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no

[charlesollielandooscararthur]

F1 Drivers Series masterlist

Charles Leclerc (Arthur's Best Friend)

Charles Leclerc and Alexandra Saint Mleux

Y/n Leclerc (Ollie Bearman )

Ollie Bearman

Lando Norris

Oscar Piastri and Lily Zneimer

Lewis Hamilton

Carlos Sainz

Random Imagine Masterlist

[charlesollielandooscararthur]

A Real Argument

BF! Charles Leclerc x GF! Reader x Best friend! Arthur Leclerc

Summary: During a family dinner at the Leclercs, Y/n and Arthur find themselves in one of their rare serious arguments, leaving the atmosphere tense and everyone else caught in the middle.

Arguments between Arthur and me were usually ridiculous—stupid little spats that barely lasted five minutes before we’d end up laughing, bumping shoulders, and moving on.

But not this time.

This time, the fight had teeth.

It started in the Leclerc house, just before dinner. Pascale was flitting around the dining room, setting the table with her usual gentle precision, humming softly under her breath. Charles and Lorenzo were in the kitchen, helping bring out the food, while Arthur and I were in the living room—where everything went downhill.

And the worst part? I couldn’t even tell you how it started. Maybe it was the way Arthur said something, maybe it was my tone, or maybe we were just overdue for a blow-up. But before I knew it, our voices were raised, echoing through the house.

“Are you serious right now?” I scoffed, standing with my arms crossed in the living room while Arthur glared at me from across the rug.

“Obviously, Y/n,” he shot back, his jaw tense. “Or do you think I’m joking?”

“I hope you’re joking because you sound ridiculous.”

Arthur let out a humorless laugh, his eyes narrowing. “Oh, I’m ridiculous? That’s rich, coming from you.”

My head snapped up. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You always act like you know better than everyone else!” Arthur’s voice was sharp, louder than I’d ever heard him speak to me. “Like you can just say whatever and it doesn’t matter because people will let you get away with it.”

I froze.

That stung. Arthur never talked to me like that.

“Right, because you’re so innocent,” I said, my tone icy. “You never say stupid things, right? Never do stupid things? I should just let you talk out of your ass 24/7, then?”

Arthur rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath. “Oh my God, Y/n—”

“Can you two not?” Charles’s voice cut in as he walked out of the kitchen, balancing a stack of plates in his hands. He looked between us, frowning. “What is this even about?”

Neither of us answered.

Arthur jabbed his finger in my direction. “Why do you always have to push everything?!”

“And why do you always have to be such a child?” I shot back instantly.

Arthur let out a bitter laugh. “You’re calling me a child? You’re unbelievable.”

I raised my chin. “If the shoe fits—”

“Alright, ENOUGH,” Lorenzo barked, stepping forward with all the authority of the eldest brother. He moved between us, towering just enough to make us feel caught. “We’re eating dinner. Whatever this is, you’re solving it later.”

Arthur and I glared at each other from opposite ends of the room, neither of us backing down, both too stubborn for our own good.

Then Pascale’s gentle voice rang out from the dining room.

“À table!”

We didn’t have a choice.

Dinner started with Arthur and me sitting directly across from each other. Normally, this was where the fun began—stealing food from each other’s plates, whispering jokes, laughing so much Pascale would tell us to stop giggling and eat.

But tonight?

Silence.

Thick, suffocating silence.

Even Pascale noticed. “You two are awfully quiet.”

No one said a word.

Charles exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was already over it. Lorenzo just ate in peace, pretending the tension wasn’t slicing through the table like a knife.

Arthur stabbed at his food aggressively, his fork clinking against the plate. “I don’t have anything to say.”

I let out a scoff before I could stop myself. “For once in your life.”

Arthur’s head snapped up. “Do not start.”

“Oh, but you can?” I fired back.

“Oh my God—”

Charles slammed his fork down so hard the table rattled. “Can you both shut up?! Please?” His voice cracked with exasperation. “You two argue more than I race. Just eat your food and fight later.”

Arthur and I both went silent, glaring across the table but saying nothing.

From the far end of the table, Lando—who had been silently watching this circus unfold with poorly-hidden amusement—finally leaned back in his chair and grinned.

Don't even ask me why he was here, because i do not know.

“This is the best family dinner I’ve ever been invited to.”

Pascale sighed, muttering a quiet, “Mon dieu.”

After that, the room settled into a strange kind of quiet—everyone trying to pretend things were normal while Arthur and I silently battled with our utensils. He stabbed his steak like it had personally offended him. I carved into my chicken with so much aggression it was a miracle the plate didn’t crack.

Finally, Lorenzo set his fork down with a tired sigh. “You two are being dramatic.”

Neither of us answered.

Pascale gave us both a look—the kind of disappointed mom look that made you feel five years old instantly. “Arthur. Y/n. Can you please stop this nonsense?”

Arthur pushed back his chair suddenly, his fork clattering against the plate. “I’m full.”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course, you are.”

He glared at me but didn’t say anything, scooping up his plate and disappearing into the kitchen.

The moment he left, all eyes turned on me.

Pascale raised her brows. “Y/n.”

I groaned, leaning back in my chair. “What?”

Lando smirked, leaning his chin on his hand. “So… who’s winning this fight?”

I gave him a deadpan look. “I will literally throw you out of the window.”

His grin only widened. “So you’re losing.”

Charles shook his head, dragging a hand over his face. “Just fix it.”

“Why should I fix it?” I argued. “He’s being impossible.”

Lorenzo arched an eyebrow. “And you’re not?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it again.

Pascale sighed softly, collecting my plate. “Go talk to him.”

Groaning, I shoved my chair back and trudged toward the kitchen, muttering under my breath. I hated being the one to back down first, but I also hated this knot in my stomach that came from fighting with Arthur.

When I stepped into the kitchen, Arthur was leaning against the counter, arms crossed tightly, jaw set. He looked up when I entered, expression still stormy.

I mirrored his stance, crossing my arms. “Are we really doing this?”

“Doing what?” he asked flatly.

“Being mad at each other all night?”

He scoffed. “You started it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Did I?”

Arthur huffed, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t even know how this got so bad.”

I sighed, leaning against the counter beside him. “Neither do I.”

A long, heavy silence stretched between us.

Then Arthur finally muttered, “I don’t want to fight with you.”

I glanced at him. My voice softened. “Yeah. Me neither.”

Another beat of silence.

“…So, are we good?” he asked quietly.

A smirk tugged at my lips. “Depends.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Depends on what?”

“Say I’m right.”

His jaw dropped. “Absolutely not.”

I grinned. “Then I guess we’re still fighting.”

He groaned, running a hand down his face. “You’re impossible.”

I nudged him lightly with my shoulder. “And you’re stuck with me.”

Arthur let out a long, exaggerated sigh, but the fight was draining from his features, replaced with reluctant amusement. Finally, he bumped my shoulder back. “Fine. We’re good.”

I threw my arm around him with a triumphant grin. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Arthur groaned. “I regret this already.”

Of course, that’s when Lando poked his head into the kitchen, grinning ear to ear. “So… are we friends again?”

Arthur and I both turned to glare at him.

Lando instantly raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, still tense. Got it.”

From the dining room, Charles’s voice rang out. “ARE THEY STILL FIGHTING?!”

Arthur and I shared a look—then shouted in unison, “NO!”

There was a pause, followed by Charles’s weary sigh. “Finally.”

Arthur and I burst into quiet laughter, and just like that… the dumbest fight we’d ever had was over.

[charlesollielandooscararthur]

🍎 First Day Feelings: A Norris Household Tale

Dad!Lando x Mom!reader

Summary: On Kenya and Arlo’s first day of big school, the house feels unusually quiet — and little Rylan feels it most of all. As Y/n tries to keep his spirits up at home, he quickly spirals into missing his siblings, breaking down in a teary, hiccup-filled meltdown on the living room floor. When Lando returns home alone, Rylan’s heartbreak deepens, convinced his beloved big brother and sister would be right behind him.

It's September 2023, and somehow — despite time moving at the same speed as always — our house feels like it's aged ten years overnight.

This morning is the morning: Kenya and Arlo's first official day of big-kid school.

I'm standing in the kitchen at 6:30 a.m., my oversized sweatshirt covered in mysterious oatmeal smears, hair shoved into a bun so messy it should have its own insurance policy. I'm trying — and failing — not to cry while packing tiny sandwiches and apple slices into their new lunchboxes.

Kenya's lunchbox is purple with glitter unicorn stickers. Arlo's is covered in dinosaurs and lightning bolts, because "lightning is fast, like Daddy," he explained very seriously last week.

Kenya is practically vibrating with excitement in the living room, already wearing her sparkly light-up sneakers and twirling around, announcing to no one in particular: "I'm going to learn everything, and then I'll teach Rylan when I get home!"

Arlo sits on the couch, swinging his feet, eyeing his backpack like it might bite him. "Mummy, what if they don't let me bring Sharky to class? What if my teacher thinks he's too scary?" Sharky, his beloved plush shark, is clutched to his chest like a life vest on the Titanic.

I kneel down to him and smooth his hair, my heart simultaneously melting and breaking into a million little mum-shaped pieces. "Sweetie, Sharky can stay in your backpack if you want. He'll be your secret sidekick."

He squints at me. "Like a spy?"

"Exactly."

Meanwhile, Rylan, at two and three-quarters, is losing his entire mind in the hallway.

He's wearing his dinosaur pajamas and stomping around with his tiny backpack (completely empty except for two raisins and a rock he insists is magical). He stops in front of me with his fists clenched and yells: "I GO TOO!"

I scoop him up, and he kicks indignantly while I try to explain for the thousandth time that he isn't going to big school yet.

His face scrunches into a tragic pout. "BUT I'M BIG TOO! I EAT BROCCOLI!"

Lando finally steps in, looking far too good for this hour, hair perfectly fluffy and that warm, calm dad energy radiating off him like sunshine. He kneels beside Kenya and Arlo, slipping something into each of their backpacks with a conspiratorial smile.

"What are you up to?" I ask, narrowing my eyes.

He grins, catching my eye with that same sparkle that made me fall for him when we were just kids ourselves. "Just a little something to remind them who they are."

Later, I find them: folded notes in each backpack. In Lando's messy, earnest handwriting:

Be kind. Be brave. You're a Norris.

I have to turn away and pretend to rummage for juice boxes so no one sees me tearing up again.

Finally, it's time to go. Kenya sprints to the door like she's heading to a concert, shouting, "BYE, EVERYONE! I'LL BRING HOME STORIES!" Arlo follows, clinging to Sharky, looking back at me every few seconds like he's checking to make sure this isn't a prank.

Lando gives them both a big squeeze, whispering something that makes them giggle. I crouch down for one last hug, inhaling their sweet shampoo-and-crayon scent, and give each a forehead kiss.

Rylan and I stand in the doorway together as Lando ushers the twins outside. Kenya waves dramatically from the steps. Arlo gives us a shy thumbs-up.

Then they're gone.

There's a moment of silence. Rylan's little hand squeezes mine tightly.

He looks up at me with his wide, teary eyes and whispers in the softest, most heartbreaking voice I've ever heard:

"I miss them already. Can I eat their snacks?"

I burst out laughing — the kind that bubbles up from deep inside and makes tears spill anyway. I scoop him up into a big cuddle, feeling his warm little head tuck under my chin.

"Nice try, Captain Snack," I say, wiping my eyes. "But those are for after school."

He sighs dramatically against my shoulder, resigned to his fate, and mumbles, "Okay... but I still miss them."

I press a kiss to his cheek and carry him into the kitchen, knowing that somehow, even in the quietest, hardest moments, this loud, messy, unstoppable love is exactly what makes it all worth it.

At first, he kept it together. He sat at the table, drawing what he called "racing maps" on printer paper. I tried to distract him with apple slices shaped like stars (Kenya's invention) and a half-hearted dance party to Bluey songs.

But halfway through the second song, I noticed him staring blankly at the wall, crayon dangling from his little fingers.

"Ry? You okay, baby?" I asked gently, coming over to rub his back.

He shrugged, big brown eyes shining but stubbornly refusing to look at me.

Then it started. The quietest, saddest little sniffle. The kind that sounds like a kitten stuck in the rain.

I crouched down so we were eye level, and his lip wobbled.

"Where's 'Nya and Awo?" he finally croaked.

My heart cracked in half on the kitchen floor.

"They're at school, love. They'll be home later this afternoon," I said softly, brushing his hair away from his forehead.

He shook his head, a tear sliding down his cheek. "But I want them NOW."

Before I could scoop him up, he slid off his chair and ran to the living room, throwing himself face-down on the rug. From there, he unleashed the kind of full-body sob that you can feel echo through your bones — little fists pounding the carpet, muffled wails between gasps for air.

I sat beside him, rubbing his back in slow, steady circles, whispering, "It's okay... I know... you miss them so much."

After a while, his cries turned into hiccupy breaths. He curled up, cheeks pink and puffy, clutching my sleeve like a lifeline.

I carried him over to the couch, where he melted into me like a sleepy koala. We sat there for what felt like forever, his tiny hands playing absently with my hair, his breathing slow and heavy against my chest.

At some point, he dozed off — eyelashes still wet, mouth slightly open. I stayed still, cradling him, feeling that bittersweet ache that only a mother knows: the joy of closeness and the pain of their tiny heartbreaks.

Around mid-afternoon, I heard the keys at the door.

Lando stepped inside, a big grin on his face, hair a little messy from the wind, cheeks pink from the chill outside.

Before Lando could say a word, Rylan's head shot up from my chest. His entire body went rigid — then he exploded off the couch like a firework.

"DADDY!!"

He ran straight for Lando, arms wide, face glowing with pure, innocent hope.

"Where's 'Nya?! Where's Awo?!"

He skidded to a halt at Lando's feet, bouncing on his toes, scanning behind him for his siblings.

Lando's smile faltered. He bent down slowly, opening his arms.

"Hey, mate... they're not with me. They're still at school. But they'll be home really soon."

Rylan's shoulders sagged instantly, like someone let all the air out of him. His lip quivered again as Lando pulled him into a hug.

He pressed his face into Lando's shoulder and mumbled, "I thought you bringed them. I miss them too much."

Lando closed his eyes, resting his chin on Rylan's head, and sighed, "I know, buddy. I know. I miss them too."

I stood in the doorway, hands over my heart, feeling both shattered and proud.

A moment later, Lando carried Rylan over to me, and we sat together on the couch, Rylan wedged firmly between us like the final puzzle piece.

We talked in quiet voices, promising that Kenya and Arlo would have so many stories to share when they came home.

Rylan eventually settled, his fingers tracing the lines on Lando's sleeve, his head heavy on my shoulder.

And when I thought he might drift off again, he whispered, almost conspiratorially, "Next time, I go too. I be the line leader."

We both laughed softly — that exhausted, relieved, deeply in-love laugh only parents know.

Then we waited. As a team. As a pack. Until those familiar footsteps would come charging up the path again, ready to fill the house back up with noise, stories, and chaos.

I kept him close all day, trying to fill the big sibling-shaped hole with extra cuddles, storybooks, and the occasional slice of banana bread he insisted was "too sad to eat alone."

When the clock finally edged toward pickup time, I glanced at Rylan, sprawled on the couch in his dinosaur pajama pants, hugging a cushion like it was a long-lost friend.

I sat down beside him, brushing his curls back from his forehead.

"Hey, Ry," I said softly. He peeked up at me with those big, still-slightly-puffy eyes. "Do you want to come with me and Daddy to pick up Kenya and Arlo from school?"

His whole face lit up like someone had flipped a switch.

"YES! Yesyesyesyes! We go get 'Nya and Awo!"

He practically launched off the couch, legs flailing in all directions, nearly taking out the coffee table.

Lando poked his head in from the kitchen, half a sandwich in his hand. "We leaving now?"

I nodded, smiling. "We've got a very eager assistant."

Rylan was already sprinting down the hallway, yelling, "I need SHOES! I NEED MY GOING-OUT SHOES!" He returned moments later with one sneaker, one rain boot, and a winter mitten.

Close enough.

After an intense two-minute wrestle involving three outfit changes (Rylan insisted he needed his "fast pants"), we finally corralled him into the car seat.

Lando slid into the driver's seat, and I buckled myself in the passenger. Rylan kept bouncing, humming to himself, alternating between "Wheels on the Bus" and the McLaren team radio jingle.

As we pulled out of the driveway, he leaned forward and grabbed my arm urgently.

"Mummy... when we see them... can I run first? I wanna do the biggest hug."

I felt that sweet ache in my chest again, the one that feels like your heart is physically swelling inside your ribs.

"Of course, love," I said, kissing the top of his head. "You get first dibs."

The drive felt longer than usual, the minutes stretching like melted caramel. I kept sneaking glances at Lando, who kept giving me these soft, knowing smiles — the kind that say, We might be tired, but look at what we made. Look at these wild, wonderful little humans.

Finally, we pulled up to the school. It was that chaotic time of day: parents milling around with coffees, teachers herding excited kids like tiny, brightly colored sheep, backpacks bouncing everywhere.

We unbuckled Rylan, who immediately shot out of the car like a mini rocket. He stood on tiptoes, scanning the sea of small heads, gripping my hand so tight it almost hurt.

Then — we saw them.

Kenya was strutting down the path, hair slightly frizzy from all her day's adventures, her unicorn backpack nearly falling off one shoulder. She waved dramatically when she spotted us.

Arlo was trailing behind, clutching Sharky to his chest, looking a little sleepy and a lot happy.

Rylan shrieked, "THERE!!" and bolted.

I almost lost my balance as he tugged free and ran full-speed toward them, arms wide open, cheeks flushed with pure joy.

Kenya saw him coming and let out a delighted squeal. "RYLAN!!"

Arlo's whole face lit up, and he actually dropped Sharky so he could run faster.

They collided in a tangle of limbs and backpacks. Rylan latched onto both of them at once, chanting over and over, "I missed you! I missed you! I missed you so much!"

Kenya giggled, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Arlo gave him an earnest squeeze and said solemnly, "I missed you too, Ry. Sharky missed you also."

I felt Lando step up behind me, sliding his arm around my waist. We stood there, watching this perfect mess unfold, both of us grinning so wide it almost hurt.

When we finally joined the little dogpile, Kenya was bubbling with stories about her new teacher and how she "accidentally" told someone her dad drives a race car and makes the best pancakes. Arlo explained in detail how he drew a shark in art class but then panicked because he didn't know if sharks had eyebrows.

Rylan, meanwhile, kept touching their arms and hair, as if making sure they were really real and really home.

We eventually shuffled them toward the car, backpacks bouncing, chatter rising into the cool afternoon air.

Lando squeezed my hand and whispered, "You know... they really are the best team."

I looked at him — my best friend, my partner, my co-pilot in this wild life — and nodded.

"They are," I said, smiling as Rylan insisted on climbing into the car last so he could "watch his best friends go first."

And in that chaotic, noisy, sticky, perfect moment, I felt it so deeply I almost burst:

We might have started this morning with tears and tantrums, but we ended with love so big it could swallow the whole sky.

[charlesollielandooscararthur]

The Moment Everything Changed

Charles Leclerc x GF!reader x BFF!Arthur Leclerc

Summary: Y/n goes over to Arthur's house on the verge of a panic attack telling arthur she thinks she's pregnant. She bought a few pregnancy test with her, she took all of them. her and Arthur waited together- basically Arthur trying to get her to calm. All of them was positive. Que the actual panic attack.

Y/n's hands were shaking so badly she could barely lock her car as she stood outside Arthur's front door, the late afternoon sun dipping low enough to cast long shadows that made everything feel distorted, too sharp, too bright.

Her chest was tight, each breath thin and fast, the edges of her vision blurry with tears she was fighting to keep back. The weight of the small paper pharmacy bag in her hand felt like it was crushing her, the cardboard edges digging into her palm.

She didn't knock properly. It was more of a frantic tap, uneven, the sound of someone on the edge.

Arthur opened the door a moment later, hair messy, wearing grey sweats and a faded t-shirt, his grin dropping the second he saw her.

"Y/n/n?" he said, brows furrowing, concern flooding his face as he scanned her shaking frame.

She couldn't speak. She just shoved the pharmacy bag into his chest, her bottom lip quivering as tears finally spilled over. Her breaths came faster, sharp and shallow, the dizziness creeping in.

Arthur's eyes dropped to the bag, his brain connecting the dots instantly. His eyes snapped back up to her, wide.

"You—" he started, but her panicked sob cut him off.

"I think I'm pregnant," she choked out, voice so small, so scared, like a child admitting to breaking something that can't be fixed.

Arthur's stomach dropped, but he didn't let it show. Instead, he stepped forward, gently pulling her inside, closing the door softly so it didn't startle her further.

"It's okay, come on, let's go sit down," he said, guiding her with a hand on her back to the bathroom, the one with the soft blue towels and the window that let in the evening breeze.

Y/n was practically hyperventilating now, her breaths short and rapid, tears streaming down her cheeks as she held herself, fingers digging into her arms.

Arthur crouched in front of her, hands on her shoulders, his own heart racing, but he forced his voice to stay calm. "Y/n, look at me. Breathe with me, yeah? Like we used to."

She shook her head frantically, sobbing, "I can't—I can't—"

"Yes, you can," Arthur said firmly but softly, holding up a finger, raising it slowly. "In."

He lowered it. "Out."

She tried, her breath catching, but she managed a shaky inhale, then a ragged exhale. He did it again, and again, until she was still crying but the breathing wasn't so jagged, the colour returning to her face.

"That's it," Arthur whispered, brushing tears off her cheek with his thumb. "Good job."

They opened the bag together, Y/n's hands trembling so badly she almost dropped the boxes, Arthur catching them mid-fall.

"You really bought four?" he asked, trying to tease lightly to ease her fear, but she just looked at him with wide, terrified eyes.

"I need to be sure," she whispered.

"Okay," Arthur nodded, "let's do it."

One by one, Y/n took the tests, her hands shaking, tears dripping onto the plastic sticks as she set them on the counter. Arthur stood by the sink, arms crossed, his foot tapping with nerves he was trying to hide, his eyes never leaving her.

They waited, the longest five minutes of Y/n's life, the ticking of the small clock on the windowsill pounding in her ears like a drum.

She paced, clutching her stomach, breathing fast again, whispering, "Please, please, please, no, please," under her breath like a prayer.

Arthur stepped forward, gently catching her hands, squeezing them. "Hey, Y/n/n. Breathe. Whatever happens, we'll deal with it, okay? You're not alone."

When it was time, Y/n froze, unable to look, her entire body shaking, tears streaming silently down her face.

Arthur's throat was dry as he reached forward, flipping over the first test.

Two lines.

His heart sank, but he didn't react, moving to the next.

Two lines.

And the next.

Two lines.

And the last.

Two lines.

Arthur's mouth fell open, his breath catching, tears pricking his own eyes as he looked up at her.

"Y/n..." he whispered, voice cracking.

She saw the look on his face, the way his eyes were glassy, and she knew.

"No," she gasped, shaking her head, backing into the wall as her breathing sped up again, faster and faster until she couldn't catch a breath, the world closing in, dark spots flickering in her vision.

"Y/n, hey, hey!" Arthur said urgently, stepping forward, gripping her shoulders, "Y/n/n, look at me. Breathe. You have to breathe."

"I can't—Arthur—I can't—" she sobbed, sliding down the wall to the floor, her arms wrapped around her knees, her body shaking violently.

Arthur dropped to his knees in front of her, pulling her into his arms, letting her sob into his chest as he rocked her gently, tears slipping down his own cheeks unnoticed.

"You're okay," he whispered over and over, "I've got you. I've got you."

She was gasping, choking on her sobs, her hands clawing at his hoodie, grounding herself in the fabric as the fear consumed her.

"I can't—this can't—I can't—" she cried, the words tumbling out, her body trembling so hard she felt like she might break.

Arthur pressed her head to his chest, closing his eyes, his own tears falling. "You're not alone, Y/n. I'm here. We'll figure this out. You're safe."

It took a long time, minutes or maybe hours, for her sobs to slow, for the shaking to ease, for the storm inside her chest to calm enough for her to breathe properly again.

But Y/n's breaths were coming in short, sharp gasps again as she pulled back from Arthur’s chest, her eyes wide, wild, fear clouding them.

“How am I meant to tell Charles?” she whispered, her voice cracking, panic rising again. “Arthur, how—he’s going to—oh God—”

She pressed her hands to her face, sobs starting again, her whole body trembling.

Arthur squeezed her shoulders gently, trying to anchor her. “Y/n, hey, hey, look at me.”

She didn’t, rocking slightly, shaking her head. “He’s going to hate me. This is going to ruin everything. He’s not ready for this, Arthur, I’m not ready for this—”

“Y/n.” His voice was firmer now, though still gentle, and he moved his hands to cup her face, forcing her to look at him.

Tears spilled over again, streaking down her already tear-stained cheeks. “I can’t do this. I can’t. I’m not ready to be a mum. I can’t even take care of myself half the time, Arthur, how am I meant to take care of a baby?”

Arthur’s heart clenched, seeing his best friend like this, terrified, breaking apart.

“You don’t have to have it all figured out right now,” he said softly, brushing her hair back. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

“But Charles—he’s going to leave, isn’t he? I’m going to ruin everything—” she hiccupped, wiping her nose with the back of her sleeve, her eyes pleading with Arthur for an answer he couldn’t give.

Arthur let out a small, sad laugh, shaking his head. “Y/n, he’s not going to leave you.”

“You don’t know that!” she snapped, the fear twisting into frustration, her hands shaking. “You don’t know what he’s going to say, Arthur. You don’t know—”

Arthur held her gaze, letting her anger wash over him. “You’re right. I don’t know exactly what he’s going to say,” he admitted honestly, “but I know my brother. I know how much he loves you. I know that there is nothing in this world that would make him walk away from you.”

Y/n's lip quivered, her eyes dropping. “How am I meant to tell him?” she whispered, her voice so small it broke his heart.

Arthur gently lifted her chin, his eyes warm, calm, steady. “We can tell him together if you want,” he offered, his thumb brushing away a tear that fell. “You don’t have to do it alone. We’ll figure out the right time, the right way, okay?”

She let out a shaky breath, leaning her forehead against his, eyes fluttering closed. “I’m so scared, Arthur.”

“I know,” he whispered, rubbing slow circles on her back, grounding her. “But you’re going to be okay. I promise.”

They sat like that for a while, the quiet of the small bathroom surrounding them, only the soft ticking of the clock filling the silence. Arthur’s hand was warm on her back, his presence steady and unshakable.

After a moment, he leaned back just enough to look at her, a small, teasing smile tugging at his lips.

“You know,” he said, his eyes brightening, “it’s not the end of the world, Y/n/n.”

Her brows furrowed, tears still on her cheeks. “What?”

Arthur’s smile grew, his eyes twinkling. “Imagine you having a mini Charles running around.”

Y/n let out a strangled, tearful laugh, her hand smacking his chest lightly. “Arthur!”

He chuckled softly, wiping another tear from her cheek. “Or a mini you, with your attitude. Oh God, the world won’t be ready.”

Despite the tears, Y/n let out another watery laugh, her shoulders shaking, the tension easing just a fraction.

“And you know what?” Arthur continued, squeezing her hand, his grin softening into something warm, sincere, protective. “No matter what happens, I’m going to be the best uncle ever.”

Y/n's eyes welled up again, but this time the tears weren’t just fear; they were relief, gratitude, love. “Arthur…”

“I’m serious,” he said, shrugging. “I’m going to spoil that kid rotten. Teach them how to kick a football, sneak them chocolate before dinner, and tell them all about how their mum is the strongest, bravest person I know.”

Y/n broke, letting out a sob as she fell into his arms again, hugging him so tightly it almost knocked the breath out of him.

“You’ve got this, Y/n,” he murmured into her hair, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. “And I’ve got you. Always.”

They stayed there, on the bathroom floor, Y/n tucked into Arthur’s arms as the sky outside turned to dusk, the weight of the world still heavy, but no longer crushing her.

They didn’t tell Charles that night.

Y/n was too raw, too exhausted, her eyes swollen from crying, her body limp with the aftermath of panic. Arthur tucked her into the guest bed at his flat, sitting on the floor beside her until she fell into a restless sleep, whispering reassurances that they would figure it out, that she was not alone.

The next afternoon, Arthur texted Charles.

“Hey, can you come over? Need to talk.”

“About what?”

“Just come.”

Charles arrived within fifteen minutes, hair damp from a shower, in a black hoodie and grey joggers, concern etched into the lines of his forehead the second he saw Arthur’s face.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded immediately, stepping inside, glancing around as if expecting to find someone injured.

Arthur’s mouth was dry, his stomach tight. “Sit down.”

Charles’s eyes narrowed. “Arthur, what is it?”

“Just sit down.”

Y/n was sitting on the couch, curled into the corner, wearing one of Arthur’s old hoodies, her knees hugged to her chest, her hair tied in a messy bun, her face pale, eyes ringed with shadows from a sleepless night.

When Charles saw her, the tension in his face softened immediately. “Y/n?” he said, stepping forward, worry overtaking his irritation. “What’s going on, mon amour? Are you okay?”

Y/n's bottom lip trembled, and she looked away, pressing her forehead to her knees.

Charles shot Arthur a sharp, confused look. “Arthur, what’s going on?”

Arthur’s hands were in his pockets, his thumb rubbing the seam of his jeans, grounding himself. “We need to tell you something, Charles. But you need to let us finish before you say anything.”

Charles’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking between Arthur and Kaycie, a flicker of fear in his green eyes. “What is it?”

Y/n let out a shaky breath, lifting her head, tears already in her eyes. “I—I don’t know how to say it.”

Arthur stepped closer to the couch, sitting on the coffee table in front of her, nodding softly. “It’s okay, Y/n/n. I’ll help.”

Charles’s fists clenched, stepping forward. “Arthur, just say it.”

Arthur swallowed, looking up at his brother. “Y/n's pregnant.”

For a moment, the room was silent except for the ticking of the clock on the wall.

Charles blinked, his face blank, as if the words hadn’t registered.

Then, slowly, the colour drained from his face. “What?” His voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper.

Y/n let out a small sob, covering her face with her hands, shoulders shaking.

Arthur’s eyes were glassy, but his voice was steady. “Y/n's pregnant, Charles.”

Charles shook his head, taking a step back, his hand running through his hair, breathing suddenly ragged. “How—when—”

Charles’s eyes snapped to Y/n, who peeked up at him through tear-soaked lashes, nodding helplessly.

“I didn’t know, I swear,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I didn’t know until yesterday.”

The silence was thick, Charles’s chest rising and falling as he tried to process, his mind spinning.

Arthur broke it gently, “She found out yesterday, she came to me because she was having a panic attack. We took tests. All of them were positive.”

Charles looked at Arthur, his eyes wide, confusion and hurt mixing there. “You knew before me?” His voice broke, pain flashing across his features.

Arthur exhaled. “I didn’t want to, Charles. I just—she needed someone.”

Y/n let out a choked sob, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Charles.”

Charles moved then, dropping to his knees in front of the couch, his hands trembling as he reached for her, cupping her tear-streaked face.

“Hey, hey, mon amour,” he whispered, his own tears spilling now, “you don’t have to be sorry.”

She sobbed, collapsing into him, her arms wrapping around his neck as he pulled her into his chest, holding her so tightly as if he was trying to fuse her into him.

“I’m so scared, Charles,” she cried, her fingers gripping the back of his hoodie.

“I know, I know, baby,” he murmured into her hair, his own tears dripping onto her shoulder. “We’re going to be okay. You hear me? We’re going to be okay.”

Arthur stood, wiping a tear away, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips as he watched his brother hold the girl who was like family to him.

Charles pulled back just enough to look at Y/n, brushing her tears away with his thumbs, his eyes soft, glistening.

“You’re going to be the best mum, Y/n,” he whispered. “And I’m going to be right here, every step.”

She let out a shaky breath, leaning her forehead against his. “You’re not mad?”

Charles let out a broken laugh, shaking his head, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “No. Scared? Yes. But mad? Never.”

Arthur cleared his throat, smirking a little, his eyes still damp. “And for the record, I am going to be the best uncle ever.”

Charles let out a watery laugh, still holding Y/n close, “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, “Mate, you’ll be too busy trying to change nappies and getting puked on. I’ll be the cool uncle sneaking them chocolate.”

Y/n let out a weak giggle, burying her face into Charles’s chest.

Charles looked up at Arthur, eyes still glistening, “Thank you.”

Arthur nodded, shoving his hands back into his pockets. “Always.”

In that moment, despite the fear, the unknown, and the chaos of what their future would now hold, a quiet warmth settled into the room.

Because they would face it together.

And somehow, that made everything feel just a little less scary.

[charlesollielandooscararthur]

Panic Attack

Arthur x bff!reader

Summary: Y/n was 12, sitting under a tree at the end of school, her chest tight, breaths shallow, as the chatter and shrieks on the playground blurred around her. She pressed her hands to her ears, trying to make herself small, tears prickling because she didn’t want to cry at school.Arthur spotted her from across the yard, dropping his football, running over with grass-stained knees, and dropping to sit cross-legged in front of her.

It was the end of school, the heavy summer heat clinging to the playground, the air thick with the scent of warm concrete, cut grass, and the faint salt of the nearby sea drifting up in the breeze. Laughter echoed around the cracked asphalt, kids sprinting for the gates, bags bouncing, parents beginning to gather, their voices overlapping in a wave of noise that pressed against Y/n's ears.

She was 12, small for her age, her cardigan too big around her thin wrists, her skirt brushing her knees as she stood frozen near the fence under the old tree that Arthur often climbed. Her breath caught, shallow and sharp, each inhale scraping her throat as her chest tightened and tightened until she thought she might choke. She pressed her palms against her ears, trying to muffle the clatter of children’s chatter, the squeak of sneakers, the shriek of a whistle calling for end-of-day lines.

She hated this time of day. The chaos. The noise. The feeling that the world was closing in around her.

Her vision was blurry, tears pricking, hot and shameful. She ducked her head, hair falling around her face like a curtain, trying to hide the way her lips trembled, the way her shoulders shook with the silent sobs she tried to swallow down.

She could hear someone’s water bottle clatter to the ground, someone else yelling about ice cream, the heavy thud of footballs hitting walls, the shriek of the whistle again. Each sound layered over the other until it was too much.

She didn’t want to cry. Not at school. Not in front of everyone.

But her throat burned, and her breaths wouldn’t come properly, and it felt like the world was too loud and too bright, the sun pressing into her scalp, sweat gathering at the back of her neck beneath her hair.

Across the yard, Arthur, grass stains smudged on his knees and elbows, was mid-football game, his hair sticking up in sweaty tufts. He was laughing, shouting to Lucas to pass, eyes alight with the easy joy of a game played on a Friday afternoon.

And then he saw her.

Standing under the tree, shoulders shaking, hair hiding her face, alone.

His stomach dropped.

Without hesitation, Arthur let the ball roll away, ignoring Lucas’s protest, and sprinted across the yard, feet pounding on the concrete, heart thumping in sync with his panic. He skidded to a stop in front of her, dropping to his knees so quickly that the gravel dug into his skin, but he didn’t care.

He could see the tears now, the way her small hands clutched at her ears, her breathing too fast, too high, that tiny whimper she didn’t even know she was making.

“Y/n/n,” he said softly, using the nickname he saved for when it was just them, when he needed her to know she was safe.

She didn’t look up, but he saw her flinch at his voice, saw the way her breaths hitched.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said, softer, slower, trying to keep the fear out of his voice because he knew she didn’t need fear, she needed calm.

Arthur sat down cross-legged, ignoring the dirt and the itchy grass. He leaned forward, trying to catch her gaze. “Breathe with me, yeah?” he whispered.

She shook her head, tears falling now, dripping off her chin onto her collar. Her fingers dug into her hair, pressing against her ears harder, as if she could shut everything out.

Arthur glanced around. Parents were beginning to trickle in, some of the kids were watching, but he didn’t care. He only cared about her.

He held up a finger, steady and slow, making sure it was in her line of sight.

“In,” he said softly, raising his finger as he sucked in a deep, exaggerated breath.

“Out,” he lowered it, blowing out so hard his cheeks puffed.

He did it again.

“In…” “Out…”

Over and over, his breathing loud and silly on purpose. A few kids nearby giggled at the sight of Arthur puffing his cheeks out like a fish, but he ignored them, his focus entirely on her.

Y/n's eyes flickered up for a second, a tear sliding across her lashes. Her breath hitched, but she watched him, trying, failing, trying again.

“That’s it, Y/n/n,” he murmured. “Just like that. Breathe with me.”

Slowly, painfully, her shoulders began to drop. Her breaths were still uneven, but they were coming, in and out, in and out, matching the rhythm of Arthur’s finger.

Arthur leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You’re okay. You’re here. It’s just us. Nothing’s gonna hurt you, okay? I’ve got you.”

A sob escaped her, and she quickly slapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide, terrified someone might have heard.

Arthur frowned, gently pulling her hand away, gripping it in his own. “You don’t have to hide it. It’s okay to cry, you know. I’ll fight anyone who says it isn’t,” he said with a grin, trying to coax out the smallest smile.

She sniffled, tears dripping onto their joined hands, but she didn’t pull away. Her breaths were still shaky, her lips trembling, but her eyes were locked on his now, her world narrowing down to him, the loud chaos of the playground fading into the background.

“There you are,” Arthur whispered. “See? You’re okay.”

She tried to speak, but it came out as a choked sob, so she shook her head instead, tears spilling faster.

Arthur squeezed her hand. “Bad day, huh?” he said gently.

She nodded, a broken hiccup slipping out.

“Yeah,” he sighed, brushing his messy hair from his forehead. “Those suck.”

They sat there like that for a while, the bell ringing, kids running to their parents, the playground slowly emptying around them. Y/n's breaths calmed, the tears slowing, leaving her with pink cheeks and swollen eyes.

Arthur reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled tissue, dabbing her cheeks with exaggerated care. “You’re a snot monster,” he teased softly.

She gave a small, watery laugh, swatting at his hand.

“There’s that laugh,” he said, a grin breaking across his face, relief washing over him. “Told you it’d come back.”

As the playground cleared, Y/n finally whispered, “Sorry.”

Arthur’s grin faded, and he squeezed her hand again, shaking his head. “Don’t you ever be sorry, Y/n/n. You’re my best friend, okay? I’m here for you, always.”

She blinked, tears filling her eyes again, but this time it was different. Softer. Safer.

He stood, pulling her gently up with him, her legs unsteady, the world still a little too bright, but manageable now with his hand in hers. She looked around, embarrassed by how empty the playground was, how they were the last ones left, but Arthur didn’t seem to care.

He slung his backpack over one shoulder, keeping her hand in his, and started walking her toward the gate where Pascale was waiting in her small car.

As they walked, he leaned in and whispered, “You know, if anyone asks, we were doing very important breathing training, alright?”

She rolled her eyes but smiled, that small, shy, relieved smile that only Arthur ever got to see.

When they reached the car, Pascale opened her arms without a word, pulling Y/n into a warm, lavender-scented hug. She knew, in the way only mothers know. She kissed the top of Y/n's head and held her a moment longer than usual.

Arthur watched, hands in his pockets, dirt on his knees, a soft pride in his chest. He gave Y/n a thumbs-up when she peeked at him over Pascale’s shoulder, and she giggled quietly, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her cardigan.

As they climbed into the backseat, Arthur flopped dramatically, throwing his arms across her shoulders. “So, pizza night?” he asked hopefully.

Y/n nodded, leaning into him, letting herself feel safe for the first time that day. She wasn’t fixed, not entirely, but she was breathing. And for now, that was enough.

Arthur tapped her nose gently, “Told you I got you, Y/n/n.”

And as the car pulled away, the world outside still too big and loud, Y/n closed her eyes, focusing on the warmth of her best friend beside her, knowing she was not alone, not today, not ever.

[charlesollielandooscararthur]

Lando Family!Norris

The Mini Grand Prix at Home

🍎 First Day Feelings: A Norris Household Tale

[charlesollielandooscararthur]

Lando Norris Masterlist

Lando Family!Norris

Lando Norris Fewtrell!Reader

[charlesollielandooscararthur]

The Mini Grand Prix at Home

Lando Norris x Family!Norris

You know how some parents spend their Saturdays doing laundry or running errands or… I don’t know, sitting down? Yeah, not us.

It started with a completely harmless comment from Lando that morning over breakfast.

“You know what we should do today?” he said, crunching into a piece of toast. “We should build a racetrack in the garden.”

I blinked. “Like… for the kids?”

He grinned. “Obviously. But also for my own competitive satisfaction.”

So, naturally, five minutes later, our peaceful garden was under siege. And by siege, I mean a complete transformation: we dragged out cones from the garage, uncoiled every garden hose we could find, chalked out some ‘curves’ on the grass (which was already clinging to life), and even repurposed a broken laundry basket as a pit stop marker. It was chaos. Beautiful, glorious, slightly unsafe chaos. Just the way our family likes it.

Lando (aged 25, going on 10 when properly hyped) took charge like it was a real Grand Prix circuit under construction. He was inspecting corners, adjusting cone placement like a race engineer, and muttering things like “We need more technical corners on sector two” while dragging the kiddie slide into position as a speed bump.

Meanwhile, I (also 25, also deeply amused) was tasked with finding the checkered flag. Spoiler alert: we don’t own one. So I improvised, naturally, and tied black and white dish towels together with a hair tie. Was it elegant? No. Did it wave dramatically in the wind? Also no. But it existed, and that’s what counts.

Cue: the arrival of the racers.

Kenya and Arlo burst onto the scene with matching intensity. Our twins, 6 years and 4 months old, were already in full-on race mode. They were still wearing their pajamas, but that did not slow down the intensity of their debate over who would be “Team Norris.”

“I called it first!” Kenya shouted, practically tripping over a cone in her rush to reach the imaginary pole position.

“You called it, but I wear my Norris hoodie more!” Arlo countered, tugging it dramatically over his head to prove his allegiance.

“You can’t just wear the team! You have to be the team!”

I was about to intervene when Rylan made his entrance. Our little superhero, four years and six months of pure, unfiltered confidence, came zooming down the path on his tricycle, wearing a bright blue cape and the most serious racing expression I’ve ever seen on a child’s face.

“I’m not on a team,” he declared, braking with a flair that sent gravel flying. “I’m Captain Fast.”

And honestly? No one dared argue.

With racers assigned (Kenya as Team Norris, Arlo as Team Lightning Strike—don’t ask—and Rylan as, well, himself), the race officially began.

Lando, now fully immersed in his role as lead commentator, crouched dramatically next to the flower beds with a makeshift headset—a pair of my wireless earbuds and a spoon for a microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in his most official tone, “welcome to the first ever Backyard Mini Grand Prix, hosted here at Norris Gardens. Our racers are at the grid, and we are moments away from an epic showdown!”

He paused, gave me a wink, and added, “Over to you, Flag Queen.”

Ah yes. That would be me. Standing at the starting line with my dish towel flag in one hand and, now that the kids were occupied, a chilled glass of white wine in the other. The sun was beaming, the birds were chirping, and my wine was the good kind we usually save for after bedtime.

“Ready,” I called out.

Kenya bent forward like a little missile. Arlo revved his imaginary engine. Rylan narrowed his eyes beneath the brim of his Lightning McQueen baseball cap.

“Set…”

Lando was making fake engine noises under his breath.

“GO!”

They were off. Kenya’s scooter rocketed forward like she’d just received a grid penalty she was determined to erase. Arlo weaved dramatically, kicking up grass like a pro. Rylan? Rylan immediately veered off course and began circling the picnic table while shouting, “I’m taking the long route! It’s for aerodynamics!”

The course was madness. The garden hose chicane caused several near collisions. One of the cones fell over in what Kenya later insisted was a “deliberate sabotage.” Arlo actually braked before the slide-speed bump because he said he was “testing tyre grip.” Meanwhile, Rylan rode directly into a bush and yelled, “I’m in the gravel trap! Requesting superhero recovery!”

Every lap had commentary from Lando that was honestly so good, I half expected a Netflix documentary crew to show up.

“Kenya takes the lead with a daring dive into Turn 4!”

“Arlo not giving an inch—this is some textbook defensive driving!”

“Captain Fast is… somewhere in the shrubbery. Possibly battling squirrels.”

Between each round, the kids would pile over to the pit stop (a picnic blanket with orange slices, because even tiny racers need their electrolytes). Lando would debrief them like a team principal. “Arlo, we need to talk about your corner exits. You’re losing time. Kenya, incredible braking. I think we’ve got a future world champion here. Rylan, how’s the cape holding up?”

I waved my flag with flair every time they crossed the line. I also refilled my wine. Because balance.

We went on like that for hours. Racing. Commentating. Rehydrating with juice boxes (them) and more wine (me). Rylan eventually declared himself the official safety car and drove slowly in front of everyone while humming the Mission: Impossible theme. Kenya built a podium out of lawn chairs. Arlo tried to conduct a team radio with a walkie-talkie that wasn’t turned on.

By the time the sun began to dip behind the trees, and the backyard looked like someone had hosted a birthday party for Mario Kart characters, we were all exhausted—but the good kind. The kind where your cheeks hurt from smiling and your heart feels like it’s glowing.

The kids lay in a heap on the grass, still arguing over who technically “won.” Rylan had the final word, of course: “I won because I flew.” (None of us are sure what that means, but it was too cute to question.)

Lando wrapped his arm around me, pulling me into his side as we watched them chatter and giggle and throw grass at each other.

“Best Grand Prix I’ve ever been to,” he said softly.

I raised my glass. “To Captain Fast, Team Norris, Team Lightning Strike… and the best pit crew in the world.”

The flag waved one last time as the sun set on our little backyard circuit. And in that perfect moment, I realized… this was the kind of race I never wanted to end.

[charlesollielandooscararthur]

One Day at a Time

warnings: Breastfeeding??

Lucas is 12 weeks old — Y/n is 16 (Lucas only got out the hospital 2 weeks ago)

The house felt… too still.

Mum had left an hour ago, and I didn’t realise how loud her presence had been until it vanished completely. No cupboard doors slamming. No footsteps upstairs. No reminders or check-ins or passive little sighs that made me feel like a child again.

It was just me and Carlos now. And Lucas. Alone. For the first time.

At first, I tried to be brave.

I folded one of Lucas’s new onesies and tucked it in his drawer. I wiped down the changing table even though it was already clean. Carlos offered to put on a movie, but I just shook my head. My stomach was tight. Like waiting for something bad to happen.

And then it did.

Lucas’s cry tore through the quiet like a siren — high and sharp and panicked. It jolted me upright. The baby monitor had lit up before the sound even reached us. I moved fast, quicker than Carlos, straight down the hall to where Lucas was flailing in his bassinet, face scrunched and red.

I scooped him up instinctively, even though my arms were still sore from holding him so much earlier.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay,” I whispered, trying to get his swaddle loose. His cries got louder.

Carlos came in behind me, shirtless, hair sticking up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

“Again?” he murmured, voice groggy with his accent. “He cry again?”

“Yeah,” I muttered, shifting Lucas to my chest. “He’s hungry, I think.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, pulling up my top with one arm and cradling Lucas with the other. I tried to guide him to latch, but he jerked away, still crying. I adjusted. Tried again. Nothing.

My heart started thudding.

“Come on, baby... please…” I breathed, eyes stinging. I felt hot and overwhelmed and helpless. “You’ve done this. You know how to do this.”

Lucas twisted away again, his legs kicking against my stomach, little fists punching into the air like he was trying to fight me.

Carlos moved closer, watching carefully. “He no want milk?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I snapped, my voice too sharp. I winced instantly. “Sorry. I just… I don’t know what I’m doing.”

I tried again. Still nothing. Lucas was losing it now, his whole body arching and crying so hard he was gasping between sobs.

“Maybe… I try?” Carlos said softly.

I nodded quickly and handed Lucas over, not because I thought it would work but because my arms were shaking.

Carlos took him delicately, like he was holding something breakable. He shifted him against his chest, trying to pat his back, sway a little. Lucas screamed louder.

Carlos’s face fell. “He no like me,” he said, looking down at the baby helplessly. “Only you. Always you.”

The tears I’d been holding back finally spilled. I turned away, hands over my face, silently sobbing as Lucas wailed in the background.

“I’m not doing this right,” I choked out. “I can’t do this. I don’t know how to fix him. I don’t know how to be a mum. I’m only sixteen, Carlos. I don’t even know who I am yet, and I have to be everything for him. It’s not fair. It’s not—”

Carlos didn’t say anything. He just moved.

He sat beside me, still holding Lucas, and wrapped his free arm around me, pulling me in. Lucas was sandwiched between us, still crying, but for a second I didn’t care. I was crying too, and Carlos just held us both.

His voice was soft and rough and laced with that careful English he was still learning. “We learn… juntos,” he said against my hair. “Together, baby. Okay? One day at a time.”

I pressed my forehead to his shoulder and nodded, even though I didn’t know if I believed it yet.

Lucas’s cries finally slowed into hiccups. Carlos kissed the top of his tiny head. Then kissed mine.

“See?” he whispered. “Little bit better now.”

I looked down at Lucas, nestled in Carlos’s arms, still fussy but no longer screaming. My chest ached — with love, with guilt, with exhaustion. All of it. Every feeling, all at once.

We sat there like that for a long time.

The silence returned. But this time, it didn’t feel as scary.

Just still. Just us.

Carlos's hand stroked slowly down my spine as we sat there, his warmth steady, grounding. Lucas was still pressed between us, cheeks flushed from crying, fists curled tight like he was still trying to defend himself from a world that was too loud, too cold.

Carlos helped me up and we walked up to my room.

“I wanna try again,” I whispered, wiping the hot tears from my cheeks with the edge of my sleeve.

Carlos nodded, gentle. “Okay. You do… I help.”

I took a deep breath and reached for Lucas, his body damp with effort, his little chest hiccupping with leftover sobs. My arms ached from the weight of exhaustion — not just physical, but emotional too. I felt like I was unraveling, thread by thread.

I shifted him against my chest, one hand supporting the back of his neck. He rooted aimlessly, his mouth searching. I guided him to my breast again, this time breathing slower, calmer — trying to pretend I wasn’t terrified of failing again.

And then… finally… he latched.

Not perfectly. Not immediately. But his tiny mouth found me, and I felt the slight tug, the rhythm.

Relief hit me like a wave.

I let out a shaky breath and closed my eyes, tears dripping again — but not the hopeless kind. These were quieter. Softer.

Carlos noticed instantly. “He do it?” he whispered.

I nodded. “Yeah… he’s feeding.”

Carlos smiled — that lopsided smile he gets when he’s proud but trying not to make it a big deal. “Muy bien, mi amor… muy bien.”

Lucas’s breathing started to even out as he suckled. The room fell into a fragile peace, the kind you don’t trust yet because it might break again in five minutes. But I held onto it anyway.

I ran my fingers over Lucas’s hair, kissed the top of his head. “Good job, baby,” I murmured. “That’s it…”

Carlos sat in front of me, cross-legged on the bed, watching like I was magic. He looked younger like this — soft-eyed and tired and still somehow amazed that this was real. That we made this baby. That we were parents.

Once Lucas started to slow down, his mouth going lax, I gently unlatched him and shifted him to my shoulder, patting his back until he let out the tiniest burp — more like a puff of air. His body was warm against mine, heavy with sleep now. Calm.

I stood slowly, arms curved protectively around him, and padded softly across the room to the bassinet by our bed. I lowered him in carefully, like I was placing a fragile glass ornament down onto silk.

He stirred once, tiny hand twitching… then settled.

Carlos came up behind me, his hands on my waist, his chin on my shoulder as we stared down at him together.

“He so small,” he murmured. “Like… like bird.”

I smiled, leaning into him. “He’s perfect.”

We stood there in silence for a few more seconds, just watching him breathe.

Carlos pressed a kiss to the back of my neck, and I felt his lips move against my skin as he whispered, “We did okay, no?”

I nodded, my voice barely audible. “Yeah… we did okay.”

We slipped under the covers like ghosts, trying not to make a sound even though the mattress groaned beneath us. Carlos pulled the blanket up to my shoulders before climbing in beside me, moving carefully, like the air was made of glass.

The bassinet sat right next to my side of the bed. From where I lay, I could see Lucas’s tiny form, wrapped snugly, chest rising and falling in those soft newborn breaths that felt too quiet for how loud he’d been just twenty minutes ago. I kept staring at him, waiting for another sign of discomfort. A twitch. A squeak. Anything.

Carlos noticed.

“Y/n… sleep,” he whispered, brushing my hair gently back from my forehead.

I shook my head. “What if he wakes up again?”

He gave a soft exhale through his nose and cupped my cheek with his hand, calloused fingertips dragging slow over my skin. “Then we wake too,” he said simply. “But right now… he sleep. So you… sleep.”

His English was broken, gentle, like everything else about him tonight. I turned into his touch, letting the heat of his palm anchor me. My body was aching in ways I didn’t even have names for. My boobs were sore, my back was stiff, and I felt like I was wearing the exhaustion down to my bones. But the adrenaline had been keeping me going… until now.

Now, in the stillness of the room, with only the low hum of the monitor and the rise-fall rhythm of our son sleeping nearby… it hit me.

The quiet.

The enormity of everything.

“I’m still scared,” I whispered, barely able to admit it aloud.

Carlos didn’t respond right away. He just pulled me closer, wrapping his arms around my waist and pressing his forehead to mine. His skin was warm, his breathing slow, steady.

“Me too,” he murmured. “But you strong. You make baby. You feed him. You love him. You do all.”

I felt tears sting again, but I didn’t cry this time. I just pressed my nose to his chest and let myself finally melt.

“You’re a good dad,” I whispered.

He kissed my temple. “I try.”

The bed creaked a little as we shifted into each other, limbs tangled and heavy. Carlos kept one hand on my hip, the other near the edge of the bassinet — like he needed to be ready just in case.

I stared at Lucas one more time. Still asleep. Still safe.

Then finally — finally — I let my eyes close.

And for the first time in two weeks, I felt something close to rest.

[charlesollielandooscararthur]

2:42 AM.

Lucas is 3 months old — Y/n is 17

2:42 AM.

The living room was quiet in that eerie, middle-of-the-night way. Just the low hum of the fridge down the hallway and the rhythmic ticking of the clock above the mantel. I moved slowly, barefoot, the cold of the wooden floor biting at my soles, but I didn’t dare stop. Lucas’s tiny head was tucked against my collarbone, warm and damp from his tears. His soft, swaddled body rose and fell in tiny, frantic huffs against my chest.

He was fussing. Again. Not the high-pitched screams from earlier, but the sharp little gasps and wriggles that came when something in his tiny stomach just didn’t feel right. I could feel his knees tensing and pushing, like he was trying to curl in on himself. His mouth opened in a sad little cry that never quite came out fully, and he made that heart-wrenching whimper — the one that sounded like he was apologising for hurting.

I adjusted his position in my arms, gently rubbing his back in soft circles. I was swaying on instinct, pacing back and forth from the kitchen archway to the coffee table. My arms were shaking. Not from panic — just the kind of exhaustion that sits in your bones and makes every breath feel like a chore.

I was so tired. Tired in ways I didn’t know existed. Not just in my body, but in my brain, my soul. Everything felt sore — from my eyes to the spaces between my ribs.

“Shhh,” I whispered softly, barely more than breath. “It’s okay, baby boy. Mummy’s got you. I know. I know it hurts…”

Lucas whimpered again, and I kissed the soft patch of hair at the top of his head, letting my lips linger there, as if my love alone could fix him.

That’s when I heard it.

The slow, dragging shuffle of feet down the hallway carpet. A door creaking open, the faint click of light switching off behind him. Then Carlos appeared in the dim light of the hallway, shirtless, his chest rising and falling heavily. His hair was messy, falling across his forehead, eyes puffy and red from sleep. He was rubbing at them with the heel of one hand.

“He cry… again?” His voice was low and thick, slurred slightly by sleep and his still-growing grip on English. It was sweet, how he always asked like he didn’t already know. Like the soft sobs hadn’t echoed through the whole house.

I nodded, too drained to answer properly. My voice cracked as I whispered, “He’s got gas or something. I’ve tried everything. He won’t settle.”

Carlos blinked at me slowly, like it took him a second to register what I’d said. Then, without a word, he stepped closer and gently reached for Lucas. I hesitated — not because I didn’t trust him, but because letting go felt like surrendering.

He nodded softly. “I do. You go sit, babe.”

The word landed in my chest like a warm blanket. “Babe.” Like he was trying to keep me steady even when he wasn’t sure how.

I passed Lucas over carefully. Carlos adjusted him in his arms, a little awkward — he always held him like he thought he might break. But his touch was gentle, his hand supporting the back of our son’s head like it was made of porcelain. Lucas wriggled but didn’t cry again. Carlos leaned down and kissed his tiny forehead, then mine. Just a soft brush of his lips.

Something inside me cracked.

I stumbled to the couch and sank down, arms falling to my sides like they were no longer part of me. My head lolled back against the cushion, eyes heavy, but I kept them open. I had to see them. I needed to.

Carlos stood there, slowly swaying back and forth with Lucas in his arms, murmuring something in soft, slurred Spanish — I didn’t catch the words, but I knew they were tender. Something like a lullaby. He always switched to Spanish when he was soothing. It came easier to him, more natural.

Lucas let out a small hiccup, then another, then a long, shuddering sigh — and just like that, the tension in his little body started to ease.

Carlos glanced over at me, eyes wide, like he’d just defused a bomb. “He stop,” he said in that quiet, astonished voice. “You see? He stop, Y/n.”

I smiled weakly. I could feel my eyes watering again, for the thousandth time that week. “You’re amazing with him.”

Carlos shrugged, rocking gently. “I… I try. I learn. For him. For you.”

Tears slipped down my cheeks without warning, quiet and warm. I didn’t wipe them away. I let them fall.

Lucas’s hand twitched against Carlos’s chest, his lips parting in sleep. His soft breath puffed against Carlos’s bare skin, and I could see my boyfriend — my boy — absolutely still, like he was afraid to move and wake him again.

And in that moment — with my exhausted seventeen-year-old body sinking into a couch I didn’t even buy, watching the father of my child bounce our baby with such fierce, clumsy love — I felt everything at once.

Terror. Gratitude. Pride. Love. More love than I knew how to carry.

Lucas had finally gone still.

Carlos stood there for another full minute, unmoving, as if afraid the tiniest shift would break the spell. His eyes locked on our son’s tiny chest, watching it rise and fall, rise and fall, his mouth parted slightly in awe. I stayed quiet on the couch, holding my breath like I was watching some fragile miracle.

Then Carlos turned, slowly, and stepped toward the corner of the room where the bassinet was set up — soft grey mesh siding, the little giraffe blanket folded at the edge, a muslin cloth draped over one side from earlier. He leaned over gently and lowered Lucas in, supporting his head with both hands. My heart clenched watching him. His hands were so big and brown and callused from years of life — and they cradled our baby with such impossible tenderness.

Lucas stirred slightly when his back hit the mattress. Carlos froze. We both did.

A quiet whimper.

Then a sigh.

And stillness.

Carlos let out a breath so deep his shoulders sagged forward like someone had pulled the tension out of him like string. He stood there, hand hovering just over the edge of the bassinet, before whispering in a voice just for me, “He okay now.”

I nodded, eyes stinging. “Yeah. You did amazing.”

He turned to me, his face tired and soft in the lamplight, and walked back toward the couch. I lifted my legs automatically, letting him slide onto the cushion beside me. Without thinking, I curled up into his side, head against his shoulder, one hand against his bare chest. He was warm, always so warm. The heat of him made me exhale in relief.

His arm came around me without hesitation, pulling me closer until I was practically folded into him.

I closed my eyes.

The quiet of the house now felt sacred — not eerie like before. The soft hum of the heater. The barely-there whirr of Lucas breathing through his nose. The rhythmic, steady thump of Carlos’s heartbeat under my palm.

His voice came low, drowsy, thick with exhaustion.

“I never think… I be here. Like this. With you. With… him.”

I tilted my head up, eyes half open. “You didn’t?”

He shrugged one shoulder carefully, not wanting to disturb me. “I think… I be gone, maybe. Or too young. Or… not ready.”

I smiled weakly, brushing my fingers against his chest. “You’re ready, Carlos. You’ve been ready.”

He looked down at me, eyes sleepy but warm. “You think?”

“I know.” I reached up and kissed his jaw gently. “I couldn’t do this without you.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then whispered, “I don’t want you do without me.”

We sat there like that — tangled in each other, the kind of silence that only came when both people had given everything they had and had nothing left to give but closeness. Every inch of my body ached. My back hurt, my eyes stung, and I could feel the ghost of stress trembling in my fingertips.

But for the first time that night, my chest wasn’t heavy.

Lucas was safe. Carlos was here. And we were okay.

Carlos’s breathing started to slow, his head tipping slightly against mine.

I smiled into his skin, eyes fluttering shut. “Five minutes,” I whispered to no one in particular. “Just five minutes…”

And then we both drifted.

The lamp still glowed faintly across the room. Lucas slept on in the bassinet, one tiny hand curled up against his cheek.

And on the couch, two young parents held onto each other in the dark — fast asleep, hearts finally still.

It was the sound of birds that stirred me first — not loud, but faint. Distant chirps, like the sky was just beginning to blink awake.

The room was tinted a pale blue-grey, that early-morning light that makes everything look gentle. My neck ached. My back was stiff. And my arm… I couldn't feel my arm. I blinked slowly and realized my arm was completely numb beneath Carlos, who had somehow managed to shift in his sleep and was now fully resting against me, one leg tangled with mine, head tilted against mine.

I tried not to move. I didn’t want to wake him.

He looked… young like this. Softer than he ever let the world see. His lashes were long, cheeks flushed from warmth, mouth slightly parted as he breathed slow and deep. A little line of dried drool marked the edge of his mouth, and I bit back a smile.

I turned my head slowly toward the bassinet.

Lucas was still asleep.

One arm flung over his head like a tiny drunk man passed out after a wild night. His lips were smushed into the side of the mattress and one foot had wiggled out of the swaddle, sock half-off. My heart tugged. I still couldn’t believe he was real.

Three months early. So small. But still… here.

A soft groan near my ear.

Carlos stirred, his arm tightening around my waist as he tried to stretch without letting me go. “Mierda…” he mumbled, rubbing his face sleepily into my shoulder. “My neck is… broken.”

I let out a tired laugh. “Join the club.”

He slowly sat up, blinking toward the window, hair sticking up wildly on one side. He looked down at me, his expression still foggy with sleep.

“We fall sleep here?”

I nodded, sitting up too, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “I think around three. Maybe a little after.”

Carlos’s gaze drifted toward the bassinet. His body visibly softened when he saw Lucas still asleep. “He okay?”

“Still breathing,” I said with a gentle smile. “Still here.”

Carlos leaned back into the couch and let out a deep exhale, eyes on the ceiling. Then he looked over at me and reached for my hand, pulling it into his lap.

“You did good, mamá,” he said softly, thumb rubbing slow circles on my palm. “You do everything. I… I just watch.”

I shook my head, swallowing past the lump forming in my throat. “You held him. You walked him around the kitchen for two hours. You made the bottle. You didn’t sleep—”

“I sleep now,” he teased, eyes twinkling with exhaustion.

I laughed quietly. “Yeah. You snored in my ear, thank you very much.”

He grinned lazily, then kissed the back of my hand.

“I love you,” he said, so plainly it made my chest squeeze.

I looked down at our hands. “I love you, too.”

The bassinet rustled.

Both our heads snapped toward it.

Lucas was stretching, tiny fists raised above his head, mouth opening in a silent yawn. His face scrunched like he was deciding whether or not to cry.

Carlos leaned forward and whispered, “Don’t you do it, chiquitín… don’t cry…”

Lucas sneezed. Twice. Then settled back.

We both exhaled like we’d just dodged a grenade.

Carlos got up slowly, cracked his back, then reached down and kissed the top of my head. “I make tea, okay?”

“Okay,” I whispered.

I sat there in the quiet, watching my son twitch in his sleep, hearing Carlos clatter softly in the kitchen — and for the first time since Lucas had been born, I didn’t feel like a kid trying to survive something too big.

I felt like… a mother.

A tired one. A messy one. A sore one.

But a mother.

And we were going to be okay.

[charlesollielandooscararthur]

Carlos Sainz

Lucas's Birth One Day at a Time 2:42 AM.

[charlesollielandooscararthur]

Lucas's Birth

Summary: Y/n goes into labour 13 weeks early.

2012

I woke up that night with a strange tightness in my belly — at first it was just a dull ache, like someone pressing hard inside me, but then it twisted into something sharp and relentless. I blinked against the dark ceiling, trying to breathe through it, but my chest felt tight and panicked.

I knew this wasn't normal.

I sat up slowly, my hands trembling as they pressed against my stomach. The ache came again, stronger — like waves crashing, relentless and unyielding. It was way too soon. I wasn't supposed to have this baby for another three months. Thirteen weeks early.

My throat tightened. I swallowed hard and reached for my phone on the bedside table. The screen lit up, casting a pale blue glow across my tear-streaked face. I stared at the number for a moment — Mom's — but I remembered she wasn't home. She'd just had a baby herself and I was here alone in her empty house, just sixteen, with no one to lean on.

My fingers shook as I dialed emergency services. The phone felt heavy in my hand, like it was an anchor dragging me down deeper into fear. The line clicked.

"Hello, emergency services. What's your emergency?"

My voice broke when I answered, whisper-thin and shaking, "I—I'm going into labor. But it's too early. I'm only sixteen and... and my mom's not here. Please. Please send help."

The woman on the other end was calm, steady. "Where are you now, Y/n?"

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "My mom's house. But it's just me."

The next few minutes passed in a blur — my breaths coming fast and shallow as the cramps hit harder and closer together. My knees dug into the cold hardwood floor. I gripped the edges of the bed, trying not to scream as the contractions tightened like a vise around my belly.

I closed my eyes and prayed. Please don't let the baby come now. Please let me hold him for just a little longer.

The sound of the ambulance sirens felt miles away, but then suddenly closer, racing down the street, rushing toward me like hope itself.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead, my heart pounding so loud I thought it might burst.

This is really happening.

I wasn't ready. Not by a long shot.

The hospital room was cold and sterile—too cold for someone feeling like their whole body was being torn apart from the inside out. The harsh white lights overhead flickered faintly, casting long shadows on the linoleum floor. The sharp smell of antiseptic stung my nostrils and made my throat close up tighter.

I was sprawled across the narrow hospital bed, my hands clawing at the sheets as another contraction rolled through me, relentless and unforgiving. Every nerve in my body was on fire, like a thousand needles stabbing me at once. My breath came ragged, each inhale shallow, desperate, trying to hold myself together even as my insides clenched tighter than ever.

"Please..." I whispered, my voice raw and broken, tears sliding down my cheeks. "Please... can you call Carlos? I need him here."

The nurse's face softened as she nodded, her hands gentle but firm as she adjusted the IV in my arm. "I'm going to call him now, Y/n. Just try to breathe, okay? You're doing so well."

But the pain was overwhelming. It wasn't just pain—it was terror, too. I was only sixteen. I was supposed to have months before this. How could I be here, alone, on this bed, about to bring a baby into the world way too soon?

The contractions crashed over me like waves, and I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out everything but the sound of my own shaky breaths and the dull beeping of the monitors nearby.

"Carlos..." I whispered again, clinging to the hope that his voice on the phone would somehow pull me back from this place of fear and agony.

The doctor came in then, her face calm but serious. She crouched beside me, her voice low but steady. "He'll be here as soon as he can."

I nodded, but all I could do was grip the hospital sheets tighter, biting down hard to stop myself from screaming. The pain kept coming, wave after wave, and I was so scared—so incredibly scared—that I couldn't even think about anything but making it through the next second.

But through it all, I clung to the one thing I needed most. Carlos. I needed him to hold my hand, to tell me I wasn't alone. To be the strength I felt like I didn't have.

The heavy door creaked open, and then—like a beacon through the storm—I heard his voice. Carlos.

"Y/n!" His voice was a mixture of worry and relief, rushing through the room like warm sunlight breaking through cold shadows.

I tried to lift my head, my whole body trembling from the pain, but when I saw him standing there, his eyes locked on mine, everything inside me softened a little.

He was out of breath, his dark hair a little tousled, and there was that familiar warmth in his eyes—the way he always looked at me like I was the most important thing in the world. Even now, even when I was at my most vulnerable.

"I'm here," he said, voice low but steady, stepping closer. "I'm right here."

His hand found mine, fingers curling around mine like a lifeline. The skin of his palm was warm, grounding me, pulling me back from the edge of panic that had swallowed me whole just moments before.

"Breathe with me, Y/n," he whispered, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. "In... and out."

I tried. The contractions hit again, ripping through me like fire, but this time, his presence was a shield. His steady breathing matched mine, slow and deep, even as the pain gnawed at my edges.

"Just a little longer," he murmured, voice cracking with emotion. "You so strong. We're gonna get through this."

Tears spilled down my cheeks, but I didn't care. I let them fall as he squeezed my hand, his fingers tightening around mine, reminding me I wasn't alone.

In that sterile hospital room, surrounded by beeping machines and harsh lights, Carlos was my world. The anchor holding me steady when everything else felt like it was slipping away.

The door swung open again, this time with urgency. Two doctors entered, their faces serious but compassionate, moving quickly around the room. One was a tall woman with kind eyes, the other a man whose jaw was set tight with focus.

They exchanged quick words before turning their attention to me. My chest tightened as I tried to stay still, every breath an effort. Carlos's hand in mine was the only steady thing in the world.

"Y/n," the woman doctor began gently, pulling a chair close to my bedside. Her voice was calm, but there was an unmistakable gravity beneath it. "Your baby is coming much earlier than expected. Thirteen weeks premature. That means he's extremely fragile right now."

The words hit me like a cold wave. Fragile. The baby inside me, my Lucas, wasn't ready. Not at all.

"You're about 27 weeks along," the man added, "and babies born this early face a lot of challenges. Their lungs might not be fully developed, they can have difficulty breathing, and they need specialized care immediately after birth."

I blinked, trying to hold back the panic rising in my throat. I wanted to scream that this wasn't fair — that I wasn't ready, that I was just sixteen — but all that came out was a shaky breath.

"We'll do everything we can," the woman doctor assured me, her hand resting lightly on my arm. "There's a neonatal intensive care unit here, and specialists will be ready to support your baby the moment he's born. But it's important to know it's going to be hard. We want you to be prepared for the possibility he'll need breathing support and close monitoring."

Carlos tightened his grip on my hand, his eyes never leaving mine. I could see the worry there too — fierce and protective.

"I'm scared," I whispered, voice cracking. "What if he doesn't make it?"

The man doctor's face softened. "It's okay to be scared, Y/n. We're going to fight for him with everything we've got. But we need you to stay as calm and strong as you can — for you, and for him."

The contraction hit again, sharp and unrelenting. I gritted my teeth, tears burning behind my eyelids.

"Let's focus on the next steps," the woman said gently. "We'll monitor you closely. When the time comes, we'll support you through the delivery. Carlos, you'll be allowed to stay with Y/n during labor."

Carlos nodded fiercely, as if willing his presence to shield us both.

I wanted to believe it would be enough.

The pain was a fierce storm raging through my body, waves crashing harder and harder with every second. My hands clenched the hospital sheets, knuckles white, while sweat prickled at my temples. I wanted to scream but there wasn't strength left in me to make a sound.

Carlos sat close by, his eyes wide with worry, but his hand never left mine. His accent, still thick and beautiful, gave his words a softness that somehow made the terrifying moment feel a little less cold.

"Y/n... mi amor, you strong, sí? You strong like fire," he said, voice shaky but full of determination, like he was trying to convince himself as much as me.

I tried to smile through the agony. "Carlos, it hurts so much. I don't know if I can do this."

He squeezed my hand tighter, eyes never leaving mine. "No, no. You can. You must. For baby, sí? He need mama strong."

A fresh wave hit, and I gasped, pressing my forehead against the cool hospital pillow. The pain stole my breath, but his voice was my anchor.

"Breathe with me, Y/n. In... out... like ocean waves, sí?"

I focused on his voice, slow and steady despite the chaos. I tried to match my breath to his, deep and slow, even though my body screamed otherwise.

"You not alone, Y/n. I here. I stay with you. You have me," he said softly, brushing a damp strand of hair off my sweaty face.

Tears slipped down my cheeks. "I'm scared, Carlos. So scared. I'm only sixteen. What if—"

"Shhh. No think like that. We fight together. We make strong," he whispered, voice breaking a little.

I felt the warmth of his hand grounding me, his imperfect English like a lullaby amidst the storm. Even in this moment of pure terror and pain, I knew I wasn't alone.

"Mi corazón, you do this. I believe in you," he said, voice fierce now, like a promise.

And somehow, with him there, I could keep going. Just a little longer.

The moment had finally come.

My body was trembling, sweat soaking through the thin hospital gown as the contractions hit with no mercy, sharp and unrelenting like knives twisting deep inside me. Every breath was a battle — a desperate gasp to ride the waves of pain crashing over me. It felt like my entire world had shrunk to this narrow bed, these cold sheets, and the fierce fire burning in my belly.

I could barely think through the haze of agony. My legs felt heavy and weak, like they might give out any second. My hands gripped the sheets so hard my nails dug into the fabric, trying to hold myself together even as my body screamed for release. The room was a blur of harsh white lights and quiet murmurs — doctors and nurses moving around me like distant shadows, focused but gentle.

Carlos was at my side, his hand never leaving mine. His dark eyes were full of something fierce — a mixture of awe and heartbreak. His broken English didn't matter now. All I needed was the warmth of his presence, the steady squeeze of his fingers holding me up when I felt like falling apart.

"Y/n, you're doing amazing," the nurse said softly, her voice a lifeline in the storm. "Just keep breathing with me. In through your nose... out through your mouth..."

I tried to follow, but the pain overwhelmed every thought. It was like a firestorm inside me — burning, twisting, breaking me down and building me up all at once. I felt every muscle stretch, every nerve tighten, every ounce of strength drain away.

Then came the overwhelming pressure. A deep, urgent pushing that ripped through me, something raw and primal. My body instinctively knew what to do, even when my mind screamed in terror. It was the most intense thing I'd ever felt — terrifying and miraculous all at once.

I closed my eyes and gave in, pushing with everything I had. My skin burned, my breath caught, my heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst.

"Good, Y/n, keep going," the doctor encouraged, voice calm but urgent. "You're almost there."

The world narrowed to the sensation of pushing, the sharpness of pain, and the desperate hope that my baby was coming safely. Time stretched and folded over itself — seconds feeling like hours, and hours like seconds.

And then—suddenly—there was a change. A wet warmth, and then the first cries. Tiny, fragile, but fierce.

I opened my eyes to the sight of a small, squirming bundle, swaddled in blankets and whisked away by the nurses. His cries were weak but alive—a fierce little battle cry against the odds.

Tears blurred my vision as Carlos leaned close, whispering, "He here. He fight. He strong."

A mix of exhaustion, relief, fear, and overwhelming love crashed over me all at once. My body ached in ways I never knew possible, but my heart felt like it might explode with the intensity of it all.

He was so small. So fragile. But alive.

The doctors explained he needed special care — breathing support, monitoring, the fragile fight of a preemie. But in that moment, nothing else mattered except that my baby Lucas was here.

Carlos kissed my forehead gently, eyes shining. "You do good, mi amor. You strong. We strong."

I wanted to believe it. I had to believe it.

I couldn't see him properly — they took him right away, the NICU team waiting at the corner of the room with warmers and machines and masked urgency. All I caught was a glimpse of his impossibly small body, red and wrinkled, like a baby bird that had fallen too soon from the nest. My heart shattered with love and terror.

"He's breathing," one of the nurses said, quickly. "We've got him."

I tried to lift my head, but I was too weak. My body felt hollowed out, like I'd been cracked open and scraped clean. I wasn't even crying — not yet. I was past crying. Just shock and silence and a pulse pounding so loud in my ears it was all I could hear.

Carlos's face was soaked in tears. He hadn't let go of my hand once, but he was staring at the team gathered around our son like his whole heart was lying on that metal table.

I could barely speak. My voice was hoarse, thin. "He's so small..."

Carlos nodded slowly, choking on his breath. "Sí... pequeño. But strong, like mama."

And then I felt it. The burning. The stinging. A different kind of pain down below. I flinched and cried out.

The doctor turned back to me. "You did so well, Y/n. The baby's in good hands now. But we need to take care of you, okay?"

I blinked, confused. "What... what's wrong?"

"You tore during delivery," she said gently. "It's very common with early births. The tissue just... it wasn't ready. You've got a second-degree tear. I'm going to stitch you up now. It won't take long."

I gritted my teeth and nodded, too dazed to argue. A nurse adjusted my legs, spreading me again as the doctor moved between them with tools and gauze.

Carlos turned his eyes to me, gently cupping my cheek. "I stay here. Look at me. No think about down there, okay?"

I tried to laugh, but it came out as a broken breath.

The stitching started — a sharp prick from the numbing injection, and then a tugging, burning sensation that made me flinch. I felt the pressure even though they said it shouldn't hurt. It wasn't unbearable, but it wasn't comfortable either. It was like my body had already been through a war, and now it was being stitched back together — thread by thread.

The worst part wasn't the physical pain, though.

It was the not knowing. Not being able to hold him. Not hearing his cries anymore. Not knowing if he was okay, or if something had gone wrong in the corner of the room where machines were beeping softly.

"Where is he?" I whispered, voice trembling.

"They're stabilizing him," Carlos said, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles. "Then maybe... maybe we go see him. When they say, sí?"

I nodded again, even though it took everything in me to do it. I stared at the ceiling as the doctor finished the final stitch, wiping me gently and speaking softly.

"There we go. All done. We're going to monitor you now — you lost some blood, but nothing too serious. You need rest. Fluids. Food, when you're ready. And then... we'll take you to him. He's strong, Y/n. He's fighting."

So was I.

Even as my body shook. Even as I lay in a bed soaked in blood and sweat and fear.

I was still his mother.

And I would fight, too.

The wheelchair felt too big for me, like I'd shrunk into something smaller than myself. I was wrapped in a thin hospital blanket, legs trembling, body aching from the tear and the trauma and the ache of not knowing. My arms were empty, and they burned with the instinct to hold him — my baby, my son — but they stayed still in my lap.

Carlos walked beside me, one hand on my shoulder, the other wiping at his face now and then, like he didn't want me to see him cry. But I saw everything. The tightness in his jaw. The way his chest rose and fell too quickly. The fear behind his eyes. I think we were both holding our breath the entire ride through the hospital's halls.

The elevator doors opened with a ding that made me flinch. The NICU was quiet, almost eerily so. Dimly lit, warm, sterile. Every sound was muffled, controlled — the beeping of machines, the hum of air vents, and soft voices of nurses speaking in whispers as if volume might shatter the fragile lives inside.

And then I saw him.

Tiny. So, so tiny.

Lucas was in an incubator, his skin almost translucent, covered in wires and tubes — one in his nose to help him breathe, monitors taped to his chest, and the smallest diaper I'd ever seen barely covering him. He looked like he couldn't possibly survive. Like if I touched him, he might break.

My heart broke instead.

I didn't realize I was crying until I felt Carlos crouch down beside me, his arm wrapping around my shoulders. He was crying too, quietly. His fingers found mine and held on like he was afraid I'd fall apart.

"He's beautiful," I whispered, though my voice cracked on the last syllable. "He's so beautiful, Carlos..."

"Sí... es perfecto," he said, nodding. "So small... but... look at him. He fight already. Like you."

One of the NICU nurses came over, kind-eyed and gentle. "Hi, sweetheart," she said softly to me. "I know this is overwhelming. But he's doing really well for a 27-weeker. He's stable, and that's a great start. Would you like to touch him?"

I nodded — fast and desperate — like if I didn't, I might stop breathing altogether.

She guided my hand, sanitizing it, then showed me the little port in the incubator I could reach through. I slid my fingers in slowly, carefully, terrified. He looked too delicate, like silk or paper. But when I laid my finger softly against his tiny hand, his fingers twitched — curled ever so slightly.

I gasped.

"He moved..." I whispered, a sob catching in my throat. "He... he knows me..."

Carlos leaned forward too, placing his big hand over the glass like he was trying to touch him too, just on the other side of a barrier. "Hola, mi hijo," he whispered. "It's Papa... we love you. So much."

I couldn't stop the tears. I didn't even try.

Because despite the fear, the tubes, the beeping... that moment was the most powerful of my life.

My baby was here.

He was real.

And he was fighting.

And no matter what came next, I would never let him fight alone.

[charlesollielandooscararthur]

Bored (Messages)

Summary: Y/n is lonely and bored

[charlesollielandooscararthur]

"But I love you, Sophie" (messages)

summary: Charles calls Y/n the wrong name.

[charlesollielandooscararthur]

Chapter Twenty-Too-Much

Summary: When Charles reads a little of Y/n romance books and it happens to be a little spicy.

It was one of those rare evenings where nothing needed to be done and no one was expected anywhere. The windows were cracked open to let in the Monaco evening air, and the sun had dipped low enough that the light streaming through the apartment turned everything golden. The kind of light that made everything feel like a dream.

Charles had been in the kitchen for a while now, doing something unnecessarily complicated with olives. I could hear the occasional frustrated French muttering and the clink of utensils, but I was too engrossed in my book to comment. I was curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked up under me, wearing one of Charles’ oversized hoodies — the red Ferrari one I always stole when he wasn’t looking. Alexandra sat on the carpet a few feet away, scrolling through her iPad while Leo snoozed next to her with one of his paws twitching from dreams.

My book — the one I’d been absolutely devouring all week — was reaching that point. You know the one. That slow burn tension boiling over. The kind of chapter that should come with a warning label.

But I didn’t flinch. I didn’t blush. I didn’t even blink.

I just turned the page and kept reading, as if it were a weather report.

Charles finally walked into the living room, rolling his sleeves up like he was preparing for battle. “Okay, the olives were—why do we even buy olives that don’t open like normal people?”

He trailed off mid-rant when he saw me. I guess it was the look on my face. Or lack thereof. The unnaturally calm expression paired with the tight grip on the book.

He tilted his head and came around the couch slowly, peering over my shoulder. “What are you reading?”

“Just a book,” I replied casually, eyes not leaving the page.

He squinted. “A book about… what exactly?”

I didn’t answer.

He leaned closer.

And then he went completely still.

I heard his breath hitch, just a little. There was silence.

And then:

“Is that his hand or her hand? I’m—Y/n.”

“Yes, Charles?” I turned the page without hesitation.

He pulled his head back slightly, blinking in disbelief. “You’re reading that with a straight face?”

“It’s well written.”

“She just—he literally just—Y/n!”

I smirked. Alexandra looked up from the rug, a subtle smile playing at the corner of her lips.

“What is it now?” she asked, already amused.

“She’s reading something filthy, and she’s just sitting there like she’s doing taxes,” Charles exclaimed, pacing a few steps in either direction before turning back toward me with wide eyes. “Is this normal for you?”

“I have range,” I said matter-of-factly. “I also cried during Finding Nemo, remember?”

“That’s not the same!” he sputtered. “This is—this is… someone should arrest the author!”

Alexandra finally stood up and came around to see the book. She didn’t even flinch either. “Is this the one with the rooftop scene?”

“Yes,” I grinned. “I just passed it.”

She let out a low whistle. “That scene does live rent-free in my head.”

“You too?” Charles looked between us like he was surrounded by aliens.

“Relax,” Alex said, nudging him with her elbow. “It’s just a book.”

“A graphic book!”

I finally closed it with a soft thump, setting it on the coffee table. “Would you rather I read it aloud? I could do voices.”

Charles visibly paled. “No. That’s worse.”

Alex laughed, sitting beside me on the armrest of the couch. “Oh, come on. Let her read a line or two. I want to see how long you can last before combusting.”

He threw a pillow at her.

I picked up the book, flipped it open with a casual elegance, and cleared my throat dramatically. “He pressed her against the—”

“Nope!” Charles was already walking out of the room, waving his arms. “No, no, no. I’m going to go make espresso or something. I need to pray.”

“Need help finding your rosary beads?” I called after him, giggling.

He stuck his head back around the corner. “You know what scares me most?”

“What?”

“That you’re completely unbothered. Like your casually just reading about—about silk ties and elevator buttons.”

I just shrugged.

Charles eventually came back with coffee for all three of us, clearly shaken but trying to pretend he wasn’t. He sat between us, shaking his head while I reached for the book again.

“You’ve ruined this couch,” he mumbled. “This couch has seen things now.”

“You’ll live,” I teased, leaning against him.

He wrapped an arm around me reluctantly, sipping his espresso. “I’m never letting you read on a plane again. What if the flight attendant reads over your shoulder and passes out?”

“You’re so dramatic.”

Alexandra placed her hand on his other shoulder. “Welcome to our world, mon amour. We’ve been like this for years.”

“I can’t believe I thought she was innocent when I met her,” Charles said to no one in particular.

“She was innocent,” I said, reaching up to kiss his jaw sweetly. “Then I discovered fantasy romance.”

He groaned and buried his face in the pillow.

[charlesollielandooscararthur]

Charles Leclerc and Alexandra saint mleux

Sick Chapter Twenty-Too-Much

Messages

"But I love you, Sophie"

[charlesollielandooscararthur]

Sick

summary: Y/n is sick...

I feel miserable. My head is pounding, my body aches in places I didn't even know could hurt, and my nose is so stuffed up that breathing feels like a full-time job. I'm curled up in bed under a mountain of blankets, feeling like a small, pathetic pile of humanity, when I hear the door creak open.

"Y/n..." Charles's voice is so soft, it's almost a whisper, but it cuts through the fog in my brain easily.

I lift my head just barely to look at him, my eyes puffy and tired. I'm too weak to even form words, so I just let out a pathetic little grunt, which somehow says everything he needs to know.

He smiles — that small, soft smile he only ever uses when he's worried about me — and crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed. He reaches out, brushing some sweaty hair away from my forehead, his hand cool and comforting.

"You're burning up, baby," he murmurs, more to himself than to me. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up a little."

I don't have the strength to argue, even though the thought of moving makes me want to cry. Gently, Charles scoops me up like I weigh nothing, cradling me against his chest. I tuck my face into his shoulder, too tired to even be embarrassed by how much I'm leaning on him.

He carries me into the bathroom, already warm from the steam of the bath he must've run earlier. The smell of lavender fills the air — something calming, soothing — and he kneels down with me, setting me softly on the edge of the tub. I blink at him through heavy lashes, feeling like I might fall asleep sitting up.

"Let me help, yeah?" he says quietly, almost like he's asking for permission. I nod weakly.

With hands that are so careful it almost makes me cry, Charles peels my sweat-soaked clothes off, helping me step into the warm water. The second my body hits the heat, I let out a small, broken sigh. It feels so good I could melt right there.

Charles rolls up his sleeves and kneels beside the tub, taking a soft cloth and running it gently over my arms, my back, my face. Every motion is slow, patient, like he's afraid I'll shatter if he's too rough.

"You're doing so good," he whispers, dipping the cloth back into the water and wringing it out carefully. "Just relax, okay?"

I close my eyes, letting myself be cared for. The warmth of the bath, the rhythmic motion of his hands, the quiet sound of his breathing — it all works together to calm the pounding in my head just a little.

After a while, he helps me out, wrapping me immediately in the biggest, fluffiest towel he could find. He dries me off so gently it feels like I'm made of glass, then carries me back to bed and tucks me in like I'm something precious.

"I'll be right back," he says, brushing a kiss across my forehead.

I don't even have time to miss him before he's back, a bowl of soup in his hands and that same gentle look in his eyes. He sits beside me again, helping me sit up against the pillows.

"Here," he says, blowing on the spoon before holding it up to my lips. "Small sips."

I feel stupid, letting someone feed me like I'm a child, but Charles doesn't make it feel stupid. His hand is steady, his touch light, and his patience endless. Every spoonful is warm and soothing, easing the ache in my throat a little at a time.

"You're doing great," he says after every few bites, like it's some huge accomplishment that I'm managing to swallow soup.

When I'm too tired to eat anymore, he sets the bowl aside and carefully tucks me back under the covers, adjusting the blanket so it's perfectly snug around me. He sits with me for a moment longer, running his fingers softly through my damp hair.

"You're safe," he murmurs. "You're gonna feel better soon. I've got you."

And even though my body feels awful and my head is still pounding, I believe him. Because with Charles here — patient, soft, steady Charles— I know I'm going to be okay.

I'm half-dozing when I hear the door creak open again. I manage to crack one eye open just enough to see Alexandra slipping into the room, her arms full — a fresh set of clothes, a fluffy blanket, and what looks like a cup of tea balanced precariously on top.

Charles looks up at her with a small smile, and even through my fever haze, I catch the quiet exchange between them — that look they always share, the one that says "we've got this."

"Hey, baby," Alex says softly, setting everything down on the nightstand. She crosses to my side of the bed and kneels down, her hand cool as she brushes my hair back from my face. "You scared us a little."

I blink at her, throat too raw to speak, but I reach for her hand weakly. She catches it immediately, squeezing back gently.

Charles shifts so Alex can sit beside me, her body curling protectively around mine. She pulls the new blanket over both of us, making sure I'm tucked in right against her chest. I sink into her warmth like it's the only thing tethering me to the planet.

Charles sits at the foot of the bed now, watching, making sure everything is just right. He picks up the tea Alex brought and gently places it in her hands.

"Think you can get her to sip a little?" he asks quietly.

Alex smiles at me, the kind of smile that feels like home, and nods. She tilts the cup carefully, holding it to my lips. The first sip is warm, a little sweet, and it soothes the rawness in my throat immediately.

"There you go," she murmurs. "Just little bits. No rush."

I take a few more sips before resting my head against her shoulder again, completely exhausted but feeling... safer. Better. Not fixed, not yet — but not alone.

Charles moves around the room quietly, picking up the abandoned soup bowl and tidying up, but every few minutes he glances back at me, like he can't quite help himself.

"You're gonna be okay, baby," Alex says into my hair, rocking me just a little like I'm a kid again. "We've got you."

"Always," Charles echoes from the foot of the bed, his voice so sure, so steady.

And somewhere deep inside the fever and the fog, I believe them. I believe every word.

Because if there's anything in the world I trust — it's Charles's steady hands, and Alex's arms around me, and the way they both love me like I'm something fragile and fierce all at once.

I close my eyes, wrapped up in both of them, and finally — finally — let myself rest.

Alexandra's POV

Y/n's breathing evens out against my shoulder, her body finally relaxing fully into mine. I stay completely still, scared to even shift in case I disturb her.

Charles catches my eye from the foot of the bed. He's still holding the empty soup bowl in one hand, the towel slung over his shoulder from earlier. He looks tired — the same kind of tired I feel. The kind that settles in your chest when someone you love is hurting and there's not much you can do but be there.

I brush Y/n's hair back from her forehead again, fingers gentle, and kiss the top of her head. She doesn't stir. I can feel how warm her skin still is — the fever's still hanging on — but at least she's sleeping.

Charles sets the bowl down quietly on the nightstand and moves closer, crouching beside me. His hand finds my knee, squeezing it softly.

"She's okay," he says, barely above a whisper, like he's trying to convince himself too.

I nod, my throat tight. "Yeah. She's okay. She just needs time."

We both look down at her. Y/n looks so small like this. It's rare — usually she's so loud, so stubborn, so alive — but tonight she just looks... fragile. And it breaks my heart a little.

Charles leans his forehead against my arm for a second, letting out a slow breath. "I hate seeing her like this."

"I know," I whisper. I run my fingers through her hair again, slow and rhythmic, just trying to soothe her even in sleep.

We stay like that for a while — the three of us — until the room feels like it's breathing with us, warm and quiet and full of love.

Charles helps me shift her properly into the bed, both of us moving carefully like she's made of glass. She mumbles something under her breath as we lay her down, her fingers weakly clutching at my hoodie, not wanting to let go even in sleep.

"I'm right here, love," I whisper, smoothing her hair back. "Not going anywhere."

Charles pulls the blanket up to her chin, his movements careful, tucking her in the way you would a kid — neat, protective. His eyes are so full of tenderness it almost undoes me. He brushes a thumb across her cheek before finally climbing into bed on the other side of her.

I slip under the covers too, curling up close. Y/n immediately nuzzles against my chest, her face pressing into me, her whole body instinctively seeking comfort. I wrap my arms around her, feeling the weight of her settle into me fully.

Charles lies close on her other side, one of his hands finding hers beneath the blanket. He squeezes it gently, grounding her even in her sleep.

For a long while, we just lie there. The room is dim, the only sound the faint hum of the heater and Y/n's soft, uneven breaths. Every so often, she whimpers, shifting like she's caught in some fever dream, and each time, either Charles or I is there — whispering quiet reassurances, rubbing slow circles into her back or stroking her hair.

At some point, Charles's foot brushes against mine under the covers, a silent touch, and I press back without thinking. No words needed. We're both here. We both have her. We have each other.

I kiss Y/n's hair again, breathing her in — even sick, she still smells like home.

Eventually, I feel Y/n's breathing deepen, her body truly relaxing between us for the first time all night.

I let my eyes drift closed, one hand stroking through her hair, the other curled protectively around her. Charles's arm stretches over both of us now, like he's trying to shield us with just his presence alone.

And finally — for the first time in hours — I let myself rest too.

The morning is quiet, the soft kind of quiet that only happens when it's just the three of us, tucked away from the rest of the world.

The first thing I feel is Y/n's hair tickling under my chin, her head still tucked against me like she's afraid to let go even in sleep. Charles's hand is still loosely laced with hers, his breathing steady and slow.

I don't dare move much. I just lie there, running my fingers softly through her hair, careful not to wake her too soon.

Her face looks less flushed than last night, her brows no longer pinched tight in pain or fear. She's still pale, but she looks... peaceful.

I glance over at Charles. His eyes are open too now, just watching her, his thumb tracing absent-minded little circles on the back of her hand. He catches my eye and gives me a small, tired smile.

"She's cooler," he mouths.

I nod, swallowing the lump of relief in my throat.

We stay like that for a while, just breathing together, soaking in the slow miracle of her getting better.

Eventually, I feel her shift a little, her nose scrunching like it always does when she's about to wake up but doesn't want to. I smile down at her, brushing a knuckle against her cheek.

"Morning, sleepy," I whisper so softly it's almost a secret.

Her eyes flutter open, confused at first — then they land on me, then on Charles, and something in her whole body relaxes like a string snapping loose.

Y/n' POV

I blink a few times, trying to figure out if I'm dreaming.

But no — Alex is real, right there, holding me so close I can feel her heart beating against my ear. And Charles is there too, his fingers wrapped around mine like he never let go.

For a second, I just stay still, soaking it in. I feel weak, my throat dry and scratchy, but there's something warm and safe about the way they're looking at me. Like nothing bad could ever happen as long as we're here, together.

"Hi," I croak out, my voice wrecked.

Alex smiles at me so softly it makes my chest ache. "Hi, baby. How're you feeling?"

I frown, trying to assess it. Everything hurts a little, my head is pounding, but it's better. Way better than last night. I glance between them, feeling a rush of gratitude so fierce it nearly knocks the breath out of me.

"Like I got hit by a bus," I rasp, managing a weak grin.

Charles chuckles — a warm, low sound — and reaches out to brush my hair away from my face. "You look better than you did yesterday."

"Not saying much," I mumble, and Alex laughs, the sound soft and sweet.

"You scared us," she says, her voice dipping low, her fingers tracing patterns on my back. "But you're okay now. We've got you."

"I know," I whisper. I nuzzle closer to her chest, clinging onto the comfort. "Thank you."

Charles squeezes my hand. "Always, Y/n/n."

Alex presses a kiss into my hair, lingering there like she can heal me with just her touch. Maybe she can.

I must've drifted back off for a little while, because the next thing I know, the bed shifts underneath me. I groan, squeezing my eyes shut tighter.

"Nooo," I whine into Alex's hoodie, clinging onto her like a stubborn koala.

She laughs quietly, trying to peel herself away without really trying. "Baby, you need to eat something," she says gently, stroking my hair. "You haven't eaten in almost a day."

"I'm fine," I mumble. "I'll survive. Like a cockroach."

Charles snorts from where he's sitting at the foot of the bed. "Cockroaches eat, you know."

I crack one eye open to glare at him, but it's weak at best. My body feels like it's made of wet sand.

"Come on," Alex coaxes, so soft it makes my heart ache. "Just a little bit. For me?"

I huff dramatically but I already know I've lost. I can never say no to her when she uses that voice.

"Fine," I grumble, rolling onto my back like a petulant child. "But I'm not chewing. One spoonful and I'm done."

Charles stands up, bringing over the little tray they must've set up. There's a bowl of steaming soup — homemade, by the smell of it — and a glass of water with a straw.

"You don't have to chew soup, genius," he teases, setting it down carefully beside Alex.

I stick my tongue out at him, then immediately regret it when my throat scratches painfully. Alex just smiles, dipping the spoon into the broth, blowing on it until it's cool enough, then holding it up to my lips.

"Open," she says softly, like she's feeding a toddler.

I roll my eyes but obey, letting her feed me a spoonful. It's warm and salty and tastes like heaven, even if my stomach protests at the sudden attention.

"Good girl," Alex praises, wiping the corner of my mouth with her thumb. The simple, silly praise makes me blush hotter than the soup.

Charles chuckles low under his breath, pretending he's not looking at me like I'm the most ridiculous, lovable thing he's ever seen.

"Don't laugh at me," I mutter after swallowing another sip.

"I'm not," he says — and he's technically telling the truth. His face is suspiciously neutral, but his eyes are glowing with affection. "I'm proud of you."

"You're so full of it," I grumble, but deep down, it feels nice. It feels safe.

Between the two of them — Alex patiently feeding me and Charles making me laugh just enough to forget how gross I feel — the ache in my chest loosens a little more.

Maybe being sick isn't so bad... when you're this loved.