🫶🏻⭐

18+, cottagewhore, dog mom, multifandom A med student in serious need of Tony Shark (I am weird)

[moornvelvet2]

[sun-snatcher]

( all gif credits to @vole-mon-amour from this lovely set ! )

☤ ─ HO'OPONOPONO ; The Pitt

summ.  Your story does not come to an end when you do. So keep going. Live to see it with others. w.count.  1.5k tags. gen!fic , genderneutral!reader , no y/n , 4th wall break , meta , talk of death . TRIGGER WARNING for heavy descriptions of grief & loss , in regards to suicide & suicidal ideation . a/n.  Feeling weary as of late. In response to that concerning ep release (2x09), here is my letter to all those who are struggling with Depression or anything of the like— & above all, my dedication in honor of those loved & lost in my or anyone else's life.

Do read the tags & tw above. Thank you!

i. — I LOVE YOU.

Come July, the fresh MS and interns will pass by the framed portrait of you everyday, and never dare to think to ask who you are. It’s not the kind of thing a student ought to ask about, anyway. Don’t want to be insensitive and step on any toes, y’know?

But it’s more welcome than they think.

(The youth, given time, will come to learn that as you grow older in age, grief can sometimes be a welcome thing.)

“Oh,” Dana smiles. It’s the fond kind. Facing a timestamp of an old haunt that she’s weathered, come to rue, come to remember. 

She reads the syllables of your name out casually. 

Some of the staff in the vicinity don’t openly turn, but Emma can somehow physically feel their ears perk to the sound of your name. A reflex; as if you’re still here, and they’re expecting to see you step back through the doors.

“One of our finest, best and brightest,” she continues, laying a hand on her shoulder with a squeeze. Emma recognises the gesture: more a desperate reach for comfort— for Dana to ground and anchor herself than it is for her: a fresh-faced student nurse who’s only encountered a handful of names to remember.

“Y’would’ve loved ‘em,” Dana nudges, in a bid to lighten the mood. “Was a hell of an easy thing to do.”

Emma’s reply is a gracious, sincere thing. Punctuated with a gentle smile. “I wish I could’ve met them.”

“Yeah?” hums Dana, after a shaky moment's pass. Her voice is thin. “Me too, kid.”

ii. — THANK YOU.

“Alright, uh. Group huddle,” Dr. Shen sighs, to the band of tenderfoot MS under his care. Tensions are high. They’re arguing between themselves in an undertone on what could have or could have been done for their now-deceased patient. 

“A close friend of mine once asked me,” Shen begins to address once they settled, “What do you think is the worst possible thing that can happen to you?”

Ellis glances curiously at him. Wonders where he’s going with this. She answers first, anyway, if only to have his back; start the ball rolling: “Paralysis,” she answers.

Amputation, shudders an MS2. Blindness, goes the next. And then on, and on with varying levels of grimaces and winces: Dementia. Sickle cell. Locked-in Syndrome. 

“See?” Shen cuts in, at last. “Everything you all have listed has a thread of torture in it. Pain. Suffering. Little to no hope for recovery. But not one of you said death, did you?” 

Something clicks in place in the MS students’ heads: Quality of life. That death, on rare medical occasions like their previous case, might be seen as a kindness. 

“Alright, spill,” Ellis snorts, when everyone had eventually scattered back to their own patients. “Who do we have to thank for that fire mentoring story you just pulled in there?”

John, for the first time in a long while, has something uncharacteristic in his usually-deadpan expression: Grief.

When he voices your name, it hangs in the air long enough for Ellis to feel something startle in her heart— 

How after all this time, she’s still learning plenty from and about you.

iii. — I FORGIVE YOU.

“You said the anger comes and goes?”

In the quiet of his therapist’s office, Abbot distracts himself with the ticking of the wall clock. Crosses and uncrosses his arms; fidgets with his wedding ring.

“Ever since Admin cleared out their locker, yeah,” he says, instinctively beset by the memory. “Or when I look at a chart and see their name on it like they’re still here. Or when one of the newer juniors sit on their chair, even though it’s— it’s no one’s chair.”

“You’re not angry at Admin, or the Med-students,” his therapist lays bare, carefully. “And I think you’re aware of that.” 

He purses his lips out of frustration, leans back into the sofa to gather himself. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? I shouldn’t, I can’t—” He runs a hand down his face. “I can’t be angry at— the victim. They don’t deserve that.”

“Why not?” comes the odd challenge, slowing Abbot down considerably. “You deserve it, too: to feel a certain way about what happened.” 

“Yeah, but, not— Not anger. Anger implies a wrongdoing,” he explains, shaking his head in disagreement. “And I don’t blame them for what they did. That’s different.”

“How so?”

“Because!” he bites, in an outrage, “When someone wrongs you, it means you face a choice to—”

Abbot stops himself short. Shame and disgust curls in his heart. There it is: the pulsepoint of the problem. 

“Forgive them,” his therapist finishes, for him. “You have to forgive them, Jack. For your sake. Whether or not it feels incredibly selfish of you to be angry or disappointed— And even if there’s nothing, really, to even forgive.”

iv. — PLEASE FORGIVE ME.

It’s Dr. McKay, befittingly, who manages to get through to one of her patients, and convinces them to speak with Kiara for a discussion on PTMC’s number of therapy programmes.

Robby is proud. He makes sure to go out of his way to tell her this, briefly but sincerely; that she’d done a phenomenal thing, before pointedly ignoring the discerning look she’d given him when she caught the tail-end of his anguished gaze as he excused himself for a breather.

The rooftop door creaks when he swings it open. The guardrail is empty, and the parapet is reflecting the golden hour of a sunset. 

Robby indulges himself, for a moment, to think about a Universe where he stumbles into you still up here. Closes his eyes and childishly allows an imagination of him standing next to you, speaking to you. Perhaps a second chance, or one last conversation at the very least—

But he tells himself he doesn’t deserve it. 

What good of a mentor is he if his own junior had slipped through the cracks? He ought to have noticed the signs, hadn’t he? It’s his duty. The responsibility, above all else, lies on Robby’s shoulders. It’s what he signed up for when he took the role, didn’t he? 

And he’d failed.

This burden is his; an eternal cross to bear.

Your death; your blood metaphorically staining his hands.

He’d failed you. Just like he’d failed Adamson; failed Leah, and Jake, and Frank and everyone who’s ever—

In Robby’s mind, he entertains the idea of a final conversation with you; and he never gets to say all that he wants to say, because he always finds something more to want to tell you. It ends the same way in each and every one of them:

A bow of his head to guiltily say, I’m so, so, sorry.

n. — STAY.

Do not hang your stethoscope at the rooftop guardrail tonight. 

It is not yet time for farewells.

You’ll miss Donnie’s upcoming babyshower, and Javadi’s birthday party celebration. Matteo embarrasses himself somehow during it, but he’ll wish, regardless, that you’d have been there to see it. 

You’ll miss out on hitting the jackpot on the latest bet Ahmad had on the roster, which means Jesse will finally beat your record and be ahead of the winning-streak. A Pyrrhic victory, ofcourse— he wishes he never won this way.

You’ll miss the latest goss Princess and Perlah have on that one EMS crew girl constantly trying to sneak a look at Langdon a.k.a ER-Ken— who, speaking of, will be quietly wondering where you’ve gone once he’s back from rehab; the same way Collins will find out should she ever drop by again.

You’ll miss the domesticity of Samira’s texts and calls and links to medical journals she finds interesting; miss Whitaker’s random pictures of farm animals sent every off-day he has; miss Santos’ late night trash talking over life in general; miss Mel’s ramblings and childhood stories of her sister.

McKay will wish her son could have known you in the same way Dana wishes Emma could have met you earlier. John will get your drink order every once in a while whenever he misses you despite disliking the taste, and Ellis will mistakenly glimpse your face moving amidst the havoc of a trauma case more times than she can count.

And Abbot and Robby will carry another face in their memory; another tally in their heart: They will miss you every time they see you in each junior that they come to mentor, and they will miss you when they both stand at the rooftop together on the darker days.

All this to say:

You’ll miss out on plenty if you take that step beyond. 

The expression “taking your own life” speaks for itself. Who are you taking it from? This life you have has never wholly been your own; it’s shared. An impact— say a dent, or the black hole of an absence— will be felt in the little Universe you’ve come to build and share as home with friends, family, loved ones.

I promise you they will look for you whenever that dent resurfaces, or that black hole reappears. 

So just stay for this night and the next, and the next. 

One day at a time.

It is not a time for farewells.

Do not hang your stethoscope at the rooftop guardrail tonight.

— International Suicide Hotlines for accessibility, — Or, at the very least, talk to someone who is a safe space. Hell, talk to me, my blog is open!

[pencil-n-pen]

—you’ve ruined my life

──────────────────────

jack abbot x overachiever! intern! reader

summary: good things happen to those who are found crying in the supply closet by their hot, older, maybe flirty boss-slash-mentor.

wc: 14.5k (i have no idea how that happened)

tags/tropes: age gap (duh), slow burn with an insane amount of tension, lowkey very emotionally rife, hurt/comfort, not-so-unrealistic amounts of crying, langdonmel in the background if you squint (you don’t have to squint very hard i love them so much guys im sorry) vaguely referenced but not subtlety implied bad childhood, gratuitous and frankly ridiculous medical inaccuracies because i took a lot of creative liberty, reader is an ode to Matilda by Harry Styles and You’re Gonna Go Far by Noah Kahan, Pitt Crew becomes reader’s family :)

a/n: this was supposed to be a sort-of drabble for @leeknowpegger. idk what happened. pegger i’m sorry i’ve been so dead recently (always) will you take this as an apology. If you’d like more cohesive tags, more context, extra details, and more in depth warnings, this fic has been cross-posted on ao3, and will be linked below :]

NOT-SO-FRIENDLY-PSA: Any comments asking me to write more, post another chapter, or anything of the sort will be deleted. Please do not send an ask into my inbox either. Screaming in my inbox (not about wanting more, general screaming) is totally fine though!

ao3

──────────────────────

۫ ꣑ৎ

You have been the perfect day shift intern for five months. Five freaking months of listening to mostly constructive criticism, five months of adapting and learning on the go with not a single complaint voiced, five months of diligent note-taking, studying, and practice. Five months of weaseling your way into the list of interns-slash-young-doctors that your residents actually respect. Five months of grueling shifts, hard losses, and never saying no when someone needs you to do something.

Five months of being the untouchable, “perfect” intern. Robby’s newest addition to his growing list of “work-wards.”

Five months of unflinching effort and dedication and it took four hours of your third night-shift to reduce you to a miserable, snotty mess on the supply closet floor. Tucked into the space between the two shelves, just the toes of your blood and snot and god knows what else covered shoes peeking out, the rest of you obscured.

Five months, four hours, and back to back fuck-ups that escalated into Dr. Jack Abbot, the man you may or may not have had the hugest crush on since beginning your intern year, removing you from a case. Five months, four hours, and two parents screaming at Dr. Abbot, telling him that you’re not fit to be a doctor.

Tonight isn’t the first night a patient has yelled at you. Tonight isn’t even the first time you’ve been removed from a case. It’s not the first time Dr. Abbot has had to correct you, and it’s certainly not the first time you’ve made a mistake.

You’re an intern. It’s your job to fuck up, learn from it, and keep going. That’s what Dr. Mohan said to one of the other interns awhile back. They’d ended up flunking out, but oh well. It was good advice. It wasn’t meant for you, but hell if you don’t say it to yourself every night like a prayer.

But right now, the usual calming mantra is doing absolutely nothing. You’re stifling ugly sobs into the tops of your knees, arms wrapped around and squeezing as tight as you can, your chest shaking and shuddering with the force of your complete and total freak-out.

The patient isn’t dead. Despite your mistakes, they didn’t die. There’s really nothing to cry about. Nothing to hide in the supply closet for.

And yet, here you are.

Your first mistake wasn’t terrible, but it was ridiculously stupid and incredibly embarrassing. Triage room, emergency measures being taken. And you, tired and off kilter from being so used to the day-shift, broke the sterile field. Like some dumb medical student, not a fairly seasoned intern who’s drilled sterile protocol into her head until it’s muscle memory.

For a scalpel. You dropped a scalpel. Arguably the worst thing to drop. And then, like an idiot, you picked it back up.

And, well. There’s no time to re-scrub, so there wasn’t a need for you in the triage room anymore.

Your second mistake was equally stupid and avoidable, if you’d focused more. Dr. Garcia was kind enough to let you scrub in on an emergency appendectomy.

It was a test. Not your first.

And you ripped the fucking purse strings.

Once again, you were unceremoniously booted from the room (being kicked out of an OR feels a hell of a lot worse than being kicked out of a triage room) and sent back to the pit. Dr. Abbot immediately caught wind of it and demoted you to scut work until “you get your head back in the game.”

And, well. You tried really hard to devote yourself to your new task, but you had to keep blinking tears out of your eyes every five seconds and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of literally any of your coworkers, lest they think you some weak-willed weak-stomached intern who can’t handle some criticism and correction. You’re a hard worker. You’re good at this. You have to be.

So yeah. Crying in the supply closet.

You’ve always been a frustrated cryer, which is annoying on a good day and downright awful on a bad one (case in point.)

You’re just so upset with yourself. You’re better than this. You know you are. You’ve proven that you are. You don’t drop scalpels. You don’t break the sterile field. You don’t rip purse strings.

But you did tonight. And maybe one day you’ll laugh, but today is not that day.

You just don’t get it. Day shift? Incredible. Manageable. You’re on top of things, put together, and worthy of Dr. Robby’s respect.

But tonight? Quite literally the exact opposite.

You can’t be burning out, right? That’s not how burn out works. There’s like, signs, and you start to feel terrible and awful and exhausted and sure you definitely feel all of those things, but that’s because you work in medicine. And you’re an intern. You’re supposed to feel terrible and awful and exhausted. But maybe you’re not? You do enjoy your work, and it’s exhilarating, especially when you try something for the first time and execute it well, because you always do, you always get things right on the first try, obviously, so that means that this can’t be burn out. You don’t burn out. That’s not you. Right? No. Of course not.

You gasp a particularly rough sob into your knees, air feeling like knives as you inhale, making you cough horrendously. You must be quite a sight.

Unfortunately, due to your alternating hacking coughs and dramatic crying, you don’t quite hear the door open.

You do, however, hear the quiet “Oh.” that’s mumbled a few moments later.

Of-fucking-course.

You scramble upright, aggressively wiping at your face and attempting to make it look like you weren’t just crying on the ground.

“Dr. Abbot! I’m so sorry, this is very unprofessional and I know you have me on scut work but I promise I’m still working on it—“

He holds up a hand, and you slam your jaw shut with an audible click.

“Just needed some four by fours, kid.”

Always one to be helpful (especially to the guy you have a crush on who also happens to be your boss, aka the same person who professionally told you to get your shit together about forty minutes ago) you reach beside yourself and hand him the package of gauze, an awkward smile fixed on your face.

“…Those are three by threes.”

Bitch. Motherfucker. Fuck your life.

“Right,” You mumble, dragging your hand down your face. “I’ll just get out of your way. Sorry.”

You turn to walk past him, attempting to go quick enough that he might not notice the new tears shining in your eyes before a hand lands on your shoulder.

“Look,” Dr. Abbot starts. “You’re one of Robby’s adopted interns, right? Robby-Junior?”

“That is one of the rumors Santos has been spreading, yes.”

His hand is on your shoulder. His hand is on your shoulder. (!!!)

You don’t know what to do. He’s looking at you. Your boss doesn’t fluster you. You’re chill. You’re normal. You’re cool as a cucumber, yep yep yep.

“Robby doesn’t adopt interns lightly. Don’t let one bad shift mess you up. It happens to everyone.”

You purse your lips. You should let it go. Take his advice. Thank him.

The all-consuming-guilt and ever-present-need to prove yourself itches too painfully to ignore.

Dr. Abbot seems to notice, and he catches your gaze again.

“What, it doesn’t happen to you?”

A jolt of panic stabs your chest. “No! Of course it happens to me, I didn’t mean to imply that I’m like, above making mistakes or having bad shifts at all—“

Genuinely what is wrong with you. Why the fuck does he do this you. You’re a smart, confident woman who apparently chucks her brain into the garbage bin whenever her boss is around.

Dr. Abbot, probably picking up on a pattern of behavior by now, levels you with another look that shuts you up fairly quickly. He’s got a sort of impish grin on his face, and it shouldn’t be hot, but he’s got his hand on your shoulder and you’re having a ridiculously shitty night. Does anything matter anymore?

“Usually, we try to mix up interns schedules so you don’t get into a rhythm on one specific shift so that when you inevitably switch, the change doesn’t mess up your flow. But I'm sure your knack for keeping your head down and doing good work let you fall through the cracks.”

He takes his hand off your shoulder and shoves it into his pocket, but you almost don’t notice because he said you do good work.

Abbot gives you another grin. “And I didn’t stick you on scut as a punishment. Mindless work tends to be calming, which in turn helps focus your mind.”

“But I ripped the purse strings,” You blurt like a Catholic school girl in a particularly rife confessional, “Like an idiot.”

“You ripped them like an intern doing something for the first time.”

“I practiced hundreds of times to make sure it didn’t happen!”

He tilts his head, almost cat-like. “Did you also practice on a live person in a higher stakes situation while your body is messed up from a sudden and huge sleep schedule change?”

“…No?”

He snorts. “Exactly. Dr. Garcia probably won’t hold it against you. She’ll give you shit for it, but it’s not like she’s never going to give you another chance.”

You wipe the last bit of wetness of your cheeks with the back of your hand, embarrassment heating your face. Despite the awfulness of being caught crying in the supply closet, the beginnings of pleasant warmth is spreading through your chest, Dr. Abbot’s reassurances echoing in your head.

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot. Um. Sorry about the crying. I promise I don’t usually do that.”

Dr. Abbot snorts as he saunters towards the door. “Wouldn’t judge you if you did, kid.”

—

Dr. Jack Abbot is bored.

He has his work, which is great. He became a doctor after being discharged because he’s always been the kind of man that needs something to do. Something to mind, something to watch, something to fix. Robby and him and much the same in this way.

Working at the ED was enough for a while. There was a certain challenge to it, an unpredictability that itch sated, kept him sane. And, well. Now he’s an attending. Night shift lead.

He started to get restless again.

He thought a pet might work. He was going to get a dog, but it didn’t sit right with him to get an animal built for companionship and then leave it at home for over twelve hours a day. Then he thought a cat might do the trick. He looked online first, saw beautiful, well bred felines that could probably compete and win for best in show for whatever the cat equivalent is for the Westminster Dog Show.

And then he made the mistake of going to the shelter and seeing an old, one eared tuxedo cat that stared at him with something in between fear and spite and its eyes. And well. The shelter attendants assured him that the cat in question prefers being left alone and having its own space, but might warm up eventually, and he brought him home that day.

And then it was just Jack, occasionally Robby, and now his asshole cat who might not love him back.

That also worked for a while. Having Charlie was fun. It was nice having another living creature in his house that wasn’t him. Even if he did have a habit of chewing on power cords when left unattended and eventually progressed into attempting to destroy Jack’s stethoscope if he left it anywhere he could find.

Minding the cat gave him something to do that wasn’t tedious, and it was a special sort of bonus to wake up every now and then and see the cat sprawled at the foot of the bed, snoring away. He didn’t actually know cats could snore like that.

Around the time that the itch came back and Jack was considering adopting a second cat from the shelter (well on his path to becoming a crazy cat lady, as Robby said in the park over beers) he met you for the first time.

Sometimes Jack slips quietly into the ED and watches the chaos of day shift’s conclusions. He’s picked up a very special language of gauging what he’s getting into based on the body language and behavior of the rest of the hospital staff. Robby had told him about the latest intern— a motivated, stubborn sort of girl that frequently went toe-to-toe with Santos but without any of the pushback when receiving correction or criticism. He’d heard that you were smart, capable, and well on your way of becoming a great doctor.

Robby failed to mention that you were pretty.

He’d watch you, comparing notes with Mohan with a certain intense focus on your face, worrying your lip between your teeth and repeatedly tucking a piece of hair behind your ear because it’d fallen out of your disheveled pony tail he thinks ‘Oh.’

And then, a few months later, he finds you crying in a closet, subtly confessing fears of failure and falling short of expectations, and then he thinks ‘Well, there’s something to do.’

Jack tries not to think about you, at first. You, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, bottom lip jutted out just a bit, hugging your knees. He tries not to think about how you’d looked at him when he’d assured you that you did good work, the awkward thank you, and the way that for the rest of the shift, all the annoying menial tasks that get forgotten in the chaos were all mysteriously taken care of.

He tells himself that he’s just going to keep an eye on you. For Robby’s sake. He’d do the same for Whitaker.

The next time you have a night shift, you’re clearly more prepared for the exhaustion, and when he finally sees you in true, proper action, he understands immediately why Robby likes you and Mohan frequently attaches you to her cases. Skill, patience, and focus.

When he watches you trach a patient with a certain ease that only comes from practicing hundreds of times, Ellis shoots him a knowing look. Raised eyebrows and smirk. When she passes him in the hall a few hours later, she jabs her thumb behind her shoulder at where you’re diligently filling out a chart.

“That one yours, then?”

Jack shakes his head. “It’s not like that. You make me sound like a creep.”

Another raised eyebrow. “Sure it isn’t.”

“She’s Robby’s intern.”

“Mhm.”

“She’s way too young.”

Parker shrugs. “She’s good.”

“She is.”

The senior resident cuts a glance back to you. “Think she’ll burn out?”

“Maybe.”

Parker crosses his arms. “Are you gonna let it happen?”

“She’s not my intern.”

Up to three Parker Ellis looks and counting.

“It’s an HR nightmare.”

Parker shrugs. “You just said she’s not your intern.”

He narrows his eyes. “You know what I meant.”

“Do I? It’s been awhile, Jack. No one would really judge you for having some fun.”

“Parker.”

“Jack.”

He shakes his head, walks towards the boards. “You’re the worst.”

Parker just laughs. “Sure I am.”

To your credit, he doesn’t find you crying in a supply closet again to see evidence of you doing so for a solid few weeks. But, like most things in the ED, the peace doesn’t last.

You came into work soaking wet, which is odd, considering the fact that he knows you drive, and the walk to the parking lot isn’t far enough to account how you’re shivering in your freshly changed scrubs. He brushes it off, chalks it up to freakish Pittsburg weather.

Some night shifts are relatively slow and mild. Tonight is not one of those shifts. Patients are extra irritable at late hours, which is to be expected, but what he’s not expecting is to walk by South 15 and see a 50-something year old man slap you.

Jack blinks, and in the next second he’s in the room, standing in between you and the patient.

“Excuse me, what the fuck is going on here?”

Gloria will probably give him shit for his language later, but right now all he can think about is the startled look on your face and the echo that the contact made.

“I said I want a real doctor, not this fucking—“

“Get the fuck out of my hospital.”

Shen peaks his head in. “Security’s on their way.”

Jack reaches behind him to where you’re still standing, your hand covering your cheek, and gently pushes you towards Shen, towards the door. You stumble over your feet a bit, but truly, Jack’s never been more thankful for his residents because then Parker is right there, ushering you out the door with a hand on your shoulder. Jack resolutely ignores your mumbled “I’m fine, really, he just surprised me.”

Thankfully, security doesn’t take that long to get to the room, and the second Jack is finished explaining, he’s out the door and scanning the ED for your face. Nurse Young jerks her head towards the break room, and he thinks he manages to give her what he hopes is a thankful smile before he’s beelining for it.

When he opens the door, you’re sitting on the floor again, holding an ice pack to your cheek with one hand and dabbing at your lip with a paper towel. Like you’ve never heard of medical protocol in your entire life.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

You jerk your head up, a kid caught with its hand in the cookie jar.

“Dr. Abbot!”

Lowering himself to the ground is awkward, physically. Prosthetics don’t lend to much mobility and he’s too old to be doing this, but he just. There are little beads of blood collecting and then sliding down your chin, dripping onto the leg of your scrubs. At the same angle of the split in your lip, there’s a little cut he can see peaking out from under the ice pack.

He reaches forward, fingers itching towards the deep scarlet dripping steadily. He pauses, remembering things like words and questions and sees the wild look in your eyes.

“Can I…?” Jack’s voice trails off, the words clunky and useless in this bubble that’s seemed to form around the two of you, on the probably disgusting floor of the ED break room.

You slowly drop the napkin, let the ice pack lower to your lap and nod.

“He had a ring on. I guess it caught me. I didn’t really notice until I got here.”

“Parker and Shen didn’t notice?”

You look at your lap. “I told them I was fine… And covered it with my hand. There are other patients. It’s just a little cut.”

Jack’s fingers finally reach your face, and he almost takes them back when you flinch on the initial contact, shaking ever so slightly.

But then, with noticeable effort, you relax into his palm, his fingers curling around the side of your jaw. He should grab gloves. He should get up, take his hand off your face.

Anyone could walk in right now and call Gloria on his ass.

His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, just below the cut, which does have some faint bruising around it. And truthfully, the split in your lip doesn’t look that bad either.

But there’s still little dots and trails of scarlet and he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to calm down until he fixes it. He needs to fix something.

“If I leave you here so I can get supplies,” He starts, voice a little rough, “Can I trust that you’ll stay here and not do anything stupid?”

“Uh, yes? Should I move to a real chair though?”

Jack huffs as he hauls himself to his feet. “That’d be preferable.”

Later, when he’s at home in his bed, he’ll assure himself that the night shift wasn’t truly that busy and he trusts his residents to handle things while he’s busy.

No one stops him on his way to the medical supply closet (the irony of the location is not lost on him) and he makes it back without interruption. Upon opening the door, you have in fact moved to a chair, and it seems the bleeding slowed in his absence.

What he should do is sit down in the chair opposite of you and handle this situation like a professional, like the Dr. Abbot, night shift attending, not Jack who’s got a thing for fixing.

He does try to remove his emotions and feelings from the situation, he really does. It’s something he’s generally very good at —which is where he and Robby differ; Robby would prefer to feel too much and Jack would prefer to feel nothing at all— but you’re looking up at him and there’s something really dangerous in the air and it must’ve gotten into your blood stream or something cause it’s swimming in your eyes and he realizes that removing his feelings is not going to be possible.

He decides he could at least tone it down. You’re an intern. Robby’s intern. So what if you’re bleeding all over the break room? Jack’s just doing his job as the attending to look after the doctors and nurses under his jurisdiction or whatever. That’s all.

“Tilt your head up.”

He sets to work cleaning up the cut and split as detached and clinically as possible, even puts on gloves so there’s no skin to skin contact, just protocol, but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the latex and you keep sucking in these tiny little breathes when something stings and he can’t get the sound of the slap out of his head and it’s all just kind of a lot.

He readjusts his hand on the side of your face, sort of holding your forehead now to have better access and control over the cut on your cheek and wow. Your skin is really warm. It kind of feels like you’re burning up.

Jack tosses the piece of gauze he was using and rests the back of his hand against your forehead. Shit, you are burning up.

He thinks back to you, walking in today, soaked to the bone.

“Did you walk to work today?”

You wince. “My car kind of died? On the way here? I was only a mile away. But I called a towing company, so I didn’t just leave my car in the middle of the road.”

He blinks.

“Your car died, so you had it towed and walked a mile to work, in the rain, late at night, and didn’t tell anybody?”

You just keep staring at him, brows furrowed.

“Yeah? I carry a knife and I’ve taken self defense classes, and my car was just towed back to my place, so. I had a shift to work.”

There’s… a lot to unpack in your answer.

“Kid,” He starts, wondering why Robby never thought to give him a heads up before you started working more night shifts, “What was your plan to get home?”

“Walk, probably. I was thinking about taking the bus. Dr. King knows the bus schedule, so I’m probably going to text her.”

Jack decides to just finish cleaning you up, before he does something stupid like shake you by your shoulders and ask why you didn’t think to let your boss know that your car broke down and you’d be walking home in the rain. Or that when a patient slapped you in the face, his ring cut your face and lip open.

God.

“It’s really fine though,” You say, gesticulating animatedly with your hands. “My place isn’t that far, and it’s not the first time my car’s died. The battery’s kind of shot, but I guess my car has a weird battery, and it’s like, crazy expensive to get a new one, so. Besides, I like walking. I’ve been meaning to catch up on my audiobooks.”

He wishes you’d stop talking so he’d stop hearing things that make him want to do things he can’t and shouldn’t do. Like find out what car you drive so he can buy you a new battery. Or buy you a new car all together.

Christ, you have him wrapped around your fucking finger.

“I’ll drive you home. If you’re fine with that.”

Jack has to fight a grin at how comically wide your eyes grow at his suggestion.

“Oh no, you really don’t have to. I promise I’m—“

“Please stop saying you're fine,” He begs, “You don’t have a working car, a patient slapped you in the face, and I think you’re coming down with something.”

The smile that’s seemed permanently fixed on your face since he came into the break room falters, for a bit.

“Well,” You grimace, hands fisting the hem of your scrub top, “Things certainly aren’t… great, but I’ll survive. I’m not like, incapable, or anything.”

Jacks quiet for a bit, not just mulling over your words but the way you said them; the cadence and tone.

He hums. “Is that what you think? That I or someone else here will think you’re not competent or that you’re weak if you take a break or ask for help?”

Your face falters again. “No, no, of course not I just… I don’t know. I’m an intern. It’s my job, supposedly, to mess up and have to be looked after in case I accidentally kill someone and stuff like that. I just don’t want to be someone that people think they have to worry about. I need— internships are competitive. They’re competitions, really. And I want to win.”

Jack Abbot knows what it’s like to want to win. That need to prove yourself, prove that you’re capable and strong and unfailing.

So Jack also knows how quickly that can all go south.

“You’re a smart kid,” He says, voice ever so slightly soft in the quiet tension of the break room, empty except for the two of you, “And you’re going to make a great resident, and one day, a damn good attending. But none of that means shit if you burn out or get run yourself into the ground before you get there.”

He avoids eye-contact while he carefully applies the bandage to your cheek. “This industry will chew you up and spit you back out if you don’t take care of yourself. I get it. We’re doctors. We make the worst patients. But you got slapped in the face during a shitty day. It’s okay to… not be okay for a minute.”

You huff a watery laugh. “Isn’t that what energy drinks are for?”

He shakes his head. “What, trying to die faster?”

“Anything to shake those student loans. Can’t be in debt if you’re dead.”

“Don’t they just pass it to your family? Next of kin or whatever?”

“I don’t think they can give student loans to a cactus. I mean, I consider her my daughter, but I hardly think it’ll hold up in court.”

Jack mentally files that information away for later. What later is, he isn’t sure.

He stands, pulls off his gloves and tosses all the used gauze and shit in the trash can.

“I gotta get back out there,” He jams his thumb towards the door, “But feel free to take five. No one’s judging you. Matter of fact, as your boss, I’m telling you to take a break.”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever you say, Dr. Abbot. But thank you. For the…”

You gesture to your bandaged cheek and lip. “…And for the advice.”

He shrugs, like taking care of you hasn’t become a persona fantasy he may or may not fall asleep imagining most nights. Like it doesn’t matter, like he’s just doing his job.

“Offer for the ride’s still open. Just let me know by the end of shift.”

And with that, he’s out the door.

It’s the end of shift, and you’re staring at the double doors that lead to the outside world, and beyond that, absolutely fucking miserable weather for walking, a dead car, and cold as shit apartment.

You’re not exactly rushing out the door.

You’re clutching at the strap of your bag, regular clothes on, still damp despite the fact that it’s been over thirteen hours since you originally took them off, begging the universe to strike you down where you stand. Spontaneous lightning bolts happen indoors too, right?

The doors just stare back at you, unchanging in their miserable-ness, and after a solid ten minutes of staring, you feel rather than see Jack sidle up next to you.

“Still raining out there?”

“Yep. Looks worse now.”

“Not great weather to walk in. Especially considering the low-grade fever.”

“Mhm.”

“Did you text Dr. King for the bus schedule?”

“No. I didn’t want to wake her up.”

Jack huffs a breath, then jerks his head towards the doors that lead to the employee parking lot.

“Come on, kid.”

The ride is quiet and awkward. Well. Dr. Abbot probably doesn’t think it’s awkward, because he seems like the kind of man not to be bothered by long stretches of silence. Or silence at all.

He’d been kind enough to turn the heat on full blast (you started shivering the moment you stepped outside) and the radio is softly playing, and it’s only thanks to Sabrina Carpenter’s voice that you don’t feel like completely freaking out.

You mouth along to the lyrics, quietly humming the chorus under your breath.

“—I get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guy—“

“—Treating me like you’re supposed to do, tears run down my thighs—“

By the time you’ve realized that perhaps this isn’t the best song choice to sing along to, considering the situation and who’s car you’re currently riding in, the words “I get wet” have already left your mouth so there’s no real point in stopping.

On a completely unrelated note, Dr. Abbot starts smiling a little bit when you hum.

Pittsburgh traffic is terrible, so the drive kind of drags on. The radio is playing Chappell Roan now. Casual specifically. You’re considering changing the radio station because god.

“So,” You start, just to say anything that drowns out “knee-deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out, is it casual now?”, “Did you… have a good shift?”

That was a terrible question. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you? How did you get through medical school?

Dr. Abbot snorts. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

Ah. Right. The Incident.

“I told you I’m—“

“Didn’t I tell you to stop saying that?”

Your lap has never looked more interesting. Wow, is that a loose thread on your sweats?

He continues. “Fine or not, a patient assaulted you. Even if he didn’t leave a mark, that’s still shitty.”

“Have you been hit by a patient before?”

He huffs. “Hell yeah. It happens to everyone eventually. It’ll happen again. You get better at keeping your cool.”

“Sorry you had to step in. I’ve been hit by a patient before and I was fine.”

“Oh yeah?”

You nod. “It was during my Pedes rotation, actually. I’ve always known working with kids probably wasn’t going to be for me, but, well. Kid came in for intussusception, and she was screaming and writhing in pain, and I failed to restrain her properly.”

“What, did she slap you too?”

“Nope. Kicked me in the chin. Ended up biting almost clean through my tongue.”

“Fucking hell, kid. What’d you do?”

You shrug. “Kept my blood in my mouth until we finished sedating the patient. Ended up with three stitches.”

Dr. Abbot lets out a low whistle. “Always the patients you least expect.”

“The importance of proper patient restraint was thoroughly impressed upon me, I assure you.”

The silence after your short conversation is slightly more comfortable, and thankfully the radio station has decided to play less pointed music.

Between the warmth of the car, the smell permeating the seats that smells distinctly like Dr. Abbot, and the drumming of rain outside, it doesn’t take long for drowsiness to begin to overtake you.

Your last thought before falling asleep is that you don’t remember if you gave Dr. Abbot your address or not.

Someone is gently shaking your shoulder, and you feel like shit.

“What?” You attempt to say, but the side of your mouth is pressed against the seatbelt and your shoulder so it comes out sounding like: “Whamfgh?”

Opening your eyes is a herculean task, like someone sewed miniature weights to your eyelids while you were asleep. You’re absolutely freezing, despite the steady hum of the car's heat, still on high, and you vaguely recognize the street the car is currently parked on.

Oh right, your apartment.

“Oh,” You yawn, hauling yourself semi-upright, aiming for woman who has it together, and less disheveled swooning woman in a Baroque painting.

Dr. Abbot is staring at you with equal parts humor and concern.

You rub at your eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Little over forty minutes. You looked like you needed it.”

“It doesn’t take that long to drive to my place, even with traffic.”

Your brain is moving like molasses, so it takes you a second to catch up with the implication of his statement.

“Did you just… park in front of my house? So I could keep sleeping?”

He just shrugs. “Like I said. You looked like you needed it.”

Embarrassment and a touch of something else floods through your body, hot and cold at the same time.

“Sorry. You didn’t have to wait.”

“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have.”

Still moving slowly, you gather up your bag from where it partially spilled on the floor all over your feet, shoving old receipts and pads and chapstick back in with the reckless abandon of a person who isn’t nearly aware enough of social cues to be in a car alone with their hot boss.

Whilst you're grabbing and shoving, Dr. Abbot reaches into his back seat, rifles around for a bit, and then drops something rather unceremoniously over your head and shoulders. After a quiet “hey” you pull it into your lap, and then that hot feeling is back in full force.

It’s a rain jacket. Clearly Dr. Abbot’s. You can see his name written on the inside pocket. It’s nice too. Definitely not the kind of rain jacket you could afford on an intern’s budget.

“For the next time your car dies,” He clarifies, as if the jacket’s purpose is the thing that’s stupefied you, not the fact that he’s the one giving it to you, “In case of rain.”

“You really don’t have to,” your words are rushed and clunky in your mouth, tumbling over each other in your haste to say something, anything, “I mean, I can just buy my own—“

“First of all,” He cuts you off, voice smooth and rough at the same time, “Do I seem to be the kind of guy in the habit of doing things I don’t want to? And second of all…”

He tilts his head, gaze sharp. “Are you really going to buy one for yourself?”

Your mouth goes dry.

“I was planning on looking online—“

Dr. Abbot interrupts you. “Now you don’t have to.”

Like it’s that easy. Does he want it to be?

“Dr. Abbot, I—“

“Jack.”

His grin goes from mild to shit-eating as you stare at him, obviously radiating confusion.

“Jack,” you start, testing out the name in your mouth, hearing how it sounds in the air. “I can take care of myself. You don’t need to give me your jacket. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”

“Kid—“

The prickling of perceived weakness makes anger spark in your chest.

“Don’t call me kid like I’m stupid.”

Dr. Abb— Jack seems simultaneously impressed that you interrupted him for a change and vaguely put out.

He holds up a finger, effectively silencing anything else you were thinking of saying.

“I don’t call you kid because I think you’re stupid. I don’t think you’re stupid. You’d know if I thought you were stupid, because I would tell you. ‘Kid’ is a…” He trails off, free hand tapping thoughtful rhythms on the steering wheel, “…Nickname. Term of endearment. Whatever you want to call it, but it’s not derogatory.”

Jack holds up a second finger.

“You have not been taking care of yourself. If you were, you wouldn’t have a low grade fever, and you would’ve called me as your boss or one of your friends to drive you instead of walking after your car died. You’ve been surviving. There’s a difference.”

Shame burns white hot through you— all your recent failings laid out by the person you want least to notice them. Clearly, he has.

Possibly out of pity in response to your no doubt miserable expression, Jack continues.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’d be an honest-to-god miracle if any intern managed to properly take care of themself. Hell, residents don’t do it either, and neither do attendings. Does Robby strike you as the kind of man who takes perfect care of himself?”

“That depends. Is my answer going to make it back to him?”

Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Exactly. Doctors make the worst patients, in and out of a hospital setting. Knowing better doesn’t actually make us all that inclined to do better. Terrible misconception.”

He nudges the jacket on your lap. “So just take the jacket. One less thing to worry about.”

Emboldened by his recent streak of kindness towards you and the flush of fever running through your veins, you look over to him.

“You worry about me?”

Something dances in his eyes for a split second, gone before you can blink.

“I worry about all the interns and residents on my service, but especially the ones my best friend has taken a liking to.”

Right. Of course. He only cares because of Robby. And Robby only cares so he can add another doctor to the already short-staffed PTMC. It’s not like Jack actually likes you or anything.

You clutch the jacket to your stomach, finally finding the energy to get out of the car. Jack’s car.

“Well. Thanks for the ride, Dr. Abbot. And the jacket.”

“No problem, kid.”

And if later on that evening, in the safety of your tiny apartment, you take in the deep, fresh, almost spicy smell that makes up Jack, lingering on the jacket, that’s no one’s business but yours.

—

From that night on, it feels like Jack Abbot is everywhere.

Whether it’s something he’s doing on purpose or you’ve just developed a heightened sense to his whereabouts— it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s a whiff of his cologne (eerily similar to Dior Sauvage, which makes you shudder. Certainly he didn’t choose a cologne similar to the number one male manipulator scent on purpose?) or seeing his handwriting on a whiteboard or his notes in a chart, he’s there.

You’re being scheduled for night shifts fairly regularly now, in addition to the 24-hour shifts you have the pleasure of being put on as an intern.

Working a double isn’t horrific, really. Exhausting, sure, but Robby and Jack’s solid presence makes the shifts more bearable. Plus, you’re quickly becoming friends with the fresher residents, Whitaker and Santos, plus some of the older residents like Mohan and King. Even Dr. Langdon gives pretty solid advice and mentorship, despite the tension in the air whenever he happens to be working with or near Robby.

Normally, 24 hour shifts are grueling, but not impossible. Somewhere around the 15 or 16 hour mark, the sleep deprivation hits, and you can just coast on stress-induced inertia and a healthy does of energy drinks and mania.

Today, though, has been particularly fucking awful. Maybe it’s the fact that the fever never really went away, or the fact that you started your period the day before (being sick on your period should be illegal.) It’s probably both of those things.

But there isn’t really anything to do but grin and bear it. The day will pass, and you have the next two days off anyways. Just survive the next however-many hours of the shift and then you can go home, dress in exclusively fluffy clothes, and binge watch tv whilst eating heart-stopping junk food.

You’re distracted from your charting, propped up on the counter at the nurses station by a light tap on your shoulder and someone saying your name.

Dr. Langdon has sidled up next you, voice hushed.

“Hey, uh. I just wanted to let you know that you seem to have… bled through.”

If a spontaneous earthquake could open a chasm beneath your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time.

“Fuck fuck-ity fuck fuck,” You mumble, wiping your hands down your face. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”

In a moment that is as mortifying as it is kind of sweet, Langdon passes you a hoodie that is clearly his.

“To tie around your waist,” He clarifies, holding the object out across the meager space between the two of you, voice a bit awkward and stilted, like you might decide to spit in his face or something.

You don’t actually know what it is that Dr. Langdon did before your arrival that makes the break room go quiet when he walks in (unless Dr. King is there) but you don’t particularly care. If it was truly something horrific that you should be worried about, he wouldn’t be working here. Robby wouldn’t let that kind of thing slide.

So you take the offered hoodie with a strained smile (can this shift just be over) and speed-walk to the break room, praying no one decides to snag you on the way there.

What you should do is go to your locker where your stash of pads, tampons, spare underwear, and extra scrubs are, and then probably the bathroom to get changed, so you can keep on going but you also just saw Dr. King go into the break room and you just really need a hit of her specific brand of optimism.

The woman in question perks up when she notices your arrival, hastily eating the same snack she always eats around this time— a tiny bag of pretzels.

She watches as you collapse into the chair across from her, letting your head thunk onto the table.

“Bad shift?”

“Bad life,” You grumble. “Dr. Langdon had to give me his hoodie to tie around my waist because I bled through onto my scrubs. Like a middle schooler who doesn’t know what pad sizes are for.”

Dr. King nods thoughtfully. “He asked me if it would be weird of him to let you know and offer his hoodie. To which I replied that periods are a normal bodily function and he’s a doctor.”

“Here here,” You half-heartedly cheer, any actual cheer or enthusiasm severely lacking in your voice. “How did you survive your intern year, Dr. King?”

“We’ve been working together for awhile, you can call me Mel,”

She pops another pretzel in her mouth before answering. “But to answer your question, I mostly just kept telling myself that failing wasn’t an option. Which. Probably isn’t helpful, or good advice, but it worked for me. Something that’s nice is if you have a fellow intern or doctor that you enjoy working with. I know the other two interns who matched into the PTMC dropped out of the course, so it’s just you, but you have Dr. Robby, right?”

You nod, picking absently at a spot on the table and ignoring the way that it wasn’t Robby who popped into your head, but Jack.

Your teeny, ignorable crush on him has become a full-blown thing, with semi-weekly dreams about him in various… situations, and casual daydreams at all hours of the day of what it would be like to just be with him, or hear him, in any capacity that couldn’t be qualified as work or a boss checking on his employee. Intern. Whatever.

Hormonal and fever-ish, you suddenly feel like you’re going to explode and die if you don’t have someone to confide in right this very second. You haven’t heard Mel really talk about anyone you work with outside of professional doctor-to-doctor conversation, not even about Dr. Langdon, who she seems almost suspiciously close with.

“Mel,” You start, voice a little too thick and watery to just be talking about your stupid, annoying, one-sided workplace crush, “Can I tell you a secret?”

She seems to consider the pros and cons first, and looks fairly caught off guard, but she answers. “Um. Sure?”

“Have you ever had a crush on a coworker before? Or like, a boss or mentor?”

Mel sets down her bag of pretzels. “Is this about Dr.—“

“I have the biggest crush on Dr. Abbot and I think it’s ruining my life.”

The words burst out of you all at once, and Mel’s expression goes from shocked, to confused, before finally settling in abject amusement.

“Ah,” She says, sliding the pretzels across to you. “Um. Well I personally don’t have a crush on Dr. Abbot, but I think I understand the sentiment.”

You bury your face into your hands and groan. “It’s awful. It’s so cliche. It’s so fucking Grey’s Anatomy.”

“I’ve never actually seen that show. Becca likes it though.”

Mel allows you a few moments of wallowing and pretzel eating before she speaks again.

“Have you… acted on it?”

“No!” You snap your head up. “I mean. No, I haven’t. I’m not naive enough to think that he would reciprocate. He’s an attending and I’m an intern.”

She leans in. “But…?”

“But sometimes… I wonder? I don’t know. I’m probably crazy. He drove me home the other day, cause my car died, and it was raining, and I got slapped by a patient, and that was when I first came down with this stupid fever, and like, that’s normal, right?”

Mel nods. “Fr— Langdon drives me to work when we share shifts, and sometimes when we don’t. I think Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker carpool too. So maybe?”

“Right. Yeah.”

She takes the pretzel bag back. “Is there more evidence that makes you feel crazy?”

Your skin flushes hot at the memory alone.

“He gave me his rain jacket. To keep.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Mel once again takes a few minutes, and the rest of her pretzels before responding.

“I’m honestly not the best person to ask for advice about this. I’ve been told I can be… dense when it comes to romantic endeavors.”

You shrug. “You’re a great listener, and you haven’t steered me wrong in the past.”

She brightens. “That’s good! I think my advice would be to talk to Dr. Mohan. She has experience with your… particular situation.”

Mel tosses the empty pretzel bag and heads toward the door. “I’ll let Robby know you’re taking ten, so don’t worry about someone looking for you while you’re changing.”

“You’re the best. I love you.”

The resident flushes at your gratitude, and then ducks out the door, leaving you alone to stew on her advice.

—

Talking to Dr. Mohan proves difficult, at first. How exactly do you start that conversation? “Hey, I heard you had advice on having a world-ending crush on your boss, got any tips?”

Additionally, she’s kind of hard to track down. You greatly respect Dr. Mohan’s work ethic and truly aspire to her unflinching devotion to patient care at the PTMC.

After a few days (which turns into a few weeks, because you are an emotional coward) of trying (and failing) to find a moment to talk, Dr. Mohan actually ends up finding you.

“Hey!” She jogs up to you as you’re walking to your car, a too-bright smile on her face for the fact that you both just got off a fourteen hour shift.

“Sorry to be that annoying coworker who talks to you in the parking lot, but I wanted to catch you before you left. Mel said you wanted to talk to me?”

“Right!” You stammer, slightly mortified. You admire Dr. Mohan so much and really want her to think you’re capable but you really need some advice on Jack Abbot as a whole, and it sounds like she’s the only expert around. “Yes. That. It’s a really normal question, you know.”

Dr. Mohan just nods, a smile still fixed on her face, like this is a totally normal conversation. “Uh, sure?”

There’s a beat of silence where you both stare at each other, and then she gasps.

“This is about Abbot, isn’t it?”

You groan, throwing your head back in defeat. “Am I that obvious?”

She laughs goodnaturedly. “No. Probably not. You’re just the only intern in the ED right now so I try to make it a habit to keep an eye on you. Plus, Mel is literally the only person in the world who knows about my now-dead crush on him, so. I just connected the dots.”

“He’s so hot, Dr. Mohan. I feel like I’m dying.”

She makes a noise of sympathy. “He is. It’s fucking annoying, at a certain point.”

“Thank you!” You shout, “Like it’s just so there. It should be illegal to just walk around and look like that. I should be focusing on like, studying and learning, but instead I’m just harboring this stupid crush on an attending.”

“Have you ever seen Grey’s—“

“Yes. I know. I can’t be Meredith. Meredith was like, always a mess. Am I a mess?”

Mohan purses her lips. “Well. You did just say you felt like you were dying.”

“I know,” You sigh. “It makes me feel… shallow. I like being a doctor. I was so excited to get matched into the PTMC, and this stupid crush is throwing me off my game.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“On my first night shift rotation I dropped a scalpel, picked it back up, and then ripped the purse strings on my first appendectomy.”

She winces. “Oh. That’s not… great.”

Your hand finds its way to your comfort necklace. “He found me crying in the supply closet like some medical student, and then he comforted me. It was terrible.”

Mohan starts ambling towards the direction you assume her car is in. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve been caught crying in the supply closet several times. I think it’s a right of passage. And as for that second part…”

She shrugs. “Abbot gives credit where credit is due, but he won’t coddle you. If he actually offered real comfort or advice or whatever, then he meant it.”

“That’s what he said. It just didn’t really help the whole crush-on-him part. And then there was the slapping incident, and he drove me home, and now I have his rain jacket in my backseat in case my car dies again.”

Mohan actually looks taken back.

“Okay. It sounds to me like this is a situation that is in serious need of wine. Do you drink?”

“Whenever I have a spare twenty dollars.”

She grins. “I happen to have a couple bottles at home that might do the trick. Follow me back to my place?”

“Yes please.”

Wine and, eventually, takeout at Samira’s is much more enjoyable than you expected— considering the fact that you’re an intern and she’s a resident. She confides that she doesn’t have very many friends outside of the ED and was excited at the opportunity to have “real girl-time”.

She shares how she weathered her own seemingly life-ending crush on Jack, gasps and screams at the appropriate times when you tell her about the slapping, the events that occurred in the break room afterwards, the drive home, and the jacket.

You leave her apartment feeling lighter than ever. Like life might be worth living. Like you could survive your intern year.

Maybe everything will be okay.

—

Everything is not okay.

You’re now two full weeks into a never-ending fever, you keep getting stuck with shitty shifts (how many times a month can one person possibly be scheduled to work a double?) and top it all off, you’ve been pissed on not once, but twice in the same fucking shift.

Santos snorts when she sees you go by in your third set of scrubs for the day.

“Careful. You’re gonna replace Huckleberry pretty soon.”

You shoot her a look. “Supportive as ever, Dr. Santos.”

“I try.”

You sink into the chair next to hers, taking a moment to press the heels of your hands into your eyes and maybe, like, take a thirty second nap.

It doesn’t help much.

There’s a particular misery in watching the day-shift rotation handoff with the night shift and not being able to join in the process. Because you’re still there. And will be, until you see them again for your handoff, in twelve fucking hours.

Patients tend to get bitchier the later it gets, and it’s one of those nights where every patient bleeds into the next in a never-ending sea of complaints, pain, and fixing.

The fixing is fine. You like the fixing.

You’re just… having a hard time keeping up with everything while the fever perpetually runs you down. It’s the kind of thing where no amount of sleep can help you. Unless it was for 48 hours straight and then you got another 48 hours off after that to relax while you’re awake, and then another 48 hours to be productive.

A vacation. A week off. You’re describing taking a week off work. It’s comical, actually. Imagine requesting a week off from work. Gloria or whoever it is would never grant that. Not as an intern.

You notice Jack lingering around your general vicinity, which is fairly normal on a night like tonight. Technically, as the only intern on shift, you’re the only liability he has to really worry about.

Somewhere around the eighteen hour mark, he slides into the chair next to you while you’re charting.

“You’re flagging.”

Your eyes burn as you tap information into the tablet, then check on the computer in front of you. “I’m fine. I just need a Redbull or something.”

He slides the tablet out of your hands. “Part of being a good doctor is knowing when to take a break. Can’t be a good doctor if you’re falling asleep during the exam, right?”

“I would never fall asleep during an exam.”

He shrugs. “I’ve seen it happen.”

Jack jerks his head towards the break room. “Take five. Get an energy drink or whatever. Then I want you on chairs for at least an hour.”

“Yes sir.”

He rolls his eyes. “Get going.”

Chairs don't prove to be as uneventful as you (and probably Jack) hoped it would be. You get vomited on by a teenage girl, who apologizes profusely when she finally manages to stop throwing up, narrowly avoid a swing from a patient that quickly becomes a behavioral case, and become an unwilling participant in another patient’s doctor fantasy.

Security had to get involved with that last one. It was. Something.

Your shift ends with little fanfare. It’s honestly a miracle you survived. You’re exhausted, achey, and still feverish. The only thing you can think about is crawling into your bed, indulging in a rare expense of turning your heat up, and sleeping until your next shift.

Walking into your apartment ends up being a slap in the face. First of all, it’s fucking freezing. As if you left every single window open while you were gone. Secondly, it’s dark. Like, not even the clock on the microwave is on.

“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath, tears beginning to burn with unshed tears digging through your bag and fumbling with your phone, about to text your landlord when you see that he’s already texted.

Eric (Landlord): Power and AC is down. Might take some time to fix. Power should be back on by tonight.

And that’s just the last straw, really.

You slam the door behind you, not even bothering to go inside your apartment at all, chest tight and face hot, you race down the stairs, trying to find Samira’s contact through blurry eyes. When you think you’ve found it you click call, collapsing on the curb with your body doubled over, crying like a crazy person into your knees, at something like nine in the morning.

The phone rings for a bit, and you’re about to give up when the line finally stops and somebody picks up.

“Hello?”

It’s not Samira who answers. It’s Jack.

You sniffle. “Why are you answering Samira’s phone?”

“I didn’t. I answered my phone. Because you called me. Are you okay?”

“Oh,” You decide to ignore his question, “I meant to call Samira. Sorry.”

“Wait,” Jack’s voice comes out all rough and tinny through the speaker, but even distorted through a phone, you could listen to it for hours, “Answer the question. Are you okay?”

Your bottom lip wobbles dangerously.

“The power’s out in my building. And the heating went out too. My landlord said the power won’t be on until tonight, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but it’s cold and I'm tired and this stupid fever won’t go away.”

“Do you have a place to stay?”

Always a man of action, Jack is.

You shrug, then make a non-committal noise when you remember he can’t see it. “I was supposed to call Samira and see if she’d let me sleep on her couch.”

“I have a guest bedroom.”

The statement hangs in the crisp morning air. You think of Jack’s encouraging advice, Jack’s steady presence, Jack’s warm car and his nice smelling rain- jacket. Jack, Jack, Jack.

“Jack?”

“Yes?”

“What’s your address?”

The drive over involves bawling your eyes out to Vienna by Billy Joel. It’s just that kind of day.

You have no problems finding parking (miraculously) and no one stops you as you head up to Jack’s apartment as directed.

It’s… fancy. Like, polished floor lobby, lounge area adjacent to the front desk fancy.

The actual building itself isn’t very tall, nothing like a skyscraper, so it’s not exactly surprising that Jack’s apartment is the penthouse. It’s just suddenly very awkward standing in front of the door, in the same sweatshirt you’ve had since high school, sweats that have seen better years, looking exactly like the kind of girl who sobbed on the ride over to Billy Joel.

Jack opens the door almost immediately after you knock, and.

If seeing him in scrubs was bad, it doesn’t hold a fucking candle to him in a tight, army green shirt and grey sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. That couldn’t have been intentional, right? Is he online enough to know these things? God.

His features soften when he takes in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.

He makes a low noise in his throat.

“Oh, you poor thing. Come here,”

Jack had actually been gesturing to the apartment, saying ‘come inside’ but the dam breaks the moment he says “poor thing” and you don’t have the wherewithal to think anything more complex than “Jack=Comfort and Safety".

Your bag drops with a dull thud onto the ground and then you’re crashing into him, face pressed into his chest and arms wrapped around his middle. You can barely find it within yourself to be embarrassed.

Jack doesn’t react at first, going completely stiff in your hold, and you think maybe you’ve gone and fucked this up too, like everything good in your life, but right when you move to pull away a hand finds its way to the back of your head, and another rubs circles on your back.

“Poor girl,” he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble with your ear close to his chest, “They been running you ragged?”

You nod uselessly, feeling raw and cut open— like you’ve been smashed against a rock and everything you keep tucked inside is spilling out and you can’t stop it.

“I’m so tired.” You half-mumble-half-sob into him, a sentiment that feels too light to convey everything that’s happened since you became an intern at the PTMC, and everything else you don’t talk about that happened before.

“I know sweetheart, I know,” Jack is solid beneath your cheek and arms, a lifeboat in a storm. “How about we get you inside and get you warm, huh? That sound nice?”

At the promise of warmth you finally detach from him, shame burning through you when you eye the wet spot on his shirt.

“Sorry,” You say, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I got snot on your shirt.”

“Trust me kid, it’s seen worse.”

He grabs your bag before you can even make a move for it, and you trail behind him into his apartment, attempting to ground yourself by looking around his apartment.

It’s nice. Lived in, not sterile. It doesn’t, actually, look the inside of a dentist’s office, like you were half expecting. Most new apartments have that doctor’s office lobby feel. Not exactly comfortable when you’re a doctor and the goal of home is to not remind you of your job.

Jack hangs your bag on a hook by the door, right next to his own. Something twinges in your chest at the sight.

There’s a feeling under your skin you can’t place as you shuffle into his apartment, something warm and skittish that aches for this to not be a one time thing, to be able to compare the pale morning light you’re watching now to late afternoon sun. To know where he keeps his mugs, what drawer the silverware is in, if he’s got a junk drawer with random shit in it, and what the random shit is. What it feels like to be in his kitchen, shoulders brushing.

But that’s a lot of complicated things to name or voice just past the threshold of the foyer, so you wrap your arms around yourself and toe your shoes off, then pad quietly after him.

Jack is— inviting, or maybe enticing; all those words that beckon the skittish thing closer and it feels just on the tip of danger to obediently sit on the couch he ushers you to.

“By the way,” Jack says somewhere behind you, maybe in the kitchen? “I have a cat. His name is Charlie. He probably won’t come near you, but be warned, he’s an asshole when he wants to be.”

“Oh, that’s fine. I like cats. Especially the asshole ones.”

“That explains a lot of things.”

His statement is kind of loaded, chock full of subtext you don’t care to parse through at the moment.

“Um,” You start, feeling a bit unsteady, “Is— Do you mind if I shower? I kind of smell gross probably, and I feel… grimy. Your apartment seems clean and I’d hate to get my hospital grime on anything.”

Jack just chuckles. “One, I wouldn’t care if you got ‘hospital grime’ on anything because that would be a very hypocritical thing to care about, and two, of course you can shower. Do you have spare clothes?”

“I might’ve forgotten to grab those.”

Another huffy laugh. “That’s fine. You can borrow some of mine. I’ll leave them on the bed.”

That’s like. Wow. Yeah. You’re just gonna borrow some clothes from him. From Jack. You’re going to shower in Jack’s shower and use whatever bodywash he has (hopefully not 5-in-one) and then put on his clothes and you are totally capable of being Completely Normal about these things.

“I already started on dinner when you said you were coming over. Should be done by the time you get out of the shower. Chicken noodle okay?”

Damn Jack Abbot and damn your shitty emotional regulation and damn your life for putting you in these situations.

“Yeah,” You croak, thinking about things like soup and family and being cold and strong and alone, “Yeah that’s fine. Thank you.”

Jack politely does not comment on the fact that soup is reducing you to a tangled heap of emotions and tears, and instead directs you to where his shower is and says to use whatever you want and take however long you want. He says want, not need. You’re not sure if there’s an intention behind the word choice.

Once in the shower, you allow yourself time to cry, to feel awful and self-pitying and all those things that are terrible to go through in front of another person. His shower is expensive and the water is warm and he does not have 5-in-one. There’s a litter box nestled next to the toilet, and it’s not funny, but it kind of is, because Jack would be the kind of guy to look at a litter box and put it right next to the toilet. Everything in its place.

Maybe that’s your problem. You haven’t felt like anything is in the right place in years.

You want to stay in the shower, in the bubble of protection it provides, but the idea of running up Jack’s water bill is enough to guilt you into getting out. You shiver, dry, aggressively attempt to make yourself look less like a wreck at the sink, and then tip-toe into the attached bedroom and carefully pull on the clothes Jack left for you on the bed; a faded, oversized college shirt, and a comfy pair of sweatpants.

They smell like him. You smell like him, like his body wash. The house smells like him. Everything you take in is a pleasant assault of Jack, Jack, Jack.

Enough guilt to fuel an entire room of ex-Catholic’s is the only thing keeping you from snooping around his room. The idea of stumbling upon something private or hidden away makes you feel slimy and gross, so you exit the bedroom and pretend like you don’t feel like a foster dog on its first night home from the shelter.

(Do shelter dogs miss the shelter? Do they miss its familiarity? Do dogs miss anything at all?)

The apartment smells of more spices and good smelling food than you privately thought Jack capable of. You’d read him as the kind of guy to subsist on takeout and maybe like, protein bars. But he’s dutifully stirring a metal pot with all the diligence of the military man that he once was.

Quietly, as if he might throw the wooden spoon he’s stirring with if you make too much noise or take up too much space, you carefully pull out a barstool in front of his kitchen island, the one closest to the door, and haul yourself onto it.

He gives you an examining glance over his shoulder, turns a knob on the stove, then rests his forearms on the island counter across from you. His rather delicious looking forearms, you might add.

“Feeling better after your shower?”

You hum an affirmation, folding your arms and resting your chin on them.

“Isn’t it kind of weird to make soup for breakfast?”

He shrugs. “It’s dinner for us. Or, well, me. I’m not sure your body knows what meal it is.”

He taps a pointer finger rhythmically on the counter. “Any word from your landlord?”

“No. Sorry for… all of this. I know you’re tired.”

“I wish you’d stop apologizing for things I don’t mind doing for you.”

You don’t really know how to respond to that, or what to do with how it makes you feel, so you elect to save it for later. Good at compartmentalizing, ED doctors are.

You clear your throat. “I can call Samira whenever. She’d probably be excited to have girl time. So you know. Don’t feel like— I have other options. If or when you want me to leave.”

“Do you want to leave?”

You wish he’d stop asking questions you don’t want to answer.

You try to play it off, smother your fear and exhaustion with humor. Robby’s kid, through and through.

“Well, I can’t have you getting sick of me. You’re the only person I know who has a very rob-able house if this whole internship doesn’t pan out.”

Jack straightens, shoulders pulling and flexing. “Who said I’d get sick of you? Maybe I like the idea of you in my house.”

“Do you?”

You ask the question before you’re aware of how terrified you are of the answer. But you’ve already said it, and it feels nice to be the one asking the hard question instead.

Jack, likely experienced in this sort of thing, doesn’t look outwardly bothered by it, but he gets a sort-of-sad look on his face, almost like he’s disappointed that you had to ask.

“Have I given you any reason to think otherwise?”

“I don’t know,” You look down, picking at a hangnail to avoid his expression and his eyes and his everything, “I don’t want to assume anything.”

“You’ve already assumed quite a bit.”

You scrunch your face. “That’s different. Those are safe assumptions.”

“Are they?”

“Obviously, it’s safer to assume that you don’t want me to stay here, or at least not for very long, because if I assume that I do I’ll bother you and I want you to—“

You cut yourself off, jaw shutting with a firm click, but the end of the sentence hangs in the air unspoken anyways. It’s not hard to figure out what you were going to say.

I want you to like me.

Jack sighs, and alarm blares are going off in your head and your chest starts to feel tight and cold despite the warmth of his apartment, and then he’s rounding the island and you turn your body to follow him —never turn you back, never let your guard down— and then he’s standing in front of you, over you, and you’re not sure if you want to run or metaphorically curl up at his feet, tail tucked.

It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing. It’s impossible to ignore.

(What does a shelter dog think, on that first night? Do they hope? Do dogs hope?)

He raises a hand, slowly, giving you a chance to lean away, and when you don’t, it comes to rest on the side of your face, his thumb swiping at the barely-there wetness from earlier tears.

It’s cleaning the cut from the slap, it’s a kindness you can curl into, and it might be a threat. Might be bad, might turn harsh and painful, might leave without a word.

Unlike that day in the break room, there’s no fluorescent lights to suck any heat out of the room and no gloves as a barrier; as a reminder of who he is, of what you are, of how things work.

It’s just you and Jack, in Jack’s apartment, wearing Jack’s clothes, and pretty soon you’re going to eat food that Jack made. Just for you.

And you think maybe, possibly, if he stops here you could kind of hold onto this moment for the rest of your life and it would get you through being alive and strong and alone, and you’d make it through this, whatever this is, if he stops here.

He doesn’t. He starts talking.

“I like knowing that you’re safe. That you’re taken care of. I like knowing with certainty that these things are true because I’m the one making sure of it.”

Your breath hitches in your chest.

“That’s kind of a lot of work, though.”

He hums. “It is. Luckily, I just so happen to be a pretty hard worker.”

Everything about the current situation is a lot and your nerves are over-taxed and dialed up to hundred, so it’s not surprising that you start crying again.

Jack brings up a second hand to the other side of your face and gently wipes away the tears as they come. It feels sort of like the physical version of everything he’s been doing for you since that day in the supply closet.

“You don’t have to do anything, or say anything, or make any kind of decision right now, okay? We can do whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want.”

There’s the word choice again; want, not need. Is there a difference? What does the difference mean to him? What does he mean? Why is he doing any of this?

Jack's phone goes off in his pocket, and he steps back, drops his hands, and goes back to the stove.

Jack said you don’t have to make a decision right now, but you kind of feel like if you don’t do something you’re going to be sick with everything that’s swirling and clawing inside you, threatening to burst. Like the very essence of you is going to explode, and your soul will be painted on Jack’s perfectly decorated walls.

That would be something, wouldn’t it.

You stay seated at the island, turning to stare at Jack’s back while he adds the final touches to the soup. He doesn’t talk anymore, but he keeps looking back every few minutes, like he’s making sure you’re still there.

Eventually Jack turns the stove off, dishes up a bowl of soup for you, and sets it gently in front of you. He uses his pinky to cushion the placing of the bowl, so there’s no loud clinking noise when he sets the bowl down.

There’s a tiny sprig of parsley on top of the soup, right in the center. Like a Panera ad for soup in September.

You start crying again, in earnest.

“I’m sorry,” You gasp, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m— I don’t know. I don’t know.”

You’re hoping the last sentence encompasses an entire lifetime of events, accidents, mistakes, and memories that have never been able to find a place in your head except dead center, at the forefront of your mind at all times, stamped on your forehead for anyone with eyes to see.

Your life hasn’t been wants or choices for a very long time. And here Jack is, giving you an array of both, and saying things like he wants you to want.

“I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Hey, hey hey hey, shhh,” Strong arms wrap around you, tucking your head into a warm chest, effectively shutting off all sensory input that isn’t Jack. “You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re okay, I got you.”

He rubs circles into your back, then switches to tracing shapes, and he lets you cry into him again and he doesn’t tell you to stop, or to calm down, or you’re being too much too fast.

“You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay sweetheart. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

—

You, embarrassingly, fall asleep right there, sitting at the kitchen island over a bowl of soup and twenty-something years of holding up your life with hands that never quite seemed big enough to do it.

You wake up in Jack’s bed, his comforter pulled up to your chin and the clock at the bedside table reading 8:17 p.m. There’s the muffled sound of several voices coming from beyond the door.

Holy shit. What the fuck.

Deciding to ignore the implication that Jack carried you to bed, you mentally take stock of what’s around you.

In front of the clock is your phone (plugged in to charge), a glass of water, and a note with Jack’s handwriting on it.

Kid-

I’ll probably be in the ED for the night shift by the time you wake up. I called Mohan (who called Mel, who was with Langdon, for reasons unknown) to go to your place and grab you some things. There may be people in the apartment when you wake up. You are in no way obligated to interact with them. They have to leave eventually.

Charlie is in the room with you because he hates strangers, but he probably won’t leave the bathroom. Probably. Drink water and eat something, if you can. Text me if you need anything.

The voices beyond the door are, more than likely, the aforementioned individuals who have now seen the glorified closet you call home. It’s not ideal, but you’re wrung out and don’t have the energy to really care. Besides, Samira and Mel are too nice to judge you that hard (you hope) and from what you’ve heard, Langdon isn’t really in a place to say anything.

On one hand, going out there requires socializing. Which, ew. On the other hand, Samira and Mel are the best. Langdon is maybe okay.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shuffle out of bed and then continue shuffling to the door, hoping that whatever you look like isn’t too terribly awful.

Samira, Mel, and Langdon are standing around the kitchen island, various takeout containers and bottles of alcohol littering the space. For some reason, Trinity, Dennis, and Robby are also present.

Samira and Langdon are engaged in what looks to be a rather animated discussion-slash-argument, and Mel is standing just a little closer to Langdon than what could be considered normal for friends. Trinity is very obviously ignoring Langdon’s general existence, bickering with Dennis on the couch, and Robby is seated in the armchair by the window, nursing a beer and watching both conversations unfold.

You sniff aggressively, and all heads snap to you.

“There are more of you here then there’s supposed to be,” You grumble, scrubbing at your face. “Why are you all here?”

Mel is the first to speak.

“It was Frank actually!” Trinity rolls her eyes, and part of you wants to share the sentiment, “He figured Trinity would be upset that something happened to you and he knew and didn’t tell her, so Trinity decided that me and Samira would get your stuff while everyone else stayed here in case you woke up before we came back!”

Wow, okay, that’s. A Lot.

You squint. “That doesn’t explain why you’re all here. I mean it does, but only like, why you’re here physically.”

Robby frowns. “We heard that you were going through a rough time and you had to stay with Jack, so we came.”

Trinity snorts on the couch and Dennis, next to her, looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.

Robby shoots her a look, but continues. “We care about you. We— I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything on your own. In or out of the ED.”

Trinity blows out a loud sigh and low whistle. “Jee-zus Robby, give the woman some time to wake up before trying to induce tears again.”

Robby does look a little apologetic, maybe a teensy bit chastised (and annoyed that Trinity was the one doing the chastising) and turns his deep brown eyes back to you.

"Sorry. Can't help these Dad tendencies, you know."

Your face gets hot, maybe a tiny, wet prickle behind your eyes forms while Robby smiles, and the tension leaves the room all in one go, and you start to think that maybe things are in the right place.

–

At the ED, Jack Abbot, who's been checking his phone whenever he gets a free moment like a highschooler with a crush, opens the first text that pops up on his screen after hours of waiting.

It's a picture from Robby. You, with your head thrown back in a cackle of a laugh, not a single bit of stress evident in any of the lines of your body. There's one text accompanying the picture:

Please don't make me give you a shovel talk. I think you already know what's at stake here.

Jack snorts and pockets his phone, because yeah, he does.

–

When Jack finally gets back to his apartment, he's half-expecting to see the kind of mess that a large grouping of obnoxious people leave behind. Trash, maybe a few red solo cups, empty takeout containers, someone asleep on his couch, someone passed out on the floor.

He's not expecting to see a clean space. The only evidence that people were there at all is some rearranged pillows, a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, and some new takeout menus on his fridge.

And then there's you. You're lying on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, watching a show he doesn't really recognize. There's a well-loved backpack on the floor, just under the coffee table. The shocking bit is Charlie, his resident asshole, is 'loafing' right on your chest, purring away.

You lift your head when you hear the jingle of his keys, a smile immediately brightening your face. He mentally takes a picture, right there, so he can remember this exact moment forever.

"What'd you bribe him with?" Jack says instead of something much more neurotic, like 'You don't have to go back to your place when the power comes back on.'

You shrug, unaware of his emotional and romantic pain. "You were right. He came out from under the bed after everybody left. He kind of growled at me for a little bit, but once I settled down here he just kind of... came right up."

You plant a little kiss to the top of his head, right in between furry ears. Great, now Jack's jealous of a senior cat with one ear who licks his own butt. "How could I resist this face? I see why you brought him home."

Jack rounds the end of the couch, shuffling by, and Charlie opens his eyes just enough to shoot him a look that Jack takes to mean: If you make her get up and move me, I will kill you in your sleep.

Jack does not disturb his cat as he sits down on the couch. There's a moment when things almost get hairy- you pull your legs back when he goes to sit, slightly jostling The Asshole, who pins his only ear back in annoyance.

Jack solves this problem by taking your legs, clad in some soft flannel pajama pants and pink fuzzy socks, and lays them across his lap. There. Problem solved.

The warmth of your legs on his lap and the look on your face is reward enough for him. He can't think of a way he'd rather spend his time.

Jack, in a rare show of mercy, does not tease you, and decides that you've probably had enough excitement for one day.

"So," He says instead, looking up at the TV and grimacing at the mutilated corpse on the screen, "What are we watching?"

He watches you shrink into yourself. He hates it when you do that. He hates that you feel like you have to.

"Uh, Bones. I can turn it off, though. I'm sure you don't want to watch this."

He doesn't answer the question you've not-subtly voiced, instead choosing to redirect the conversation.

"Why did you put it on?"

You start chewing on your lower lip. Your signature 'I don't want to answer this question so I'm going to think really hard about it' move.

"It's kind of my comfort show? I don't know. I watched it a lot growing up. We didn't have cable, but the hotels I stayed at sometimes did. I'd wait until my dad fell asleep and then I'd turn on the TV and watch from the sci-fi or drama channels. Watched a lot of Bones. Supernatural too, and sometimes Doctor Who, if it was on. But Bones was my favorite."

The characters on the screen are involved in some sort of car chase now, police siren flashing on a black SUV. Jack isn't paying attention to that at all, because this is the first time since the day you walked into the PTMC and introduced yourself that he's ever heard you talk about your childhood.

"How come?"

"I don't know. I've always liked procedural shows. Had a huge House MD phase. Death and bones and corpses and stuff has never really grossed me out, which is part of the reason I became a doctor. But also..."

You point to the male character. "You see him? That's Booth. Seeley Booth. They all have kind of crazy names. He's an FBI agent, and his partner is that woman there. Temperance Brennan. Booth calls her Bones."

"She doesn't look like an FBI agent."

You smile. "She's not. She's a forensic anthropologist, but she consults on murder cases and stuff like that because she's kind of a genius. She's smart, strong, and capable. She and Booth don't always get along, because they both can be headstrong and stubborn. But he respects and trusts her, implicitly. No matter what. They love each other."

Your throat bobs, but your voice is steady when you speak.

"And when Brennan needs him, if she's in trouble or she needs him by her side, even if she doesn't know she does, he's always there. He always saves her."

Jack can picture it, in his mind. You, small and alone, watching these characters on some shitty hotel TV and getting it into your head that this kind of thing only exists in TV shows. He pictures you dreaming of having a Booth, of having someone to be there for you, to pick you up when you fall. He thinks of you crying in the supply closet and how quietly you'd done it. Almost silent.

He thinks of what happens to a person to make them learn how to cry without making a sound.

He rests a hand on your ankle, fingers instinctively drifting towards the pulse point there- posterior tibial. He keeps two fingers on it, even though he can't feel it through your fuzzy socks. With his thumb he makes circles, because he's seen how you lean into Robby's shoulder grabs, how you preen at physical and verbal praise, how you'd slumped like a marionette with its strings cut into his arms just yesterday.

"Jack?" Your voice is tentative, unsure.

"Hmm?"

"Am I..." You start chewing your lip again, "Are you— I don't to assume anything. So if I fuck this up and make you uncomfortable—"

"I want to kiss you."

Jack has learned how to speak fluent you. He knows how to stop an incoming spiral, how to soothe old wounds rearing their heads.

He continues when you don't speak.

"I want you to wear my clothes. I want to take care of you. I want you, in whatever way you'll let me."

"Oh."

"I was laying it on pretty thick, kid."

You look away from him, and this is another moment he'd like to keep forever.

"I thought I was just reading into things!"

"Do you think I call every intern sweetheart?"

Jack is positive Charlie's presence on your stomach is the only thing keeping you from actively squirming in place.

"I thought maybe you were just one of those guys. Samira said it was possible!"

He rolls his eyes. "You can't ask Mohan for romantic advice. She's you in a different font."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment."

You turn back to your show, losing yourself in the plot for a while. When the murderer has been caught and the credits are playing, you look at him again.

"We don't. Um. Can we just keep doing this? For now?"

For the first time since meeting you, Jack gets to say exactly what he's thinking.

"We can do this forever. We can do whatever you want."

۫ ꣑ৎ

[pucksandpower]

Nasal Fractures (and Other Love Languages)

Oscar Piastri x Reader

Summary: you meet Oscar exactly once when he breaks your nose with a football in the paddock. You meet him exactly twice when he breaks it again with his elbow in a hotel room. Some love stories start with a meet-cute. Yours starts with a medical bill and the world’s most apologetic future World Champion who keeps turning your face into a crime scene. (He’s really, really sorry about it.)

The air in the paddock is thick with a nervous energy you can almost taste, a metallic tang of anticipation mixed with the sweet, acrid scent of high-octane fuel and burning rubber. It’s a symphony of controlled chaos. The low, guttural growl of an engine being tested somewhere down the pit lane rumbles through the soles of your shoes. Team personnel, clad in vibrant, logo-splashed uniforms, move with a crisp, clipped purpose that makes you and your friend, Beth, feel like you’re wading through a current.

“I can’t believe this is real,” Beth whispers, her voice tight with awe. She clutches her phone like a holy relic, trying to discreetly film everything without looking like a complete tourist. Which, of course, is exactly what you both are.

“Try to act like we belong here,” you murmur back, though your own eyes are as wide as dinner plates. You’re scanning the river of people for a familiar face, a flash of papaya, a shock of blond hair. Winning these paddock passes felt like a one-in-a-billion lottery ticket, a glitch in the universe that accidentally spat you out into the heart of the circus.

And then you see them.

Just ahead, in the wide expanse of asphalt between the impossibly sleek, futuristic structures of the McLaren and Red Bull motorhomes, are Oscar Piastri and Lando Norris. The tension of the impending qualifying session seems to have bypassed them entirely. They’re in their full race kits, minus the helmets, their hair damp with a pre-race sweat. A simple black and white football bounces between them.

It's a lazy, fluid rhythm. The ball arcs from Lando’s knee to Oscar’s chest, where he cushions it dead before volleying it back with the inside of his foot. They aren't speaking, just moving in the easy, comfortable silence of longtime teammates and friends. It's so disarmingly normal, so achingly human, that it makes your breath catch in your throat. This isn’t something you see on a broadcast. This is a stolen moment, and you’re a thief for watching it.

“Oh my god,” Beth breathes, fumbling with her phone. “Get a picture.”

“No, don’t,” you hiss, grabbing her arm. “Let them have their space. We’re not supposed to …”

Your words are swallowed by the scene. Lando laughs, a bright, familiar sound that makes your stomach flutter, as he attempts an overly ambitious flick. The ball spins wide, and Oscar jogs a few steps to intercept it, his movements economical and precise. He stops it with his right foot, a picture of calm concentration.

He looks up, just for a second, and his eyes — cool and impossibly focused — sweep over the area. They don't linger on you. You're just part of the scenery, another face in the blur. He gives Lando a small, almost imperceptible smirk.

“Getting sloppy, mate,” Oscar calls out, his voice a low, calm murmur that barely carries over the ambient noise. The Australian lilt is subtle, but it’s there.

Lando grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Just lulling you into a false sense of security. Show me what you’ve got, then.”

Oscar juggles the ball once, twice, a flicker of a smile playing on his lips. It’s the smile you’ve seen in a hundred post-race interviews — reserved, a little shy, but genuine. He shifts his weight, positioning himself for a clean pass back to Lando, who’s now standing a good twenty feet away, near the entrance to the Red Bull hospitality suite.

This is the moment the universe decides to stop glitching and start actively conspiring against you.

From Oscar’s point of view, it’s a simple calculation. A routine he’s performed thousands of times. He sees Lando, sees the space, gauges the power. His mind is already halfway to the garage, running through the qualifying plan, sector by sector. This is just muscle memory. A final, mindless release of nervous energy before being strapped into a carbon fibre rocket ship.

He draws his right foot back. The motion is clean, fluid, athletic. It should be a perfect, low chip that lands right at Lando’s feet.

But a mechanic from another team, his arms laden with a stack of tires, cuts directly through Oscar’s intended flight path. A sudden, unexpected obstacle. Oscar’s brain registers it a millisecond too late. He tries to adjust, to pull back, but the command is already halfway to his foot. He overcompensates. Instead of a soft chip, he connects with the ball with the full force of his instep. The connection is too clean, too powerful.

The ball doesn't arc. It shoots. A black and white missile.

It rockets past the mechanic, past a startled-looking influencer who ducks instinctively, past the spot where Lando was standing.

And it flies directly towards the two girls who had stopped to watch, the ones who were trying to look like they belonged. The ones with the wide, starstruck eyes.

From your perspective, time slows to a thick, syrupy crawl. One second, you’re admiring the effortless grace of a world-class athlete. The next, a sphere of stitched leather is expanding in your vision at an impossible, terrifying speed.

There is no time to react. No time to raise your hands, to turn your head, to even flinch.

There is only the ball.

And then, a concussive, explosive thump.

A universe of white-hot, blinding pain erupts from the bridge of your nose, radiating outwards through your sinuses, your teeth, your skull. The sound is less of a crack and more of a wet, sickening crunch that you feel deep in your bones. Stars, genuine and cartoonishly bright, burst behind your eyelids. The world tilts on its axis, the vibrant colours of the paddock smearing into a nauseating blur.

Your hands fly to your face, a useless, reflexive gesture. You feel a gush of warmth spill over your fingers, slick and hot.

“Oh, God!” Beth shrieks beside you.

Your knees give out. The meticulously clean asphalt of the paddock rushes up to meet you, and you land hard, the impact jarring your already screaming head. You’re on all fours, head bowed, the world a dizzying, spinning mess. A low moan escapes your throat, a sound you don’t even recognize as your own.

The world outside your personal bubble of agony is a sudden explosion of chaos.

“Oh, bloody hell!”

The voice is Oscar’s, sharp with a kind of strangled panic that is utterly alien to his public persona. The calm is gone. The focus is shattered.

Footsteps pound against the pavement, frantic and fast.

“Oscar! Mate, what did you—Oh my God.” That’s Lando, his voice an octave higher than usual.

Two pairs of race-booted feet skid to a halt in front of you. You can’t look up. Your entire consciousness has shrunk to the throbbing, shattered epicentre of your face. You can feel the blood dripping from your chin now, spattering onto the pristine ground.

“Are you alright? Oh God, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” Oscar is kneeling in front of you, his voice urgent, laced with pure, undiluted horror. He’s reaching out, his hands hovering uselessly in the air, terrified to touch you.

You try to answer, to say “I’m fine” out of some deeply ingrained, polite instinct, but the only thing that comes out is a choked, wet sob. The taste of salt and iron floods your mouth.

“Is she okay?” Lando asks, his voice tight with alarm. He’s addressing Beth, who is now kneeling beside you, her own face pale with shock.

“I-I don’t know! You hit her in the face! With the ball!” Beth’s voice is shaky, accusatory.

“I know! I know, I didn’t mean to!” Oscar sounds desperate. “It was … I was aiming for Lando. Someone walked in the way. I’m so, so sorry.”

He shifts his weight, getting closer. You can smell the faint, clean scent of his fireproofs, a strange counterpoint to the coppery smell of your own blood.

“Can you look at me?” He asks, his voice softer now, but no less panicked. “Please? We need to see how bad it is.”

You shake your head, which is a colossal mistake. A fresh wave of agony and nausea washes over you. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to hold the world together.

“Don’t move your head,” he says quickly. “Okay, okay, don’t move.”

“Her nose,” Beth says, her voice trembling. “I think … I think it’s broken.”

A heavy silence hangs in the air for a beat, thick with the unsaid. Oscar lets out a low curse under his breath.

“Right. Okay. Medic. We need a medic,” he says, his voice taking on a new urgency. He turns his head. “Zak! Arthur! Can we get a medic over here? Now!”

His voice, usually so measured, cracks with the strain. He’s yelling now, and you can feel the vibrations of it in your chest. You’re dimly aware of more people approaching, of the circle around you tightening. The low murmur of the paddock has been replaced by a focused, localized clamor. Your personal, humiliating clamor.

“What’s going on here?” A new voice, this one with an American accent. Sharp, authoritative.

“I hit her with the ball, Zak,” Oscar says, his voice strained. “It was an accident. I think her nose is broken. We need a doctor.”

“Jesus Christ, Oscar.”

You risk a glance, cracking one eye open. Through a watery, blood-tinged haze, you see the concerned face of Zak Brown looking down at you. Behind him, more McLaren personnel are gathering, their faces a mixture of alarm and professional concern.

This is a nightmare. This is a fever dream. You’re bleeding all over the ground in front of the McLaren motorhome, with half the team, including both drivers, staring at you like you’re a car crash. Which, you suppose, you sort of are.

“It’s okay, we’re getting someone,” Lando says, trying to be reassuring, but he just sounds as freaked out as everyone else. “They’re coming. Just stay still.”

“I am so, so sorry,” Oscar repeats. It seems to be the only thing he can say. He’s still kneeling there, a few feet away, looking utterly helpless. His face, usually a mask of calm composure, is etched with guilt and raw panic. He looks younger than he does on TV. He just looks like a kid who has made a terrible mistake and has no idea how to fix it.

“You’re bleeding a lot,” Beth says quietly, her hand resting gently on your back. “Can you try to tilt your head forward a little? Not back.”

You follow her instructions numbly, letting your head hang as more blood drips onto the asphalt. Each drop feels like a confession of your own mortification.

A woman in a McLaren polo shirt with a radio pressed to her ear arrives. “Medical team is on their way. They’ll take her to the care centre.”

“Oscar, Lando, we need you in the garage,” Zak says, his voice firm but not unkind. “Qualifying starts in twelve minutes.”

“No,” Oscar says immediately, shaking his head. “No, I’m not leaving. I did this.”

“You are,” Zak insists. “There’s nothing you can do here now. The medics will handle it. We have a session to prepare for. Let’s go.”

“Zak, I just broke a girl’s nose,” Oscar argues, his voice rising in disbelief. He gestures wildly at you, a crumpled, bleeding heap on the ground. “I can’t just walk away and go drive a race car.”

“You absolutely can, and you absolutely will,” another voice cuts in, this one belonging to a man with a clipboard and a stern expression. Your brain vaguely supplies the name Andrea Stella. “Let the medical professionals do their job. Your job is in that car. Now.”

He puts a firm hand on Oscar’s shoulder. Lando is already being herded away by another team member, casting a worried look back over his shoulder.

“Go on, Lando. Get your head in the game.”

“Is she gonna be okay?” Lando asks, his eyes wide.

“She’ll be fine. Go.”

Oscar doesn’t move. He’s still looking at you, his expression a chaotic storm of regret and frustration. “I can’t just go.”

“Oscar.” Stella’s voice is iron. “Now.”

He gives Oscar’s shoulder a gentle but insistent tug. The finality in the gesture is clear. Oscar knows he’s lost the argument. His shoulders slump in defeat. He looks utterly wrecked.

As Stella begins to pull him to his feet, Oscar leans forward, his eyes locking with yours for the first time. You’re still looking at him through a curtain of pain and tears, but you see the raw apology in his gaze. It’s so intense it almost hurts as much as your nose.

“Wait,” he says, resisting the pull for one last second. He addresses you directly, his voice low and rushed. “Please, don’t leave. After qualifying, I’ll … I’ll find you. The medical tent, okay? I’ll find you there. I promise.”

He searches your face, desperate for some kind of acknowledgement, some sign of forgiveness you are in no condition to give.

“I am so unbelievably sorry,” he says again, his voice cracking on the last word. “I’ll make this up to you. I promise.”

And then he’s gone. Pulled away into the current of the team, swallowed by the urgency of the sport, leaving you on the cold, hard ground with the smell of his fireproofs, the echo of his panicked promise, and a face full of shattered bone and blood.

Two uniformed medics arrive, their movements calm and efficient in the wake of the storm. They begin asking you questions, their voices a soothing drone that you can’t quite process. Beth is answering for you, her voice still shaky but getting stronger, more assertive.

They help you sit up, pressing a wad of gauze to your nose that you immediately soak through. The world is still spinning, but the sharp edges of the pain are beginning to dull into a deep, throbbing ache that seems to have taken up residence in your entire skull.

As they gently help you to your feet, preparing to walk you to the medical centre, your gaze drifts towards the McLaren garage. For a fleeting second, you think you see him, a flash of papaya orange standing by the entrance, looking back towards you before being pushed inside.

Then the garage door rolls down, a final, definitive curtain on the most surreal and painful ten minutes of your life. And you’re left with only one thought, circling endlessly in your concussed, throbbing head.

Oscar Piastri broke your nose. And he promised he would find you.

***

The world inside the McLaren garage is a pressure cooker of sound and motion. The moment Oscar’s MCL39 rolls into its bay, it’s swarmed. Fans whir, laptops are flipped open, and a dozen sets of hands descend on the car. He kills the engine, the sudden silence in his ears a deafening roar. For the last hour, his universe has been nothing but the scream of the engine, the voice of his race engineer, and the laser-focused task of wrestling two-tenths of a second from a strip of asphalt.

But the bubble has burst. And the first thought that crashes into his brain, more potent than the G-force he just endured, is your face. Crumpled. Bleeding.

He unbuckles his harness with frantic, clumsy fingers and rips his helmet off. The cool air of the garage hits his sweat-soaked hair. His trainer, Kim, is there instantly, holding a water bottle and a towel. Oscar ignores them both. His eyes find Lando, who is already clambering out of his car a few feet away, being mobbed by ecstatic engineers. P1. Lando got pole. The garage is electric with it.

“YES, LANDO! GET IN!”

“MEGA JOB, MATE! MEGA!”

Lando is grinning, a wide, euphoric smile as he’s pulled into a series of back-slapping hugs. He’s earned it. He was flawless.

Oscar feels a pang of something that isn’t jealousy. It’s a hollow, churning guilt. He finished P2. It feels like ash in his mouth. He knows, with a certainty that settles deep in his gut, that the pole position was lost in the twenty feet between his foot and your face. He was distracted. He drove angry. Angry at himself, at the stupid football, at the entire godforsaken situation. He’d left a girl bleeding on the ground. How could he possibly find the last few thousandths of a second after that?

“Good job, Oscar! P2, fantastic result for the team,” his engineer, Tom, says, clapping him on the shoulder.

Oscar just nods, his eyes still fixed on Lando, who is now being handed the black P1 cap for the post-qualifying interviews. An idea — a terrible, frantic, brilliant idea — sparks in Oscar’s mind.

“I need that hat,” he mutters.

“What?” Tom asks, leaning in closer over the din. “Need a what?”

But Oscar is already moving. He pushes past Kim, past Tom, and stalks towards the celebratory huddle around Lando. He’s a man possessed. Lando sees him coming, his grin faltering slightly at the wild, haunted look in Oscar’s eyes.

“Osc, mate, we did it! Front row!” Lando shouts, ready for a hug.

Oscar doesn’t hug him. He reaches out and snatches the P1 cap right off Lando’s head.

“Hey!” Lando yelps, his hand flying to his now-bare head. “What the hell?”

“I need this,” Oscar says, his voice tight. He turns, his eyes scanning the garage like a hawk. He spots a PR officer, a young woman named Annie, who is holding a clipboard and a black Sharpie. He strides over to her.

“Annie, give me your marker.” It’s not a request.

She blinks, startled. “Uh … Oscar, the media pen is waiting for …”

“The marker,” he repeats, holding out his hand, his expression bordering on unhinged. She wordlessly hands him the Sharpie. He clicks it open and shoves it, along with the cap, back into Lando’s chest.

“Sign it,” he commands.

Lando stares at him, utterly bewildered. He’s surrounded by cheering mechanics, Zak is beaming, and his teammate looks like he’s in the middle of a nervous breakdown. “Sign … my own hat?”

“Yes. Sign it. Now.”

“Why?” Lando asks, his voice a mix of amusement and genuine concern. “Are you okay? You look a bit … traumatized.”

“I am traumatized!” Oscar hisses, his voice low and intense. “I am responsible for a traumatic event that has caused trauma. For which I need to atone. Sign the hat, Lando.”

Lando, deciding it’s easier to just go along with whatever strange ritual this is, takes the pen and scribbles his signature across the brim of the cap. “There. Happy?”

Oscar snatches the signed cap back. “No.”

He looks down at his own feet, at the custom-fit, fire-retardant race boots. Another piece of the puzzle clicks into place in his frantic mind. It’s weird. It’s definitely weird. But he’s committed now. He leans against the workbench, unzips the boots, and pulls them off, his sweaty socks steaming in the cool garage air.

“What are you doing?” Tom asks, his face a perfect mask of professional confusion. “Oscar, we have debrief in twenty.”

“I can’t.” Oscar is holding the signed cap in one hand and his race boots, which smell faintly of rubber and foot, in the other. He looks around, his eyes landing on the head of hospitality, a perpetually unflappable man named Bradley. Oscar makes a beeline for him, his socks sliding on the smooth concrete floor.

“Bradley!”

Bradley turns, one eyebrow raised at the sight of his driver in his socks, clutching a bizarre assortment of items. “Oscar. Congratulations. Shall we arrange the usual for your family?”

“No. Yes. I mean, later. I need something else,” Oscar says, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I need two VIP passes. The full experience. Paddock Club, garage tour, the works.”

“Of course. For which race?” Bradley asks, pulling out his tablet.

“I don’t know yet,” Oscar says, shaking his head. “She gets to pick. The girl. The one I hit with the ball. She gets to pick any race on the calendar, and she and a friend get the best tickets you can possibly imagine. Money is no object. Bill it to me, I don’t care. Can you do that? Just have the vouchers or whatever ready. I’ll let you know the names and the race later.”

Bradley looks from Oscar’s wild eyes to the boots in his hand and seems to make a swift calculation that arguing is futile. “Consider it done, Oscar. I’ll have a confirmation packet drawn up.”

“Thank you,” Oscar breathes, a fraction of the tension leaving his shoulders. He turns to leave.

“Oscar!” It’s Zak, his arm outstretched to stop him. “Media pen. Let’s go. Great day for the team.”

Oscar sidesteps him. “Can’t. Sorry, Zak.”

“What do you mean, you can’t? It’s mandatory.”

“I have to go find her,” Oscar says, as if this is the most logical explanation in the world. He waves the boots and cap. “I have to apologize.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He pushes through the throng of people at the back of the garage, ignoring the calls of his name from his engineers, his PR team, his trainer.

“Oscar, your cool-down!”

“Oscar, Sky Sports is waiting!”

“Oscar, for God’s sake, put some shoes on!”

He’s a blur of papaya and white, a man on a holy mission, sock-footing his way through the most exclusive square kilometer in sports. He strides past the other motorhomes, earning more than a few strange looks. He doesn’t care. He has a singular destination. The medical tent.

***

The medical tent is an oasis of calm, antiseptic silence. The contrast to the paddock is so jarring it makes your head ache, or maybe that’s just the broken nose. You’re sitting on the edge of a narrow bed covered in crinkly paper, a large, intimidatingly white bandage taped across your face. Underneath it, your nose is packed with what feels like a metric ton of cotton. You can’t breathe through it, so you’re forced to take shallow, open-mouthed breaths that make your throat feel dry and scratchy.

The doctor, a kind woman with gentle hands and a calm voice, has just finished explaining that yes, it’s definitely broken. A clean break, she’d called it, as if that were some sort of consolation. She’d given you a dose of a powerful painkiller that has wrapped your brain in a thick, soupy fog, dulling the sharp, stabbing pain into a distant throb. Two magnificent black eyes are beginning to bloom across your cheekbones, a colorful testament to your terrible luck.

“Well,” Beth says, trying for a light tone and failing miserably. She’s perched on a plastic chair beside you, scrolling nervously through her phone. “On the bright side, you met Oscar Piastri.”

You shoot her a glare that you hope conveys your deep and profound unimpressedness. “He tried to decapitate me with a soccer ball, Beth. That’s not ‘meeting’. That’s an assault.”

“A very apologetic assault,” she counters. “He seemed genuinely horrified. And, you have to admit, it’s a way better story than just getting a selfie.”

“I’d rather have the selfie and an intact nasal cavity,” you mumble, your voice nasally and thick.

You look down at your shirt. It’s spattered with blood. Your favourite shirt. You feel a fresh wave of misery wash over you. You just want to go back to your hotel room, order a disgusting amount of room service, and sleep for a week.

The flap of the medical tent is thrust open so violently it makes you jump. And there he is.

Oscar Piastri, in the flesh. He’s still in his race suit, though it’s unzipped to the waist, revealing the sweat-damp base layer underneath. His hair is a mess, his face is flushed with exertion and something else — anxiety. His eyes, clear and startlingly intense, immediately find yours. He’s holding a hat, a pair of racing boots, and he isn’t wearing any shoes.

He just stands there for a second, panting slightly, taking in the scene: you, looking like you just went ten rounds with a heavyweight boxer; the sterile white walls, Beth, whose jaw has dropped.

“Hi,” he says, his voice breathy. He takes a hesitant step inside. “They said you were in here. I am … God, I am so sorry.”

He walks towards you, his socked feet silent on the linoleum floor. He stops a few feet from the bed, looking utterly lost.

“Your face,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. He winces, as if looking at you is causing him physical pain. “It’s … is it broken?”

You nod slowly, the motion sending a dull throb through your skull. “Clean break,” you manage to say, the words thick and foreign in your mouth.

“Bloody hell,” he breathes, running a hand through his already chaotic hair. “I knew it. I am so, so, so sorry. There is nothing I can say to tell you how sorry I am. This is entirely my fault. I’m an idiot. I was just messing around and I wasn’t paying attention and … I’m so sorry.”

He’s rambling, his usual calm, measured speech pattern completely gone, replaced by a torrent of panicked apology. He seems to remember the items in his hands, thrusting them forward like a bizarre peace offering.

“Here,” he says. “This is for you.”

He holds out the cap. You stare at it. It’s the P1 hat. Lando Norris’s signature is scrawled across the brim.

“Lando got pole,” he explains, as if this makes perfect sense. “So this is his hat. I made him sign it for you.”

You take the hat from him, your fingers brushing his. His hand is warm and slightly calloused. The gesture is so surreal, so utterly insane, that a small, hysterical laugh bubbles up in your throat. It hurts your nose, so you cut it off with a wince.

“And these,” he says, crouching down and placing his race boots carefully on the floor beside the bed. They look impossibly light, crafted from some space-age material, and are caked with dust and grime from the track. “They’re my boots. From today. I finished P2 in them.” He pauses, looking at the boots, then back up at you. A flicker of self-awareness dawns in his eyes. “That’s … that’s a bit weird, isn’t it? Giving you my sweaty shoes. I don’t know what I was thinking. I just felt like I had to give you something. Something from today. As an apology. It was a stupid idea. You can throw them away if you want. Or sell them. I don’t know.”

You and Beth just stare at him. Oscar Piastri is on the floor of the medical tent, having a minor existential crisis over the appropriateness of giving you his shoes. The painkillers, the broken nose, the sheer strangeness of the last hour — it all combines into a feeling of complete and utter detachment from reality.

Beth finds her voice first. “You … you ran here in your socks?”

Oscar looks down at his feet as if just noticing them. “Oh. Yeah. I guess I did. I was in a bit of a hurry.”

He stands up, looking deeply uncomfortable and out of place. He’s a finely tuned athlete, a man who operates with millimeter precision at 200 miles per hour, and right now he looks like a teenage boy who just accidentally crashed his dad’s car.

“That’s not the real apology,” he says quickly, trying to recover. “The real apology is … I spoke to our hospitality manager. And I have arranged for you and your friend,” he glances at Beth, “to be my personal guests at any race for the rest of the season. Or next season. Whichever you want.”

You blink. The fog in your brain parts for a moment. “What?”

“Any race,” he repeats, his earnestness radiating off him in waves. “Monza, Singapore, Vegas, Abu Dhabi … your choice. We’ll fly you out, put you up in a hotel, give you the full VIP Paddock Club experience. Garage tours, pit lane walks, everything. The best tickets money can buy. Which is good, because I’m buying them.” He swallows, his gaze fixed on you. “I know it doesn’t fix … this,” he gestures vaguely at your bandaged face. “But it’s the only thing I could think of to even begin to make up for it. For ruining your day. Your face.”

He trails off, looking miserable.

The silence in the tent stretches. Beth looks at you, her eyes wider than you’ve ever seen them. This is a grand gesture of epic, romcom-finale proportions. It’s ludicrous. It’s insane. It’s also … incredibly, unbelievably sweet.

“You’d really do that?” You ask, your voice small.

“Of course,” he says without a moment’s hesitation. “You can pick tomorrow. Or next week. Whenever you’re feeling up to it. Just let my team know. They’ll handle everything.”

You look down at the P1 cap in your hands, then at the race-worn boots on the floor. He broke your nose, and in a fit of panicked guilt, he’s offering you the world on a silver platter. He blew off his media duties, ran across the paddock in his socks, and is offering an apology so extravagant it’s almost comical. And all you can see is the genuine, gut-wrenching remorse in his eyes.

“Okay,” you hear yourself say.

A visible wave of relief washes over him. His shoulders, which had been tensed up to his ears, drop an inch. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat, a little firmer this time. You’re still in pain, you’re still miserable, and you have a long, painful week of recovery ahead of you. But in this strange, quiet, antiseptic-smelling tent, something has shifted.

The story of the day you went to the Grand Prix is no longer just about how you got your nose broken by a stray football. It’s suddenly about something else entirely.

***

The Abu Dhabi air is a thick, humid blanket, clinging to Oscar’s skin as he walks from the driver’s room to the garage. The sun has begun its slow, spectacular descent, painting the sky in fiery strokes of orange and purple that reflect off the glass facades of the Yas Marina circuit. It’s beautiful. He doesn’t notice.

His world has shrunk to the size of a pinhead. All that exists is the next few hours. The start sequence, the tire strategy, the delicate, brutal dance of managing a Formula 1 car on the absolute ragged edge for fifty-eight laps. The weight of the World Drivers’ Championship presses down on his shoulders, a physical, tangible thing. It’s all come down to this. Him and Lando. Teammates. Friends. And for the next two hours, his only rival.

“Hydration good?” Arthur, his trainer, asks, falling into step beside him. “Energy levels?”

“Fine, Arthur. I’m fine,” Oscar says, his voice flat. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, a deliberate tunnel vision designed to block out the swarm of media, the sea of faces, the sheer, overwhelming scale of the moment.

He’s been in this bubble all weekend. He’s barely spoken to anyone outside his core engineering team. He eats, sleeps, and breathes data, telemetry, and strategy. He’s built a fortress in his mind, and the walls are a thousand feet thick. Nothing gets in.

But as they round the corner, cutting past the sprawling McLaren hospitality suite, a crack appears in the wall.

It’s just a flash. A flicker of movement on the terrace, a woman turning her head, her laughter catching the light. For a single, crystal-clear moment that seems to exist outside of time, his eyes lock on her. She’s wearing a simple black dress, her hair is down, and she’s smiling a smile so bright it seems to generate its own light. There’s a faint, silvery scar on the bridge of her nose, almost invisible unless you were the one who put it there.

His heart stutters. A jolt, sharp and electric, shoots through him.

It’s you. The girl with the broken nose. The girl from that qualifying session months ago, the one whose face has been a recurring, guilt-ridden image in the back of his mind. He hasn’t heard a word since his team’s legal department confirmed you had accepted the VIP package. He’d asked Bradley a few times which race she’d chosen, but Bradley had been evasively professional. “We’re handling it, Oscar. All sorted.” He’d eventually dropped it, figuring you’d chosen a race earlier in the season and he’d simply missed you.

But there you are. Here. Now. On the most important day of his professional life. And you look … whole. Healthy. The bruises are gone, the swelling is a distant memory. He’d only ever seen your face contorted in pain, and now, seeing it relaxed and happy, is a revelation. You’re beautiful. The thought is so clear and intrusive it knocks the breath out of him.

“Oscar, let’s go. Andrea’s waiting.” Arthur’s hand is on his arm, gently but firmly steering him forward.

Oscar tries to look back, to get a second glance, to confirm that his pressure-addled brain isn’t just conjuring ghosts. But the angle is wrong, and a throng of guests blocks his view. You’re gone.

“Did you see …” He starts, but trails off.

“See what?” Arthur asks, his eyes scanning the area for a potential threat or distraction.

Oscar shakes his head. “Nothing. Thought I saw someone I knew.”

It couldn’t have been her. It’s too much of a coincidence. His mind is playing tricks on him, manifesting his lingering guilt at the worst possible moment. He dismisses it, shoves the image down, and rebuilds the wall in his mind, brick by painstaking brick. He can’t afford the distraction. Not today.

By the time he straps into the car, the ghost is gone. All that remains is the pinhead. The start lights. The engine. The championship.

***

The race is a fever dream. A relentless, high-speed chess match where every move is made at 200 miles per hour. Lando gets a better start, nosing ahead into Turn 1. Oscar’s heart is in his throat, but he holds his nerve, slotting in behind him. The gap between them for the next forty laps is never more than two seconds. They are perfectly, brutally matched.

He lives through the radio, Tom’s voice a calm, steady anchor in the screaming chaos.

“Okay, Oscar, Lando is pitting. It’s go-time. We need everything you’ve got.”

He pushes. He drives with a controlled fury, his hands a blur on the wheel, his inputs impossibly smooth. The tires scream, the car slides, but he holds it, wringing every last millisecond out of the machine. The pit stop is a symphony of motion, over and out in 2.1 seconds. He emerges from the pit lane just as Lando’s papaya car flashes past. Still P2.

The laps wind down. Ten to go. Five. Three. The gap is 0.8 seconds. Lando’s tires are beginning to fade. Oscar’s are, too, but he can feel he has more left. He can see Lando sliding in the low-speed corners, fighting the car. The opportunity is coming.

Two laps to go. He gets a massive exit out of the chicane, the DRS on his rear wing snaps open, and he’s a rocket ship down the back straight. He pulls alongside Lando, wheels inches apart. For a moment, they are perfectly level, two friends, two teammates, fighting for the ultimate prize. Oscar brakes later, deeper, forcing his car up the inside into the hairpin. He makes it stick. He’s in the lead.

The final lap is the longest of his life. He doesn’t breathe. He just drives, his focus absolute. He crosses the finish line, and the world explodes.

“YES! YES, OSCAR! YOU’VE DONE IT! YOU ARE THE WORLD CHAMPION! YOU ARE THE WORLD CHAMPION!” Tom’s voice is raw, shredded with emotion.

A sound rips from Oscar’s throat, a strangled, guttural sob of pure relief. He’s screaming, crying, laughing all at once. The weight that has been sitting on him for months, for years, for his entire life, simply evaporates. He is floating.

“Thank you, guys,” he chokes out, his voice thick. “Thank you, everyone. Unbelievable. Just … unbelievable.”

The cool-down lap is a blur of waving flags and cheering fans. He pulls into parc fermé, right under the P1 sign. He sits in the car for a long moment, head bowed, hands still gripping the wheel, trying to absorb the impossible reality of what he has just achieved. 2025 Formula 1 World Drivers' Champion.

The hours that follow are a chaotic whirlwind of joy. He’s mobbed by his team, lifted onto their shoulders. He hugs his parents until his ribs ache. The podium ceremony is a champagne-soaked dream. He stands on the top step, the Australian anthem playing, and searches the crowd, a sea of celebrating faces. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for.

He finds Lando in the hallway before the media pen. There are no cameras, just the two of them. Lando is sitting on a bench, staring at the floor, the P2 cap in his hands. The fierce joy of Oscar’s victory is immediately tempered by the quiet pain of his friend’s defeat.

“Mate,” Oscar says softly, sitting down next to him.

Lando looks up. The disappointment in his eyes is vast, but there’s no anger. Just a deep, weary sadness. He manages a small smile.

“World Champion, huh?” He says, his voice quiet. “Sounds good.”

“I’m sorry,” Oscar says, and he means it.

Lando shakes his head. “Don’t be. You drove a mega race. A mega season. You earned it.” He bumps his shoulder against Oscar’s. “Just … do me a favour and get slower now you’ve won one.”

Oscar laughs, a real, genuine laugh. “No promises.”

The team celebration in the garage is pure pandemonium. Music blasts, corks fly, and Oscar is passed from one champagne-drenched hug to another. He celebrates with every mechanic, every engineer, every member of the hospitality staff who helped get him here. It’s a roaring, joyous, exhausting blur.

Hours later, the official team party at a beachside hotel is in full swing. The adrenaline has long since worn off, leaving Oscar with a profound, bone-deep exhaustion and a strange, floating sense of peace. He’s done it. The goal that has consumed his entire life has been achieved. He feels a quiet sense of what now?

He’s nursing a beer, having switched from champagne hours ago, leaning against a pillar and just watching his team celebrate. Zak is telling a story, gesticulating wildly. Andrea is smiling, a rare and genuine sight. Lando is in the middle of a dance circle, looking like he’s put the day’s disappointment behind him for the night.

“You’re not celebrating,” a voice says beside him. It’s Tom.

“I am,” Oscar says with a smile. “Just quietly. Soaking it in.”

“Well, soak faster. A few of us are heading to W. Some of the other teams are there. It’s the unofficial end-of-season party. You should come.”

Oscar hesitates. All he wants is his bed. But he’s the World Champion. He can’t very well go to sleep before midnight.

“Yeah, alright,” he says. “For a bit.”

***

The club is a different world. It’s dark, sleek, and cavernous, the bass of the music a physical vibration in his chest. The air is cool and smells of expensive perfume and cocktails. It’s packed with the familiar faces of the F1 paddock, all letting their hair down now that the season is finally over. He gets a fresh drink — just a sparkling water, he’s had enough alcohol to last a month — and finds a quieter corner, a leather booth overlooking the chaos of the dance floor.

He watches the pulsing lights, the shifting bodies. He feels strangely detached from it all, an observer in his own victory party. He’s happy. He’s ecstatic. But he’s also just … tired.

And then he sees you.

It’s not a fleeting glimpse this time. You’re standing near the bar with your friend, Beth. You’re talking to one of the Williams mechanics, your head tilted back as you laugh at something he’s said. The strobe lights catch the silver of the scar on your nose. It was you. He wasn’t hallucinating.

His breath catches in his throat. The exhaustion, the detachment, the quiet haze in his mind — it all vanishes, replaced by a sharp, sudden focus. It’s you. You’re here.

He watches you for a long moment, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way it didn't on the final lap. You look incredible. The simple black dress clings to you in all the right ways, and your smile is just as dazzling as it was from a distance. The memory of you, crumpled and bleeding on the asphalt, feels like a scene from another lifetime, a different reality. It’s hard to reconcile that girl with the confident, radiant woman across the room.

He has to go over there. He has to say something. But what? Hi, thanks for coming. Sorry again about the horrific facial injury I inflicted upon you.

He takes a deep breath, pushing himself out of the booth. He feels more nervous now than he did on the starting grid. He weaves his way through the crowd, his eyes never leaving you. As he gets closer, you turn your head, your gaze sweeping across the room.

Your eyes meet his.

The recognition is instant. Your smile falters for a fraction of a second, your eyes widening slightly. The world seems to slow down, the thumping music fading to a dull, distant hum. There is only the crowded space between you and the sudden, undeniable charge in the air.

He stops a few feet away from you. The mechanic you were talking to says something, but you don’t seem to hear him. Beth notices his approach and her jaw drops for the second time in your shared F1 experience.

“Hi,” he says, his voice coming out a little hoarser than he intended.

“Hi,” you reply, your voice a low murmur that he has to strain to hear over the music.

A small, hesitant smile touches your lips. “Congratulations, World Champion.”

The two words hang in the air between you, a fragile bridge across the noisy chasm of the club. Your voice is calm, a little wry, and it cuts through the fog of victory and exhaustion in his head like a searchlight.

“Thanks,” Oscar manages to say, his own voice sounding distant to his ears. He takes a step closer, a magnetic pull he has no intention of fighting. “I, uh … I didn't know you were here. I thought I saw you earlier, before the race, but I figured I was just …”

“Hallucinating?” You finish for him, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. “Under the circumstances, I wouldn't have blamed you.”

“Something like that,” he admits, a faint blush rising on his neck. “I asked my team which race you’d picked. They never told me. I guess they didn't want the man responsible for your facial reconstruction getting distracted on the biggest day of his life.”

The joke is clumsy, landing with a thud, and he immediately regrets it. He winces, waiting for your reaction. But you just laugh, a genuine, warm sound that makes the knot in his stomach loosen just a little.

“Probably a smart move on their part,” you say. “Though you should know, my nose was reconstructed with titanium. It’s stronger than ever. You could probably hit it with another football and it would be fine.” You pause, your eyes twinkling. “Please don’t test that theory.”

“I will never, ever go near a football again,” he says, his voice so serious it’s almost a vow. “I swear. I’ve been having nightmares about it.”

“Really?”

“Not really,” he confesses. “But the guilt has been … significant.” He looks at you, properly looks at you, taking in the reality of you standing in front of him. “How is it? Your nose, I mean. Honestly.”

You reach up and touch the bridge of your nose, a light, unconscious gesture. “It’s fine. It aches when it’s about to rain, which makes me feel like I’m eighty years old. And I have this scar.” You lean in a little, tilting your head into the light. “See? The doctor called it a ‘character-building imperfection’.”

He leans in too, his gaze dropping to the faint, silvery line. It’s barely visible, delicate and fine. To him, it looks less like an imperfection and more like a brand, a permanent reminder of his own catastrophic clumsiness.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “For that. For all of it.”

“You gave me a VIP tour of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix and Lando Norris’s sweaty P1 hat,” you counter, your tone light. “I’d say we’re almost even.” You glance down at his feet, then back up at him with a mischievous glint in your eye. “I did end up selling the boots, by the way. Paid my rent for five months with a tidy profit left over. So, really, thank you.”

A surprised laugh escapes him. It’s the first time he’s laughed freely all night, a real, unburdened sound. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” you say with a perfectly straight face, which then breaks into a wide grin. “Of course I’m kidding. They’re sitting in a box in my closet. Beth wants me to build a shrine.”

The easy back-and-forth feels shockingly natural, as if you’ve known each other for years, not just two bizarre, traumatic encounters. The noise of the club, the press of the crowd, the weight of his new title — it all fades into the background. There is only this bubble of space around the two of you.

“So,” he says, searching for a way to keep the conversation going, to keep you here. “Did you enjoy the race? Apart from the constant, looming threat of airborne sporting equipment.”

“It was incredible,” you say, your eyes lighting up. “Watching it from the garage, hearing the comms … it’s a completely different world. And that last-lap overtake was …” You shake your head, at a loss for words. “I think my heart stopped.”

“Mine too,” he admits.

An electric silence falls between you. The music swells, a wave of bass washing over the room. He sees Beth make eye contact with you, raising her eyebrows in a silent, questioning gesture. You give her a subtle shake of the head, a silent command to stay put. You don’t want to leave. He doesn’t want you to leave.

Maybe it’s the six glasses of champagne he had since the podium. Maybe it’s the dizzying, surreal euphoria of achieving his life’s dream. Or maybe it’s just the simple, undeniable fact that he feels more drawn to you than anyone he has ever met. But the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

Your eyebrows shoot up. The playful smile on your face is instantly replaced by a look of amused surprise. “Get out of here? Mr. World Champion, are you asking me back to your room?”

His face flames. Hearing it said so bluntly makes it sound impossibly forward, ridiculously arrogant. “I … yes?” He stammers. “Is that too much? I’m sorry. I’m not usually … I mean, I’m not good at this. The talking. The … this.”

You watch him, a slow, appraising smile returning to your face. You see the confident, untouchable athlete dissolve into a flustered, awkward guy who looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole. It’s surprisingly, disarmingly endearing.

“You win the biggest prize in motorsport,” you say, tilting your head. “And the first thing you want to do is go home with the girl whose nose you broke. That’s either incredibly romantic or you have a very specific fetish.”

He chokes on air. “It is absolutely not a fetish.”

“Good to know,” you say, your smile widening. You take a small step closer, closing the remaining space between you. The scent of your perfume, something light and floral, cuts through the stale air of the club. “My hotel is on the other side of the island.” You pause, letting the statement hang in the air. “I assume yours is closer.”

Relief, potent and dizzying, floods his system. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Much closer.”

“Alright then, champion,” you say, your voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur. “Lead the way.”

***

The walk back to his hotel is a blur. You slip out a side door, escaping the party unnoticed. The night air is warm and still. You don’t talk much. You don’t need to. The space between you crackles with a nervous, excited energy. His hand keeps brushing yours, sending little jolts up his arm. In the elevator, he finally gives in and takes it, his fingers lacing through yours. Your hand is warm and fits perfectly in his.

His suite is vast and impersonal, a generic landscape of beige furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering marina. The remnants of his race day are scattered around — his helmet on the coffee table, his champagne-soaked race suit slung over a chair.

He closes the door behind you, and the silence is suddenly immense. He feels that same awkwardness creeping back in. He’s a world champion in his own territory, and yet he feels like a teenager on a first date.

“So,” he says, breaking the silence. “This is … the room.”

You turn to face him, a soft smile on your face. You slowly walk towards him, your eyes never leaving his. “It’s a very nice room, Oscar.”

You stop directly in front of him, so close he can feel the warmth radiating from your skin. You reach up, your fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw. His breath hitches.

“For the record,” you whisper. “I was hoping you’d ask.”

And that’s all it takes. The last of his reservations dissolves. He closes the distance, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that is both hesitant and hungry. It’s a kiss that tastes of champagne and victory and a strange, shared history of accidental violence. It’s messy and desperate and absolutely perfect.

His hands go to your waist, pulling you flush against him. Your arms snake around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair. The kiss deepens, a silent communication of all the things left unsaid. It’s a release of months of tension — his guilt, your pain, the bizarre, undeniable pull that has existed between you from the moment a football left his foot at the wrong velocity.

Clothes become an inconvenience. The zipper of your dress is cool against his fingertips. The buttons on his shirt give way under your impatient hands. A trail of discarded fabric marks your path from the door to the bedroom. You tumble onto the enormous bed, a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter.

The world outside, the championship, the parties, the press — it all ceases to exist. There is only the soft light from the window, the cool cotton of the sheets, and the intoxicating feeling of your skin against his. His confidence returns, not the arrogance of an athlete, but the quiet certainty of a man who knows he is exactly where he is supposed to be.

Every touch is electric, every kiss a discovery. He feels the delicate, raised line of the scar on your nose under his thumb and a fresh wave of tenderness washes over him. He wants to erase the memory of the pain, to replace it with nothing but this.

Things escalate, the pace quickening. The soft, tender exploration gives way to a deeper, more urgent need. He’s on top of you, propped up on his elbows, his body caging yours. You look up at him, your eyes dark with desire, a small, trusting smile on your lips. The sight of it, of you looking at him like that, makes his head spin.

He leans down to kiss you again, wanting to devour you, to pour every ounce of his victory, his relief, his sheer, overwhelming joy into that single point of contact. He’s lost in the moment, a universe of sensation.

He shifts his weight, wanting to pull you closer, to deepen the kiss, to feel every inch of you against him. It’s a sudden movement, fueled by passion and adrenaline. A clumsy, uncoordinated shift.

His right elbow, moving faster than he intended, slips.

There is a sound. A wet, sickening crunch.

It’s a sound he knows. A sound that is seared into his memory. It’s the sound of bone breaking. It’s the sound of your nose.

For a split second, neither of you moves. The world freezes. The passionate, heavy breathing in the room is replaced by a stunned, absolute silence.

Then, a sharp, ragged gasp escapes your lips. Your hands fly to your face, just as they did that day in the paddock.

Oscar’s blood runs cold. A wave of ice-water horror crashes over him, extinguishing the fire of passion in an instant. He scrambles back, his limbs trembling.

“No,” he whispers, the word a strangled, pathetic sound. “No, no, no, no, no.”

You’re sitting up now, hunched over, your hands cupped over your face. You’re completely still.

“Are you …” He can’t even finish the sentence. The question is too horrifying, too absurd. His mind is short-circuiting. This isn’t happening. This is a stress dream. A nightmare brought on by too much champagne and not enough sleep. It cannot be real.

Then you lower your hands.

A single, perfect drop of crimson blood falls from your nostril, landing starkly against the pristine white of the hotel bedsheet. Another follows, and then another.

You stare down at the spreading red stain on the sheets, your expression not one of pain or anger, but of something far stranger. It’s a look of cosmic disbelief.

You slowly lift your gaze to meet his. He looks absolutely shattered, his face pale with a terror so consuming it seems to have aged him ten years in ten seconds.

A long, heavy moment passes. You take a slow, shaky breath.

And then you speak, your voice eerily calm, laced with a thread of galactic-level exasperation.

“Oscar,” you say, looking from the blood on the sheets to his horrified face. “You really need to stop making a habit out of this.”

Oscar’s brain ceases to function. The words you speak — so calm, so absurd, so utterly unexpected — are a foreign language he cannot process. He just stares at you, at your face, at the blood on the sheets, and his entire world, which just moments ago had been a triumphant, glittering pinnacle, collapses into a black hole of pure, unadulterated horror.

“I … what?” He says, his voice a choked whisper.

“A habit,” you repeat, your voice still unnervingly steady. You press the corner of the duvet to your nose, wincing as the fabric makes contact. “You know, something you do regularly. Like brushing your teeth. Or, in your case, shattering my nasal cartilage.”

The clinical, detached way you say it finally snaps him out of his paralysis. He lurches into motion, a frantic, chaotic scramble.

“Oh my God,” he says, stumbling out of the bed and frantically looking around the room as if the solution to this nightmare is hiding behind a lamp. “Oh my God, not again. I can’t—this isn’t—I am the worst person on Earth.”

“You’re not the worst person on Earth, Oscar,” you say, your voice muffled by the duvet. “But your spatial awareness in moments of passion could use some work.”

“Ice!” He exclaims, a single, brilliant thought piercing the fog of his panic. “We need ice.” He runs to the minibar, yanks it open, and starts pulling out tiny bottles of vodka and overpriced chocolate bars, searching for the microscopic ice tray. “And a doctor. I’m calling Dr. Hughes. He’s the team physician. He’ll know what to do.”

He finds his phone on the nightstand, his fingers shaking so badly it takes him three tries to unlock it.

“Oscar,” you say, your voice firm, cutting through his rising tide of panic. He freezes, phone halfway to his ear, and looks at you. You’ve lowered the duvet. The bleeding is worse now, a steady drip. But your eyes are clear and focused. “Do not call the McLaren team doctor at three o’clock in the morning on the night you won the World Championship to tell him you broke my nose. Again. During …” You wave a hand, searching for the right word. “… an intimate moment.”

He stares at you, the logic of your words slowly penetrating his thick skull. You’re right. The PR fallout from that phone call would be apocalyptic.

“Right,” he says, lowering the phone. “No team doctor. Okay. Right. So, a hospital. We’ll go to a hospital. I’ll get the car.” He starts pulling on his trousers, which are inside out. He doesn’t notice.

“Okay,” you agree.

“I am so sorry,” he says, the words a desperate, repeating mantra. He finally gets his trousers on the right way and shoves his feet into his shoes without socks. “I don’t know how this happened. My elbow just … slipped. I wasn’t—I would never—I swear to God, I’m not normally this … hazardous.”

“I believe you,” you say, and the strange thing is, you do. This wasn’t malice. It was just a freak accident of physics and passion. A one-in-a-billion recurrence.

He finds one of his McLaren hoodies, still smelling faintly of champagne and sweat, and gently helps you put it on over your head. The gesture is so tender, so careful, it’s a stark contrast to the accidental violence of moments before. He helps you off the bed, his arm securely around your waist, treating you as if you’re made of spun glass.

The journey through the silent, opulent hotel and down to the underground car park is a surreal pantomime of stealth and urgency. He has you tucked under his arm, your face hidden in the hood, while he scans every corridor for potential witnesses. They make it to his McLaren, and he settles you into the passenger seat with the care of a bomb disposal expert.

The drive to the hospital is silent for the first five minutes, the only sound the hum of the tires on the immaculate Abu Dhabi asphalt and Oscar’s frantic, shallow breathing. He’s gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white.

“This is, without a doubt, the weirdest night of my life,” you say, finally breaking the silence. Your voice is thick and nasally. You’re holding a wad of tissues he grabbed from the hotel room to your face.

He flinches as if you’d slapped him. “I am so, so, so sorry, Y/N.” He uses your first name, and the sound of it in his mouth, so earnest and broken, makes something in your chest ache.

“I know,” you say softly. “You keep saying that.”

“It’s all I can say,” he replies, his voice cracking. “What else is there? ‘Oops’?”

A small, painful laugh escapes you. “Probably not ‘oops’.”

“I just,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief. “I win the World Championship. My lifelong dream. And hours later, I’m in a rental car, driving the beautiful girl I was in bed with to the emergency room for the second face-breaking incident I have personally caused her. How is this my life?”

“Maybe you’re cursed,” you suggest. “Maybe you made a deal with the devil. He gives you a world title, but you’re doomed to be a menace to my specific nose for all eternity.”

He glances at you, a flicker of a smile touching his lips before being immediately extinguished by a fresh wave of guilt. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little bit funny,” you insist. “The universe has a strange sense of humor.”

The emergency room at 3:41 AM is the same in Abu Dhabi as it is anywhere else in the world. The lighting is a harsh, unforgiving fluorescent. The air smells of disinfectant and quiet desperation. A handful of other people are scattered around the waiting room, nursing their own late-night maladies.

The check-in process is a masterpiece of awkwardness. Oscar tries to handle it, but he’s so flustered he can barely remember his own name, let alone yours. You end up taking over, calmly explaining to the triage nurse that you had a … fall. And that yes, you think your nose is broken again.

You sit in the uncomfortable plastic chairs, a strange island of high drama in a sea of mundane misery. Oscar doesn’t sit. He paces. He walks back and forth in a three-foot space in front of you, a caged, miserable animal. Every few laps, he stops, looks at you, and opens his mouth as if to apologize again, but you just give him a look, and he resumes his pacing.

A man with a dislocated shoulder, his arm in a makeshift sling, squints at Oscar. “Hey, are you …”

Oscar freezes, his face paling. “No,” he says quickly. “I’m not.”

The man shrugs and goes back to staring at the wall.

After what feels like an eternity, a nurse calls your name. Oscar is on his feet instantly, his hand on the small of your back as he guides you into the examination area.

The doctor is a young, efficient man with tired eyes. He listens patiently to your story about “falling” and then gently probes your face. Oscar hovers by the door, radiating an aura of guilt so powerful it feels like it’s sucking the oxygen out of the room.

“Well,” the doctor says, shining a light up your nostrils. “It seems you have a talent for this. It’s broken. Again. Same place.”

“A talent is one word for it,” you mumble.

“We’ll need to set it,” the doctor says calmly. “It will be unpleasant, but it’s better to do it now. A local anesthetic to numb the area, and then a quick, firm … reset.”

Oscar makes a small, strangled sound from the doorway.

“Would your … friend like to wait outside?” The doctor asks, glancing at the pale, sweating World Champion.

“No,” Oscar says immediately, his voice stronger than you expected. “I’m staying.”

He walks over and stands beside you, taking your hand. His palm is clammy, but his grip is firm and steady.

The anesthetic shots are sharp and stinging, but soon a welcome numbness spreads across your face. The doctor picks up a tool that looks like something from a medieval torture chamber.

“Okay,” he says. “A deep breath. This will be quick.”

Oscar’s grip on your hand tightens. The doctor places the tool inside your nostril, and with a swift, brutal movement, there is a deep, resonant CRACK that you feel all the way down to your teeth.

Your entire body convulses, a strangled cry escaping your throat. But it’s Oscar who flinches harder. His eyes are screwed shut, his face a mask of pure, empathetic agony, as if he felt the bone grate back into place himself.

And then it’s over. The doctor is taping a fresh, clean bandage across your nose. The sharp, blinding pain is already receding, replaced by the familiar, deep, throbbing ache.

They leave you in the room to wait for discharge papers. Oscar pulls a stool over and sits in front of you, still holding your hand. He looks utterly defeated. The euphoria of his championship victory is a distant memory, replaced by this quiet, sterile, self-inflicted nightmare.

“I felt that,” he says, his voice a raw whisper. “When he … set it. I felt it. And seeing you … the look on your face …” He shakes his head, unable to finish. “This is all my fault.”

“We’ve established that,” you say, your voice gentle. You squeeze his hand. “Oscar. It was an accident. A ridiculous, statistically impossible, cosmically stupid accident. But it was an accident.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, looking up at you, his eyes swimming with a vulnerability you’ve never seen. “It happened. Twice. I hurt you. Twice. The first time was bad luck. The second time is a pattern. I am officially a health hazard.”

He lets go of your hand and stands up, resuming his pacing in the small room.

“I shouldn’t be around you. Clearly. I’m dangerous. I’m like a walking cartoon anvil.” He stops and faces you, a look of grim resolution on his face. “After I take you back to your hotel, I’ll arrange a flight for you and your friend. First class, anywhere you want to go. A vacation to make up for the ruined vacation. And I’ll cover every medical bill, now and forever. And then … I’ll stay away from you. For your own safety.”

He says it with such finality, such certainty, that it feels like a punch to the gut. An ache, far deeper than the one in your nose, spreads through your chest. The thought of him just disappearing from your life, of this bizarre, chaotic, and strangely wonderful connection just ending here, in this sterile room, is unbearable.

He thinks he’s doing the noble thing. The right thing. And it’s the last thing in the world you want.

He’s waiting for you to agree, to accept his terms of surrender. The silence stretches, thick and heavy.

He looks so lost, so convinced that he’s poison. All the confidence of the champion has been stripped away, leaving only the awkward, earnest, and catastrophically clumsy man underneath. He turns to look out the small window at the slowly lightening Abu Dhabi sky. He’s given up.

It’s your turn to be brave. Or stupid.

“Oscar,” you say. He turns back to you, his expression guarded. “Before you banish yourself to a remote island for my protection, can I ask you a question?”

“Anything,” he says.

“That night at the club … before all this,” you gesture to your face, the room. “When you asked me to come back to your room. Why did you?”

He looks confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what was the reason? Was it because you felt guilty and you were just trying to complete the apology tour? Was it because you’d just won the biggest race of your life and you were drunk on champagne and adrenaline and I was just … there?”

He stares at you, processing the question. He walks back to the stool and sits down, his eyes locked on yours.

“No,” he says, his voice low and firm. “No. It wasn’t guilt. The guilt was there, it’s always going to be there. And it wasn’t the win. That was … that was all just noise.” He leans forward, his hands clasped between his knees. “From the moment I first saw you — I mean, really saw you, at the club, smiling — I couldn’t think about anything else. I haven’t been able to. I felt … I don’t know. I’m not good with words. It was just a feeling. That I had to talk to you. That I wanted to be near you. It had nothing to do with your nose or the championship. It was just … you.”

The sincerity in his voice is a palpable thing. It fills the small room, pushing back against the smell of antiseptic and the hum of the hospital.

He takes a deep breath, like a driver on the grid waiting for the lights to go out. It’s a moment of bravery. Or stupidity.

“Y/N,” he says, your name a quiet prayer. “When we get out of here, and after you’ve had time to heal, and after you’re sure you don’t want to file a restraining order … will you go on a date with me? A real date. In public. During the daytime. With no beds or footballs anywhere in the vicinity.”

The question hangs in the air, audacious and hopeful and completely insane.

You look at him — this brilliant, talented, disastrous man who has twice broken your face and is now, against all logic, asking to see you again. A slow smile spreads across your lips, pulling at the tender skin around your mouth.

You tilt your head, your expression a perfect mix of amusement and affection.

“Is that because you’re trying to break my nose for a third time?” You ask. “Going for the hat-trick?”

The anxiety on his face vanishes, replaced by a sudden, startled laugh. It’s a beautiful sound. He shakes his head, a look of relief washing over him.

“God, no,” he says, his smile reaching his eyes for the first time in hours. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure nothing ever touches that nose again. I’ll wrap you in bubble wrap if I have to.”

“Okay then, champion,” you say softly, reaching out and taking his hand again. “It’s a date.”

***

The late afternoon sun is low and golden, filtering through the sprawling branches of the oak trees in Melbourne Park. A gentle breeze, a welcome respite from the Australian heat, rustles the leaves. It’s quiet, peaceful. You’re walking along a gravel path, your hand loosely held in Oscar’s. The familiar, comfortable weight of it is an anchor in your world.

A year has passed since the Abu Dhabi emergency room. A year of tentative first dates — each one meticulously planned by Oscar to be as low-risk and hazard-free as possible — followed by a second date, and a third, until neither of you were counting anymore. A year of falling in love, a slow and steady process that felt as inevitable as it was unlikely.

His life is still a whirlwind of carbon fiber and continents, of qualifying laps and sponsor commitments. But your life is the quiet space he returns to. Your small apartment, which is now cluttered with his belongings, has become his home. The man who was once a face on a television screen now leaves his slippers by your front door and argues with you about who has to unload the dishwasher.

“I’m just saying,” you say, giving his hand a squeeze, “that for a man who can calculate braking points to the millimeter while traveling at the speed of sound, your ability to judge the correct amount of pasta to cook is shockingly poor.”

He feigns a look of deep offense. “It’s called being prepared. What if we have unexpected guests? What if there’s a pasta-related apocalypse? We’re set for a week. You should be thanking me.”

“My thank you is not having to cook for three days,” you concede. “But my Tupperware collection is filing a formal grievance.”

He laughs, a deep, easy sound that you feel more than you hear. He stops walking and turns to face you, pulling you in by your hand. The sun catches the flecks of gold in his eyes. The shy, awkward boy from the medical tent is gone, replaced by a man who looks at you with a quiet certainty that still makes your breath catch.

“Is my subpar pasta-cooking a deal-breaker, then?” He asks, a playful smirk on his lips.

“I’m considering my options,” you say, rising on your toes to kiss him. “But for now, you’re safe.”

He leans in to kiss you back, his other hand coming up to gently cup your cheek. And in that moment, in that split-second of blissful, mundane peace, the universe decides to test you one last time.

From the corner of your eye, you see a flash of neon green.

A frisbee, thrown with more enthusiasm than skill by a teenager on the nearby lawn, wobbles violently through the air. It arcs, dips, and then makes a sharp, unnatural turn, as if guided by the hand of some mischievous god of chaos.

It is heading directly for your face.

Time slows. It’s happening again. The world narrows to a single, incoming projectile. You see the ridges on the plastic, the way it spins, the inexorable physics of its trajectory. You brace for the impact, a phantom ache already blooming in your nose.

But Oscar’s world speeds up.

His kiss hasn’t even ended when his senses scream DANGER. His racer’s reflexes, honed by a thousand start-lights and a million micro-corrections, take over his body. There is no thought. There is only action.

His hand drops from your cheek. In a single, fluid motion that is impossibly fast, he moves. He doesn't just block it. He doesn't just bat it away. His arm extends, his fingers splay, and with the pinpoint precision of a man who lives in a world of milliseconds, he plucks the neon green disc out of the air.

It comes to a dead stop, hovering silently, less than an inch from the bridge of your nose.

A stunned silence hangs between you. The teenagers on the lawn have frozen, their hands over their mouths. The breeze rustles the leaves.

Oscar is panting slightly, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looks from the frisbee in his hand to your wide, shocked eyes. He’s holding the plastic disc like it’s a venomous snake he’s just subdued.

You slowly reach up and touch your nose. It’s there. It’s intact. It’s not bleeding.

A slow, bubbling laugh escapes your lips. It starts as a giggle and grows into a full, breathless peal of laughter. You lean your forehead against his chest, shaking with the sheer, cosmic absurdity of it all.

“Oh my god,” you manage to get out between gasps.

“Are you okay?” He asks, his voice tight with a familiar, post-traumatic panic.

You look up at him, your eyes shining with tears of laughter. “Better than okay. My hero.” You tap the frisbee still clutched in his hand. “Look at you. Finally putting those ridiculously fast hands to good use.”

A slow grin spreads across his face, a wave of relief washing over him. He looks down at the frisbee, then back at you, a look of mock-seriousness in his eyes.

“All of it,” he says, his voice a low, dramatic vow. “The go-karting since I was a kid, the years in the junior formulas, the hours in the simulator, winning the World Championship … it has all been a training montage for this exact moment.” He tosses the frisbee dismissively onto the grass. “My life’s purpose is complete. I have saved your nose.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down to you. “My nose and I are eternally grateful,” you whisper against his lips.

“Good,” he murmurs, his smile softening into something tender and real. “Because I plan on keeping it safe for a very, very long time.”

He kisses you then, a kiss that isn’t born of frantic passion or champagne-fueled victory, but of quiet certainty and a shared, ridiculous history. It’s a kiss that tastes like home. And you know, with a clarity that settles deep in your bones, that while your story started with a bang and two clean breaks, it will end with a lifetime of very, very quiet saves.

[boxbox81babygirl]

Unlose Me - CL16 

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x reader 

Summary: Falling apart has never felt this deep… this dark. But Charles is there — he won’t let you drift, won’t let you forget how deeply he loves you.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:16 

The apartment is dim — that soft, warm glow you both love, the kind that usually melts tension right off your shoulders. 

The one that usually calms you. 

Not tonight.  Tonight it feels like someone took the warmth out of the walls and left the shell behind. 

You sit on the couch, staring at the black television screen, but your vision isn’t really there.  It’s blurred, unfocused — like your brain is buffering, stuck between thoughts you can’t catch and feelings you can’t outrun. 

You don’t move.  You don’t blink.  Your body is there, but your mind is somewhere else entirely. 

Static.  There, but no signal. 

There’s a buzzing under your skin, a numbness so thick you can’t tell if you’re freezing or burning. You feel like a ghost wearing your own body.  Your chest rises, falls, rises — but none of the breaths feel like they’re yours. 

You’d really tried to hold it together.  Told yourself you’d be fine by the time he got home.  That you’d swallow the ache, tuck the panic away, hide the heaviness in your chest.  Tried to bury the ache deep enough that he wouldn’t notice it when he got home. 

But the moment the front door opens and clicks shut again, the truth settles in your chest like a stone: 

Too late. 

Leo runs straight toward you, tail wagging, paws tapping eagerly against your leg.  Your sweet boy.  Your sunshine. 

Usually you’d smile, scoop him up, bury your face in his soft fur.  Tonight, you don’t move.  You feel his weight.  But you don’t reach for him. 

“Amour?”  Charles’ voice drifts from the hallway, soft and warm and usually enough to pull you out of any dark corner. 

Tonight it only makes the pressure in your chest spike. 

You don’t answer.  You can’t. 

Your breath catches.  Then cracks.  Then breaks completely. 

Your whole body folds in on itself, as if everything inside you suddenly weighs more than you do.  Like something inside you finally snapped under the strain of keeping still. 

His footsteps pause.  Then hurry. 

“Mon cœur?” 

The moment he sees your face — empty, glassy-eyed, tears silently pooling — something inside him breaks clean in two. 

His keys slip from his hand — hit the floor with a sharp clatter — and he doesn’t even look at them.  For a split second, he forgets how to breathe.  Not because you’re crying.  But because you look like you’ve already given up on trying not to. 

He rushes to you, hands gentle on your shoulders, but you stay rigid, like your body forgot how to respond to love. 

“Hé…” he breathes, barely a whisper, lowering his head to meet your empty stare. “Hé, mon cœur, look at me.” 

But the words get trapped in your throat.  Your throat closes.  Your lips tremble.  Your breath stutters once — and then the world caves in. 

The sob hits so violently it steals your breath.  Your face crumples like you’ve been holding together a dam made of tissue paper. 

Charles’ heart stops. 

“I don’t—” You try to speak but the words dissolve into air.  “I don’t know who I am anymore.” 

Your voice isn’t a whisper — it’s a confession torn out of you, raw and terrified. 

“I feel so lost, Charles.” 

His grip on you tightens, not enough to hurt you, but enough that you feel, for a moment, that you’re not floating away. 

You breathe like someone drowning. 

The sight of you collapsing into yourself — the tears streaking your face, the tremble in your hands, the way your eyes won’t meet his — breaks him in a way he can't name.  His sun, dimmed.  His whole world, hurting. 

“I thought I’d be more by now,” you choke. “Further. Stronger. Happier. I thought I’d at least feel… something good. I feel like everyone is moving forward and I’m—” 

Your voice cracks. 

“—stuck inside myself.” 

Charles feels the panic rise in his chest — something he never allows himself — but he doesn’t interrupt. He swallows it down violently, because you can’t handle his fear right now. You can barely handle your own.   He sits beside you and pulls you against him, slow but desperate, like he’s terrified you’ll slip through his fingers. 

For the first time in months, Charles feels the old kind of helpless — the kind he felt the night of Jules’ accident, or his father’s death, the kind that sits in his bones.  The kind that whispers: don’t lose her too.  He hates how familiar it feels.  He hates that you’re the source of it now. 

You try to turn your face away, as if hiding the worst parts will make them less real.  But Charles follows you — gently, stubbornly — refusing to let you slip back into the dark by yourself. 

So instead, you fall.  Every part of you collapses into him like gravity finally won. 

Your forehead presses against his chest. His hand slides into your hair, fingertips tracing the shape of your skull, grounding you. The other arm wraps firmly around your waist, keeping you from drifting any further away. 

Your sobs shake through both of you. 

“I don’t even recognize myself,” you whisper, voice cracking.  “Two years ago everything felt so clear. I felt whole. And now I feel like I’m just… drifting.” 

Charles lowers his head until his lips brush your hairline, warm and steady. 

“I don’t know what happened,” you breathe, desperate, broken. Your fists clutch his hoodie like it’s the only thing tethering you to the world.  “Char… I don’t know how to stop feeling like this.” 

“Listen to me,” he whispers, voice heavier, thicker with emotion than he wants you to hear.  “Mon ange… look at me.” 

You cling to his hoodie like someone trying not to fall off the edge of the world. 

“You are not drifting,” he says, firmer now. “You are not losing yourself. You’re hurting. You’re overwhelmed. You’re tired. But you are still here.” 

Your breath catches, uneven.  He pulls you closer, chest rising and falling against your cheek in slow, deliberate rhythm — an anchor. 

“I’m right here,” he says again, grounding every syllable. 

“You don’t need to have everything figured out today. You don’t need to be strong right now. Let me be strong for you.” 

You curl your hands tighter into his shirt, finally letting yourself melt into him. 

“You’re not behind,” he whispers, brushing his thumb along the curve of your cheek.  “You’re not failing. You’re… human, mon cœur.” 

You shake your head, tears streaming harder. 

“I don’t feel like the human you deserve. Or like anyone deserves,” you cry. “Sometimes I feel like I should move — make space — for people who are more deserving. Someone who could handle things better than me. Someone who wouldn’t… break like this.” 

The words spill out raw and unfiltered — the kind you swore you’d never say out loud. 

Silence falls.  Heavy.  Hurt. 

Charles goes completely still. 

For a moment, he actually can’t speak. 

Then, voice breaking: 

“Don’t say that.” 

You flinch at the sound — the crack in him. 

His forehead presses to yours, breath shivering. 

“Don’t ever say that again.”  His voice isn’t just cracking — it’s pleading.  Begging.  He didn’t even know he was capable of sounding like this.  “Do you understand me? You are not a burden. You are not replaceable. You are not… too much or too little.” 

He lifts your face with trembling fingers, wiping your tears with a touch soft enough to bruise him from the inside out. 

“How could you ever think that?”  His voice cracks.  “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”  He says it before he can stop himself — raw, exposed, terrified. 

And when you flinch, he does too.  Because he didn’t mean to make his fear your responsibility.  But it was the truth leaking out of him. 

Your tears fall harder at the way his voice trembles. 

“You are everything,” he breathes. “Everything I want. Everything I choose. Everything I love.” 

His thumb wipes a tear from your cheek, and you feel it — the slight shake in his hand. 

“You don’t have to hold yourself together,” he murmurs. 

“Not with me. Let me hold you.” 

And for the first time —  you let all of it fall.  Every hidden thought.  Every fear.  Every version of yourself you thought you had to hide. 

You fall apart in his arms.  And he holds you like he’s afraid of losing you. 

Like anchoring you is the only thing keeping him upright too. 

And in that bruised, trembling quiet — for just a moment — the ache in your chest loosens. 

Not because the pain is gone.  But because someone finally sees it.  All of it.  And refuses to look away. 

[feketeribizli]

sensually trims your bush

[verstappenverse]

All Over You

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Touch has always been your love language, until one overheard conversation makes you question everything. When you start to pull away Max realises just how deeply he’s come to need it.

2.7k words / Masterlist

Max always says you’re like a blanket come to life.

You cling. You cuddle. You drape yourself across him the second the opportunity arises. If Max’s lap is free you claim it without hesitation. If he’s stretched out on the couch you’re pressed against his side before he even blinks. Your hand finds his thigh during dinner, your fingers sneak into his back pocket when you’re walking together, and every morning, like clockwork, your nose tucks into the curve of his neck.

It’s not something you think about, it’s instinct. It’s how you express the things you sometimes struggle to say. How you offer comfort. How you say I love you.

And for the longest time Max never says a word about it.

He lets you curl up beside him during movie nights. He leans into your touch when you rub lazy circles into the back of his neck while he’s gaming, or when you lace your fingers with his under the table at dinner.

So you think, this is us. You think, this works.

Until one night, when you overhear something you weren’t supposed to.

It’s nothing serious. At least, not really.

You’re padding back from the kitchen with a cup of tea, bare feet muffled by carpet when you hear Max talking on the phone on the balcony. His voice is low, casual. He’s talking to Daniel you think. Laughing at something.

And then you catch it.

“Yeah, you noticed huh? No she’s super touchy, always has been. Like, always on me.”

A beat.

“No, I don’t mind it. It’s just... I’m not really used to it, you know?”

You freeze, feet still against the carpet. The tea sloshes slightly, forgotten in your hands.

He laughs again, easy and relaxed. “She’s like a human magnet. If I’m sitting, she’s sitting on me. I swear sometimes I think she’d climb into my skin if she could.”

Daniel says something you can’t hear. Max chuckles. “No, she’s not annoying. She’s just... really affectionate.”

You don’t stay to hear the rest.

Your fingers tighten around your mug as you quietly retreat, heart a little heavier than before. You curl back into bed without saying a word, staring at the ceiling while your tea goes cold on the nightstand.

You’re not angry. He didn’t say anything cruel. Not really.

But for the first time questions being to lodge in your chest like a thorn... do I touch him too much? Does he just tolerate it because he loves me?

And just like that, something in you begins to shift.

You're still beside him. Still laughing at his jokes, still making him breakfast. You kiss him good morning and smile across the table. From the outside nothing changes, but the little things in all the tiny invisible places, the things that used to come so naturally they stop.

You don’t climb into his lap while he’s watching race replays, don’t tuck your face into the slope of his shoulder like you used to. You don’t slide your hand beneath the hem of his hoodie when you hug him from behind in the kitchen, fingers sneaking against warm skin. You don’t curl into his side when the movie starts, don’t tuck yourself under his arm like you belong there.

Instead you sit beside him on the couch with your legs tucked neatly under you, wrapped up tightly in a blanket like armour. A careful distance. A subtle retreat.

You keep your hands in your lap at dinner. You nod and listen and smile, but your fingers don’t find his thigh. You don’t reach for his hand beneath the table.

You still want to. God, do you want to.

Your whole body aches to reach for him, to run your fingers over his jaw, to smooth back his hair, to trace lazy shapes across his stomach. You miss the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart under your cheek.

You miss being held without thinking twice, but now that you’ve heard him say it out loud, that he’s not used to it, that he’s not like you, you can’t unhear it. It loops in your mind when the silence stretches between you.

Slowly you start to convince yourself you’ve been suffocating him. That maybe the way you love is too much for him. That maybe softness, when it clings like yours does, feels like smothering.

So you pull back, quietly, carefully, and hope he doesn’t notice how much it hurts. Or worse that he does, and lets you do it anyway.

Max doesn’t say anything at first, but after a few days he starts to notice.

A few inches of space on the couch. Your hand not finding his like it usually does. The way you don't crawl into his lap during breakfast, don't lean into his side during movies, don't rest your hand on his leg during long car rides.

At first he tells himself maybe you’re tired from work. Maybe it’s just one of those quiet moods that passes like the weather. He gives you space, the way people are always saying partners should.

But the distance doesn’t fade.

It expands.

One morning he slips behind you in the kitchen to steal a piece of toast. Normally you’d laugh, you’d wrap your arms around his waist and bury your nose in his hoodie, but this time you step aside without touching him.

He frowns, just a quick flicker, then hides it, but his stomach twists violently anyway.

It’s not like Max to spiral. He’s not wired for emotional uncertainty he prefers problems he can fix with strategy, planning, control.

But this?

This isn’t a problem he knows how to solve.

The way you sit on the far end of the couch, legs tucked under you, scrolling on your phone like it’s more comforting than him. You barely brush his arm when you slip into bed at night. When he tries to kiss your neck absentmindedly like he always does you duck away, not unkindly, but enough to make him panic

He tries not to panic, but that’s what this feels like panic.

It gnaws at him over the next couple days. The silence between your fingers and his. The distance that didn’t use to be there. The way you won’t look at him for too long, like he might read too much in your eyes.

Max isn’t good with emotional guessing games. He’s never been the type to bottle things up or pretend everything’s fine when it isn’t. He doesn’t do insecure. He confronts things. Fixes things. Puts it all on the table and makes it make sense.

And Max doesn’t know how to read silence the way he reads telemetry. He doesn’t know how to fix something when he doesn’t know where the break is.

He replays your interactions hunting for the mistake. Did he forget something important? Miss a signal? Are you sick or bored?

Is she pulling away because she’s planning to leave?

The thought stops him in his tracks. His chest aches with it, sharp and sudden. He sits with it, stunned, rubs at his sternum like he can soothe the ache.

You’re still sweet. Still say good luck before he gets into the car. Still text him updates about your day, what podcast you listened to, what ridiculous thing your coworker said. Still fold his shirts when he leaves them in a pile at the foot of the bed. Still laugh at the stupid jokes he makes when he’s overtired. You're still there.

But it’s different. Your body has gone quiet, your touch has gone still. Less warm. Less you.

And Max, who never thought he’d crave something so soft, so intangible starts to feel the absence like a phantom limb, it feels like someone turned off the sun and expects him not to notice. And it terrifies him because he doesn’t know what he did to lose it, or how to ask for it back.

You can feel the ache in your chest growing stronger every day.

You don’t want to stop touching him. You miss touching him. You miss his warmth, the way he instinctively leans into your touch even when he’s focused on something. You miss curling into his lap without thinking, his fingers combing through your hair like it’s second nature.

But now? Every time your hand so much as twitches toward him, doubt rushes in like cold water.

Am I smothering him again? Is this too much? Is this what he meant?

You thought you were just adjusting. Giving him the space you assume he needs. You told yourself it was mature, respectful, kind, but it’s starting to feel less like an adjustment and more like a punishment.

Every second you don’t touch him? It hurts. In tiny, deceptive ways like a thousand paper cuts.

By the end of the next week, you’re sitting on the hotel bed in Jeddah, scrolling through your phone in silence, without reading a word, wrapped in one of his hoodies that still smells like his aftershave. Max pauses when he sees how far you’re sitting from the edge of the mattress. From him.

That’s when he finally speaks.

“Did I do something?”

You blink. “What?”

“You’ve been...” He trails off, eyes searching yours. “Distant.”

You hesitate. “No, I’m just tired.”

He studies your face for a long moment hoping you’ll offer somthing more, but when nothing comes he doesn’t push. Just nods slowly, then climbs into bed beside you.

You don’t cuddle him that night.

You face the other way, pretending to scroll while your chest feels like it’s being wrung out.

Max doesn’t say anything, but you feel the shift, the slight dip of the mattress, the warmth of his body inching closer in the dark, not quite touching. He stops just shy of you, like he wants to reach out but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to, like he’s hoping you’ll turn around and meet him there.

It takes until Sunday night, after the race for everything to crack open.

You’re both back at the hotel. Max steps out of the shower, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, sweatpants slung low on his hips. You’re perched on the window seat, knees pulled to your chest, phone resting forgotten in your lap as you stare out over Jeddah’s lights.

You think maybe you’ll just go to sleep early. Then Max sits beside you.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just sits close enough to feel the heat off your arm. He’s never been good at this part, the vulnerable bit. The what if it’s in my head bit. The what if I’m asking for something she doesn’t want to give me anymore bit.

The part where he has to name the thing that’s been gnawing at him for weeks. The part where he has to admit he's scared he’s already lost something and just hasn’t caught up to it yet.

He’s spent enough time memorising the way you speak when you're lying. You don’t flinch or fumble. You just get quieter. Softer. Like you’re afraid the truth will hurt more than the silence.

But he needs the truth now, because he’s been tying himself in knots trying to figure it out. Replaying conversations in his head, wondering if he forgot someone’s birthday or crossed a line or said something he shouldn’t have.

And now all he wants is to be close. To be touched. Held. Seen.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice low, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.

“Yeah…” you say, trailing off.

And then, when you don’t say anything else, something in your eyes flickers and he just knows.

Max’s heart kicks hard in his chest, the kind of lurch he only gets right before lights out. He swallows, throat dry, like he’s one bad move away from losing something he doesn’t know how to live without.

“I miss you,” he says, voice quiet. “Even when you’re right here.”

You close your eyes. Then you look at him, really look, and something in you gives. Like you’ve been carrying a weight for days and it’s finally too much to hold, too much to hide.

“I heard you,” you say.

His brow furrows. “Heard me?”

“On the phone,” you clarify. “With Daniel. A couple of weeks ago”

Max’s pauses for a second, trying to remember, and then his stomach drops.

“You heard that?”

You nod slowly, eyes still on the window. “You said I’m always on you. That I’m really touchy. That you’re not used to it.”

His expression shifts, jaw tight, eyes suddenly filled with something that looks a lot like guilt.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I wasn’t trying to. But after that...” You pull your sleeves over your hands, voice quieter now. “I started wondering if I’d been overwhelming you. If I was too much—”

“Wait, baby—”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, force you into something you don’t want.” you rush on. “So I’ve been trying to give you space. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

Max’s heart actually hurts.

He didn’t even realise how it might’ve sounded. He remembers the conversation now, half-distracted, casual, him laughing while Daniel joked about your human magnet tendencies. It hadn’t meant anything to him, just a passing comment… but it had meant everything to you.

“Hey,” he says, reaching for your hand. “Look at me.”

You look up. Max’s brows are drawn together. He looks devastated.

“I swear I never meant that in a bad way,” he says. “I wasn’t complaining. I was just… explaining it. I’ve never been with someone as affectionate as you, it caught me off guard at first sure. But I love it. I love the way you love me.”

A beat. His voice softens.

“When you stopped reaching for me, I didn’t know what to do. I’ve been going crazy wondering why it felt like you were slipping away.”

You bite your lip, blinking quickly. “I thought I was just annoying you, that you were putting up with it because you love me, not because you wanted it.”

His forehead drops to yours, hands sliding to your waist, holding tight. “No. God, no. Baby, it’s the best part of my day. You crawling into my lap, always reaching for me. It makes me feel wanted... like I matter, like I make you feel safe.”

He leans back just slightly, fingers sliding to your jaw, cradling it gently.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “If I made you feel like you were too much. If I made you doubt what we have. That was never what I meant. I hate that I hurt you. I hate that you thought you had to pull away from me just to make me comfortable.”

Your lips part slightly, like you're shocked by the weight of his words.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he admits. “Watching you pull away, thinking maybe I’d done something. I was scared I lost you and didn’t even know when it happened.”

“I wasn’t,” you whisper. “I swear I wasn’t pulling away from you… at least not like that, I just thought I was doing the right thing.”

“I know that now,” he says. “But please don’t stop. Don’t ever stop”

Your arms are around him before he finishes the sentence.

He exhales into your neck, like he’s been holding his breath for days. Pulls you into his lap like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again. His hands spread across your back, and for the first time in a while something in him settles.

You crawl further into his lap like it’s where you belong. Arms around his neck. Fingers threading into his hair. He exhales like someone finally handed him back something precious.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your skin.

“I’m right here.”

He pulls back, eyes soft. “Don’t stop being you, okay? Promise me.”

You nod. “Promise.”

Later, curled up in bed, you trace lazy lines across his chest with your fingertips.

“You really don’t mind?” you ask sleepily.

“Mind?” he echoes, mouth brushing your forehead. “I crave you.”

You smile into his skin, small and shy.

He kisses your hair again. “You ruined me.”

“Good,” you murmur, already drifting.

You’re here. Wrapped around him, where you belong.

And Max? Max feels like he can finally breathe again.

[akaneisorange]

god he's so so fine and knows it

What good did I do to have the privilege to grace Earth's surface at the same time as him ....

[verstappenverse]

max with a reader who is having a panic/ anxiety attack (if that's ok with u)

Just Breathe

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max finds you in the middle of a panic attack and gently helps you through it, refusing to leave your side.

TW: Contains depiction of a panic attack.

1.4k words / Masterlist

It hits out of nowhere.

One minute you’re in the Red Bull hospitality unit, scrolling through your phone, nodding along to someone’s story you’re not really listening to. The next, your chest is too tight, your vision is too narrow, and you can’t hear anything but the ringing in your ears.

You don’t even know what triggered it.

Maybe it was the camera flashes earlier. The endless pressure to smile. The social noise. The fact that your brain hasn’t shut off in three days and sleep was a joke last night.

Whatever it is, it’s drowning you now. You stand up too fast, your chair scraping against the floor. Someone says your name but you’re already walking out. No, fleeing.

You push through the crowd on instinct, eyes darting but unfocused, heartbeat slamming in your ears like a drumline. The air feels thick, too warm, too full of other people’s perfume and chatter. Your hands shake as you shove open the side door, stumbling into the cool shade of the paddock tunnel like you’ve just broken the surface of the water.

You barely make it around the corner before your knees threaten to buckle. Your back hits the cold concrete wall and you slide down until you're sitting, elbows digging into your thighs, forehead nearly touching your knees as you brace yourself, breathing in short, shallow bursts, but it doesn’t help.

You can’t catch your breath. Can’t calm down. Your lungs are on lockdown, your body refusing to obey as panic swells like a wave and crashes over you again and again. Your heart is thrashing against your ribs, wild and unmoored, and your fingers tingle like they don’t belong to you. Everything feels too loud and too quiet at once. The world is distant, muffled, warped through the sheer force of your anxiety.

And God, you hate this. Hate how powerless it makes you feel. Hate that it’s happening here, of all places. Hate that there’s nothing to fight, no obvious enemy to punch or outrun or reason with. Just this invisible weight crushing your chest, stealing your air, fraying your edges until you're certain you'll shatter.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Clench your fists. Count.

One. Two. Three. Four.

But the numbers blur and the control slips.

You don’t even notice Max until he’s kneeling in front of you.

“Hey.” His voice is gentle, softer than you’ve ever heard it. Not like he usually speaks, confident and blunt. This is different, careful and quiet, like he’s afraid to startle you. “Hey, look at me.”

You try. Your eyes flick up to his, glassy and wide. You think you must look like a mess. Your cheeks are flushed, chest heaving, tears prickling in the corners of your eyes, but if he notices he doesn’t react. He doesn’t wince or pull back or look embarrassed for you. His expression stays calm and focused, like you’re the only thing in the world right now.

“You’re okay,” he says, quiet again but steady. “You’re having a panic attack.”

No shit you want to say, but your throat is too tight to say anything at all.

“Alright,” he continues, Max says, voice like a tether. “I need you to do one thing for me, okay? Just one thing.”

You can’t speak, so you blink once, slowly. It's the best you can manage.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Just try and breathe with me.”

He takes an exaggerated breath in through his nose, slow and loud. You hear it, feel it, almost like he’s trying to lend you some of his air. He holds it, counts, then exhales through his mouth.

“In,” he says gently, nodding at you to follow. “Out.”

You try. It’s not graceful. It’s messy and shallow and broken, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t correct you. Just watches, eyes never leaving yours, like he's anchoring you to the present with nothing but sheer will.

“There we go,” he murmurs. “Again. You’ve got this. I’ve got you.”

You stare at him, at the curve of his brow, the set of his jaw, the faint crease between his eyes that always shows up when he's concentrating. His hands hover near your knees, not touching, not crowding you. Waiting. Letting you set the pace.

“I can’t,” you choke out.

“Yes, you can.” His voice drops lower, firmer. “You’re safe. Nothing’s going to happen to you. I promise.”

Your chest still hurts, but the ringing starts to fade. The panic doesn’t vanish, but it loosens its grip just enough for you to suck in another breath deeper than the last, less fractured.

Max nods still mirroring each inhale and exhale, calculating what you need.

“Good. That’s really good,” he says. “You’re doing so well.”

Tears burn at your eyes from the relief or the frustration or both. You close them for a second, letting your head fall forward, and he finally reaches out just enough to rest his hand lightly on your knee.

“Can I…?” he asks.

You nod without lifting your head and that’s all he needs.

He shifts closer, sliding down until he’s sitting beside you, shoulder to shoulder against the cold wall. His presence is warm. Solid. Real in a way the rest of the world isn’t right now.

“I’m right here,” he says, and you feel his voice more than hear it. “You don’t have to say anything. Just breathe. That’s all.”

The silence stretches between you, but it’s not heavy. Max doesn’t speak yet. He doesn’t fidget or fill the space with noise, he just stays, his presence grounding you.

His shoulder is warm where it brushes yours. His hand still rests on your knee, steady and unshaken. The contrast makes you feel a little more real.

Eventually your breathing evens out. The trembling in your fingers slows until it’s just a faint echo, and your chest doesn’t ache with every inhale. You wipe at your damp cheeks with the sleeve of your hoodie and exhale a still slightly shaky, embarrassed breath.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

Max turns his head toward you. “Don’t do that.”

You glance over, startled. “Do what?”

“Apologise for your feelings. For being human.”

You huff a soft laugh, small and dry. “You're good at this.”

“I’m full of surprises,” he says, lips tugging into the faintest grin. “Or maybe you bring it out of me."

You smile for real. “You okay?” he asks, softer now.

You pause. “Getting there.”

He nods. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You consider it. The weight of the question. The memory of the panic still buzzing faintly beneath your skin. You shake your head. “Not yet.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t push.

Your gaze drifts forward, toward the end of the tunnel where sunlight slices across the paddock in golden strips. The world beyond is still moving people walking, voices rising, radios crackling, cameras flashing. The chaos continues, utterly unaware of how everything inside you had unraveled and slowly stitched itself back together.

But here in this small, hidden corner, you feel still. Safe.

“Why’d you come looking for me?” you ask eventually.

Max shrugs, like it's obvious. “I saw your face... and when you left in a rush I knew something was wrong.”

Your brows draw together. “You always notice that much?”

“When it comes to you?” he says, looking over. “Yeah. Always.”

Your throat tightens again, but for a different reason. It’s something warmer, sharper, and more dangerous in its own right. You blink down at your lap.

“You didn’t have to sit with me,” you murmur.

“I know.” His voice is so sure. So simple. “But I wanted to.”

It’s the quiet sincerity of that, not panic or fear that makes your heart stutter this time, because you and Max… you’re not just friends. Not really. You’ve been hovering on that uncertain edge for weeks now. Something unspoken curling tight in the air whenever you’re alone. He hasn’t crossed the line, and neither have you, but it's there. Always there.

Right now, with your walls cracked wide open and his hand still resting gently on your knee, you feel it more than ever.

Max.

Sitting beside you on a cold concrete floor, his presence solid and steady. Just being there because he wants to be, because you matter to him.

He shifts slightly, and before you can say anything, he leans in not too close, not overwhelming, just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

It’s barely anything. It’s everything.

Your eyes flutter shut at the contact and for the first time in what feels like hours you feel your heart slow instead of race.

He pulls back, resting his head lightly against the wall beside yours. “I’ll always be here,” he says quietly.

You turn to look at him, and he’s already watching you. The moment stretches, tender and a little unspoken, until you both smile, small, knowing, almost a laugh.

Just like that, the worst passes.

[passengerprincipessa]

you're going to die in your best friend's arms.

crush - richard siken // planet of love - richard siken

[scuderia-hamilton]

George Russell & Max Verstappen - BLUE by Billie Eilish

"two sides of the same coin"

[pppuri]

gossip in the paddock

[obsessedhoneycomb]

Boyfriend size

Max Verstappen x fem!reader

Summary: Being the personal photographer and manager of Max’s socials got your feelings caught in a mess. Everybody knows besides Max.

Warnings: none

A/N: Had this in my drafts for a long time. Just a silly little thing.

———

“Oscar! What’re you doing here?” You smiled at Oscar, who walked towards you, while you were typing on your phone.

“Just messing around and I saw you. I must say, that work you put through that instagram of Max’s, good job. Looks like you’re a number one fan.” Oscar teased you, smiling amused.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You scoffed, putting your phone to the pocket of your jeans.

“Hey, I know you for a long time. Everybody sees that. Even Max.” Oscar smiled mischievously.

“What? He said something?”You blurted out immediately.

“Maybe, I don’t know.” He just shrugged his shoulders.

“You’re just teasing me.”

“Hey, what’s up?” Max stood beside them.

You smiled kindly as always, Oscar looking at you, seeing the way you look at Max and rolled his eyes.

“She was just talking about her crush.” Oscar said smugly.

“What- No!” Your cheeks reddened, giving Oscar offended look.

“Oh, I’m in for some gossip.” Max smirked.

“That’s not-“

“He’s a driver.” Oscar wiggled his brows excited.

“Hmm. Who would that might be…” Max looked like was thinking about something.

You stood there frozen to the ground, your palms getting sweaty as your heart pounded in your chest.

Oscar was just about to say another hint, but you put your hand over his mouth. “Shut up, Oscar.”

Max was amused by your reaction. “Maybe we could help you to set you up with that driver, on a date.”

You looked at Max, your breath hitching in your throat.

“I see, here’s all the fun.” George just walked towards them, laughing softly.

“Oh my god…” you whispered to yourself.

“Ha! I know.” Max said pointing to Oscar, who frowned in horror.

“No, you got it wrong.” Oscar said while you were working on tackling him to the ground.

“You little shit.” You said in low voice.

“What’s the matter between them?” George asked Max.

“Oscar was just about to reveal her crush.” Max chuckled obliviously.

George looked at him with raised brows. “I know who that is.”

You heard what George said, perking your ears, taking step off from Oscar, who chuckled while he tried to get back on his feet.

“How do you all know, but I don’t?” Max furrowed his brows.

“Everybody knows actually. It’s really hard to not see it.” George smirked while you cleared your throat.

———

After this conversation Max tried to wrap his mind around it. He liked you being around. A lot. And you had someone on your mind, who’s also driver. All he could muster was that you were always able to get photos of him in the best angles, working on his fan page, your eyes were always on him. Getting one plus one his eyes widened at realisation.

It’s really hard to not see it.

You stood near the entrance of the garage looking around the track. The breeze was cold and you were wearing only a thin sweater and blouse with RedBull logo. Hugging your arms you tried to warm up. Max noticed you were shivering. Taking off his RedBull soft shell coat, he put it over your shoulders.

“You’re cold.” He said while standing behind you rubbing his hands against your upper arms through the material of the coat.

You were taken aback by his reaction, only to feel the warmth spreading from your chest. “I forgot my jacket.”

“You can also hug me to get more warmth.” He chuckled.

“Hehe, you’re funny.” Your cheeks were hot.

“I’m serious.” Max slowly turned you around to face him, wrapping his arms around you pulling you to his chest. You hugged him back, resting your head on his chest, exhaling with ease. They stood there for a while, getting looks from the people around.

“This is so much better. Thank you.” You murmured to his chest. Inhaling his scent, you felt like home.

“Honestly, I could spent all day having you in my arms.” Max rested his head on the top of your head.

“Really?” You smiled to his chest.

“Yeah. You’re my favourite person.” he said and you looked up at him, clearly flustered from the situation.

“I really like you, Max.” You said, thinking it’s the right time.

“So, I’m the driver, huh?” Max chuckled pinpointing the conversation about your crush.

“That’s right.”

“I was so blind to not see the hints.” Max wrapped you more into his coat.

“I wasn’t helping either. I’m usually just staring, smiling and blushing when you’re near.”

“So, are you ready to be my girl?” Max cupped your face with smile.

You placed your hands over his. “More than ready, Max.”

Claiming your lips with his in soft and gentle kiss, you leaned more into him, feeling your heart fluttering with happiness.

———

Max was on the track racing, and you took the best shots from different places as usual, still wearing his RedBull soft shell coat.

Oscar met you on his way back to the garage. “Nice coat.”

“Thanks.”

“Clearly not you size, is it?”

“That’s boyfriend size.”

“What?!” Oscar nearly yelled in shock.

“You heard me.” You smirked, amused, seeing Max that he’s back, still in his race suit, hair crazy from helmet and his proud smile on.

Oscar stood there surprised seeing them getting in loving embrace, giggling like teens.

“You owe me twenty bucks, mate.” George said standing beside Oscar.

He only scoffed crossing his arms. “I thought that’ll take them some more time. They were so blind.”

-

Please don’t use my writings without permission! Pictures found on Pinterest.

[woman-respecter]

women in STEM (supervillainy, treachery, evilness, malevolence)

[woman-respecter]

?

[oaksgrove]

hi again! this is ale anon, i hope you are well 😚

i was thinking if you can write for him? maybe like reader who has been crushing on him for a long time but he is still stuck up on valeria so she gives up and he realises it too late. you can make this smut or however you like actually with a completely different plot! i'd still gobble it up hehe~

Too Late

pairing: Alejandro Vargas x Reader

synopsis: You loved Alejandro. You knew you did. But you were tired of waiting for a man who couldn’t see past his own ghosts. So, you decided to let him go. The problem? He realized it too late.

warnings: Angst, jealousy, pining, emotional tension, Alejandro being an oblivious idiot, make-up kiss, implied feelings of abandonment/insecurity, language.

word count: 758

a/n: This is my first time writing for Alejandro, so I’m a little nervous! Thank you for the request, nonnie—I absolutely loved this idea. Hope I did it justice!

Loving Alejandro Vargas had never been easy, and you knew that it would break you

It was a slow, quiet ache. A longing buried deep beneath laughter, beneath loyalty, beneath the careful facade you wore every time he looked at you and didn’t see you.

And you had waited. God, had you waited.

You had spent years standing at Alejandro’s side. 

It was inevitable, like the setting sun, like the tide pulling back no matter how much it wanted to stay. It wasn’t his fault—he never made you promises he couldn’t keep.

But he also never turned you away.

And that was the problem.

Because you stayed.

For years, you had stood beside him, through war and blood and the weight of everything he carried. Through every lingering touch that never became more, every look that lasted a second too long but never long enough.

Through her.

Valeria.

She haunted him, a ghost he refused to exorcise. Even after she betrayed him. Even after she became his enemy.

She was in the clench of his jaw when he thought no one was watching. She was in the way his fingers twitched over his gun whenever someone mentioned her name. She was in the weight he carried in his shoulders, in his bones, in his soul, clinging to him in ways you never could.

You had tried, though. Oh, God, had you tried.

You stayed when she left. You fought for him when she became his enemy. You held him together when her betrayal nearly shattered him.

And he—

He didn’t see you. Not really.

You were just there.

Always.

Waiting.

Hoping.

You told yourself it was enough just to be near him, to be his friend, his confidant, the one who always had his back.

Until it wasn’t.

Until one day, you realized you couldn’t keep giving pieces of yourself to someone who never even noticed.

So, you made a decision.

You weren’t going to be second place anymore.

Not to Valeria.

Not to a memory.

—

Alejandro noticed before he understood.

At first, it was subtle. You weren’t waiting for him after missions anymore, weren’t the first person handing him a beer, weren’t standing just close enough that your arms brushed, how you no longer leaned against his shoulder when you were drunk, how your smiles no longer lingered when they were meant for him.

At first, he tried to ignore it.

Maybe you were busy. Maybe it was stress.

Then it became obvious.

You stopped teasing him, stopped seeking him out, stopped looking at him with those eyes—those warm, open, waiting eyes.

The worst part?

You didn’t even seem angry.

You just… let go.

And it drove him fucking insane.

Physically, you were still there—still in Los Vaqueros, still standing beside Rudy, still fighting like hell.

But you weren’t his anymore.

“Ay, mi amor,” he called one evening, using the pet name without thinking. “Come have a drink with me.”

You barely looked at him. “Not tonight, Alejandro.”

It was a knife to the gut.

You always had time for him. Always.

He tried again. “Tomorrow, then. After the debrief.”

You gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Got plans.”

Plans.

Plans that weren’t him.

The realization hit like a bullet to the chest.

Alejandro stood there, staring after you, something twisting deep inside him.

He was losing you.

No.

He had already lost you.

—

The breaking point came at the bar.

He found you there, laughing at something Rudy said, your hand resting on his arm. Alejandro had never felt jealousy like that before. It curled in his gut like a snake, coiling tight.

He saw red.

He knew, deep down, that Rudy wasn’t making a move on you. But that wasn’t the point.

The point was that you were happy.

Without him.

So he did something reckless.

He grabbed your wrist and pulled you outside.

"Alejandro—what the hell?" you snapped, yanking your arm back once you were alone.

He barely heard you. His mind was spinning, heart pounding, jealousy and frustration clawing up his throat.

“What’s going on with you?” His voice was rough, sharp. "You’ve been avoiding me."

You let out a hollow laugh. “I’ve been moving on.”

The words hit him like a bullet.

Moving on.

From him.

His hands curled into fists. “From what?”

You just stared at him, and in that moment, he saw it—the years of longing, of waiting, of hoping.

And the pain of finally giving up.

"From you," you whispered.

Alejandro’s chest ached.

"Cariño—"

You stepped back. “Don’t do that, Alejandro.”

He frowned. “Do what?”

“Call me sweet names.” Your voice wavered. “Not when you don’t mean it.”

He did mean it.

He just hadn’t realized it until now.

“Mierda,” he swore, raking a hand through his hair. “I—fuck—I was an idiot.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. You were.”

The air between you was thick, heavy.

And then—

“Do you still want me?”

It was a desperate question. A plea.

You inhaled sharply. “Does it even matter, Alejandro?”

He stepped closer. “It matters.”

Your back hit the wall. His body was too close, his warmth bleeding into yours.

You should have pushed him away.

You should have walked away.

But when his lips ghosted over yours, when his breath fanned across your skin, your resolve shattered.

“Still want me, mi amor?” he murmured, voice low, dark.

You hated how easy it was for him.

You hated how much you wanted him.

So, instead of answering, you kissed him.

Hard.

He groaned into your mouth, hands gripping your waist, pressing you flush against him, devouring every ounce of frustration, every second of wasted time.

You bit his lip.

He growled.

And then you were lost.

His hands were everywhere—your hips, your waist, threading into your hair as he kissed you like a dying man taking his last breath.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more.

When he finally pulled away, he was wrecked.

Breathless.

Desperate.

He rested his forehead against yours, his grip on you still tight, like he was afraid to let go.

“I was blind,” he admitted, voice raw. “But I see you, and I’m sorry.”

Your fingers traced the line of his jaw, your touch soft despite everything.

“Don’t look away again,” you whispered.

Alejandro exhaled sharply.

“Never.”

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash

[saecookie-deactivated20251124]

Moi dès que je check mon portable : il est mort le vieux?

[saecookie-deactivated20251124]

il est mort le vieux ?

[saecookie-deactivated20251124]

il est mort le vieux ?

[saecookie-deactivated20251124]

il est mort le vieux ?

[saecookie-deactivated20251124]

🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀

IL EST MORT LE VIEUX!!!!!!!🔥🔥🔥🔥

[growandrecover]

From one burnt out student to another

This semester has been an absolute nightmare for me, so welcome to the resulting post where I try to help other people who are in the same boat!

How about we run through a quick list together, okay?

Unclench your jaw, relax your shoulders, relax your face, unclench your fists

Are you sitting in the shape of a C right now? *hitting you with a broom* straighten your back out!!

Maybe get up and stretch while you're at it!

Have you taken your meds today? If not, go get 'em.

Have you eaten enough today? Coffee/energy drinks are not a meal!!

What have you eaten today? Do you need to get something to snack on?

Have you had any water today?

Do you need to rest? There is NO shame in taking a nap or relaxing. If someone does shame you, send them my way

How long has it been since you moved from where you are right now? Maybe move to another room if you can.

How long has it been since you looked away from your screen? Take a little 5-10 minute break to rest your eyes :)

How long has it been since you've showered? (No shame in this one either, it's okay if you can't do it. You're not judged here.)

Do you need to get into some fresh, comfy clothes?

If the weather in your area will allow it, can you open a window or go sit outside?

Affirmations:

My grades do not define me

I am more than a grade/a gpa

I am allowed to make mistakes

I am allowed to rest

Taking breaks is necessary for my well being

This semester/school year will not last forever

It's okay to take time for myself

I do not need to be productive all the time

I am capable

I am smart

I do not need to perform to perfection all the time

My mental/physical/spiritual/emotional health is more important than school

It is okay to ask for help

Asking for help does not make me weak or less capable

Assignments should not be valued over sleep/food/self care

If you have the energy, maybe try some of these:

Reach out to a friend/family member/mutual

Change your sheets

Take your trash out

Pick stuff up off the floor if there is anything

Do your dishes/run the dishwasher

Do a load of laundry/put any clothes away

Journal

Schedule any needed doctor's/dentist's/therapy appointments

Leave your home for a little bit

Go do something you enjoy

Create something

Go for a walk

Cook your favorite meal

You are doing amazing, and I'm so proud of you. You can and will get through this. You're not alone <3

As always, please feel free to reach out or send me an ask if you need someone to talk to!