do not copy or repost my work on any other websites without my direct permission. if permission is given, please credit me, @f14fun.
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
RULES:
ˋ°•*⁀➷ a NO HATE NO DISCRIMINATION zone. absolutely not tolerating anything along those lines in this blog. have something bad to say; don't say it.
ˋ°•*⁀➷ i don't write 24/7! i have school and work, so sometimes updates may be fast or slow, depending on my availability
ˋ°•*⁀➷not taking requests right now! (this could possibly change for the future, i just have a lot of ideas that i want to get out now, lol)
ˋ°•*⁀➷ my fics are organized by driver, and under each driver each blurb is ordered from the least amount of words to the most amount of words
fic recs ᯓ★
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
op81:
𐙚 my own pastry
⋆˚✿˖° (smau & prose) - 2.9K
⋆˚✿˖° !baker x op81
𐙚 big mouth, big brain
⋆˚✿˖° (3 part series, smau & prose) - 8.0K
⋆˚✿˖° !youtuber/!video-essay-girlie x op81
𐙚 pages and podiums
⋆˚✿˖° (2 part series, prose) - 8.4K
⋆˚✿˖° !author-in-bookstore x op81
𐙚 lay all your love on me
⋆˚✿˖° (6 part series, prose) - 43K
⋆˚✿˖° !uni-girl euro summer x op81
──────────────────── ᯓ★ ────────────────────
mv1:
𐙚 pixelated love
⋆˚✿˖° (8 part series, smau)
⋆˚✿˖° !simmer x mv1
𐙚 dc it-girl
⋆˚✿˖° (1 part, 2nd part coming soon, smau & prose) - 3.3K
⋆˚✿˖° !fem!poc!black-reader x mv1
Considering that bright and early on Monday morning at 9:00 AM, I had a cumulative test for my Intro to Sociology course on social stratification, I should’ve been spending my Saturday night locked in my dorm, surrounded by sticky notes and highlighters, cramming like my life depended on it.
And, to be fair, it kind of did.
The University of London wasn’t just any institution—it was a beacon of prestige, a place where centuries of tradition met cutting-edge academic rigor. My concentration in International Relations wasn’t some fluff major either; it was the real deal, complete with rigorous coursework that challenged you to dissect the layers of global politics, economics, and, of course, sociology.
Getting into this university had been a Herculean task. Maintaining my grades here? Even more so. I wasn’t just chasing a degree—I was chasing First-Class Honours, the kind of distinction that could open doors to diplomatic corps, global think tanks, or even the United Nations. It wasn’t just expected by my parents; it was demanded by my own overachieving, anxiety-ridden brain.
Which was why I absolutely needed this course to go well. I needed that test score. I needed to drown myself in textbooks until the theories of Karl Marx and Max Weber were practically embedded into my brain.
But did I also need this blind date?
For purely entertainment purposes? Maybe.
For the sake of my rapidly deteriorating mental health? Definitely.
All thanks to Ollie, my friend-slash-brother-from-another-mother, who had somehow made it his life’s mission to “get me out there.” “It’ll be good for you,” he’d said with his usual laid-back grin when I protested. “You’re always locked up in that room of yours. Have some fun for once, yeah?”
My protests had been met with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Trust me, you’ll like him. He’s one of my best mates. Good guy, funny, decent-looking, and he knows how to hold a conversation. What more could you want?”
For starters, I wanted to know who the hell this mystery man was.
“What’s his name?” I’d asked, crossing my arms as Ollie lounged on my couch like he owned the place.
“You’ll find out on Saturday,” he’d replied, far too casually for my liking.
“Oh, come on!”
“It’s a blind date, love,” he’d said with an exaggerated eye roll. “The point is in the name.”
“And what if he’s horrible?”
“He’s not,” Ollie had said, his grin widening. “And if he is, you can ditch halfway through and blame it on your precious sociology test.”
“He’s not,” Ollie had said, his grin widening like he’d just cracked the code to the universe. “And if he is, you can ditch halfway through and blame it on your precious sociology test. Or, better yet, fake food poisoning—classic, foolproof.”
“Great plan, Ollie,” I deadpanned, glaring at him. “I’ll just dramatically clutch my stomach and sprint to the bathroom. Real subtle.”
He laughed, propping his feet up on my coffee table like the annoying pest he was. “Hey, it works. And besides, you’re good at theatrics. Remember last month when you staged that coughing fit to get out of that guest lecture?”
“That was different,” I snapped. “I actually thought I was dying.”
“Oh, totally,” he said, smirking. “Dying of boredom.”
I threw a pillow at his face, which he caught effortlessly, still grinning. “You’re so annoying.”
“Annoying but lovable,” he replied, tossing the pillow back with that self-satisfied grin that made me want to both punch him and keep him around forever. “And you’ll thank me for this. Trust me.”
“Trust you?” I echoed, glaring at him. “Ollie, you’re about as trustworthy as a wet traffic cone. And let’s not forget the last time you tried to ‘help me.’ I’m still emotionally recovering from the guy who wouldn’t stop talking about his crypto portfolio.”
“That was one time,” he said, rolling his eyes dramatically as he sprawled across my couch, looking far too comfortable in my space. “And, in my defense, how was I supposed to know he’d turn out to be a walking NFT?”
I glared harder, arms crossed. “He handed me a business card with a QR code that said, ‘Scan for my life story.’”
Ollie burst out laughing, kicking his feet up on my coffee table like he owned the place. “Okay, fine, I’ll admit that one was a misfire. But this guy? Top-notch. No QR codes. Just vibes.”
“Great. Because ‘vibes’ are definitely what I’m looking for,” I muttered, sinking into the armchair opposite him. “I should be studying right now, not signing up for another one of your social experiments.”
“Studying?” Ollie repeated, raising an eyebrow. “It’s Saturday night, Y/N. Even nerds need a night off. Besides, I’m leaving in two weeks for testing. Who knows when I’ll be back to sprinkle a little chaos in your life?”
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. That was the thing about Ollie—he was infuriating, but I missed him when he wasn’t around. He’d been my unofficial big brother since university, and now that he was off racing for Haas in Formula One, our hangouts were fewer and farther between. The thought of him jetting off for the season again made me soften, just a little.
“Fine,” I said begrudgingly. “But if this date sucks, I’m holding it against you for the next decade.”
“Deal,” Ollie said, sitting up and extending a hand like we were sealing a business agreement. I ignored it, rolling my eyes instead.
“And when you’re back in March, you’re buying me dinner,” I added.
“Done,” he said, grinning. “You want it in London or a paddock somewhere?”
“London,” I said firmly. “I’m not flying to Bahrain just to watch you crash into someone.”
“Bold of you to assume I’d crash,” he shot back, a mock-offended hand over his heart.
“Bold of you to assume you wouldn’t,” I replied, smirking.
“You’re lucky I like you,” he said, shaking his head but laughing anyway. “Anyone else would’ve blocked your number by now.”
“And you’re lucky you’re going back to testing soon,” I said, throwing a pillow at him. “I can only take you in small doses.”
“Oh, you love me,” Ollie said with a grin, catching the pillow effortlessly. “Don’t worry, I’ll leave you alone in a few weeks. But until then, you’re stuck with me.”
God help me, he was right.
After Ollie left my dorm, grinning like the smug instigator he was, I decided to do what any responsible student would do: bury myself in my notes and try to salvage what little control I had over my life.
Friday night was a blur of highlighters, scribbled index cards, and frantic Googling about Karl Marx’s theory of class conflict. My desk, which had started out reasonably tidy, quickly turned into a war zone of open textbooks, coffee mugs, and half-eaten snacks. By the time I checked the clock, it was 5:00 AM, and I was drooling on my sociology notebook.
The guilt of falling asleep mid-study session hit me like a freight train when I finally woke up. My neck was sore, my back was stiff, and my face had a lovely imprint of the notebook spiral on it. The sun was already creeping through the blinds, and I groaned, wiping at the dried drool on my chin.
I stumbled into the dorm kitchen in my pajamas, too bleary-eyed to care who saw me, and threw together the saddest breakfast imaginable: a grilled cheese sandwich made from stale bread and the last two slices of American cheese in my fridge. The toaster barely worked, but it was functional enough to melt the cheese, which I considered a win. Sitting on the counter, I wolfed it down like a goblin, crumbs falling onto my notebook as I tried to multitask.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of intense cramming. I barely moved from my desk, save for bathroom breaks and refilling my mug with instant coffee. Page after page of social stratification theories blurred together, my brain buzzing with terms like "bourgeoisie," "proletariat," and "meritocracy." Time felt irrelevant—until it wasn’t.
When I finally glanced at the clock, it was 7:03 PM.
And my date was at 8:00.
Ohhhhh, I was so fucked.
Panic slammed into me like a freight train. My pen froze mid-sentence, and my eyes darted to the mess around me: papers, empty coffee cups, and my disheveled appearance reflected back at me in the dark screen of my laptop. My hair looked like it had fought a losing battle with a blender, and I was still wearing the same pajamas from the night before.
“Shit,” I muttered, pushing myself up from my desk so fast my chair squeaked. “Shit, shit, shit.”
How had I let this happen? Oh, right—because I’d convinced myself that I could juggle both being a straight-A student and surviving Ollie’s matchmaking. My brain, now functioning on fumes, reminded me of one very important fact: I was absolutely not ready.
“Okay, okay, I can fix this,” I said out loud, pacing my dorm in a panic. “Just... start with the basics. Shower. Clothes. Makeup. Don’t think about the fact that you’re already screwed.”
Grabbing my towel and a pair of flip-flops, I bolted down the hall to the shared dorm bathrooms, clutching my toiletries like a soldier heading into battle. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as I pushed open the door, the faint smell of cheap soap and mildew hitting me immediately. I grimaced. Shared dorm bathrooms were the bane of my existence, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
The showers were already occupied, voices bouncing off the tiled walls as girls chattered about everything from classes to their plans for the weekend. I tried my best to tune them out, ducking into the furthest stall and locking the door with a shaky hand.
“Fastest shower known to mankind,” I muttered to myself, tossing my towel over the door and setting my shampoo precariously on the tiny shelf. I slipped off my flip-flops and stepped onto the gritty floor of the shower stall, wincing as I reminded myself not to think about what might be lurking there.
I turned on the water, and it blasted me with ice-cold fury. “Shit!” I hissed, dancing out of the spray until it warmed up. Time was ticking, though, so I forced myself under the stream, quickly lathering up my hair and scrubbing like my life depended on it.
All the while, the conversations outside the stall droned on. Someone was laughing loudly about their roommate’s terrible cooking, and another voice chimed in about their date going horribly wrong. “Same, girl,” I muttered under my breath, rinsing shampoo out of my hair.
I grabbed my loofah and scrubbed every inch of myself with the kind of fervor that could’ve sanded a wooden floor. When I reached my feet, I braced myself, balancing on one leg like a flamingo to scrub in between my toes. “Germs don’t take a day off,” I whispered like it was a mantra.
Then came the worst part: shaving. I fumbled with my razor, slathering a generous amount of body wash on my legs before dragging the blade over my skin as quickly as I dared. My hand slipped once, the razor catching on my shin. “Ah, fuck!” I yelped, wincing as a thin red line appeared.
“Are you okay?” someone called from outside my stall, their voice tinged with concern.
“Fine!” I lied, my voice too high-pitched to sound convincing. “Totally fine!”
I rinsed my leg, the water stinging as it hit the scrape, and forced myself to finish shaving the other leg, gritting my teeth the entire time.
Finally, I turned off the water and grabbed my towel, wrapping it around me as I tried to ignore the suspiciously squelchy sound my flip-flops made against the wet floor. I’d survived, barely, but I still had to face the monumental task of getting dressed and making myself look presentable in less than 45 minutes.
I pulled off an impressively athletic sprint back into my dorm room, water still dripping down my legs and towel barely clinging to my body as I slammed the door shut behind me. The clock on my desk glared at me with unforgiving numbers: 7:25 PM.
“Shit, shit, shit, I'm a bloody mess,” I muttered, rushing to my closet and yanking the door open. The already crammed space seemed to mock me with its lack of options. Dresses? Too cold. Skirts? Not the right vibe. Pants? Too boring. My hands moved frantically, rifling through hangers as I tossed rejects over my shoulder like a tornado. A floral skirt flew across the room, followed by a crop top and a pair of boots I hadn’t worn in months.
“Why do I own so many clothes but nothing to wear?” I groaned, holding up a sequined dress and immediately tossing it aside. The pile on the floor grew, and my patience shrank.
Finally, at 7:35, I resigned myself to something both practical and chic: a grey cape jacket paired with black thermal tights, sleek black shorts, and knee-high boots to keep warm. It wasn’t exactly runway-ready, but it looked polished enough to get Ollie off my back for not trying. I caught a glance at myself in the mirror and nodded. “This’ll do,” I muttered, yanking the cape’s zipper closed with a sigh of relief.
With 12 minutes left, I tackled my hair and makeup. A quick spritz of heat protectant, a few frantic waves with my curling iron, and a generous application of hairspray made my hair passable. My makeup routine was an Olympic sprint: concealer, mascara, blush, and the lightest swipe of gloss. I blinked at myself in the mirror at 7:47 PM, flushed and frazzled but somehow looking... decent?
“Good enough,” I said to my reflection, grabbing my purse and darting out the door.
By the time I flagged down a cab, the streets were choked with rush-hour traffic. As the driver punched in the destination, the fare popped up on the screen, and I winced. “Seriously? Highway robbery,” I muttered, climbing in anyway. There was no time to be cheap—not when I was already cutting it this close.
As I climbed into the cab, the driver, an older man with a kind smile and a thick accent, turned to me. “Where to?” he asked.
“Maggiore,” I replied quickly, rattling off the address Ollie had texted me earlier. I tugged the seatbelt across my lap, my fingers twitching as I locked it into place. The cab lurched forward, merging into the sea of traffic, and I leaned back against the seat, watching the clock on the dashboard mock me with its relentless ticking. 7:49 PM.
Rush hour in London was like wading through molasses, and the minutes seemed to fly by while the car barely crawled forward. I tapped my fingers against my knee, glancing out the window as red brake lights reflected on the glass like a taunting light show. 7:50. Why had I thought this was a good idea again?
The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, his eyes crinkling with curiosity. “You look nervous,” he said, his voice casual but warm. “First date?”
I blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, yeah,” I admitted, my cheeks heating as I adjusted the hem of my cape jacket. “A blind one, actually.”
“Ah,” he said with a knowing chuckle. “That explains the fidgeting. Don’t worry, miss. Blind dates aren’t all bad. Sometimes they’re even fun.”
“Fun,” I repeated, laughing nervously. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”
He chuckled again, his eyes returning to the road. “Don’t overthink it. Worst case, you’ve got a good story to tell your friends, eh?”
I sighed, leaning my head against the window. “I guess you’re right. But if it’s a disaster, my friend who set this up is going to pay.”
He laughed, a deep, hearty sound that made me relax—if only a little. “Sounds fair. Just enjoy yourself. You never know—this date might surprise you.”
“Here’s hoping,” I murmured, checking the clock again. 7:52 PM. My fingers tightened on my purse strap as the cab inched forward. I could feel my pulse quickening, every tick of the clock reminding me how little time I had left.
The cab driver must’ve noticed, because he added, “You’ll get there on time, miss. I’ll make sure of it.”
I gave him a small, grateful smile, trying to calm the swirl of nerves in my stomach. This was fine. Totally fine. Except it wasn’t, because I was about to walk into a room and meet someone I’d never even seen before. And if they were anything like the train wreck of Ollie’s last matchmaking attempt… well, I was in for a very long night.
“Thanks,” I said softly, glancing out the window as we finally pulled into a quieter street, closer to Maggiore. The clock flashed 7:57 PM, and my heart skipped a beat. Showtime.
The warm buzz of conversation and the clinking of glasses filled the air as I stepped into Maggiore, my eyes darting around the restaurant. Ollie had been vague about what his friend looked like—typical—but he had, in his infinite wisdom, left me with the oh-so-helpful clue: “Just look for the kind of guy you’d consider handsome.”
Great. Because that wasn’t subjective at all.
I scanned the room, my gaze skimming over tables of couples and groups until it landed on a man sitting by the window. He was tall, well-dressed, and had a brooding, almost annoyingly good-looking air about him. The kind of guy who looked like he’d stepped out of a perfume ad with just the right amount of perfectly styled hair. Handsome? Sure. Probably Ollie’s type of wingman? Definitely.
Taking a deep breath, I made my way over, my heart hammering in my chest. “Excuse me,” I said hesitantly as I reached the table. “Are you… Ollie’s friend?”
The man looked up, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Sorry, what?”
I blinked, suddenly hyper-aware of the curious look in his deep-set eyes. “You’re not…? Oh my god, never mind,” I stammered, heat flooding my face. “I, uh, I think I’ve got the wrong table.”
As I stumbled backward, practically tripping over my own feet, the guy by the window—Mr. Brooding Handsome—watched me with a glint of amusement in his eyes. Before I could escape to the safety of my actual date, he leaned forward slightly, his sharp jawline catching the dim light of the restaurant.
“Wait,” he said, his voice smooth, rich, and entirely too confident. “You’re not just going to walk away after that, are you?”
I froze, blinking at him. “After what?”
“After mistaking me for your date.” He smirked, and the way his lips curved up was so irritatingly perfect it made my brain short-circuit. “I mean, not that I’m complaining. You can sit here if you want—I’m sure whoever you’re actually looking for wouldn’t mind waiting.”
I stared at him, my brain firing off alarm bells. What the hell is happening right now?
“Uh, thanks, but I think I’m good,” I said, trying to muster a polite smile while edging away.
“Are you sure?” he pressed, his smirk deepening. “I wouldn’t mind getting stood up if it meant spending the evening with you.”
Oh, God. Kill me now. Was he actually flirting with me? This was not part of the plan.
“Wow,” I said, managing to sound more annoyed than flattered. “Do you just have a stockpile of lines ready for moments like this?”
Mr. Brooding Handsome smirked again, completely unfazed. “Only for the ones who deserve them.”
I stared at him, deadpan, and decided to throw the ultimate curveball. If this guy was going to make me uncomfortable, I might as well return the favor. “You do realize I’m a minor, right?”
His smirk vanished faster than you could say awkward silence. His eyes widened, his expression morphing from confident to horrified in record time. “Wait, what? You’re—you’re underage?”
I didn’t even blink, keeping my expression as serious as I could manage. “Yeah. Seventeen. What are you, some kind of perv?”
His face drained of color so fast I almost felt bad for him. Almost.
“I—I didn’t know! You don’t look—” he stammered, his words tripping over each other in a desperate attempt to backpedal.
“Oh, so now it’s my fault?” I said, crossing my arms and raising an eyebrow. “Classic.”
“I didn’t mean— I wasn’t—” He ran a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair, clearly spiraling. “I need to repent, like immediately. This is horrible.”
Before I could drive the nail in any further, a sudden burst of laughter cut through the awkward tension, loud and unrestrained. I froze, my head whipping toward the sound, and for a moment, my brain short-circuited.
At the next table sat quite possibly the prettiest boy I had ever seen in my life.
He had this full head of unruly dark curls that looked like they’d been styled by the wind, framing a face so symmetrical it could’ve been carved by Michelangelo himself. His sharp jawline softened by a cheeky grin, and his deep brown eyes sparkled with a mix of amusement and curiosity as he laughed like he couldn’t help himself. He wore a crisp white collared shirt, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal strong forearms, and the first couple of buttons undone, hinting at effortless charm. He looked like he belonged in a summer movie montage or an editorial spread, not sitting casually in a restaurant grinning at my misfortune.
And the kicker? His smile. The kind of smile that could make a nun forget her vows—and right now, it was aimed squarely at me.
I stared, completely floored, as he tilted his head slightly and wiped away a tear from laughing so hard. “Wow,” he said, his voice warm and smooth, like melted chocolate. “That was the single most entertaining thing I’ve seen all week.”
My face, already red from mortification, went nuclear as I realized two things in quick succession:
This boy had witnessed my entire interaction with Mr. Brooding Handsome.
This boy was my date.
“Kill me now,” I muttered under my breath, forcing myself to look away from his stupidly perfect face.
“You’re Y/N, right?” he asked, still grinning as he gestured toward the empty seat across from him. “I’m Arvid. Ollie’s friend.”
I froze, my stomach doing somersaults. Ollie knows. He knows exactly what kind of face card would render me absolutely useless.
“You’re Arvid?” I managed to squeak out, my voice embarrassingly high-pitched.
“Guilty,” he said, leaning back in his chair with an easy confidence, the kind that made the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt seem like a deliberate act of seduction. “And you must be the infamous Y/N he told me about. The one who, apparently, would rather fake food poisoning than go on a blind date.”
I shot him a glare, though it lacked any real heat. “That was private.”
"Hah!" he chucked.
Arvid reached down beside his chair, pulling out a bouquet of assorted flowers wrapped neatly in brown paper. Bright yellows, soft purples, and cheerful whites filled the bundle, with not a single rose in sight. My jaw dropped slightly as he handed it over with a casual smile, as if this was the most normal thing in the world.
“These are for you,” he said, his voice warm but teasing. “Before you accuse me of trying too hard, Ollie did warn me you’d need some convincing to show up.”
I blinked, taking the bouquet automatically, the vibrant colors almost distracting me from the fact that a ridiculously hot stranger had just handed me flowers. “These… aren’t roses.”
He tilted his head, his grin widening. “Nope. I figured you’d appreciate that. I may or may not have done some research.”
“Research?” I repeated, narrowing my eyes. “What, did Ollie give you a dossier on me or something?”
"Well... maybe yes," He responded bashfully.
"Thank you very much," My cheeks turned red, grateful, and also astonished that this Greek God of a man wasn't just dashingly handsome, he was also chivalrous.
"You are very welcome," He smiled, a real wide one too. “Are you going to sit, or are you going to keep terrorizing random men in the restaurant?”
I sank into the chair opposite him, my face burning as I buried it in the menu. “I hate you already,” I muttered.
“Don’t worry,” he replied, his tone light and teasing. “I’ll grow on you. Give me, like, an hour.”
I stared at him, narrowing my eyes. “You sound awfully confident for someone who just witnessed me humiliate myself in front of half the restaurant.”
Arvid leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, his grin not wavering for a second. “Oh, trust me. Watching you mix up your date and traumatize that poor guy? That was the highlight of my week.”
I glared at him, but he didn’t even flinch. “You’re enjoying this way too much,” I muttered, crossing my arms.
“Of course I am,” he admitted shamelessly, leaning back in his chair and casually adjusting the cuff of his rolled-up sleeve. “Though, in my defense, Ollie did tell me you’d be entertaining.”
I blinked, my stomach twisting. “Ollie told you... what, exactly?”
“Everything,” Arvid said, his grin widening. “Who you are, what you study, the fact that you once tried to sneak an entire pan of brownies into a movie theater—”
I groaned, burying my face in my hands. “Oh my God, I’m going to kill him.”
“Don’t be too mad,” Arvid said, his voice still laced with amusement. “He was just being a good friend. Besides, it’s not like I went into this blind.”
I froze, slowly lowering my hands. “What do you mean by that?”
“Well,” he began, his tone so casual it immediately put me on edge. “Ollie might’ve shown me your Instagram. And your TikTok.”
My stomach plummeted. “Excuse me?” I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper, though the sheer horror in it was unmistakable.
Arvid grinned, leaning back in his chair like he had just dropped the most casual bombshell in history. “What? It’s not like I went deep into the archives. Just the highlights.”
“The highlights?” I sputtered, my voice cracking. “What exactly does that mean? Oh my god, how far did you scroll? What did you see?”
He laughed, his curls bouncing slightly as he shook his head. “Relax, Y/N. I’m not some creep. Just, you know… the usual stuff. Your workout videos. Your, uh, thirst traps—”
I nearly choked on my own breath. “Thirst traps?!”
He nodded, looking far too amused for my liking. “Yeah, you know the ones. Dancing in your dorm, flexing after workouts. Oh, and that one where you were doing lunges in, like, the sweatiest shirt I’ve ever seen. You called it ‘Hot Mess Energy’ or something.”
I slapped my hands over my face, groaning into them. “Oh my god. This is my worst nightmare. My literal worst nightmare.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” he said, though his teasing grin said otherwise. “I mean, I appreciated the honesty. Not everyone has the guts to post their sweaty, post-gym selfies for the world to see. Very authentic.”
I peeked at him through my fingers, my mortification climbing by the second. “You saw those? All of them?”
“Not all of them,” he said with an exaggerated shrug. “Just the ones Ollie said would give me ‘a sense of your personality.’ And honestly? You’re hilarious. That video where you did the 0.5 camera angle thing and made your forehead look like it was five feet wide? Comedy gold.” He let out a dad laughed and I paled even more then I thought I could. What was my life. I was going to kill Ollie after this.
I dropped my hands onto the table, glaring at him with every ounce of dignity I could muster—which wasn’t much. “Arvid,” I said slowly, “if you’ve seen all of that, why are you even here?”
He raised an eyebrow, looking genuinely confused. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” I said, gesturing vaguely at myself, “why would you agree to this date after seeing… that?”
His grin softened, and for a moment, he looked almost earnest. “Because I liked it,” he said simply. “You’re not trying to be someone you’re not. You’re just… you. And, for what it’s worth, sweaty workout Y/N is still pretty damn cute.”
I stared at him, my cheeks flaming so hard I was surprised they didn’t spontaneously combust. “You’re just saying that,” I mumbled, suddenly very interested in the edge of the menu.
“Nope,” he said, popping the “p” with a smirk. “In fact, I think the 0.5 angle thing is kind of endearing. It shows you don’t take yourself too seriously. And honestly?” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make my heart stutter. “It’s hot.”
I blinked, my brain short-circuiting as my self-consciousness warred with the undeniable fact that this absolute Greek god of a man had just called me hot.
What kind of fucking fanfiction life was I living in.
“You’re lying,” I said weakly, though my voice lacked conviction. My cheeks were on fire, and I suddenly wished the dim lighting in the restaurant was just a little dimmer.
Arvid leaned back in his chair, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Why would I lie? I’ve seen the TikToks, Y/N. You’ve got confidence—and honestly, that’s more attractive than someone pretending to be perfect all the time.”
I groaned, slumping forward until my elbows hit the table. “I’m never posting online again.”
“Don’t do that,” he said, his tone softer now, almost reassuring. “It’s part of what makes you you. I like that you’re not afraid to be a little messy. It’s refreshing.”
I glanced up at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. For someone who spent his life racing cars at insane speeds, he was surprisingly grounded. Or maybe he was just really good at charming people. Either way, I hated that it was working.
“So,” I said, desperate to shift the focus away from my TikTok antics, “Ollie told me absolutely nothing about you. Care to fill in the blanks?”
He shrugged, resting his chin on his hand, the picture of casual confidence. “Well, here’s something—Campos Racing just signed me. First year in F2.”
I blinked, my brain scrambling to process the words. “Wait… Campos Racing? F2?”
His grin widened, clearly enjoying my confusion. “Yep. Signed the contract a few weeks ago. I’m officially moving up.”
I gawked at him, my mind racing. “Hold on. Ollie didn’t tell me you were a driver. He just said… God, he didn’t say anything except that you were his ‘friend.’” I gestured at him dramatically. “This feels like vital information, Arvid!”
He laughed, his curls bouncing slightly as he leaned back in his chair. “Ollie’s probably just being Ollie. He wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Well, congrats,” I said, trying to recover from the shock while still glaring in my mind at Ollie for leaving me unprepared.
“It’s huge,” he admitted, the pride in his voice impossible to miss. “I’ve been karting and working my way up through the junior series for years. Getting this contract feels like… I don’t know, everything I’ve been working toward finally paying off.”
“And you’re just casually dropping that into the conversation like it’s no big deal,” I said, giving him an incredulous look. “You realize that’s insane, right?”
Arvid chuckled, shrugging as he leaned back in his chair. “I mean, it’s just what I do. I don’t really think of it as a big deal. It’s my job.”
“Your job is racing cars for a living,” I said, emphasizing the absurdity of it all. “You have to admit, that’s a bit cooler than your average 9-to-5.”
“Maybe,” he said, his grin turning slightly sheepish. “But honestly, it’s just a lot of training, traveling, and trying not to screw up in front of thousands of people.”
“I watch Formula 1 sometimes,” I admitted, shifting slightly in my seat. “Well, I try to when I have the time. But F2? Not so much. I mean, I know it exists, and I know it’s the step before F1, but I barely have time to keep up with one series, let alone two.”
“Fair,” he said, nodding. “F1 gets all the glitz and glamour, so it makes sense people don’t pay as much attention to F2. But we’re where the real grind happens.”
I raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Oh, so you’re saying F2 drivers work harder than F1 drivers?”
“Not harder,” he said with a laugh. “Just… differently. F2 is all about proving yourself. Every race feels like a job interview. You mess up, and it could cost you everything.”
“Yeah, it’s a big step,” he admitted, a hint of pride in his voice. “This is my first year. It’s a lot of pressure, but it’s what I’ve been working toward since I was a kid.”
I couldn’t help but smile, despite myself. “That’s actually pretty cool. I mean, it’s not every day you meet someone who’s chasing a dream like that.”
“Thanks,” he said, his grin softening. “I wasn’t sure how much you’d care, since Ollie said you’re more into F1 than anything.”
“Yeah, well, Ollie didn’t tell me anything about you,” I shot back, rolling my eyes. “I came in completely blind, so thanks for the heads-up, Ollie.”
Arvid laughed, his curls bouncing slightly. “To be fair, I came in knowing way more about you than you did about me, so maybe it balances out.”
“Don’t remind me,” I muttered, my face heating up again as I thought about all the embarrassing TikToks and Instagram posts he’d probably seen.
“Seriously, though,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “You might not know much about F2, but if you ever want to come to a race, let me know. I’ll make sure you get the VIP treatment.”
I blinked, caught off guard by the offer. “That’s… nice of you,” I said, unsure of what else to say. “But I’d probably just embarrass myself.”
“Doubt it,” he said, his grin turning teasing again. “Though I’d pay good money to see you try and explain tire strategy to someone.”
I groaned, shaking my head. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” he said, his voice warm and light, “you’re still sitting here.”
Before I could respond with something witty—or tell him off for being annoyingly charming—the waiter arrived, and the moment took a sharp left turn.
It was Clara. Of course, it had to be Clara. The girl from my Intro to Economics class, who was practically infamous for her ability to sniff out drama and turn it into the juiciest gossip on campus. She was the type of person who could glance at someone’s outfit and instantly know who they were meeting, where, and why.
And right now, she was staring at me with her sharp, piercing eyes—eyes that missed nothing. Her perfectly arched eyebrows lifted slightly, just enough to suggest that she recognized me, though she didn’t say it outright. But the look was there, subtle but unmistakable. It was the look of someone who knew they had stumbled onto something interesting. The kind of look that could turn my mortifying night into Monday morning entertainment for the entire Economics department.
My stomach twisted as her gaze flickered from me to Arvid, and then back again, like she was cataloging every detail for later. The tailored white collared shirt, his effortlessly confident posture, my flushed cheeks—she was filing it all away, I just knew it. Clara didn’t need words to spread gossip. Her looks alone could set a chain reaction of whispers in motion.
For a moment, I considered pretending I didn’t recognize her. Maybe if I avoided eye contact, she’d assume I was just some random girl with no connection to her perfectly curated world of university drama. But the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth told me otherwise. She knew. She knew.
“Hi,” she said brightly, flipping open her notepad, her voice so professional it almost made me forget the glint of amusement in her eyes. “Are you ready to order, or do you need a few more minutes?”
Her tone was perfectly polite, but her sharp gaze lingered a second too long, and my stomach dropped even further. This wasn’t just a casual encounter. This was Clara seeing something she’d want to dissect later, probably over a cappuccino with her friends.
I forced a tight smile, gripping the edge of the table like it might somehow anchor me. “Uh, a few more minutes, please,” I said, my voice coming out higher than I’d intended.
Clara’s lips twitched again, and for a horrifying moment, I thought she might say something more. But instead, she just nodded and walked off, her sleek ponytail swishing behind her.
As soon as she was out of earshot, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding and slumped back in my chair. “Of course it’s her,” I muttered under my breath.
Arvid raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into an amused grin. “Friend of yours?”
“Not exactly,” I muttered, glancing at Clara’s retreating figure. “She’s in my Intro to Economics class. And she’s… well, let’s just say she’s the kind of person who loves to be in the know.”
“Ah,” he said, his grin widening. “A campus gossip.”
“Worse,” I replied, leaning forward. “She’s the campus gossip. If she recognizes me—and I’m pretty sure she does—this date is going to be all over campus by Monday morning.”
Arvid tilted his head, clearly more entertained than concerned. “You’re worried she’s going to spread the word that you’re out with a Campos Racing driver?”
I shot him a look. “No, I’m worried she’s going to turn this into some kind of soap opera. She’s probably already coming up with theories about why I look like I’ve been holding my breath for the past five minutes.”
He chuckled, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. “Well, for what it’s worth, I don’t mind the idea of people talking about us.”
“Of course you don’t,” I said, shaking my head. “You’re the ridiculously hot guy in the story. I’m just the awkward mess who thought she could get away with ordering hot water and lemon in a place like this.”
“Ridiculously hot, huh?” he teased, leaning forward with that damn smirk of his.
I groaned, burying my face in my hands. “I take it back. You're bloody annoying never mind."
Arvid and I continued talking for a minute, then we scanned our menus when we realized it was in fact dinner time, and we must eat during dinner.
The waitress—Clara, from my Intro to Economics class—returned with her notepad and a polite but overly curious smile. Her gaze flickered between me and Arvid, and I could tell she was already mentally storing this entire scene in her little database of gossip.
“Have you decided on drinks to start?” Clara asked, her voice light and professional, but her eyes were practically screaming, I know you.
I shifted uncomfortably, trying not to let my nervousness show. “I’ll have hot water with lemon,” I said, folding my hands on the table like I hadn’t just committed financial suicide by agreeing to eat at this place.
Clara gave me a quick nod, but before she could jot it down, Arvid chimed in, “I’ll have the same.”
My head whipped toward him, my eyebrows shooting up. “You drink hot water with lemon?”
He leaned back in his chair, shrugging as his lips curved into a smirk. “Not usually. But I figured I’d give it a try. You look like you know what you’re doing.”
Clara glanced between us, clearly amused, and jotted down the order. “I’ll bring those right out,” she said, but not before giving me one last look that screamed we’re going to talk about this in class, aren’t we?
As soon as she walked off, I turned back to Arvid, narrowing my eyes. “You don’t have to order the same thing as me, you know. It’s not a personality quiz.”
“True,” he said, leaning forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand. “But I thought it might give me some insight into you. What does hot water with lemon say about someone?”
“That they’re broke and trying to save money?” I shot back, hoping my sarcasm would mask how flustered I felt.
He laughed, the deep, warm sound sending a strange, fluttery sensation through my chest. “Nah, I think it says you’ve got taste. And discipline.” He winked, and I felt my face heat for the hundredth time that night.
I couldn’t stop myself from sneaking another glance at him while pretending to adjust my napkin. Seriously, how does someone even look like that? His curls, dark and unruly, framed his face like they were sculpted to perfection. And that jawline? Sharp enough to cut through my sanity. Then there was the smirk—the one that somehow managed to be both infuriating and heart-stopping at the same time. It wasn’t fair. No one should look that good and be charming. It felt like some cosmic joke, and I was the punchline.
His gaze flicked up from the menu, and of course, he caught me staring. Again. A slow smile spread across his lips, his dark eyes locking onto mine with a glint of knowing mischief.
“See something you like?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.
My face ignited, and I quickly looked away, pretending to be very interested in the tablecloth. “In your dreams,” I muttered, though the heat in my cheeks betrayed me.
He laughed softly, the sound somehow both infuriating and intoxicating. “You’re not very good at hiding it, you know.”
“Hiding what?” I shot back, glaring at him with what I hoped was righteous indignation but probably just looked like I was panicking.
“That you’re flustered,” he said smoothly, leaning forward slightly. “And, dare I say, a little impressed.”
“I’m not flustered,” I lied, crossing my arms as if that would protect me from the sheer intensity of his presence. “And definitely not impressed.”
“Sure,” he said, his grin widening. “Whatever you say, Y/N.”
Before I could come up with a halfway decent retort, Clara reappeared with our drinks. She set the glasses of hot water with lemon down in front of us, her sharp gaze flicking between Arvid and me like she was analyzing every interaction.
“Have you decided on food?” she asked, her voice polite but laced with curiosity.
I swallowed, feeling Clara’s gaze boring into me as I opened the menu again. The prices glared back at me like some cruel joke, but I wasn’t about to let either of them see me sweat.
“I’ll have the Grilled Sutton Hoo chicken,” I said finally, forcing my voice to stay steady. “With the mushrooms and the… uh, truffle sauce.”
Clara jotted it down, her lips twitching like she was holding back a comment. She glanced at Arvid, who hadn’t stopped watching me with that insufferable smirk.
“And for you?” she asked.
“I’ll have the Slow Cooked Herefordshire Beef ‘Daube,’” he said easily, barely glancing at the menu. Then he looked at me, his grin softening into something that felt almost… warm. “And we’ll share the pork belly starter, if that’s okay with you.”
“Fine,” I said, pretending not to notice the way my heart skipped at the way he looked at me. “But only because I’m starving.”
Clara nodded, her gaze lingering on us for a moment longer than necessary before she walked off. As soon as she was out of earshot, I slumped back in my chair, groaning softly.
“Relax,” Arvid said, his voice light and teasing. “You’re acting like she’s going to write a full exposé about us.”
“She might as well,” I muttered, dragging my hands down my face. “She’s in my Econ class, and she’s always gossiping. By Monday, everyone’s going to think I’m dating you.”
“And?” he said, raising an eyebrow, a glint of mischief dancing in his dark eyes. “Would that be such a bad thing?”
I blinked, caught off guard by the casual confidence in his tone. “Excuse me?”
He leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand, his smirk softening into something dangerously charming. “I’m just saying,” he began, his voice dropping to a smooth, teasing lilt, “if we were dating, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. In fact, it might even be pretty great.”
“Oh, really?” I shot back, raising an eyebrow, trying desperately to mask the heat creeping into my cheeks. “And what exactly makes you think that?”
He shrugged, his curls shifting slightly with the movement, and somehow, even that looked annoyingly perfect. “For starters, you’d never have to worry about a boring meal. I’d make sure we’d always go to places like this—or better. Nice food, good wine, desserts you’d dream about afterward.”
“Wow,” I said dryly, though my voice betrayed a hint of nervous laughter. “So generous of you.”
“I’m not done,” he said, his grin widening as he leaned in, his eyes locked on mine. “We’d do fun things, too. Not just fancy dinners. Weekend trips. Walks through new cities. Ice skating, even if you’re terrible at it.” He winked, and I felt my stomach flip. “And I’d make sure you always had the best view of whatever race I was in. VIP, every time.”
I tried to scoff, but the idea was so vividly painted in my head that I couldn’t help the way my traitorous mind entertained it for a split second. “Sounds like you’ve thought this through.”
“Maybe,” he said with a smirk, sitting back in his chair. “I’m just saying, people might gossip about us, but at least they’d be talking about something good.”
“Something good?” I echoed, crossing my arms and fixing him with a mock glare. “You have a very high opinion of yourself, don’t you?”
“Not really,” he replied, shrugging again. “I just know what I bring to the table. And if I were your boyfriend, Y/N, you’d never have to question it.”
My heart stumbled at the casual way he said it, like he wasn’t just throwing it out to mess with me, like he meant it. My face flushed so hot I was surprised steam wasn’t coming out of my ears.
I quickly reached for my glass, taking a long sip of hot water with lemon just to avoid his gaze. “You’re unbelievable,” I muttered, my voice muffled by the rim of the glass.
"Mhm," he smirked, titled his head, and looked at me, his gaze piercing through all defenses that I put up.
What the fucking hell. No boy had ever done this to me. I hate this.
I didn’t respond right away, mostly because I couldn’t. The thought of him painting this ridiculously idealized picture of dating—us dating—was doing things to me that I wasn’t ready to admit, even to myself.
“Dream on, Campos,” I muttered finally, setting the glass down and forcing myself to meet his gaze. “It’s going to take a lot more than good food and fancy dates to win me over.”
He grinned, his eyes twinkling with something that made my heart skip. “Challenge accepted.”
And just like that, he had me right where he wanted me—half-annoyed, half-intrigued, and entirely unable to look away.
I took another sip of my hot water with lemon, using the motion to buy myself a moment to collect my thoughts. Arvid was entirely too good at throwing me off-balance, and the way his dark eyes never seemed to leave mine didn’t help.
“So,” he said, breaking the silence with that maddeningly smooth voice, “tell me about you. Ollie said you’re studying something impressive.”
I raised an eyebrow, setting my glass down. “Ollie said that?”
“Well,” he admitted, a teasing smile tugging at his lips, “his exact words were, ‘She’s a genius who’ll probably run the UN someday, but she’s also stubborn as hell and will definitely challenge you to an arm-wrestling match if she’s had too much caffeine.’”
I sighed, "He may be correct on that account."
Arvid laughed, the sound warm and infectious. “So, is he right? About the UN, I mean. Not the arm-wrestling—though I wouldn’t mind seeing that.”
I lowered my hands, rolling my eyes. “I’m studying International Relations at the University of London. It’s not as glamorous as it sounds, though. Mostly, it’s a lot of reading, writing, and pretending I understand what my professors are saying half the time.”
“Sounds pretty impressive to me,” he said, his voice genuine enough to make me glance at him. He was leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table, looking at me like I was the most interesting person in the room.
I shrugged, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze. “It’s… something I’m passionate about. I like understanding how the world works, why countries act the way they do, and how policies shape people’s lives. It’s a lot to take in, but I love it.”
“Let me guess,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “You’re the type who stays up all night before exams, surrounded by books and snacks, stressing over every little detail.”
I leaned back in my chair, letting out a laugh that was more exasperated than amused. “You have no idea. That’s literally what I was doing before this date.”
Arvid raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening with curiosity. “Oh? Do tell.”
“Well,” I began, setting my glass down and crossing my arms, “Ollie showed up unannounced last night and decided to chat my ear off about who-knows-what Formula 1 nonsense, completely derailing my study schedule. He finally left at, like, midnight, and by then, I was already behind.”
Arvid nodded, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Sounds about right for Ollie.”
“So,” I continued, gesturing animatedly, “I stayed up until five in the morning—yes, five—trying to cram for my Intro to Sociology test on social stratification. Somewhere around 3:00 AM, I drooled all over my notes and woke up with half the syllabus stuck to my face.”
He snorted, barely containing his laughter. “Please tell me there’s a picture.”
“Thankfully, no,” I shot back, narrowing my eyes. “But when I woke up, I ate the most pathetic grilled cheese sandwich ever, made in my dorm kitchen, and went right back to studying. I didn’t even realize the time until it was 7:00 PM, and that’s when I panicked because I remembered you.”
“Flattered,” he said, leaning forward with a mischievous glint in his eye. “So, what happened next? Let me guess: world’s fastest shower?”
“Oh, you have no idea.” I rolled my eyes, already cringing at the memory. “The shared dorm bathroom was packed. Everyone was gossiping, and I was just trying to scrub between my toes without hearing about Sarah’s boyfriend drama. Oh, and I shaved my legs so fast that I actually cut myself. Twice.”
“Ouch,” he said, his smirk softening. “I hope you at least had decent water pressure.”
“Barely,” I muttered, shaking my head. “Then I had to sprint back to my room, only to realize that none of my clothes looked right. I threw half my wardrobe onto the floor before deciding on this.” I gestured to my outfit. “At 7:35.”
“And you still managed to look incredible,” he said, his voice dropping to that warm, teasing tone that made my stomach do flips.
“Stop,” I muttered, though my face heated up against my will. “Anyway, I finally finished getting ready, grabbed a cab, and spent the entire ride freaking out about being late. All because Ollie thought it would be funny to set me up without telling me anything about you.”
Arvid laughed, leaning back in his chair. “Sounds like quite the journey. I’m impressed you even made it here in one piece.”
“Barely,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. “And now I’m sitting across from you, telling this embarrassing story while you look like you just walked off a magazine cover.”
“Hey,” he said, holding up his hands, “I had to make a good impression. Ollie said you’d be a tough critic.”
"Well I can say your fit is impressing me, and serving cunt at 100%," I cheekily grinned.
Arvid burst out laughing, the deep, warm sound filling the space between us. His dark eyes lit up, and he tilted his head, clearly amused by my choice of words. “Serving cunt at 100%, huh? That’s probably the best compliment I’ve gotten all year.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, sitting back with a smirk, feeling oddly triumphant for making him laugh like that. “Don’t let it go to your head, though. I’m still a tough critic.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he replied, his grin widening. “I know better than to let my guard down around you. You’re like a tiny ball of chaos, and I have to stay sharp.”
“Tiny?” I repeated, narrowing my eyes. “Did you just call me tiny?”
“Five-four and a half,” I corrected, crossing my arms. “And don’t act like you’re a giant, Mr. Five-eight.”
“Hey,” he said, holding up his hands in mock defense, “five-eight is still respectable. I could still pick you up with one arm.”
My face went hot, and I was suddenly very aware of how close he was leaning. “Don’t even think about it,” I said, trying to sound stern but feeling the flutter in my chest betray me.
Arvid smirked, clearly relishing my flustered state, and then—because he was insufferable—he flexed his arm casually. The motion sent his bicep straining against the fabric of his shirt, and I couldn’t help but notice the way his veins ran along his forearm, prominent and defined.
I swallowed hard, my face heating up even more. Why does he have to look like that?
“Do you work out often?” I blurted before I could stop myself, instantly regretting it.
He tilted his head, his smirk softening into a knowing grin. “Yeah, pretty much every day. It’s kind of essential, you know, for driving.”
"Mhmm," I responded, letting him explain. I totally knew this, I just liked the sound of his voice when he spoke.
He laughed, the sound deep and warm. “You’d be surprised how physically demanding it is. A lot of it’s about endurance—keeping your neck and core strong to handle the G-forces. And grip strength for controlling the wheel during long stints. Plus, I spend a lot of time on reaction drills and cardio.”
“Oh yeah,” I said, nodding slowly. “I’ve heard Ollie does those things too.”
Arvid raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair with a grin that was pure mischief. “Yeah, but let’s be honest. Ollie’s kind of a twig. I’m actually buff.”
I snorted, the laugh bubbling out of me before I could stop it. “You did not just say that.”
“Sure,” Arvid said, leaning forward again with a glint of mischief in his eye. “But let’s face it. Ollie couldn’t bench press a wet towel. He’s got the build of a breadstick.”
That did it. I burst out laughing, my hand flying up to cover my mouth. “You did not just say that!”
“Hey, I’m just being honest,” he said, shrugging with exaggerated nonchalance. “It’s not a bad thing. Breadsticks are great. They’re just… not very sturdy.”
I was still laughing, my shoulders shaking as I tried to get it together. “Poor Ollie,” I managed, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye. “You’re terrible.”
“And you’re way too nice to say it, but you know I’m right,” he teased, his grin growing. “Besides, if we ever went to the gym together, I’d let you choose the playlist. That’s gotta count for something.”
I tilted my head, raising an eyebrow. “So now you’re inviting me to the gym? This is escalating quickly.”
“Not really,” he said, leaning back with a sly smile. “I’m just planning ahead. You know, keeping my options open.”
“For what?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. “For humiliating me on a treadmill?”
“Hardly,” he said with mock offense, his hand going to his chest like I’d deeply wounded him. “Do I look like the kind of guy who’d do that?”
I gave him a slow once-over, letting my eyes linger on his annoyingly perfect posture and the barely-contained smugness on his face. “Honestly? Yes. You absolutely look like that guy.”
He laughed, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, closing the already diminishing space between us. “Okay, fair. But I’d only push you on the treadmill so I could catch you when you fall.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but my brain short-circuited for a second. Was he always like this? So quick, so smooth, and so completely aware of how to make my pulse race?
“Wow,” I said, regaining composure just enough to throw him a smirk. “You’ve really got a whole playbook of lines ready to go, don’t you?”
“Not lines,” he said, his tone shifting to something warmer, more deliberate. “Just the truth.”
I blinked, thrown off balance by the sincerity in his voice. Before I could find a comeback, he leaned back again, his grin morphing into something impossibly charming. “Besides,” he continued, clearly enjoying himself, “if we’re talking about treadmills, you should know I’d never humiliate you. I’d just pace you. Keep you steady. Maybe even give you a motivational pep talk.”
“A pep talk?” I asked, crossing my arms. “You don’t exactly strike me as the motivational speaker type.”
“Oh, I can be,” he said, feigning seriousness as he clasped his hands like some kind of motivational coach. “Picture this: ‘Come on, Y/N! Just one more kilometer! Think of all the overpriced lattes you’ll earn after this!’”
I burst out laughing, the image of him cheering me on while I panted my way through a workout was too much. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” he said, his grin widening. “But I’d still get you through that workout. And afterward, I’d make sure we went somewhere to refuel properly. Burgers, fries, the works. You know, balance.”
“Balance?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Coming from someone whose entire job is throwing their body around a track at 200 miles per hour?”
“Exactly,” he said, nodding solemnly. “I’m an expert on controlled chaos.”
“You are chaos,” I shot back, unable to stop myself from smiling.
“And yet,” he said, his voice dropping just enough to make my heart do something stupid, “you’re still smiling.”
“I—” I started, but Clara, our ever-curious waitress, appeared again, interrupting the moment.
“So,” Clara said with a sweet but suspiciously knowing smile, “are we ready for that pork belly starter?”
“Yes,” Arvid answered immediately, glancing at me with a look that said he wasn’t done with the conversation. “And can we also get another round of hot water with lemon?”
I glared at him. “Are you mocking my drink choice now?”
“Not at all,” he replied, completely serious. “It’s growing on me. Kind of like you.”
I groaned, burying my face in my hands as Clara smirked and walked away. This boy was going to drive me absolutely insane—and, annoyingly, I was starting to think I might enjoy the ride.
As the food arrived, the conversation between us found an easy rhythm. The slow-cooked pork belly, crispy on the outside and tender on the inside, was practically melting in my mouth, and I couldn’t help but let out a soft sigh of approval.
“Good?” Arvid asked, raising an eyebrow as he took a bite of his own.
“Better than good,” I admitted, trying not to sound too enthusiastic. “It’s probably illegal for food to taste this nice.”
He grinned, gesturing with his fork. “You should’ve seen the catering at my last F2 event. This is basically Michelin-starred dining compared to that.”
“What did they serve?” I asked, curious.
He chuckled, setting his fork down. “Let’s just say I’m not entirely convinced it was chicken.”
I laughed, almost choking on a piece of pork. “Okay, but I thought you F2 drivers were supposed to have these super-healthy, protein-packed meals or something.”
“Oh, we do,” he said with a dramatic eye roll. “It’s just that sometimes, when you’re at a track in the middle of nowhere, the food options are… limited.”
“So you survive on protein shakes and dreams?” I teased, raising an eyebrow.
“Pretty much,” he said with a grin. “Which is why this,” he gestured to the pork belly, “is basically heaven.”
By the time our main courses arrived, I’d learned more about his training routine, some behind-the-scenes F2 drama, and his guilty pleasure for cheesy reality TV—though he’d sworn me to secrecy on that last part.
I had just taken my first bite of my grilled chicken when he asked, “So, what about you? What’s the one thing you eat when you’re stressed?”
“Instant noodles,” I admitted, without a hint of shame. “Cheap, easy, and doesn’t require a fully functioning brain to make.”
Arvid laughed, shaking his head. “Let me guess. Ollie’s given you a lecture about that.”
“Every time he catches me eating it,” I said, rolling my eyes. “He’s convinced it’s going to kill me.”
“Well,” Arvid said, leaning forward with a playful glint in his eye, “if it does, can I have your notes on Intro to Sociology? They sound pretty thorough.”
I groaned, but I couldn’t help laughing. “You’re impossible.”
As we finished our meals, I reached for the menu to double-check the bill when I realized Arvid was already signaling for the check.
“What are you doing?” I asked, frowning.
“Paying,” he said casually, like it was no big deal.
“Wait—no!” I protested, sitting up straighter. “We’re splitting it.”
“Too late,” he said, handing over his card with a charming grin. “You can thank me later.”
I stared at him, flustered and a little impressed. “You’re sneaky.”
“I prefer the term ‘chivalrous,’” he replied, standing up and nodding toward the door. “Come on, let’s get dessert.”
“Dessert?” I asked, grabbing my bag and following him out. “Isn’t that cheating your diet or something?”
“Probably,” he said with a shrug. “But I figured I’d make an exception. For you.”
My face burned at his words, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it as we walked a few blocks down to a quaint little dessert shop. The place was cozy and full of charm, with mismatched furniture, colorful murals on the walls, and the scent of freshly made waffle cones wafting through the air.
“Okay, this is adorable,” I admitted as we walked up to the counter.
“Best ice cream in London,” Arvid said confidently. “Ollie and I found it last year after one of his races.”
I scanned the menu, my eyes widening at the sheer variety of flavors. “How do you even pick?”
“Easy,” Arvid said, stepping up to order. “You go with whatever makes you happiest.”
“Philosophical and hungry,” I teased. “Impressive.”
He grinned, ordering a double scoop of salted caramel and pistachio in a waffle cone. When it was my turn, I went for chocolate and hazelnut, mostly because it sounded indulgent enough to match the mood.
We found a small table by the window, and as I took my first bite, I couldn’t help but let out a satisfied hum. “Okay, you weren’t lying. This is amazing.”
“Told you,” he said, his gaze soft as he watched me. “I’ve got good taste.”
“Debatable,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “But this ice cream? Definitely a win.”
The conversation flowed easily as we ate, filled with jokes, stories, and just enough teasing to make my cheeks ache from smiling. For someone I’d been so wary of meeting, Arvid Lindblad was turning out to be… kind of perfect.
“Alright,” he said as we finished up, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “Rate the date so far. Be honest.”
“Hmm,” I said, pretending to think. “The food was great. The company… tolerable.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “You’re ruthless.”
“And you love it,” I shot back, surprising myself with how comfortable I felt around him.
“Maybe I do,” he said, his tone softer now, his dark eyes holding mine for just a moment too long.
My heart did a little flip, and I quickly stood up, tossing my napkin onto the table. “Come on. Let’s go before you start getting sappy.”
He laughed again, standing and following me out the door. As we stepped into the cool evening air, I couldn’t help but feel a little lighter, a little warmer. For someone who’d completely derailed my plans for the night, Arvid Lindblad wasn’t half bad. In fact, he might just be the best distraction I’d had in a long time.
As we stepped outside the ice cream shop, the night air was cool but not uncomfortable, and I glanced at Arvid with a small smile. “So, what’s the plan? Are you driving me back, or am I hailing a cab?”
He scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish for the first time all evening. “Uh, about that… I can’t drive you back.”
I blinked, genuinely surprised. “Wait, what? You’re a race car driver, but you don’t have your road license?”
“Not yet,” he admitted with a chuckle, his curls catching the streetlights in a way that was entirely too distracting. “I figured I’d drive in Formula 1 before I bothered with driving on normal roads.”
I stared at him, my jaw dropping slightly. “That is the most absurdly cocky thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Cocky?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow with a smirk. “Or just confident?”
“Cocky,” I shot back, folding my arms. “And impractical.”
“Maybe,” he conceded, his grin never wavering. “But it’s worked for me so far.”
I rolled my eyes, shaking my head. “Unbelievable. I have my license, and I’m younger than you.”
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to that smooth, teasing tone that had been throwing me off all night. “Guess I’ll just have to make it up to you another time. But first—” He pulled out his phone, holding it out to me. “Put your number in.”
I raised an eyebrow, trying to play it cool despite the way my heart skipped a beat. “You’re awfully confident I’ll say yes.”
“Well,” he said, his smirk widening, “you’ve already spent the whole night with me. What’s a few more texts?”
I huffed, grabbing his phone and quickly typing in my number before handing it back. “There. Don’t make me regret it.”
He looked down at the screen, saving my contact with a satisfied nod. “Oh, I won’t. In fact, I’ll text you as soon as you get home. Just to make sure you’re safe.”
“Smooth,” I muttered, though I couldn’t help the small smile tugging at my lips.
He stepped closer then, his expression softening as he opened his arms slightly. “Can I at least give you a proper goodbye?”
I hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Fine. But no funny business.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, his voice warm with amusement as he wrapped his arms around me in a hug that was surprisingly… nice. He smelled like cologne and something faintly sweet, and for a moment, I let myself relax against him.
When he pulled back, he gave me one last smile, his eyes lingering on mine for just a second longer than necessary. “Thanks for tonight, Y/N. I had fun.”
“Me too,” I admitted quietly, quickly looking away before he could see the blush creeping up my neck. “Take care, Arvid.”
He waved as I stepped into the cab, and as the car pulled away, I couldn’t help but glance back at him through the rear window. He was still standing there, hands in his pockets, looking every bit the confident, charming troublemaker he’d been all night.
By the time I got back to my dorm, it was exactly 10:57 PM. I glanced at the clock on my phone, shaking my head with a small smile. Full circle, I thought, dropping my bag onto the chair and sinking onto the bed.
Moments later, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
Unknown: made it home safe? or should I file a missing person’s report?
I rolled my eyes, biting back a smile as I typed back. relax, I’m alive. barely, though. those ice cream calories nearly did me in.
His reply came almost instantly.
Arvid: guess we’ll have to hit the gym together soon. you know, balance.
I groaned, but my cheeks hurt from smiling. This boy is going to be the death of me.
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
yourusername
liked by olliebearman, arvid.lindblad, and 1,203 others
yourusername: why this one.... this one lowkey ate.
view comments:
user1: okay cuntcore we get it queen
user2: ALRIGHT. girl is this a DATE??? hello answer my TEXTSSS.
user2: i know you are reading these y/n....
yourusername: i never said that it was a date
olliebearman: sure, sure...
user3: HUH shes a stunner i need to see what fugly ass man this is just to check if he can fight me for her
olliebearman: wait WDYM this one lowkey ate
olliebearman: answer my texts NOWWWWW
olliebearman: stop pretending you are studying it says you are active on insta
olliebearman: GIVE ME A LIFE UPDATE PLEASEEEEE
yourusername: never knew a bitch was so thirsty DAMN
olliebearman: i take credit i take all the credit guys
yourusername: you aired out my DIRTY LAUNDRY
user4: GIRLS GIRLS no fighting
user5: there is no way a MAN made you laugh harder than i did
yourusername: hate to be the bearer of bad news...
olliebearman: there is absolute no way he isn't even that funny
olliebearman: MY jokes are better than his common.
yourusername: once again, i hate to be the bearer of bad news...
user6: scrolling through her likes to see who this fool is
user7: AND he got her flowers? idk who this is but he a diva
yourusername: byeee he wishes
olliebearman: are you sure you are only saying this one ate because he paid for your meal AND your icecream...
yourusername: i don't know what you are talking about!
synopsis: in which case Y/N, a camera-toting girl with more confidence in her lens than her words, skips class and stumbles into an abandoned ice rink—only to find sunghoon, a boy who skates like silence and sees more than he lets on. between shared secrets, photographs never meant for the world, and messages left unsaid, something begins to bloom—soft, quiet, and entirely theirs.
Look, in my defense, I wasn’t trying to uncover any dark, mysterious, emotionally tortured secrets today.
I was just skipping math.
Again.
And I don’t even hate math, okay? I just hate it when numbers start pretending they’re letters and suddenly I’m expected to know what “cos(θ)” is. The unit circle is hard to look at, and suddenly even harder to understand. No thanks. Not when I could be doing something far more important. Like napping. Or dramatically sighing by a window somewhere.
So there I was, speed-walking behind the gym like a very cute fugitive, when I heard the sound.
Scrrrchhh. Swish. Tap. Swish.
My brain said: squirrel.
My heart said: ghost.
My very dramatic imagination said: figure skater haunted by the ghost of the Olympics.
And because I have absolutely no impulse control, I tiptoed toward the abandoned rink—the one Coach Min swore was “out of order” but really just looks like a Pinterest board had a mental breakdown in there.
And then... I saw him.
Black hoodie. Skates. Alone.
Moving like he wasn’t even touching the ice. Like the laws of gravity took one look at him and said, “We’ll allow it.”
I think my jaw might’ve dropped. Which was rude, honestly. I don’t usually let boys make me gasp unless they’re fictional or handing me free food.
But he didn’t see me. He was busy doing a spin so smooth I almost clapped. I stopped myself. Barely.
Anyway, my fingers reached for my phone like they had a mind of their own. Not to record—I'm not that creepy (yet). I just needed to remember this moment. Mysterious ice boy. Secret skater. Vibe of a tragic K-drama lead with a soundtrack playing somewhere in the snow.
Before I could even unlock my screen, he skated right up to the edge of the rink and—
Paused.
Like paused, paused.
I froze too. Not because I’m shy (I’m literally allergic to silence), but because this felt sacred. Like if I moved too fast, he might vanish into a cloud of mist and unresolved trauma.
He wasn’t looking at me. Not really. He was facing the boards, one gloved hand resting on the edge, the other reaching up to pull his hood down.
And that’s when I saw his face.
I know beauty is subjective, but this boy? This boy looked like the human version of a plot twist. Sharp jawline, calm eyes, and the kind of expression that says, “Yes, I’ve seen pain. And yes, I drink iced lattes in the winter.”
It was rude. Honestly. People shouldn't be allowed to look like that on school property. Especially not while doing fancy little turns in complete silence like a poem in motion.
He still hadn’t seen me. So naturally, I panicked.
And by panicked, I mean: I cleared my throat dramatically, like a Victorian ghost trying to get attention during a séance.
“Nice pirouette,” I said, stepping into the doorway like I definitely hadn’t been standing there for five full minutes narrating his life in my head. “Or is it called a triple lutz? Or... toe loop? Skatey swirl? I don’t know. I failed P.E.”
He turned.
His eyes met mine.
For a second, I expected him to glare, or shout, or skate away in cold, broody silence.
Instead, he blinked slowly and said, “You’re not supposed to be here.”
Which was fair. But also rich, considering he clearly wasn’t supposed to be here either.
“Says the mystery boy on secret ice,” I replied, folding my arms and leaning against the doorway with my best I’m-totally-chill-and-not-spiraling smile. “I could report you, you know.”
He didn’t laugh.
Of course he didn’t laugh.
Instead, he just stared at me with that terrifying combination of calm and judgment that only people with perfect posture and trauma can pull off.
“I mean, obviously,” I added quickly, throwing in some frantic jazz hands because I’d lost control of the situation somewhere between “I could report you” and “this hot guy is scary, oh man.” “I’m not gonna snitch. I’m barely passing algebra. Do I look like someone who follows rules?”
Still nothing.
Okay, cool. He was either a robot or one of those beautiful loner types who only speaks in plot-relevant sentences. Tragic.
“You’re… skating?” I offered, because apparently my brain had given up on intelligent conversation and was now just narrating the obvious.
He raised an eyebrow. “Is that a question?”
“No,” I said. “Yes. No. I—okay, yes, I was just wondering if this is like… your thing? Skating alone in secret rinks behind abandoned gym doors while looking like a moody Vogue ad?”
He finally exhaled. Not quite a sigh. Not quite a laugh. Somewhere in the middle. And then, just as I was about to pass away from sheer embarrassment—
He smirked.
A tiny one. Barely there. But it was real.
“Do you always talk this much?” he asked.
“Only when I’m nervous,” I replied automatically. “Or bored. Or awake.”
Another pause. He looked down, did a little pivot on his skates, and then—like it was the most casual thing in the world—he said, “Don’t tell anyone.”
And then he pushed off, gliding backwards again like he was being pulled by the music of my crushed soul.
“Wait, that’s it?” I called. “You’re just gonna emotionally mic drop and skate away?”
But he was already mid-turn, hoodie flaring slightly with the movement, back to being all broody and cinematic.
“I don’t even know your name!” I shouted, taking one dramatic step onto the bleachers like I was in a telenovela.
He didn’t stop.
But just before he reached the far end of the rink, I heard him say—soft, but definitely on purpose—
“Exactly.”
By lunchtime, I’d nearly convinced myself I imagined the whole thing.
Maybe he was a mirage. A highly attractive hallucination born from skipping math and not drinking enough water (hydrate or dydrate everyone!) Stranger things had happened—like that one time I sleepwalked into the kitchen and started giving my toaster a pre-volleyball game pep talk. (I don't even play volleyball?!)
But then I found myself aggressively stirring my carrot and lentil soup, staring into it like it might give me answers.
“You’re just soup,” I muttered to the bowl. “You can’t help me.”
“Talking to your food again?” Yizhuo’s voice was smooth and amused, like it always was. She slid into the seat next to me looking like the human version of a sparkly Instagram filter. Effortlessly perfect. Not even fair.
“I’m reflecting,” I said, very maturely. “Deep introspection. Respect the process.”
Except I wasn’t reflecting.
I was daydreaming. Hard.
I leaned over my soup dramatically, letting the steam hit my face like it was some kind of cleansing ritual.
And then—
His face appeared.
In the soup.
I screamed. Like, externally. Out loud. In the middle of the cafeteria.
Not full-volume scream, okay, I’m not a menace. But definitely a loud, startled yelp that made at least four people at the next table look over, mid-chicken-nugget bite.
“Are you okay?” Yizhuo asked through laughter, already tapping my arm because she knew. She knew.
She always knew when my brain decided to malfunction mid-lunch.
I blinked down at my bowl.
No face. No mysterious boy. Just soup.
Mildly orange. Steaming. Innocent.
Mocking me.
“Yup!” I said brightly, like I hadn’t just imagined a boy materializing in root vegetables. “Totally fine. Just—hot soup. Caught me off guard. Happens.”
Minjeong, across the table, gave me the squint.
“Soup attacked you?”
“Violently,” I nodded. “Unprovoked.”
Jimin shook her head and offered me a napkin like I’d done this before (I had). Aeri snorted into her carton of chocolate milk.
“You sure you’re okay?” Yizhuo asked again, still smiling like she already knew the real answer. Which was rude, because I didn’t even tell her about mystery skater boy.
“Yes,” I said, stirring my soup again with suspicious eyes. “I’m just… existential today.”
“Soup men,” I repeated, flatly. “Thanks for that.”
Minjeong raised a brow. “Are you having one of your main character episodes again?”
“I don’t have main character episodes,” I scoffed. “I am the main character.”
“Yeah, of a high school rom-com where you fall in love with a cafeteria worker and dramatically sing about it,” Jimin chimed in.
“Honestly,” I said, dipping a piece of bread into my soup, “I’d watch that.”
They all laughed, and I smiled too, trying very hard not to visibly stare into the middle distance like a Jane Austen heroine haunted by an anonymous boy in skates.
I would not be weird about this.
I would definitely not Google “how to casually run into someone at an abandoned ice rink without seeming like a stalker.”
I would just eat my soup. Be normal. Be chill. Be—
“Wait,” I said suddenly, voice sharp.
Everyone paused.
“Do we know,” I continued carefully, “if anyone at this school… like… ice skates?”
Jimin blinked. “What?”
“Like… professionally,” I added. “Or secretly. Or—I don’t know—dramatically?”
“Why would we know that?” Aeri asked, squinting at me like I’d just asked if any of them moonlight as circus acrobats.
“I just think it’s a cool sport,” I said quickly. “The jumps! The glitter! I’m a fan of artistic twirls!”
Yizhuo narrowed her eyes. “Why do you sound like you're trying to sell us Olympic propaganda?”
“Do you have a crush on someone?” Minjeong asked, because she always went straight for the jugular.
“No,” I lied, face entirely too warm. “I just believe in… skating rights.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then: “You’re so weird,” Jimin muttered fondly, stealing my bread.
But nobody answered my question.
Because apparently, no one at this school skates.
Which either meant:
A) He wasn’t from here.
B) He was a ghost.
C) He was a figment of my imagination sent to teach me the value of patience and edge control.
Or D) …He was hiding something.
And I?
I was very good at finding things people were trying to hide.
Okay yeah, I rescind that statement.
It started innocently enough. I got home, opened my laptop, and totally meant to finish my bio homework. Like, I even clicked on the Google Doc and everything. But then my cursor wandered. And my brain whispered:
"What if he’s famous?"
And honestly? My brain makes a lot of terrible suggestions. Like bangs. Or hot yoga. But this one? This one had potential.
So naturally, I opened Naver.
Search: “high school figure skater black hoodie Seoul boy”
Zero results.
Rude.
Next attempt: “teenage male ice skater Seoul private school mysterious”
Still nothing, except an article about some 9-year-old prodigy who once skated blindfolded and a BuzzFeed-style quiz titled “Which K-pop Skater Boy Is Your Soulmate?”
Tempting. But not helpful.
I tried every combo I could think of:
“broody boy ice rink Korea”
“skating competition quiet student Seoul”
“hot guy looks like he hates everyone but skates like a dream”
“black hoodie jawline Seoul ice ghost??”
At one point I just typed “boy” and glared at the screen like I expected the algorithm to hand him to me on a silver platter.
It didn’t.
But then… salvation.
I remembered something: Instagram location tags.
God’s gift to nosy people everywhere.
I tapped the one for Mapo Ice Arena, the old rink tucked behind our school that everyone pretended was off-limits because the ceiling was leaky and the lights hummed like they were possessed.
After ten minutes of scrolling through selfies, smudgy ice pics, and one cursed video of someone doing a belly flop in skates (still not sure if it was a joke or a cry for help), I found it.
A blurry vertical clip posted by some hockey account called @rinkratskr.
Caption: “Who even is this kid?? That spin was insane?? #skatinglegend #openrinknight”
And there he was.
My hoodie boy.
Same gait. Same calm control. Same "I don’t know I’m being filmed but I still look like a cinematic dream" aura.
I paused. Zoomed in.
And there—tagged at the bottom—was the username:
@/sunghoon.pk
Click.
Public account.
Minimalist. Very him.
Seven posts. No bio. Profile pic: a backlit skyline, probably the Han River.
He posted like someone who wanted to be found just enough. Like a trail of breadcrumbs but make it moody and artsy.
Mostly photos of scenery. A cracked skate blade. A black-and-white coffee cup. A picture of someone’s cat with no context. And one post that stopped me cold:
A shot of the rink. Empty. Blue-tinged. He was in the corner of the frame, barely visible.
Caption: “It’s quieter now.”
I exhaled slowly.
Because of course.
Of course he posted like that.
He was a poetic enigma wrapped in a triple axel. And I’d made awkward soup eye contact with him.
I leaned back in bed, stared at the ceiling, and muttered to no one:
The ceiling said nothing. Judgy.
The time? 1:06 a.m.
My chemistry reading? Still unopened.
My brain? Hijacked by a boy who spins like silence and smirks like it’s a secret.
I closed my laptop with the kind of dramatic flair normally reserved for season finales and rolled over, shoving my face into my pillow.
“Get a grip,” I whispered into the cotton. “He’s just a guy. A random guy. A guy who ice-skates like he’s in a perfume commercial, sure, but still—just. A. Guy.”
My pillow offered no comfort.
It took me approximately forty minutes, three unnecessary scenarios of us bumping into each other at a convenience store, and one fake argument in my head that ended in a confession (??) before I finally fell asleep.
Only to wake up the next morning with a crick in my neck, exactly one minute before my alarm went off.
Which is a special kind of betrayal.
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
I woke up to the sound of my alarm and the sinking realization that I’d hit snooze three times without remembering.
Fantastic start.
The sky outside was that too-blue winter kind of bright, and the cold coming in from the window crack felt unnecessarily personal. I dragged myself out of bed like I was being summoned to war, tripped over my backpack, and muttered something in the general direction of gravity.
In the bathroom, I stared at my reflection for a long time.
My hair was passable. A little pillow-flattened, but it gave off that “I woke up like this but didn’t mean to” vibe. But my eyeliner?
A crime scene.
Attempt one: crooked wing.
Attempt two: thicker crooked wing.
Attempt three: somehow got eyeliner in my eyebrow.
Attempt four: panic.
I finally gave up, grabbed my mascara like it was a magic wand, and aggressively swiped it on until my lashes could pass for intentional.
I called it “smoky desperation.” It was fine.
I was five minutes late to class.
Not dramatic enough to make an entrance, but enough that everyone looked up when I walked in. My teacher paused mid-sentence, gave me a long look, then kept going.
I sank into my seat and took out my notebook like I had any intention of using it.
I didn’t.
Chemistry was—no offense to science—slowly sucking the will to live out of me. Something about molecular bonding or ion pairs or maybe it was how the fluorescent lights made everything look like a bad hospital dream. I don’t know.
I just knew that at 23 minutes in, my brain started playing static.
So I raised my hand.
“Bathroom,” I said.
My teacher didn’t even look up. Just waved me out like I was a regular escapee.
I took my bag. Casual.
Walked down the hallway. Normal.
Turned the corner and passed the bathroom.
Kept walking.
Turned again.
The moment I stepped into the rink, the cold slipped over me like a second skin. It was sharp, almost biting, but not unwelcome. My shoes echoed softly against the concrete as I crossed the threshold, keeping to the side, hoping not to disturb anything—or anyone. But it didn’t matter. He saw me almost immediately.
He was mid-stride, arms loose, gliding through a curve with perfect balance, when his eyes flicked toward the entrance. He slowed, not abruptly, but gradually, coasting until he reached the edge of the rink where I stood. There was no surprise on his face, no confusion, like he’d expected me somehow. The silence stretched for a second before he came closer, the dull scrape of his blades the only sound in the room.
“You’re back,” he said, calm as ever, voice low and even.
I blinked at him, caught off guard by how unbothered he looked. “Yeah,” I replied, a little breathless, trying to will my heart rate back to normal. “You… skate like you’re not touching the ground. You deserved to be photographed, it's truly amazing.”
His gaze didn’t shift. If anything, he studied me more closely. “Then you should photograph me.”
I froze, blinked. “What?”
He shrugged slightly. “I heard you do photography.”
That made my stomach dip. I looked down, almost instinctively, at the strap of my camera—my beat-up FujiFilm that never left my side, hanging from my shoulder like it belonged there more than I did. I hadn’t even realized I’d brought it today. I always did, without thinking.
“How—how did you know?”
He tilted his head like the question didn’t make much sense. “It’s hard not to notice when you carry it everywhere. I saw it last time. And I’ve seen you around school.”
That last part sat heavier than the rest. I wasn’t sure if it was the way he said it—casual but deliberate—or the fact that I hadn’t noticed him noticing me. I was usually the observer, the one watching moments unfold from behind the lens. To be seen like that, so plainly, knocked something loose in my chest.
“Oh,” I said, like a genius. “Right.”
There was a pause, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. He was still watching me, but not in a way that asked anything. It felt like he was just waiting to see what I’d do next.
I adjusted the strap of my camera, suddenly hyper-aware of its weight against my side. “If you’re offering,” I said carefully, “I’d love to.”
His mouth curved—not quite a smile, but something near it. “Good. Because I think better when I’m moving.”
And just like that, he turned, pushed off, and skated back onto the ice, his figure slicing through the cold air like it welcomed him back.
I sat down slowly on the cold bleachers, fingers instinctively wrapping around my camera like they always did when I didn’t know what to say. It was my FujiFilm X100V—silver with black leather grip, a little scuffed at the corners from too many school trips and spontaneous weekend walks, but I liked it better that way. The metal body felt familiar in my hands, like something that had always belonged to me, even before I knew how to use it properly.
I flipped the switch, felt the soft click vibrate under my thumb. The lens extended with its smooth little hum, and I thumbed off the lens cap, tucking it into my coat pocket like I’d done a hundred times before. But this time felt different. My hands weren’t clumsy, but they were careful, like I was afraid of making the wrong move.
I lifted the viewfinder to my eye and let the world shift.
He was moving again—arms loose, posture relaxed, that same quiet confidence in every motion. The camera softened everything around him, framed him in the square like a subject I hadn’t realized I’d been waiting to find. Through the viewfinder, the rink lost its rusted edges, the cracks in the boards blurred away, and all that was left was him gliding through the middle like he was made for it.
I tapped the shutter. Once. Twice.
The sound was quiet, almost shy, like it didn’t want to disturb him. I adjusted the aperture—f/2.0, to catch the soft winter light filtering through the high windows—and widened the shot. He dipped into a turn, one foot crossing over the other, hoodie fluttering slightly with the motion. His jaw was set, brows just a little furrowed in concentration. I captured that too.
Every few seconds, I’d lower the camera just enough to see him with my own eyes. I don’t know why. Maybe to make sure it was still real. Maybe to remind myself that I was here—not behind a screen, not watching a video online, but here, in the cold, watching him carve his thoughts into the ice like it was paper.
The camera strap shifted against my neck as I leaned forward, elbows resting on my knees for balance. My thumb hovered near the focus ring, adjusting just slightly as he moved closer, faster, a flash of motion that almost slipped out of frame. I caught it. I caught him. Not just the spin, but the moment right before—the gathering of energy, the breath he took as he prepared to push off. I liked that part the most.
I bit my lip and smiled a little to myself, heart warm despite the cold settling into my fingertips. The world always felt quieter when I had my camera up, like there was only the subject, the space between us, and whatever I chose to keep.
And him?
He didn’t perform. He didn’t look into the lens or try to impress me. He just kept skating like he forgot I was there—or maybe like he didn’t mind that I was.
I kept shooting, frame after frame, until I stopped worrying about whether they were perfect and just started chasing the feeling. The light. The way his hair moved under the edge of his hood. The way his skates sounded against the ice, steady and sure. The way I didn’t want to miss any of it.
Eventually, he slowed again, gliding into a soft stop near the edge of the rink. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked up at me, his chest rising and falling as his breath formed clouds in the air.
“Do I need to pose?” he asked, voice calm, teasing just barely.
I lowered the camera, smiled. “No. I like it better like this.”
He nodded, almost to himself, and turned away. He skated again, and I raised the viewfinder once more—this time, not just to watch him, but to remember what it felt like to see something beautiful in motion and be lucky enough to catch it.
He came back slower this time, his skates whispering across the ice until they drew him back to the edge of the rink where I was sitting. I had just lowered my camera, the screen still lit with the last photo I’d taken—him caught mid-turn, arms slightly out, eyes focused on some invisible line ahead of him. The moment looked like a dream. Not something staged, not something posed. Just real. Honest.
I watched as he glided to a stop, eyes on me, expression unreadable. He didn’t say anything right away, and I wasn’t sure if I should. The silence settled between us, not quite heavy, but full of everything unsaid. So, naturally, I filled it with words I didn’t think all the way through.
"We need to post these," I blurted, lifting my camera like it explained anything. "Seriously, you don’t even know how good you look out there. You’re like—skating poetry. It’s illegal to be this photogenic and not let the world know."
The change in him was immediate, like a light switching off somewhere behind his eyes. He didn’t smile. If anything, he looked away for a second, and the quiet stretched thinner. There was a subtle shift in his expression, a darkness—not quite sadness, but something older, heavier. His jaw tensed slightly, and he looked back up at me with a gaze that pinned me in place.
I hesitated, my hand tightening on the grip of the camera. "Or not," I added quickly, softer now. "It was just an idea. No pressure."
He looked down at the ice before meeting my eyes again. "Don’t post them," he said, his voice even but firmer than before.
I nodded, feeling like I’d overstepped some invisible line I hadn’t known was there. "Yeah, of course. Just for… me, then. I mean—not me, me. Like, us. Just for us. I guess."
He studied me for a moment longer before replying, voice quieter this time. "They’re for our eyes only."
Something about the way he said it lodged itself deep in my chest. The words weren’t romantic, not exactly. But they held weight. Like a promise. Like he had handed me something fragile and trusted me to hold it. My stomach flipped, and I hated how fast the words took root in my mind.
For our eyes only.
There was something about it—something unspoken and just barely intimate. A shared secret I hadn’t realized we were creating. My heart fluttered before I could stop it, and I had to look down at my camera to stop myself from staring at him like a total idiot.
I pretended to check my photos again, though I didn’t see any of them clearly. I was too aware of the stillness around us, of him still standing there, too aware of my own heartbeat thudding far too loudly in my ears.
When I finally looked back up, he was still watching me, calm and unreadable as ever.
"Yeah," I said aloud, trying to steady myself. "Just for us. Got it."
He nodded like it settled something between us. And maybe it did. Maybe that was the thing—these pictures weren’t for an audience. They were just for this moment. For him. For me.
After a pause, I blinked and realized something that made me sit up straighter. "Wait. How am I supposed to get them to you?"
He stepped a little closer to the railing, eyes steady on mine. "Give me your phone."
I opened my mouth to ask why, but before I could even finish the breath, he reached out, fingers brushing softly against mine as he took the phone from my lap. His hands were cold but sure, and there was something ridiculously confident in the way he unlocked it without asking and swiped straight into my contacts.
He typed quickly, efficiently, then passed it back like it was nothing.
There it was.
Park Sunghoon
Saved in my phone like it had always belonged there.
"Now you can send them," he said, glancing down at the camera that still hung from my neck.
I stared at the name on the screen, brain momentarily short-circuiting. "Oh. Okay. Cool," I managed, and then immediately wanted to faceplant into the bleachers.
Cool? That was the best I could do? He just casually slid into my contact list and I was out here saying cool like I was a malfunctioning robot.
He nodded once, like that settled it, and then turned back to the ice. His blades whispered across the surface as he pushed off again, not looking back. I sat there a little stunned, still gripping my phone, watching him disappear back into motion.
I watched for what felt like forever, my camera resting against my chest, heartbeat loud in my ears. I didn’t raise it to shoot again. Not yet. The moment didn’t ask to be captured. It asked to be remembered.
Eventually, he circled back toward the far end of the rink, movements slower now, more thoughtful. I watched him pause for a second, look toward the ceiling like he was thinking through something no one else could hear, and then spin again, this time looser, like he was skating to let go of something.
I stayed there, seated and quiet, camera in my lap, hands warm from where he'd brushed them. I kept staring at his name in my phone, the plain, unstyled contact card glowing against the screen like it meant more than it should.
I should’ve stood up. Should’ve gone back to class. But I didn’t. Not right away.
"Hey," I called out suddenly, not even realizing I was going to speak until the word left my mouth.
He slowed, turned in place, skating a half-circle before gliding back to the edge again.
"Why me?" I asked. "Why let me take the photos?"
He tilted his head slightly. "You didn’t ask me to pose."
That was it. That’s all he said.
And yet, I felt it. The trust in it. The quiet weight of someone who didn’t want to perform anymore.
He turned again, without waiting for a response, and disappeared back into the curve of the rink. And I sat back, phone still in hand, heart still catching up.
I didn’t know what this was. But I knew what it wasn’t.
It wasn’t just about skating. It wasn’t just about photographs. It wasn’t just a fluke.
It was something that belonged to both of us now.
Just for our eyes.
I checked the time on my phone—I'd been there nearly twenty minutes, maybe more. Class had definitely moved on without me, and if I didn’t get back soon, someone was going to notice. Probably my chemistry teacher, who kept track of bathroom breaks like a hawk with a stopwatch.
I shifted, standing up slowly, letting my bag slip back over my shoulder, camera still hanging at my side. Sunghoon had slowed again, watching me from a short distance away. I hesitated, unsure whether to say goodbye or just slip out the same way I came.
But then he spoke.
"Find me at lunch," he said simply.
I blinked, halfway to turning. "Huh?"
He didn’t elaborate, just offered a faint shrug. "You’ll find me."
My brows knit together, caught somewhere between confused and amused. "That’s totally not weird at all," I muttered under my breath, but I knew he heard me because the corner of his mouth lifted—just a fraction, barely there.
Before I could ask what that even meant, he was already skating away again, like that was all he intended to say. I stood there for another second, still slightly stunned, before finally forcing myself to move, slipping back out of the rink and into the hallway.
The warmth hit me like a wave, and I walked toward class with my thoughts racing ahead of me. I didn’t know where I’d find him at lunch. I didn’t even know what I was expecting. But I knew one thing for sure.
I would look.
And I had a feeling—some quiet, ridiculous feeling—that he would be there waiting.
And maybe, just maybe, that was the beginning of something neither of us had a name for yet.
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
author's note: trying something new by writing out an enha fic, lemme know what you think and if you want more parts (or more enha fics in general) comment if you want to be added to the taglist!
synopsis: in which case morgan, an introverted girl with too many bruises, too many words trapped in the margins of her notebooks, and not enough escape routes, crosses paths with oliver, a reckless boy with oil-stained hands and a grin that makes trouble look like fun.
It wasn’t even something I had considered before because who the fuck likes to wander out into the open in the midst of night like a sneaky racoon? Certainly not me.
I wasn’t that kind of person—the kind who ducked out in the middle of the night for reckless adventures, who did things just because she wanted to. I had always been practical. Predictable. The sort of girl who planned things weeks in advance and weighed the consequences of every action.
But now, standing in front of my bedroom mirror, lacing up my worn-out boots, I caught myself grinning.
It was barely there—a flicker of something at the corner of my mouth. But the moment I noticed it, my stomach flipped.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I wasn’t excited.
I wasn’t looking forward to this.
It was just Ollie. Just a junkyard. Just a stupid, impulsive decision that I would absolutely, definitely regret in the morning.
I yanked my coat off the chair, shoving my arms through the sleeves, forcing my face back into something neutral. I refused to think about why I was doing this. About why I hadn’t just crumpled up the stupid note and gone to sleep like a normal person.
My fingers lingered on the door handle.
One deep breath. Slow. Quiet.
I eased the door open just enough to slip through, careful not to let the hinges creak.
The house was still. Silent except for the distant hum of the refrigerator and the faint rustling of trees outside. I moved carefully, stepping around the loose floorboard near my dresser, creeping toward the hallway—
"Where are you going?"
I froze.
For a second, I considered pretending I hadn’t heard it. Just keep walking. Don’t acknowledge it.
But I could feel her staring at me.
Slowly, I turned my head.
Janine was standing in her doorway, arms crossed, eyes sharp despite the fact that she had probably just been lying in bed. Her hair was a tangled mess, and her pajamas were wrinkled, but her expression was way too alert for someone half-asleep.
I should’ve known.
Janine had a sixth sense for drama.
I cleared my throat. "Nowhere."
Her brows lifted. "Nowhere?"
"Yep." I shoved my hands into my coat pockets. "Nowhere."
"You never sneak out."
I shrugged. "I do now."
"Liar." Her eyes narrowed, scanning me like I was a particularly suspicious crime scene.
I shifted on my feet, pressing my lips together.
"You’re acting weird," she muttered.
"No, I’m not."
"Yes, you are." She stepped closer, tilting her head. "You were smiling."
I immediately wiped my face blank.
Janine gasped. "Oh my God."
"What?" I snapped, already regretting every decision that had led me to this moment.
"Are you on drugs?"
"What?!" I hissed, my voice a sharp whisper.
She crossed her arms tighter, clearly delighted by my growing horror. "You never sneak out. You never smile. And now, here you are, creeping through the house at—" she glanced at the clock on the wall, "—eleven-fifteen at night like some criminal."
"I am not on drugs," I said through gritted teeth.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I’m sure!"
"Hmm." She squinted at me. "You’re acting suspicious."
I exhaled sharply. "I’m going for a walk."
Janine huffed. "Oh, please. No one goes for a ‘walk’ at this hour unless they’re doing something illegal or stupid.*"
I tightened my jaw. "I am not doing anything illegal."
"So, something stupid then."
I clenched my fists, praying for patience. "Goodnight, Janine."
I turned toward the stairs again, determined to escape, when—
"Ohhh."
Something in her voice made me pause.
Made my stomach drop.
I turned my head slowly.
Her lips were curved.
Her eyes were gleaming.
"Are you going to meet a boy?!" She whisper yelled incredulously.
I whipped around so fast I nearly lost my balance. "NO."
Janine beamed.
"Oh my God, you are—"
"*I’m not!" I snapped, gripping my coat tighter.
"You’re lying."
"*I’m not!"
"You so are," she emphasized the last word.
I could feel my face heating up, which only made it worse.
Janine clasped her hands together, rocking on her heels. "Look at you, sneaking out to see a boy—"
"It’s not like that!"
"—our very own Morgan Chapman, living—"
"I am not living!"
"—being scandalous—"
"I am not scandalous!"
Janine smirked. "You’re smiling again."
My mouth snapped shut.
She gasped. "Ohhh my God—"
"Goodbye, Janine," I said, turning back to the door.
"Use protection!" she called after me, barely holding back laughter.
I groaned, pressing a hand over my face. "Janine."
"The Virgin Mary is finally—"
I bolted out the door before she could finish.
The night swallowed me whole the second I stepped outside.
It was colder than I expected, the wind cutting sharp against my cheeks, whispering through the empty streets like it carried secrets only the dark could hear. The houses around me were quiet, the windows dim, their occupants tucked safely inside. The occasional porch light flickered, buzzing weakly, barely holding back the weight of the night.
I pulled my coat tighter, burying my hands deep into the pockets, curling my fingers around the scrap of receipt Ollie had slipped me earlier. The ink was probably smudged by now, but I didn’t need to look at it. I had the address burned into my mind.
Holloway Road. The junkyard just past it.
Twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes of this—the cold, the silence, the feeling of being the only person left awake in the world.
It wasn’t bad.
Not exactly.
But there was something unnerving about walking alone at this hour, something just beneath the surface, threading through my bones like an itch I couldn’t quite reach.
It wasn’t fear.
Not really.
I had walked these roads a thousand times before. I knew them. But at night, they changed. The trees looked taller, the shadows stretched longer. Every distant rustling of leaves, every flickering streetlamp, every distant hum of a passing car felt… off.
Like something could happen.
Like something would.
I kept my head down and picked up the pace.
By the time I reached the outskirts of the junkyard, my fingers were stiff with cold, and my breath curled in front of me in soft, pale wisps.
I stopped at the rusted sign hanging crooked on the fence—just as awful as Ollie had described. The metal was corroded, eaten away at the edges by time and neglect, the words barely legible under the layers of grime.
The gate loomed ahead, slightly ajar. Just enough for someone to slip through.
Just enough to feel like an invitation.
I inhaled sharply, stepping forward—
"Would you look at that."
I flinched, my heart lurching. Lord have mercy, he scared the holy sacred shit out of me.
I knew that voice.
I turned sharply, already scowling before I even saw him. "Oliver."
He grinned, stepping into the dim glow of a nearby lamppost, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "You did come."
I crossed my arms, willing my pulse to slow. "Don’t make a big deal out of it."
"Oh, no, of course not," he said, tone dripping with amusement. "Not like you were the one adamantly refusing earlier or anything."
I rolled my eyes. "Regretting this already."
He laughed under his breath, then turned slightly, gesturing behind him. "Anyway, welcome to paradise."
I frowned, stepping closer as he motioned toward the scattered wreckage of forgotten vehicles.
"This," he said dramatically, waving a hand, "is my backyard."
I blinked, confused. "What?"
He turned slightly, pointing past the tangled fences and rows of rusted cars. And sure enough—beyond the scattered metal, past the half-collapsed stacks of vehicles, there it was.
A house.
Barely visible, but definitely there.
"That’s my aunt’s place," he said casually.
I squinted. "Mrs. Davies?"
"Yep. Junkyard’s practically attached." He shot me a smug look. "So really, this was meant to happen."
I stared at him for a long moment.
Something about the way he said that—so easy, so certain—made my skin prickle.
Meant to happen.
Like I had no choice in the matter.
Like I was just another piece falling into place.
Ollie grinned, waiting for me to react.
I pressed my lips together, shoving my hands deeper into my coat pockets.
"Oliver," I said, voice flat.
His grin widened.
Ollie took a few steps forward, hands still stuffed in his jacket pockets as he surveyed the junkyard like a king overseeing his crumbling empire. The ground beneath us was uneven, littered with rusted metal bits and shattered glass, the air thick with the scent of oil, damp earth, and something vaguely metallic.
"Alright," he said, clapping his hands together. "Let’s give you a proper tour, shall we?"
I followed as he weaved through the rows of abandoned vehicles, some stacked precariously on top of one another, others slumped into the dirt like they had simply given up.
He stopped at the first car—a 1965 Austin Mini (as he said, I didn't know squat about cars), or what was left of one. The red paint had faded to a dull, rust-speckled brown, and the driver’s side door was completely missing.
"Sad case," he mused, patting the hood. "See this? The tires are shot—completely deflated, cracked from years of sitting here. And this whole front bumper? Wrecked. Probably from a collision back in the day."
I frowned. "How do you even know that?"
"Look at the way it’s dented—" He leaned down, tracing his fingers over the metal. "The impact is heavier on one side, which means they hit something head-on but slightly off-center. Probably a curb or a post. Something strong enough to ruin the alignment but not enough to total the whole car."
I tilted my head, raising an eyebrow.
I had never thought about cars like this before.
Sure, I had seen them my whole life—parked along streets, roaring past in a blur—but I had never noticed them. Never thought about the way they aged, the way their history lingered in every scratch, every dent, every speck of rust.
Ollie noticed.
He moved to the next car—a 1972 Ford Cortina, its once-bright yellow exterior now peeling and stained with grime.
"This one’s a disaster," he said with a sigh, giving it a small push. It groaned under his touch. "Flaking paint, busted suspension—see how it’s sagging on one side? Probably sat too long in one place, and the weight distribution went to hell."
I found myself nodding, even though I only understood half of what he was saying.
"And this—" he continued, pointing at the cracked windshield. "That’s not from a crash. That’s just time and pressure. See how the cracks spider out from the middle? It probably started as a small chip and spread over the years."
I raised my eyebrow again. "You’re very passionate about this."
"You’re listening."* He grinned, eyes way too pleased.
I scoffed, crossing my arms. "No, I’m not."
"You so are!" He pointed at my face and let out a deep giggle. "You’re intrigued! Admit it, Morgan. You care about cars now."
"Shut up," I muttered, nudging past him.
He laughed, following behind.
We walked further into the lot, stepping over rusted metal scraps and weaving between the rows of vehicles, until we stumbled upon something… different.
A Ford Escort RS1600.
Ashy black, dull from years of dust, but still intact.
Ollie stopped mid-step, his entire body going rigid. "Ohhh, hold on a second."
I immediately narrowed my eyes. "Ollie. No."
"Morgan. Yes."*
"Don’t even think about it."
He ignored me, stepping closer like he was approaching a wild animal. "This car looks good."
"This car looks haunted," I corrected.
"Haunted by potential," he said dreamily, running a hand along the hood. "Look at it—no major rust, no smashed windows, tires still holding air…" He crouched slightly, inspecting the bumper. "A few scratches, sure, but nothing fatal. This—" he turned to me, eyes practically shining, "—is a find."
"I don’t like the way you just said that."
He ignored me, jiggling the handle. The door creaked open without resistance.
I groaned. "Oliver, no."
"Oliver, yes," he shot back, sliding into the driver’s seat.
I watched as he reached under the dashboard, messing with a tangle of wires.
"Oh my God," I muttered, running a hand down my face. "Are you actually—?"
"Give me a second."
He fiddled, twisting wires, muttering under his breath.
First try—nothing.
Second try—still nothing.
Third try—
The engine rumbled.
My stomach dropped. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me."
Ollie beamed, slamming the passenger door open. "Hop in, Morgan. You’re driving."
"Nope."
"Yep."
"Absolutely not."
"Morgan."
"Oliver."
"Do it for the narrative," he tried, wiggling his eyebrows. "*Think about it—star-crossed fugitives steal a forgotten car, navigating the open road, danger at every turn—"
"This is very much creeping into illegal territory."
"So is being boring," he countered.
I glared. "I don’t know how to drive."
"Perfect! Then you can’t crash."
"That’s not how it works Oliver! You sound bloody lunatic!"
Ollie grinned, patting the driver’s seat. "C’mon, Morgan. You snuck out at midnight to meet me in a junkyard. Are you really drawing the line here?"
I inhaled sharply.
I was already here.
I was already breaking the rules.
And, God help me—I was curious.
I grumbled under my breath, sliding into the driver’s seat. The car smelled like dust and nostalgia. The leather was cracked, worn in places, but the wheel felt solid beneath my hands.
Ollie slid into the passenger seat, his expression practically gleeful.
"Alright," he said, leaning back. "Foot on the clutch."
"The what?"
"Oh, dear Lord."
He reached over, grabbing my knee—my actual knee—and guiding my foot toward the correct pedal.
I choked back a wheeze. "Don’t touch me." My knee was warm under where his hand had lingered. I rememebred where his hand had fully encompassed my knee in a hug. I wish he was hugging me.
Wait, what?
"Relax, you act like I’m gonna propose," he muttered. "Now, left foot clutch, right foot brake, and—"
"Why are there three pedals?"
"Because it’s manual, Morgan. We are living in the past."
"This is the past!"
"Relax," he groaned, exasperated. "You act like I'm gonna propose."
I scowled, kicking his hand away. "Hands to yourself."
"Fine." He threw them up in surrender. "But put your left foot on the far-left pedal. That's the clutch."
I pressed it down hesitantly, feeling the strange resistance beneath my foot.
"Good," he nodded, pleased, as if I had just solved a difficult math problem. "Now, your right foot—hover over the brake. Just in case."
I obeyed, shifting awkwardly in the seat. "This is weird."
"It's driving," Ollie said, as if that was an explanation.
I huffed. "Why are there three pedals?!"
"Because it's a manual, Morgan," he sighed dramatically. "We are living in the past."
"This is the past," I shot back.
"Exactly!"
I groaned. "So what now?"
"Now," he said, grinning again, "you're gonna put it into first gear."
I grabbed the gear stick, frowning. "...Which one is first?"
"The one that says one."
"It doesn't have numbers!"
"Oh. Right. Just—here, let me—"
His hand darted toward the stick.
I slapped it away.
"Stop touching things!"
"You're doing it wrong!"
"I don't even know what I'm doing!"
"Exactly!"
"Shush!"
"You shush!"
We were laughing now, shoulders shaking from trying to stifle it. I bit my lip to keep it in, gripping the wheel a little harder.
Ollie wiped at his face, still grinning. "Alright, alright, just—push it forward. That’s first gear."
I did as told, feeling the mechanism slide into place.
"Now," he said, calmer now, "gently—and I mean gently, Morgan—lift your foot off the clutch while slowly pressing on the gas."
I inhaled deeply, focused, determined—
And stomped the gas like I was being chased by death itself.
The car jerked forward so violently that my entire soul left my body.
"OH MY GOD!"
"TOO MUCH GAS!"
"WHY DIDN'T YOU WARN ME?!"
"I DID!"
We lurched forward again, my hands white-knuckling the steering wheel.
Ollie was half laughing, half bracing for impact, one hand slapping the dashboard. "Holy Mary—EASE OFF, EASE OFF!"
I frantically lifted my foot—too fast—and the car shuddered before coming to a pathetic, gasping halt.
Silence.
The dust around us settled.
The car stalled.
We sat there, frozen.
Ollie turned to me, breathing hard, eyes wide. "...That was awful."
I stared ahead, shell-shocked, gripping the wheel.
"...I hated every second of that."
He burst out laughing.
"Why did you panic like that?!" he choked, doubling over.
"Because you were yelling at me!" I hissed, hitting his arm.
"Because you were killing us!"
"I WAS TRYING!"
"TRY BETTER!"
We gasped for breath, trying to quiet ourselves, but the stupid giggles kept bubbling up.
I slumped against the seat, groaning into my hands. "That was the worst experience of my life."
"*Oh, no, I guarantee you—it's about to get worse."
I peeked at him, alarmed.
"Because now," he grinned, wicked, "you have to do it again."
I exhaled through my nose, forcing myself to sit up straight.
The car was silent again, except for the faint ticking of the cooling engine. My hands were still locked onto the steering wheel like I was bracing for impact, and honestly? I was.
Ollie, meanwhile, was having the time of his life.
"Alright, alright," he said between chuckles, slapping his knee. "Not bad for a first try—"
I shot him a look. "Not bad? The car literally had a seizure and died."
"Alright, fine," he amended, still grinning. "It was a terrible first try. But that’s okay! We learn through failure."
"Some of us also die through failure," I muttered, adjusting my grip on the wheel.
"Not tonight!" He clapped his hands together, rubbing them excitedly. "Lesson two: understanding the car. Because clearly, we skipped that step, and now I fear for my life."
I huffed. "You're the one who put me in the driver’s seat."
"And that was my first mistake," he deadpanned.
I rolled my eyes as he gestured to the dashboard.
"Alright," he continued, "first things first—the clutch."
"Right, the mystical third pedal that exists solely to ruin my life."
"Close enough," he said with a smirk. "So, the clutch disengages the engine from the transmission, meaning it lets you change gears without the car bucking like a wild horse. If—" he emphasized, "—you do it smoothly."
"Right. Smoothly.*" I nodded, pretending to understand.
"The gas pedal—" he tapped the offending thing, "—should not be treated like an on/off switch, which is what you did last time. It’s all about gradual pressure. A little tap, like you’re easing into a bath, not launching a rocket."
"How do you know what kind of baths I take?"
"I—" He paused, squinting at me before shaking his head. "Moving on."
He reached forward, tapping the stick shift. "Five-speed manual transmission. This here? Neutral. You should always start in neutral—"
"Why?"
"Because if you start in gear and turn on the car, it might lunge forward and run over, oh, I don’t know—me."
"Noted." I carefully moved the gear shift into neutral, feeling the slight give in the mechanism.
"Now," he continued, "first gear is up and to the left. Second is straight down from that. Third and fourth are in the middle—third up, fourth down. Fifth is all the way up and to the right."
I blinked. "Why does this sound like a secret military code?"
"Because it is," he said gravely. "Manual driving is a sacred skill, Morgan."
"If it’s so sacred, why does no one drive manuals anymore?"
"Because people are weak," he said dramatically. "Also, automatics are just easier."
"Then why do you like manuals so much?"
"Because they’re cool," he declared, throwing his arms up. "You feel the car. You control it. It’s like dancing, but with an engine."
I gave him a long look. "Did you just call driving a car dancing?"
"I did, and I stand by it."
I sighed, glancing back at the dashboard. "Okay, what else?"
"The speedometer shows how fast you’re going—"
"That won’t be an issue."
"Fair," he admitted. "RPM gauge tells you how hard the engine’s working. Don’t let it scream at you."
"Scream at me?"
"Yeah, when you push the engine too hard, it’s like—" He made a very aggressive whining sound.
I stared at him, horrified. "Please never do that again."
"Duly noted."
"What else?"
"Temperature gauge. You don’t need to worry about it, unless you feel like setting the car on fire tonight."
"Tempting," I muttered.
"And finally—" he knocked on the steering wheel, "—your best friend: the brakes."
I narrowed my eyes. "I think my best friend should be the 'get out of the car' button."
"Not an option," he grinned. "Now—try again."
I groaned, shaking out my hands before gripping the wheel again.
"Okay, okay." I inhaled deeply, setting my feet. "Clutch down—"
"Good."
"Foot hovering over the brake—"
"Mhm."
"Shift to first—"
"Nice."*
I bit my lip, exhaling slowly. "Okay, and now—slowly lift off the clutch while tapping the gas—"
I did exactly that.
And this time—
The car moved forward.
Not smoothly. Not perfectly. But not violently either.
Ollie let out a dramatic gasp. "Ladies and gentlemen, we are moving!"
I clamped my lips together, focusing entirely on keeping the car straight.
"Alright, just keep rolling, ease into second gear—"
"Which one is second again?!"
"*Straight down, straight down—DON’T PANIC—"
"I AM PANICKING—"
"STOP PANICKING—"
"STOP YELLING AT ME—"
We both burst into laughter, the car lurching slightly as I fumbled to shift gears.
"You’re actually doing it!" he grinned, shaking his head. "You’re driving!"
I let out a breathless laugh, shocked. "I’m driving?!"
"You’re driving."*
"Holy—"
"Watch out for the fence."*
I yanked the wheel slightly, narrowly avoiding a stack of old tires.
Ollie wheezed, "Okay, that was close—"
"Oh my God, I’m gonna die."
"No, you’re doing great!"
I could feel giddy panic bubbling up in my chest. The junkyard blurred slightly as the car rolled forward, slow but steady, the cold night air rushing through the cracked windows.
For the first time in a long time, I felt reckless.
(Who am I joking, I never feel reckless)
And then—
I saw it.
A flicker of something in the distance. Headlights, low and steady, creeping between the rusted cars like a predator stalking its prey.
I stiffened, my hands tightening around the wheel. "Uh… Ollie?"
"Yeah?"
"What’s that?"
Ollie frowned, shifting in his seat. "What’s wha—"
He froze.
His head snapped toward the windshield, and without hesitation, he stuck his head out of the passenger window, squinting into the night.
The headlights glowed brighter, and then—
A faint flicker of red and blue.
Ollie whipped back inside. "Shit—"
"Shit?" I repeated, my voice jumping an octave. "Why shit? Why is shit happening?"
"That’s a patrol car."
"A WHAT?!"
"A police patrol car," he hissed, urgently. "Why else would they be creeping around at this hour?!"
"Maybe they’re lost?!"
"MORGAN, PUT YOUR FOOT ON IT."
"WHAT? WHY?"
"BECAUSE WE'RE GUILTY."
I blinked wildly. "We haven’t done anything wrong!"
"YES WE HAVE!" he gestured wildly around the car. "You’re driving a hotwired vehicle in a private junkyard without a license. YOU ARE THE TEXTBOOK DEFINITION OF GUILTY."
My stomach flipped. "Ohhh, that’s not good."
"NO, IT’S NOT GOOD."
I turned back toward the windshield.
The police car was getting closer.
And then—
The megaphone crackled to life.
"DRIVER, PULL OVER THE VEHICLE IMMEDIATELY."
A new kind of panic hit me square in the chest.
"Fucking mother—"
"GO! GO! GO!" Ollie practically shrieked, gripping the dashboard.
I slammed my foot onto the gas—too hard again—and the Escort suddenly jerked forward, throwing us back against our seats.
"OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD—"
"MORGAN, FOCUS!"
"I’m a new driver as of ten minutes ago, Oliver!"
"Yeah, and you're about to be a fugitive as of right now, so put your foot down!"
I barely had time to process any of that before the police megaphone crackled again.
"DRIVER, PULL OVER THE VEHICLE IMMEDIATELY."
I let out a strangled sound that was somewhere between a scream and a groan. "I'm in such big fat trouble—"
"Morgan, go!" Ollie slapped the dashboard, his voice climbing higher in urgency.
"I don’t know where to go!" I shot back, my hands gripping the wheel so tight my knuckles were turning white.
"The freeway," he said, as if that was a normal thing to suggest.
I nearly swerved right then and there. "Are you insane?"
"It’s the best way to lose the police," he reasoned, still watching behind us as the police car picked up speed.
"It’s also the best way to die!"
"Stop being dramatic and merge left," he said, entirely too calm for someone actively evading arrest.
"I don’t even know what that means!"
"Steer left—no, not like that, gradually—oh, Jesus, okay, watch the road!"
The police siren blared louder.
"DRIVER, PULL OVER NOW."
"I can’t," I practically sobbed, my hands slick with sweat as I forced the wheel straight. "I barely know how to go forward!"
"Okay, okay, deep breath," Ollie said, his tone switching into something more controlled, more focused. "I need you to shift into third gear. You can do that, yeah?"
"I don’t even remember second gear!"
"Yes, you do. I believe in you."
"This is not the time for motivational speeches!"
"Morgan, shift into third or we’re gonna die!"
I let out a weak, panicked whimper and yanked the gear stick forward.
The car stuttered hard, the engine letting out an agonized growl, but it moved. We stayed on the road. I could barely believe it.
"Holy shit," I breathed, my heart hammering like it was trying to escape my ribcage.
"Yes, Morgan! You’re doing it! We are fleeing police!"
"Don't say it like it’s a good thing!"
"Just keep driving!"
My body was working purely off instinct now, my brain lagging somewhere behind. The freeway was coming up fast—too fast. I had never driven on an actual road, let alone one that cars used to go fast.
My stomach twisted. "Ollie, I can’t—"
"You can. Just keep your hands steady, ease into the lane, and don’t look back," he instructed, eyes flicking between me and the police car, which was way too close for comfort.
"I want to look back!"
"Well, don’t! Eyes forward, steady hands, and for the love of God, don’t slam the brake!"
"I hate this!"
"You love this!"
The road ahead stretched wide, the streetlights casting long, endless streaks of light along the asphalt. The freeway entrance loomed, an open mouth waiting to swallow me whole. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, the world narrowing down to just me, Ollie, and the car.
This was happening.
I was actually doing this.
I swallowed down the scream bubbling in my throat and steered onto the ramp.
Ollie let out a victorious laugh. "Hell yeah, Chapman! Welcome to the fast lane!"
I groaned. "Oh, we are so going to die."
The freeway stretched out in front of me, an endless stretch of asphalt that I had no business being on. Cars zipped past, their headlights streaking through the night, and I could barely keep my hands steady on the wheel.
"The cops are still behind us," I hissed through clenched teeth. "What the hell do I do now?"
Ollie twisted in his seat to glance behind us. "Alright, okay, don’t freak out—"
"Too late!"
"Right, well, freak out less because you need to learn how to weave."
"Weave? Like… sewing?"
"Like changing lanes, Morgan! You need to lose them, and you do that by moving, not driving in a straight line like some—"
I let out a strangled noise, my fingers digging into the steering wheel. "Oh, I am so sorry I didn’t come prepared for a high-speed chase tonight, Oliver!"
Ollie threw his hands up. "Would you rather I drive?"
"Yes!"
"Well, too late for that, champ," he shot back. "Now, listen—don’t be jerky about it. The key is to keep a steady speed and slide into the next lane like you belong there."
I swallowed thickly. "I don’t belong anywhere near this road!"
"Try telling that to the police!"
I barely had time to glare at him before the siren behind us wailed louder.
"DRIVER, PULL OVER IMMEDIATELY. IT IS IMPERATIVE THAT YOU COOPERATE."
I whimpered. "Ollie, help me!"
He grabbed the dashboard with one hand and pointed at the lane beside us with the other. "Alright, first move—mirror check!"
I flicked my eyes to the side mirror. A blue sedan trailed beside us, far enough that I had space to move.
"Okay, now signal," he instructed.
I shot him a glare. "Oh, yeah, let me politely let everyone know I’m currently evading the police!"
"Morgan, signal!"
I slammed the indicator on, the clicking noise taunting me.
"Now, ease into it—ease—"
I yanked the wheel too hard.
The entire car lurched into the next lane, my stomach dropping straight into the floorboards.
Ollie slammed his hands against the ceiling. "Not like that!"
"Be specific, Oliver!"
"Try not to look like you're committing vehicular manslaughter!"
"Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll make sure to drive gracefully next time we are running from the law!"
The siren wailed again.
Ollie snapped his fingers. "Alright, another lane! Go!"
I shot a panicked glance at the lane beside me—empty.
I gritted my teeth and shifted the wheel slightly.
The car glided into the next lane, smoother than before.
Ollie whistled, impressed. "Alright, that was sexy."
I whipped my head toward him. "Don’t ever say that again!"
"Just saying! You’re a natural!"
The police car was still there, but I could see them losing ground.
"Again!" Ollie urged. "One more lane!"
I didn't argue.
Another mirror check. Another signal. Another move.
Smoother this time. Faster.
The police car hesitated.
"Again!" Ollie barked.
I slid right, just as another car merged behind us—blocking the officer’s path.
Ollie twisted in his seat. "Holy shit, I think we lost them!"
I choked on air. "Are you serious?"
He pressed his forehead to the window, watching as the police car slowed, stuck behind traffic.
A full five seconds passed.
The sirens faded.
The flashing lights disappeared into the distance.
Ollie turned to me, eyes wide, mouth hanging open in disbelief.
"Chapman," he breathed.
I gripped the wheel tighter, the reality of what just happened hitting me like a freight train.
My stomach twisted. My pulse pounded.
I let out a single, horrified breath.
"Ollie, we just ran from the police."
Ollie threw his head back and laughed. "Hell yes, we did!"
"Oh my god."
"You were incredible."
"I am going to throw up."
"Let’s do it again."
"Oliver!"
I barely registered anything after we lost the police. My mind was running ten paces behind my body, still trying to comprehend what I had just done.
I had been driving for fifteen minutes and somehow managed to commit a literal crime.
My fingers were shaky on the wheel, my pulse hammering against my ribs, but I forced myself to focus, blinking hard to keep the world from blurring.
"I need to get off this road," I muttered.
Ollie, still riding the high of our near-death experience, clapped his hands together. "Look at you, already making sound driving decisions!"
I ignored him, gripping the wheel tighter as I took the next exit, guiding the car downhill into a quiet, tree-lined street. It was secluded, hidden from the main road, the kind of place where nobody in their right mind would think to look for a pair of dumb teenagers who just evaded arrest.
I parked, slamming the gear shift into neutral, yanking up the handbrake, and exhaled.
Silence.
The car ticked softly, cooling down from its unexpected workout. My entire body felt like it had been rung out like a towel, every nerve still buzzing with leftover adrenaline.
I let out a shaky laugh, resting my forehead against the steering wheel. "That was batshit insane."
Ollie grinned, leaning back. "That was legendary."
"That was a crime."
"That was a story."
I lifted my head just enough to glare at him. "You are so much worse than I thought you were."
"And yet," he pointed at me, "you still agreed to sneak out with me tonight."
I groaned, throwing my head back against the seat, feeling the heat from my still-burning face seep into my scalp. "I’m never listening to you again."
"Sure, sure," he waved a hand, his smirk still firmly in place. Then, suddenly, his brows furrowed.
I barely had time to react before he leaned forward—
I flinched back, my breath catching. "What are you doing?"
Ollie reached over my shoulder, his face way too close, his warm breath skimming my cheek as he grabbed the seatbelt hanging limply at my side.
"Oh, wow," he mused, completely unfazed. "You forgot to buckle in. Dangerous, Chapman. Reckless, even."
I froze.
The moment his fingers brushed against my waist, an unexpected wave of heat crawled up my spine, spreading fast and unrelenting, lighting up every nerve along the way.
The heat hit my cheeks first, burning its way down my neck, curling around my collarbone, sinking into the hollow space just above my chest.
It didn’t stop there.
It dripped lower, slow and molten, pooling along the outer edge of my thigh—where, not even a minute ago, Ollie’s knee had bumped into mine when we hit the freeway turn.
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly too dry, my breathing suddenly too shallow.
He wasn’t even touching me anymore—he had already fastened the buckle, pulled away, and leaned back into his seat, completely oblivious to the fact that my brain had just short-circuited into oblivion.
But I felt it.
The lingering warmth where his knuckles grazed my waist, the phantom press of his fingers against my outer thigh, the memory of his breath against my cheek.
I blinked rapidly, struggling to find words, to think, to breathe.
Ollie smirked, completely unaware of the absolute breakdown I was having in real time. "Better safe than sorry, yeah?"
I barely managed to get my mouth to work. "Yeah. Safe. Totally."
He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. "You okay?"
I forced my face into something neutral, willing the redness away. "Fine."
"You're blushing."
I whipped my head toward the window so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash. "Shut up."
Ollie snorted, clearly thrilled with himself. "Oh my god, you are blushing. This is adorable."
I scoffed, forcing my face deeper into the cool glass of the window. "I am not blushing."
"You so are."
"I'm not," I muttered, willing the heat in my face to die down.
Ollie leaned in slightly, tilting his head, and I could feel his eyes roaming over me, taking in every nervous tick, every telltale sign of betrayal from my own stupid body.
His smirk widened. "What, you’ve never had a boy touch you before?"
My entire brain shut down.
I whipped my head toward him, mouth slightly open, absolutely mortified.
Ollie, sensing my horror, only grinned more, his eyes alight with mischief. "Ohhh, that explains a lot."
I floundered, completely at a loss for words. "I—that’s not—"
"All the fancy, smancy romance that you write," he continued, deliberately dragging out his words, his voice teasing, low, "you surely have inspiration from real life, right?"
I clamped my lips shut, refusing to engage.
His brows lifted at my silence. "No? Not even a little real-life experience?"
I hated how pleased he looked. Like he had cracked something open, discovered something new.
I stared at my lap, my fingers tugging at a loose thread on my coat, desperate to look anywhere but at him.
Ollie leaned back, letting the silence drag before letting out a mock thoughtful hum. "Huh."
I did not trust that "huh."
I glanced up cautiously, only to regret it immediately.
His smirk had deepened, something wicked and knowing tugging at the edges of his lips.
And then—
He tilted his head, voice dropping just enough to make the air in the car feel different.
Ollie tilted his head, voice dropping into something low, slow, something dangerous.
“Well,” he murmured, his gaze flicking over me like he was evaluating, like he was enjoying my sudden inability to breathe, “if you ever need a little… inspiration for your writing—”
I choked on air.
Ollie smirked, his eyes glinting, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was holding back laughter. “Oh? What’s that look for, Chapman?”
I slapped a hand over my face, absolutely mortified. “Shut up.”
His smirk widened. “I’m just saying, all those little, flowery descriptions of longing gazes and stolen touches—you sure you don’t want to do a little field research?”
My brain fully short-circuited.
"Field research?!" I exclaimed.
His grin stretched, completely unrepentant. “What? Isn’t that what writers do? You know—pull from experience?”
I could feel the heat creeping down my neck, spreading low and dangerous across my chest, coiling at my spine. My body was betraying me, warmth pooling exactly where I did not need it.
My thighs clenched instinctively, and the moment I realized what I was doing, the moment I felt his eyes drop, I nearly launched myself out of the car.
Ollie noticed.
Oh, he noticed all of me.
His smirk deepened, something slow and taunting settling into his features. His voice was smooth, amused, as he leaned in just slightly, just enough for my breath to catch.
“Ohh,” he drawled, “so that’s the kind of romance you write. Can I read it? You would find that I might like reading these sorts of things.” He grinned mischieviously.
My stomach flipped, an odd mix of mortification and something else coiling in my chest.
I snapped my head toward him, eyes wide. "No, absolutely not!"
Ollie chuckled, shifting slightly in his seat, his fingers drumming lazily against his knee. "Come on, Chapman, don’t be selfish. If it’s anything like what I think it is, I bet it’s very educational."
My throat went dry.
Educational?
My brain short-circuited, catapulting through every single thing I had ever written—every feverish description of a lingering touch, of a hand sliding down a waist, of lips hovering just barely over skin—
Oh. My. God.
I sputtered, clutching the collar of my coat like it could somehow ground me back to reality. "You—I—that’s not—I don’t even—"
He laughed, low and easy, tilting his head. "What, worried it’s too much for me?"
"You shouldn’t be reading it!" I blurted out, voice too high, too thin.
"Why not?"
"Because it’s personal!"
He hummed, dragging a finger over the worn leather of the seat. "Personal, huh? So… self-insert?"
My entire body ignited.
"Ollie!"
He had the audacity to grin, eyes flicking down to my throat, my fingers still clutching at my coat like I was trying to hold myself together. Even though I didn't have my notebook on me, I felt the ghost of it on my body and I shuddered at the thought of it being here again.
"Now I have to see it," he teased. "Imagine the inspiration I’d get from it. Maybe I’d learn a thing or two."
I groaned, burying my face in my hands. "I hate you."
"Mm. No, you don’t," he said smoothly, his voice dipping lower, just enough to make the air between us feel heavier, charged.
I swallowed, willing my pulse to settle, my body to not react.
Ollie leaned back against the seat, satisfied, stretching his arms behind his head. "So? When do I get to read it?"
"You don’t," I snapped, turning back to the window, glaring at my reflection.
He sighed, mock disappointed. "That’s a shame. If it’s anything like the way you drive…"
I turned slowly, narrowing my eyes. "What is that supposed to mean?"
His smirk returned, lazy and entirely too self-assured.
"Chaotic. But thrilling."
Heat flared in my chest, and I hated the way my body reacted to it, hated the way my thighs pressed together again before I could stop myself.
His gaze dipped—just barely, just enough for me to notice—
Ollie’s gaze lingered, dragging slow across my face like he was memorizing something, like he was looking for something just beneath the surface.
I held my breath, my pulse hammering in my throat as his eyes flicked from my mouth, to my throat, to the way my fingers were clenching the fabric of my coat, back up—
I swallowed hard, unable to move, unable to think, unable to do anything but sit there, burning alive under the weight of his stare.
Then—
He tilted his head, just slightly, just enough for his nose to nearly brush mine.
I didn’t pull away.
I couldn’t.
His breath was warm, his presence overwhelming, the space between us dwindling, dwindling, dwindling—
And then—
A pounding on the driver’s side window shattered the moment into a thousand pieces.
I whipped around so fast that my hair snapped through the air, smacking Ollie right in the face.
"Ow—Jesus—" he reeled back, rubbing his cheek.
"Shit, sorry—" I barely got the words out before my stomach plummeted at the sight in front of me.
Janine.
She was standing outside the window, wide-eyed, breathless, her face pale in the dim light.
My heart lurched.
She was scared.
The last traces of whatever-the-hell had just happened between me and Ollie evaporated in an instant.
I fumbled with the door handle, but she was already gesturing frantically for me to roll the window down.
"Help—help, Morgan," she panted, her voice thin, frantic.
My blood ran cold. "What happened?"
"It’s Mom," she blurted, clutching her sides like she was trying to hold herself together.
I felt my entire body go rigid.
"What happened?" I repeated, sharper now, urgency creeping into my voice.
Janine gestured again. "Roll the window down!"
I fumbled, my fingers shaking as I tried to grab the handle—only to completely miss it.
Before I could curse myself, Ollie’s hand brushed against mine, and without a word, he reached over and smoothly turned the crank for me.
The window screeched down, the night air rushing in, but Ollie didn’t say a thing. He just sat there, silent, his expression unreadable.
Janine leaned in, her breath still uneven. "She got shit-faced at the pub."
I exhaled sharply, already feeling the exhaustion sink deep into my bones. "Jesus Christ."
"And now she’s back home—" Janine swallowed, wringing her hands, "—and she’s throwing a tantrum. She’s pissed off about something, I don’t even know what, she’s just—"
I gritted my teeth, already knowing exactly what this looked like.
"Just let me in the car," Janine cut in, hastily, her voice strained. "Drive me home."
I nodded immediately. "Get in the back."
Janine didn’t hesitate.
She yanked the door open and clambered inside, the car dipping slightly under the sudden shift in weight. She pulled her knees up to her chest, arms wrapped around herself, as if she could make herself disappear.
I turned back toward the wheel, glancing at her through the rearview mirror. "How did you even find me?"
Janine blinked, looking off toward the distant streetlights. "I saw a light in the distance. I was waiting for you to come home, but you didn’t. I got worried."
I exhaled, gripping the wheel a little tighter. "Oh."
Janine didn’t say anything else, just curled in on herself, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.
For a brief moment, I forgot Ollie was even there.
I was so focused on shifting the car into gear, on keeping my hands steady, on making sure Janine didn’t start panicking more, that when I finally glanced over at him—
He was already watching me.
His jaw was tight, his usual lightheartedness completely gone, replaced with something else.
Something serious.
Something worried.
He didn’t make a sound.
Didn’t ask anything.
Didn’t push.
He just sat there, the streetlights flickering against his features, his lips pressed into a thin line.
I didn’t say anything either.
I just focused on the road, on the turns I knew by heart, on the familiar, dread-filled path home.
And when I finally pulled up in front of the house—
I could already hear the yelling from inside.
Janine practically bolted out of the back seat before the car had even fully stopped. I barely managed to put it in park before she was charging up the front steps, her figure small, but urgent, disappearing through the door.
Ollie shifted beside me, his jaw tight, eyes glued to the house. The yelling inside was loud enough to shake the walls, incoherent yet boiling with rage, the kind of sound that made my stomach churn on instinct.
I swallowed hard, reaching for the door handle. "Stay in the car."
Ollie snorted, unimpressed. "Yeah. No."
I turned to him, annoyed, desperate. "Ollie—"
He was already getting out, his movements sharp, his body tense with something I hadn’t seen on him before—anger.
Real, serious anger.
Not teasing, not boyish amusement—this was something hardened, something furious, something that made the air between us feel heavier.
I exhaled sharply, knowing there was no convincing him otherwise.
The moment we stepped out of the car, the cold air hit me, but it wasn’t the kind of chill that made you shiver. It was the kind that clawed its way into your lungs, something tight, suffocating, a familiar dread curling in my stomach, settling deep.
My hand shook as I reached for the door.
I clenched it into a fist, willing it to stop.
Before I could push forward, I felt a warm weight press against my back—gentle, steady.
Ollie.
His palm rested between my shoulder blades, a single, firm pat, just enough to ground me, just enough to remind me that I wasn’t alone.
It worked. A little.
I inhaled sharply and stepped inside.
The smell hit me first.
Stale alcohol. Cigarettes. A vague, cloying scent of cheap perfume and the leftover grease from whatever meal had been left to rot on the stove.
My mother was in the middle of the kitchen, pacing, muttering, her movements jerky, unstable, a nearly-empty bottle of vodka clutched tight in one hand.
She was yelling at nothing, throwing up her hands, slurring her words, cursing at whatever invisible demons she was battling tonight.
Then she turned and saw me.
The air in the room shifted.
Her eyes—red, glassy, unfocused—locked onto me, and for a moment, there was something unreadable in them.
Then her gaze flicked to Ollie.
And her face twisted.
"Ohhh," she drawled, her mouth curling into something ugly, mean. "So this is what you’ve been up to."
I stiffened. "Mom, don’t start."
She laughed, sharp and bitter. "Don’t start? Don’t start? You come waltzing in here, middle of the goddamn night, with some—some boy—"
I clenched my fists. "He’s just—"
"Just what? Just fucking you behind the bins like a dirty little whore?"
Ollie went rigid beside me.
My breath caught, my entire body flashing hot with shame, with fury, with something humiliating and raw.
I exhaled, forcing my voice to stay even. "Stop it."
"Slut," she muttered under her breath, shaking her head. "Just like your fucking—"
"Mom—"
And then she turned, her hazy gaze landing on Janine, who was hovering by the far side of the kitchen, arms wrapped around herself, looking small.
"And you," my mother slurred, her words thick, cruel, dripping with resentment. "You little snitch."
Janine flinched.
I stepped forward immediately, my own voice sharp now. "Don’t talk to her like that."
"Like what?" my mother mocked, tilting her head. "I call it how I see it. That’s all you two have ever been, anyway. Liabilities. Always clinging to me like leeches, draining the life out of me, ruining everything—"
I felt my own hands shaking now, but not from fear. From anger.
From years of this.
"Enough," I bit out. "Just—enough."
She laughed again, loud and bitter, but then—
A plate flew across the room.
I barely had time to react before I felt Ollie yank me backward, my heart leaping into my throat as the plate shattered against the wall behind us.
A shard of glass whipped past my cheek, a sharp, hot sting slicing through my skin.
My breath caught.
The room fell into thick silence, the kind that felt tangible, that pressed against my chest like a weight I couldn’t shake off.
I could still hear the lingering echo of the plate shattering against the wall, the tiny fragments of porcelain skittering across the floor. The sting on my cheek was a dull, persistent throb, warm and wet, the sensation almost unreal, like my body was registering it but my mind hadn’t caught up yet.
I reached up, my fingers brushing against the cut. When I pulled them away, red smeared against my skin.
My mother still stood in the center of the kitchen, her chest rising and falling unevenly, her knuckles white where they gripped the bottle in her hand. Her glassy, unfocused eyes were locked on nothing, like she was looking past me, past Janine, past this entire house.
Her words hung in the air, sinking into the walls, into the foundation, into me.
"Curse your father for giving me these hellish spawns."
A slow, sharp laugh spilled from her lips, wet, broken, laced with something far too raw.
"You think I wanted this?" she hissed, gesturing wildly around her as if she wasn’t talking about the house, but about us. "You think I asked for any of this?"
I stayed silent.
I knew where this was going.
I had heard it before.
But Janine, still curled in on herself near the doorway, whispered, "Mom…"
Our mother’s head snapped toward her.
"Don’t," she spat, voice shaking. "Don’t you Mum me. You don’t get to do that. Not after this."
I glanced at Janine. Her face was tight, her lips pressed into a thin line, but I could see the way her fingers dug into her sleeves, the way her shoulders were starting to quiver.
I stepped forward. "Leave her out of this."
My mother let out a hollow laugh, tilting her head back. "Oh, now you want to play the protector? Now you want to act like some kind of… saint?" She shook her head, teeth clenched. "You have no idea, Morgan. No idea what it’s like to be trapped."
The bottle in her hand wobbled as she lifted it, waving it toward me like she was making some kind of point.
"You and your sister—you have no clue, do you?" she sneered, her breath reeking of alcohol, her face twisted into something that wasn’t just anger, wasn’t just resentment, but something achingly sad, something lost. "You think it’s bad now? You think I’m cruel? You think I’m a monster?"
She barked out a harsh laugh, but her eyes were glistening now, her throat working around something heavier, something deeper.
"You should’ve seen your father," she whispered, soft, venomous.
My stomach twisted.
"You don’t even remember him, do you?" she asked, her voice almost mocking. "You were just a baby when he left. Just a stupid little thing who had no idea what kind of man he really was."
I didn’t answer.
I didn’t want to play this game.
But she wasn’t talking to me anymore.
She was talking to herself.
Her eyes shimmered, but the smile on her face was bitter, full of teeth. "Charming, that’s what he was. Smooth-talking bastard. Came in, swept me off my feet, filled my head with lies."
Her breath hitched. Her throat bobbed, and for a moment, she looked like a woman on the edge of something dangerous, something too deep to crawl out of.
"And then he was gone," she continued, laughing bitterly. "Just like that. Gone. Left me with two kids, a pile of debt, and a house that’s falling apart."
She wiped at her face roughly, the bottle in her grip shaking.
"And do you know what’s worse?" Her voice cracked, and suddenly, the tears finally spilled over.
Not loud, not gasping, just quiet, streaming down her face like something too tired to hold back anymore.
"He was the only person who ever loved me," she whispered. "And even he left."
My mother stood there, drenched in her own grief, her shoulders hunched, her face wet with silent tears, but she wasn’t done.
I knew she wasn’t done.
She sniffed sharply, dragging a trembling hand over her face, smoothing her hair back, though it did nothing to fix the mess of it. Her fingers twisted into the strands like she was trying to undo something, trying to rewrite the past, but it was useless.
The past couldn’t be undone. And neither could we.
She let out a short, bitter breath, her gaze suddenly locking onto mine with a weight that made my chest tighten.
"You don’t get it," she murmured, her voice thick, strained, like she was trying to hold something rotting inside of her. "You don’t—"God—you don’t even know what you did to me."
I stared at her, my throat closing up again.
But she kept going anyway.
"I used to be beautiful," she whispered, almost wistfully, shaking her head. "I was so fucking beautiful."
Her lips curled, and she let out a sharp laugh, but there was nothing happy about it.
"Men would stop in the street just to look at me," she said, distant now, her gaze slipping past me, like she was somewhere else, somewhere decades ago, when she wasn’t this version of herself. "I had the world in my hands. I could’ve had anyone."
She swallowed, something visibly lodged in her throat, something ugly, hateful.
"And then I had you."
The words hit me harder than the plate ever could have.
My fingers curled into my palms, nails biting deep, but I didn’t say anything.
I couldn’t.
Her watery gaze flickered to Janine, who was still frozen, still staring, but she wasn’t crying, wasn’t moving, just watching our mother unravel.
"And then I had you," she repeated, bitter now, her lip curling. "And it was over."
She gestured toward her own face, her own body, her hands gripping her waist like she was disgusted by the shape of herself.
"Do you know what it’s like?" she whispered, her voice cracking now. "To look in the mirror and see nothing left of who you used to be? To see ugliness? To see ruin?"
She let out another short, harsh laugh, swiping at her face again, but this time, it was angry, furious, like she wanted to rip the tears away before they could stain her skin.
"That’s what you did to me," she seethed. "You and your father. You took everything from me. My beauty, my body, my life. And then he left, and I was stuck with you."
Something inside me collapsed, folding in on itself like a dying star.
I had always known she resented us. Always known that every look, every remark, every bitter word carried more weight than she let on.
But hearing it now—so clear, so raw, so completely unfiltered—was something else entirely.
Ollie shifted beside me, his entire body coiled, his breath coming out sharp, but I didn’t look at him.
I couldn’t.
I could only look at her.
At the woman who was supposed to love us.
At the woman who had spent her entire life hating what we had taken from her instead.
Her face twisted, her brows furrowing like she was fighting something inside herself, like she wanted to keep spilling, ripping, destroying—but there was nothing left to say.
Nothing left to ruin.
She had already ruined it.
For a long, terrible moment, she just stood there, chest heaving, eyes shining with too much weight, too much history.
And then she turned, her fingers gripping her temples, her body shaking, before she let out a low, guttural sound, something that was half a sob, half a curse—
And she disappeared down the hall, leaving nothing but silence behind her.
Nothing but us.
The room was quiet in the explosive aftermath that she left us to clean up. The shards of her words—said and unsaid—scattered around us, jagged and impossible to pick up without bleeding.
And then there was the glass.
Fragments of shattered plates, the splintered edges of an old vodka bottle, the remnants of whatever she had thrown in her rage. Pieces of destruction that no one would remember in the morning but us.
Us.
The ones left to sweep it all up.
Janine was still frozen, arms wrapped tight around herself, her legs pulled to her chest, her expression unreadable.
Ollie stood rigid, fists clenched at his sides, his entire body wound tight like a wire about to snap.
And me—
I was somewhere else entirely.
I could still feel the warm trickle of blood sliding down my cheek, pooling at my jaw, cooling as it dried. The sting barely registered. I had stopped feeling it minutes ago.
The only thing I felt now was the echo of her voice, the way it had seeped into my bones, into my lungs, like it had become a part of me.
"You took everything from me."
My hands shook, barely noticeable, barely enough for anyone to see—but Ollie did.
He shifted beside me, breaking the silence with a single, quiet breath.
"Hey."
I flinched before I could stop myself.
Ollie hesitated for a second, his brows furrowing, his expression unreadable, before his gaze lowered to my cheek.
"You’re bleeding," he murmured, soft, careful, like he was afraid to say it too loud.
I exhaled sharply, blinking, reeling myself back in.
"Yeah." My voice barely sounded like mine. "It’s nothing."
"It’s not nothing."
I didn’t respond.
I just turned, brushing past him, walking over the mess without care, because I was so used to it.
Janine didn’t move when I passed her, didn’t look at me, didn’t say a word.
She was still stuck in it, in the wreckage, in the weight of what had just been said, what had been confirmed.
I reached for the old broom in the corner of the kitchen, the one we always kept there for nights like this, for messes like this, because there was always something to clean up.
Always.
The wooden handle was smooth in my grip, familiar in the worst way.
I pressed the bristles to the floor, watching as the shards of broken glass scraped together, the sound loud in the silence.
Ollie hadn’t moved.
I could feel his eyes on me, could sense the way he was holding back, like he wanted to say something, but didn’t know how to.
Because what could you possibly say?
What words could fix this?
Ollie grabbed a dustpan without a word, his movements quiet, careful, measured. He crouched down beside me, holding it steady while I swept the shattered glass into it, the tiny shards scraping against the metal with a sound that made my teeth clench.
The room was silent except for that—scraping, shifting, the careful shuffle of feet avoiding the wreckage.
Janine still hadn’t moved from her spot. She was staring at the far wall, her eyes unfocused, her hands gripping the fabric of her sweater so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. I didn’t know if she was going to cry or if she was just bracing herself for the next inevitable blow, waiting for another bottle to smash, another plate to be thrown, another set of words that would leave behind wounds deeper than any cut ever could.
Ollie’s hands moved with practiced efficiency, gathering the larger pieces, tossing them into a trash bin without hesitation. He handled it like it was something normal, something routine, and maybe that’s what made it hurt even more. He wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t fumbling, asking questions, looking at me like I was something fragile. He was just… doing what needed to be done.
I swept the last of the glass into the pan, standing up slowly, my body feeling heavy, weighted with something that had been pressing down on me for years but suddenly felt unbearable.
Ollie dumped the shards into the bin and stood too. He dusted his hands off against his jeans, the motion slow, deliberate, as if he was giving me time to say something.
But I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
The cut on my cheek had dried now, leaving behind a thin line of dried blood that felt too warm against my skin. I could still hear her words, still feel them lodged somewhere deep in my chest, wedged between my ribs like splinters I’d never be able to pull out.
She used to be beautiful.
We had ruined her.
I swallowed, throat dry, setting the broom aside. My mother had stumbled to her room, no doubt passed out in a haze of alcohol and exhaustion, and in the morning, she’d act like none of this ever happened. Like it was just another night, another storm that would come and go, leaving only the wreckage for us to clean.
Ollie finally broke the silence.
“Does this happen a lot?”
His voice was steady, quiet, but something about the way he asked it made my stomach twist.
I didn’t answer right away. I just stared down at my hands, the faint tremble in them, the way my fingers still curled around nothing, like they were bracing for something else to fall apart.
“…It happens enough,” I finally said, voice hoarse.
Ollie didn’t respond. He just nodded once, slow, like he had already known. Like he had already figured it out the second he saw the way Janine and I reacted to the yelling. To the thrown plate. To the words that had burned into our skin like old scars.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
The kitchen smelled like alcohol and stale air, and I suddenly felt sick.
Ollie leaned against the counter, his jaw tight, his hands gripping the edge like he was keeping himself from saying something, something he knew wouldn’t make a difference, something I probably wouldn’t let him say anyway.
Instead, he just exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his already-messy hair.
Then, as if making up his mind about something, he straightened and tilted his head slightly, his gaze lingering on my cheek.
"Come here," he said, softer than before.
I hesitated.
His voice wasn’t teasing, wasn’t pushing, wasn’t full of the usual mischief that usually laced his words.
It was… different.
More careful. More certain.
I swallowed. "Why?"
Ollie sighed, exasperated, and gestured at my face. "Because you’re literally bleeding, Chapman."
I blinked. Right. The cut.
I’d forgotten about it, the sting dulling under everything else, under the weight of my mother’s words, under the exhaustion that had settled deep in my bones.
"I’m fine," I muttered, but Ollie was already stepping past me, glancing around the kitchen.
"Where’s your first aid?"
I furrowed my brows. "What?"
"Your first aid kit," he repeated, already moving towards cabinets like he was going to start searching himself.
I sighed, giving in, too tired to argue. "Bathroom cabinet. Upstairs. Second shelf."
He nodded once and walked off without another word, disappearing up the stairs.
Janine shifted on the couch, finally snapping out of whatever daze she’d been stuck in. She still looked tense, exhausted, but there was a flicker of something curious in her expression.
"You trust him?" she asked.
I hesitated.
Did I?
I wasn’t sure. But it wasn’t about trust.
It was about the fact that he was here, still here, even when I hadn’t asked him to be. Even when he could have walked away after the first plate was thrown.
So, instead of answering, I just muttered, "He’s persistent."
Janine huffed out something that sounded like half a laugh, then rubbed at her eyes and curled into herself again.
By the time Ollie came back down, carrying the small, battered first aid kit I hadn’t touched in months, she had already disappeared upstairs, probably locking herself in her room for the rest of the night.
Ollie wordlessly pulled out a chair, gesturing for me to sit.
I didn’t move. "I said I’m fine."
He lifted a brow. "And I said, sit."
I narrowed my eyes. "Bossy."
He smirked. "Persistent."
I stared at him for a long moment, considering fighting him on this, but then, for some reason, I sat down.
Ollie didn’t make a comment about it.
He just knelt in front of me, opening the kit and pulling out a few supplies, his movements quiet and focused.
The house still smelled like vodka and burnt-out anger, and the air still felt too thick, too heavy, but somehow, the way Ollie moved—calm, steady, unbothered—made it all feel a little easier to breathe.
He grabbed a small tin of Neosporin, unscrewed the lid, and dipped his finger into it.
I flinched as he reached for my face, but he paused, his hand hovering just inches from my cheek.
"I’m not gonna hurt you," he said, his voice lower, softer than I was used to.
I wasn’t afraid of him hurting me.
I was afraid of what it meant to let him do this.
But I didn’t pull away.
His fingers barely grazed my skin, the touch light, almost tentative as he smoothed a thin layer of Neosporin over the cut.
It stung at first, then faded into something cool and soothing.
His eyes flicked up to mine, just for a second, searching for any sign of discomfort.
I held his gaze for too long.
Then I cleared my throat, looking away.
He grabbed a small bandage, peeled the backing off, and pressed it carefully over the cut, his fingers lingering just a little too long against my jaw.
I hadn’t even realized I was holding my breath until he pulled away.
"There," he murmured. "Good as new."
Something in my chest twisted, something that felt warm and awful at the same time.
I hadn’t expected him to do this. To care enough to do this.
I let out a quiet breath, my voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you."
Ollie didn’t say anything right away.
Then, after a pause, he reached out without thinking, his fingers brushing over the back of my hand, slow and deliberate.
And then he held it.
Just… held it.
Not squeezing, not pulling, not forcing.
Just a simple, steady touch.
I stared at our hands, my chest tightening, something stinging behind my eyes.
I tried to blink it away, but a single tear slipped free, trailing down my cheek before I could stop it.
I turned my head away quickly, embarrassed, but Ollie didn’t let go of my hand.
Instead, he squeezed just slightly, enough for me to feel it.
Enough to let me know he saw it.
That he wasn’t going to acknowledge it, wasn’t going to make me say anything.
But he saw it.
And he was still here.
Before I could even think about what I was doing, before I could overanalyze or talk myself out of it, I shifted forward.
Ollie didn’t move, didn’t ask, didn’t hesitate—he just let me wrap my arms around him, let me bury my face into his shoulder, let me press against him like I needed this more than anything in the world.
And maybe I did.
Maybe I needed this more than I realized.
Because the second his arms wrapped around me, the second he pulled me in just a little tighter, something in me broke apart.
It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It was just a quiet, long-overdue unraveling.
A moment of relief, of exhaustion, of gratitude.
A silent thank you in the way my fingers clutched at the fabric of his jacket, in the way my breathing finally slowed, in the way I didn’t want to pull away just yet.
Ollie didn’t rush me.
He just let me hold on.
Let me exist in this space, in this moment, in this impossible, fleeting sense of comfort.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel alone.
I woke up in my bed thinking and feeling different. It was a Sunday morning, and it was 11:21 AM. I had completely forgotton how I had traveled back to my room after holding Ollie, and my memory was quite hazy.
The last thing I remembered was Ollie holding me.
Arms wrapped steady around me, the warmth of him seeping into my bones, my hands clutching the fabric of his jacket like I was afraid to let go. The exhaustion in my limbs had weighed me down, dragging me under like a riptide, but for the first time in a long time, I didn’t fight it.
I let myself be held.
I let myself be small.
I must have fallen asleep somewhere between the feeling of his hand smoothing over my back and the quiet rise and fall of his breath against my temple.
But I didn’t remember getting to bed.
I blinked up at my ceiling, the faint morning light filtering through my window, dull and gray. My body felt heavy, weighted down by something invisible, but my mind was oddly blank, like the edges of my memory had been softened, blurred into something difficult to grasp.
I pushed myself up slowly, wincing at the dull ache in my limbs, at the way my cut pulled slightly at my cheek.
A bandage. Right.
Ollie had put it there.
Ollie had—
My stomach flipped, the fragmented pieces of the night before flickering in and out of focus.
I had stood in this very room, barely keeping my eyes open, too drained to do anything but move on autopilot, and Ollie had been there, waiting outside my door while I changed into a raggedy old T-shirt and my dark gray sweatpants—ones that were so worn-in they were nearly black.
I remembered the feel of the fabric sliding over my skin, how heavy my arms had felt as I pulled the shirt over my head, how each movement felt like I was wading through something thick, unshakable.
I had opened the door, expecting him to be gone.
But he wasn’t.
Ollie had been leaning against the wall, hands shoved into his pockets, his expression unreadable in the dim hallway light.
I had been too tired to question it, too far past the point of caring why he was still standing there, why he was lingering.
And then—
Then he had walked me inside.
Just stepped in without hesitation, his gaze sweeping over my room, taking it in with a kind of quiet intensity that made my stomach tighten.
I had watched him through half-lidded, exhausted eyes, lying on my bed as he slowly took in every detail—the piles of books stacked haphazardly on the nightstand, the papers scattered across my desk, some half-written, some completely torn up, the tiny pencil sketches along the margins of notebooks, the small stack of novels on the shelf, all worn and well-loved.
His face shifted as he looked, the flicker of emotions barely visible, but I had seen them.
Curiosity.
Something softer.
And then—something else. Something heavy, something that flickered through his expression too fast for me to name.
I had wanted to ask.
But I had been too tired, too ready to succumb to the weight pulling me down.
Ollie had turned back to me, watching as my eyelids drooped, my body barely hanging on to consciousness.
And then, without a word, he had stepped forward, grabbed the blanket at the foot of my bed, and tucked it over me.
Gentle.
Careful.
The kind of thing that didn’t make sense, didn’t fit with the boy who teased me relentlessly, who had dragged me into a stolen car only hours before, who had smirked at my flustered reactions like it was his new favorite pastime.
This Ollie—the one standing in my room, tucking me in like it was second nature—was different.
And then—
Before he could straighten up completely, before he could pull away—
I had reached for his wrist.
Just a small movement, a hesitation, barely enough to stop him in his tracks.
But he paused anyway.
He had glanced down at my fingers, then back at me.
I didn’t know what I was asking for.
I didn’t even know if I was asking for anything at all.
But after a long moment, after a breath that felt too thick, too heavy, he had sighed quietly, then leaned down.
And he had hugged me again.
Then he walked out and left me.
Blinking back to reality, I notice a piece of paper with messy writing that could be mistaken for chicken scratch that was lying on my dresser.
Glancing at it quickly, I could tell who had written it based on the signature at the bottom.
Ollie.
Chapman,
Didn’t want to wake you. You looked like you needed the sleep. (Not that I’m saying you look tired—but you do, a little. In a cute way. Ignore that part.)
I left before your Mum could wake up and try to throw something else at my head. You should probably change that bandage in a few hours. Wouldn’t want you walking around with some dramatic, tragic heroine face wound—unless that’s the aesthetic you’re going for.
Also, I meant what I said about cars. You are a terrible driver, but you’ve got potential. Midnight joyrides are obviously a terrible idea, but let’s do it again sometime.
Take care of yourself.
Ollie
P.S. Try not to get into any fights before noon. I feel like you’ve hit your quota for the week.
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
taglist: @thatsnotaddy @schumacherluvr
author's note: long longgg pause from updating, school has been lowkey beating my ass :( sorry guys
I still cannot get over the fact that Oscar kept going. Like this man. he was fully stuck in the grass after his team had prevented him from going for the win before with fucking papaya rules, and yet he grit his teeth reversed out and actually scored two points. I cannot imagine what he was feeling that moment in the grass. they had literally marked him as out of the grand prix and he said actually no, fuck that. he is my driver of the day cause he should've won that.
synopsis: in which case morgan, an introverted girl with too many bruises, too many words trapped in the margins of her notebooks, and not enough escape routes, crosses paths with oliver, a reckless boy with oil-stained hands and a grin that makes trouble look like fun.
I've gone months upon months, seasons upon seasons, years upon years, from seeing you. Each cycle feels like a lifetime, the weight of time pressing against my chest as though the seasons themselves conspire to remind me of your absence. The sense of longing envelops me like a small ember slowly engulfing a fragile piece of parchment, curling its edges until there's nothing left but the ash of what once was whole.
Faith keeps me alive, keeps me tethered here, waiting for you, even as the years pile on like heavy snowdrifts, threatening to bury me.
Surely, an alternative reality will bloom for us, one where we break free from the endless cycle of yearning. One day, past the colors that the seasons paint, fiery autumn golds, icy winter whites, tender spring greens, and sun-soaked summer yellows, my eyes will meet yours again, and in that moment, the world will thaw. Time will stop, the seasons will collapse, and everything I’ve waited for will finally take root in—
"Morgan. Morgan Chapman! Morgan Chapman, answer me this instant!"
The sinister click-clack of our teacher's heels—or rather the devil reincarnated (but also known as Mrs. Tillet)— echoed across the room, each step a sharp punctuation against the dull hum of the overhead fluorescent lights.
Unblinking, they watched the scene fold as well. Like me, we were all terrified.
The sound sliced through the air, growing louder, more deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. It was the kind of sound that made your spine stiffen and your stomach churn, as if you could feel the judgment creeping closer with every step.
She stood at the edge of my desk now, the shadow of her towering figure casting a foreboding veil over my scattered notebook pages. Her fingers, pale and skeletal, drummed against the edge of the desk in a rhythm that matched the tap of her heels moments before. Her sharp gaze bore into me, eyes like twin shards of ice, piercing through my feeble attempts to avoid her scrutiny.
"Morgan Chapman," she repeated, her voice a venomous drawl that oozed with the kind of authority only a seasoned teacher could wield. "I will not tolerate silence. Speak. What the bloody hell are you doing writing nonsensical things in my class?"
I stared at her, eyes unblinking.
I stared at her, eyes unblinking, my throat constricted as though an invisible frost had wrapped itself around my neck, freezing my words before they could surface.
"Are you mute? Are you dumb, girl?" Her sharp words sliced through the air, a biting wind that left me raw. The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in as every pair of eyes in the class zeroed in on me. I could feel their gazes, heavy and smothering, like the oppressive heat of summer when the sun hangs too close to the earth.
Before I could muster even a semblance of a response, she snatched the paper from my desk with a swift, deliberate motion. The edges of the sheet fluttered for a brief second, a bird caught mid-flight, before she held it aloft. My blood ran cold.
"Ah, let’s see what we have here, shall we?" Her lips curled into a cruel smile as her eyes darted over the page. "What sort of drivel has Miss Little Morgan Chapman been conjuring in her little daydreams this time?"
She cleared her throat dramatically, the sound reverberating like the last crackle of brittle autumn leaves before winter’s frost claims them. Then, with exaggerated emphasis, she began to read aloud, her tongue slicing across the words on the paper like Excalibur.
"'Autumn. Winter. Spring. Summer. I've gone for months after months, seasons after seasons, years after years, from seeing you. The sense of longing envelops me like a small ember engulfing a piece of parchment...'" Her voice dripped with mockery, stretching each word until it felt foreign and unrecognizable.
The room erupted into muffled giggles, the cruel kind that stung like icy sleet against bare skin. My cheeks burned, a furious mix of humiliation and helplessness, as though summer’s scorching heat had collided with winter’s relentless chill.
She slammed the paper down on her desk with theatrical disdain, her expression one of exaggerated disappointment. "And this," she sneered, "is what you choose to waste your time on in my classroom? Silly little romance novels? Yearning and longing and all that nonsense? Writing this sort of rubbish isn’t going to get you anywhere, girl."
She turned her gaze to the class, addressing them all now, though her eyes never left me. "Ladies, take note: this is precisely what happens when you let your minds wander to frivolous pursuits instead of focusing on what matters. A woman’s place is to think practically, not to indulge in flights of fancy."
Her hand darted out suddenly, clutching the paper again. With a sharp, deliberate motion, she tore it cleanly in half, the sound of ripping paper as jagged and violent as a winter gale. Another tear followed, and then another, until the pieces fell like broken petals onto the desk.
I bit my tongue hard enough to taste copper, willing myself not to cry, but the sting behind my eyes was relentless. My chest felt tight, the humiliation a growing knot that made it hard to breathe. My fingers clenched around the pen in my hand, and I realized with a jolt that it was shaking, trembling against the weight of everything I was holding in.
A single tear betrayed me, sliding down my cheek before I could stop it. It fell silently, splashing onto the remnants of my torn paper, the ink beginning to bleed where the water touched it. I stared at the stain, a dark bloom spreading across the parchment, as though it were absorbing all the emotions I couldn’t let out.
My pen faltered, the tip hovering just above the desk, leaving faint, uneven lines where it quivered. I clenched my jaw, desperate to keep my composure, but every suppressed sob threatened to break free, rising in my throat like the first gust of wind before a storm.
Mrs. Tillet glanced at me briefly, her expression impassive, as though my silent struggle was nothing more than an afterthought. The room felt colder, the collective stares of my classmates piercing through me like icicles. Some were amused, others awkwardly looked away, but none of it mattered. I was utterly, completely exposed.
With an exasperated sigh that seemed to echo louder than the bell ever could, Mrs. Tillet straightened, smoothing the front of her charcoal skirt. Her heels clicked against the floor with a precision that made the sound even more menacing as she turned and strode to her desk. For a fleeting moment, I thought it was over—that she might let me gather what little dignity I had left and slip away into the crowd. But then I heard it. The unmistakable scrape of the ruler being pulled from the drawer.
The tension in the room thickened, sharp as the icy wind of winter. I froze, my breath hitching as she held the ruler in her hand, its polished wood gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light. It seemed absurdly long and heavier than I remembered, its edges worn smooth from years of discipline. She turned it in her hand, her movements slow and deliberate, like an executioner savoring the moment before delivering the blow.
"Three times this week, Miss Chapman," she said, her tone deceptively calm but undercut with a razor’s edge. She tapped the ruler against her palm, the sound crisp and deliberate, like the tick of a clock counting down. "Three times you've brought this nonsense into my classroom, wasting not just your own time, but mine. Do you think I’m here to entertain your fantasies?"
She approached, ruler in hand, and the whole room seemed to hold its breath. "Hands out," she barked, her voice cracking through the silence like the first thunder of an impending storm. I hesitated, the trembling pen still clutched in my fingers. "Now, Morgan."
I slowly extended my hand, fingers splayed and trembling, as though reaching out to grasp something that would never come. The first strike landed with a sharp sting that rippled through my skin, the sound cracking through the air like a brittle branch snapping in autumn. I flinched, but kept my hand steady. The second blow followed, harsher than the first, leaving a dull, throbbing ache in its wake. The third strike hit with the finality of winter’s frost, biting deep and unforgiving.
My breath came in shallow bursts, but I refused to cry again. I clenched my jaw so tightly it ached, keeping my head down as I pulled my hand back, fingers curling instinctively into a fist. Mrs. Tillet was not finished.
She reached for the pen still trembling in my other hand. "This," she said, snatching it with the same disdain she had for my torn paper, "is the very tool of your absurdity. A pen! You treat it like a wand, as though it will summon something meaningful out of the air."
Before I could react, she gripped it tightly in both hands and, with a startling crack, snapped it in half. Ink splattered onto her fingers and the desk, the bright blue pooling like fresh rain against the drab wood. My mouth fell open in silent shock. It seemed impossible, like watching someone twist the seasons out of order, and yet here it was—my pen, broken, its remains scattered before me like shards of glass.
"Let this be a lesson," she said coldly, dropping the pieces onto my desk as though they were trash. "Romantic nonsense won’t get you anywhere in life, Morgan. The sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be."
I can't believe this fucking tramp is married.
The screeching ring of the school bell pierced through the suffocating tension, its sharpness a cruel imitation of relief. Like the first sip of water after a drought, it should have been comforting—but it wasn’t. It only marked the end of one torment and the beginning of another. I had never been so glad to hear that disgusting sound, yet it felt hollow, as though it rang only to mock me.
The shuffle of feet and scrape of chairs filled the room as my classmates gathered their things, their movements sluggish with boredom but fueled by the thrill of escape. Whispers trailed behind them like cigarette smoke in the cold, clinging to the stale classroom air.
"She’s mental, isn’t she? It's bloody cuckoo up there."
"Thinks she’s some kind of poet or something."
"Bet she fancies herself the next Barbara Cartland."
The giggles that followed were sharp and biting.
I kept my head down, willing the stinging in my eyes to stop. My hand twitched toward the scattered remains of my paper, but I hesitated. Each torn piece was an extension of myself, exposed and humiliated for everyone to see.
As the last of the girls filed out, I dropped to my knees, frantically gathering the scraps of paper from the floor. My fingers worked quickly, trembling as they clutched at the shredded pieces. The inked words bled together, blurred by the damp stain of my earlier tears. My breath hitched as I reached for a fragment near the desk leg, only to feel a sharp pain shoot through my hand.
I looked up, startled, to see the scuffed sole of a black leather Mary Jane pressing down on my fingers. Fuck, it hurt.
"Oops," the girl said with mock sweetness, her face twisted into a smirk. It was Harriet Price, one of Mrs. Tillet’s favorites, the kind of girl who always wore her skirt a perfect inch below the knee and still managed to seem untouchably rebellious.
Her blonde curls bounced as she leaned down slightly, her voice dripping with venom. "Didn’t see you there, Morgan. Funny how you’re always crawling around like a little mouse."
Her friends snickered, standing in a semi-circle just far enough away to pretend they weren’t involved. Harriet stepped off my hand, and I recoiled, cradling it as the dull ache spread through my knuckles.
"Come on, Harriet," one of them said, feigning innocence. "You don’t want to get ink on your shoes."
They turned and left, their laughter trailing behind them, echoing down the corridor like a cruel taunt. I remained there for a moment, kneeling on the cold linoleum floor, my chest tightening with each shallow breath.
I forced myself to stand, clutching the crumpled pieces of my paper like a lifeline. My vision blurred again, but I blinked rapidly, refusing to let more tears fall. I had to get out of there.
The walk to the exit felt endless, the corridors eerily quiet now that the chatter of students had moved outside. The school smelled faintly of damp wool, chalk dust, and leftover custard from lunch—a scent that normally went unnoticed but now clung to me, suffocating. The dull posters on the walls—warnings about the dangers of truancy, the importance of abstinence, or reminders to study hard for O-levels—blurred as I passed, their bright colors mocking in their cheerfulness.
Hah. I had no problem with abstinence. No man, nonetheless even a boy, wanted to come near me. I was boy repellent. The only boys that got near me were my fictional ones that I wrote. The ones who said the perfect things at the perfect times, who leaned against doorframes with a devil-may-care grin, who held your hand as if the world might end if they didn’t. Boys who existed solely in the confines of my ink-stained notebooks, far removed from the awkward silences and sidelong glances of real life.
I allowed myself a bitter smirk at the thought, the corners of my mouth curling in a way that felt foreign and fleeting. Even if the world outside my head seemed intent on tearing me apart, at least I had that. My worlds. My words. They couldn’t take that from me—not completely.
But the thought soured as quickly as it came. Mrs. Tillet’s voice echoed in my mind, sharp and dismissive: “Romantic nonsense won’t get you anywhere, Morgan.” The words felt like grit beneath my nails, impossible to scrub clean. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was delusional, clinging to my daydreams like a child clutching a threadbare teddy.
Delusion got me fucking somewhere for all it counts, I'm bloody telling you I—
"OW!" My muttered ramblings were cut short as something—a force, a blur of motion—collided with me. The next moment, I was sprawled on the cold, uneven pavement of Clemsford’s High Street, my bag tipped over, its contents scattered across the ground like debris after a storm. A textbook flopped open, a pen rolled into the gutter, and my torn papers fluttered like fallen leaves.
"Shit! Are you alright?" a voice called out, jolting me from the daze.
I blinked up, startled, to see a boy hopping off a clunky red bike that was now lying on its side, its wheels spinning lazily. He pulled off his Walkman headphones—silver and bulky, with a tape that was still playing faintly—and crouched down, his face suddenly inches from mine.
It was the kind of face you’d expect to see on a cassette tape cover, all cheeky charm and easy confidence. His dark hair was slightly tousled, curling at the edges in a way that seemed both deliberate and careless, as if he’d just stepped off a football pitch or out of a record store. His uneven smile was what caught my attention most: crooked at one corner, as though it couldn’t decide between cheeky confidence and genuine warmth. And then there were his eyes—soft yet sharp, holding the kind of easy light that could shift between mischief and sincerity in an instant. I’d never seen him before, and that was saying something in a town as small as Clemsford.
"Bloody hell," I muttered, scrambling to sit up, my cheeks already burning.
"I didn’t see you! I’m so sorry," he said quickly, brushing a hand through his hair. His accent was softer, less clipped than the posh girls at school. "Are you okay? That was a bit of a nasty tumble."
I glanced down at my scraped palms and knees, wincing as I spotted a tear in my tights. "Yeah, I’m fine," I mumbled, even though my pride felt more bruised than my body.
He crouched lower, scooping up a few of my things—a battered notebook, my pencil case, and the cassette I’d forgotten I’d even packed that morning. "Here," he said, holding them out. His fingers brushed mine as I took them, and I nearly dropped the lot.
"Thanks," I muttered, looking anywhere but at his face.
"You’re sure you’re alright?" He tilted his head, his grin softening. "I didn’t mean to run you over. Thought I could zip past before the light changed, but..." He motioned vaguely to his bike, as if that explained his lack of control.
"It’s fine," I said, hurriedly gathering the rest of my things. My hands were still shaking, and I cursed myself for it. Of all the people in the world, why did the first boy to talk to me outside of school have to look like he belonged in a Duran Duran video?
"Good thing I didn’t break anything—your bones, I mean," he added, laughing.
I forced a weak laugh in return, still hyper-aware of the way his eyes lingered on me.
"Where were you off to, anyway?" he asked, leaning back on his heels. "You looked miles away. Daydreaming about something good, I hope?"
I shook my head quickly, clutching my things like a lifeline. "No, just… school stuff."
He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he extended a hand to help me up, his fingers warm against my cold ones.
"I'm Oliver, by the way," He said, squeezing my hand . A mutual sign of respect. "Oliver Bearman."
The name suited him—solid, grounded, and somehow larger than life, as though it belonged to someone who could navigate the world with ease while the rest of us stumbled over loose paving stones. It rolled off his tongue with the kind of effortless confidence that made me painfully aware of my own awkwardness.
"Bearman," I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper, tasting the name like it might explain the way my pulse quickened.
"Hah! Yeah, like a bear and a man, but I think of my self less scary than those two things combined," He chucked.
"Scary," I quietly echoed, more to myself than to him, my eyes stubbornly focused on the ground instead of his face.
"Are you just going to repeat everything I say? That's no way to make conversation," he teased, his voice laced with amusement.
I glanced up for the briefest moment, catching the playful spark in his blue eyes before my gaze darted away again. My cheeks burned as I scrambled for a response, but the words caught somewhere in my throat. "I—I wasn’t…" I stammered, my voice trailing off as I heard him laugh softly again.
"You know," he said, leaning slightly closer, "it’s alright to talk back. I don’t bite. Well, not unless I’m really hungry."
His grin widened, and I felt my heart stutter in response. He was teasing me, sure, but there was no malice in it—just an easy charm that made me feel even more self-conscious. My mind raced, but all I could think about was how absurd this moment felt, standing here with my scraped knees and torn papers, talking to a boy like him.
"Sorry," I finally mumbled, clutching my books tighter to my chest. "I’m not great at… talking."
"No kidding," he said, but his tone was light, his expression softening. "Lucky for you, I’m pretty good at it. Guess that balances us out, yeah?"
I noded, but I couldn't get a sound to come out. My throat tightened. This was almost a worse case scenario for me.
Nearly doomsday, even.
Talking with new people was quite frankly, new. And weird. And sometimes (most of the time) unpleasant. But strangely, this one was, how can I put this, okay…
Oliver crouched beside me, gathering up a forgotten possession that was still resting on the ground. He picked it up in one sweepingly smooth motion. His fingers brushed against the edge of my notebook, and he paused, tilting his head as he glanced down at it.
"Well, well," he mused, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. "Morgan Chapman."
My breath caught in my throat.
I hadn’t even realized my notebook had fallen out—hadn’t noticed it lying there, open, with my messy scrawl bleeding across the pages. But Oliver had. And now he was holding it, his fingers casually skimming the edge as if he were about to flip it open.
My stomach plummeted.
Oh no. No, no, no.
That wasn’t just any notebook—it was the notebook. The one filled with half-finished stories, private musings, and embarrassingly dramatic confessions to fictional men who didn’t even exist. The one that, if opened, would expose every corner of my ridiculous, yearning imagination.
I swear the universe was playing one large comical joke on me, and I, Morgan Chapman, just fell right into the tip of Lord's karma sword.
Panic surged through me, and before I could think, before I could even register what I was doing, I lunged.
"Wait—!"
The force of my movement knocked me forward, my knee scraping against the pavement as I collided into Oliver’s chest. He let out a surprised oof as I practically threw myself at him, one arm instinctively wrapping around my waist to steady me as I crashed into him.
For a second, neither of us moved.
His warmth seeped through his jacket, his hand firm against my lower back, steadying me as if I hadn’t just flung myself at him like an unhinged lunatic. I could feel the rise and fall of his breath, the faint scent of something vaguely cinamonny and warm clinging to his hoodie.
Oh my god.
Oh my god.
My face burned, heat crawling up my neck, scorching my ears. I had just thrown myself at a boy. A boy I didn’t know. A boy who now had my notebook.
Oliver blinked down at me, his expression somewhere between amusement and curiosity. "Well," he said, after a beat, his voice light and teasing, "that was dramatic."
I made a strangled noise that barely qualified as human.
His lips quirked up at the corner. "Didn’t realize my touching your notebook was such a crime. Do you write about the MI6 in here or something?"
I scrambled, half-tripping over my own feet as I grabbed for the notebook, but he held it just out of reach, his grip infuriatingly firm.
Yes, how dare he use his height advantage to get an edge over me?!
"Oliver," I hissed, my fingers closing around the edge as I tugged desperately.
He raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by my frantic reaction. "Alright, alright, keep your secrets," he said, finally letting go.
I snatched it back, clutching it to my chest like it was a lifeline, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Oliver rocked back on his heels, watching me with a knowing smirk. "Must be some very interesting stories in there," he mused, tilting his head.
I stiffened. "It’s nothing," I blurted, too quickly.
He grinned, eyes gleaming. "Right. And you just threw yourself at me because you don’t care about me reading it?"
I opened my mouth, then closed it. There was no winning this.
Oliver squinted at me, his expression full of exaggerated contemplation. "Yeah, you totally either write about some super top-secret MI6 government conspiracy that you don't want anyone to know about…" He stroked his chin dramatically, then his entire demeanor shifted. His smirk widened into something almost devious, his blue eyes glinting with unrestrained mischief.
"Or," he dragged out, his voice dropping just a fraction, "you write about good 'ole sex."
My brain short-circuited.
I went completely still, the words hanging in the air like an anvil poised to drop on my head.
And then—heat. A wave of it, roaring up my neck, flooding my face in an instant. My skin burned so fiercely I thought I might spontaneously combust right there on the pavement.
Oliver saw it. Of course he saw it. His smirk deepened, like a cat who had just cornered a very, very flustered mouse.
"Oh," he said slowly, dragging out the syllable like he had just unearthed the world’s greatest treasure. "So that’s what it is."
"No!" I practically squeaked, gripping my notebook even tighter, as if I could somehow strangle the entire conversation to death. "It’s not—I don’t—oh my God."
Oliver full-on laughed, tilting his head back in delight. "Morgan Chapman, you are so red right now."
"Shut up!" I groaned, covering my face with one hand while clutching my cursed notebook with the other.
I needed to burn this cursed thing in a firepit, throw it in a deep lake with all sorts of brain eating amobeas or bacteria, or blow torch it. This notebook was bringing me all sorts of shit luck.
"Hey, no shame in it," he continued, clearly enjoying my agony. "You’re, what? Sixteen? Seventeen? I’d be more surprised if you weren’t writing steamy little romance novels in your free time."
I whipped my head up to glare at him, my humiliation morphing into full-blown outrage. "I do not write romance novels!"
Oliver shrugged, completely unfazed. "Uh-huh. And I suppose your face is is just a coincidence? It totally is telling a different story than what you allegedly are saying…"
I groaned, my fingers tightening around the edges of my cursed notebook like I could somehow crush it into oblivion. "My face is not," I lied, feeling the heat still crawling up my face.
He just smirked. "Sure you’re not."
I exhaled sharply, willing myself to focus on anything else, because if I let him run with this conversation any longer, I might actually keel over from sheer mortification. "I’m eighteen, by the way," I blurted out, as if that was at all relevant.
Oliver raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Oh yeah?"
"Yeah," I huffed. "I just look young."
He made a thoughtful humming noise, tilting his head. "Right. And I’m nineteen."
I squinted at him, studying his face like I could somehow see if he was lying. "Are you?"
His smirk deepened. "What do you think, Chapman?"
I frowned. "I think you’re full of shit."
Oliver let out a loud, obnoxious laugh, shaking his head. "God, you’re fun."
I bristled. "I’m not fun, I’m—"
"—thoroughly embarrassed that I found your secret romance novel?"
"I-," sputtered. He got me.
Oliver’s smirk widened, eyes practically glowing with amusement. "I-?" he echoed, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. "What’s that, Chapman? You were saying something?"
I clamped my mouth shut, my entire body locking up. My brain was screaming at me to say something—anything that would wipe that smug look off his face—but my mouth betrayed me, working uselessly around half-formed words that refused to come out.
Oliver chuckled, shaking his head. "Wow. Speechless. That’s a first."
I hated that he was enjoying this. I hated that he was right. And I really hated that my face was still burning hot, my hands nervously gripping the edges of my cursed notebook like it might somehow anchor me back to reality.
"I-It’s not—" I tried again, but my voice wobbled like a newborn fawn, and I wanted to die.
"It’s not…?" Oliver prompted, leaning ever so slightly forward, his grin all-too-knowing.
I swallowed thickly. "It’s not—" I squeaked again. Oh God. Oh my God.
His grin stretched even wider, and I immediately looked away, staring very intently at the pavement. Anywhere but at him.
"Chapman," he drawled, his voice teasing, playful. "You do realize that blushing this much is basically an admission of guilt, right?"
I groaned, squeezing my eyes shut for half a second. "I am not—"
"Blushing?" He finished for me, sounding obnoxiously delighted.
I exhaled sharply, forcing myself to do something before he actually made me explode from sheer mortification. Without thinking, I hugged my notebook even tighter to my chest and spun on my heel, determined to walk away from this absolute disaster of a conversation.
But before I could take more than three steps—
"Oh, come on," Oliver called after me, his voice still bubbling with laughter. "Now you’re just running away!"
I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. My legs were moving on their own, carrying me as far from him as possible before my dignity suffered any more casualties.
"Not running away!" I choked out, mortified beyond belief.
"Uh-huh," he called back. "So if I read one of those stories of yours, would it be purely academic? Not even a little bit swoony?"
I whimpered. I actually whimpered.
"You are the worst person I have ever met!" I shouted over my shoulder, my voice much too high-pitched to be taken seriously.
"Surely not!" his voice called out in the distance as I rounded a corner. Speedwalking up a hill—which proved to be more difficult than normal as I was already quite winded from that previous spat— I couldn't see him or hear him anymore.
Per usual, I was running away from my problems, and running towards my bedroom at home where I could write my silly little stories and disappear from my reality.
Three left turns, one long downhill stroll, and two rights later, I had arrived at home.
The small, weathered house sat tucked between two others, its faded brick exterior worn down by time and neglect. The white paint along the window frames was chipped, curling at the edges like dried petals, and the front steps creaked under even the lightest step, betraying any late-night attempts to sneak in unnoticed. The front door stuck when the weather was humid, and even in the cold, it needed a good shove to open.
The tiny front yard was more weeds than grass, stubborn green pushing through cracks in the pavement. Our mailbox leaned slightly to the right, rust creeping up its edges. I had long since given up trying to fix it. The roof slanted awkwardly, the shingles old and cracked, some missing altogether, exposing bits of the underlayer like a wound half-covered by a makeshift bandage.
But this was home.
I had never known anything else.
Inside, the air was familiar—stale but tinged with the faintest scent of detergent and whatever had been last cooked in the kitchen. The walls were an odd mix of pale yellow and peeling wallpaper, remnants of an attempted home improvement project that had never quite been finished. The floor creaked in specific spots, and I knew exactly where to step to avoid making too much noise.
The living room was cluttered but lived-in. A coffee table with one wobbly leg sat in front of an old, sagging couch, the cushions sunken from years of use. A pile of newspapers and unopened bills and letters gathered at the far end, half-forgotten and half-paid. The TV, an old bulky thing with a remote that barely worked, sat on a stand that had once been a proper bookshelf before the bottom shelf gave out under the weight of too many library discards. A single lamp flickered faintly in the corner, its shade slightly askew.
I looked down at my shoes, as I stood quietly in the doorway.
No shoes by the door except mine. No coat slung over the chair.
Mum wasn’t home.
Not that she ever really was.
I exhaled, pressing my back against the door for a moment, my fingers still curled tightly around my cursed notebook. The heat in my face had cooled, but my nerves still crackled from the encounter. If I let my mind wander, I could still hear his voice—teasing, smug, all too knowing.
I shoved the thought aside and made my way up the narrow staircase, two steps at a time. My bedroom door creaked as I nudged it open, the familiarity of my small, slightly cluttered sanctuary swallowing me whole.
This was where I escaped.
My desk was a mess of scattered notebooks, a few uncapped pens bleeding ink into their pages. Books I had yet to finish reading were stacked haphazardly on my nightstand, and the tiny corkboard above my bed was covered in pinned-up scraps of writing—half-finished sentences, phrases that had once felt important but now sat there, waiting.
I threw my bag onto my bed, dragging a hand down my face. God. That whole interaction was going to haunt me for weeks. Months. Possibly years.
Before I could dwell on it further, the front door downstairs slammed open.
Then came the voice.
"MORGANNNN!"
I tensed instinctively. Here we go. I was going to have to pretend to give a shit at my job as a therapist where no one was paying me to listen.
A few seconds later, I heard the unmistakable stomp of Janine’s shoes as she barreled into the house like a one-girl hurricane.
The whining began before I could even brace myself.
"Oh my God, you would not believe the day I just had," she announced, her voice reaching the very top of its dramatics.
I barely had time to turn around before she threw herself onto my bed with all the grace of a collapsing sandbag.
I blinked. "Hi, Janine. Nice to see you too."
She ignored me, sprawled out like she’d just finished running a marathon. Her school uniform was wrinkled beyond recognition, her backpack half-zipped, and her dark hair a little frizzier than usual—probably from whatever dramatics she had put herself through today.
"Miss Greene is actually evil," she declared, rolling onto her stomach. "She made us redo the entire maths worksheet just because, apparently, half the class did it wrong. And, of course, I had already thrown mine away, so I had to dig through the trash like an animal to find it!"
I tried to suppress my smile. "That sounds... traumatic."
"It was traumatic," she huffed, turning to glare at me. Then, just as suddenly, her expression shifted into something sharper, something vaguely mean. Her eyes scanned me up and down, her nose scrunching in distaste.
"Wow," she said bluntly. "You look like shit."
I inhaled slowly, schooling my expression into something neutral. I was used to this. Janine had a gift for making casual cruelty sound effortless, as if it was just another part of normal conversation.
"Thanks," I muttered, sitting down at my desk, pretending to be deeply interested in an uncapped pen.
"No, seriously," she continued, propping herself up on her elbows. "What happened to you? You look like you just lost a fight. Did you finally get bullied?"
I clenched my jaw, tapping my fingers against the desk. "No, Janine. I did not get bullied."
"Could’ve fooled me," she muttered, flopping back onto the pillows.
I exhaled through my nose. Don’t let it get to you. She didn’t mean it. Mostly.
Janine was like this. Always had been. There were times when her teasing was just that—harmless, annoying, the kind of back-and-forth that siblings had. But then there were other times, like now, when she wasn’t just being cheeky. She meant it, even if she pretended not to. Maybe she was just a normal thirteen year old girl who had a knack for being quite the bitch.
I didn’t bother arguing. It never helped.
Instead, I changed the subject. "Did you eat yet?"
She huffed dramatically, rolling onto her back again. "No. And Mom’s obviously not home, again."
A small pang hit my chest. Not unexpected, but still.
"She left some food in the fridge," I offered. "Probably leftovers."
Janine groaned. "I swear, we’re like stray dogs at this point. Just fending for ourselves, rummaging through whatever scraps she leaves behind."
My stomach twisted uncomfortably.
She said it like a joke. Like a complaint.
But I knew she felt it.
I did too.
Still, I forced a small smile, standing up from my desk. "Alright, stray dog. I’ll heat something up."
She made a sound of reluctant approval, flopping dramatically onto my bed once more.
As I walked downstairs, the house felt heavier. Quieter. The same kind of quiet it always was.
Janine trailed behind me down the stairs, her footsteps lighter than mine, but still deliberately obnoxious. She fiddled with her Walkman, adjusting the chunky headphones over her ears, pressing buttons as if she were about to unearth some hidden sonic masterpiece. The soft click of the cassette rolling into place filled the silence between us, the quiet hum of the tape player spinning in the background.
I made my way into the kitchen, not even needing to check the fridge before I resigned myself to my fate. There was no “leftovers” in the way people meant it—only the usual sad collection of things that barely passed as a meal. I grabbed the bread, flipping through the slices until I found two that weren’t slightly stiff at the edges, then reached for the nearly-expired mayo, a sad-looking pack of ham, and a head of lettuce that looked like it had survived some sort of traumatic event.
The Sad Sandwich™ was coming together beautifully.
As I spread the mayo across the bread, trying to ignore the way it smelled just a little off, I glanced at Janine, who was still wrapped up in her own world, occasionally nodding along to whatever she was listening to.
"What’s playing?" I asked, if only to break the silence.
She barely acknowledged me, eyes flicking up for the briefest second before returning to the invisible spot she was staring at on the table. "ABBA. Andante, Andante."
I paused for a second, then smirked. "What, feeling romantic?"
She scoffed, rolling her eyes. "I like the melody, duh." She was acting like it was I, who was the fool… What irony have I stumbled upon.
I snorted, adding the world’s saddest piece of lettuce onto her sandwich, the edges limp, its vibrancy long since faded. "You know, it’s kind of funny," I mused, pressing the slices of bread together. "A song about taking things slow, savoring every moment. But time never really slows down, does it? You just get older, and suddenly, you’re looking back, wondering when it all started moving so fast."
Janine pulled off one side of her headphones, blinking at me like I had just sprouted a second head. "What?"
I shrugged, placing her sandwich on the table in front of her. "Andante, andante. It means 'slowly, gently.' But life doesn’t wait for us, does it?" I exhaled, wiping the remnants of mayo off my fingers. "You blink, and everything changes. You barely get a chance to catch up before it’s all different again."
Janine squinted at me, unimpressed. "Shut up," she said, ripping her sandwich in half like it had personally wronged her. "Can’t you just let me listen to ABBA in peace without making it all philosophical?"
I smirked, grabbing my own pathetic excuse for a sandwich. "Nope."
Janine groaned again, throwing herself against the back of the chair like I had just personally exhausted her entire will to live. "You’re so annoying," she mumbled, taking an aggressive bite of her sandwich. "Like, actually, why are you like this?"
I shrugged, taking a significantly less enthusiastic bite of my own sad sandwich. "I have no idea. Must be a genetic thing. Guess that means you’re doomed too."
Janine made a dramatic gagging sound. "Ew. Don’t lump me in with your weird existential crisis nonsense." She waved a hand vaguely in my direction. "You’re, like, so much worse than normal today."
I raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what’s my normal level of 'worse'?"
She smirked, licking a stray glob of mayo off her thumb. "Usually, it’s more like mildly irritating older sister levels. Today, though? You’ve graduated to full-on poet with a drinking problem vibes."
I rolled my eyes. "Good to know I’m evolving."
Janine snorted, tossing her crust onto the plate like it had personally offended her. "Speaking of drinking," she said, stretching her arms overhead in an exaggerated yawn, "can I have a beer?"
I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw the back of my skull. "No."
She sighed dramatically, slumping even further into her chair. "You always say no."
"Because you always ask," I shot back, grabbing our plates and stacking them haphazardly.
The thing was, she wasn’t really serious. Not really. It had started as a joke, some dumb throwaway comment she made a few months ago when she saw me grabbing a bottle from the fridge—*"Gimme one"—*and I had shut it down immediately, obviously. But since then, it had become some kind of weekly bit, an ongoing test of patience where she’d casually drop it into conversation just to see if I’d finally get tired and say fine, here, drink yourself into oblivion, you little menace.
I hadn’t cracked yet.
Janine, of course, took this as an invitation to try harder.
"Whatever," she drawled, swinging her legs over the side of the chair. "I’ll just find my own."
I froze for half a second, turning just in time to watch her actually start rummaging through the cabinets.
I narrowed my eyes. "Janine."
She ignored me.
"Janine, no."
"Janine, yes," she sang, standing on her tiptoes to dig through one of the higher shelves.
I set the plates down a little too hard in the sink. "There’s nothing in there."
She turned her head just enough to smirk at me. "Oh? Then you won’t mind if I check."
I let out a slow, measured breath. "You’re thirteen."
"And yet," she grunted, stretching onto the tips of her toes, "I’m the only one with any sense of fun in this household."
"You," I said flatly, "*have no idea what to do with beer."
"Oh, please," she scoffed. "You don’t even know what to do with beer."
I opened my mouth, then shut it.
She wasn’t wrong.
Before I could tell her to cut it out, her fingers closed around something. Her entire face lit up as she yanked her arm back, turning on her heel with a flourish.
"A-ha!"
And there it was.
A single, lukewarm can of beer.
Where had she even found that?
Janine looked entirely too pleased with herself, holding the can aloft like she had just unearthed some kind of mythical treasure.
I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. "Are you kidding me?"
She grinned. "I don’t kid about important things, Morgan."
I snatched it out of her hands before she could so much as think about cracking it open.
"Hey!" she yelped, jumping up to grab it back. "What the hell!"
"You are thirteen," I repeated, placing the can firmly on the counter, far out of her reach.
She scowled, crossing her arms. "Barely."
I shot her a look. "That is not how that works."
Janine stared at me, then at the can. Then back at me. Then at the can again.
And before I could even process what was about to happen—
She lunged.
"Janine,—"
Too late.
With the speed and agility of a raccoon stealing a piece of bread, she snatched the can off the counter, popped the tab, and chugged.
Not a sip. Not a taste. A full-blown, unhinged, humongous swig, like she was some weathered sailor downing grog after a long voyage.
I stood there, utterly paralyzed, watching as my thirteen-year-old sister took an entire gulp of lukewarm beer like it was the best decision she had ever made.
She smacked her lips, lowering the can with the dramatic flair of someone who absolutely thought they were about to look cool.
And then.
It hit.
Janine’s entire body convulsed.
She gagged, her face contorting like she’d just swallowed a mouthful of expired lemonade and battery acid at the same time.
Janine staggered back like she had just been struck down by divine punishment, her arms flailing dramatically. "Oh my God, the holy spirit!" she gasped, as if expecting Gabriel himself to descend from the heavens and cleanse her of her sins. "My tongue is on fire. This is Satan’s piss. This is the drink of demons. Morgan, I have been cursed."
I rolled my eyes, completely unbothered. "Yep. And you brought it on yourself, Judas."
She groaned, gripping the edge of the counter like she was about to crumple to her knees. "Oh, Lord in heaven above, I repent. I have walked in sin, and I have suffered." She clutched her stomach dramatically. "Smite me where I stand, oh merciful one. Deliver me from this agony."
"God is busy, Janine," I deadpanned. "And even if He weren’t, I think He’d have better things to do than smite a thirteen-year-old for drinking one sip of warm beer."
"ONE sip?" she shrieked, slamming a hand over her chest like a televangelist about to collapse into a faint. "ONE sip?! I think my soul just left my body, Morgan. I saw the pearly gates. And St. Peter slammed them in my face. He said,* and I quote*, ‘Ew, no. Go back.’"
"Pearly gates? You are definitely going to Hell, but nice try," I muttered, tossing the half-empty can into the sink, letting it clang against the metal. "Maybe now you’ll stop asking me for one every week."
Janine ignored me, still mid-breakdown. "This," she rasped, "is what people willingly drink? This is what grown men write sonnets about? They fight wars over this! They DIE in pubs for this!"
I shrugged. "Well, Jesus turned water into wine, so—"
"Wine," she snapped, still hunched over like she was about to perish on the kitchen floor. "Wine, Morgan. Not whatever hellish concoction this is. This is not what He had in mind. This is—this is like—" she waved a hand wildly, searching for the words—"—the blood of Pontius Pilate."
I barked out a laugh. "Pontius Pilate?"
"YES!" she hissed, marching toward the sink and turning the faucet on full blast. "Betrayal in a can. The affliction of the masses. And my stomach—oh my God, I think I’m being punished. This is worse than the plagues of Egypt."
I leaned against the counter, thoroughly entertained. "Well, I did warn you."
Janine made a sound somewhere between a gag and a groan, clutching her stomach like she was a dying soldier on the battlefield. "Morgan," she wheezed, "I think my intestines are dissolving."
I rolled my eyes. "You took one sip, drama queen."
"One sip too many!" she cried, still doubled over the sink. "This is what Judas must have felt like at the Last Supper. Betrayed. Slandered. Poisoned by the wicked!"
"Judas betrayed Jesus," I reminded her, grabbing a paper towel and shoving it in her direction. "You're not the victim here."
"I beg to differ!" she wailed, wiping at her mouth like she was scrubbing away the sins of mankind. "My stomach feels like the ninth circle of hell."
And then, like the horror had just dawned on her, she snapped her head up, eyes wide with absolute panic. "Morgan, I drank on an empty stomach."
I froze. "Oh my God."
"Oh my God."
I lunged for the plate on the table, grabbed the half-eaten remains of her Sad Sandwich™, and shoved it into her hands. "Eat. Now."
Janine blinked at me, still reeling. "What?"
"The bread will soak it up!" I snapped, pushing the plate further into her chest. "Jesus Christ, Janine, do you want to die a gruesome death by booze?"
Boy did I love absolutely scaring the shit out of her. Maybe this might teach her a lesson.
She gasped, gripping the sandwich like it was a sacred relic. "Oh my God, you’re right."
And then—like she was a starving prisoner who had just been granted her final meal—she shoved the entire thing into her mouth in two unholy, horrifying bites.
It was grotesque. I had never seen someone eat that fast in my entire life.
"Chew," I commanded, watching in horror as she barely made an effort to comply, just stuffing the bread into her cheeks like a damn hamster.
She nodded aggressively, eyes darting wildly, still chewing like she was racing against time itself.
"Breathe," I added, half-expecting her to choke and add actual murder to my list of daily stressors.
She lifted a single finger, telling me to wait as she gulped it all down in a single, borderline inhuman swallow.
And then—silence.
We both stood there, unmoving. Janine stared at me. I stared at her.
Slowly, she touched her stomach. Paused. Waited.
Then—"I LIVE."
I groaned, pressing my fingers against my temples. "You are actually insufferable."
She let out a deep, exaggerated sigh of relief, dramatically patting her chest. "Blessed be the name of the Lord. The devil tried me, but I have PREVAILED."
I rubbed my temples harder. "Oh my God, just go to your room."
"With pleasure," she huffed, grabbing her Walkman from the table. "And for the record," she added, stepping dramatically toward the hallway, "this was your fault."
I whipped my head up. "MY fault?!"
"If you had just given me a beer weeks ago, I wouldn’t have had to steal one and suffer like this!"
I let out a strangled noise, resisting the urge to throw something at her as she disappeared up the stairs.
I listened for her door slamming, counted the seconds until she was gone.
Then, finally, I leaned against the counter, exhaling.
The house was quiet again.
For a moment, I just stood there, staring blankly at the chipped kitchen counter, letting the silence settle in around me like dust. The only sound was the faint hum of the fridge, the occasional creak of the house settling. The lingering smell of stale beer and cheap mayo clung to the air, reminding me that I should probably clean up the mess before Mum got home—if she got home at all tonight.
But I didn’t move.
Instead, I sighed, turned on my heel, and headed back upstairs to my bedroom, my body dragging with exhaustion with my sandwhich in hand.
I tossed my bag onto the bed and pulled out my arithmetic book, the thick spine of Linear Algebra & Calculus: A Comprehensive Approach landing with a dull thud on the wooden surface.
I cracked my knuckles, rolled my shoulders, and flipped to where I had last left off—somewhere deep in the trenches of eigenvalues, vector spaces, and transformations. Numbers were easier than people. They made sense, followed rules, didn’t shift unpredictably like everything else in my life.
So I worked.
And I worked.
The numbers blurred together, symbols morphing into something less concrete the longer I stared. I scribbled in the margins, erased, rewrote, checked my notes, tried again. Pages flipped. The clock on my nightstand ticked, eating away the hours as the evening bled into night.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I registered the dull ache in my stomach, the hollow emptiness that had been there since dinner—if you could even call that dinner. The Sad Sandwich™ had barely been enough to hold me over, and now, after hours hunched over my desk, my hunger gnawed at me again, a quiet, persistent reminder.
I ignored it.
I was so close to solving this problem—just one more step, just one more equation, just one—
I stopped.
I stared at the page.
I had hit a wall.
My pencil hovered over the problem, my brain refusing to find the next step, like a door slammed shut in my face. I furrowed my brows, running through every possible solution, but my thoughts were muddled, slipping through my fingers like sand.
I sighed, rubbing my eyes. The hunger was worse now, creeping up my ribs, making my limbs feel heavier, my mind slower. I should eat something. Anything.
But getting up felt impossible.
So I didn’t.
Instead, I let my head fall against the open textbook, the paper cool against my forehead.
I told myself I would rest just for a second.
Just long enough for my brain to reset.
Just long enough to push past this problem.
But sleep crept in before I could stop it, pulling me under, the hunger still lingering, unanswered, as the numbers faded into the darkness.
A sharp clack rang through the house, jolting me awake.
I blinked, disoriented, my face still pressed against the open pages of my textbook. My body was stiff from being hunched over for too long, my hand still limply gripping a pencil that had long since stopped moving.
Then I heard it again—the familiar sound of the screen door smacking against the main door. A telltale thud, slightly muffled but unmistakable.
Mom.
My stomach clenched.
I peeled my forehead off the paper, my eyes groggy as I squinted toward the wall. The old analog clock, its hands barely visible in the dim light, read midnight. No—one in the morning.
I sighed through my nose, automatically adding an hour to account for the fact that the damn thing was wrong. It had been like that for months, ever since daylight savings had messed it up, but it was too high up for me to fix, and, honestly, I was too lazy to bother.
My ears sharpened, listening for movement downstairs. A rustle. Keys dropped onto the table. The faint shuffle of tired steps.
I moved.
Quick, quiet.
I tiptoed toward my bed, careful not to step on the spots in the floor that creaked. My body was still heavy with sleep, my limbs sluggish, but my urgency overrode the exhaustion. I knew what would happen if she saw me awake.
She’d yell.
She’d berate me.
She’d demand to know why I was up, why I wasn’t in bed, why I was wasting my life away with my nose buried in books instead of being useful, why I wasn’t doing something real.
I had made the mistake before—being caught in the glow of my desk lamp, eyes still bleary from equations, my pencil slipping in my fingers. And she had let me have it.
So I wasn’t going to give her the chance tonight.
I reached my bed, lifted the covers, and jumped in, flipping onto my side and squeezing my eyes shut just as I heard the faint click of her heels being kicked off near the door.
My breathing slowed. I forced my shoulders to relax.
Footsteps on the stairs.
I lay still, forcing my face into a neutral expression, willing my chest to rise and fall in the slow rhythm of deep sleep.
The footsteps didn’t stop outside my door.
They passed.
She didn’t check.
I stayed frozen anyway, just in case.
The air was thick, the silence stretching.
Then, a door shutting.
I exhaled.
Slowly.
Carefully.
The tension in my limbs barely eased, my heartbeat still too fast in my chest. I let my fingers curl into the blankets, my body still coiled tight beneath them.
I didn’t move.
I wouldn’t move.
Not until I was sure she wouldn’t come back out.
I stayed still, my body curled beneath the blankets, listening for any sound that might betray her still being awake.
Seconds stretched into minutes. The house was still.
She wasn’t coming back out.
I exhaled slowly, cautiously, like even breathing too loud might summon her. My body remained rigid for another few minutes—just in case—until I finally reached out, fumbling in the dark for my alarm clock.
The cheap plastic felt cold under my fingers. It was a clunky thing, slightly cracked at the edges, the numbers on the screen glowing faintly red. It had been discarded in a dumpster behind the pharmacy two months ago, tossed away like trash, and for reasons I didn’t fully understand, I had taken it home. Fixed it. Given it purpose again.
At least something in this house deserved a second chance.
I pressed the buttons mechanically, setting the alarm for 8:00 AM. The beep was sharp, intrusive in the quiet.
I turned onto my side, facing the wall.
Tried to sleep.
Tried to let go.
But the weight in my chest didn’t fade. My heartbeat was still too fast, a dull, uneven rhythm that felt wrong.
My limbs felt stiff, too aware of the blankets pressing down on me, of the air in the room that suddenly felt too thick. I swallowed, my throat dry, my jaw clenched without me realizing.
I turned over. Then turned again.
My body ached with exhaustion, but my mind refused to shut off.
Every sound in the house became a reason to stay awake. The faint hum of the fridge downstairs. The occasional creak of the walls. The wind pressing against the windows. The lingering possibility that she might come back out, open my door, catch me—just because.
The thought sat heavy in my chest.
I curled in on myself, wrapping my arms tighter around my body, my fingers digging into the fabric of my sleeves.
I needed to sleep.
I needed to sleep.
I closed my eyes, but the dark behind my lids wasn’t quiet. It was loud, restless. The remnants of the day replayed behind my eyelids—Janine’s dramatics, the *Sad Sandwich™, the feel of Oliver’s stupid smirk still lingering somewhere in my brain. The feeling of running, of the screen door slamming, of knowing that at any moment, I could be—
I forced myself to breathe.
Slower.
Calmer.
Even if it didn’t work.
Eventually, exhaustion won. My thoughts didn’t fade, they just blurred, softening into something hazy and restless.
I didn’t fall asleep.
I drifted.
A sleepless slumber. The kind where you close your eyes, but you don’t feel rested. The kind where the weight in your chest never quite leaves.
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
The thing about being half of something is that people always expect you to feel whole. Like you can take two separate, mismatched pieces and press them together to form a perfect, seamless image. A puzzle that fits cleanly. A line drawn neatly down the center, where neither side bleeds into the other. But that’s not how it works. Not for me, anyway.
My mother is white. Painfully white. The kind of woman who wears neutral tones and calls dinner "supper," whose side of the family is speckled with sunburn-prone cousins and blue-eyed aunts who all have the same thin-lipped smile. The kind who doesn’t talk much about my father—doesn’t need to, because he was never really here to begin with.
I don’t think of him often. Not because I don’t want to. Not because I’ve made some conscious choice to erase him. But because there’s nothing to think about.
He exists in fragments. Fleeting memories that might not even be real. A deep voice I can’t fully remember. A presence that feels more like a ghost than a man.
And what does that make me? Some days, I feel like a half-finished sketch. A painting where the colors never fully set. I look in the mirror, and my features don’t fit neatly into a single frame. My skin is too light to be fully Black, but too dark to be fully white. My hair is a mess of curls that never quite listen, never quite fall into the kind of clean, brushed-out waves my mother’s does.
It’s an in-between existence. And it’s lonely. Because the world doesn’t like in-between things. It likes categories, labels, boxes. It likes when you fit neatly. I don’t.
At school, the white girls don’t see me as one of them. At best, I’m interesting. At worst, I’m an outsider—something different, something "exotic" in a way that makes my skin crawl.
With Black girls, it’s not much better. Maybe it’s my voice, the way I talk. Maybe it’s the way my mother raised me, or barely raised her. Maybe it’s the fact that I don’t even know how to braid my own damn hair.
Either way, I always feel like I’m not quite enough to belong anywhere.
I exist in the cracks. The spaces between.
Half of one thing. Half of another.
But some days, it feels like I’m not half of anything at all.
Just missing pieces.
I remember the first time I noticed it—the difference.
I’ve lived in this town my whole life.
Stockbridge Village, formerly known as Cantril Farm, is a small community in Merseyside, England. Built in the 1960s to rehouse families from inner-city Liverpool, it was intended to be a fresh start—a new beginning. But by the 1980s, it had become a place where everyone knew everyone, and everyone knew me.
In a community that was predominantly white, I stood out.
This was the kind of place where everyone knows everyone. Where people smile at you in the streets, not because they like you, but because that’s just what people do here. Where the shopkeepers remember your name, your mother’s name, and what kind of milk you usually buy.
But the thing is—no matter how many times I walk down the same roads, past the same butcher shop, the same post office, the same old church with its half-crumbling bell tower—I have never quite felt like I belonged here.
Because in a town like Stockbridge, people notice things.
And they notice me.
It happens in the grocery store. The lingering glances, the subtle shift in body language when I walk past an aisle. The way an older woman might clutch her purse just a little tighter, the way a man might glance twice, not out of recognition, but out of curiosity. The cashier at the till, the same one who’s been working there since I was old enough to count change, hesitates before handing me my receipt. The briefest flicker of something—confusion? Mistrust? Pity?
I never know.
I tell myself I’m imagining it. That it’s all in my head.
But then, sometimes, I hear it.
Not often. Never loud. Never to my face.
But in passing. Whispered.
"Who’s that girl again?"
"Not from ‘round here, is she?"
"Her Mum’s that blonde woman, isn’t she? Wonder where her dad is."
I don’t answer them. I don’t correct them.
What would I even say?
"I’m from here. I always have been."
"I know these streets better than you do."
"My dad isn’t here. He never was."
But words don’t change the way people look at you. They don’t stop the shift in their eyes when you walk past, the way their attention lingers a second longer than necessary. They don’t change the fact that every time I step outside, I am reminded—subtly, quietly, constantly—that I do not belong the way they do.
Like now.
The morning air is crisp, biting at my exposed skin as I walk down the narrow pavement, my breath curling in faint wisps against the chill. The sky is a pale gray, the kind that threatens rain but never quite follows through. It’s too early to be out, and too late to feel like I’ve beaten the morning rush. The grocery store opened thirty minutes ago, and I’m walking toward it with an empty stomach and the one twenty-pound note clutched tightly in my hand.
The money had been saved, not given. That was an important distinction. I had tucked it away in the safest place I could think of—between the books under my bed, wrapped in old, crinkled orange paper from God knows how long ago. I never spent unless I had to. But this morning, I had to.
Janine had eaten the last slice of bread. The milk had gone sour two days ago. I was pretty sure the lettuce in the fridge was evolving into something that could speak.
So here I was.
My stomach twisted—not from hunger, but from the quiet, familiar tension that always settled in my bones when I had to go into town alone.
The road to the shop was always the same. Past the small butcher’s shop, where Mr. Whitmore stood outside chatting to an older man, both of them wrapped in their tweed coats like they had stepped out of a Visit England poster. Past the post office, where a queue of pensioners waited with envelopes tucked under their arms, some clutching their purses so tightly their knuckles had gone pale. Past the church—the same old church with its crumbling bell tower, its doors propped open by a brick, where someone had already laid fresh flowers outside on the steps.
Everything in Stockbridge was predictable. Routine. Except me.
A passing car slowed—just slightly—as it rolled by. A woman in a beige coat turned her head when I passed her on the pavement. An older man sitting on a bench lowered his newspaper, eyes flicking up for a second too long before turning the page.
It was always like this. A quiet, unspoken reminder: I was noticed. I tugged the sleeves of my sweater down over my fingers, gripping the money tighter in my palm. The coins in my pocket rattled with each step, an uneven weight I was suddenly very aware of.
I reached the store. The automatic doors slid open with a mechanical hiss, the warm scent of stale bread and disinfectant washing over me. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too sterile.
A woman at the entrance glanced at me, then away. I exhaled, shaking off the stiffness in my shoulders, and grabbed a basket (not a trolley, they were big, bulky, and made god-awful noises when pushed). It was just groceries. Just food.
I moved through the aisles with quiet precision, keeping my head down, my steps light. The store wasn’t too crowded yet—mostly older women with their baskets, a few men flipping through newspapers at the front. It smelled like disinfectant and aging produce, with a faint, lingering trace of something fried from the little hot food counter near the back.
I clutched my shopping list in one hand, the twenty-pound notes in my pocket pressing against my leg like a reminder. Three apples. Probably about 35p each. I hovered near the fruit section, selecting three that looked decent enough. £1.05 so far.
Tomatoes. Maybe 50p for a few decent ones. I picked up a bag and weighed it in my palm, my mind automatically rounding the total up to £1.55. Eggs. A dozen should be around 60p. I added them carefully to my basket. £2.15.
Meat. I hesitated near the butcher’s counter. I usually skipped this part, but today, I had a little extra to spare. Something cheap. I scanned the options and settled on a small pack of minced beef. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. The price tag read £1.90.
£4.05 total.
I moved toward the bread aisle, the soft hum of the store’s radio filling the silence. Bread was usually one of the last things I grabbed—it was an easy choice, no need to overthink. I reached for a loaf, the familiar texture of plastic packaging crinkling under my fingers.
And then, I took a step back. Right onto someone’s foot.
"Oh, hell—"
I whipped around so fast I nearly knocked my own basket over. "I’m so sorry, I—" And then I saw who I had stepped on.
Him. Oliver.
I blinked. Then blinked again. What the—
"You!" I blurted out, my voice somehow both sharp and flat at the same time.
His mouth curled into a lopsided grin, the kind that immediately put me on edge. "Call me Ollie. We’re practically friends now."
I rolled my eyes to mask the fact that my brain was currently short-circuiting. "We are not friends."
His grin widened, like he could hear the lie in my voice. "Practically," he repeated, leaning against the shelf like he had all the time in the world.
I crossed my arms, my heart still hammering from the shock. "What are you doing here?"
He cleared his throat, shifting slightly. "I—uh—" He scratched the back of his neck. "I totally didn’t follow you here, if that’s what you’re thinking."
I squinted. "I was not thinking that." (I was now, though.)
"Good! Because that would be weird,*" he added quickly. "And I am absolutely not weird."
I gave him a look. "Debatable."
Oliver—Ollie—straightened up, clearing his throat again, as if he’d just remembered what his actual excuse was supposed to be. "I work here."
I frowned. "Huh?"
"Yeah," he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Started last week. Part-time."
I raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Because money exists, Morgan. And people need money to buy things."
I ignored the way my stomach flipped when he said my name.
"You—" I hesitated, eyeing him carefully. "You work here."
Ollie tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering in his gaze. "That is what I just said."
And I should have just left it at that.
I should have rolled my eyes, muttered something dismissive, grabbed my stupid loaf of bread, and walked away like he didn’t affect me at all.
But instead, my eyes flickered—just for a second—to his mouth.
It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t planned. But once I looked, I couldn’t seem to unlook.
His lips curved into the beginnings of another smirk, the kind that sent a sharp little thrill down my spine before I could stop it. They were pinker than I expected, softer, like the kind of lips that would probably be really good at—
Oh my God.
My breath caught, a sudden rush of heat prickling at the back of my neck.
Had I just—?
Had I seriously just thought about—?
My entire body tensed, my fingers tightening instinctively around the handle of my basket.
No. No, no, no, absolutely not. Not happening.
I blinked rapidly, tearing my gaze away, my heart hammering so hard I was convinced he could hear it.
Ollie was still talking—something about nepotism and barely working and customer service—but I couldn’t focus. Not when my own brain had just betrayed me like that.
What was wrong with me?
This was Oliver Bearman. The same boy who had run me over with his bike, who had rummaged through my notebook, who had followed me here (okay, fine, maybe that last part wasn’t confirmed—but still).
He was a nuisance.
A smug, infuriating, insufferable nuisance.
So why—
Why had my brain, in the middle of a perfectly normal conversation, decided to briefly entertain the thought of what it would be like to—
I swallowed hard.
I needed to leave.
I needed to grab my damn loaf of bread, pay, and pretend this—whatever this was—never happened.
So that’s exactly what I did.
I turned sharply on my heel, grabbed the first loaf I could reach, and marched toward the till like I had somewhere very important to be.
Ollie chuckled behind me, low and knowing.
"Where are you going?" he called, voice laced with amusement.
I clenched my jaw. "Away from you," I shot back, my tone indignant but kept to a hushed whisper because, unlike him, I had some concept of volume control in a public setting.
But of course, Ollie, being Ollie, took that as a personal challenge.
"Away from me?" he repeated, deliberately raising his voice, eyebrows shooting up in exaggerated offense. "Morgan, I’m hurt. Truly. You wound me."
Heads turned.
I panicked.
Before I could think twice about it, I grabbed his arm, my fingers wrapping around the sleeve of his shirt, and dragged him down an aisle, maneuvering him behind one of the taller shelves where fewer people would see.
Ollie stumbled slightly but let me pull him along, clearly enjoying this far too much. As soon as we were tucked between rows of canned goods and breakfast cereals, he turned to me with that same boyish grin, eyes bright, breathless from my sudden ambush.
"Oliver, shush yourself," I hissed, glancing over my shoulder, making sure no one had followed.
Ollie, of course, didn’t shush himself.
Instead, he leaned against the shelf with that ridiculous kind of casual ease—one arm propped up as he pushed his tousled hair away from his face, like he was posing for some imaginary camera.
"This is very suspicious behavior, Morgan," he mused, voice dipped in mock conspiracy. "Dragging me into a hidden aisle? All very intimate, very secretive. Should I be concerned?”
I glared at him. "You should be concerned about me throwing a can of beans at your head."
He let out a huff of laughter, looking far too pleased with himself.
I turned away, inhaling through my nose, pretending like the heat crawling up my neck wasn’t happening. My basket was still half empty, and I refused to let Ollie derail my entire morning.
I focused on the shelves, scanning the prices.
Eggs, bread, apples—those were covered. I still needed—
"Shouldn’t you be doing something?" I muttered, grabbing a can of canned corn and tucking it into my basket.
"I am," he said simply.
I frowned, glancing at him. "What?"
Ollie grinned. "Watching you."
My entire body tensed.
Heat bloomed across my cheeks, and I hated how immediate it was. I could feel him watching me, his gaze trailing as I reached for another item, as if my very existence was now entertainment for him.
I ignored him, setting my focus back on my mental math.
Canned corn—probably 30p each. That brought my total up to £4.35.
I reached for a tin of beans—around 20p.
Ollie shifted slightly, still leaning lazily against the shelf, arms crossed now. "You’re really serious about this whole shopping thing, huh?"
I scoffed, plopping the can into my basket. "Yes, Oliver. That’s generally how grocery shopping works."
"Ollie," he corrected smoothly.
I ignored him.
"See, I just figured you’d be the type to wander around, daydreaming about something dramatic," he continued, voice teasing. "But no—look at you. All business. Calculating costs like a real grown-up."
I rolled my eyes, grabbing a bag of pasta. "Yes, imagine that. Being financially responsible."
Ollie smirked, shifting his weight onto one foot. "Hot."
My fingers fumbled around the pasta bag.
I turned to glare at him, heart hammering in my chest. "Do you ever shut up?"
"Not when I’m enjoying myself," he said, flashing that insufferable grin.
I exhaled sharply, forcing myself to focus only on the basket, only on the numbers in my head.
Pasta—around 50p.
Total: £5.05.
I exhaled slowly, forcing my shoulders to stay relaxed as I moved toward the meat section. Chicken. That was next.
I scanned the shelves carefully, my fingers tightening slightly around the handle of my basket. The cheapest cut I could find—a small pack of chicken thighs, nothing fancy, just enough to stretch across a few meals—£2.50. I hesitated, weighing the cost in my mind, but eventually added it to my basket.
Bananas. A safe choice. Cheap, versatile. I grabbed a small bunch, about 40p, estimating the weight in my palm before placing them inside.
Next was ham—a small roll, nothing extravagant, but enough to make sandwiches for Janine. £1.30.
And then—tilapia.
I shouldn’t.
I shouldn’t.
Fish wasn’t a necessity, wasn’t part of the list, wasn’t safe. But for some reason, I reached for the fillet anyway, my fingers grazing over the cool plastic. It wasn’t the most expensive choice—£2.00, hardly anything outrageous.
But still, the moment it landed in my basket, a pit settled in my stomach.
I stood still for a moment, mentally stacking the numbers, adding them up again and again to make sure I hadn’t miscalculated.
I reached into my coat pockets first, fingers blindly searching for anything—anything—that might push me over the limit. I patted down my jeans next, then dug into my purse, moving through the worn fabric with urgency.
Nothing.
No loose coins, no hidden extras.
My chest tightened as heat crawled up the back of my neck.
I hated this.
I hated this feeling.
Just as I was about to resign myself to putting something back, I caught movement from the corner of my eye.
"Here."
I turned, and my stomach dropped.
Ollie stood there, holding out a few coins in his palm.
I froze.
My jaw clenched as something hot and uncomfortable curled inside me.
"I don’t want your charity," I muttered, voice quieter than I intended but sharp nonetheless.
His brows lifted slightly, taken aback, but only for a second. Then, something in his face shifted—not into pity (thank God, because I could not handle pity), but something softer. Something… understanding.
"It’s not charity," he said, tilting his head slightly. "It’s called being a decent person. I know, shocking concept."
I wanted to scoff. I wanted to roll my eyes, to shake him off and prove that I was fine—that I could handle this, like I always did.
But my fingers twitched.
The idea of putting something back made my stomach turn.
Ollie must’ve seen the hesitation on my face because his smirk came back, this time more playful than smug.
"Alright, look," he started, shifting slightly on his feet. "If it makes you feel better, think of it as an investment. One day, when you’re rich and famous from your ridiculous romance novels, you can pay me back with interest."*
My head snapped up.
"I don’t write romance novels."
"Mhm." He grinned like he knew something I didn’t. "Sure you don’t."
I hated how fast my face heated up.
I glanced at his hand again, at the coins, at the easy way he held them out—like it wasn’t a big deal.
Like it wasn’t humiliating.
My jaw tightened. My pride screamed at me to refuse.
But I also wasn’t about to let my stomach growl all night over a stupid fifty pence.
I grabbed the coins before I could overthink it, shoving them into my pocket so fast it was like I had been burned.
"This doesn’t mean we’re friends," I muttered.
Ollie’s grin stretched.
"Oh, obviously." His voice was all lighthearted amusement. "But if it did, I’d be your favorite friend, wouldn’t I?"
I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt.
He laughed, stepping back, rocking slightly on his heels like he had won something.
And—against my better judgment—my lips twitched. Just a little. Barely there.
But I refused to let him see it.
I tucked the coins into my pocket, exhaling through my nose as if that would somehow steady the weird, jittery feeling curling in my stomach. It’s just some change. Nothing more. Get over it.
Ollie, however, did not get over it.
"So," he started, still grinning like he had all the time in the world. "Now that you’re officially in my debt—"
I whipped my head toward him. "I am not in your debt."
"Sure you are," he said breezily. "Fifty pence is no small sum, Morgan. That’s, like—"
"Not even worth one of your fancy coffees," I muttered, grabbing another can from the shelf, trying to focus on the numbers in my head instead of him.
"Exactly," he said, as if I had just made his point for him. "Which means you owe me, and since you seem so set against paying me back financially, I’ll settle for information instead."
I gave him a look. "Information?"
"Yep." He leaned against the shelf again, arms crossed, eyes sharp with mischief. "Who is Morgan Chapman?"
I blinked.
My fingers tensed slightly against the can in my hand.
"I—what?"
"You heard me," he said, tilting his head slightly. "You’re a mystery, and I like solving mysteries."
I rolled my eyes. "Oh, come on. There’s nothing mysterious about me."
"Mhm."
"Stop making that noise."
"What noise?"
"That—" I waved vaguely. "That smug little noise."
"Ah, that one." His grin widened.
I exhaled sharply, very close to just leaving my basket and walking out of the store altogether.
"Why are you like this?" I muttered, my voice half exasperation, half genuine confusion. "Why are you bothering me?"
Ollie just shrugged.
"Because."
That was it. No reason. No explanation. Just a simple, infuriating, because.
I stared at him.
"You are—" I stopped myself before I could say something rude and instead reached for another item, willing my face to not heat up. "—ugh."
"See! You have nothing to say!" he quipped back cheekily.
"Because you won’t leave me alone," I shot back.
"True," he admitted, completely unapologetic.
I pressed my lips together, shaking my head as I focused back on my shopping. I was not going to entertain whatever this was.
As Mrs. Tillet said (also can't believe I would fucking reference that goddamnned wench but here we are), pure hogwash. Learn to ignore the silly stuff.
"So, how long have you lived here?" he asked, switching tactics.
"My whole life."
"Huh. Must be nice, knowing everyone."
I let out a soft, dry laugh. "Not really."
"Really?" He raised an eyebrow. "Because I just got here, and I’m having a great time."
I shot him a look. "That’s because you don’t know any better yet."
"Ouch." He pressed a hand to his chest like I had personally wounded him. "What makes you think I won’t love it here?"
"Because it’s Stockbridge," I said flatly, shoving a bag of rice into my basket.
Ollie laughed. "Alright, fair point. But I don’t really have a choice."
"What do you mean?"
His grin wavered slightly—not disappearing, but softening. He glanced away for a second, running a hand through his hair.
"My parents split up," he said after a beat. "A couple months ago. It was messy. Too much arguing. So my Mum sent me here to live with my aunt until I turn twenty and can get my own place."
I blinked.
"Oh," I said quietly.
I didn’t know what else to say.
I knew what divorce looked like from the outside, but I had never been close enough to it to understand it. And hearing him say it so casually, like it was just another fact, made something in my chest twinge.
Ollie must have noticed my discomfort because, within seconds, he bounced back, his smirk returning like he had flipped some internal switch.
"So now, I get to spend my days working at this fine establishment, helping lovely customers such as yourself."
I arched an eyebrow. "You mean your aunt’s store."
"Yep."
"Wait—your aunt?"
"Aunt Sarah," he confirmed.
I blinked again.
"Sarah Davies?"
"The very same."
That made way too much sense.
Mrs. Davies—his Aunt Sarah—had always been the type to hover behind the counter, keeping an eye on customers like she was waiting for them to try something. She was sharp, observant, no-nonsense, but I could see it now—the similar curve of their noses, the way their eyes flickered with humor when they spoke.
I scolded myself for noticing that much about him.
"Huh," I muttered. "That actually explains a lot."
"What, my natural charm and work ethic?"
"More like your ability to slack off and still have a job."
"Hey," he said, feigning offense. "I stock things. Occasionally. When I feel like it."
I shook my head, turning back to my basket.
"Alright, then," I said, shifting topics. "What do you want to do after this? After you turn twenty and don’t have to work for your aunt anymore?"
Ollie brightened. "I want to build cars."
That caught me off guard.
"Like—" I tilted my head. "Fixing them? Or—?"
"No, like, engineering them. Designing them. I love how they work, how everything fits together, how every part has a purpose. It’s like—" he gestured wildly with his hands, "—a massive puzzle, except the puzzle can go 200 miles per hour if you do it right."
I blinked at the sudden energy shift.
"Oh."
"Oh?" He looked almost offended. "Morgan, cars are incredible. They’re a mix of art and engineering and physics all in one. Have you ever actually looked under the hood of a car? It’s brilliant. The way the pistons fire, the way the cooling system regulates everything—it’s like clockwork but a thousand times more complex."
I stared at him.
"I don’t know how to drive."
"That is devastating information."
"Well, excuse me for not having a car lying around."
Ollie gasped dramatically. "How do you even get around for long distances?"
I shot him a look. "I walk."
His face twisted like I had just told him I fought wild animals for sport. "You walk?"
"Or I take the bus," I added, grabbing a tin of beans from the shelf.
Ollie blinked, processing. "That’s… tragic."
I rolled my eyes. "It’s called public transport, Oliver. Most people use it."
"Yeah, and most people hate it." He paused, shifting on his feet, a spark of thought flickering across his face. Then, suddenly, he perked up. "Oh! I actually found something the other day."
I glanced at him warily. "That’s never a good way to start a sentence."
"No, no, hear me out." His voice dipped into something conspiratorial, and I immediately regretted engaging. "So, there’s this old junkyard, right? Just outside of town. It’s filled with tons of abandoned cars. Some of them are still in decent shape."
I blinked. "And?"
His grin stretched. "And we should go."
I stared at him like he had just grown a second head. "Go where?"
"To the junkyard!" He gestured wildly, like this was obvious. "Think about it! A midnight adventure, surrounded by forgotten machines, peeling paint, and cracked windshields—like walking through history! And if—hypothetically—we manage to find one that still works…" He wiggled his eyebrows.
My stomach dropped. "Oh, absolutely not."
"C’mon," he pressed. "Just picture it. The two of us, sneaking out in the dead of night, dodging security guards, hotwiring some old car—"
"I'm going to be so honest, I don't think this little town has security guards," I cut in.
"—peeling out onto the open road, wind in our hair, not a single care in the world—"
"Oliver."
"—a total Bonnie and Clyde moment, but without the murder, obviously—"
I shot him a sharp glare. "Do you hear yourself right now?"
He only grinned wider. "Morgan, this could be the plot for your next novel! Two enemies forced together by fate—"
I groaned, gripping my basket tighter.
"—an old car, a midnight escape, forbidden tension—"
I gave him a look.
He snapped his fingers. "Call it Driven by Desire. You should pen this idea down right this instant Morgan. I've given you a millionaire man's idea!" He threw his hands up, voice increasing in decibel by the second.
I stared at him, deadpan. "I hate you."
"You don’t," he said smoothly. "But it’s okay, take your time realizing it."
I let out a slow, long exhale. "There is no way I’m sneaking into a junkyard with you in the middle of the night."
Ollie clasped his hands together like he was in prayer. "Morgan. Morgan. Think about the narrative. Think about the adventure."
I shook my head, shifting my basket. "Not happening."
"Eleven-thirty," he said as if I hadn’t spoken, his voice dropping to a hushed tone, full of exaggerated secrecy. "Back gate of the old scrapyard, just off Holloway Road. You can’t miss it—big, ugly rusted sign, looks like it’s been there since the Holy Roman Empire, which by the way, was neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire, which quite frankly, is odd," He trailed off, lost in thought. Regaining his senses, he continued to speak, "Meet me there."
I squinted at him. "You are seriously asking me to meet you at some abandoned lot at night."
"Yes," he said, sliding closer. Before I could react, he deftly slipped a piece of paper into my basket, right between a can of tomatoes and a bag of rice.
I stared at it like it had personally offended me.
"Did you just—"
"Consider it an invitation," he cut in smoothly.
I picked up the crumpled scrap of receipt paper, unimpressed. "You wrote it down?"
He grinned. "Didn’t want you to forget."
I groaned, stuffing the paper into my coat pocket without looking at it. "You are actually the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met."
"Uh huh, sure," He rolled his eyes.
"My life was never this messy and chaotic before I met you," I said.
"Silly, silly, Morgan. You never even had a life before you met me, that's why," He let out a huge grin.
"Oh you bastard," The corners of my lips were inching up in a smile.
"You are showing up Morgan, I hypnotize you," He waved his hands in front of my face in a silly motion. His slender pale fingers waving in front of my face so closely, I could see the individual calluses on his hands.
A boy of hard work.
I scoffed. "You think I’m actually showing up?"
"Absolutely," he said, no hesitation.
I huffed, shaking my head, determined to ignore him as I made my way toward the checkout.
But three hours later, standing in my bedroom, staring at that stupid crumpled receipt, I realized—
I was going.
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
taglist: @thatsnotaddy @schumacherluvr
author's note: this chapter was originally 22K words but then tumblr said i exceeded the number of line blocks (it apparently is 1000 lines and i had 2552 lines 😭 i didn't realize how many lines dialogue actually takes up) let me know what you enjoyed about this fic and any pieces feedback if you have any :) anyways, comment to be added to the taglist!
new multi part ollie bearman fic coming to your inbox 𐙚📩 in twenty four hours!
this fic is an AU prose only fic, set in 1986 in the countryside of the UK...more coming soon 🤫 drop a comment or a reblog to be added to the taglist <3
is it just me or have the quality of fics in f1 fandom have dropped recently? i think only a certain group of writers are constantly delivering good fics. not only the typa fic you reread again but the type where you regular scroll thru their acc because yk their fics are gonna hit.
heck atp smuts are delivering better. and i'm not saying this because i wrote a smut blog. but because the blogs that write smut are experimenting and exploring alot of concepts. like the bakery or shop concept, everyone added their twist to it or the drivers being team principles as a concept. i am not trying to say smut it superior. obviously not, not genre of fic is superior than one but each to their own. however what i'm trying to imply that there's alot of diversity there.
i think as much as fun smaus are they're ruining the fanfics. i do enjoy some of them but with the exception of certain group of writers everything feels same there. the same either sabrina, gracie, or olivia fc. the same american taylor swift reputation backdrop.
the entire joy of fanfic writing / reading is sucked out by such fanfics. specially with fluffs or smaus there's sm the writers can explore like different profession, backgrounds, ethnicty, and etc.
ik i mentioned american but it's not because i have smth against them but it's because it's far too repeated. everybody is screaming about representation, while i'm aware it doesn't always have to be necessary, why are writers afraid of doing something different? like why not exploring backgrounds of any asian / australian / european reader, a reader whose majoring somehwere in commercial fields like business / trading / investment banking because that's what i see the least in fanfics / smaus.
a reader whose also an athlete like a badminton player, figure skater, ballerina, speed skater, or just literally anything but another generic occupation with the repeated face claim.
the world is your oyster yet a majority of us are chasing normalcy. let's look beyond the repeated pattern of the smaus.
this is why i love writing au fics! the concepts i have in my head are far from “driver x reader in a formula 1 world”, which i love doing, but i can explore more professions, words and every possibility i can imagine in my head (which is a lot). i love discovering new writing options and creating new concepts, so you’ll always see me trying my best to innovate
and about the quality dropping on stories… 100% agree, specially with everything involving fics written by ai sadly (because yes, it’s happening)
JUSTICE FOR AUS 📣📣📣 I WILL SCREAM IT FROM THE ROOFTOPS. JUSTICE FOR AUS.
Yes smaus are clever and fun sometimes but like op said, they can come across so repetitive and flat [and, to me, so unrealistic half the time while supposed to be in ‘our’ universe]. They’re influencing the desire for fast-consumerism fics which is taking away from the OG STYLE FICS which are lengthy, multi-chaptered, and often AUs.
Why are people so afraid of AUs, regardless of their style of fic tho, like, for real?? AUs make it feel like a ‘real book’ with your fave guys in it and how awesome is that?! Put those mfs in situations!! Situations they will never be in before or again!!
I will never never never understand why fandoms have been more and more avoiding AUs and fics with OCs. And I will fight for those writers until my last breath i stg
right?!? i feel like i'm seeing the same slew of plotlines and pictures, and to be honest, just like @lov3darlings @vettelsvee and @chilling-seavey have said, but i'll enunciate once more, we NEED more fics that promote inclusivity. and i'm talking about diversifying the personalities, depths, and lived-experiences of our mcs!
just like us, our mc's should be complex, represent the composite nature of human beings, and i don't really see that in fics. i think it can be attributed to the fact that a lot of fics nowadays have gotten shorter in length, thus, content has gotten more surface-level. don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with short and sweet fics, but when every other story follows the same predictable character tropes and dynamics, it gets stale real quick. like, where’s the nuance? where’s the internal conflict that actually makes you feel something?
we’re in an epidemic of shortening everything—stories, conversations, even emotions. everything is optimized for speed, for bite-sized consumption, for that instant dopamine hit. (and you can definitely tell, especially with the way that we consume media via platforms like tiktok videos, instagram reels, youtube shorts. and like every other social media platform, tumblr is falling into the pit of short, consumable, quick content)
we skim instead of read, we scroll instead of engage, we want the plot in a single concise sentence, and the resolution in thirty seconds or less. and yeah, sometimes that’s fun, but it’s also robbing us of depth. nuance takes time. real emotional weight takes space to breathe. if we keep condensing everything down to the quickest, easiest version, we lose what makes storytelling actually stick with us.
A Cowgirl's Stars, Stripes, and Speed (!black-!cowgirl-!singer x dr3) (C2)
synopsis: in which case y/n, a bold African American country singer, crosses paths with Daniel, a charming Australian Formula 1 driver, both tipsy and unwound by the night.
author's note: completely forgot that i had chapter two in the drafts, here ya go! (so so so sorry this is literally MONTHS late)
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
Waking up for Free Practice One, or FP1 as Maddie called it, felt a lot like waking up for a rodeo at 5 a.m.—except instead of dust, horses, and the smell of hay, I was getting ready for million-dollar cars, European accents, and a paddock full of people who probably didn’t know what a boot-scootin’ boogie was.
“Am I the first person to ever show up to a Formula 1 event in cowboy boots?” I muttered to myself, staring at my reflection in the mirror. “Because if so, I’m about to make history.”
Maddie barged into my room, her eyes immediately zeroing in on my footwear choice. “You cannot—cannot—be serious,” she said, pointing at the boots like they had personally offended her.
I raised an eyebrow. “You do realize I’m from Texas, right? I’m contractually obligated to wear these.”
She groaned, dramatically rolling her eyes. “Y/N, this isn’t a rodeo. It’s Formula 1. There are literally people there who probably think Texas is just a setting for Western movies.”
“Good,” I replied, giving my boots an extra little stomp for emphasis. “They’re about to learn a thing or two.”
Maddie, fully aware that no amount of persuasion was going to change my mind, sighed and flopped down on my bed. “You’re going to be the most interesting thing to hit the paddock, and I don’t even know if that’s a compliment.”
“I’ll take it,” I said, grabbing my bag. “Besides, I’m sure Daniel’s already prepared for my... unique aesthetic.”
Maddie grinned. “Oh, he’s definitely prepared. The real question is—are you ready for what’s coming?”
I shot her a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She wiggled her eyebrows. “Oh, nothing. Just that you’re about to be dropped into a world of fast cars, faster drivers, and more champagne than you’ve ever seen in your life. Try not to faint when Daniel shows up in his race suit, though. I've seen you salivate like a dog in a man in a suit before, I better not see this behavior in public again,” she waved her finger and raised her eyebrow.
I snorted. “I’ll try to control myself.”
She followed me to the door, a mischievous grin still plastered on her face. “Don’t worry. If you pass out, I’ll be there to catch you. And get it on camera.”
“Thanks, sister of the year,” I said, rolling my eyes as we headed out to face what was bound to be the weirdest and wildest weekend of my life.
As we pulled up to the track, the sheer size of everything hit me. The grandstands, the noise, the sleekness of it all—it was overwhelming, and we weren’t even at the paddock yet. “This is... a lot,” I muttered, gripping the steering wheel tightly. My nerves had kicked in.
Maddie, of course, was completely unfazed. “Oh, yeah. Welcome to the big leagues. Now let’s get you inside before you chicken out and run back to the rodeo.”
“Not a chance,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”
As we made our way to the paddock entrance, I kept reminding myself to stay cool. I wasn’t some fangirl—I was here to support Daniel and, okay, maybe enjoy the adrenaline rush of being surrounded by the fastest cars on the planet. But when we reached the paddock gate and I spotted the crowds of stylish people and team members buzzing around, I couldn’t help but feel a little out of place.
“This is... fancy,” I whispered to Maddie as I spotted a group of people sipping espresso like they were at some high-end café instead of a racetrack.
“Yeah, and you’re about to be the wild card,” Maddie replied with a grin.
Before I could say anything, I heard a familiar voice behind me. “Y/N?”
I turned, and there he was—Daniel Ricciardo, in his race suit, smiling like he had all the time in the world. And damn, Maddie wasn’t kidding—he looked good in it.
“Welcome to the circus,” he said with a grin, his eyes flicking down to my boots before meeting mine again. “Nice boots. You ready for your first Formula 1 weekend?”
I smirked. “I mean, as long as no one tries to race me in those things, I think I’ll survive.”
As Daniel chuckled, leading us deeper into the paddock, I started to notice it—the stares. At first, I thought I was imagining things, but no. People were definitely glancing my way, some openly, others stealing curious looks from behind their sunglasses or over the rims of their espresso cups.
I tried to ignore it, focusing on the sound of Daniel’s voice and Maddie’s occasional teasing, but the feeling started to creep up on me. The combination of being the only one in cowboy boots, the only one not decked out in sleek, designer outfits, and, let’s be real, the only Black woman in this sea of European wealth and privilege—it was a lot.
For a split second, my confidence wavered. What am I doing here? This world, with its fast cars and high fashion, felt miles away from anything I’d ever known. I could feel their eyes tracing over my skin, my clothes, my difference. And that old, familiar feeling of not quite fitting in snuck up on me, catching me off guard.
Do they think I don’t belong here? The thought stuck, and I hated that it did.
Maddie, always attuned to my moods, leaned in, her voice low. “You good?”
I forced a smile, trying to shake off the insecurity that had settled over me. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
But Maddie wasn’t buying it. She followed my gaze, noticing the same looks I had. “They’re just jealous they don’t have boots as cool as yours,” she said with a wink, her voice light but full of understanding.
Daniel, completely unaware of my sudden internal struggle, turned back to us with a grin. “Everything alright back there?”
I cleared my throat, snapping out of my thoughts. “Yeah, just taking it all in. You weren’t kidding when you called this place a circus.”
He laughed, oblivious to the little battle going on in my head. “It’s a lot at first, I know. But don’t worry—soon enough, you’ll be running this place.”
I smiled, but it didn’t quite reach my eyes. I wanted to believe him, to feel like I could own this space as easily as he did, but the truth was, I felt like an outsider. It was the same feeling I got sometimes in certain parts of Austin, where people would look at me, sizing me up, wondering how I fit into the picture they had in their heads. But this—Formula 1? This was a whole new level.
We kept walking, Daniel chatting about the weekend ahead, and I did my best to nod and respond when appropriate, but my mind kept drifting back to those stares. I do belong here. Right?
Just when I thought I’d spiral into that uncomfortable feeling, Maddie looped her arm through mine and whispered, “Remember, you’re here because you deserve to be. Plus, you’ve got Daniel freaking Ricciardo practically showing you off. That’s gotta mean something.”
I glanced at her, a small smile tugging at my lips. She always knew how to snap me out of my head. “Yeah, I guess.”
“And just wait until you walk by some of these stuck-up folks in those boots. You’ll have them talking about you for weeks.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at that. Maddie had a point. Maybe I didn’t fit in here the way they did, but maybe that wasn’t a bad thing. Maybe being different was exactly what I needed to be.
As we turned the corner, Daniel slowed his pace, and I noticed a man standing with a group of people, talking animatedly. He had this authoritative air about him, someone who clearly knew his way around the place—definitely important. Daniel gave him a nod as we approached, and the man turned, his face breaking into a smile.
“Daniel!” the man called out, clapping Daniel on the back as we stopped in front of him. His eyes quickly flicked over to me and Maddie, curious but friendly.
Daniel grinned. “Christian, meet Y/N and her sister Maddie. They’re, uh, getting their first taste of the F1 circus.”
Christian turned to us, offering a polite smile. “Nice to meet you, ladies. I’m Christian Horner, team principal at Red Bull Racing.” He extended his hand, and it took me a second to process his name.
I blinked, suddenly realizing who I was standing in front of. The guy who ran one of the most successful teams in Formula 1. Oh, wow. I managed to return the handshake, trying to keep my cool.
"Y/N," I said, trying to sound casual, though my voice was a little more high-pitched than I intended. "Nice to meet you too."
Christian’s gaze shifted between us, still friendly but clearly sizing up the new faces. “I trust Daniel’s showing you around? Not too overwhelmed by all of this, I hope.”
I shrugged, trying to downplay the fact that, yeah, I was definitely overwhelmed. “It’s... a lot to take in. But Daniel’s been helpful.” I shot Daniel a look, raising an eyebrow.
Christian laughed. “That’s good to hear. He tends to make quite the impression.”
Before I could reply, another voice chimed in from behind us. “And who do we have here?” The accent was British, but lighter, more playful.
I turned and found myself looking at a young guy with curly brown hair and a cheeky grin plastered on his face. He was clearly younger, but there was a confidence about him that said he wasn’t new to this. His eyes landed on me, and the grin widened.
Daniel rolled his eyes but didn’t miss a beat. “Y/N, Maddie, this is Lando. Lando Norris. He drives for McLaren.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Lando said, stepping forward and offering a handshake. I took it, trying not to get lost in how friendly his smile was. He definitely had that mischievous look—the kind that said he was always up to something.
“Nice to meet you too,” I said, my grip firm despite my nerves. Maddie, meanwhile, looked like she was about to faint.
Lando’s eyes flicked over me, lingering for just a second longer than necessary, and I suddenly felt like I was back in the bar, dealing with that playful banter all over again. “You’re new around here, aren’t you?”
I nodded, biting back a grin. “Yeah, first time.”
“Well,” he said, leaning in just slightly, “if you need someone to show you around the paddock, I’m your guy. Daniel’s great, but I can give you the real tour.” He winked, clearly enjoying himself.
Maddie let out a small giggle, and I shot her a don’t you dare look.
Daniel, standing just a little too stiffly beside me, cut in before I could respond. “Yeah, Lando’s an expert at real tours. But I think I’ve got it handled.”
I noticed the slight edge to Daniel’s voice, though he tried to keep it light. Lando, ever the cheeky one, just shrugged.
“Alright, alright,” Lando said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Didn’t mean to step on your toes, mate.”
Maddie, always ready to stir the pot, jumped in. “I mean, it doesn’t hurt to have options, right?”
I glared at her, my cheeks heating up. Not helping, Maddie.
Lando chuckled, clearly amused by the whole situation. “Exactly. Always good to have a backup plan.” He shot me a quick grin, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
Daniel, clearly not thrilled with the direction this conversation was going, leaned a little closer to me, his voice low but firm. “I think Y/N’s got all the help she needs, mate.”
The tension was subtle, but it was definitely there. Lando, ever the joker, just smiled and backed off with a shrug. “No worries, Daniel. Just being friendly.”
Christian, watching the exchange with mild amusement, clapped his hands together. “Alright, boys, save the rivalry for the track.”
Daniel, now visibly more relaxed, shot Christian a grin. “No rivalry here. Just making sure Y/N gets the proper tour.”
I smirked, nudging Daniel lightly. “I can handle a little extra attention, you know.”
He glanced down at me, a small smile playing on his lips. “Yeah, well, some of us don’t need to flirt to make a good impression.”
Lando raised an eyebrow, his grin never faltering. “Flirting’s just a bonus.”
I rolled my eyes, shaking my head. “Oh, this is going to be a long weekend.”
Lando, noticing Maddie’s growing excitement, gave her a mischievous grin. “Well, I suppose I can offer someone a proper tour of the track. Maddie, what do you say? Want to ditch these two and come with me? I’ll show you where the real action is.”
Maddie’s eyes lit up like she had just won the lottery. “Oh, hell yes! I mean, uh, yeah, sure,” she said, trying to act cool, but completely failing at it. This girl was not as nonchalant and mysterious as she thought she was.
I shot her a look, half warning, half amused. “Maddie…”
She waved me off with a grin. “I’ll catch up with you later, sis. I’m in good hands.” Then she leaned in, whispering loud enough for everyone to hear, “Don’t wait up.”
Before I could respond, Lando took her by the arm and started leading her away, his signature cheeky grin firmly in place. “You two behave now,” he called over his shoulder, clearly loving every second of this.
I laughed, shaking my head. “I cannot believe my sister just ditched me for an F1 tour.”
Daniel smirked, watching them disappear into the bustling crowd of the paddock. “Well, I don’t blame her. Lando’s... energetic. Plus, now I get you all to myself.”
I glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “Oh? That your plan all along?”
He grinned, not even bothering to hide the mischievous glint in his eye. “Maybe. It worked, didn’t it?”
I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t help smiling. “Alright, Mr. Ricciardo, so what’s next on this grand tour? Or is this where you start charming me with racing facts?”
He chuckled, taking a step closer. “I could give you the whole rundown on tire compounds and aerodynamics, but I’m guessing that’s not why you’re here.”
I tilted my head, pretending to consider. “Actually, I was really hoping for a deep dive into downforce.”
Daniel laughed, the sound easy and genuine. “I can save that for later. Right now, though, how about I take you somewhere a little quieter? Grab a bite?”
My stomach, which had been ignored in all the excitement, grumbled in agreement. “You read my mind.”
Daniel gestured for me to follow him, weaving through the maze of garages and trailers that made up the heart of the paddock. As we walked, people continued to stare, but this time, with Daniel by my side, I felt more at ease. He had a way of making everything feel less intimidating, like I could handle whatever this crazy world threw at me.
As we continued walking, weaving through the bustling paddock, Daniel’s arm brushed against mine, and before I knew it, his hand found mine. The move was casual, like he’d done it a thousand times, but it caught me off guard. His fingers intertwined with mine, and I immediately noticed how smooth his skin was, warm against my palm.
I glanced down at our hands, surprised at how perfectly they fit together, like this was the most natural thing in the world. It wasn’t just the physical contact—it was the feeling that came with it, a mix of warmth and comfort that settled over me, making the chaotic energy of the paddock fade into the background.
I looked up at him, but he didn’t say anything. He just smiled that easy, confident smile, his thumb gently brushing the back of my hand as we walked. It was such a simple gesture, but my heart did a little flip anyway.
“So,” he said, his voice light and teasing, “you still expecting that downforce lecture?”
I laughed, trying to keep my cool despite the butterflies in my stomach. “You know, I think I’m good for now. I’ll save the nerdy questions for later.”
He gave my hand a small squeeze, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Good call. Wouldn’t want to overwhelm you with all that F1 knowledge right away.”
I shook my head, grinning as we walked. My brain was still half-focused on how nice his hand felt in mine, but I was doing my best to keep up the conversation. “I think I’ve had enough new information for one day.”
We continued strolling through the paddock, and though the stares hadn’t completely stopped, they no longer made me feel out of place. With Daniel holding my hand, the looks from other people didn’t matter as much. It was like there was this invisible bubble around us, and for the first time that day, I felt like I actually belonged in this world.
He led me toward a quieter section of the paddock, where the energy was less frantic, and it was easier to talk without being drowned out by the roar of engines. The sounds of mechanics working and conversations happening in every direction became a soft background noise.
Daniel glanced over at me, his grip on my hand tightening slightly. “You know,” he said, his voice dropping just a bit, “I’m really glad you’re here. It’s nice to have someone... different around.”
I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Different how?”
He smirked, his eyes scanning my face for a second before he answered. “You’re not trying to impress anyone. You’re just... yourself. I like that.”
I felt my cheeks flush at his words, and I looked away, trying to hide the smile creeping up on my lips. “I guess it’s hard to impress people when you barely know what’s going on.”
He laughed softly, his thumb still absentmindedly tracing patterns on the back of my hand. “Trust me, you’re doing better than half the people here.”
I glanced back up at him, our eyes locking for a brief moment. There was something deeper in his gaze, something that made me feel like I wasn’t just a guest in his world—I was someone he actually wanted to be around.
Before I could come up with a reply, we reached the small café area he had mentioned earlier. The space was quiet, tucked away from the hustle of the paddock, and the smell of food was enough to make my stomach grumble again.
Daniel smiled, clearly hearing my stomach. “Guess I made a good call bringing you here. Let’s grab something to eat.”
We found a cozy little table in the corner of the café, and I immediately felt the tension from the rest of the day melt away. The smell of freshly cooked food filled the air, and the quiet buzz of conversation hummed softly in the background. It was a stark contrast to the chaotic energy of the paddock just outside.
Daniel sat across from me, still wearing that easy smile that made it impossible for me to stay nervous. As we flipped through the menus, his eyes flicked up toward me. “So, any idea what you’re in the mood for, or should I make a recommendation?”
I smirked, lowering my menu to meet his gaze. “You recommending something non-Texan? I don’t know, that might be risky.”
He chuckled, leaning back in his chair with an amused glint in his eyes. “I think I can manage. This might not be BBQ or Tex-Mex, but I promise, the food here won’t disappoint.”
I raised an eyebrow, still pretending to be skeptical. “Alright, Ricciardo, hit me with your best suggestion. What’s the must-have paddock dish?”
Without missing a beat, he leaned in, dropping his voice to a mock-serious tone. “You’ve gotta try the... ham sandwich.”
I blinked, staring at him for a moment before bursting into laughter. “The ham sandwich? Seriously?”
He shrugged, grinning. “Hey, sometimes the simple things in life are the best. And I’d argue a good ham sandwich can be life-changing.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, still chuckling. “I’ll take your word for it. But I think I’ll stick with something that sounds a little more... adventurous.”
Daniel smiled, leaning his elbows on the table, clearly enjoying the banter. “You’re adventurous, huh? I’ll keep that in mind.”
Before I could respond, a waiter appeared, and we placed our orders—him going with the infamous ham sandwich, me opting for something a little more exciting. As we waited for the food, the conversation turned a little more personal.
“So,” Daniel began, his tone shifting from playful to genuinely curious, “tell me more about you. We’ve talked a lot about my world today, but I feel like I don’t know enough about yours. What’s it like being a country singer in Texas?”
I shrugged, fiddling with the edge of my napkin. “It’s definitely... different from this.” I gestured around, indicating the world of Formula 1 we were sitting in. “It’s a lot of late-night gigs, long drives between towns, and trying to get people to listen to your music. But I love it. There’s something special about connecting with people through songs.”
He nodded, his eyes intent on mine. “I get that. Racing’s a lot like that, actually. You’ve got all this hard work behind the scenes, but it’s those moments on track when everything comes together that make it all worth it.”
I smiled, appreciating the parallel. “Yeah, I guess it’s similar. Although I doubt people scream your name at the end of a concert the way they do when you’re on the podium.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “You’d be surprised. People get pretty wild over a good performance, no matter what the stage looks like.”
I tilted my head, studying him. “What about you, though? You’ve been doing this for so long. Don’t you ever get tired of it?”
Daniel’s expression softened, and for a moment, I saw a glimpse of something deeper in his eyes. “There are times when it’s exhausting, yeah. The travel, the pressure, all of it can be overwhelming. But at the end of the day, I love it. The thrill of being on track, the competition... it’s hard to give that up.”
I nodded, feeling a newfound respect for him. “It sounds like a crazy life, but I can see why you love it.”
He smiled again, this time more sincere, and leaned forward slightly. “Enough about me, though. What’s the craziest thing that’s ever happened to you on stage?”
I laughed, thinking back to some of the more ridiculous moments. “Oh, there are so many. But probably the time when a guy tried to propose to his girlfriend in the middle of my set, and she said no. Talk about awkward.”
Daniel’s eyes widened. “No way. That actually happened?”
I nodded, laughing. “Yep. Right in the middle of a ballad, too. The whole crowd went silent, and I just stood there like, ‘Do I keep playing?’”
He winced, clearly feeling the secondhand embarrassment. “That’s brutal. I don’t know if I could’ve kept going.”
I grinned, leaning back in my chair. “It’s a tough gig, but someone’s gotta do it.”
He shook his head, laughing again. “I’m impressed. I don’t think I’ve had anything that cringey happen on track, but now I’m kinda hoping for it.”
I smirked. “Be careful what you wish for.”
The waiter returned with our food, and as we started eating, the conversation flowed easily. It wasn’t forced or awkward—it just felt natural, like we’d known each other longer than just a couple of days. Between bites of food, we joked about everything from our weirdest fan encounters to the quirks of our respective worlds.
At one point, he wiped his mouth with a napkin and gave me that cheeky grin again. “Alright, I’ve gotta ask—how are you handling this whole F1 thing? It’s gotta be a little overwhelming.”
I swallowed my bite of food, considering his question. “Honestly? It’s wild. It’s like being dropped into a completely different universe. But... I’m kinda enjoying it. It’s different, but in a good way.”
Daniel’s eyes sparkled, and I could tell he was pleased with my answer. “Good. I was hoping you’d like it.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Worried I’d bail halfway through the weekend?”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah. I just wanted you to have fun. I know it’s not easy being thrown into all of this.”
I smiled, feeling the warmth of his words settle in my chest. “I am having fun. More than I expected, actually.”
He reached across the table and gave my hand a quick squeeze, his touch sending a little jolt of electricity through me. “Good. Because this weekend’s only just getting started.”
I couldn’t help but grin, my heart racing a little faster than it should have been. Something told me he wasn’t just talking about the race.
“Guess I’d better buckle up, then,” I said, the flirtatious edge in my voice impossible to hide.
Daniel leaned back, his grin widening. “Oh, you have no idea what you’re in for.”
Daniel stood up, pushing his chair back with a soft scrape against the floor. “I’ll be right back. Don’t miss me too much,” he teased, giving me a playful wink before heading toward the back of the café.
I rolled my eyes, chuckling as I watched him go. But as soon as he disappeared out of sight, my attention shifted to the door of the café, and my heart nearly stopped.
Johnny.
There he was, casually strolling into the café like it was the most normal thing in the world. The same Johnny I hadn’t seen in months—the guy I thought I’d left in the past—was now standing less than ten feet away from me.
What the actual hell?
First Carrie yesterday, now Johnny today? It was like the universe was conspiring against me. Why were these two popping up like ghosts from my past all of a sudden? And more importantly—why here?
Fuck me man, I felt like that one story that had Ebenezer Scrooge in it—that's right, that weird story my Mom read to me when I was younger, A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. But instead of the Ghost of Christmas Past and the Ghost of Jacob Marley, I was haunted by the ghosts of bad decisions and unresolved drama. Carrie, with her biting sarcasm and unfinished business, and Johnny, the walking reminder of every poor choice I’d ever made. They weren’t here to show me the errors of my ways—they were here to twist the knife.
The Ghost of Missed Opportunities, and the Ghost of "What the hell was I thinking?" Great. Just great. All I needed was one more, the Ghost of Emotional Baggage, to complete the haunting trifecta. Maybe they’d hold hands and sing carols while I watched my dignity fade into oblivion.
Panic fluttered in my chest, and without thinking, I shifted in my seat, tilting my head down so that my hair fell forward, obscuring as much of my face as possible. I pulled the menu up as an extra barrier, mentally chanting, please don’t see me, please don’t see me.
I peeked through a small gap between the strands of my hair, watching as Johnny scanned the room. For a second, I thought I was safe—he seemed to be looking past me, like he hadn’t noticed me at all.
But then his eyes stopped. And locked directly onto me.
Shit.
What are the odds…Nevermind, I actually do not want to know.
His brows furrowed in recognition, and I saw the exact moment he realized who I was. A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by what could only be described as mild amusement. My heart sank as he started walking toward me, his steps slow but deliberate.
“Y/N?” His voice was hesitant, like he wasn’t entirely sure if it was really me, but I knew that tone all too well.
I kept my face half-hidden, silently hoping for some kind of divine intervention. But this was real, and there was no escaping it now.
“Johnny,” I said, my voice as neutral as I could muster, finally dropping the menu and brushing the hair back from my face.
He stopped in front of me, a small smirk forming on his lips. “I thought that was you. Didn’t expect to see you... here.”
I forced a tight smile, trying to keep my composure. “Yeah, well... here I am.”
He crossed his arms, glancing around the café. “F1 paddock, huh? You sure are full of surprises these days.”
I felt my jaw tighten. “I could say the same thing. What are you doing here, Johnny?”
He shrugged, his smirk deepening. “Business. Just checking things out. You know how it is.”
I raised an eyebrow. “At the Formula 1 paddock?”
“Hey, I get around,” he said with a casual shrug, but I could see that smugness in his eyes—the same look that used to drive me crazy. “But what about you? Last I checked, you weren’t into fast cars and fancy races.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Things change. People change.”
He let out a low chuckle, clearly amused. “So I see. You always were full of surprises.”
I could feel the heat rising in my chest, the mix of annoyance and nerves bubbling up. This wasn’t how I wanted to spend my day. Not with Johnny, of all people. And definitely not here.
Before I could come up with a response, his eyes flicked to the empty seat across from me. “You mind if I sit?”
Yes, I mind, I thought, but instead I nodded, forcing a polite smile. “Go ahead.”
Johnny slid into the chair, leaning forward on his elbows like this was some kind of casual catch-up, his eyes studying me. “So, who’re you here with? Anyone special?” His tone was light, but I could hear the curiosity behind it.
I hesitated for a second, not sure how much to say. “Just... here for the weekend.”
He raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “That’s vague.”
I shifted uncomfortably, glancing toward the back of the café, half-hoping Daniel would miraculously reappear and save me from this awkward situation. “It’s not really important, Johnny.”
But he wasn’t about to drop it. “You know, I ran into Carrie yesterday. Small world, huh?”
My heart sank further. Of course he’d bring up Carrie. The two of them had always been close, and after everything that went down, the last thing I wanted was for them to be talking about me.
“Yeah, it’s a small world,” I said, my voice tight.
Johnny leaned back in his chair, studying me with that familiar look—like he knew something I didn’t. “You and Carrie… didn’t exactly end on the best terms, huh?”
I stiffened, narrowing my eyes. “You know exactly why, Johnny.”
He gave a slow nod, as if savoring the tension in the air. “Yeah. I guess I do.”
Before I could respond, the sound of footsteps approaching made me glance up—and there was Daniel, walking back toward the table with an easy grin on his face. But the second he spotted Johnny sitting there, his smile faltered, replaced by a look of confusion. “Everything alright here?” Daniel asked, his tone polite but edged with something sharper. Johnny’s smirk didn’t waver as he glanced over his shoulder at Daniel. “Just catching up with an old friend.” He turned back to me, his eyes still locked on mine. “Didn’t realize you’d moved on so quickly.”
The tension in the air became palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. Daniel stood there, his posture casual but his eyes sharp, flicking between Johnny and me, clearly trying to assess the situation. Johnny, on the other hand, seemed to relish the discomfort, leaning back in his chair with that insufferable smirk still plastered on his face.
I felt my pulse quicken, the unease settling deep in my stomach. “Johnny, this isn’t—”
He interrupted me, tilting his head slightly. “No need to explain, Y/N. We all move on, right?” His tone was dripping with sarcasm, like he knew exactly how to twist the knife. “Though, from what I hear, you didn’t waste any time.”
Daniel’s jaw tightened just slightly, and I saw the flash of annoyance in his eyes. “I think she’s already made it clear that this isn’t your business,” he said, his voice cool but laced with warning.
Johnny didn’t seem fazed by Daniel’s calm exterior. If anything, it seemed to fuel his smugness. He glanced at Daniel, sizing him up in that subtle, passive-aggressive way I knew all too well. “Oh, no offense, mate. Just curious is all. I mean, I didn’t think I’d be seeing her here in the middle of the Formula 1 paddock, much less sitting with you.”
My stomach churned as Johnny’s words hung in the air. He wasn’t just trying to get under my skin anymore—he was trying to provoke Daniel. And judging by the way Daniel’s hand flexed slightly at his side, I could tell it was working.
“Y/N’s welcome wherever she wants to be,” Daniel replied, his voice steady but with an edge that I hadn’t heard before. “You should probably get that through your head.”
Johnny’s smirk faltered for the first time, and a flicker of something darker passed through his eyes. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his gaze locking onto mine. “It’s just funny, you know? How you can spend years with someone, thinking you know them, and then one day...” He snapped his fingers. “They’re gone. Just like that.”
I clenched my jaw, feeling the weight of his words pressing down on me. This wasn’t about me and Daniel anymore. This was Johnny’s way of dredging up old wounds, reminding me of the past, and making sure Daniel knew that he wasn’t just some random ex-boyfriend. He wanted to make this personal.
“I didn’t just leave, Johnny,” I said quietly, but firmly. “We both know why it ended.”
Johnny leaned back, that smirk creeping back onto his face as he raised his hands in mock surrender. “Ah, yes. My bad. You’ve got it all figured out now, huh? Living the high life, new man, new world.”
Daniel, who had been standing next to me, finally stepped forward, positioning himself closer to Johnny, his eyes narrowing. “I think you’ve said enough.”
The air between them crackled with tension, and for a split second, I thought things might actually escalate. Daniel’s easygoing demeanor had shifted, and he wasn’t playing around anymore. I could feel the protective energy radiating from him, like he was ready to step in if Johnny pushed any further.
Johnny met Daniel’s gaze, the smirk still on his face but his eyes cold. “Just having a conversation, mate. No need to get worked up.”
Daniel didn’t back down, his voice dropping lower. “You’re not here to talk. You’re here to stir things up. I get it. But it’s not going to work.”
Johnny chuckled softly, but there was no humor in it. He stood up, adjusting his jacket as he looked down at both of us. “Well, it’s been enlightening, Y/N. Really. I’ll see you around.”
He glanced at Daniel one last time before turning on his heel and walking out of the café, his presence leaving a bitter taste in the air.
I let out a shaky breath, the tension in my body slowly unraveling as Johnny disappeared from view. Daniel sat down across from me, his expression still hard, his jaw clenched. He looked at me, his concern evident in his eyes.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice softer now.
I nodded, but I couldn’t hide the lingering frustration. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t expect to see him here, or... Carrie yesterday. It’s like they’re everywhere all of a sudden.”
Daniel reached across the table, taking my hand in his. His grip was firm, grounding me. “You don’t have to apologize for him. He’s clearly got some unresolved issues, but that’s not on you.”
I sighed, squeezing his hand back. “Yeah, well, I thought I’d left all of that behind. Guess it’s harder to outrun than I thought.”
Daniel’s thumb gently brushed the back of my hand, his touch reassuring. “You’re not running anymore. You’re here, with me. And he can’t touch that.”
I met his gaze, feeling the weight of his words settle in my chest. There was something in the way he said it, in the way he was looking at me, that made me feel like everything was going to be okay. Like I wasn’t alone in dealing with this.
“Thank you,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
He smiled, a small, genuine smile that chased away the lingering tension. “You don’t have to thank me. I’ve got your back.”
We sat there for a moment, the café’s gentle hum returning as the intensity of Johnny’s presence faded. But in the back of my mind, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t the last time I’d be seeing him—or Carrie. They were still a part of this tangled mess, and somehow, I knew they wouldn’t let me move on that easily.
But with Daniel sitting across from me, his hand still in mine, I felt stronger. Like whatever came next, I wouldn’t be facing it alone.
Daniel leaned in with a playful grin. “You seriously dated that?” he asked, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. “Like, in your songs, I thought you were being dramatic, but…” He trailed off, failing miserably as he attempted to imitate Johnny’s gruff accent, his voice cracking mid-sentence. “Oi, I’m Johnny, and I’m here to ruin your day,” he added with an exaggerated scowl, dramatically puffing out his chest.
I couldn’t help it. Laughter bubbled up from my chest, loud and unexpected, catching me off guard. It was the kind of laugh that made your stomach hurt, the kind that came out when you were least expecting it. Daniel’s terrible impression was so far off that it was hilarious, and for the first time today, I felt a little lighter. The knot in my chest loosened, and for a moment, the awkwardness of running into Johnny and Carrie faded away.
“Okay, okay, that was terrible,” I said, still laughing, wiping the corner of my eye. “But thank you. I needed that.”
Daniel grinned wide, obviously pleased with himself. “Glad to be of service, love,” he replied, his Australian drawl carrying the words in that easy, effortless way that made everything sound a little more charming than it should. He puffed his chest out again, still half-committed to the ridiculous Johnny impersonation. “Come on now, I thought I nailed it. Pretty sure Johnny sounds exactly like that.”
I shook my head, a smile still tugging at my lips. “Trust me, you’re way off. But, for the record, I think you just made him sound better than he deserves.” I raised an eyebrow playfully, feeling the lingering tension ease just a little more.
“Ah, well, it’s a talent, I suppose,” Daniel shot back, with a wink. “Making your exes sound like halfway decent humans. Maybe I’ve missed my calling.” He reached over, gently nudging my shoulder, and the warmth of his touch felt more grounding than I expected.
For a second, I just watched him, marveling at how easily he could turn the mood around, how quickly he could shift the energy in the room with just a few lighthearted comments. His accent—God, his accent—made everything sound smoother, softer, even when he was trying to joke around. I didn’t realize how much I needed someone to break through the storm cloud that had been hovering over me all day.
I couldn’t help but admire it. There was something about the way Daniel spoke that made me want to listen to him, to let myself be carried away by the sound of his voice. “You know,” I said, my smile lingering, “that accent of yours… it’s kind of unfair.”
He raised an eyebrow, looking mock-offended. “Unfair? You wound me, love. I thought it was my best asset.”
“Oh, it absolutely is,” I teased, tilting my head. “You could probably get away with saying anything and still sound charming.”
Daniel smirked, leaning back a little, clearly enjoying the banter. “Well then, I suppose I better be careful with my words, huh? Don’t want to waste this so-called ‘charm’ of mine on just anything.”
I rolled my eyes, though I couldn’t deny the smile that kept creeping up on me. “Too late. You’ve already wasted it on that horrendous Johnny impression.”
Daniel chuckled, leaning in closer, his grin still firmly in place. “Ah, but see, now I know my limits. No more terrible Johnny impressions—unless, of course, you ask for them.”
“Not a chance,” I shot back, shaking my head, though the playful glint in his eyes made it hard to keep a straight face. “I think I’ve suffered enough today, thank you very much.”
“Fair enough,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. “I’ll stick to my strengths then—making you laugh and, apparently, charming my way through this conversation.”
I crossed my arms, leaning back against the bar, my gaze locking with his. “Is that what this is? A charm offensive?”
Daniel’s smirk deepened, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “Well, it seems to be working, doesn’t it?”
I couldn’t argue with that. He had a way of lightening the mood, of making everything feel less… heavy. His presence was like a breath of fresh air, cutting through the lingering tension from my earlier run-in with Johnny and Carrie.
“You’ve got a point,” I admitted, trying to play it cool despite the fact that I could feel a blush creeping up my neck. “But don’t get too cocky. You’re only as charming as I let you be.”
“Oh, is that how it works?” Daniel asked, his voice dropping into a teasing lilt. “So, you’re saying I need your permission to be charming?”
I tilted my head, giving him a playful smile. “Something like that.”
He leaned in just a little, the space between us narrowing as his voice dropped to a low murmur. “Well then, I’ll just have to make sure I stay on your good side.”
For a moment, I felt the air shift between us, a subtle tension weaving its way through the playful banter. His eyes locked on mine, and for the first time, I noticed the way his gaze softened just a fraction, as if he wasn’t just joking anymore.
I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could find the words, Daniel’s smirk returned, breaking the moment with a wink. “What do you say? Think I’ve got a chance at staying charming for a while longer?”
I laughed, shaking my head, the tension easing back into lightheartedness. “We’ll see. You’re off to a decent start, though.”
“Good to know,” he said, his grin widening as he took a sip from his drink. “Guess I’ll just have to keep working at it then, won’t I?”
“Looks like it,” I replied, feeling a warmth settle in my chest that had nothing to do with the whiskey I’d been sipping. It was strange, how easy it was to talk to him, how natural the conversation felt.
Maybe it was the accent. Or maybe it was the way he made me forget about everything else, even if just for a little while.
Either way, I found myself wanting the moment to last just a little longer. The ease of being with Daniel, his playful charm, made everything feel lighter. We left the café, wandering toward the paddock, with the hum of the race world buzzing around us.
Suddenly, a group of teenage boys—five of them, no older than seventeen—approached us, all wearing different variations of Formula 1 gear. They were grinning like they’d just hit the jackpot.
“Y/N?” one of them asked, his voice cracking slightly, clearly nervous. “Is it really you?”
I blinked, taken aback. “Uh, yeah, that’s me.”
They exchanged excited looks, practically bouncing on the spot. “No way! We’re huge fans!” another boy chimed in. “We listen to your music all the time!”
I couldn’t help but laugh. Teenage boys? Really? I mean, sure, I had a decent fan base, but I’d always pictured my listeners as mostly women around my age, maybe a few guys here and there. But these boys—decked out in their racing caps and track jackets—didn’t exactly scream “Y/N fan club.”
“Wait, seriously?” I asked, grinning. “You guys listen to my music?”
“Are you kidding?” one of them replied, his eyes wide. “Your last album? Fire. We’ve had it on repeat for weeks!”
The others nodded enthusiastically in agreement. “Yeah! ‘Falling Apart’—that’s our anthem, man. We play it before our soccer games to hype up.”
I laughed again, shaking my head in disbelief. “Well, I’m glad it gets you pumped.”
Daniel, who’d been silently observing with a smirk on his face, suddenly leaned closer to me, slipping effortlessly into his role as the comic relief. “You see that?” he said loudly, nudging me with his elbow. “Even teenage boys can’t resist your charm. Should I be worried?”
One of the boys looked between us, his eyes narrowing slightly as he realized what Daniel was implying. “Wait… are you two… like, a thing?”
Before I could respond, Daniel flashed a wicked grin and draped his arm over my shoulders. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he teased, his accent making the words sound far more suggestive than necessary.
I elbowed him lightly in the ribs, rolling my eyes but unable to hide my smile. “Don’t listen to him,” I said, shaking my head at the boys. “He’s just messing with you.”
“Oh, I dunno,” Daniel continued, winking at me as if the boys weren’t even there. “I think they can see the chemistry. It’s undeniable, right, lads?”
The boys burst into laughter, clearly amused by Daniel’s antics. One of them, the tallest of the group, gave Daniel a playful thumbs-up. “Yeah, mate! You’re doing great!”
Daniel puffed out his chest, acting like he’d just been handed an award. “See? They approve. Guess I’m winning today.”
“Winning what exactly?” I asked, crossing my arms and raising an eyebrow at him.
“Your heart, obviously,” Daniel shot back without missing a beat, his grin growing even wider.
I rolled my eyes again, but I couldn’t help the blush that crept up my neck. The boys all snickered like they were in on some private joke. This was turning into a full-blown comedy sketch, but to my surprise, I didn’t mind. In fact, I was kind of enjoying it.
“Alright, alright,” I said, laughing. “How about I sign something for you guys before Daniel’s ego gets too big?”
The boys eagerly handed me a couple of hats and a marker, still buzzing with excitement. As I scribbled my signature, they chatted excitedly among themselves about the race, about my music, and about Daniel’s antics, like we were all old friends.
When I handed back the hats, one of the boys asked, “So, are you gonna write a song about Formula 1 next?”
I chuckled, glancing sideways at Daniel. “Who knows? I’ve been getting a lot of inspiration lately.”
Daniel raised an eyebrow, catching onto the innuendo. “Inspiration, huh? Does this inspiration happen to have a devilishly handsome accent and a knack for making terrible impressions?”
I smirked, giving him a playful shove. “Don’t flatter yourself. My inspiration doesn’t come from bad impressions.”
One of the boys, who had clearly been paying way too much attention, chimed in, “Oi, are you saying he’s not handsome? Because, like, I wouldn’t mind if someone called me devilishly handsome.”
Daniel burst out laughing. “Well, look at this guy! You’ve got some competition, Y/N. He’s coming for my title.”
I shook my head, but the whole group had descended into laughter. “Careful, Daniel. I think your reign as the charming one might be short-lived,” I teased, still grinning.
The boys exchanged exaggerated glances, clearly loving every moment. “We’ve got the charm too, you know!” another one of them piped up. “We listen to your music—‘Falling Apart’? Yeah, it’s practically our anthem, so that should earn us some points!”
“Ah, points system now? I see how it is.” Daniel folded his arms, looking mock-serious. “Alright, lads, who can do the best Y/N song impersonation? Whoever wins might just dethrone me as the most charming one here.”
Before I could object, the tallest boy cleared his throat dramatically, striking a pose that was almost too ridiculous to believe. “I got this,” he declared, then proceeded to belt out the chorus of Falling Apart with all the wrong notes, completely off-key, but with so much passion that it was impossible not to laugh.
The rest of the boys joined in, not with singing but with over-the-top interpretive dance moves that had nothing to do with the song at all. One of them even pretended to play an imaginary guitar solo, thrashing around like he was on stage at a rock concert.
I was doubled over in laughter at this point, tears in my eyes. “Oh my God, what is happening right now?” I gasped between fits of giggles.
Daniel wiped a fake tear from his cheek, trying to hold back his laughter. “I think we’ve just witnessed the most beautiful rendition of your song. I’m sorry, love, but I’ve officially been out-charmed.”
One of the boys puffed out his chest proudly. “Told ya, we’ve got the charm. Now, where’s our prize?”
“Prize?” Daniel asked, feigning confusion. “Mate, your prize is the satisfaction of knowing you’ve ruined one of Y/N’s greatest hits for her forever.”
The boys erupted in laughter, but one of them wasn’t quite done. “Wait, wait, I can do better!” He jumped forward, clearing his throat dramatically. “I’m Johnny, and I’m here to—” His attempt at an impression was so bad that he immediately started laughing halfway through.
I groaned, but I couldn’t stop laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. “Oh no, not this again!”
Daniel, with his grin practically splitting his face, leaned in toward me, speaking loud enough for the boys to hear. “See, they’ve got nothing on my Johnny impression. I think I still win.”
I rolled my eyes, but the heat from his closeness wasn’t lost on me. “That’s a pretty low bar to clear,” I teased, trying to maintain my cool despite the way he was looking at me, like I was the only person in the world at that moment.
One of the boys noticed the shift in energy and grinned slyly. “Ooh, I see what’s happening here. You two are flirting! Caught in the act!”
Daniel placed a hand on his chest dramatically. “Flirting? With me? Surely not.”
“Can you blame her though?” another one chimed in, wagging his eyebrows. “I mean, with that accent…”
I let out a laugh that was part amusement, part embarrassment. “Alright, alright, enough of this! You’re all officially the worst hype men ever.”
Daniel, still enjoying the show, winked at the boys. “See, lads? She can’t resist my charm—neither can you, apparently.”
“We’re just trying to help you out, mate,” one of them said with a smirk. “You can thank us later.”
Daniel chuckled, leaning in even closer, that mischievous glint in his eyes only growing more intense. “Oh, trust me,” he said, his voice dropping just low enough for me to catch the playful tone, “I think I’ve already thanked her… once or twice.”
I froze for a split second, my eyes widening as I realized what he was hinting at. A quick glance at the boys confirmed that they had caught on too—one of them let out a loud, exaggerated gasp, while the others exchanged knowing looks.
“Ohhhhhh!” one of the boys practically shouted, his grin stretching from ear to ear. “Wait, man this is definitely is a thing, you can't deny it now!”
Another one interrupted, smirking as he threw in, “Sounds like someone’s been thanking her a little more than once.”
I felt my face heat up, the blush creeping up my neck as the teasing started in full force. “Guys—no, it’s not like that!” I tried to defend, but my stammering only fueled their amusement.
“Oh, sure, sure,” one of them said, clearly enjoying every second of this. “We totally believe you.”
Daniel, completely unfazed, leaned back with a satisfied smirk. “Don’t worry, lads, I’m a gentleman. I don’t kiss and tell.”
“You’re literally telling right now!” I shot back, my embarrassment only making the boys laugh harder.
“Wait, wait,” one of the boys interjected, barely holding back his laughter. “So, like… when you sing about late nights in your songs, is that about him?” He pointed at Daniel with mock seriousness.
“Yeah, is Daniel the muse?” another one chimed in, mimicking air quotes.
“Oh my God,” I groaned, hiding my face in my hands as the boys dissolved into laughter. “This is not happening right now.”
Daniel, ever the instigator, gave a mock-innocent shrug. “Hey, I didn’t say anything specific. You’re the one who’s giving them ideas.”
I shot him a look, trying to hide my smile. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet, here we are,” he replied, winking at me before turning back to the boys. “You lot are getting way too much joy out of this, by the way.”
“We can’t help it!” one of them exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear. “This is, like, the best day ever. Formula 1 and relationship gossip in the same day? We’re thriving!”
Another one crossed his arms, nodding sagely. “Yeah, it’s like our favorite artist just dropped a new track, and it’s all about a secret romance.”
“Oh God, don’t give them any more ideas,” I muttered, still blushing furiously.
“Too late!” one of the boys shot back. “I’m calling it now—next album’s gonna have a song called Thank You, Daniel.”
Daniel burst out laughing, clearly loving every second of this. “I’m not opposed,” he said with a grin. “Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”
“Absolutely not,” I replied firmly, shaking my head even as I laughed.
“Come on, Y/N,” one of the boys teased. “You gotta admit, it’s catchy.”
“Yeah, and it could go something like…” another one started singing, completely off-key. “Thank you, Daniel, for the wild night we had…”
The rest of the boys immediately jumped in, adding to the absurdity of it all. They clapped and hollered, half-singing, half-laughing. “You swept me off my feet, oh yeah, Daniel, you complete me!”
I groaned, covering my face in my hands. “Please stop, this is painful.”
But they were on a roll now, clearly loving every second of tormenting me. Another one joined in, singing in a terrible falsetto, “Oh, Daniel, why’d you have to go and make me fall so hard?”
Daniel was barely holding it together, his laugh ringing out loud enough to draw a few curious glances from people passing by. He turned to me, shaking his head, his eyes dancing with amusement. “I think you’ve just been given your next hit, love. They’re writing it for you.”
I shot him a look, half-exasperated, half-amused. “This is not helping.”
Daniel chuckled, clearly enjoying the show. “Come on, Y/N. At least they’re being creative. They’ve even got choreography,” he said, gesturing toward one of the boys, who had started twirling around dramatically.
“Oh my God,” I muttered, still laughing despite myself. “This is officially out of control.”
One of the boys, apparently the self-proclaimed leader of the group, stepped forward with an exaggerated flourish. “You see, Y/N, we’re just trying to get you and Daniel to release a collab album. Think of the potential—‘Duets with Daniel!’ We’d be the first to buy it.”
“Yeah, we’ll even design the album cover!” another one added, miming holding a camera. “You, all serious with your guitar, and Daniel in the background with his race car and a rose between his teeth.”
I burst out laughing at the image they were painting, unable to take any of this seriously. “You guys are ridiculous,” I said, still shaking my head. “But I’ve gotta admit, you’ve got some... interesting ideas.”
Daniel, however, wasn’t about to let this moment pass without making it even worse for me. He leaned in close, lowering his voice just enough for the boys to hear but making it sound extra suggestive. “You know, Y/N, I’m not entirely opposed to a duet. I mean, we’ve already had one great performance together, haven’t we?”
I whipped around to glare at him, my cheeks burning. “Daniel—”
The boys absolutely lost it. “OOOOOH!” they chorused, practically falling over each other in laughter. One of them clapped his hands together, howling, “He said it! He went there!”
“Performance, huh?” one of them teased, waggling his eyebrows. “Oh, we definitely need to hear that track next.”
“Guys!” I exclaimed, feeling my face heat up even more. “It’s not like that!”
But Daniel wasn’t about to let me off the hook. “Oh, I dunno,” he said casually, shooting me a cheeky grin. “Depends on who you ask.”
I could feel my blush spreading down to my neck now, but I couldn’t help laughing at how absurd the whole situation had become. The boys were having the time of their lives, and Daniel—well, he was clearly loving every second of my flustered reaction.
“Okay, okay, we’re done,” I said, raising my hands in surrender. “No more duet ideas, no more wild night theories. I think we’ve reached our quota for embarrassing moments today.”
One of the boys, still grinning from ear to ear, nodded sagely. “Alright, we’ll stop... for now.”
Another one, clearly still riding the high of the whole thing, added, “But just know, we’re expecting a wild new album soon. Maybe call it Songs from the Paddock.”
Daniel chuckled, nudging me playfully. “There’s your next hit, love. Courtesy of your biggest fans.”
I rolled my eyes but smiled anyway. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be sure to give you guys credit in the liner notes.”
The boys beamed as if I’d just promised them the world, and as they finally wandered off, still singing their ridiculous makeshift song, I let out a deep breath, glancing at Daniel.
“I can’t believe you,” I said, half-joking, half-serious. “You are way too good at making things awkward.”
He shrugged, grinning. “Hey, if I can make you blush like that, I consider it a win.”
I sighed dramatically, shaking my head. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here you are,” he said, echoing the same words he’d used earlier, with that damn grin still plastered on his face.
“Yeah,” I replied, my voice softening despite myself. “Here I am.”
As we walked back toward the Red Bull garage, the cool breeze picked up, making me shiver slightly. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to ignore it, but Daniel, ever observant, noticed right away.
“You cold, love?” he asked, already shrugging off his jacket before I could protest.
“No, I’m fine—” I started, but he cut me off, draping the jacket over my shoulders with a firm but gentle touch.
“There,” he said, adjusting it around me. “Can’t have you freezing on my watch.”
The jacket was warm and smelled faintly of him—something I couldn’t quite place, but it was comforting. I pulled it tighter around myself, feeling the fabric practically swallow me up. It was way too big, the sleeves hanging well past my hands and the collar brushing against my chin, but I didn’t mind. In fact, I kind of liked it. The way it enveloped me made me feel oddly safe, cocooned in something that was entirely his.
As I adjusted the jacket around my shoulders, I could feel his eyes on me. Not just a casual glance either—he was scanning me, his gaze slowly trailing over how the oversized jacket hugged my frame, his lips curving into a small, knowing smirk. Heat rushed to my face, and I could feel the blush creeping up my neck, spreading to my cheeks. I focused on tugging the sleeves, trying to act unaffected, but the way his eyes lingered left my pulse racing.
“You look good in my colors, you know,” he said, his voice low and teasing, the words sending a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
I blushed harder, feeling like the jacket wasn’t just covering me, but almost amplifying the attention he was giving me. I kept my head down for a second, pretending to fiddle with the zipper, but inside, my heart was doing somersaults.
I pulled the jacket tighter around myself, feeling his gaze still on me. Way too big, I thought. But in that moment, I kind of liked the way it made me feel—small, and maybe, just maybe, like I wasn’t so invisible to him after all.
Before I could say anything, he took my hands in his, rubbing them between his palms to warm them up. “Gotta make sure you’re properly taken care of,” he teased, his voice low and playful. “Can’t have you getting frostbite in front of the whole paddock.”
I laughed awkwardly, but the truth was, his hands felt so warm against mine that I didn’t pull away. Instead, I let him keep rubbing them, the casual intimacy of the gesture making my heart beat a little faster.
And then, out of nowhere, he pulled me into a hug. Tight. His arms wrapped around me as if it were the most natural thing in the world, like he’d done it a thousand times before. My face pressed against his chest, and I could hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath the layers of fabric.
I stiffened at first, aware of all the people milling around us, some of whom were definitely watching. This was the paddock, after all—eyes were always on us. I could feel the stares, the curious glances from the crew members, the fans in the distance, even some of the drivers. But Daniel didn’t seem to care in the slightest.
“Daniel,” I muttered, trying to sound calm but utterly failing as my voice wavered. “Everyone’s watching…”
He chuckled softly, his breath warm against the top of my head. “Let them watch,” he said, his tone light, but with an edge of seriousness. “I don’t mind.”
I pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him. “But I—”
He cut me off with a grin that sent a shiver down my spine, and not from the cold. “You look even cuter when you’re embarrassed, you know that?” he teased, brushing a stray piece of hair away from my face.
I felt my face burn even hotter. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he said softly, leaning in just a little closer, “here we are.”
My heart pounded in my chest, confused by the swirl of emotions coursing through me. Was he serious? Was this just more of his playful flirting, or was there something more behind it?
Before I could untangle the thoughts running through my mind, he closed the gap between us and kissed me.
Sure we had kissed so many times the night prior, but there was something about today's kiss, that was so different. It wasn't rushed. It was gentle. It was sweet.
It was soft at first, almost like he was testing the waters, his lips brushing against mine in a way that made my breath hitch. The world seemed to pause around us, the only thing I could focus on was the feel of him—his warmth, the subtle scent of his skin, the steady pressure of his lips as they moved against mine. His kiss was gentle, like he wasn’t rushing but savoring the moment, allowing me to feel the full weight of it, as if this wasn’t just a casual flirtation.
For a second, my mind raced, shocked at the boldness of it, but my body reacted before my thoughts could catch up. I felt myself relax into him, every ounce of tension I’d been holding onto melting away as he pulled me closer. His hands slid up, warm and confident, until they found the back of my neck, his fingers threading through my hair. He held me gently, but there was a firmness to his grip that made my heart race even faster, grounding me in the moment, making it clear that this was no accident.
The kiss deepened, his lips pressing more firmly against mine now, and I melted—literally melted into him, my body softening as my hands instinctively gripped the front of his jacket, pulling him closer. My mind went blank, thoughts dissolving into the sensation of him, the way he tasted, the slow, deliberate way his mouth moved over mine, coaxing a response from me that I hadn’t even realized I was capable of.
I barely registered the fact that we were still in the middle of the paddock, surrounded by people who were definitely watching. But none of it mattered. The noise, the bustling crowd, the potential whispers—everything faded into the background, like static, as the world narrowed down to just the two of us. All I could focus on was the way his lips felt—warm and commanding, yet somehow soft, his breath mingling with mine in a way that made my head spin.
His body pressed against mine, and I could feel his heartbeat—steady, strong, completely unfazed by the fact that we were very much in public. Meanwhile, mine was racing like I’d just run a marathon, a nervous excitement coursing through me that left me breathless. His hand tightened slightly on the back of my neck, as if he didn’t want to let go, as if he was silently telling me, Stay here, with me, in this moment.
When he finally pulled away, it was gradual, his lips lingering on mine for just a beat longer, as if he wasn’t quite ready to break the connection. His forehead rested gently against mine, our breaths mingling, and I realized I was gasping for air, like I’d forgotten to breathe during the kiss. My heart was pounding so loudly in my ears that I could barely hear the scattered murmurs around us. My mind was spinning, trying to make sense of what had just happened, but nothing seemed to make sense except for him. The feel of him. The warmth still radiating between us.
“You alright there?” he asked, his voice low and teasing, though there was a softness in his eyes that made my stomach flip. His thumb brushed along my cheek, tender and intimate, the gesture sending a ripple of warmth through me. The smug look on his face made it clear that he knew exactly what kind of effect he was having on me.
I blinked, still trying to gather my scattered thoughts. “I… um… what?”
He grinned, clearly amused by my confusion. “I think I made my point,” he said, his voice dropping even lower, like we were sharing some kind of secret that no one else was privy to. His thumb traced a slow, deliberate path along my cheek before he finally stepped back, leaving me standing there, dazed and breathless, still reeling from the kiss.
The world around us started to come back into focus—people passing by, fans in the distance, the low hum of engines in the paddock. I could hear the murmurs, the whispers of those who had witnessed the entire thing. A few curious glances were thrown our way, but Daniel didn’t seem to care. In fact, he looked completely unbothered, as if kissing me in the middle of the paddock was the most natural thing in the world.
He winked at me, his grin still firmly in place as he turned toward the garage, his confidence as unshakable as ever. “You coming, love?” he called over his shoulder, acting like nothing out of the ordinary had just happened, like he hadn’t just completely scrambled my brain with one kiss.
I stood there for a moment, trying to gather my bearings, still feeling the heat from his kiss lingering on my lips, the way his hands had cradled my neck so gently but possessively. My fingers absently brushed against my mouth, still tingling from where his lips had been, and my pulse quickened all over again.
What just happened?
I tried to replay the moment in my head, tried to figure out how something so simple as a kiss had turned my entire world upside down in a matter of seconds. And why, despite the embarrassment of being kissed in front of so many people, did I already want it to happen again?
My heart was still pounding as I looked up to see Daniel waiting for me, hands casually tucked in his pockets, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. He raised an eyebrow as if daring me to make the next move.
I swallowed hard, my thoughts still jumbled, but there was one thing I knew for sure: this day had just taken a turn I never saw coming.
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
taglist:
@gyarubunny
author's note:
comment to be added to the taglist! i'll probably update after a few more fics about NEW DRIVERS (wow!)
A Cowgirl's Stars, Stripes, and Speed (!black-!cowgirl-!singer x dr3) (C1)
synopsis: in which case y/n, a bold African American country singer, crosses paths with Daniel, a charming Australian Formula 1 driver, both tipsy and unwound by the night.
author's note: i desperately had to write a daniel ff, because a) the austin grand prix is nearing and b) i'm terribly sad about his sudden departure. daniel, we all love you so much and wish the best for you! remember to #fea (f' 'em all) <3
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
Austin, Texas had nothing on me.
The dingy little bar — well, to me it was dingy because it was the family bar — was dimly lit, with neon signs casting a faint, almost ghostly glow across the weathered wooden walls. The low hum of chatter mixed with the clink of glasses, and even though it was nearing midnight, the place had only gotten busier. Crowds swayed to the twang of a fiddle in the background, boots stomping across the sticky floor. Outside, the summer heat still clung to the air, making the inside feel close and hazy, like the walls were holding in the laughter and stories of the night.
I’d played more shows here than I could count, my boots leaving their mark on the same stage where my granddaddy used to strum his guitar. Most nights felt predictable, but this one felt different, like the air was charged with something I couldn’t put my finger on.
I wasn’t much for Formula 1 — Texas rodeos and horse racing were more my speed — but I knew every year when the race came through Austin, our little bar saw a wave of tourists eager for a taste of country. And tonight, as I leaned against the bar nursing my bourbon, the buzz of unfamiliar accents swirled around me, a reminder that the city had filled up with people from all over the world, looking for thrills in the dust and heat of Texas.
"Y/N, baby, why don’t you get up there and play a few songs?" my mom said, wiping her hands on a towel as she leaned over the bar. Her voice was soft, but that familiar nudge was behind it — the kind that never really left room for much argument.
I hesitated, swirling the last bit of bourbon in my glass. “I don’t know, Mama... it’s packed tonight,” I replied, glancing around at the sea of faces — mostly tourists, loud and unfamiliar. “Besides, they’re not here for me. Just here for a taste of Texas, right? A rodeo queen, not a country girl with a guitar.”
Mama raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “You’ve got more than a taste of Texas in you. Those folks would be lucky to hear what you can do. You know that.”
I sighed, feeling the weight of her words settle in. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to play — hell, I’d been singing since I could talk and playing guitar since I was old enough to hold one. But growing up Black in a part of Texas where faces like ours weren’t the norm? That always added a little extra pressure.
Even though our family had earned our place here, built up the bar and our name through years of hard work and music passed down through generations, it never really felt like the eyes watching me were just listening to the music. They were measuring us.
But over the years, we’d carved out a space for ourselves. This bar wasn’t just another honky-tonk; it was ours, The Dusty Rose, and people knew us for more than the color of our skin. Mama’s voice, my granddaddy’s songs, and the family’s grit had earned us some respect in this town. Enough that people came back, year after year, to hear us sing, drink our whiskey, and pretend for a while that we were all part of the same big Texas story.
Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight, with so many new faces and voices in the crowd, I wasn’t sure I had the courage to step up. I glanced down at my guitar leaning against the wall, its strings worn and familiar, waiting for me like it always did.
Mama’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Y/N, you’ve got the talent and the heart. Don’t let anyone else tell you different. You’re gonna get up there and remind them why they keep coming back.”
I wanted to believe her, I really did. But I wasn’t sure if tonight was the night to take on the weight of all those eyes.
I took a deep breath, running my fingers along the worn edge of my glass before setting it down with a soft clink. “Alright, Mama,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “Guess it’s time to remind these folks why The Dusty Rose has lasted this long.”
Mama smiled, that proud, knowing smile she always gave me. I stood up, the familiar click of my cowboy boots echoing on the wooden floor, a steady rhythm that matched my heartbeat. Without another word, I slung my guitar over my shoulder, the weight of it settling comfortably against my back, like an old friend. The crowd was a blur of faces as I walked toward the stage, my pulse steadying with every step.
As I stepped up, I saw Orville already seated behind his drum kit, twirling a stick between his fingers with that lazy confidence of his. His bright blonde hair stuck out in every direction, his face splashed with freckles that made him look like a mischievous kid, though he was older than me by a good ten years. He looked up, grinning wide. “Well, I’ll be damned, look who’s finally decided to grace us with her presence. You plannin’ on singin’ or just standin’ there lookin’ pretty, Y/N?” he teased, tapping his snare for effect.
“Could do both, Orville,” I shot back, my nerves melting a little under the familiar banter.
To the right of him, Clyde was leaning over the keys, his cowboy hat tipped low over his brow. With a name like Clyde and a deep Southern drawl that stretched out his words for days, he was about as country as they came. He looked up at me with a slow nod. “Ain’t no time like midnight for a little serenadin’, huh?” he drawled, cracking a toothy grin. “Folks gonna think you’re singin’ ‘em to bed.”
Then there was Gus, seated on the stool, strumming a lazy rhythm on the bass. He had a scruffy beard, worn jeans, and the kind of build that said he spent just as much time on a ranch as he did on stage. Gus tilted his head and gave me a half-smile. “Late night’s when the magic happens, darlin’. ‘Sides, these tourists don’t know country music 'til they hear it this time of night.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. The boys had been with me long enough to know my patterns, and teasing me for wanting to sing so late was their way of easing my nerves. We’d known each other since grade school — back when Orville was the kid who drummed on lunch tables, Clyde would belt out country tunes during recess, and Gus would pluck at strings made of rubber bands, pretending he had a bass in his hands. Now that we were twenty-two, somehow, we still hadn’t split up. Through all the ups and downs, we stuck together, always finding our way back to this stage.
“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered, strumming a few soft chords to tune my guitar, “you all just wait. We’re about to remind this bar why they keep coming back.”
Orville gave his drums a little roll, Clyde’s fingers hovered over the keys, and Gus plucked the bass with a steady beat, all of them waiting on me to start. It was like second nature, this rhythm we shared, a connection built over years of shared songs and late-night jams.
I took one more deep breath, feeling the energy of the room shift toward the stage, my nerves steadying under the soft glow of the spotlight. Time to show them what The Dusty Rose was really about — and remind myself why we never gave up on this.
I stomped my boots on the worn wooden floor, the solid thud cutting through the clamor of the bar. A few heads turned first, followed by more, until the low murmur of voices quieted down after a couple of cheerful whistles and claps from the regulars.
I stepped up to the mic, adjusting the strap of my guitar on my shoulder. “Hey y’all,” I started, my voice carrying over the room. “For those who don’t know me, I’m Y/N. I’m a small singer-songwriter, born and raised right here in Austin.”
Before I could say another word, Gus chuckled from his spot behind me. “Small, my ass. She’s an enigma, and she’s selling herself short, y’all!”
The room rumbled with a few laughs, and I felt the heat rush to my cheeks as I blushed, turning around to swat him gently on the shoulder. “Gus, you’re lucky I don’t throw my boot at you,” I teased, shaking my head before turning back to the crowd.
“Alright, alright, don’t listen to him,” I said with a smile. “I wanted to play a song tonight that’s a little personal. One I wrote not too long ago... when I found my boyfriend — who, funny enough, was also in the band — cheating on me with my best friend, who used to sing backup vocals.”
A few sympathetic murmurs rose from the crowd, and I could see people shift in their seats, intrigued. “Yeah, it was a mess,” I continued, smiling despite the sting of the memory. “Johnny and Carrie — yeah, those are their real names, y’all — are long gone now. They didn’t just break my heart, they broke the band up too.”
I glanced at Orville, Clyde, and Gus, the ones who’d stuck around. We’d been through hell and back, but we never let anyone tear us down. “But we bounced back. And so did I,” I added with a grin. “This song’s about all that, and how you pick yourself up when the people you trust let you down.”
The room was still, eyes fixed on me as I raised my guitar, fingers poised over the strings. “So, here’s one I like to call Blue.” I stomped my boots once more, giving the boys the cue to kick in. The first slow, mournful chords filled the air, and as I started to sing, the bar held its breath, waiting for the heartache in my voice to tell the rest of the story.
I took a deep breath and let the first notes roll off my tongue, the familiar melody filling the room as my fingers danced across the strings.
"Blue, oh, so lonesome for you
Why can't you be blue over me..."
My voice lingered in the air, soft yet steady, as the boys followed in perfect harmony. The crowd had settled into the mood, quiet and still, as if they, too, were feeling the heartache threaded through the lyrics.
"Tears fill my eyes 'til I can't see
Three o'clock in the mornin'
Here am I, sittin' all alone..."
As I poured myself into the song, my gaze drifted across the room, and that’s when I spotted him. A ruggedly handsome man leaning against the far corner of the bar, his stubble-covered jaw catching the dim light just right, giving him an air of mystery. He had a full head of curls peeking out from under a cowboy hat that didn’t quite fit the way a Texan’s would. He might have been trying to blend in, but it was obvious he wasn’t from around here.
The way he carried himself — that casual yet calculated way of sitting, like he was at ease but somehow apart from it all — made me wonder who the hell he was. Something about him tugged at my attention, even as I sang the words that had been pulling at my heart for months.
"Now that it's over
I realize
Those weak words you whispered
Were nothing but lies..."
My fingers faltered for the briefest second, but I recovered quickly, shaking off the distraction and forcing myself back into the song. Whoever he was, I wasn’t about to let some handsome stranger throw me off my game. Not tonight.
I kept going, but the thought of him lingered at the back of my mind, the heat of his presence warming the room just a little more than it had been before.
The gentle rhythm of Gus’s bass hummed through the room, a steady heartbeat that matched the soulful sway of the song. Each note he plucked seemed to cradle the sadness in my voice, grounding it in something deeper, something raw. Clyde’s fingers danced over the keys, soft and mournful, adding a kind of sweetness to the pain, like the last lingering memory of something you loved but had to let go. Orville’s light taps on the drums gave the song its slow, steady pulse, holding everything together in a rhythm that felt like the ticking of time, dragging me back through memories I’d rather forget.
"Blue, oh, so lonesome for you
Why can't you be blue over me..."
The melody wrapped itself around the room, and I could feel the audience sinking into the sadness with me, the song casting a spell over the bar. I was in the zone, letting the music take over, but that rugged stranger in the corner was like a stubborn note I couldn’t shake. His presence tugged at me, even with the sweet sorrow of the keys flowing through the air. He wasn’t watching me like the others; he was studying me, eyes dark under the brim of that cowboy hat that didn’t quite belong.
As my voice rose for the next line, I couldn’t help but glance his way again. His stubbled jaw was clenched like he was thinking hard about something, but there was a glint of something else — maybe curiosity — in his eyes. It unnerved me and fascinated me all at once, the way he didn’t quite fit in, even though he was trying to. And those curls, barely contained by the hat, told me he wasn’t used to this kind of scene. Not here, not in Texas. Not in my bar.
"Now that it’s over
I realize
Those weak words you whispered
Were nothing but lies..."
The bass thudded low, pulling me back into the music. Gus knew just when to make it heavy, the vibrations running through my chest like the ache of an old wound. The keys lifted the sorrow just enough to make it bearable, Clyde’s touch delicate but deliberate. Together, we made the heartache sound beautiful.
But no matter how much I tried to drown myself in the song, I kept catching glimpses of him. The stranger, leaning back casually, his body language saying he was here for the ride, but his eyes telling me there was more to him than that easy posture.
The lyrics fell from my lips, but my mind kept wandering to the question burning in the back of my head: Who was he?
As the final chords of the song rang out, the bar was quiet for a moment, letting the last notes settle before a soft wave of applause rippled through the crowd. I smiled, feeling a strange mix of relief and adrenaline, my heart still thudding in my chest. The boys gave me a few approving nods — Clyde even tipped his hat — and I turned back to the mic, clearing my throat.
“Well, uh, that was a little somethin’ I wrote not too long ago,” I said, feeling the warmth of the stage lights on my face. “If y’all liked it — or if you’re just in the mood to be sad for a bit — it’s out on Spotify, Apple Music, SoundCloud, or whatever platform folks are using these days,” I added with a grin. “I promise, I’ve got some happier stuff too. Probably should’ve started the night off with one of those, huh?”
A few chuckles broke out from the crowd, but one laugh stood out — low and warm, rolling through the room like a wave that hit me square in the chest. It wasn’t like the others. It had weight, something that settled in my stomach and made it twist in a way I wasn’t used to. Almost instinctively, I looked toward the sound, and there he was — the stranger in the corner. His cowboy hat was still tipped low, hiding just enough of his face to make him even more intriguing, but it was the way his eyes locked on mine that made me freeze.
His grin was lazy, like he had all the time in the world, and there was something about the ease of it that made my heart skip a beat. In the soft glow of the bar, it felt like the entire place faded into the background. For a split second, there was nothing but me and him, his gaze holding mine with an intensity I hadn’t expected. It wasn’t just that he was watching me; it was like he saw me, past the stage, past the song, and right into that vulnerable place I tried so hard to guard.
And then, just like that, I became a complete mess. Heat rushed to my face, my skin prickling under the spotlight, and I felt my grip on my guitar falter. “Uh, yeah… so, anyway... that’s me,” I stammered, my voice coming out shaky, the words tumbling over each other as I tried to make a coherent sentence. I could feel the blush creeping up my neck, no matter how hard I willed it to stop, and I quickly looked away, trying to regain some semblance of composure.
But it was too late. The boys behind me noticed — of course they did. I could practically feel Gus grinning at my awkwardness, and Clyde was trying to suppress a chuckle. Orville tapped out a light rhythm on the edge of his drum, clearly enjoying my flustered state. I fumbled with the strap of my guitar, my hands suddenly too shaky to be of any use, my mind still stuck on the way that stranger had looked at me.
I’d performed hundreds of times, faced crowds far bigger than this one, but something about that single moment — that one look from him — had knocked me off balance. My pulse was still racing, and the heat in my cheeks refused to fade. He was just a man, I reminded myself, a guy sitting in the corner of a bar. But it didn’t feel that simple. It felt like he’d peeled back a layer of me in that one glance, leaving me bare under his eyes.
And as I fumbled my way off the stage, trying to get my act together, one thought kept running through my mind: Who the hell is this guy, and why is he making me feel like this?
I cleared my throat and leaned back into the mic with a grin, letting go of the last song’s weight. “Alright, y’all,” I started, flashing a playful smile, “that last one was for all the folks who like to sit and think about their exes at 2 AM — you know who you are,” I added, getting a few chuckles from the crowd.
“But this next one? It’s a little different. We’re gonna turn things up a notch. It’s got a bit of rock in it, so feel free to sing, cry, scream, yell—whatever your heart needs. And if you wanna dance, well, don’t hold back. Just don’t blame me if you’re out of breath by the end!”
The crowd laughed, and I winked. “This one’s called Indifferent, but don’t let the name fool you—it’s anything but.”
I strummed the first few chords, letting the energy shift in the room, and the boys picked up right behind me, Orville giving the drums a little more punch, Clyde leaning into the keys with a rock edge, and Gus keeping the rhythm solid with his bass. I was about to really get into the groove when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him.
The stranger — cowboy hat and all — stood up from his seat, shaking his curls free as he made his way toward a group of people who had started to sway with the beat. And then he started dancing. And I mean really dancing, not just swaying but full-on, carefree moves, like he didn’t give a damn who was watching.
I couldn’t help it — a laugh bubbled up from my chest, and I almost missed a chord as I watched him. He was good, I had to give him that, but there was something about the way he moved that told me he was trying to get my attention. The way he’d glance over every so often, like he wanted to see if I was watching — and yeah, I was watching.
The more he danced, the more I giggled, barely keeping my voice steady as I kept singing. His cowboy hat bobbed up and down as he spun around, clapping along with the beat, and I could tell he was putting on a show, just for me. My eyes met his again, and he shot me a grin, all cocky and playful, making my heart skip a beat.
I shook my head, trying to focus on the song, but the sight of him — carefree, handsome, and definitely showing off — made it hard to keep my cool. My voice caught just a little as I sang the next line, and I could feel my face heating up again, but this time, I was more amused than flustered.
Oh, he’s trying to impress me, I thought with a smirk. And I couldn’t lie, it was kinda working.
I leaned into the mic, my voice steady as I sang the next line, feeling the shift in energy from the crowd.
"I see your truck and I don't give a—"
Before I could even finish, the crowd roared in unison, screaming out the word I didn’t have to sing. “FUCK!” Their voices echoed off the walls, a mix of laughter and rebellion, and I grinned wide.
But the loudest voice? That came from him.
“FUCK!” he yelled, right along with the crowd, his grin even wider now as he danced like no one was watching — except everyone was. His cowboy hat tipped back as he threw his arms up, and I swear, he looked like he was having the time of his life.
I couldn’t help it — I laughed, nearly missing the next line as I watched him throw himself into the moment. My cheeks were starting to hurt from smiling so hard, but I kept going, feeding off the energy around me.
"And it don't make my heart skip a beat," I sang, almost giggling through the words, but his eyes were on me again, catching mine as he clapped along with the beat. His dancing had turned into full-on jumping now, and I could see a few others joining in, all feeding off his wild, carefree energy. He was having a blast, and even though I was up on stage, I felt like I was right there with him, swept up in the fun.
I saw him glance at me again, this time with a playful wink, like he knew exactly what he was doing. My heart did that weird little flip again, and I almost tripped over the next verse, the heat creeping up my face once more.
He’s definitely showing off now, I thought, trying to keep my focus on the music. But I couldn’t stop the giggle that escaped as I strummed through the chorus. His dance moves might’ve been reckless, but they were working. The crowd was loving him, and so, apparently, was I.
I sang the next line, my voice steady but my heart racing a little faster as his grin widened, his eyes locked on mine. I wasn’t sure what got into me, maybe it was the way he looked so carefree, so unbothered by the world around him, or maybe it was just the thrill of the moment — but before I could stop myself, I tilted my head toward the stage, beckoning him with a playful nod.
He raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised, but that grin of his never wavered. The crowd cheered him on as he took a few exaggerated, swaggering steps toward the stage, his cowboy hat tipped back and curls bouncing with every step. I laughed, my own confidence rising, and held out my hand as he made his way up.
He took it, and in an instant, we were standing side by side, the crowd going wild as we started to sway together in time with the music. His hand found its way to the small of my back, and I could feel the warmth of it even through my shirt.
The moment felt... electric.
We kept swaying, his towering frame almost comical next to mine, but somehow it worked. His eyes never left mine, and for a split second, it felt like we were the only two people in the room. The music kept going, but everything else seemed to blur into the background. I could see the playful glint in his eyes, the way he seemed to be daring me to look away — but I didn’t.
He leaned down just a bit, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath as he spoke, his voice low and teasing. “Not bad for a country girl,” he said with a wink.
I giggled, blushing like a schoolgirl as I tried to keep my cool. “Not bad for a guy who’s clearly not from around here,” I shot back, but my voice wavered just a little, betraying how much his presence was throwing me off.
We kept swaying, our bodies moving in perfect rhythm, the lights catching the gleam in his eyes as we held each other's gaze. He towered over me, but I didn’t feel small — not with him, not in this moment. It felt like the rest of the world had faded away, and all that was left was the two of us, swaying together under the soft glow of the stage lights.
I took a deep breath, trying to refocus as the music carried me back into the song, but it wasn’t easy. His presence behind me was impossible to ignore, like he was right there, even though we weren’t touching anymore. My skin tingled with awareness, and I could feel the heat rising to my neck, warming me from the inside out. We were both tipsy, the drinks and the night making everything feel a little looser, a little more charged. But the way he was standing so close—his warmth practically wrapping around me—made it harder to concentrate.
"I'm indifferent, I'm just livin'
When your mama calls, I'm reminded you exist
And I wish that she didn't
'Cause all my 'give-a-damns', they've already been given..."
My voice stayed steady, but I could feel my heart thudding faster with every word. The crowd was clapping along, some of them singing the lyrics back to me, but all I could think about was him. I knew he was still behind me, standing tall, his presence so strong I could almost feel it on my skin.
As I sang, my breath caught just a little when I felt him shift closer, the slightest brush of his arm near my shoulder. It was nothing, really, just a subtle movement, but it sent a rush of heat up the back of my neck, making my pulse race. My voice wavered for just a second, and I bit my lip, hoping no one noticed how distracted I was.
But I knew he did. I could feel his gaze on me, even though I couldn’t see him.
I played a few more songs, each one building on the last, the energy in the room rising with every note. The crowd was alive now, swaying, clapping, and singing along. I felt a rush of adrenaline pumping through me, the nerves from earlier completely gone, replaced by this wild confidence I hadn’t felt in a long time. The music was in my veins, lifting me up, and for the first time all night, I felt completely at ease on stage.
But even with the thrill of the crowd, my thoughts kept drifting back to him. I could feel his presence in the room, like a constant hum just below the surface, and every time I caught a glimpse of his curls or that easy grin from across the bar, my pulse quickened.
As the final chord of my last song rang out, I stepped away from the mic, feeling a surge of applause wash over me. I grinned, tipping my hat to the crowd, but my eyes were searching for him. And then, there he was, standing near the bar, his gaze locked on mine. The cheers of the crowd faded into the background, everything else becoming a blur as I zeroed in on him.
Before I could even believe it, my feet started moving. It was like my body had a mind of its own, dragging me toward him before my brain could even catch up. Each step felt like I was crossing some invisible line, the adrenaline still coursing through me, making me feel bold, invincible.
I wasn’t thinking about anything else but the way his eyes held mine, steady and sure, as I made my way across the room. It was like gravity was pulling me toward him, and I wasn’t about to fight it. Before I knew it, I was standing right in front of him, close enough to catch the faint scent of cologne and the hint of whiskey on his breath.
My heart pounded in my chest, and I could feel the heat rising to my face again, but I wasn’t about to turn back. Not now. He gave me that same lazy grin, tipping his hat just slightly as his eyes twinkled with amusement, like he knew exactly what I was feeling.
I opened my mouth to say something — anything — but the words got stuck somewhere between my head and my heart. All I knew was that I wasn’t leaving this bar without knowing who the hell this guy was.
He looked down at me, that lazy grin spreading wider as he tipped his hat back just a bit, giving me a full view of those mischievous eyes. “Well, if I knew your singing was that good, I would’ve pretended to break my heart a long time ago,” he said, his voice low and teasing, with just a hint of an accent that wasn’t from around here.
I blinked, caught completely off guard, and then burst into a laugh I hadn’t expected. “You’re gonna have to try a lot harder than that to get a song out of me,” I shot back, still feeling the heat in my cheeks but trying to keep my cool.
He chuckled, leaning in just a little, close enough that I could feel the warmth coming off him. “Lucky for you, I’m not lookin’ to break any hearts tonight — just thought I’d make an impression.”
My heart skipped a beat as our eyes met again, and before I could help it, I smiled. “I’d say you’re doing a pretty good job of that,” I muttered, trying not to trip over my own words.
He straightened up, giving me a playful wink. “Well, I aim to please, darlin’.”
I raised an eyebrow, feeling bolder than I had all night, and shot him a smirk. “You look like you love me,” I teased, the words slipping out with more confidence than I thought I had. The line from that song was on the tip of my tongue, and it felt just right for the moment.
His grin widened, and for a split second, he looked like I’d caught him off guard. But then he leaned in just a little, his voice low and smooth. “Well, maybe I do,” he said, the teasing tone still there but with just enough seriousness to make my heart skip.
I swallowed hard, my pulse racing as I met his gaze, my smirk fading into something softer. “Careful,” I replied, my voice quieter now, “you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”
He chuckled, that lazy grin still in place. “Maybe I like the sound of that.”
I tilted my head, narrowing my eyes at him with a playful smirk. “I saw you lookin’ me up and down from across the room,” I teased, raising an eyebrow. “You weren’t exactly being subtle.”
He chuckled, his eyes twinkling as he leaned a little closer, clearly enjoying the banter. “Subtle’s never been my strong suit,” he shot back, his voice low and smooth. “But hey, can you blame me? You were up there making it pretty hard not to look.”
I bit my lip, fighting back a laugh as I shook my head. “You got a lot of nerve saying that out loud, you know.”
He shrugged, the grin never leaving his face. “Just calling it like I see it. You’re the one who beckoned me up here, remember?”
I rolled my eyes, trying to keep my composure, but I could feel the heat in my cheeks again. “Yeah, well, I guess I’m not subtle either.”
He tilted his head, giving me that same cocky grin. “No complaints here, darlin’.”
I laughed, shaking my head at his audacity. “Alright, mystery man, you’ve been charming me for the last few minutes, but you haven’t even told me your name yet.”
He leaned back slightly, tipping his hat with a playful glint in his eyes. “Name’s Daniel,” he said, his accent wrapping around the words just right. “And you, miss, have definitely made this night a lot more interesting.”
“Well, Daniel,” I replied, giving him a once-over just like he had done to me earlier, “I think the feeling’s mutual.”
I raised an eyebrow, still grinning as I asked, “So, where’s that accent of yours from? I know it ain’t local.”
He chuckled, the sound low and warm, before answering, “Perth. Australia.”
I blinked, genuinely surprised. “Australia, huh? Never been there before.” I paused, letting the words hang in the air for a moment. “Heard it’s nice, though. Beaches and all that.”
Daniel nodded, his grin widening a bit. “Yeah, we’ve got the beaches. But it’s more than just that. You should visit sometime, I’d make a pretty good tour guide.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “Oh, I bet you would,” I said, trying to imagine what it would be like to visit a place so far from Texas. “Sounds like a whole world away from here.”
“It is,” he admitted, his eyes locking on mine again. “But I reckon you’d fit in just fine.”
I tilted my head, feeling a smirk pull at the corner of my lips. “Oh, you think so? I’m not exactly the ‘surf and sand’ kind of girl. I’m more boots and dirt roads.”
Daniel chuckled, his gaze still holding mine, like he was seeing straight through the sass and into something deeper. “I dunno, I think you could rock the Aussie lifestyle. Maybe even swap those boots for some thongs,” he teased, leaning in just enough to close the space between us a little more.
I blinked, the word catching me off guard, and then burst into laughter. “What the fuck are thongs?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “You Aussies have some weird ideas about footwear.”
Daniel paused for a second, then laughed, realizing his mistake. “Oh, right... over here, thongs are something else entirely,” he said, his grin turning a little mischievous. “In Australia, they’re just flip-flops. But I like where your mind went.”
I felt my face flush, a mix of the whiskey and the sudden innuendo hitting me all at once. “Well, maybe you should clarify next time,” I shot back, trying to sound confident despite the warmth creeping up my neck. “I was starting to think you had some very bold ideas for this first conversation.”
He smirked, leaning in just a little closer. “Trust me, if I wanted to make a bold suggestion, I wouldn’t be talking about footwear.” His voice dropped low, teasing, as he let the words hang between us.
My heart skipped a beat, and I fought the urge to stammer. “Well, good to know,” I managed to reply, my voice quieter now, my gaze locked on his. “But for the record, boots are staying. Thongs or no thongs.”
He chuckled, the laughter low and warm, and I could feel the space between us shrink even more. “Noted,” he said, his eyes twinkling with that same playful spark. “But if you ever change your mind, I’ll be here to help you pick the right pair.”
I smirked, shaking my head, but before I could respond, he tilted his head, still grinning like he had a whole world of charm left to unleash.
“Well, if I can make it out here to a bar in Texas, maybe one day you could try Australia. I’d personally make sure it’s worth your while.”
I raised an eyebrow, amused by his confidence. “Big promises, Daniel from Perth. You must think pretty highly of your tour guide skills.”
He shrugged, a playful glint still in his eyes. “Just sayin’, you might find there’s more to life than boots and honky-tonks. Besides,” he added, his voice lowering slightly, “I’d make sure you’d never forget it.”
My heart skipped a beat, his words sending a rush of warmth through me. I could feel the heat creeping up my neck again, but I wasn’t about to back down. “Careful now,” I replied, my voice soft but steady, “I’m not so easily impressed.”
Daniel grinned, tipping his hat slightly as he leaned back. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to work a little harder then, won’t I?”
I grinned at him, crossing my arms as I leaned against the bar. “You’ve got a lot of confidence, Daniel from Perth. But I’ve been around enough smooth talkers to know when someone’s bluffing.”
He raised an eyebrow, leaning in just enough to keep the playful tension in the air. “Bluffing? I don’t bluff. Just telling it like it is.” He motioned to the bartender. “Let me prove it to you. First round’s on me.”
I laughed, shaking my head but not protesting as the bartender slid two drinks our way. “Fine, I’ll bite,” I said, taking the glass. “But I’ll have you know, Texans can hold their liquor, and I’m not easy to out-drink.”
Daniel’s grin only widened. “Oh, I’ve got my work cut out for me, then. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
We clinked our glasses together, and before I knew it, the drinks were flowing just as easily as the conversation. Time seemed to blur, the crowd around us fading into the background as we swapped stories and traded teasing remarks. My guitar, once my only focus of the night, now sat forgotten against a pole near the bar, its case propped up and covered with old stickers and layers of chipped paint from the years of wear. But I didn’t care.
“Okay, I have to ask,” I said, my words slightly slurred from the whiskey but still full of curiosity. “How does a guy from Australia end up here, of all places? Texas isn’t exactly next door.”
He took a long sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving mine. “Racing,” he replied simply, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “I travel a lot for it. Came for the Austin Grand Prix. Thought I’d stop by a local bar, get a feel for the place. Lucky me, huh?”
I felt the warmth from the drinks spreading through me, loosening me up even more. “Racing, huh? So, what, you’re like a big-time driver?” I teased, nudging him with my elbow.
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Something like that. But tonight, I’m just a guy trying to keep up with a Texas girl who’s got a pretty good whiskey tolerance.”
I grinned, feeling the heat in my cheeks and not just from the alcohol. “Well, you’re doing alright so far. But don’t think a few drinks and a smile are gonna get you off the hook that easy.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Daniel said, his voice low and smooth, sending a shiver down my spine. His eyes held mine for a moment longer than I expected, and I could feel my heart race a little faster.
We laughed together, leaning in closer, drinks in hand, the weight of the night slipping away. The bar around us blurred into the background, as if it didn’t matter anymore — just the two of us, the warmth of his touch, the easy rhythm of our conversation, as natural as the music I’d been playing hours ago. Our hands brushed more often, his arm finding its way around my shoulder, his fingers trailing down my back in moments that felt casual but were charged with something more.
Before I knew it, we were touching more than talking — my hand resting on his arm, his thumb grazing the small of my back. The buzz of the alcohol had me feeling light, and every time his fingertips lingered a little longer, a blush crept up my neck. I could feel the heat of his breath as he leaned closer to whisper something that had us both giggling again.
The next thing I knew, we were stumbling out of the bar, calling an Uber, the cool night air doing nothing to shake the warmth between us. The ride was a blur of drunken laughter, our legs pressing against each other as his arm wrapped snugly around my waist. The city lights flew by in a haze, but all I could focus on was the way his touch made my heart race. His grip on me tightened, pulling me closer, and I was too drunk and too tipsy to even pretend not to blush.
Then, suddenly, we were back at his hotel room. The door clicked shut behind us, and we both broke into a fit of giggles, stumbling inside like we were sneaking in after curfew. His arm never left my waist, and I couldn’t stop the butterflies in my stomach as he pulled me against him, the warmth of his body sending a shiver down my spine.
“Shhh,” I whispered between giggles, trying to stifle the sound, but it was impossible when he looked at me with that boyish grin, like he was having the time of his life.
“Quiet was never my strong suit,” he whispered back, his lips brushing against my ear as he spoke, sending another wave of heat through me. I blushed even harder, barely able to keep my composure as he pressed his forehead against mine, his hand resting on my hip like he never wanted to let go.
I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, every inch of me aware of his body so close, his touch gentle but firm, like he was holding back just enough. His breath was warm against my skin, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along my side, and the more he touched me, the more I felt my resolve slipping.
I let out a soft, nervous laugh, trying to shake off the tension building between us, but it only made him grin wider. “You’re really bad at this whole ‘quiet’ thing,” I teased, my voice barely above a whisper as my hand slid up to rest against his chest. I could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat under my palm, and the closeness of it all made my own pulse race.
He chuckled softly, his hand tightening just slightly on my hip. “Yeah, well, it’s hard to stay quiet when I’m this close to you,” he murmured, his voice low and full of something deeper than just the alcohol. His eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, everything else fell away. It was just us, standing there, barely holding it together in the haze of the night.
Before I could think about it, I found myself leaning in, my breath catching as his lips brushed against mine, soft and teasing. It wasn’t a full kiss — just the faintest touch — but it sent a jolt through me that made my knees weak. I blushed again, harder this time, but I didn’t pull away. Neither did he.
Instead, he smiled against my lips, his hand sliding up from my hip to gently cup my face, his thumb brushing across my cheek. “You’re blushing again,” he whispered, and I could hear the teasing note in his voice.
“Shut up,” I mumbled, but there was no hiding the heat in my cheeks or the way I was leaning into him, my body betraying how much I wanted to be close.
We started kissing, and the night blurred together, in a mess of liquor, sticky kisses, and well what do you know, my guitar lay upright against a chair, watching the entire thing.
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
I didn’t know where the fuck I was.
I blinked, staring up at a ceiling that definitely wasn’t mine, with sheets that smelled way too expensive for my budget. My head was pounding like I’d been hit by a freight train, and as I tried to roll over, something — no, someone — stopped me.
That’s when I felt it.
An arm. A very muscular arm. Draped over me like we were starring in a rom-com, except I definitely didn’t remember signing up for this role.
I squinted around the room, trying to piece together the disaster that was my life. My shirt was flung haphazardly across a chair, my boots were tipped over near the door, and... was that his cowboy hat sitting on the dresser? Oh god.
Oh god, no.
And then it all came rushing back — the whiskey, the dancing, the flirting, the thongs conversation. And then, as if on cue, the faint sound of an alarm started buzzing on his phone, because apparently this guy sets alarms like a responsible adult after a night of drunken debauchery.
“Well, shit,” I muttered under my breath.
I lay there, trying to pretend I was still asleep, or dead, or invisible—any of which would be preferable to dealing with the fact that I had absolutely no idea what to do next. Daniel’s arm was still heavy around my waist, his slow, steady breathing telling me he hadn’t woken up yet.
Okay, Y/N, just stay calm. Maybe he won’t even remember… Or maybe you can just ninja your way out of this without waking him up.
I carefully, carefully shifted my leg, inching toward freedom, but the moment I tried to move, Daniel stirred. His arm tightened around me slightly, and I froze, heart pounding in my chest like it was trying to break free and escape the situation without me.
Please don’t wake up. Please just keep dreaming about kangaroos or whatever it is Australians dream about...
But then I felt him shift again. This time, he let out a low, sleepy groan. Oh god. He was waking up. I could feel the warmth of his breath against the back of my neck, and my entire body went stiff, like maybe if I played dead, he’d just go back to sleep.
But nope.
I heard him take a deep breath, and then his groggy voice cut through the awkward silence. “Morning, darlin’.”
Shit.
His voice was raspy, deep, and far too casual for someone who had a front-row seat to my current state of oh-my-god-what-have-I-done. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the ground to just swallow me whole, but apparently, the universe didn’t grant those kinds of wishes.
I cleared my throat, still trying to stay as still as possible, like maybe if I didn’t move or respond, this entire moment would cease to exist. “Uh… morning,” I finally muttered, my voice betraying me with a nervous crack.
I could feel him shift behind me, and then — to my absolute horror — he pulled me in closer, his arm still firmly wrapped around my waist. Great. Now I’m spooning a guy I barely know, and I don’t even have a shirt on. What a stellar life choice, Y/N.
“So… how’re you feelin’?” he asked, his voice low and way too smooth for a guy who probably didn’t have a hangover.
How am I feeling? Like I’ve just woken up in a rom-com, except the comedy is my life falling apart, I thought, but instead, I just blurted, “Fine. Totally fine.”
My face was heating up again. I was like a human tomato at this point. I could feel him smiling behind me, like he was enjoying the fact that I was internally combusting.
“You don’t sound fine,” he teased, his voice dipping into that playful tone that I was beginning to realize was very dangerous for me.
I finally turned my head just enough to catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye. He had that messy bedhead look going on — the kind that shouldn’t be attractive but somehow was, and that damn lazy grin hadn’t left his face.
“Listen,” I said, trying to inject some semblance of control into my voice, “we’re just gonna pretend like none of this happened, okay?”
He chuckled, the sound low and rumbling, sending a shiver down my spine. “You mean the part where you dragged me back to my room, or the part where you kept giggling every time I tried to be quiet?”
My eyes widened. “I did not drag you back here!”
“Yeah, I think the Uber driver might disagree with that,” he replied, his grin widening.
I groaned, pulling the blanket over my head. “I cannot believe this is happening.”
“You and me both, darlin’,” he said, chuckling again as he gave my waist a playful squeeze. “But I gotta say, I’m not exactly complaining’.”
I let out a nervous laugh from under the blanket, but inside, I was mortified. I wasn’t the type to have one-night stands—like, ever. The last time I had one was three years ago, before Johnny and I started dating. And even then, I’d sworn it off because of how awkward and weird the whole thing felt afterward.
And the last time I’d had sex? Six months ago. Six. I wasn’t even sure how I managed last night, let alone with someone as confident and charming as Daniel. I didn’t do this. I wasn’t that girl who woke up in a stranger’s bed with her shirt somewhere across the room and no memory of how she got there.
I peeked out from under the blanket, feeling my face burning hotter by the second. “I just… I don’t do this. Like, ever.”
Daniel propped himself up on one elbow, still grinning like this was the most entertaining morning he’d had in a while. “Really?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Could’ve fooled me. You seemed like a pro last night.”
My eyes widened in horror. “Oh my god, don’t say that,” I groaned, burying my face back into the pillow. “This is so embarrassing.”
He laughed, his voice softening just a little. “Hey, no need to be embarrassed. We were both tipsy, had a good time, and now we’re just... waking up. Happens to the best of us.”
I peeked out from the pillow again, trying to gauge if he was just messing with me or being sincere. But the easygoing look on his face hadn’t changed. He didn’t seem fazed at all, while I was over here spiraling.
I let out a slow breath, trying to calm the chaotic thoughts running through my head. Okay, maybe I could play it cool too—pretend like I wasn’t freaking out. But as I shifted under the blanket, trying to figure out how to extract myself from this mess, I felt a sudden, horrifying realization.
No bra.
I stiffened, my eyes darting around the room, desperately trying to remember where the hell it went. My shirt was across the room, but no sign of the bra. Oh god.
I glanced at Daniel, who was watching me with that amused grin still plastered on his face. He noticed the moment I realized it—of course he did. His grin widened, and before I could even attempt to form a coherent excuse, he raised an eyebrow and deadpanned, “Looking for something, darlin’? Because I’m not sure it’s gonna walk back over here on its own.”
My face turned beet red. “I—uh—this is just…” I stammered, covering myself with the blanket more securely, like that would magically undo everything.
He let out a chuckle, clearly enjoying every second of my mortification. “Don’t worry, your shirt’s over there, and I think your bra… well, it might’ve decided to take an extended vacation,” he teased, pointing toward the floor, where it lay crumpled in the corner like some sort of defeated symbol of my night.
I buried my face in my hands, laughing despite myself. “This is so not how I thought my night would end,” I mumbled through my fingers.
Daniel leaned in, still grinning like the cat who got the cream. “If it helps, I think you handled yourself pretty damn well for someone who doesn’t ‘do this,’” he teased, his voice full of playful charm.
I groaned, unable to stop the embarrassed laughter bubbling out of me. “Oh my god, stop,” I muttered, half laughing, half dying inside. But there was something about his laid-back attitude, the way he wasn’t making this feel weird or awkward, that made me feel just a little better.
At least one of us was good at handling this kind of thing.
I couldn’t stop laughing now, even though every cell in my body wanted to melt into the mattress and disappear. But Daniel wasn’t letting up, his teasing coming in waves.
“You know,” he said with a grin, “I’ve heard of people losing their dignity after a night like this, but you managed to misplace your bra too. That’s impressive.”
I rolled my eyes, still hiding my face in my hands. “Oh, ha ha, very funny. Maybe I’ll just stay under this blanket forever.”
He chuckled again, sitting up slightly and stretching, looking way too comfortable considering the situation. “Can’t say I blame you. This bed is pretty damn nice. But I’m starting to think you’re just stalling because you don’t want to leave me.”
I shot him a glare, trying to smother the blush on my cheeks. “I’m not stalling. I’m just… regrouping.”
“Right,” he nodded sagely. “Regrouping. Take all the time you need, darlin’. I’ll just be over here, admiring your tactical approach to gathering your scattered clothing.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, finally throwing the blanket off and clumsily scrambling out of bed. My hair was a mess, and I was pretty sure I looked like I’d just survived a tornado, but I was determined to reclaim some shred of dignity. As I stumbled over to where my shirt lay crumpled across the chair, Daniel’s voice piped up again.
“Wow,” he said, a little quieter this time, and I turned to see him watching me with an entirely different look—more serious, though still with that glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “I gotta say, you’re even more beautiful in the morning.”
I paused, my hand halfway to my shirt, and felt my heart do a little flip. “Really?” I asked, trying not to sound too flustered as I glanced at him.
He nodded, that easy smile still on his face but softer now. “Yeah. Really.”
I stared at him for a second, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks again but in a different way this time. There was something about the way he said it, so casual and genuine, that made me stop caring so much about the ridiculousness of the situation.
“Well,” I said, finally grabbing my shirt and pulling it over my head, “you’re not too bad yourself… for someone who’s spent the night making terrible jokes at my expense.”
Daniel laughed, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “I can’t help it. You make it way too easy.”
I shook my head, still smiling, as I gathered the rest of my things. “Yeah, yeah. Keep talking. I’ll be sure to remember all of this next time I decide to ‘misplace’ my bra.”
Daniel grinned, watching as I gathered up the last of my things, still laughing at the absurdity of it all. “Well, if you ever need help finding it again,” he said smoothly, leaning back on his elbows and looking up at me with that lazy smile, “you might wanna give me a way to contact you.”
I paused, looking over at him, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, you think you’re slick, huh?”
He shrugged, giving me an innocent look that was anything but. “Just thinking ahead. In case you lose any more important items in the future… like your phone, your hat—hell, your sense of direction, since you clearly needed help last night.”
I rolled my eyes, laughing. “You really think I’m gonna fall for that?”
He tilted his head, flashing a charming grin. “Darlin’, you already fell for it.”
I let out an exasperated sigh, but there was no denying the grin on my face as I grabbed his phone from the nightstand. “Fine, I’ll put my number in your phone. But if I get any messages about lost bras, I’m blocking you,” I teased, typing my number into his contacts and tossing the phone back to him.
He caught it effortlessly, grinning as he glanced down at the screen. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, winking. “Unless you’re the one sending me a distress call next time.”
I shook my head, smirking as I turned toward the door. “You wish.”
“Already do,” he called out behind me, his voice playful and teasing, but with just enough sincerity to make my heart skip a beat as I left the room.
As soon as I stepped out of the room and into the hallway, I let out a long breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding. Relief washed over me, but so did the heat rising up my neck and into my cheeks. Holy hell, I actually survived that.
I stood there for a moment, my heart still racing from the whirlwind of the morning. Daniel’s playful smirk, his damn smooth lines—it was all still buzzing in my head, and the fact that I’d somehow managed to walk away with my dignity (mostly) intact felt like a miracle.
But then I caught sight of myself in the mirror at the end of the hallway. Oh no.
I was a mess. My hair looked like it had been through a windstorm, and my shirt from last night was wrinkled beyond repair. The smudged mascara under my eyes was giving me a whole new level of “walk of shame,” and I couldn’t help but cringe at my reflection.
This is what I left the room looking like? Oh, great.
I quickly ran my fingers through my hair, trying to smooth out the wild tangles and make myself look at least halfway decent. I tugged at the hem of my shirt, trying to straighten it out, but no matter what I did, it still screamed “last night’s mistakes.” I wiped away the smudged mascara with the edge of my sleeve, doing my best to clean up the damage.
My cheeks were still flushed from the sheer embarrassment of it all, and no amount of quick fixes was going to change the fact that I had just walked out of a guy’s hotel room looking like a hot mess. I bit my lip, shaking my head at myself in the mirror, my heart still pounding in my chest.
“Well, this is a look,” I muttered to myself, giving my reflection one last, exasperated glance before squaring my shoulders and heading for the elevator. Just get out of here, Y/N. Fast.
I smoothed my hair down one last time, took a deep breath, and headed toward the elevator, praying no one else in the hallway had witnessed my tragic attempt at post-hookup self-repair. The faster I got out of this hotel, the better. I was already pressing the elevator button repeatedly like I could summon it faster through sheer desperation.
Come on, come on…
Finally, the doors slid open, and I practically leaped inside. But the universe had other plans for me, because standing right there, already in the elevator, were Carrie and Johnny.
My heart stopped. I almost crapped my panties.
Carrie, my ex-best friend. Johnny, my ex-boyfriend. Of course they were here. Of all the elevators in this damn hotel. My stomach dropped as the realization hit me like a freight train, and suddenly I was right back in the middle of the heartbreak they’d both caused, except this time I looked like I’d just rolled out of a frat party.
I stared at them, my mind racing, wondering if I could somehow reverse time and avoid stepping into this death trap. But it was too late. I was standing there, and they were looking at me. Johnny’s eyes flicked up and down, taking in my rumpled clothes and messy hair. Carrie’s smile faltered, and her eyes widened, like she was realizing exactly what kind of morning I was having.
Fantastic. Just fantastic.
“Y/N?” Carrie’s voice was soft but laced with that familiar fake concern. “Wow, it’s been a while.”
Johnny just stood there, staring, that stupid, unreadable look on his face. He didn’t say anything, but the awkward silence hung in the air like a thick cloud.
I forced a tight smile, trying not to visibly cringe. “Yeah, well... things have been... busy.”
The elevator doors closed with a quiet thud, sealing me in with them. It was, without a doubt, the longest elevator ride of my life. I could feel Johnny’s eyes on me, that same calculating gaze that used to make me second-guess everything I said. And Carrie? She had that look on her face—the one that said she was definitely going to gossip about this later.
I stared straight ahead, willing the elevator to move faster, trying to breathe through the tension. Every second felt like an eternity, the silence only broken by the soft hum of the elevator as it slowly, agonizingly descended.
My mind raced. Of all the mornings to run into them, this had to be the one where I was dressed in last night’s wrinkled shirt, and my hair looked like it had gone to war with a curling iron. The fact that I’d just come from Daniel’s hotel room made it worse. Much worse.
I could feel the heat creeping up my neck again, but this time, it wasn’t from embarrassment over Daniel. It was from pure mortification.
Finally—finally—the elevator dinged, and the doors slid open to the lobby. I didn’t waste a second. “Well, this has been… fun,” I said, voice tight, and bolted out of the elevator like my life depended on it.
Behind me, I could feel their eyes still on me, and I could practically hear Carrie’s voice in my head already: Did you see Y/N this morning?
Kill me now.
As soon as I stepped out of the elevator and into the hotel lobby, the reality of the situation hit me like a ton of bricks. I stopped dead in my tracks, my heart dropping into my stomach. Oh no. No, no, no.
This wasn’t just any hotel.
This was Carrie’s hotel. Her family’s pride and joy. The one I had spent countless summer nights in when we were best friends, long before everything fell apart. Out of all the hotels in Austin, Daniel had to be staying at the one owned by Carrie’s family.
I groaned internally, my mind reeling. Of course, this was how my morning would go. The universe just loved to test me, apparently. I could already imagine Carrie’s smug little face, probably telling her family all about how I’d been seen leaving some guy’s room at her family’s hotel, looking like a mess. And Johnny—ugh, Johnny—had been right there to see it all, too. The two of them were probably plotting how to make this even more humiliating for me.
I felt my cheeks burn again, but this time it wasn’t from embarrassment. It was from sheer frustration. Out of all the places Daniel could have stayed, this had to be the one. What were the odds?
I shook my head, trying to compose myself, but the realization only made me want to crawl under a rock even more. Not only did I have the most awkward elevator ride in history with my cheating ex and ex-best friend, but now I was in their territory. This was their turf, and I just walked straight into it with no idea.
This day just keeps getting better and better, I thought bitterly, glancing around to make sure neither of them had followed me out of the elevator.
I glanced back at the lobby, memories flooding back from when Carrie and I used to run around this very place, pretending we were in some grand adventure. Funny how things had changed. So much for avoiding drama.
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
yourusername
liked by user1, user2, and 10,289 others
yourusername: t-3 days until my sophomore album "The Cowgirls, Guns, & Horses" comes out, can't wait for everyone to hear it #tcgh
user1: i'm wayyy too excited for #tcgh i just know ts is too good
user2: everyone say amen for y/n for dropping out of uni to bless us with amazing music
user3: yeah it's literally crazy too , like she was going to be an engineer and literally quit her last year...😦😦
user2: it's lowkey sad but AT LEAST WE HAVE MUSICCC YASSS
user4: guys...did we see her on twt last night w a certain someone....
user5: wait no??!?! hello please fill me in on the tea 📖
user4: basically some op saw her in a bar with a shit ton our tourists, turns out one of them was non other than F1 DRIVER DANIEL RICCIARDO
user5: THERES NO WAY???
user6: wait who's that... i'm so out of the loop for pop culture guys... 😭😭🙏🏽
user7: he's this super famous formula one driver (drives fast cars in weird shaped circles) from australia and he LOVES the country
user8: yeah... he wears a cowboy hat so much its kind of goofy
user9: yeah and allegedly, SOMEONE SAW THEM GO SOMEWHERE IN A CAR TOGETHER 😃💃🏻
user10: DAMNNNN @/yourusername.... was the d fire 🔥🚒🧯
user11: @/user10 LMFAO GTFOOO
user12: wait so i know this album is gonna be lowkey sad but like what if she pops up w some suprise songs about daniel's cowboy...
user13: i'm DEAD what if she actually reads the comments
user12: i would simply pass tf away!!
danielricciardo
liked by user1, user2, and 109,110 others
danielricciardo: Save a horse, ride a cowboy #austingp
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
I slid into the backseat of my Uber, letting out a long, frustrated sigh as I slumped against the door. The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, but I waved off any small talk with a quick, “Rough morning.”
As we pulled away from the hotel, I scoffed, shaking my head at myself. Did I seriously just spend money to Uber to and from a booty call? The thought made me cringe. Out of all the impulsive decisions I’d made in my life, this one was quickly climbing the ranks. I mean, come on—Ubering to a random hotel was bad enough, but having to ride back in shame after? That was a whole new level of poor life choices.
By the time the Uber pulled up to my house, I was already mentally preparing to face the walk of shame into my own home. I quietly slipped inside, trying to be as stealthy as possible, when suddenly—
“Boo!”
I jumped a mile high, my heart nearly leaping out of my chest as my younger sister, Maddie, popped out of nowhere, grinning like a cat who caught a canary.
“Jesus, Maddie!” I whisper-yelled, clutching my chest. “What is wrong with you?”
Maddie raised an eyebrow, eyes immediately trailing up and down my disheveled outfit. “Uh, is that the same thing you wore yesterday?” she asked, crossing her arms with a knowing smirk. “Did you... seriously just come back from—”
I slapped my hand over her mouth before she could finish the sentence, my eyes wide. “Shh! Keep it down!” I hissed. “We are not having this conversation out here.”
Her eyes twinkled mischievously, but she nodded under my hand, so I let her go. I grabbed her wrist and dragged her down the hall, sneaking into my room like we were plotting a heist. Once inside, I shut the door behind us and turned to face her, arms crossed.
Maddie sat on the edge of my bed, looking way too pleased with herself. “Spill,” she said, not even bothering with a polite lead-in.
I groaned, rubbing my temples. “Fine. But you cannot tell anyone.”
She mimed zipping her lips and leaned in, ready for the juicy details.
“So…” I began, pacing the room. “Last night was a complete disaster. I ended up—well, you know—at some guy’s hotel room.”
Maddie’s eyes widened. “Wait, what? You? Miss ‘I Don’t Do Hookups’?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I muttered, flopping down beside her on the bed. “I don’t even know how it happened. We were drinking, flirting… one thing led to another, and next thing I know, I wake up in his bed.”
Maddie let out a low whistle. “Damn. And?”
“And…” I sighed, running a hand through my tangled hair. “It gets worse. Guess who I ran into on the elevator this morning?”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh no, who?”
“Carrie. And Johnny,” I groaned, burying my face in my hands.
Maddie’s mouth dropped open in shock. “No way. You ran into both of them? At the hotel?”
I nodded miserably. “Yup. Turns out the hotel I was in? Carrie’s family’s hotel. Of course.”
She gasped dramatically, covering her mouth. “Oh my god, Y/N, that’s… that’s awful but kind of hilarious.”
I shot her a glare, though a small smile tugged at my lips. “Yeah, hilarious for you maybe. For me? Literal nightmare.”
Maddie giggled, clearly enjoying the chaos of my morning. “So, did they say anything?”
“Not really. Just awkward stares and Carrie’s fake concern. The whole thing was a disaster. I swear, I am never doing this again,” I said, shaking my head.
She grinned, nudging me with her elbow. “Never say never. But hey, at least you’ve got a hell of a story now.”
I groaned, flopping back onto the bed. “Trust me, I could’ve done without this particular story.”
I stared at the ceiling, still trying to process the absolute train wreck of a morning I’d just experienced, when Maddie’s voice cut through my thoughts.
“So, who’s this mystery guy you hooked up with?” she asked, nudging me again with a smirk.
I bit my lip, hesitating. Should I even say it? It felt surreal—like it wasn’t even real life—but what the hell, I was already in deep. “You’re not gonna believe this,” I muttered, sitting up and bracing myself. “His name’s Daniel. Daniel Ricciardo.”
Maddie’s jaw dropped so fast I thought it might hit the floor. “WHAT?!” she practically screamed, her eyes going wide with excitement. “THE Daniel Ricciardo? You slept with Daniel Ricciardo? As in F1 driver Daniel Ricciardo?”
I blinked, confused at her over-the-top reaction. “Uh, yeah? I mean, he said he’s a driver or something, but... I don’t really follow racing, so I didn’t think much of it.”
Maddie grabbed my shoulders, shaking me like I was the one losing my mind. “Y/N, are you serious? How did you not know who that was? He’s super famous! Like, ridiculously famous!”
I blinked, completely taken aback. “Wait, what? Famous famous?”
Maddie rolled her eyes, like I was the most clueless person on the planet. “Yes, famous famous! He’s one of the most popular Formula 1 drivers in the world! You know, the sport where they race the fastest cars? And, uh, hello, the Austin Grand Prix is in like five days! How do you not know this?”
My mouth dropped open as I tried to wrap my brain around what she was saying. “The Austin Grand Prix? You mean that thing that brings in all those tourists every year?”
“Yes! Exactly!” Maddie threw her hands up in the air, looking like she couldn’t believe my ignorance. “F1 is huge, Y/N. There are races all over the world, and Daniel Ricciardo is, like, one of the biggest personalities in the sport. People love him. He’s been racing for years, and he’s known for being super charismatic and... oh my god, you really didn’t know?”
I shook my head, completely floored. “I mean, he did say something about racing, but I didn’t realize it was that kind of racing. I just thought he meant, like, NASCAR or something.”
Maddie smacked her forehead. “Oh my god, you’re killing me. F1 is way bigger than NASCAR! It’s like the most elite motorsport in the world. And Daniel’s been racing for some of the top teams. How did you not realize you were with an actual celebrity?”
I stared at her, my mind reeling. “So, you’re telling me I just… slept with a world-famous driver and didn’t even realize it?”
Maddie nodded emphatically, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “Yup! And honestly, I’m a little jealous. I mean, Daniel Ricciardo, Y/N! He’s a big deal! Girls all over the world would kill to be in your position.”
I groaned, flopping back onto the bed, my hands covering my face. “Oh my god, I cannot believe this. I slept with a celebrity, and I didn’t even know it. What is my life?”
Maddie giggled, clearly having way too much fun with this. She flopped down next to me on the bed, her grin as wide as Texas. “Girl, don’t even stress. You’re a celebrity now too! You and Daniel Ricciardo? That’s some next-level, power couple stuff right there.”
I groaned louder, pressing my palms against my face. “Maddie, stop. I’m not a celebrity. I’m a girl who just had a really, really embarrassing one-night stand.”
She nudged me with her elbow, smirking. “Nah, you’re thinkin’ too small, sis. Just picture it! You’re up on stage with your guitar, singin’ your heart out, and Daniel’s out there in the crowd, front and center, lookin’ all fine and proud of his lil’ cowgirl.”
I rolled over onto my side, staring at her in disbelief. “Maddie, please. You’re daydreamin’ way too hard right now.”
But she wasn’t even listening, lost in her own fantasy. “Y’all could be, like, the ultimate couple. Country singer and an F1 driver? Hell, people would eat that up! He’d be all, ‘This here’s my gal, Y/N,’ and you’d be sittin’ there in the paddock, rockin’ those fancy hats like a boss. Shoot, you two would be in all the magazines!”
I shot her a look. “Maddie, we’re not even dating. It was one night, and I barely knew who he was until five minutes ago.”
She waved her hand, brushing off my concerns like dust off a pair of boots. “Psh, technicalities. I’m just sayin’, y’all could make waves. You’d be the talk of Texas and everywhere else too. Like a regular old-fashioned Bonnie and Clyde, but with less crime and more racin’.”
I laughed despite myself. “Yeah, sure. A cowgirl and a race car driver. That’ll be the day.”
Maddie wiggled her eyebrows. “Hey, you never know! Y’all could be splittin’ your time between the racetrack and the rodeo. And if anyone can pull off being a celebrity couple, it’s my big sis.”
I sat up, shaking my head but unable to keep the smile off my face. “You’re ridiculous.”
She grinned wide, leaning back on her elbows. “I know, but tell me I’m wrong.”
I rolled my eyes, trying to push away the ridiculous idea. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, Maddie’s wild daydreams weren’t entirely out of reach.
Just as Maddie was about to launch into another wild daydream about me and Daniel conquering the world, there was a sharp knock on my door.
“Y/N? Maddie? What are y’all doin’ in there?” my mom’s voice called out from the hallway.
My eyes widened in horror. “Oh, crap,” I whispered, looking down at my crumpled shirt and yesterday’s jeans. No way could Mom see me like this. Not after last night.
Maddie, ever the quick thinker, jumped up, eyes wide. “You gotta change! Quick, or she’ll know!”
I scrambled off the bed, frantically grabbing the first pair of sweatpants I could find and yanking off my wrinkled jeans. “Uh, we’re just—hold on, Mom! Give us a sec!” I yelled back, pulling on the sweats and trying to find a shirt that didn’t scream ‘walk of shame.’
Mom knocked again, louder this time, sounding more impatient. “What’s takin’ so long? Y’all up to no good in there?”
Maddie shot me a panicked look, then, in true Maddie fashion, she came up with the most absurd lie possible. “Mom, we’re—uh—just checking if Y/N has a wart down there!”
My head snapped up so fast I nearly fell over. “WHAT?”
Maddie’s eyes were wide with mischief as she mouthed, Just go with it!
Mom was silent for a second, and then I heard a heavy sigh. “A wart? Y’all expect me to believe that?”
Maddie waved her arms around frantically, trying to sell the lie. “Yeah! You know, like, one of those really weird ones! We didn’t wanna make a fuss about it, so we’re handling it ourselves.”
I threw on a hoodie, pulling it over my head as fast as I could, all while glaring at Maddie. “Are you kidding me?” I whispered through gritted teeth, but she just gave me a thumbs-up.
Mom’s patience was clearly wearing thin. “Well, can’t this wait until later? I need y’all downstairs now.”
Maddie’s eyes darted around, looking for an escape. “Uh, well, it’s kind of urgent, Mom! You don’t just leave a wart alone, right? It could get... worse! Way worse!”
I buried my face in my hands, trying not to burst out laughing at how ridiculous this had become. But Maddie wasn’t letting up, and my mom, bless her, was clearly not buying it.
“Alright, enough. I don’t care if there’s a whole forest of warts down there! Get your butts downstairs in two minutes or I’m coming in!” Mom’s voice was firm now, and I could hear her foot tapping impatiently outside the door.
Maddie shot me a guilty look as I finally finished pulling myself together. “Okay, okay, we’re coming!” I yelled back, exasperated but unable to stop giggling at how absurd this situation had become.
As soon as we heard Mom walk away from the door, I turned to Maddie, shaking my head. “A wart? Really? That’s your best lie?”
Maddie grinned, completely unbothered. “Hey, I had to think fast! Besides, you know Mom was gonna barge in here if we didn’t come up with something good.”
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help but laugh. “I swear, if I ever have to explain to her that I don’t have warts, you’re taking the blame.”
“Deal,” Maddie said with a grin, grabbing my arm and dragging me toward the door. “Now let’s go before she drags us down there herself.”
Maddie and I hurried downstairs, trying our best to look normal — like we hadn’t just staged a ridiculous wart-related lie to keep Mom from barging into my room. As soon as we hit the bottom step, Mom was standing there with her arms crossed, eyeing us with that mom look that said she knew something was up but was choosing to let it slide for now.
She raised an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “Y’all got those warts handled? Need me to call a doctor or somethin’?”
I groaned, rolling my eyes as Maddie snickered beside me. “We’re fine, Mom,” I muttered, trying not to blush all over again. “No doctor necessary.”
Mom chuckled and shook her head. “Alright, then. I need you two to run to the mart for me.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a grocery list, handing it over. “Just a few things I need for tonight. Don’t dilly-dally.”
I took the list and scanned it, my mind still racing from the chaos of the morning. Eggs, milk, sugar—normal stuff. But then I spotted cilantro circled three times with a little note that said, “Don’t forget this time!!!”
I sighed, folding the list up and sticking it in my pocket. “Got it, Mom. Anything else? Want us to pick up some wart cream while we’re at it?” I teased, shooting Maddie a glance.
Maddie snorted, and Mom swatted me lightly on the arm. “Just get what’s on the list, smart mouth.”
We headed out the door and into the driveway, where Maddie tossed me the keys to my truck. “Your turn to drive,” she said, hopping into the passenger seat with a grin. “I’m still recovering from your fashion disaster this morning.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered, climbing into the driver’s seat. “You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”
“Not a chance,” she said, smirking as I started the engine. The truck roared to life, and we pulled out of the driveway, heading toward the mart.
As we cruised down the road, the Texas sun beating down on us, I finally started to relax. The insanity of the morning was starting to fade, and it felt good to just drive, even if it was for groceries.
“Cilantro, huh?” Maddie said, glancing at the list as we pulled into the parking lot of the mart. “You better not forget that, or Mom’s gonna throw a fit.”
I parked the truck and unbuckled my seatbelt. “Yeah, I know. We’re on a cilantro mission now.”
We hopped out of the truck, laughing about the morning's chaos as we headed inside. At least now, it was just me, Maddie, and a simple grocery list to tackle.
Maddie and I wandered through the grocery store aisles, chatting about nothing in particular as we grabbed the items on Mom’s list. Everything was going smoothly until I remembered the cilantro.
“Maddie, I can’t forget the cilantro. Mom will kill me if I come back without it.” I scanned the store like I was hunting for buried treasure, and then—out of the corner of my eye—I spotted it. The last bunch of cilantro.
“There!” I practically shouted, pointing across the produce section. Without thinking, I made a mad dash for it, leaving Maddie behind as I zeroed in on my target. Nothing was going to stop me from getting this cilantro—not after what happened last time.
But just as I reached for it, my hand collided with someone else’s.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” a familiar voice said, as our hands both grabbed for the same bunch. “In a rush, are we?”
I looked up and found myself staring directly into Daniel’s mischievous eyes. My heart skipped a beat—of all people.
“You?” I blurted, both annoyed and surprised.
Daniel grinned, raising an eyebrow as his hand still held onto the cilantro. “What, you didn’t think you’d see me again?”
I blinked, trying to recover from the sudden collision, both physically and mentally. “I—uh—no, I just didn’t expect to be fighting you over a bunch of cilantro,” I said, still clutching the herb in one hand as he held the other end.
He chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Well, if you’d been a little slower, this wouldn’t be a problem.”
I scoffed, narrowing my eyes at him. “Slower? I was practically flying over here. I saw it first.”
“Oh, really?” He tilted his head, that playful smirk of his back in full force. “I’m pretty sure I had my hand on it before you did.”
“Dream on, Ricciardo,” I shot back, trying to yank the cilantro from his grip. “It’s mine.”
He tightened his hold, clearly enjoying this way too much. “Tell you what—we’ll share it.”
“Share?” I raised an eyebrow. “What, you want to split a bunch of cilantro? What are we, in preschool?”
Daniel laughed, pulling it toward him slightly. “I mean, it’s either that or you admit defeat.”
“Admit defeat?” I shot him a glare. “I don’t lose at grocery shopping.”
“Is that so?” His grin widened as he leaned in closer, his face just a little too close for comfort. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re losing.”
My cheeks flushed, and I yanked the cilantro again, this time breaking the bunch in half. “There. Now we’re both losers.”
He burst out laughing, holding up his half of the cilantro. “Fair enough. You really don’t like losing, do you?”
I crossed my arms, trying to hide the fact that I was blushing. “Not when I’m up against people who think they can out-shop me.”
Daniel leaned against the cart, still grinning like he was having the time of his life. “Alright, you win this round, but I’m telling you—next time, I’m taking the whole bunch.”
I shook my head, trying not to laugh. “Good luck with that.”
Just then, Maddie appeared behind me, her eyes going wide when she realized who I was standing next to. “Uh, Y/N? What’s going on here?”
I turned to Maddie, holding up my half of the cilantro. “Just winning a fight, that’s all.”
Daniel winked at Maddie before looking back at me. “More like a draw, if we’re being honest.”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at my lips. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Ricciardo.”
Maddie raised her eyebrows, her grin spreading. “Oh, this is definitely going in my scrapbook.”
Daniel chuckled, still holding his half of the cilantro like it was a prize. Just as I was about to turn away, he slipped something into my hand, so smooth I almost didn’t realize he’d done it.
I blinked, glancing down at the small folded piece of paper. “What’s this?” I asked, unfolding it carefully, my curiosity piqued.
Before I could even figure it out, Maddie was already craning her neck to see. Her eyes widened in excitement the second she caught a glimpse. “Oh my god, Y/N, do you even know what these are?!”
I looked at her, completely confused. “What do you mean?”
She pointed excitedly at the paper in my hands. “Those are paddock passes! For the Austin GP! You’ve got three-day passes to the entire race weekend! Do you even understand how hard these are to get?”
I stared down at the passes, my jaw practically hitting the floor. “Wait, what?”
Daniel smirked, casually leaning against his cart, clearly enjoying my reaction. “Yeah, figured you might want to see what all this F1 fuss is about, and I happened to have an extra pass. So, you know, if you’re not too busy fighting over cilantro.”
I looked up at him, completely floored. “You... got me paddock passes? For three days?”
He shrugged, looking way too casual about the whole thing. “What can I say? I’m glad I grabbed an extra one just in case.” His eyes flickered with that familiar playful glint. “And now, I’m even gladder.”
Maddie, still buzzing with excitement, suddenly stepped forward, grinning ear to ear. “Oh, where are my manners?” She extended her hand. “I’m Maddie, by the way. You know, the better sister.”
Daniel burst into laughter, shaking her hand. “Well, if you’re anything like your sister, I think I’m in for trouble.”
Maddie winked at him. “Trouble’s our middle name. But really, she’s the one you’ve gotta watch out for.”
I shot Maddie a glare, trying to keep my cool even though my heart was still racing. “Maddie, stop.”
Daniel grinned, turning his attention back to me. “I dunno, I kind of like trouble. Keeps things interesting.”
I rolled my eyes, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up my neck. “You just like making everything a competition.”
He tilted his head, that infuriatingly charming smirk still on his face. “Maybe. Or maybe I just like seeing how far I can push you.”
Maddie laughed, nudging me with her elbow. “Oh, he’s good, Y/N. Better watch out, or you’re gonna find yourself in the middle of a Grand Prix.”
Daniel grinned, leaning in just a little. “Well, with those passes, you might just end up front and center.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, shaking my head at how ridiculous this had all become. “You seriously just carry extra paddock passes around?”
“Only when I think they might come in handy,” he said, eyes glinting. “And I had a feeling you’d appreciate them more than anyone else here.”
I raised an eyebrow, still not entirely sure how this was my life. “You’re something else, you know that?”
He smiled, holding up his half of the cilantro. “Takes one to know one.”
I stared at the paddock passes in my hand, still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that Daniel Ricciardo—actual Formula 1 driver—had just handed me access to the most exclusive part of the Austin GP like it was no big deal. Meanwhile, Maddie looked like she was about to combust from excitement.
“I mean, front and center at a Grand Prix?” Maddie piped up, clearly having the time of her life with this. “Y/N, do you even understand how cool that is? You’re basically about to be part of the elite crowd. And you didn’t even know who he was two days ago.”
I shot her a look, trying not to blush as I turned back to Daniel. “I feel like I should be saying thanks, but... are you sure? This feels a little...”
“Too good to be true?” Daniel finished with a smirk, crossing his arms. “I get that a lot. But trust me, I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it. Plus, I didn’t want to go through the weekend wondering if you’d ever stop fighting over cilantro.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re really gonna hang onto that, aren’t you?”
“Only as long as it keeps you on your toes.” He grinned, his gaze holding mine a second longer than necessary. “Besides, now you’ve got no excuse not to come.”
Maddie, never one to miss an opportunity, jumped in with a grin. “Oh, she’ll be there. I’ll make sure of it. You’re looking at the world’s most stubborn person right here, but once she commits, she’s all in.”
Daniel raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. “Is that so?”
I rolled my eyes, trying to suppress the smile tugging at my lips. “I wouldn’t listen to her. She’s just trying to recruit me into her fantasy F1 life.”
Maddie snorted. “Uh, you slept with Daniel Ricciardo, and now you’ve got paddock passes. I think that fantasy is turning into reality, sis.”
I groaned, rubbing my face in embarrassment. “Maddie, please.”
Daniel chuckled, glancing between the two of us. “You two are something else. This is probably the most fun I’ve had at a grocery store in... ever.”
I crossed my arms, half smiling despite myself. “Well, I guess we know who to thank for that. You’re really making a habit of surprising me, aren’t you?”
He leaned in just slightly, his grin widening. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Just wait ‘til you see what surprises I’ve got lined up for the weekend.”
Maddie’s eyebrows shot up. “Ooh, mysterious. I like it.”
I shot her a look but couldn’t help laughing. “Alright, fine. You win. I’ll come to the race.”
Daniel winked, clearly satisfied. “Knew you would. See you in the paddock, then.” He tipped his imaginary hat and turned to walk away, but not before flashing one last grin. “Don’t forget to bring your competitive spirit. You’re gonna need it.”
I watched him go, my heart still racing as Maddie practically squealed beside me. “Oh my god, Y/N! This is insane!”
I shook my head, laughing. “Yeah, it is. I can’t believe I’m actually going to an F1 race.”
Maddie grinned, nudging me again. “Not just any race. You’re going with Daniel freaking Ricciardo. Girl, this is like something out of a movie.”
I rolled my eyes, but a small part of me couldn’t deny how surreal—and thrilling—it all felt.
After successfully scouring the back of the store and miraculously finding one last bunch of cilantro hidden behind some parsley, Maddie and I made our way to the checkout. I could barely keep my head straight, still reeling from my unexpected run-in with Daniel, while Maddie was practically bouncing with excitement, shooting me side-glances the entire time we loaded up the cart.
Once we were through the checkout and back in the truck, Maddie wasted no time. As soon as I turned the ignition, she turned toward me, eyes wide with anticipation. "Okay, enough stalling. You have to give me details about the one-night stand. I mean, come on. It's Daniel Ricciardo! Spill it!"
I groaned, gripping the steering wheel and backing out of the parking spot. “Maddie, please.”
She crossed her arms, giving me her best "I’m-not-letting-this-go" look. “Oh, no, no. You’re not getting out of this one. I need the full rundown. Like, what happened? How did it happen? How is he? Is he a good—”
“Maddie!” I cut her off, feeling the heat rise to my face. “I am not telling you that.”
She smirked, not even remotely phased by my protests. “Oh, come on. Don’t act like you weren’t just as shocked to wake up next to him. I mean, how does someone like you,” she gestured to me dramatically, “end up in bed with someone like him?”
I rolled my eyes, laughing despite myself. “Trust me, I was just as surprised as you are. It wasn’t even planned! We were both tipsy, flirting at the bar... and, well, you know how those things go.”
Maddie practically squealed. “So, was it... like, really good?”
I groaned again, my face probably a bright shade of red by now. “Maddie, I’m not talking about that. Just know that... it was fine, okay? We were both drunk, and it happened. End of story.”
She pouted but kept pushing. “Ugh, fine. But was he sweet? Was he funny in the morning? Or did he just roll over and pretend like nothing happened?”
I snorted, shaking my head as I turned onto the road. “No, actually, he was... really chill about it. We joked around a bit, and he didn’t make it awkward. I mean, we even fought over cilantro in the grocery store, and he’s still as annoyingly charming as ever.”
Maddie let out a dreamy sigh. “Of course, he’s charming. Ugh, I bet that smile of his could get you to do anything. No wonder you ended up in his hotel room.”
I shot her a look. “Can you not make me sound like a complete pushover?”
She giggled, holding her hands up in surrender. “I’m just saying! You gotta admit, he’s got some serious game.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Yeah, he’s definitely got something. But honestly, I don’t even know what to make of it all. One minute, I’m waking up in his bed, and the next, I’ve got paddock passes for a whole race weekend.”
Maddie leaned back in her seat, eyes wide with curiosity. “Okay, okay, but I have to ask the important question.” She paused for dramatic effect, smirking like she was about to drop the most scandalous question of all time.
I narrowed my eyes at her. “What now?”
She grinned, wiggling her eyebrows. “Is it... big?”
I nearly choked on my own laughter, my face instantly heating up. “Maddie!” I exclaimed, giving her a light shove. “Oh my god, you can’t just ask that!”
She burst out laughing, completely unfazed. “Come on! You hooked up with a famous race car driver! You know I had to ask!”
I covered my face, shaking my head. “This is not happening right now.”
Maddie nudged me again, still giggling. “I’m just sayin’, you can’t drop all these details about Daniel freakin’ Ricciardo and expect me to not be curious! It’s, like, basic sister requirements.”
I sighed, laughing despite the embarrassment. “I’m not telling you that. Besides, some things are meant to be kept private!”
She threw her hands up in surrender, still grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Fine, fine. But I’m just gonna assume the answer’s yes based on how flustered you are right now.”
I rolled my eyes, grabbing the grocery bags. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
She beamed at me, completely proud of herself. “It’s part of my charm. Now let’s go inside before Mom gets suspicious.”
We stepped out of the truck, and as we made our way toward the house, Maddie shot me one last teasing glance. “I still can’t believe this. You’re living the dream, sis. Now we just have to get you through the race without tripping over yourself.”
I laughed, shaking my head as we walked inside. “Easier said than done, trust me.”
Maddie winked. “Don’t worry, I’ll be there to keep you grounded. And, you know, ask more questions about... size later.”
I groaned. “Maddie, I swear, if you bring that up again—”
She cut me off with a giggle. “Relax, I’ll save it for after the race. Maybe Daniel will answer it for me.”
I gave her a mock-serious glare as we stepped into the kitchen. “If you ask him anything remotely like that, I’ll personally disown you as my sister.”
Maddie just grinned, completely unfazed by my threat. “Oh, come on! You know you’re curious too. I bet Daniel’s the type to joke right back—he seems like he’s got that smooth banter down.”
I rolled my eyes, setting the grocery bags down on the counter. “Yeah, well, I’d rather not find out in front of you.”
She grabbed a bunch of cilantro, holding it up like it was a victory flag. “Fine, fine. I’ll behave at the race... but no promises if the opportunity presents itself.”
I groaned again, shaking my head. “You will kill me one day, you know?”
Maddie smirked as she placed the cilantro in the fridge, turning to me with a wink. “Hey, if you’re gonna be dating an F1 driver, you better get used to me asking all the embarrassing questions. It’s a sister’s job to keep things interesting.”
I felt my face flush at the mention of “dating” Daniel, quickly brushing it off. “Who said anything about dating? This was just a one-time thing.”
Maddie raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter. “Uh-huh, sure. You just happened to have a ‘one-time thing’ with Daniel Ricciardo, and now you’ve got three-day paddock passes? Girl, please.”
I crossed my arms, trying to sound firm. “We’re not dating.”
She gave me a knowing smile. “Maybe not yet, but trust me, once you’re up close and personal at that race, things might change. I mean, the man gave you paddock passes, Y/N. He’s clearly not done with you.”
I rolled my eyes again, but I couldn’t deny the flutter in my chest at her words. “Whatever, Maddie. Let’s just focus on surviving this weekend without you embarrassing me in front of him.”
Maddie grinned, stepping closer and nudging me with her elbow. “I make no promises. But I will say this—you better have fun. It’s not every day you get to hang out with a superstar. Just... remember to breathe when you see him again.”
I laughed, despite the butterflies in my stomach. “Yeah, yeah. Now help me finish putting these groceries away before Mom comes in and asks what’s taking so long.”
Maddie threw me a playful wink as she grabbed the rest of the groceries. “You got it. But I’m definitely asking for more details after the race.”
I groaned, but there was no hiding my smile. As much as Maddie drove me crazy, I couldn’t deny that having her along for this wild ride was exactly what I needed.
Maddie and I stepped into the kitchen, laughing and joking about who could embarrass me more at the race when we both suddenly stopped dead in our tracks.
Sitting at the kitchen table, sipping tea like it was the most casual thing in the world, were Carrie and her mother, Savannah.
I froze, my heart sinking to my stomach. Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.
My mom glanced up, clearly trying to keep the peace with a polite smile, but there was no missing the tension in the air. “Oh, hey girls,” she said, in a tone that was way too casual for the situation. “We’re just having a little afternoon tea.”
Savannah gave us a small wave, her southern charm still as present as ever. “Hi, Y/N. Maddie. It’s been a while.”
Carrie glanced up at me, and for a second, I saw the flicker of recognition in her eyes. I could tell she was remembering the hotel elevator, just like I was. The awkward tension between us stretched out as thin as it could go.
In my head, a thousand thoughts ran wild. Why are they here? I knew the answer, though. My mom and Savannah had been cordial for years, mostly because they had to be. Both of them were rodeo managers for the same rodeo company, which meant they had to stay civil for the sake of work. The whole town knew their friendship was... well, strained at best. But here they were, playing nice over afternoon tea like it was some kind of forced social obligation.
Maddie, always the one to break awkward silences, cleared her throat. “Uh... hey, Mrs. Summers. Carrie.”
Carrie’s mom, Savannah, smiled politely, her perfect rodeo-queen hair barely moving as she lifted her teacup. “It’s lovely to see you two. Your mother and I were just catching up on the rodeo business.”
Of course you were, I thought bitterly. The rodeo world was so small, and no matter how much I wanted to avoid it—or Carrie—I couldn’t escape it.
My mom, sensing the tension, glanced between us. “Savannah and I were talking about the upcoming event. Looks like it’s going to be a busy season.”
Maddie shifted uncomfortably beside me. “Yeah, busy. Fun.” Her usual energy was suddenly subdued, which I knew was her way of trying to keep things from getting too awkward. Not that it was working.
Carrie, ever the queen of awkward stares, finally spoke, her tone as polite as ever. “It’s... good to see you, Y/N.” She hesitated, glancing at her mother before continuing. “How have you been?”
I forced a smile, trying not to let the awkwardness show on my face. “Great. Just, you know, busy.” Really busy fighting you in elevators and trying to forget you even exist.
Carrie nodded, sipping her tea, and the silence between us stretched even further. I could feel the weight of Savannah’s eyes on me, like she was silently assessing everything—our strained friendship, my disheveled appearance from running errands, everything.
Maddie, never one to let tension linger, piped up again. “Well, we just got back from the mart. You know, had to get that cilantro Mom keeps losing her mind over.”
Savannah smiled tightly. “Ah, yes. Cilantro can be tricky.”
I almost laughed at the absurdity of the moment, but I managed to hold it in, keeping the strained smile on my face. I just wanted this impromptu tea party from hell to be over with.
The silence in the kitchen stretched on, thick and awkward, like we were all waiting for something to break it but hoping it wouldn’t be us. I could feel Maddie’s discomfort beside me, her usual spark dimmed in the presence of Carrie and her mom. My mind raced with a mix of irritation and embarrassment—of all the days for them to be here, this had to be it.
Carrie set her teacup down gently, the soft clink of porcelain against porcelain filling the room like a final punctuation to the unbearable silence. She gave me a tight-lipped smile, that same fake pleasantness I’d grown used to over the years. “Well, it sounds like you’ve been keeping busy.”
Busy avoiding you, I thought, but instead I just nodded. “Yeah, something like that.” I forced a smile that probably looked more like a grimace.
Savannah, ever the poised and perfect woman she was, glanced at my mom and then back at us, her hands wrapped neatly around her teacup. “It’s important to stay productive. Especially with everything going on in the rodeo season. You girls must be a big help around here.”
I bit back the urge to laugh. My mom might be cordial with Savannah for the sake of their professional lives as rodeo managers, but the subtext was loud and clear. They barely tolerated each other, both knowing that competition was part of their work, and now that tension had trickled down to Carrie and me—and Maddie by default.
Maddie, bless her, tried to keep things light. “Oh, we’re great at helping out... with, uh, grocery shopping.” She flashed a smile, holding up the cilantro like it was some grand prize. “Mom’s got us on strict cilantro duty these days.”
Mom shot Maddie a look, clearly not in the mood for her humor right now. “Thank you, Maddie.”
Savannah raised an eyebrow at Maddie’s comment, but kept her voice smooth. “Cilantro can make or break a meal, I suppose.”
Carrie glanced at me again, her eyes flicking up and down, probably still processing our awkward encounter in the hotel elevator. “You know,” she said, her voice too casual, “I think I saw you at the Hilton the other day, Y/N. Were you there for something special?”
My stomach dropped. Of course she’d bring it up.
“Yeah, I... had some errands downtown,” I said, trying to keep my tone even. No way was I going to let her know about Daniel, not with her mother sitting right there.
Maddie, though, being Maddie, had no such reservations about subtlety. “Oh, you know, just casually bumping into Formula 1 drivers. No big deal.”
Carrie’s eyes widened slightly, and I saw her mom’s eyebrows lift in surprise.
“Formula 1 drivers?” Savannah asked, her tone suddenly more interested than it had been for the entire tea party.
I shot Maddie a seriously? look, but she just grinned like she’d been waiting to drop this bomb the entire time. “Yeah, we ran into Daniel Ricciardo. Real nice guy.”
Carrie’s jaw tightened just slightly, and I could tell she was piecing it all together. She probably knew exactly what had happened in that elevator. “Wow, Daniel Ricciardo,” she said, her voice cool. “That’s... interesting.”
Savannah, ever the picture of elegance, nodded approvingly. “Well, that’s quite a meeting. Formula 1 is certainly prestigious. You must have made quite the impression.”
I resisted the urge to laugh. Yeah, I made an impression, alright. But instead, I shrugged, trying to play it off. “It was... unexpected.”
Carrie’s eyes flickered with something—maybe curiosity, maybe envy—but her lips pressed together in a tight line. “Unexpected, huh?” she said, her voice a little too casual. “I’m sure it was.”
I could tell she wasn’t buying my attempt to downplay the situation. She knew. She’d probably already started piecing together the story from the elevator and was likely imagining a whole different version of events—one where she could twist it into something more dramatic.
Savannah, on the other hand, smiled that perfectly polished smile she always had, but I could see a glint of interest in her eyes. “Well, you’re certainly moving in impressive circles these days, Y/N. Formula 1 drivers... that’s a step up from the usual rodeo crowd, don’t you think?”
I bit back a smirk. “I guess you could say that.”
Carrie’s jaw tightened a little more, and I could see the wheels turning in her head. She had that look on her face—the one that said she was already planning how to bring this up the next time she was with her friends. She’d never admit it, but the idea of me bumping into someone like Daniel Ricciardo clearly irked her.
She straightened up in her seat, brushing a lock of perfectly styled hair behind her ear. “Well, it must’ve been nice to meet someone so... prestigious,” she said, her tone dripping with false politeness. “I’m sure it was a brief encounter.”
I raised an eyebrow, trying to keep my cool. “Yeah, brief.” I decided it was better not to mention the three-day paddock passes in my back pocket. The less ammunition Carrie had, the better.
Savannah, still smiling, added, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you saw him again at some point. Those kinds of connections have a way of resurfacing.”
I nodded, doing my best to seem nonchalant, but I couldn’t help glancing at Carrie, who was staring at me with just a little too much interest.
Carrie leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing just a bit. “So, what did you two talk about? I mean, you don’t exactly strike me as the F1 type.”
I could feel Maddie practically vibrating with excitement beside me, clearly enjoying how uncomfortable Carrie was. “Oh, we talked about racing. Rodeo. Life,” I said, keeping my response vague. I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of knowing more.
Carrie raised her eyebrow, sensing I wasn’t going to give her more details, but she couldn’t resist pushing a little further. “Rodeo, huh? That’s cute. I bet he found all of that... fascinating.”
Before I could respond, Maddie jumped in, her voice sweet but sharp. “Actually, he seemed really interested. You know, not everyone can handle a fast-paced life like Y/N’s. Some people are more into... exciting things.”
I shot Maddie a look, barely suppressing my grin as she winked at me.
Carrie’s smile faltered for just a second before she regained her composure. “Well, good for you, Y/N,” she said, her tone cold enough to send a chill through the room. “I’m sure you’ll fit right in with the race car crowd.”
Carrie’s words hung in the air like a challenge, her eyes flicking over me, searching for any sign of discomfort. But I wasn’t about to let her get the upper hand—not today.
I smiled, my voice steady. “I’m sure I will. After all, fast-paced lives aren’t for everyone.” I kept my tone light, but there was no missing the underlying message.
Carrie’s smile tightened, her fingers twitching slightly as she adjusted the strap of her designer bag. “Well, best of luck keeping up. Those kinds of people tend to leave others in the dust if they can’t handle the speed.”
Maddie, ever the bold one, didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, Y/N can handle anything. Don’t you worry about that.”
Carrie’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she forced another smile. “Of course. I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
I could practically hear Maddie holding back a giggle beside me. Carrie’s frustration was almost palpable, and I knew we were getting to her. She was always one to hold her cards close, but right now, the fact that I’d spent time with someone like Daniel Ricciardo—a man from a world far beyond Carrie’s reach—had clearly rattled her.
Savannah, ever the picture of grace, stepped in before things could escalate any further. “Alright, girls. We really must be going.” She placed a hand on Carrie’s shoulder, guiding her toward the door, but not before giving me one last glance. “You’ll have to tell us more about your Formula 1 adventures next time, Y/N.”
I nodded, keeping my expression neutral. “We’ll see how the weekend goes.”
Carrie shot me one last look as they turned to leave, her voice almost too casual. “Enjoy the race. Let’s hope it’s as exciting as you’re expecting.”
I held her gaze, giving her the smallest of smirks. “Oh, I’m sure it will be.”
As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, Maddie let out the loudest laugh, finally letting go of all the tension that had been bubbling up during that excruciatingly polite exchange.
“Did you see her face?” Maddie said, practically bouncing with glee. “She’s absolutely livid. I can’t believe you kept your cool like that!”
I exhaled, leaning against the counter. “Barely. She almost had me when she started pushing about Daniel.”
Maddie waved her hand dismissively. “Nah, you handled that like a champ. I mean, did you see how she tried to act all nonchalant? She’s probably seething inside.”
I grinned, shaking my head. “Well, let’s hope she stews on it for a while. Maybe she’ll back off.”
Maddie laughed, grabbing a soda from the fridge. “Or maybe she’ll just get more competitive. Either way, you’re the one with the paddock passes and a date with Daniel Ricciardo.”
I raised an eyebrow at her. “It’s not a date.”
She gave me a mischievous look. “We’ll see about that.”
As Maddie and I were still laughing about the showdown with Carrie, my mom suddenly cleared her throat from the kitchen doorway. “Oh,” she said, raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms, “so that’s where you were. I was wondering why you came back home looking like you’d been wrestling a tornado. Turns out you were just... banging some famous Formula 1 driver, huh?”
I froze, mid-laugh, and Maddie immediately burst into giggles, almost choking on her soda.
“MOM!” I spluttered, my face burning red. “I—I wasn’t—”
“Oh, honey,” my mom interrupted, waving a hand. “I don’t need the details. I’m just surprised you didn’t even bother to sneak in quietly after all that ‘looking for warts business’” She put heavy air quotes around her later statement, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm.
I rubbed my temples, feeling the embarrassment crawl up my neck. “It wasn’t... like that.”
Maddie, still giggling, jumped in. “Oh, it was exactly like that. Just wait until you hear about the cilantro.”
Mom raised an eyebrow, her smirk not fading. “Cilantro, huh? Sounds like that’s code for something else entirely.”
I groaned. “Mom! I am not having this conversation with you right now.”
She laughed, coming over and placing a hand on my shoulder. “I’m just messing with you, sweetie. But next time, try to sneak in a little less obviously. And maybe let your poor mother know if you plan on... running into celebrities in the future.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but Maddie quickly jumped in, still laughing. “Oh, don’t worry, Mom. If she ever brings Daniel Ricciardo home, you’ll be the first to know.”
My mom winked at me. “You better believe it. Just make sure to feed the poor boy—don’t want him leaving hungry after all that... grocery shopping.” She gave me a teasing smile, clearly enjoying every second of my discomfort.
I buried my face in my hands. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
Maddie leaned over, patting me on the back with a grin. “Welcome to the family, sis. Nothing stays secret here.”
After the chaos with Carrie, my mom’s teasing, and Maddie’s relentless jokes about Daniel, I finally retreated to my room, grateful for some peace and quiet. I had a big task ahead of me, one that had been on my mind for weeks—finalizing my album. The release date was just around the corner, and there were still a few loose ends to tie up.
I sat at my desk, flipping through the notebook that held all my song lyrics. Most of the album was finished, a mix of country ballads, heartbreak anthems, and some upbeat tracks about the wild, unpredictable life of a cowgirl. But something was missing. As I strummed my guitar absentmindedly, my thoughts kept drifting back to the events of the last couple of days—the bar, the unexpected encounter with Daniel, the flirting, the way he made me feel more alive than I’d felt in a long time.
Without even thinking, I started jotting down lyrics. The melody came first, soft and steady, like a heartbeat. The words followed, spilling out onto the page as I replayed that night in my mind. The tequila, the banter, the way he leaned in close with that lazy smile, and how I’d felt—nervous, excited, like I was diving into something new and unexpected.
Before I knew it, I had a full song written about that night. The lyrics were a little cheeky, playful, and flirty, with just enough emotional undertones to make it feel real. It wasn’t like the other songs on my album, but somehow, it fit. It felt right. It felt like something I needed to include.
I sat back, looking at the lyrics on the page, and let out a breath. “Okay,” I whispered to myself, “this might actually work.”
But there was one hurdle left—convincing my manager.
I picked up my phone and called them. It didn’t take long for the line to click, and my manager’s voice came through, warm but business-like as always. “Y/N! We’re almost there. Everything’s looking good for the album release. What’s up?”
I took a deep breath. “Hey, I’ve been thinking... I wrote a new song today. It’s about something that just happened recently, and I feel like it needs to be on the album.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, and I could hear them flipping through notes. “A new song? Y/N, we’re cutting it pretty close to the release date. Is it finished?”
“Yeah, it’s finished. I can send you a rough cut tonight,” I said, my heart pounding a little faster now. “I know it’s last minute, but this song... it’s important. It’s different from the other tracks, but it feels like the missing piece. I don’t want it on the physical CDs or anything—we can just add it to the online release.”
Another pause, and I held my breath, waiting.
Finally, my manager spoke, their tone thoughtful. “Send it over. I’ll take a listen. If it’s as good as you’re saying, we can make it work for the digital release. But no promises until I hear it.”
A wave of relief washed over me. “Thanks, I’ll send it over in an hour.”
I hung up the phone and got to work, recording a rough version of the song. It wasn’t polished, but the emotion was there, raw and real, just like that night with Daniel. When I listened back, I smiled, feeling a sense of satisfaction settle over me. This song wasn’t planned, but it felt like it was meant to be there, like it had been waiting for the right moment to come out.
Once the recording was done, I sent it off to my manager and leaned back in my chair, guitar still resting in my lap. The day had started out so wild, but now, here I was, about to add a brand-new track to my album because of an unexpected encounter at a bar with a Formula 1 driver.
It was crazy, sure—but it was my kind of crazy. The kind that made life interesting, that made music worth creating.
As soon as I hit send on the rough cut of the song to my manager, my phone buzzed in my hand. I glanced down and, to my surprise, saw Daniel’s name lighting up my screen. My heart skipped a beat—I wasn’t expecting to hear from him so soon, if at all. I swiped the notification open, and his message popped up.
Daniel:
👀 So… did I win the cilantro war or what?
I snorted, shaking my head. Of course he’d bring that up.
Me:
you wish... i think we agreed it was a draw, remember?
A few moments passed, and another message popped up.
Daniel:
Sure, sure. I’ll let you keep telling yourself that. But really, I let you have it. Gentleman and all. 😏
I rolled my eyes, biting back a smile as I typed back.
Me:
oh, you let me win, huh? that’s the story you’re going with??!
Daniel:
Obviously. Wouldn’t want to start a feud over herbs. You Texans can be dangerous when you don’t get your cilantro.
I chuckled to myself, feeling the tension from earlier slip away as we fell into easy banter.
Me:
you’re totally right. we don’t mess around with cilantro here. it’s practically sacred!! 😭
Daniel:
I’m starting to see that. 😅 So, how’s your day been, besides our grocery aisle showdown?
I hesitated for a second, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Should I tell him about the song? About Carrie and the whole awkward tea party? I decided to keep it light for now.
Me:
oh, you know... just the usual—running errands, finalizing some stuff for my album release. nothing too exciting, what about you?
His response came quickly.
Daniel:
Not as exciting as your day, I’m sure. Just some press stuff and getting ready for the race. Though I guess that means I’m busy dodging questions about why I’m spending so much time in the grocery store lately. 😏
I laughed, imagining him charming his way through whatever interviews he had lined up, somehow making even his grocery shopping sound interesting.
Me:
yeah, i’m sure the twitter is DYING to know all about your cilantro preferences.
Daniel:
Oh, absolutely. “Ricciardo spotted in aisle five—what does this mean for the upcoming race?” 😆
Me:
groundbreaking stuff😣😣. we’re really pushing the boundaries here.
His next text came through quickly, and I could almost hear the teasing in his voice.
Daniel:
Speaking of groundbreaking... any chance this album’s got a song about a certain Aussie driver in it? 😏
I froze for a second, staring at his message. He had no idea how close he was to the truth.
Me:
actually… funny you mention that. i may or may not have written something inspired by a recent bar encounter. 😉
There was a brief pause before his reply, and I imagined him raising an eyebrow on the other end.
Daniel:
Oh? Inspired by, huh? Now you’ve got my attention. Do I get to hear this masterpiece before the rest of the world does?
I grinned, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves. I wasn’t sure how he’d react, but something told me he’d find it amusing.
Me:
maybe... but only if you promise not to make fun of me. i just wrote it today, so it’s still fresh. it's my newborn baby 💗💗💗
Daniel:
Promise. I’m intrigued now. What’s it called?
I paused, biting my lip before typing.
Me:
i haven’t decided on a title yet, but let’s just say it has a lot to do with flirting, tequila, and someone wearing a cowboy hat...😏
His response came quickly, and I couldn’t help but laugh out loud.
Daniel:
Well, that narrows it down. Sounds like a banger already. 😎 When do I get to hear it?
I hesitated, unsure if I was really ready to let him listen to something so personal so soon. But then again, the whole point of the song was how unexpected and spontaneous things had been with him.
Me:
soon...maybe if you behave yourself at the race. 😏
Daniel:
Behave? Me? I’ll do my best, but no promises. 😉
I rolled my eyes, grinning at the screen. He had a way of keeping things light, but there was still something underneath all the teasing that felt... real.
Me:
alright alright cowboy, well, you’ll have to wait just like everyone else then. patience is a virtue, right?!
Daniel:
Patience is overrated, but for you, I guess I can try. 😎
I laughed, shaking my head. This was getting too fun.
Me:
good. now go prepare for your race before you get too distracted.
Daniel:
Oh, trust me, I’m already distracted. You’re making it hard to focus on track times, you know that?
I felt a blush creep up my neck at his words, though I tried to brush it off with my usual sarcasm.
Me:
well, o wouldn’t want to be responsible for messing up your race. just remember to keep it on track. 😏
His response came with a playful challenge.
Daniel:
Challenge accepted. Just don’t be surprised when I win—and not just on the track. 😉
I let out a laugh, shaking my head in disbelief.
Me:
we’ll see about that, Ricciardo.
Daniel:
Count on it.
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
author's note:
comment to be added to the taglist! i'll probably update in 1-2 weeks after i get a few more chapters out in my op81 lay all your love on me fic...stay tuned xx <3
synopsis: in which oscar piastri and a university student begging for her euro summer vacation collide in a steamy, abba-inspired romance
prose (8.8K words) ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩
profile | masterlist | series index ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
06: O-live-You And Other Things That Could've Been Said
The moment we stepped outside, the heat hit us like a solid wall. The sun was already high in the sky, radiating a fierce, unrelenting intensity that made the air shimmer like a mirage. It felt like stepping into an oven, the kind where the heat clings to your skin and settles in your bones, refusing to let go. The cobblestones beneath our feet were warm to the touch, and the faint breeze that occasionally swept by offered little relief, more like a faint exhale of hot air than anything truly cooling.
Mae immediately fanned herself with her hand, squinting against the harsh glare of the sun. “Oh my god, it’s not even ten yet and I’m already melting. I swear, this island is trying to roast us alive.”
Edie tugged at the collar of her tank top, flapping it to get some air. “I don’t know how people live like this. I can feel my makeup sliding off my face. At this rate, I’m going to look like a Picasso painting by noon.”
Hattie pulled her hair into a messy bun, beads of sweat already forming at her temples. “We’re officially in a sauna. A beautiful, picturesque sauna that’s actively trying to kill us with heatstroke.”
Oscar wiped his brow with the back of his hand, his shirt clinging to his back. “You guys are such drama queens,” he said, though his own forehead was glistening with sweat. “It’s not that bad. Just… extremely, painfully hot.”
Mae shot him an incredulous look, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Not that bad? I can practically see the soles of my shoes melting into the pavement. If I pass out, just drag me to the nearest air-conditioned place and leave me there.”
Oscar chuckled, glancing over at me. “You holding up okay, or should we start taking bets on who drops first?”
I fanned myself with my hand, feeling the heat radiate off the ground in waves. “I’m fine, but I might have to invest in one of those little handheld fans soon. Or, you know, a personal ice bath.”
Oscar shot me a mischievous grin, his eyes sparkling despite the beads of sweat gathering at his temples. “An ice bath, huh? That’s my kind of recovery. I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve when it comes to cooling down after a race. Maybe I could show you how it’s done—F1 style.”
I rolled my eyes, but the smile on my face was impossible to hide. “Oh, so what, we’re going to do some pit stops for hydration and tire changes along the way too?”
Oscar laughed, running a hand through his damp hair. “Only if you’re up for it. I can be your personal pit crew. We’ll keep it professional, of course… until we get to the ice bath part.”
Mae groaned loudly, rolling her eyes as she overheard. “Please, Oscar. Save the flirting for after I’ve downed a liter of water and found some shade. We’re all dying here, and you’re still trying to turn this into a date.”
Oscar just shrugged, unbothered, and shot me a wink. “What can I say? I’m dedicated to the full experience. And hey, if it involves ice baths and a little friendly competition, I’m all in.”
I nudged him playfully, feeling a rush of warmth that had nothing to do with the weather. “Well, if you can handle the heat on the track, I’m sure you can handle a little morning market stroll. But I’m holding you to that ice bath promise—I might just need it after this.”
Oscar smirked, leaning in closer. “You got it. I’ll even make sure it’s got all the F1 essentials—like speed, precision, and just enough flirtation to keep things interesting.”
His teasing sent a shiver down my spine despite the scorching heat, and for a moment, I almost forgot about the sun beating down on us. But then another wave of hot air hit, reminding us all just how relentless the day was going to be.
Hattie, overhearing our exchange, fanned herself dramatically and shook her head. “Alright, you two, keep it cool… literally. We’re about five minutes away from turning into human puddles, and I’m not prepared to deal with that kind of meltdown.”
We all laughed, the tension easing as we continued down the path, our steps a little lighter despite the oppressive heat. And as Oscar’s playful banter echoed in my ears, I couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, a little F1-style cool-down wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Edie let out a groan, shielding her eyes with her hand. “At this point, I’d settle for a bucket of ice water to the face. I don’t care about looking cute; I just want to survive.”
As we trudged along, the heat wrapped around us like a heavy blanket, every breath feeling thick and labored. The chatter continued, but now it was peppered with complaints and exaggerated groans, each of us trying to find some humor in the absurdity of the oppressive sun. The market couldn’t come soon enough, and as we walked, we silently vowed to find the nearest shade—or, even better, a cold drink—before any of us truly combusted under the relentless summer blaze.
Oscar fell into step beside me, close enough that our arms brushed as we walked. “Bet you five euros Mae buys something completely useless within the first ten minutes.”
I grinned, nudging him lightly with my shoulder. “I’ll take that bet. But I think it’s going to be Edie who cracks first. She’s got that look in her eye—like she’s on a mission to buy something she doesn’t need.”
Oscar laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re on. This might be the easiest money I’ve ever made.”
We continued down the winding path, the sun already blazing above us and making every surface shimmer with heat. The air was so thick and warm, it felt like walking through a giant hairdryer, and every step seemed to bring a fresh wave of stickiness that clung to our skin. The occasional shade from an overhanging tree felt like a blessed oasis, but those moments were fleeting, and soon we were back in the relentless glare.
Mae groaned dramatically, pulling her hair up into a messy bun as she fanned her neck with her hand. “I swear, this is how people end up in documentaries about survival. If I faint, just drag me to the nearest gelato stand.”
Edie, already looking flushed and slightly disheveled, tugged at her tank top. “Forget gelato; I’m about two minutes away from dunking my head in the nearest fountain. I can’t believe people live like this.”
Hattie chimed in, her voice laced with mock despair. “I feel like I’m being slow-cooked. If this is a test of endurance, I’m failing spectacularly. Someone tell me why we thought coming out in this heat was a good idea?”
Oscar glanced at me, his smile wicked. “Don’t worry, everyone. I’ve got it all under control. We’ll get to the market, find some shade, and then maybe I’ll set up an ice bath demo right there in the middle of the square. I’m sure it’ll be the highlight of everyone’s day.”
I laughed, shaking my head at the absurdity of it all. “Oh yeah, nothing says local culture like a makeshift ice bath. You’ll have an audience in no time, and I’m pretty sure they’d crown you the king of market day.”
Oscar flashed me a grin, his hand brushing mine as we walked. “As long as you’re there to cheer me on, I’m ready to make it happen. We can call it ‘Beat the Heat: The Oscar Edition.’”
Mae, overhearing us, rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her smile. “I’m not paying to see that, but I’ll definitely take a video. It’s going viral, for sure.”
Oscar shot her a mock glare. “Only if you promise to catch my good side. And for the record, I’m pretty sure this ice bath idea is going to save lives today.”
Edie snorted, already scanning the stalls in the distance as the market came into view. “Oscar, you’re not saving lives. You’re just trying to impress your new audience,” she teased, giving him a playful nudge. “But hey, if it gets us a cold drink faster, I’m all for it.”
The market was a sensory overload in the best possible way—vibrant stalls overflowing with fresh fruits, handmade trinkets, and colorful textiles flapping in the light breeze. The mingling aromas of spices, fresh bread, and grilling meats filled the air, and every few steps, a vendor would call out to us, trying to lure us in with their wares. The place was alive with people—locals haggling with vendors, tourists snapping photos, and children darting between stalls with sticky fingers and delighted grins.
Oscar and I wandered through the aisles, pausing occasionally to admire a particularly colorful display of woven baskets or to sample a piece of sweet, juicy melon that a vendor insisted we try. It was a chaotic, joyful atmosphere, and despite the heat, I found myself genuinely enjoying the experience.
That is, until we reached a stall filled with every kind of olive you could imagine. From glossy black olives marinated in herbs to bright green ones stuffed with garlic, the selection was endless. Oscar, with his usual mischievous glint, picked up a toothpick and speared an olive, holding it out to me.
“Come on, try this one. I promise, it’s the best thing you’ll ever taste,” he said, his voice dripping with the confidence of someone who’d already decided the outcome.
I eyed the olive suspiciously, but the look on his face was so hopeful and endearing that I couldn’t refuse. I took the olive, popped it into my mouth, and almost immediately regretted my decision. The taste hit me like a freight train—intensely salty, bitter, and pungent, with a weirdly spicy kick that felt like it was attacking my taste buds from all sides.
I gagged, trying desperately to maintain some semblance of composure, but it was no use. My eyes watered, and I felt the immediate, burning need to spit it out. But before I could, I accidentally inhaled, choking on the olive’s briny juice in the most unattractive way possible. I doubled over, coughing and sputtering, as the taste continued to assault my senses.
Oscar, realizing what had happened, tried to help by patting me on the back, but his well-meaning thumps only made things worse. I stumbled forward, knocking into a rack of precariously balanced jars filled with pickled vegetables. The entire display wobbled ominously before tipping over with a loud crash, sending jars shattering to the ground and splattering their contents all over my sandals.
“Bloody fuck!” Oscar yelped, jumping back as brine and pickled peppers splashed up around us. He reached out, grabbing my arm to steady me, but we were both already slipping in the mess.
I finally managed to spit out the offending olive, doubling over in laughter as I wiped tears from my eyes. “Oh my god, that was—what the hell was in that olive? I think I just tasted hell!”
Oscar, trying to suppress his own laughter, looked down at the mess we’d made. “I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t think it would be that bad! You looked like you were being possessed by some ancient demon.”
“Note to self,” I managed between gasps, “never, ever take an olive recommendation from you again.”
Oscar grinned sheepishly, still holding onto my arm to keep us both from slipping. “Deal. But hey, at least it’s a market memory we won’t forget anytime soon.”
We worked together to gather the scattered jars, our hands brushing occasionally, sending small electric jolts through my already flustered system. The vendor, a grumpy old man with a thick mustache and a fierce scowl, continued muttering under his breath, clearly unimpressed with our attempts to make amends. I offered him a sheepish smile, trying not to slip on the brine-soaked pavement, while Oscar dug into his wallet, pulling out a few euros to cover the damage.
As we finished up, Oscar turned to me with that infuriatingly charming grin of his. “Well, that’s one way to make an impression. I’d say we’re officially banned from the olive section.”
I laughed, wiping my hands on my dress, which was now speckled with flecks of pickling spices. “At this rate, we’re going to get banned from the whole market. I mean, who knew olives could be so dangerous?”
Oscar raised an eyebrow, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Dangerous? I’d say they were just misunderstood. But hey, if you want to blame me for this epic disaster, I’ll take the fall.” He struck a dramatic pose, hand over his heart, like a martyr taking the blame for a noble cause. “I, Oscar from Australia, solemnly swear to never force-feed you another olive as long as we both shall live.”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t suppress my grin. “You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re apologizing. Otherwise, I’d still be gagging over that monstrosity you made me eat.”
He leaned in closer, lowering his voice to a mock whisper. “Lucky? I think you’re just softening up to me, olive incident and all.”
I pushed him lightly, but the warmth in his gaze didn’t falter, and I found myself caught in the easy rhythm of his teasing. “Yeah, yeah, don’t let it go to your head. But you’re definitely going to owe me an ice cream after this.”
Oscar smirked, his eyes sparkling mischievously. “Ice cream? Please, we’re in Greece. You mean gelato,” he corrected, his voice dripping with playful mockery. He stepped closer, his tone teasing but his proximity making my heart skip a beat. “And trust me, I know the best place. Only the finest for my olive-battle buddy.”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at my lips. “Alright, Mr. Gelato Expert. Lead the way.”
A few minutes later, we were standing at a small gelato stand, the sweet, creamy scent wafting through the air, instantly making me forget the earlier chaos. Oscar handed me a scoop of hazelnut gelato, then grabbed his own, a vibrant pistachio. As he took a triumphant bite, a dollop of green gelato smeared right onto his nose, turning the flirty moment into an adorably ridiculous one.
I stifled a laugh, trying to keep my composure as he continued to talk, completely unaware of the green splotch on his face. “See? This is real dessert. None of that commercialized stuff—”
I burst out laughing, and he paused, eyebrows raised. “What?”
“Uh, you’ve got a little… something,” I said, pointing to my own nose as a hint.
He tried to swipe at it but missed, smearing it even more. “This?”
I shook my head, biting my lip to keep from laughing too hard. “Here, let me.” Without thinking, I reached up, my fingers gently brushing his nose as I wiped away the sticky gelato. The touch was brief, but it was enough to make my pulse quicken.
Our eyes met, and for a moment, it felt like the busy market around us had faded away, leaving just the two of us in a little bubble of shared laughter and unspoken tension. Oscar’s gaze softened, the playful glint giving way to something deeper as he leaned in slightly, our faces close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off his skin.
“You know,” he murmured, his voice low, “I think I’m going to have to spill gelato on myself more often if it gets you this close.”
I laughed softly, still feeling the tingling of where his nose had brushed against my fingertips. “You’re ridiculous,” I said, but there was no hiding the smile on my face. “But if that’s your plan, maybe try keeping it on your gelato next time.”
Oscar chuckled, his eyes sparkling with playful mischief as he leaned in just a little closer, closing the already narrow gap between us. “Can’t make any promises,” he said, his voice dipping into that teasingly low, flirtatious tone that sent a familiar thrill coursing through me. “Besides, I’m not sure gelato is half as fun without a little mess.”
I rolled my eyes, but the warmth spreading through my chest made it impossible to hide the grin tugging at my lips. “I’m starting to think you do it on purpose,” I said, trying to sound exasperated but failing miserably as Oscar’s thumb grazed a stray bit of gelato from the corner of my mouth, his touch lingering just a beat longer than necessary.
He shrugged, still impossibly close, his grin broadening. “What can I say? Keeps things interesting.” His voice softened, and for a brief moment, his gaze flickered to my lips before meeting my eyes again, his expression a mix of playfulness and something deeper that made my heart skip. “But I have to admit, I’ve got pretty good taste.”
I felt my cheeks flush under his steady gaze, the space between us charged with an almost tangible electricity. The casualness of his words belied the underlying tension simmering just beneath the surface, each flirty remark and lingering touch a dare to step closer, to push the boundaries just a little more.
“Yeah?” I challenged, tilting my head slightly, unable to resist the pull of the moment. “Well, just so you know, you’re not the only one with good taste.”
Oscar's eyes darkened with a mix of intrigue and something more playful, his smile never wavering as he scooted closer, his thigh brushing against mine on the impossibly narrow bench. The space between us was almost nonexistent now, our legs tangled in a way that felt intimate, unspoken, and thrillingly reckless. I could feel the heat radiating off his skin, the brush of his arm against mine sending little jolts of electricity through me.
“Oh, I’m well aware,” he said, his voice low and edged with that teasing drawl that made my pulse quicken. He leaned in closer, so close that I could feel his breath, warm and sweet, grazing my cheek. “But I think I like hearing you admit it.”
The proximity, the way his eyes held mine without flinching, had my heart pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it. I tried to play it cool, but the intensity of his gaze, the closeness of his body, made every breath feel charged with possibility.
“You’re really pushing your luck,” I said, my voice coming out softer than I intended, almost breathless. His knee nudged mine, a playful, subtle reminder of how little space was left between us.
Oscar smirked, scooting even closer, his leg pressing against mine with a deliberate pressure that sent my nerves into overdrive. “Maybe,” he whispered, his lips barely an inch away from my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “But something tells me you’re not exactly complaining.”
The words hung between us, laced with a flirty challenge that dared me to push back, to match his game. I tried to muster a witty comeback, but all I could focus on was the feel of his thigh against mine, his shoulder brushing my arm, the intoxicating closeness that made the world around us blur.
“Bold assumption,” I managed to say, but my voice wavered, betraying the flutter of excitement thrumming beneath my calm facade. “What makes you think you’re so irresistible?”
Oscar grinned, his confidence unwavering as he leaned in, closing the gap until his lips were just a breath away from mine, close enough that I could feel the heat of his smile. “Call it a hunch,” he murmured, his tone dripping with playful arrogance. “Or maybe it’s just that look you give me every time I get this close.”
My breath hitched, and I found myself leaning in without meaning to, drawn to the warmth of his presence, the challenge in his eyes. His teasing was relentless, but it was the way he looked at me—like this was all just foreplay for something much bigger—that left me breathless, my heart racing as if daring me to make the next move.
“You’re trouble, you know that?” I said, my voice a shaky whisper, half accusation, half something else entirely.
Oscar’s grin widened, his thumb brushing my wrist in a touch so light it sent a ripple of warmth through my whole body. “And you love it,” he said simply, the certainty in his voice leaving no room for doubt. And maybe, just maybe, he was right.
My heart pounded in my chest, the air between us thick with unspoken tension, and for a split second, I thought he might kiss me. But just as the moment reached its peak, a loud honk blasted through the air, startling us both.
We jerked apart, whipping our heads around to see a vendor on a tiny motorbike, zigzagging through the crowded market with a basket of fresh bread strapped precariously to the back. He shouted something in Greek that I couldn’t quite catch, but the tone made it clear—get out of the way or risk getting run over by a man determined to deliver his breakfast goods.
Oscar laughed, breaking the spell as he scooted back just enough to avoid a collision. “Well, that’s one way to ruin the mood,” he said, still chuckling as he raked a hand through his hair, his confidence momentarily deflated by the absurdity of the scene.
I couldn’t help but burst into laughter, the tension between us dissolving into sheer ridiculousness. “Guess the universe decided you needed to cool it,” I teased, nudging him lightly with my shoulder. “Pretty sure you just got cockblocked by a bread guy.”
Oscar held up his hands in mock surrender, still grinning. “Alright, alright. I get it. Even the universe thinks I’m too much to handle.” He leaned back against the bench, shaking his head as he watched the motorbike weave away into the crowd. “Who knew my biggest competition would be a guy delivering carbs?”
I snorted, trying to stifle my laughter. “Hey, everyone’s gotta eat. Maybe take it as a sign to slow your roll.”
Before Oscar could respond with another flirty comeback, the sound of hurried footsteps approached, followed by a burst of laughter. Suddenly, Mae leaped onto Oscar’s back, her arms flailing as she yelled, “Revenge is sweet!” Oscar staggered forward, caught completely off guard, and nearly dropped his gelato.
“What the—Mae!” Oscar exclaimed, half-laughing, half-groaning as he tried to regain his balance. “Are you trying to kill me?”
Mae grinned wickedly, clinging to his shoulders like a monkey. “Just evening the score for this morning’s stealth attack, big brother. You’re not the only one who can sneak up on people.”
Hattie and Edie appeared behind them, both wearing matching amused smirks. Hattie folded her arms, raising an eyebrow. “We’ve been looking for you two all over. Thought you’d ditched us for some secret gelato rendezvous.”
Edie nodded, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Yeah, Mae said you were probably off flirting somewhere. Turns out she was right.”
I could feel my cheeks flush as I glanced at Oscar, who was still trying to pry Mae off his back without spilling his gelato. “Us? Flirting?” I said, feigning innocence. “We were just… enjoying our ice cream. Totally innocent.”
Mae finally hopped off Oscar’s back, adjusting her shirt with a triumphant smile. “Sure, sure. We believe you. But don’t think we didn’t see that little moment just now. If you’re gonna get all cute and flirty, at least invite us next time so we can take notes.”
Oscar rubbed his shoulder, shaking his head at Mae’s antics. “You’re all just jealous of my natural charm. Can’t a guy enjoy gelato in peace?”
Hattie smirked, nudging Edie. “Or maybe we just like keeping you on your toes. After all, someone’s gotta make sure you’re not too distracted by… certain distractions.”
I rolled my eyes, biting back a smile. “Don’t worry, girls. I’ve got it all under control. And besides, someone’s gotta keep him from knocking over gelato carts.”
Oscar shot me a look of mock betrayal, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed his amusement. “Great, now I’ve got all of you ganging up on me. But hey, if it gets Mae off my back—literally—I’ll take it.”
Mae patted his shoulder, still grinning. “Aw, don’t be such a baby. We’re just here to keep you grounded. And if that means ambushing you from time to time, then so be it.”
Oscar shook his head, laughing under his breath. “You all have too much fun at my expense.”
Hattie, always ready with a quick retort, smirked as she picked up a napkin to wipe some melted gelato off the bench. “Hey, it’s only fair. You spent the entire morning trying to charm the life out of everyone. We’re just giving you a taste of your own medicine.”
Edie leaned against the bench, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “And let’s be real, Oscar—keeping you grounded is practically a full-time job. It’s like herding a cat with a God complex.”
Oscar threw his hands up in mock defeat. “Alright, alright. I get it—I’m officially outnumbered.”
Mae grinned, clearly enjoying herself. “Oh, definitely. But you love it. You wouldn’t know what to do without us.”
Oscar glanced at me, his grin widening. “Yeah, well, I think I’ve got some backup now. Someone’s gotta be on my side.”
I raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Don’t look at me. I’m just here for the gelato and entertainment. You’re on your own.”
The sisters burst into laughter, and Oscar let out an exaggerated sigh. “See? This is my life now—betrayed by everyone I care about.”
“Hey,” Mae said, elbowing him in the side. “That’s the price you pay for being charming and annoyingly persistent.”
Oscar slung an arm over her shoulders, pulling her into a playful side hug. “Yeah, well, I guess it’s a small price to pay for being this irresistible.”
Edie rolled her eyes, her voice dripping with mock exasperation. “There he goes again. We can’t take you anywhere.”
I glanced at the bags the sisters were carrying, each one bursting with colorful trinkets, snacks, and what looked like the most random assortment of souvenirs imaginable. “So, what did you guys get? Anything worth bragging about?”
Hattie held up a woven fan, waving it dramatically in front of her face. “Essential survival gear,” she declared. “If I have to hear Mae complain about the heat one more time, this thing’s getting thrown at her.”
Mae shot her a look, then pulled out a tiny carved wooden turtle with a goofy grin etched into its face. “I got this little guy. He’s the new mascot of our misadventures. And don’t you dare say he’s useless, because I’m emotionally attached now.”
Edie, not to be outdone, produced a pair of wildly patterned sunglasses that looked like they’d been pulled straight out of a 1980s music video. “And I got these. They were practically begging to be bought.”
I grinned, exchanging a knowing look with Oscar. “Well, well, looks like I win the bet. Edie cracked first.” I held out my hand toward Oscar, palm up. “That’ll be five euros, please.”
Oscar sighed dramatically, fishing the crumpled bill out of his pocket. “I should’ve known better than to bet against your instincts.” He slapped the money into my hand, feigning disappointment. “Enjoy your winnings.”
Mae’s jaw dropped, her eyes darting between us. “Wait, wait, wait. You guys bet on us?”
Oscar shrugged, a mischievous glint in his eye. “It’s all in good fun. I just had a feeling Edie wouldn’t be able to resist the lure of something ridiculous.”
Edie clutched her sunglasses to her chest in mock outrage. “You bet on us? What are we, a reality show now? Next thing I know, there’ll be a scoreboard tracking all our bad decisions.”
Hattie laughed, shaking her head. “Honestly, I feel betrayed, but also kinda proud. At least you guys know us well enough to make accurate predictions.”
Mae crossed her arms, a mock pout on her lips. “I would’ve bet on Edie too, though. She can’t go five minutes without buying something weird.”
I smirked, pocketing my euros. “Don’t worry, it’s all out of love. And hey, at least now I’m five euros richer.”
Oscar slung his arm around my shoulders, grinning. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. But I’m coming back for that money, just you wait.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, feeling the easy camaraderie between us all. “Well, you’re welcome to try, but I think I’ll keep my winning streak going.”
As the playful energy buzzed between us, we decided to split up again—Mae and Edie darting off towards a stall selling handcrafted jewelry, and Hattie wandering towards a display of local ceramics. Oscar nudged me, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “Come on,” he said, tilting his head toward a boutique nestled at the end of the market. “Let’s check out that shop. Looks like your kind of place.”
I followed his gaze to a quaint little boutique tucked into a narrow alley, its entrance framed by delicate vines of bougainvillea spilling over the roof. The shop’s exterior was painted in soft pastels, and a whimsical, hand-painted sign above the door read Marina’s Closet in elegant, looping script. The glass windows were filled with a curated display of dresses, sun hats, and accessories, each item carefully arranged to catch the eye. Through the window, I could see racks of brightly colored clothes, twinkling with the promise of a well-spent afternoon.
As we stepped inside, the cool air was a welcome relief from the heat outside. The shop was small but charming, filled with an eclectic mix of elegant summer dresses, flowy skirts, and delicate blouses in fabrics that ranged from soft linens to airy silks. The walls were painted a soft blush pink, and the space was filled with carefully arranged plants, their green leaves trailing down the walls and adding to the shop’s intimate, garden-like feel. Soft music played overhead—a mix of gentle acoustic and soft pop that set a relaxing, dreamy mood.
Antique mirrors lined the walls, their ornate, gold-gilded frames reflecting the soft light of the hanging lanterns that gave the boutique a warm, cozy glow. Shelves displayed colorful accessories—scarves, statement necklaces, and wide-brimmed hats, each one more elegant than the last. The floor was a mix of polished wood and a plush rug in the center, creating a sense of luxury and comfort all at once.
Oscar’s eyes sparkled as he glanced over the selection, his smile widening as he pulled out a flowing dress in a delicate shade of dusty rose. “This place is pretty cool. It’s got that ‘I know I’m expensive’ vibe,” he joked, running his thumb over the soft fabric. “But hey, nothing wrong with dreaming a little, right?”
I nodded, trailing behind him as he moved down the aisle. My fingers brushed against a rack of silk blouses and embroidered tops, each more intricate than the last. I picked up a dress—a light blue number with delicate floral patterns stitched along the hem—and flipped the tag over, my eyes widening at the price. “Yeah, it’s definitely out of my usual budget. I mean, I love window shopping, but this stuff? This is like, ‘Do I need to sell a kidney?’ territory.”
Oscar glanced at me, his eyes crinkling with amusement as he gently took the dress from my hand, holding it up against me. “Oh, come on, it’s not that bad,” he said, his tone playful but with a hint of seriousness. “And besides, it looks amazing. You should try it on.”
I hesitated, looking around at the boutique’s carefully curated atmosphere, every detail screaming exclusivity. “I don’t know, Oscar. This isn’t exactly my kind of place. I’m more of a ‘sale rack at Zara’ kind of girl. And these prices? Let’s just say they’re a bit much.”
But Oscar didn’t seem to care about the price tags or my hesitations. He found another dress—a soft lavender one with a cinched waist and delicate lace detailing at the shoulders—and held it out to me, his grin never faltering. “Just try it on. What’s the harm? It’s not every day you get to play dress-up in a fancy place like this.” he said, his voice casual but sincere. “Try it on. What’s the harm in that?”
I hesitated, glancing at the price tag again. “Oscar, this stuff is like... ridiculously overpriced. I don’t think trying on a dress I can’t afford is gonna make me feel better.”
He grinned, nudging me gently. “Come on, it’s just for fun. And besides, you never know—maybe you’ll fall in love with something, and I’ll just have to figure out how to make it yours.”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at my lips. “Fine, but only because you’re annoyingly convincing.” I took the dress from his hands and headed toward the fitting room, the soft fabric cool against my skin.
Inside the fitting room, I slipped into the dress, feeling the way the light material draped elegantly over my figure. It was simple yet stunning, with delicate lace detailing along the neckline and a flowing skirt that brushed just above my ankles. I smoothed my hands over the fabric, feeling unexpectedly confident as I stepped out to show Oscar.
His eyes lit up as he saw me, and he leaned back against one of the mirrored walls, his gaze roaming appreciatively. “Wow,” he said, the word coming out in a breathless sort of way that made my cheeks warm. “You look... amazing.”
I twirled slightly, watching the dress flare out around me. “Yeah? You don’t think it’s too much?”
He shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “Not at all. It’s perfect. But let’s see more—you’re not done yet.”
Encouraged by his reaction, I tried on a few more dresses—a pastel blue sundress with delicate embroidery that hugged my waist and a soft, buttery yellow wrap dress with fluttery sleeves. Each time I stepped out, Oscar’s praise came easy, his eyes bright with genuine admiration that left me feeling both flattered and slightly overwhelmed.
I stood before the mirror, dressed in the last outfit—a bold, deep green dress with a plunging neckline and an effortlessly elegant cut that made me feel like I was stepping into another world. I turned slightly, admiring the way the color brought out the warmth in my skin. “I can’t decide,” I admitted, biting my lip as I looked at the three dresses hanging beside me. “They’re all so beautiful, but...”
Oscar stepped closer, his reflection appearing beside mine in the mirror. “Why choose?” he said lightly, his hand brushing my shoulder as he gazed at the dresses. “You look incredible in all of them.”
I laughed softly, shaking my head. “Oscar, that’s not how this works. These dresses are... well, let’s just say they’re not in my usual shopping cart. I have to pick one, and even that feels like a splurge.”
But Oscar just shrugged, his smile turning teasing. “Or you could let me handle it. Consider it my treat.”
I blinked, turning to face him fully. “No way. Oscar, you can’t just—”
He cut me off with a playful roll of his eyes, already reaching for his wallet. “I can and I will. Besides, you’re the one who’s been keeping me entertained all day. It’s the least I can do.”
I watched, half in shock, half in admiration as he took all three dresses to the counter, handing over his card with a charming smile. The shopkeeper, a kindly older woman with a twinkle in her eye, rang up the total, her knowing smile suggesting she’d seen this kind of gesture before.
“Oscar, you’re ridiculous,” I murmured, trying to keep my voice light but unable to fully hide how touched I was. “But... thank you.”
He handed me the bags with a wink, his fingers lingering against mine for just a second longer than necessary. “You’re welcome. And besides, now I get to see you in all three. Totally worth it.”
I laughed, feeling the weight of the dresses in my hands and the warmth of Oscar’s gesture settle in my chest. It was more than just a shopping trip—it was another shared moment, another flirty, unplanned adventure that made everything feel a little more magical.
“You really are something else, you know that?” I said, shaking my head but smiling all the same.
Oscar grinned, stepping closer as we made our way out of the boutique. “Yeah, but I’m your something else. And I think that’s working out pretty well.”
As we stepped out of the boutique and back into the bustling market, I felt the weight of Oscar’s generosity with every step, the boutique bags brushing against my legs. It was more than just the dresses; it was the way he effortlessly turned a simple shopping trip into something memorable, something that lingered in the air between us like an unspoken promise.
I tried to brush off the fluttery feeling that had settled in my chest, but it was no use. This thing with Oscar—it was different from anything I’d ever known. I’d had my share of flings before, little sparks that fizzled out as quickly as they began. Those past connections had always felt manageable, easy to keep at arm’s length. But with Oscar, nothing felt sensible anymore. The boundaries I’d set for myself, the rules I used to follow, they all seemed to blur in his presence.
Every time I looked at him, it was like the ground had shifted beneath me.
The truth of it all was incomprehensible, a quiet realization that settled in as we strolled through the market together.
I glanced at him, watching the way he moved with such easy confidence, the way he could make a simple afternoon feel like an adventure. It was unsettling, exhilarating, and it was all him.
Oscar’s eyes sparkled with a playful intensity, his voice dipping into that teasing, confident tone that always sent my heart racing. “Just so you know,” he murmured, leaning in closer, “if you keep looking at me like that, I won’t have a choice but to make you lay all your love on me.”
I felt the heat rush to my cheeks, caught between the thrill of his words and the undeniable pull that kept drawing us closer. “Is that a challenge?” I shot back, my smile betraying the flutter of excitement I couldn’t quite hide.
Oscar’s grin widened, his thumb tracing a light, teasing line along my wrist. “Not a challenge, sweetheart—just a promise.”
I stood there, momentarily stunned by the warmth of his words, feeling the electricity of the moment crackle between us. Before I could even think to respond, Oscar reached out casually and took the shopping bags from my hands, his movements smooth and effortless. It was such a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes—his natural ease, the way he so confidently stepped in without asking, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Hey,” I protested lightly, reaching to take them back, but he just shook his head, flashing me that boyish, infuriatingly charming smile.
“I’ve got it,” he said, his tone light but firm, like there was no room for argument. “Besides, it’s only fair. You did all the hard work trying them on. I’m just here to look pretty and carry the bags.”
I rolled my eyes, trying to suppress the grin tugging at my lips. “Yeah, sure. Because that was so exhausting for you.”
Oscar shrugged, adjusting the bags in his hands as if they weighed nothing. “Hey, I’m just doing my part. You get to rock the dresses, and I get to be the guy who made you smile today. Seems like a fair trade to me.”
Oscar glanced over, catching my gaze, and his smile softened. “I mean it, you know. You look amazing. And I’m glad you let me do this,” he said, giving the bags a little lift as if to emphasize his point.
“Thank you,” I said quietly, the sincerity in my voice matching the look in his eyes. “Not just for the dresses, but… for today.”
He winked, nudging me lightly with his shoulder as we continued down the cobblestone street. “Anytime. And hey, just remember—you don’t have to lay all your love on me. But I’m here, just in case you feel like it.”
We regrouped with the rest of the crew at a quaint, sun-soaked café nestled on a side street, its tiny tables spilling out onto the cobblestones under the shade of a vine-draped pergola. The café looked like it had been plucked straight from a movie set—warm, rustic, and effortlessly charming, with mismatched chairs and handwritten chalkboard menus propped against the stone walls. Mae, Hattie, and Edie were already seated, chattering animatedly over a pitcher of iced tea, the condensation pooling lazily on the table in the afternoon heat.
“There you are,” Mae called out, waving dramatically as we approached. “We were about to send out a search party. Or, you know, just assume you two were off kissing ass and making out somewhere.”
Oscar chuckled, pulling out a chair for me with a gallant flourish before dropping into the seat next to mine. “Who, us? We’d never. Just two innocent tourists enjoying the sights,” he said with mock innocence, shooting me a playful side-eye that made my heart do a little flip.
Hattie leaned forward, smirking as she sipped her drink. “Innocent, huh? I don’t know, Oscar. The way you two keep disappearing, it’s so suspicious from my point of view.”
Edie snorted, pushing a basket of fresh bread toward us. “Yeah, and we’re all just here for the free show. So, did you buy out the whole boutique, or was it just a private shopping spree for two?”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t hide my grin. “Very funny. It was strictly a ‘window shopping with a side of unsolicited fashion advice’ kind of trip.” I shot Oscar a look, remembering how he’d nudged me into trying on almost everything in the shop.
Oscar leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head, looking far too pleased with himself. “What can I say? I’ve got a knack for knowing what looks good. And hey, she made it easy.”
Mae scoffed, breaking off a piece of bread and popping it into her mouth. “Easy? Oscar, the way you two were eyeing each other, I’m surprised we didn’t walk in on a full-blown fashion montage. Music and all.”
Oscar raised his hands in surrender, grinning. “Alright, alright. Guilty as charged. But can you blame me? She makes everything look good.”
I felt my cheeks warm under his praise, and I tried to keep my composure as I reached for a glass of water. “Don’t encourage him,” I said, trying to sound exasperated but failing as a smile crept onto my lips. “He’s already got enough of an ego without you guys cheering him on.”
Edie chuckled, nudging Mae. “See? I told you. They’re basically one flirty comment away from starring in their own rom-com.”
Oscar shot Edie a mock glare, then turned back to me with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Well, if this is a rom-com, then I guess that makes you the leading lady,” he said, his voice dipping into that teasing, flirty tone that never failed to make my heart skip.
"Your shit is so corny dude, lighten the fuck up," Edie sighed, burying her head in her palms. Mae slapped her head, giggling furiously.
I snorted, grabbing a menu and pretending to study it intently. “Great, then I demand script approval. No more surprise elbow attacks, and definitely no scenes where I have to chase you down a street.”
As I pretended to study the menu, Oscar leaned in, trying to catch a glimpse of my choices. “You know, I’d recommend the moussaka. It’s practically a work of art on a plate.”
“Artful moussaka? Really?” I raised an eyebrow, smirking. “I’ll stick to the classic spanakopita. At least it can’t judge me.”
“Spanakopita it is, then,” he said, chuckling. “I’ll get the same. Mae, Hattie, Edie, what are you guys having?”
“Just the usual—some dolmas and a slice of that legendary baklava,” Mae said, looking gleeful. “I’m here for dessert first.”
“I’ll do the baklava too!” Edie piped up. “We can share a slice and get a second for later—strategic planning, you know.”
As Hattie scrolled through the menu, her expression turned mischievous. “I’ll have the chef’s special, but only if you promise to steal a bite of mine, Oscar.”
“Only if you promise to share the secret recipe,” he replied with a wink.
Just as we were about to place our order, a waiter approached our table. “Ready to order?”
We all chimed in, each person stating their choices. I noticed a sudden flurry of confusion on the waiter’s face as he scribbled down our orders.
“Uh, so that’s two spanakopita, one moussaka, two baklava, and… the chef’s special?” he recapped, looking uncertain.
“Right!” Mae said enthusiastically.
As I pretended to study the menu, Oscar leaned in, trying to catch a glimpse of my choices. “You know, I’d recommend the moussaka. It’s practically a work of art on a plate.”
“Artful moussaka? Really?” I raised an eyebrow, smirking. “I’ll stick to the classic spanakopita. At least it can’t judge me.”
“Spanakopita it is, then,” he said, chuckling. “I’ll get the same. Mae, Hattie, Edie, what are you guys having?”
“Just the usual—some dolmas and a slice of that legendary baklava,” Mae said, looking gleeful. “I’m here for dessert first.”
“I’ll do the baklava too!” Edie piped up. “We can share a slice and get a second for later—strategic planning, you know.”
As Hattie scrolled through the menu, her expression turned mischievous. “I’ll have the chef’s special, but only if you promise to steal a bite of mine, Oscar.”
“Only if you promise to share the secret recipe,” he replied with a wink.
Just as we were about to place our order, a waiter approached our table. “Ready to order?”
We all chimed in, each person stating their choices. I noticed a sudden flurry of confusion on the waiter’s face as he scribbled down our orders.
“Uh, so that’s two spanakopita, one moussaka, two baklava, and… the chef’s special?” he recapped, looking uncertain.
“Right!” Mae said enthusiastically.
But then the waiter’s expression shifted to one of realization. “Um, we actually ran out of the chef’s special a few minutes ago. Would you like to choose something else?”
Hattie’s face fell. “Oh no! That was the one thing I was really looking forward to!”
Oscar glanced at Hattie, his brow furrowing as he sensed her disappointment. “Hey, how about we order a few extra baklava? They’ll definitely lift your spirits, and we can make a little baklava party.”
“Yeah, and I’ll swap you half my spanakopita if you want,” I offered, trying to ease the mood.
“See? Look at that! A culinary compromise,” Oscar said, grinning as he turned back to the waiter. “So, that’s two spanakopita, three baklava, and Hattie, what would you like instead of the special?”
“Uh… I’ll take the Greek salad,” Hattie said, her smile returning. “And I’ll make sure to save a bite for you, Oscar.”
“Perfect!” Oscar declared, a playful glint in his eye. “Just be sure it’s not the size of a small planet.”
Just then, Mae reached for the pitcher of iced tea but knocked over her cup of water instead, sending it cascading across the table. “Oh no! I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, grabbing napkins in a panic.
“Mae!” Edie laughed, trying to help. “You just wanted a splash of drama, didn’t you?”
Hattie giggled as she handed Mae more napkins. “Looks like you’re creating your own little water feature over here.”
Oscar, ever the quick thinker, grabbed a few napkins and leaned in, grinning. “Don’t worry, Mae. You’re not the first one to bring a bit of chaos to the table. Just think of it as adding a little flavor to our meal.”
"Oscar don't even," Mae rolled her eyes. "You're so bloody pasty and white you even if I added seasoning to your water you wouldn't taste any difference."
The group erupted into laughter, and Oscar feigned shock, putting a hand over his heart. “Pasty? I’ll have you know I’m just ‘lightly seasoned,’ thank you very much.”
At that moment, I took a sip of water, and his ridiculous remark caught me off guard. I choked on the cool liquid, my eyes widening in surprise. The refreshing taste turned into a near disaster as I fought to keep it all down. I felt the water bubble up in my throat, and for a split second, I was convinced I might just spray it all over the table.
My cheeks flushed as I quickly covered my mouth with my hand, stifling the urge to burst into laughter or worse, make a total mess. I managed to swallow just in time, but I couldn't help the splutter that escaped, sending a small splash of water onto the table.
“Whoa! Are you alright?” Edie leaned forward, her eyes wide with concern and amusement.
“Yeah, just… almost became a fountain,” I gasped, laughing at the absurdity of it all. “Thanks to you, Oscar.”
He leaned back, hands up in mock surrender, clearly enjoying the chaos. “I’m just here for the entertainment! Didn’t mean to turn you into a water feature.”
“To be fair Osc, you're more like ‘extra bland,’” Edie chimed in, grinning as she took a sip of her tea. “You’re practically a walking Greek salad without the dressing.”
“I think that just made it worse,” I added, trying to contain my giggles.
Oscar laughed along, clearly unfazed. “Well, someone has to be the contrast in this colorful group. I’m here to balance out all this vibrant energy.”
“Right, because we definitely need someone to remind us of a plain piece of pita bread,” Hattie teased.
“Hey, I’m the life of the party!” Oscar shot back, leaning in closer to me. “And let’s be honest, without my charisma, who would keep the chaos in check? You all would be lost.”
As the laughter faded, we savored the last bites of our meal. The moussaka was rich and savory, the spanakopita perfectly flaky, and the baklava—a sweet ending that left us all satisfied. I leaned back in my chair, a contented sigh escaping my lips. “That was honestly one of the best meals I’ve had in ages.”
“Agreed!” Mae chimed in, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “I could eat Greek food every day.”
Oscar grinned, his eyes twinkling. “Speaking of keeping the fun going, I heard there’s a great nightclub nearby. We should totally check it out!”
Hattie perked up, clearly intrigued. “Oh, that could be fun! I’m in!”
Mae’s expression shifted, disappointment washing over her. “I can’t go,” she said, her voice dropping. “I’m still underage.”
Edie looked at Mae sympathetically. “That really sucks. But hey, we can still hang out! I’ll stay with you.”
Mae’s frown softened slightly at Edie’s reassurance. “Yeah, that could be nice. Thanks, Edie.”
Oscar turned to me, his grin widening. “So, what do you say? A little nighttime adventure? Just you, me, and Hattie tearing up the dance floor?”
I met his gaze, the thrill of spontaneity igniting in my chest. “Count me in.”
“Alright, then! Let’s make this night unforgettable!” he declared, excitement bubbling in his voice.
“Ain’t nobody wants to see you dance, white boy,” Edie rolled her eyes, a smirk tugging at her lips.
Oscar feigned shock, placing a hand over his heart. “Excuse me? My moves are legendary!”
“Legendary at what? Scaring away everyone on the dance floor?” Edie shot back, laughter lighting up her eyes.
“Hey, I’ll have you know my dancing is an art form!” Oscar retorted, grinning widely. “I just need the right audience.”
"I can never argue with you Osc," Edie shook her head.
As we stood up to leave, I glanced back at Mae and Edie, who exchanged a knowing smile. It was clear they would have their own fun together. I felt a mix of anticipation and nerves as I stepped outside, the warm evening air wrapping around us like a promise of adventure.
With Oscar and Hattie by my side, I felt ready to dive into whatever the night had in store.
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
author's note:
a double update for my lovelies, so sorry i didn't update on sunday <3, i hope you enjoy chapters 5 and 6!!
synopsis: in which oscar piastri and a university student begging for her euro summer vacation collide in a steamy, abba-inspired romance
prose (6.7K words) ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩
profile | masterlist | series index ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
05: Caffeine, Clem, and Capital-L Crushes
I was running on exactly four hours of sleep, and every yawn felt like my body’s way of scolding me for staying up way too late dissecting every little detail of my night with Oscar. Two hours on FaceTime with Clementine had somehow turned into a caffeine-fueled debriefing session, complete with dramatic reenactments, wild theories, and far too much giggling for someone who was supposed to be getting some rest.
Clementine had demanded every detail, leaning into the camera with wide, eager eyes, dissecting each word, each touch, like she was decoding the plot of a blockbuster rom-com. I’d found myself animatedly recounting every flirty remark and lingering glance, my voice climbing higher with each retelling, only for Clem to gasp and fan herself like we were living in some Victorian romance.
The more we talked, the more the night felt surreal—a blur of sun-soaked moments and teasing exchanges that played on a loop in my mind. I’d lost track of how many times Clem had paused to remind me, “Babe, he’s into you. Like, capital-L into you.” Each time, I’d try to protest, but the undeniable flutter in my chest always betrayed me. By the time we’d finally hung up, my cheeks were aching from smiling, and the adrenaline from our impromptu therapy session had me buzzing long after I’d collapsed into bed.
I could still hear Clem’s voice echoing in my head:
“I’m telling you, this is a Hallmark movie in the making, and you’re the main character. The Oscar Romance Special is about to hit season two.”
I’d rolled my eyes at the time, but now, dragging myself out of bed with a sleepy groan, I couldn’t stop replaying every flirty line, every shared smile, every moment that had made the night feel like something more.
The minute I’d crawled under the covers last night, I should have fallen straight into a blissful, uninterrupted sleep. But instead, I’d tossed and turned, Oscar’s voice running laps in my head, every cheeky grin and lingering touch replaying like my brain had hit the “rewind” button on the best parts of the day. And once Clem got wind of it, there was no way she was going to let me sleep without a full-blown breakdown of every micro-detail.
“It’s the way he looked at you when you were talking about chicken fights,” Clem had mused, eyes wide as if she were watching a thriller unfold. “Like you were the only person who’d ever said something even remotely interesting.”
I’d laughed, brushing it off, but the truth was, I’d noticed it too. The way Oscar’s gaze would linger, how his playful teasing had just the slightest undercurrent of something deeper.
We’d joked, sure—but every joke felt like it was skirting around something bigger, something neither of us were quite ready to name. And when I’d finally tried to put it into words, Clem had been ready with her own dramatic commentary, as usual.
“So he’s a Formula One driver, he’s charming, and he looks at you like you hung the moon with the flick of a finger. Babe, if you don’t lock in right now and lock that down, I’m coming over there myself to knock some sense into you.” She’d laughed with such glee and enthusiasm, but the teasing was laced with genuine excitement, and it had fueled my own sleepless spiral long after we’d said goodnight.
I’d tossed and turned for hours, replaying every moment in my head like it was some kind of twisted highlight reel. The way Oscar’s voice had dropped when he talked about his life on the track, the lingering touches that made my heart race, and that look—God, that look—like I was the only person in the world who mattered. Clem was right; it was hard not to get swept up in it, to not feel like the universe had handed me some ridiculous, too-good-to-be-true script of a romance movie. But as much as my heart was screaming at me to dive headfirst, my mind was busy throwing up every possible reason to pump the brakes.
Now, sunlight was streaming through my window, mercilessly bright, as I trudged to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face in a vain attempt to wake up. My reflection stared back at me, hair sticking out in every direction, dark circles under my eyes that practically screamed, You should have gone to bed sooner. But my mind was still buzzing, caught somewhere between the thrill of last night and the anxiety of what came next.
I brushed my teeth absentmindedly, trying to scrub away the exhaustion and the lingering taste of late-night anxiety. But every time I closed my eyes, I was back on that beach, Oscar’s teasing grin etched into my memory like a permanent fixture. It wasn’t just the flirting or the way he’d pulled me close; it was the way he’d made me feel seen, like all the walls I’d put up to protect myself had been effortlessly dismantled in a single night.
I leaned against the sink, sighing heavily. “Get it together,” I mumbled to my reflection. “He’s just a guy.” But even as I said it, the words felt hollow, lacking the conviction I so desperately needed. Because deep down, I knew Oscar was not just any guy. There was something undeniably magnetic about him, something that made it impossible to stick to the safety of denial.
My phone buzzed on the counter, snapping me out of my thoughts. It was a text from Clem, her timing impeccable as always:
Clem: morning, lovebird! dream of your racer boy? 😘
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at my lips.
Me: morning. and no, i dreamt of sleep deprivation, thanks.
Clem: liesss girl liesss, i can see you RIGHT now in my mind. you’re probably blushing just thinking about him right now.
I glanced at my reflection in the mirror and, sure enough, the telltale warmth was already creeping up my cheeks. Damn it, Clem. She knew me too well.
Me: oh my god, clem. you’re like a psychic stalker. can’t a girl have some peace?
Clem: peace? honey, you signed up for the drama package the moment you met him. so spill, what’s the plan? are you gonna ride this love rollercoaster or what?
And, damn her, she was right. I tossed my phone onto the wooden dresser, groaning. Everything felt too raw, too immediate. It wasn’t like me to get this twisted up over a guy, but there was something about Oscar—something I couldn’t quite put my finger on—that made my usual cool detachment completely useless.
I splashed my face one more time, hoping the cold water would snap me out of my reverie, but it was no use. The memory of Oscar’s easy laugh, his warm touch, and that sincere, almost vulnerable side he’d let slip through lingered like a song I couldn’t get out of my head. And the worst part? A small, stubborn part of me didn’t want it to go away.
As I ran a brush through my tangled hair, I caught myself staring at the mirror, silently wishing for answers. What was I supposed to do now? Lean in and see where this crazy, unexpected thing with Oscar could go, or protect myself and pull back before things got messy? Either way, I was in uncharted territory, and the thought of navigating it without screwing everything up seemed both exhilarating and terrifying.
“Guess I’m in it now,” I muttered to my reflection, feeling the weight of the decision resting heavily on my shoulders. Because whatever happened next, there was no going back to before.
Clem: you better not chicken out now. i swear, if you start overthinking this, i’ll fly over there myself and push you into his arms.
Me: so violent, hehe.
Me: but thanks for the pep talk, dr. phil. ilysmmm
Clem: ilysm booo! you know it. and hey, you’ve got this. worst case? you get a story to laugh about later. best case? you get a hot f1 boyfriend. seems like a win-win to me.
I laughed, shaking my head as I set my phone down. Clem’s relentless optimism was a lifeline, even when she was half-joking. I wasn’t sure which possibility scared me more—letting this thing with Oscar fizzle out into a ‘remember when’ or diving in headfirst and risking everything.
I threw on my seafoam green strapless dress, the one with the ruched bodice that hugged my waist just right and flowed into a ruffled hem. It was the perfect mix of casual and effortlessly chic, capturing that laid-back Mediterranean vibe I’d always admired but never quite pulled off until now. The soft pastel green felt fresh and summery, and as I adjusted the fabric, I couldn’t help but feel a little more put together than usual.
To complete the look, I fastened my chunky gold chain necklace, adorned with oversized sea-themed charms—starfish, shells, and other ocean treasures that jingled softly with every movement. It was bold, a little gaudy maybe, but it felt right, like an unapologetic nod to the seaside setting we were in. Matching gold earrings dangled from my ears, catching the morning light, and I stacked a few gold bangles on my wrists for good measure. The jewelry was heavy, warm against my skin, but it grounded me, giving me a little boost of confidence as I prepared to face whatever this day would bring.
I took one last glance in the mirror, adjusting the loose waves in my hair and making sure the necklace lay just right. There was something about the way the outfit came together that made me feel a little bolder, like I was dressing not just for breakfast, but for the possibility of whatever—or whoever—came next.
Even if I felt nervous as hell and quite possibly so very close to the edge, I would make sure no one could see it (telling myself lies again but I digress).
I needed to look hot. Fucking impeccable.
Taking a deep breath, I grabbed my phone again, typing out a final message to Clem:
Me: okay, okay. i’m going. no more hiding. and if i trip over my words like a fool, that’s on you.
Clem: that’s my girl! go get your man.
With Clem’s words echoing in my head, I shoved my phone into my pocket and headed downstairs, nerves fluttering in my stomach like restless butterflies. The scent of breakfast hit me as soon as I reached the bottom step—freshly brewed coffee, the crisp aroma of toast, and something sweet, like cinnamon and sugar. It was a comforting mix, and it tugged at the edges of my anxiety, coaxing me forward.
The kitchen was bathed in soft morning light, casting a golden glow over the bustling scene. Mae, with her short hair tousled in that effortlessly cool way only she could pull off, was dressed in an oversized graphic tee and a pair of tiny denim shorts, her legs stretched out as she lounged on the stool, half-distracted by whatever was on her screen. A few bracelets jingled on her wrist as she absentmindedly scrolled, occasionally chiming in with a sarcastic comment that made the others laugh.
Hattie, ever the organized one, was moving around with purpose, her damp curls pulled back into a messy bun that still somehow looked put-together. She wore a light blue tank top that matched her eyes and high-waisted linen pants that billowed slightly as she moved, the kind of outfit that screamed effortless summer chic. She balanced a stack of mismatched plates on one hip, arranging them on the table with precision, her expression a mix of focus and amusement as she chimed in on Mae’s snarky commentary.
Edie, the youngest but certainly not the quietest, was manning the stove with the confidence of someone who had taken on the role of breakfast chef many times before. Her hair was pulled into two loose braids, little wisps escaping around her face as she flipped pancakes with practiced ease. She wore a sunflower-yellow sundress that brightened the room even more, the fabric swishing around her knees as she moved. A slight dusting of flour clung to her hands, and there was a faint smear of batter on her cheek, giving her an endearing, carefree look.
The kitchen smelled heavenly—warm, sweet, and buttery—with the faintest hint of vanilla wafting from Edie’s pancake masterpiece. Mae’s playlist was faintly audible, playing some indie pop tune that filled the gaps in their conversation and set an upbeat mood. It was the kind of scene that felt both chaotic and comforting, each of the sisters contributing to the lively morning energy in their own way.
“Morning!” Mae chirped, barely glancing up from her screen but still managing to sound chipper. “You’re up early. Couldn’t stay away from us, huh?”
“Morning,” I replied, trying to keep my tone light and casual. “Smells amazing in here.”
“Edie’s specialty,” Hattie said with a grin, sliding a stack of pancakes onto the table. “She’s got this whole breakfast chef thing down to an art.”
Edie turned, waving the spatula in a mock bow. “Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here all week. Literally.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, taking a seat across from Mae. “Well, lucky us. I’m definitely not complaining.”
Mae finally looked up, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “So, did you sleep well? You know, after your little moonlit stroll last night?”
I felt my cheeks heat up instantly, and I reached for a mug to hide my flustered expression. “Yeah, fine. Just… normal.” I took a sip, hoping the coffee would ground me, but all it did was make me more aware of how on edge I was.
Hattie exchanged a knowing look with Mae, then turned to me with a playful smile. “You guys were out there for a while. I half expected to hear the soundtrack of a rom-com playing in the background.”
I rolled my eyes, but there was no malice in it—just the familiar tug of embarrassment. “You guys are impossible, you know that?”
Edie laughed, flipping another pancake. “Oh, we know. But you love it.”
“Sure, let’s go with that,” I said, trying to keep my voice light as I picked at a piece of toast. The truth was, I didn’t mind their teasing. In fact, their relentless ribbing was almost comforting, like being folded into a dynamic I didn’t know I needed.
“Anyway,” Mae continued, dragging out the word as if savoring the moment, “Oscar’s still asleep. Guess all that romantic strolling wore him out.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, and I choked on my coffee, trying to keep my composure.
“Mae, please,” I said, laughing despite myself. “I don’t need a play-by-play of his morning routine.”
Edie set down the last plate of pancakes and took a seat, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Oh, come on. It’s just so fun watching you squirm.”
“Yeah, and you’re kind of the only normal one here,” Hattie added, piling syrup onto her plate. “Oscar’s always either being overly confident or sulking about something. It’s refreshing to have someone who’s, you know, sane.”
I smiled, feeling that familiar warmth of being welcomed, even if it came wrapped in layers of teasing. “Well, thanks, I guess? I’ll take being the sane one if it means I get pancakes.”
Hattie passed me the syrup, her grin wide. “Deal. But don’t think that gets you off the hook. We’re all dying to know—what’s really going on with you and Oscar?”
I hesitated, suddenly aware of how much their playful scrutiny meant to me. I didn’t want to let them down, but I also wasn’t ready to admit to anything that I hadn’t even figured out myself. “Honestly?” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m not sure. But I think that’s okay. We’re just… figuring it out.”
Mae nodded, surprisingly earnest. “Hey, no pressure. Just enjoy it. Life’s too short to overthink everything.”
I glanced at her, surprised by the sudden shift from teasing to sincerity. “Yeah, you’re right,” I said, feeling a little more settled. “I think I will.”
Mae’s expression softened, and she set her phone down, propping her chin on her hand as she watched me. “Seriously, though, don’t stress about it. If anyone can handle the chaos that is Oscar, it’s you. Plus, he’s not so bad once you get used to the terrible jokes and the occasional bouts of bravado.”
Hattie chuckled, sliding into her seat and pouring herself a glass of orange juice. “And the dramatic speeches,” she added, winking at me. “He’s got a flair for making everything sound like it’s life or death, but really, he’s just a softie at heart.”
Edie finally turned off the stove, setting a towering plate of pancakes on the table with a triumphant grin. “You’ll get used to it,” she said, giving me a conspiratorial smile as she sat down. “Just roll with it. That’s what we do.”
Their encouragement warmed me more than I expected, and for a moment, I felt like I was being let in on a secret, one that went beyond the lighthearted teasing and easy banter. It was clear that beneath all the jokes, there was a genuine care for their brother—a kind of protective, loving acceptance that made me feel a little less alone in navigating this new territory with him.
I sat down, reaching for a pancake and letting their words sink in. The idea of just enjoying the moment, of not overanalyzing every tiny interaction, felt both freeing and slightly terrifying. But sitting here, surrounded by this noisy, welcoming group, it felt like maybe, just maybe, I could let go a little. I could let myself lean into the unexpected without the weight of expectations dragging me down.
Mae poured herself another cup of coffee, her smile turning back into her usual mischievous smirk. “And hey, if it doesn’t work out, at least you’ll have some great stories. Like, ‘Remember that summer I got tangled up with a race car driver and his three crazy sisters?’ It’s all part of the adventure.”
I laughed, shaking my head at Mae’s dramatics. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, taking a bite of my pancake, the sweetness filling my senses. “But for now, I think I’ll just enjoy breakfast and see where the day takes me.”
Hattie raised her glass in a mock toast. “To not overthinking and just going with the flow,” she declared, her eyes sparkling with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly how to live in the moment.
Edie joined in, clinking her glass with Hattie’s and then mine. “And to great company,” she added, beaming as she dug into her stack of pancakes.
Edie took a sip of her juice, then leaned forward, curiosity sparking in her eyes. “So, we got all wrapped up in Oscar’s big secret yesterday, but what about you? We didn’t really get to know much about the mystery girl who’s apparently brave enough to keep up with our brother.”
I smiled, feeling the spotlight shift to me as all three sisters turned their attention my way. “Oh, nothing too dramatic,” I started, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m twenty-one, a senior at George Washington University in DC.”
Hattie’s eyes widened with recognition. “Ooh, DC! The nation’s capital, right? I’ve always wanted to go. It’s like, politics central, isn’t it?”
I nodded, laughing at her enthusiasm. “Yeah, it’s a pretty unique place. It’s not a state, but it likes to think it’s important enough to be one. You know, home of the White House, Congress, and a whole lot of people in suits pretending they know how to run the country.”
Mae snorted into her coffee. “So basically, it’s one giant power trip?”
“Pretty much,” I grinned. “But it’s also got this amazing mix of history and culture. There are monuments and museums on every corner, and sometimes it feels like you can’t throw a rock without hitting some important landmark. It’s kind of like living in a history book—except with more Starbucks.”
Hattie laughed. “And you’re majoring in what? Political stuff, I’m guessing?”
“Close,” I said, feeling a bit more comfortable now. “I’m majoring in International Relations. It’s like political science, but with more foreign countries, diplomacy, and trying to figure out why world leaders can’t just get along. Basically, I’m training to be the world’s most overqualified peacekeeper or, you know, a very stressed-out diplomat.”
Edie nodded, clearly impressed. “That sounds really cool, though. And probably way over my head. So what do you do for fun in a city full of politicians?”
“Well,” I said, a little shy but pleased they were interested, “when I’m not drowning in textbooks, I actually love to photograph the city. There’s something about the mix of old architecture and modern chaos that just... speaks to me, I guess. Plus, it’s an easy way to escape all the academic stuff and just focus on something beautiful.”
Mae’s ears perked up. “Wait, so you’re a photographer? That’s awesome! Do you post your stuff anywhere?”
I hesitated, suddenly feeling a bit bashful. “Yeah, I have an Instagram account where I share my photos. It’s kind of taken off a little bit.”
Hattie immediately pulled out her phone, eyes sparkling with curiosity. “What’s your handle? I wanna see!”
I told them my Instagram username, and within seconds, they were scrolling through my feed, their faces lighting up with interest as they took in my shots of cityscapes, moody portraits, and candid street moments.
“Whoa, you’ve got 32.9K followers?” Edie exclaimed, holding up her phone to show the impressive number. “You’re basically Instagram famous! And these photos are gorgeous.”
Mae looked up, clearly impressed. “I’m not even surprised. You’ve got an eye, girl. These shots are like... magazine-level good. I feel like I’m seeing DC through a totally different lens.”
I blushed, feeling a mix of pride and humility. “Thanks, it’s kind of my little escape. I just love capturing the city’s vibe—the people, the little hidden corners, the chaos and calm all mixed together. I never expected it to turn into something people would actually follow.”
Hattie scrolled through a few more pictures, pausing on one of a sunlit Washington Monument framed by cherry blossoms. “I get it. This is art, seriously. And now I’m kind of jealous of your life. You get to live in this cool place, study fascinating stuff, and take amazing photos on the side. That’s like, triple threat territory.”
Hattie leaned back in her chair, shaking her head in disbelief. “You know, I’ve never even been to DC. I mean, we’ve talked about going, but somehow we always end up at the beach or stuck on some last-minute road trip that Dad plans.”
Mae laughed, nodding. “Yeah, because why visit the nation’s capital when you can get lost in the middle of nowhere and argue over gas station snacks, right?”
Edie snorted. “Honestly, the closest we’ve been to DC is watching reruns of House of Cards and pretending we understand politics.”
Mae threw her hands up dramatically. “I swear, we’re missing out. I mean, we’ve got to see all those marble buildings and secret government stuff, right? What’s it like, just casually living near a bunch of old guys in suits who make all the rules?”
I laughed, enjoying their banter. “Honestly? It’s a mix. On one hand, you’ve got all these important people running around pretending they’re changing the world. On the other, it’s just a bunch of monuments, overpriced coffee shops, and tourists blocking the sidewalks with selfie sticks.”
Hattie giggled. “Wow, it sounds like such a glamorous place. Like New York, but with more government scandals and fewer Broadway shows.”
Edie nodded, trying to look serious but failing miserably. “I feel like we’d be kicked out of DC within a day. One of us would probably start an argument with a senator over parking spaces, and Mae would definitely try to sneak into the Capitol just to see if it’s as dramatic as the movies.”
Mae pointed at Edie, pretending to be offended. “Hey, I’m not that reckless. But, like, if we do go, I’m definitely hitting up those underground tunnels. You know they’ve got to be hiding some cool spy stuff down there.”
I shook my head, laughing at the absurdity. “Yeah, I’m not sure you guys would last. You’d probably spend the whole trip critiquing the statues or getting lost in the Smithsonian.”
Mae shrugged, grinning. “Hey, we’re up for the challenge. Just promise to be our tour guide when we eventually decide to grace DC with our presence. We’ll bring the chaos, and you bring the camera.”
“Deal,” I said, raising my glass in mock seriousness. “Just don’t blame me when you get kicked out of a museum for climbing on the exhibits.”
Mae nodded in agreement, setting her phone down. “Yeah, honestly, I’m just glad we finally got to hear your side. And hey, now we know that if you ever get sick of Oscar, you’ve got a whole city full of potential new admirers.”
I laughed, feeling a warm sense of belonging settle over me. “Thanks, but I think I’ll stick around for a bit. I’m kind of liking where I am right now.”
The girls laughed, and Hattie leaned in, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Wait wait wait I still have a few questions. You must have some wild stories. I mean, it’s DC—you’re right in the middle of all the action!”
I smiled, settling into the moment. “It’s a lot of things—hectic, beautiful, sometimes frustrating, but never boring. I love how there’s always something happening, whether it’s a protest down on the National Mall or a pop-up art exhibit in some random alley. There’s this constant energy, like everyone’s in a rush but also living in this incredible historic moment all the time.”
Edie nodded, fascinated. “And the photography thing—how do you even capture all of that? Like, do you just walk around with your camera 24/7?”
I laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Pretty much. I like to just wander around and see where the day takes me. You’d be surprised how many hidden gems there are—little parks tucked between office buildings, street musicians who are just as talented as anyone on stage. Plus, it’s fun capturing the contrasts—the shiny government buildings and the raw, gritty parts that make the city feel real.”
Mae smiled, clearly impressed. “Okay, so now you’re officially our go-to when we make it to DC. We’ll get the full insider experience—no boring tourist traps.”
I opened my mouth to agree when suddenly, a familiar arm draped around my shoulder, pulling me into a warm side hug. “Speaking of insider experiences,” Oscar’s voice broke in, far too close to my ear. “Are you telling them about your little secret photo spots? Or do I get to be the first one you show around?”
Startled, I jumped and let out a sharp yelp, my heart leaping into my throat. Without thinking, my elbow shot backward, driven by pure instinct and a jolt of adrenaline. The impact was immediate—I felt my elbow connect with something firm and unyielding. It wasn’t the soft thud of bumping into furniture or the awkward smack of knocking into someone’s arm. No, this was solid, unmistakably muscular. My elbow sank briefly against the defined ridges of Oscar’s abs, and I could feel the tension of his muscles bracing under the sudden, unexpected blow.
Oscar let out a strangled, surprised grunt, the sound half-laugh, half-pained exhale, as he stumbled backward. His expression morphed from shock to mock agony as he clutched his side dramatically, doubling over with a theatrical gasp.
“Ow! Holy—” he managed between strained breaths, his free hand pressed firmly against his stomach as if he’d just taken a punch straight out of a boxing ring. He staggered back a step, his body curling protectively around the spot where my elbow had connected, and for a split second, I worried I might’ve actually hurt him.
But Oscar’s over-the-top reaction was more comedic than anything else. He leaned against the counter, groaning with exaggerated flair, squeezing his eyes shut as if he were the star of his own melodramatic performance. His dark hair fell messily over his forehead, and even in his mock pain, he couldn’t quite hide the playful smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.
“You’ve got some serious power in that elbow,” he wheezed, still clutching his side but peeking up at me with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “What have you been eating? Steel oats? Protein shakes? Because, damn, you’ve got a weapon there.”
“Oh my god!” I gasped, half mortified, half laughing as Oscar pretended to lurch dramatically against the counter. “You scared the hell out of me! Why are you sneaking up on people?”
Oscar winced playfully, rubbing his abs where I’d jabbed him. “Damn, remind me never to surprise you again. You’ve got an elbow like a linebacker.” He laughed, but his eyes were twinkling, clearly enjoying the chaos he’d caused.
I sat there, caught between concern and stifled laughter, my face flushed with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry!” I exclaimed, half-panicked, half-giggling as I reached out, instinctively trying to pat his shoulder as if that would somehow ease the pain. “I didn’t mean to! You just—scared me, and I—I panicked!”
Oscar straightened slightly, still rubbing his abs where I’d jabbed him, his expression teetering between pain and mischief. “I thought I was gonna end up on the floor.” He let out a breathless laugh, eyes sparkling despite his over-the-top suffering. “You’ve got some serious reflexes.”
I glanced down, my gaze lingering on the spot where I’d made contact. Even through his t-shirt, I could feel the distinct firmness of his abs—hard as a rock, like something carved from stone rather than skin and muscle. It was like hitting a brick wall disguised as a human. My cheeks heated as the realization sunk in, and I quickly pulled my hand away, trying to mask my flustered reaction with an awkward laugh.
“Next time, announce yourself!” I shot back, still breathless from the sudden surge of adrenaline. “Or, you know, maybe just don’t sneak up on me when I’m in the middle of a conversation.”
Oscar straightened fully, his grin widening, and he offered me a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am. Lesson learned. I’ll approach with caution—and maybe a helmet—next time.”
The girls burst into laughter, Mae doubling over as she clapped her hands. “Nice one, Oscar. Just try not to get yourself KO’d next time.”
Edie was practically crying with laughter, holding her stomach. “I’ve never seen anyone get taken out by a breakfast elbow before. That was amazing.”
Hattie chimed in, wiping a tear from her eye. “Oscar, you’ve got to work on your stealth skills. Or at least your reflexes. She got you good.”
I was still blushing, torn between embarrassment and pride at my unintentional takedown. “Maybe don’t sneak up on people who are talking about their city adventures,” I said, giving him a playful glare. “I almost knocked the wind out of you.”
Oscar straightened up, still rubbing his side but grinning like he’d just won a game he didn’t know he was playing. “Noted. I’ll keep my distance when you’re in storytelling mode—didn’t realize I’d need a bulletproof vest just to get your attention,” he teased, his voice laced with that familiar playful confidence. He gave me a mock bow, adding, “But hey, it’s not every day I get nearly floored by someone half my size. Impressive, really.”
Mae, who had been watching the whole scene unfold with wide-eyed amusement, chimed in, barely able to contain her laughter. “Honestly, I think you got off easy. If she can take you down with an elbow, just imagine what she could do with a roundhouse kick. You better stay on her good side.”
Hattie snorted, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, Oscar, if she’d been holding a frying pan, you’d be out cold right now. I’d pay to see that fight.” She shot me a wink, clearly enjoying her brother’s over-the-top reaction. “Nice job, by the way. Most people just tell him to buzz off, but you? You went straight for the kill.”
I was still blushing, torn between embarrassment and a tiny bit of pride at my unintentional takedown. “Maybe don’t sneak up on people who are talking about their city adventures,” I said, giving him a playful glare.
Oscar chuckled, his grin never faltering. “Lesson learned. I’ll approach with a white flag next time.” He rubbed his abs one last time, his expression softening as he glanced at me. “But hey, consider me officially intrigued by DC and whatever other hidden skills you’ve got. Might have to keep my distance, but I’m not going anywhere.”
Edie was wiping away tears of laughter, her cheeks flushed from the hilarity. “This is officially the best breakfast we’ve had in ages. Who knew we’d get a free Oscar takedown with our pancakes?” She raised her glass in mock celebration. “To the unexpected and unintentional, but very satisfying, smackdown of the day!”
Oscar shot her a look of mock offense but couldn’t keep from laughing himself. “Alright, alright, I get it. I’m the morning entertainment. But just you wait, I’ll get my revenge—when you least expect it.”
I smirked, still feeling the lingering tingle in my elbow and the rush of adrenaline from the whole absurd encounter. “I’ll be ready. But remember, sneak attacks don’t end well around here.”
Oscar held up his hands in surrender, the playful banter still dancing in his eyes. “Point taken. No more stealth moves—at least not without a warning. But hey,” he added, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper as he leaned in just a bit closer, “I guess that means I’ll just have to find new ways to get under your skin.”
His words sent a small thrill down my spine, the challenge hanging between us like an unspoken promise. It was impossible not to smile, the line between annoyance and attraction blurring further with every quip and every lingering look.
We all settled back around the table, the remnants of breakfast spread out like the aftermath of a lively party. Mae was still giggling into her juice, and Hattie was busy piling pancakes onto her plate, but the atmosphere was lighter now, filled with an easy camaraderie that made the whole morning feel like a scene out of a feel-good movie. I scooped up some scrambled eggs, trying to act casual, but every now and then, I’d catch Oscar sneaking a glance my way, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Pass the syrup?” Oscar asked, leaning in closer than necessary, his arm brushing against mine as he reached for the bottle. It was a small touch, barely noticeable, but it sent a little jolt through me, and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes playfully.
“Careful,” I said, handing it over with a smirk. “Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself with this dangerous syrup. It’s a real menace.”
Oscar grinned, pouring a generous amount onto his pancakes. “Yeah, well, I’ll try to handle it without getting taken out by a rogue condiment. But thanks for the concern.”
Hattie snorted, shaking her head as she munched on her toast. “You two are like a sitcom. Seriously, how are we supposed to eat when it’s all banter and sneak attacks?”
Mae nodded in agreement, waving her fork in the air for emphasis. “Exactly. We need a warning before you two start up again. I almost choked on my juice.”
I laughed, grabbing another slice of fruit. “Don’t worry, we’ll try to keep the drama to a minimum. Breakfast is a sacred time, after all.”
Edie set down her fork, glancing at the clock on her phone. “Speaking of time, it’s still early enough that we could hit the market before it gets too hot. We need to grab some stuff for tonight anyway.”
Oscar perked up, leaning back in his chair. “The market sounds good. It’s not far, and we can get there before the sun decides to fry us alive. Plus, we can stock up on snacks. I’m thinking... fresh pastries, some local olives, maybe something sweet?”
Mae grinned, tapping her fingers on the table. “Count me in. I want to see what kind of cool stuff they have. And maybe pick up something to annoy Hattie. It’s like, a sibling rite of passage.”
Hattie rolled her eyes but smiled, taking a sip of her coffee. “Sure, Mae. I’ll make sure to keep you far away from anything that looks remotely like a musical instrument. I don’t need another round of impromptu concert performances.”
I glanced around the table, feeling a swell of excitement at the idea of exploring the local market with them. It was the kind of spontaneous plan that felt like the perfect way to spend the morning—just wandering around, sampling local food, and maybe picking up a few souvenirs. And, of course, the thought of more time spent with Oscar, in and out of playful jabs, wasn’t exactly unappealing.
“Sounds like a plan,” I said, pushing back my plate and stretching my arms. “But we better go soon before it really heats up out there. I’m not trying to become a melted puddle on the sidewalk.”
Mae let out a dramatic groan, fanning herself with a napkin. “Seriously, I already feel like I’m halfway to becoming a human popsicle. Let’s move before I turn into a puddle of regrets.”
Oscar chuckled, leaning back in his chair as he finished the last of his juice. “Don’t worry, Mae. We’ll keep you hydrated. And who knows? Maybe you’ll find a portable fan to add to your collection of weird market finds.”
Mae shot him a playful glare. “I’m not the one who bought that weird wooden frog last time, Oscar. That was all you. But if I find a fan, I’m buying it. Consider it an investment in my survival.”
Oscar held up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, but if anyone finds a fan that also doubles as a weapon, I call dibs. You know, just in case I need to defend myself from any more surprise attacks.” He shot me a teasing look, and I couldn’t help but smile.
Edie laughed, wiping her hands on a napkin as she pushed her chair back. “Oscar, the day you need to defend yourself from anything other than your own bad decisions is the day we all need to start worrying.” She grabbed her sunglasses from the table, slipping them on with a flourish. “But I’ll keep an eye out for a fan-weapon hybrid. Seems like something that could really elevate your whole ‘I’m constantly under attack’ vibe.”
Oscar feigned offense, clutching his chest dramatically. “You wound me, Edie. But you know what? I’ll take the fan and the survival bragging rights. And when we’re all sweating buckets, just remember who thought ahead.”
Hattie shook her head, tossing her empty juice cup in the trash. “Let’s just get to the market before you guys end up buying the weirdest stuff just for the sake of it. We’re here for essentials, remember?”
Mae snorted, throwing her arm around Hattie’s shoulders as they headed toward the door. “Speak for yourself, Hattie. Some of us are here for the thrill of the hunt. And maybe a sun hat that screams ‘I’m on vacation and I don’t care.’”
Oscar turned to me, his eyes sparkling with that familiar mischief. “What about you? Got any market goals today? Weird trinkets, secret weapon fans, or just here to keep me out of trouble?”
I pretended to consider it, tapping my chin thoughtfully. “I think my goal is to keep you in just the right amount of trouble. Can’t have you getting too comfortable.” I winked, enjoying the easy flow of our banter, the way it felt like slipping into a well-worn routine despite how new it all was.
Oscar laughed, a low, warm sound that sent a flutter through my chest. “Deal. I’ll keep it interesting. And if I find anything particularly ridiculous, you’ll be the first to know.”
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
author's note:
a double update for my lovelies, so sorry i didn't update on sunday <3, i hope you enjoy chapters 5 and 6!!
synopsis: in which oscar piastri and a university student begging for her euro summer vacation collide in a steamy, abba-inspired romance
prose (9.4K words) ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩
profile | masterlist | series index ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
04: Dinner Table Tango (Put Me On TV Netflix)
Our usual dinners were low-key affairs—think microwaved leftovers, a quick pasta dish, or maybe some takeout eaten in front of the TV while my mom narrated the latest drama from whichever reality show was her current obsession. Tonight, though, was a whole different beast. It was like we’d accidentally wandered into a chaotic crossover episode of MasterChef meets a reality TV reunion: there were kabobs piled high on platters, enough side dishes to feed an entire neighborhood, and a whirlwind of personalities that made it feel like every seat at the table came with its own subplot.
Oscar’s dad, Chris, had turned the backyard grill into his personal stage, flipping kabobs with the flair of a man who was auditioning for his own cooking show. Each turn of the skewer came with commentary, like, “See that sear? That’s what you call perfection,” and if you didn’t know better, you’d think he was preparing a meal for a panel of judges instead of a casual dinner. Nicole, Oscar’s mom, hovered nearby, nodding along as if she hadn’t heard his grilling philosophy a thousand times before, while my mom, Belle, politely sipped her wine, pretending to be fascinated by every culinary revelation.
At the table, Hattie, Edie, and Mae were buzzing with their usual sibling energy—Hattie and Mae were whispering about something that kept making them burst into giggles, while Edie was eyeing the dessert like it was the final boss in a video game she was determined to conquer. Every few seconds, they’d shoot each other knowing looks, their inside jokes and side comments flying faster than I could keep up.
I picked up a plate and tried to navigate my way through the lively chaos, eyeing a seat at the far end of the table where I could blend into the background. But as soon as I moved, Oscar was there—close enough that I could practically feel the heat radiating off his skin from the sun and the pool. I placed my plate down, aiming for a spot near the drinks, but no sooner had I set my food down than Oscar plopped down next to me, grinning like this was all part of some game only he knew the rules to.
I moved again, feigning a casual stroll to the other end, but Oscar followed, a smug smile playing on his lips as he sat down beside me once more. I couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it, each move feeling like a dance where I kept trying to sidestep and he kept closing in.
I finally turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Are you planning to follow me all night, or are you just allergic to sitting anywhere else?”
Oscar leaned back in his chair, that infuriatingly confident grin never wavering. “What can I say? You’re the best seat in the house,” he said, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Besides, I promised you great dinner company, didn’t I?”
“You’re like a lost puppy,” I muttered, shaking my head but unable to keep the smile off my face. “Except more annoying.”
He just laughed, nudging my arm playfully. “I prefer ‘persistent’—sounds cuter. But if being annoying gets me the best view, then I’ll take it.”
Nicole glanced over from across the table, her mom radar obviously picking up on the exchange. “Oscar, sweetie, why don’t you give her a little space?” she teased, though the gleam in her eyes suggested she was enjoying this far too much.
Oscar shrugged, unbothered. “Why would I? I’m right where I want to be.”
Belle, my mom, was clearly entertained, watching us like she’d just tuned into her favorite show. “You know, if he keeps this up, you might need to get him his own seat belt,” she joked, topping off her wine as she watched Oscar stick to my side like glue.
I rolled my eyes, trying to act nonchalant, but the warmth of his presence was impossible to ignore. “Don’t encourage him,” I mumbled, but even as I said it, I couldn’t help but feel a strange thrill. Oscar’s persistence was absurdly charming, and no matter how much I tried to brush it off, his attention felt like its own kind of spotlight, casting everything in a new, exciting light.
The table was loud with laughter and overlapping conversations, skewers being passed around and plates filling up with everything from grilled corn to tangy salads. I tried to focus on my food, savoring the perfectly marinated kabobs and buttery potatoes, but Oscar’s constant presence kept pulling me back in, his playful nudges and whispered comments making it impossible to forget he was right there, next to me, watching every reaction.
“You really do have a knack for this,” I said, nudging him back just as he reached for another skewer.
Oscar flashed me a quick, sideways smile, his eyes twinkling. “For what, dinner? Or following you around like it’s my job?”
“Both,” I shot back, but the lightness in my voice betrayed how much I was enjoying the banter.
Oscar chuckled, spearing a piece of grilled zucchini with his fork. “Well, I’m nothing if not dedicated,” he said, popping it into his mouth with an exaggerated flourish. “And hey, if I’m going to be annoyingly persistent, I might as well be charming about it, right?”
I rolled my eyes, but there was no malice behind it, only a growing sense of ease that came from how effortlessly he slipped into conversation with me. “Is that what this is? Charm? I thought it was just a fancy word for stalking.”
He laughed, a low, easy sound that sent a shiver down my spine despite the warm evening air. “Stalking’s such a strong word. I prefer ‘being attentive.’ You know, keeping an eye on the competition.” He leaned closer, his shoulder brushing mine as he whispered, “Plus, it’s kind of fun to see you all flustered.”
I felt my cheeks warm instantly, and I shoved a forkful of salad into my mouth to cover up my embarrassment. “You’re the worst,” I mumbled around the bite, trying to sound annoyed but failing miserably.
“Am I, though?” he teased, nudging my leg under the table with his foot. “Because it kind of seems like you like it.”
I swallowed, trying to ignore the way my heart was racing. “You wish,” I shot back, but even as the words left my mouth, I knew he could see right through me.
Nicole, who had been listening to our back-and-forth with thinly veiled amusement, finally chimed in. “Oscar, honey, you might want to ease up before she throws you in the pool,” she said, winking at me. “But if she does, don’t worry—I’m sure you can swim.”
Oscar didn’t miss a beat, turning to his mom with a cheeky grin. “Oh, I’m not worried. I think she’d just jump in after me.”
I tried to keep my composure, but it was impossible not to laugh at his relentless confidence. “Keep dreaming, hotshot,” I said, giving him a playful shove, but even as I said it, I couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of exasperation and excitement at his attention.
Belle leaned over, her eyes twinkling as she passed me the breadbasket. “You’re handling him well,” she whispered with a smirk. “Most girls would’ve dunked him by now.”
I shot her a look of mock horror. “Trust me, it’s tempting. But I think he likes the attention too much.”
Oscar, who apparently had supersonic hearing when it came to anything involving himself, leaned in again, this time closer than before, his voice low and teasing. “Oh, I definitely do. But between you and me, I think you like it too.” He raised his glass in a mock toast, his eyes never leaving mine. “To good company and making the most of dinner.”
I clinked my glass with his, trying to ignore the butterflies that fluttered in my stomach at the way he was looking at me—like I was the only person at the table worth paying attention to. “To you not annoying me for five minutes,” I countered, but my smile gave away how much I was actually enjoying every second of it.
Oscar’s grin only widened, his eyes never leaving mine as he took a slow sip of his drink, savoring the moment. There was a playful glint in his gaze, but something deeper too, something that made my chest tighten. It was as if this whole day—every flirtatious comment, every lingering look—had been building up to something unspoken, something that hovered just beneath the surface, waiting to be acknowledged.
“So, what happens after five minutes?” he asked, his voice low, almost teasing, but there was an undercurrent of curiosity that made my breath hitch. “Do I get to keep my seat, or are you kicking me to the curb?”
I laughed softly, but the question hung in the air, feeling heavier than it should. “Depends,” I said, trying to keep my tone light. “Are you planning on behaving?”
“Not if I can help it,” Oscar replied, his voice warm and teasing, but his gaze was intense, like he was studying me, trying to figure out exactly what I was thinking.
I glanced away, suddenly overwhelmed by the intensity of his attention. There was something about the way he was looking at me that felt new, unexpected—like he was seeing me in a way no one else ever had. It was unnerving, thrilling, and terrifying all at once, and it made me feel like everything I thought I knew was suddenly up in the air.
The conversations around us continued, but they felt distant, muffled, as if the world had faded into the background. I could feel the weight of Oscar’s eyes still on me, searching, and for a moment, I found myself caught between the familiar and the unknown. Everything felt different, like the ground beneath me had shifted without warning, and all the little things I’d been so sure of were suddenly tangled up in emotions I hadn’t anticipated.
Oscar’s voice broke through my thoughts, quieter now, a touch more sincere. “You okay? You went quiet on me.”
I blinked, startled by how quickly my mind had wandered. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, forcing a smile. “Just… thinking.”
“About?” he pressed, his eyes soft but probing, clearly not satisfied with my evasive answer.
I hesitated, the words feeling heavy on my tongue. “About how you’re… different,” I said, the admission making my heart race. “Today, everything’s just… not what I expected.” I trailed off, unsure how to put into words the strange mix of excitement and uncertainty that was bubbling up inside me.
Oscar watched me for a moment, his expression shifting from playful to something gentler, more thoughtful. “I get it,” he said finally, his voice low and earnest. “It’s weird when things change on you, isn’t it? Like you’re used to one thing, and then suddenly it’s all flipped around.”
He leaned in a little closer, his tone softening as if he was letting me in on a secret. “But I don’t mind it,” he continued. “Everything today… it’s been new, yeah, but it’s good. You’re good.”
I swallowed, the honesty in his words catching me off guard. It was one thing to joke around, to let the banter cover up what was simmering underneath, but this felt different—like he was asking me to see him, really see him, and maybe let him see me in return.
For a moment, I didn’t know how to respond. There was a vulnerability in his gaze that mirrored the uncertainty I was feeling, a quiet plea hidden in his smile that made my heart skip. It wasn’t just a game anymore; it was something real, something that demanded a bit of courage I wasn’t sure I had.
Oscar’s usual cocky confidence had softened into something more tentative, almost as if he was waiting for me to say something that would make this strange, unexpected shift between us make sense. I could see it in the way his eyes flickered with unspoken questions, the way his hand hovered just a little closer to mine on the table, hesitant but hopeful.
He opened his mouth as if to say something but stopped, biting his lip in a rare moment of hesitation. I could feel the unsteady rhythm of my own breathing, matching the erratic beat of my heart. It was like standing on the edge of something, knowing that one step could change everything and still not being sure if I was ready to take it.
“I didn’t think… I mean, I didn’t expect this,” he finally said, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it. His fingers brushed mine, a barely-there touch that sent a shiver through me, and the simple contact felt more intimate than any of the flirting or banter we’d exchanged all day. “I’m not usually… like this.” He laughed, but it was shaky, almost self-conscious. “I’m just saying, you’re not the only one who’s kind of… thrown off.”
I glanced down at our almost-touching hands, the space between them feeling unbearably small and impossibly vast at the same time. The reality of what was happening—the shift from playful teasing to something deeper, more vulnerable—was terrifying and exhilarating. It was as if everything had turned upside down, leaving me with nothing to hold onto but the fragile, unspoken connection we’d built in the span of a few sun-soaked hours.
“I know what you mean,” I whispered, surprised at how raw my voice sounded. “I didn’t expect this either.” The words felt too small to capture the rush of emotions tangled inside me, but they were the most honest thing I could offer.
Oscar’s thumb grazed the back of my hand, a light, almost tentative touch, but it was enough to send a jolt of electricity straight through me. He smiled, a little lopsided and unsure, and it was so different from his usual bravado that it made my heart ache in a way I hadn’t anticipated.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said quietly, and there was something so genuine in his tone that it knocked the breath out of me. “I’m glad we’re… whatever this is.” He gestured vaguely between us, as if trying to name the unnameable, the strange and beautiful thing that had sprung up between the jokes and the splashes and the shared looks that felt like secrets.
I nodded, the lump in my throat making it hard to speak. “Me too,” I managed, and the simple admission felt like a leap off that precarious edge we’d been teetering on. “I’m glad it’s… us.”
Oscar’s gaze softened, and for a split second, the weight of the moment hung between us, thick with unspoken possibilities. It felt like we were on the cusp of something important, something that neither of us was quite ready to fully grasp, and the vulnerability of it all was terrifying and exhilarating.
But then, in true Oscar fashion, he broke the tension with a grin that was equal parts charming and infuriating. “You know,” he said, leaning back in his chair and tapping his chin thoughtfully, “I’ve gotta admit, this whole ‘us’ thing is pretty great. But if you’re planning on crying, can you just give me a heads-up? I’m not emotionally equipped to handle that.”
I blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift from heart-to-heart to heart-to-humor. “Excuse me?” I laughed, trying to hide the relief that came with his playful deflection. “I’m not crying! And for the record, you’re the one who looks like you’re about to get misty-eyed.”
Oscar held up his hands in mock surrender, his grin widening. “Hey, no judgment. I just thought I’d bring tissues to our next deep and meaningful, you know? Maybe some popcorn, too. Really set the mood.”
I snorted, shoving his shoulder lightly, but the tension had eased, replaced by the familiar rhythm of our back-and-forth. “You’re impossible,” I said, shaking my head, but I couldn’t keep the smile off my face.
Oscar winked, clearly pleased with himself for lightening the mood. “Yeah, but I’m your kind of impossible, right?”
I rolled my eyes, but there was no denying the truth in his words. “Yeah, yeah, don’t let it go to your head,” I shot back, but my heart felt lighter, the strange, heady mix of vulnerability and humor making the moment feel just right.
He laughed, clinking his glass against mine one more time. “Deal. But just so you know, this isn’t over,” he said, his voice dipping into that teasing but sincere tone that was quickly becoming his signature. “This ‘us’ thing… it’s still happening.”
I met his gaze, feeling a surge of warmth and maybe a little bit of hope. “Yeah,” I said, my smile softening. “It definitely is.” And with that, we let the conversation drift back to laughter and lightness, both of us content to leave the door wide open for whatever might come next.
Just as I started to relax into the ease of the moment, Mae’s voice cut through the noise like a dramatic trumpet blast. “Oh my god, did anyone else just see that?” she exclaimed, practically bouncing out of her chair. She was clutching her glass like it was some kind of award she was presenting to the whole table, eyes wide with exaggerated shock.
Oscar and I both froze, caught like deer in headlights as everyone else turned to look at us, half amused and half confused. Mae’s eyes were sparkling with delight, clearly enjoying her self-appointed role as the dinner’s designated narrator of drama.
“Seriously, did no one catch that?” Mae continued, pointing between Oscar and me like she was conducting an investigative report. “That was, like, a full-on rom-com moment! Staring, smiling, subtle hand-touching—am I the only one paying attention to this masterpiece unfolding?”
I could feel my face heating up as the entire table’s attention zeroed in on us. Hattie snorted, trying and failing to suppress a laugh, while Edie gave Mae a playful shove. “Stop being so dramatic, Mae,” Edie said, rolling her eyes but grinning all the same. “It’s not a soap opera.”
Mae, undeterred, waved her hands theatrically, clearly reveling in the spotlight. “No, no, you guys don’t get it. This is prime content! I’ve seen less chemistry on TV shows that have been running for five seasons!” She looked at us with mock seriousness, as if she was on the brink of tears. “Honestly, I’m emotional. I think I need a moment.”
Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, half-embarrassed, half-amused by Mae’s antics. “Okay, Mae, take it down a notch,” he said, trying to sound exasperated, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.
I tried to cover my face with my hands, laughing despite my mortification. “Oh my god, can we not make this a thing?”
Mae ignored me completely, turning to Nicole and Belle as if she were addressing a captivated audience. “Moms, did you see it? Do we need to start planning a wedding, or should I pace myself?”
Nicole chuckled, giving me a sympathetic smile as she sipped her wine. “Mae, sweetie, let them breathe. But I will say, I’m glad to see our Oscar isn’t just all talk.” She winked at me, clearly enjoying every second of this impromptu performance.
Belle, looking equally amused, raised her glass. “To young love… or whatever this is,” she teased, and the whole table erupted in laughter.
Oscar groaned, though he was clearly more entertained than annoyed. “Thanks, Mae. Really appreciate the live commentary,” he said, rolling his eyes but flashing me a quick, conspiratorial smile that sent a flutter through my chest.
He leaned closer, his voice low so only I could hear. “Don’t worry, I’ll get her back for that later,” he promised, his tone half-playful, half-serious, and I could feel the warmth of his breath on my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. I tried to play it cool, but the way he lingered, just a little closer than necessary, made my heart skip.
Meanwhile, Mae was still basking in the glow of her own theatrics, leaning back in her chair with a satisfied grin. “Honestly, you’re welcome. I’m just saying what we’re all thinking,” she quipped, flicking her hair over her shoulder like she was the star of the show.
“Can we get a replay, though?” Hattie chimed in, her voice dripping with mock seriousness. “Like, maybe a slow-mo version? I feel like I missed the pivotal moment.”
Edie, not one to be left out, waggled her eyebrows at me. “Yeah, can you guys just, like, do it again for the rest of us? We need to get the full experience.”
I buried my face in my hands, half laughing, half mortified. “You guys are the worst,” I muttered, but there was no real sting behind it. The entire scene was ridiculous, but it was the kind of ridiculousness that made me feel strangely at home, like I’d been dropped into the middle of this whirlwind of banter and suddenly found my place.
Oscar squeezed my shoulder lightly, his touch grounding me amidst the teasing chaos. “They’re just jealous,” he whispered, his voice edged with that same flirtatious charm that had been keeping me on my toes all day. “It’s not every day they get front-row seats to this level of entertainment.”
I shot him a look, trying to suppress a grin. “Oh, is that what this is? Entertainment?”
He shrugged, unabashed. “Well, it’s definitely not boring. And I think we’re pulling off the lead roles pretty well, don’t you?”
Mae pretended to dab at her eyes, clutching her napkin dramatically. “Look at them, already talking like a power couple. I can’t—my heart is too full.” She pointed a finger at us. “Y’all better invite me to the premiere of your inevitable Netflix series.”
“Mae, if you don’t dial it back, you’re getting written out in season two,” Oscar warned, his tone light but his eyes still fixed on me, a mix of amusement and something softer that made my pulse race.
Mae gasped, clutching her imaginary pearls like she’d just been gravely insulted. “You can’t cut out the comic relief! I’m the fan favorite. Besides, the show would be boring without me stirring the pot.” She leaned back with a smug smile, crossing her arms like she was daring anyone to challenge her.
Hattie snorted, jumping in without missing a beat. “Yeah, but we all know you’re the kind of character they kill off in a dramatic mid-season twist. Gotta keep the ratings up.”
Mae threw her head back, rolling her eyes with exaggerated flair. “Please, they wouldn’t dare. The viewers would riot.” She turned her attention back to us, still grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “And speaking of plot twists, when’s the big kiss scene? I mean, I’m just saying, it’s been teased for like, three episodes already.”
My jaw dropped, caught between mortification and laughter as Oscar choked on his drink, struggling to keep his composure. “Mae!” I squeaked, covering my face with my hands, feeling my cheeks burn hotter than the grill. “Can we not?”
Mae shrugged, completely unfazed. “I’m just being honest. The audience wants what it wants.” She glanced around the table, gesturing to everyone with an over-the-top flourish. “I mean, look at us. We’re all invested.”
Oscar rubbed his temples, but he was smiling, shaking his head at his sister’s relentless antics. “Mae, you’re officially banned from all future dinners. You’ve peaked as an agent of chaos.”
Mae shot him a smug look. “I’d like to see you try. I’m basically your PR manager at this point, and you should be grateful. I’m giving you the best subplot.”
Nicole chuckled, shaking her head at her kids. “Alright, enough, everyone. Let’s give them some peace. I think they’ve been roasted enough for one night.”
I breathed a sigh of relief, trying to regain some composure, but every time I glanced at Oscar, he was already looking at me, that easy, knowing smile still playing on his lips. Despite the theatrics, the jokes, and the lighthearted chaos of it all, there was an unmistakable comfort in being next to him, like we were in on some private joke the rest of the table was only half aware of.
As the conversation shifted back to other topics and plates clattered with second helpings, I found myself sneaking another glance at Oscar. He caught me looking and winked, leaning in just enough to whisper, “You good?”
I nodded, feeling that same flutter from earlier, the one that seemed to have settled somewhere deep in my chest. “Yeah,” I said, my voice light but sincere. “I think I’m better than good.”
But as the conversation around the table continued, the laughter and clinking of glasses filling the air, I couldn’t stop my mind from drifting back to Mae’s earlier comment—the one about the “big kiss scene” that had practically sent me into orbit. At the time, I’d brushed it off, laughing it away as another one of her over-the-top jokes. But now, with the evening winding down and Oscar still sitting close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off him, the idea lingered, stubbornly refusing to be dismissed.
I glanced at him, catching the way he was half-listening to whatever Chris was saying about the grill, but his focus kept sneaking back to me, a subtle sideways glance here, a quiet smile there. It was like we were stuck in this unspoken loop, constantly circling each other without ever quite landing. And suddenly, Mae’s words didn’t seem so ridiculous. The thought of kissing Oscar—of actually closing that gap between us—wasn’t just some wild, far-off fantasy. It felt… possible. Real. And that was what scared me the most.
Because Mae wasn’t wrong—there was a tension between us, a pull that had been there all day, simmering beneath the surface. Every time Oscar leaned in a little too close, every shared look that lingered just a second too long, it was there, buzzing quietly, daring us to acknowledge it. I could feel it now, that quiet hum in the air that made every casual touch and playful nudge feel loaded, like we were teetering on the edge of something that could change everything.
The thought of kissing him—of actually letting myself take that leap—sent a rush of nerves and excitement crashing over me. What would it feel like? Would it be like all the other moments today, funny and light but with that undeniable spark? Or would it be something else entirely, something that would make it impossible to go back to just playful banter and harmless flirting?
I stole another glance at Oscar, watching the way his lips curved into a smirk as he teased Mae about something I couldn’t quite catch. It was infuriating how easily he could shift from serious to silly, how he could make me feel so at ease one second and then completely unsteady the next. I wondered if he was thinking about it, too—if the idea of us had crossed his mind, lingering like it was now in mine.
My thoughts were interrupted as Mae, ever the observant troublemaker, caught me staring. She wiggled her eyebrows and shot me a knowing grin, clearly reveling in her role as the self-appointed matchmaker of the night. I quickly looked away, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks, but the question she’d planted was still there, stubborn and insistent.
What would it be like, kissing Oscar?
It was a question that hovered between us, unasked but undeniable, and as the evening wore on, it only seemed to grow louder. And while I wasn’t sure of the answer, one thing was becoming clear: the idea of it wasn’t just Mae’s dramatic imagination running wild. It was mine too. And maybe, just maybe, it was only a matter of time before we found out for ourselves.
As the sun dipped lower, casting the backyard in soft hues of orange and pink, the vibe around the table shifted. Plates were cleared, glasses refilled, and the conversation became a gentle hum, winding down into the comfortable lull of a summer evening. The air was warm, carrying the faint, salty scent of the ocean just beyond the house. I could feel the day transitioning into something quieter, softer, like a whispered promise of what was to come.
Oscar nudged my arm gently, his smile easy and inviting. “Want to get out of here for a bit?” he asked, his voice low enough that it felt like a secret. “I think I’ve had my fill of Mae’s commentary for the night.”
I laughed, grateful for the excuse to escape the watchful eyes of his sisters. “Yeah, before she starts live-tweeting this,” I joked, grabbing my sandals and following him away from the table. He led us down the path that cut through the backyard, winding toward the beach. The sound of laughter and chatter faded behind us, replaced by the rhythmic crash of waves and the soft crunch of sand beneath our feet.
The sky was a watercolor canvas of fading light, the last streaks of daylight blending into deep blues and purples as we reached the shore. It was quiet here, the kind of quiet that feels intentional, like the world had pressed pause just for us. Oscar slipped off his shoes, and I followed suit, the cool, damp sand squishing pleasantly between my toes. It felt cheesy and cliché, like something out of a movie, but I didn’t care. It was perfect.
We walked in silence for a bit, side by side, our footsteps falling in sync as the waves lapped at the shore. Every so often, Oscar would kick at the sand, sending little sprays of it up in front of us, and I’d laugh, nudging him back with my shoulder. There was no rush, no destination; it was just us, drifting along the edge of the water like we were caught in our own little bubble.
Oscar glanced at me, his face soft in the twilight. “You know, I think this is the part where we’re supposed to talk about something deep and meaningful,” he said, his voice teasing but light, the kind of tone that made everything feel a little less serious, a little easier to handle.
I smiled, rolling my eyes but playing along. “Oh, right. This is the part where we share our hopes, dreams, and darkest secrets, right? Because nothing says ‘deep conversation’ like walking barefoot on the beach.”
“Exactly,” Oscar said, grinning. “But seriously, I’m glad you’re here. Tonight’s been… fun. Weird and chaotic, but fun.”
I nodded, feeling the truth of his words settle over me. “Yeah, it’s been… something,” I admitted, letting out a small laugh. “Honestly, I didn’t know what to expect, but this wasn’t it. In a good way.”
We walked a little further, the quiet between us no longer uncomfortable but filled with the soft roar of the ocean and the distant calls of seagulls. It felt like the perfect cliché—sunset, ocean waves, and just enough awkwardness to keep it from feeling too polished. Oscar stopped suddenly, bending down to pick up a small, smooth shell and handing it to me with a mock-serious expression.
“A souvenir,” he said, his eyes twinkling in the fading light. “To remember this incredibly cheesy moment.”
I took the shell, laughing at how ridiculous and oddly sweet the gesture was. “I’ll treasure it forever,” I said, mimicking his serious tone, holding the shell up like it was a precious gem. “And when I tell people about this night, I’ll say, ‘There was this guy, and he gave me a shell on a beach at sunset. It was painfully corny, but somehow it worked.’”
Oscar chuckled, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Hey, corny works sometimes. Especially if the right person’s involved.” He looked at me then, his smile fading just enough that I could see the sincerity underneath all the jokes. “I like this,” he said, his voice softer. “I like… us.”
My heart did a little flip, caught off guard by the quiet honesty of his words. It wasn’t dramatic or grand, just simple and real, and that made it even better. “I like us too,” I admitted, feeling the last bit of sunlight brush against my skin as the horizon swallowed it whole.
Oscar stepped closer, his shoulder brushing mine as we stood there, toes in the sand, watching the sky darken. It felt like we’d crossed some invisible line, one that had been waiting for us all day, and now, with the ocean as our only witness, it didn’t feel scary anymore. It felt right.
The waves crashed softly in the background, a rhythmic soundtrack to the unspoken feelings that hung between us. I expected another joke, something light to keep the moment easy, but instead, Oscar’s expression shifted, his smile fading into something more serious, more introspective. He glanced at the horizon, the last slivers of light reflecting in his eyes, before turning back to me.
“You know,” he started, his voice a little lower, almost hesitant, “about that whole ‘sharing secrets’ thing…”
I raised an eyebrow, expecting another playful jab, but his tone had changed. There was a weight to his words that made my heart pick up pace, and I could tell he was wrestling with something. “Yeah?” I prompted gently, unsure where he was going with this but sensing it was important.
Oscar let out a long breath, his gaze dropping to the sand as if he was trying to gather his thoughts. “There’s something I haven’t told you,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck—a nervous habit I hadn’t seen from him before. “It’s… kind of a big deal. And it’s something I don’t usually talk about when I first meet someone.”
I felt a flicker of concern, mixed with curiosity. “Okay,” I said softly, trying to encourage him without pushing too hard. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”
He nodded, chewing on his lip for a moment before meeting my eyes. “So… I’m not just some random guy who likes to crash neighborhood dinners and play chicken in pools.” He paused, as if weighing his next words carefully. “I’m actually… a Formula One driver.”
I blinked, the words taking a moment to fully register. “Wait, what?” I said, half-laughing in disbelief, expecting him to crack a smile and tell me it was just another joke. But Oscar’s expression remained serious, his eyes searching mine for a reaction.
“I’m a Formula One driver,” he repeated, more firmly this time, his voice steady but laced with something vulnerable. “I race for a living. It’s my job, my whole life, really. I’ve been doing it for years, and it’s… well, it’s a lot. I didn’t want to bring it up right away because, honestly, it changes how people see me. And I like how things are right now. Just… you and me, without all that other stuff.”
My mind reeled, trying to connect the dots between the Oscar I’d spent the day with and the image of a high-speed, glamorous world I’d only ever seen on TV. I had a million questions, but the first one that slipped out was, “Are you serious?”
He nodded, his expression softening at my shock. “Yeah, I am. I travel all the time—races in different countries, press, sponsors, all of it. It’s not just a job; it’s this crazy, intense lifestyle, and it’s a lot to deal with. That’s why I didn’t want to bring it up. I wanted to just be… me. Not the guy on the track.”
I stared at him, the quiet, easy-going Oscar who had been joking and flirting with me all day, now suddenly framed in a completely different light. I tried to picture him in a racing suit, helmet on, speeding at breakneck pace in front of thousands of fans. The thought was surreal, but the sincerity in his eyes grounded me, reminding me that he was still the same guy who had been by my side all day.
“Wow,” I breathed, still trying to wrap my head around it. “I mean… that’s incredible. And intense. I can’t even imagine…”
Oscar shrugged, his expression a mix of pride and exhaustion. “It’s got its moments. The adrenaline, the rush, it’s amazing. But it’s also lonely sometimes. It’s hard to know who’s around for me and who’s around for what I do. That’s why it’s been so… nice today. Just hanging out, no expectations, no pressure.”
I nodded, my mind still racing to keep up, but my heart settled on one thing: the vulnerability in his voice. “I get why you didn’t say anything,” I said softly. “I’m glad you told me, though. And for what it’s worth, it doesn’t change anything for me. I still see you the same way.”
Oscar’s shoulders relaxed, a hint of relief passing over his face. “Thanks. That means a lot,” he said quietly. “I just wanted you to know who I really am. Not the headlines, not the highlight reels. Just… Oscar.”
I reached out, squeezing his hand lightly. “Well, Oscar, the Formula One driver,” I teased gently, “you’re kind of stuck with me now. So I hope you’re ready for that.”
He laughed, a sound filled with genuine warmth, and squeezed my hand back. “I think I can handle it,” he said, his smile returning. “But I promise, no pit stops on our beach walks.”
We kept walking, but now my mind was buzzing with questions I couldn’t quite hold back. The idea of Oscar—this funny, charming guy—also being a professional race car driver was a lot to process. My curiosity got the better of me, and I turned to him, trying to piece together this new version of him I was just starting to understand.
“So, what’s it like?” I asked, my voice tinged with excitement and genuine intrigue. “I mean, racing. The whole lifestyle… is it really as glamorous as it looks?”
Oscar smiled, his eyes distant for a moment as if recalling a million memories at once. “Sometimes it is. The travel, the fans, the adrenaline of the race—it’s all surreal. But it’s not always as glamorous as people think. There’s a lot of pressure, a lot of sleepless nights. You’re constantly on the move, training, dealing with the media, and sometimes you barely get a moment to yourself.”
I nodded, hanging onto every word. “Do you ever get scared? I mean, it’s not exactly a nine-to-five job.”
He glanced at me, his expression thoughtful. “Every time I get in the car, there’s this moment of fear, like a little voice in the back of my mind reminding me how dangerous it is. But once the lights go out and the race starts, it’s all instinct. You don’t really think—you just drive. It’s weird, but the fear kind of becomes part of the thrill.”
I could hear the passion in his voice, and it struck me how much more there was to him than I’d realized. “Do you ever… wish it was different? Like, that maybe you could slow down?”
Oscar chuckled softly, kicking at the sand as we walked. “Sometimes, yeah. It’s exhausting. But then there’s this moment when you’re flying down the track, everything’s a blur, and it’s just you and the car. Nothing else matters. It’s the most alive I’ve ever felt.” He paused, turning to me with a small, earnest smile. “And then there are nights like this, where I get to just be a normal guy hanging out on the beach. It’s a nice change of pace.”
I found myself smiling, charmed by his openness. “I can’t even imagine living like that—always on the go, never really having time to just… be. But it sounds incredible, in a crazy sort of way.”
“It is,” he agreed, looking out at the ocean, the moonlight catching the edges of his profile. “But it’s also hard to let people in. Everyone has expectations, and sometimes it’s hard to know who actually sees you and who just sees the guy in the helmet.”
I squeezed his hand, wanting to offer some kind of comfort. “Well, I see you, Oscar. And not just the driver. I see the guy who’s annoyingly persistent, who’s actually kind of sweet when he wants to be.” I nudged him playfully. “And the guy who’s really bad at keeping secrets, apparently.”
He laughed, a genuine, relieved sound that made my heart swell. “Yeah, I guess I’m not as mysterious as I thought.” He paused, then added, “But I’m glad you know. I wanted you to know.”
I studied him, feeling like I was seeing Oscar in an entirely new light—not just the charming guy who had been teasing me all day, but someone with layers, with dreams and fears that ran deeper than I’d ever guessed. “Thanks for telling me,” I said softly. “It means a lot that you’d share all this with me.”
Oscar smirked, but there was a hint of shyness behind it. “Yeah, well, you’ve got this way of making me spill my guts. You should be careful—I might start telling you my deepest, darkest secrets.”
I laughed, nudging him with my shoulder. “Oh, don’t tempt me. I’ve got a lot of questions, you know. Like, what’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done in front of a crowd? Or do you have a superstitious pre-race ritual? Maybe something involving, like, wearing your socks inside out for good luck?”
He groaned, but the playful gleam in his eyes told me he was enjoying this. “Socks inside out? That’s rookie level. I’m way more sophisticated—think lucky underwear, a very specific breakfast, and a pep talk to my car that would make me sound insane if anyone heard it.”
I snorted, covering my mouth to stifle the laugh. “You talk to your car? Please tell me you’ve named it.”
Oscar looked mock-offended, clutching his chest dramatically. “Of course I’ve named it! What kind of driver would I be if I didn’t? But that’s classified information—I can’t just give away my car’s name on the first beach walk.”
I rolled my eyes, still giggling at the idea of him having full-on conversations with his race car. “I think you’re just scared to admit you’ve named it something ridiculous like ‘Lightning McQueen’ or ‘Speedy McSpeedface.’”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ll have you know my car’s name is very dignified and deeply meaningful,” he said, trying to keep a straight face but failing miserably. “And it definitely doesn’t sound like a character from a kids’ movie.”
I raised an eyebrow, teasing him back. “Uh-huh. Sure. And do you also tuck it in at night and read it bedtime stories?”
Oscar threw his head back in laughter, his hand squeezing mine. “You’re killing me here. But hey, maybe you can come see it sometime—if you’re good, I’ll even let you meet her.”
“Oh, meeting the car? Wow, that sounds serious,” I teased, pretending to be deeply flattered. “Next thing you know, you’ll be inviting me to the races, front-row seats and all.”
Oscar grinned, his eyes twinkling under the moonlight. “Keep playing your cards right, and you never know. I might just need a good luck charm in the stands. Besides,” he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a flirty whisper, “it’d be a shame not to have the prettiest girl at the track cheering me on.”
I could feel the heat rising to my cheeks again, the casual way he flirted throwing me off balance every time. “You’ve really perfected the smooth-talking driver act, haven’t you?” I teased, raising an eyebrow but unable to stop the grin tugging at my lips.
Oscar smirked, his confidence unwavering. “What can I say? When you’ve got someone worth impressing, you pull out all the stops.”
I rolled my eyes, but the butterflies in my stomach were in full flight. “Well, I’m not that easy to impress. You might need more than just a fancy car and smooth lines.”
He pretended to think it over, scratching his chin dramatically. “Hmm, okay. Let’s see… I’ve got fast cars, some world travel under my belt, and a pretty decent sense of humor, if I do say so myself. Oh, and I’m great at chicken fights in the pool.” He gave me a sideways glance, his smile playful but with a hint of sincerity beneath it. “But if that’s not enough, I guess I’ll just have to keep trying.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “Yeah, keep working on it. I’m a tough crowd.”
Oscar slowed his steps, his voice turning softer as he leaned a little closer. “I like a challenge.”
His words hung in the air between us, and for a moment, the playful banter gave way to something a little deeper. There was that same flicker of vulnerability from earlier, like he was letting his guard down just a bit more, and it made my heart skip. I wasn’t sure what to say, so I just met his gaze, feeling the intensity of the moment settle between us like a quiet hum.
“Careful,” I finally said, trying to keep the mood light even though my pulse was racing. “You might bite off more than you can chew.”
Oscar grinned, but his eyes were still locked on mine, the flirty bravado softening into something more genuine. “I think I can handle it,” he said quietly, and there was something in his tone that made my breath catch, like this wasn’t just another joke, another flirtation. It was a real promise.
Before I could respond, he reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch was so casual, yet it sent a rush of warmth through me, leaving me a little breathless. “You’re making this easy,” he said, his voice low, almost teasing, but his gaze was steady, holding mine with a kind of quiet intensity that made my heart race.
“Easy?” I managed to say, trying to sound composed but failing miserably.
He nodded, his smile widening just a bit. “Yeah. You make it easy to want to keep trying.”
I swallowed, the weight of his words settling over me. It felt like we were on the verge of something bigger, something that went beyond the playful teasing and light-hearted flirting. And as cheesy as it sounded, standing there with the ocean breeze in my hair and the moonlight casting soft shadows around us, I couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this was the kind of moment where everything could change.
But instead of saying anything profound, I just smiled, feeling the warmth of his hand still lingering near my cheek. “Well, if you’re trying to win me over with flattery and moonlit walks on the beach, you’re off to a decent start.”
Oscar chuckled, dropping his hand but staying close. “Good to know. I’ll keep that in mind for next time.” He paused, glancing at the ocean before looking back at me with that same mix of playfulness and sincerity. “You ready to head back?”
I nodded, feeling the tension in my chest ease as we started walking again, the easy rhythm between us falling back into place. “Yeah, but don’t think this lets you off the hook. You’ve still got some impressing to do.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Challenge accepted.”
And as we made our way back up the beach, the stars twinkling above and the sound of the waves following us, I couldn’t help but feel that this night—this cheesy, corny, perfect night—was only the beginning of something even better. There was an easy warmth between us now, a quiet understanding that whatever this was, we were both on board. As we reached the house, the familiar noise of chatter and laughter spilled out onto the patio, pulling us back into the lively fold of everyone gathered around.
The second we stepped onto the deck, Mae was the first to spot us, her eyes lighting up like she’d just won the gossip jackpot. “Well, well, well, look who decided to rejoin the party,” she called out, clapping her hands together in mock celebration. “Did you two lovebirds enjoy your romantic stroll under the moonlight?”
Oscar shot her a warning look, but it only made her grin wider. “Mae, do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?” he quipped, trying to sound exasperated but failing to hide his smile.
Hattie, never one to miss an opportunity, leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed with a knowing smirk. “Oh, come on, Oscar. We saw you guys sneaking off together. What was it? A deep, soul-searching chat? Confessions of undying love?”
Edie snorted, adding her two cents with a dramatic gasp. “Wait, did he finally break out the big romantic moves? Did he tell you about his tragic backstory and show you his sensitive side?”
I laughed, shaking my head but feeling my cheeks flush under the teasing. “Wow, you guys really have an active imagination,” I said, trying to play it off casually. “We were just… talking.”
“Talking,” Mae repeated, her tone dripping with mock suspicion. “Sure, sure. That’s what they all say before the dramatic kiss in the rain scene.”
Oscar rolled his eyes, but he was clearly more amused than annoyed. “For your information, Mae, we were just enjoying a peaceful walk without all the peanut gallery commentary,” he shot back, though his playful glare did little to stop the relentless teasing.
“Oh, right,” Hattie said, putting on an exaggerated, dreamy voice. “Staring into each other’s eyes, holding hands, whispering sweet nothings—totally normal, everyday stuff.”
Edie gave an exaggerated sigh, wiping a fake tear from her eye. “I swear, this is better than any rom-com. I feel blessed to witness it in real time.”
Oscar groaned, rubbing his temples but unable to keep the smile off his face. “You guys are the worst,” he said, shaking his head, but the laughter in his eyes was unmistakable.
Hattie leaned in, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she gave Oscar a nudge. “So, did you tell her your big secret yet?” she asked, her tone half-joking but laced with just enough seriousness to make it feel like there was more to it. “You know, the one where you’re not just some guy who likes moonlit walks and cheesy flirting?”
Oscar rolled his eyes, but his shoulders tensed slightly. “Yeah, Hattie. I told her.”
Hattie smirked, turning her attention to me with a knowing look. “Well, good. Now you’ve seen the full Oscar package: charming flirt, terrible dancer, and, oh yeah, a race car driver who’s apparently allergic to being straightforward about it.”
I laughed, catching the hint of truth beneath her teasing. “Yeah, he told me. It was quite the plot twist,” I said, shooting Oscar a playful glance. “I mean, I thought I was just hanging out with some guy who likes chicken fights in pools, and then bam! Turns out he’s a high-speed adrenaline junkie.”
Oscar let out a half-hearted groan, but I could see the smile tugging at his lips. “See? This is why I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. Now I’m the guy who goes from chicken fights to explaining how I don’t die doing my job.”
Edie leaned forward, her grin wide. “Oh, come on. You love it. And honestly, I think it’s pretty cool she didn’t bolt when you told her. That’s a win in my book.”
I shrugged, feeling oddly proud of myself for rolling with the revelation. “I mean, you could’ve told me you were a secret agent or something, and I’d probably still be here. But don’t get any ideas—I’m not driving any getaway cars for you.”
Hattie raised her glass in mock solemnity. “To not scaring her off with the ‘I drive at 200 mph for a living’ thing. Honestly, it’s about time someone just saw you for, you know, you.”
Oscar smiled, his eyes flickering with gratitude. “Thanks, Hattie. And yeah,” he turned back to me, squeezing my shoulder lightly, “I’m glad you’re here. Even if my sisters are determined to embarrass me at every turn.”
I laughed, leaning into the warmth of his side hug. “Hey, I’m just glad I got to hear the big secret firsthand. And for the record, you’re a lot more than just the guy on the track.”
Mae pretended to wipe away a tear, her voice cracking with fake emotion. “Look at them, so supportive. I’m not crying, you’re crying.”
Oscar groaned again, but his eyes never left mine, filled with a quiet, earnest appreciation that made the teasing worth it. “You guys are relentless.”
Edie smirked, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. “Hey, you can’t blame us. We’ve got a front-row seat to the Oscar Romance Special. We’re just waiting for the next episode, preferably with more kissing.”
I nearly choked on my drink, caught off guard by her bluntness, and Oscar’s face turned a shade of pink I’d never seen before. “Edie,” he said, trying to sound stern but failing as a laugh escaped him. “I think you’re confusing our lives with one of your trashy reality shows.”
Mae jumped in, wagging her finger dramatically. “Excuse me, but if you’re going to give us reality TV vibes, at least make it entertaining. We need more dramatic confessions and less awkward hovering. I mean, seriously, when’s the big kiss scene?”
I looked at Oscar, my face heating up at the thought, but I decided to play along. “Well, Oscar, if you’ve got any more romantic revelations planned, you’d better warn me so I can, you know, brace myself.”
Oscar leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper just for me. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m full of surprises. And if you think that was my best move, you’re in for a wild ride.”
I raised an eyebrow, trying to keep my cool but failing to hide my smile. “Wild ride? Wow, is that a racing pun or are you just that confident?”
He chuckled, giving me a quick wink. “Both. But you’ll have to stick around to find out which one’s more accurate.”
Mae let out a dramatic sigh, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Oh my god, just kiss already! You’re both practically oozing romantic tension. It’s painful to watch.”
Oscar’s grin turned devilish, and he leaned back, his eyes flicking to me with a playful glint. “See what I have to put up with? I swear, it’s like having a peanut gallery that’s also my personal cheer squad.”
I nudged him with my elbow, unable to keep from laughing. “You should be grateful. Not everyone gets this kind of enthusiastic support.”
He nodded, feigning deep thought. “You’re right. Maybe I should embrace it. I mean, it’s not every day you get heckled into flirting.”
Hattie jumped in, pointing her fork at us. “Yeah, and if you’re going to flirt, at least do it properly. We want fireworks, people.”
Oscar threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll work on my technique. But I can’t promise anything with all these eyes watching.”
I rolled my eyes, but the playful energy between us was impossible to ignore. “No pressure or anything,” I said, smirking at him. “But apparently, you’ve got a lot to live up to.”
Oscar leaned closer, his smile turning sly. “I thrive under pressure,” he said, his voice low and smooth, and I felt a shiver run down my spine. “Guess I’ll just have to make it memorable.”
His words hung in the air, flirtatious yet full of that quiet promise that left my heart racing. And as the night went on, filled with more teasing and playful banter, I realized that every joke, every look, was just another layer to the electric, unpredictable thing that was building between us.
Mae clinked her glass dramatically, interrupting my thoughts. “To Oscar, the wannabe Romeo, and to his leading lady, who’s clearly got the patience of a saint. Cheers to the saga we didn’t know we needed.”
I laughed, lifting my glass and meeting Oscar’s gaze. “Cheers,” I said, feeling the thrill of whatever this was settle comfortably around us. Because no matter how ridiculous or flirtatious it got, there was no denying that this was one ride I didn’t want to get off anytime soon.
synopsis: in which oscar piastri and a university student begging for her euro summer vacation collide in a steamy, abba-inspired romance
prose (5.9K words) ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩
profile | masterlist | series index ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
03: Making a Splash in the Pool of Love…Yikes
There were two types of people at the pool: those who gracefully slipped into the water like elegant swans, and those who cannonballed in with all the subtlety of a collapsing deck chair. I, unfortunately, was in a third category entirely—one reserved for the terminally awkward, perpetually flustered, and inexplicably magnetized to the deep end of mortification.
Oscar’s sisters were already in the water, splashing each other like some synchronized squad of professional pool gremlins. Mae was attempting what looked like a half-hearted handstand, her legs wobbling in the air before she toppled over, sending a spray of water in every direction. Edie was lounging on a float, sunglasses perched on her nose, lazily steering herself with one foot as if she were on a private yacht instead of a neon pink flamingo. Hattie, meanwhile, was narrating the entire scene like a sports commentator, complete with dramatic sound effects and questionable Australian accents.
And then there was Oscar, sitting poolside with all the ease of someone who belonged there, flashing that same infuriatingly smug grin every time he caught my eye. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a surf magazine—lean muscles, tousled hair, and the kind of relaxed confidence that made you both admire and want to dunk him underwater simultaneously.
Simply put, that sight, holy hell; absolutely delectable.
I was perched on the edge, feet dangling in the cool water, trying to summon the courage to just jump in and get it over with. But of course, that was when Oscar decided it was the perfect time to make things ten times worse.
“C’mon, what are you waiting for?” he called, tipping his sunglasses down just enough to look at me over the rim. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of a little water.”
I shot him a glare, but my attempt at intimidation was ruined by the fact that I was gripping the edge of the pool like it was my only lifeline. “I’m not scared,” I retorted, though my voice wavered. “I’m just… enjoying the view.” Which, unfortunately, sounded way more flirtatious than I intended.
Great. Just great.
Oscar’s grin widened, and he pushed himself up, sauntering over with a casualness that made my pulse race. “The view, huh? Glad I’m providing some entertainment,” he teased, crouching down beside me, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “But I’ve gotta say, you’re missing out. Water’s perfect.”
And before I could protest, he stood up, gave me a cheeky wink, and cannonballed into the pool, sending a wave of water crashing over my legs and half-soaking my cover-up. I let out a yelp, half in surprise and half in pure exasperation as Oscar surfaced, slicking his hair back and laughing like he’d just pulled off the prank of the century.
“Welcome to the splash zone!” Mae cheered, throwing up her arms in mock celebration as Oscar floated by, still grinning like he’d won some imaginary competition.
I wiped the water from my face, feeling my resolve finally crack. It was either jump in or spend the rest of the afternoon as Oscar’s personal splash target, and I was too stubborn to give him that satisfaction. With one last deep breath, I stood up, tossed my cover-up to the side, and took the plunge, diving in with more determination than grace.
As I broke the surface, sputtering but exhilarated, Oscar swam up beside me, his smile impossibly bright. “There you go,” he said, flicking water at me playfully. “Now you’re officially one of us.”
I rolled my eyes, trying to hide the smile tugging at my lips. “One of the loonies, you mean.”
He laughed, his eyes sparkling with something that looked a lot like admiration. “Exactly. Welcome to the club.”
Before I could catch my breath, Oscar splashed me again, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Alright, now that you’re here, we’re playing a game of chicken. Me and you against Edie and Hattie. They’ve been running their mouths all day about how they’re undefeated.”
I blinked, caught completely off-guard by the suggestion. “Wait, chicken? You mean the one where you sit on someone’s shoulders and try to knock the other team down?”
Oscar nodded, his grin wide and challenging. “That’s the one. And don’t worry, I’m a solid base. You just have to keep Edie and Hattie from cheating, which is honestly the real challenge.”
I hesitated, glancing over at Edie and Hattie, who were already gearing up and flexing like they were entering an Olympic event. Edie perched confidently on Hattie’s shoulders, waving like a gladiator preparing for battle. The thought of sitting on Oscar’s shoulders, with everyone watching—and worse, his hands around my legs—made me momentarily freeze. Not to mention, I wasn’t exactly in the mood to be manhandled by a guy I’d only known for three hours, no matter how distractingly good-looking he was.
“Nah, I think I’ll just watch,” I said, trying to sound casual, even though my heart was thumping at the mere idea of the closeness. “I’m not really… a chicken kind of girl.”
Oscar wasn’t having it. He swam closer, his expression teasing but with a hint of something else, a playful determination that made it clear he wasn’t going to let me off that easily. “C’mon, don’t be a chicken about playing chicken,” he coaxed, his tone dripping with challenge. “It’ll be fun. Plus, I promise I won’t drop you. I’ve got a good grip.”
I shot him a skeptical look, my cheeks heating up again. “And why exactly should I trust you?”
Oscar’s smirk widened as he shifted his stance, flexing his biceps with dramatic flair, his movements comically slow and deliberate. He struck a pose like a cheesy fitness model from a 90s infomercial, his muscles bulging as he exaggerated each flex with a ridiculous amount of confidence. The water glistened on his tanned skin, catching the sunlight in a way that would’ve been impressive if it wasn’t so over the top. He raised one arm and gave it a solid flex, his bicep swelling noticeably, and with a playful wink, he leaned in and kissed it like it was the crowning achievement of his life.
“Because these guns,” he declared, pausing to flex the other arm for good measure, “are the most reliable thing you’ll ever sit on.” He threw in a cocky wink that would’ve made any movie villain proud, followed by an exaggerated smooch to his own bicep that echoed like a cartoon sound effect.
Mae burst out laughing, nearly choking on her drink. “Oh my god, Oscar, you absolute dork. Stop embarrassing yourself!”
Edie rolled her eyes so hard I was worried they’d get stuck. “Seriously, bro, you’re one cheesy line away from handing out autographed photos.”
Oscar ignored them, continuing to pose as if he were standing in front of a crowd of adoring fans. He shifted his weight, flexing his triceps now, turning slightly to show off the muscles rippling along his back, all while maintaining that smirk that screamed, I know I look good, and I’m not sorry about it.
I couldn’t help but laugh, torn between genuine amusement and secondhand embarrassment. He was so shameless, so ridiculously over-the-top, that I almost didn’t notice the way his muscles moved with effortless strength beneath the surface. I tried to keep my expression neutral, but I could feel my cheeks heating up despite myself. The confidence, the sheer audacity of it all, was so uniquely Oscar, and I couldn’t deny the flutter of nerves—or something else—that danced in my stomach.
I snorted, half-laughing, half-cringing at his display. “Oh my god, that was the worst line I’ve ever heard. Are you serious?”
“Dead serious,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “And besides, you get to help me take those two down a notch. It’s a win-win.”
I looked at Edie and Hattie, who were already smirking at us from across the pool, and I felt a sudden surge of competitiveness rise up. Fine. If Oscar wanted a partner, I’d give him one—and maybe wipe that smug look off his sisters’ faces while I was at it.
“Alright, fine,” I relented, rolling my eyes but unable to suppress a grin. “But if you drop me, I’m holding it against you forever.”
Oscar’s smile was blinding. “Deal.” He turned around and crouched slightly, patting his broad shoulders. “Hop on. I’ll keep you steady.”
I climbed onto his back, trying not to think too hard about how solid he felt under my hands, or the way his muscles flexed as he gripped my legs to steady me. I could feel every inch of his strength, and it was both comforting and ridiculously distracting. The water sloshed around us as he rose, effortlessly lifting me onto his shoulders. My heart pounded, but I tried to focus on the game instead of the feel of his strong, tanned skin under my hands.
“Hold on tight,” Oscar said, his voice light but filled with excitement. “We’re going to take them down.”
As we squared off against Edie and Hattie, the pool’s surface rippled around us, creating a vibrant, sun-dappled stage for our impending battle. I could feel every subtle shift of Oscar’s body beneath me, his muscles tensing and flexing as he adjusted his stance, effortlessly finding the right balance to keep us steady. Each small movement sent little jolts of energy through me, and I couldn’t ignore the sheer strength radiating from him, his back firm and his shoulders broad under my grip. He gave his shoulders a little roll, almost like a warm-up, making sure I felt every deliberate flex, each slight adjustment meant to show off his easy power.
“Comfortable up there?” he asked, his voice laced with that familiar teasing edge. He tilted his head back just enough so I could see the playful spark in his eyes, his cheeky grin widening as he caught my expression. He looked absurdly pleased with himself, like this was all part of some grand performance and I was his main audience.
“Oh yeah, super comfy,” I replied, my voice dripping with sarcasm, but I couldn’t suppress the grin tugging at my lips. It was impossible not to smile; his energy was contagious, and the way he kept subtly flexing as if daring me to notice was half infuriating, half amusing. I squeezed my thighs around his neck for stability, feeling the corded strength in his shoulders respond instinctively. It was like being on top of a coiled spring—every movement precise, controlled, and brimming with unspoken confidence.
He chuckled, his laughter vibrating through me. “Good to hear. I’m not just holding you up—I’m making sure you’re getting the five-star experience.”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t deny the exhilaration bubbling up inside me. Despite my initial reluctance, there was something undeniably thrilling about being perched on his shoulders, high above the water, surrounded by the sounds of splashing and laughter. The sun was warm on my skin, and the water glistened around us, catching the light in dazzling, ever-shifting patterns. And then there was Oscar’s energy—playful, supportive, and just cocky enough to make me want to win this silly game purely out of spite.
Oscar shifted beneath me, his muscles rippling as he adjusted to keep me perfectly balanced. His hands gripped my legs firmly, his touch sure and steady as if to remind me that, no matter how chaotic things got, he wasn’t letting me fall. I caught a quick glimpse of his grin, the way he was clearly enjoying every second of this, and it was impossible not to feel a rush of adrenaline mixed with something softer, something that made my heart beat just a little faster.
“Ready to take them down?” he asked, giving his shoulders another purposeful flex that sent a shiver through me, his playful arrogance on full display. “I’ve got the strength; you just bring the attitude.”
I tightened my grip, feeling a surge of competitive spirit rise within me. “Oh, I’ve got plenty of that,” I shot back, smirking down at him. “Just keep flexing, and we’ve got this in the bag.”
Oscar laughed, his eyes flicking up to meet mine with a look that was half challenge, half flirtation. “You got it. Hang tight, and let’s show these amateurs how it’s done.”
Edie shot us a look, her eyes narrowing playfully. “You’re going down!” she called out, already reaching forward with determination.
“We’ll see about that!” Oscar taunted back, adjusting his stance and giving his sisters a cocky nod. “Don’t worry, I’ve got the best rider in the game.”
The match was on, and I focused all my energy on staying balanced and pushing back against Edie’s determined attacks. Oscar’s hands gripped my legs tightly, holding me steady as we twisted and turned in the water. I could feel his muscles working beneath me, and every so often, he’d flex just a bit more than necessary, as if to remind me of the strength holding me up.
“You sure you don’t mind all this muscle under you?” Oscar teased, glancing up with a flirtatious smile. “I mean, I can tone it down if it’s too distracting.”
I laughed, half-exasperated, half-flustered by his shameless flirting. “Just focus on the game, muscle man.”
Oscar chuckled, giving me another little flex just for show. “Oh, I am. But if it helps, think of this as a free ride. Gym membership included.”
With one final push, I managed to shove Edie just enough to throw her off balance, sending her toppling back into the water with a dramatic splash. The victory was sweet, made even better by the stunned look on Hattie’s face as she struggled to keep her sister afloat. Edie resurfaced with a gasp, water streaming from her hair as she spluttered and shot me a half-impressed, half-annoyed glare.
“Ha!” I cheered, throwing my arms up in triumph, barely managing to keep my balance on Oscar’s shoulders. “We won!” My voice echoed with a mix of disbelief and exhilaration, and I couldn’t help but feel a rush of pride.
Oscar laughed, his joy bubbling up as he spun us around in a celebratory twirl, the water splashing up in playful waves around us. I squealed, clutching his head to keep steady, but the sound was full of delight rather than fear. It was impossible not to get caught up in the moment, the sudden thrill of winning, and the infectious energy of everyone’s laughter.
“Told you we’d win,” Oscar said, looking up at me with that signature grin—broad, boyish, and brimming with a proud satisfaction that was almost contagious. He squeezed my legs slightly, just enough to remind me of his grip, his strength, and the fact that he’d been holding me up the whole time. “I never lose when I’ve got the right partner.”
I blushed, feeling an unexpected warmth spread through me at his words. The compliment was wrapped in that same playful bravado, but there was something genuine beneath it that caught me off guard. I could feel the heat rising to my cheeks, and I tried to play it cool, though my grin was impossible to hide. “Well, I guess you’re lucky to have me, then,” I teased, flicking a bit of water down at him.
Oscar chuckled, adjusting his hold and giving his shoulders a little roll as if to flex just one last time. “Lucky doesn’t even cover it,” he quipped, his voice dipping into something almost sincere, and I found myself momentarily lost in the playful glint of his eyes.
Meanwhile, Hattie was already splashing water at Edie, who was still bobbing indignantly in the pool. “You got beat by a newbie!” Hattie crowed, laughing at her sister’s expense. “I thought you said you were unstoppable?”
Edie scowled but couldn’t suppress a grin, brushing her wet hair out of her face. “Alright, alright, you got us. But don’t get too cocky—we’ll be back for a rematch,” she said, pointing a challenging finger at me. “Next time, you’re going down.”
Mae paddled over, clapping her hands in mock applause. “That was epic! New girl just dethroned the queens of chicken. How does it feel to be pool royalty?”
I couldn’t stop laughing, the adrenaline still coursing through me as I basked in the impromptu victory. “Feels pretty damn good,” I said, shrugging nonchalantly even though I was still buzzing from the rush. “But I’ll let you guys keep your crowns. I’m more of a co-ruler kind of girl.”
Oscar tilted his head back, looking at me with a playful admiration that made my heart skip a beat. “See? She’s humble, too. The whole package,” he said, giving me a slight squeeze with his shoulders that made me tighten my grip reflexively.
“Okay, seriously, stop flirting,” Mae groaned, rolling her eyes dramatically as she splashed water at us. “It’s getting nauseating.”
Hattie laughed, shaking her head as she swam closer. “Yeah, tone it down, Romeo. No one wants to watch you make goo-goo eyes while you’re being a human ladder.”
Oscar just grinned, unbothered by their teasing, and looked up at me with an exaggerated wink. “Sorry, can’t help it. It’s not every day you get to team up with someone who makes winning look this good.”
I laughed, trying to ignore the way my cheeks flamed up at his unabashed flirtation. “You’re ridiculous,” I said, but my voice was light, and I couldn’t deny the flutter in my chest. For a moment, everything felt easy—like we were just two kids messing around, laughing, and letting the summer sun work its magic.
Mae, ever the bundle of energy, suddenly clapped her hands together, splashing water everywhere. “Alright, next game! We’re playing pool volleyball. Hattie, Edie, you’re with me. New girl and Romeo are on the other team,” she announced, pointing dramatically between us. “Time to see if you two are a one-hit wonder.”
Oscar’s eyes lit up at the challenge. “Oh, we’ll take you down,” he declared confidently, wading over to grab the neon volleyball bobbing nearby. “We’re basically undefeated at this point. Right, partner?”
“Undefeated for exactly one game,” I teased, but I couldn’t help feeling a competitive spark reignite. Mae quickly set up the makeshift “net,” which was really just a length of pool noodle stretched across the center of the pool, anchored down with pool chairs. It was half crooked, barely staying afloat, and not remotely official—but in that moment, it felt like the real deal.
Edie and Hattie took their places with Mae, who was already taunting us from across the water. “Ready to get wrecked? This is our turf, and we don’t go easy,” Mae called out, bouncing the ball a few times as if she were prepping for a major league serve.
Oscar leaned in close to me, his shoulder brushing mine under the water as he whispered, “They’re just sore losers. We’ve got this.”
The game kicked off with a wild serve from Mae that went soaring way over everyone’s heads and smacked into the side of the pool with a splash. “Nice aim,” I called, biting back a laugh.
“Shut up, it’s a warm-up!” Mae shot back, blushing as she retrieved the ball. She tried again, this time with a little more finesse, and the game was on.
Oscar and I found our rhythm surprisingly quickly, moving in sync as if we’d been playing together for ages. He’d bump the ball effortlessly, sending it just high enough for me to set it up perfectly, and I’d watch as he leapt out of the water with an exaggerated show of power, slamming it back over the noodle with a loud splash. Every point we scored, Oscar would raise his hand for a high-five, which quickly devolved into splashing water at each other playfully.
“Nice spike, partner!” I called, the thrill of teamwork coursing through me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had this much fun doing something so simple. There was no pressure, no awkwardness—just pure, unfiltered enjoyment.
“Same to you!” Oscar responded, winking at me as he adjusted his swim shorts, the action so casual yet somehow making my heart skip a beat. “You’re making this too easy.”
The banter kept flowing as we played, each side fiercely determined not to lose. At one point, Hattie attempted a dramatic dive to save the ball, splashing wildly and nearly taking Edie down with her. “Friendly fire!” Edie yelped, giggling as they both resurfaced, water streaming from their hair.
Mae, ever competitive, huffed and glared at her sisters. “C’mon, focus! They’re not even that good!”
Oscar chuckled, elbowing me gently, his voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down my spine. “Hear that? We’re ‘not even that good.’ Guess we’ll have to try harder.”
I blinked, caught completely off guard by the not-so-subtle innuendo laced in his words. The way he said it—low, playful, with just the slightest hint of mischief—made my face heat up instantly. I could feel the blush creeping up my neck and flooding my cheeks, and there was no hiding it. It was like my skin had betrayed me, broadcasting exactly how flustered I felt.
I tried to play it off, clearing my throat and splashing water at him as a distraction. “Y-Yeah, maybe you should work on that,” I shot back, aiming for a confident tone, but my voice wavered just enough to make Oscar’s grin widen. His eyes were locked on mine, sparkling with a knowing look that made my stomach flip.
“Is that a challenge?” he teased, his smirk growing as he leaned a little closer, clearly enjoying how flustered I’d become. “Because I’m always up for trying harder.”
I sputtered, feeling the heat intensify across my face. This wasn’t fair—he was effortlessly charming, and I was just trying not to combust on the spot. “I meant at volleyball, obviously,” I muttered, though my flustered state made the retort sound weak. “Don’t get any ideas.”
Oscar laughed, the sound rich and teasing as he splashed me back. “Relax, I’m just messing with you,” he said, but the playful glint in his eyes told me he was fully aware of how his words had landed. “But hey, if you’re blushing this much already, maybe we really should up our game.”
I could practically feel my cheeks burning, and I desperately tried to focus on anything other than the way his grin made my heart race. “You’re impossible,” I managed to say, but my tone lacked any real bite. It was hard to stay annoyed when he looked at me like that, with his eyes dancing between flirtation and genuine enjoyment.
Oscar just shrugged, still grinning as he pushed his wet hair back from his forehead. “Only when it’s this much fun,” he said, giving me one last playful wink before turning his attention back to the game.
With one final serve from Oscar, the ball sailed perfectly over the net, and Edie reached for it just a second too late, sending it skimming across the water and out of bounds. The game was ours, and we celebrated like we’d just won an Olympic gold.
“Victory!” Oscar shouted, throwing his hands up in triumph before pulling me into a playful, wet hug, lifting me off my feet briefly before setting me back down with a splash. “We’re officially unstoppable.”
I laughed, caught up in the infectious joy of the moment, even as I tried to shove him away playfully. “We’re a pretty good team,” I admitted, feeling the heat in my cheeks again as I realized how much I meant it.
“Good? We’re amazing,” Oscar corrected, his grin wide and genuine. He was still holding onto my arm, and the closeness between us was impossible to ignore. “And just for the record, I’m always down for a rematch. Same team?”
I looked at him, feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin, the cool water around us, and the flutter of excitement that had been there all day. “Same team,” I agreed, smiling as I splashed him one last time. “But only if you promise to keep showing off.”
Oscar’s laugh rang out clear and carefree, echoing across the pool. “Deal. With you around, I can’t help it.”
Before I could fire back a playful retort, the sound of my mom’s voice cut through the afternoon air. “Hey, everyone! Dinner’s almost ready!” she called from the patio, waving a spatula like a dinner bell. “Come dry off and get ready to eat!”
Immediately, the savory aroma of grilled kabobs wafted toward us, filling the air with the smoky scent of marinated chicken, bell peppers, and onions, all sizzling perfectly on the grill. My stomach rumbled in response, and I could already imagine the burst of flavors—the juicy, seasoned meat, the slight char from the grill, and the sweet tang of roasted vegetables. I could smell warm, buttery corn on the cob, the faint, sweet scent of freshly baked bread, and the mouthwatering aroma of garlic butter wafting from a pan of golden potatoes roasting nearby. The sharp, tangy scent of freshly made tzatziki filled the air, mingling with hints of lemon zest and olive oil, making the whole backyard smell like a perfect summer feast.
I glanced at the others, who were already paddling toward the pool’s edge, eager to get their hands on the spread. “Guess it’s time to eat,” I said, half to myself, but Oscar was still watching me with that easy smile, his gaze lingering a little too long.
“Need a hand?” he asked, swimming over and extending his arm to help me out. His eyes stayed locked on mine, but as I reached up to take his hand, I could feel the weight of his gaze trailing over me—curious, appreciative, and making my pulse quicken all at once.
“Uh, sure,” I mumbled, feeling awkwardly aware of the way the water dripped off my skin, each droplet tracing a cool path down my legs. Oscar’s grip was firm and warm as he pulled me up, his fingers wrapping around mine with an effortless strength that sent a jolt of awareness straight to my core. His touch lingered just a second longer than necessary, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go, and when he finally did, the absence of his hand felt oddly significant, like a small but noticeable void.
For a brief moment, everything else seemed to blur into the background—the laughter from the pool, the faint sizzle of the grill, the warm chatter of his sisters in the distance. It was just the two of us, and I was hyper-aware of every detail: the way his eyes traced the water cascading off my legs, the slight upward curve of his lips as if he found the whole scene incredibly fascinating, and the way his gaze felt almost tangible, brushing over me like a warm caress.
I reached for my towel, wrapping it around myself in a clumsy attempt to shield against the sudden vulnerability of his stare. I tried to focus on drying off, rubbing the soft fabric over my arms and shoulders, but every time I looked up, Oscar’s eyes were still on me—intense, unwavering, and far too distracting.
He leaned casually against the pool’s edge, his wet hair slicked back, the sun catching droplets on his skin that made him look like some kind of Greek statue come to life. But it was his expression that really caught me off guard—his usual playful smirk had softened, replaced by something more thoughtful, almost contemplative. It was like he was seeing me differently, not just the girl who had been splashing and laughing with him all day, but someone who held his attention in a way that felt new and unexpected.
“You alright there?” Oscar asked, his voice low and a little rough around the edges, pulling me out of my tangled thoughts. He didn’t look away, and his eyes flickered with something I couldn’t quite place—curiosity, admiration, maybe even a hint of something deeper.
“Yeah, just… you know, drying off,” I replied, trying to sound casual, but my voice betrayed me, coming out breathless and light. I patted my hair with the towel, desperately hoping it would distract from the heat creeping up my neck and cheeks. But his gaze stayed locked on mine, like he was searching for something in my expression that I didn’t even know was there.
Oscar’s lips quirked into a small, knowing smile. “You sure? You look a little… flustered,” he said, the teasing back in his tone, but softer, gentler than before. There was a hint of something else in his voice too, something that made my heart skip.
I rolled my eyes, trying to play it off even though I could feel my blush deepening under his scrutiny. “I’m not flustered,” I said, but it sounded weak even to my ears. “It’s just… hot out, and the water’s cold, and…” I trailed off, realizing I was babbling.
He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by my struggle to keep my composure. “Sure, blame the weather,” he said, his voice laced with that familiar flirtation that made my pulse quicken. “But for the record, you’re pulling it off pretty well.”
I bit back a smile, unable to meet his eyes directly as I wrapped the towel tighter around me. “Thanks, I guess,” I mumbled, feeling simultaneously embarrassed and oddly exhilarated by his attention. He made it impossible to just shrug things off, to pretend like his lingering gaze didn’t affect me when, in reality, it felt like the most charged thing in the entire backyard.
Oscar pushed off the pool’s edge and stepped closer, his presence warm and solid, droplets of water still glistening on his skin. “You know,” he said, voice low and intimate, “I’ve seen a lot of people get out of pools, but none of them have ever managed to make it look like… this.”
I stared at him, caught between laughter and mortification. “Like what? Wet?” I shot back, trying to diffuse the tension, but it only made him smile more, a lazy, appreciative smile that sent another wave of heat rushing to my face.
“No,” he replied, taking a beat as if considering his next words carefully. “Like you’re the best thing I’ve seen all day.” His voice was quieter now, more earnest, and the sincerity in his eyes made my breath hitch.
The world seemed to tilt just a little, the sounds around us fading into the background as I searched for a response that wouldn’t make me sound like a complete idiot. “You… you’re ridiculous,” I said, barely managing to keep my voice steady. But there was no hiding the way my cheeks were blazing or the way my heart was pounding in my chest.
Oscar just grinned, seemingly pleased with himself as he picked up his own towel and started to dry off, though his eyes kept drifting back to me every few moments. It was like he couldn’t help himself, like something about this silly, sun-soaked afternoon had shifted between us in a way that neither of us fully understood yet.
I tried to play it cool, focusing on the scent of the food that was calling us closer. But it was hard to ignore the electric current in the air, the way Oscar’s eyes lingered on me with an intensity that made me feel seen, maybe even a little wanted. The warmth of his gaze seemed to burn hotter than the sun, like he was committing every detail of me to memory—the way my hair clung damply to my shoulders, the flush of my skin, the shy smiles I kept trying to hide.
I fidgeted with my towel, feeling suddenly self-conscious, but Oscar’s attention never wavered. He stepped closer, his expression still caught between playful and sincere, as if he was searching for something in my reaction that would let him keep pushing the boundaries. His fingers grazed the towel slung over his shoulder as he looked at me, and there was a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there before—a kind of unspoken question hanging between us.
“You don’t have to be so modest, you know,” he said, his voice low and smooth, with that familiar edge of teasing that I’d grown so used to. But there was a gentleness there, too, a hint of something more genuine. “It’s okay to let people see how great you are.”
I blinked, caught off guard by the shift from playful banter to something more personal, something that made my heart stumble. “You’re really laying it on thick today, huh?” I said, trying to laugh it off, but the words came out shakier than I intended.
Oscar shrugged, his smile turning softer, less cocky. “Only because you make it easy,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. The way he said it—without hesitation, without the usual bravado—made my pulse quicken, and I had to look away, pretending to adjust my towel just to break the intensity of his stare.
But he wasn’t letting up. As we walked toward the patio, his gaze never strayed far, occasionally dipping down as if he couldn’t help but take in every detail. I could feel the weight of it, warm and steady, and it made my skin tingle in a way that was both exhilarating and unnerving.
We reached the table where the food was spread out—a colorful array of kabobs, salads, and bowls brimming with sides. My mom was fussing over the final touches, sprinkling fresh herbs over a platter of roasted vegetables, while the others were already grabbing plates and chatting animatedly. But I was still caught in the lingering tension of Oscar’s words, the way he’d looked at me like I was something special, something worth noticing.
“Hey,” Oscar said softly, catching my arm just as I reached for a plate. His touch was gentle, a light brush of his fingers that sent another wave of heat rushing through me. “I meant what I said, you know. You really are… something else.”
I turned to face him, my heart pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it. His eyes were serious, searching mine as if waiting for some kind of acknowledgment. And for once, I didn’t have a sarcastic comeback or a teasing remark. All I could do was nod, my voice barely above a whisper. “Thanks, Oscar.”
His smile widened, this time more genuine than any of the smirks he’d flashed all day. “Anytime,” he said, his voice full of unspoken promises that made my chest tighten.
As I picked up my plate and moved to join the others, I could still feel the weight of his gaze on me, warm and unyielding. It was a look that said everything and nothing all at once, a silent acknowledgment that maybe, just maybe, this was more than just a poolside flirtation. And as we sat down to eat, surrounded by the familiar hum of conversation and laughter, I couldn’t help but wonder where this unexpected spark between us would lead—or if I was ready to find out.
synopsis: in which oscar piastri and a university student begging for her euro summer vacation collide in a steamy, abba-inspired romance
prose (6.1K words) ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩
profile | masterlist | series index ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
02: Love, Sweat, and Secondhand Embarrassment
"Clemmy I swear I wanted to die that entire time. Whoever I offended in an alternate universe I am so so sorry, I truly believe karma is real now," I lamented, voice weak.
Burying my head in my pillow, I could finally appreciate the cool blast of AC (well, it was a little bit of air conditioning but a little is better than nothing) I scratched my right leg that was hoisted up onto the blue duvet cover. If not for the horrible comedic timing of everything, in that moment, I might have said that I was enjoying myself.
On the other line of the phone, thousands of miles away, it was a completely different story.
"What the fuck," Clementine could barely muster out because she was laughing so hard.
"I still don't think any part of this story is funny, Clem," I roll my eyes and trail off.
"But it is! You genuinely should consider a career in stand-up comedy. If you recounted all of this in front of a paying live audience, I'm just saying it could make you a millionaire overnight," Clementine wheezed.
"Oh, shut up, bitch," I retorted, trying to suppress a smile despite my mortification.
"You know it's true though!" Her girlish giggles rang through my room. I could see her face through the screen and it looked like visible tears were streaming down her face from how funny she found this to be.
"I am completely and utterly humiliated. There is no way I can go downstairs and face everyone right now," I whined. It was true, as twenty minutes ago, mid-Facetime with Clementine, I heard the door to the foyer open and heard a lot of new noises.
New people. The neighbors. The rest of the Australians.
Crikey, mate.
There was no way I could face them. And since Oscar was probably their son (he looked way too young to be a father) he had probably already told them about the wretched and humiliating mishap.
"Seriously, Clemmy, you don’t get it," I said, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice but failing miserably. "This is not just some embarrassing story. This is my life, and I have to face these people now."
Clementine’s laughter finally started to subside, and she took a deep breath. "Okay, okay, I get it. But you have to admit, this is a once-in-a-lifetime kind of disaster. You can’t just ignore it. It’s like the universe is telling you to embrace the chaos."
I sighed, feeling a bit more grounded with her calming tone. "Yeah, well, I’m not exactly feeling the universe’s love right now. I feel like I’ve been dropped into some kind of sitcom. And what if they think I’m a total klutz? I can’t even begin to imagine how Oscar must’ve described me."
"It'll be fine. You are a pro at handling horrible situations. I mean, I can really only think that you have had more bad experiences with guys than good ones!" Clem tried to reassure me.
"Wow, thanks," I deadpanned. "Way to make a girl feel special."
Clementine's voice was full of playful sympathy. "Hey, I’m just saying, you’ve survived everything life’s thrown at you so far. Besides, look at it this way: if they’re judging you based on this one incident, they’re missing out on getting to know the amazing person you are."
"Yeah, because nothing says 'amazing' like face-planting into a pile of shampoo and knocking over a bunch of cleaning supplies," I said, sarcasm dripping from my tone.
Clementine laughed. "Exactly! And let’s be honest, if they do judge you for this, they’re definitely not worth your time. Besides, Oscar might even think you’re charming in a clumsy, endearing kind of way. You never know."
"You should really consider a career in therapy. If I lay here and close my eyes for a bit and sleep for three hours surely your advice will work," I retorted.
"Oh be so serious with me now,"
"I am! Now I can add a new skill to my LinkedIn profile," I said, trying to stifle a giggle. "How about 'Expert in Catastrophic Bathroom Mishaps: Master of Turning Shower Encounters into Slapstick Comedy'?"
Clementine burst into laughter. “That’s quite a title! It’s like you’ve got a whole new niche market for yourself.”
“Right? I’m just waiting for the endorsement from ‘The Association of Embarrassing Bathroom Incidents,’” I said, imagining a badge with that exact title. What a big, fat, fucking joke.
“Or maybe you'll become the keynote speaker for the 'International Conference on Unexpected Water-Based Accidents,’” Clementine added, her voice full of amusement.
“I’ll make sure to include a workshop on ‘How to Survive a Bathroom Collision with Dignity and Humor,’” I said with a chuckle. “And don’t forget the seminar on ‘Turning Slip-and-Fall Disasters into Networking Opportunities.’”
“A career to consider!” Clementine laughed. “And you know what? I’ll be your first fan. Just remember to keep me updated on how your new ‘disastrous bathroom mishap’ career is going.”
“I’ll make sure to do that,” I promised with a smile. “Thanks for the laugh. It’s nice to know that even in the middle of a fiasco, I can count on you to turn it into a comedy show.”
"What can I say, I will never turn down listening to a free shit show," Clementine winked at me through the camera.
"Clem! What the hell!" I waved my manicured pointed nail at her.
"Bye! Don't die from embarrassment before you come back!" She quipped, then promptly hung up.
I lay sprawled on my bed, dreading the thought of going downstairs and facing the group of new neighbors. The whole idea made me cringe. I was just about to mentally prepare myself for the awkward introductions when a sudden knock on my door jolted me upright. My heart raced as I called out lazily, “Come in.”
The door creaked open, and I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw Oscar standing there. His eyebrow was raised, and he wore a cheeky grin that did nothing to ease my nerves.
"Well, well, well," he said with an amused smirk. "Looks like you’ve been having quite the chat with 'dearest Clemmy,' haven’t you?"
My face flushed beet red, and I stuttered, struggling to find my words. “W-What are you doing here?”
Oscar leaned casually against the doorframe, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “Oh, you know, just overheard you and Clemmy talking about our little mishap. I believe you mentioned something about me being ‘a charming yet infuriating Aussie who managed to turn your bathroom break into a comedy skit.’”
I blinked, stunned into silence. My mouth opened and closed, but no coherent words came out. The sheer embarrassment was overwhelming. Oscar’s casual demeanor and his cheeky grin only made things worse.
“What can I say, my name was called,” Oscar continued with a mischievous glint in his eye. “If someone keeps calling you hot, I mean, wouldn’t you be too curious to listen?”
His smirk only made my breath hitch and my fingers tremble a little more. I could feel my cheeks burning, and I struggled to come up with a response. The playful glint in his eye and his casual attitude did nothing to alleviate my embarrassment. Instead, they only made me feel more flustered.
I took a deep breath, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “W-Well, I guess I didn’t think anyone would be actually listening.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow playfully, his smirk widening. “Oh, I’m sure you didn’t. But it was too good to pass up. Especially the part where you called me a ‘human wrecking ball.’”
My face flushed a deeper shade of crimson. “Great. Just great,” I muttered, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m sure I’ve made a fantastic first impression.”
Oscar chuckled, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Look, it’s all good. I’ve seen worse first impressions. Trust me. At least you didn’t accidentally set off the fire alarm or flood the place.”
I managed a weak smile, still feeling the sting of embarrassment. “Yeah, well, I’ll try to keep any future disasters to a minimum.”
Look at me, constantly embarrassing myself in front of hot guys. This was the exact reason why I was still bitchless and socially awkward at the ripe age of twenty-one. I could navigate a spreadsheet like a pro, ace exams, and even master the perfect contour, but put me in a room with a cute guy, and I turned into a walking calamity.
I sighed internally, already dreading the inevitable teasing I’d get from Clemmy once she found out I had, yet again, failed to keep my cool around a guy. Maybe I should’ve just stayed in the bathroom and let the ground swallow me whole.
Oscar raised an eyebrow, studying me with a curious look. “You know, you seem like a completely different person right now. Way quieter, more shy… less daring.”
My face flushed with a mix of irritation and embarrassment. “That’s not true,” I snapped, crossing my arms defensively. “I’m exactly the same as I was before.”
Oscar’s grin widened, clearly enjoying the effect his words had on me. “Sure, if you say so. But the girl who almost took me down like a rugby player in the bathroom seemed a lot more fearless.”
My nose flared as I shot him a glare, feeling the fire of indignation rise within me. Who did he think he was, making assumptions about me? I’ll show him just how brave I can be, I thought, my fists clenching. If he wanted to see daring, then I’d make sure he regretted ever doubting me. The nerve of this guy! He might have been hot, but that didn’t give him the right to push my buttons like this.
Oscar gave me a lopsided grin, clearly pleased with himself. "Anyway, everyone’s heading downstairs to meet each other. Figured I’d let you know, since, you know, it’s probably not the best idea to hide out up here forever."
My stomach twisted with nerves at the thought of facing everyone after that humiliating encounter. The idea of meeting new people while still reeling from my disastrous introduction to Oscar was daunting. But there was no way I was going to let him see how nervous I actually was. I took a deep breath, nodding stiffly. "Fine, let’s get this over with."
As we walked out of the room and toward the stairs, I could feel Oscar’s presence behind me—large, imposing, and annoyingly close. My face heated up, and I silently cursed myself for blushing yet again. Why did this guy have to make everything so difficult?
It was like shooting a sitting duck. A little small talk, a smile, and baby, I was stuck. I was a grown woman, for god’s sake, not some teenager swooning over a crush. But there I was, getting flustered over a guy I barely knew. Get a grip, I told myself, trying to shake off the absurdity of the situation. This wasn’t supposed to happen—I wasn’t supposed to be this easily charmed.
When we reached the bottom of the stairs, I hesitated, gripping the railing a little longer than usual. I could feel Oscar’s gaze on me, and it only made my nerves worse. Just as I was about to take the first step down, his hand brushed against mine. The contact was brief but enough to send a jolt of awareness through me. His hand was rough with calluses, moderately enveloping mine in a way that felt both comforting and disarming.
What was it about this guy that made me feel so uncharacteristically off-balance? As I tried to steady my racing thoughts, I reminded myself that I had to keep it together. After all, I wasn’t about to let some smooth-talking Aussie turn me into a lovesick fool—no matter how much my traitorous heart seemed to enjoy the challenge.
As I reached the bottom of the stairs, my eyes were drawn to two adults who were deep in conversation with my mom. Their warm, friendly demeanor and unmistakable Australian accents told me they were Oscar’s parents. They seemed just as lively and outgoing as he was, which only added to the strangeness of this entire situation.
Then, I spotted Oscar’s siblings—a trio of sisters who looked like carbon copies of him, yet each had her own distinct vibe, like different fonts of the same typeface. They were laughing and joking with each other, their bond evident in the way they effortlessly engaged in light-hearted banter. I felt a pang of envy, wishing I had siblings to share that kind of closeness with.
My daydream was abruptly shattered when Oscar’s large, warm hand clasped onto my shoulder, his fingers pressing gently but firmly against my skin. The unexpected touch sent a jolt through me, making me jump slightly as a flush of heat rushed to my cheeks. His chuckle, deep and amused, rumbled behind me, the sound wrapping around me like a teasing caress. He was standing on the step just above me, close enough that I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. His presence was unmistakably felt—broad, solid, and way too close for comfort, yet somehow not close enough.
His fingers lingered on my shoulder, almost as if he was testing my reaction, and I could feel the warmth radiating from his touch, seeping into my skin. The space between us seemed to shrink with every passing second, and I could barely concentrate on anything but the weight of his hand and the steady beat of my heart hammering in my chest.
Oscar leaned in slightly, his voice low and smooth as honey. “Jumpier than I thought,” he drawled, his tone dripping with playful mischief. “Didn’t take you for the shy type. Especially not after our little bathroom tango.” His grin widened, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a way that was both infuriating and ridiculously charming.
My pulse quickened at the way he was looking at me—those eyes sparkling with amusement, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. I swallowed hard, my mind racing to come up with a retort, but all I could focus on was how his hand, still resting on my shoulder, felt both protective and possessive. The air between us crackled with a tension that was impossible to ignore, and I had to remind myself to breathe.
I could quite literally cut the sexual tension with the dullest fucking butterknife in the world.
I tried to muster a sharp retort, something that would wipe that smug grin off his face, but my brain was too busy short-circuiting to cooperate. All I could manage was a stuttered, “I-I’m not shy! You just—caught me off guard, that’s all.” The words tumbled out, weak and unconvincing, and I mentally cringed at how feeble they sounded.
Oscar’s grin only grew, clearly enjoying my flustered state. He leaned in a little closer, his gaze locked on mine with a playful intensity that made my heart skip a beat. “Off guard, huh?” he murmured, his voice dipping lower. “So, you’re saying if I hadn’t surprised you, you’d be able to keep up?”
I opened my mouth to respond, determined to regain some semblance of dignity, but nothing clever came out. Instead, I just stood there, caught between wanting to pull away from his teasing and feeling inexplicably drawn to his warmth. His hand slid from my shoulder, and the absence of his touch left a surprising chill in its wake.
Realizing that my window for a comeback was closing, I finally managed to sputter, “Y-Yeah, exactly.” I immediately cursed myself for sounding so pathetic. Not exactly the sharp comeback I was hoping for. His smirk deepened, and I could tell he wasn’t buying it for a second.
“Sure, whatever you say,” Oscar replied, his tone still dripping with amusement. He straightened up, giving me a quick wink before stepping down to the next stair. The playful glint in his eyes told me he knew exactly how much he was getting under my skin, and he was loving every second of it.
As he moved past me, I finally found my voice—too little, too late—and muttered under my breath, “Cocky bastard.” But it was quiet enough that I hoped he didn’t hear it. To my dismay, Oscar paused, turning back with a raised eyebrow and an even wider grin.
“Sorry, didn’t catch that,” he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Care to repeat it?”
My cheeks flamed as I quickly shook my head. “Nope, nothing. Let’s just… go meet everyone.”
Oscar’s grin didn’t falter as he took a step closer, still looming above me. “You know,” he began, his voice casual but with that familiar teasing edge, “I’ve already met everyone else. Your mom, too. And I’ve gotta say, you two seem like complete opposites.”
I blinked up at him, caught off guard again. “Opposites?”
He nodded, leaning against the wall with that effortless ease he seemed to have perfected. “Yep. Your mom’s all smiles and warm welcomes. You, on the other hand… well, you’ve got this whole ‘ready to throw punches’ vibe going on.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to gauge whether he was being serious or just messing with me again. “I do not have a ‘ready to throw punches’ vibe.”
Oscar’s lips twitched like he was holding back a laugh. “Oh, you totally do. But don’t worry,” he added with a playful smirk, “it’s kind of endearing. Keeps things interesting.”
I huffed, crossing my arms over my chest. “Glad to know I’m so entertaining for you.”
He shrugged, unfazed. “Hey, I’m just saying, opposites attract, right? Besides, your mom already likes me. You could take a few notes.”
His comment sent a fresh wave of warmth to my cheeks, both from irritation and something I couldn’t quite place. “I don’t need notes from you,” I shot back, though my voice lacked its usual bite.
Oscar just chuckled, giving me one last teasing wink before turning to head down the stairs. “Whatever you say, mate. Just try not to tackle anyone else while you’re at it.”
"Well well well, what do we have here?" A girl with short hair and a devious grin matching Oscar's grinned at me as well entered the kitchen. Shimmering her hands like "jazz hands", she rolled her eyes and rested her chin in the palm of her hand.
I turned to face the new arrival, immediately recognizing her as one of Oscar’s sisters—one of the three siblings who seemed to share his penchant for mischief. Her cropped hair and sharp, playful eyes made her look like she’d just stepped out of a rom-com where she was the resident troublemaker, always stirring the pot and having a laugh at everyone else’s expense.
“Hey, party people,” she said, her voice dripping with a teasing lilt. She shot me a grin that was almost a mirror image of Oscar’s, mischievous and knowing, like she was in on some inside joke I hadn’t been let in on yet. I could feel the same heat from before creeping up my neck. Why did it feel like these siblings were reading me like an open book?
“Looks like someone’s already made a grand entrance,” she continued, flicking her eyes between me and Oscar with an amused smirk. “Oscar’s been talking about you nonstop since we got here. Said something about a ‘bathroom fiasco’ that deserves an award?”
I shot a glare at Oscar, who was leaning casually against the counter, looking far too pleased with himself. “Did he now?” I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite the mortification clawing at me.
The girl laughed, light and musical, but with an edge that told me she was fully enjoying every bit of this. “Oh yeah, he’s been filling us in. But don’t worry, we’re used to his tall tales. I’m Hattie, by the way,” she added, extending a hand with exaggerated enthusiasm as if we were meeting on the set of a game show rather than in my kitchen.
I hesitated for a beat before shaking her hand, trying to muster a smile that didn’t look too forced. “Nice to meet you, Hattie. I’m—”
“Oh, I know who you are,” she interrupted, her grin widening. “You’re the girl who almost took out my brother. Honestly, I’m impressed. No one’s ever managed to knock him off his game quite like that.”
I glanced at Oscar, who was watching the exchange with an infuriatingly smug look on his face. Maisie’s comment hung in the air, both a compliment and a lighthearted jab. I couldn’t help but feel like I was once again the butt of some inside joke between the siblings.
“Yeah, well, it’s a special talent of mine,” I said, trying to sound casual but feeling like every word was being scrutinized. “Guess I just have that effect.”
Hattie laughed, the sound bright and unapologetically amused. “Oh, I like you already. But hey, if you’re gonna hang out with us, you better be ready for a little friendly chaos. And maybe a few more unexpected collisions.”
Oscar gave a soft snort of laughter, and I could feel his eyes still on me, assessing, teasing, and—annoyingly—almost impressed. I tried to ignore the butterflies that seemed to be staging a full-on rebellion in my stomach. Clearly, this family thrived on playful torment, and I had somehow found myself right in the middle of it.
“Don’t worry,” I said, straightening up and forcing a confident smile. “I think I can handle whatever you guys throw at me.”
Hattie's eyes sparkled with mischief, and she gave me a mock salute. “That’s the spirit. Welcome to the chaos, mate.”
Oscar chuckled again, giving me that damn wink before pushing off from the counter. “Oh, she’s ready for it. Trust me, she’s already made quite the impression.”
The other two girls strolled in, each with their own distinct energy that filled the room. One had a fierce, confident look, dark hair tied up in a messy bun, and a leather jacket that screamed ‘cooler-than-you’ vibes. The youngest, a curly-haired, bright-eyed whirlwind, practically bounced into the kitchen, her infectious smile lighting up the space.
“So,” I said, feeling slightly overwhelmed by the sudden influx of new faces. “I’ve met Oscar, obviously, and… Hattie, right?” I glanced at the girl who had first greeted me, who nodded with a playful smile. “But I’m afraid I haven’t gotten your names yet,” I continued, pointing between the other two sisters.
The girl with the leather jacket gave me a wry grin, leaning casually against the counter. “I’m Edie,” she said, her voice dripping with casual confidence. “The cooler, smarter middle child.”
Mae, the youngest, immediately chimed in, rolling her eyes at her sister. “And I’m Mae, the fun one,” she said with a giggle, her curls bouncing as she hopped up onto a stool. “Edie’s just mad she wasn’t born with my charm.”
Edie snorted, pretending to be offended. “Please, you’re like a tiny tornado of chaos. But yeah, I guess she’s not wrong,” she added, shooting me a smirk. “Mae’s got a way of making everything a little… livelier.”
I couldn’t help but smile at their playful back-and-forth. “Nice to officially meet you all. And thanks for the heads-up on your brother’s antics,” I said, glancing at Oscar, who was watching the exchange with an amused glint in his eye.
“Oh, trust me,” Hattie added, her grin widening as she nudged Oscar with her elbow. “We’ve got years of experience keeping this one in line. You’re welcome to join the effort.”
Oscar threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Wow, ganging up on me already? This is why I never bring girls home,” he joked, though there was a hint of genuine warmth in his voice, like he was more than used to—and secretly enjoyed—their teasing.
Mae leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Just wait till we start telling you all the embarrassing stories. Oscar’s got quite a few, and we’ve got no problem spilling the tea.”
Oscar smirked, shifting his weight just enough to close the distance between us, his presence suddenly feeling a lot closer, a lot warmer. He leaned in with a casual ease, his movements smooth and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world to make me squirm. His voice dropped into a playful, low tone, rich and velvety, each word dripping with deliberate charm. “Oh, don’t worry about them,” he murmured, his gaze locked onto mine with an intensity that made my heart skip a beat. “I’d much rather hear your stories. You’re far more interesting than anything they could say about me.”
The way he looked at me was like I was the only person in the room, his eyes lingering on mine with a bold, flirtatious glint that sent a shiver down my spine. His grin was maddeningly confident, a little crooked, and devastatingly irresistible—the kind of smile that made it clear he knew exactly what he was doing. It was teasing, suggestive, and far too charming for its own good, like he was daring me to blush, daring me to react.
I felt the heat creeping up my neck, a slow burn that spread across my cheeks, making my skin prickle with the sudden awareness of how close he was. My mind scrambled for something clever to say, but his flirtatious tone, the way his eyes roved over my face as if he was reading every reaction, left me tongue-tied. It was like he was peeling back layers with just a look, searching for the part of me that he could fluster with a few well-placed words and that infuriating smile.
I tried to steady my breath, but his proximity was overwhelming. I could catch the faint scent of his cologne—fresh, with a hint of something spicy—and the subtle shift of his body as he leaned closer sent my senses into overdrive. Every nerve seemed to hum in response to his nearness, and I could feel my face burning hotter, betraying me with every second that I failed to look away.
Edie made a gagging noise, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Ew, Oscar, seriously? Can you not flirt for like five seconds? It’s embarrassing.”
Mae giggled, giving Oscar a playful shove. “Yeah, gross. No one wants to see that. Save it for when we’re not around, Romeo.”
Hattie snorted, shaking her head as she watched Oscar with a mix of amusement and exasperation. “He’s always like this. Thinks he’s Mr. Smooth. Don’t let him get to you.”
But Oscar only chuckled, clearly unfazed by his sisters’ teasing. He turned back to me, his grin widening as he caught sight of my flushed cheeks. “Aww, look at that,” he said, his voice soft and teasing. “Did I make you blush? How cute.”
I quickly tried to hide my face, mortification bubbling up as I realized there was no escaping the heat radiating from my cheeks. “N-No, you didn’t,” I stammered, though the pink tint on my face said otherwise.
Oscar’s smirk deepened, and he leaned in just a little closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re not very good at hiding it, you know. It’s kind of endearing.”
I could practically feel my cheeks getting even more red, if that was even possible. His sisters snickered behind us, enjoying the show as much as they enjoyed tormenting him.
Mae nudged Hattie, whispering loud enough for everyone to hear, “He’s really laying it on thick, huh? Someone needs to put a leash on this one.”
Hattie snickered and turned to me, giving me an exaggeratedly sympathetic look. “Don’t worry, he does this to everyone. It’s part of his ‘charm offensive.’ Just don’t let him get away with it too easily.”
“Yeah, make him work for it,” Edie added with a laugh. “And don’t let that blush fool you. He’s got enough of an ego without you feeding it.”
Oscar just shrugged, clearly unbothered by his sisters’ ribbing. He kept his eyes on me, his smile softening just slightly. “They’re just jealous because they know I’m right. You really are something else.”
I rolled my eyes, trying to fight the smile that was creeping onto my face despite my best efforts. “You’re impossible,” I muttered, crossing my arms in an attempt to compose myself.
Oscar leaned back, finally giving me a bit of space but not without one last wink. “Impossible’s my specialty,” he said, the playful challenge hanging in the air.
Hattie clapped her hands together, breaking the charged silence that had wrapped around us. “Alright, lovebirds, let’s change the scene before this kitchen gets any steamier,” she said with a sly grin, glancing between Oscar and me. “What do you say we all head out to the pool? It’s hot as hell today, and I could use a swim.”
Mae’s eyes lit up at the suggestion, and she bounced on her toes with excitement. “Yes, please! I’ve been dying to jump in all morning. Come on, it’ll be fun.”
Edie shrugged, pushing off the counter. “Sounds like a plan. Beats sitting around here watching Oscar make a fool of himself,” she said, shooting her brother a pointed look that he brushed off with a careless smirk.
I hesitated, caught off guard by the sudden change in plans. The thought of the pool—cool water, bright sun, and lounging with these new, vibrant personalities—was tempting, but my mind immediately jumped to what that would mean: changing into a bikini, being under the sun's scrutiny, and, worse, the idea of Oscar’s eyes on me again, but this time with even less to hide behind.
“Uh, yeah, sure,” I said, trying to sound casual, though my heart was starting to race for an entirely different reason now. “Just give me a minute to get changed.”
As I slipped back into my room, I rummaged through my suitcase, finding the bright bikini I had packed on a whim but hadn’t quite planned on wearing in front of a whole audience of strangers. It was a pretty number—a little more revealing than I was used to—but suddenly, the idea of wearing it around Oscar felt daunting. My insecurities bubbled up: the nagging thoughts of whether my stomach was flat enough, if my thighs looked alright, or if the faint stretch marks I tried so hard to ignore would be too noticeable under the bright afternoon sun.
I took a deep breath, staring at my reflection in the mirror. I tugged at the fabric, trying to adjust it in a way that made me feel more comfortable, but the nerves wouldn’t settle. I could already imagine Oscar’s eyes lingering on me, his playful smirk turning into something more appraising, and the thought sent a rush of heat to my cheeks. God, why was I letting this get to me? It was just a pool. Just a bikini. Just Oscar. But the more I tried to rationalize, the more those little fears crept in, whispering doubts that made my stomach churn.
I was so lost in my own thoughts, adjusting and readjusting the strings and trying to silence the negative self-talk, that I nearly jumped out of my skin when a sudden knock rattled my door. My heart leaped into my throat, and I spun around, my breath catching as I called out, “W-Who is it?”
“It’s me,” came Oscar’s familiar voice, muffled but still clear enough to send a jolt of nerves through me. “Just checking to see if you’re alright in there. You’ve been quiet, and, well, didn’t want you chickening out on us.”
His tone was light, but there was something softer in it, something that caught me off guard. It wasn’t the usual teasing or the cocky one-liners I’d grown accustomed to in the short time I’d known him. This felt… genuine. A flicker of concern threaded through his words, almost like he actually cared if I was okay. My cheeks flushed anew, this time from the unexpected warmth of his attention rather than embarrassment.
I sat on the edge of the bed, my fingers fidgeting with the hem of my cover-up as I tried to piece together my swirling thoughts. Was this the same Oscar who had been smirking at me in the kitchen, flirting shamelessly in front of his sisters? The same Oscar who seemed to relish every moment he made me blush or stumble over my words? It was strange, almost disarming, to hear him like this—concerned, attentive, with none of his usual bravado.
My heart fluttered at the thought. What if there was more to him than just the cheeky guy who lived for teasing? I couldn’t help but feel a small, unexpected tug in my chest, an urge to believe that this side of him was real and not just some act. But then, just as quickly, my rational side kicked in, reminding me that I’d known Oscar for all of three hours, most of which had been spent flustered and caught up in his whirlwind of charm.
Was I reading too much into this? Was I letting my own insecurities and wishful thinking color my perception of him? It was hard not to, especially when he swung so easily between flirty and sincere, keeping me constantly off-balance. I barely knew this guy, yet here I was, letting my mind wander into dangerous territory, imagining depth and sincerity that might not even be there.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to steady my thoughts. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions—didn’t want to let a few kind words make me think I’d seen some hidden side of him. But it was hard not to feel flustered when his voice had softened like that, when he’d taken the time to check on me instead of just joking about how long I was taking.
The knock on my door, the concern in his tone—it all felt so different from the playful Oscar who’d swaggered into my life just a few hours ago. Maybe it was nothing, just a moment of decency, a brief glimpse of something real behind the jokes and teasing. Or maybe I was just overthinking, desperate to see something more in him because he’d managed to get under my skin in a way I wasn’t quite prepared for.
I sighed, feeling my cheeks heat up once more as the realization hit me—I was blushing again, and not just from embarrassment this time. There was something about Oscar, something that made me want to believe he was more than the carefree charmer he projected. But whether that was true or just wishful thinking, I couldn’t be sure. Not yet.
“I-I’m fine!” I called back, trying to steady my voice, but it came out shaky, betraying the mix of anxiety and embarrassment that had settled in my chest. “Just… getting ready.”
There was a pause on the other side of the door, long enough that I thought he might have walked away. But then, Oscar’s voice cut through again, softer this time, and with a teasing edge. “You sure? I promise no one’s gonna judge you out there. Least of all me.”
The reassurance felt sincere, but I couldn’t help the way my mind raced with all the what-ifs. What if he did look? What if I didn’t look good enough? What if this stupid bikini made me feel more exposed than I could handle? I glanced at myself one last time in the mirror, trying to summon the confidence that I usually wore so easily, but right now felt like it was hiding somewhere I couldn’t reach.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I finally managed, forcing a smile I hoped he couldn’t hear through the door. “Just... give me a sec. I’ll be right out.”
“Take your time,” Oscar said, his voice fading as he finally moved away from the door. “But don’t take too long. You don’t wanna miss the fun.”
As his footsteps retreated, I let out a shaky breath, trying to collect myself. I ran a hand through my hair, giving myself one last pep talk before heading out. It was just a pool day, I reminded myself. Just a stupid pool day with some new people and a guy who was way too good at making me blush. And maybe, just maybe, it would be fun—if I could get out of my own head long enough to let it be.
synopsis: in which oscar piastri and a university student begging for her euro summer vacation collide in a steamy, abba-inspired romance
prose (6.0K words) ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩
profile | masterlist | series index ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
01: The Thermodynamics of My Hot Mess
I wasn't jealous before we met. Now every woman I see is a potential threat. The once timid, tame, collegiate girl I was before I met you has turned me possessive, it isn't nice.
And it’s all your fault, Oscar Piastri. You’ve taken the calm, rational part of me and set it on fire, leaving nothing but the green-eyed monster in its place. Oscar Piastri, you have turned me into a jealous mess, filled with envy and desperation I never thought possible. It’s like you’ve invaded every corner of my mind, making me obsess over the thought of you, the idea that someone else might take you away from me.
Even in my wildest, most fantasmic dreams, I would never have predicted that a spontaneous trip to Santorini, Greece, would spark the greatest lustful romance of my life. It was supposed to be a simple escape, a break from the pressures of college life. But the moment I laid eyes on you, everything changed. The calm, composed person I used to be unraveled with every stolen glance, every accidental touch, every moment we spent together under the Mediterranean sun.
But here I am, in a whirlwind romance that’s as exhilarating as terrifying, driven by emotions I didn’t even know I had. And the craziest part? I wouldn’t trade it for anything. This chaotic, intense passion has awakened something in me that I can’t ignore, something that makes me feel more alive than I ever have before.
─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────
Three weeks ago, I was drooling on page one hundred thirty-eight of my physics textbook on thermodynamics, barely awake and running on fumes. I was practically strung out on Monster Energy Drinks and those overpriced, sugary lattes from the campus vending machine—the only thing keeping me from completely passing out on the spot. The dense equations and dry theories blurred together on the page, making it impossible to focus. My brain begged for a break, but I kept pushing, hoping the caffeine would magically make the material stick.
News flash, it didn't.
So, when Mama casually mentioned that we’d be vacationing in Santorini for summer break, it was like a lifeline had been thrown my way. Suddenly, the fog of exhaustion lifted, and a thrill of excitement surged through me. It was as if a dormant part of me, buried beneath layers of stress and routine, had been awakened, eager for the unexpected adventure that awaited.
The idea of trading my study desk for the stunning views of Santorini seemed almost surreal. My thoughts raced as I imagined wandering through the picturesque streets, soaking in the sun, and immersing myself in a world far removed from the rigors of academic life. It was an escape I hadn't known I needed, a break from the monotony of textbooks and equations.
I pictured myself strolling along the charming alleys lined with whitewashed buildings and vibrant bougainvillea, the scent of the Mediterranean Sea mingling with the aroma of fresh local cuisine. The thought of exploring ancient ruins and savoring sunsets that painted the sky in hues of orange and pink felt like stepping into a dream.
And not to mention, a part of me was inkling for a dream-like, rom-com-esque summer romance. I couldn't shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, a change of scenery could bring that fantasy to life.
As I swiped through images of ancient ruins, bustling cityscapes, and pristine beaches, I couldn't help but imagine myself in those exotic locales, experiencing the same thrilling adventures and romantic escapades. It was hard not to get swept up in the fantasy, picturing myself in those picture-perfect settings, with someone special by my side. It could quite literally be anyone, at this point. My horrific failed romancing attempts as well as my "not quite mediocre", yet "not quite stellar" looks were keeping me away from all the hotties.
The contrast between the vibrant, sun-soaked images on my screen and the monotony of my daily grind was stark. Quite embarrassing, frankly.
It fueled my desire for something more; something that broke away from the predictability of my studies and everyday responsibilities. Each scroll made the dream of a spontaneous adventure feel more urgent, intensifying my longing for a chance to immerse myself in the extraordinary.
Girls that I had grown up with were posing like models. Vogue, Elle, Cosmopolitan. And I wanted to be just like them.
Teeny tiny bikinis tied by a loose string, new ear and a belly piercing, flip-flops, and red tan lines. Margaritas, mojitos with lime, white wine. Loud club music, the nightlife of a girl in a foreign country, and dark blue eyeshadow and glitter. Flocking around older guys with them, locking lips with handsome strangers in bars, and flaunting all their escapades (or namely, their sexcapades) It was all so racy, daring, and outgoing. All of these things were unlike me, but I was a girl who dreamed of having fun. So you never know, I could suddenly change overnight.
The thought of stepping into that world, even just for a summer, was both thrilling and terrifying. It was a side of life I had only seen through screens, and part of me wondered if I was capable of embracing it. What would it feel like to let go of all my inhibitions, to live without worrying about consequences? To be that carefree girl who dances until dawn, flirts shamelessly, and collects stories too wild to share with anyone but your closest friends?
I couldn’t help but wonder if that girl was buried somewhere inside me, waiting for the right moment—or the right place—to emerge. Maybe Santorini would be the setting for my own little transformation, a place where I could shed my quiet, reserved self and become someone who seizes the moment without hesitation. After all, isn’t that what summer is for?
And when Mama told me about our trip to Santorini, that possibility suddenly seemed within reach. The idea of a vacation to such a dreamlike destination felt like the perfect catalyst for the change I’d been secretly craving. But more than that, it was a surge of joy and gratitude that hit me, knowing how hard she worked to make this happen. Growing up, it was just the two of us—Mama working tirelessly to provide for me and make every day special despite our modest means. She had always done her best to ensure that I had the opportunities I needed, even if it meant making sacrifices. The idea of a vacation, something so seemingly extravagant, was a rare treat, and I was thrilled beyond words.
To say the least, the envy was palpable, a green-eyed monster gnawing at me, craving the excitement and connection that seemed to radiate from every carefully curated Pinterest-worthy post.
Yeah, you can say that that excitement might not have lasted that long.
"Wait, wait, wait, repeat that please?" I questioned, exasperated by both the shitty wifi in my dorm room as well as my mother's purposeful exclusion of information. I sat criss-crossed in my twin-xl dorm room bed, surrounded by the comforting clutter of my college life. My phone rested precariously on the edge of my left knee (balancing carefully as I too, was practicing balancing my temper), its screen flickering with a weak signal as I struggled to catch every word Mama was saying. To my left, a wall was covered in an eclectic array of Polaroids and dimmed fairy lights, creating a soft, warm glow against the stark white of the dormitory walls. The space felt cozy but cramped, with textbooks and scattered notes littering the desk beneath the small window, which offered a view of the bustling campus below.
"Well I thought it would be a wonderful surprise for you," Mama said, elated over the fact that this bit of information was quite important. She wore a gigantic stretching grin on her face, a strict contrast to the curvature of my dimpled frown.
"By purposely excluding that we would be sharing a house with another family?" I incredulously asked, my left eyebrow arching up, my mouth turning into an even more prominent downward frown. Fuck, the shitty dorm wifi is acting up again. Now on Facetime, I was stuck like that. Great. I was eternally engraved into my phone as an unhappy bitch.
"You can make wonderful friends! I heard that they are your age," Mama wiggled her eyebrows. Figures. Of course, she would turn an opportunity that seemed to actively pray on my downfall into a splendid opportunity for me to, *shudders*, socialize.
"I don't need new friends, and there are four of them! That's a lot of people," I exclaimed, throwing my hands into the hair and finger-combing the stray bits of hair out of my face. Socializing was a lot for me sometimes. The thought of mingling with a whole new group felt like a daunting task, especially when my comfort zone was so tightly packed within the walls of my current routine. Each new interaction felt like a potential minefield of awkward conversations and missteps, a far cry from the cozy familiarity of my small circle. (Okay, a circle may be an exaggeration. Maybe a direct line would be a better description to describe the relationships around me: small, minimal, clean)
"Four kids your age, and two parents. This is the perfect mixing pot for you to make friends," Mama pointedly replied.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I don't need friends," I lied.
"That's a lie," Mama accused. Well, not accused. She was right, but I wouldn't give that to her. I was innately stubborn. Wonder where I got that from…
"Of course not! I have a great social life, thank you very much," I lied, again. Blinking slowly, I tried to not let my eyes expose me.
"You haven't brought a boyfriend home ever. And you have one friend total." Mama snapped back.
"Well, Clementine is a very amazing and loyal best friend," I narrowed my eyes.
"Amen to that one," I could hear Clementine's voice echo from her bunk bed next to me. She was mindlessly scrolling through her phone under her light-blue comforter, yet this nosy bitch was still listening to our conversation.
"Mind your business Missus Nosy," I sassed at Clementine.
"Whatever, your business is mine. You forget we are literally ten feet away from each other." She groaned as she flipped to face me from under the comfort of her blankets. Mama laughed and I grimaced again.
"Seriously, you should branch out. As a young lady, you must learn to explore your choices-" Mama continued, and I could feel a heartfelt lecture incoming.
"Yeah, yeah, I get it I know." I rolled my eyes and laughed.
"So, what exactly are we supposed to do with this family?" I asked, still trying to wrap my head around the idea.
"You’ll figure it out," Mama said with a reassuring tone. "It's an opportunity to meet new people and have some fun. Plus, they might have interesting stories to share."
"Right, because nothing says 'fun' like having to navigate the quirks of a new family while on vacation," I said, sarcastically. "I suppose I could use a few new stories to tell."
"That's the spirit! And who knows, maybe you’ll end up having a great time. Sometimes the best adventures come from the unexpected," Mama said optimistically.
"I guess we’ll see. Just don’t be surprised if I spend most of my time avoiding their overzealous attempts at bonding," I replied, half-joking.
"Fair enough," Mama laughed. "Just promise me you’ll at least give it a chance. And who knows, you might even surprise yourself."
"Yeah, yeah. I promise," I said with a resigned sigh. "I'll give it a chance, even if it means putting up with a bunch of new faces."
"That’s all I ask," Mama said, her voice softening. "I’m looking forward to this trip, and I hope you will be too."
"Me too, I guess," I said, trying to muster some enthusiasm. "Just don’t expect me to become best friends with everyone right away."
"Deal," Mama said with a smile. "And remember, it’s supposed to be an adventure."
"Adventure. Got it," I said, rolling my eyes again but smiling this time. "Let’s hope it’s more exciting than a group project."
"Exactly! Now, get ready for a summer you won’t forget," Mama said, her tone upbeat.
"Yeah, yeah," I replied, "I’ll do my best."
As the call ended, I shook my head, trying to shake off the unease. Interrupting me from my daydreaming, Clementine cleared her throat.
"Yeah yeah yeah, I'll do my best." She mocked me in a high-pitched voice.
"Girl shut up," I groaned, throwing one of my various squishmallows at her head.
"Branch out my ass, you need to get cronked." Clementine gestured enthusiastically. Yes, she was the most extroverted person that I knew, and I loved it about her. We were just two opposite ends of a stick, and I did have a lot to learn about her charisma as well.
"What you just described is quite literally the evil alter-ego version of me, you know that right?" I deadpanned. Throwing back the squishmallow at me, she continued.
"Oh, come on! Loosen up and have some fun," Clementine replied with a flourish. "You’re too stiff, girl. You need to embrace the chaos and just go with it. And you know that you really want to have fun." She wiggled her eyebrows.
"Okay yes fine, you got me." I rolled my eyes again.
"It's the summer somewhere new, be happy! You can be anyone that you want for a bit." She said.
"Yeah, sure. Maybe if the wifi wasn’t being a pain, I’d have a better attitude," I said, rolling my eyes.
"Blame it on the wifi all you want," Clementine said, laughing. "But seriously, you’re going to have a blast. Just let yourself get loose. Besides, how often do you get to have spontaneous adventures like this?"
"True," I admitted, "but it’s a lot easier for you to say. You thrive on chaos. Eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner."
"Okay, make me sound like some ravenous gossip party monster, Mrs. Malnourished-From-Any-Entertainment," Clementine rolled her eyes.
"Hey!!" I sputtered, trying to feign madness. I failed, as I immediately burst out laughing.
"And I swear you’re going to learn to love all the chaos too!" Clementine said enthusiastically. "It’s all about stepping out of your comfort zone. You’ve got to live a little!"
I sighed, shaking my head but smiling. "Alright, Miss Extrovert, I’ll try. Just don’t expect me to start dancing on tables or anything."
"Hey, you never know!" Clementine teased. "You might surprise yourself. Besides, it’s all about making memories, right?"
"Make memories, youthful nature, spring in my step, all right I get it man!" I yell, burrowing my face in my pillow, also conveniently getting a mouthful of hair. Yum.
"And don't forget it's actually time for you to get laid," Clementine said in a sing-songy type of voice.
"Clementine!" I exclaimed. She really had no filter, this girl…
"What? I'm just saying," Clementine shrugged, her grin widening. "A little romance never hurt anyone, right?"
"Yeah, but could you not be so… blunt about it?" I replied, trying to regain my composure. "I mean, it's one thing to tease me about dancing on tables, but this is pushing it."
Clementine laughed, unabashedly. "Oh, come on. You're going to a beautiful place with a bunch of people your age. It’s practically a recipe for adventure. And who knows? Maybe this will be the summer you meet someone special."
"Or maybe it’ll be the summer I learn to tolerate sharing a house with strangers," I said, rolling my eyes. "But thanks for the… encouragement."
"Hey, I’m just trying to help you make the most of it," Clementine said, her tone softening. "Sometimes a little push is all you need to open up and see things differently."
I sighed, shaking my head but smiling despite myself. "Alright, alright. I get it. I’ll keep an open mind. But no promises on the whole ‘getting laid’ part."
"And plus, I have absolutely no skills in approaching any guy ever. You know this," I cried in despair. Clementine laughed, recalling all the times when my horrible romancing skills failed me. Note, there are way too many to mention, so why do I even bother to find a boyfriend in the first place…
"Oh, I remember the summer fair incident," Clementine said, her laughter bubbling up. "You were trying to strike up a conversation with that guy at the cotton candy stand, and you got so flustered you ended up spilling your drink all over him."
"Please don't remind me of that, oh no," I groaned.
"And then, in an attempt to salvage the situation, you accidentally knocked over the cotton candy machine. The whole thing turned into a sticky, sugary disaster. You actually looked beet red it was so funny," Clementine continued laughing.
"I still cringe thinking about that," I groaned, hiding my face. "I was so embarrassed I avoided that fair for months."
"And let’s not forget that one party during Midsummer's last year," Clementine said, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Oh let's not bring that one up from the archives-" I started to say.
"Girl you need to stop pretending that you can actually dance," Clementine giggled.
"Hey! I actually didn't know that he was a professional dancer, okay? Showing me up that badly was so embarrassing, I did want to die so bad at that moment," I recalled.
"I was trying to save your horrid fate," Clementine continued.
"You can't just gesture to me at a party and try to whisper yell, it's so loud. That would've never worked," I argued.
"Well from the sidelines it was actually pretty funny seeing you trip and then knock over those plastic cups," Clementine continued.
"Yeah? It wasn't funny when I landed in that bowl of punch face-first though," I whined.
"Yeah! Of course, it wasn't because my car smelled like the rancid mix of alcohol and punch for weeks," Clementine complained.
"That's my revenge for you. You should've yanked me out of the dance circle the minute I stepped foot in there. Why I did it, I have no idea to this day," I lamented.
"Ugh, meanie," Clementine laughed at me.
"That was such a mess, though" I admitted, cringing. "I had to help clean up while everyone tried not to laugh at me."
"But hey," Clementine said, her tone softening. "All those awkward moments make for great stories, and they don’t define who you are. Sometimes, it’s those hilarious failures that end up being the most memorable."
"Fine, Mom," I droned on. "You have a point."
Clementine’s eyes twinkled with a mix of sympathy and amusement. "Exactly. And besides, who knows? Maybe this summer will be the time you finally get it right. You’re going to be in a new place with new people. It’s a fresh start."
"I suppose," I said, still feeling a bit skeptical but warming up to the idea. "I guess there's something to be said for making a fool of yourself in a new environment. It might not be so bad if everyone’s in the same boat."
Okay, I lied again. It was that bad.
(Guys I promise that I'm not a serial liar, I just exaggerate. A bit.)
The overwhelming heat of Greece, and pretty much the heat of the Mediterranean hit me like a truck immediately when I landed. It was dry heat, no humidity no nothing. Just good ole heavy heat. Sweating through the airport terminal, then customs, to the shuttle, my bra was pretty much damp by the time I had stepped onto the cobbled ground in front of our air b&b.
Beaded sweat was clouding my vision, completely ruining the pretty vision I had when I put gel on my forehead to curl my baby hairs. I was seeing stars (mostly perspiration). It was hot. I was getting a hot flash/nearly dying of heatstroke.
The dreamy images of Santorini I had envisioned from my cool, comfortable dorm room felt like a distant fantasy now. The picturesque streets, which I had imagined as quaint and inviting, seemed more like a maze of sun-baked stone. My excitement was quickly replaced by a wave of discomfort and disorientation.
“Welcome to paradise,” I muttered sarcastically to myself, feeling like I was melting into the pavement. I glanced over at my mom, who was also looking a little wilted but trying to maintain her usual upbeat demeanor.
“This is just the beginning,” she said, her voice cheerful but slightly strained. “It’ll get better once we get settled in.”
I hoped she was right. For now, though, all I could think about was finding a cool, shaded spot and trying to regain some semblance of composure. The fantasy of a perfect summer seemed to be melting away as quickly as the ice in my now lukewarm drink.
I fumbled with the keys to the front door, my fingers slick with sweat. The lock was stubborn, refusing to cooperate as I struggled to get inside. My mom was at my side, trying to help but also looking equally overheated.
“Maybe I should have warned you about the heat,” she said, her voice strained but still optimistic. “It’s a bit of an adjustment.”
“I think ‘a bit’ is an understatement,” I managed to reply, finally pushing the door open and stepping into the cooler interior. The contrast was immediate, but the relief was short-lived as I realized the air conditioning wasn’t working properly.
“This is not how I pictured it,” I admitted, feeling my earlier excitement wane. The romanticized version of this trip was crumbling under the harsh reality of the Mediterranean heat and my physical discomfort.
My mom looked around, her face showing a mixture of apology and determination. “We’ll get it sorted,” she said. “Let’s just unpack and try to cool off. Maybe a cold shower will help.”
I nodded, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. “Yeah, that sounds like a plan. I just hope the heat doesn’t turn this whole trip into a sweaty ordeal.” To foreshadow, it pretty much was like that the entire trip.
As soon as I stepped inside, the first thing that hit me was the chaotic array of shoes scattered haphazardly across the floor. There were sneakers, sandals, and flip-flops in a disordered spread as if a small army had shed their footwear in a hurry. The once inviting entrance now resembled a makeshift shoe rack, cluttered with mismatched pairs and abandoned shoes.
“Mama, it looks like we’re not the first ones here,” I said, my voice tinged with annoyance as I kicked aside a stray sandal. “It’s a mess.” I could feel my frustration mounting as I took in the scene. The once appealing idea of arriving at a neatly prepared vacation home now seemed overshadowed by the disorder and lack of preparation.
God, I hoped that whoever was here didn't make the whole place look like the dorm room of a stinky, smelly, teenage boy.
Mama quickly scanned the surrounding areas. “Oh, I didn’t realize. They must have arrived before us. They’re probably out exploring the city.”
“That’s just great,” I said, feeling a mix of irritation and resignation. “They’re already out having fun while we’re stuck schlepping our luggage.”
With a sigh, I grabbed two huge pieces of luggage and began dragging them up a narrow flight of stairs. Each step felt like a small victory, but the sweat pouring down my back made every movement feel like a monumental effort. I didn’t even know my butt could sweat that much. It was as if my entire body was engaged in a desperate battle against the oppressive heat. My clothes clung to me in a way that made me feel like a walking puddle.
Every few steps, I had to stop and catch my breath, wiping the sweat from my forehead and cursing under my breath. The heat inside the house, combined with the physical exertion, had me feeling utterly drenched. My damp hair stuck to my neck, and I could smell the distinct, unpleasant odor of sweat mingling with the heat.
“Can you believe this?” I called down to my mom, trying to keep my frustration in check while I heaved one suitcase up another step. “I’m already drenched, and we haven’t even started unpacking. I feel like I’m swimming in my sweat!”
“I’m sure it’ll be worth it once we get settled,” she said from below, her voice slightly muffled by the distance. “Just hang in there. Take that cold shower, aye? It’ll make you feel better.”
Her optimism was appreciated, but it did little to ease the burning frustration I felt. I finally managed to get both suitcases into our room and collapsed onto the bed, feeling utterly defeated. My legs felt like jelly, and I flopped down with a dramatic groan. The mattress, thankfully cooler than the air, felt like the only respite I’d had all day.
“I’m taking a shower,” I announced, my voice flat with exhaustion. “I need to cool off before I melt into a puddle. This heat is seriously getting to me.”
Grabbing all my toiletries in one hand (which would be moderately regrettable in approximately a minute), my phone and a towel haphazardly slung over my shoulder, I sped-walked to the nearest bathroom. My appearance was nothing short of disastrous: a loose beige bra that clung awkwardly to my sweat-drenched skin, and tightly fitted black spandex shorts that felt like they were melting into my sweaty legs. But, by golly, I was determined to take a shower. I assured myself that no one was there but Mama and me.
That is what I thought.
Clearly, that thought changed when I threw open the bathroom door to be met with a wall of steam and the startling sight of a pasty, pale chest belonging to a random white guy. In a comedy of errors, we collided headfirst into each other. He let out a yelp of surprise as I stumbled backward, dropping my toiletries and towel in the process.
“AHHH!” We both screamed in unison, our voices mingling in a perfect pitch of panic and disbelief. My phone slipped from my grasp and clattered to the floor, the emergency contact screen flashing in alarm and my phone's flashlight being turned on as it bounced. The towel, now airborne, landed atop the guy’s head like a makeshift hat, which only made the situation more absurd. My toiletries, scattered like fallen soldiers, rolled across the tile in every direction.
In the frenzy, the guy’s shampoo bottle, which had been precariously perched on the edge of the sink, took a dive and exploded into a foamy mess, splattering us both with a thick layer of bubbles. I slipped on the slick tile, my foot skidding out from under me and sending me crashing into a pile of wet towels.
In the chaos, I tried to grab onto the nearest thing for support, which ended up being his bicep. My fingers closed around the surprisingly smooth and firm muscle, and I couldn't help but notice how it felt like a warm, solid rock under my touch. The unexpected contact sent a flush of heat to my cheeks, and I found myself blushing furiously as I tried to steady myself.
Never mind the sudden fucking romance, I was flailing and falling, and it was embarrassing as hell.
As I yanked on his arm, he lost his balance and we both went tumbling to the floor in a tangled heap of limbs, shampoo, and toilet paper. The sheer force of our combined weight caused the guy to slam into the opposite wall, sending a shower of misplaced toiletries and a small avalanche of cleaning supplies cascading down on us. We landed in an awkward, sprawled mess, my leg draped over his and his arm pinned beneath my back, all while the air was filled with the scent of minty shampoo.
"What the actual fuck," The weird white guy said. I was surprised to hear an Australian accent escape his mouth, quite different than the accents I heard every day.
"Who the fuck are you?" I exclaimed in disbelief, trying to stand up, but wincing because my head and bum hurt very much.
He groaned, trying to sit up and shift me off his chest. "I'm Oscar. From Australia."
"Oscar who?" I asked, still struggling to comprehend the situation while attempting to fix my disheveled hair.
“Oscar from Australia,” he deadpanned, his frustration evident. His wet hair, still dripping from his recent shower, clung to his forehead, adding to his slightly disheveled look. Despite his frown, which was more a mix of irritation and bemusement, there was something oddly cute about him. His features were sharp but softened by his annoyed expression, and his damp hair only added to his rugged charm. The heat of the bathroom made his skin glisten slightly, and the combination of his tousled hair and pouty frown gave him a kind of adorably exasperated vibe. "You know, as in the guy whose bicep you just clung to like a life raft in a storm."
"Well, excuse me, Oscar from Australia," I retorted, finally managing to get to my feet but still wobbly. "I didn’t exactly plan on meeting you in such a—uh—personal way."
Oscar smirked, flicking some shampoo suds off his hand. "Yeah, well, this wasn’t how I planned to greet my new neighbors either. I was expecting someone who could walk without tripping over thin air, but hey, I guess we can’t all be that lucky."
I crossed my arms, glaring at him. "Great. So not only am I dealing with a mess of shampoo and toiletries, but now I have to navigate an awkward introduction with some guy who thinks he’s important enough to be 'Oscar from Australia.'" I honestly did not give a fuck if he was called "Oscar from Bumfuck Nowhere" or "Oscar the Prince of Bahrain", he needed to chill the fuck out.
Oscar raised an eyebrow, still struggling to keep a straight face. "Well, you know, ‘Oscar from Australia’ doesn’t have a very high bar for first impressions apparently. But hey, at least you’ll remember me, right?”
I rolled my eyes, snatching my towel off his head. "Yeah, I’ll definitely remember you as the guy who managed to turn my bathroom break into an episode of slapstick comedy."
Wiping a loose tear that streamed down my face due to shampoo getting in my eyes, I continued. "I just wanted a goddamn shower after that long plane ride and the bloody heat from outside man. What the hell…" I drifted off.
Oscar’s face twitched between amusement and exasperation. Honestly, now that I am thinking about it, his countenance was definitely leaning more toward exasperation and frustration. "I’m sorry my ‘Australian charm’ is such a disaster for you. But you know, I wasn’t exactly planning on getting tackled by a very disheveled girl either."
I huffed, my arms crossed defiantly over my chest, and my posture was a rigid display of frustration. My shoulders were hunched slightly, and I tilted my head to one side, making it clear I was not in the mood for further nonsense. My face was a portrait of annoyance—my brows were furrowed deeply, and my lips were pressed into a thin line. A flush of irritation spread across my cheeks, and my eyes, which had been rimmed with the remnants of shampoo, glared at Oscar with unfiltered exasperation. Every muscle in my expression seemed to scream, "Seriously?" as I struggled to keep my composure amidst the chaotic aftermath of our unintended collision.
"Oh, so now I’m ‘disheveled’? You might have noticed I was in the middle of trying to clean myself up when you decided to become a human wrecking ball."
Oscar chuckled despite himself. "Look, I didn’t mean to turn your bath into a soap opera. It was an accident—just like your epic phone drop and shampoo explosion." The audacity of this guy to even put my "epic phone drop" in air quotes. What a comic. Haha, totally funny.
I narrowed my eyes at him. "Yeah, well, it’s not every day I get tackled by a random guy in the shower. Maybe you could’ve picked a less dramatic way to introduce yourself."
This "Oscar from Australia" guy was really starting to annoy me.
To be fair, I may have been escalating the whole thing because I truly do feel like a different person the moment heat washes over me. And this whole situation—sweaty, disheveled, and now dealing with a ridiculously charming yet infuriating Australian—was the cherry on top of my chaotic day.
Oscar shook his head, a smirk still tugging at his lips. "Well, if you ever need a more dramatic first impression, you know where to find me." With that, he turned and walked out, leaving me alone in the steamy mess of the bathroom.
The jokes on him, first impressions are first and quite permanent. They don't change.
As I stood in the shower, still reeling from our chaotic confrontation, I finally managed to get my shower running. The cool water cascading down my back felt like a small slice of relief after the sweltering heat and tension of the past few minutes. I glanced at my reflection in the misty mirror, trying to scrub away the remnants of shampoo and irritation. My hair, now a tangled mess of suds and frustration, clung to my face as I attempted to regain some semblance of dignity.
It struck me suddenly—amidst the chaos and embarrassment—that something had shifted within me. I had been more assertive and bold than I ever remembered being, and this unexpected encounter had stirred confidence in me I hadn't recognized before. I didn’t just let the situation unfold; I stood my ground, even if it meant facing down a charming yet infuriating Australian.
Blushing slightly, I scolded myself silently. Really? Hurling myself at a guy I just met the moment I get to Santorini? It was like I’d thrown my usual reserved self out the window along with my dignity.
This wasn't Love Island. And he certainly wasn't the steamy-hot Australian guy from Casa who would be able to woo my heart in mere milliseconds.
Sweet lord, Clementine told me to reset myself this vacation. I had singlehandedly managed to reset my personality in three minutes.
As I rinsed the last of the foam from my hair, a sudden pang of regret hit me. I had never actually told Oscar my name. How had I managed to skip such a basic part of an introduction amid our chaotic collision? The thought gnawed at me, adding another layer to my mortification.
To him, I was probably that weird, really sweaty, and kind of stinky vacation girl with a pissy attitude. Now I am not saying that that isn't a spot-on accurate description of me, but it kind of hurts that I didn't behave better.
A lack of decorum on both of our parts, I'll conclude.
I couldn’t help but replay the moment when I’d bumped into him—his rock-solid chest meeting mine with surprising warmth. My eyes had instinctively trailed down from his broad shoulders to the defined abs that quite literally were making eye contact with me. The firm, unexpected contact of his body against mine had sent a jolt through me, making me acutely aware of how close we’d been.
Even now, the memory of that fleeting contact made me blush deeper, and my face felt like it was on fire. The way his chest had felt—solid and warm—seemed to linger, leaving an imprint on my senses. I recalled how his abs had pressed against me, their tautness undeniable from even where I was standing. It was almost embarrassing how my eyes had involuntarily traced those contours, as if they were a new and intriguing landscape I had never seen before.
Ugh, what the fuck. I desperately needed a Facetime to debrief all of this confusing absurdity with dearest Clementine.
