doors. you couldn't. but now, he sees you, and he's moving towards you and his bride like someone who's entirely at ease—confident, unhurried.
"sorry about the chaos," he says with a crooked smile, nodding toward her with that teasing glint he'd shown you a month ago. "she's on a bit of a warpath today. full bridal offensive."
carlos' voice hits you in the chest. it's ridiculous. it's just a voice—low, calm, dusted with something coastal. but you know it. you remember it from that late morning and blueberry muffins and that bustling hour in a too-small café where everything almost meant something.
but this carlos isn't the one you know. because this carlos is getting married to a beautiful woman.
clearly, you misread the entire situation in the cafe. your heart sinks down to your kitten heels, but you don't allow yourself to show any emotion. instead, you force a polite and professional smile.
"i’ve seen worse," you say, offering your hand. "y/n."
there's a part of you then—a part that hopes carlos will laugh and shake off your introduction. he'll say I remember you, y/n or maybe something like how could I forget you and your hazard work space.
but, he doesn't say that. instead, carlos takes your outstretched hand—his grip form and grounding. "carlos," he replies, like it's brand new.
you withdraw your hand first, fingers tingling stupidly and heart aching. he doesn't remember you.
there's a pause—something unspoken hovering—but he only cocks his head slightly, eyes flicking over your face. you think that maybe he's trying to place you and can't.
and for some reason, that's worse than him completely forgetting.
the bride—who's name you briefly recall being rachel—rolls her eyes at carlos’ teasing and then mumbles something about needing fresh air and a glass of wine.
it has you blinking again, watching helplessly as she excuses herself and waltzes up to the bar on the other side of the lounge. and when carlos follows her, you finally exhale.
the next hour consists of a lot of bored expressions from the bride to be, basic wedding time scheduling and pretending not to catch carlos’ eyes. it keeps happening though, and like that time in the cafe, carlos doesn't look away.
you wonder if he remembers you now, or if he's simply just listening to your planning while rachel seems to not care less.
the table is covered in textured linen samples, a half-melted pillar candle, and three vision boards that you'd carefully assembled over the last week. you're halfway through explaining the tonal palette—blush, olive, terracotta—when rachel sighs as if you've offered her a sack of potatoes.
"these colors are..." she trails off, searching for a word, "...domestic. like something you'd see in a commercial about homemade jam."
you blink. "the intention was to create a sense of warmth and earthiness. a sort of understated elegance—"
she hums, cutting you off and already lifting another card. "I just think we should elevate. this feels like a vineyard wedding for people who read magazines about chickens."
carlos lets out a cough that sounds suspiciously like a laugh and turns it into a throat-clear.
you say nothing. not because you agree, but because you've learned there's power in silence.
"and this cake design?" she gestures to a minimalist sketch. "isn't the naked cake thing kind of... over?"
"we're also working on some architectural options," you reply evenly. "think sculptural tiers—like edible modern art."
rachel perks up, nodding slowly like she invented the concept. "now that's interesting."
moments later, she disappears into the hallway, phone pressed to her ear, muttering something about a missing seamstress and a possibly pregnant maid of honor.
you exhale for the first time in 45 minutes.
"she's... got vision," carlos says carefully.
you spin around to find that your ears aren't playing tricks on you—because there he is. carlos has stayed behind this time, and he's standing near the sample boards like he's done this before—hands tucked into his pockets.
his gaze flicks over the designs, then back to you, the smallest grin pulling at his plump lips.
you glance at him briefly before looking away, pretending to shuffle aorund some papers in an attempt to seem busy. "she's got something," you mutter.
carlos chuckles, then picks up a swatch of linen and runs his fingers over it absentmindedly. "do you believe in coincidences?"
that has your gaze flickering towards him. like you were expecting, carlos is looking at you. something unreadable in his eyes. you tilt your head. "sometimes."
"because this feels like one. you being the one here."
you feel your heart thud once, hard. but you keep your tone neutral. unwilling to get your hopes up over something as silly as a wistful remark. "people cross paths. that's not anything abnormal."
he nods slowly, like he's accepting that. but then sets the swatch down and leans against the edge of the table, and completely flips you on your head. "do you ever go back to that cafe on the strip? the one with the expensive drinks and dry muffins."
your stomach flips and your breath catches in your throat. the papers you'd been fiddling with fall back down between the pages of your notebook with a small patter, completely disregarded.
you look at him. really look.
carlos is watching you like he's waiting for you to remember. like you're the one who forgot. and suddenly it all feels too much—the planning and the lattes and the chocolate brown eyes boaring into yours.
shyly, you tuck some loose hair behind you ear. "I didn't think you remembered that."
he shrugs, but there's something in his eyes—warm and unapologetic. "hard to forget someone who most definitely wrote about me in her flamingo printed notebook."
you laugh—"you remember that do you?"
"I remember you," he says, voice low.
you don't know what to say to that. so you just smile—this time, real—and shake your head slightly. "this might actually be the weirdest consultation I've ever had."
carlos grins, letting a thick beat pass between you before speaking. “so am I right?” he muses, voice thick with a playful curiosity that has your toes tingling.
you raise a brow and start piling a few planners on top of one another. “about?”
“the notebook thing.” his dark eyes dart between yours and the books on the table—and that conversation at the cafe a month ago comes flooding back to you. his cheeky remarks, your blooming cheeks. all of it.
instead of answering, you laugh—short and a little breathless. “are you usually this self centred?”
you give him a knowing look—one that says a combination of different things. things like I haven’t stopped thinking about you. things like your fiancé will be back any moment. things like I can’t believe you’re getting married. things like yes, I totally wrote about you in my diary.
you really aren’t planning to answer, but then carlos starts pleading all quiet and playful and you crack. “okay. okay. yeah I mentioned you in something.” clearing your throat awkwardly, you look back at your notes and scattered fabric samples—too overwhelmed to look him in the eye after admitting that.
but carlos is fazed. “what was it?”
you snort in a combination of disbelief and complete amusement—“don’t be nosy.”
“too late,” he smirks, intense gaze unwavering from your face. unwilling to give up.
you sigh, “I wrote how I should never let strangers sit at my table again—especially prying ones with flirty eyes.”
he squints, “are my eyes flirty?”
you face heats and you stammer “they're...intriguing.”
carlos hums thoughtfully, and then softly and full of something you can’t decipher, he says—“like yours then.”
you blink, breath catching in the back of your throat in a way that makes breathing feel near impossible. carlos is close—close enough that you can smell his cologne and feel his body heat. it’s too close—too close to be to a near groom. especially a groom that you’re planning a wedding with.
you step back, eyes darting away. carlos seems to do the same—but you don’t notice. not really. “I should make sure the garden is ready for the walk through,” you mumble, sliding your laptop into your briefcase.
“right,” he rubs the back of his neck, “okay.”
the garden is glowing under the late afternoon sun. honey light pours through the canopy of cypress trees, dappling the stone path beneath your heels, while the sea breeze carries hints of blooming lavender and citrus from the nearby grove.
you’re leading rachel and carlos through the terraced garden where the ceremony is set to take place—all while pretending that less than ten minutes ago you and carlos weren’t sharing the same air. it’s fine. really.
"it’ll all be lined with lanterns," you explain, gesturing down the aisle. "we can install soft uplighting through the hedges, a string canopy over the altar, and if you time it right, the sun will set just as you say your vows."
carlos walks a few feet behind you, hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes flicking around with genuine interest. "this is kind of incredible, no?" he looks at rachel, and then at you—humor dancing in his eyes. "can I be a guest at my own wedding?"
you glance at him, a small smile pulling at your lips. "if you bring a good enough gift."
next to carlos, yet still trailing a few steps behind, rachel walks with her arms crossed delicately over her designer shawl—staring at a flowerbed like it just insulted her mother.
"I was hoping for something more... polished," she huffs, voice high and a little nasal. "this is very... countryside inn."
you turn to her with practiced poise. "that’s part of the charm. it’ll be elegant, but organic. romantic without being fussy."
she hums without enthusiasm, tapping at her phone.
you blink but keep moving toward the stone gazebo where the ceremony would take place. it’s a beautiful venue really, but this section takes the cake—birds chirp from the branches, and butterflies drifting lazily past your face.
this could make or break the deal, you think. just as you go to speak again—something about colour palette matching the wood—you hear it.
a sharp, click-hiss, like something waking up beneath the soil.
and then it happens.
jets of water shoot from hidden sprinkler heads, hissing to life in a perfect, timed sequence. one erupts directly next to you. another near carlos. a third sprays in a wide arc toward the bride.
you freeze mid-step as cold droplets hit your legs, then your back. and then a full blast soaks your blouse like someone dumped a bucket over your head.
carlos lets out a yelp that turns into a loud, guttural laugh. "oh my god!" he howls, stepping backward into another jet. "what is happening?!"
you sputter, trying to wipe water from your eyes, but you're laughing now too—half in disbelief, half in surrender.
"well," carlos says, water dripping from his nose, shirt clinging to his chest. "that’s one way to cool down."
you blink water off your lashes and swipe your hair back with a laugh. "talk about timing."
and then comes the shriek, rachel’s already insufferable voice becoming even more so. “are you kidding me?!”
you turn through the spray of water, a half mortified half amused look on your face. rachel though—there’s no amusement laced expression there. she standing there, completely shocked with her arms raised like she’s in a bad horror movie.
her white linen dress is plastered to her frame, hair dripping into her eyes, mascara beginning its slow, tragic descent.
"this is a disaster!" she wails, backing away from the nearest sprinkler like it's attacking her. "this is supposed to be my day! my hair—this dress cost more than your car!"
she spins toward you, dripping and furious. "how could you let this happen? what if this was the actual wedding?!”
you press your lips together, trying to keep a straight face—but it's useless. a giggle escapes. you’re soaked to your bra, your shoes are squelching, and honestly? you don't care. not when carlos is snickering and the water is still soaking you.
you shrug, wiping your cheeks. "they’re just doing gardening marianne—it would never go off during a ceremony."
her mouth falls open. "and how would you know that?"
carlos steps forward then, still grinning, water beading on his jaw. “come on," he says, voice calm. "it’s just water. you’re going to be the center of attention either way. might as well have fun with it."
rachel glares at him like he's just joined your mutiny. "unbelievable." and without another word, she turns and stomps off down the garden path—her heels slipping once, then again, until she kicks them off completely and storms off barefoot.
you and carlos watch her go, soaked and steaming with indignation.
he glances at you, eyes twinkling. "so... is now a bad time to ask for a towel?"
you snort lightly, pushing your hair back. "sorry, we only provide those to clients who survive the tour."
"fair." he laughs again, full and warm, his shirt half-transparent now—giving you a nice view of his defined muscles and dark chest hair. good lord.
there’s a beat of quiet as you catch his gaze and realize, with a weird twist in your stomach, how close you're standing once again. how your hair is dripping water down your arms. how he's looking at you like this whole fiasco might be the best part of his week.
you swallow anxiously and start speed talking about needing to find towels. then, as you attempt to turn on your heels, everything gets turned upside down. your shoe catches muddy grass, soaked from the ongoing sprinklers, and you stumble. and stumble. until your completely falling and flailing.
you yelp—expecting to hit the grass in a damp heap. but before you can, carlos hands grab you—one grabbing your bicep firmly while the other naturally steadies on your hip—keeping you from completely face planting.
expect it’s never that easy, because the grass is apparently the devil and has tuned into a slip and slide from hell.
carlos stumbles with you, and the next thing you know, you’re both falling, landing on the glistening grass with a dull thump.
your back sinks into the ground, soaking your shirt even further, while carlos hovers over you—his expression filled with concern and something else.
“are you okay, y/n?”
you nod—a little embarrassed and even more dumb—peering into his eyes life it’s your only life line. “I can’t promise that won’t happen on the wedding day. the grass is slippy.” you’re trying to make a joke, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.
carlos breathes, “yeah. it is.”
you grin, soft and a little unsure. “i’m not sure rachel will keep me around after this. i’m sorry.”
carlos cocks his head. "you’re the only one who can keep up. who has good options—she’ll have no choice but to keep you around." he laughs, eyes glinting, “even if that means I get uninvited to my own wedding.”
you laugh, deep and real, chest brushing his as you both lay in the grass—dripping wet. carlos joins in, holding himself up with one hand while the other wipes at his tan face.
the sprinkles hiss to a stop around you and the sun keeps shining like nothing's wrong. and somehow, everything feels just a little too right.
—
the hot water from your shower steams the bathroom mirror, fogging away the memory of being doused like a plant in peak bloom. you scrub garden mud off your calves and untangle a tiny leaf from your hair—where did that even come from?—trying not to dwell on what happened.
but of course, you do.
because despite the soaked shoes, the mascara tragedy, and the looming threat of a complaint email typed in all caps, you can't stop thinking about him.
carlos.
laughing under the garden sprinklers like a kid on summer break. shrugging off chaos with a crooked grin. stealing glances at you like he was in on some inside joke.
and that look he gave you—right before the reality of the situation came to and he helped you off the grass before stalking off to try and find rachel—that’s the thing plaguing your mind.
you towel off, throw on an oversized shirt, and collapse on your couch with a glass of wine. you only get 5 minutes into an episode of the summer I turned pretty when your phone buzzes.
[carlos s.]
so... do your packages usually include a surprise baptism or was that just a one-time deal? 😂
you blink at the screen. obviously you had to exchange numbers with the bride and groom—you always do—as it makes it easier to plan and connect while trying to coordinate a wedding.
however, you weren’t expecting to hear from carlos. not about today.
a beat passes before your thumbs begin rolling over your keyboard.
[you]
only for clients who don't complain about soggy socks.
[carlos s.]
in that case, you're gonna have to step up the perks. like free blueberry muffins or a dry shirt.
you snort into your glass.
[you]
were a full-service operation.
next time I'll bring a towel and an apology letter.
there’s a pause while you wait for his reply, eyes locked on the bubbles as they move across your screen.
[carlos s.]
honestly, best part of the planning process so far.
you, soaked head to toe, laughing like it wasn't a complete disaster. kinda made my week.
you stare at the message. longer than you probably should. his words have your stomach doing that thing—tightening like a knot pulling at both ends.
[you]
careful, you're starting to sound like someone who enjoys my company.
his reply comes too fast.
[carlos s.]
what if I do?
you blink. re-read the message. and then read it again for good measure. your wine sits in your mouth—throat too constricted to swallow. you don’t know know how to respond to that—you don’t know if you should.
but before you can decide, another message flashes:
[carlos s.]
hey—sorry. ignore that last one. too much wine. 😅 see you at the vendor walk through friday.
you stare at the screen—and suddenly the silence in your apartment feels too thick. too loaded.
you type something.
delete it.
then type again.
[you]
i’ll bring an umbrella. just in case. ☔
you hit send before you can change your mind.
that night, you go to bed before you do something crazy—crazy like tell carlos you are definitely crushing on him. because that's totally normal.
warm monaco air floats through your open bedroom window in the morning, softly waking you from a dream filled night like a greeting kiss. you grumble to your yourself and drag a hand over your face, wiping away sleep and longing thoughts.
you go through your morning routine quickly once you realize the time—you've only got 30 minutes to get to villa belle mer to meet with rachel and the man who occupied your dreams last night.
brushing your teeth like nobodies business and slicking back your hair at the speed of light, you leave your apartment with 5 minutes to spare—thank god.
you arrive early, clipboard clutched in hand like usual, and ready to refocus. the day is all about finalizing vendors, confirming rentals, and pretending last night's text exchange with carlos didn't make your stomach flutter like it's in butterfly sanctuary.
rachel arrives fashionably late as always, wrapped in a silky black trench with sunglasses too large for human proportion—probably a brand you can't even begin to pronounce.
she barely glances at you before saying, "so. the garden."
you brace yourself for the worse, fingers tightening around the clipboard like it's your only lifeline. is she going to mention how you slipped under her groom? is she going to question your professionalism? does she know about your conversation last night?
but instead—"i've decided I don't want to get married there."
you blink. "oh?"
she slips off her sunglasses and pins you with a sugar-sweet smile. "it's too... exposed," rachel hums. "all that nature. all that sun. and don't even get me started on the sprinklers."
"those are on a timer," you explain calmly. "it wouldn't happen again."
"yes, but I can't risk it," she says, waving a manicured hand. "that moment was supposed to be mine. and somehow you were the one sharing it with my fiancé."
her eyes flicker towards you and holds your gaze knowingly. rachel is accusing—that much you can tell—but she’s also definitely warning, and that hangs in the space between you like a thick fog.
you holds her gaze. "I was trying to keep the mood light. that's part of the job."
her expression sharpens, just slightly, like she's mistaken your professionalism for snark. "well. this is reminder for you to remember whose wedding this is."
before you can reply, carlos walks up next to rachel, a unaware, sleepy grin on his face and,in hand, holding a coffee for each of you. "morning," he greets cheerfully. "peace offerings?"
rachel plucks hers with a sniff.
you take yours with a quiet, "thanks."
carlos doesn't notice the tension lingering. of course he doesn't. he catches your eye inconspicuously, a familiar glimmer there. his look is brief, but meaningful.
he remembers your texts last night. no amount of wine could make him forget.
you both remember.
and you hate it. you hate how guilty you feel, and you hate the way your heart increased when your fingers brushed over carlos' when he passed you the takeaway cup.
most of all, you hate that rachel doesn't want the garden venue. because now, you have more work to do with not only her, but carlos as well.
and yup, your back to really hating weddings.
⸻ LA PÂTISSERUE DU SOLEIL
the bell above the door jingles softly as you step into the bakery, and immediately, the world changes.
gone is the pressure of deadlines, the polite warzones of flower consultations and seating chart drama. here, everything is warm, rich, and smells like sweet vanilla.
golden light filters through lace-curtained windows, spilling across rows of delicate cakes and pastries behind polished glass. the scent of sugar, chocolate, and espresso swirls in the air like a whispered promise of peace.
you spot carlos almost immediately. it's hard not to. not when you see how he leans against the marble counter—one hand resting on the edge, the other loosening the collar of his shirt like he belongs in an ad for expensive cologne and questionable choices. dressed in his usual yacht vibe aesthetic. rich, expensive and completely off limits.
his shoulders loosen when you catch eyes, a visible sign of relief—like he's been waiting for you to walk through the door for years.
and your heart, uninvited, does a little flip.
as you walk further into the bakery, you notice the absence of rachel, and suddenly your heart leaps into your throat—knees going weak and blood running cold.
your eyes narrow in on carlos, "where's rachel?"
he snorts and pushes off the counter, "hello to you too."
"sorry," you breathe, "hi."
"hi," the half smirk on his mouth should be illegal. "she can't make it. dress fitting got moved up." carlos waves his hand in a combination of confusion and dismissal—like he didn't just turn the day on its head with those words.
you almost want to laugh. "great."
"but don't worry, she sent me with a very specific list of what she wants for the cake." your eyes flicker towards his—swimming with what can only be described as amusement—and you may just die.
jaw clenched, you take a deep breath. you'd only prepared to deal with rachel and her undoubtedly picky palette today—not to be the fill in while carlos picks a wedding cake flavour alone.
he's still looking at you—something almost pleading about his expression that has you softening.
you exhale, and loosely gesture to the sheet of paper carlos has in his hands. "let me see." he grins and quickly passes it to your outstretched hand, and you take it easily—scanning the rather long list of specific requests.
"mirror glazed?" you question, brow quirked as you peer back at carlos.
"that one was a deal breaker," he hums, pointing at the words that rachel had made bold and in all caps. jeez. "she said it's classy."
"right."
just then, a staff member slides up to the counter—a middle aged woman with striking hair, wearing a dark apron caked in flour and an accent thick enough to butter toast. "welcome—I presume you are the 2:30 cake tasting appointment?"
you confirm with a firm nod and a even more firm yes—all while carlos is leaning across the counter like he's at home. the baker continues, "any specific samples you two are wanting for your big day?"
your eyes widen comically, spluttering out—"oh we're not—"
before you can utter any sort of continuation, carlos cuts in, smooth as honey. "nothing specific. let's try them all."
"wonderful, we have plenty of different samples and combinations to go through." she beams, continuing to gesture you both towards the tasting table with a pep in her step that you could only dream of.
"thank you," carlos grins, pulling out your chair. you sit down, a little dazed, and watch half heartedly as the baker prepares some samples behind the counter while you both settle.
the table is finished with white lace trim table cloth, fine china, and one of those cheap and corny bride and groom cake toppers in a faux display cake. if you think hard enough about his this looks—and carlos' lack of correction when the employee assumed you were the bride—you may be sick.
"carlos," you whisper helplessly, "i'm not sure if rachel would be happy with us spending this time together."
his dark eyebrows pull together as he sits next to you, "what? why not?"
your lips part, but nothing comes out. for a moment—just a split second—you think about telling him what rachel insinuated at the vendor event the other week. but then you remember that this whole thing is about you. or you and carlos—because in reality, there is no you and carlos.
he's simply just a guy you met once at a coffee shop and are now planning his wedding.
so, you say—"nothing." you look away from his warm gaze before you change your mind. clearing your throat—and your head—you dig through your bag and pull your clipboard out. "alright, let's try not to get you too sugar-drunk."
slowly, his expression of concern shifts, a grin taking over his face. "no promises."
before you know it, the baker is bringing out six different samples, presented on a fancy white plate in a lineup esq. way. the scent of different chocolates and thick caramel invade your senses, making your mouth water automatically.
regardless, you don't make any moves to pick up the spare fork, not even when carlos makes some comment about how divine the raspberry glaze looks and forks off a piece.
he chews thoughtfully, making dramatic little noises that have you closing your eyes. carlos tilts his head, turning towards you suddenly with the fork pointed in your direction.
"here," he gestures, a new portion of raspberry glazed chocolate cake on the end of the utensil. "chocolate first. for the lady."
your eyes widen, a few spluttering words coming out before any real kind of scentence—earning you an amused look from carlos and a slightly concerned one from the baker.
"oh no," you protest with a weak laugh, "that's okay, you can have it."
"what?" his eyebrows pull, "no, c'mon I can't make decisions by myself." he waggles the fork
playfully for emphasis, and the baker makes a cooing noise like this is cute—and you want to crawl under the table and hide.
"carlos," you warn.
"y/n." he breathes a laugh, "just a little taste, yes?"
a beat passes, one that includes carlos looking at you like a hopeful puppy with a fork covered in cake that truly does look yummy.
you sigh reluctantly, "okay fine," your eyes fall to the utensils and then back to carlos'. "are you going to at least let me hold the fork?"
"no. what if it's so delicious you try and eat it all on me?"
"you're ridiculous."
the baker makes another cooing noise before you can taste the cake—"you two are so cute. how long have you been together?" her hands are clasped over her floury apron, cheeks red and lips curled…and you totally lean in and fill your mouth with carlos’ cake before you're forced to answer.
he snickers, watching you with a half quirked grin as you chew frantically. there's dark icing smeared across your teeth and some raspberry clinging to the corner of your mouth, and carlos can't help but to laugh.
he tells her some kind of made up meet cute as you swallow roughly—you're only half listening while the other half of you attempts to not choke on the dark chocolate.
"and?"
you up at carlos, "okay. it's not bad. what do you think?"
"I think you have chocolate all over your mouth."
slowly, just like the melted desert there, you watch carlos eyes trail down to your mouth. for a moment, he holds. staring at your lips. the space between you feels nonexistent, and you're frozen. not breathing even.
you know this is wrong—whatever you would classify this as. but when carlos eyes meet yours, you simply forget every rule and boundary. because he's looking at you like you're the one he wants.
carlos eyes find yours again, and something shifts—just for a second, but you catch it. a flicker of something real beneath the bravado. not just a man who flirts for sport, but someone who's watching you—carefully, curiously. like you're the one who might actually surprise him.
his hands lifts, reaching towards you like he's going to wipe the chocolate form your lip—and that's when you finally blink, turning away from him in a rush that feels almost impossible.
you take one of the napkins on the table—completed with a cartoon bride and groom in the top corner—and furiously wipe the desert from your face.
you don't look at him—not right away—but he can feel the tension lingering in your chest. shoulders tights and spine ridged. you smile politely when the baker gestures to the next sample. strawberry and something else that carlos doesn't hear.
he's too busy watching you, a small furrow to his brow that makes him look endeared.
this time, you taste the sample without being asked, urging your hands to do something other than tremor.
an engaged man almost just wiped frosting off your mouth with his thumb. even more morally dubious, he was staring at your lips like he wanted to taste you. and you think you would've left him. that's the dangerous part.
she waltzes away to retrieve something from the back, and the silence of the bakery engulfs you like an unfamiliar song.
"hey," carlos starts lowly, "i'm sorry."
you don't ask what he's sorry for. you don't need to. you both know.
you don't let your hand stop from moving with the pen across your clipboard—you're making some side bar note about how tart the strawberry cream is—as you respond. "it's fine."
"i'm serious—y/n, just", his fingers gently wrap around your wrist. halting you and successfully rendering you shocked.
your eyes dart towards his, disbelief and something else swimming in your gaze. "carlos-"
"i'm sorry," his voice is a little rough but still laced with his usual smoothness. "I don't mean to make this weird." licking along his bottom lip, he lets a beat pass. filled with unsaid words and something thick.
"this is probably a lot for you," carlos' fingers gently squeeze around your wrist. so soft you're pretty sure it's subconscious. "it's a lot for me."
you breath hitches, "i'm not sure what i'm supposed to do carlos."
he keeps his eyes trained on yours, like eye contact is the only thing keeping him afloat. it's intense and a little bit romantic and definitely scary, but you don't look away.
carlos lips part, once, and nothing comes out. not at first, but then—"get coffee with me after this? we can talk."
"last time we talked i'm a coffee shop we were different people." it's subtle truth, one that you and carlos have been dancing around for the last few weeks—since you started planning his wedding for damn sake.
he shrugs a shoulder, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with a napkin. tearing it apart piece by piece. "i'm still the same guy," carlos swallows gently, "let me show you."
everything in your brain is screaming at you that having coffee with carlos again is a bad idea. the last time it happened—mind you, completely unexpected as he in fact totally intruded on your alone time—it only ended with your heart cracking and a wedding to plan.
but there's something in your in gut—in your heart, even—that is contradicting every single thing happening in your head.
so you sigh, a little reluctant but also not at all. "fine," you say, "one coffee."
so now—the sidewalk glistens faintly from the earlier downpour that unleashed during mouthfuls of vanilla frosting and bitter fruit—every step soft with the sound of damp soles.
carlos walks beside you, close enough to feel the ghost of your warmth when the breeze leans just right, far enough that it could still be called appropriate. safe.
you don't say anything. just walk, your gaze shifting calmly between the wet pavement and the streaked sky overhead. your hands buried in the pockets of an your oversized blazer, sleeves almost pulled halfway down your fingers, like you don't even notice you were doing it.
but carlos notices. the smallest smile pulling at his lips. he hates how that feels illegal.
carlos kept his eyes forward, but every few steps he, unknowingly to you, steals a glance. the soft, absent crease between your brows. the way your mouth presses together while you're deep in thought—what are you thinking? or are you simply just walking? focusing on keeping one foot in front of the other.
god, he wants to ask. he wants to know every idle thing about you.
his hands stay stuffed deep in his jacket pockets. If he lets them move—if he lets them drift toward you the way they wanted to—he wouldn't stop them.
don't be stupid, he tells himself. you're not allowed.
your shoes make rhythm on the sidewalk, yours just slightly ahead of his. you glance at something in a shop window and carlos swears he will always remember the tilt of your head, and the curve of your shoulder as you pause.
to him, every little thing you do seems choreographed by accident, and he is helpless when it comes to looking away.
and then, as you reached the corner, you turn slightly toward him, just a flicker—maybe to check for cars, maybe not—but your eyes met for half a second.
carlos doesn't smile. couldn't even if he tried—he's too busy trying to hold himself together.
because even that tiny glance felt like a wound. a beautiful one. like you've seen through him—like you know.
but you didn’t know. you couldn’t. that was the line. and carlos—he knows that. knows better. he knows what it would cost to cross it. he also knows he sort of already has.
you looked away, and you kept walking. no words, just the steady hush of the world around you. and carlos, drowning quietly in the silence between your steps, follows easily right into the bustling entrance of the coffee shop.
carlos orders two lattes for you both while you grab a small table in the back corner of the cafe—although, you're not complaining because you can smell the fresh pastries and brew. if it wasn't for the summer heat, you'd think it was fall.
for a passing second, you wish it was fall—that way you'd be done with this wedding. more specifically, having to see carlos day after day like it's nothing.
he places the cup softly in front of you, snapping you out of the storm whistling around your brain. you watch him as he takes his seat across from you, getting comfortable with an arm slung over the back rest—raising his takeaway cup to his lips to take a sip.
you're briefly taken back to last month in a different coffee shop—the same man across from you with those very same flirty eyes.
"so when we met...were you engaged?" the question, firm and something almost demanding about it, slips out before you can properly think it through.
regardless, you don't back track. you simply just wait for a response, eyes a little wide like a deer caught in headlights, fingers picking at the latte sleeve.
carlos purses his lips, "no."
"planning to be?" your brows draw inward, a clear indication of confusion. and he can't blame you, because a month ago wasn't long. quite the contrary.
"honestly no."
"really?" you drawl, skepticism highlighting your features, "because one month isn't very long."
he can't help the smirk that pulls across his plump lips, "depends on how you're spending the month."
above, the sun catches the light fixture, momentarily casting a golden hue over you, carlos and the restaurant. something soft is humming—taylor swift most likely—beneath the quiet clatter of mugs and low conversation.
the table between you and carlos is suddenly too small—too small for this kind of conversation—but neither of you has made any kind of indication that's it's too much. because you know that this conversation is a must. one that you've skirting around for weeks.
your hands wrap around your cup. it's warm, a good anchor.
carlos is still leaning back slightly in his chair, but now, you can tell it's forced—like he's trying to give you space he doesn't really want to.
the silence that ended your last conversation continues to hang between you until you break it, eyes fixed somewhere over his shoulder.
"I came back every sunday." the admission lands in carlos chest—sharp and subtle. he stiffens, his gaze narrowing in a mixture of curiosity and something else.
"you did?"
you nod, looking down at your drink. there's a layer of foam still untouched, still too nervous to move and take a sip. "yeah. but never saw you."
his fingers tap once against the side of his cup, eyes staring likes he's debating on what to say next. "sundays are work days," carlos settles on, "i'm usually out of the country."
that makes you glance up. his tone is steady, but there's something else under it—something brittle. the kind of tension that carries too much memory.
"I see," you nod once, "is that where you met rachel then? out of the country?"
you almost regret asking that too, but it's already out there, floating between you like steam off the cup.
he huffs a quiet laugh through his nose, not bitter, just... knowing. "yeah, actually. she was one of those special guests under william's that I never heard of, but totally pretended I did. 'oh yes, I saw that ralph lauren ad. very inspiring.'"
you smirk, almost involuntarily. "pretentious."
"no. easy." he shrugs. "we were dating a week later."
you pause. it's the kind of statement that hits somewhere low in your chest, even though you told yourself it wouldn't. you swallow before continuing, "and when did you meet mrs. ralph lauren then?"
he lifts the cup to his mouth, but doesn't drink. he just holds it there like armour—and he's preparing for battle.
"about four months ago."
you blink. too fast. too recent. too much to process without showing something. "four months?!"
"too fast for your liking, y/n?" he raises an eyebrow at your tone. but it's not accusing, but rather telling.
immediately it makes you shrink back into your seat, cheeks warming. your cup suddenly feels too heavy in your hands. "no, just... wow. I'm sorry. I suppose when you know...you know."
he studies you a moment longer than necessary. you feel it everywhere—from your toes to the tip of your nose.
"something like that."
then the question comes—too easy to be casual, like carlos didn't just drop the bomb that he barley knows the girl he's planning to marry—"and you?"
your smile is soft, self-deprecating. "what about me?"
"married? dating? complicated?" carlos lists them off like a game and not your love life. you can't help but to laugh at that, light but tired.
"so single that it's embarrassing," the truth always sounds a bit sadder out loud. "i'm not sure—it's just, with work, i'm never available for casual dating. besides, i'm not looking for casual. I want something real. something that I see in most of the couples I help get married every day."
carlos tilts his head slightly, amused. "most? Is this a call out?"
you raise an eyebrow, a little smile tugging at your lips. "wouldn't you be so lucky."
It's easy, suddenly. dangerous, how easy the air has shifted between you and carlos. this conversation—the playful banter and wide smiles—is all too familiar. it's not just the first time you met. it's the sprinkler tumble and cake tasting.
he leans forward, elbows on the table now, as if forgetting his need to hold back. "how long have you been planning weddings for?"
you blow out a breath dramatically, "almost 10 years. back when I was fresh out of school and had a side bang that would make you roll in your grave."
carlos actually laughs at that—deep, genuine, almost surprised.
your smile softens, and the laughter dies down between you—once more replaced by the comforting noses of the cafe. you and carlos choose to finish your drinks in comfortable silence, sharing amused glances over the rim of the cup when the couple beside you starts fighting over pasta shapes. like actually arguing
you both skip out of there with masked grins and concealed laughter before you both loose it.
the sun is shining again, almost completely drying the last of the puddles sitting on the side of the street.
you eye him curiously, "how long have you been racing?"
"how'd you know?" carlos mouth curves, like he's trying not to be smug.
you gesture vaguely behind you, toward the cafe that's slowly becoming further as you and carlos make your way back in the direction of the cake shop. back where your cars are.
"there's a framed picture of you in that coffee shop back there—looking very fast, may I add."
carlos nods slowly, clearly entertained. "alright. the same as you. about 10 years back."
"you like it?"
he meets your eyes again, and this time the answer is quiet. sure. "love it more than anything."
but there's something in his eyes. something that says that's not true. but you know, deep down, this isn't about rachel. it never is.
your throat tightens slightly. you speak before you can stop yourself. "not sure rachel would practically enjoy that comment."
his smile is faint, but there's a flash in his eyes that makes you forget how to breathe. "well, good thing she's not here then, yes?"
the tension thickens, and your next words slip out like a misstep: "too busy running around in jeans too loose and a polo shirt too expensive?"
then instantly, as the words reach your ears, you start stuttering. "that was... inappropriate. i'm sorry."
carlos laughs again—not mocking. not distant. "no. you're funny."
you exhale, but not entirely in relief. "I just sort of made fun of your fiancée."
he shrugs, and the way he looks at you then makes something in your chest ache.
"you did," carlos hums before looking at you again, "you're probably right though—running around in baggy jeans and all."
you snort, "what is with the baggy jeans anyways?"
"I ask myself that every day." and this time, when he laughs, you join in—pushing away any guilt or doubt and letting yourself bask in the feeling. the feeling of carlos, warm at your side and looking like the perfect romance movie character.
⸻ THE NEXT MORNING | VILLA BELLE-MER
you weren't expecting to already be dealing with rachel the second you opened your eyes this morning—but there you were. half asleep in a pair of pyjamas that half a rip in the armpit, reading her text like it's holding some cryptic meaning.
and knowing her, it probably does.
"quick check-in," it read. "just the two of us—want to talk about the cake."
carlos must've told her he picked a flavour, and already you know something must be wrong with his choice. that, or this one on one meeting has nothing to do with cake.
now, you sit at the long marble table in the villa's sunroom, pen poised like a weapon you're not allowed to use. the air is warm, touched faintly with citrus and lavender, the scent curling in from the open windows. outside, the manicured gardens are all blooming color and late afternoon sun—but inside, everything feels hushed, tense.
the silence is broken only by the slow, deliberate tick of the antique clock on the mantle. every second feels like it's counting you down to something.
across the table, rachel flips through your printouts. one page at a time. her perfectly manicured fingers graze each sheet as though she might catch a mistake simply by touch. her nails are painted the exact shade of soft white roses—too neutral to offend, too sharp to miss.
she hasn't looked at you once—not even when she first walked in and demanded to look through the book to make sure everything was up to her standard.
rachel is dressed like she owns this villa. like she owns the day. tailored cream trousers, a bone-colored silk blouse that gleams slightly when the light hits it, and a pair of heels so thin and punishing they belong on a runway, not stone tile. not a single strand of hair is out of place. not a single crease in her expression.
when she finally speaks, her voice is smooth—like a polished floor you're meant to slip on. "so..." she begins, eyes still scanning the page, "i've been thinking about the cake."
yes, the cake—the reason she wanted to meet but has yet to bring up to know. that cake.
you blink. your pen doesn't move. "of course."
her eyes lift to yours then—slowly and deliberate—and when they meet yours, it's like the temperature in the room drops just a few degrees. her smile isn't really a smile—it's too tight at the corners, too precise. it's the kind of smile that prefaces something sharp.
"I don't want the chocolate anymore," she states simply.
you nod once, pen finally moving to your notepad.
"alright. would you like to go back to the lemon mousse or revisit the seasonal options?"
she makes a small humming sound, thoughtful, like she's considering the philosophy of dessert rather than the flavor. then she tilts her head slightly, eyes narrowing with intent.
"lemons fine," she says. "it's light. clean. simple." rachel's gaze lingers on that last word—simple—and you feel it hit like a whisper meant to wound.
you almost say that carlos didn't like the lemon—almost. but you stop yourself with a harsh swallow and a pointless note on your book. "i'll notify the baker."
silence returns, thick and stretching. another second, another tick of that goddamn clock.
then, slowly—like a hunting feline—rachel leans back in her chair. folds her hands in her lap like she's about to begin a boardroom negotiation. the air shifts. her posture changes from disengaged to decisive.
"you know," she says, tone light, conversational, "carlos mentioned the bakery was fun."
you hand stills instinctively.
you don't move. you don't even breathe too hard.
"he said you two were laughing."
your throat tightens. still, your voice stays smooth. "he was... joking around. trying to keep the energy light in your absence."
rachel watches you then. really watches. like a hawk circling a mouse that hasn't figured out it's in the open yet. her next words are honeyed—almost amused.
"interesting. was he missing my absence when he fed you cake? or was that just the whole fake fiancé thing getting into your heads?"
a beat.
"the baker messaged me last night. said that she was excited to make the cake for us. she said that she couldn't get over how cute we were in the bakery."
the breath you take is careful. quiet. your stomach dips, slow and cold, but your face doesn't move.
you keep your expression neutral. professional and composed as possible—even though your instincts are telling you to run. "i'm not sure what you're implying."
her lips curve, just barely. a fraction of a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
"oh, come on." she almost laughs. "don't insult both of us."
you set your pen down gently. you don't clench your jaw. you don't speak. you just sit still as stone and let her speak the truth dressed like venom.
rachel leans forward, the click of her bracelets faint as they brush the table's edge. her voice drops lower, "let's be clear, y/n."
your name in her mouth feels like something stolen.
"i'm not threatened by you."
you tilt your head slightly, matching her calm. "I didn't say you were."
she crosses one leg over the other with surgical grace. "I couldn't be," she adds, tone silk-smooth. "because I know how this ends. carlos may like to flirt, but he always comes back to me."
you swallow, quiet.
"people like you?" she smiles now, wide and cruel. "you're just a detour. a moment. something he'll forget by the honeymoon."
her words cut with such precision it almost doesn't hurt right away. It just lands—cold and final—behind your ribs.
for a moment, you're not the wedding planner.
you're just a woman. a sad excuse of a woman.
after a beat, you lift your gaze, meet hers, and let silence speak for you. then, you slide your pen aside with quiet finality.
"I think we're done here," you say.
she smiles like someone who's already won the game you didn't know you were playing.
"of course." rachel rises from her chair without a sound—no scuff of the leg against the floor, no falter in her posture. she smooths her blouse, gathers her things.
at the door, she pauses to look over her shoulder like she almost forgot. "oh—and don't forget to adjust the seating chart."
your eyes narrow just slightly.
"I need to cut two people from his side. friends who don't know how to behave at formal events."
her heels click out of the room—sharp and deliberate—and then just like that, you're alone.
sunlight still pours through the windows, warm and golden, falling across the white marble, the pale florals, the delicate paper designs you labored over.
but somehow, it all feels dim.
like someone turned out the lights and left you sitting in the afterimage. you can't stop the tear from slipping down your cheek. then another, and another until you're silently crying into your chest.
you're embarrassed, guilty, and above all, confused.
⸻MONACO 11:07P.M.
the air is thick with heat, even this late.
the city pulses with a quiet sort of electricity—the kind that clings to your skin and makes your clothes feel just a little too close. you weren't planning on going for a late night stroll tonight. you really weren't. but then you started thinking about your conversation yesterday with rachel, and the whole situation and carlos and you thought some fresh air would do you good.
regardless of the humidity and busy streets, your alone time was chalking up to be pretty refreshing. peaceful even. for a brief moment, you forgot about carlos and rachel, focusing only on your feet and the distant music from the night clubs.
but then you spot him.
carlos is propped against a lamppost like he'd been placed there by fate or drunken geometry—tie loose, collar open, hair messily damp with sweat. his cheeks are flushed, half from the heat, half from whatever he'd been drinking inside the sleek bar behind him.
your feet falter, breath hitching in a way that feels illegal. at first, he doesn't spot you, too busy scrolling through his phone with a drunken pace that has you feeling a little weary. you think about walking past without so much as a second glance—but he looks up before you can blink.
finally, you exhale. you wave, a little awkwardly and with a sweaty palm—carlos' face lits up regardless. like he manifested you from memory.
"you," he half slurs, pointing with the slow, dramatic clarity of a tipsy man trying to seem sober. "I was just thinking about you."
you raise an eyebrow, arms crossed loosely over your sundress as you approach him. "are you drunk or just in an aggressively good mood?"
he grins, that sideways kind that always hits a little too deep. "why can't it be both?"
a cheer sounds from inside the bar, and it subconsciously grabs your attention. there's people dancing and singing and wearing sashes that say things you can't make out.
you look back at carlos, "where are your friends?"
"inside."
"and you're out here?"
his grin deepens and he sways a little on his feet. "just needed some air—all the celebrations and talks about being with the only girl i'll ever marry talks...got overwhelming."
you swallow, unsure what to say when you see the hint of vulnerability linger beneath his gaze. once again, you think about walking away. this time, with a breezy goodbye and a promise to have him enjoy himself.
it would be easy. it would be right.
but he takes a step toward you before you can, stopping whatever goodbye was on the tip of your tongue. whatever restraint you have left.
all vulnerable aspects are gone as carlos smirks, hand brushing yours in a gentle reminder. "come with me. i'm on a mission."
"a mission?" you breathe.
"for gelato," he clarifies, already turning down the dewy street—already assuming you'll follow. "bachelor party tradition."
you walk quickly to fall into step with him, dress swinging around your damp legs. "carlos," you start, voice firm, "maybe you should be doing this with your friends...not me."
playfully, he rolls his dark eyes. "my friends are too distracted by randos inside the bar that they haven't even noticed i'm gone."
you grab his wrist, "but what if they do notice?" your eyes are slowly widening with panic, "what if they see you and me walking away and..." you trial off, not needing to finish. because carlos knows what this looks like.
"okay," he nods after a beat, eyes darting towards the bar before finding yours once more. "i'll give them 3 seconds."
"carlos—"
"1!"
you cover your face at the sound of his loud voice. he's practically shouting in the streets with that stupid smirk on his face—clearly, he's humoured himself.
"2!"
a few people lingering outside the bar turn in your direction. rushing forward, you cover his mouth before he can count any further, "okay, they're not coming."
he shakes his head under your palm.
slowly, you retract your hand, eyes never once straying from carlos and his tender gaze. for a moment, you both get a little lost. lost in the monaco nightlife and the unspoken words lingering between you.
but then the music begins to vibrate through the concrete and you're both looking away.
you walk side by side down the quiet cobblestone street that curves along the old part of the city now. the stars above are faint through the city lights, but there's something about the glow of the streetlamps and the echo of your footsteps that feels separate from the rest of the world.
"I never took you for the midnight wanderer type," you tease gently, shoulder barely bumping his bicep. it's been a while since you've spoken, not because you didn't want to, but rather because the silence was too comfortable to break.
carlos shrugs, an easy smile curling on his lips as he slurs—"i'm full of surprises."
you snort, foot almost slipping on a damp section of sidewalk. a fountain murmurs nearby, the sound of running water a familiar one in the night.
carlos watches as you flex your fingers through the cool mist, a fond smile pulling at his lips. "do you ever feel like you're just...pretending?"
you look at him, meeting his eyes. they're serious now, deeper than before—like the booze he's been drinking has turned him into a philosopher. you swallow harshly. "every day."
you're pretending even now, you think. pretending that his finances didn't reem you out over assumptions. pretending you're not falling for carlos. pretending like this conversation means nothing.
pretending more than you know.
carlos hums thoughtfully, running a hand through his tousled hair. "it's exhausting, no? keeping it all together when everything feels like it's falling apart under your feet."
"that's...oddly accurate." you laugh softly, bitter but real. "like i'm an actress in an one woman play. or a really sad romantic comedy."
he smiles, the kind that reaches his eyes and softens the lines on his face, "yeah, but you make it look effortless."
you shake your head. "i'm terrible at this."
he shuffles closer as you walk, the space between you shrinking to a breath before continuing, voice no louder than a whisper. "maybe you just don't give yourself enough credit."
your heart thuds, loud in the quiet night. "I don't even know what I'm doing half the time," you swallow, the confession weighing heavy in your throat.
carlos's gaze flicks to your lips, then back to your eyes. "doesn't matter," he states gently. sure. "you're still here."
he's looking at you—truly looking at you—like you are something precious. or fragile. or maybe like you mean something to him, and suddenly, the night feels completely electrified, charged with something unsaid.
the back of his hand brushes yours, fingers barley dancing around yours—the contact as light as a whisper—but it makes your skin prickle like he's just kissed you.
a beat passes, and then carlos looks back at you. "be honest," he prompts, words slurring in a sympathy. "what's the hardest part of all this. planning the wedding."
you don't need him to clarify. you know he's talking about his wedding—more specifically, him being the groom, and you working around him.
you hesitate for a moment, looking away, the city lights painting soft golden light over your cheeks.
"feeling like a stranger in my own home," you say finally. "like everyone expects me to be this unshakable force, but inside? I'm just barely holding on."
carlos' expression softens, not expecting the magnitude of the moment. his steps falter, and you don't really notice until you're looking back at him, a curious pull to your eyebrows.
he swallows and walks back up to you. "I see you."
carlos doesn't elaborate, and you don't ask him to. you don't need him to. without further doting on the conversation, you and carlos begin the walk to the shop again, twisting through streets and hidden courtyards—the city unfolding in ways you never noticed.
he points out details you've never seen before. the faded fresco on a crumbling wall, a vine of wild jasmine clinging to wrought iron—conversation between you flowing like two old friends.
you tell him brief stories from your childhood, little pieces of yourself you rarely share with anyone—and carlos listens. truly listens.
when you finally reached the gelateria, carlos turns towards you with a deep, playful grin, palm hesitating over the door handle.
"promise not to judge me when I get pistachio all over my face."
"oh, I plan to judge you mercilessly," you shoot back, bumping your shoulder against his. "but i'll share some of mine to make up for it."
he chuckled, the sound warm and inviting. "deal."
the bell chimes softly as you walked in, you before carlos. the owner greeted you like old friends, scooping generous portions into crisp sugar cones that smell fresh.
you insist on paying, carlos doesn't let you.
now, you both sit on the stone steps outside, city lights that twinkle in the distance illuminating you. carlos watches as you lick a strip up the gelato, eyes lingering.
you catch his stare and smile, a little shy and lips sticky with desert.
the gelato cone in your hand has started dripping down your fingers, but you don't mind. the cool sweetness lingers in your mouth—delicate strawberry swirls layered with soft cream—and it anchors you in a way nothing else has tonight.
carlos licks a stripe up his pistachio gelato through a always present grin, mint-green flecks glinting against his lips. his laughter fills the quiet night air, softer here under the streetlamps than it ever was behind the chaos of the planning desk.
"so, is this what you imagined your bachelor party would look like?" you ask, licking a drip off your thumb.
he shrugs, pausing mid-bite. "honestly, I thought i'd be passed out on a boat or lost in some neon lit nightmare of bad choices."
you snort, "very on brand for you."
he nudges your arm with his elbow. "and yet, here I am. eating overpriced dessert in the street with a woman who looks way too good for midnight."
your heart constricts, flicking over to him with a sense of urgency. but carlos doesn't even realize that he said it, he just licks some ice cream from the rim of his slightly soggy cone.
"carlos," you warm, voice so delicate it reminds him of glass.
the breeze stirs his shirt, plastering it lightly to his chest. the light from the nearest shop window casts golden shadows along his face—tired, flushed, real.
it's not the polished version of carlos you've gotten used to at rehearsals and tastings and checklists. this is someone else. softer. looser. the carlos that only comes out when rachel is away.
he hesitates for a second—not fully, just a slight pause in his breathe like you've caught something he didn't mean to let slip.
carlos looks at you over his gelato, eyes a little glassy but focused. "you're dangerous, you know that?"
you blink. "me?"
he shuffles, turning his body towards yours on the stone step—close enough that you can see the way his pupils dilate under the streetlight. "yeah. you keep showing up when I least expect it. and it messes with my head."
you attempt to laugh, the sound caught somewhere between disbelief and caution. "you asked me to gelato. this is your doing."
"you could've said no."
"you looked too pathetic." you tease, waiting and gauging his reaction.
"wow." carlos smirks, shoulders nearly brushing. "brutal."
"you like it."
his gaze dips—not subtle, and not fleeting like all the times before. carlos looks at your mouth like it's something he's been imagining for longer than he should. then back to your eyes.
"I really do."
and you feel it again—that same dangerous current that you've been desperately trying to push through. the slow melt of tension that lives in the space between what you want and what you can't have.
clearing your throat, you break eye contact, looking down to your cone and attempting to breathe through scattered thoughts.
eventually, you look back at him with a tilt of your head. "so, what now?"
he looks at his melting gelato, then at yours.
"now," carlos starts, "we race to see who can finish without it spilling all over themselves."
you stare. "you're literally not even giving your gelato time to even think about dripping."
he grins, mischievous and unrepentant. "afraid i'll win?"
"no. I just don't want pistachio on your very white shirt. or my dress."
"fair."
you both continue down the narrow, lamp-lit boulevard, cones—and challenge—nearly forgotten in your grasp as the city's hum fades to a gentle rhythm around you.
your steps fall in sync, side by side, with nothing but the soft click of cobblestones underfoot and the distant murmur of night life.
carlos licks the tip of his gelato cone, eyes never leaving the glowing dance of his melting dessert. the faint breeze pulls at his hair, stirring a strand loose that catches the light just right.
you consider saying something witty—or wise—but it feels better to just breathe in the moment.
after a few minutes, the street begins to open into a tiny piazza, its center dominated by a quiet fountain whose water glints under the lamp's amber glow.
unprompted, carlos stops.
you look up and there he is—turned toward the fountain, as if he's trying to hold this moment like a photograph. something soft and urgent flickers in his expression.
then he speaks, softer than ever before—like he's realizing something only just. "you know... I can't remember the last time I laughed this much."
you glance at him. his gaze is already on you—something raw behind it.
you don't say anything, but your silence says enough.
his fingers brush yours again. at first, on accident. and then not.
for the rest of your walk, carlos can't help but to keep stealing glances at you, like he's trying to memorize every detail. the way your dress clings to your frame, and the way your eyes catch the light when you smile.
you catch him, because tipsy him isn't as subtle as he thinks, and carlos looks away like a caught schoolboy, cheeks faintly flushed.
you tease him naturally, "what? something on my face?"
he clears his throat. "no, nothing. just—you look... pretty. different. I don't know. better, I guess."
you feel a warmth creep into your cheeks, an unexpected flutter behind your ribs. "is that your smooth line for late night strolls or are you actually sincere?"
he grins, eyes dancing. "i'm full of surprises. but this one's genuine."
you bump his arm playfully. "good. i'm going to hold you to that."
but, because carlos is a weak man, he can't help but to continue stealing glances. he can't help but to admire the way you glow, even in the dark, like your lit form within.
"think the groom should be getting home soon?" you ask with a grin, glancing up at him.
humidity drapes over you both like a silken shawl—heavy, warm, but not unwelcome. a hint of sea breeze teases around corners, weaving cool fingers through your hair.
carlos chuckles softly, dipping his head toward your cone. "if being led away by 'the gelato whisperer' counts as a detour, then yes—he should be."
you playfully swipe the last dribble of melting pistachio from his wrist, and his grin stretches wider, mischievous and warm.
your steps slow as the street opens into a square—an oasis of tile and soft chattering fountains and illuminated by soft lanterns.
carlos turns to you, the glow flickering across his cheekbones and hair, tousled from the heat and revelry. "you know," he starts, voice drifting soft, "when I saw you walking tonight...I thought maybe the night was turning to be unfair."
your breath catches. "unfair how?"
"that," he says, sweeping his gaze from your face to your hands wrapped around the cone, and back again, "you're effortlessly captivating."
your chest warms for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, and you catch your breath. just then, he reaches out, brushing a stray curl behind your ear.
the touch is electric, feels like the air between you is rewiring.
they say summer nights in monaco rarely cool off in the way inland cities do. it's a constant gray of warmth, a carrying of midday heat into the small hours. on nights like these, the air clings.
but somehow, you've got goosebumps. a soft breeze drifts over the square, and he steps closer—you can feel the tension pull taut between you.
everything is truly changing.
you laugh again, softer this time. "stop messing with me.
"i'm not." carlo's eyes search yours, fines long forgotten as they hit the concrete with a gentle splat. he gently takes ahold of your slack chin, "talk to me." he whispers.
but you can't. your heartbeat is suddenly in your ears.
you're still the wedding planner, the professional, the one with the to do list and the timeline. but right now...you're just you. fragile and hopeful and wanting.
you pause, the words gathering behind your teeth until something inside says speak.
"I don't know what to say without ruining everything."
carlos's eyes soften, and he leans in a breath.
you stand inches apart under the golden haze of the streetlamp, the fountain murmuring behind you like a breath that won't settle. you can taste sweetness on your lips—his gelato, your breath, the wordless possibility between you—and the world hushes, locked on this moment.
he leans in again, slower this time, closer, palm resting at the small of your back, holding you gently, as if you're the most precious thing in an overflowing world. all your instincts are shouting to retreat, but your feet are frozen: rooted by something that feels like both promise and peril.
and then—footsteps. a distant laugh. life moving again around your pause.
you blink.
carlos pulls back, his breath soft against your cheek. the colours of the night blur for a heartbeat—your hair backlit with streetlight, the sheen of his skin from the heat, every detail seared into your vision.
you swallow so hard your throat almost catches.
and suddenly, the world shifts in dimension. the city isn't just cobblestones and light anymore—it's memory in motion. and this—this is where something begins.
he steps even closer, enough that you can feel the pulse fluttering beneath his collarbone.
but instead of saying more, he just breathes your name—your name like a secret confession between two people stealing time.
it's not a question. it's a punctuation.
you close your eyes, because you're too afraid to see the longing there, and then you do the only thing you're certain of—you tilt your lips toward his, soft and slow, giving yourself permission to feel.
the kiss doesn't solve anything. of course it doesn't.
it doesn't fix the months of silence, the timing that was never right, the promises made to other people. it doesn't erase the rings or the vows or the weight of the weddings in three days.
but it's real.
it's warm.
unexpected. unplanned. a truth you didn't mean to speak with your mouths but did anyway.
when you pull back—just a breath, lips barely parted—you see him in the spill of the streetlight.
his eyes find yours like they've been searching for years.
a question lives there. unspoken. raw. hopeful.
"god," he whispers, voice thick with something close to awe. "y/n..."
you can't answer—not yet—your throat is too tight, your chest too full of everything you don't have the right to feel. so you swallow, rough and clumsy, trying to force down the words you know you'll regret.
because now—now?
you're utterly screwed.
the reality of what just happened slams into you like a wave—cold and sobering.
your breath shudders, heart lurching like it's trying to run before your body catches up. "I can't—" you choke, stepping back suddenly, like the ground beneath you just shifted. "I shouldn't have—this was a mistake."
you turn, already moving, already running, heart pounding like a war drum in your chest.
but you only make it a few steps before his hand wraps gently, but firmly, around your wrist.
"no," carlos pleads, his voice quiet but charged. "don't do that. don't disappear."
you freeze. not because you want to, but because the ache in his voice is too much to bear. "carlos-"
"tell me," he interrupts, voice full of urgency as he steps closer, "tell me not to marry her."
his grip loosens, fingers sliding from your wrist to your hand like he's scared you'll bolt if he holds on too tight.
"please," he adds, almost broken. "just say it."
you shake your head, the motion frantic, and desperate and a million other things you can't put into words.
"I can't be the reason," you whisper, eyes wide. "I won't be the reason you burn your life down."
"what if it's already burning?" he shoots back, voice rising, eyes glinting beneath the streetlight. "what if you're the only thing that feels real in all of this?"
"then that's not enough." you retort, voice firm despite the way it wavers—you say it like you mean it. like it doesn't kill you.
a beat passes and you take a deep breathe, "you're drunk."
"i'm not," carlos says, his face twisting like you've cut him, like you've handed him truth when he was begging for permission.
"you kissed me," he says, voice cracking. "you kissed me."
"and I'm sorry."
"are you?"
you blink. your lips part, but no words come.
because no. you're not sorry. not really.
you're sorry it had to be now. you're sorry that you couldn't have been something before everything got so complicated. you're sorry he's getting married tomorrow, and that you're planning his wedding.
but you're not sorry it happened.
and that's what scares you most. that's what's making you freak out.
carlos steps forward again, until he's barely a breath away. "tell me to stay," he pleads, softer now. "please. just say it once, and I swear to god, I'll call it all off."
your bottom lip trembles as you look up at him, and in his eyes is everything he's too afraid to do unless you tell him it's safe.
but it's not safe. none of this is.
"I can't," you whisper, voice hollow. "I can't ask you to do that."
his hands drop—slowly—like he's just now realizing you won't catch him. "why not?"
"because I'm not sure i'd stop you." you break then—just a little. a breath hitched. a tear blinked away.
and then, quietly, you do the only thing you know how to do—you step back.
once pace. then two.
your shoes echo softly on the stone as you retreat—slow, not running now, but leaving all the same.
you don't look back.
and behind you, carlos doesn't follow.
the air stays charged, heavy with what almost was, and what still might be—but not tonight.
not yet.
maybe never.
⸻ AUGUST 28th | THE WEDDING
the highest floor of the villa is silent.
not calm—but silent. the kind of silence that screams under your skin. sitting heavy with everything unsaid.
carlos stands in front of a mirror in a crisp white shirt, half-buttoned, the collar wrinkled where his hands keep running through his hair instead of finishing what he's supposed to be doing.
he hasn't slept. sleep has felt impossible for days.
his room still smells faintly of the cologne he put on last night and of rachel's perfume when she kissed his cheek before heading off to bed, laughing, saying "tomorrow's going to be perfect."
he didn't answer her.
didn't know how.
because outside—three days ago in the dim party streets of monaco and soaked in starlight—he'd kissed someone else.
and not just someone. you.
carlos' hands shake as he finally finishes the buttons down his shirt. the ring on his finger—just a placeholder until the real one is slipped on later today—feels like it's burning against his skin.
he closes his eyes in a desperate attempt to clear his thoughts, but the image of you doesn't fade.
the way you pulled back, lips parted, like you couldn't believe what you'd just done.
the way your eyes said don't do this while everything else in you said don't stop.
and then you ran. because of course you did. because you're smart—smarter than him. braver, too. brave enough to walk away from something they both wanted—because it wasn't right.
he should have followed you.
he should have let you go.
he did both, but somehow also neither. carlos stood there like a goddamn idiot and let you vanish into the night while his heart tore itself in half.
and now?
now it's the morning of his wedding and he hasn't seen you since that night.
now the sun is rising over monaco like it's mocking him, and someone is knocking on his door asking about boutonnières and bowties and which cologne he wants to wear when he becomes someone else's husband.
and all carlos can think about is how your lips tasted like regret and strawberry and something terrifyingly close to home.
downstairs, the rooms hums with quiet chaos.
muted voices ripple through the halls, punctuated by bursts of laughter—the unmistakable sound of nerves dressed in silk and perfume. bridesmaids flit in and out of rooms like restless birds, arms full of curling irons and champagne flutes, while photographers hover, capturing fleeting moments as if they can trap time between shutter clicks.
everything moves forward with purpose—relentlessly forward—as if nothing splintered under the weight of tequila lips and desperate pleas.
carlos falls still at the top of the staircase, one hand resting on the banister like he needs the grounding. he watches it all with the hollow stillness of a man watching someone else's life unfold.
then he sees you.
at the far end of the hallway, your clipboard tucked against your chest, and head tilted as you discusses final details with a caterer. your hair is swept up in a no-nonsense knot, stray curls escaping to frame the face. you're nodding, smiling faintly—controlled, professional.
it’s like everything is fine. like this is just another wedding. a day on the job. like you didn't kiss the groom three days ago and walk away as if your heart wasn't in pieces—just as his is.
but, carlos catches something else on your face. the deep lines indenting your soft forehead. the dark bags weighing under your eyes. your tired. not physically, not quite. but it's something in your posture—the way your shoulders carry a weight no one else sees. but your face is calm, composed.
too composed.
that's how he knows you're unraveling—just as he is.
and that's how carlos knows what he's about to do is impossibly selfish, but he's going to do it anyways. because if he doesn't, how is he supposed to know.
he waits until the catering team walks away and the bridesmaids have re-entered the brides suite without so much as glance up the stairs.
he watches you move down the corridor toward the garden, offering a quick nod to a passing florist, pausing only to adjust a crooked ribbon on one of the ceremony chairs.
you're alone—just for a moment—but that's all carlos needs.
he forces his legs to move down the grand stairs, feeling a whole lot like a brand new deer as his knees wobble. but carlos pushes—pushes until he steps right into your path.
the sound of your name on his lips makes your freeze—barley a second—but it's enough for everything to shift.
your spine straightens, grip tightening on the clipboard, and then you exhale like you've been expecting this. dreading it even. which, carlos thinks is fair. because despite what you've claimed, you do know him. you know he would've tried again—tried for you.
you don't turn right away, "you shouldn't be down here," you mumble quietly, still fiddling with the chair sash. "not before the ceremony."
"I needed to see you."
"that's not helping," you reply, finally looking up. your voice is steady, but your eyes betray anything and everything you've said. because carlos can see it. love.
he steps closer. not enough to touch you, but enough to invade the air between you—enough that your breath hitches and you turn your face ever so slightly, like you can't afford to breathe him in.
"you kissed me." carlos whispers.
"don't." your voice cracks around the word.
"you did."
you face him fully, something he can't describe sitting heavy in your gaze. your eyes burn into his, "you're getting married in three hours."
"I know."
"then act like it." you snap.
your hands tremble slightly, just enough that the clipboard shifts in your grip. so you hold on tighter, knuckles ghostly pale because of it.
carlos searches your face like he's looking for permission to fall apart. "tell me not to go through with it," he says again, voice breaking. "please. i'm begging you."
you close your eyes for a second too long. when you open them, they're shimmering with unshed tears. carlos' stomach lurches at the sight.
"you can't put that on me, carlos." her voice is quiet but sharp, like a wire pulled too tight. "you don't get to kiss me, shake everything loose, and then hand me the fallout."
"it's not just fallout," he breathes, full of desperation, "it's us."
"no. it's you." your voice rises, fierceness overtaking the emotion. "you're the one at the altar. you're the one who proposed. and now you want me to carry the guilt of stopping it? of breaking her heart instead of you doing it yourself?"
"you think I can walk away from all of this without knowing if you'd be there?" he retorts, voice frantic and just as sharp as yours. but his eyes never loose sight of the end goal.
there's silence then—thick and heavy.
your jaw tightens like a vice. "I can't promise you that," you whisper. "not like this. not when you're still halfway hers."
the words land hard between you.
carlos looks at you like you're already walking away again. he's back to that night, after the kiss—just watching you crumble and unable to catch the pieces.
deep down, he knows you're right. and you are right—you're the one being honest.
because you want him—god, do you want him. you want the what ifs, you want the life that follows after carlos asks you out in that cafe months ago. you want the almosts, and the things unsaid between them still echoing in every glance.
but not like this.
not in a moment stolen from someone else's vows.
you blink, fast, trying to hide the shine in lingering in your eyes. "I have to finish setting up," she says, her voice quiet again, polite. deatched. "the guests will be here soon."
you turn, ready to leave him behind, but carlos steps closer, grabbing your wrist and halting you. this time, he can't let you go that easy. his heart won't allow it.
"do you know why I proposed to rachel?"
your eyes flutter around flowing tears. you don't turn around—you can't without risking everything you've built up. instead, you focus on the heat of his palm on your skin. the determination in his voice.
you know that if you turn around that's it. he'll tell you he wants you. not her. in this moment, it doesn't matter what you think of rachel or her relationship with carlos. it doesn't matter what you're feeling, because this is not your story.
"don't." you interrupt, voice all kinds of desperate and final.
with a tug, you pull away from carlos, and this time when you walk away, he doesn't follow.
he just watches you walk with practiced grace and professionalism, every step you take measure, spine straight like you're trying to keep it together.
like you haven't just gutted both of you with the refusal to fall apart.
you don't allow yourself to look back. not even once. not for a second.
your legs move on autopilot, carrying you down the gravel path toward the rose-lined pergola, where centerpieces need adjusting and candles still need to be lit. the clipboard digs into your palm, sharp and grounding.
you focus on the checklist instead of the ache blooming beneath your ribs—you don't allow yourself attention to drift to that.
there's a small part of you that thought maybe. maybe carlos would've tried one more time. called your name in in the thick way he does, chase after you and tell you what he wants. not ask you to do it for you, but do it himself.
but he doesn't. you don't know if that's mercy or cruelty, you just know it's over.
even if the wedding isn't.
even if the words weren't final.
because they don't need to be.
some things end quietly. without thunder and lightning and without a real goodbye. they wither out like grapes, pruning up under the sunlight until they're thrown away.
you remind yourself of that as you kneel beside the nearest table, smoothing a linen that doesn't actually need smoothing. your hands are shaking. of course they are. you curl your fingers into fists until the tremor stops.
no one notices.
they never do.
you've built your life around being unnoticed. efficient and unshakable. the one who makes things happen, not the one things happen to.
and then carlos kissed you back, and for the first time in years, you forgot how to keep your balance while also remembering that this is also your life. your story.
you remembered when carlos looked at you like he wanted to choose you and still wouldn't.
you remembered that love means nothing without follow through.
and he won't follow through.
not for you.
not really.
carlos wanted you to say it. to pull the pin for him and break the promise he's too cowardly to undo himself. and yeah, maybe if you'd asked him not to marry her, he would've said okay. maybe he would've turned around and left chaos in his wake.
and maybe he would've resented you forever for it. for making him give up a life of models and beautiful children for a girl who's supposed to watch behind the scenes.
you're not going to let him make you the villain in a story he won't even own.
so you do what you're best at—you fix things and keep moving.
you smile at the florist when she asks if the archway looks all right. you nod when the venue coordinator tells you the officiant has arrived early. you keep your voice calm, and your expression neutral.
you disappear into the background again.
like you were never part of the story at all.
⸻ 9 YEARS LATER
it’s not something you think about much anymore. not really.
you live in another city now. far enough that no one from that life bumps into you at the grocery store. you rent a small apartment with tall windows and too many books. you drink your coffee black. you keep your hair a little longer. you smile more easily. eventually, you cry less.
you are, in most measurable ways, okay.
and sometimes, you even believe that.
—
you see him on a tuesday.
of course it's a tuesday—utterly ordinary, undeserving of gravity.
you’re at a bookstore downtown. there’s rain outside, soft and persistent. you’re holding a novel you've already read before, turning it over in your hands like muscle memory.
you glance up at a sound near the entrance.
and there he is.
carlos looks older, but not in a bad way. softer around the edges. a little more tired. a little less golden. like the weight of his choices settled in and never really left.
he doesn't see you right away.
you have the unfair advantage—his profile, the tilt of his head, the way his hands are still too expressive when he talks. he’s with a child. a girl, maybe seven or eight, tugging on his sleeve and pointing toward the children's section. he smiles at her, distracted.
you wonder if that's his daughter.
you assume it is.
you don't know if he's still married. you’ve never looked him up, rarely return to monaco unless it’s for holidays. you don't want to know if he’s married, so you don’t allow yourself to look for a ring.
for a brief moment, you wonder why he’s here. then you can assume one of two things. either he’s still racing and is traveling for the season with his family, or he’s retired. happy. vacationing with his family.
you can’t decide what hurts more.
you think, absurdly, of that day—the day—and how close he came to not going through with it. and then, just as quickly, you remember how easily he did.
you wonder if he still thinks about it. If carlos remembers your voice shaking when you told him you couldn't be the one who broke it all apart. if he ever wondered what would've happened if you had.
but mostly, you wonder if it was worth it.
not to him, but to you.
then, in he blink of an eye, carlos turns.
instantly, he sees you.
there’s a pause, a flicker of recognition that hits his face like a ripple in water—unexpected, soft, but impossible to miss.
you offer a small smile and he mirrors it.
but no one moves.
you don't walk over. you don't speak. you don't owe each other anything anymore—not words, not closure. you gave that up the moment you let each other go in silence.
still, the air shifts. just a little.
the little girl pulls at his arm again, and just like that, he's gone—back to the bright colors of the children's section, to storybooks and small voices.
you stay where you are, novel still in your hands. you swallow, and then slip it back onto the shelf like it’s the reasons for this feelings.
before you run into him again—something you’re not sure you’ll be able to stomach for a second time—you leave the bookstore without anything. walk out into the town without an umbrella and let the warm water soak your clothes.
you don't cry because you haven't in a long time.
but the ache is still there, tucked somewhere deep beneath your ribs.
some loves never leave you, even when you never speak of them again.
Doing the whole, 'oh, but everyone in f1 is a bad person' take is really fucking irritating when we're talking about one of drivers literally vacationing in fucking Israel right now while Palestinians being starved a few kilometres away
btw i won’t write for lance stroll as he was seen in isr*el hanging out with a raging zionist. i do not support this at all, no more empathy for that man FREE PALESTINE
bf!charles leclerc x f1 translator!reader headcanons
starring; charles leclerc x f1 translator!reader
warnings; i can't think of none ! except the fact that english isn’t my first language and this isn't proofread (yet)
navigation masterlist request
ִ ࣪𖤐 COWORKER!CHARLES who you got assigned to because he kept slipping up between french, italian and english mid interviews.
ִ ࣪𖤐 COWORKER!CHARLES who sometimes gets lazy with italian on purpose just so he can feel you closer to him everytime you whisper the translations to him.
ִ ࣪𖤐 COWORKER!CHARLES who noticed the way you switch to his mother tongue whenever he's exhausted after races, your voice automatically getting softer, calmer which relaxes him even though you're just keeping him informed about the post-race interviews.
ִ ࣪𖤐 COWORKER!CHARLES who after a long day of media duties asks you out with a cute pick up line he spend all day practicing in his head: ''you've spent all day talking for me today, so let me speak for myself ! would you let me take you to dinner tonight ?"
ִ ࣪𖤐 COWORKER!CHARLES who after his first win in monaco gets you quietly in his motorhome and instead of debriefing, leans closer and whispers ''i think we're done pretending'' and kisses you deeply.
ִ ࣪𖤐 BF!CHARLES who during race weekends, will make sure that no one is around in the hotels hallways before letting a chaste kiss on your lips.
ִ ࣪𖤐 BF!CHARLES who, once had a journalist asking him why he's been enjoying interviews more now that he had a translator to which he answered the he felt more understood. the double meaning didn't go past your head that day.
ִ ࣪𖤐 BF!CHARLES who has taken the habit of passing you little love notes during hectic media duties, your collection growing bigger and bigger every weekends.
ִ ࣪𖤐 BF!CHARLES who gets eventually caught by the internet by the way he looks at you when you speak, like you're the most precious thing to him and only you matters around him.
ִ ࣪𖤐 BF!CHARLES who always gets you comfortable in front of the cameras' attentions by hyping you up and giving sweet words like ''you make me sound better everytime''
ִ ࣪𖤐 BF!CHARLES who always finds you first thing in the paddock, before talking to engineers and the pr team, before debriefs, warm up laps. he always scans the ferrari garage for your smile in order to start his day the right way.
ִ ࣪𖤐 BF!CHARLES who has now mastered the innocent public act, a notebook passed with his fingers brushing your fingers a little longer than usual or when he needs you to adjust his mic on his shirt just so he could feel your touch when he thinks he is touch deprived.
pato tries his very best to get dating rumors with you. it works, sort of.
ꔮ starring: pato o’ward x best friend!reader.
ꔮ social media au.
ꔮ includes: romance. profanity. idiots in love, friends to lovers, indycar photographer!reader, pato is a little shit (affectionately), pato is down bad. title is from taylor swift’s paper rings.
ꔮ commentary box: okay we GET ITTT 🗣️ i’ve been going crazy over pato lately and, to no one’s surprise, @landoscarino is the one to finally convince me to write for him. pato o’ward, i am free on thursday night if you’re free on thursday night 🦆 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
yourusername
♫ Keep Driving - Harry Styles
Liked by patriciooward, alexpalou, and others
yourusername after years of capturing motorsports across different series, i’m happy to share that i’m officially joining indycar as one of their official photographers this season. lfg! 🤙
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user1 queen behavior omfg
user2 Loved your work for F2, so psyched for you !
caiocollet 👏 ♥ Liked by author
user3 INDYCAR PHOTOS ABOUT TO GLOW TF UP
coltonherta So excited to see you around 💪 ♥ Liked by author
patriciooward i’m still your favorite driver right
↳ patriciooward right yourusername
↳ patriciooward RIGHT yourusername???
↳ yourusername can you please develop some shame
elbaoward replied: so happy you liked the rescue we chose ❣️ hola bueno! and congrats again, my love!
davidmalukas replied: can i pet that dawg
patriciooward replied: wtf why am i cropped 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 so you hate me and you want me to die
yourusernamepriv ꗃ
♫ You’re On Your Own, Kid - Taylor Swift
Liked by patriciooward, kyle_kirkwood, and others
yourusernamepriv doing my rounds and i swear i’m a #strong #independent #woman but i lowk wish i had a boyfriend to carry around my shit lol
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lundgaardofficial patriciooward
elbaoward patriciooward 🤭
nolansiegel Yo patriciooward
yourusernamepriv oh lord here we go
patriciooward I VOLUNTEER! I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE
patriciooward *pointing aggressively to self* pick meee PICK MEEE
patriciooward i know you’re seeing these comments ayo yourusernamepriv just one chance please
↳ yourusernamepriv win a race n then we talk
↳ nolanseigel Why would you say that. Now we’re all fucked
patriciooward
♫ Crash My Car - COIN
Liked by lando, oscarpiastri, and others
patriciooward st. pete was ok. redemption arc incoming. just keep watching yourusername
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elbaoward 👀
user1 the tag??? did i miss a couple of chapters
user2 What’s the lore What’s happeninggg
user3 Serás campeón Pato 🧡
yourusername 🤡 thought we were having a nice little jokey joke
↳ patriciooward i don’t play around when it comes to U
↳ user4 pato f2l arc?!
↳ user5 Is she Pato’s girlfriend?
↳ yourusername user5 no
↳ patriciooward yourusername …t yet
yourusername replied: CAN YOU STOP
↳ patriciooward replied to yourusername: can’t stop won’t stop 🤠
yourusername
♫ Moves - Suki Waterhouse
Liked by 12willpower, robertshwartzman, and others
yourusername somebody was feeling a lil put out from my ‘soft launchy’ (his words, not mine) stories so here’s my official post. happy international best friend day to the og
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user1 Did i just watch Pato get friendzoned in 4k hd
josefnewgarden LOL.
lundgaardofficial Getting this framed and printed for the garage. Thanks for the top tier ragebait.
user2 girl that last pic. he wants to eat you alive /pos
user3 🤣 poor pato
user4 If he’s not yours can I have him??
user5 did anybody else come here from pato’s most recent post because omfg
patriciooward
♫ Circus Music - The Hit Crew
Liked by conordaly22, alexanderrossi, and others
patriciooward yea happy ‘best friend’ day
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user1 this is INSANE work.
user2 WHY IS NOBODY TALKING ABOUT THE FIRST PIC!??!
elbaoward 🤦 no words
↳ patriciooward 👼
user3 only driver ever to pray for dating allegations…
user4 The hand placement is making me dizzy
user5 thoughts? yourusername 🎤
yourusername get help. ♥ Liked by author
↳ patriciooward i’d rather get you
↳ user6 she’s so much stronger than me bro
↳ user7 Can they just date already please???
yourusername TAKE THIS DOWN
↳ patriciooward only after i get to take you out
↳ patriciooward eyes on me @ iowa, baby
patriciooward replied: “win a race n then we talk” i’m here to talk ♥ Liked by author
davidmalukas replied: etsy link please?
lando replied: tagging her username 3x... we saw it the first time bruv
yourusername replied: why couldn’t you be normal
yourusername replied: also this is a joke right
↳ patriciooward replied to yourusername: give me a kiss and i’ll tell u 👩❤️👨
summary: 5 weddings in one year. 5 dates you saved for you and your boyfriend to attend — before he cheated. and now, you had to force your best friend, vernon, to go with you. but after losing a bet, mingyu agrees to take vernon’s place and be your date. this wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go, but you guess you could settle going with your only one-night-stand from college.
warnings: oral (f!recieving), fingering, 69ing, unprotected sex, reader on top, praise, mingyu has boyfriend dick<3, sub-ish!mingyu, also power bottom!mingyu 👍, multiple sex scenes, marijuana smoking/shotgunning, marijuana-induced horniness lol, one bed trope, forced proximity, miscommunication, HEAVY mutual pining. nsfw (minors / ageless blogs dni).
word count: 19.9k
note: first things first, APOLOGIESSSSS for this taking so long. I've had a lot going on (which I know just about everyone says) and I was lowkey struggling to write this, even tho I was so amped for it. nevertheless, I'm so glad I was able to focus and finish it, because I care so much for these two and I desperately wanted to share their story with you 💓 per usual, please expect angst with your smut, and if you cry, I will not judge you and honestly would love to hear it lol. enjoy friends! (taglist posted at the bottom.)
in rotation: bmf, sza / mona lisa, mxmtoon / gorgeous, taylor swift / moonstruck, enhypen / finally // beautiful stranger, halsey
Your mom had told you that the friends you make in your first year of college stay with you for life, but you didn’t expect that when you met Vernon. He had been shy, refusing to speak to anyone in your orientation group, but knowing glances turned into sitting next to each other, which then had you both whispering jokes back and forth, until finally, he told you his name. Hansol Chwe to be exact, but he insisted on “just Vernon.” By the second semester of freshman year, you both had become inseparable. He was your best friend, been with you through some of the toughest moments of your adult life, and you wouldn’t trade him for the world.
Vernon’s friendship survived through many of your boyfriends, and you knew he’d outlast many more. He experienced some of the worst ones – a.k.a. the men who refused to believe you two were just friends – and also the boring ones – the one guy who used you to get to him. But none of them had pissed him off more than your most current breakup: the man who was three years your senior and cheated on you with a 22-year-old. You assumed by age 27, you’d know how to pick ‘em, but that was clearly wrong.
Now you were left to your own devices with five weddings to attend this year. In retrospect, maybe there was a few you could’ve skipped, but you hated saying no in situations like this. You had agreed to go to all of them with your now ex-boyfriend in mind, placing a 2 on the invite’s attending line. Per usual, Vernon had stepped up and begrudgingly offered himself to be your date.
So why were you now meeting up with Kim Mingyu to discuss the dates of said five weddings?
You first met Mingyu when Vernon joined a fraternity in sophomore year to make more friends. “I can’t just have you. I need to have at least some friends that are dudes,” he said, which made you reply, “That’s the toxic masculinity talking.” And boy, had Mingyu been the epitome of that statement. Him and Vernon had connected instantly, sharing the same major and an affinity for art girls. You had never really gotten along with him like Vernon had hoped, but he was … attractive, to say the least.
Okay, maybe you had a crush on him. You had eyes.
But it was college and you both were on the cusp of 20. It was so hard to confess feelings back then, especially to someone like Kim Mingyu. Who you didn’t particularly enjoy talking to in the first place. However … he was probably one of the hottest men you’d ever seen; made in a lab for every young girl’s fantasy. Sometimes you couldn’t help but just stare at him, admiring his perfect teeth or the way his honey-gold skin shined in the afternoon sunlight. (You thanked your lucky stars that Vernon joined the college football team alongside Mingyu, just so you could secretly ogle him during practice.)
Suffice to say, you did eventually hook up. In the most cliche way possible, you had both gotten a little too tipsy at the first frat party of senior year and wound up in Mingyu’s dorm, locking out his roommate for the entire night. It almost felt weird, realizing your attraction had been reciprocated, but he hardly said a word to you come morning. In fact, he never mentioned it again, period, choosing to avoid you except in group settings with Vernon. You weren’t a fool; you were quick to realize it meant nothing to him, just another notch on his bedpost.
Mingyu was every girl’s dream, but Mingyu was also uncommitted.
And he was walking towards you right now.
You looked up from your phone after stalking – looking through Mingyu’s Instagram. You never followed him, never checked in on him after graduation, but you knew how close he still was with Vernon. He even posted a picture with him recently. You rolled your eyes. Despite his long hair, you recognized Mingyu instantly as he went up to the barista and ordered a coffee. You studied him for a moment, noticing that there was a curl to his hair and the way those dark stands hung around his eyes. His skin was as perfect as ever and – goddamn, did he get bigger? He was wearing a jacket over his t-shirt and you could still tell how big his muscles were.
When he finally looked over his shoulder and your eyes connected, his face remained unchanged, if not a little awkward. He walked up to you, rubbing at the back of his neck, and said your name as if it were a question. “Yeah. Hi, Mingyu,” you replied with a wave. “It’s been a while.”
“Five years since graduation,” he added, pulling out the chair across from you and plopping down. “So you stopped putting those blonde highlights in your hair?”
Your eye twitched. Before you could spit out a response, a cute, dark-haired barista came over and set a fresh mug of coffee in front of him, completely ignoring that your own was practically empty. Mingyu flashed her a smile, showing off his pretty canines as she walked away. You frowned.
Vernon had told you last night that Mingyu wasn’t the same guy you knew in college, but you begged to differ.
Turning back to you, he took a sip from his mug and asked, “Why did you want to meet up again?”
“Because my best friend is an asshole and you lost a bet.”
“Oh, yeah. That.” He nodded.
You almost didn’t believe Vernon when he told you. You knew he didn’t exactly want to be your date to all these weddings and probably felt like he had to, but he did offer so you didn’t think much of it. Until he told you last week that he put all his guest invites on the line while playing a drinking game with Mingyu, which the latter lost. So now Kim Mingyu, your college one-night-stand that was scared of commitment, was committing to being your date to several weddings this year.
Kill me now, you thought.
“I thought drinking games and making silly bets like this didn’t happen once your frontal lobe formed,” you said, and his dark eyes flickered up to yours.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he cleared his throat and set the mug down again. “Men never really grow up.”
You crossed your arms over your chest and sat back in your chair. “Apparently,” you muttered under your breath. “How do you have the time to actually commit to this? Don’t you have a girlfriend or something?”
“One,” he held up a single finger, “I take bets very seriously and I’m not a sore loser. It’s only removing five weekends out of the year for me. No biggie. And two,” he lifted another finger, “No.”
You raised a brow. “Well, I guess that answers all my questions.”
Mingyu stared at you for a moment, running those two fingers over his bottom lip. You suddenly had a flashback to that night, remembering his hands all over you, remembering his fingers plunging inside and curling –
Not the time.
“Don’t you have a boyfriend? Why put down two people on these RSVPs you sent back and then force just anybody to be your date?” He fought the urge to smile, trying to dig a little deeper into you. You weren’t falling for it this time. “I love the guy, but I know Vernon wasn’t your first choice to accompany you.”
“My ex and I broke up,” you replied. “Not much to it.”
Intrigued, he sipped his coffee again. “Why?”
“It’s none of your business, Mingyu.”
“Well, as your new date –”
“Drop it,” you said, voice taking on a new tone. “I’m serious.”
Mingyu raised his hand in surrender, and you shook off your anger. This was supposed to be a friendly, quick conversation, but it was seemingly moving off the rails. A sigh escaped your mouth before you asked, “So you said this is only taking five weekends out of the year. What do you do with your time? Are you working?”
“I thought I answered all your questions.”
You narrowed your eyes.
He chuckled softly, exposing those canines once again. His smile was so … ugh, you needed to stop getting distracted. “I work at a restaurant four days a week as a cook, and then teach flag football at a rec facility the rest of the time. I’ve been trying to save up to open my own restaurant for years, but I got the time to be a makeshift wedding date.”
You knew Mingyu had always loved to cook – you remembered when he’d been the resident chef at the fraternity – but to hear he was still passionate almost … melted you a little. Almost. You were dedicated to not being too swayed by Mingyu’s pretty words. This was a deal and that was the end of it.
“I see,” you nodded, uncrossing your arms to play with the handle of your still empty mug. “I’ve been working at the same marketing agency since college. Pays the bills, you know?”
Mingyu gave you a knowing look before running a hand through the long strands. “Always so committed.”
Your lips pursed. “One of us has to be.”
“Speaking of commitment,” he said without missing a beat, pulling his phone from the pocket of his jeans. “What are the dates for those weddings again?”
Save the Date for the wedding of Choi Seungcheol and Holland Levine: February 28th
It was a rainy Sunday in February. Your coworker, Choi Seungcheol, was getting married today at a local venue on the outskirts. His girlfriend, Holland – otherwise known as, Hinge Holland, when he met her on the dating app 3 years ago – was a little kooky and asked for them to be eloped that morning. Seungcheol was too in love to say no; he’d do anything she asked. They were married early morning, and lucky for you and Mingyu, all you had to attend was a reception. It was a nice way to test the waters of this deal before anything got too crazy.
Mingyu had picked you up in his truck, and together struggled to help lift you inside with your dress and heels on. As he drove away from the city and into a more rural area, he commented, “Your coworker must be real whipped to agree to a reception here.”
“What are you talking about?” You looked through your phone for the address Seungcheol had sent you months ago. “I thought the reception was at some small venue.”
Mingyu said your name, and you glanced over, seeing the smile on his face. “It’s a VFW owned by someone in his girlfriend’s family.”
You realized just how right he was when he pulled up to a spot in a VFW parking lot, seeing a crowd of Holland’s family pour into the post. You knew what the inside of a VFW looked like; you had your sweet 16 at one. But going to a wedding reception at one was a whole different story. Were the walls so old that they’d crumble once the DJ dared to play Dancing Queen?
Rain pounded from the sky, making the cold February wind even more chilly. Mingyu rounded the truck and opened your door, making sure to hold an umbrella above your head as you slid out of the seat. He looked … okay, he looked extremely handsome in his suit, tailored exactly to his body. You were in an old, off-the-shoulder black dress with mesh sleeves that were doing nothing in this wet cold. This wedding had crept up on you, and before you knew it, you remembered you didn’t have any new dresses to wear. And while it looked nice, the dress just barely zipped and you had to keep pulling up the neckline. Clearly, you had grown a bit since the last time you worn this. Probably in college.
Mingyu was staring at you now, letting his eyes wander down, and you were yanking at the neckline again. He didn’t deserve to see more of your cleavage. He whispered, “You look …”
“Just come on,” you cut him off, tugging him in the direction of the VFW. He struggled to keep up for a moment, rushing to hold the umbrella above both of you.
As soon as you both walked inside, you realized just how dressed up you were compared to the place. The building looked like it hadn’t been updated since the 1990s. There was, at least, a huge buffet-style food setup in the corner and a man so old that he probably had one foot in the grave behind the bar. A sign in front of him said, OPEN BAR, written in thick sharpie. Various family members were congregating at tables, while the DJ – who looked like a Pitbull impersonator – was setting up at the head of the room.
Seungcheol ran over the second he saw you meandering through tables. He had the biggest smile on his face, tugging his new wife over to introduce her to you before wiggling his eyebrows at you when he noticed Mingyu on your arm. Even Holland couldn’t help but ogle him. Seungcheol was one of your closest coworkers, so it wasn’t weird when he asked, “Who’s the beefcake?”
Mingyu was too busy dealing with Holland’s questions to hear you reply, “Don’t ask. I’ve cycled through many options before I was forced to bring him.”
“I’m sure it was quite difficult for you,” he snorted, before carefully pulling his wife’s hand off of Mingyu’s and introducing himself. Not long after, he was ushering her away to start making speeches.
You and Mingyu found your seat quickly, and luckily enough, you were sat with most of your coworkers. Every single one was looking at Mingyu like he was a piece of meat, but he didn’t seem to notice as he had a friendly conversation with each of them. You struggled to not roll your eyes. How was he perfect with everyone? Maybe your dislike of him was irrational and unwarranted, maybe he did change. But … ugh, could he fuck up for once?
Your coworker, Minghao, sat to your left, watching Mingyu converse with the young assistant – Amelia, right? – who was very clearly batting her eyes at him. Leaning towards you, Minghao whispered, “I thought you were bringing Vernon?”
Minghao was one of the few people you told about your breakup, as well as Vernon and of course, your girlfriends. It wasn’t like you to go around everywhere and post on social media about your breakup; it wasn’t anyone’s business. But Minghao gave great advice, and he was one of the first people that helped you get over the heartbreak. He wasn’t just a coworker. He became a trusted friend.
Turning your head, you said, “Would you believe me if I told you that he lost a bet?”
“Considering who you ended up with,” he chuckled, “I’d say it’s a win in your favor.”
“He’s not that great.”
“Then you might want to pull Amelia off of him before she starts sucking his face.”
The reception ended at an early hour thankfully. Most of the elderly guests were falling asleep anyway. Mingyu was a class act, per usual, trying to get you up and out of your seat to dance with him, but the last thing you wanted to do was dance to Toxic by Britney Spears in front of your boss at the marketing agency. Instead, he took the lead to asking Seungcheol’s mom to dance, and made Amelia’s day when he asked her to join. Minghao only continued to laugh when you rejected each of Mingyu’s advances.
Once 10 PM rolled around and you both were exiting the doors of the aging VFW, you noticed the rain hadn’t let up. In fact, it seemed to have gotten even worst. You had to run to Mingyu’s truck with him holding the umbrella above both of you and almost trip over your dress as you hopped up inside the cab. Assuming it would be fine to drive, just a few minutes in the rain left you both realizing that it might be extremely unsafe to drive back to the city in this weather. You really couldn’t argue with Mingyu when he suggested you stay the night at a motel right down the road.
The woman behind the front desk at the motel was chewing so loud that you thought the wad of bubblegum between her teeth might be larger than your palm. She informed you both that the only rooms available were ones with a single queen-sized bed. As much as you desperately wanted two, you’d take what you could get. She started grabbing both of your informations to check in when a loud bolt of lightning cracked, followed by a crash of thunder. You instantly gripped Mingyu’s arm, and he paused signing his name to look down at you.
“Are you scared of thunder?” He asked playfully.
Realizing how tight you were holding on, you quickly removed your hand. “No, I’m … it’s fine.”
His bicep felt so much harder than anticipated. All muscle.
Stop that.
The front desk attendant gave you an actual metal key to open your room, the number dangling from a kitschy pendant. This was the kind of motel where you needed to venture outside to get to your room, and with your arms locked together, Mingyu led you both through the pouring rain to the right building. He shoved the key in the lock, immediately opening the door and allowing you to walk inside first.
The room was smaller than expected. The heat was hardly circulating and you were still shivering. A queen-sized bed was situated in front of an old RCA TV, decorated with a comforter that looked strangely similar to the one from the 80s that your mom had given you when you first moved out. The room smelled like bleach and all you could hear was the rain on the roof. Noticing you shiver, Mingyu walked over to the thermostat and adjusted the heat.
“Maybe this was a bad idea,” you said, hugging your arms around yourself.
Mingyu pointed to the large window by the door. “I can’t drive in that. It takes an hour to get back to the city and I can hardly see the road.”
“Okay, well –”
Lightning struck again, painting the window white, and you jumped. Mingyu shook his head and walked over, closing the shades over the glass. He looked down at you, and you were acutely aware that he was the kind of person who could say everything just with his eyes. “Better?” He asked, a smile playing at his pink lips.
He was so close that you could smell his cologne and – god dammit, you were such a sucker for men that smelled good. He smelled like violets mixed with smokey sandalwood, spicy and musky. Whatever you were going to quip back died on your tongue, leaving you to reply, “I can’t sleep in my dress. I have nothing to wear to bed.”
Walking over to the tiny closet, Mingyu spotted a robe hanging up next to the vintage ironing board. He placed it in your arms and remarked, “Take a shower and put this on.”
“Are you saying I smell?”
He laughed. “No, you’re shivering and it’ll help warm you up.”
You nodded, heading off to the bathroom and shutting the door. As you slipped off your dress and let it pool onto the tile, you realized how antagonizing you were being for no reason. Mingyu had been nothing but nice to you, but you were suspecting him to switch-up at any moment. Maybe Vernon was right, or maybe you just needed to take a chill pill.
Mingyu was helping you out, after all.
After taking the warmest shower of your life and probably using all of the hot water in the motel, you walked out into the room with your robe tied firmly around your waist. The cotton smelled like mothballs and you hardly left an inch of skin showing. Granted you weren’t naked underneath, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing your underwear. Again. After five years.
He was wearing only a tank top and boxers while setting up a makeshift bed on the floor. You struggled to maintain focus with him looking … well, like that, and eventually spoke up, “What are you doing?”
He hardly jumped at hearing your voice. “I figured it would just be easier if I slept on the floor. Trust me, I’ve slept in far worse places.”
“Mingyu, you don’t have to do that,” you sighed, pulling back the covers and tossing the mismatching throw pillows on the floor.
“It’s not a big deal.”
“I know, but it’s just –”
Thunder clashed outside, sounding like pots and pans clanging together, rattling your bones.
Your eyes connected with Mingyu’s, and you pointed to the empty side of the bed. “Sleep in this bed right now.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
You both agreed – more like, you told Mingyu and he listened – to place a wall of pillows between you two, leaving you on the edges of the bed. You curled up into yourself, your spine facing him, as Mingyu laid on his back and pinched the bridge of his nose. The rain was so loud. The thunder was deafening. You considered plugging your fingers in your ears as you slept.
Mingyu was shifting on the small sliver of mattress he had, wishing internally that he brought a joint or two with him. This bed was so uncomfortable that he probably wouldn’t sleep. But hopefully, you would. Although that was seeming highly unlikely from the way your back tensed with every boom of thunder.
He watched you from the corner of his eye, and eventually, you did stop shaking. Soft snores filled the room, replacing the sound of the rain. And then Mingyu felt himself relax, swiftly falling asleep with his arm thrown above his head.
Despite the pillow wall you built, you woke up with your head on his chest.
Mingyu had wanted to tell you how beautiful you looked that day, but he couldn’t find the courage to finish his sentence.
Save the Date for the wedding of Lee Chan and Adrianna Olson: April 4th
Tapping your freshly manicured nails on your bare arm, you leaned against the passenger side door of your car and huffed. You uncrossed your arms, beginning to pace outside Mingyu’s apartment building. The ceremony today started in two hours and you were about ninety minutes from the venue. Not to mention, there was only a matter of time before one of his neighbors showed up, forcibly removing you from the parking spot in front of the building you definitely did not live in. What the hell was Mingyu doing anyway? He said he’d be down ten minutes ago.
You tugged off your heels, realizing they’d be a bitch to drive in, and pulled your sneakers from the back seat. Your floral, strapless sundress blew in the Spring breeze. Your curls – that looked like they could’ve been done by a toddler – whisked off your bare shoulders as you stepped into your favorite Nikes.
“Sorry.”
Popping your head up, you halted while shoving the back door closed. You blinked, assuming your eyes were deceiving you, but there he was, sprinting down the front steps of his building with freshly chopped hair.
Mingyu was quickly walking over to shove his duffle in your backseat, pulling at his tie, when you leaned in and placed your hand on his head. Yep, that was his real hair. Those long locks that had reached his chin were gone, replaced by a hairstyle that was similar to how he looked in college.
“I know we’re running late,” he apologized, letting your fingers sink into the strands for a moment, “but do you have to –”
“This is not about that.” You removed your hand, leveling a look at him. “You cut your hair.”
Mingyu raised a brow. “It was getting long.”
You paused, blinking at him. “Why didn’t you warn me of your new look?”
“I didn’t think I had to?” He shrugged, genuinely confused as to why you were questioning him. “My hair had gotten even longer since February, so I just thought I’d freshen up for you –”
You completely missed his words – for you, he’d freshened up for you – because you were already interrupting him. “Well, it’s just – it might look weird in pictures because my hair is up and your hair is so short. And I’m already going to have so many people looking at us wondering why my ex, who’s name I put on the invite, isn’t here. And I just want to eliminate as much attention as possible. And, well – and –”
Mingyu placed both hands on your shoulders. His palms were large, practically burning into your exposed skin. “Are you overthinking?”
“No, I …”
When your voice trailed off, Mingyu hesitated for a moment longer and then slid his hands off. “Vernon told me that you dated the groom. Chan, right?”
Of-fucking-course, Vernon told him. Your lips pursed before you replied, “We were friends before that, and we only dated for like a couple months in college. I introduced him to the woman he’s marrying.”
“Then why are you so nervous?”
“I think I have a lot of reasons to be nervous these days.” You continued to stare at him, waiting for him to come up with another quippy remark, but it seemed he contested and shoved his hands into the pockets of his suit. The same tailored suit he wore to the wedding in February, a few loose threads at the seams. “Let’s get going. We’ll be in the car for a while,” you said, rounding your car and hopping inside the driver’s seat.
As Mingyu dealt with finding room for his duffle in your trunk, you took this small second to text Vernon.
You: your friend is infuriating
You: also I’m never going to forgive you for telling him that I dated chan
Vernon: you’ll get over it lol
Vernon: is that the only reason why he’s infuriating?
You: HAIRCUT
Vernon: oh I probably should’ve told you about that when I saw him last week
Vernon: sorry :/
You closed your texts when Mingyu hopped in the passenger seat, turning on your music to drown out your thoughts. The drive was long and you were lucky that you got to the venue with ten minutes to spare. You parked the car in a haste, running to your back seat and quickly tugging your heels back on. You chucked your sneakers onto the car floor, almost hitting Mingyu in the face when he went to grab his phone from the same area. Locking your car, you grabbed his arm and yanked, both of you running towards the venue attached to a pretty hotel. Mingyu, even with his long legs, was struggling to keep up. He was also slightly impressed that you could run so fast in heels, and that was definitely the only reason why he was staring at your legs. He wasn’t admiring how long they looked when the wind lifted your skirt and he got a flash of your calf.
Even from your seat in the back of the ceremony, you could see Chan’s face light up as Adrianna was escorted down the aisle. She was wearing a vintage wedding dress, the veil sheer enough to see how beautiful she was underneath, and Chan was eager enough to lift it as soon as they said, “I do.” Adrianna looked like she hadn’t aged a day since school, and you could probably say the same for Chan. But he did manage to finally remove the earrings he got six years ago, which made you giggle to yourself.
Mingyu pretended not to notice.
Most of the people at the wedding were old friends from undergrad, even a few Mingyu knew in passing. Every time you were approached, you prepared yourself for the same question: “Where is He Who Will Not Be Named?” Or, for those that actually knew Mingyu: “Since when did you know Gyu?” You weren’t sure how much longer you could fake a smile and laugh, pretend that your heart still wasn’t sore from the breakup, rehash the same words over and over again. It was tiring; you were tired.
Same explanation. Same heartbreak. You wouldn’t be surprised if the whole planet knew of your breakup by now. You didn’t announce it anywhere, besides telling your family and close friends. It was natural for people to be curious; you had been with your ex for a couple years, enough for your family to assume that he’d propose. But then he cheated, and you found out, and you were left in pieces, tied to Kim Mingyu as your date for a full year of weddings.
You just didn’t want to keep on doing this, explaining yourself ten times over, realizing that everyone was looking at you with interest. Maybe a second glass of champagne would be a good distraction …
“Wanna dance?”
You looked up from the rim of your empty glass. Mingyu had knocked you out of your daze, laying out a hand for you to take. The reception was lively with family and friends mingling on the dance floor, but Mingyu had still noticed you alone at the table, lost in your thoughts. Had he always been this attentive, or was he just prone to watching you?
Ignoring your internal monologue, you took his hand, allowing him to lead you to the dance floor. Just as Mingyu was about to place his hand on your waist, the song changed, switching to a more upbeat track you used to blast in college. You immediately started laughing at all the older folks trying to follow the beat, and then found Chan with his wife, shimmying on the dance floor. Mingyu pinched the bridge of his nose, but found himself beaming when he finally saw the smile grace your features. He didn’t let go of your hand, let you twirl him to the song that took you back to the musty basement of a frat party.
Chan, at some point, had managed to dance over in your direction, bumping into you with a big grin. “I knew all the alumni here would love this,” he shouted over the music. “Do you remember when you puked outside a window once at some party and you said that it was this song that induced it?”
You were surprised when Mingyu said, “Yes,” at the same time as you. Both you and Chan glanced at him, eyebrows raised, until he added, “That was at one of my parties. I cleaned your vomit off the windowsill!”
The four of you erupted in laughter. Even Adrianna remembered that party, considering that was the night you drunkenly introduced her to Chan. She eventually pulled you away from Mingyu, leading you towards her group of bridesmaids so you all could dance together. But your eyes couldn’t help but find Mingyu’s across the floor, and then he was looking at you, and – god dammit, staring at him felt like a crime you’d consider going to jail for.
Everyone was looking at him, but he was looking at you.
Actually, Mingyu couldn’t seem to take his eyes off you. Not once.
He stared at you as if it was just you two, as if you were stripped bare before him, just for his eyes to see. You could tell from the way he bit his lip while smiling. He looked at you as if you were naked.
Soon enough, you were slipping through the crowd and by his side once again. He was now leaning against the wall by the open bar, nursing a scotch. The party was winding down; all the older family members had left, leaving Chan and Adrianna – plus a few other young couples – swaying to a classic Ed Sheeran song. It wouldn’t be long until they ended the night with Can’t Help Falling In Love by Elvis Presley. The time war nearing 11 PM.
Slinking beside him, he offered the glass to you and you took a sip, wincing at the burn. You stuck out your tongue. “How can you drink that so smoothly?”
“Years of practice,” he replied, and then flicked your nose in a way that shouldn’t make you blush. But you definitely did.
You blinked up at him, admiring how pretty he was in the faint, yellow light. Actually, he was pretty in every light, but you liked to find any excuse to admire him. Even if you denied it.
“Wanna get out of here?” You asked then, digging your nails into your palms. So afraid of rejection after all these years, even though he agreed to be here. “I think the reception is going to end soon anyway.”
“Yeah, sounds good.” He set his half empty glass on a random table and straightened his back before adding, “Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
God, you needed to get it together. Those words were the bare minimum, but when he said them in that slightly muffled voice, it made your nails pinch the inside of your hands harder.
You both stood on opposite sides of the elevator, dragging up, up, up to your room on the seventeenth floor. Your eyes connected. A smile played at his lips. An unspoken tension brewing between the two of you. A feeling you didn’t want to be there in the first place, but something you couldn’t simply ignore.
This couldn’t be happening. Not today. Not tonight. Not ever again.
He opened the door for you, allowing you to slip inside and grab your bag. While he rifled through his duffle, you brought your bag into the bathroom and leaned against the sink. You allowed yourself a moment to just breathe. Maybe if you kept exhaling like this, you would release all the tension from your body. You knew how silly it sounded, but desperate times called for desperate measures. You stared at your reflection in the mirror, turning your face from side to side. Was it the makeup that made him look at you that way sometimes? Perhaps he still had a fondness for lipgloss, like he did back in the day.
When you finally stopped studying your appearance, you wiped off your makeup and tugged on a pair of loose pajamas. Wearing these would be so much more comfortable – and less awkward – than the robe you wore after the last wedding. You still had nightmares about that. Carefully tiptoeing out of the bathroom, you expected to find Mingyu already in one of the two full size beds, scrolling through his phone and ignoring the noise you naturally made. But he was on the deck just outside your room, smoke billowing from his mouth.
You stood near the unoccupied bed, balancing on the balls of your feet, as you debated your options. A smart person would go right to sleep, leave him to his business. You chewed on your bottom lip nervously.
Despite the slight warmth to the air, you threw on a hoodie, scared of the possibility of your nipples showing through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. You slid open the door and immediately closed it, preventing any smoke from getting into the room. He didn’t turn; he knew exactly who was behind him. His back muscles flexed underneath his suit jacket, the joint dangling between his lips as he prayed for his lighter to work again.
“You probably shouldn’t be smoking in this suit,” you said, saddling up beside him.
He chuckled, finally taking a long drag. “I promise to get it dry cleaned before our next adventure.”
Before our next adventure. You bit the inside of your cheek.
Your eyes didn’t leave the joint now sitting between two of his fingers. (Jeez, were they always that big?) He let more smoke filter from his lips and into the open air, clouding up the starry night sky. Without even looking at you, he asked, “Why are you staring?” His words hung in the silence for a moment. “Have you ever smoked before?”
You shrugged. “Only once or twice with Vernon. Probably as freshmen.”
“You want me to show you how?”
Blinking at him, all you could do was dumbly nod. Mingyu laughed under his breath, fighting with his lighter again, before eventually holding the flame to the end. He then cautiously passed the joint over to you, allowing the filter to brush your lips. “Take it in your mouth,” he instructed, “now inhale.”
When you did as he asked, you must’ve inhaled far too deeply, or just didn’t exhale at the right time. Because then you were coughing, doubling over as you tried to catch your breath. “Hey, hey, hey,” he said, concern etched in his tone, and patted your back as you hacked up what felt like your left lung. His voice was soft, soothing, but you could hardly hear it through the ringing in your ears.
“Yeah,” you sighed, voice hoarse, “I’m definitely out of practice.”
As you stood up, his hand stayed on your shoulder, his thumb rubbing patterns. Your breath stilled as you looked up at him. Playing with the joint between his lips, he said, “Let me show you an easier way.”
“Okay,” you agreed, before your conscious could stop you.
You watched as he took a long pull from the joint, sucking it all in until you could see his eyes get a little pinker, and then moved closer to you. Instinctively, your eyes closed and your lips parted, welcoming the scent of him. His lips only lightly grazed yours as he exhaled the smoke into your mouth, letting it engulf your very being, and you felt yourself start to relax. He craned back, grinning down at you, and it took everything within you to not ask for another hit right then.
In the moonlight, you could see why you fell hard for Mingyu. He had only gotten more handsome since college. Light, in any form, was so kind to him, but with the stars hanging above his head … it allowed his dark hair to shine, casting a slightly blueish tone to his warm features. You could see the twinkling stars reflecting in his eyes, especially when he leaned back in, expelling more smoke into your mouth.
This felt too intimate. This felt like fucking.
Once you both were so high you could do nothing but laugh, Mingyu stubbed out the joint and you stumbled back into the room. You both were finally going to have a good sleep at one of these, especially since there were two beds. Rolling into your bed, you immediately burrowed under the covers as Mingyu took off his suit in the bathroom.
The last thing you expected was to feel him plop down in your bed. He was wearing so little that it made your thighs press together, or maybe that was just the weed talking. He was disoriented, laying halfway off the edge of your bed, staring at you as if you were the Mona Lisa. You huffed, “Mingyuuu. You need to get in your own bed.”
“Do you really want that though?”
His words made your eyes immediately snap open. A grin was tugging at his mouth again, his teeth sinking into that plush bottom lip. Oh, so also wanted … Oh.
You tried to sound cool and nonchalant, “Considering this is a full size bed, yeah.”
Even in the darkness, even with his back to the moonlight streaming through the glass door – his presence was making you nervous. His eyes weren’t leaving yours. You felt your hand inch over, your pinky curling around his.
“If I can be so honest with you,” he whispered, licking at the corners of his lips, “you are so beautiful that I want to kill any guy that has done you wrong.”
You exhaled, “Mingyu …”
He leaned in, smiling like he knew he caught you in his trap. “Yes?”
You were pretty sure that you knew Kim Mingyu by now. You knew that this would be just another night that meant nothing to him. No matter how much he “changed” in Vernon’s eyes, it was very clear to you that he remained uncommitted. But fuck it, your heart was still burning from the breakup, stinging from the memory of people uttering your ex’s name tonight. It was only going to be a kiss. Just something to soothe the pain.
He was so much closer now, invading your space, his hand completely eclipsing yours. He smelled like marijuana and lingering cologne. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured, but you didn’t. You let him kiss you, and god, it would be so much easier to dislike Mingyu if he didn’t kiss so well.
It wasn’t long before his tongue was pushing into your mouth, his large body looming over yours as he pressed you into the mattress a little more. And you’re desperate for it; you couldn’t stop. This was supposed to be simple – just a kiss – but you could feel yourself falling under his spell, feel how his palms burned against your skin as they dragged down your torso. He explored your mouth like it was the first time, parting your legs to make room for himself on top of you. When his lips left yours, you almost let out a whine, but he helped take off your hoodie before reattaching his mouth to your neck. Those large hands snake under your shirt – up, up, and up – until he was cupping your breasts and you can feel how hard he is against your thigh.
Mingyu looked up at you as he kissed down your torso, his spit soaking through the thin fabric of the t-shirt you were still wearing. He lifted one of your legs, adjusting it so your thigh could rest comfortably on his shoulder and – shit, you knew where this was going. Reaching the waistband of your panties, he begged, “Let me go down on you.”
You mulled over his words. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“No,” he grinned against your skin, meeting your eyes from between your legs. “But that’s a tomorrow problem. Please?” His head tilted. “Do I have to beg? I’m willing.”
You bit your tongue, egging him on a little as he nipped at the inside of your thigh. He bucked his hips once, them twice, trying to get the smallest bit of friction on his cock that was currently throbbing in his boxers. He grunted softly against your skin.
“And if I say, ‘No?’” You asked with a raised brow.
He lifted his head and pouted his lips. After all these years, he still managed the perfect puppy dog eyes that could make just about anyone weak. “Don’t be mean,” he pleaded, and you couldn’t help but giggle.
“You like when I’m mean,” you quipped, giving him permission by helping him shimmy your panties off. He adjusted your legs again, presenting you like a meal.
“I do,” he chuckled, his breath ghosting over your pretty, pink folds. “Especially, when you act like you didn’t want me here in the first place.”
Before you can rebuttal, he’s pressing his face between your thighs, dragging his tongue up your slit to collect the wetness that gathered there. Just the small amount of attention had you keening, your hips jumping for more of him, and Mingyu was happy enough to oblige. His tongue flicked at your clit as he slid one single finger inside of you, testing your limits. Those puppy dog eyes lifted from between your thighs, wanting to see you crumble, knowing that it was him who made you like this. You sighed out his name, your hand coming down to tangle in his hair. And god, if Mingyu didn’t love that … he’d be a dead man. He groaned when he felt you tug at the strands, beginning to swirl his tongue in a circle around your puffy clit.
You couldn’t even prepare yourself when he shoved another finger inside, pumping them in and out at an unreasonably fast pace. But you were bucking into him, tears pricking at your eyes as you whimpered for him. It was too much but almost too little at the same time. You could practically feel him smile as he devoured you. The bed rattled against the wall when he ground his erection against the frame, so needy and aching. His plump lips suckled on your clit, your slick smearing over his face, but he didn’t want to miss a drop of you. He needed more of you, so he started curling three fingers inside of you, teasing that sweet spot.
This wasn’t your first rodeo with Mingyu. He knew what you could take.
“Mingyu,” you whined, and he glanced up at you again with the most fucked-out eyes imaginable. And still, he didn’t stop. “You’re gonna … I’m gonna cum so fast.”
He moaned into you, then begged, “Please. Need to taste you.”
He was so determined, so desperate to feel you shake and moan and cry until he was completely spent on the taste of you. And it wasn’t long before he got his wish: as he shoved those three fingers into you, grazing your g-spot while lapping at you like you were his last meal on death row. You unraveled on his tongue, muffling your cries for the rest of the people sleeping on your floor. Biting into your hand, you had physically restrain your body from shaking as your orgasm rocked through you, but Mingyu held you down with a gentle hand on your stomach. He was staring at you again and you were staring at him and fuck, his half-closed eyes made him look like he was drunk on you. You could feel him smirking into your pussy as he collected every last drop of you, knowing that he did a good job. He sighed with relief when he could finally taste you again and again and again.
Once your body settled, you felt him start to tug at your shirt and kiss up your stomach. The thought of now having him inside you made your hands clench with excitement, but dear god, he just knocked the wind out of you and you weren’t sure how you could last. You were spent, tired, probably could just fall asleep right now.
You weren’t feeling his lips on your skin anymore, so you opened your eyes. The moonlight gave you just enough to see that, despite the raging boner he probably had, Mingyu was now snoring softly with his head resting on your hips. Brows raised, you almost couldn’t believe that this was the moment he decided to fall asleep, but you couldn’t deny that you had been on the verge of doing the same.
Untangling yourself from him, you quickly cleaned yourself up and wiped his face clean with a washcloth. You sighed, using all the brute strength you had to haul him up on what was supposed to be your bed, and wrapped the covers around him. You admired him for a moment, your hand coming up to smooth back his dark hair. Somehow, this felt even more intimate than you cumming in his mouth. So you quickly moved away and slipped under the sheets of the other bed, using his snores as white noise.
The next morning, neither of you spoke of what happened.
Mingyu had wanted to tell you that he had a crush on you the moment Vernon introduced you two all those years ago, even when you disliked him. And slowly but surely, he was starting to realize it never truly went away.
Save the Date for the wedding of Joshua Hong and Jordan Lo: June 20th
Two months passed and the spring air turned sweltering. It was on days like this when you rolled the windows down and wasted gas just to get an overpriced iced coffee that you reminisced. You were taken back to a time when you waited by the curb as Vernon appeared from football practice, and even though he was sweaty, you still always agreed to drive him back to his dorm on the other side of campus. You would watch him say goodbye to his teammates and – shit, the light would catch, and suddenly you were looking at Mingyu wipe the sweat off his face while laughing with the quarterback and –
Now you were thinking about Mingyu again.
You had been thinking about him since April.
All of this felt so silly, like stupid games young 20-somethings played. You knew it wasn’t good for you in engage in – well, anything with Mingyu. He had always been perfectly uncommitted with women, and he was clearly obsessed with his work, posting his new recipes or pictures of him and his flag football team on his Instagram stories. You could handle this. You could be an adult and have a functional acquaintanceship with someone you found attractive.
So you kept your distance. On the off chance that Mingyu was free and asked if you wanted to get together (which was a shock in itself), you declined. Even if you wanted to. Even if you desperately wondered what would come of it. The next wedding wasn’t until the end of June and you were already biting you lip at the thought of seeing him in a suit again.
The only person you could finally blabber to about this was Minghao, and in typical fashion, he laughed. Not that you expected anything less.
“You’re overthinking the entire situation,” he said over drinks. “It’s completely normal for you to have a little fun, especially while healing from a breakup. That’s what being single is all about, my friend.”
He was right. Of course, he was right. But what if Mingyu rejected you yet again, like he did in college? You wanted to talk to Vernon about this. He always gave you the best advice with this stuff, but this was his friend. The last thing you wanted was to make his friendship with Mingyu weird.
You attempted to ignore him. You redownloaded some dating apps as a distraction. You deleted them just as fast.
On the morning of June 20th, your cousin, Jordan, was marrying her longtime boyfriend, Joshua Hong. You had only met Josh on a number of occasions, but considering that they had been together for almost twelve years, you trusted him enough to take care of her. You felt lucky to be chosen as a bridesmaid and you’d never make a fuss, but dear god, the dark blue of this dress clashed with just about everything. The color was so dark and the dress was clinging to just about all of you and Mingyu’s tie was the wrong shade of blue –
Damn, did he look handsome though.
Jordan had made you both get to the venue early for a rehearsal dinner, and then once the morning came, you were whisked off to hair and makeup. You had barely said a word to Mingyu, too scared to give him anything besides small talk, but you couldn’t help but compliment the new suit he bought for the last few weddings. “Figured I’d cave and invest in one that wasn’t from Goodwill,” he explained, “for you.”
For you. For you. For you.
Your heels were hurting your feet halfway through the wedding, and despite how hard you were trying to focus on Josh’s vows, you couldn’t help but find Mingyu’s eyes in the crowd. He wasn’t paying attention to anyone else, his stare burning into yours to let you know his intent. You swallowed hard. Would anyone notice if you hid your blush behind the bouquet in your hands? It felt like torture having him look at you like this, as if there wasn’t an extravagant wedding happening around them, as if he wasn’t Kim Mingyu.
It wasn’t until the reception that you could finally get a word in with your cousin, some much needed alone time after what was surely going to be the craziest wedding you went to this year. You both parked yourself near the open bar, ignoring the guests on the dance floor that were screaming for another round of the Cha Cha Slide. Tucking a strand behind your ear, Jordan said, “I can’t thank you enough for doing this for me. Jeez, I really didn’t think when I was three and met you a couple weeks after you were born that we’d be here. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
You grinned, “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” The bartender handed you a new glass of wine and you took a sip. “Besides, these days all I do is work or go to weddings. The life of being a permanent wedding guest, I supposed.”
“Speaking of guests …” Jordan turned her head slightly, ogling Mingyu from where he was standing up and trying to decline your great aunt’s advances to dance. Your cousin giggled. “He isn’t the older guy I thought you’d bring.”
“Circumstances change.” You shrugged, and she gave you a look. “I’d rather not get into it.”
Jordan’s brow raised. “You guys are having sex though, right?”
You almost choked while taking another sip of your wine. “Absolutely not.”
“You sure?”
“Well, I –” You sighed, and then decided to suck down the rest of the glass in one go. Jordan whistled. “We did at one point. Very long time ago. But he’s Vernon’s friend and … it’s a long story.”
“Sounds like it,” she snorted, eyes flickering around the reception until they landed somewhere behind you. “Well, if you’re not having sex with him, my friend just might tonight.”
Your expression muddled, until she pointed over your shoulder. Turning around, you found Jordan’s Maid of Honor chatting up Mingyu near the stairs that lead to the restrooms. Her hand was inching up his sleeve and he was blushing at what you could only assume was a compliment coming from her lips. He was clearly enjoying the conversation, despite the intimate looks he was giving you earlier.
Classic fucking Kim Mingyu, you thought.
A pang of jealousy surfaced that you couldn’t control. It was probably best for everyone if you walked away and took a breather. After Joshua pulled his wife onto the dance floor, you adjusted the tight silk of your dress and headed for the bathrooms. You walked past them, your perfume wafting past Mingyu’s nostrils, a scent he would know anywhere.
Instead of going inside the bathroom, you decide to stand in the empty hall connected to the venue and brace your back against the cool wall. You sighed, gathering yourself, completely unaware it wasn’t just you here until you heard the squeak of someone else’s shoes.
“I noticed you were empty,” Mingyu muttered as a way of greeting. He was holding two glasses of rosé between his fingers, stepping down the small staircase to get to you.
It was just you two now, and he was handing you the glass while standing so close that you could smell his cologne. Had this dress always felt that tight, or could you just not breathe right now? You watched the way his eyes flickered to your mouth, and it took everything in you not to yank him closer by the tie. Instead, you took a big gulp of rosé.
“You didn’t have to come after me,” you remarked, and then nodded your head in the direction of the Maid of Honor now on the dance floor. “You looked like you were having fun.”
Mingyu simply tilted his head to the side, studying you carefully.
“She’s pretty. Don’t stop on my account, but please be aware that we are sharing a room so you can’t bring anyone back there.”
Mingyu’s lips slowly curved into a grin. “Are you jealous?”
You scoffed, “No. I’m just … being realistic.”
Taking your half empty glass from your hand, he set them both down on a side table right near the women’s restroom. Your mouth opened, but the words died as soon as he placed a hand beside your head on the wall. He was so tall that he towered over you, even in heels, leaning into your space with pretty, half-opened eyes as he stared at your glossy lips.
“Can I be realistic with you?” He didn’t give you a moment to answer. “I cannot stop thinking about our last night together. I know you probably thought it happened because of the weed, but I … these past two months, it’s all I’ve been thinking about. And it’s killing me that I’ve been trying to be normal this whole night when all I’ve wanted to do is drag you away and make you cum again.”
Your breath hitched slightly at his words. He leaned in then, grazing his nose over the side of your face, desperate to be in your orbit. You took your bottom lip between your teeth and tried to control your heart rate, but how was that even possible when Mingyu’s other hand was brushing up and down your side, tangled in the silk.
“Well, that …” You swallowed hard. “That wouldn’t be a good idea considering all my family is here.”
He tsked under his breath. “Obviously, it wouldn’t be, but …” You felt his nose at your jaw, inhaling the scent of your perfume again, the one that made him crazy. And he damn near groaned in your ear.
“Mingyu, you … you –”
“Fuck, how could you think I’m looking at anyone else here when you look this good in your dress?” His voice had taken on that needy tone he always got when he was horny. It almost felt like a reward to be able to hear it again. “I’ve been half-hard this entire reception just from looking at you, remembering the way you tasted …” He muttered another curse.
This was how he always acted. Mingyu could be so desperate and pleading when he wanted to get someone in bed, needy to the point he would do anything just to please you, but god – you couldn’t deny how much you liked it. He was reeling you in. You were like fish to bait.
Slowly, he laced your dominant hand with his and moved it from his belt buckle to his groin. You could barely breathe when you felt him harden under your touch, and then you remembered you were still in a public hallway, where just about anyone could walk by.
Your eyes met his half-lidded ones as he murmured, “Look what you’re doing to me.”
And god help you, because you whimpered at the sound of his voice, slick starting to gather between your thighs.
“Okay, Mingyu, just …” You sighed, composing yourself because you knew he wasn’t going to any time soon. Your hand slipped away from his and he huffed, his forehead falling to rest on your shoulder. “Go to our room and let me make my rounds. I’ll meet you up there.”
He stood up. For a moment, he was almost tempted to drag you into the bathroom and bury his face between your legs, too hungry to let you get away now. But one of your uncles was walking down the hall, and you separated quickly. With a nod, you walked back to the reception and said goodbye to your family that you didn’t get to talk to for too long prior. Jordan gave you a look when you mentioned about going to bed early, and even Josh told you how weird you were being, but your cousin shut him up and sent you a wink.
You exhaled heavily and headed back to hotel on the other side of the venue. Slipping your heels off once you were inside the elevator, you debated if giving into Mingyu this easily was the smart thing to do. Smart? Definitely not. But would it be enjoyable? You didn’t need to answer that question. Mingyu knew what he was doing.
As you unlocked the door to your hotel room, you began to wonder if you were just setting yourself up to be hurt again. He didn’t come back to you like this in college, but what’s stopping him from telling you that he’s “just not that into you” at the next wedding? Or what if he just thought of you as an easy hookup that would get his dick wet every 2 months? Well, you hadn’t done that yet –
Yet. Yet. Yet.
The word repeated in your head like a melody, because when you threw your purse down and saw Mingyu walking out of the bathroom, fresh from a shower and dressed in only a towel around his waist, you realized that you were most definitely getting his dick wet tonight. Whether it was in your mouth or somewhere deeper, you were salivating for it.
He was smiling at you and you were smiling at him and Jesus, he was so goddamn handsome that you couldn’t believe that he was the one desperate for you. Droplets of water trickled down his tan skin and that towel around his waist was just barely holding on. His torso was chiseled and his arms – fuck, his biceps were bigger than you remembered. He was something out of a dream – some horny, fucked-up dream that you only had after masturbating before bed.
He was on you instantly, pushing you against the wall and kissing you hard. Sighing into the kiss, your hands fist into the towel to yank him closer, but it only makes the flimsy fabric fall. You break away for a moment to mutter, “Oh, shit,” but his lips can’t stay away from yours for long. And he’s laughing, like you did exactly what he wanted. You were too hypnotized by the scent of his body wash to care.
Dragging his lips down your neck, he sucked at the spot that he knew made your thighs press together, grinning proudly against your skin when you moaned. His fingers gripped the soft silk of your dress, slowly pulling the fabric up to feel you that much closer. But it wasn’t enough. No matter how much he liked you in this dress – and god, did he like you in this dress – he needed you out of it. Now.
Mingyu unzipped your dress with precision, setting it down on one of the two beds in the room, and both of you were suddenly wishingthere was only one. His hands smoothed down your sides, his breath hot against your mouth. He just wanted to feel you everywhere. He almost didn’t want to step away, afraid you’ll slip through his fingers like sand. When you two had hooked up in college, it was quick and explosive, letting out the tension that had been building for years. There was so much territory for him to cover now, so many ways for him to find out what made you whine and sigh with pleasure. But, if he were being honest, all he wanted right now was for you to –
“Sit on my face,” he begged, caging you into the wall, pressing his hard cock against your stomach. So desperate for just an ounce of friction, so hungry for another taste of you. He could literally start drooling at the thought of it. He was mesmerized by you; he’d do anything you asked just to have your pussy on his tongue again.
But you seemed to be debating your options, biting you lip again, and he wished that didn’t turn him on even more. You were just so pretty, and the way your face scrunched as you decided on something was a sight he couldn’t help but think about when he touched himself, even all those years ago. It was just you. You.
Eventually, your face relaxed, and you replied, “Well, you don’t have to beg me.”
Mingyu’s lips pulled into a smile, and he laughed while pulling you down onto the nearest bed. Despite his request, you continued to straddle his torso and kiss him for just a little while longer. He was needy, moaning into your mouth whenever his cock bumped against your ass, but all you wanted to feel his lips on yours, tangle your tongue with his, even if it was just for another minute.
You forgot Mingyu was stronger than you, though. It wasn’t much longer before he was yanking your body up and turning you around so you knelt just above his face. He inhaled the scent of your pussy and almost breathed a sigh of relief, but instead muttered, “Such a tease sometimes.”
Now that you were hovering above him, you were suddenly self conscious about how excited you were and if your arousal was seeping onto his face. You couldn’t even see if he was thrilled or not, since he had turned you to face away from him, but the way his cock jumped in front of your eyes told you enough. His hands gripped your thighs tight. “I don’t want to crush you,” you said nervously.
“You could suffocate me and I wouldn’t have a problem with it."
You chewed on your bottom lip. His tone was firm, probably the most serious you’d ever heard from him. But you were embarrassed and this was crazy and you still so wet. With flushed cheeks, you asked, “Mingyu, are you –”
“Yes,” he answered before pulling you down onto his face.
He wasn’t teasing you tonight. He was devouring you without even letting you catch your breath. His tongue swiping at your clit before he sucked on it – hard. So hard that you let you a sound that was a mixture of a yelp and a moan. Gripping you roughly, he spread you wider, drinking more of you in. Your hips moved on their own, grinding against his face, which made him groan into your pussy. The vibration in his voice spread throughout your entire body, goosebumps lining your flesh. “Mingyuuu,” you whined, begging for more, and you could practically feel him smirk as he flicked at your swollen clit.
Leaning forward, you turned your head up and noticed again just how hard he was. His cock had always been perfect: the perfect size, dark pink at the tip, veins etched into the shaft. Precum beaded at the head, sliding down every so slowly, as he throbbed and ached and – god, his hips were almost thrusting into the air now. You didn’t doubt he could get off for hours on this, but that didn’t mean he needed to be unsatisfied.
Besides, you wanted something to do with your mouth anyway.
Mingyu whimpered as you shifted slightly to reach his cock. Your body stretched, your mouth at the perfect angle as you flicked the head with your tongue. He pulled you back towards his mouth, shoving his tongue inside your tight hole and making you gasp at the same time you licked a stripe up his shaft. His tongue worked you open while you swirled your own along the tip, and then finally took him into your mouth.
The grunt he released should’ve caused an earthquake.
You bobbed your head up and down his shaft, choking when he bucked into your mouth. You could hardly breathe, taking every opportunity to inhale through your nose, but you couldn’t stop. You didn’t want to stop. God forbid, you have a hobby like wanting Kim Mingyu’s cock in your mouth. He took the liberty of grinding you against his face with his own hands, wrapping his lips around your clit again, eager to taste your climax. And to be honest, he wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to last if you kept sucking on his tip like that. He groaned each time, feeling your tongue circle his head before going back down, taking as much as you could, as if you were rewarding him. And he just couldn’t help but whine along with you.
Your lips pulled off him to kitten lick the veins along the sides of his shaft, and you breathily asked, “Are you close?”
His only response was a moan straight into your pussy.
You nodded, even if he couldn’t see it, before your mouth opened like second nature. You spit on his cock and stuffed him down your throat once again. Head moving faster, you were slobbering on him like a dog in heat, trying not to gag and failing. Your free hand snaked up to cup one of his balls, and the sound he released was deafening. His tongue flicked and sucked at your clit like he had nothing left to live for, hungry for every last drop of your essence.
But then you were cumming, and he was too not long after.
You cried, choking on his cock as you came all over his face. White blurred in your vision, and you were a mess of sweat and spit and so much cum. He exploded in your mouth a moment later, hot seed running down your throat, and you consumed all of it. Neither of you wanted to miss out on the taste of each other. It was filthy, intoxicating, how much you liked this. How much you could suck him off over and over again, and not get tired of him.
You didn’t know it at the time, but Mingyu would say the same about you. If not worse.
He could spend all day between your thighs and never want to leave.
When you both finally angled off each other, spent and exhausted, your breathing was heavy and off by two seconds. Mingyu was glancing over at you before you could even process, a smile playing at his swollen lips. He brushed away a strand of hair that was stuck to your sweaty forehead.
“Mingyu,” you finally said, “has anyone ever told you that you have boyfriend dick?”
Mingyu had wanted to tell you how much he’d been dreaming of that moment, how much you had haunted his dreams and left him waking up so hard that he felt he was going through puberty again. Sometimes he dreamed of how good it would feel when he finally slipped into you, inch by inch. You’d feel like home.
Save the Date for the wedding of Lee Seokmin and Quinn Song: July 31st
You couldn’t go a day without talking to Mingyu. Whether it be through text or over the phone, you were joking with him, telling him about your day, and vice versa. Just a month prior, you had tried keeping your distance, but now … you simply couldn’t help yourself. It was like there was a voice inside your head telling you to contact him, to send him a funny video you saw that day, to tell him about the show you were currently watching. And on nights when you had too much to drink, that voice made you text him that you missed him. He always said he missed you too.
Mingyu: I’m watching that show you recommended
Mingyu: kinda wish you were watching it with me
Mingyu: but I’m still content here and I can see why you like it so much
You: right?? I knew you’d like it!
You couldn’t help but giggle at your phone when his texts came through. And you answered them immediately, like you always did.
Mingyu: what are you doing right now?
You: wouldn’t you like to know
Neither of you made the effort to go on an actual date. It was all just flirty texts with a TikTok mixed in every once in a while. Promises about going back to that coffee shop someday, but never planning the day. To be honest, this was one of those moments where you were glad Mingyu was so uncommitted. If you started going on dates that didn’t include a vow exchange in between, it would be so easy to fall for him again, and then be let down when he eventually didn’t want to see you after wedding season.
Mingyu: I mean that’s why I asked
You: I’m hanging out with
A pillow was suddenly thrown at your head. “Ow!” You shouted, head shooting up from your phone to glare at Vernon sitting on the other side of the couch. “What the hell was that for?”
“Anakin is literally burning alive and all you can do is look at your phone!” Vernon scoffed, turning Revenge of the Sith back on. You set your phone down on your lap as he muttered, “Kinda wish I never won that bet.”
Vernon, obviously, was becoming increasingly annoyed that you and Mingyu had rekindled … whatever this was. Sometimes you wondered if you were talking to Mingyu more than your best friend, but given the way Vernon was acting, that was probably the case. You probably shouldn’t even be texting Mingyu while hanging out with Vernon. Bad friend move; happens to the best of us.
You apologized to Vernon in the best way possible: you bought him fried chicken from his favorite spot.
As summer came along, so did Seokmin and Quinn’s wedding at the end of the month, an invitation that was barely hanging on by an old Britney Spears magnet on your fridge. Quinn Song had been your first ever roommate out of college. You both had met on a Facebook group to find roommates in the area and quickly hit it off. She had been your roommate up until last year actually, when her now-fiancé Lee Seokmin asked her to move in with him. It was at that point that you finally decided to live alone, besides the few days out of the week that Vernon crashed at your apartment.
The wedding was being held on a pretty island in the northeast, nestled on the expansive grounds of a bed and breakfast in the area. The spot felt warm and lived in, the exact kind of place you imagined Quinn would get married at.
Meeting Mingyu at the airport had been awkward, but at the very least, you two were sitting in different rows of the plane. Maybe it shouldn’t have been as cringe-worthy as it was, given the fact that you two had been talking nonstop, but it was the memory that the last time you did see each other in person, you were sitting on his face and his cock was so far down your throat –
Mingyu had found your eyes a couple rows behind him on the plane. Even he was blushing now, as if he could read your thoughts.
You had rented a car once you reached your destination and threw him the keys, letting him drive the convertible down the coast while the summer breeze whipped through your hair. You tried not to notice the way his hand twitched on the gear shift, like he was itching to place his palm on your thigh, to ground himself to your presence. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Especially when all you could do was stare out the window with a big smile on your face.
Unfortunately, you had to book a room at a small hotel near the bed and breakfast since all the rooms were used for the wedding party. The hotel was quaint, but definitely old and smelled like the Febreze scent your mom used to love when you were a kid. Your room was tinier than the pictures implied, but it was on the first floor and had a screen door that opened to a pretty view of the ocean. You didn’t have much time to enjoy it though, considering that the ceremony was in a few hours and the reception would probably carry on until way past midnight.
You decided to rewear the floral sundress that made a previous appearance at Chan and Adrianna’s wedding. It wasn’t like anyone here was at that event, and honestly, you didn’t care. Throwing your hair up into a perfectly messy updo, you curled a few pieces and took your time with your diligent makeup routine. Mingyu was in his suit before you could even blink, biding his time while you got ready by watching past game recordings of the flag football team he taught and trying to identify key moves they missed out on. As you finished up and clumsily slipped on your shoes, the perfume you sprayed seemed to beckon him like a siren song, and suddenly, he was leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom, meeting your eyes in the mirror.
Your brows shot up. “Done with your flag football research?”
“You’re beautiful,” he replied.
You turned, unable to stop your lips from pulling into a soft smile. His expression was so warm, cheeks tinged slightly pink either from embarrassment or a nasty sunburn. He was beautiful. In ways you couldn’t even comprehend.
Holding out your necklace to him, you asked, “Can you help me put this on?”
He nodded, plucking the dainty chain from your palm. You moved back to the mirror as he struggled to open the clasp with his thick fingers, but he got it eventually. Placing the thin, gold chain around your neck, you watched the small, star-shaped pendant sit so delicately under your collarbones. He fixed the clasp on your neck, his fingers brushing the top of your spine, and you watched him lean forward in the mirror.
His lips ghosted over the shell of your ear, breath hot and making the hairs on your neck stand up. “I meant it, by the way,” he whispered, and then placed the softest of kisses behind your ear.
Your breath hitched, and you were unable to form a single coherent thought. For the first time in a while, he was catching you by surprise. He was moving back, and you noticed him smirk in the mirror, knowing exactly how he was affecting you. That annoying asshole –
“Ready to head out?” He asked, grabbing his wallet from the desk.
You huffed and tugged the strap of your purse onto your shoulder. “Of course.”
The grounds of the bed and breakfast were bigger than you assumed, enough to fit an extremely large tent and hardwood floor for all the guests to congregate. The ceremony was held near the shoreline of the ocean, and it was so, unapologetically Quinn to have a few seashell pins in her veil as she walked towards her husband. You had known Seokmin as long as Quinn had been your roommate, but you had never seen this kind of smile on his face until now. He completely lit up at the sight of her, and he didn’t waste a second to say, “I do,” once his time came.
As the guests crowded into the tent for the reception, Mingyu seemed to hold onto you like a toddler with it’s parent. His arm was locked around yours, letting you lead him through the crowd, even though he was tall enough to see over the tops of everyone’s heads. His palm was so warm on your wrist, and then his fingers were so easily lacing through yours, and you squeezed because you simply couldn’t help yourself.
You were able to find your table easily, but you didn’t recognize the other people already there. They introduced themselves as Seokmin’s friends, and you remembered seeing one or two of them at a bar. You still couldn’t get a read on these people, and found yourself swiftly growing silent around their shared camaraderie. But Mingyu was suddenly so talkative, catching along with their jokes just as quickly, so you stood and whispered in his ear, “Do you want a drink?”
He leaned back to meet your eyes, and you swore time stopped for a moment. His hand reached down, squeezing your wrist, as he said, “You know what I like.”
Jesus. Fuck. Since whendid he have you this wrapped around his finger?
(Probably since sophomore year of college.)
You nodded, swinging your head in the direction of the bar, and your feet had started to head there when you halted in place. It almost felt like your heels were glued to the floor as you found the face of the last person you expected to be here. The only face that could make all the noise drown out around you.
Your ex.
He still had that same curl that always got in his eyes. He was wearing the same suit he wore to your mother’s engagement party last year. The same watch on his wrist; the same cufflinks. Same. Same. Same. And now, he was meeting your eyes across the room. Bodies formed in clusters under the tent – some hugging, some stumbling into each other – but he was unable to look away.
Until a head popped up in front of him, standing from her chair at the table. Her wedge sandals almost made her taller than him, and her dress looked expensive enough that he probably bought it. You didn’t know her, but you knew of her. Well, at least, you knew what the back of her head looked like, and that was her right there.
You couldn’t forget the night even if you tried. Exhaustion had your shoulders sagging as you unlocked the door to your boyfriend’s apartment. He didn’t typically keep it locked, but you had a key anyway. You remembered how quiet the place was, except for the soft sounds echoing from his bedroom. At first, you thought he was just masturbating, and to be honest, you were too tired to engage in anything tonight. But a voice in your head had urged you to move, to go, go, go towards his room. And you were slowly pushing open the door, only to find your boyfriend fucking your 22-year-old neighbor from behind, yanking on her short hair like a leash. You had been too scared to move, too scared to breathe, but eventually, you had started wailing. His eyes had found yours – exactly like in this moment – and he screamed, slipping away completely as your back slid to the floor. He had tried explaining, tried to yell at the young girl, but everything had drowned away in that moment, and all you could hear was the ringing in your ears –
Your breathing was growing rapid, just like that day at his apartment. Sprinting to the inside of the bed and breakfast, you tried to act normal and say hello to whoever you knew mingling by the bathroom. But something was clearly very wrong. It was evident in your eyes, the way tears were pricking at the sides. You almost thought the universe was pulling a cruel prank on you, but then you remembered that it was Quinn who had introduced you two in the first place, that he had been a friend of a friend.
Climbing up the staircase in the lobby, you plopped yourself down on the middle step and let your face fall into your hands. You began to count your breaths – one, two, three, one, two, three – anything to make you get a semblance of control. But you could feel your brain spinning, and your heart was beating too fast. Was this what it felt like to die? Was your cheating ex going to be the last face you saw before you completely slumped against this staircase? Vernon always said you had a flair for the dramatic. What a fitting way to end.
You felt a weight sink into the plush carpet next to you, and you lifted your head, tears brimming your eyes.
“You do realize that this isn’t your party. You can’t cry if you want to,” Mingyu joked, reaching out and swiping the tear at your lash line. His eyes softened then, looking at you like you were something fragile, like a baby bird. “What’s wrong?” His voice was hardly about a whisper.
You sniffled, dabbing at the corners of your eyes with your knuckles. The last thing you needed was your makeup messed up. “This is so embarrassing. I’m crying over something so …” Your words trailed off, noticing that he was leveling a look at you. You sighed before admitting, “I forgot that the bride, Quinn, might invite my ex because they were friends. Somewhat.”
“Your ex? As in that ex?” His brow shot up, and you nodded. “Did he come alone?”
You looked down at your hands in your lap, and after a moment, you watched his large palm slowly envelope one of yours. The rough pads of his fingers – the hands of a cook – brushed over your knuckles, and his touch was so warm that it could burn.
His voice was soft in your ear as he said, “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
You chuckled a little, turning to look at him again. “Then we’d be sitting on this staircase forever.”
He smiled at you and stretched out his long legs. “That’s fine with me.”
Your lips pursed, and you found him staring at them for a moment. A sigh escaped, and you glanced down at your laced hands. How perfectly they fit together, how he held you with such a fierce softness. His thumb grazed the scar on your knuckle that you got the first time you fell off your bike. Finally, you answered, “He came here with the girl he cheated on me with.”
Mingyu didn’t speak, but you did hear him do a sharp intake.
“She’s twenty-two. She didn’t – she doesn’t know any better. He’s in his early thirties and he’ll do it again,” you continued, chewing on your bottom lip for a moment. “I found them in his apartment after I came home from a late meeting at work. It was … messy. Walking in on them, the fallout, now this … everything about that breakup has felt like one big mess. And now, I have to see him here and be reminded of it all–fucking–over again.”
You didn’t even dare to meet his eyes as the next words tumbled out of your mouth, already feeling your voice start to break again. “It didn’t just hurt because I found them. It hurt because … I never wanted to become my mother. I love her. I really do. But the last thing I ever wanted was to become her. Be in the same situation as her. And yet, there I was, witnessing yet another infidelity that would affect my life for what seems like forever.” You rubbed at your running nose. “I found my father cheating too. It wasn’t exactly the same. I found him kissing my best friend’s mom in my parent’s bedroom one night when my mother stayed at work too late. The sentiment still stands, and history was always bound to repeat itself. Daughters always become their mothers and I always have to bear witness to another man not choosing to stick around –”
Mingyu stopped you by turning your face towards his, one hand cupping your cheek. His thumb skimmed the tears running through your blush. He didn’t say anything; his eyes let you know that he was here. That he was sticking around. Despite everything you thought of him, despite your past – Mingyu was here.
He held you for as long as you needed, gathering you in his arms and cradling your head against his shoulder. He let your tears soak into the fabric of his expensive suit, promising he’d get it dry-cleaned, which made you laugh. Your fingers clutched his lapels and you almost considered not letting go. You would give anything to stay in this bubble, to sit on this staircase in his embrace forever.
“I meant what I said all those months ago,” he said, his voice muffled from his lips at the crown of your head. “I would kill any guy that has done you wrong. Do you want me to kill him?”
You chuckled and raised your head from his shoulder. “What are you gonna kill him with? A butter knife?” You shook your head. “No chef is gonna let you in that kitchen tonight to grab a weapon. You of all people should know that.”
Mingyu grimaced. “This conversation is getting morbid.”
Another laugh bubbled at your lips. “You brought it up!”
“And you’re smiling again,” he said, making your hands hold onto him tighter. “That’s all I could ask for.”
Such simple words could take your breath away, especially when they came from his mouth. You searched his eyes for a moment, your fingers now smoothing out the creases in his lapel. Eventually, you whispered, “I don’t know if I can survive this whole reception. I hate the awkward tension, but I should stay for Quinn.”
“Trust me, I know,” he snickered, and his hand covered over yours as an anchor. “I say we stay at the reception for as long as your comfortable. Then we go to bed early. Whatever works for you.”
Your smile was so kind as you nodded along with his plan. After touching up your makeup, you took his hand and let him lead you back to the reception. Once you saw Quinn in her short, after party dress and looking at Seokmin with stars in her eyes, you instantly felt more at ease. This was her day; you wouldn’t let one person sour it. And Mingyu, clearly, wasn’t going to let your own nerves sour it either. Anytime you locked eyes with your ex, there Mingyu was, distracting you by whispering in your ear how pretty you looked or asking you about your best memories while living with Quinn. There was one moment where you saw your ex heading in your direction, assuming he was finally going to talk to you, and Mingyu stood up to whisk you onto the dance floor. His large arms enveloped you, holding you close, as you swayed to one of your favorite songs. Everything about him felt safe, secure, and he even let you stand on his feet when you told him you had never been that good at dancing. And when you looked at him, you noticed that he was staring at you like how Quinn looked at Seokmin during her speech. Even when you had cried, had let him in, see parts of you that not even Vernon touched … he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.
You stayed at the reception far longer than anticipated. When you told Mingyu that you were too tired to stay any longer, he didn’t question it. He simply grabbed your purse and jacket before taking your arm in his, walking the short distance back to your Febreze-ridden hotel. The first thing you did once you were back in your room was take off your heels. They were only a kitten heel, but your feet were already blistering, and you winced as you went to the bathroom to wash off your makeup. Mingyu had set your stuff down on the small desk before walking out onto the deck connected to your room. You craned your neck out, assuming he was going to smoke a joint, but he was just staring at the ocean, noticing how loud the waves crashed against the shore.
You padded out of the bathroom and leaned against the door frame for a moment, admiring him in the dim light. It almost left in you in disbelief how you had roped Kim Mingyu, one of the most attractive men you’d ever met and probably one of the longest crushes you’d ever had in your life, into being your wedding date for an entire year. He had a lost a bet, but he really didn’t have to be here. He didn’t have to invest in a new suit. He didn’t have take the time off from his two jobs. He didn’t have to listen to your trauma, or look at you like you were this painting to be worshipped, this Mona Lisa of sorts. Mingyu could’ve said no.
But he didn’t.
“I’m going to take a shower,” you finally informed him, and he turned to meet you eyes. “Can you help me out of my dress?”
He nodded diligently, following you to the bathroom. You pulled your hair up with one hand, and with deft fingers, he slid the zipper down your back. Typically, you would hold the dress to your chest until he left the bathroom, out of respect, but you were letting it pool at your feet tonight. You stepped out of it, your gaze locking with his as you turned on the shower. You were giving him this look and he was still standing there in his half-buttoned dress shirt, hands forming into fists as he fought the urge touch you. Waiting for a sign. Waiting for your permission.
But you didn’t even have to say anything. Your eyes said the words for you. As you climbed into the standing shower, he took his time removing his suit, pretending as if he wasn’t fucking dying to have his hands on you, and then he was behind you, the hard panes of his chest flush against your back. He closed the shower door as the glass began to fog up.
The water was scalding as it rained down on your head, steam forming around the small bathroom. You could still feel the dried tears on your face, imprinted underneath your makeup all night, and you did your best to wash them away. Mingyu noticed the way your shoulders sagged, the way you sighed while you were lost in thought, and as much as wanted touch you in places that made those sweet sounds fall from your lips, he held himself back. Instead, he let his hands comb through your wet hair before scrubbing shampoo into the strands. You relaxed against him, closing your eyes as he washed your hair.
It was so domestic that you could cry.
(Again.)
The last person you ever thought could be capable of this kind of care was Mingyu. You both had known each other for eight years, and not once had he displayed this kind of person around you. Or maybe you just weren’t paying attention, too lost in your own perception of him. Even now, you couldn’t help but remind yourself of when he avoided you after the hookup in senior year. He really isn’t the same guy, Vernon’s voice echoed in your head. Give him a chance. You had never trusted those words, but in this moment … you realized where you had went wrong.
The water began to get cold when it came time to wash his own hair and you could tell he was struggling to rush. His mannerisms made you giggle, and even though the steam began to dissipate from the room, you still turned to his front and rested your forehead on his chest, letting the lukewarm water beat down your neck.
When you walked out of the shower, you had never felt more fresh and at ease. Your body was all warm and you had brought the comfiest pajamas for summer weather. The breeze wafting off the ocean blew through your room from the open screen door, and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore could lull you to sleep.
But right now, it seemed like neither of you were keen on the subject. As you slipped under the covers next to each other, you were grateful that there was only one bed: one large, king-sized bed that both of you could be using to spread out. Instead, you were huddled close, hair still wet from the shower, and his arms locked around you like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting you go. Your hands cupped his face, studying parts of him that you didn’t think of in your previous lust-induced hazes. Fingers traced his lips, brushed over the tip of his nose – where his tiny mole was stamped – before you skimmed the shell of his ear.
You almost didn’t recognize your own voice as you whispered, “Thank you for tonight.”
“Anytime,” he smiled.
A beat of silence. Hands stilled. Lips pursed.
“Mingyu?”
“Yeah?”
“Please, kiss me.”
His mouth was on yours before you could even finish the sentence, but he still took his time exploring new ways to make you moan into the kiss. He kept one hand splayed on your back, pressing you further into him, while the other played with the hem of your loose t-shirt. Your hands knotted into his hair as he kissed you slow, savoring you like a fine meal. And you simply let him. You were like molten lava, melting in the palm of his calloused hands.
You felt his fingers prod at the waistband of your shorts, and it was game over. Slipping them under, he practically whined into your mouth when he realized you hadn’t put any panties on after the shower. His mouth disconnected from yours, fingers sliding between your slick folds. “Are you trying to kill me?” He breathed against your lips.
“In my defense,” you chuckled softly, “I forgot to bring them to the bathroom.”
He laughed with you, and you were debating on crying again because he was so kind and good and definitely just as obsessed with you as you were with him. No matter how many times you didn’t want to admit it, you had somehow fallen into Kim Mingyu’s trap once again.
He kissed you again, hungrier this time, as he spread you open with his fingers. You whimpered, but he swallowed it with his tongue and began to rub tight circles on your clit. Your leg lifted, hooking onto his waist, and you bucked against his hand. Your body felt like it was on fire, but Mingyu was careful, plucking your strings like a guitar, and you needed moremoremore. Pushing two fingers inside of you, his kiss was like a sound barrier as he consumed all your sweet sounds, as if that would allow him to hear them forever.
It was only when you came apart that he dragged his lips to your neck, wanting to focus on your moans as he fucked you with his fingers. He felt you shake, your pussy squeezing his thick fingers, and he kept rubbing your clit through it, wanting to prolong your orgasm as much as possible. If not for you, then for him, just so he could hear you. He would make you cum as many times as you wanted if it meant he could hear his name falling from your lips.
Neither of you wanted to stop; all fumbling hands and shaky limbs as he finally tugged your shorts off. It was a lot more difficult to take off his boxers without separating from you, but you laughed and you were so pretty that he almost forgot what he was doing in the first place. Once he was situated, you rolled on top of him, straddling his lap. You held his face in your hands, and for a moment, you could almost see reflections of the dark ocean outside in his starry gaze. Your palms drifted down, fingertips tracing the hard panes of his chest. He was all muscle, sculpted like your very own David statue; his complexion so similar to golden hour personified.
You lifted your t-shirt off and tossed it onto the floor. Mingyu was already so hard that it hurt, but he took a few more seconds to stare at you. He wanted to remember this moment forever: the sight of you on top of him, naked and vulnerable, hair wet and a faint blush on your cheeks.
Sitting up on your knees, you positioned yourself right over his cock and gripped the shaft to get the perfect angle inside of you. You were looking at him and he was looking at you as you lowered yourself slightly, grazing his tip against your wet slit, still dripping from your previous orgasm. Mingyu groaned at the sensitivity, throwing his head back against the pillow and muttering, “This is so mean.”
“You like when I’m mean,” you giggled, repeating the same words you uttered that fateful night after Chan’s wedding, when Mingyu’s face was buried between your thighs.
And Mingyu recognized it too, a grin making it’s way to his lips. But that was soon replaced by look of complete bliss as you finally sunk down onto his cock. He was the perfect size, filling you just right but never uncomfortable. He gave you a moment to adjust, but you could tell from his white-knuckled grip on your hips that he was damn near fighting the urge to thrust up into you. He didn’t though. He was patient and perfect and all yours.
You anchored yourself to him with one hand on his shoulder, beginning to rock into him at a snail’s pace. Your eyes connected, and even as he moaned underneath you, he was unable to stop smiling. Mingyu let you set the pace, and you took your time, getting to know what speed had him pulling your hips harder. The angle had him buried so deep inside that you could practically feel him in your stomach, and you sighed each time as you moved against him.
“Fuck,” he whined, shifting to sit up against the headboard. “I’ve needed you so bad.”
“I know, I know,” you confessed in a breathy whimper. “Me too.”
He was digging his fingers into your hips so hard that you were sure there’d be marks, but you didn’t care right now. You just wanted him, wanted this. Wanted to be this connected to him and feel him this deep and cum together as the waves crashed against the shore outside. He began to move you on his own accord, bouncing you on his cock as he leaned forward to nip and suck at your neck. “So pretty,” he mused against your skin, breath stuttering as your walls tightened. “So pretty sitting on my cock.”
You were the one whining now, raking your fingers into his dark strands as your thigh muscles burned. Your breasts jumped with each slam of his hips against yours, and he planted hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat, dipping his tongue into your collarbone, before latching his mouth around one of your nipples.
Your hands pulled at his hair. “Mingyu, please,” you cooed, not exactly sure what you were begging for. Just moremoremore.
His eyes lifted to yours and you watched him fucking smile while tugging at your nipple. You were melting like putty, and he was able to still move you with one hand, using his free one to cup your other breast and run his thumb over that nipple. Tears pricked at your eyes, feeling him pulse inside you with each pass. And when he started to thrust up into you, you were pretty sure that you were close to seeing stars.
“Wanna cum with you,” he rasped while switching breasts and flicking his tongue over your other nipple. “Please, wanna cum inside you.”
You nodded, too cock drunk to say anything besides, “Yesyesyes.”
He was rolling your hips now, practically rutting into you as he lifted his head from your chest, leaving a trail of spit. You leaned down and let his lips ghost over yours. Moans slipped from your mouth into his, and he was bouncing you on his cock so fast you almost couldn’t register to breathe. His breath was hot against your lips, so close he could feel his body shaking, but he needed you to be closer, needed to feel you tightened around him and milk him for everything he was worth.
Snaking a hand between your bodies, he found your clit easily, knowing your body better than anyone ever had. All you could hear in that moment was the sound of the ocean through your screen door and skin slapping against skin. You were so wet and warm and – shit, you were starting to clench around him. He rolled your clit between two fingers, and a whimper slipped out of his mouth when he felt your pussy clamp around his throbbing cock.
He needed to cum and so did you and – fuck, he could feel it, feel you, feel how deep he was inside.
He would do this forever if you asked.
“Fuck, Mingyu, oh my god, right there, right there –” You pleaded in his ear, feeling yourself tip right over that edge –
Then you were cumming.
And so was he.
You moaned his name like it was a prayer, shattering as you came undone. Your walls were squeezing him like a vice, and he was unable to hold himself back anymore, burying himself to the hilt before painting your insides white with his orgasm. Hips jerked, bodies went taunt. You felt your whole being dissolve into nothing but pleasure, molding yourself to him in his arms. When the rush of warmth started to fade and he felt your combined releases seep from between your thighs, he breathed out a sigh of relief, brushing kisses over your jaw.
You weren’t sure you were in your right mind. Everything was so hazy. But you didn’t want to move away just yet. Even when his cock started to go soft inside of you, you stayed connected to him, pushing his hair back from his forehead and whispering praises in his ear like, “You were so good … So good to me … My Mingyu … I’ve always been yours …” You could feel him smiling against your skin, his hands tracing circles on your lower back.
But as time seemed to stop and you felt peace for the first time in a while, you realized just how deep you had fallen. You were drowning in him.
Mingyu had wanted to tell you that it felt exactly like his dreams. If you were drowning in him, he had already sunk to the bottom a long time ago.
Save the Date for the wedding of Nathan Chaney and Your Mother: September 5th
Your mother was remarrying. Her and Nathan had been together since you went off to college, and then got engaged just a year after you graduated. They decided on a long engagement, choosing to plan out a destination wedding in the Caribbean. You thought it was crazy at first, but then your mother said, “If this is going to be my last wedding – and it is – I want to go out with a bang.” You couldn’t exactly blame her. After your dad had cheated and the divorce was finalized, you knew your mother deserved something like this. She deserved the world.
When she had called you just a week before the wedding, babbling on about who you were possibly bringing now that your ex was completely out of the picture, you paused. Holding the phone to your ear and watering one of your half-dead plants with the other, you said, “I’m … I’m going with Mingyu.”
“Vernon?” She asked, not believing what you said.
“Mingyu.”
“Like … the Mingyu from university? The football player?”
You sighed, playing with the dead leaves on the plant. “He was also – and still is – one of Vernon’s good friends.”
“Oh,” your mother said, more surprised than anything. “Well, you better watch for Nathan’s sister. If Mingyu looks anything like how I remember from Family Day, she will go buck wild over him.”
“I’ll make sure of it,” you chuckled.
The truth was … you weren’t exactly sure how this wedding was going to go. Ever since the last one, you had been progressively putting more distance between you and Mingyu. Once again. Your last night together had been so real … too real, and you wanted to save yourself from the heartbreak after this wedding when you never saw him again. As much as you hated to admit it, feelings were now involved, seeping into your bloodstream, until your heart thrummed like the sound of his name on your tongue.
Slowly pushing him away … it hurt, but it was better this way. Pain was temporary and so was your arrangement. You knew that going into it, so how did you end up in this mess? You remembered what had happened after Chan’s wedding, the way Mingyu looked at you as he was shotgunning smoke into your mouth and – yeah, you knew exactly how you ended up here.
If you kept telling yourself this was for the better, maybe you’d start believing it. Maybe your feelings would drift like smoke and your mother’s wedding would be a final farewell before you two went your separate ways.
But you had been doing that for a month now.
And those feelings refused to fade.
You had an early morning flight the day of your mother’s wedding. Typically, you wouldn’t be getting to a destination wedding on such short notice, but the ceremony was small. So small your mother refused to have a rehearsal dinner and no bridal party. It was about her and Nathan, and you had to respect that she was doing things her way this time around.
You had waited at your gate right before doors closed for Mingyu, since you were on the same flight. But he was clearly running late and you were much too awkward around him now to text him. So you finally got on the plane and found your seat, noticing the one seat in the back still left unoccupied. Once you had landed five hours later, you quickly headed to the hotel that Nathan had booked for the ceremony and reception. Your phone lit up as you hailed a ride.
Mingyu: I’m sorry, I got a new flight
Mingyu: I’ll be there just 2 hours after you land
Mingyu: I’ll make it for the ceremony. I promise
Feeling his anxiety radiate through your phone, you believed him, and then wondered if maybe this was a blessing in disguise. You were rewarded a few more hours of alone time before you had your last hurrah with Mingyu. Maybe if you buried your feelings deep enough, you wouldn’t tense up the second you saw his face. Maybe if you didn’t look into his eyes, you wouldn’t have the urge to kiss him. Or let him hold your hand. Or spread your legs to welcome him inside –
You dropped your lipgloss onto the bathroom counter, sick of your own thoughts. Your square-neck, baby blue dress was clinging to every curve, but you felt like you were being suffocated by the fabric. You had just finished doing your hair and makeup, but you couldn’t quite keep your thoughts at bay. Nerves batted against your skull, making your hands shake slightly. What would you do once Mingyu walked in? Would you avoid his stare? Would you tell him immediately how much you liked him and how this wouldn’t work out and you knew you set yourself up for heartbreak –
Maybe you needed a walk.
Grabbing a spare pair of sandals, you headed outside to walk the beach just along the grounds of the hotel. There was still an hour before the ceremony, and you could just see the planners putting finishing touches on the decorations laid out on the shore, where your mother wanted it to take place. Couples were still walking through the water. Kids were making sand castles. The sun was slowly beginning to set and the breeze was whipping your hair off your shoulders.
And you smiled, despite everything you were feeling. Because where there was an end, there would always be a new beginning.
“HEY!”
You spun around, your sandals sinking into the sand. Although you recognized his voice, the last thing you expected to see was Kim Mingyu running towards you in his pristine black tux, his tie loose around his neck and blowing in the breeze. It was like something out of a movie, the kind of movie where there was supposed to be a happy ending, but you knew you weren’t afforded luck like that in real life.
He stopped in front of you, running a hand through his hair. Sand sprinkled down the tops of his shoes.
“When did you get here?” You raised a brow.
“About twenty minutes ago. I flew in my tux because I figured I wouldn’t have enough time to change. But now it just kind of smells like …” He lifted the sleeve to his nose and inhaled. “Like peanuts and old plastic.”
You giggled, holding a hand to your mouth and just … staring at him. He was smiling at you, fangs poking out from under his top lip. His skin was even prettier in the sunset. His hair, despite the messy texture, was effortless and perfect. He embodied sunshine in its purest form.
“Well, you …” You looked to the water, your hands flexing at your sides. “You didn’t need to come find me out here.”
His voice was sweet, soft, like fresh sheets, when he replied, “Yes, I did.” His hand reached out a little, attempting to lace your fingers together, but he stuffed them in his pockets instead. “When I was wondering where you’d be, I remembered something you said to me in college … Do you remember Move-In Day of junior year when we had that bonfire with Vernon and a few other people? You really didn’t enjoy my company back then, but I sat next to you because you agreed to sharing that god awful cheap vodka we used to like.” He laughed when you grimaced. “We got to talking and I asked you, ‘If you could be anywhere right now, where would you be?’ And you said something like, ‘I want to be walking on a beach. I’ve always felt the most calm with my toes in wet sand.’”
You blinked, wondering if you had heard him right. He … how did he … “You remember that?”
“I remember a lot of things.”
And there he was, reaching out again and brave enough to brush his fingers over your knuckles. You looked down, watching his hand interlock with yours, and his palms were balmy and calloused. They felt familiar, like home. And you simply couldn’t believe that you had deprived yourself of this.
“Did you mean it when you said, ‘I’ve always been yours?’”
Your head snapped up, tsking under your breath. Hand still intertwined with his, you pushed a lock of hair behind your ear. “You came all the way out here to ask me that?” You asked, flustered and agitated.
His brow shot up. “So that’s a yes then?”
Your mouth opened, but then closed when you realized that he caught you.
He added, his voice like velvet again, “Then why are you avoiding me? I can sense it.”
“Well, if you’re that sensitive to other people’s feelings than I guess that –” You paused, taking a deep breath as you gathered yourself. Your ears reddened. “Look, I think it’s pretty obvious that I’ve … I like you. A lot. But having feelings for you would be so messy. The last time I went through this, we hooked up and you hardly spoke to me after.”
Mingyu’s brow furrowed. “That was years ago.”
“You know how uncommitted you’ve always been,” you quickly remarked, even though you didn’t fully believe those words anymore. “Weren’t you the one that told me at the start of this that men never really grow up?”
His eyes narrowed a little. “Are you playing psychological warfare with me right now?”
Slipping your fingers away from his, you shrugged. “Maybe.”
“I’ve been your date to five weddings this year. It wasn’t just about losing some bet. I did it for you.” He stared at you incredulously. “Are you really going to hold me to a mistake I made six years ago? When I was a shitty 22-year-old that was terrified to tell the girl I liked for years that I was interested in her?”
“I never … I never thought you liked me back then.”
Mingyu’s gaze softened, and he tucked another curl behind your ear that blew in the wind. “I made you believe that I didn’t because it was easier than admitting my feelings. I was terrified of rejection. And an idiot.”
You couldn’t help but snort at his comment, but you knew this conversation was far from over. “Well, I …” You rubbed at your nose and turned away from him, facing the water that looked almost sapphire in color. The waves sparkled under the setting sun. “Wedding season is over after this and we can both go back to our normal lives. Vernon won’t flip a lid when he sees me texting you all the time and everything will be back to the way it was. I always prepared for you to just forget about me after this anyway.”
“I love Vernon, but this isn’t about him.” Mingyu stepped forward into your line of vision. “What if I don’t want to go back to the way things were?”
Your eyes flickered to his, and it was his turn to step closer again. His large palm cupped your cheek, his skin always so cozy and inviting that you just had to lean into him. Fingertips traced your brow bone as his gaze lingered on your lips.
“I don’t want to forget about you or never see you again. I want to be around you,” he confessed. “I … want to go on more dates with you. I want to be your date to more than just weddings.”
You hesitated, unraveling and dissecting each word in your head, before you came to the conclusion that … oh, my god, he had feelings for you too. Had you always been this much of an absolute moron?
Getting on your tiptoes, you closed the distance between you two, your lips crashing onto his like the water against the shoreline. Your body almost suctioned to his, bringing him even closer when your arms wound around his neck. He kept that one hand on your cheek, the other splaying on your lower back, like how he always did when he was nervous. But he had nothing to be nervous about, because you liked him and he liked you. The world felt like it was spinning, but also just right, and his tongue was licking into your mouth enough to make you feel breathless. You could do this forever, be this relaxed in his arms, kiss him as if it was only you two in your own world. And as he tugged on your bottom lip to make your breathing heavy, you decided that your dream had become a reality.
When you broke the kiss, your cheeks were definitely flushed, even under the layer of blush you put on. Mingyu grinned, tilting his head as he whispered, “So you have always been mine then?”
“Such a tease sometimes,” you repeated his fateful words from June.
You turned, tugging on his hand playfully as the waves begin to lick at the sand near your feet. “C’mon,” you chuckled. “If we’re late to this wedding, my mom will kill me before I can even think about calling you my boyfriend.”
Mingyu had wanted to ask you to marry him only two years later, and thank god, he finally found the words.
r/aita · @papayadays asked, “aita if i cook a lot of fish dishes because the guy (m25) living next door is constantly streaming and playing games loudly at odd hours?”
ꔮ starring: lando norris x neighbor!reader.
ꔮ word count: 4.4k.
ꔮ includes: romance, humor. mentions of food, blood. set in monaco, rivals to lovers lite, max fewtrell (<3) makes an appearance!!!, open ending.
ꔮ commentary box: my favorite type of reader are the petty ones. thank you, joyce, for letting me breathe life into this one 🐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
You move to Monaco with a suitcase, three pairs of good shoes, and a bruised dream wrapped in bubble wrap. The apartment isn’t yours, technically. It’s your aunt’s. She split for Lisbon and left the keys in your inbox like a lifeline.
Temporary, you tell yourself. A pitstop. A soft landing before the real move to Berlin, or maybe Paris. Somewhere with bookstores that stay open past nine and train stations that hum with poetry. Not a place where every other person looks like a yacht catalog model and wears sunglasses indoors.
But it’s free, and you’re broke, so you unpack.
Your first day? An unmitigated disaster. You get lost on your morning walk and end up at the same roundabout three separate times, each one increasingly humiliating. Your French fails you at the grocery store, where you try to ask for almond milk and accidentally request a marriage license.
Then there’s the glass of water that explodes in your hand while you’re trying to rinse dishes. One shard grazes your thumb, and you watch the blood bloom with the kind of theatrical sadness that makes you laugh out loud in an empty kitchen.
By evening, you just want a single conversation that makes sense. You call your best friend. “You wouldn’t believe the day I—” you start, but the line goes fuzzy.
Then it cuts.
Then it returns just long enough for her to say, “You sound like a blender,” before it dies again.
You hold your phone in your lap, eyes burning. It’s stupid to cry about a call, about a thumb, about almond milk. But it’s never about just that, is it?
You crawl into bed, sheets unfamiliar and stiff with that just-washed hotel feeling, and you close your eyes.
Then, he speaks.
Through the wall.
A man. British, probably. He laughs, loud and unfiltered, and the laugh turns into commentary. “Alright, alright,” he hollers, “easy win, mate!”
There’s the mechanical click of a controller. The hum of speakers turned up too loud. And him. Always him. Saying something about headshots and revives and how someone named Max is the worst support player in Europe.
You press your pillow over your face.
He doesn’t stop.
He is holding court with a Twitch audience or a Discord server or, frankly, Satan himself, because that’s the only reasonable explanation for this level of volume past midnight.
You turn over. You try every sleeping position known to man. Your body is tired, but your brain is staging a mutiny.
Across the thin apartment wall, your neighbor whoops, “Oh my God, that was sick!”
You hate him.
You haven’t seen his face, don’t know his name, but you hate him with the precision of a sniper. You picture his setup. Ring light. Gaming chair. Probably eats cereal straight from the box. Probably thinks emotional intelligence is knowing when to mute himself.
You sit up, exhausted and vibrating with something that might be rage or might just be the weight of everything. Of being new. Of being rootless. Of being twenty-something and two train rides away from where you thought you’d be.
You think to yourself, My neighbor is public enemy number one.
Somewhere in the next room, as if summoned, he laughs again.
You fall asleep planning revenge in the shape of a mackerel.
You learned early that revenge doesn’t need to be grand or cruel. It doesn’t need fire. Or blood. Or police involvement. It just needs fish and patience.
Your neighbor—the one with the ungodly laugh and the microphone seemingly embedded into his windpipe—turns out to be exactly what you feared: a streamer of some sorts. Loud. Consistent. Trapped in the same five phrases over and over like a man who thinks enthusiasm counts as personality.
“Massive clutch, boys!” he yells one night.
You’re brushing your teeth. Your reflection doesn’t wince anymore. It just stares back, resigned.
You start to recognize his rhythms. He boots up around ten, peaks at one a.m., and winds down just shy of dawn. You hear every lezgooooo. Every backhanded insult disguised as banter. Every fake laugh with a delay so practiced it should be in the credits.
You get it from the little morning market down by the port, where the old woman with the sharp eyes and the sharper elbows doesn’t judge when you say, “Something that really lingers, please.”
She wraps your fish in yesterday’s sports pages and nods like she’s just knighted you.
You wait. Two nights. Three. And then, on the fourth, the opportunity arises.
He’s at it again.
You’re jolted awake by the sound of crashing digital glass and someone named Alex swearing vengeance over stolen loot. Your eye twitches. Your soul flinches.
You rise.
Barefoot. Silent. Vengeful.
You retrieve the fish from its solemn resting place in your fridge. You unwrap it slowly, ceremonially, like a priest with a grudge. You set the pan on the stove. Add oil. Wait for the sizzle.
Door? Just slightly ajar. You’re not a monster.
The smell hits quickly. The kind that coils through air vents and seeps into memory. Thick. Assertive. Biblical.
You hear him talking.
Then coughing.
Then—“Jesus, what’s that bloody smell?”
You can hear the tinny echo of his stream through the walls. A chorus of confused bros. “Mate, I think something died,” your neighbor complains.
You flip the fish, slow and steady, and for the first time since you moved, you smile.
It is not graceful. It is not healed. But it is something.
There’s a beat of silence before he adds, sounding properly horrified, “I can’t focus. It’s like—like someone deep-fried a sea monster.”
You stifle a laugh.
Another beat.
And then—
“I just threw that round because I couldn’t stop gagging. What the fuck.”
You close your eyes. You breathe in deeply, the scent of your petty, fishy triumph. You feel, for the first time since arriving, like you might survive here.
In the quiet that follows his sudden log-off, you hear something almost tender: the sound of yourself exhaling.
The routine is nauseating and vicious.
Midnight strikes, his headset clicks on, and your stove follows like a soldier obeying orders. You rotate your menu with a quiet, vengeful pride. Mackerel. Bluefish. Herring. The holy trinity of domestic warfare.
Your fridge smells like the Atlantic. You have Tupperware stacked with leftovers that no amount of lemon can redeem. Your clothes faintly reek of brine. Your hallway smells like Poseidon lost a bet.
You blow half your salary on scented oils and humidifiers. It doesn’t matter.
When you hear his stream stutter, when his voice rises an octave mid-sentence, when he lets out a full-body cough on air—you feel something click into place. Not joy, exactly. But electricity, petty vindication. A pulse under your skin.
You’re alive. You’re here. You matter, at least to the man slowly losing his KD ratio to anchovy fumes.
And so are you really that surprised when the letters start?
You find the first one in your mailbox, scrawled on a curling Post-It in handwriting so bad it looks forged by a raccoon.
Please stop cooking fish.
No greeting. No signature. Just a room number: 4B.
Your neighbor.
You laugh. Out loud. Alone.
You grab a pen, flip the Post-It, and write:
Please stop streaming like you’re commentating a demolition derby.
You slip it into his box with the kind of rigor that would make your childhood piano teacher weep. He responds two days later. New Post-It. Different color. Same aggressive penmanship.
You’re ruining my career. I had a sponsorship stream. I nearly vomited mid-Raid.
None of those words make sense or, frankly, matter to you. You write back:
You’re ruining my circadian rhythm. I nearly cried brushing my teeth.
The great war escalates.
Buy a fan, you write once. Or a conscience.
Buy soundproofing, he shoots back. Or a soul.
This is harassment.
This is performance art.
No names. Just numbers. 4A. 4B. Scrawled like rival graffiti tags across increasingly creative stationery. Napkins. Magazine margins. Once, the back of a takeout menu.
You keep them all.
You don’t know why.
Maybe because his handwriting is getting better. Or maybe yours is getting worse. Maybe because his notes are still angry, but the barbs are getting softer. He adds a ‘please’ once. You add a smiley face, very small, like a glitch in the matrix.
It stops being war and starts being—something else.
You still cook. He still streams. The stakes have changed, though. It’s less about triumph now, and more about tension. A taut little thread stretched between your walls.
He says nothing, but one night you hear his laugh falter. Just once. Like he’s smiling at something off-mic. Probably this morning’s Post-It, where you proclaimed you would have him arrested for having the world’s most obnoxious giggle.
You don’t know why your chest goes warm.
You open your fridge. There’s herring, wrapped in foil.
You leave it there. Just for tonight.
Three days later, you’re at the grocery store, waging war with the top shelf.
The cereal you want is just out of reach, wedged between some fancy muesli and a box that promises to change your digestive life forever. You rise on tiptoes. Stretch. Swear under your breath. Contemplate climbing the shelf and dying dramatically in aisle four.
“Need a hand?”
The voice is warm, accented, familiar in a way that makes your stomach tilt. You turn.
He’s tall. British. Hoodie up, sunglasses on like he’s either famous or afraid of fluorescent lighting. Curly hair peeks out at the edges. His smile is quick, polite, and somehow bashful.
You nod, startled. “Yeah, sorry. It’s always the stupid cereal.”
He grabs the box and hands it to you. Your fingers brush. You try not to make it a moment. “Thanks,” you say simply.
He just nods. A twitch of his lips, the shadow of something amused.
You think that’s it—a blink-and-miss-it kindness—but then he reappears in the produce section. Holding a single banana like it’s a business decision. Then again in frozen foods, squinting at ice cream like it might reveal a secret.
And again, finally, in line. In front of you. Holding his sad little haul: oat milk, bananas, a chocolate bar.
You place your basket behind his and say, “That’s a bachelor’s cart if I’ve ever seen one.”
He glances over his shoulder, guarded, but snorts when he sees it’s just you. “Guilty,” he chirps. “You, uh—planning a dinner party for all the pescetarians of Monaco?”
You glance at your cart. Fish. Fish. More fish. Lemons. You smile. “Just making enemies.”
He raises a brow, intrigued, but he doesn’t press. Instead, his gaze dips to the chocolates near the register. “These are rubbish, aren’t they?”
“They are,” you say, “but they’re cheap and I’m sentimental.”
He grins. Something slow and crooked. “Story of my life.”
You reach for a bar and toss it into your cart. Then, like it matters, like it might matter more than you want to admit, you offer your name.
He freezes. Not in a dramatic way. Just a flicker. Barely noticeable. Social norms call for him to give his name back, but it looks like he’s about to make you work for it. “You don’t know who I am?” he asks, head tilted, almost cautious.
You squint. “Should I?”
He shrugs, trying to make it look casual. “Just… most people do. Eventually.”
You gesture at his hoodie and shades. “You’re going very hard on the international man of mystery look.”
That earns a laugh. Light, genuine, like it surprises him a little. He steps up, pays for his things. The cashier doesn’t blink, and you wonder if Monaco’s grocery clerks are trained to ignore famous people. Or maybe she just doesn’t care.
He picks up his tote bag, turns halfway back toward you. “Nice to meet you,” he says, name still unspoken.
His eyes flick down to your cart again. “Hope your neighbor likes fish,” he adds as a final jab, his lips somewhere between a smile and a grimace.
Then he’s gone.
Out the door. Into sunlight.
You stand there with your cereal and your vengeance and a chocolate bar that suddenly feels a little more romantic than cheap. You try to forget about the romcom-ness of it all, which isn’t all that hard.
Especially when your neighbor starts streaming again that night.
You hear it the second you roll over in bed and your cheek sticks to the pillow in that cursed way it does when you’re halfway between dreams and rage. The voice booms through the wall like clockwork, but this time, there’s a second one.
Lower. Calmer. With an accent you can’t quite place and the voice of someone who would absolutely win in a hostage negotiation. “Max, you’re such a tryhard,” your neighbor groans.
Max mumbles something in return. You can’t hear the words, but you can hear the smirk. They’re good together. The kind of good that only comes from years of knowing exactly how to get on each other’s nerves without ever actually bruising anything.
You throw the blanket off with the grace of a corpse rising from the dead.
You consider the herring. You even go as far as opening the fridge. But it doesn’t feel worth it. Not tonight. Not when the noise is less a scream and more a low, persistent thrum.
So instead, you grab a Post-It.
Your pen hovers for a second. You’re too tired to be clever, too annoyed to be poetic.
Some of us sleep. Just a thought.
You shuffle to the hallway, drop the note to the floor, and slide it under 4B’s door. No drama. No ceremony. You’re tucking yourself back into bed when Max’s voice cuts through the wall. “Hey, Lan. You got mail.”
A pause. Some shuffling. Then a laugh. Unmistakably from the bane of your existence.
Your neighbor again, amused: “It’s from 4A. This is basically a love letter.”
You roll your eyes so hard it might count as cardio.
“You two got a little thing going, huh?” Max huffs.
“It’s a game,” your neighbor says. “A little fishy cold war. Very romantic.”
There’s a clatter of something—a chair being kicked, maybe. And then your neighbor’s voice softens, like it always does when he’s trying not to seem like he’s trying. “Alright. I’ll keep it down,” he says.
Not to Max. Not to the stream. To you. Probably.
He does.
The rest of the night is quieter. Not silent. Just gentle. Muffled laughter, low voices, the occasional rustle of something plastic.
But you can’t sleep. Not because it’s loud, but because you caught something else. Hey, Lan.
A name.
Lan.
You say it once in your head. Just to try it. You’ve named your enemy now. Sort of.
You lie there, awake, holding the syllable in your mouth like it might mean more than it should.
Lan.
The name sticks.
It loops around your mind like a lyric you didn’t mean to memorize. You think about it brushing your teeth. Folding laundry. Stirring rice. It hums in the back of your head, louder than any of his streams. More persistent than his dumb laugh.
You wonder if that’s what Max calls him. If that’s what everyone calls him. If he signs hotel check-ins with it or introduces himself that way on streams or if he only ever lets certain people use it.
Whatever it is, you and Lan have now abandoned all pretense of civility. The mailbox game is over.
Now it’s Post-Its under the door, no shame, no waiting. You slide one under when his voice gets too loud. He returns fire when your fish leaks into the hallway. It’s not war anymore. It’s not not war. It’s something else.
A little dance. A game where neither of you know the rules, but you’re both still playing.
One afternoon, you’re juggling three paper bags and a box of laundry detergent in the apartment elevator. You’ve pressed your back to the wall, trying to breathe through the feeling that your arms might just abandon you, when the doors creak open. “Whoa,” someone says. “You need a hand?”
He’s all clean curls and clear eyes, baby-faced in a way that makes you think he’s either younger than he looks or has very good skin habits. His sweatshirt reads Quadrant in big letters across the chest. His duffel bag has the same logo.
He steps in before you can protest and grabs one of the bags from your arm.
“Thanks,” you say, a little breathless. “You don’t live here, do you?”
“Nah,” he replies, grinning. “Just visiting a mate.”
You nod, adjusting the detergent. Small talk is pretty mandatory when the other person is helping you with your groceries. “Nice,” you respond. “You from the UK?”
“Guilty,” he says. “I’m Max, by the way.”
Max. As in Max, you’re such a tryhard-Max. As in Max who said Hey, Lan with the comfort of a best friend.
Your brain stutters. Trips. Goes cold and still. You flinch, almost visibly. You don’t offer your name.
He doesn’t notice, too busy glancing at the elevator numbers. You scramble for a lifeline, something to say that doesn’t immediately tie you to 4A. To the fish. To the Post-Its. To the sleepless nights spent writing anonymous venom and then rereading it like scripture.
“I—I actually forgot my keys,” you blurt out as the elevator doors slide open. “Think I’ll just run back to the lobby.”
You’re already halfway out the doors when Max turns, still holding your groceries. “Wait, do you want me to—”
But you wave him off, doing your best impression of someone not about to spiral. “Just leave it by the floor!” you yell back, making a run for it.
You hide in the stairwell. You wait, then you peek. Max, although confused, does as you asked; he leaves your groceries on the floor by the elevator before walking down the hall.
Right to 4B.
You curse under your breath. You watch him enter with a spare key, and then you wait a full five minutes. You sprint, grab your groceries, and fumble with everything for a full minute.
Door. Key. Lock. Twist.
Inside your apartment, you collapse against the door, heart pounding like you just committed an actual crime. You feel ridiculous.
You also feel something else. Something weirdly like grief.
For what, you don’t know. Maybe for coming close to the possibility of putting a face to the name. Monaco has been lonely in that I’m-just-passing-through way, and you’ve wondered if knowing your neighbor—actually knowing them, beyond the warfare—would ease that ache. You’ve yet to meet him. You’re not sure if you ever will. But you’ve met his best friend, and you try to let that be enough.
Come Monday, you find that you’re not okay.
You have a job interview tomorrow—real job, real stakes, real money that could pay for food that is not fish and therapy—and your brain has decided to stage a coup. Your apartment is a mess. You’ve gone over your answers a hundred times. You’re sweating in places that shouldn’t sweat. Your blazer has a suspicious stain on the inside hem and you’ve just realized you might not know how to tie the scarf you planned to wear.
And next door, Lan is streaming again.
Loud. Oblivious. Laughing in that way he does when he’s not trying to be charming but kind of is.
You sit on your couch, holding a mug of tea that’s gone cold, feeling like a deflated mascot costume. No fish tonight. No energy for spite. You just want silence. You just want sleep. You want tomorrow to come and not completely ruin you.
So you do something you haven’t done before.
You knock at the wall.
Not hard. Just three fingers to the wall. Firm. Sharp.
A pause. Then Lan’s voice, slightly muffled but still infuriatingly warm: “Hang on, chat. Be right back.”
Shuffling. SIlence.
Then, through the wall: “Hey, neighbor. You okay?”
It’s the first time he’s properly addressed you. He sounds close, like he’s pressed up right against the wall. You close your eyes and try to imagine how that looks like.
“I have a job interview tomorrow,” you say, voice thin and smaller than you mean it to be. “It’s important. I really need it. So if you could just… I dunno. Let me have this.”
There’s no way you could know, of course, that this is technically the first time Lan has heard you speak. How he’s frozen on his side of the wall, fingers curled over the plaster like he might be able to reach through it and reach you. How he’s realizing that you’re actually a very real person with very real feelings, not just some caricature he’s been exchanging threats with these past weeks.
A beat. Two. You hear him shift. The faint creak of his chair. The hum of his mic.
Then: “Sorry, guys. Gonna call it early tonight. Something came up.”
You stare at the wall, stunned. Not used to getting what you want without some sort of conflict or fish stench. You wait five minutes, then ten. It really has gone quiet. Lan has called it a night, just because you asked.
You lift your hand and tap twice. Thank you.
There’s a pause.
Then two taps back. It sounds a lot like you’re welcome.
The next day is a blur of sweat, strangers, lukewarm coffee, and a delayed bus ride that smells vaguely of onion. The interview went well. Surprisingly well. You said things like strategic alignment and collaborative dynamic and did not throw up on yourself.
You get home exhausted. Starving. Quietly proud. That’s when you see it.
A bouquet of supermarket flowers, taped crookedly to your door. They’re not fancy. A little wilted. The cellophane crackles in the breeze. But they’re trying, and there’s a Post-It stuck to them.
Hope it went well.
Your stomach does something ridiculous.
You take the flowers inside and set them in a glass, because you don’t own a vase. You sit on the floor beside them, still in your interview shoes. You stare at the wall that separates you from him.
The job offer comes on a Wednesday.
London. Real contract. Real benefits. A desk with your name on it and a swipe card that might actually open something important. More than that: an apartment lease that belongs solely to you. Your name on every dotted line. No inherited clutter. No temporary furniture. No fishy feuds with mystery men next door.
You should be thrilled. And you are, mostly. Enough to dance in the kitchen when the email lands. Enough to call your best friend and scream. Enough to finally let your shoulders drop for the first time in months.
But under that: something a little tight. A little strange.
You’ve done well not forming attachments in Monaco. That was the rule you gave yourself from the beginning. Keep it temporary. Keep it light. Don't grow roots in a place that was always meant to be a layover. A waiting room. A pitstop.
Except.
Well.
Your suitcase is zipped and locked. Your boxes are taped with Sharpie scrawls that say things like kitchen stuff and probably important. They’re already downstairs, waiting for the courier. Everything practical is done.
What’s left is not practical.
You’re in your hallway with one last Tupperware, this time not a weapon but a gesture. Sushi, handmade. No cooked fish. No smell. No passive-aggressive message in the form of mackerel oil. Just rice and seaweed and clumsy affection.
You knock.
At first, there’s nothing. Then footsteps. A shuffle. The door cracks open an inch. Lan peers out.
Or rather, the boy from the grocery store does. Hoodie up. Hair a little messy. That same unreadable look in his eyes.
Recognition hits you both like a comedic pratfall. “Oh my God,” he says, pulling the door open fully. “Grocery store girl.”
You stare. “You’re the hoodie guy?”
“And you’re the fish assassin.” He steps fully into the hallway, barefoot and blinking. “Are you stalking me?”
“I live next door,” you deadpan.
A beat. Then it hits him, too. His jaw drops. “You—You’re 4A?”
“And you’re 4B,” you say, like it’s the final piece of some wildly stupid jigsaw puzzle.
You both laugh. The kind that spills out before you can decide whether to stop it. The kind that feels like relief.
There’s a silence, hanging there. A quiet that isn’t awkward. That sits between you like something gentle. You lift the Tupperware.
“I’m moving,” you say. “Thought I’d say goodbye with something less vengeful.”
His smile falters. Not dramatically. But enough. “Moving?”
You nod. “Job in London. New apartment. New walls. Probably thicker ones. No more passive-aggressive Post-Its.”
He takes the sushi, then hesitates. “So… this is it?”
You shrug, trying to keep it light. “Yeah. Don’t worry. You’ll find a new nemesis to annoy.”
“I don’t want a new nemesis,” he says. “I want my fish-scented wall banshee.”
You snort. “Touching. Truly.”
He lifts the lid on the sushi, looking at it like he’s not entirely sure what to do with it. “Full disclosure,” he mutters. “I actually really fucking hate fish.”
“I figured,” you hum, fingers curling around each other so you don’t do something stupid. Like take back the Tupperware and say you’ll make him something better. “You still let me stink up your living space for three months.”
“I didn’t let you,” he counters. “I endured you. With dignity.”
“Barely.”
“True,” he admits, “but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”
And just like that, your chest gets tight again. You both go quiet, standing there in the hallway that always smelled like leftover fish and mild annoyance. Except now it just smells like memory.
You step back, toward your door. “Well. See you around, 4B.”
“See you, 4A.”
You close your door. This is how the story should end.
But five minutes later, there’s a muffled sound. That now-familiar slide of paper against wood. A Post-It, slipped under your door for the last time.
Call me when you get to London. I’m from around there, actually, so I know a thing or two.
There’s a number written beneath it. Black ink. Neat. And, this time, signed with not 4B but with a name.
Lando. You turn it over and over in your head, sifting through all the times you mentally called him Lan and wondered what it was short for.
Lando. Your nightmare of a neighbor. Streamer, grocery store boy, and something else entirely.
You hold his Post-It in your hand longer than necessary. After a long moment, you walk to the wall.
EVE’S 2K CELEBRATION 🎤: you should’ve known going to a party at lando’s frat was a bad idea in the first place …… ft. foolish one by taylor swift, people watching by conan gray
pairing: university!alex albon x university!reader
contents: university au, reader and oscar are resident assistants, rookies and f2 drivers are freshmen in college, suggestive kind of, sprinkles of landoscar, george is an english major and he is There, open-ending
word count: 4.2k
a/n: i am not american so i tried my best to do research on how college residency/resident assistants work but if i got anything wrong kindly ignore it :) this idea came to me in a vision. also shoutout to this environmental engineering project i found and decided to use (fanfiction is wild yall)
dedicated to @2manytabsopen kesh ily thank you for being patient with me and helping me out with this fic <3
You hate move-in day. Which, considering that you willingly signed up to be a Resident Assistant for a second year in a row—well. It’s not great.
You’ve already dodged three parents crying at the entrance of the building, and told off five different students for smoking in their dorms. Oscar likes to call today organized chaos. You call it a headache.
“If you hate being an RA so much, why did you sign up again?” Oscar asks, watching as you staple glittery letters to your MEET YOUR RA bulletin board.
“Reduced housing. Single dorm room. Looks good on a resume,” you say nonchalantly.
Oscar arches a brow. You roll your eyes.
“I don’t hate being an RA. It’s just—move-in day. Almost as bad as syllabus week.” You see a freshman carrying a pile of boxes up the stairs and you can only hope he isn’t as scrawny as he looks. “People haven’t stopped going to class yet or decided to drop out or just… given up. It’s crowded everywhere and everyone moves so slowly. Not to mention all the freshmen come running to me like I’m their mother and not like I have a senior project to work on.”
Oscar has that half-smile that he does whenever he’s amused. You picked up on it last year—back when the two of you first signed up to be RAs for the same floor. “How’s that going, by the way?” he asks, arms folded over his chest.
“Terribly,” you sigh. “An on-site treatment system for wastewater is so much more complex than Professor Vettel made it sound last semester.” You raise your head to look at Oscar, stapling one glittery exclamation point with more force than necessary. “Some days I genuinely think he hates me.”
Oscar huffs a small laugh. “He doesn’t hate you.”
You narrow your eyes. “Tell that to the two separate proposals I have to write on septic systems with leaching fields and subsurface constructed wetlands.” You stare at your board blankly. The T in MEET YOUR RA is crooked. “He wants me dead.”
“At least your bulletin board is looking good,” he offers with a half-shrug.
“I made a Pinterest board for it,” you say, muttering a curse when your stapler locks. “Are you done with yours?”
“Yep.”
“Can I guess what it looks like?” Oscar shrugs, and you smile amusedly. “Construction paper. Sharpie. Maybe one motivational poster from an office supply store.” A laugh scratches against the back of your throat. “I bet you got one with a koala.”
“No,” he responds, a beat too quickly. Oscar doesn’t look fazed—though the red tint of his ears gives him away immediately. He averts his eyes. “It was an eagle poster,” he mutters.
You snort. Last year, he asked you to write everything out in cursive for him. You suppose this could be viewed as a step in the right direction—the fact that he at least had some foresight to decorate his board on his own. Then—you remember. “Hey, aren’t we supposed to be three RAs for our floor this year?” you ask him, finally putting down your stapler. “Where’s number three?”
“He hasn’t decorated yet,” Oscar says, even though that’s not what you asked him. He pulls out his phone from his pocket, turning the screen towards you to show you his messages with a number he’s unceremoniously saved as Resident Assistant #3. “And he texted me, actually. Said there was an issue with his old building, and was called in to help.”
You roll your eyes. “A shitty excuse. And I better not be saved in your phone as Resident Assistant number two.”
Oscar ignores your last comment and pockets his phone. “I told him he could go.” He shrugs. “I mean, it was just us last year. I think we’ll be fine for the day.”
“Yeah, I guess.” You clean your hands against your jeans, accidentally leaving purple glitter on your clothes. “You should at least put up a few fun facts about you on your board.”
He raises a brow, not seeming particularly enthusiastic. “Like what?”
“I don’t know, like—you’re Australian.”
Oscar scrunches his nose. “That’s not a fun fact.”
“It can be.”
He just blinks at you, crease between his brows to show he is not following your train of thought. You don’t have one, so you don’t really care.
You roll your eyes and stand up. Most of your residents should’ve settled in by now. “Is it time for dorm checks?”
“Yep.”
“You really do have a way with words, Oscar.”
Dorm checks go as they should—uneventfully. You give your residents a rundown of the rules—no animals, no smoking, no drinking, no doing anything that could potentially constitute a fire hazard. You’re only missing the last couple of rooms when you decide to ask,
“Hey, are you going to Lando’s tonight?”
Oscar shrugs again, always too nonchalant for you to get a proper read on him. “Lando’s making me. So.”
You grin. “Oooh, he’s making you, is he?”
Oscar rolls his eyes, but before he can say anything, one of the doors you’ve yet to knock on opens and out pops a head of shaggy brown hair. Josep María—Pepe, if you’re not mistaken. He spots you two and gives you a lopsided smile. “Hey, do either of you guys have a lighter?”
Both of you blink at him. The two of you wear matching sticker name tags that read HI! I’M YOUR RA in black marker.
“Smoking is not allowed in the building,” Oscar deadpans.
Pepe blinks once. Twice. You can hear shuffling from inside his dorm. “So… is that a no?”
Oscar narrows his eyes. “Are you smoking in there?”
“…No?”
You shrug, reaching for the sleeve of Oscar’s shirt to pull him onto the next dorm room. “Fine by me.”
He furrows his brows. “What? But he was definitely—”
“Yeah, but if he admits to it, we have to write a report,” you say simply. “And I don’t know about you, but I’m not doing that day one—not when we’re already behind schedule.”
You glance back at Pepe, who’s still looking around the hall to see if he can spot anyone with a light. Freshmen.
“Hey!” He stiffens, turning towards the sound of your voice. “If you burn anything, I will make it my personal mission to make your life a living hell for the rest of the term.” You smile brightly. “Happy move-in day!”
Here’s an honest truth: neither you nor Oscar are big on frat parties. But it’s only the start of the term, and you’re feeling like you want to step out of your comfort zone. That—and Lando’s frat always orders pizza for these things. So, free food.
By the time the two of you step into the party, it’s already in full swing. Somehow, under the violet-turned-red lights and the mass of bodies dancing, Lando manages to spot you the second you two cross the threshold of the house. You distantly hear your name and Oscar’s being called out, before a pair of arms wraps around you and lifts you up into a spin.
“It’s barely ten. How are you drunk already?” you ask Lando as he finally puts you down, green eyes only slightly disoriented and curls tousled.
“We started pregaming at, like, six or seven,” Lando says, turning to Oscar with a pout. “You said you’d be here at seven.”
Oscar shrugs. “Got held back.”
“You always say that,” Lando says, eyes narrowed. Then, as if remembering something, his gaze flicks to you. “Hey—I should warn you.” You raise a brow. “Your dick of an ex is here.”
Annoyance trickles into your skin. “Of course he is,” you say, rolling your eyes. “He spent the entire summer posting stories of him clubbing and partying. So, no surprise there.”
Oscar furrows his brow. “I thought you said you’d blocked him.”
Fuck. “Did I?” Oscar doesn’t seem to buy it, so you figure that if you’ve already been found out, then you might as well… “Where is he?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t—”
“Last I saw, he was busy sucking some poor freshman’s face,” Lando responds, not missing a beat. You wonder whether his filter is gone because he’s not sober, or whether he’s just telling you this because he hates your ex and feels like being messy. “Which is, like, sooo wrong—‘cause she was a ten, and he’s barely a five on a good day.” Lando squints at something from across the room, and you can feel Oscar’s mildly uneasy stare boring into your cheek. You make the executive decision of ignoring it. “Oi—nearly forgot, but I have some friends I want you guys to meet.”
Lando slings his arm over your shoulder, bringing both you and Oscar closer to each side of him as he leads you towards the opposite end of the room. A few guys whose faces seem somewhat familiar nod at Lando.
You think he might be talking to you as Lando clumsily maneuvers the two of you across the room. Either way, his voice gets drowned out somewhere between the music and your quiet deliberation. You decide it then—under the fluorescent lights and the smell of cheap beer, you make your decision. You’re gonna find someone who’s hot. Someone who’s available. For once, you’re gonna have fun before the academic stress of the year catches up to you.
It takes you too long to ground yourself back in reality and realize Lando is halfway through introducing you to a group of people you decidedly do not know.
“—emeber George? He’s the one that accidentally sent that email I told you about to Professor Hamilton.”
The blue-eyed man winces, turning to Lando with an odd expression. “You don’t have to introduce me like that every time, mate.”
“But it’s funny.”
George narrows his eyes. “You’ve done worse things drunk. I know that for a fact.”
“Maybe,” Lando shrugs nonchalantly. “Though nothing my thesis supervisor knows of. Can you say the same, Georgie?”
George mutters something under his breath, hiding his face behind his red solo cup. “I’m never telling you anything again.”
“You will,” Lando chirps. “I have long arms, y’know. Means people see me as trustworthy. ‘Cause I look like I give good hugs.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“I read an article.”
“You mean you saw it on a Tiktok.”
“Don’t patronize me, Russell.”
“Alright, enough out of you two,” a man says, and you only then notice his presence in the circle. You don’t know how you missed him, really—not when he’s tall, has wispy brown hair and a smile already tugging at his lips. His eyes flicker to you for just a second, a breath—and maybe you’re delusional, but you’re certain his gaze sweeps across your frame, checking you out.
“He started it,” George interrupts, scowling.
“He started it,” Lando mocks. “You should get, like, at least a tiny bit plastered, mate. I mean, live a little. Make sure Alex holds onto your phone, though. Wouldn’t want you emailing any other professors.”
“I can’t stand you.”
Lando holds his hands to his chest. “Oh god. I’m devastated. You’ve devastated me.”
The tall guy with the pretty smile rolls his eyes, nudging Lando. He tilts his head to the side. “So, are you not gonna introduce your other friends?”
Lando perks up at that. “Right—always so keen, aren’t you, Alex?”
Alex, you note mentally. His face doesn’t ring a bell—not even now with a name attached to it. Even so, he doesn’t look like a frat boy, which you suppose could be considered a point in his favor.
“—and George you already know Oscar,” Lando finishes, wrapping up introductions. You bring your can of beer to your lips as Lando clasps his hands together. “So! Now that everyone knows each other, I will be taking Oscar with me to the DJ booth. Don’t break anything while I’m gone—and if you do, just… blame it on somebody else.” With that, he promptly reaches for Oscar’s wrist and drags him along.
George, Alex and you all stare at Lando’s retreating frame. You furrow your brows. “Sorry. DJ booth?”
“It’s cardboard boxes with a tablecloth over them,” Alex deadpans, prompting an amused smile from you.
You glance at George, then back at Alex. You tilt your head, vaguely gesturing between the two of them. “So. Did Lando just choose to befriend the two tallest guys he could find in his frat or…?”
Alex snorts, and George instantly looks borderline insulted. “We’re not frat boys,” George clarifies immediately. “Just to be clear.”
Alex gnaws at the inside of his cheek, hiding a smile. “Yeah—no, us and Lando go way back. We knew each other before uni.”
You hum appreciatively. “Not in the same major, then?”
Alex shakes his head, still smiling. “Can you guess?”
You raise a brow. “George is an English major,” you say, and Alex snorts.
“She just called you pretentious, by the way,” Alex says with a nudge.
George furrows his brows. “Wha—but I am an English major.”
Alex throws you a look that reads, can you believe this guy? It makes a smile tug at your lips. He grins. “So, what about me?” You make a face of faux concentration. “If you say Business or Econ, I’m taking it as a personal slight against me.”
You laugh, and Alex seems to perk up at that, eyes brightening. “I wanna say… Engineering?”
Alex shakes his head in a so-so motion. “Computer Science.”
“Oh, you’re one of those.”
George is the one chuckling now, nudging Alex back. “She just called you a nerd—just so you know.”
Alex shrugs, bringing his red plastic cup to his lips. “I’ll take it.”
George glances at something behind you. “Hey—it looks like they’re setting up a beer pong table,” he says.
“I am a notoriously bad shot,” you say, laying down your empty can on some cluttered table. “Let’s do it.”
“Yeah! I knew I liked you,” George says, throwing a smug look at Alex. “Can’t ditch me now, Albon”
Alex rolls his eyes, but starts walking to the peer pong table anyway. “I’m giving all my drinks to George.”
“Fair,” you say with a shrug.
“Wha—no?” George stammers. “Not fair. Not fair at all—I’m supposed to be meeting with Professor Hamilton tomorrow at eight-twenty.”
“Then it’s a good thing he already knows what you sound like when you’re drunk.”
The three of you settle around one half of the table, laughs being shared much to George’s dismay. The plastic cups are already positioned like a triangle as people start to gather around the opposite end of the table.
Then you spot him. Sidling up with the opposite team, your ex-boyfriend has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair messy like someone has been running their hands over it. Even under the shifting fluorescent lights, you’re almost certain you catch a glimpse of lipstick near his neck.
Your stomach drops. He sees you a beat later, recognition dripping with a smugness that grates at you. Lando’s right—he is a prick.
Alex gently nudges your side. “Hey,” he says, a little cautiously. His brows are furrowed, and a reckless part of you considers running your thumb over his skin to smooth it over. Maybe you’re drunker than you thought. “You good?”
Your jaw twitches, making an active effort to avoid looking back in your ex’s direction. “Great,” you say, a little too dry.
You made a promise to yourself. You were gonna find someone hot. Someone who’s actually your type and can serve as a big, neon-lit Fuck You to your ex.
You glance at Alex just as he jumps up to celebrate scoring against the opposite team. He’s cute. Has a nice smile, a pretty face—he even has a matching humor to go alongside it. More so—he’s been glancing in your direction like you’re not picking up on it.
You miss your shot once again, throwing your head back with thinly veiled annoyance. Alex just watches you, amusement dancing in those dark brown eyes. “You weren’t kidding when you said you were a bad shot, huh?” he teases.
“Hey,” you say, no sharpness to your tone. “I warned you.”
He shakes his head, smiling. It’s the other team’s turn—and despite currently winning by a clear margin, they seem to be noticeably slower at turn-taking than your team.
You turn to face Alex completely now, tilting your head. Out of the corner of your eye, you think you spot your ex glancing in your direction. “So, what’s your deal?” you ask, and Alex arches a brow questioningly. “Are you seeing anyone?”
Alex actually laughs before he has the chance to look surprised at your newfound boldness. “Straight to the point, huh?”
“Please,” you respond with a good-natured roll of your eyes. You blink, and your hand is nudging against his on the pingpong table. Distantly, you think the other team messes up their shot. “You’re acting like you haven’t been checking me out since Lando introduced us.” You shrug, coy. “You’re not exactly subtle.”
Alex’s tongue swipes along his bottom lip. He looks confident, but you don’t miss his sharp inhale. “I wasn’t going for subtle,” he says.
You hum. “Hey,” you say, and this time, you fully reach for his hand, interlacing your fingers with his. You tilt your head towards the kitchen area. “Wanna go with me to refill my drink?”
Alex grins. “Sure.”
The two of you are already walking away when George calls out, “You’re ditching the team now?”
Alex doesn’t even blink. “You’ll manage, George.”
“This isn’t very sportsmanlike!”
You reach the kitchen faster than you should’ve, with Alex guiding you across the crowds of people dancing and grinding on each other. The carpeted floor already feels wet with what you can only hope is spilled beer.
As soon as you reach the kitchen, the music seems to dull into the background. He turns to face you as you casually press your back against the counter. His eyes are alight with mirth when he asks, “So, what do you wanna drink? I think I saw a few Redbulls, Whiteclaws, maybe some vodka—”
You raise a brow. There’s a playfulness to his tone that tells you he’s playing dumb, acting like he doesn’t know this was an excuse—like you haven’t caught him staring at your lips for most of the night. Like he hasn’t pretended not to notice when you did the same. “You think you’re cute,” you say.
“I think you’re hot.”
You tilt your head, ignoring the way his comment makes something warm curl around your gut. Even when he’s leaning closer to you, he seems hesitant—as if making sure whether there’s an excuse to keep some distance between the two of you.
Tonight, however, you’re feeling particularly impatient.
“Are you gonna do anything about it?”
Alex thinks he’s the one that leans in first. You’re sure it’s you. Either way, the result is the same—his lips on your lips, tongue swiping against yours. He licks into your mouth, eager.
Still, the angle feels odd. And even with his hand finding its way on your hip, you can tell he’s craning his neck at a weird angle.
Alex mutters something against your lips, something you don’t manage to catch, before both his hands are wrapping around your thighs and he’s pulling you up onto the counter. You make a surprised sound that he swallows with a pleased hum.
“Much better,” he says, now on eye-level with you. And there’s that smile again—self-satisfied, maybe a little cocky, but softer at the edges.
You press your lips against his with a smile. “You’re cute,” you murmur into him, and you feel the exact moment those words register in his brain. How, in a blink, he seems to melt into you.
Your arms wrap around his neck, fingers absentmindedly toying with his hair. He’s gentle, which you respond to by grazing his bottom lip with your teeth. He lets out a sound into your mouth that fuels you. His hands still rest against the side of your thighs as you bracket him between them.
Alex pulls away for a second—just a second—but it’s enough for you to catch a glimpse of his blown-wide pupils. You blink, and his kisses are trailing down to the slope between your shoulder and neck. He gently brushes away your hair, finally settling over your pulse point.
You inhale sharply as he nips at your neck. He laughs quietly against your skin, and you can feel his smug smile as he kisses the spot.
“I have a meeting tomorrow morning with my building,” you say, voice coming out like a bit of a whine as your hand tugs at Alex’s hair to make him face you. His lips look kiss-swollen and bruised. “If you leave a hickey, I’m giving you a matching one, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Alex responds breathlessly, and he leans closer to chase your mouth again.
“Someone needs to turn off the sun.”
You meet Oscar in the hallway, squinty-eyed with pillow marks still indented into his skin. He looks like he got run over by a truck. You imagine you’re not that better off.
“I feel like my ears are still ringing,” you mutter, falling into easy stride with him. You wince, ear drums blasted from last night. You mentally decide that if you lose your hearing by your thirties, Lando’s gonna be footing the bill.
The meeting room
“Yeah,” Oscar says, voice rough with sleep—or lack thereof. “Feels like I barely saw you last night, though.”
You shrug as the two of you get on the elevator. Oscar pushes the button for the residence hall’s lounge. “Yeah. I got… busy,” you say vaguely.
“Busy?” Oscar asks, raising a brow. He turns to face you, and his eyes widen as he catches a glimpse of something in the elevator mirror. “Fuck me, was he trying to eat you?”
You furrow your brows and turn to him, confused. “What?”
Oscar gestures at the mirror. “Your neck. You have this, like—” You scan your reflection, catching sight of the blaring purple mark sitting on the slope of your neck just as Oscar lands on, “You have a hickey.”
“Fucking…” you trail off, letting down your hair in an attempt to cover it. It’s not like you can run back to your dorm and get your concealer. You can’t be an RA and be late to your first floor meeting with your residents. “Is it too obvious?”
Oscar blinks. “I mean. It’s not subtle.”
“Fuck.” What are the chances that the third RA carries concealer or a foundation that’s similar to yours? You fix your hair again, untucking it from behind your ear and pulling the collar of your shirt further up. It’s a poor attempt at hiding it.
“At least tell me it wasn’t him,” Oscar says.
“It wasn’t,” you shoot back.
“Someone I know, then?”
You sigh as the elevator doors slide open with a ding. “Lando’s friend. Alex. You know—one of the two tall guys you left me with when you ditched me for Lando?” Oscar’s brows shoot up. “What?”
“I don’t know. Guess I didn’t think Lando’s friends were… your type.” He considers it for a moment. “Though based on your previous relationships, I could see how that tracks.”
“Fuck off,” you say lightly, shoving him to the side. “He wasn’t like, a frat boy or anything.”
“Uh-huh,” Oscar says, unconvinced.
“I mean it!” you insist. “Besides, it wasn’t like it was serious. Like, yeah, he was cute. But I’m probably never gonna see him again, anyway.”
The two of you stride into the lounge side-by-side. Chairs have already been arranged into a neat circle, a plastic plate with oreos and off-brand cookies placed at a table by the corner.
The guy arranging the last chair into place turns around. Brown eyes meet your gaze. Your blood runs cold.
He looks more put-together than both you or Oscar. His hair is still tousled, but there’s a certain charm to it. What draws your eye, however, is the matching purple mark resting on his neck.
“Um,” Alex stammers, blinking at you like he’s expecting you to vanish the next time he closes his eyes. “Are you one of my residents?”
Oscar pauses. Tilts his head. Realizes. “Isn’t that the guy you—”
“You’re the other RA,” you say dumbly. Alex’s eyes drop to the sticker name tags on both you and Oscar’s chests. The ones that read HI! I’M YOUR RA.
summary: loving a writer is a dangerous game, and carlos sainz is reminded of it when the dedication of your new book throws him back to every summer you ever shared, and the bitter end of them all. ✷ IVY'S POETRY DEPARTMENT EVENT: « although i may not be yours, i could never be another's. »
F1 MASTERLIST | CS55 MASTERLIST
pairing: carlos sainz x romance writer!reader
wordcount: 7.2K
content: summer romance, breakup, takes place from 2016 to 2021, implied smut, loosely inspired by beach read by emily henry, bittersweet, ambiguous relationship status, inacurrate timeline/events, open ending, not proofread.
note: requested here! i wasn't kidding when i said i love writing summer romances. carlos sainz you are the epitome of a book mmc. i finished this out of spite and i hate it, which is why it took so long to get out, but thanks @sunsetcupid for sticking with me for the highs and lows of the writing process and reading through it. ‹𝟹
♫ us. - gracie abrams ft taylor swift
THE INTERVIEWER ASKS about what Carlos enjoys doing outside of motorsports, and the answer is rehearsed.
Carlos Sainz is a man of many hobbies. Racing, of course, dominates his life—he had been born in a legacy of burnt asphalt, it only made sense for him to bleed checkered. He’s a man who enjoys sports: padel with friends on week-ends when their hectic calendars allowed it, he could appreciate a boxing match here and there as a spectator, liked surfing when the weather was right and the waves were kind, and, later in life, he would take up golf. Outside of all movements, Carlos found comfort in good music, the kind with low, rumbling rhythm and gravelly guitar chords he would hum under his breath as a kid. He liked old movies too, the ones with seductive charm and grainy black-and-white frames that felt like diving into a memory.
Yet, amidst all the various things he enjoyed, Carlos Sainz had never been much of a reader.
It’s not that he didn’t like reading—he could get around it—but he just never had the time. As a child, karting consumed him too much to think about anything else. There were a few stray books, Percy Jackson maybe, when all of his classmates were raving about them. But he never learned to let himself get lost in pages. He never had the stillness for it—not with the life he grew up in. The erratic rhythm of racing didn’t leave space for leisurely afternoons, thin paper slipping between fingers, and other worlds unfolding in quiet.
Except once a year.
There was a place, tucked away like a whispered secret in the south of Spain, where time didn’t tick the same. There, the sun kissed his skin with soft acknowledgment. The air smelled faintly of vanilla and light florals. And there, he read.
But he doesn’t like to think about it. So when the interviewer asks about books, Carlos only shrugs and says he’s not much of a reader.
Then he moves on.
—
LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA,
ANDALUSIA, SPAIN.
SUMMER BREAK OF 2016.
La Herradura is a small town, as per Carlos’ standards, tucked along Spain’s Costa Tropical. His orange-tiled home set in Madrid, with its silent halls, had started to feel like a weight pressed against his lungs since February of last year. A place too close to memories, but too far from the heart, or something like that—metaphors weren’t really his strong suit. Returning for his second Formula One summer break would’ve swallowed him whole, which is why he chose this town, where nobody would think to look.
Five thousand people at most, strolling in the narrow streets folded between whitewashed buildings, with a beach that always seemed to hum in the distance. Here, he thought, he might be able to breathe again.
And yet, it’s only his second day, and someone spilt coffee all over his shirt.
You hadn’t meant to. You were just reaching for a packet of sugar near the café counter, as your waiter had forgotten to bring any. In no way had you expected the man beside you to whip around, so when he did, it became a mess of startled movement, clumsy apologies, and dark espresso blooming across his white cotton shirt like the birth of a bruise over his heart. You both spoke at once, tripping over sentences. Your voice tangled in the air until, mid-flurry, his hand caught your wrist gently.
“You’re alright, I promise,” the stranger had laughed. It rumbled through his chest and for a second, even the waves lapping outside the beachside café seemed to roar in jealousy.
He was beautiful in the way people rarely are, terribly so, all in sharp edges and sunburnt youth, sculpted by speed itself, with cheekbones etched by the wind, and jaw clenched from habit. Then, as anyone might have thought he could come off as severe, there were his eyes: soft in their curves, chestnut brown, flickering with curiosity and warmth. It was the kind of moment that would’ve made you roll your eyes if you were ever to write it—too convenient. Still, your heart lifted when he smiled, washing over you like carbonation fizzing to the top of a soda bottle you would have turned upside down.
“I’m still really sorry,” you apologized. “I wasn’t paying attention and—”
“Neither was I,” he cuts you off, and the exasperated smile that escaped you made his smile grow. Carlos found it charming.
“Let me at least buy you another one,” you offered. “It’ll make me feel less like a disaster.”
By principle, he should’ve declined. He had more than enough money to buy his own coffee, and his parents hadn’t raised him to let a pretty woman cover the bill. But there was something in the teasing in your voice he couldn’t place, a color twinkling in your eyes he craved to name, a story he didn’t want to end yet. So he said yes.
He ends up back at your table, settling into a wildly uncomfortable straw chair on the terrace, and you talk, voices clashing pleasantly over the aroma of salt and espresso. Carlos comes to the realization you don’t seem to know of him—or his last name, or his face—outside of the little world you built out of spilled coffee when you ask, casually, what he does for a living. He panics. Says he works as a chauffeur, because he likes the way your hand rests naturally on his forearm, unbothered, and he’s not ready to see the awkward change his upbringing might lead to.
To steer the conversation away from the sudden heat blooming under his collar, he nods toward your open laptop and the notebook darkened by messy scrawling next to it. “And… you write?” he asks.
Your cheeks go warm, and Carlos—absurdly—wants to bottle the shade and carry it around with him. “I attempt to,” you mumble, hastily flipping the notebook closed. “Haven’t written anything good in a hot minute.”
A year, two months, and thirty-two days, if we’re being precise. Your debut novel had made quiet waves, gotten a litany of praise. Critics called it raw, authentic, the kind of story that lingers between ribs. One reviewer went as far as to say it felt like the words spilled right from your lips onto theirs. There was irony in it, because you didn’t feel like anything spilled anymore. You had been staring at your blank document and blinking cursor, crafting slowly wilting outlines for months now. All ideas withered the second you touched them.
People called you a romance writer now. But how were you supposed to write about love when your last relationship left you with scars so soft they rotted sweet, like overripe fruit? What good was a writer who couldn’t write?
“Writer’s block?” the beautiful stranger asks, bringing you back from your own mind.
You nod. “Exactly. My agent’s on my ass about getting something new on paper, and I just… can’t. I thought coming here might help. Change of scenery, all that.”
He leans in, half-grin across his lips, almost conspiratorial. His hair brushes your cheek right where the shadow kisses your cheek. There is some poetry to that, and it’s so precise and cinematic that you want to laugh, that you want to lean further in and grasp its intricacies. “What do you write?” he inquires, and his voice is similar to dusk: low and warm. “Maybe I could help.”
That makes you smile, and a chuckle tumbles out of you. “Romance,” you say. “Technically, it’s women’s fiction, but they always shelve it under romance.”
“So you make a living out of people… falling in love?” His eyebrows lift as he says it. You nod, though the motion is braced. You know what people think of the genre, especially men: the subtle scoff and the condescension disguised as charm. You’re already preparing to pull the plug on the conversation, right with the slow building fantasy of it all, before it goes sour. But instead, he says, “I thought it would be easy, writing about love.”
The laugh that bursts out of you is entirely involuntary. You throw your head back from it, startled by the naivety of it, and the sheer audacity that he might really mean it.
“Love is far from being easy, tesoro.”
Sunlight catches your hair as you say it, and Carlos is possessed by the sound of the waves crashing onto shore as he asks, boldly and oddly earnest, if you can visit the town together. “As inspiration for your book, and another payback for the coffee,” he justifies.
Truth be told, he disagreed with you. For Carlos, there was nothing as easy as love: he fell in love with karting before he could spell the word ambition, let the scent of gas and gravel tarnish and scorch his lungs black, until the motion of getting into his seat became automatic. He loved the cockpit, the spare parts, the silence behind the helmet. He loved his country, with its sun-warmed streets, the music folded into each inflection of the language. Tradition etched into gestures that he carries with him when he drives. He had loved multiple women until his heart gave out under the effort.
Carlos loved with a ferocity you could only hold in the wild, boundless beginnings of adulthood, when the world still seemed so wide and endless, beckoning you to seek for its borders, and fell with just as much force.
Love wasn’t something complicated, or a puzzle to figure out. Cars were, so were strategies. But love? Love came as naturally as breathing, so easy to give yourself in.
And when you say yes, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of your lips, just this side of daring, Carlos thinks he might be falling for you just as easily.
You walk through the streets slowly, without a plan or destination, just the rhythm of two people perfectly content to orbit one another. La Herradura doesn’t offer much unless you’ve planned ahead: no grand museum or crowded monuments, instead overflowing in small alleys, bougainvillea spilling down balconies, salt-sticky air curling around your wrists like ribbons.
Neither of you minds. Carlos is more than happy stopping by overpriced ice cream stalls, pointing out absurd flavor just to see you wrinkle your nose. He tells you the worst one-liners he’s ever heard, mostly from his mother’s soap operas she used to watch while folding laundry, and bask in the teenage feeling burgeoning in his chest at the mere idea of them making you laugh.
He pays for dinner without a second thought. It’s the tourist spot next to the café where you first met, and the food is nothing special, but your snarky comment as the waiter brings the wine makes him feel like he’s won something. The sun’s set by the time you finish, but the last of its glow still lingers on the skin of the sea, similar to yours, and Carlos is surprised by how easily the parallel draws in his mind. A bonfire crackles by the beach, a testimony of late June and the traditions he loves, flames and music and voices all blending into a single glowing memory.
Like all good romantics, you’re drawn to it like a moth. Carlos slips your shoes off your feet before you can protest and holds them in one hand, his other brushing lightly against your back to guide you toward the shore. You sink into the sand, slow and aimless.
“Tell me about your first book,” he says. And you tell him how the story came to you all at once, like it had been simmering into a carafe and poured out in the cold glass of a single summer, with no real plans or outline. You say you didn’t think anyone would care for it. Carlos disagrees, this time openly, saying he would’ve read it even if no one else had.
You laugh, because you believe him, and that is such a ridiculous notion to hold for someone you just met.
You stroll along the shore for what could be like hours or mere minutes—time often loses its shape when the moment is right. Somewhere between the fifth song from the beach guitar and the taste of the wine still on your tongue, Carlos brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The look you give him, like the sky is collapsing on itself, you’re sure you could have written about it this time around.
And maybe the sky really is collapsing. Maybe this night doesn’t exist in the real world at all, maybe it’s just a dream stitched together by the help of seafoam. Because when he says, “Come back with me,” as if he’s asking for a secret and not demanding, you don’t even think about it.
You go. Hand in hand, shoes forgotten, sand clinging to your ankles. The streets are in deep slumber, and his rental smells like sea and freshly washed cotton, and the moment the door closes behind you, it’s as if the world exhales and fades out of reality.
Carlos kisses you like he’s known you across lifetimes, like he’s loved you before and lost you, and this is his only chance to get it right. He touches you like he’s never going to see you again, because deep down he’s not sure he will. His hands are rough, his mouth devout. The pads of his fingers leave heat wherever they pass—marks not visible but undeniably there. You welcome them with parted lips, quiet sighs, nails digging crescents into his shoulder blades.
He doesn’t let you breathe for too long. Every exhale is an invitation he answers with his lips, his hips, his hands. It’s all consuming and fierce, because Carlos doesn’t know how to be anything else but hungry. Burning at the edges but still asking for more, dangerously close to spinning out but never losing control. He gives you everything because he doesn’t know how to love halfway. Because that’s Carlos: he only knows how to take, and take, and take, but only in exchange of all of himself.
You lie tangled in the sheets afterwards, skin kissed warm and hearts pounding in synchrony. A breeze floats through the open window, carrying with it the fresh air of a summer night. In the mellow silence, he studies you.
The flush of your cheeks could be called rose, but that’s too cliché. It’s something deeper, warmer—carnelian, maybe? He wasn’t the best with words. Or was it the color of joy? Or the exact hue of summer slipping beneath the ocean, the kind that never really leaves the sky? He commits it all to memory as sleep takes you both, you pressed to his chest no matter the heat.
And when he wakes up, you’re gone. In your place is a note, scribbled in your messy handwriting. “I have a plane to catch, didn’t want to wake you so early in the morning. Thank you for everything.” And beneath that, almost like an afterthought, a softer, neater line: “You’re nothing like I expected.”
He traces the paper with his hand for too long, heart thrumming somewhere in his throat. Yet, Carlos still gets up. He showers, and dresses, and for the first time in years, he walks into a bookstore.
The woman at the register smiles when she sees the title he picked. “It’s a good one,” she says, and Carlos nods with pride as if the compliment was directed to him.
He reads it in pieces over the rest of the summer break, trying not to read it too fast in order to ration memories. To let your ghost linger a little while longer.
And somewhere in the sky, a few hours before your layover, you finally open your laptop. For the first time in forever, your fingers don’t stall on the keyboard. The words come gently, naturally, and you type them out with the same carefulness.
They’re not about him, not yet, but Carlos lingers in every line, like the unmistakable smell of sun once it has set.
—
“You don’t read?” his new girlfriend asks, somewhere over the Mediterranean.
The plane ride home to Monaco is a long one when you’re flying from Abu Dhabi, and Carlos had barely said a word since the takeoff. It’s December, and even at cruising altitude, Carlos can feel the temperature shift. He hates the cold—it bites instead of kisses. Give him heat, always. Give him sticky skin, the faint hum of the fan overhead and someone's breath mixing with his in the dark.
His mind travels to his personal Eden, where summer seemed to loop for years on end. The sound of cicadas, the coast so washed it looked half-dreamt. It’s only when his girlfriend calls his name again that he blinks, startled back to the present.
Right, reading. She’s referring to the interview.
“I never have the time,” Carlos answers mechanically, punctuated with a tense chuckle.
She hums, unconvinced, and starts rummaging through her bag. “I could lend you one of mine, just to try. This one’s a beach read,” she says, oblivious to how his chest seems to tighten at her words. “My favorite author. I’ve read everything she’s written. Her stories are always kind of… sad, but really beautiful.”
Carlos wants to protest, say that he’s too tired and beach reads aren’t his thing. If he were to read, he’d want something heavier: a brick of historical nonfiction, or a complex murder mystery. He opens his mouth with an excuse at the ready, but the words die in his throat the second he sees the cover.
It’s a painted memory of soft edges and impressionist strokes, displaying a warm-toned terrace café with straw chairs, dappled in afternoon light. Carlos knows this place, not because of the building or how the awning folds over itself, but because of you.
You’re sitting at one of the tables. Well, it’s not exactly you, more someone like you. A woman rendered in delicate brushstrokes, a sundress flowing to her knees, holding a book just high enough to shadow her face. Still, her likeness is uncanny. And where the café’s name should be, in looping white script, is the title: Every Summer’s End. Beneath it, your name.
Carlos forgets how to breathe.
“You said you vacationed there, right?” his girlfriend inquires, unaware of the rupture. She flips the book around to show him the back. “La Herradura? That’s where it’s set. So funny, it made me think about you when I bought it.”
He takes the book when she offers it, thumb grazing the glossy spine. It’s heavy, like truth, and he forces a slow nod of acknowledgement.
Funny.
—
LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA,
ANDALUSIA, SPAIN.
SUMMER BREAK OF 2017.
Carlos doesn’t believe in fate. He never has, not in the grand scheme of things. He’s not enough of a romantic, in the historical sense, too much of his father’s son, to do so. What he believed in was repetition, in giving until there’s nothing left and your body breaks before your mind. Fate had never helped him score points, efforts did. And licking open wounds caused by those efforts like an injured dog in hope of miracle recovery is what led him to La Herradura for a second time.
He couldn’t admit out loud that it wasn’t the town he came back for. It was the feeling.
The café hasn’t changed much. The layout is different from last year, the chairs rearranged and the menus reprinted in a more minimalist aesthetic. The cushions are a new shade of sun-bleached coral, he notices, but the air still carries the same warm hum of sea salt and citrus.
Carlos doesn’t look when he turns after ordering. A sharp movement, and his cup tips forward in a graceless arc, splashing a deep brown bloom across your pale beach cover-up. “Joder— shit, I’m so sorry—” he stammers and grabs a napkin with the frantic energy of someone half-present in his own body.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this, tesoro.”
It’s not immediate. It crawls leisurely over his skin, laps at the snowglobe of his memories. Your mouth curves into a smirk he’s sure he’s shaken a few times in his mind. You laugh, his nickname on your tongue, and it clicks all at once. You were the feeling he missed.
You, on the contrary, don’t believe in coincidences. You believe in the invisible threads that tie together with quiet purpose. That everything, no matter how painful or messy, is part of some intricate, meaningful design in a bigger story. You’d be lying if you even thought that some hidden fragments of you hadn’t been hoping, all along, to see him again, wondering if the right set of conditions would pull him back where you left off.
No screams leave your lips, or curses at the temperature of the drink. You were never one for dramatics. You beam at him, damp fabric clinging to your swimsuit. “I think you owe me a clean shirt, this time around,” you say, and Carlos huffs out a disbelieving laugh.
He insists on buying you another coffee, and puts the sugar in it before you can think about telling him to. This time, you sit on the opposite side of the terrace, shaded by a new umbrella but caught in the same orbit.
The rest of the day folds over itself like a well-read book, the ones with the crack in the spine and the wavy pages from hair dripping of pool water. You walk again: down the coast, over the pebbled sidewalk, past shuttered shops and sleepy balconies. When you pass by the same tourist restaurant where you had dinner last year, you both decide to dine somewhere else.
Later, when the sun sinks and the bonfire sparks to life again, a feeling of continuation sneaks upon you both. You walk barefoot in the sand, again, letting your fingers thread through his, again. Unlike last time, Carlos asks about your new book with a carefulness similar to the one of a child. You admit that it’s finished, that people loved it, but you don’t tell him he inspired you. Not yet.
When you get back to his place, again, Carlos kisses you the exact same way, the brush of his mouth against yours too familiar for something that happened just once because he still remembers every second of it. He touches you like he’s still memorizing you, like you’re something he’s still trying to make sense of.
You fall asleep with your limbs tangled in linen and this time, when he wakes up, you don’t disappear. You’re still here when he wakes up, curled into his side with sunlight slipping through your hair. There were no planes to catch this time, you had made sure of it. However, Carlos is a man of habit, a creature of rhythm and ritual. So he gets up. Dresses.
The bookstore is only a short walk from his place. It’s barely open when he arrives, and yet, he finds it immediately: on the middle shelf, front-facing, your name bold and bright against the soft watercolors of the cover.
By the time he returns, the apartment smells of quiet mornings and coffee. You’re sitting on a stool at his kitchen island, legs folded up, his white cotton shirt swallowing your body. The seagulls heard through the windows are alive and singing but your hair is still mussed with sleep and bleary-eyed. Still, Carlos had the sensation to have walked upon something sacred.
Until you froze as your gaze dropped. “Wait,” you say, voice hoarse, “You— You bought it?”
Carlos turns the book around, displaying the familiar name stamped across the bottom with boyish pride. “First thing in the morning,” he grins.
You groan, tucking your face in your hands, even as your cheeks grow blotchy and warm with color. He’d spent half the night thinking of words to name it: he liked carnelian, but coral was as gorgeous. Cardinal stuck. Cardinal, bright, bleeding. It reveled on his tongue like you did.
It looked like the morning sun was in love with you.
Carlos smiles again, slower this time, fondness finger painting his features like a Monet’s. “I really liked your first book. I thought I’d check out the new one after yesterday.”
“You read my debut?” you gaped.
He hums. “Last summer, after you left.”
You just stare at him with wide eyes in wonder, adoration sprinkled like stars in the sky of your pupils. Your heart is louder than your thoughts, skipping similar to a stone over water. You feel seen. In that quiet, piercing way only readers could ever make you feel. And of all people, for it to be him.
Your voice falters as you admit, finally out loud, “Okay, well. In this one, I mean—just a little—some parts might’ve been…” You gesture vaguely, tugging at the hem of the shirt you borrowed. “Inspired by what happened last year.”
Carlos’ smile softens into a molten thing. If your emotions transpired through your eyes, his overcame you in the soft curve of his mouth, seemingly waiting for each one of your words to trigger something in him. He crosses the space to you in the beating of a heart and, as if it was an everyday thing, presses a kiss to your forehead. “I’m honored to be your muse, preciosa.”
You laugh, and it bubbles out of your chest bright and alive. Carlos could compare it to the shaking of a cold soda bottle on a hot day, but he’d be afraid of sounding somewhat ridiculous. You wrap your arms around him without thinking, face tucked in his shoulder. He still smells like the beach, like intimacy.
“Well,” you murmur, “you’ll probably end up inspiring another one this summer.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing under your skin. “Then I’ll help you through the process again,” Carlos assures, his voice laced with poetry. “I’ll give you a thousand stories worth writing about.”
And it’s such a you and him thing to say that you feel your chest bloom open.
Outside, the world is just beginning to stir. The sunlight is thickening, birds singing as if to beckon the beginnings of July closer and closer. Inside, in this little kitchen scented with espresso and sunscreen, you know in your bones that won’t be the last time you wake up here.
This isn’t fate. This isn’t coincidence. It’s what’s left of the sand after it trickled down the hourglass, somehow, the two of you begin again.
—
The book was shelved under Romance.
Carlos hesitated in front of the section. His gaze trailed over the display of cartoon covers and pastel spines until his eyes settled on it.
Turquoise and dark sienna, a palette so at odds with its neighbors that it looked like it was meant to misfit. The title curled across the spine in delicate letters tangling into one another with the intimacy of intertwined lovers. Carlos felt like he intruded on something that he had no right to look at. Maybe that was the case.
He handed back the copy his girlfriend had so kindly lended him. Her copy, with loopy, highlighter-bright annotations and neatly color-coded tabs with tiny hearts next to her favorite quotes. It didn’t feel like you at all. Not when you were all in cracked spines and sand-stuck pages, yellowed out by the sun. Your notes, when your mind raced slow enough to make them, were scrawled hastily in the corners of receipts and napkins tucked before the backcover, legible only in candlelight, sometimes not even to yourself.
When they landed in Monaco, Carlos didn’t go home. He went to the airport bookstore, the scent of sterile bleach and teary goodbyes clinging to the air. He needed a clean slate: something that didn’t belong to her, but not something that belonged to you either. Just something that let him read the book like it was a book, and not a wound he’s been carrying around like a splinter.
As he takes the novel in his hands, the rough pads of his fingers shake around the paperback. A book could never be a person, Carlos reminds himself. Still, disappointment swelled in his chest like rising tide when the cover didn’t give under his touch the way your skin used to. It held firm, cold.
He glanced around instinctively. The bookstore was mostly empty, and he waited for the clerk to turn her back on him before tucking one, two, three, four under his arm. He was absurdly careful. As if they could bruise, he mocks himself.
With the carefulness of a lover, Carlos placed them at the very front of the shelf titled Women’s Fiction.
—
LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA,
ANDALUSIA, SPAIN.
SUMMER BREAK OF 2018-19
You found each other again, summers after summers, until it became another beloved tradition, a ritual engraved in the gravelly skin of La Herradura, like initials in driftwood, softened by sun and salt but never erased.
Every late June, you’d return to your meeting place: the beachfront café that had once been the backdrop to spilled coffee and first laughter. Same time, same order— there was comfort in that, in repetition, the predictability of you and him.
As the sun dipped low below the sea, you’d slip back into his hunchback rental, skin warm with the fingerprints of daylight and your limbs heavy with knowing exactly where the night was going. You wore his shirt like silk and let him read you like scripture under the low hum of the fan.
Mornings belonged to books and windows cracked open. Carlos always woke before you, force of habit, and he’d pad down to the tiny bookstore with sand still crusted to his ankles and pick up the novel you’d published the summer before. Always one summer behind, and always eager to catch up in the only place he actually could.
He had learned to notice the parallels, to draw the metaphors by himself, no matter how clumsy. A sunset that had once dripped like marmalade over your bare shoulders found itself in Chapter Twelve. The stray kitten that had curled up in his lap one morning during breakfast became a symbol of grief in your prose. He watched your stories unfold and realized he was there: tucked between allegories and half-truths, tucked in the margins.
The days melted into each other with the same syrupy pace as the tide. For someone whose life was clipped in interviews and lap times, Carlos learned what it was like to breathe again, to fill his lungs until they stretched open without ache. His fingers, used to clenching around the wheel or curling into fists from tension, learned to soften. To touch with intention, not urgency.
He slept through the night, and he let silence settle without needing to break it.
In your shared Eden, nothing touched you. Not the headlines, not the passing of time. Even the reality that loomed past the end of those three weeks seemed to be kept at bay. There was only the breeze, the sea, and the soft, looping miracle of finding each other again.
—
LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA,
ANDALUSIA, SPAIN.
SUMMER BREAK OF 2020.
Someone had to bite the apple first, and this time the sinner had brown hair.
This time, Carlos landed in La Herradura with red flashing in his mind, tensing the deepest parts of his bone, flashing behind his eyes when he tried to sleep. The familiar rumble of the engine still echoed inside of him as he crossed the beachfront café, the one where it always begins. This time, his body didn’t relax.
The switch hadn’t been sudden, not really. The idea of Ferrari had haunted him long before the contract had been signed. The discussions, the promises, and the restructuring of his future in motorsports; it had consumed him in the months separating one summer from the next, had bent his life in directions he’d sworn to never take for granted.
When he found you again, sitting below the striped awning with your sunglasses pushed up into your hair, your drink sweating under the Andalusian sun, he smiled. Yet, it didn’t fully reach his eyes.
You noticed it. Of course, you did.
Carlos remembers what you said, in a faraway place in which cradled the beginnings of the two of you. You said that love is far from being easy, and back then he’d disagreed without a second thought. There was nothing as easy as love. He was twenty-two then: all heart and bleeding devotion, untouched by the weight of what it meant to choose. But today he was twenty-six: it felt older, he had traded cotton shirts for linen button-ups, and learned to appreciate the taste of stronger alcohol.
And no matter how soft the sand, the hourglass kept running.
This time, Carlos planned things. Planned. The word itself was foreign to your time together. He made reservations at upscale local restaurants with white linens and dizzyingly long wine lists. He drove winding cliffs to bring you to coastal vineyards, places with photo ops and curated beauty. He booked you both scuba diving lessons with a man who introduced himself as Diego and called you lovebirds. He filled the time until it overflowed, as if silence was a sin he couldn’t afford anymore.
This wasn’t how La Herradura worked. You never planned here. You lived here.
Now, he drove too fast, kissed you like the end was always lurking around the corner. The only time he’d breathe and settle down was at night, when he held your body flush against him. His hands tugged you impossibly closer, like he was made of marble and trying to carve you out of him.
Still, you didn’t ask. The problem didn’t reside here, in your sacred, familiar garden. It lived in whatever came before and after, so you didn’t think you had a right to. You didn’t belong there.
Next year, things would have to change. Carlos would have to change. His body, his name, his entire presence all had to be shaped into one thing, focused and sharp. The Carlos you had couldn’t split himself between two places, love and legacy.
Hard-working. Focused. Determined. That’s what Carlos is, down to his core. He’d never been a romantic.
And yet, you curled into him that night, limbs loose from wine and heat, hair spilling over his bare chest like ribbons. The fan circled overhead. Outside, the waves licked the sand in soft intervals, time dissolving once again in white noise. Carlos stared at the ceiling, his hand draped low on your spine, fingers memorizing.
He keeps telling himself that it was always meant to be temporary. Time stopping for anyone or anything was a silly notion enfolded in the delusions of early adulthood. You were a substance he had to get out of his system, and those summer breaks spent in this secluded paradise had him indulging more than he felt the need to.
You were always meant to be temporary, he tries to convince himself as he holds your sleeping figure close to his chest.
For the very first time, and in a desperate attempt to grasp the last seconds you could ever share, he whispers in your ear for the very first time, “I love you, preciosa.”
He would hold on to his name on the back of the vermilion suit, on his ivory number somewhere on the bar of his cerise car. It wasn’t the cardinal flush of your cheeks, but it was as close as he was going to get in a long time— if not forever.
Carlos would hold onto that too. Until he could draw another parallel, find another adjective.
Love is far from being easy, he finally agrees.
—
Nostalgia is a traitorous substance, an opiate of the heart: indulge in it too much and you become addicted. Carlos had learned, early one, to stray away from it. There was no room for looking back when you lived life ten seconds at a time. However, melancholy— melancholy he never quite managed to unlearn. And nostalgia, no matter how hard he tried to keep it at bay, always found a way back in.
Both brewed now, unbearably sweet, in the pages of Every Summer’s End.
Carlos sat crooked on his bed, spine aching and sheet twisted at his hips. The only sound was the rustle of paper and the quiet shift of his breath whenever a sentence carved too deeply.
When his girlfriend told him it was set in La Herradura, Carlos’ heart had dropped straight to the floor. He was scared of what he’d find between the lines. Terrified of you, not in flesh and skin but in ink and metaphors. More precisely, Carlos was afraid of finding out if you had grown to hate the memory of him, if you had walked the same streets, swam under the same starry sky, but the landscape curled into you like spoiled wine, if you had spat on his name while he held yours tenderly behind his teeth. It was a selfish fear, but real nonetheless.
Then he started reading. That’s when he realized the truth: the book wasn’t about him, like it had been so many times before.
This time, the novel was about you.
The lines blend together until they form black-and-white frames in Carlos’ mind. Adriana—your heroine—had lost the love of her life. The how was ambiguous— sometimes, you hint at the cruel but tender hands of death. Sometimes, you allude to another woman, on another coast, somewhere colder. Carlos read and reread each implication like scripture, combed through context like scripture.
But the novel was never about the man. No matter what you may imply, it all comes down to the same thing: the mourning of what was. Grief, in its purest shade, and the rebuilding that came.
He recognized every place Adriana visited, and Carlos felt it like bruising under his skin to the point of nausea. The worst wasn’t even the familiarity, but knowing you had been there too: walked those same steps without him, cried without him, healed without him. And survived.
Because that’s what the story was really about: surviving through the healing process. Life isn’t restricted to loss. It might shape and change what you are, but it doesn’t erase you. It doesn’t vanish, but simply loosens its grips. The places you once loved don’t reject you; they remember you and help you puzzle yourself back together. In the library near your rental, in the San Juan bonfire on the beach. You are still there, somewhere, no matter what happened.
Eventually, you learn to love again.
Adriana meets someone at a beachfront café. A stranger, simple and warm. He doesn’t spill his coffee on her. He tells her he’s a local, works in a bar not far from here. He’s different from her past lover, and that’s good, because he reminds her that love isn’t always followed by silence.
The tear that hung on Carlos’ eyelashes finally fell down. Gravity had decided to be merciful, just this once.
—
LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA,
ANDALUSIA, SPAIN.
SUMMER BREAK OF 2021.
Carlos wouldn’t know what happened at that time or place. He wasn’t there.
However, you would. But you didn’t like to recall it, so you wrote about it instead.
Then, you moved on.
—
By the time Carlos had turned the last page, the sun had started its gentle ascent, spilling gold through the half-closed curtains of his bedroom. The warmth of the light filled the emptiness that came after savoring a book, heavy with everything that had been lived on the page.
The sleepless night had passed in an ever present ache. He deciphered your every allegory, holding your tone close to his chest. He had read you in every line with your rhythm, the sentences that curved like the lines of your body. Your prose was yielding, bruised. It felt like another night beside you, your hands toying with his hair, whispering sweet nothings in his ear. When the final word passed under his gaze, it felt like he was leaving you all over again.
But now he was done reading, and you were almost gone.
Almost. Because there it was, not in capitalized letters or bolded words, but on the final page, similar to the unearthing of a secret.
Although I may not be yours this time around, I could never be another’s.
He could recall a conversation you once had on the balcony of his rental. “I hate dedications at the beginning of books,” you’d muttered with a sigh. Carlos was sunbathing next to you, opening an eye to look at your figure hunched over your keyboard. “It doesn’t make sense to me. The person you dedicate it to doesn’t know what you’re giving them yet.” He’d hummed with a laugh, and you had continued. “Maybe it’s ridiculous, but I would much prefer it to be at the end, so that they understand the meaning of all of it.”
“Would you ever dedicate it to me?” Carlos had asked teasingly.
You’d arched a brow at him, rolling your eyes to the sky with nothing but tenderness. “If I did, I wouldn’t say your name, tesoro. Much too obvious.”
He hadn't thought much of it at the time, only amused when he looked for the dedications in your books and found them right before the backcover.
Except that now, the last of your presence hung on the last page and the two lines that made it, and Carlos knew in the deepest, most egoistic parts of himself, that it was meant for him to understand. That was probably the cruelest part: the story had ended, so had the numerous summers, and he wasn’t sure either of you were still the people who loved and burned under the Andalusian sun. Time passed, it was something Carlos had made peace with.
Yet, the dedication said maybe.
The most rational part of him told him to let it go. He should protect what little healing you and him may have found, to not dig up something that already fed the soil. But the thing about Carlos Sainz is that he had never been at letting go of the things that made him feel alive. Because you had a part of him in you, just like every car he had ever stepped foot in possessed a part of his soul, just like every race track could beat to the rhythm of his heart. Because Carlos Sainz doesn’t know how to give halfway.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing until he’s done, but a ticket to La Herradura for the end of the next month of June is blinking at him on his phone screen.
He had no plans, no speeches, and didn't mean to prepare any. The only desire inhabiting him was the one to be there, in that place, basking in the possibility of it.
Maybe Carlos won’t see you, maybe he will. If he does, you’d talk. He’d offer you your usual coffee, if you still took it that way, and he’d tell the entire truth. He’d see where it leads, if he’d take back that part of him you held or he’d let it stay with you.
Some summers, just like love stories, never end.
They just get rewritten, again and again and again.
an: i was feeling nostalgic and was missing home again so i wrote an isack aladdin au! i made this exta special because i used arabic darija in this fic (obvs with translation) i hope you guys enjoy this baby i wrote
wc: 13.5k
summary: a street thief with nothing but a dog and a smile. a princess trapped behind gold and glass, longing for freedom. one quiet escape into the night changes both their fates. secrets whispered in alleyways, promises carried on the wind. in the end, the streets remember what the palace chooses to forget.
ALGIERS NEVER TRULY SLEPT.
Even in the dusk between call to prayer and moonrise, when the shadows stretched long like fingers across whitewashed walls, the medina whispered. The breeze carried the scent of cumin and orange blossom, the air warm like honey clinging to the skin.
Somewhere, the sound of a flute curled upward from a rooftop. Laughter, sharp, drunken, echoed in the alleyways below.
And Isack ran.
Barefoot, nimble, heart thudding like a darbuka drum in his chest, he darted through the tight alleys of the Kasbah. His curls stuck to his brow, a sliver of stolen gold tucked into his sash. He had the grin of someone used to running, used to getting away.
“Waqef! Waqef ya l’kleb!” Stop! Stop, you dog!
He didn’t stop.
Instead, he vaulted over a market cart, snatched a fig from a vendor’s stall mid-air, and winked at the shouting man behind him. It was a dance, the only one he knew. The guards were slow. He was fast. And the streets were his.
By the time he climbed the back wall of a half-collapsed riad and collapsed onto the tiled rooftop, the sky had turned gold. He bit into the fig, sweet and overripe, and let the juice run down his chin.
Below, the city pulsed. Blue doors, stray cats, distant call to prayer. A woman’s laughter from an open window. Laundry snapping in the wind.
He loved this place. It was cruel, yes. Hungry. But it was his.
He leaned back, golden-brown eyes flicking upward toward the first stars emerging in the indigo sky. The city’s noise became a hum, and for a moment, he felt almost like a king.
And elsewhere, behind tall palace walls, she watched the city from her window, veiled and silent.
Below her, chaos, life, fire. A city she was not allowed to touch. A city that belonged to her only in name.
They called her princess, l’amira, daughter of the land, of bloodlines older than the red earth itself. She had her mother’s cheekbones, her father’s eyes. But her soul? That was her own.
She pressed a hand to the cold lattice, eyes following a small boy climbing a wall far in the distance. Free. Barefoot. Laughing.
She envied him.
Her maid’s voice broke the silence.
“L’amira, your father, he says there’s a suitor. Another one.”
Another one. Another man with polished words and ancient rings, sent to ask for a piece of her like she was a jewel in the souk.
She didn’t answer. Only watched the horizon, where the rooftops met the sky. Somewhere beyond it, the stars were starting to blink awake.
She wished one would fall.
The palace walls were smooth sandstone, gold-dusted and cruel.
They caught the sun at every hour, gleaming like something divine, but she knew better. Inside them, everything was hushed and heavy. Voices behind curtains, steps softened on marble. Nothing real ever made it past the gates.
She sat now on a silken cushion, spine straight, wrists wrapped in gauze-thin silk, and tried not to scream.
Across from her, the suitor spoke in a voice as smooth as almond oil, his words polished to a shine. He was a noble from Constantine, or maybe Tlemcen, she couldn’t remember, and he wore his robes like armor. Perfect posture. Perfect manners. Perfect boredom.
He was talking about the scent of jasmine in his summer home.
She nodded politely.
Her tea had gone cold.
Behind him, just past the carved archway that opened onto the courtyard, the muezzin’s call rose into the air, haunting, beautiful. The day was sinking into twilight, and the world outside was moving.
She turned her head slightly, not enough to be scolded, and looked past him.
The gates beyond the garden had been opened for the breeze, and through them, beyond the veil of palm leaves, she saw the street.
Children ran barefoot toward the mosque, drawn by the call to prayer. She saw a boy with wild black curls tugging his younger sister along, both of them laughing, racing the call. Their djellabas fluttered behind them like wings. One of the guards smiled as they passed.
A knot tightened in her throat.
That life, so ordinary, so loud, so free, would never be hers. She had never run in the street. She had never laughed outside the palace walls. She had never once stood beside strangers and bowed her head in prayer as an equal. Even her worship was private, sterile, behind curtains and gold incense burners.
She looked back at the prince.
He had stopped speaking.
He was watching her with a soft frown, like he’d seen something he wasn’t meant to. “Forgive me,” he said gently, setting his cup down. “I don’t think I interest you.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. There was no real way to explain it.
“You’re not unkind,” she managed, at last. “You’re just not real.”
He blinked. “Not real?”
She offered the smallest of smiles. “Not enough.”
That night, she couldn’t sleep.
She shed her jewels. Let her hair fall unbound down her back. The moonlight caught the copper strands threaded through it, a family trait, they said. Her birthright. Her burden.
The palace was quiet. Too quiet. Like a tomb that smelled of oud and rosewater.
She walked barefoot through the colonnade, cool tile beneath her feet, heart fluttering like a trapped swallow in her chest.
From her window, the city glowed, a thousand flickering oil lamps, rooftops like mosaic pieces laid out for the stars.
She didn’t know exactly where the thought came from. Only that it arrived fully formed.
She was leaving.
Not tomorrow. Not with guards. Not with permission.
Tonight.
She turned from the window and began to move, silent, deliberate, pulling on a plain linen tunic left behind by one of the maids, wrapping her hair in a faded scarf. She looked nothing like a princess now. And maybe for once, that was the point.
Her pulse sang.
Outside, the world waited. Wild, sharp-edged, and beautiful.
And the palace slept.
She moved like a shadow past the guards, heart hammering in her ribs, the scarf around her head slipping ever so slightly in the breeze. No one looked at her twice, not like this. Not dressed in rough linen, no kohl on her eyes, no scent of amber trailing her steps.
For the first time in her life, she was invisible.
And it thrilled her.
Once beyond the palace gates, the city opened up like a book she’d never been allowed to read.
The air at night was cooler, threaded with the scent of charcoal smoke and distant mint tea. Lanterns swung gently from the iron hooks above doorways, casting dappled patterns across cobbled streets. Stray cats watched her from rooftops. Someone played a flute off-key in the dark. The call to Isha’a had passed, but the buzz of night lingered.
She wandered deeper into the medina, past shuttered stalls and old men playing dominoes beneath a flickering bulb. Nobody recognised her. Nobody bowed. No one whispered l’amira like a ghost.
She felt giddy. Lightheaded with it. Free.
She didn’t even notice the man at first.
He’d been sitting on a step, smoking. When she passed, he straightened. Followed.
It wasn’t until the footsteps quickened behind her that her stomach turned.
She kept walking. Turned into a narrower street.
Too narrow.
She should have gone back. She should have kept to the open, where there were people. But her legs moved faster than her thoughts. And then he was there, in front of her now, as if he’d appeared from the shadows themselves.
He was older. Unshaven. Smelt like cheap wine and sweat. A smirk played at his lips as he stepped into her path.
“Labas ‘lik, zine?” What’s a pretty girl like you doing out alone at this hour?
She tried to step aside, but he mirrored her.
“I don’t— I don’t want trouble.”
“Oh, I’m not trouble,” he said, teeth flashing. “Not unless you make me be.”
He reached for her wrist. She pulled back, fast, panic blooming in her throat. Her breath caught.
And then—
A low growl sliced through the quiet.
The man froze.
From the darkness of the alley, a shape emerged, all silhouette and shadow. First the dog: big, bone-coloured, eyes sharp like molten gold. Then the boy. Barefoot. Loose shirt open at the throat, curls wild, a crooked grin stitched across his face like sin.
He took one look at the man and smiled, slow and lazy.
“Khoya,” Brother he said, voice like honey over blades. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to talk to girls who don’t want to talk to you?”
The man sneered. “This doesn’t concern you.”
Isack tilted his head. “Lah ybarek, I think it does.” God Bless
He clicked his tongue once.
The dog lunged.
The man screamed, stumbling back, barely dodging a snap of teeth. “Wah! Get it off—!”
Isack gave a soft whistle. The dog stopped, but only just. Still growling, still close enough to bite.
“Mazal barki,” Too early, Isack said calmly. “He’s just playing. If he were serious, you’d already be on the floor.”
The man spat on the ground. “You’ll regret this.”
Isack took a single step forward. The dog took two.
The man ran.
Silence settled in the alley.
Isack looked at her then, but really looked. His eyes softened slightly, but his smile stayed wicked.
“Bit far from the palace, aren’t you?” he said, almost teasing.
She blinked. “How—?”
He tapped the side of his nose. “You lot smell different. Like roses and gold coins.”
She didn’t know whether to laugh or be offended.
Isack held out a hand.
“Come on, l’amira. You’re not going to last ten minutes out here without someone like me.”
She hesitated. Looked at the dog, then back at him.
Then she took his hand.
And just like that, the world tilted on its axis.
They walked side by side through the sleeping veins of the city, the dog padding ahead of them like a quiet sentinel. The lanterns were dimmer now, the night heavy with spice and dust, and still, the thrill hadn’t left her chest.
She kept glancing sideways at him, the boy who'd appeared from the shadows like a spirit, all cocky swagger and barefoot confidence. He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t care.
Eventually, she spoke.
“Where are you taking me?”
Isack gave a half-shrug, as if that question had no weight.
“I’m assuming you wanted to live a real life. Not many other reasons a girl like you leaves a palace in the middle of the night.” He turned to her, raising an eyebrow. “Unless you’re sneaking out to see a lover. That would be scandalous.”
She scowled. “No.”
“Shame.” He grinned. “Would’ve made a good story.”
She stopped walking. “You think this is a joke?”
His grin faltered, not completely, just softened at the edges. “No,” he said, more quietly. “I think it’s a risk. And risks are either foolish or brave.”
They walked in silence after that, her arms folded tightly over her chest, his hands buried in his pockets. The city around them seemed to pulse with a life she’d never noticed before, an old women leaning out of windows to gossip, a boy chasing a chicken down a lane, the rustle of music from a distant courtyard.
At last, they turned into a narrow side street, its end lit by a single flickering bulb above a door.
“Come on,” he said, pushing it open. “You haven’t lived until you’ve had this man’s mint tea.”
The teahouse was small and dimly lit, smelling of cardamom, smoke, and dried orange peel. Rugs layered the floor, and the low wooden tables were uneven. There were no other customers, just an old man behind the counter with a wiry beard and thick glasses, hunched over a chessboard.
He looked up when he saw Isack and groaned.
“Ya weledi, not you again. I’m not running a charity.”
He sighed.
Isack held up a hand, grinning. “Sidi Ahmed, Allah ybarek fik w fi shay bik.” Sidi Ahmed, may God bless you and your tea.
“Rahmt Allah fi sabrek, mashi fiya.” God’s mercy is in His patience, not mine.
He eyed Isack’s companion. “At least this time you bring someone polite.”
Isack gave her a look. “Don’t let the scarf fool you.”
She sat carefully on a cushion by the wall, her spine still too straight, her eyes absorbing everything. The chipped glasses, the way the steam curled from the kettle, the way Ahmed measured sugar like it was gold dust.
He poured two small glasses and set them down with a grumble. “Pay this time, Isack. I’m not running a zawiya.”
Isack patted his pocket, dramatically empty. “We’ve talked about this.”
The old man turned away, muttering, “Sh-shabab li mabghawsh ykhadmou.” The youth who don’t want to work.
She looked between them, and without thinking, slipped one of her bangles off her wrist. It was thin gold, etched with delicate Berber script, a gift from her grandmother.
She stood and offered it gently across the counter. “Please,” she said. “Let this cover both.”
Before Ahmed could take it, Isack’s hand came down over hers.
“La,” he said under his breath. No. “Khalih.” Leave it.
She stared at him. “Why not?”
He leaned closer, voice soft. “You don’t trade gold for tea. Not here. Not tonight.”
Then he turned, all charm again, flashing a grin at the old man. “Tell you what, you still need that window patched? I’ll come tomorrow. Ghadwa, inshallah.” Tomorrow, God willing.
Ahmed narrowed his eyes. “You said that three bukras ago.”
“And now I have an audience to impress. I’ll even sweep the floor, if that helps.”
The old man gave a long sigh, more theatre than protest, and waved them off.
“Yallah, sit before I change my mind.” Come on.
Back at the table, Isack slid her glass toward her. The tea was hot, sweet, filled with bruised mint.
She took a sip.
It was rich and strange and entirely perfect.
“You were going to pay,” he said, watching her. “With something real.”
“I was trying to help.”
“You’re not here to help,” he said, without cruelty. “You’re here to learn.”
She set the glass down carefully. “What makes you think you have anything to teach me?”
Isack’s grin didn’t falter. “Oh, l’amira, I’ve got a whole city to teach you.”
And across from him, for the first time since leaving the palace, she smiled without hesitation.
The tea had cooled by the time their conversation found stillness again.
Outside, the street hummed with distant laughter and the thud of footsteps against stone. But inside the teahouse, everything felt quieter, as though the night had folded itself around the two of them and held its breath.
She sat with her knees drawn in, hands wrapped around the chipped glass. Across from her, Isack leaned back against the cushion, head tipped slightly to the side as he watched her. Not in the way men usually did, not with hunger or calculation, but with curiosity, like she was something rare he hadn’t quite made sense of yet.
“So,” he said, gently, “what were you planning to do?”
She blinked at him.
“What?”
“Out there,” he nodded toward the door. “On your own. No guards, no money, just what? Wander through the city until you found a better life?”
She looked down at the rug beneath them, at the intricate threads that felt far more grounded than she did.
“I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
He gave a soft laugh, not mocking, more surprised than anything.
“You really didn’t have a plan?”
She shook her head. “Only that I couldn’t stay there. That I needed out.”
There was a silence then. Not awkward, thoughtful.
He took another sip of tea and set the glass aside, speaking without looking at her.
“I don’t usually do this. Take people in.”
She turned her head, slightly wary. “Take people in?”
“To where I stay,” he said. “It’s not much. But it’s safe.”
She blinked, startled. “You’re offering?”
He nodded. “For tonight. You can leave in the morning if you want. But the streets, they change after midnight. Not even your silk cloak will keep you safe then.”
She hesitated, lips parting, but no protest came. Just a quiet breath of surrender.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “I mean it.”
He looked at her then, really looked. No teasing, no smirk, just something careful in his eyes. A flicker of understanding.
“Come on then, l’amira.”
“Still calling me that?”
“Until you tell me different,” he said over his shoulder. “Or until you learn to walk like someone who doesn’t own the world.”
She rose, following him out into the night, her footsteps softer now.
She had no idea where he was taking her. And for the first time in her life she didn’t mind.
They weaved through the medina like shadows, the narrow alleys stitched with silence and stars. The dog trotted ahead confidently, tail swishing, as if it knew the way by heart.
Eventually, Isack stopped beside a faded wooden door nestled between two closed shops. An old fig tree leaned over it, casting broken leaves across the stoop.
“Here?” she asked, surprised.
He didn’t answer straight away, just offered a hand and gestured upwards. “Not quite.”
He led her down a short passage, then up a creaking set of exterior stairs. They climbed to a flat rooftop covered in laundry lines and rusted water drums, then over a low wall onto another roof just below.
The dog leapt across first, landing clumsily with a thump before padding toward a slanted wooden hatch tucked beneath the shade of some old cloth draped like a makeshift canopy.
“Mind your step,” Isack said, and helped her across with an easy grip. His hands were calloused but warm.
She landed lightly beside him, breath caught more by the moment than the leap.
It was a small space, little more than a cove made from old beams and patched fabric. But inside, it was gently lived in. Worn futons lined the edges. There was a low crate filled with books, a chipped mirror hung on the far wall, and a faint scent of sandalwood lingered in the air.
The dog circled twice before flopping onto a blanket with a sigh.
“This is…” she began, then hesitated. “It’s lovely.”
Isack shrugged, already crouching beside the hatch. “It does the job.”
Before she could respond, he swung himself halfway back down through the opening and called softly, “Hadja kayna waḥda mikhadda?” Hadja, do you have a pillow?
A voice snapped back immediately from the flat below.
“A pillow, Isack? At this hour? Wallah, you treat me like a hotel!”
“Just one,” he laughed. “For a guest.”
There was a short pause. Then the shuffle of slippers, the thud of a cupboard.
A plump hand emerged through the gap, clutching a well-worn cushion. “Here, waldi, take it, and no more surprises tonight, tfaddal.”
“N’barek fik, Hadja.” Bless you, Hadja.
He climbed back in with the pillow in hand, a bit of thread clinging to his hair.
She had been watching the exchange silently, eyes wide in quiet mesmerisation.
“She called you waldi,” she said.
He smiled as he tossed the pillow onto one of the futons. “She’s not my mother. But she pretends she is.”
“She gave it to you anyway.”
“She always does. Even when she’s cross.”
He gestured for her to sit, then settled across from her on the floor, back resting against the far wall.
“She took me in when I was ten. Found me trying to steal her olives.” He smirked. “Didn’t succeed, by the way. She hit me with a broom and then fed me loubia anyway.”
She laughed, properly this time, not the polite laughter of courts and expectations, but something warm and unguarded.
He watched her. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Good,” she said. “Neither are you.”
They talked until the city slept.
Not just quiet, but truly asleep, the kind of stillness that only arrived deep in the night, when even the stray cats gave up their prowling, and the moon hung low like a watchful eye over the rooftops.
Isack had lit a stub of a candle from a jar tucked in the corner. It flickered beside them, casting shifting shapes across the patched fabric walls.
He told her about growing up with his back against the stone, the days when food came from the hands of strangers or not at all, how Hadja would scold him and feed him in the same breath. He spoke of the souks, the rooftops, the ocean he’d only seen twice, and how sometimes, when the wind came in strong from the coast, he could still taste the salt on the air.
She told him little things. That her mother had died young. That she was educated, but not free. That there was always someone watching, waiting, measuring her every word, her every breath. That she didn’t know what to do with freedom now that she’d found it, or something like it.
“Do you regret it?” he asked, his voice soft.
“Leaving the palace tonight?”
He nodded.
She looked out through the fabric flap where the stars peeked in, and shook her head.
“No. I regret waiting this long.”
He didn’t say anything to that. Just offered her a second cushion, and a smile that didn’t need explaining.
Eventually, her eyelids began to lower. The weight of the day, the years, pulling gently at her bones.
“You should sleep,” he said.
“I don’t want to take your bed.”
“You’re not.” He motioned to the futon. “That one’s for guests.”
She arched a brow. “How many guests do you usually have?”
He grinned. “None.”
He laid out a folded blanket, then pulled the cushion from the futon before she could object. Dropped it to the floor and settled beside the wall, arms folded behind his head, long legs crossed at the ankles.
“Isack—”
“Let me,” he said simply, eyes closed now.
She hesitated, but something in his tone made it impossible to argue.
So she lay down, curling onto the futon, fingers brushing the edge of the thin mattress. The dog gave a soft snore from the corner. The candle had gone out, leaving only moonlight, the kind that made everything look a little silver, a little softer.
She stared at the ceiling, expecting her mind to race the way it always did, with lists, and rules, and voices, and what-ifs.
But it didn’t.
For the first time in her life, there was no marble floor beneath her. No silk sheets. No guards. No walls.
Just the scent of sandalwood, and mint tea, and something faintly like hope.
And sleep, when it came, came gently, and held her like it meant to keep her.
She woke to the sound of the adhan, the call to fajr, curling through the air like the voice of the city itself.
It came from somewhere distant but clear, high and smooth and mournful in the way only the earliest hours could carry. The dog shifted but didn’t rise, only thumped its tail gently once and settled again.
She blinked, still tucked into the futon, a thin sheet drawn up around her shoulders. The world around her was a shade of soft blue, the sky just beginning to brighten in the east. It cast everything in hush,the worn crates, the fluttering fabric, the half-drunk tea still resting in its glass.
Isack was still asleep, curled slightly on his side on the floor, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other resting loosely against his chest. In the half-light, he looked younger or perhaps just less guarded. A small furrow sat between his brows even in sleep, like he’d never quite let go of watchfulness.
She sat up slowly, the futon sighing beneath her.
The call continued, echoing from minaret to minaret across the rooftops. As-salatu khayrun minan-nawm… Prayer is better than sleep.
She knew she had to go.
There was no panic. No urgency. Only a quiet knowing. If she stayed longer, if she let herself fall even a step deeper into this stolen freedom, she wouldn’t return at all. And the world, her world, wasn’t ready for that.
She slipped her feet into her shoes, the silence stretching around her like a shawl.
The dog opened one eye but didn’t move, watching her with the calm understanding of someone who knew better than to bark at goodbyes.
She glanced over at Isack once more.
Then, with a breath, she reached for her wrist.
She slid off two of her bangles, the thinner ones, delicate, etched in the filigree of her mother’s people, and set them quietly on the edge of the futon where she’d slept.
Not payment.
A mark. A memory. A thank you.
She didn’t write a note. He would understand.
Then she pulled the scarf tighter around her face and stepped out into the early light, down through the hatch and over the rooftop. The air was cool and clean, the streets below still drowsy, not yet stirring with market cries or children’s footsteps.
The city hadn’t woken, but she had.
And by the time the sun had fully lifted above the rooftops of Algiers, she was already crossing back through the hidden door in the palace wall, the scent of mint and dust and candle smoke still clinging to her clothes.
Isack woke to the faint chill of dawn slipping through the cracks in the wooden hatch. The room smelled faintly of sandalwood and mint, the scent she’d left behind.
He blinked, stretched his hand out instinctively and found the futon beside him empty.
His heart sank a little, slow and steady like the weight of knowing.
She was gone.
On the edge of the futon, catching the soft morning light, were two thin bangles, delicate and filigreed, the ones she had worn when she arrived.
He picked them up carefully, rolling them between his fingers, feeling the cool metal and the slight dents that told stories of a life far from his own.
A soft sigh escaped him. “Mashi moshkil.” It’s okay
He understood. She had her world to return to.
He slipped on the bangles and let his shirt cover the gold from the sunlight.
Downstairs, the old wooden door creaked open and the smell of strong tea and cooking filled the air.
“Sbāḥ l-khīr, Hadja.” Good morning, Hadja
“Sbāḥ l-nūr, waldi. Katḥess b’raḥtek lyom?” Good morning, my boy. Feeling alright today?
He grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Kān bghī nsaʿdek shwiya f’dar.” I wanted to help you around the house a bit.
Hadja smiled, hands busy folding fresh flatbread. “Daima mzyan, waldi. Ma tkhafsh, ghadi nkhdem mʿak.” Always good, my boy. Don’t worry, I’ll work with you.
As he handed her a kettle, she caught sight of the bangles peeking from beneath his sleeve.
“Shno had lḥwayej?” What are these things?
He hesitated, then showed them to her.
“Tqdr tsawb bihom flus bzzaf,” You could make a lot of money with these she murmured, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
Isack shook his head, a faint smile tugging his lips.
“Hadi, mashī ghir ljawhra.” They’re more than just jewellery.
He grabbed a length of string from the counter and carefully threaded the bangles onto it, pulling the makeshift necklace over his head.
Hadja watched, then chuckled softly.
“Mashi mzyan, waldi. La tkoun ḥmar w mat'ttīsh rasek.” Not smart, my boy. Don’t be stupid and don’t get caught.
He grinned wider, a spark in his golden-brown eyes.
“Ana mabghītsh nshouf hadchi,” I never get caught, Hadja he said, voice low and certain.
She shook her head, but there was no real scolding in her voice, just the warmth of someone who’d seen too much but still hoped.
He tucked the string beneath his shirt and turned back to the rising sun outside.
His thoughts drifted, to the girl who had left the bangles, to the quiet promise of a night that had felt, somehow, like home.
By mid-morning, the streets were wide awake, sun burning the rooftops, voices rising from alleyways, children darting between market stalls like fish in water.
Isack moved through it all like he belonged there, because he did. The city knew him, and he knew it back. The dog loped along beside him, tongue out, tail wagging every time someone threw them a passing “salam” or scrap of bread.
He reached Sidi Ahmed’s place just as the old man was dragging out a broken wooden cart wheel, grumbling under his breath.
“Sbāḥ l-khīr, Sidi,” Good morning, Sidi. Isack called, crouching beside the wheel.
The old man grunted. “Mzyan jeeti. Rah kayna chghol bzzaf.” Good you came. There’s a lot of work.
Isack smiled and set to it, sleeves rolled, sweat already gathering at the back of his neck. The wheel was splintered, but nothing beyond saving, a couple of new dowels, some sanding, a bit of patience.
Sidi Ahmed’s son, Youssef, lingered nearby, watching with a lazy sort of interest, chewing on a stem of wild mint.
“Chouf,” Isack said after a while, glancing over at him, “tqder tsaʿdni f waḥed lsu2al?” Can you help me with something?
Youssef raised a brow. “Dirti chi musiba khra?” Have you done something stupid again?
“La, la, had mara....” No, no, this time…
Youssef understood the unspoken words and spat out the stem. “Go on.”
Isack wiped his brow with his sleeve and leaned back slightly against the wall, gaze fixed on the wheel but mind clearly elsewhere.
“Say you meet someone,” he began, slow. “Someone who’s not from your world. Proper different. But you get on, like, really get on. And then they vanish.”
Youssef squinted at him. “She run off with your shoes?”
Isack huffed a quiet laugh. “Not quite. Just left. No goodbye. But left something behind.”
Youssef’s face softened slightly, as if he’d caught the edge of what Isack wasn’t saying.
“What did she leave?”
Isack hesitated, then tugged the string out slightly from beneath his shirt, just enough to let the bangles glint in the sunlight.
Youssef whistled under his breath.
“Hadchi mn lkasr?” This from the palace?
“Ma-gult walou.” Isack shrugged. I didn’t say anything
Youssef leaned in slightly. “You want advice?”
He nodded.
“Nsuḥk. Khalli l’aql qbl lqlb.” My advice. Keep your head before your heart.
Isack looked down at the bangles, his thumb tracing the edge.
“W ila ma bghītsh ndīr haka?” And what if I don’t want to do that?
Youssef laughed. “Then may God help you, Isack. Because no one else will.”
They both chuckled, the tension breaking for a moment.
Isack stood, stretching, wiping dust from his palms. “Come on then, help me lift this wheel. Unless you just came to offer useless wisdom.”
Youssef grinned and bent down beside him. “Ana daba fassḥab raḥna f chi hikayat dyal Alf Layla w Layla.” I feel like we’re in some story out of One Thousand and One Nights.
Isack didn’t reply straight away, just smiled faintly, eyes catching the sunlight, the bangles warm against his chest.
The palace was quiet in the way that only vast, marbled halls could be, a kind of elegant, echoing silence that never let you forget how alone you really were.
She sat in the morning sunroom, half-curled on one of the velvet chaise lounges, fingers absently twisting the end of her braid. A tray of untouched figs and almonds lay on the table beside her, along with a fresh pot of tea that had already grown cold.
Her father entered without knocking, as he always did. The sharp scent of musk and cedar preceded him, the trailing end of his white robe brushing softly against the mosaic tiles.
“You’re off,” he said without greeting, eyes narrowing as he took her in, from the slight slump in her shoulders to the vague shadows under her eyes.
She didn’t look up. “I didn’t sleep well.”
“Clearly.” He stepped closer. “What kept you up?”
She shrugged, keeping her tone light. “The usual. Thoughts. Expectations. Century-old ceilings.”
“Don’t get clever.”
That earned him a glance. “Don’t ask stupid questions, then.”
A flicker of surprise crossed his face, brief, but visible. He came to stand beside her, hands clasped neatly behind his back.
“You never speak to me like that.”
“I suppose I’m tired of speaking like I’m being examined.”
He studied her for a long moment. “You used to confide in me.”
“When I was ten, and thought you ruled the sun,” she muttered.
There was a pause. He let it hang in the air just long enough to shift the mood.
Then, with the same cold precision she knew too well, he dropped a rolled scroll onto the table beside the figs.
“What’s this?” she asked, already knowing.
“A list.”
“Of?”
“Potential suitors. From respectable bloodlines. Royal, military, or diplomatic, no lesser. And no more poets.”
She stared at the scroll. Didn’t touch it.
“You’re serious.”
“Entirely.”
“And if I don’t?” Her voice was tight now, clipped at the edges.
“If you don’t choose one by July,” he said calmly, “then we’ll have an issue.”
She stood suddenly, pushing the chair back with more force than she meant to. “An issue.”
“Yes.”
“Like a diplomatic incident, or just another daughter buried in silk and obedience?”
His jaw tightened. “Watch your tongue.”
She met his gaze, hers unflinching, gold-flecked and defiant. “Or what?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His silence was a wall, and she’d lived behind it all her life.
He gestured to the scroll.
“Make a decision. You’re not a child anymore.”
Then he turned, and just like that, he was gone, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the hush of a palace built more for power than people.
She sat slowly, eyes still fixed on the scroll. Somewhere far beyond the stone walls and manicured gardens, the city lived and breathed without her.
She reached for a fig. Bit into it absentmindedly.
It tasted like nothing.
She let it roll on her tongue, slowly chewing, but it crumbled like ash. Sweet and hollow. Like the walls of this palace. Like her life.
With a quiet breath, she set the fruit back onto the tray and rose, silk skirts whispering against the marble as she slipped through the archway and into the palace gardens.
The air outside was cooler, fragrant with orange blossom and rosemary, soft earth beneath the soles of her slippers. Here, the palace forgot itself. Here, at least, the stone gave way to soil, and life.
She walked past the cypress trees, fingers grazing their rough trunks, until she reached the familiar little corner where the rose bushes curled like old memories around a simple stone marker.
Her mother’s grave.
The marble was smooth, the engraved words worn by years of wind and rain.
She knelt, brushing away a few stray petals from the base, and folded her hands in her lap.
“Salam, Mama,” Peace (Hello), Mama she murmured softly.
The wind stirred the roses gently, as if in answer.
“I don’t know what to do anymore,” she whispered, voice barely carrying. “I don’t know what I want or who I am supposed to be.”
Her fingers tightened in the folds of her gown.
“I met someone,” she went on, casting her eyes down. “A boy. A boy with dirt beneath his nails and laughter in his eyes. With his feet on the ground and his heart open. Full. More than he has. More than he can give.”
She closed her eyes.
“Bzaf ʿlih... bzzaf ʿlia.” Too much for him... too much for me
She exhaled, slow and long.
“I wanted to be free, Mama. I wanted to run and see and breathe. But now I’ve tasted it, I don’t know if I can go back. I don’t know if I can fit in this life any longer.”
Footsteps crunched lightly on the gravel behind her. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
“Lalla,” Little girl, came the familiar soft voice, her mother’s old maid, gentle and lined with age. “You sit here like your mother did. All these years, nothing changes.”
She felt the old woman settle beside her with a quiet sigh.
“What would you do?” she asked softly. “You knew my mother better than she knew herself. What would you tell her, if she stood where I am now?”
The maid smiled faintly, folding her wrinkled hands in her lap.
“Tāmen b’Allah... w tmshi b’qlbek. Huwa li ghadi yurik triq.” Believe in Allah... and follow your heart. He will show you the way
The girl swallowed, throat tight. “And if my heart leads me away from here?”
The old woman touched her hand, warm and steady.
“Then you were never meant to stay, bnti.” my daughter
For a long moment, they sat in the quiet, the scent of roses thick in the air, the world turning softly beyond the palace walls.
Later that night, she sat alone on the terrace, the one on the farthest wing of the palace, furthest from her father’s private quarters and the endless eyes of the guards.
The marble beneath her legs was cool, her bare feet curling against the stone edge as the evening wind lifted strands of her hair. Above her, the sky stretched wide and endless, scattered with stars, silver threads sewn across velvet black. The moon hung low and full, casting the palace rooftops in gentle light.
She breathed in the air, the scent of distant jasmine and city dust, the distant echo of life beyond the walls. It felt like sitting between two worlds. On one side, the endless gardens, the sharp spires, the cold, polished perfection of the palace. On the other, the old city, asleep and breathing, warm and rough-edged, untamed.
Her gaze lingered there, past the battlements, past the dividing walls, past the courtyards where only soldiers and servants tread. She tilted her head, lost in thought, wondering if the boy with the sun-darkened curls and the restless smile was asleep somewhere beneath that same sky.
A soft sound pulled her from her reverie.
She stiffened.
There it was again, a scrape, gentle but clear. A footfall against stone.
Her heart quickened. She glanced back towards the archway, towards the shadowed corridor behind her, empty. Still.
Then from the wall that marked the boundary between palace and city, the high old wall she’d once scaled as a child before she’d been caught and forbidden to try again came a quiet voice, low and teasing.
“L’amira...” Princess
Her breath caught. Familiar. Impossible.
She turned sharply and there he was.
Perched like a cat upon the wall, crouched comfortably as if he belonged there, was Isack. His hair caught the moonlight in soft curls, his eyes glinting with quiet mischief, his grin wide and unrepentant.
She gaped, mouth slightly open. “You—”
“Shhh,” he whispered, holding a finger to his lips. “Do you want half the guard waking up?”
“How—how did you get up here?” she hissed, eyes darting nervously to the shadows behind her. “You’ll be killed if they see you.”
He swung his leg over the wall, now sitting casually, unbothered by the drop beneath him. “I’ve been climbing these streets my whole life, l’amira. Walls don’t frighten me. Neither do guards.” His grin widened. “Nor kings.”
She stood, her silk robe slipping from one shoulder as she stared at him in disbelief, hands curling into the stone balustrade.
“You’re mad,” she breathed. “Completely mad.”
“Maybe.” He shrugged, easy as rain. “But you left before I could say goodbye. Before you could say anything at all. That’s rude, you know.”
Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. “I had to go.”
“I know.” His gaze softened, the teasing edge fading, something quieter behind his eyes now. “But I couldn’t let it end like that. Not without seeing you again.”
For a moment, they simply looked at each other across the terrace, palace silk against street dust, gold against leather, two pieces of a story that shouldn’t have touched.
She swallowed hard, voice low. “What are you doing here, Isack?”
He grinned again, but this time it was softer. Less bravado. More truth.
“Kan-fakker fik.” I was thinking of you
She closed her eyes for a brief moment, gathering breath, steadying her racing heart.
“And what do you plan to do now that you’re here?”
He leaned forward slightly, eyes dancing in the moonlight.
“Depends. Do you want to see the city from the rooftops? Like a real life? Or are you going to stay here, on this cold stone, and dream of it forever?”
For a long moment, the world was silent, save for the wind in the olive trees and the distant call of a night bird.
Then she smiled, slow and dangerous.
“Help me over,” she said softly. “Before someone sees you and you lose that charming head of yours.”
His grin lit up his whole face.
“Mzyana bzaaf,” Very good he murmured.
His hand was rough when she took it, warm and steady, calloused from years of work and climbing and living. Not like the soft, perfumed hands of the princes she’d been paraded before.
“Careful, l’amira,” he murmured with a crooked smile, steadying her as she clambered up onto the wall beside him. “Palace girls aren’t used to balancing this high.”
“I’m not palace born,” she whispered back, grinning despite herself. “My mother birthed me out of the palace, something the Sultan would not want anyone to know.”
Isack chuckled softly. “So you do have secrets.”
She glanced at him sideways. “More than you’d guess.”
“Good.” His fingers tightened on hers. “Hold on.”
And then, like two shadows slipping from their chains, they swung down onto the flat rooftops of the old city, his dog jumping up at the sight of them with a soft whine of excitement. The stones beneath their feet were warm from the day’s heat, glowing faintly under the moon. The air smelled of spice and dust and distant sea wind.
They ran.
Across roof tiles and crumbling plaster, over narrow alleyways and sleeping courtyards. The city stretched wide beneath the sky, full of twisting streets and secrets. She laughed, sudden, wild, unguarded, the sound breaking free from her chest like a bird uncaged.
It startled her.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed like that. Like a girl, not a daughter of kings.
Isack grinned at her, breathless, pulling her forward. “Raki mzyana…” You’re beautiful His voice was low, teasing, but something in it was true and soft.
She ignored the heat in her cheeks and ran faster.
They went down twisting iron staircases into a courtyard where a fountain murmured in the dark. Past shuttered shops and quiet mosques, their tall silhouettes cutting sharp lines against the stars. The old souk lay deserted at this hour, only the scent of cinnamon and leather lingering in the air, and they wove through its maze, her slippers scattering sand and dust behind them.
They paused near a quiet square, where an old fig tree grew beside a shuttered bakery. Isack caught her hand, pulling her into the shadow of the branches.
“Look,” he whispered, nodding upwards.
There, the sky above the rooftops opened wide, and the stars poured down like light on water. The moon hung low and close, so bright it painted silver across his face, across the soft dark curls of his hair.
She leaned against the tree, breathless. Smiling.
“I haven’t seen the city like this since I was a child,” she murmured. “I’d almost forgotten what it smelled like. The dust, the baking bread, the night air...”
“Machi nshan, l’amira,” It’s not forgotten, princess he said softly.
He crouched by the base of the tree, resting a hand on the warm stone. “It’s in you still. The city. Like breath. Like blood.”
His dog sniffed the cobblestones, tail wagging slowly.
She crouched beside him, tucking her silk robe beneath her knees. “And this is your life. Dust and stone and sky.”
“And tea,” he grinned, pulling a tiny wrapped sweet from his pocket. “Never forget tea.” He unwrapped it, split the piece and offered her half. “You eat like the street folk tonight.”
She laughed softly, taking the sweet from his hand, their fingers brushing. “I think I prefer it.”
For a while they sat like that, sharing the sweet, listening to the quiet city breathe.
Then he stood, holding out a hand again. “Come. There’s more to see before the sun comes.”
And she went.
He led her down the back alleys where old women hung strings of chillies to dry; past the little mosque where boys gathered before dawn; over the market square where, tomorrow, the traders would shout for customers. She touched the walls, the stalls, the rough stones worn smooth by centuries of feet. She smelled mint and old wood, old iron and salt from the far-off sea.
When they reached the sea wall, they sat, side by side, legs swinging high above the water. Below them, the waves lapped gently against the old harbour.
“Tell me,” she said softly. “Tell me why you live like this. So free. So careless.”
He smiled faintly, gazing at the dark water.
“Because no one expects anything from me, l’amira. No crown. No bloodline. I wake. I eat. I live. That’s enough.”
She watched his profile in the moonlight, the ease in his shoulders, the quiet certainty in his voice.
“I don’t know what that feels like,” she whispered.
He turned to her, gently.
“Maybe tonight you do.”
For a while they sat in silence, and it was enough.
When the sky began to pale towards dawn, he stood and dusted off his hands.
“Come. One more place.”
He took her up a steep stairway to the rooftops again, to a flat-topped house where the whole city spread beneath them, rooftops and minarets, domes and arches, all touched with silver light.
She turned slowly, breath caught in her throat.
“I’ve never seen it like this.”
“It’s yours,” he murmured beside her. “All this. Yours to hold or let go.”
She looked at him, at the dog sitting quietly at his side, and something old and tight in her chest eased.
“I don’t want to go back.”
He smiled sadly. “But you will.”
She touched his arm gently. “For now let’s stay until the sun rises.”
And they did.
Until the first light touched the city’s edges, soft and golden, and the distant call to Fajr prayer rose into the waking sky.
For one night, she had lived.
For one night, she had been free.
The first light of dawn crept over the sleeping city, turning the edges of the old stone buildings to gentle gold. The minarets stood like watchful sentinels against the softening sky, and far in the distance, the call to Fajr rose, a quiet, melodic thread carried on the morning breeze.
She stood atop the rooftop, her silk robe stirring gently against her ankles, her hair loose and wild around her shoulders. The night’s freedom clung to her skin like perfume, warm and giddy. A soft yawn escaped her lips, unwilling, but honest, and when she rubbed her eyes like a child, Isack laughed quietly beside her.
“Let’s get you home, l’amira,” he murmured, gentle and amused, the corners of his mouth lifting.
She turned her gaze to him, eyes still bright with the thrill of the night. “No,” she said softly, firmly. “Not home. Just the palace. These streets...” She let her gaze sweep across the waking rooftops, the winding alleys below, the scent of baked earth and mint and dawn filling her senses. “These streets are home.”
He looked at her, properly looked, as if seeing something new unfold, and smiled. A real smile. Quiet. Fond. As if he understood without needing any more words.
Together they made their way back to the high wall separating her world from his, the wall that divided gold from dust, silk from leather, crown from calloused hand. His dog padded silently behind them, yawning as it trotted.
At the wall, he crouched first, bracing his hands, offering her a boost.
“Up you go, l’amira,” he whispered with mock ceremony.
She grinned and took the step, his strong hands steady at her waist as he lifted her. Her slippers found the old stones with ease, and she pulled herself over, turning back just as she perched atop the crumbling edge.
Isack swung up lightly beside her, half his body leaning over the top, one leg still hooked to the city’s side.
He rested his forearms on the cold stone, his face close to hers in the pale light of dawn. His voice dropped low, gentle as the breeze that stirred her loose hair.
“You know where to find me,” he said softly. “Just call my name, l’amira, and I’ll hear you. It’ll carry through the winds and I’ll come for you.”
Her heart gave a quiet, aching twist.
She reached out, without fear, without hesitation, and brushed the dark curls back from his forehead. Her fingertips lingered a moment longer than they should.
“Thank you,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. “My Isack.”
And then, daring, bold, the way she had not been for all her carefully caged years, she leaned forward and pressed her lips softly to his cheek.
A kiss, warm and fleeting, left just beneath the edge of his eye.
For a heartbeat, he stilled, surprise flickering in his golden-brown gaze, before the familiar, crooked smile curved his mouth once more.
“Tsbah bel khir, l’amira,” Sleep well, princess he murmured.
She smiled back, heart thudding against her ribs.
And then she dropped silently to the palace side of the wall, back into the world of marble and duty, secrets and silk.
Isack stayed a moment longer, watching, his dog seated patiently at his feet, and then, like a breath on the wind, he was gone.
But her heart stayed wild in her chest, like the streets. Like him.
For the first time in her life, the palace felt far less like home.
Since that night, the months slipped by like sand through his fingers.
First April, when the city blossomed with the scent of oranges and the sea air grew soft and warm. Then May, hot and golden, when the sun lingered late into the evening and the alley cats grew lazy in the shade. June followed, dry and sharp, with the dust rising in thin curls from the streets. And now July was beginning to creep in, slow and heavy with its heat, the sky pale and cloudless as far as the eye could see.
And she had not called his name. Not once.
Hadja had warned him, wagging a crooked finger in his face as she stirred her pot of lentils. “Ma tderhach, waldi. Don’t go waiting for her. Girls like that, palace girls, they fly high and they never look down.” Don’t do this my boy
But his heart, that foolish, disobedient thing, still yearned.
Every evening he’d find himself drifting along the edge of the palace wall, pretending he was walking the dog, pretending he wasn’t hoping to hear her voice on the wind. But nothing came. Only the distant murmurs of the guards. Only the scent of jasmine and stone.
When the morning rose he wandered to Sidi Ahmed’s little shop near the mosque, the dog padding along beside him, tongue lolling. The old man sat outside, grumbling over a chipped tea glass, puffing on his thin roll of tobacco as he squinted at the quiet street.
“Sbah el kheir, Sidi,” Good morning Sidi Isack greeted, swinging down onto the low wall beside him.
“Sbah en-nour,” the old man grunted back, eyeing him sideways. “Mafi shghal? You’ve time to waste this morning?” No work today?
“Waiting on wood delivery for you,” Isack shrugged, scratching the dog behind the ears. “And tea. You promised tea, old man.”
Sidi grunted and waved a hand. “Go make it yourself, I’m too angry for tea.”
Isack smirked. “What now? Someone insult your prices again?”
“La, worse,” Sidi huffed, dragging deeply on his cigarette. “The streets are closing for two days. Two whole days. For that cursed royal wedding.” He spat into the dust. “Two days no trade, no customers, no deliveries, no work. All because of that stupid fuss.”
Isack frowned, stirring the tea leaves lazily in the pot. “Wedding? Which wedding?”
Sidi gave him a look of disbelief, squinting one eye. “Yal himar” You donkey “You live under the sky and you know nothing, boy? The princess. The l’amira. She’s to marry that fool from Tizi Ouzou. Some prince’s son. Their tents are already pitched outside the palace walls. The wedding’s at the week’s end.”
Isack’s hand stilled on the teapot.
“Shkun...” His throat tightened. “Shkun bnat l’malik?” Which princess?
Sidi snorted. “As if there are many. The king’s only daughter, of course. The pretty one with the Berber cheekbones, the one who never smiles. But she will soon, I suppose. Once she’s properly wed, hm?”
Isack felt the breath leave his chest as if someone had punched him. The dog whined softly at his feet, sensing the sudden change in him.
“She never said...” he murmured under his breath, staring blankly at the steam curling from the teapot. “She never said anything.”
Sidi leaned closer, narrowing his eyes. “Wach bik? What’s this face, boy? You look like you’ve swallowed a bad date.” What’s wrong with you?
“Nothing,” Isack said quickly, shaking his head. “Nothing at all.”
But the lie tasted bitter on his tongue.
Two days the streets would close. Two days of silk and gold and music. Two days and she would belong to another man, some polished stranger from the mountains who smelled of mint and power, who had never run the streets with dust in his hair or tea stolen in the market, who had never touched the old fig tree under the stars.
His hand drifted to the string around his neck, fingers brushing the hidden bracelets tied close to his skin. Cold now. Silent.
Hadja’s words whispered in the back of his mind.
“Palace girls never look down, waldi...”
But she had looked down once. And smiled. And kissed his cheek.
And now she was to be caged again, gilded and perfumed, behind marble walls.
“La tkoon hmaq,” Sidi muttered, grumbling as he refilled his glass. “Don’t be stupid, boy. This is their world. Not ours.”
But Isack said nothing.
He only sat in silence, the tea cooling between his hands, staring at the city that no longer felt like home.
She was to be wed.
To another man.
In three days.
And then she would vanish behind those marble walls forever, a shadow behind silken curtains, a memory pressed flat like petals between the pages of an old book.
Unless...
He set the glass down with a quiet clink.
There was no time to waste.
That night he paced the narrow cove above Hadja’s house, the bracelets heavy against his chest, as the old woman snored softly below. The dog lay awake by the door, tail thumping once when Isack knelt beside him.
“N’har el Khmis,” Thursday Isack whispered, running a hand through the thick fur. “You and me, boy. One last foolish thing.”
He sketched the plan in his mind as clearly as a carpenter laying out his wood. Simple. Sharp. No room for mistakes.
Early in the morning on the wedding day, the streets lay quiet, stripped of their usual noise. Banners of white and crimson fluttered from the palace walls. The gates stood heavy and closed, but not for him.
He slipped along the shadowed alleys, the dog at his heel. When they reached the outer court, he knelt low, cupping the hound’s face in his hands.
“Sma’ni, a sahbi.” Listen to me, my friend
He tugged gently at the dog’s ear. “Run to the court. Bark. Chase. Bite the silk if you must. Make every guard chase you. And don’t stop until you hear my whistle.”
The dog wagged its tail, tongue lolling, clever dark eyes bright.
“Go.”
He bounded away, streaking through the open side gate just as the servants brought out wedding garlands. With a sudden wild barking and a flurry of paws, chaos broke like a summer storm. Men shouted, cloth ripped, baskets fell; the dog danced circles round them all, scattering petals and kicking over vases.
And while the front court swarmed in shouting confusion, Isack slipped silent as breath to the side wall.
He pulled himself up, grunting softly, legs swinging over the stone as he dropped to the inner courtyard where the date palms whispered. His heart thudded loud in his ears, not with fear. With something far more dangerous.
Hope.
Up the servant stairs, fast and quiet, barefoot. Past the scent of rose oil and incense. He knew the way; he’d listened to Hadja’s stories of the palace, of secret paths and quiet doors. Now they led him straight to her chambers.
He heard her voice from within, soft, distracted.
“You aren’t allowed to see me until after the wedding,” she called, assuming it was her betrothed, come foolishly to break the old tradition.
A grin touched Isack’s mouth as he leaned on the doorframe, careless and sure.
“Well, l’amira, lucky for you, I never cared much for rules.”
The room fell silent.
The curtain stirred, and she stepped out.
And for the first time in his life, Isack forgot every clever word he had ever known.
She stood there in her wedding kaftan, ivory silk, embroidered with gold threads that caught the light like dawn’s first glow. Her hair was plaited with fine jewels, little silver charms from the old mountains woven between the strands. Kohl lined her eyes, making them deep and dark and filled with too many feelings at once.
“Isack...?” Her voice was a whisper, barely breathing.
He swallowed hard, staring, utterly and beautifully lost.
“Ya lahbibti,” he managed, a soft smile curling at the edge of his lips. “You’re something the poets forgot to write about.”
Her gaze flickered to the door, to the chaos far below, then back to him, wild and bright, like the girl who had run laughing through the streets with him under the stars.
And in that quiet moment, caught between the palace and the world beyond, the air hummed with something ancient and fierce.
A promise.
A choice.
A beginning.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
The soft scent of jasmine oil hung heavy in the air, mingling with the crisp tang of fresh silk. Somewhere below, the shouting and chaos of the courtyard still stirred, muffled by distance, but here, in this quiet chamber high above the world, time itself seemed to have stopped.
Isack swallowed, his gaze steady on her, his chest tight with something raw and reckless.
“Come with me,” he said softly. His voice was not a command, nor a plea, but something gentle, a thread stretched between hope and fear.
Her hand gripped the carved edge of the dressing table; her knuckles pale against the dark wood.
“I can’t,” she whispered.
He stepped closer, eyes dark and steady. “Can’t or won’t?”
She said nothing.
The silence between them grew thick, not of anger or doubt, but fear. Old fear. Palace fear. The kind spun into your bones from birth, as heavy and clinging as the scent of burning myrrh in the halls.
Isack smiled sadly, tilting his head as if listening to the wind through the date palms.
“It’s fear, isn’t it?” he said quietly. “Not the walls, not your father, not even this ridiculous silk cage they’ve put you in. Just fear. Like a thread round your throat. It’s the oldest prison of all, l’amira.” His voice dropped low, rough as dusk on old stone. “Fear of wanting more than they told you you deserved. Of flying too far from the cage door. Of hearing your own name echo back from the wind and realising you were always meant for the sky.”
She closed her eyes, a shiver racing down her spine.
He stepped close enough to reach her wrist where it rested by her side, the silk of her kaftan soft beneath his fingers. Gently, reverently, he touched the thin golden bracelet there, the one she always wore, with its old engraving worn soft by time.
His thumb brushed across the script, his mouth quietly shaping the words in Arabic:
"Ul-iwazzan ur ttur, ul-iwazzan ur ikkes; ul-iwazzan ur ifus, zriɣ deg ul-iwazzan." The heart that is given is never lost; the hand that offers is never empty; the soul that dares is never broken.
Berber words. Mountain words. Old as the wind.
He smiled faintly.
“Your mother’s?” he asked softly.
She gave the smallest nod, her throat tight.
He traced the bracelet once more, his fingers lingering on the warmth of her skin. Then he raised his gaze to hers, dark eyes bright with something fierce and unspoken.
“Give me a chance,” he murmured. “I’ve nothing but a cove above Hadja’s roof and a dog that’s tearing up the palace court as we speak but if you’ll have me—” he breathed, the smile touching the edge of his mouth, soft and sure, “—I’ll make every breath of this life worth it. Every step. Every dawn. Until you forget what fear ever tasted like.”
The silence quivered between them.
And for the first time in her life, she wondered what it would feel like to be free.
To fly.
To fall.
And never break.
She stood frozen. A breath caught at the edge of her lips, the weight of centuries resting on her shoulders.
For a heartbeat Isack feared she would say no, that the palace would win, that the fear woven into the very stones of this place would tighten its grip and pull her back to the life she hated. Her eyes dropped to the floor; her hand trembled faintly against the silk folds of her wedding kaftan.
Then, a sound.
Her father’s voice, low and steady, carried down the corridor with the heavy certainty of all things expected.
“Binti” My daughter “It’s time. Come. We must go to the mosque.”
The words hung like iron in the air.
Her gaze flickered to the door, to the weight of her father’s voice, and then back to Isack, standing there in his worn shirt, dust on his skin, light in his eyes.
She lifted her chin, something fierce sparking in the dark pools of her eyes. Her fingers reached for the bracelet he had touched, her mother’s words warm against her wrist.
“Let’s go,” she said, her voice suddenly clear and strong, like water breaking stone. “Take me from here. Take me to the mosque, but only if you promise one thing, ya Isack.”
He stilled, breath caught.
“Promise me that you will wed me yourself. With no lords, no gold, no court. No lies. In the mosque, in the sight of Allah, with nothing but the truth between us. And let me be free of this life. Forever.”
His heart clenched. He reached out, gently cupping her face as he smiled, a slow, soft smile that held the sky itself.
“I swear on my life,” he said. “On my breath, on my dog, on the roof that shelters me and the streets that made me, I swear, l’amira. I’ll take you to the mosque with my own hand and you will be free. No walls. No cages. No fear.”
For the first time, she smiled, real and unguarded, bright as the morning sun cracking over the sea.
“Then let’s go.”
Without another word, he took her hand rough against the silk, and led her to the window. Below, the court was still in chaos, guards chasing the barking hound who darted between their legs like a spirit from the stories.
With a quiet laugh, Isack helped her swing over the terrace ledge, steadying her as her golden slippers met the stone. She glanced once over her shoulder, at the life she’d lived, the father who called for her, the walls that had held her since birth.
And then she leapt.
Into the dawn.
Into the world.
Into freedom.
Isack grinned, pulling her close as they dashed for the stairs, the wind rushing warm and alive against their faces.
“Come, l’amira,” he breathed as they ran, hearts pounding like drums. “Let’s get you wed, properly.”
And hand in hand, they fled into the waking streets of Algiers, where the call to prayer rose soft and silver into the sky, and the city opened before them, endless and wild as the sea.
They ran through the streets like the children she’d once watched with longing eyes, but now she was part of that world, part of the dawn, part of life.
Her slippers barely touched the cobbles, her golden bangles chiming softly with each hurried step, her silken wedding kaftan billowing like a cloud behind her. Jewels still clung to her neck and wrists, shimmering under the dim light of the waking city. Beside her, Isack ran barefoot in his worn scraps and dust-stained linen, his laughter breathless, his grin as bright as the sun rising behind them.
And together, like foolish lovers from some old street tale, they dashed towards the mosque.
The great white walls rose before them, calm and still against the blue-tinged sky, the call to prayer fading softly into the air. The old wooden doors stood half open, light from within spilling golden onto the stone.
Isack pushed through first, his dog waiting outside, tail wagging fiercely at the steps.
Inside, the familiar scent of oud and old prayer rugs filled the air. And there, bending to arrange the worn books of scripture, stood the imam, a stout man with a silver beard and thick brows, muttering to himself as he worked.
“Ya khoya!” Brother Isack called, grinning as he hurried forward. “Remember when I caught your runaway rooster last winter and you promised me a favour?”
The imam straightened slowly, squinting at him.
“Ya waldi, I’ve no dinar to pay you for that rooster,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “I told you already, that bird brought me nothing but bad luck.”
Isack only laughed, glancing at her, breathless, radiant in her silks and gold.
“I’m not here for money, imam Saïdi,” he said softly, the grin fading into something almost shy, almost sacred. “I’ve come for my payment. Please, wed me to the woman who holds my heart. Now. Quickly. We’re in a rush.”
The imam stared, from Isack’s rough clothes to her shining wedding jewels, then back again.
“Are you sure, boy?” the old man asked, voice low with the weight of tradition. “This is no small thing, not a game to win and laugh over. Marriage is binding before Allah, here, and in the next life.”
Isack turned to her, his hand reaching for hers, fingers twining tight. She met his gaze, her heart thudding hard and wild.
“Yes,” she whispered, voice steady. “We are sure.”
The imam sighed, but the faintest smile curved his lips beneath his beard.
“Very well, waladi. Come here. Both of you.”
And so, beneath the carved wooden beams of the mosque, before the worn prayer rugs and the quiet dawn, the old man began the nikah.
Isack spoke first, his voice clear: his ijab, his offer to take her as his wife. Her heart jumped as she gave her quiet qabul, accepting him, her breath soft and warm in the hushed air.
Witnessed by Allah. No gold. No courts. No walls.
Only truth.
Only choice.
Only freedom.
The imam prayed over them, his hands lifted gently, invoking peace, blessing, mercy. The words of the Qur’an wrapped around them like light, weaving them into something whole and sacred.
“Baraka Allahu lakuma,” May Allah bless you both he said softly at last.
But before the final words could fall, the heavy crash of iron-shod boots broke the quiet, and the wide doors of the mosque burst open.
Palace guards.
Dozens of them.
Their dark leather armour gleamed, swords glinting under the oil lamps. The captain stepped forward, gaze sharp and cruel.
“There they are!” he barked. “Seize them, by order of the Sultan himself!”
The peace of the mosque shattered, but Isack only smiled, fingers tightening around his new wife’s hand.
“Ya Allah...” the imam muttered, clutching his beads.
Steel-clad hands grabbed Isack roughly by the arms, wrenching him backwards with such force his shoulder jarred painfully. The dog growled low and deep from outside but dared not move as three more guards kept their blades close.
At the far end of the prayer hall, she stood, now alone, radiant in her wedding silk, defiant as the sunrise behind her. Her dark eyes flashed as the heavy tread of boots approached.
The Sultan himself entered the mosque, flanked by advisors and more guards, the weight of his presence sinking into the air like stone into water. His robe of deep emerald trailed behind him.
He halted in the centre of the prayer hall, eyes flicking from the bound street boy to his daughter, who was supposed to be waiting at the palace gates for her grand procession.
His face darkened.
“What is the meaning of this?” His voice cut sharp through the silence, hard as steel drawn from its sheath. “What foolishness is this? Binti, explain yourself. Now.”
She lifted her chin, her heart pounding against her ribs. “I have nothing to explain to you, Father,” she said, her voice low, steady. “I have done what you never let me do, I chose.”
His gaze narrowed, dark with warning. “Chose?” he spat. “Chose what? This—” he flung a hand towards the struggling Isack, “this gutter rat? This thief from the streets? You throw away a kingdom for him?”
He strode towards her, his robe whispering against the tiles. His hand shot out, catching her chin hard, lifting her face so her eyes were forced to meet his.
“You shame me,” he hissed. “You shame your mother’s name. Your country. What have you done?”
Before she could speak, Isack's voice cracked the air, hoarse but fierce, his whole body straining against the guards’ grip.
“Don’t touch my wife!”
The words hung like thunder in the mosque.
The Sultan froze.
So did every guard.
Even the imam, who stood quietly by the prayer books, bowed his head and folded his hands before him.
“She speaks the truth, sidi,” the old imam said softly, his voice carrying clear and unafraid through the vast chamber. “By Allah’s law and witness, they are wed. Just now. With her qabul and his ijab. With me as their witness. The nikah is done.”
The Sultan’s hand dropped slowly from her face.
His breath hissed between his teeth as he stared at his daughter, who stood unflinching, her chin high, her eyes clear and bright.
“You married him,” he said, voice low with disbelief. “You married this... street boy. Without my blessing. Without the court. Without—” His hand trembled. “You dare defy me, your father, the Sultan?”
“I dared, Father,” she said softly, “because you left me no choice. You caged me all my life. This is my freedom. My will. My faith.” Her voice hardened. “And he is my husband.”
Silence fell like a heavy cloth over the mosque, save for the dog’s soft, warning growl and the faint creak of armour.
The Sultan stared at them, the gilded princess and the dusty street boy, joined in defiance and faith.
His jaw tightened.
And the air held still, waiting for his judgement.
The Sultan’s face darkened, rage twisting the lines of his mouth as the weight of his shame settled upon him. In front of his men. In the house of God. His pride, his own blood, choosing a street rat over the throne.
His hand shot out.
A sharp crack split the air as his palm struck her cheek, sending her head whipping to the side.
A breathless hush swept the mosque.
Isack roared.
With a violent wrench, he tore free from the guards' grip, their surprise too slow, their hands grasping at empty air as the boy, lean and lithe from a lifetime of running and scrapping, lunged across the space between them.
He grabbed the Sultan by the front of his robes, strong, hands knotting into the silken lapels and hauled him forward until their faces were but inches apart. His chest heaved; his golden-brown eyes burned bright as fire.
“The only thing holding me back from sending you to your death for laying a hand on my wife,” he growled, voice low and shaking with fury, “is that we stand in the house of Allah. But God is my witness, Sultan, if I see you again, and you dare try one more thing against her, against us, you shan’t live to say the word ‘La’.” No
A gasp rippled through the guards.
Even the dog bared its teeth, hackles raised, a low rumble thrumming in its throat.
The Sultan’s eyes, wide with shock, stared into Isack’s face, the breath stolen from his chest. No man, no beggar, no prince had ever dared grip him so. His guards hovered, hesitating, unsure whether to drag Isack down and risk defiling the mosque further.
Isack shook him once, hard, before shoving him back, hard enough that the Sultan staggered on his feet, his robes twisting about him like wounded pride.
She gasped softly, her fingers brushing her stinging cheek, but her heart swelled with something wild and bright. Isack, this boy from the streets, stood tall before a king without fear.
The Imam stepped forward quietly, his old hands raised.
“Enough. Baraka min hadshi.” Enough of this
His voice cut the tension like a blade, heavy with the quiet authority of one who spoke for God.
“All of you, this is sacred ground. No more violence beneath Allah’s roof. Leave your wrath outside.”
Isack stood firm, breathing hard, the fire still in his eyes.
The Sultan straightened his robe, hand trembling slightly as he brushed the silk smooth, his gaze burning into the boy before him.
“You have shamed me,” the Sultan hissed. “Both of you. This is not over.”
Isack smiled, slow, dangerous, wolfish.
“No,” he murmured. “It’s only just begun.”
Her hand slipped into his, fingers tightening around his as the guards shifted uneasily, no man daring to break the Imam’s peace, no sword daring to fall where Allah’s name was spoken.
And in that quiet moment, beneath the great dome of the mosque and the morning light streaming in, they stood, husband and wife, defiant and unbroken.
And free.
The weight of the morning’s confrontation still clung to them as she and Isack made their way through the narrow, twisting streets, fingers intertwined. They arrived at Hadja’s humble home.
Hadja greeted them with a knowing smile, her eyes sharp beneath heavy brows that had witnessed decades of stories. “Ah, waldi,” she said softly, her voice thick with affection. “And l’amira, the princess with the heart of a rebel.” She welcomed them inside, where the scent of mint tea and spices wove through the air like a familiar song.
Once seated, tea poured and steam swirling upwards, they looked to her for guidance. Hadja’s gaze softened as she began, her voice falling into a quiet rhythm, the past and present folding together.
“Love,” she murmured, she smiled faintly, “is a wild flame. I was once foolishly in love, too.”
Her eyes drifted to a faraway place, as though seeing a younger version of herself beneath a fading lantern’s light.
“There was a boy from a far village, kan zwin, he was handsome, kind, but life had other plans. Tqadit I was deceived. I thought love alone would be enough, but it was not.”
“Knt bghit nhss b huriya I wanted to feel free. But freedom, l’amira, isn’t given; it’s taken. And love is the courage to take it.”
When she finished, silence settled, the weight of her words hanging in the air.
Hadja’s hand reached out, worn and steady, resting on Isack’s.
“My son Isack, listen carefully. Take passage from here to Ghazaouet. It’s not safe for you here anymore.”
Isack’s brow furrowed, surprise flickering across his face.
Hadja turned to l’amira, eyes shimmering with a secret long kept.
“l’amira, your mother was from Ghazaouet. I took passage with her to Algiers long ago. She was brave, she’d be proud of you.”
Her breath caught, fingers tightening around Isack’s hand.
“My sister works in the palace, she was your mother’s maid. You were closer than you ever knew.”
A tear traced a line down Hadja’s cheek, touched by both sorrow and hope.
“You’ll find fertile land there, and people who will welcome you. Seek out the trader named Rashid, he will guide you.”
The room felt alive with possibility, the past and future intertwining in Hadja’s words.
Isack nodded, determination hardening in his gaze.
She felt a quiet hope bloom inside her, fragile but fierce.
Together, they would chase the horizon.
Together, they would find freedom.
That night, they found passage to Ghazaouet, with nothing but a dog, a cloth bundling their meagre belongings, and their hearts. The road was long and winding, carving through desert and coast, dust clinging to their clothes and salt from the sea staining their hair. But they carried no burden heavier than the lives they had shed behind them.
It took five days. Five days of quiet prayers, whispered plans, shared bread, and watching the dog run wild through the hills as though he had always known freedom. On the evening of the fifth day, with the sun resting low like a gold coin on the edge of the horizon, they arrived.
They found Rashid just as Hadja had said. A man with lines on his face from years of salt and sand, eyes that knew the weight of secrets, and a heart that softened the moment he saw her face.
“Bint Laila” he whispered, as if he were seeing a ghost. “Your mother would be at peace now.”
He led them to the land her mother had left behind, acres upon acres of olive trees and wild thyme, crowned by a single stone house, worn by time but strong, built upon a rise that overlooked the endless sea. It had a stah, a courtyard with faded tiles and jasmine climbing along the old walls. Her mother had kept it all untouched, in case she too bore a restless heart, as she once had.
They did not return to Algiers. The city forgot them, as all cities forget their rebels and dreamers.
Isack worked with Rashid, hands calloused by honest labour, skin browned by the coastal sun. He returned home each day to a house alive with laughter and the scent of mint and coriander. His wife was no longer a princess. She was something far freer, a woman of her own making. She walked barefoot in the morning dew, learned the names of herbs, stitched cushions for the stah, and left her hair uncovered to dance with the wind.
They lived slowly. They lived wholly. And in quiet moments beneath the olive trees, Isack would take her hand and kiss her wrist where the bangle once sat and say, “You, l’amira, are the only kingdom I’ll ever kneel for.”
Years passed like the tide, soft but certain. No one remembered the boy from the streets of Algiers who stole the heart of a princess. No one spoke of the princess at all. The crown she once wore died with her old name, and she never mourned it.
In the spring of their third year by the sea, they welcomed a son. Isack held him with trembling arms and named him Nur el-Din, the light of faith, for he came into their lives as proof that their love had been blessed.
Years later, a daughter followed, born beneath a full moon. She named her Amal Layali, the hope of nights, for she had once looked to the stars and prayed for freedom, and the stars had listened.
They raised their children on stories and soil, on faith and fire, and on the unshakable truth that love, when pure, needs no crown to be sacred.
And in time, no one remembered the palace or the boy who walked its shadows.
But on the cliffs of Ghazaouet, where jasmine grows wild and the sea sings to the shore, you can still find the house with the stah, where a dog once slept in the sun, and where two hearts, once lost, found their way home.
And if you listen closely to the wind, you might still hear her whisper his name.
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