BEST FRIENDβS BROTHER (is the one for me)
SCENARIO: in which reader experiences nighttime anxiety, and finds solace in their best friends brother.
STARRING: GN!Reader, LN4, OP81, CL16, LH44, GR63, MV1, FC43, LS2, & MS47
WARNING(S): anxiety mentions, anxiety traits (such as fiddling or skin picking, self doubt, etc.)
AUTHORS NOTE: self indulgent fic who cheered? also maybe the start of a series; just a variety of scenarios regarding drivers as your best friends brother? π And, as per always, shoutout to @renarots for always supplying the ideas when my brain refuses to πΌ
Conversations with Lando have always been frequent, and youβve always had chemistry, the two of you.
Lando knew he was too far gone when he realized he was thinking too much about the way you clearly had a crush on him, that went beyond the line of simply being amused by your infatuation with him. He knew he was no longer just basking in the confidence boost of that when he began unintentionally thinking of you in his room, on his bed, in his armsβ
Heβd recalled your anxiety. You mentioned it once during a late night talk with him, fueled by sleep deprivation. He could relate to it. Maybe he didnβt have the same anxiety, but his mind always raced at night, too loud for him to sleep at a decent time.
Heβd often hoped youβd come to him, that maybe he could be a safe place for you. So, when you finally come knocking on his doorβ¦
He was fast asleep. His feet carry him groggily to the door, because for once, heβd been able to sleep. However, when he sees you, heβs wide awake.
Lando smiles, just slightly, then his brows furrow with concern and said smile falls when he sees your distressed expression. βWhatβs wrong?β Asks his raspy, sleepy voice, and your heart flutters, mind momentarily distracted from worry. However, his question then processes, and you sigh.
βAnxiety.β You respond simply, and he nods understandingly. You watch as he yawns, lifts his hands to his eyes to rub them, before he steps back to let you into his room. Itβs cleaner than youβd expected, his cologne wafting faintly through the air. LED lights line his bed frame, a dim red glow surrounding his large, incredibly inviting bed. Itβs nice in here, and you almost feel guilty for finding so much solace and intrigue in Floβs brother, but you also know sheβs contently asleep in her room. She needs her sleep, you decide, pushing away your guilt.
Lando lets you explore, watching from his doorway. He quietly shuts the door, then walks to his bed, plopping down on the edge.
βWhatβs got you worked up, then?β He asks, after a few moments of quiet, and when you turn to see his hazel eyes staring at you, sleepy and soft, but also concerned, your heart sinks in a way thatβs somehow overwhelming and delightful at once.
So, you explain your anxieties. The rational and irrational fears, the thoughts that keep you up β and when he realizes youβre actively spiraling, he gets up and steps towards you, reaching out to gently brush his knuckles against your arm.
βHey,β he hushes you, smiling warmly when you look at him. βYouβre okay,β he assures you. βItβs okay to be anxious,β he adds, rubbing your arm now. βWhat makes it better?β he asks gently, and you huff a small laugh.
βYou.β You say, a small, amused grin on your lips, as your cheeks warm. He laughs lightly, shaking his head, as he lets his fingers gently grasp your hand. βBe serious,β he retorts, though thereβs a glimmer in his eyes that assures you that he liked the flirty comment.
βI donβt know what makes it better,β you say honestly, gently grabbing his hand, looking down at your hands. His fingers rub your palm, yours caressing his in return, as he slowly laces your fingers. He hums quietly, acknowledging your words.
He looks down at your hands, too, as they intertwine, and he squeezes yours, his other hand finding your free one. He guides your arms around himself, and then lets go of your hands, wrapping his own arms around your shoulders.
The sigh you let out, and the way you relax into him says it all. He smiles, resting his cheek against your hair.
βLetβs start with this, hm? If it doesnβt work, I have other ways I can help you,β he says. You both realize the unintentional suggestive tone in his words, and it makes the pair of you laugh.
Shaking your head against him, you squeeze him gently. βYeah. Letβs start with this.β
βWorst case, thereβs always Oscar.β
Thatβs what Hattie told you, regarding your anxiety. If all else failed, you could go to Oscarβ¦yeah, no. Youβd thought about it more than youβd like to admit.
You liked to imagine that heβd hug you and console you. You could hear his soft voice assuring you that itβs okay, that you can always come to him, but youβd also conjured up a more harsh alternative, being that he would think of you as dramatic or a burden.
Which is why you currently stand outside of his door, in the hallway, reluctant to knock on his door. Heβs asleep. Youβre certain. The lights are off, none seeping through the cracks of his door. It silent in his room, safe from the very faint sounds of his breathing.
The longer you stand there, the more you spiral. Tears brim your eyes, and just as you turn on your heel to walk away, you hear rustling. His feet hit the ground, and you hear the click of what youβre assuming is a lamp. You glance back, seeing a soft golden glow peek through the cracks of his door, and your heart leaps, the tears still in your eyes.
Then, his steps are quiet, but near, and before you can properly scurry off, his door opens. His eyes are squinted, brows furrowed. His hair is tousled in a way that makes you yearn to run your fingers through it. Then, you meet his gaze.
By the time you lift your hands to wipe your eyes, Oscarβs already noticed your distressed, near-tears state.
His brows furrowed even closer, and his lips part to speak. βAre you alright?β he asks lowly, accent deliciously coating his sleepy voice.
You blink a few times, before responding, your tongue spilling the words before you can stop them.
βIβm just really anxious and Hattie wouldnβt wake up, so I was gonna see if you were up, but obviously you were asleep, so I was just gonna leave, and I mean, you scare me a little bit anywaysββ
βI scare you?β He asks, interrupting your ramble. He chuckles breathily, shaking his head slightly. βIβm laid back, not mean.β He says, making you laugh nervously.
Oscar just smiles, a small one, as his eyes scan your features. He sighs softly, not an irritated sigh, and looks over his shoulder, perhaps checking the time. βI canβt promise to be a good helper, but youβre welcome to my room and company anytime.β
Oscar, in that moment, knows youβre not just his sisterβs friend. Not when heβs quite content with losing sleep, if it means helping you in any way.
Days are fine. Days are fun. Especially with Arthur Leclerc dragging you around Monaco, but then comes nighttime. The anxiety had been rolling in since dinner, waves of dread regarding the battle that is yourself against sleeping. Youβd been sure that youβd be comfy in the Leclerc home. Youβre very close with Arthur, his family is always welcoming, but as you lay on the couch in his living room, your heart thumps against your ribcage.
You stare through the sheer curtains of the window, seeing moonlight seep through them, illuminating the room just slightly. You glance at the TV β perhaps the distraction would help, but you choose against it, too worried about disturbing others.
By the time your breathing is fast, and you feel your eyes burn as they do before tears come, footsteps sound. Theyβre faint, soft. Then, you hear the sound of a chair on the floor, a quiet scraping sound. Then, a padding sound. *Leo.*
The small, golden-haired puppy scurries across the floor, and if that wasnβt confirmation enough as to who the other footsteps belong to, the sound of the piano in the music room is all you need.
You sit up, letting your feet hit the floor, as you lean down to pet Leoβs small head, running your fingers through his silky coat. Despite the anxiety you felt moments ago, the soothing sound of the piano, and the overwhelming cuteness of the dog under your hand is enough to distract you.
When Leo wanders to his water bowl, you watch, then look to the door of the room that you know Charles is in. You hadnβt taken him for an insomniac, but you can definitely imagine him now, with tousled hair and sleepy eyes, likely in a plain t-shirt and sweatpants, slender fingers dancing over white and black keysβ¦
Charles is a sweetheart. Heβs always been incredibly kind to you, in a way that makes you wonder if itβs special treatment. It is.
As you think about *that*, rather than your anxiety, you find yourself slowly standing, and walking to the music room. Pushing the door open, youβre met with Charlesβ backside. watching as he plays the piano. It feels too domestic for a moment, too peaceful, and when he looks over his shoulder, the jolt of his body implies youβd startled him.
Laughing quietly, you smile apologetically. βIβm sorry,β You say quietly, and he shakes his head, spinning around on the bench.
βCouldnβt sleep?β He asks, and you tilt your head, eyes narrowing with curiosity. Maybe he just made an educated guess, but thereβs a certain look on his face, like maybe he knew you were anxiousβ did he?
βArthur told me,β Charles says, as if he could read your thoughts. He smiles sheepishly, avoiding your gaze. βHe mentioned it, when he told us youβd be coming with him,β he clarifies, and you nod understandingly.
βWhat about you?β You ask, meeting his gaze. He holds yours, long lashes casting a faint shadow onto his cheeks. βI couldnβt sleep either,β he muses simply.
If only you knew he was planning this, that he was seizing an opportunity to gain your attention.
Lewis rarely stays up late. He prioritizes his performance on track, and no one works well under a lack of sleep. That being said, the man is still a night owl, so when his schedule allows, he happily stays up a bit later than usual.
Itβs past midnight as he sits on the leather couch in the spacey living room, his heels propped on the coffee table, and his laptop rested on his thighs. His eyes are narrowed with concentrationβ and the inevitable sleepiness washing over himself β as his fingers move across the keyboard, quiet clacks sounding with each word typed out.
His airpods are in, and Roscoe is curled up next to him, sleeping contently. The house is quiet, but your mind is far from that.
You lay in the spare bedroom, eyes fixated on the ceiling, watching the fan go round-and-round. Youβd always figured youβd βgrow out ofβ your anxiety, and in some ways, you had learned to manage it better, but you still have those moments where it drowns you, and you can feel yourself slowly slipping into that.
Your chest is heavy, and each moment of calm in your brain is combatted by a rush of worry.
Letting out a soft breath, you sit up, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed youβd been nestled into. You slide your hoodie over your head, grab your phone, and head to the door. Maybe fresh air and a different view would help your mind relax. Everyoneβs asleep, you could just have a moment to yourself, right?
Lewis may be immersed in his work, but he doesnβt miss the movement within his peripheral vision. He looks up just in time to see you scurrying into the kitchen, your sock clad feet quiet on the smooth, hardwood floor.
You hadnβt expected the man to be there, so when you made it to the bottom of the stairs, finding him on the couch, you immediately went for the kitchen. Standing in the somewhat private space, you sigh, shaking your head at the way your heart is racing for a reason unrelated to anxiety now.
Who doesnβt find Lewis Hamilton attractive, at least a little bit? You figured your βcrushβ on him was just because heβs conventionally attractive, but being in the same vicinity as him, youβve always felt a pull towards him.
You grab a glass from one of the cupboards and pour yourself a glass of water, gulping it down. He wouldnβt mind if you sat with him, would he? Your brows furrow as you debate thatβ would he let you in his company just to avoid being seen as rude? Would that be worse than being flat out told no?
Meanwhile, Lewis is wondering if itβs his place to check in on you. Heβd been amused at the way you seemed startled by his presence, but also didnβt miss the nervousness you seemed to exude.
Before he can make any further decisions, you come out of the kitchen. His brown eyes flicker to you, following your form as you walk back through the living room. He cocks a brow as you slow, as if to stop, then keep walking, then pause again at the stairs.
βCan I sit with you?ββ
He laughs with you, as youβd both spoken at the same time. You meet his eyes, and his warm smile makes your heart skip a beat.
βYou wanna sit with me?β he repeats your words, and you nod slowly. βI justβ¦get anxious, at night, and company might help,β You explain.
Immediately, a look of understanding washes over his face, and he nods. βCome on,β he encourages gently, and he canβt help but just grin when you choose to sit on the floor in front of the couch, just next to his legs. He has to resist the urge to reach out and pet your hair, his fingers twitching over his keyboard.
βYou wanna talk about it?β He asks you, partially to distract his own mind. He meets your gaze as you look over your shoulder, his eyes staring into yours in a way that makes it hard to maintain eye contact.
βItβs a lot,β You muse, and he shrugs, taking out his airpods, a smile gracing his lips.
βI have time and patience.β
George is pretty serious about his schedule. From what he chooses to snack on (*cough* him asking βwould an athlete snack on chocolate?β *cough*) to his workouts, and right down to his sleep schedule, he rarely goes off that.
So, George isnβt your best option, you rule out, as you sit on the air mattress next to your best friendβs bed, trying to control your shaky, uneven breathing. Heβs fast asleep, probably has some busy day tomorrow, and even if heβd be polite enough to give you his time, heβd definitely steer clear of it in the future. Anyone hates the idea of being a bother to another.
Looking up above your friendβs bed, you find her asleep, curled away from you, shoulders shifting as she melts further into the bed.
With a heavy sigh, you grasp your phone and get up, quietly leaving the bedroom. If nothing else, some fresh air might do you some good.
You find your place in the almost luxurious lounge area of their home, curled up on a small couch, staring down at the ground as your mind races. However, the sound of a door opening, and footsteps following, makes you look up.
He sees you as he rounds the corner, and even on his sleepy way to the bathroom, he still looks well put together.
He gives a friendly, playful smile. βDonβt let the bed bugs bite, am I right?β
Of course this man would make a dad joke.
You manage a breathy laugh, more of a huff, watching as he walks into the bathroom and shuts the door.
Meanwhile, George canβt help but think a little harder than he might need to about your reaction. Typically, youβd banter with him, be it by making fun of his stupid jokes, or telling one thatβs just as bad, and tonight, youβd just seemed off. Not to mention, heβd found it odd that you werenβt in the bedroomβ¦not that itβs his business, but he can be a nosy man at times, and suddenly, heβs worried.
As he comes out of the bathroom, his gaze lands on you, and then meets yours when you look back up.
βWhat?β you ask, brows furrowing. You figured he wouldnβt pick up on your state, especially with you trying to mask it for his sake.
βYou alright?β He asks, accent clear as day, as if he hadnβt most likely been sleeping peacefully moments ago.
βUhm,β you pause. Should you tell him, or just let him be on his way? Is it more annoying to leave him wondering? He probably doesnβt even care that muchβ
βWe may not be close, but Iβm always here if you need anything,β he says, voice kind, the smile on his lips equally as polite. After all, youβd been friends with his sister for years now, and itβs not like youβd never spoken to him.
So, you give in. With a reluctant sigh, you watch as he walks down the stairs and stands in front of you, tilting his head, as if to encourage you to go on.
ββ¦I get anxiety,β you finally say, feeling a bit ridiculous to be keeping him up for this. βAnxiety?β he echoes, βabout?β
βEverything,β you laugh, shrugging. βMy brain just gets really active at night, and I tend to spiral into bad thoughts, but most of itβs irrational, and iβll be fineββ
βWhat can I do?β he asks, as he looks at you with worried eyes. βTo help, I mean,β he expounds.
You blink a few times, a bit taken aback at how eagerly heβs jumped to that. βI feel better talking to someone,β you admit, and he hums in acknowledgment, nodding.
βIs it alright if I sit, then?β he asks, gesturing to the space on the couch next to you, and takes a seat when you give him permission.
While it takes a few minutes of silence, he eventually gets talking, and you find that despite how you imagined a situation like this going, itβs vastly different. Heβs patient, talkative in the right way, and a good listener.
So, when you eventually drift off in your spot, after George was rambling about something you truthfully didnβt have much interest in, he smiled to himself, laid a blanket over you, and took himself back to bed.
Safe to say, you werenβt a bother to him. At least, you canβt imagine you were, when he brings you breakfast the following morning, and offers to take you out for coffee.
Max frequently stays up later than he should. He likes how peaceful and quiet things are at night. No oneβs awake to be in his space, he feels most comfortable by himself, and itβs a great time to invite himself to the driving simulator without being interrupted, or forced to share.
He doesnβt bother to check the time. Itβs late, he knows that much, as well as the fact that he doesnβt have any reason to be up early later. His hands grip the steering wheel of his sim, eyes fixed ahead on the screen, as he seamlessly takes corner after corner of a track. Heβs got a headset on, and no more light than one lamp next to the couch, just enough for him to see his surroundings, but not so much that itβs glaring on the screen.
Heβs so focused that he doesnβt notice when you watch him from across the room, peaking out of the hallway. Youβd initially been coming out to refill your water, and use the bathroom, trying to power through your anxiety, but now, youβre finding that this is working wonders to soothe your brain. Your eyes flicker from the screen to his face, watching his expressions shift, the way his brows furrow and lips purse slightlyβ¦or the way the veins in his forearms move under his skin-
He also doesnβt notice when you set your phone down, then leave, and return with a blanket, and make yourself cozy on the couch. You donβt really want him to know youβre there, anyways. Is this an invasion of his privacy? You briefly wonder, but eventually decide that itβs not like heβs doing anything scandalous, and heβs in the main room of the house anyways.
Max eventually finishes a handful of laps and exits out of that particular track, then leans over the arm of the chair to grab his water bottle, only to then realize that youβre lying there.
His eyes widen, then his brows furrow, and he pulls his headset off, taking in your form. Your stretched out on the couch, blanket laying neatly over your form, and your hands are laying on your stomach. He can tell you didnβt just sit down, and mentally backtracks, trying to remember when he last knew he was alone.
βWell,β he starts, staring at you, looking over the edge of the chair. βWhatβs this about?β he asks, and you smile slightly. Youβd become rather comfortable with Max. Heβs a nice guy, always been polite to you, and you always end up sitting next to him when you go out to eat with his family, anyways, so itβs only natural that you learned how you can talk to him.
βAnxiety,β you shrug. βI just like watching you play, and tonight, iβve learned that it helps my brain quiet down,β you explain.
He hums, nodding slowly. He can understand that, in some way, he supposes. He looks back at the screen, then at you. βDo you want to try?β he asks, gesturing to the sim. ββ¦It would help, maybe? Take your mind off of things?β he suggests.
It always shocks you how considerate he can be, and every time, your heart warms.
Max has good intentions, he does, but fuck does he hate watching other people drive the sim. As he explains (maxplains) the driving to you, and tries not to cringe too hard at the way you handle the car, you find that this is a fantastic distraction. Youβre well aware that youβre driving him to insanity, and before you can tease him, your eyes get heavy, and you slowly drift to sleep.
When the car first starts going off track, straight for the barriers, Max thinks you have to be fucking with himβ¦and then he realizes your head is tilted to the side, and youβve somehow fallen asleep in the damn driving seat.
He spends a lot longer than heβd like to admit being baffled at your actions, before he comes to carefully take apart the arm of the sim, and scoop you out of the seat. Heβs a strong guy, and for some reason, the only rational way to go about this, in his mind, was to carry you to bed.
Halfway down the hall, he realizes how much of a hassle it would be to open Victorias door and put you back on the air mattress without waking you and her up, so he just pushes into his own room, lays you in his bed, and tucks you in.
He stares down at you in his bed, a sigh leaving his lips. He wants to be irritated, but more than anything, heβs relieved that youβre clearly in a better state.
Safe to say, he finds it very hard to focus on the sim when he goes back to it.
Franco Colapinto is one of those people that can get along with anyone. Heβs fun, talkative, usually good at reading the room, and itβs rare that he doesnβt get on well with someone.
So, itβs only natural that you and him had been well acquainted. However, youβre also one of the lucky people that gets to experience his flirtatiousness. In fact, heβs been flirting since day one, and youβve been matching his energy the whole time. He loves it, and so do you.
That being said, even though youβre relatively close, and consider him a friend, your anxious mind has convinced you that he flirts with you because itβs fun, rather than because he likes you, even as just a friend. He flirts with everyone, and thus, your brain uses that against you.
Which is why you walk past his room, and down to the living room, where you sit on the couch, looking out of the window, into the beauty of Argentinian greenery thatβs currently illuminated by moonlight. You practice your breathing, letting your eyes flutter shut. Your chest only feels a little lighter when you hear footsteps, and look over your shoulder to see Franco there, staring at you with mischievous curiosity, like heβs ready to pop off a flirtatious joke. In any other moment, youβd be just as ready, but right now, youβd rather not.
You donβt speak, unable to curate the correct words to express your feelings in a way that feels right. Fortunately, Franco seems to understand by the look on your face that now isnβt the time to flirt. He holds your gaze, then walks into the kitchen. You refrain from watching him, not wanting to give away your interest in literally anything he does, simply because itβs him.
You hear him grab a glassβ¦then another? Then, it sounds like heβs pouring water into one, before a click sounds, like a kettle.
Within a few minutes, heβs bringing you a mug, and has a glass of water for himself. You raise a brow at him, taking the mug despite your skepticism.
βFranco, I donβt really want to be hopped up on matΓ© right nowββ
βNot matΓ©,β he assures you, with a wave of his hand, βitβs to help you relax, amor. I promise.β
You trust him, and the sincere twinkle in his pretty eyes is enough that youβd be convinced even if you didnβt trust him already.
He watches you bring the mug to your lips, and reaches out to guide it slower to your mouth. βItβs hot,β he murmurs, aiding you in taking a sip, watching so attentively. Your chest warms, and you know itβs not just the tea. Youβve seen Franco be gentle, obviously, but this is different, and oh, so divine.
βWhy are you still up?β he asks you softly, fingers brushing yours as he retracts his hand.
βAnxiety,β you muse simply, and he nods understandingly, reaching out to rub your arm. Heβd only experienced your anxiety once, some time ago when his sister mentioned you were having a hard time, and heβd noticed your shaky hands at the dinner table.
His hand trails up to your hair, and he pets the back of your head, as if to brush away your worries. Rather than fixating on your anxiety, he starts talking about how nice it is to have you around again, and his excitement for the upcoming season. You and him grew up together, in a way, even if youβd been βcloserβ to his sister.
By the time your tea is half finished and cool, youβre leaning into his side, and heβs gently taking the mug from you, setting it down on the coffee table. He guides you further into his hold, and you comply, letting yourself melt into his warmth, and the sound of his voice continuing to talk to you.
βYou think I flirt with you for no reason?β Franco asks, laughing quietly, as if thatβs unbelievable. βFranco, you flirt with anything that has legs and speaks a language you understand,β you grumble into his shoulder, making the man huff quietly. βAy, dios mΓ¬o,β he murmurs, resting his cheek on your head. βMaybe it doesnβt seem that way, but I flirt with you differently,β he explains quietly, βand I flirt with you because I want to, because I like you.β
If you werenβt half asleep, youβd pry into that response. Instead, you let yourself heart feel content with the knowledge that youβre more than what youβd managed to convince yourself of.
Throughout the night, you learn that banter isnβt the only thing that comes easy to you two. You talk and talk, various topics coming naturally, and by the time youβre both drifting to sleep, the sun is peeking through the window. And, in due time, youβd be found curled up on the couch together, confirming everyone elseβs suspicions.
Loganβs schedule is all over the place. Some nights, heβs out by 9 pm, and others, heβs unable to rest until early morning. Tonight is one of those insufferable ones where heβs tossed and turned, and not one position is comfortable enough to stay in for more than five minutes, his bed is getting too warm, even though heβs thrown off the blankets and stripped his shirt off, and heβs tired, but not sleepy.
βOh my god,β he murmurs to himself, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to clear his mind enough to relax. As he lowers them, his head begins to throb, and he sighs heavily. Of course heβd get a headache now.
As he sits up and reaches for his water bottle, a timid knock sounds on his door. βJust a sec,β he says just loud enough for you to hear, and takes a few gulps of water, before he gets up. He slides his shirt back on before opening the door, and even though itβs not necessarily crazy that youβre at his door, it still takes him aback. He hadnβt really thought about who it would be.
βShit, are you okay?β he asks, when he notices your distressed features, immediately dropping his own frustration.
βNot really,β you murmur, fiddling with your hands, picking at the skin around your nails. βIβm just having a really anxious night, and I canβt sleep,β you explain.
Logan had always been a sweetheart. Heβs polite and respectful, always the type to open doors for you out of habit, the kind of guy you could always go to if you needed it. Which is why youβre coming to him now. Youβd known he was up, after hearing him shuffling in his room, and the opportunity seemed to present itself to you.
The man stares at you for a moment, pressing his lips together as he contemplates how to go about this predicament. He looks back at his room. Itβs not messy, but itβs not clean either. He needs to do laundry, has a few pairs of shoes here and there that should be in their rack in his closet, and of course his bed is a clear representation of his inability to rest. He doesnβt exactly want to invite you into his space. If itβs stressing him out, he wouldnβt want to have you there, and risk making your troubles worse.
βWould a drive make you feel better?β he asks, looking back to you, blue eyes meeting yours. βA drive?β you echo curiously.
βYeah, likeβ¦the suns gonna be up in a few hours,β he shrugs, βwe could go to the beach, grab some breakfast or something,β he thinks aloud, and he speaks almost hesitantly, like heβs scared that heβs suggesting the wrong thing.
Meanwhile, your heart skips a beat with excitement, and you nod. βYeah, yesβ if thatβs not an issue for you?β you ask, brows knitting with a new concern that this is an inconvenience for him.
βNo, no,β he shakes his head adamantly, grabbing his car keys off of his dresser. βI canβt sleep either,β he assures you, offering a small smile, and the tiredness in his eyes says it all.
Thus, you join him for a long car ride. He drives smoothly through Floridian streets, giving you the time to talk about your struggles, should you want to. He shares his own, as if to help you feel more comfortable, and after some time, he offers you the aux chord.
As the sun starts to come up, he drives to the beach, and you both sit down on cool sand, shoulders together. Waves roll just to your feet before retracting, the sound soothing. The sun slowly arises, shining down on the both of you.
You let your instincts take over, and rest your head on his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as you soak up the gentle warmth of the morning sun. Logan sighs contently, and rests his cheek against your head, as if to assure you that youβre fine where you are, with your head on his shoulder.
You grew up on the Schumacher ranch. Being family friends and having a love for the work, youβve been helping since you were a child, and now spend a majority of your time as a ranch hand, helping take care of things. You were best friends with Gina as a child β still are β and likely would have been just as close with Mick then, if it werenβt for him being away for races most of the time.
Now that heβs back home more often, youβve been able to get closer with him, your relationship bordering on more than friends, but not quite a couple. Everyone else sees it, though, and you think about it too often to not want it, truthfully.
Youβve also always struggled with anxiety. Youβve got an active mind, and working yourself from sun up to sundown has always kept the irrational worry at bay. However, recently, for whatever reason, itβs kicked back up, and tonight has been particularly bad β the worst in a while.
So, after tossing and turning, you get up and head out to the stables. You check on the horses, even if you know they likely donβt need to be checked on, and as you round the corner, you find Mick sitting on the ground, hand on the mane of a foal.
Huffing a small laugh as he meets your gaze and smiles, you tilt your head playfully. βItβs past your bedtime, Micky,β you hum, making the man laugh gently.
He checks his wrist, an imaginary watch, and raises his brow, looking up at you, βitβs also past your bedtime,β he teases back. βWhatβs up?β he then follows up, making you sigh.
βJust anxiety. Nothing fun, unfortunately,β you muse, taking a seat in front of him. You admire the young colt next to Mick, a small smile forming on your lips as the cool air greets your skin, and you feel momentarily comforted by surroundings youβre so fond of. The ranch, nice weather, the horses, and undeniably, Mick.
βAwe,β he frowns sympathetically, nudging his boot against yours as if to comfort you, and it works. Heβs not sure what to say, how to make it better, but the fact that youβre smiling, even if only a little, makes him feel better. βHow have things been?β he asks, leading you to walk him through just that.
Heβs stared at you as you rundown the ranch gossip, the ranch hands that have come and gone, some wanting to stir up drama, some wanting to put their nose where it doesnβt belong. You tell him that youβve been following his races, that you and Gina watch them together.
βGina misses you more than sheβd ever admit to you,β you hum, making Mick chuckle, smiling fondly at that thought. Theyβd always been fairly close, close as siblings can be. βNot to make it about me, but iβve missed you too,β you add, making Mickβs smile wider.
βYeah?β he inquires, nudging your boot once again. βYou can always text me, or call, you know that, right?β he asks, and you honestly hadnβt thought about that.
βI want you to, actually,β he adds. βIt would be good to hear from you moreβ¦I miss you too.β He muses, and by now, youβre not so worried about anything, and far more focused on the knowledge that your feelings for Mick are definitely not one sided.
THANK YOU FOR READING! requests are open for any drivers written above, and i do headcanons, written fics, text fics, and smaus, as well as any reader.
I appreciate your support and time. π
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