cw: explicit content. inappropriate use of a gun, fingering, cursing, squirting. dom!nancy sub!robin
not proofread!
—
Robin lays beneath Nancy breathless as she kisses her neck. “ Fuck– Nancy “ Robin moans “ Yeah, you like that? “ Nancy smirks into her skin. Nancy grabs Robin's hands positioning them above her head, the sloppy noises from their mouths taking over the room.
Their hands roam each other, Robin grabbing Nancy's hair, face, arms. Nancy reaches over beside her, grabbing something in her drawer. Suddenly, Robin feels something cold and heavy on her skin, she opens her eyes to see the barrel of Nancy's gun sliding down her half naked body. “ Nance?! What are you doing!? “ Robin exclaims. “ It's okay, just be a good girl for me “ Nancy shushes her.
She slides the gun back up Robin's body to her lips. “ Suck “ she demands. Robin does as she says and wraps her lips around the barrel. She slides the gun deeper into Robin's mouth, Robin spurts. “ Come on baby, you can take it. “ Nancy coos “ You're a good girl, aren't you? “. Robin nods tears welling up. She shoves it deeper into her mouth, Robin bobs her head, moaning into the gun. “ Fuck— You look so pretty gagging on my gun baby “ “ Such a good fucking girl “. Nancy slides the gun out of Robin's mouth, her whimpering at the sudden emptiness.
Nancy brings the gun to her mouth, licking the saliva Robin left. Robin stares up at her in awe, she grabs Nancy's face smashing her lips against Nancy's, both of them moaning against each other's mouths. Nancy slides her hands down Robin's chest, stomach, stopping when she reaches the waistband of her pants. She pulls away panting
“ Take off the rest of your clothes “ “ Nanc- “ “ Now. “ Nancy demands.
Robin strips the rest of her clothes off, unbuckling her bra, pulling her pants down with her panties.
Nancy grabs Robin's legs, spreading them. She drags a finger up her slit, feeling how wet she is. “ God, baby already so wet for me? “ Robin nods. Nancy's hand smacks into Robin's cheek. “ Use your words “. “ Yes- yes mommy I am “ Robin stutters. “ I'm so wet for you “. Nancy snickers “ Good fucking girl “. She slides her middle and pointer finger in Robin's pussy, her pretty moans filling her ears. She slides them in and out of her wetness slowly, Robin's eyes close, and her breath shortens. As she goes faster Robin's moans increase. “ Ngh– Nancy-Nance fuck— I'm gonna cum “ Robin whimpers. Nancy's fingers slide out of her. “ Nancyy “ She whines. Nancy straddles her legs.
She grabs her gun again, sliding it down Robin's body. Nancy rubs Robin's wetness against the gun, Robin whines, grinding her cunt on the gun. Nancy's hand grabs onto Robin's leg, spreading it to show her glistening cunt. She slides the barrel of the gun up and down her slit, then slowly inserts it in Robin's tightness. Robin moans loudly as it slowly goes in her tight cunt.
As Nancy moves the gun in and out of her, she rubs circles around Robin's clit with her thumb. “ Hm baby, does that feel good? “ Nancy asks. “ Yes–ugh god–yes fuck “ Robin lets out. Nancy almost lets out a giggle at how desperate she sounds. “ Good, good baby “. She thrusts the gun deeper, and faster in her, rubbing her clit faster.
“ Ah! Fuck Nancy! “ Robin moans, her mouth parts open, back arching off the bed. “ Imgonnacumimgonnacum “ Robin stutters out. “ Yeah baby? You wanna come for mommy? “ Nancy coos. “ Fuck yes please! I need to cum so fucking bad “ Robin whines. “ Go on then. Cum for me. “. With Nancy's permission, Robin's eyes roll to the back of her head, her hands squeeze the bedsheets, her legs shake as her cunt gushes. Nancy continues fucking he through her orgasm.
Finally, when Robin's breathing regulates Nancy slides the gun out of her. She kisses her head, sitting up and walking to the bathroom. She comes back with a wet rag, she spreads Robin's legs back open, cleaning the mess she made with the rag.
Nancy kisses the top of her head “ You did so good baby “ Nancy whispers “ So so good “.
Summary: The Juventus media thought that putting a wireless mic on Kenan for their training content was a good idea. The only problem? Kenan completely forgets the microphone is attached to him the exact second his girlfriend walks down the the training facility, leaving the admin with a hilarious snippet of a needy and mildly annoying Kenan.💀😭
Warnings: Language, pure fluff, established relationship, needy/annoying boyfriend kenan, heavy teasing, and total adoration.
Word count: 678
The Juventus media crew knew exactly what they were doing when they clipped the tiny, wireless microphone onto the collar of Kenan’s training gear. He was having an incredible season, the energy at the training center was electric, and the media team weren't saving themselves by posting this with the “It's a Kenan fanpage atp” allegations. Lol.
"Just keep it on for the passing drills and all that, just casual audio for the background.”
The social media manager had instructed with a thumbs-up.
Kenan had nodded, giving a quick, polite smile to the camera before jogging out onto the pristine grass, completely focused on the training session.
For the first forty-five minutes, the audio was exactly what they expected: heavy panting, sharp instructions in a mix of Italian and German, the crisp *thud* of the ball against his boots, and playful banter with his teammates.
Then, the session wrapped up, and the players were given a few minutes to wind down on the pitch.
That was the exact moment you walked out of the secure tunnel, dressed in a pair of simple linen pants and a black top, looking effortlessly chic as you leaned against the pitch-side railing. You were just coming down to meet him so you could head home together, completely unaware of the media crew hovering near the corner.
And Kenan? The literal second his eyes spotted his girlfriend walking, his brain completely wiped any memory of the microphone attached to his chest.
In the media room a few hours later, the editor’s headphones practically melted from the immediate shift in the audio. It was way too chaotic and personal for a standard YouTube vlog. It was absolute TikTok gold.
"Babyy," Kenan’s voice cut through the microphone, dropping from his loud, commanding pitch-presence into a whiny, low rumble that the public never got to hear.
The video footage caught him immediately abandoning his conversation with the coaching staff, his long jumpy strides taking him across the grass until he intercepted you right by the barrier. He didn't care that there were still photographers lingering by the boards, or that his teammates were watching.
"Look at you," the mic picked up his chuckle, as he wrapped his large, damp arms completely around your waist, pulling your less bigger frame flush against his chest and burying his face into your neck like a giant, dramatic puppy. "You look so gorgeous, finally you're here."
"Kenan, stop, you're sweaty," your said, laughing voice bled into his microphone, sounding a little muffled because his face was pressed so firmly against your shoulder.
"I don't care," he complained, rubbing his sweaty face against your skin deliberately just to be annoying. The audio captured his contented, deep sigh. " God I missed you the whole morning, The training was damn so long. Tell me you missed me too aṣkim."
You finally pulled away to look at him in his sweaty glory, offering him a shy smile.
“Jeez, you're so dramatic, acting like you didn't see me 4 hours ago” you responded back, trying to push his damp bangs out of his eyes while he stubbornly refused to budge.
"Yeah yeah whatever, i don't care it's been too long," Kenan groaned into your neck, his grip tightening around your waist with a needy tug that anchored you to his side. He was being completely clingy, leaning his entire frame into you. "Come on. Let's get out of here. I want to go home right now."
"Go change first, Yıldız," you teased, patting his chest.
"Only if you wait right outside the door," he bargained, jokingly blocking your path, refusing to let go of your waist until he got his way. "Don't move. Stay right where I can see you."
The audio cut out with one final, loud *smack* of a kiss against your lips before he finally jogged off toward the tunnel, flashing a dimpled, victorious smile back at you.
The next day, when the video dropped, the caption read: *Golden boy? More like lover boy 😭♥️🔥”
Synopsis: You see Peter for the first time in years and suddenly find it hard to be around him due to all his new improvements
Masterlist
After erasing the same spot on your paper for the fifth time, the paper finally tore. You ripped the page out of the notebook and crumpled it up in frustration. To your luck, Happy walked into the lab just as you threw it, nailing him right on the forehead.
“Oh. Throwing things before 11 am, are we?” He laughed as he rubbed the spot your paper ball hit.
“Sorry.” You grimaced. “I’ll pick it up. And then burn it. And then run into oncoming traffic.”
“Tough day in the lab?”
“Tough week.” You sighed and shut your notebook. “I’m about to throw this whole notebook in the fireplace.”
“Before you do that, I wanted you to say hello to our guest for the week.” Happy said and pointed his thumb at the hallway to signal that he had someone out there waiting.
“Sorry, Happy. I don’t know if I’m in a stable enough mood to be nice to strangers right now.” You told him, but he was already opening the lab door to let someone in.
“He’s not a stranger. He’s an old friend of your dad’s. Don’t you know Peter?” Happy asked as a guy your age walked into the lab. Time slowed down and you could have sworn a gust of air hit you, causing you to stumble back a little. “Bliss” by Mariah Carey started to play in your head as the most beautiful stranger made eye contact with you. He was in an Empire State University t-shirt that fit him just tad too tightly, but only because he was so defined. Curly brown hair that was just the right amount of overgrown spilled into his eyes, which he shook out of the way. He gave you a smile that felt like you just quite possibly started the second immaculate conception in your uterus.
“Did you hear me?” Happy asked, making you realize you’d been standing there in silence as you gawked at the boy.
“Sorry, I have my headphones in.” You lied once you composed yourself enough to speak.
“No you do-.” Happy began to point out.
“Sorry, was did you say your name was?” You quickly cut Happy off so he didn’t expose your lie.
“Peter. We met a couple years ago before the uh, airport battle royale, if you will.” He told you, and even his voice was attractive. You stared at his face for a moment but struggled to place him. You remembered your dad introducing you to some of his new recruits, but you knew you would’ve remembered if you met this man before.
“I was the sticky one in the red suit.” Peter followed up, hoping it would jog your memory.
That’s when it clicked for you. The picture frame on your dad’s desk, untouched in the years since his passing. There was a boy in the picture making bunny ears behind your dad’s head, the same boy in red and blue pajamas you showed your dad videos of all those years ago. That nerdy kid from the videos had somehow turned into the captivating man in front of you in the years since your last seen him.
“Wait, you’re Peter? Peter Parker?” You asked, failing to hide your disbelief. Peter let out a shy laugh and nodded his head.
“That’s me. Sorry, you probably didn’t recognize me. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other. Not since the um, well, it’s just been a long time.”
“Clearly.” You blurted, the quickly followed it up with, “I mean, what’s, uh, what’s new?”
“Not much. I’m in college, but I won’t bore you out the details. It’s really good to see you.” He said as he started to come closer to you.
“It is really good to see you too.” You replied, finally sounding normal just as he enveloped you in a hug. You stiffened in surprise before hugging him back. The scent of his cologne wafted off his skin and if he hadn’t been holding you so tightly, you might’ve collapsed on the floor.
“Sorry. I just don’t see many familiar faces lately.” Peter said sheepishly once he pulled away. From how tightly he hugged you, you could tell he really needed it. You had no idea what had happened to him since the last time you saw him, but the sadness in his eyes now told you it wasn’t good.
“It’s okay.” You assured him as you held his gaze. To make matters worse, he had the softest brown eyes you’d even seen. Much to your dismay, you were officially enamored with this man.
“Peter is staying here for the week while he’s home from college.” Happy told you. “Would you mind showing him around? I put his room right across the hall from yours.”
“Of course you did.” You mumbled.
“I can wait outside if you’re still working.” Peter offered politely.
“It’s okay. I need to clear my head a little anyway.” You decided and shoved what you were working on away from you.
As you led Peter through the halls of Avengers Tower, you made absolutely no eye contact with him. You didn’t want to embarrass yourself any further, so you made no effort to make conversation.
“It really is good to see you. It’s been such a long time. So many things have changed.” Peter said to break the silence. You allowed yourself just one glance at him, and immediately caught sight of his enormous bicep. You quickly looked away and sucked in a sharp breath.
“Yes, they most certainly have.” You replied.
“What was that you were working on?” He asked you on the elevator ride to the main floor.
“Just some stupid blueprints that I can’t get to work.” You sighed. “I think just gonna scrap it.”
“What’s it for?”
“I’m trying to make a bracelet for kids that can scan food and detect allergens. It’ll buzz and turn red if they can’t eat the food. But I can’t get it to stop exploding. And I don’t think parents want their kids to explode. Or, maybe they do, and I have a genius invention on my hands.”
“That’s an incredible idea. I don’t think you should scrap it. One of them has to not explode, right?” He asked. His encouragement sounded sincere, making you even more in love with him. You decided to probe for reasons to not be attracted to him, since that would be the only way for you two to coexist while he stayed at the Tower. You brought the tour to the kitchen and showed him the inside.
“This is the kitchen. You probably won’t use it much.” You assumed. “I know most guys our age are all about protein maxxing and pre-workout inhaling.”
“Not me, actually. I love to cook. I make all my own meals. It feels better to eat it knowing I prepared it.” Peter told you, because of course he loved to cook.
“Is that so?” You asked with a dry mouth.
“Yeah! I could show you sometime, if you like. What do you like to eat?” He asked.
“Well, I think my favorite food is something my best friend’s mom used to make a lot when we were kids. They’re called tostones. She made them the perfect amount of salty and crispy.”
“Hm. I haven’t heard of that, but it sounds really good. Are you two still friends?” Peter wondered, making things ten times worse. Asking questions to get to know you was not helping you not fall for Peter.
“We are. It’s just harder to find time for a family dinner nowadays.”
“I bet. Happy told me how busy you are. From what he said, it sounds like you’re ready to take over Stark Industries any day now.”
“That’s the goal.” You admitted. “It certainly pays to be a Nepo baby in a field I actually really enjoy.”
“Hey, you may be Tony Stark’s daughter, but you’re inheriting the company because you earned it.” Peter said sincerely. “I’ve read about the stuff you’ve made. You’re brilliant.”
“Oh, thank you.” You smiled shyly at the compliment. “I remember that you are as well.”
“I wouldn’t say brilliant. I’m nowhere near your level. But I know what to do when I’m in there.” Peter shrugged modestly, highlighting his perfectly broad shoulders.
“I bet you do.” You whispered.
“What did you say?” He asked.
“I asked what you like to do?” You lied. “Physics? Engineering? Chemistry?”
“I love it all. But I think engineering. I made these, actually.” He said as he clinked his wrists together. Two black bands formed on each wrist and he held them out for you to see.
“What do they do?”
To answer your question, Peter shot a web at a flower pot across the room. He yanked it back, caught he effortlessly, and then handed you the flower. You felt your face warm up and accepted it with a soft smile.
“You created those yourself?” You asked him with amazement.
“Yeah. It took me forever to get the web formula right. And then when I did, I had to reconfigure the shooter a thousand times to get it to stop sticking to the inside when I tried to shoot them. But now they work well. See?” He shot another web, but you weren’t sure what he was aiming for this time. You were too fixated on watching his veins when he flexed his forearms.
“Oh, I see.” You said under your breath.
“What was that?”
“I said it’s this way to our rooms.” You quickly covered up and faked a smile. You showed Peter to his room and then got out of there was fast as you could. You leaned against your door after shutting it and stared up at the ceiling as you caught your breath.
Once you were composed, you slipped the Kimoyo beads off your wrist and used them to call Shuri. When she answered, she appeared as a holographic projection in your room. You caught up with your friend for a little bit, but when she asked why you called out of the blue, you had to confess.
“You know Spider-Man?” You asked her.
“The sticky one? Only a little bit.“
“Have you ever seen him without his mask?”
“I have. At your father’s funeral.” She responded. That answer brought you right back to that day at the cabin. You vaguely remembered seeing Peter that day, but the day was mostly a blur. It suddenly made sense why he didn’t specify the last time you saw each other. He didn’t want to bring back bad memories for you.
“Why do you ask?” Shuri asked, pulling you out of your thoughts.”
“No reason.” You lied. “I just had a quick question about him.”
“I don’t know him too well, so I might not know the answer. What were you wondering?”
“Oh, not much. Just when did he, you know…” You trailed off at the end and gestured with your hand for her to fill in the blank.
“I don’t know.” Shuri said with a laugh.
“You know. Was he always so…” You tried again and gave her a look.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Shuri told you.
“When did he get so fucking hot?” You blurted, followed by you looking at your door to make sure it was shut. Shuri bent over laughing as your entire face heated up.
“I don’t know.” She said when she stopped laughing. “He got bit by that spider.”
“How swol was the spider?” You asked out of the corner of your mouth.
“I think I was told it was radioactive. I don’t remember if I was told about its muscle composition.” She replied, making you roll your eyes.
“I don’t know what to do, princess.” You groaned. “He’s staying here for the week, but I can’t be around him. He’s too sexy. I just tried to show him around the kitchen, and all I could think of was riding on a horse with him and holding on to his gigantic shoulders for support. How am I supposed to stay across the hall from him?”
“If you’re that attracted to him, ask him out.” Shuri said simply.
“I can’t. I can tell that he’s a really nice guy. I don’t want him to think I’m shallow and just trying to hop on that because of his looks. He deserves better than that.”
“Are you trying to hop on that?” Shuri asked, gathering from context clues what you meant by that.
“Oh yeah. Ohhhhh yeah. All day.” You answered, making her laugh again.
“Maybe he’ll be flattered.” She shrugged.
“I don’t think he’s that kind of guy. Which makes it even worse. He’s a gentleman. God, I wish I was dead.” You whined and flopped on your bed.
“People have worse problems.” She reminded you.
“No, I don’t think they do. His eyes are so brown, princess. You have no idea. They’re like the Willy Wonka chocolate river. And I feel like that little fat fuck that got too greedy and fell in.”
“Do I know Willy Wonka?” Shuri asked. “Has he been to Wakanda?”
“Honestly, probably.” You replied. “But no, you don’t know him. Oh my God. What am I gonna do?”
“I think if you’re worried about him thinking you’re shallow, then get to know him first. Maybe you’ll discover you don’t actually like him.” Shuri suggested. You sat up on your elbows and stared at a picture of your dad on your dresser. It was time to come clean about the other reason that had been eating away at you.
“Him thinking I’m shallow isn’t my only reason.” You admitted. “My dad only knew about Peter because I showed him the videos of him. He believed in him because I believe in him. If I mess this up with Peter, it’s like I’m cutting on one of my last remaining ties with my dad.”
“Maybe the reason your dad liked him so much was because he reminded him of his daughter.” Shuri said softly. You thought about her words and as much as you wanted to believe her, you were scared.
“You’re very wise.” You said finally. “Someone should put you in charge of country or something.”
“They should.“ She played along. You moved on and talked about other things, but a corner of your mind stayed on Peter.
When you walked into the kitchen the following morning, Peter was already in there. You were about to turn around to leave when he called you over.
“Good morning. Look what I got at the bodega.” Peter said and held up a bunch of plantains.
“Good morning.” You said back. “What’s that for?”
“Well, I looked up tostones after you mentioned them yesterday, and they looked delicious. And since you haven’t had them in a while, I thought we could make it together.”
“You went out and got plantains because I mentioned that they were my favorite?” You asked slowly.
“Sorry, is that weird?” Peter frowned and put the bunch down.
“No, no, no!” You quickly assured him. “It’s not weird at all. I just wasn’t expecting you to do something so nice after how crappy my tour was yesterday.”
“It couldn’t have been that crappy if I found my way back to the kitchen today.” Peter pointed out.
“That’s true.” You smiled. “Let me see your recipe.”
You helped Peter make the tostones and decided your plan to avoid him would start tomorrow. When they were ready, you sat down together at the table to try them.
“Are they as good as your friend’s mom’s?” He asked you between bites.
“Not quite. But still very good. Thank you for doing this. I haven’t had them in so long.”
“You’re very welcome. I wanted you to have a taste of something familiar since you don’t get to see your friend as much.”
“That was very kind of you. I can’t wait to send her a picture of these.” You told him. “She’s gonna be so jealous.”
“Wait, we should invite her!” Peter realized. “I’d love to meet your friends.”
You froze when he said this, suddenly feeling the urge to run away. He had already gone out of his way to make your favorite food, and now he was saying he wanted to meet your friends. Things were getting too real and you needed to leave.
“Um, I’m so sorry.” You said as you stood up. “I just realized I forgot to do something. I have to go.”
You left the room without further explanation, leaving Peter alone and extremely confused.
The next day, you skillfully avoided Peter in the kitchen at breakfast, and again during lunch. It wasn’t until you walked by the gym that you were no longer able to avoid him. It was your fault really, since you did a double take when you saw him doing pull up’s on the chin-up bar. It became extra your fault when you stopped to watch him.
“Oh, he’s ripped as fuck? Amazing. Just what I wanted to find out.” You mumbled sarcastically to yourself.
You were only there for a few seconds before he made eye contact with you. It was too late to take off running, despite how much you wanted to do exactly that.
“Oh, hey!” Peter greeted. “Can you come in here for a second?”
You contemplated running once more, but knew it wasn’t an option. Instead, you walked into the gym, right up to the man you were trying to avoid. His tight black tank top put all his new improvements on display, and you were fighting for your life not to pay attention to that.
“Hello, Peter.” You said calmly.
“I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to talk to you.” He said as he continued to move up and down on the bar.
“Talk to me? About what?” You asked and prayed for a bolt of lightening would strike that specific part of the Tower so that you would have an excuse to leave the conversation.
“Could you please wait a minute for me? I just have a few more reps.” He said, with manners he just had to have. You stared up at the ceiling to wait for him to be done.
“Take your time.” You squeaked out. He let go of the bat when he was finished and lifted up his shirt to wipe his face with it, giving you a full view of his torso.
“Fuck. My ovaries.” You whispered.
“Did you say something?” Peter asked as he continued to dry his face.
“I said there’s towels over here.” You covered up and grabbed a nearby towel. Without looking, you handed it to him and tried to compose yourself.
“Thanks.” He smiled at you, but you didn’t look at him.
“You wanted to talk to me?” You reminded him.
“Yeah. Are you busy tonight?” He asked you as he dried himself off with the towel.
“I might be.” You said as you forced yourself to keep eye contact and not look anywhere else.
“If you’re not, would you want to come with me to this party?” He asked. “I don’t really know the guy who’s hosting, but some of my friends from high school are going.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I wouldn’t know anyone.”
“It’s okay. You can stay with me. I won’t leave you to talk to strangers. I hate when people do that.” He told you, making you smile softly.
“Yeah, I hate that too.” You said. “I guess I could come to a party.”
You regretted it as soon as you said it. You were supposed to be avoiding him, but it just wasn’t in your willpower to turn down the cute boy inviting you to a party and offering to stay with you the whole night.
“Great.” Peter grinned. “I’ll come by your room around 7?“
“I’ll be there. In my room. Around 7.” You said and pointed finger guns at him, because why would you possibly be cool ever? You quickly put your hands down and hoped for that lightning strike again.
“Sounds good. I’m gonna do some push ups now. You’re welcome to stay and watch, but it’s not my best angle.” He joked, making you let out an audible gulp at the thought of him at that angle. You quickly cleared your throat to cover up the sound.
“Yeah, I definitely don’t want to watch you do push up’s. That would be crazy if I wanted to watch that.” You said through a forced laugh. Things quickly became awkward, and you decided you had to get out of there as soon as possible.
“So 7?” You said, and Peter nodded. You gave him a thumbs up and practically sprinted out of the room after that. You ran all the way to your room and slammed the door behind you.
Peter gave you another reason to fall for him when he showed up at your door 5 minutes early. Punctuality was rare among boys your age, but of course a quality that Peter possessed. If his workout attire hadn’t been bad enough, now he was in a button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You opened the door and let out a small sound that you hoped Peter didn’t catch.
“Hi. You look beautiful.” He complimented you, making you instinctively smile.
“You don’t look too bad yourself.” You replied coyly. Peter smiled at you and offered his arm to walk you to the elevator. You thought he was going to press the button for the ground floor, but he went up to the roof instead.
“Where are we going?” You asked on the ride up.
“I was gonna swing us, if thats okay.” He said, making your heart pick up its pace.
“You want to swing me around the city in your big arms?” You asked before you could stop yourself.
“If that’s okay.” Peter repeated as he laughed.
“Yeah, yeah. That’s okay.” You told him and turned your face so that he couldn’t see you mouthing “Oh my God” to yourself.
When you got to the roof, Peter brought you to the edge.
“How does this work? Do I get on your back Bella and Edward style?” You asked him.
“Yes, actually.” He chuckled, taking you by surprise that he knew the reference. You shrugged and climbed on his back, getting enveloped in the scent of his cologne.
“Hold tight, Spider Monkey. And don’t worry. I won’t let you fall.” Peter said before shooting a web at a nearby building. Your dad was Iron Man, so heights did not scare you. What did scare you was getting attached to the feeling of holding Peter, which was admittedly a pretty great feeling. You let out a happy scream as he swung you from building to building. When you landed on the rooftop of where the party was, you fought the urge to hug him.
“Ready?” Peter asked you as he smoothed down his hair. You adjusted your outfit and nodded your head.
Once inside, Peter introduced you to his friends, Ned and MJ. You and MJ got to talking as Peter and Ned over some movie they had just seen. You liked watching Peter in this relaxed setting, but it wasn’t helping you to not fall for him. You stopped watching him and tuned back into your conversation with MJ.
You felt unexpectedly at ease with Peter’s friends. It didn’t feel like you’d just met that night and instead felt more like you’d grown up with them. They included you and got to know you, making you feel at home. Peter having a great groups of friends was yet another reason you were struggling not to fall for him.
“I’m really glad you said yes to tonight.” Peter told you once Ned and MJ walked off to refill their drinks.
“You are?” You asked him, feeling more comfortable around him now that you had some drinks in you.
“Yeah. I’ve been wanting to hang out with you, but I can never find you.”
“How strange.” You said through a fake laugh, because you 100% avoided him all day. Peter looked into your eyes for a moment with a shy smile on his face. You tried not to look back at first and looked all around the room, but your gaze eventually came back to him. You looked into his eyes and felt all your walls crumbling down.
“Can I say something and then we never talk about it?” Peter asked suddenly, making you freeze.
“Um, sure? You said nervously.
“I’m so sorry that I disappeared. After everything with your dad happened, I just couldn’t bear to come back to the Tower. But I should have.” Peter said with guilt in his voice. You were not expecting him to say this and blamed it on the alcohol.
“Peter, it’s fine.” You assured him. “You don’t have to apologize to me. You were his friend. We didn’t know each other.”
“I know. But I always felt guilty about not reaching out to see how you were. He loved you so much. And I loved him. I should have checked up on you. I should’ve gotten to know you.” Peter continued. You could see his eyes welling up with tears and didn’t know what to do. Without thinking it through, you put down your cup and pulled him into a tight hug. Peter immediately hugged you back and hurried his face in your neck.
“Now we’re the weirdos hugging in the middle of the party.” You said as you rubbed circle onto his back. He let out a laugh and hugged you tighter. He came up after another minute and rubbed his eyes.
“I’m sorry. I had to get that off my chest.” He said, looking shy now.
“It’s okay. And honestly, I should’ve reached out too. It was just all so crazy after he passed. But I saw the picture of the two of you on his desk all the time. I should’ve tracked you down. I should’ve gotten to know you.”
“At least we found each other now.” Peter said with a soft smile. You smiled back and nodded your head.
“At least we did.”
Ned came running back into the room you were in, interrupting your emotional moment. You were admittedly a little glad he did, because things were getting too real once again.
“Guys, they’re playing Spin the Bottle in the other room. In real life. Let’s go!” Ned said and pulled Peter’s arm.
“You coming?” Peter asked as he stumbled towards Ned.
“No thanks.” You shook your head. “I’m not really a kissing strangers type of gal. I just don’t think mono is for me.”
“Me neither.” Peter chuckled. “Maybe we can just watch and silently judge the players?”
You shrugged and followed him and his friends into the room. You didn’t really want to watch, but it would be a good preventative from another deep conversation with Peter. And so, you found a spot against a wall as others took their seats on the floor.
“What do you think about all this?” Peter leaned in close to you to ask. You gave him the side eye from how close he was and then looked away.
“I think someone of definately walking away from this with a cold sore.”
“Not that.” He laughed. “But I agree. I mean kissing for recreation.”
“Oh. I never thought about it like that. I guess I would say to each their own, but it’s not really my style.”
“Me either. I don’t want to kiss some stranger at a party with a bunch of people I kinda know watching. I think a kiss should mean something.” Peter said as he looked at you. You looked back for just a moment and then quickly looked away.
“So when you’re kissing for meaning, who is it with? Girls? Boys? A little bit of both?” You asked him. If he was gay, maybe it would help you get over your crush faster.
“Girls. Though, if you can believe it, I haven’t been too lucky in that department.” He said with a half hearted chuckle. You smiled in response but internally cursed that he wasn’t gay or a player.
“Well that’s probably because you’re hideous to look at.” You said bluntly, making Peter laugh. You cracked a smile but continued to avoid eye contact with him.
“Thank you. I was hoping you’d notice.”
“I’m teasing.” You assured him. “I was honestly stunned when you walked in the other day. I could not believe you were the same Peter my dad used to talk about.”
“Stunned?” He asked. “Why?”
“Because I would’ve remembered if you had that face.”
You folded your lips in after you said it, knowing you had said too much. You hoped he wouldn’t catch it and move on, but to no avail. Peter was leaning in closer to you with a big smile on his face.
“What about my face?” He asked with an amused look. You opened your mouth to respond, but were interrupted by everyone’s eyes turning to you. You looked down at the bottle on the floor and saw it was pointed in the gap between two players and set directly at you.
“It landed on you, miss Stark. Guess we have to kiss.” A guy you’d never met before said as he stood up.
“Oh, I’m not playing.” You smiled politely and turned back to Peter.
“You’re in the room. Rules are rules.” The guy continued as he walked towards you, making you and Peter slowly turn to look at him. You exchanged a look with each other before looking back at the guy.
“Well, the rules don’t apply to people who aren’t playing, so.” You said with zero politeness this time.
“Hey, if you have an issue, take it up with the bottle. Just give me a quick one. I’ll be gentle.” The guy chuckled and stood in front of you. Peter stepped in between you suddenly and pushed the guy back.
“She said she wasn’t playing.” Peter said sternly. The corners of your mouth tugged into a smile after seeing the fire in Peter’s eyes.
“Woah. Sorry, dude. I didn’t realize you were her boyfriend.” The guy said in a different tone than the one he used with you. You rolled your eyes at the guys sudden ability to be respectful.
“Don’t say sorry to me. Say it to her.” Peter demanded. “She should not have had to say no more than once before you got it through your thick skull.”
“I’m sorry.” The guy begrudgingly said to you. You didn’t say anything in response.
“Go on. Fuck off.” Peter ordered, and the guy walked away. Everyone was staring at you at this point and a few had their phones out to film, one of the perks of being the child of a micro-celebrity. You looked around the room and felt your face getting warmer by the second.
“I think I’m gonna go.” You whispered to Peter. You swiftly left the room and Peter followed after you.
“Are you okay?” He asked once you were alone in the next room.
“Yeah, it’s just not really my scene. Thank you for inviting me though.” You said sincerely and started walking to the door again.
“I can walk you home.” He offered.
“Don’t worry about it. Stay with your friends. I don’t want you to miss the party.” You assured him, mostly wanting to be alone after that last encounter.
“I don’t care about the party if you’re not there. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but I don’t want you walking alone.” Peter said as he gently caught your arm. You looked at where his hand was holding you and sucked in a little breath. Being protective of you was making it hard not to fall for him right then and there.
“Okay.” You decided. “We can walk together.“
And so you did. You walked side by side in silence all the way home. Peter had a no swinging and drinking rule, and you were both a little tipsy. But the cold New York air was helping you come back to your normal state of mind. The silence between you as you walked was comfortable, and you were grateful for that. You liked that he was someone you could be comfortable around without having to exchange any words.
“Brought her back safe, Parker?” Happy asked when the two of you entered the Tower.
“Yes, sir.” Peter said with genuine manners.
“Knew you would, kid. So, was this a date, or can I sleep peacefully tonight knowing you two are across the hall from each other? Because I’m not ready to be a grandfather.” Happy asked, making you start to choke on air. Peter clapped your back to help you out and you finally composed yourself.
“It wasn’t a date.” You finally croaked out. You looked over at Peter, was who surprisingly bright red.
“Not a date.” Peter agreed. “I just took her to meet my friends.”
“Good answer.“ Happy nodded. “Because your dad always told me any boyfriend of yours would have to go through Navy Seal level training before he was allowed to spend the night.”
“Again, not my boyfriend.” You stated as you glared at Happy for embarrassing you. Peter was smiling shyly and scratching the back of his head.
“Well if anything changes in the next 48 hours, let me know. I can have Peter sent off to bootcamp by the weekend. Night, you two.” Happy said before walking away. You and Peter stood there in silence for a minute, this time, a very uncomfortable silence.
“I’m gonna…” Peter finally broke the tension and pointed in the direction of your rooms.
“Right. Me too. Goodnight, Peter.” You said and forced a smile. Peter caught your eye and looked at you for just long enough to make your knees wobbly.
“Goodnight.” He said with a soft smile. You gulped and waited where you were until he was gone. When the coast was clear, you let out a loud sigh and rubbed your face. The week wasn’t up yet and you were losing the battle against falling for him more and more every day.
You eventually retreated back to your room, but you couldn’t settle down. Tonight felt very different between you and Peter, and you didn’t like how things ended after the connection you shared. After pacing your room for a full half hour, you decided to go knock on his door.
Peter just had to open his door with nothing on but a towel around his hips. You had caught Peter just coming out do the shower, and for some reason, he decided to open the door before getting dressed. He had another towel in his hand that he was rubbing back and forth on his damp curls.
“Fuck.” You practically shouted in his face. You instantly clamped your mouth shut and felt your eyes go wide.
“Um, what?” Peter laughed in confusion. You had to think quickly and your eyes landed on his phone cable on his night stand.
“Fuck…my phone charger. It’s broken.” You said weakly. “I guess. Can I borrow one?”
“Oh, sure. Come in.” Peter said and went back into his room.
“Oh, that’s okay. I’ll wait here.” You said and kept your eyes glued to ceiling to stop probing him with them. His back was to you now, which was not helping anything. Even his back was hot.
“You can come in. I want to show you something.” He said as he turned back to face you. Your eyes instinctively dropped to his waistband before going back up to his eyes.
“Show me something?” You asked in a low voice.
“One second.” He said and went into his connected bathroom. You blew out a breath once he was gone and fanned yourself. After emotionally connecting with him at the party, he just had to remind you why he caught your eye in the first place.
Peter came back after a minute in his pajamas, thankfully. He pulled a sheet of paper out of his desk drawer and handed it to you.
“What’s this?” You asked as you took it.
“Your scrapped design for the allergy bracelet. I hope it’s okay that I took it out of the trash. I thought it was too creative to throw out. But it was super crumpled, so I rewrote it as best as I could.”
“You saved my design?”
“Yeah. I think if we look at it together, we can figure out what’s missing. Maybe we can get it to stop exploding?” He asked hopefully. Thus, reminding you of the other reason you liked Peter. He was incredibly thoughtful.
“Thanks, Peter. That was really nice of you.” You smile softly as you looked up at him.
“It’s no problem. I had to save it. You’re an amazing inventor. You are totally going to run the world one day.” He said with a shy smile on his lips.
“If I don’t blow it up first.” You replied. It suddenly dawned on you how close you and Peter were. He was just inches away, close enough for you to smell the body wash he just used. You gulped a little and hoped it wasn’t as audible to him as it sounded to you.
“I don’t think you will.” He said softly. “And even if you did, you’d probably do it in a really cool way.”
He was so close now that a droplet from his hair landed on your shirt. You could see every freckle on his nose. He has creases by his eyes, something you somehow hadn’t noticed before despite all your staring at him. Peter seemed to be getting closer by the second, and you suddenly remembered you were not supposed to be falling for him. You pulled away and cleared your throat, leading him to do the same. He turned his face so you wouldn’t see his disappointment and grabbed a phone charger off his desk.
“Uh, here.” He said quietly and handed it to you.
“What’s this for?” You frowned.
“You said yours was broken.” He reminded you.
“Oh.” You laughed in embarrassment. “Right. I did say that.”
You and Peter stood in uncomfortable silence once again. You had come over to smooth things out, but somehow managed to make things feel worse.
“I should probably go.” You said, not bothering to hide how defeated you felt.
“Oh, yeah. I should probably get some sleep.” Peter said without looking at you. The vibe in the room had become palpably bad, but you didn’t full understand why.
“Goodnight, Peter.” You said for the second time that night.
“Goodnight.” He answered with a smile you knew was fake. You saw yourself out and shut your bedroom door behind you before dramatically throwing yourself on your bed.
For the next two days, you got serious about avoiding Peter. You made FRIDAY scan rooms for him before you left your own so that you wouldn’t run into him. If he did come into a room you were in, you made up a quick excuse to leave. You had nearly 48 hours of success avoidance of Peter until he found you on a late night trip to the kitchen to get string cheese.
“Can we talk?” Peter asked, making you jump in surprise. He had concealed himself behind the open refrigerator door so you didn’t know he had entered the kitchen.
“I can’t. I am extremely busy.” You lied as one of your cheese sticks fell on the floor. Peter bent down and picked it up for you.
“I feel like you’re avoiding me.” He said as he handed it back.
“What?” You forced a laugh. “What would make you think that?”
“Because ever since the night of the party, I haven’t seen you. You find an excuse to leave the room as soon as I walk in. You’re always running off if I try to talk to you. You don’t even look at me anymore.”
“Peter, I’m not avoiding you. I just have to leave the room a lot.” You lied, already feeling guilty for what you’d been doing. He sounded so upset and it was killing you.
“Did I do something to offend you? Because if I did, I am so sorry. Please tell me so I can make it right.” He pleaded. You felt a pit form in your stomach knowing you had caused him to feel punished for something he did not do. And yet, you did not have it in you to come clean.
“Yeah, actually.” You lied. “You did.”
“What was it?” Peter asked desperately. “Something I said?”
“Uh huh.” You weakly went along with whatever he said.
“Can you tell me what it was?” He begged.
“Wow.” You blew out a breath. “You really don’t remember?”
“No, I’m sorry. What was it?”
“I can’t believe this. How can you say the very offensive thing you said and not remember?” You asked him. You had dug yourself so deep now that there was no turning back.
“I don’t know. I can’t think of anything.“
“Wow, y’all, wow.” You shook your head. “You’ve changed, Peter.”
You walked away from him after that, feeling yourself well up with tears once he couldn’t see you. You hated yourself for letting things get to this point. You wished you hadn’t avoided him and just spoken to him, or at least not convinced him he did something to hurt your feelings. You went to your room and wiped your face clean of your tears. The blueprint Peter had rewritten for you that was sitting on your desk caught your eye. You picked it up and looked at it again, admitting the swoops and slopes of his handwriting. That’s when you noticed something at the bottom.
“Genius girl, don’t give up. The world needs you to keep going.” He had written to you.
“Ohh, so I’m a massive bitch.” You said decidedly to yourself. You put the blueprints back down and went straight to Peter’s room to set things right. He opened the door after the second knock, looking that he too had shed a few tears.
“Can I come in?” You asked him. He didn’t say anything, but nodded his head as he stepped to the side. You sat down on his bed and he sat beside you.
“Peter, I’m so sorry.” You began. “I’ve been such a jerk to you.”
“What’s going on?” He asked in a quiet voice. “What did I do to offend you?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” You assured him. “You have been completely perfect since the moment you got here.”
“Then why have you been avoiding me?” He wondered. You looked into his eyes and let out a sigh. It was now or never to make things right.
“I just don’t know how to talk to you.” You admitted to him.
“Oh. I mean, I can kinda understand that. We haven’t seen each other in a long time.”
“A really long time. And I wasn’t expecting you to be so…” You trailed off and felt your face warm up.
“So what? Annoying?”
“What? No.” You quickly assured him and shook your head.
“So weird? So rude?” He kept asking.
“Nope. Not those either. So, ummm….whats the word I’m looking for?” You asked and clicked your tongue.
“So what? What is it?” Peter put his hand on you shoulder and leaned it to ask you. You stared at him like a deer in the handsome headlights and blinked.
“Hot.” You said in the smallest voice you could muster.
“What was that?” Peter asked and leaned in closer to hear you better.
“So hot.” You said louder and flung your hands in frustration, making Peter jump back at the sudden loud noise.
“I heard you the first time, I just didn’t believe it.” Peter admitted out of the corner of his mouth. “You’re telling me you haven’t talked to me the last few days because you think I’m hot?”
“That’s what it was at first.” You confessed. “But it’s changed now.”
“I’m not following.” Peter told you, making you sigh.
“Look, Peter. When you first walked in, I was stunned, like I told you at the party. Because the last time I saw you, you were this excitable 14 year old kid who was filming himself doing parkour on top of buildings. And now…” You trailed off again and gestured to all of him.
“Now?” He asked, looking down at outfit as if you were referring to his clothes. You let out a groan and rubbed your face with your hands.
“Are you really gonna make me say it?” You whined.
“Yes, actually.” He said firmly, making you groan again. You gave him one last look before letting all your bottled up feeling out.
“Now, you look like Zeus, and I’m sure you have the lightening rod to match. I literally cannot look at you without getting bricked up. When you opened the door the other night in just your towel, I was like oh okay, I’m 21 weeks along, and it might be twins. When you were doing pull up’s in front of me, I had to clench my legs together to not flood the whole Tower and the surrounding neighborhoods. Probably New Jersey too, if we’re being honest. And if that’s not bad enough, you cook my favorite foods and ask to meet my friends. You stand up for me and make douche bags apologize for making me incompatible. You save my freaking scrapped designs and compliment my mind. You’re too perfect! So no, I can’t talk to you!” You finally said, shouting by the end of it.
Peter leaned back and stared at you with a stunned expression for a long time. You stared back with your lips folded in, not moving a muscle. This staring contest went on for quite some time since there was really no appropriate response to what you had said. You may have gone for overkill, but you figured he deserved to know the truth after avoiding him for two days.
“Lighting rod?” He said finally, making you bury your face in your hands.
“Is that really all you heard?” You asked through your hands.
“I don’t really know what I just heard.” Peter admitted. “So you won’t talk to me because you think I’m too perfect?”
“I can’t talk to you because I didn’t want you to think I was throwing myself at you just because you got hot.” You explained. “But then, I started finding out you’re this too good to be true stand up guy who is also hot. So now I hate you and I can’t be around you.”
“If you feel that way about me, why didn’t you just tell me? I wouldn’t have exactly been mad if you threw yourself at me.” Peter told you, making you smile a little. He gave you a look and you were suddenly feeling a little silly for ever coming up with your plan not to fall for him before finding out how he felt about you.
“Because. You were friends with my dad. And I didn’t want to mess that up. And I’m really busy in the lab. And we barely know each other. And…” You trailed off as Peter leaned in closer to you.
“And?” He asked, tilting his head to the side. Your faces were just inches apart now and your eyes were locked on his lips.
“And I can’t take it anymore.” You decided before climbing into his lap to pull him into a kiss.
Hi bestiee can I request a fic w Lucad Bergvall “prompt 13” 🫶🏼
Sweet Like Strawberry~Lucas Bergvall
・❥・prompt list
・❥・masterlist -> part 2
・❥・who I write for
13-"I’m your boyfriend, and I demand you kiss me right now.”
y/n was stretched out on the couch, wrapped in a cozy blanket with a strawberry-scented lip mask glossed over her lips, and a facemask on her face. It was one of those evenings where she could finally relax, and the masks felt like the perfect treat for herself-care night. Lucas had been busy all day, so she assumed he’d be tired and want to unwind, too.
But as soon as he walked into the living room and saw her curled up, his eyes went straight to her lips. He was used to her putting facemasks, but the shining material on her lips caught his attention.
“What’s on your lips?” he asked, dropping onto the couch beside her with a curious smirk.
“It’s a lip mask,” she explained, holding back a grin. “Strawberry-flavored too. It’s supposed to make them soft.”
The second she mentioned “strawberry-flavored,” his interest doubled. “So, can I taste it?”
“No,” she said with a laugh, pushing his shoulder lightly as he leaned in.
“Oh, come on,” he protested, his tone a mix of whiny and playful. “Just one kiss.”
She shook her head. “Lucas, it’s supposed to stay on. If you mess it up, I’ll have to start over!”
But he wasn’t one to be deterred. With a mischievous gleam in his eye, he leaned closer, puckering his lips in a dramatic show. y/n pulled back, covering her mouth with her hand as he tried to press a kiss on her lips.
“Not happening!” she laughed, dodging as he leaned forward again.
He huffed, crossing his arms in mock frustration, but the pout on his face was too cute. “You’re really going to deny me a kiss?” he teased, inching closer as she dodged yet again.
“Yup!” you replied, holding back another laugh. “Gotta let this lip mask work, remember?”
Lucas gave her a look, brows raised in playful disbelief. “Alright, that’s it,” he announced dramatically, his hands reaching to pull her close as he finally dropped the line. “I’m your boyfriend, and I demand you kiss me right now.”
y/n couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out of her, his mock-serious tone cracking her up. And before she could dodge again, he managed to plant a quick peck right on her lips, his grin widening as he pulled back, clearly pleased with himself.
“Mmm, it does taste like strawberries,” he murmured, his lips hovering over hers again. Before she could protest, he stole another quick kiss, savoring the taste of the lip mask. He brushed his thumb over her cheek, keeping her close as he pecked her lips over and over.
“Lucas!” she giggled, trying to push him back, though she wasn’t really trying that hard.
“Sorry, it’s too good,” he said, grinning as he snuck another kiss. “Maybe I’ll help you reapply it if I mess it up?”
y/n rolled her eyes, laughing at his persistence. “Yeah, right. You’d just kiss it off again.”
He shrugged, pulling her even closer until she was nestled against his chest. “Guess you’re right,” he admitted softly, pressing his lips to hers once more, this time slower, savoring the kiss. His eyes were warm as he pulled back, a little smile playing on his lips.
She sighed in mock exasperation, finally giving in and letting him wrap his arms around her. “Fine, if you insist on ruining my lip mask, I guess I can let you stay.”
“Perfect,” he whispered, pressing one last kiss to the tip of her nose. “That’s all I needed.”
With that, he settled beside her, pulling her into his arms as the two of them melted into a comfortable cuddle, his head resting gently against hers as he sighed contentedly.
Kenan stood in the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up and a slightly smug grin on his face. His childhood friend, and secret crush you, stood across from him, looking at him with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.
“So… you’re telling me you’re a master chef now?” you teased, crossing arms.
“I’m not saying I’m a master chef.” Kenan replied, pulling out a bag of flour. “But let’s just say if football doesn’t work out, I could open a restaurant.”
You snorted. “You? A restaurant? Please, I’ve seen you burn toast.”
“That was one time.” Kenan shot back, feigning offense. “And the toaster was broken.”
“Uh..huh” you said, clearly unconvinced. “Alright, Mr. Michelin Star, what are we making today?”
Kenan’s grin widened. “We’re making mantı. Proper Turkish mantı. Not that frozen stuff you tried to feed me last time.”
You gasped, dramatically clutching your chest. “Excuse me, it was store-bought, and it wasn’t that bad.”
“It was an insult to mantı” Kenan declared, shaking his head. “And to my ancestors.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “Fine, teach me, oh wise one. But if this turns out bad, I’m never letting you live it down.”
“Deal.” Kenan said, holding out a hand. You shook it, and he couldn’t ignore how warm your hand felt in his.
Clearing his throat, he stepped toward the counter. “Alright, first we make the dough. It’s simple, flour, water, salt, and eggs. You can handle that, right?”
“Of course” you said, grabbing the flour. “I’m not completely useless, y'know.”
Kenan smirked. “Debatable.”
You threw a small handful of flour at him, and he ducked, laughing.
“You’re going to regret that.” he warned, grabbing some flour of his own.
“Kenan, don’t you dare..”
Before you could finish your sentence, a cloud of flour exploded in the air, leaving both of you laughing and coughing. You glared at him through the floury haze. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet, you keep coming back.” he quipped, brushing flour off his shirt.
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your grin. “Let’s just make the dough before you turn this into a full-on food fight.”
With a truce established, you got to work. Kenan guided you through mixing the dough, occasionally teasing you for being too slow or too messy, but secretly enjoying every second of your focused expression.
“Okay, now we roll it out.” Kenan said, handing you a rolling pin.
You looked at the dough sceptically. “This is harder than it looks.”
Kenan stood behind you, leaning down slightly to guide your hands on the rolling pin. “You have to press evenly.” he said, his voice softer than usual.
Your breath hitched for a moment, but you quickly recovered. “I see. The key is to have a personal coach hovering over your shoulder huh?”
Kenan grinned but didn’t move away. “Exactly. Consider this a VIP cooking class.”
After rolling out the dough, you started cutting it into small squares. Kenan demonstrated how to fill them with the spiced meat mixture and fold them into perfect little dumplings.
“Like this.” he said, holding up a neatly folded mantı.
You frowned at your own attempt, which looked more like a squished envelope. “Why is yours so perfect? Are you sure you’re not secretly taking cooking lessons?”
Kenan shrugged. “Talent, I guess.”
“Or witchcraft.” you muttered, trying again.
“You’re getting better.” he said encouragingly.
You gave him a sideways glance. “Better at folding mantı or better at tolerating you?”
“Both, probably.” he replied with a wink.
By the time you had a tray full of mantı ready to cook, the kitchen was a mess. Flour dusted the counters, your nose, and even Kenan’s hair, and bits of dough clung to your hands.
“Alright, now we boil them and make the sauce.” Kenan said, turning to the stove.
You leaned against the counter, watching him with a fond smile. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”
“About mantı? Of course.” he said, stirring the pot. “It’s like the pride of Turkey.”
“I meant about cooking in general.” you said, tilting your head. “I didn’t think you’d be so good at this.”
Kenan glanced at you, his expression softening. “Well, I guess I just like sharing it with people who matter.”
Your cheeks flushed slightly, and you quickly looked away. “That’s… sweet.”
Kenan turned back to the stove, hiding his own blush. “Don’t get used to it. I’m still going to make fun of you for being terrible at folding mantı.”
Once the mantı was cooked and topped with yogurt and a drizzle of butter infused with paprika, they sat down to eat.
You took your first bite and immediately groaned. “Okay, this is amazing. You might actually be a genius.”
Kenan leaned back, looking smug. “Told you.”
“But don’t let it go to your head.” you added quickly. “You’re still annoying.”
“Annoyingly talented.” Kenan corrected.
You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”
As you finished your meal, you leaned your elbows on the table and looked at him thoughtfully. “Y'know, this was actually fun. Maybe you should teach me more Turkish recipes.”
Kenan’s heart skipped a beat, but he kept his tone casual. “I’d be happy to. But only if you promise to actually fold the mantı properly next time.”
“Deal.” you said smiling.
For a moment, the room felt warmer, and Kenan wondered if you could hear how loudly his heart was pounding.
“Hey” you said suddenly, breaking the silence.
“Yea?”
“You’re a pretty good teacher.” you admitted with a soft voice.
Kenan grinned. “And you’re a pretty good student.”
You rolled your eyes, but there was a glimmer of something more in your smile.
As you cleaned up the kitchen together, your laughter filled the air, and Kenan couldn’t help but think that sharing a meal with you, even in a flour-covered kitchen, was better than any football victory he’d ever had.
would you write a ballerina!reader x pau or kenan where she gets hurt and they make a big fuss over it <333
like a hurt x healer trope kinda thing
imagine reader falling in one of her jumps and scraps her knee just the tiniest bit. BUT NO.
pau/kenan comes running over, holding her to the ground and inspecting her knee, panicking over such a small cut while reader sighs and shakes her head
pau/kenan wrapping the knee in bandages and disinfecting it with alcohol even though all it needed was a little bit of time to heal
pau/kenan worrying over every single thing reader does, overreacting when she limps slightly, falters in her step, etc
BRO WHY DID I BASICALLY WRITE THIS IM SORRY </3
just a thought you could do like bf headcanons if you dont want to do a whole ahh oneshot
GET THAT SMAU BABE
anyhow i need to stop yapping dni
LOVE YOU SM POOKIE AND HAVE A GREAT NIGHT!!!!! MWAHHH <33
✮ Watch Your Step - Kenan Yildiz
kenan yildiz x fem!reader
sy: you’re sentenced to read @n0vazsq long ass req i apologise in advance..
a/n: i cannot do smau’s for my LIFE but ily pookster here it is (four💔) months late.
warnings: no?
precision, balance, elegance.
aggressive, power, relentless.
the difference between you and kenan’s sport. yours was all about finding the angelic nature of balance, to show grace. and his? more so the physical and imbalanced nature of aggression, to show power.
so by all means, you both have different reactions to things. like today.
“the choreo,” you mumble under your breath, winding the silk around your ankles. “just a pirouette, adagio then a grand allegro.”
you nod firmly at yourself, marking out a section to practice. kenan is sat away in the corner, arms folded, a stand of loose hair fallen over his forehead—looking intimidating as hell.
though when you look over at him, he smiles.
the radio on the floor begins to play, and so do you. your steps glide in fluid motion, twirling and spinning.
your pirouette’s land gracefully, so do your adagio’s—but your allegro’s?
you land the first jump clean, and the second. but the third.. not so much.
your foot catches the floor at a weird angle, and before you could recover, gravity took over as you hit the floor with a soft thud—your knee scraped over the hardwood enough for it to sting.
“hey hey hey!”
kenan’s voice cuts through the silence of the studio like a whistle. he was across the room in seconds, at your side within an instant.
you sit up with a sigh, brushing your palm over your leg. there’s a little cut, a small draw of blood.
“what happened? did you twist anything?” his hands clutch the back of your leg, his eyes scanning over it like a monument. “is it deep? can you move it?”
you blink at him, half entertained. “kenan. it’s a scratch.”
“no—but it’s bleeding!” he exaggerates, already tugging at his compression shirt to maybe—god, was he going to wrap it?
“it’s literally the size of a fingernail,” you push his hands down. “i’ve had worse from shaving.”
kenan didn’t laugh. he frowned harder. “you could of hit your head y/n! or rolled your ankle, why are you practicing alone?”
“i always practice alone.”
“yeah, well, not anymore,” he mutters, still inspecting your knee. kenan does exactly what you thought he was doing to do.
the players fitted shirt gets pulled over his head, that chiseled back, and taut muscles that simply made your mouth water. the breadth veins from his neck travel down to his forearms, his biceps bulging slightly as he adjusts his shirt around your leg.
“kenan—no,” you try to dismiss, but it’s already around your knee. you wince at the pressure when he ties it too tight, and he panics.
“shit, shit i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean—is it too tight? wait. wait, i can take it off and get some tape? maybe there’s a first aid kit in the back?”
his voice is tinged breathlessly, eyes flickering up to yours like he’s watching your soul leave your body.
“babe,” you reassure. “i promise this isn’t fatal.”
still, his brows arch into dismissal, letting a dramatic huff fall from his lips as he gently woves his thumb over your now-covered knee.
kenan sits further upright. “well.. do you want anything? a drink, some food.. a book?”
“why would i need a book?”
“you can’t just sit here and get bored. unless i’ll take you home so you can put your knee,” he suggests as seriously as possible.
he really wasn’t letting go, huh.
you shake your head. “amorè i dont need a book. or home. i’m still practicing.”
your arms brace either side of you, ready to pull yourself up from the ground, until kenan guides you back down.
“you’re not gonna continue practicing,” he orders with a little bit of a snarl. not aggressive per se, just concerned. “we either go home or i’ll find you something to do. you’ve just injured yourself!”
“but—”
“no buts,” he continues. “now do you want anything? or i’ll carry you over to the car.”
you’ve always loved his protective nature, at everything he does for you, but when it comes to your job.. he’s kinda the worst.
then, an idea clicks in your head.
you rub at your throat. “i guess i’m a little thirsty.”
“okay, water? milk? cola?” he runs a hand over his face as if it were all too much.
“water should be fine,” you give him a light smile, coursing your fingers through his windswept hair.
“and a book? your phone? my phone?” kenan continues to ramble. if it weren’t just you two in the hall, anybody would think it’s your last day alive.
you just shake your head. “nothing else.”
kenan nods enthusiastically, mellowly kissing the tip of your nose, then your lips, until he stands up and jogs off.
you patiently wait until he’s fully out of sight before you lift yourself up again. your knee arches slightly, but not enough to stop you.
everything feels natural again. you glide back into position, marking out the jump you had missed.
the perfectionist in you needed to fix it.
your feet are pointed, ready to takeoff, except when you do, your balance falters and knee buckles a little on the landing.
“i thought i told you not to practice!”
you freeze mid step as kenan marches back in, the plastic cup in his hand slightly squashed.
your boyfriends eyes mark over you like a trained sniper. it only takes a second to look at your posture: weight shifted onto your good leg, the tiniest grimace from landing, for him to act.
“decision made. we’re going home.”
kenan swoops in and cradles you against his chest in one lift, his arms protectively locked under your legs and behind your back as if you weighed nothing.
if that wasn’t hot enough, him shirtless was.
your boyfriends muscles flex against your smaller frame, warm and solid like stone under silk.
“wait—kenan! i need to practice!”
“not with that knee you aren’t,” the man mandates, calmly, firmly and with absolutely no room for negotiations.
“i’m serious! kenan put me down!” you order, squirm and fidget but it’s useless. his broad arms only tense around you tighter, being careful not to jostle your ‘bandaged’ knee.
“nope.”
he strides towards the door like it’s a done deal; you half-amusingly swat his shoulder, but you can’t even help laughing a little at how serious he is about this.
he’s ridiculous. seriously overbearing.
then again, he’s also yours.
“i hate how strong you are,” you mumble into his neck, defeated.
“i already know that baby,” he says smugly. “but i’ll keep on carrying you until you finally admit that i’m right.”
still being somewhat friends with your ex brings up some jealousy in your relationship
kenan yıldız x reader
A/N: jealous kenan🤌🤌!!! based on this request.
W/C: 1.440
"this one looks better on your feed.." you tell your best friend, scrolling through the pictures you just took of her.
"I know. what would I do without a bestie like you.." she coos, wrapping her arms around your body.
"you'd be stuck with your boyfriend who takes ugly photos.." you chuckle, hugging her back.
"travis can't take pictures for shit. at least kenan takes good pictures of you.." she says, sitting up and fixing her hair.
"I got very lucky.." you beam, grateful for your boyfriend's artistic skills.
"he needs to give travis some tips when he gets here.."
"when does he arrive?" she asks, playing with the frills of your jeans.
"he said he'd be here in ten.." you answer, looking around the house.
your big friend group decided to organize a get together after not being able to meet for a long time. everyone was encouraged to bring their partners, so you didn't hesitate to ask kenan if he would join you.
your boyfriend was an incredibly busy guy, especially with the serie a games starting in a couple days.
but of course, he'd always make time for you.
"hey, y/n can you pass me the chips?"
you look up when you hear a familiar voice, making eye contact with adam.
he was one of your friends, and unfortunately, also your ex.
you didn't even know if you could classify him as an ex, since your relationship lasted a mere month or two, and when both you realized it wasn't going to work out, it ended.
no hard feelings.
well, you could only speak for yourself..
"you want the guac too?" you ask, sitting up to grab the bowl of chips in front of you.
"nah, I like 'em plain.."
you frown at his answer, he must've turned into a crazy person since you broke up, because who enjoys eating plain chips without a dip?
"oh, here.." you slide the bowl over, leaning back into the couch.
you look at your best friend, her face incredibly still. you know, that if you make eye contact with her, you'd both burst out in laughter.
"thanks, y/n.."
you give him a small smile, watching him shove the crispy nachos into his mouth.
"so, where's your boyfriend at?" he mumbles, his mouth unaesthetically full.
"he's coming over in a couple minutes. he's a busy person, you know." you explain, scratching the back of your hand.
you look to your right, silently asking your best friend to break the tension, or save you from the conversation..
"adam, where's your partner? I didn't see you walk in with anyone.."
"yeah, I thought you were dating halle from your finance class?" you question, trying to steer the topic away from your own personal life.
"didn't work out- again.." he sighs, looking directly into your eyes.
you press your lips into a line, shivering, you look at your equally nosy best friend.
"well, it'll work for out for you too eventually. like how I'm with kenan now.."
you try to reassure him, confused when adam suddenly sits up, fixing his posture. his hands move down, and he starts wiping his oily fingers on his jeans.
why did men do nasty things like that?
"what's going to work out eventually?"
you gasp at the familiar voice, turning around to see kenan behind you.
"you're here.." you beam excitedly, feeling his loving touch from behind. his arm wrapping around your shoulders, as he presses a kiss behind your ear.
"of course I’m here.." he mutters, pulling back when you stand up from the couch to walk around it.
"thank you for coming.." you hug kenan, his strong arms wrapping around you, a little tighter than usual.
"a promise, is a promise.." he mumbles into your ear, kissing your temple. you can feel the soft fabric of his hoodie brush against your cheek. the scent of his musky cologne entering your nose, calming you with its familiar smell.
you hum, feeling his hands trail down your back, a hand touching your lower back.
kenan loved showing his love through touch, but he'd never been a 'pda' person. he always chose to hold your hand or hug you outside the four walls of your shared apartment, so the sudden intimate touches were confusing to you.
not that you would mind, you were in private company, so you'd savor everyone of his touches anyway.
"hello, good to see you.." he tells your best friend, giving her a smile before averting his gaze to adam.
"nice to see you, man.." adam speaks when he notices the look, immediately standing up and walking over.
while you watch your ex walk towards you, you can feel kenan's grip tighten around you. nothing painful, of course, even when not aware, he'd never do anything to hurt you.
he absolutely cherished every second you spent together. whether it was a quick lunch date in between his training sessions, and your university classes or just spending his daily life with you.
never letting you get too cold or too hot. bringing a drink from your favorite café, while you were already sipping on your crappy, watered down, homemade iced coffee. tying your shoelaces without you even realizing they came undone.
at this point, you could request for the urban dictionary to make 'kenan' a synonym for 'gentleman'.
you look up when kenan doesn't greet adam like he usually greets your other friends.
you weren't naive enough to not know why. your boyfriend had long known adam and you had dated briefly, since you didn't feel like it was morally right not to inform him..
of course, kenan had not doubted your loyalty to him. he trusted you, as much as you trusted him.
you couldn't lie and say you were completely fine with still being friends with adam. you'd shared intimate moments together, and going back to that platonic relationship wasn’t something you were 100% comfortable with.
"you arrived pretty late. I guess being a baller is keeping you away from our dear y/n.."
you watch kenan's jaw clench, his jawline getting even sharper as you feel his fingers trace your back.
"I made time, like I'd expect a boyfriend to do.." your boyfriend retorts, his voice steady and firm.
"I would be crazy to lose a person like her.."
your eyes flicker back up at kenan, knowing that jab was obviously about adam and you breaking it off.
"ken.." you call out, patting his chest to get his attention.
"what is it, baby?" you almost laugh at the voice change. It switches from a rough, deep one to the most honey-soaked tone ever.
"please don't start anything, come on. let's go get some snacks, ‘kay?" you ask, smiling to convince him.
you watch your best friend get pulled away by her boyfriend, it giving you the perfect opportunity to dip.
"okay, that's fine.." your boyfriend agrees, squeezing your hips one more time, before he releases the tension in his jaw. turning around and pulling you away from the frazzled adam.
"jealous boy.." you tease him when he pulls you into a corner, poking his cheek. where his dimples would dent when he’d smile or pull a face.
"I'm not jealous.." he dismisses, reaching up to remove a fallen eyelash from your cheek.
"should I go back and bring adam? ask if he wants a drink?"
"come on. I can have an opinion.."
"that is?" you question, grabbing and popping a grape into your mouth.
"I don't trust the guy for a second, like- what guy befriends his ex?"
"if the ex is as nice as me, I would.." you tease.
"what if I were friend with my ex?" he questions, using elaborate hand movements.
"I would- wait, but this is different, ken. I can't cut him off easily since he's a part of the friend group. it's already kind of awkward between us.."
"awkward? thank goodness.."
you roll your eyes at his happiness, shoving a cracker into his mouth.
"shush, just eat it this, and stop talking.."
"no sharing chips with him, no more.." he hums, chewing on the crunchy snack.
"you saw that?"
"obviously, your friends kept me at the door until I took pictures with them.."
"oh.."
"can we hook him and his ex back up together?"
you scoff, raising a brow.
"what did I say?"
"stop talking.." he grins, his dimples showing as he looks at you. his brown eyes lighting up in amusement.
"never mind, just give me a kiss.." you say, looking up when he eagerly cups your jaw.
Can you write a fic of reader being very sick but not wanting to disturb Kenan (even tho he text her to see if she wanted help) bc he was tired after training, then less than an hour pass and he show up in her apartament to take care of her
"i didn't want to disturb you."
masterlist requests word count: 900
a/n: fluffy kenan yay
genre: comfort.
warnings: reader has the flu.
summary: kenan takes care of you while you're sick after you originally tell him you're 'fine'.
You had been curled up on the couch all day, wrapped in a blanket that somehow felt both too warm and not warm enough. Your head pounded, your throat was sore, and even lifting your phone to scroll felt like too much effort. The flu had knocked you out harder than you expected, leaving you shivering despite the heating humming in the background.
Kenan had texted earlier in the evening.
KENAN 🩷: How are you feeling?
KENAN 🩷: Do you want me to come by?
You had stared at the screen for a long minute, torn between the overwhelming desire to see him and the guilty knowledge that he had just come back from training. He had been exhausted when you talked yesterday, practically dragging himself through the door of his own apartment. The last thing you wanted was to disturb him again. So you typed out a quick lie. I’m okay. Just resting. Don’t worry, get some sleep.
You pressed send before you could change your mind.
Less than an hour later, there was a knock at your door.
At first, you thought maybe you had imagined it, that your fever was making you hear things. But then it came again, firm but not impatient. Groaning, you shuffled off the couch, blanket still clutched around your shoulders, and padded to the door.
When you opened it, there he was. Kenan stood in the hallway, hoodie pulled over his messy hair, a bag dangling from one hand. His eyes swept over you immediately, taking in your pale face, the heavy slump of your shoulders, the way you had not even bothered with socks.
“Schatz,” he breathed, stepping inside without waiting for you to invite him. “You’re worse than you said.”
“I didn’t want to bother you,” you rasped, already embarrassed.
Kenan set the bag down on the kitchen counter and turned back to you. “Bother me? Do you really think I care about being tired when you’re like this?” His voice was soft, almost chiding, but there was no anger in it. Only concern.
You tried to protest, to tell him he should be resting too, but he was already guiding you back toward the couch with a hand on your back. He moved carefully, like he thought you might collapse at any second.
Once you were settled, he crouched down in front of you, leveling his gaze with yours. “I’m here, okay? Let me take care of you.”
Your throat tightened, and not from the illness. You nodded, too worn out to argue further.
Kenan smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair off your forehead with the gentlest touch. Then he stood and began unpacking the bag he had brought. You watched from the couch, dazed, as he pulled out a small arsenal: bottles of water, electrolyte packets, tissues, paracetamol, even your favorite soup from the café near his apartment.
“You thought of everything,” you whispered, voice cracking.
“Of course I did,” he said simply.
He warmed the soup in your kitchen, humming under his breath while he waited for the microwave to beep. You dozed off for a few minutes, lulled by the sound of him moving around, only to wake when he nudged you softly.
“Iss es,” he said, holding out the bowl.
Your appetite had been gone all day, but with him sitting beside you, watching expectantly, you forced yourself to take small spoonfuls. He looked pleased each time you swallowed, like you had scored a goal instead of just managing to keep soup down.
When you could not finish, he set the bowl aside and pressed a glass of water into your hands. Then, without hesitation, he shifted closer and opened his arms.
“Come here.”
You leaned against him instantly, tucking yourself under his chin. His hoodie smelled like fresh laundry and a trace of his cologne. He tightened his arms around you, one hand rubbing slow circles on your back.
“You should be asleep,” you murmured.
“So should you,” he countered. “But I’ll stay awake as long as you need me to.”
Your chest ached at his words. “You’re too good to me.”
Kenan chuckled softly. “You deserve it.”
Time blurred after that. He held you while you drifted in and out of light sleep, adjusting the blanket when it slipped and making sure you had water within reach. At one point you woke to find him scrolling quietly on his phone, your head still on his shoulder. He noticed immediately, locking the screen and looking down at you.
“Do you need anything?” he asked.
“Just you,” you admitted, voice small.
Something tender flickered across his face. He pressed a kiss to your damp forehead, not caring about the risk of catching whatever you had. “Then that’s easy,” he whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
The room fell silent again except for your uneven breathing. His presence steadied you, anchored you. Even as the fever burned hot and the shivers kept coming, you felt safe.
Eventually he shifted so that he was lying with you, pulling you fully into his arms. His hoodie became your pillow, his heartbeat the rhythm you fell asleep to. For the first time all day, you let yourself relax completely.
The last thing you heard before sleep dragged you under was his voice, quiet and full of love.
“Next time, don’t hide how bad it is. I want to be here. Always.”
summary: Jude had one rule: his sister was strictly off-limits. Kenan really tried to listen, really did. But then you smiled at him, and, well—there was no coming back from that. (18k words)
AN: wrote this on the plane the other day!! can't lie guys, I have a real soft spot for Madrid since I had an exchange there & with the recent rumours on the possibility of Kenan leaving Juve I just had to write this! It is looooong but being a binge reader myself I always prefer long stories over multiple chapters :) hope u enjoy! ciao
------------------------------------------------
The house smelled of garlic and slow-simmering tomatoes, the kind of warmth that wrapped around you the second you stepped inside. It was familiar, homey—but unexpected. Jude rarely cooked unless coerced, which meant one thing:
He had help.
Following the hum of conversation and the occasional clatter of pans, you stepped into the kitchen—and immediately stopped short.
Jude stood by the stove, stirring something that, shockingly, looked edible. Beside him, moving with effortless ease, was a second figure, sleeves pushed up, knife in hand, chopping vegetables with practiced precision.
Your brows lifted slightly.
Kenan Yıldız.
You recognized him instantly—not just because of who he was, but because Jude never shut up about him. His name had been woven into conversations for weeks now. One of the best new signings at Madrid. Got along with Jude right away.
What you hadn’t expected was… this.
Kenan fit into the kitchen like he had been coming to your house for years. The smooth rhythm of his hands, the clean efficiency as he gathered greens in his palm before tossing them into a bowl—it was clear he knew what he was doing. He didn’t even look up at first, simply remarking,
“You must be Jude’s sister.”
His voice was warm, rich, touched with something amused—like he already knew you.
You blinked. “And you must be the new recruit.”
That got his attention. He looked up then and—okay, wow.
It wasn’t just that he was handsome; that was a given. It was how he carried himself—calm, unhurried, effortlessly present, as if he didn’t need to take up space to be noticed. His dazling green eyes met yours, gaze steady, warm, quietly amused. Like he was taking you in, waiting to see what you’d say next.
Jude, oblivious to the shift in the air, barely looked up. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s not helping.”
Kenan scoffed, feigning offense. “Excuse me? I’m doing all the hard work.”
“You’re cutting vegetables,” Jude deadpanned.
“With flawless precision,” Kenan shot back.
You leaned against the counter, watching them, amused despite yourself.
“You actually cook?” you asked, directing the question at Kenan.
He nodded, as if it were obvious. “Of course.”
Jude let out a disbelieving snort. “He’s lying.”
Kenan pressed a hand to his chest, mock wounded. “What’s with the judging, Judy?”
“You literally looked up a tutorial on TikTok when you picked up the knife.”
Kenan smirked. “And? I’m a quick learner.”
You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Unexpected. Kenan’s gaze flickered to you, and for a brief moment, his expression softened.
Clearing your throat, you fought to regain the upper hand. “So, you’re just here to show off, then?”
Kenan shrugged. “Figured I should try my best to impress the sister I’ve heard so much about.”
You tilted your head. “Are you this smooth with everyone, or am I just special?”
His smile was slow, a little surprised—like he wasn’t expecting you to match him but found that he liked it.
“A little of both,” he admitted. “But mainly the latter.”
Jude groaned, dramatically turning away from the stove. “Oh my days. Don’t make me wack you with this spatula Kenan.”
Kenan smirked. “No worries, bro”
Yet he was still watching you, eyes glinting, something unreadable flickering behind them—like he wasn’t sure what to make of you yet.
You stretched out comfortably in the kitchen chair. “I think I’ll just sit here and watch. This is way more entertaining than I expected.”
Kenan chuckled, reaching for another onion. “As long as you’re enjoying yourself.”
The worst part? You did.
Jude, still focused on the pan, added, “For the record, Kenan practically begged to be invited over.”
Kenan exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That’s a dramatic way to put it.”
You arched a brow. “So what’s the less dramatic version?”
Kenan wiped his hands on a towel, leaning back against the counter. “I mentioned I had nothing to do tonight, and your brother insisted I come over.”
Jude scoffed. “You asked what I was making for dinner and then said, That sounds nice. I wish I had plans.”
Kenan shrugged, utterly unbothered. “And you invited me. So, really, this is on you.”
You hummed, amused. “Strategic play.”
Kenan’s lips twitched. “Can you blame me? Good food, good company…” His eyes flickered to you for half a second before he added, “I think I made the right call.”
Jude, oblivious, just shook his head. “Right. Well, you can do the dishes, then.”
Kenan sighed, dramatic as ever. “That’s not how guests should be treated.”
You smirked, shaking your head at him.
Jude barely paid attention, focused on stirring the pan. “Kenan’s alright,” he muttered. “One of the only friends I actually trust with my life.”
Kenan looked over at him, a little surprised, like he wasn’t expecting the sentiment to be voiced so easily.
Jude continued, utterly unfazed. “That being said—just so you know—same rule applies to him as everyone else.”
He finally turned, fixing Kenan with a pointed look. “She’s off-limits.”
The air shifted.
Your expression twisted immediately. “Excuse me?”
Jude didn’t even glance at you. His focus remained on Kenan, casual but firm. It was clear he didn’t think twice about saying it, just like he had with every other teammate, every other friend. It was instinct.
Kenan, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He held Jude’s stare for a long moment, something unreadable passing through his expression before it turned into a friendly smile.
“Duly noted.”
Jude gave him a little slap on the back, before turning back to the stove.
“Not that I don’t trust you, man. Just needed you to know.”
And then, just as effortlessly, just as naturally as if this were all a game only he knew the rules to—
Kenan winked at you.
You wanted to throw something.
Kenan just chuckled under his breath, tossing a handful of chopped parsley into the dish.
Jude, completely oblivious, still hunched over the stove, stirring like nothing had happened.
You exhaled slowly, chest feeling tighter than before.
This was going to be a problem.
…
The night was already borderline ridiculous before you even set foot on the course.
Disco golf.
Who in their right mind came up with this?
The artificial grass glowed with neon strips, fluorescent obstacles scattered across each hole like some kind of fever dream. Overhead, strobe lights pulsed in sync with a painfully bad club remix blaring from the speakers. It was an assault on the senses in every possible way.
And yet, somehow, this group made it work.
You barely had a chance to breathe before Antoine Griezmann materialized out of nowhere, his signature shit-eating grin firmly in place.
“Well, well, well,” he drawled, flipping a golf ball between his fingers like it was a poker chip. “Look who finally showed up.”
“I was literally five minutes late.”
Antoine was as predictable as ever—an insufferable smooth-talker, equal parts charming and irritating. He had tried it with you once, a half-baked attempt at flirting that had crashed and burned spectacularly. Instead of being embarrassed, he had turned it into a long-running joke at your expense. Or at least, he claimed it was a joke.
You rolled your eyes. “I see Jude didn’t immediately chase you out of here. He must be in a good mood.”
Antoine pressed a hand to his chest, mock wounded. “Why do people assume your brother hates me?”
“Because he does,” a new voice chimed in.
Vini Jr.
The responsible one. The glue that held the group together. He was calm, steady, unbothered—unless you insulted his dance routine, in which case, he suffered more than anyone you knew.
Vini clapped Antoine on the back, his expression completely deadpan. “And for good reason.”
Antoine scoffed. “You wound me, bro.”
Before Vini could respond, a golf club swung dangerously close to both their faces.
“Boys, boys,” Arda Güler interrupted, dramatically flourishing his club like he was starring in a medieval jousting match. The lovable idiot, always at the center of chaos. His entire personality was built on making bad decisions and hoping for the best.
“This is a game of precision, not violence.” He spun his club around before dramatically planting it into the ground. “And I will emerge victorious.”
“You say that every time,” Vini muttered.
Arda ignored him.
A hand clapped down on your shoulder, and you turned to find Julián Álvarez standing beside you, unreadable as always.
“Should I even ask why you agreed to this?” he asked, voice low, amusement barely detectable.
Julián was the quietest of the group—the type who didn’t say much but noticed everything. He never inserted himself into drama, but if you needed advice, someone to talk to, or a brutally honest reality check, he was the guy.
You shrugged. “Morbid curiosity.”
Julián hummed, unconvinced.
The group started pairing up, and you had already resigned yourself to being stuck with Jude, as always. But before you could even move, Arda slung an arm around Jude’s shoulders.
“I’m with Jude,” he announced decisively, leaving no room for argument.
Jude shot him an incredulous look. “Since when?”
“Since now,” Arda said, already dragging him toward the first hole. “You’re good at this, right? Because I refuse to lose.”
You barely had time to process the betrayal before Julián and Vini shuffeled a little closer together as well.
Great. That left you with either Antoine or Kenan.
Your eyes flickered toward Antoine, who was casually flipping his golf ball in one hand, smirking like he was already planning something insufferable.
Without a second thought, you turned to Kenan instead.
He was already watching you, utterly unbothered, twirling his club with the same easy confidence he carried in everything.
“Looks like you’re stuck with me,” he said, handing you your ball.
Your fingers tightened around it as you met his gaze.
“Lucky me.”
Kenan’s lips twitched, just slightly. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Jude, too preoccupied with arguing with Arda over proper golf technique, hadn’t even noticed—let alone the way heat crept up your neck as Kenan watched you with quiet amusement.
…
The first few holes passed in a blur of neon-lit obstacles and questionable golf techniques. Arda was taking things far too seriously, Jude was arguing about angles like this was an actual competition, and Antoine had already managed to cheat twice—though no one could prove it.
Kenan, to your mild surprise, was actually decent at it. Not overly competitive, but smooth, precise. Effortless.
Annoyingly so.
You, on the other hand, were not having as much luck. Your shots weren’t terrible, but they also weren’t particularly impressive. And Kenan, who had the unfortunate privilege of witnessing every single attempt, was clearly enjoying himself.
By the fifth hole, you were losing patience.
Kenan leaned on his club, watching as your ball veered slightly off-course. “Not bad,” he mused. “But I think you’re gripping the club too tight.”
You shot him a look. “Thanks, coach.”
He grinned. “Anytime.”
You exhaled, adjusting your stance before trying again. The ball rolled forward, making it past the obstacle this time but still stopping just short of the hole.
Kenan made a thoughtful sound. “Better.”
You turned to him, exasperated. “Do you actually have tips, or are you just enjoying watching me struggle?”
He tilted his head, considering. “Little bit of both.”
You huffed, shaking your head as you lined up for another shot. But before you could take it, you felt him step closer.
Too close.
Kenan reached out, adjusting your grip on the club before you could protest. “Relax,” he murmured, voice low enough that Jude—still distracted by Arda—wouldn’t hear. “You’re overthinking it.”
Your pulse jumped.
You were sure he knew exactly what he was doing. The proximity, the subtle amusement laced through his words—it was intentional.
You rolled your shoulders, pretending the heat creeping up your neck was from frustration. “Are you showing off again?”
Kenan smirked. “If I were showing off, you’d know.”
Before you could come up with a response, he took a step back, gesturing toward the ball. “Try again.”
You did. And, to your surprise, it went in.
You blinked at the hole, momentarily stunned.
Kenan’s smirk deepened. “See? All you needed was the right guidance.”
You turned to him, unimpressed. “You’re going to be insufferable about this, aren’t you?”
He shrugged, all faux innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
You exhaled sharply, turning back to the course.
…
The next morning, you sat across from Jude at your favorite café, the scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries curling around you like a comforting embrace.
Brunch had become a ritual—a chance to catch up, talk nonsense, and, more often than not, for Jude to rant about something that had deeply offended his very specific worldview that week.
Today, that thing was Antoine Griezmann.
You weren’t even five minutes into your meal before Jude leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and let out a deep, dramatic sigh.
“I hate him.”
You didn’t even have to ask who he was talking about.
Still, you took a slow sip of your coffee, humoring him. “Antoine?”
Jude scoffed. “Obviously Antoine.”
You hummed in amusement, cutting into your pancake. “What did he do this time?”
Jude leaned forward, elbows braced against the table. “What did he do? He was one second away from licking your face off, did you miss that?”
You snorted. “He was annoying, but I wouldn’t say that.”
Jude shot you a deeply unimpressed look. “He was testing my patience.”
You arched a brow, feigning innocence. “So… your patience is thin, then?”
“My patience doesn’t exist when it comes to my friends hitting on my sister,” he stated, as if it were fact.
“Technically, he didn’t hit on me,” you pointed out.
Jude’s glare was immediate. “He was setting up for it.”
You rolled your eyes. “Don’t worry. You know I’d never reciprocate anything anyway, right?”
“You better not.”
You exhaled through your nose, reaching for your coffee.
Because this was just Jude. Overprotective, borderline ridiculous, but never in a way that truly irritated you—because you knew it came from a good place.
Still, that didn’t mean he wasn’t overdoing it.
Jude took a sip of his drink, shaking his head. “It’s a hard rule. No friends of mine. Ever.”
You almost choked on your coffee.
Then, slowly, you leaned back in your chair. “Aren’t you going a bit far?”
“It’s for the best.”
“It’s insane.”
Jude crossed his arms. “You know footballers. You know I’m right.”
Your mouth opened. Then closed.
Because, unfortunately, he had a point. You weren’t blind.
You had spent enough time around Jude and his teammates to know how they moved—always on the go, always in a whirlwind of temporary flings, casual connections, never really rooted anywhere.
Still, your mind drifted to Kenan, who did not give you that impression at all.
You eyed him, unimpressed. “So what are you aiming at? Immediate death if they look at me?”
Jude barely hesitated. “Immediate exile.”
You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “A bit dramatic.”
“I think it’s still very generous.”
You sighed, knowing this was an argument you wouldn’t win.
…
The house was alive.
Music pulsed through the walls, the bass thrumming beneath your feet like a second heartbeat. Laughter spilled from the kitchen, where a group of guys were debating whether or not vodka actually made you better at beer pong. The air smelled of alcohol, sweat, and something vaguely burnt—probably whatever disaster Arda had left in the oven.
It was the kind of night that blurred at the edges, full of bad decisions and good memories. The kind of night where anything could happen.
And yet you barely registered any of it.
Because he was here.
You felt Kenan’s presence like static in the air, a pull that had been getting harder and harder to ignore. It had been this way all night—glances exchanged across the room, fleeting, lingering.
He was talking to someone, laughing at something Arda had said, but even as he smiled—as if nothing in the world was out of place—
You knew better.
Because he kept looking at you, too.
Short, quick glances that made your pulse kick up a notch.
You tore your gaze away, turning your attention to the nearest distraction.
Unfortunately, that distraction came in the form of Antoine Griezmann.
“Well, well,” Antoine drawled, appearing beside you with his usual brand of obnoxious charm. “If it isn’t my favorite Bellingham.”
You sighed, already bracing yourself. “Oh, God.”
Antoine grinned. “Did you miss me?”
“No.”
“Lies. Say it again, maybe I’ll believe you this time.”
You turned to face him, unimpressed. “Antoine, it’s physically impossible for me to miss you when you’re always finding new and creative ways to bother me.”
Antoine pressed a hand to his chest, feigning heartbreak. “Always so feisty.”
You didn’t even bother responding.
Suddenly his hand landed on your waist.
Casual. Uninvited.
Before you could even react and push him back, Jude was there, looking very angry. Oh god.
His voice was sharp, unamused, cutting through the noise like a blade.
“Antoine.”
Antoine turned, lazy grin still in place. “Jude. Nice house party.”
Jude’s jaw ticked. “Get your hand off my sister.”
Antoine raised his hands in mock surrender. “Relax. Just saying hi.”
Jude’s eyes narrowed. “Okay. Say it differently.”
Antoine smirked. “Don’t be so pressed.”
Jude now looked ready to commit an actual crime.
And just like that, you’d had enough.
You weren’t about to stand around while Jude and Antoine had another one of their pissing contests.
“You boys have fun,” you muttered, pushing past them before either could stop you.
You felt Jude’s glare follow you.
You didn’t care.
You weaved through the crowd, exhaling slowly, trying to shake the tension tightening in your chest.
Suddenly, a hand brushed against yours. Barely there. Just enough to make you notice.
Before you could process it, fingers wrapped around your wrist. Light, but firm. A silent don’t go that way.
No words. Just a pull—smooth and effortless—like he had already decided you were coming with him.
You didn’t fight it. Just let Kenan steer you through the crowd until the heavy bass dulled and cool night air brushed your skin.
Only then did he let go.
Kenan exhaled, raking a hand through his hair. “You okay?”
Your arms crossed over your chest. "I should be asking you that."
He let out a breathy chuckle. "Why?"
"Because you just dragged me out of a party without saying a word."
Kenan smirked. “You followed.”
You rolled your eyes. “Not the point.”
He didn’t argue. Instead, his eyes flickered back toward the door—checking. Not for just anyone. For one person in particular.
Your stomach flipped at the realization.
"Antoine gets on your nerves that much?" you asked, tilting your head.
Kenan sighed, leaning against the railing. "You could say that."
Without thinking, you reached out, your fingertips barely brushing his forearm. A fleeting touch, light as air, easy enough to pass off as nothing.
Kenan went completely still.
His green eyes flickered down to where your skin met his before slowly dragging back up to your face, something dark and unreadable swimming in them.
"You really care about that?" you murmured, barely above a whisper.
Kenan’s lips quirked, but his voice was steady. "Should I not?"
You held his gaze, pulse quickening. You knew damn well it was never just about Antoine.
It was about you.
It was about the way Kenan had been watching you all night, the way he kept finding ways to be near you, the way his eyes dipped to your lips before flicking away like he hadn’t just done that.
You swallowed hard.
“We can’t do this,” Kenan murmured, but he didn’t move back.
He was still standing too close, still looking at you like he was already too far gone.
And you, reckless, breathless, said the words before you could stop yourself.
"I think it’s too late for that."
A flicker of something passed through his expression—uncertainty, hesitation, but that disappeared when he closed the space between you, his lips meeting yours.
It was slow at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was really allowed to, like he thought you might push him away. His lips brushed against yours once, twice—light, barely there, testing. But then you exhaled against him, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and that hesitation unraveled.
His hand found your waist, gripping just firmly enough to keep you anchored as his other slid up, fingers skimming along your jaw before cupping your face, tilting it up to him. The railing pressed into your back, cold against your skin, but you barely noticed. All you could focus on was the warmth of him, the way his lips pressed deeper against yours, like he was memorizing the way you felt, the way you fit against him.
A slow, lingering drag of his mouth over yours, a quiet hitch of breath as your fingers twisted tighter into his shirt. When you tilted your head just slightly, letting him deepen the kiss, a quiet sound rumbled from his throat—a low, pleased hum that sent heat coursing through your veins.
It was a mess of pent-up frustration, of every unsaid thing, every stolen glance that had led to this exact moment.
And you didn’t stop him. You couldn’t. Ignoring all the alarm bells that were supposed to go off inside your head.
You chased it, chased him, let him pull you closer, let the weight of his body press against yours until—
The door creaked open.
You and Kenan broke apart instantly, breathless, heat still prickling under your skin.
Julián stepped onto the terrace, stretching.
You forced your breath to slow, straightening slightly.
Kenan rubbed the back of his neck, looking too casual.
Julián barely glanced at either of you. “Too loud in there,” he muttered, yawning.
Your heart was still pounding.
Julián paused, frowning slightly. “Why do you two look so—”
“Weird lighting,” Kenan cut in smoothly.
Julián squinted, then shrugged before turning away again. "Huh. Cool."
You risked a glance at Kenan.
And even though neither of you said anything, you both knew. This was far from over.
…
The morning after a party was always far too quiet.
The kind of quiet that exaggerated every tiny sound—every creak, every rustle—as if conspiring to remind you of all your questionable choices. Choices like sneaking onto terraces. Choices involving certain footballers whose names started with ‘K’ and ended with ‘enan.’
Yes, questionable indeed.
At breakfast, you tried to appear casual—a tall order given your current mental spiral. You clutched your lukewarm coffee like a lifeline, while across from you, Kenan sat annoyingly unbothered, spreading butter on toast with the ease of someone who had never had a scandalous terrace rendezvous.
Your narrowed eyes did nothing to shake his composure.
And because the universe loved tormenting you, Jude entered the kitchen at that precise moment, looking impressively disgruntled for someone still wearing last night’s hoodie. He slammed a plate down with the melodrama reserved for mornings after.
"Antoine Griezmann," he began, as if invoking an arch-nemesis, "is the biggest dickhead I’ve ever met."
Kenan, infuriatingly calm, took a sip of coffee. "Good morning to you too, Jude."
"Unbelievable," Jude muttered, turning to you. "That man has zero sense of boundaries."
From beside you came Arda’s voice, muffled by his folded arms. "For the love of God, lower your voice."
"You didn’t even drink," Jude shot back.
Arda lifted his head slightly, wincing. "The drinks weren’t the problem. The nachos, on the other hand…"
No one disagreed. The faint scent of burnt tortilla chips still lingered accusingly.
"Anyway," Jude continued, undeterred, "Antoine is officially banned from future gatherings."
You sighed. So much for hoping he’d drop the issue overnight.
"He put his hands on you," Jude emphasized. "I should’ve decked him."
"I’m not defending him. He’s a prick, but you’re overreacting."
Jude muttered something darkly under his breath.
Arda, finally awake enough to contribute, chuckled. "Antoine thinks he has a chance with everyone."
"Exactly!" Jude pointed triumphantly. "This is why—"
You braced yourself.
"No friends of mine. Ever."
There it was. Jude’s favorite rule, delivered with his usual finality.
Across from you, Kenan finally broke his silence, eyes amused above his coffee cup. "Are you always this intense before noon?"
"Don't start," Jude shot back.
Arda sighed. "Jude’s still recovering from his Antoine-induced rage episode."
"It wouldn’t be necessary if people listened to me," Jude muttered, sitting heavily with his breakfast.
You kept your focus on your now-cold coffee, resisting the urge to grimace. The last thing you needed was Jude sensing anything off.
But the silence stretched. You caved—stealing a quick glance across the table.
Kenan was already watching you.
Not brooding. Enjoying this. The way his gaze lingered was insufferable—calm, playful, like he knew exactly what was on your mind.
Your brows lifted. What?
The corner of his mouth curved—barely. A quiet tease. A private acknowledgment of shared misbehavior.
Your cheeks warmed. You turned back to your coffee.
Kenan cleared his throat softly, hiding his amusement with another slow sip.
It was going to be a long breakfast.
…
The living room was a battlefield of discarded hoodies, half-empty snack bags, and abandoned water bottles—the kind of war zone that only a FIFA night in full swing could create.
Jude was perched at the edge of the couch, controller clutched in both hands, his entire body tense with single-minded focus.
Julián, annoyingly composed, sat next to him, casual but lethal, dismantling the opposition with the kind of effortless precision that made everyone else look bad.
Arda, however, was mid-meltdown.
“This game is rigged,” he groaned, throwing his arms up as the ball sailed over the goal, missing by an embarrassing margin.
Vini barely spared him a glance. “You guys just suck.”
Arda let out a dramatic sigh, flopping back onto the couch. “Next round, we’re switching teams.”
And then, of course, there was Kenan. Lounging back against the cushions, controller resting lazily in his hands, watching the chaos like it was free entertainment.
His lips twitched slightly when he noticed you standing near the doorway. A quick once-over, deliberate, measured.
You ignored the way your stomach tightened under his stare.
"You guys still at this?" you asked, stepping further inside.
Jude didn’t even look up. " Vini’s on some demon mode tonight."
Vini smirked, glancing at you. "It’s not my fault everyone else is bad."
Arda, ever dramatic, flopped across the couch like a fallen soldier. “This is what I get for believing in myself.”
Kenan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Maybe next time, Arda."
Arda shot him a glare before tilting his head toward you.
"Are you keen on joining, or do you have more productive things planned?"
You rolled your eyes. "I’m getting water and then I need to finish my paper, unfortunately ."
...
The second you stepped into the kitchen, you exhaled, pressing your hands against the countertop.
You just needed a moment. A pause. A second to collect yourself..
But apparently, tonight wasn’t going to grant you that luxury.
Footsteps.
"It’s really cute how you get all flustered."
His voice was softer this time, teasing but not sharp, laced with something warmer, something dangerously close to fondness.
You turned slowly.
Kenan stood by the counter, one hand resting lightly against the surface, his posture relaxed in a way that felt entirely deliberate. His gaze swept over you—not just playful, not just amused. Knowing.
"You followed me," you murmured, willing your voice to stay steady.
Kenan tilted his head slightly, an easy smile playing at his lips. "Felt like the right direction to go."
Not a denial. Not an admission. Just a quiet, magnetic pull in the form of words.
"You need to stop looking at me like that," you muttered.
Kenan raised an eyebrow, gaze steady. "Like what?"
You swallowed.
He was too close. Close enough that you caught the faintest trace of his cologne, the warmth of his presence wrapping around you in ways you didn’t have the strength to ignore.
"Like you want to kiss me," you said, quieter this time.
Something flickered in his expression—brief but unmistakable.
"I do," he said simply.
The air between you shifted.
He wasn’t smirking now. He wasn’t toying with you.
"You can’t say things like that," you murmured.
"Why not?"
You opened your mouth, but you struggeled to find words.
Because what were you supposed to say? That he made it impossible to think straight? That you had spent the entire morning replaying the way he kissed you last night? That if you let yourself, you might start thinking about how much you wanted him to do it again?
"Because Jude—"
There it was.
The reason why you should be walking away right now.
Kenan sighed, running a hand through his hair. The teasing was gone now, something quieter settling in its place.
"You think I don’t know that?" he muttered.
Your breath caught.
Kenan took another step forward.
The kitchen felt smaller. The air, heavier. A quiet moment stretched between you. Not tense. Not uncertain. Just… waiting.
His gaze flickered to your lips for a fraction of a second.
And then he kissed you.
There was no hesitation this time.
His hands found your waist first, pulling you against him with quiet urgency, like he had been holding back for far too long.
Your breath caught, fingers gripping the front of his hoodie as he deepened the kiss, steady and deliberate. Like he wanted to memorize the way you felt against him. Like he wanted to savor every second of it.
His fingers pressed against your back, firm, grounding. Your heart stuttered as he lifted you effortlessly, setting you onto the counter like he had been meaning to do it all along.
Your legs parted instinctively to let him step between them.
And when his lips left yours, trailing down, brushing along your jaw, then lower—
A quiet sigh escaped before you could stop it.
Kenan smiled against your skin, pressing another slow, lingering kiss just below your ear.
You barely had the presence of mind to cling to him, hands twisted in his hoodie, breath uneven.
He stepped away, leaving behind the faintest trace of warmth where his hands had been. Not far. Just enough for you to feel the absence of his warmth.
Your pulse was a mess, your mind struggling to keep up.
His lips brushed your ear, voice barely above a whisper.
"I really like you."
The shift was instant, the absence of him unsettling in a way you hadn’t prepared for.
You blinked, fingers still curled against the counter, as if letting go might send you tumbling into something you weren’t ready to name.
Kenan smirked—subtle, something almost teasing but not quite.
Then, with a lingering glance, he winked and walked out.
Like this hadn’t just changed everything.
You exhaled slowly, staring at the empty doorway, thoughts colliding too fast to make sense of.
Because Kenan Yıldız liked you. And you we’re definitely enjoying his company too.
It took a full minute before your body caught up with your brain.
Even as you stepped forward, something felt off—like you were still hovering in the space Kenan had left behind, the ghost of his hands on your waist lingering longer than they should. You inhaled sharply, straightened your shirt, and walked out of the kitchen with a carefully practiced ease.
Past the living room. Toward the stairs. Just a few more steps and you’d be free.
When all of a sudden Jude looked up. His brows immediately pulled together. "You look like shit."
You halted mid-step. “Excuse me?”
He tilted his head, studying you like some kind of medical anomaly. "Did you die in the kitchen? What’s wrong with you?"
From the couch, Arda barely lifted his head, his voice dry. "Maybe she saw whatever’s still in the oven. That alone could ruin anyone’s night."
You forced a laugh, shaking your head. "You guys still haven’t cleaned that?"
Jude didn’t blink. "Right. Well, hope you’re okay." His suspicion deepened, his gaze lingering a second too long.
Your eyes flicked to Kenan.
He was leaning back against the couch, controller in hand, seemingly absorbed in the game. Nothing about his expression gave anything away, but you noticed his almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. A silent reminder of what had just happened.
Your fingers twitched at your sides, heat creeping up your neck as you tore your gaze away before he could make things worse.
…
If someone had told you a few weeks ago that you’d be sneaking around behind Jude’s back, stealing glances and secret touches with his best friend, you would have laughed.
But here you were. And you weren’t stopping.
At first, it had been subtle. Little things that could be dismissed as nothing if anyone noticed.
The way Kenan’s knee would press against yours when you sat side by side, lingering a second too long before shifting away—always with that small, knowing smile.
The way he’d find excuses to touch you in passing—a hand grazing the small of your back, fingers brushing against yours when he handed you something, the steady warmth of his palm resting on your waist as he leaned in to whisper something only you could hear.
You hadn’t been sure if it was intentional. If he was testing the limits.
Then came the car rides.
Kenan had convinced Jude that carpooling to training made sense, especially on days when Jude had plans afterward and wouldn’t be heading straight home.
And suddenly, Kenan was picking you up after work, dropping you home after practice, stretching the moments when it was just the two of you for as long as possible.
The car was dangerous. No one else around. No one to stop things from slipping past the point of denial.
Like the first time he had reached over—mid-traffic—to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear.
His fingers barely skimmed your skin, but the feeling traveled everywhere.
Or the time you had been venting about something Jude had done, and Kenan had just… reached over and taken your hand.
No smirk. No joke. No performance.
Just a gentle squeeze, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles over your knuckles, his eyes still on the road, completely at ease in a moment that made your stomach twist into knots.
You just let him hold your hand all the way home.
And then there were the kisses. Stolen between car doors, in the quiet seconds before you had to pretend you weren’t completely unraveling for him. Kisses that left you breathless.
You weren’t sure how you had gotten here—how you had gone from avoiding him to falling straight into something neither of you could escape. The guilt of lying to Jude being overwhelmed by the joy you found whenever you two were together.
…
You were really not that much of a club goer. You hadn’t even planned on coming tonight.
But Jude had insisted, dragging you out with the usual crew, declaring that it had been far too long since your last proper night out. Maybe that should have been the first red flag.
Second red flag was Antoine. Obviously.
He had been circling all night, hovering just close enough to make his presence known, just persistent enough to keep himself within your reach. Jude, already too deep into his drinks, was in no state to notice, leaving you to deal with him alone.
"Come on," Antoine leaned in, breath warm against your ear, his confidence as misplaced as ever. "Just one dance?"
You took a step back, trying to create space. "No, thanks."
If he heard the sharp edge in your voice, he chose to ignore it.
"Don’t be like that," he coaxed, grinning, still far too close.
Before you could respond, a presence settled beside you, calm and steady. Kenan.
He didn’t push, didn’t pull you away, didn’t do anything that could turn this into a scene. Instead, his fingers brushed against your wrist, light but deliberate, just enough to remind you he was there. That he had seen. That he wasn’t going to let this happen.
Antoine stiffened slightly. His smirk faltered, just for a second, before something sharp flickered in his gaze.
His hand lingered, his fingers warm against your skin, and suddenly Antoine decided he wasn’t so interested anymore.
"Didn’t realize you had another bodyguard," he muttered before stepping back, disappearing into the crowd without waiting for a response.
Kenan’s fingers squeezed yours for just a moment longer before he let go, as if anchoring you before he released you completely.
Away from the worst of the noise, he turned to face you. "You okay?"
You exhaled, forcing the tension from your shoulders. "Yeah. Antoine is just—"
"A problem?"
"My most annoying problem."
Kenan smirked, leaning in slightly, his voice low enough to send heat rushing to your face. "Am I your favorite problem?"
The question made something flutter in your chest, but before you could answer, he kissed you.
There was nothing rushed about it. His lips met yours like he had been waiting all night for this. His hands found your hips, fingers pressing just enough to keep you there, like letting go wasn’t an option he was considering.
Your breath hitched as he deepened the kiss, his smile pressing into yours when you tugged him closer, the warmth of his mouth making it impossible to think about anything else.
"Kenan!"
The sound barely registered before Kenan was being yanked away, leaving you momentarily dazed, still gripping the fabric of his shirt.
Arda, far too exasperated to even recognize you in the dimmed lights, clung to Kenan’s shoulder like a lifeline.
"Bro, you gotta come quick."
Kenan blinked, still slightly dazed himself. "What?"
"Jude. Russian shots. It’s bad."
Kenan let out a slow, exhausted sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. " Scheiße."
You bit your lip to keep from laughing.
He hesitated for a second, gaze flickering back to you, something tender in his expression.
Then, leaning in just enough that only you could hear him, he murmured, "I’ll see you soon, baby."
And with that, he let himself be dragged into whatever disaster Jude and Arda had created, disappearing into the chaos of the club, leaving you standing there, still catching up.
…
Jude was dead weight against your shoulder, his entire body slumped into yours as you half-dragged, half-guided him through the front door. His hoodie was pulled up over his face, barely concealing the mess of curls spilling out, and his sneakers scraped lazily against the floor as he mumbled nonsense under his breath.
It had been a long night.
You should have known this would happen—should have expected that your always-overdoing-it brother would push himself too far, too fast, too recklessly, just because he could.
The others had offered to help, but you had waved them off, insisting you had him. And you did. Even if he was an absolute nightmare to get through the door.
You exhaled sharply as he nearly collapsed onto you.
"Jude," you muttered, shifting his weight. "Come on, just a little further."
A sleepy, unintelligible grumble was the only response before you finally managed to maneuver him onto the couch. His body melted into the cushions immediately, limbs sprawled in every possible direction, completely unaware that you had just spent the last of your strength hauling him inside.
"Never drinking again," he mumbled.
You rolled your eyes, pulling a blanket over him. "Uh-huh."
His breathing had already slowed, the heavy pull of sleep dragging him under. Then, just as his consciousness slipped entirely, his voice came—soft, barely audible.
"I’m glad you’re here."
Your throat tightened unexpectedly. Jude wasn’t sentimental. Not like this.
Not when he was awake, anyway.
You wanted to brush it off, let it roll past you like the other half-coherent things he had been mumbling all night.
But the words settled somewhere deeper than you expected.
Your phone buzzed against your palm.
One new message.
Kenan: Can I see you?
…
You cracked the door open, the cool night air whispering against your skin. Kenan stood there, hands tucked into his pockets, gaze steady—warm, waiting. The streetlights cast a soft glow along his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the quiet hesitation in his expression.
He wasn’t pushing. Wasn’t asking for anything more than what you were willing to give. But he was here.
You hesitated for only a second before stepping aside, letting him in.
Kenan moved past you, slow, deliberate, his presence filling the space effortlessly. The scent of his cologne lingered in the air—warm, clean, familiar in a way that made your stomach twist. The door clicked shut behind him, closing the rest of the world out.
Something between you felt different now, heavier with everything unspoken.
"You didn’t have to come," you murmured, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.
Kenan’s lips curved slightly, but the teasing edge was softer this time.
"I wanted to." His gaze searched yours, careful, intent. "I kept thinking about you. And I didn’t want to fall asleep wishing I was here instead."
Your fingers curled at your sides, gripping at nothing. "That’s..." You trailed off, words failing you. "That’s really sweet."
His smile deepened, laced with something warmer, something almost adoring. "I was worried I’d crossed into ‘hopelessly obsessed’ territory."
"Never said those things are mutually exclusive."
Kenan laughed. His fingers brushed against yours, hesitant at first—like he was giving you an out, a final moment to stop this before the line blurred beyond return.
You let his touch linger, let his fingers curl loosely around yours, warm and steady.
His voice was softer now. "I’m really glad to see you."
Your chest tightened. The weight of his words settled deep, making it harder to ignore what you already knew.
Your pulse quickened. Swallowing, keeping your voice low, careful, you murmured, "We should go upstairs. Before we wake Jude."
Kenan didn’t move right away. His fingers squeezed yours just slightly, his grip steady, anchoring himself to this moment.
"Lead the way," he murmured.
…
You woke up to warmth.
Not the usual, oh, the blanket’s cozy kind of warmth—but the very specific kind that came from having a large, slightly inconvenient man wrapped around you like a human radiator.
Kenan’s arm was heavy around your waist, his chest pressed firmly against your back, his breath slow and even against the nape of your neck.
For a blissful, fleeting moment, you didn’t think.
You just existed in the warmth of him, in the steady way he held you, like even in sleep, he wasn’t willing to let go. It was grounding, disorienting, and honestly very distracting.
And then—
A knock at the door.
Your heart stopped.
"Hey, you up?"
Jude’s voice. Groggy. Unmistakable.
Kenan went completely still behind you.
Your stomach plummeted at the exact same speed panic shot through your veins.
You twisted, shoving at his shoulder, whispering urgently, "Go hide. Now."
Kenan groaned into the pillow, voice rough with sleep and entirely unbothered. "What’s going on?"
"Closet! Hurry up!" you hissed, already untangling yourself from the sheets, frantically smoothing out the blankets.
He cursed under his breath before rolling—not gracefully, not remotely smoothly—off the bed, landing with a muffled thud that had you cringing. You barely had time to gawk at his ridiculous lack of stealth before he scrambled toward the closet, slipping inside just as the doorknob turned.
You flipped onto your back, throwing an innocent expression onto your face so forcefully it was probably suspiciousas Jude poked his head in.
He blinked. Then squinted. Then held up a plate.
"As a thank you for dragging me home," he announced, completely unprompted. "I brought breakfast."
You stared at him, still trying to calm your breathing. "Wow. How sweet of you."
Jude frowned, stepping inside, eyeing you like you’d been caught committing tax fraud. "Why are you being weird?"
From inside the closet came the softest possible shuffle. You ignored it. Barely.
"I’m not," you said far too quickly.
Jude narrowed his eyes, the skepticism radiating from him palpable. "You definitely are."
The silence stretched.
Kenan was absolutely in that closet grinning. You just knew it.
“Just a bit sleepy, still need to wake up a bit.” You said, not even sure if you could convince yourself.
After a painfully long beat, Jude finally left. "Take your time. I’ll be in the living room."
The moment the door clicked shut, you collapsed against the pillows, exhaling sharply.
From inside the closet, Kenan’s voice came far too smug for someone who had nearly blown his own cover.
"I think he’s onto you, baby."
Your eyes snapped to the closet. "Shut up and get out before he comes back."
Kenan slipped out, grinning like he had won something. His hair was already an absolute mess, and as he tugged his hoodie back into place, he looked disgustingly pleased with himself.
"Still worth it," he muttered, far too casual for someone who had just been shoved into a closet like a scandalous love affair in a bad rom-com.
You glared, unimpressed. "You’re the worst."
Kenan leaned down, tilting his head just slightly, voice low and teasing. "Go cuddle with Antoine then."
Your mouth opened, ready to deliver something truly scathing, but before you could—
He pressed a quick kiss to your cheek and slipped toward the window.
…
The stadium buzzed with anticipation, the crisp night air thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and the more questionable aromas of stadium food—the kind that always smelled five-star but tasted like regret. Fans waved scarves and banners, their collective energy contagious, a living, breathing force of excitement.
You, Vini, and Julián had arrived early, settling into your usual seats in the VIP box, which offered a prime view of the pitch. Jude, Kenan, and Arda were warming up, all sharp movements and pre-match focus. Vini, still sidelined with his injury, lounged comfortably like a man who had fully embraced the perks of forced rest. Julián, meanwhile, had no real stake in this game—his Atlético Madrid loyalties firmly intact—but had shown up under the universal rule of football friendships: when your boys play, you support.
It should have felt normal—just another match, just another night watching your brother do what he did best. But from the moment the whistle blew, your gaze found him. Not Jude, not the movement of the game as a whole—but Kenan.
You told yourself you were just watching the match, same as everyone else. But the way your eyes tracked Kenan’s every step made it painfully obvious that this had very little to do with football.
Watching him play like this—so completely in his element, entirely untouchable—felt a little like staring directly at the sun. You weren’t supposed to. It was bad for you. But even knowing that, you still couldn’t look away.
And then—Kenan broke loose.
A perfectly timed run, the ball practically glued to his foot, the entire pitch stretching open before him like a red carpet moment he had scripted himself. His acceleration was sharp, effortless, the kind of movement that made defenders rethink their entire career choices. One quick feint, a clean turn, a final ruthless touch—
And the ball was in the back of the net.
The stadium detonated.
Kenan’s name thundered through the stands, fans losing their collective minds, his teammates swarming him in celebration. Hands ruffled his hair, clapped his back, pulled him into the chaos—except Kenan barely acknowledged any of it.
Because Kenan wasn’t looking at them.
His gaze was already cutting through the noise, through the bodies, through the absolute carnage unfolding around him—until it found you.
With all the casual confidence of a man completely unbothered by the tens of thousands of people currently watching, he held your stare for just a second longer than necessary, before lifting his fingers to his lips, sending a small, knowing kiss in your direction.Not exaggerated. Not over-the-top. Just a little something to make sure you saw. A little something to make sure you knew.
And oh, you knew.
Your stomach twisted. Heat crept up your neck. You could feel yourself reacting before you could stop it, before you could school your expression into something resembling normal.
Too late.
Julián, seated next to you, hummed. Low, amused. Maybe even delighted.
And just like that the match was no longer your biggest concern.
…
The hallway outside the locker rooms was a chaotic mix of movement and noise, players filtering in and out, staff giving hurried instructions, and media figures darting around like they had somewhere important to be.
You, Julián, and Vini lingered near the entrance, waiting while the rest of the group finished changing before heading out for dinner.
Vini scrolled through his phone, completely uninterested in anything happening around him.
Julián, however? Julián was watching you.
You pretended not to notice, shifting your weight slightly, fixing your gaze on anything else—the floor, the ceiling, a scuffed mark on the wall that was suddenly very interesting.
But, of course, he wasn’t going to let you off the hook that easily.
"You know," he said casually, shoving his hands into his pockets, voice just low enough to be intentional. "You could just tell him."
Your body went rigid.
"Tell who what?" you asked, feigning confusion as if you didn’t immediately know where this was going.
Julián gave you a look. Not just any look—the kind of look that translated to: don’t even try it.
You swallowed, forcing a nonchalant shrug. "You’re being cryptic."
"And you’re being too obvious," he countered without missing a beat, eyebrow lifting in quiet amusement.
He wasn’t wrong.
Before you could even begin crafting some kind of defense, he sighed, the teasing edge in his voice softening.
"Listen," he said, quieter this time, like he was letting you in on something no one else was supposed to hear. "If you’re happy, you should just be honest."
You hesitated.
Julián wasn’t usually like this. He wasn’t the type to meddle, to pry, to offer unsolicited advice unless he genuinely meant it.
And the fact that he was saying this now—that he was looking at you like he had already figured out everything you were trying so hard to keep to yourself—made something tighten in your chest.
" Julián —"
"Jude will understand," he said simply.
And just like that, your heart stopped. That cracked open something you weren’t prepared to confront yet.
…
Post-match dinners were tradition—good food, good company, and Arda laughing at himself while everyone else berated his more questionable decisions.
But tonight, something felt... off.
And if you had to pinpoint why, it would be the warm weight of Kenan’s hand resting on your thigh under the table.
The restaurant buzzed with post-game energy—clattering plates, bursts of laughter, the scent of grilled meat and fresh bread.
For a while, everything felt normal.
You and Kenan were just sitting next to each other. It wasn’t unusual. No one had batted an eye when you slid into the seat beside him. There was no reason to think twice about the way his knee brushed against yours a little too often or how, at some point, his hand had found its way to your thigh. The contact was warm, steady, deliberate in a way that made it impossible to ignore, but subtle enough that it would have gone unnoticed by anyone not looking for it.
Jude wasn’t suspicious. At least, not yet.
You frowned as Kenan stole a fry from your plate, grinning at your outraged expression as he dodged your attempt to swat at his hand.
Somewhere between that and the next bite, you had started laughing a little too much, leaning in a little too easily.
Then came the real mistake.
Without thinking, without even realizing what you were doing, you reached over and fed Kenan a piece of food from your plate.
He didn’t bat an eye, didn’t move to stop you. He just took the bite like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The moment your fork landed back on your plate, Jude’s eyes found yours.
His brows furrowed. His gaze narrowed, expression shifting as though his brain was struggling to make sense of something that wasn’t quite clicking.
You could almost see it happening in real time, the slow mental process of realization beginning to piece itself together.
And in a moment of sheer, blind panic, Kenan—quick as ever—turned to Arda and, with zero hesitation, lifted a forkful of food to his mouth.
And fed him a bite straight from his plate. With complete eye contact. A hand under his chin for dramatic effect. Like he had been planning it all along.
Arda, to his eternal credit, didn’t miss a beat.
He sighed dreamily, tilting his head slightly as if this was some grand romantic moment before murmuring, “Finally, some love and appreciation.”
The entire table erupted into laughter. And just like that—crisis, momentarily avoided.
Jude, momentarily thrown off the scent, shook his head and rolled his eyes. "God, you two are annoying."
You exhaled.
Kenan’s hand, still resting on your thigh, squeezed once before relaxing again.
Suddenly, with loud steps, Antoine walked in.
Late as usual, he carried himself with the kind of lazy confidence that came from always assuming he was welcome, flashing his signature smirk as he slid into the empty seat across from Kenan. His gaze flicked across the table, already amused, already scanning for his next source of entertainment, before landing directly on you.
"Did I miss anything?" he asked, tone casual, but his eyes sharp.
Vini barely looked up. "You missed Kenan and Arda having a moment."
Arda, ever the performer, turned toward Kenan, winking like they had been caught in a scandalous affair.
"I’d happily do it again."
Antoine’s brow lifted in mild curiosity. "Do I want to know?"
"No," Julián muttered before taking a sip of his drink.
Antoine smirked, leaning forward slightly.
And then—he turned to you.
"Good to see you again," he said, tone just smooth enough to be irritating. "Didn’t know you were coming tonight."
Your body reacted before your mind did, the subtle shift of tension tightening across your shoulders, the momentary hesitation before you answered. It was small, barely noticeable, but enough for Kenan’s fingers to flex against your thigh under the table.
Antoine, oblivious, continued.
"Been a while, huh?" His voice had that same practiced charm, the kind that could talk its way in and out of just about anything.
You forced a polite smile. "Not long enough."
Arda snorted into his drink.
Antoine, entirely unbothered, let his grin stretch wider. "Whatever you say, beautiful."
The words settled over the table like a misplaced knife, sharp, unnecessary, and completely unwelcome.
You felt Kenan’s grip on your thigh tightening—not possessively, not obviously, but enough. Enough that you knew this was the exact moment his patience expired.
Antoine, blissfully unaware of the impending disaster, leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh.
"You know, I was thinking—"
"You? Thinking?"
Kenan clearly wasn’t the only one who had lost his patience for Antoine.
Jude’s voice sliced through the conversation like a cold blade, stopping whatever Antoine had planned to say before it even left his mouth.
Antoine blinked, caught off guard.
The shift in Jude’s demeanor was immediate, the air around him suddenly weighted with something just serious enough to silence whatever playful deflection Antoine might have had planned.
"Clearly you can’t, or you’d remember she’s off-limits."
The weight of the words hung between them, unchallenged.
Antoine scoffed. "Oh, come on—"
"I don’t care." Jude’s voice never wavered.
Antoine stiffened, his usual lazy confidence faltering.
Arda, ever the hero, ever the breaker of tension, propped his chin on his hand and made a kissy face at Jude.
"Thank God there’s another Bellingham who isn’t off-limits."
It took a second, but then the entire table exploded into laughter, the relief of the tension being broken visible on all faces.
Even Jude, despite himself, exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
Antoine, thoroughly humiliated, sank into his seat.
Kenan reached for his drink, finally looking at peace.
And you?
You just exhaled, yet the weight on your shoulders hadn’t fully dissolved yet.
...
The night air had a crisp edge to it, the kind that made everything feel a little more defined, a little more present. The streets had quieted, save for the occasional burst of laughter from passing groups and the distant hum of traffic rolling through the city. A leftover energy from the match still clung to the air, lingering in the spaces between streetlights and the faint glow of shop windows.
Jude had just left for some girl’s place, tossing you a lazy wave over his shoulder before sliding into the backseat of a taxi, completely unaware of what—or rather, who—he was leaving behind.
Now, it was just you and Kenan.
The two of you walked in sync, footsteps falling into an easy rhythm against the pavement, the kind of silent coordination that came naturally when you spent enough time around someone. Neither of you spoke for a while, but the quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. It was settled, familiar, charged in a way that didn’t require words.
Kenan was the first to break the silence.
“You know,” he mused, his hands shoved in his pockets, his voice carrying that usual casualness, though there was something softer beneath it, something more careful. “I realized something tonight.”
You glanced at him, raising a brow. “And what’s that?”
He tilted his head slightly, considering. “I don’t actually know how you see the world.”
The comment made you blink, caught off guard. “What?”
Kenan smirked, but it wasn’t teasing—not in the way he usually was. “I know how you react. I know how you argue. I know the way your mind works when you’re scheming something, the way you roll your eyes when you think someone’s being an idiot. But I don’t know what you dream about. I don’t know what you think about when it’s just you and your own thoughts.”
His words sent something warm curling through your chest, something that felt an awful lot like being seen in a way you weren’t sure you were ready for.
You narrowed your eyes, lips twitching. “That’s already quite the character study. What else is left?”
Kenan’s grin widened. “That you’re stubborn, that you were a menace growing up, and that you have god-awful taste in movies.”
You gasped, scandalized. “First of all, I do not have god-awful taste in movies—”
Kenan hummed, feigning deep thought. “You like that one rom-com with the guy who—”
“It’s a cinematic masterpiece, and you will respect it,” you shot back, jabbing a finger at his chest.
His laugh was warm, deep, cutting through the cool night like a melody you’d heard before and wanted to hear again.
But then, after a beat, his voice softened. “I mean it,” he said, quieter now. “Tell me about you.”
You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to, but because no one ever really asked. Your entire life had existed in orbit around someone else’s story, in the shadow of football pitches and expectations, always introduced as Jude’s sister before being anything else.
But standing here, under the dim glow of streetlights, Kenan wasn’t looking at you like someone else’s sister.
He was looking at you. Like he wanted to know. Like he wanted to understand who you were beyond the spaces you filled for other people.
So, you told him.
About your dreams, your ambitions, the things you wanted that had nothing to do with football or being tethered to a world you hadn’t exactly chosen. About how you had always been restless, always searching for something that felt just out of reach, never quite sure what it was supposed to be. About the weight of constantly being seen as an extension of someone else instead of just you.
And Kenan listened.
Not in the way most people did, waiting for their turn to speak, but fully, completely. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t tease, didn’t try to fix anything. He just walked beside you, nodding now and then, his expression unreadable but focused, present, engaged.
Then, when you finally ran out of words, when you had spilled more than you had planned to, he stopped walking.
You turned to face him, and his gaze didn’t waver.
There was something warm in his eyes, something deliberate, something that made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t sure you could name.
“I don’t want to keep sneaking around,” he said, straightforward, unwavering.
Your breath caught. The easiest response would have been to joke, to throw back something sarcastic, something that made this feel less serious than it was.
But you couldn’t. Not this time.
Instead, your voice came out quieter than expected. “Me neither.”
Kenan exhaled, like he had been holding onto that breath for too long.
He stepped closer, slow and measured, his presence surrounding you in a way that made the rest of the world fade into background noise. “We’ll tell him,” he murmured. “After this weekend.”
You hesitated—not because you weren’t sure, but because—
“Jude’s going to kill you,” you whispered, the ghost of a smile playing at your lips.
Kenan tilted his head, grin forming. “Think he’ll make it quick?”
You shook your head, laughing softly. “Probably not.”
“Damn,” he sighed, like he was genuinely considering the odds. “Guess we better make the most of it while I still have my limbs.”
…
The morning unfolded slowly, wrapped in that golden kind of stillness that came after a night where nothing was rushed, nothing was hidden, and nothing felt like a mistake.
You stirred awake gradually, the soft glow of daylight stretching through the curtains, dusting the room in muted warmth. The duvet was tangled around your legs, the air comfortably heavy, and Kenan’s arm draped over your waist, solid and warm, his grip loose but unwavering.
For a moment, you didn’t move.
Still caught in the haze between sleep and wakefulness, your mind felt foggy, your body relaxed, completely enveloped in the weight of him against your back. His breath was slow and steady, lips barely grazing your bare shoulder, the steady rise and fall of his chest in perfect rhythm with yours.
There was something easy about it. Something natural, like neither of you needed to rush back into reality just yet.
Like the rest of the world could wait.
Kenan stirred behind you, inhaling deeply as he shifted, his fingers pressing lightly against your stomach before relaxing again—like his body refused to let go, even in sleep.
Then, soft and half-mumbled against your skin, a voice still thick with sleep—
“Mmm… morning, baby.”
You turned your head slightly, catching the way his lashes fluttered against his cheekbones, the drowsy heaviness still clinging to his green eyes, barely open, barely awake.
“Morning,” you murmured, voice quieter than intended.
Kenan exhaled a slow, contented sigh before burying his face into the crook of your neck, his forehead pressing against your shoulder for just a moment, as if delaying the inevitable need to get up.
Neither of you moved for a while, tangled in the sheets, limbs draped over each other in a way that didn’t feel stolen or temporary anymore—just right. The silence was filled with soft sighs, half-hearted murmurs about starting the day, Kenan groaning dramatically every time you even suggested getting up.
It took twenty more minutes of coaxing, a promise of coffee, and an absurd amount of effort to finally untangle yourself from him.
Which somehow led to Kenan, standing in your kitchen, sleeves pushed up lazily, completely in your space—eerily familiar to the first time you two met.
"You just gonna stand there and look pretty, or are you actually going to help?" you teased, casting him a glance over your shoulder as you reached for the pan.
Kenan smirked, arms crossed over his chest, the definition of amused. “I thought I was the guest here.”
You rolled your eyes. “I must have missed the part where guests show up like stray cats and never leave.”
Kenan snickered, stepping closer, his presence pressing against yours without even touching you.
"Can’t help it," he muttered, reaching past you to grab a knife from the counter, his hand grazing yours in the process.
Your breath hitched.
It was such a small thing—barely even a touch. But the air between you shifted, thickened, like neither of you quite knew how to handle it now that there were no rules left to break.
Kenan didn’t move away.
He tilted his head slightly, studying you, something soft and unreadable flickering behind his expression.
“I like this.”
You blinked. “Like what?”
He glanced around—at you, at the kitchen, at the quiet ease of the morning—before a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
“This,” he murmured. “Mornings with you.”
…
By noon, Kenan was lacing up his shoes, bag slung over his shoulder, the usual ease in his movements feeling just a little more forced. Neither of you had said it out loud, but the reluctance hung between you, stretching out the seconds, making something as routine as leaving for training feel heavier than it should.
You leaned against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed, watching him stall in the smallest ways—adjusting his bag, running a hand through his hair, double-checking his phone. It wasn’t subtle, and you weren’t about to call him out for it, because truthfully, you didn’t want him to go either.
His hand reached for the door handle, fingers grazing the cool metal, but instead of pushing it open, he hesitated. The pause wasn’t long, but it was enough.
He turned back.
His gaze settled on you, lingering for a beat longer than necessary, something unreadable in his expression. Without a word, he stepped forward, his fingers curling lightly under your jaw, thumb tracing absently along your cheekbone.
He slowly leaned in, lips warm against yours, moving with easy confidence, unhurried but unwilling to be cut short. His palm moved to your hips, pressing lightly against, fingers flexing like he wanted to pull you closer but knew he shouldn’t.
When he pulled back, his gaze flickered over your face, taking in every detail before a small, quiet smirk ghosted across his lips.
"You make it really hard to leave," he murmured.
A quiet exhale slipped past your lips. "Then don’t."
Kenan let out a soft laugh, more resigned than amused, like he knew exactly how impossible that suggestion was. His fingers lingered against your skin for just a second longer before he pressed a final kiss to your forehead.
Neither of you noticed the figure standing just a few feet away.
Neither of you caught the subtle shift in Kenneth’s expression, the way his arms crossed over his chest, gaze locked onto you both with an undeniable edge of amusement.
But when he saw Kenan kiss you—
Something clicked.
His lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk.
And just like that—
A plan was beginning to form.
…
Vini Jr’s birthday getaway was supposed to be a break—one night away from the noise, the obligations, the endless cycle of training and matches. Just twenty-four hours to indulge, unwind, and embrace the illusion that their schedules weren’t already mapped out for months in advance.
And for the first few hours, that’s exactly what it was.
The cabin was absurdly over-the-top, the kind of place that looked like it belonged in a luxury travel magazine. Nestled deep in the countryside with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a valley, it had everything—an infinity pool, a sauna, a hot tub, and a very charming fire pit outside. Every detail had been planned with precision, a testament to the fact that Vini took his birthdays far too seriously.
It was meant to be a night of doing absolutely nothing except lounging around, eating too much. It was one of those nights that felt effortless, where nothing needed to be said aloud because the comfort of familiarity spoke for itself. The kind of night where everything felt easy—like nothing could go wrong.
And then, Vini Jr—sentimental by nature, twice as bad when exhausted and warm from whiskey—sighed, stretching his legs toward the fire.
“This group means a lot to me,” he murmured, gaze flickering across the room before settling on the flames. “You guys are like my family.”
There were a few small nods of agreement.
Julián, reclining comfortably in an armchair, gave a lazy smile. “Yeah. Feels that way, doesn’t it?”
Arda, sprawled across half the couch with a blanket tangled around his legs, let out a sleepy chuckle. “If we’re family, does that mean I get to be the favorite child?”
“No,” Julián said flatly.
The laughter was soft, easy, unforced—
Until Antoine, sitting just slightly apart from the group, his usual smirk in place, twirling his whiskey glass idly between his fingers, decided to ruin it.
"You’d be surprised how close some people are."
The shift was instant, subtle but undeniable—like the air had dropped a degree.
Jude, who had been half-drowsy, half-listening, barely reacted at first, brows knitting slightly as he processed the words, turning them over in his mind.
“What?” he asked, tone absentminded, not yet realizing he had just stepped into a landmine.
Antoine leaned forward, setting his glass down with slow, deliberate ease, his gaze flicking toward you, then Kenan, then back again.
“Oh, nothing,” he mused, stretching out in his seat. “Just thinking about how you never really know what’s going on right under your nose.”
Your stomach plummeted.
Jude’s expression barely flickered, but the tension in his shoulders shifted, subtle but unmistakable, a sign that he had just caught up to the conversation a second too late.
Vini Jr must have sensed it too, because his voice cut through the air, sharp and warning.
"Antoine."
But Antoine, who had an unsettling grin plastered on his face, wasn’t finished.
“I meant to come apologize after dinner the other night,” he continued, voice mocking, syrupy-slow, words laced with the kind of satisfaction that made your stomach churn.
And then, with a casual, effortless cruelty—
"But then I saw Kenan making out with your sister."
Silence.
Like the room itself had just swallowed all the air.
Jude didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t even react.
Just sat perfectly still, eyes locked onto nothing in particular, face so unreadable it almost looked blank.
Like his brain had short-circuited, too stuck between disbelief and fury to process anything at all.
When he looked up his eyes met yours. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked like it might crack under the pressure.
"Tell me he's lying."
His voice was quiet, low—but lethal.
A final chance.
A last, desperate lifeline—one last opportunity to prove that Antoine was just being a smug, conniving bastard.
But you had nothing to give him.
"Jude, I—” You faltered, voice paper-thin, cracking under the weight of what was coming. “There… might be something going on.”
Another silence.
But this one was worse.
Thicker.
Final.
Like the ground itself had just cracked open beneath your feet.
Jude’s expression didn’t shift. Didn’t change. Didn’t flicker. It was still terrifyingly blank.
"Oh, come on, Jude," Arda groaned, breaking the tension like he hadn’t just stepped into the eye of a hurricane.“Don’t be mad, they’re actually kinda cute.”
A ripple of uneasy laughter skated across the room.
Vini Jr sat up, clearing his throat. “Kenan’s a good guy, man. You know that.”
Jude’s head snapped so fast you almost thought he’d get whiplash. His gaze darted from Arda to Vini Jr to Julián, like he was waiting for someone—anyone—to tell him he wasn’t crazy.
That he had every right to feel betrayed.
That this was completely, utterly wrong.
But no one did.
His voice came out sharp, brittle at the edges. "So, what? You’re all just fine with this?”
Julián hesitated before exhaling heavily. “Well… yeah?”
Jude blinked. Slowly.
Like he was waiting for the universe to right itself.
It didn’t.
Arda, shooting Kenan an empathic look, sighed. “I mean, it’s not like they killed someone, Jude.”
"That’s not the point!" Jude’s voice rose suddenly, snapping with a rough edge. “I had one rule. Just one.”
The words hit you square in the chest, knocking the breath out of you.
And then—
Something shifted in his face.
Like a much, much worse realization had just landed.
His jaw locked, eyes narrowing.
"Wait."
The single word was a trigger, a warning, a countdown to something that was about to explode.
His gaze flickered across the room. “Did you guys already know?”
Silence.
And then—
Julián sighed. “I mean…”
Arda awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. “I might have figured it out.”
Vini Jr, ever the most unbothered, hummed. “I had my suspicions.”
Jude inhaled sharply.
"You—" He cut himself off, jaw tightening like he was physically forcing himself to stay composed.
And then—
He let out a sharp, humorless laugh.
Bitter. Cold.
"Unbelievable."
His gaze snapped back to Kenan, something dark flashing through it.
"You. You knew how I felt about this. About my teammates—my friends—going near her."
Kenan’s jaw was tight, his entire body tense, rigid.
"I didn’t plan for this to happen," he said, evenly, carefully.
“So?” Jude scoffed. "That makes it better?"
Kenan hesitated. Then, softly, quietly—
“No. It doesn’t.”
Jude let out a sharp, unsteady breath, pushing up from his seat so fast that the blanket draped over his lap slipped to the floor.
“I need to clear my head.”
And just like that—he walked out.
The room stayed frozen, the embers in the fireplace popping softly, the only sound breaking the crushing weight of his absence.
Kenan didn’t move.
Didn’t look at anyone.
Just sat there, hands clasped in front of him, staring at the door Jude had disappeared through like he was already mourning something he couldn’t bring back.
Finally he exhaled. “I should go.”
“No.” Vini’s voice was firm.
But Kenan just shook his head, already rising to his feet.
“He’s my friend,” he said simply, voice quieter now, the tension in his body starting to unwind into something that looked an awful lot like regret.
“And I crossed a line. I don’t want to stay here and make it worse.”
Vini sighed, dragging a hand down his face.
Then—his eyes flickered to Antoine, and his entire expression changed.
“You, however?” His tone turned sharp, unforgiving. “You can get the hell out.”
Antoine scoffed. “Oh, come on—”
“I mean it,” Vini snapped, patience gone. “You don’t get to sit here and act like this wasn’t a game to you. You wanted to cause damage—and you did."
Antoine rolled his eyes, standing up and grabbing his jacket.
And then, with one last lingering glance at you and Kenan—
He was gone.
The silence around the now nearly burned-out fire was deafening.
Arda exhaled. “Well, that could’ve gone better.”
Julián gave you and Kenan a sympathetic look. “For what it’s worth, we never thought it was wrong. Just… complicated.”
Vini clapped Kenan on the shoulder. “Jude will come around. He just needs time.”
Kenan didn’t say anything.
Just nodded, his jaw tight, gaze distant.
Then—he turned to you, eyes softening for just a second.
“I’ll pack my bag.”
And with that, he was gone too.
…
The warmth of the day had long faded, leaving behind a crisp chill that clung to your skin, but you barely felt it.
You sat on the porch steps, arms wrapped around yourself, staring out at the darkness beyond the trees, replaying every second of what had happened inside.
The way Jude had looked at you—like he didn’t recognize you.
Your stomach twisted painfully. You and Kenan had agreed—you would tell Jude together, do it the right way. But now, the choice had been ripped from you. Antoine had done it for you, cruelly, deliberately, stripping you of any control. Instead of sitting Jude down, instead of explaining it carefully, you had been exposed—caught like some dirty little secret.
Now, it was out in the open. And everything felt ruined.
The door creaked open behind you. Footsteps on the wooden planks.
You didn’t turn. Didn’t need to.
Kenan settled beside you, close enough that you could feel his warmth without touching. For weeks, he had made you feel safe. But tonight, there was no safety. No reassurance. Just the wreckage of what you had built.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then—
“I should have told him right away,” Kenan murmured.
You swallowed hard. “We both should have.”
Kenan exhaled sharply. “I knew exactly how this would go. I knew how he’d react, and still—I let myself believe it would be fine.”
His gaze was locked on the horizon, jaw clenched, hands tightening into fists. “Maybe Antoine did it to be an ass, but it doesn’t change the fact that I let this happen. That I knew this could ruin things, and I…” He inhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head.
His voice broke slightly.
And you knew—he wasn’t just talking about Jude.
Kenan exhaled, finally turning his head to look at you.
And your stomach dropped.
Because for the first time in weeks, he looked conflicted. Not just guilty. Not just sorry. But like he was standing on the edge of something and deciding whether to jump—or walk away.
“I love you.”
Soft. Barely a whisper. But it hit you like a punch to the gut.
Because this wasn’t how he was supposed to say it. Not like this. Not in the quiet of the aftermath, when everything was already slipping away.
Your breath hitched, vision blurring slightly, but you forced yourself to swallow past the lump in your throat. If this was the end—if you had to let him go—then at least he would know
You reached out, fingers trembling slightly as you cupped his face, memorizing the warmth of his skin.
“I love you too.”
Kenan exhaled, ragged, forehead pressing against yours. His hands cradled the back of your neck like he couldn’t quite believe what you had just said.
For a few stolen seconds, neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed. Just sat there, foreheads touching, eyes closed, existing in the space of what could have been.
Then Kenan pulled back, and you felt it.
“I don’t want you to pick between me or your family,” he murmured.
Your chest caved in on itself. “Don’t say that.”
Kenan let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Come on, baby.”
He called you that one last time, like he knew he wouldn’t be saying it again. His thumb brushed your cheek, one final touch, like he was committing the moment to memory.
“You should stay.”
Your stomach plummeted.
“No,” you whispered, shaking your head, tears well and truly spilling over now.
Kenan smiled, but it was small, sad, something entirely different from the ones he used to give you. “You know I’m right.”
You bit your lip, shaking your head, desperate. “I don’t care.”
Kenan exhaled, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering just long enough for it to hurt.
“You do,” he murmured against your skin.
And that was the worst part—because he was right.
Kenan had known what this would cost before you did. And that was why he was doing what you couldn’t bring yourself to do, why he was making the choice you refused to face.
A lump formed in your throat. “This isn’t fair.”
Kenan’s smile barely touched his lips. “Nothing about this was ever fair.”
You shut your eyes, but it didn’t stop the warmth trailing down your cheek. Kenan caught the tear with his thumb, unbearably gentle, as if this moment wasn’t already unraveling you.
And then—he stepped back.
And you knew.
This was it.
The moment he walked away.
Kenan adjusted his bag, glancing at you one last time before slipping his hands into his pockets and making his way down the steps. His shoulders were tense, his pace unhurried, but he didn’t look back.
And if you had glanced up, just for a second, you would have seen the faint glow of light filtering through the open window above the porch.
Would have seen Jude lying awake in bed, unmoving, his expression unreadable.
He had heard every word.
…
The stadium pulsed with energy—chants, stomping, the distant crackle of flares. The air smelled of freshly cut grass, laced with smoke drifting from the passionate sections of the crowd.
To most, this was just another match. Another ninety minutes under the floodlights.
For you, it was something else.
The first game since everything had fallen apart. Since Kenan walked away. Since you let him.
You sat stiffly in the private box, wedged between Vini Jr. and Julián, a cup of cold coffee cradled between your hands. Your eyes weren’t on the game.
They were on him.
Kenan stood on the pitch, clad in his Real Madrid kit, shoulders squared. To the world, he looked composed. You knew better. His jaw was too tight, his shoulders held tension that shouldn’t be there.
His gaze swept the stands until it found you. A fraction of hesitation. A flicker of something before he forced himself to turn away.
Julián muttered, “You’re staring.”
You blinked. “Was not.”
“Right,” he drawled. “And I’m a Barcelona fan.”
Jude hadn’t really spoken to you since that night. He had seen it—the way you barely ate, stayed in your room too long, weren’t yourself. Watching you now, staring at Kenan like you had already lost—he knew.
And on the pitch, it showed.
Kenan was off. His passes lacked precision, his movement hesitated. Jude, too. He wasn’t playing poorly, but you saw the difference.
Vini exhaled. “This isn’t them.”
You weren’t just watching two footballers struggle. You were watching two boys trying to push through something bigger than the game. And failing.
…
Halftime.
Kenan barely made it three steps into the tunnel before a hand gripped his arm, pulling him to a stop. His entire body tensed, bracing instinctively for a confrontation, expecting a sharp word, maybe even another shove.
But when he turned and met Jude’s gaze, something in him stilled.
Because Jude didn’t look angry.
He didn’t look like he was about to start another fight, didn’t look like he was holding onto resentment or betrayal.
He just looked… tired.
Kenan swallowed, exhaling slowly as Jude crossed his arms, studying him like he was weighing something in his head.
"You care about her."
It wasn’t a question.
Kenan’s jaw clenched, but he nodded without hesitation.
"I do."
Jude didn’t blink. His expression remained unreadable, sharp but not hostile, as if he was searching for any sign of doubt, any hesitation, anything that would confirm his worst fears.
"No, I mean, you really care about her."
Kenan’s chest tightened, his pulse drumming against his ribs.
But still, there was no pause when he spoke.
"More than anything."
Jude let out a long breath, dragging a hand down his face like this realization had just knocked the wind out of him.
"I was an idiot," he muttered, shaking his head. "I should’ve known earlier. She’s been miserable all week. So have I. And so have you."
Kenan didn’t answer.
Because there was nothing to say.
Jude sighed again, quieter this time, voice losing its edge.
"Listen to me," he said, meeting Kenan’s eyes with a look that left no room for misinterpretation. "If you ever mess this up—if you ever hurt her—" he paused, letting the weight of it settle, "you are done for."
Kenan nodded immediately. "I won’t."
Jude held his gaze for another long moment, assessing, deciding.
Then, finally, finally, he nodded.
"Then you have my blessing."
The words hit harder than Kenan expected.
His shoulders relaxed instantly, the tension he had been carrying for weeks lifting all at once, and for the first time in days, he could actually breathe.
The relief was overwhelming—so much so that before he could even think, before he could talk himself out of it—
He pulled Jude into a hug.
Jude stiffened immediately.
Then—he sighed. Loud. Dramatic. "Alright, alright, enough of this."
Kenan grinned, pulling back, the tightness in his chest easing completely.
Jude gave him a long-suffering look before muttering, half amused, half resigned—
"Kind of glad it’s you if it has to be any of my mates." A pause. "Still kinda weird, though."
Kenan laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in weeks.
And just like that, the weight of everything else—the tension, the guilt, the uncertainty—faded into the background.
Jude clapped him on the shoulder, nodding toward the tunnel. "Go play like yourself."
…
Where the first half had been marked by hesitation, the second half ignited with purpose. The tension that had clouded the match lifted, replaced by a sharp, relentless drive. And at the center of it all—Kenan.
From the moment the whistle blew, he was everywhere. Every pass landed with precision, every touch carried confidence, every movement had the unmistakable ease of a player who had just remembered exactly who he was. It was as if something inside him had settled, like the weight of the past few weeks had finally lifted.
Jude’s words in the tunnel had done more than clear the air. They had set him free.
Kenan played like a man with nothing to hold him back, his rhythm returning in full force. His movements were sharp, impossible to predict, his speed cutting through defenders before they even knew what was happening. The energy was infectious—his teammates fed off it, the crowd roared for it, the entire game shifted because of it.
Two minutes left on the clock. One last counterattack.
The stadium held its breath as Kenan surged forward, the ball at his feet, his body moving with instinctive precision. The defenders scrambled to stop him, but he was faster, sharper, weaving past them with practiced ease.
The goal was right there.
He didn’t hesitate.
One clean, powerful strike—
The ball sailed past the keeper.
And hit the back of the net.
Kenan barely had time to react before his teammates crashed into him, grabbing at his jersey, shaking him, shouting in pure elation. The weight of the game, of the past few weeks, of everything—gone in an instant.
And you?
You didn’t even realize you had jumped to your feet, hands pressed over your mouth, laughter spilling out in pure, unfiltered exhilaration. Your heart was pounding, the adrenaline coursing through you as you stared down at the pitch, at him.
Kenan turned, still surrounded by his teammates, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. But he wasn’t looking at them. He was looking for you.
And the second his gaze found yours, the rest of the world fell away.
His hands lifted, his fingers shaping a heart.
Right at you.
Your breath hitched, something flipping violently in your stomach, the moment pulling so tight you could feel it in your bones.
A hundred thoughts flashed through your mind. Jude. What if he saw? What if—
But then Jude jogged over to Kenan and patted him on the back, before tilting his head up to the box—
And smiling at you.
The tightness in your chest unraveled, the last few weeks dissolving in an instant.
Jude was telling you, without words, without spectacle, in the quietest, most Jude way possible that everything was okay.
The final whistle blew, Real’s victory confirmed, and the stadium exploded into celebration.
Your feet carried you down the stands before you could talk yourself out of it, weaving through the crowd, pushing past security, slipping through the barriers until your shoes hit the pitch.
The world around you was a blur of flashing cameras, roaring fans, falling confetti—
None of it mattered. You only saw one thing.
Kenan.
Still in the center of the pitch, still wrapped in the aftermath of victory—teammates cheering, hands clapping against his back, voices shouting over each other in celebration.
But Kenan wasn’t listening.
His eyes were searching.
And the second he saw you, everything else became secondary.
He moved through the crowd with quiet determination, each stride measured, gaze fixed on you like there was nowhere else he was supposed to be. There was no hesitation, no doubt—just certainty.
The second he reached you, his hands found your waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of your jacket, warm and steady. His forehead brushed against yours, the ghost of a breath passing between you, his grip anchoring you to him like he had no intention of letting go.
And then—his lips were on yours.
There was nothing tentative about it, no room for second-guessing.
The way he kissed you was deliberate, like he had been craving this moment long enough and wasn’t about to waste it. He tasted like adrenaline and triumph, his fingers tightening against you as though to make sure you were really there.
The stadium noise melted into something distant, unimportant. It was just the two of you, caught in the heady mix of exhaustion, relief, and something deeper—something neither of you could deny anymore.
Still breathless, you pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, the flicker of a smile ghosting across his lips.
“So, since we’re all feeling sentimental, should I kiss you too?” Arda stood a few steps away, grinning as he clapped Jude on the shoulder, eyes alight with mischief.
Can you do one with kenan but him and reader aren’t friends they know each other because of his friends but she’s closed off she’s the only one who doesn’t put in the effort to talk like the rest of the girls and guys and kenan ovb has something for her but she doesn’t trust him bec of his playboy appearance so she’s not impressed by him and reader one day shows up with a guy she’s been talking too and he’s like jealous and is like to his other friends “why did she even invite him?” And the rest can be up to you
summary: you’ve always kept your guard up around kenan, convinced his charming act is just that - an act. but when you show up to a group dinner with another guy and kenan gets jealous, his carefully cool exterior finally cracks.
You’re not really part of the group. Not like that, anyway.
You hang around because of Lina. She’s your flatmate, your best friend, and unfortunately for your peace of mind, she’s dating one of Kenan’s teammates. Which means you’re dragged into match nights, post-training hangouts, and too many group dinners where half the guys don’t even know how to pronounce your name right.
Kenan Yıldız, though? He gets it right every single time.
Not that it matters.
He’s been trying since the beginning. At first, it was subtle. Just polite nods and too-long glances. Then came the little jokes and the casual teasing, stuff that would’ve made every other girl in the room melt. You, however, are titanium. You don’t play nice. You don’t give into charm just because it’s handed to you in a pretty package.
Especially not when that package is wrapped in expensive cologne and whispered rumors of flings with influencers you couldn’t care less about.
“Morning,” he says one day at Lina’s kitchen island, where you’re hunched over your coffee in a hoodie three sizes too big.
You don’t even look up. “It’s literally two in the afternoon.”
He laughs anyway. You hate how nice it sounds. Like he’s always half a second from turning everything into a joke.
“Still counts,” he shrugs. “You sleep through daylight a lot?”
“Only when I know you’ll be around,” you mutter under your breath.
And yet, he stays. You don’t get it. There are six other people in the room who practically orbit around him like he’s the sun. He could have their attention anytime he wanted.
But no, it’s you he looks at like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he’s not allowed to touch.
You’re not interested.
Except… you kind of are. Not enough to act on it. Just enough to notice the shift in the air every time he walks into a room. And it’s not his fault, maybe, not completely, that he looks like that. All perfect posture and effortless cool, like he was designed in a lab to make you distrust him.
Which is why, when you finally bring someone around - someone solid, kind, a guy who texts back and works in finance and has a boring-but-safe vibe - you expect everyone to mind their business.
Lina raises her brows but doesn’t say anything.
Kenan, however, clocks him immediately.
“Who’s that?” he mutters under his breath as your maybe-boyfriend sits beside you at the outdoor dinner table, laughing softly at something you said.
Malik, the midfielder sitting beside Kenan, doesn’t even look up. “Her guy. She’s been seeing him for a few weeks.”
Kenan’s jaw tightens. “Why did she even invite him?”
“Why wouldn’t she?” Malik replies, amused. “It’s not like you ever had a shot.”
He doesn’t answer. Just sits there, watching you smile across the table like it’s a weapon. And it is, honestly. It’s the first time Kenan’s ever seen you like this. At ease. Loose-limbed and glowing in the late sun, laughing at some finance-guy story that’s probably so dull it could be used as a sleep aid.
He hates how smug the guy looks. Like he thinks he won.
The worst part? You’re letting him.
You even lean in when he whispers something in your ear, and Kenan watches you with the same kind of devastation he plays with when a shot skims just over the bar. So close. So pointless.
Later, after dessert, when everyone’s clearing plates and Malik’s putting on music from his phone, you duck into the kitchen to help Lina with drinks. Kenan follows without thinking. His feet move before his brain does.
“Seriously?” you sigh, catching him leaning against the doorway like this is some indie rom-com and he’s about to deliver the final line that makes you fall for him.
“What?” he asks, shrugging. “Just wanted water.”
“There’s like four bottles on the table already.”
“Yeah. But none of them handed to me by you.”
You raise a brow. “Do you say things like that and expect people to swoon?”
He smirks, but it fades when he steps closer. “He’s not it. You know that, right?”
You freeze for a second, then scoff, turning your back to grab glasses from the cupboard. “Wow. That was subtle.”
“I’m serious.”
“You don’t get to be serious,” you snap, spinning around now. “You don’t get to come in here with your half-smirks and flirty little jabs and act like you’re entitled to an opinion about my life.”
“I’m not entitled to anything. I just-” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve been trying.”
“No. You’ve been playing. That’s what you do, right?”
Kenan’s expression shifts. Just barely. But enough.
You expect him to make a joke. Or flirt. Or walk away like it’s beneath him to try harder.
But instead, he just looks… hurt. And it throws you off completely.
“I’ve been showing up,” he says quietly. “I’ve been patient. I’ve been real with you. Even when you acted like I wasn’t worth your time.”
You open your mouth, then close it again. Because you didn’t expect that. And honestly, you don’t have a defense.
He steps a little closer. “You don’t know me. Not really. And if you think I’m just some cliché with a nice face, then… maybe you don’t want to.”
You swallow hard. “I’ve seen you with girls. On Instagram. In interviews. You’re always charming, always flirty. It’s all a show.”
“Maybe it used to be,” he admits. “But you kind of ruined that for me.”
You blink. “What?”
“You’re the only person who didn’t fall for it. And now I don’t want anyone else to either.”
It’s too much. Too honest. And it breaks through that little shell you’ve built around yourself since the first time he smiled at you like you mattered.
You don’t say anything. You can’t.
So instead, you push a glass of water into his hand and mumble, “Then prove it.”
summary: Being Kenan’s stylist was supposed to be about clothes. Not lame excuses to spend time, lingering touches, and the slow realization that you might be in over your head (8.5k words)
content: slow burn, grumpy x sunshine, Stylist!Reader, inspired by the movie two weeks notice
an: guess who got dumped just days before valentines :') we move tho! something not f1 today guys (whaaaat??!!) I am watching a lot of football during break and I adore this guy!! next fics will be F1 again dw! wishing you all an amazing day <3
----------------------------------------------
The first time I meet Kenan Yıldız, he is exactly fourteen minutes late and precisely ten times cockier than necessary.
I check my watch as he strolls into the private suite at the Juventus training center, hands in his pockets, grinning like he’s just won the lottery. Which, in fairness, he kind of has—football stardom, magazine covers, and a jawline that probably has its own fan club.
Still, none of that excuses his chronic inability to tell time.
I exhale, tapping my nails against the table as he finally, finally stops in front of me. “You’re late.”
Then, he shrugs. “You’re early.”
I stare at him. “That’s literally not how time works.”
He grins, like he’s enjoying himself far too much already. “It’s how my time works.”
He flops onto the couch. Flops. Like an overgrown puppy who has never had to experience the burden of professionalism.
“You hired me for a reason,” I remind him, keeping my tone even. “Which means you show up on time, listen to my advice, and do not, under any circumstances, make my job harder than it already is.”
Kenan, to absolutely no one’s surprise, looks thoroughly unbothered.
“You say that like I don’t have incredible fashion sense.”
I stare at him. “You showed up wearing Nike slides with socks.”
“They’re comfortable.”
“You are a multi-millionaire professional footballer. You can afford comfortable shoes that do not look like you are a high school boy.”
Kenan grins, stretching out on the couch, taking up an absurd amount of space, and watching me like this is the best entertainment he’s had all week. “Hit me with it, boss.”
Boss. The word drips with teasing.
I inhale deeply. Count to three. Do not strangle the athlete.
Instead, I pull out my laptop and spin it towards him, revealing a carefully curated mood board. “We start here. You have the Ballon d’Or ceremony in two weeks, and I am legally obligated to prevent you from showing up in anything offensive to the general public.”
Kenan leans forward, eyes flicking between the images—navy suits, sleek black tuxedos, a deep burgundy number that would look absurdly good on him if he had an ounce of taste.
Then he leans back, eyebrows raised.
“No way.”
I narrow my eyes. “No way what?”
“No way I’m wearing this.” He points at the burgundy suit, horrified. “Do I look like a retired jazz musician?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “It’s Dolce & Gabbana, Kenan.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“You wear Juventus kits half the week.”
“That’s different.”
“It’s literally not.”
Kenan grins. “You’re very passionate about this.”
“Yes,” I deadpan. “That’s how jobs work.”
Kenan laughs, full and unbothered. “Alright, alright, keep your cool, boss. Let’s try some things on.”
…
It turns out styling Kenan Yıldız is a full-contact sport. And by that, I mean he is actively working against me.
“Oh, no, absolutely not.” I gesture at him to take the blazer off. “That’s too tight on the shoulders.”
Kenan spreads his arms dramatically. “I feel fine.”
“That’s because you have the self-awareness of a brick.”
He gasps. “Wow.”
“Take it off.”
“You just want to see me shirtless.”
I blink. “Kenan, I have dressed men for a living. If I were that easily impressed, I’d be unemployed.”
He grins, amused, but thankfully, doesn’t push it. Instead, he shrugs out of the blazer.
I am a professional. And, professionally speaking, I do not notice how broad his shoulders actually are. Definitely not.
Nope.
Instead, I grab the next suit. “Here. Try this one.”
Dark navy, sleek lapels, crisp white shirt. It’s tailored enough to emphasize sharp angles, long lines.
It works.
I tell myself that my job is to make sure my clients look good.
That’s why I’m staring. Obviously.
Kenan catches my expression in the mirror and raises an eyebrow. “That’s a very serious face. What’s the verdict?”
I keep my voice even. “This one’s better.”
“Better?” He turns slightly, inspecting himself. “Or do I look outrageously handsome, and you just don’t want to admit it?”
I give him a look. “I’ll let the press decide.”
Kenan laughs. “Fair enough. You like navy on me though, don’t you? Be honest you were staring quite a bit.”
I blink, caught of guard.
“I was just checking for tailoring issues.” I mumble, feeling a bit embarrassed.
He just snickers and turns around again, adjusting his jacket in the mirror. “So, are you this fun with all your clients?”
I glance up. “No. Usually they listen to me.”
He smirks. “And yet you seem to be having such a great time.”
I scoff, shoving fabric swatches into my bag. “Delusional.”
He tilts his head. “No, I’m just observant.”
I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Try not to get this suit dirty before the event, yeah?”
“I’ll do my best,” he says solemnly, then grins. “No promises, though.”
…
I am at my desk, minding my own business, deeply focused on fabric selections for the newest Juventus-Loro Piana collaboration. Something elegant. Something refined. Something that perfectly walks the line between classic and modern.
What I am not focused on is preparing for the door to slam open so violently it rattles the frame, as if the person behind it has never once encountered the concept of knocking.
Kenan strides in like he owns the place, Juventus training kit clinging to him, a towel slung casually over his shoulder, water still dripping from his hair in rivulets. He looks like he just stepped out of an expensive body wash commercial, the kind that would sell you on the idea that showering is some profound, life-altering experience.
Except Kenan isn’t selling anything.
He is, however, still wet.
Like, actively damp.
I stare at him for a second too long before recoiling in exaggerated horror. “Did you swim here?”
Kenan stops in his tracks, blinking at me like I’m the one who doesn’t make sense.
“Shower,” he says simply, as though that explains everything.
“Yes, I can see that,” I reply, narrowing my eyes at the small puddle forming beneath his slides.
Kenan just grins, completely unbothered. “Then why’d you ask?”
I exhale sharply, dragging my hand down my face. “Kenan.”
“Yeah?”
“What do you want?”
Instead of answering, he plops into the chair across from me, stretching out like this is his personal lounge. His long legs sprawl out casually, his damp towel draped haphazardly over one arm, and he’s grinning like he’s having the best day of his life.
“Need your opinion,” he says, completely unprompted.
I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “On what?”
Kenan gestures at himself with both hands, like he’s presenting a revolutionary new look. “My outfit.”
I blink.
Slowly.
Kenan, unfazed, leans back in the chair and shrugs. “Thinking of heading out later. Need to know if I should change.”
I stare at him.
I glance at his slides. At the clingy, sweat-soaked training kit. At the water dripping from his hair and pooling on my floor.
Then I stare at him again.
“Kenan,” I say finally, my tone flat.
“Yeah?”
“You are in a training kit.”
“So?”
“So unless your plans involve breaking into a 24-hour gym, yes, you should change.”
Kenan nods slowly, like I’ve just delivered some groundbreaking revelation. “Interesting. Interesting.”
I lean forward, folding my hands on the desk, fixing him with a hard stare. “Kenan?”
“Yeah?”
“Get out.”
Kenan grins, his expression one of pure mischief.
And, predictably, he doesn’t move.
Instead, he leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “You know, you really should work on your people skills. Very unprofessional of you to kick out your favorite client.”
“You’re not my favorite client,” I deadpan.
He gasps, clutching his chest like I’ve mortally wounded him. “Wow. That’s harsh.”
I let out a long, pointed sigh, pushing my chair back and standing up. “Fine. You want help? Here’s my professional advice: go home, shower—again, because apparently one wasn’t enough—and wear literally anything that doesn’t have a Juventus logo on it.”
Kenan hums thoughtfully, as if he’s actually considering it. “What about the slides? Keep them or lose them?”
“Kenan.”
“Yeah?”
“Get. Out.”
He doesn’t.
Of course, he doesn’t.
Instead, he leans back even further, crossing one leg over the other, completely ignoring the fact that he’s dripping water all over my floor.
“You’re fun when you’re mad, you know that?”
I glare at him.
Kenan just laughs, completely unfazed.
And, annoyingly, he still doesn’t leave.
…
It’s late afternoon, and I am in the middle of an important call with a brand executive—the kind of person whose voice alone makes you sit up straighter, whose Italian accent makes everything sound elegant, even words like inventory management—when the door to my office swings open without warning.
I don’t need to look up. I already know.
I take a slow, measured breath. “Kenan, if you interrupt me right now, I swear to god—”
I do, in fact, look up.
And there he is.
Standing in my doorway like he belongs there.
Kenan is dressed in what I can only describe as his most unserious outfit yet—an oversized hoodie, the hood pulled up like he’s in witness protection, sweatpants that are definitely not his size, and a smoothie in hand.
I watch as he makes his way to my couch, sits down, stretches out like he owns the place, and waits.
I press my lips together. I will not engage.
The executive is explaining the finer details of their new suiting collection, using phrases like textural fluidity and contemporary tailoring, and I desperately want to focus.
Kenan, unfortunately, does not care about my professional aspirations.
First, he sighs. Loudly.
I ignore him.
Then, he tilts his head at me, blinking slowly, as if I’m some sort of unusual species he’s studying.
I continue nodding along to my call, even as he leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his fist, elbow perched on the armrest like he’s the star of some old painting.
But when he starts slurping his smoothy—slowly, loudly, dramatically—I finally give in.
I mute my call, turn slightly in my chair, and narrow my eyes at him.
Kenan, completely unbothered, lifts his eyebrows.
I keep my voice even. “Kenan. Why are you here?”
He clears his throat, sitting up slightly. “I have a question.”
I exhale. “A question.”
“Yeah.”
I brace myself. “And what, exactly, could not wait until after I finished a conversation with one of the most prestigious fashion houses in the world?”
Kenan gestures loosely at himself. “Hoodie. Thoughts?”
I blink. “Your thoughts… on your own hoodie?”
Kenan nods. “Yeah. Should I add a jacket?”
I stare at him.
Then, after a long pause, I lean forward slightly, resting my elbows on my desk.
“You interrupted a meeting with Loro Piana.”
Kenan nods. “Correct.”
“To ask me if you should add a jacket.”
Another nod.
I inhale. Exhale.
I fold my hands together and say, very calmly, “Kenan, get out.”
He grins, standing up. “So… no jacket?”
“Switch to jeans, there is a suede bomber on the rack in the corner over there, leave me alone now please.”
Kenan chuckles, strolling out of my office, swiftly grabbing the jacket.
…
I should have known something was up the moment Kenan knocked.
Because Kenan never knocks.
The second I look up from my laptop, the door swings open, and there he is, grinning like a man who has just thought of something ridiculous and is about to make it my problem.
“You busy?”
I don’t even bother looking up from my screen. “Extremely.”
“Perfect,” he says, stepping fully into my office. “Be ready in an hour.”
I pause. That gets my attention.
“For what?” I ask warily.
Kenan leans against my desk, arms crossed in a way that suggests he thinks he looks effortlessly cool when, in reality, he looks like he’s about to present a terrible business proposal.
“Boat day.”
I blink. “Boat day?”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
Kenan tilts his head, like my answer has personally offended him.
“No?”
“That’s correct.”
He exhales dramatically, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Alright, fine. I wasn’t gonna say anything, but I actually need you there.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why?”
Kenan straightens up slightly, looking me dead in the eye. “Fashion crisis.”
I fold my arms. “You’re lying.”
He gestures at himself. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
Kenan sighs. “I just—look, things could go terribly wrong today. What if I make a bad fashion choice? What if my trunks clash with the boat? What if someone wears the same ones as me?”
I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “That’s your concern? Not drowning?”
Kenan waves a hand. “I’m an athlete, I’ll survive.” Then, after a beat, he gives me a winning smile. “Come on, boss. I need you.”
I roll my eyes, already sensing that I am going to lose this battle.
…
It takes me approximately four minutes from the moment I step onto the yacht to realize that Kenan has played me.
This is not, as he vaguely implied, a casual little boat trip.
This is a full-scale Juventus squad takeover.
The kind where music blares so loud you feel it in your chest, where food and drinks are scattered across tables in laughably excessive amounts, and where half the team has already started throwing themselves off the side of the boat like unsupervised toddlers.
I stop at the edge of the deck, blinking at the chaos in front of me, unsure of where to even begin processing this. Then, slowly, I turn to Kenan.
Then back to the scene.
Then back to Kenan.
He grins like he’s just done something spectacularly clever.
“See? Fun.”
I adjust my sunglasses and stare at him. “Why am I here?”
Kenan tilts his head, like he’s genuinely considering the question. “Moral support.”
“Moral support for what, exactly?”
He gestures vaguely to the entire scene, his hand making a lazy arc in the air. “For me.”
I exhale sharply, crossing my arms. “You’re not in distress.”
“I could be,” he counters, deadpan.
“You’re not.”
Kenan doesn’t respond. Instead, he reaches behind his back and pulls out two pairs of swim trunks like he’s unveiling some great treasure. One red. One yellow.
I blink. “What is that?”
“My dilemma.”
I stare at him.
Kenan holds up both options, one in each hand, like he’s presenting me with the most critical decision of his life. “Red or yellow?”
“You dragged me onto a boat so I could pick your swimsuit color?”
Kenan nods solemnly.
I sigh, pressing my fingers to my temples. “Red.”
“Why?”
“Because it’ll make you look more tan.”
He squints slightly, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m messing with him. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, Kenan, I’m sure. It’s literally basic color theory. Unless you’d prefer to look pale?”
Kenan hums thoughtfully, flipping the yellow ones over his shoulder like they no longer exist and holding up the red. “You heard her. Red it is.”
I exhale, already exhausted, and mutter under my breath, “This day is going to be a lot.”
I make my first mistake when Kenan pulls his shirt over his head, preparing to jump into the water.
I look.
Not on purpose, obviously. It just… happens.
My gaze moves before I can stop it, taking in the casual ease of his movements, the way the sunlight glints off his skin, the way his back muscles shift with every motion. It’s objectively unfair. And now I am suffering.
I force myself to look at literally anything else—the horizon, the food table, the possibility of throwing myself into the ocean just to escape this sudden, deeply annoying awareness of him.
Kenan, naturally, remains completely oblivious to my internal crisis.
“You coming in?” he calls over his shoulder as he steps toward the edge of the yacht.
“I just got here,” I reply, arms crossed.
“So?”
“So, I’m taking my time.”
Kenan narrows his eyes slightly, like he’s just detected a challenge. I don’t like that look.
“I can teach you how to dive,” he offers, his voice infuriatingly casual.
“I know how to dive,” I shoot back.
He raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
Kenan hums, clearly unconvinced. “Let’s see it, then.”
“I don’t perform on command,” I say, my tone firm.
“You’re scared.”
“Oh my god, I am not—”
“Prove it.”
I don’t think. I just move.
Bending my knees, I inhale sharply and push off, cutting cleanly into the water.
I surface just as Kenan jumps in after me, slicing through the water effortlessly.
That’s when I make my second mistake.
I look at him.
Really look.
Sunlight glints off the water as it drips from his hair, slicked back from his face. His jawline is sharp, his grin smug and easy, and there’s something about the way he moves—like he’s completely at home here, like he’s built for this—that makes me forget how to form coherent thoughts.
And then, worse—he looks back.
Bright eyes meet mine, amused and knowing, like he’s caught me staring. Which, to be clear, I was absolutely not doing. At all. Ever.
I clear my throat, shifting slightly, desperate for neutral territory. “You’re showing off,” I accuse, my voice sharper than I intended.
Kenan’s mouth tugs into a half-smirk. “And?”
“And it’s annoying.”
He grins wider, water dripping from his chin. “You sound jealous.”
“I sound rational,” I retort, shoving water in his direction.
Kenan laughs, tilting his head back, and then—without warning—he reaches forward.
His thumb brushes a stray drop of water from my cheek, a quick, thoughtless movement that shouldn’t mean anything.
And yet—it does.
The air shifts, subtle but impossible to ignore.
His fingers hover for just a second too long, his eyes catching mine and holding. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something curious, like he’s just noticed something for the first time.
And for a moment, I can’t breathe.
Then—just as quickly—he pulls back.
The moment disappears.
And we both pretend it didn’t happen.
…
It starts, as all bad ideas do, with Kenan appearing uninvited.
I am seated at my desk, entirely minding my own business, when a shadow falls over my workspace.
Before I can look up, Kenan drops into the chair across from me with the weight of a man who has just made a major decision and is about to make it my problem.
“Help me shop,” he declares, like we were in the middle of a conversation I have no memory of participating in.
I blink. Slowly.
Kenan does not blink back.
I cross my arms. “You? Shopping?”
He spreads his arms. “What, you think I just live off free team merch?”
“Yes,” I say, without hesitation.
Kenan grins. “Okay, fair. But I still need new stuff.”
I narrow my eyes. “New stuff?”
“For events,” he clarifies, shifting comfortably in his seat like he’s already convinced me. “You’re always telling me I should take my styling more seriously, so—” he gestures at himself—“here I am. Taking it seriously.”
I study him carefully, sensing an ulterior motive.
“So let me get this straight,” I say, resting my elbows on the desk. “You want me to drop everything and go shopping with you?”
“Yes.”
“Right now?”
Kenan nods.
I exhale, setting my tablet down slowly, deliberately. “Do you know how many emails I have left to answer today?”
“No,” he says. Then, before I can continue, he leans forward, pressing both hands together in a mock-pleading gesture. “Come on, boss. Think of it as a mission. A challenge. Your most difficult client yet.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That is not the selling point you think it is.”
Kenan tilts his head slightly, like he’s about to switch tactics.
And then, with devastating precision, he delivers the final blow:
“I’ll buy you coffee.”
My resolve shatters instantly.
I exhale. “Fine.”
Kenan lights up immediately. “That’s what I like to hear.”
…
Shopping with Kenan is like shopping with a toddler who has recently discovered his own free will.
At first, it’s fine. Normal. Civilized. He listens to my advice, nods along as I explain the importance of quality tailoring, even picks up a few decent items.
And then.
It starts.
“What about this?” he asks, holding up a horrific orange camoflage tracksuit.
I stare at it. Then at him.
“No.”
Kenan shrugs, completely unbothered. “I like it.”
I exhale slowly. “You are not wearing that in public.”
He grins. “You’re just mad because you know I’d pull it off.”
“You would not.”
“Would too.”
I rub my temples. “Put it back.”
Kenan sighs, begrudgingly returning it to the rack. But exactly two minutes later, he reverts to chaos.
First, a leopard-print jacket.
I shake my head.
Then, a graphic T-shirt that says ‘Big Dog Energy.’
I physically take it out of his hands and put it back myself.
“This is important,” I say, placing two actual, stylish options in his arms. “We need pieces that are versatile, that fit your personal aesthetic while maintaining an effortless, tailored look.”
Kenan blinks. “That’s some José Mourinho level strategizing. All of that for a pair of pants and a shirt?”
“Yes, because I actually know what I’m doing,” I say, nudging him toward the fitting room. “Now go try these on before I start dressing you like an old Italian lady.”
Kenan grins. “That’s a threat?”
“You’re seconds away from pleated skirts.”
He laughs, but goes inside anyway.
…
I believe the mission is complete.
But then—as we leave the last store, arms full of shopping bags, Kenan suddenly groans and rolls his shoulders like he’s just carried the weight of the world on his back.
“Ugh,” he says. “I need a break.”
I sigh. “Kenan, we’ve been shopping for three hours.”
“Exactly,” he says, slinging an arm around my shoulders like this has been an equal burden for both of us. “Which is why we deserve a reward.”
I eye him suspiciously. “What kind of reward?”
Kenan does not answer.
Instead, he steers me toward a side street, moving with the confidence of a man who has already decided my fate.
“Kenan,” I say, realizing too late where we’re headed.
No.
Not a spa.
A very fancy spa.
I stop walking immediately.
Kenan, noticing too late, is forced to halt as well.
I stare at him. “No.”
Kenan grins. “Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Kenan—”
He tilts his head. “You work too much. You stress too much. You never take a break.”
“I just spent the entire afternoon shopping with you,” I argue.
Kenan ignores this. “This is what you need.”
I narrow my eyes. “And your solution is to physically drag me into a spa?”
Kenan does not hesitate. “Yes.”
I exhale. “Why do I feel like you’ve planned this?”
Kenan grins wider. “Because I have.”
And then—before I can protest further—he opens the door and gently shoves me inside.
…
I don't know what kind of witchcraft these spa people are practicing, but I have fully given in to it.
There is something profoundly humiliating about the fact that Kenan Yıldız, of all people, was right.
Because I am relaxed.
Painfully, dangerously relaxed.
I sink deeper into the plush, warm surface of the massage table, the scent of lavender and eucalyptus thick in the air, the slow, expert pressure of hands kneading away every last drop of tension from my body.
It is impossibly good.
The kind of indulgence I would normally refuse, the kind of experience I would dismiss as unnecessary.
Except it is so necessary.
It’s so good that I don’t even care that Kenan is lying just inches away, stretched out on his own table, probably smug as hell about the fact that he successfully dragged me here.
I can hear him shift slightly, adjusting his arms at his sides. The sound is quiet, unremarkable.
And then—
The groan.
Deep. Low. Involuntary.
I don’t move, don’t react, but I feel it like a full-body event.
Like an alarm going off in my brain, interrupting my hard-won serenity, making my pulse hitch slightly before I force it back down.
No.
Absolutely not.
I refuse to acknowledge it, to let my mind go anywhere near the path it’s suddenly threatening to take.
I focus instead on the weight of the warm towel on my back, my grocery list, the weather forecast, the to-do list I abandoned the moment Kenan dragged me here.
But then—another groan.
Softer this time, barely more than a sigh, a quiet, unfiltered reaction to the way the masseuse’s hands dig into his shoulders.
My fingers twitch against the plush surface beneath me.
I press my cheek harder into the cushion, jaw tightening, every last bit of professionalism I possess clinging on for dear life.
This is not happening.
I am not hyperaware of him.
I am not wondering what it would sound like if—
No.
I take a slow, measured breath, force my mind onto something else, anything else.
But then—as if on cue, as if this is a test of my sanity—Kenan exhales, his voice slow and drawn out, heavy with satisfaction.
“Oh, yeah,” he murmurs lazily. “This was a great idea.”
I crack one eye open, glancing sideways at him. “You’re not supposed to talk.”
Kenan doesn’t even turn his head, just smirks faintly. “Why not?”
“Because it ruins the experience,” I mutter, shifting slightly, trying to reclaim the blissful silence I had finally achieved.
Kenan hums in agreement, but then, after a beat—
“You’re enjoying it, though.”
I don’t answer.
He turns his head slightly, grinning. “You are.”
“No, I’m not.”
Kenan tilts his head, studying me with too much amusement. “Liar.”
I close my eyes, exhaling slowly.
I am not doing this with him.
Not here.
Not while I am too blissed out to argue properly.
“Kenan.”
“Yes?”
“Shut up.”
He laughs under his breath, but mercifully, he drops it.
And for the next few minutes, there is nothing but silence.
I let myself relax again, let my mind drift, surrendering to the warmth of the table, the slow, steady pressure of the massage, the weightlessness of being taken care of for once.
It is perfect.
Which is why, of course, Kenan has to ruin it.
I am still lingering in my post-massage haze when we are ushered into the next part of our spa treatment.
There is a moment of disorientation as I wrap myself in a ridiculously plush robe, knotting it at the waist, letting the softness of the fabric lull me even deeper into a state of near-delirious comfort.
Kenan, meanwhile, has fully leaned into his new life as a luxury spa enthusiast.
He is walking like a man who has just come into a great inheritance, arms swinging loosely at his sides, his robe slightly untied, his expression one of supreme satisfaction.
He glances at me as we walk down the softly lit hallway.
“You’re glowing,” he says smugly.
“I hate you,” I reply, but it’s missing any real venom.
Kenan smirks. “You love me.”
I scoff, tightening my robe for emphasis.
He bumps his shoulder into mine as we turn the corner. “Admit it,” he presses. “You liked it.”
I lift my chin. “I tolerated it.”
“Mmm.” He tilts his head as if considering. “So if I suggested we make this a weekly thing—”
“I would have you arrested.”
Kenan laughs, clearly pleased with himself.
We round the corner, stepping into the next treatment room, where trays of neatly arranged skincare products are waiting for us.
The spa attendant walks us through the benefits of the clay mask, explaining its detoxifying properties, the natural minerals, the way it will leave our skin glowing.
I nod along, listening attentively, taking this seriously.
Kenan, on the other hand, is poking at the clay like it’s some kind of foreign substance.
He leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “So, are we supposed to eat this, or…?”
I snap my head toward him. “I swear to god.”
Kenan grins, pleased that he has successfully annoyed me.
And then—before I can react—he swipes a streak of clay onto my cheek.
I gasp, scandalized.
“You did not just—”
Kenan leans back, looking entirely too proud of himself.
“Look at that,” he muses. “You’re already looking better.”
I narrow my eyes.
“Kenan.”
“Yes?”
“You have five seconds to run.”
He laughs, but it’s cut short the moment I dip my fingers into the clay and smear a thick, deliberate streak down the bridge of his nose.
He blinks.
I smirk. “Oops.”
And then—it’s war.
Kenan lunges, trying to grab my wrist, but I twist away, swiping another streak across his jaw.
He retaliates immediately, dragging a line of clay across my forehead, laughing as I gasp in horror.
“You’re gonna regret that,” I warn, dipping both hands into the mask.
Kenan dodges backward, but not fast enough.
I manage to smear clay across his entire cheek before he grabs my wrist, successfully pinning my arm down as he smears another layer across my temple.
We are laughing too loudly, bumping into the skincare table, earning scandalized looks from the spa attendants, who are clearly regretting ever letting us in.
By the time we finally call a truce, Kenan has clay all over his jawline, a streak across his eyebrow, and possibly some in his hair.
I am in no better shape.
We catch our breath, grinning like idiots.
Kenan leans back, tilting his head as he studies my face.
“You know,” he says, smirking faintly, “I think this is your best look yet.”
I scoff, wiping some of the mask off my cheek. “You mean, this is your best look yet.”
Kenan shrugs. “Well, yeah. Obviously.”
I laugh, rolling my eyes, and for a moment—just a moment—it’s too easy.
Too comfortable.
Like we aren’t just stylist and client. Like maybe, just maybe, we’re something else.
But then—the spa attendant clears her throat loudly.
Kenan and I snap back to reality.
Right. This was meant to be innocent.
…
I should be curled up under a blanket, wrapped in the soft glow of my laptop screen, watching Hugh Grant fumble his way into Julia Roberts’ heart while I eat my weight in popcorn.
Instead, I am sitting at a table at one of the most prestigious football award shows in the world, fixing Kenan Yıldız’s tie for the third time.
“Seriously?” I mutter, tugging at the silk knot as he sits there grinning, far too amused by my growing frustration. “How do you keep messing this up?”
Kenan shrugs, as casually as if he’s discussing the weather. “Maybe it’s cursed.”
“Or maybe,” I counter, tugging harder than necessary, “you have the attention span of a goldfish.”
“That’s a possibility, too.”
I inhale, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand. Not the fact that his tie is somehow always crooked, not the fact that he smells unfairly nice—woodsy and fresh, like expensive cologne and soap. Not the fact that his tux fits like it was made for him, which, technically, it was.
I tighten the knot, fingers brushing against the cool silk of his collar. Then I step back, ignoring the way his eyes follow me.
“There,” I say, smoothing down the lapels of his jacket. “That should hold.”
Kenan reaches up, tugging at the knot experimentally.
And then—he tilts his head. “It’s a little tight.”
I stare at him. Consider violence.
“Oh my god, Kenan.”
He tries not to laugh. “I think I might be suffocating.”
I exhale through my nose, stepping forward again and loosening it just a fraction. “You are a professional athlete. I think you’ll survive a slightly snug tie.”
“You’re very aggressive about this,” he muses.
“I’m aggressive about my work.”
“Hm.” He smirks. “You sure it’s not just me?”
I pull the tie one last time—just a little too tight for good measure.
Kenan coughs. “Okay. Point taken.”
I take my seat beside him, crossing my arms. “You never actually explained why you brought me here.”
Kenan leans back, stretching lazily. “Because what if I had a wardrobe malfunction? Imagine the headlines. ‘Rising Juventus Star Exposes Entire Ballon D’Or Ceremony Thanks to Fashion Mishap.’”
I give him a look. “Right, because that’s such a likely scenario.”
“You never know,” he says, completely serious. “Zippers are tricky.”
I stare at him. “Kenan, you’re wearing a bow tie and a tuxedo.”
“Still, anything could happen.”
I sigh, rubbing my temples. “You actually called me here because you thought you’d have a fashion emergency?”
Kenan tilts his head, amused, but not exactly denying it.
I exhale, shaking my head. “I canceled movie night for this.”
Kenan straightens slightly. “Movie night?”
“Yes, Kenan. That thing normal people do when they are not being dragged to last-minute award shows for ‘fashion emergencies.’”
His eyes spark with something I can’t quite place—amusement, maybe curiosity. “What movie?”
I wave him off. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It does, though.” He nudges my foot under the table, and I kick him back. “Tell me.”
I glance at him, half annoyed, half entertained. “Fine. Notting Hill.”
Kenan’s expression shifts, like I’ve just presented him with something fascinating.
“Hugh Grant?” he asks, suppressing a grin.
I sigh. “Yes, Hugh Grant.”
Kenan hums, clearly holding back laughter. “Are you a rom-com girl?”
I cross my arms. “I am a human being with emotions, Kenan. Of course, I watch rom-coms.”
“Didn’t peg you for the ‘charming British man falls in love with beautiful woman’ type.”
“I think you’re forgetting Julia Roberts is the one falling in love with him.”
Kenan nods, pretending to consider this. “So you like the whole reluctant, ‘I shouldn’t like you but I do’ thing?”
I narrow my eyes. “Why are we discussing this?”
He smirks. “Just gathering intel, boss.”
I blink at him. “For what?”
But before he can answer, a reporter materializes at the side of the table, microphone in hand, already launching into questions about Kenan’s season.
Kenan shifts gears effortlessly, offering charming but nonchalant answers, throwing in just enough personality to keep the conversation light. He’s confident, comfortable, every bit the rising star.
And then—the reporter turns to me.
“And you are his date?”
Before I can answer, Kenan speaks first.
“Best company I could ask for,” he says smoothly, flashing an easy smile.
The reporter nods, clearly filing that information away. Then, she tilts her head.
“Well, you two make a lovely couple.”
Silence.
For exactly three seconds.
I glance at Kenan, fully expecting him to jump in—to laugh, to correct her, to make a joke.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he just… smirks. A knowing, slow, absolutely infuriating smirk.
I blink at him. Excuse me?
The reporter, seemingly satisfied, quickly thanks Kenan before shifting her attention back to the main stage, preparing for the next segment.
Kenan glances at me, clearly entertained.
“What?” he asks innocently.
“You didn’t correct her,” I say, narrowing my eyes.
He shrugs, reaching for his drink. “Didn’t seem important.”
I stare. “Oh, so that’s how we’re playing this?”
Kenan takes a sip, smiling against the rim of his glass.
And I know, with absolute certainty, that I will be thinking about this later.
…
The event wraps up hours later, and the energy that had been buzzing through the ballroom—the flashing cameras, the hum of conversation, the champagne-fueled laughter—fizzles out the second the car door shuts behind us.
It’s just me and Kenan now, wrapped in the quiet hum of the city, the streets blurred by the tinted windows.
He exhales, rolling his shoulders slightly as he settles into the seat beside me. His bow tie is undone, the silk hanging loosely around his neck, and his jacket is draped lazily over one shoulder. The perfectly put-together image from earlier is gone, replaced by something more undone.
I glance at him. “So? First big award show. Thoughts?”
Kenan stretches his legs out slightly, his head tilting against the seat as he flicks his gaze toward the window. “Not bad. Bit long, though.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “Yeah, sorry. No halftime break in real life.”
He turns his head toward me, grinning faintly, his voice lower now, softer. “Yeah, what’s up with that?”
I shake my head, looking away, watching the neon lights streak past outside. The movement of the car feels almost hypnotic, like we’re floating through the city instead of driving through it.
Another beat of silence.
Not an uncomfortable one. Just something quieter.
Kenan shifts beside me, stretching out his legs slightly, adjusting his posture in that effortless, lazy way he always does. And then—his hand settles on my knee.
Not a quick touch. Not accidental.
Just there.
Steady. Warm. Like he isn’t even thinking about it.
Like it’s completely normal.
My breath hitches—just slightly, barely noticeable—but I feel it.
I should move. He should move. One of us should acknowledge it. But neither of us do.
The space between us feels different now. Closer, somehow. Heavier.
The car hums softly beneath us, the muted sound of the tires against pavement filling the space where words should go.
And then, without thinking, I glance at him again.
And find him already looking.
It’s not like before.
Not teasing. Not playful. Something I don’t have the words for.
His gaze lingers, just for a second too long. Not in the usual way—not like when he smirks at me before making some sarcastic remark, not like when he’s enjoying winding me up.
This is different.
I feel it in the way my pulse kicks up, in the way my breath catches just slightly. It’s not dramatic. Not obvious.
But it’s there.
And I don’t know what to do with it.
So, I look away.
…
You’re coming to dinner with me.”
I glance up from where I’m sprawled dramatically across the couch in the fitting room, my limbs heavy with exhaustion after a long day of fighting Kenan’s terrible fashion instincts.
“No, I’m not.”
Kenan doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes, you are.”
I let my head fall back, groaning. “Kenan, I’ve been stuffing you into suits for six hours. I have blisters. My soul has left my body. I am going home.”
Kenan, completely unbothered, grabs my bag and slings it over his shoulder.
“No, you’re coming to dinner,” he corrects, grinning at me like this is already a settled matter. “Because we’ve been locked in here all day, and you need to eat before you start resenting me.”
I lift my head just enough to narrow my eyes at him. “I already resent you.”
Kenan just laughs. “See? I was right.”
I sigh, dragging my hands down my face. “Kenan, I look like I’ve been wrestling with a dozen overpriced jackets all day.”
“So?”
“So, I’m going home.”
“You’re coming to dinner.”
I give him a long, tired stare.
“Kenan—”
“It’s literally just food,” he interrupts, voice easy, persuasive, the way it always is when he knows he’s going to win. “Don’t overthink it.”
I exhale, already feeling myself caving.
It’s just food. It’s just dinner. That’s what I keep telling myself, over and over again, trying to push away the small, creeping realization that it doesn’t really feel like just dinner. I know what just dinner feels like, and this is not it.
We talk the entire time, without effort, without having to think about it, the conversation flowing so naturally that I don’t realize how much time is passing. He makes a comment about something, I fire back, he laughs, I roll my eyes, and somehow, we’re still going, as if we could sit here for hours and not run out of things to say.
And the way he looks at me—really looks at me—makes it even harder to pretend this is nothing. There’s no teasing smirk, no sarcastic remark waiting to be delivered. He just listens, like he actually cares about what I have to say, like he’s interested in the conversation itself, not just waiting for his turn to speak. Every time I laugh, I see it—the way his mouth tugs slightly at the corner, the way his expression softens in this way that makes something in my stomach tighten a little too much.
I tell myself I’m imagining it.
I pretend not to notice.
I am so careful not to acknowledge it.
So careful.
Until—
Kenan shifts, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbow against the table, his movements easy and unhurried. He’s still talking, still completely comfortable, still looking at me in a way that makes my skin feel warmer than it should. His hand moves as if it’s just part of the conversation, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and suddenly, before I can even process it—his fingers brush against my skin.
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
I still.
It’s nothing. It should be nothing. A casual, thoughtless movement, something people do all the time without thinking. But I feel it anyway. The way his fingertips graze just barely against my skin, the way my breath catches before I can stop it, the way my pulse stumbles slightly out of rhythm.
I don’t move.
And when I finally bring myself to look at him, he’s already watching me.
There’s no teasing smile this time, no expectation that I’ll roll my eyes or tell him to stop being annoying. His gaze lingers, not in the way it usually does when he’s winding me up, but in a way that makes me acutely aware of how close we are, how low the lighting is, how long we’ve been sitting here.
And then, just as casually as anything else, like he’s just stating a fact, he says—
“You look nice tonight.”
I blink.
Kenan doesn’t laugh it off or turn it into a joke. He doesn’t make a stupid comment to lighten the mood.
He just says it.
And suddenly, I feel the shift. The weight of the moment. The way this night has felt different from the start, how I’ve been trying so hard to ignore it, to brush past it, to keep everything as normal as possible.
I clear my throat, shifting slightly in my seat, leaning back just enough to regain whatever little distance is left between us. “That’s suspiciously polite of you.”
Kenan grins, but there’s something different underneath it this time. Softer. Quieter.
“I can be polite,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow. “Since when?”
Kenan laughs, shaking his head, as if this conversation hasn’t just tipped over into something else entirely. “Shut up.”
…
I tell myself I’m imagining it.
That nothing has changed.
That Kenan has always been like this—touchy, flirty, full of too much energy and no sense of personal space.
But lately, it’s harder to believe that.
Because now, when he leans in, he doesn’t just lean in—he gets close.
Close enough that I feel the warmth of him, the barest brush of his breath against my skin when he murmurs something in my ear, his voice lower than necessary.
Close enough that I catch myself not moving away.
Like right now.
I’m adjusting the sleeve of his suit, focused, professional, completely in control, when I feel him shift.
A slow, deliberate movement.
And then—his hand finds my waist.
Not a full touch. Just fingertips grazing over the rim of my blouse, barely there, like he’s testing the waters.
My breath catches, but I don’t react.
I won’t react.
Instead, I clear my throat and step back just slightly, putting enough space between us to make it look intentional.
“Keep your arm straight,” I say, like my voice isn’t thinner than it should be, like I don’t notice the way his fingers hesitate before falling away.
Kenan hums, amused.
“You’re being very serious right now,” he murmurs.
I glance up at him. “Because I am serious. This suit costs more than your car.”
Kenan tilts his head slightly, smirking. “That’s a bold assumption.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Kenan, I know what you drive.”
He grins, unbothered. “Fair enough.”
I turn my attention back to the sleeve, carefully adjusting the buttons at the cuff. But then—he shifts again.
His hand finds my wrist this time.
His thumb, brushing just slightly against my skin. Warm. Steady. Completely unnecessary.
And then—his voice. Low. Playful. Right against my ear.
“I like when you fuss over me like this,” he murmurs.
My stomach tightens.
I exhale sharply, yanking my hand away, because this is ridiculous.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, turning away before I can see his reaction.
Kenan laughs—quiet, smug, entirely too entertained.
It’s not just this moment.
It’s all the moments.
A collection of small, seemingly insignificant things that, when pieced together, paint a picture I refuse to acknowledge.
The way he stands closer than necessary. The way he touches me more now—fingers grazing my wrist when I pass him something, the press of his palm against my back when he moves past me, the way his knee stays against mine when we sit side by side.
It’s slowly driving me crazy.
…
I should have gone home.
We both should have.
It’s late, the Juventus complex is quiet except for the soft hum of the overhead light, casting a warm glow over the table where fabric swatches are still scattered from earlier. We finished hours ago, but neither of us has moved to leave. I tell myself it’s because I’m still organizing things, tidying up, making sure everything is in order, but that’s a lie. I just don’t want to be the first one to go.
Kenan is behind me, leaning against the edge of the table, watching me work like he’s waiting for something. He hasn’t said anything in a while, which is how I know he’s about to start trouble. Kenan is always at his most dangerous when he’s quiet.
Then, right on cue, his voice comes, easy and amused.
“You realize the fabric will still be there in the morning, right?”
I don’t turn around. “You realize you’re still here too, right?”
“That’s different,” he says, like that’s the most obvious thing in the world.
I finally glance at him over my shoulder. “Oh? How exactly?”
He grins. “You’re working. I’m just here for moral support.”
I roll my eyes and turn back to the table, stacking the fabric samples in an even pile. “How noble of you.”
“Right? You should really be thanking me.”
“For what, standing there and doing absolutely nothing?”
“For the company.” His tone is light, teasing, but there’s something else there too, something I don’t want to examine too closely.
I let out an exaggerated sigh. “Kenan, you do realize I spend half my life in fittings with you, right? I get more than enough of your company.”
“And yet, you’re still here.”
I pause.
It’s too small a sentence to mean anything.
Except it does.
I shake my head and focus on my work, pretending like he hasn’t just called me out in the most subtle way possible. “Well, someone has to make sure you don’t embarrass yourself in public.”
He hums, stepping closer, just enough that I feel it. “And here I thought it was because you liked dressing me.”
I scoff, ignoring the sudden warmth creeping up my neck. “I dress a lot of people.”
“Yeah, but I’m your favorite.”
The worst part is—he’s not even asking.
He says it like it’s a fact, like it’s already been decided, like he’s just been waiting for me to admit it.
I huff out a laugh, reaching for another swatch, doing everything I can to keep my voice steady. “I promise you, I don’t have favorites.”
Kenan tuts under his breath, stepping even closer, leaning just slightly toward me. “That’s funny, because I’m pretty sure I overheard you telling someone last week that navy brings out my eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been paying extra attention to me.”
I exhale sharply, shaking my head. “It’s literally my job to pay attention to you.”
“So you admit it.”
I freeze for half a second too long, and that’s all he needs.
Kenan laughs under his breath, like he’s caught me in something.
“That’s not what I meant,” I say quickly, but it’s useless.
He’s already too entertained.
Then, before I can even attempt to redirect the conversation, he moves.
A casual shift, nothing obvious, nothing dramatic, but suddenly his hand is resting lightly on my waist.
It’s not a tight grip, not a bold gesture—just a small, steadying touch, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
It’s not.
But I don’t move.
His fingers flex slightly, a slow press of warmth through the fabric of my blouse, and I hate the way my pulse jumps in response.
I force a dry laugh, ignoring the way the air suddenly feels heavier between us. “Don’t.”
Kenan hums thoughtfully. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s weird.”
“I don’t think it’s weird,” he muses, his thumb brushing absently over the fabric. “I think you’re just trying really hard not to like it.”
The absolute audacity.
I let out a sharp breath, pulling back just enough to glare up at him. “I’m not trying anything.”
His mouth tugs into a smirk, slow and knowing. “No?”
Before I can come up with a response, before I can convince myself that I actually have one, he tilts his head slightly, studying me, watching me squirm, knowing exactly what he’s doing.
His eyes flick down to my lips—barely noticeable, but I catch it.
I catch it, and my brain goes completely blank.
And I know.
I know exactly what’s about to happen, I know that I should stop this before it goes any further, before he gets any more of an ego boost than he already has, before I give him one more reason to look at me like he knows something I don’t.
But I don’t stop it.
And maybe—that’s all he was waiting for.
Because then, he kisses me.
It’s not rushed, not hesitant, just easy. Like he knew exactly how this was going to play out before I even figured it out myself. Like he’s been waiting for me to catch up.
And, somehow, before I can even stop to think about it, I’m kissing him back.
His hands move to my jaw, fingers sliding into my hair, firm but not demanding, like he’s daring me to stop him.
But I don’t.
Because I don’t want to.
Because of course this was going to happen.
Because Kenan has been pushing me toward this moment for weeks, maybe longer, and I let him, and now I don’t want to stop.
I don’t even notice that my hands have fisted into his shirt, pulling him in, until I feel him grin against my lips.
He pulls back just slightly, just enough that we’re still close, still breathing the same air, still feeling the warmth of it.
His eyes flick between mine, slow and deliberate, and when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than before, smug but softer.
will byers as a teenager who’s scared to get drunk, high, or receive any sort of anesthesia out of fear that he would accidentally admit he has a crush on mike
you never thought you’d see him again. not like this, anyway. years ago, you and ollie broke up with nothing but love still between you—just two kids choosing different paths. now, he’s a rookie in formula 1 and you’ve just landed the job as his pr assistant. you tell yourself it’s just work, that you can keep it professional. but the universe has a funny way of reminding you that some things never really end—sometimes, they just circle back.
original request is here.
fc : darianka on ig
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ
flashback (2022) (switching dates around slightly, don’t mind me)
yourusername
liked by olliebearman, yourfriend, yoursister and 1,675 others.
yourusername : missing my boy && summer 😭
tagged : olliebearman
—
view 207 other comments.
recent comments
username00 : omg i miss them sm
↳ username75 : ikr they were endgame for me. so cute.
↳ username57 : what did i miss? did her and ollie date?
↳ username00 : they had been best friends since they were like 5 and they started dating around age 12ish and they split right after ollie started w the ferrari junior team bc he was so busy and she had graduated early and was starting uni.
↳ username57 : are either of them seeing each other currently???
↳ username00 : i don't believe so :)
username001 : i come back to this post everyday.
↳ username100 : ikr im so glad she never deleted and ollie never deleted his comment.
username77 : guys!!! check twitter now!!!!
older comments
olliebearman : my girl <3 miss you always
liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername : miss you the most
liked by olliebearman
yoursister : the way you two make me sick (ily both)
liked by yourusername and olliebearman
↳ yourusername : we know we are your fave coupleeeee
liked by yoursister and olliebearman
username00 : can we get a tutorial on how to get a man like ollie? asking for a friend
liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername : not sure that i can do that. he is one of a kind <3
liked by olliebearman and username00
yourfriend : you are insanely beautiful
liked by yourusername and olliebearman
↳ olliebearman : agreed
liked by yourusername and yourfriend
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ
flashback
You remember the night vividly, like it’s pressed into your memory with the sharpness of something that mattered too much to ever blur.
Ollie showed up at your place in the middle of the evening, hair messy from the wind, cheeks flushed, eyes wide with something you couldn’t place at first. He had that boyish grin—the one he only pulled out when he was buzzing with excitement. You barely had time to ask what was going on before he blurted it out.
"I’m a Ferrari junior driver.”
Your heart nearly burst in your chest. The words hit you like sunlight breaking through clouds, and suddenly you were on your feet, throwing your arms around his neck. He lifted you off the ground, spinning you once, laughter bubbling out of both of you. It was pure joy, unfiltered and unrestrained.
“I knew it! I knew you’d do it,” you said, still clinging to him even after he set you back down. “Ollie, this is huge. This is everything you’ve been working for.”
He nodded, his grin still plastered across his face, dimples showing, eyes shining like you’d never seen them before. “It feels unreal. I’ve wanted this for so long, and it’s finally happening. I get to train in Maranello. Proper facilities, proper program. It’s the chance of a lifetime.”
You cupped his face in your hands, pressing a kiss to his cheek, then another, until he caught your lips in a quick, grateful kiss of his own. “I’m so proud of you,” you whispered against him. “I’m so, so proud.”
And you were. You felt it down to your bones. But pride has a way of twisting into something heavier when reality catches up.
You sank onto the edge of your bed, tugging him down with you, your hand still tangled in his. “It’s just… you’re going to be so busy now,” you admitted quietly, looking down at your intertwined fingers. "I'm about to start uni, and now you’ll be in Italy half the year. We’re going to be miles apart, with totally different lives. What if it’s too much?”
For a moment, the brightness in his expression softened. He squeezed your hand, leaning close so his forehead rested gently against yours. “Hey,” he said softly, voice steady in a way that made your chest ache. “We’ve always known this was where it was heading. Racing was never going to keep me close forever. But listen to me—this doesn’t change how I feel about you. Not one bit.”
You swallowed hard, blinking up at him. “But long distance…”
“I’ll make it work,” Ollie interrupted, brushing his thumb over the back of your hand. “We’ll make it work. Calls, visits whenever I can, you flying out on breaks… it won’t be the same, I know. But you’ve been with me since before any of this, since it was just a dream. I can’t imagine doing it without you.”
There was such conviction in his voice that you almost believed nothing could break through it. Almost.
You wanted to say more—to confess how scared you were of losing him to the world he’d been chasing since he was a young boy—but then he kissed you again, slow and certain, like he was sealing a promise neither of you could quite name.
“We’ll be okay,” he murmured, pulling you into his chest. “I’ll never stop making time for us. It’s you and me. Always.”
You let yourself believe him, at least for that night. Because he looked so happy, so sure, and all you could do was hold onto him and hope the universe would let you keep what you had.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ
The flowers had wilted days ago, but you couldn’t bring yourself to throw them out. They sat on the corner of your kitchen counter, the once-bright bouquet Ollie had sent you the first week he left for Italy. The petals were curled inward now, edges tinged brown, the fragrance long gone. You stood there staring at them, arms crossed over your chest, phone heavy in your hand.
You’d told yourself you were just busy. That the missed calls, the texts left on read, the time differences and the exhaustion would even out once you both found a rhythm. But three weeks in, and you already knew. You knew what had to be done.
You dialed his number before you could stop yourself, heart pounding against your ribs. It only rang once before he picked up.
“Love?” His voice was warm, tired, and something in you cracked right then. “You’re awake. I was just about to text you.”
Hearing him call you that made it ten times harder. You shut your eyes and leaned against the counter. “Hey,” you whispered. “How was your day?”
He sighed, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “Long. Really long. Training, meetings, language lessons—I barely sat down. But it’s good. It’s… everything I wanted it to be. I just wish you were here to see it.”
Your throat tightened. You pictured him in some hotel room, hair damp from a late shower, Ferrari polo tossed on a chair, the spark in his eyes you loved so much still glowing even though he was exhausted. And that’s exactly why you couldn’t hold onto him.
“Ollie,” you started, your voice already wobbling. “I need to talk to you about something.”
He paused. You could hear the shift in his tone immediately. “What is it?”
You pressed your thumb into the edge of the counter until it hurt, forcing the words out. “I think… I think we need to let this go.”
There was silence on the other end. Not angry silence. Just stunned, heavy silence.
“Ollie, you’re so busy already,” you continued, rushing before you lost the nerve. “You barely have time to sleep, let alone worry about me. And I’m starting uni, and it’s—it’s a lot. I don’t want us to drag this out and hurt each other. I don’t want you to feel guilty every time you can’t call, and I don’t want to sit here wondering when you’ll have a free minute.”
Finally, his voice came through, quiet and careful. “So you’re saying we should break up.”
Tears burned your eyes. “I don’t want to. You know I don’t. But I think it’s the only way to be fair to both of us. You deserve to put all of yourself into this, Ollie. Into racing. This is your dream.”
The sound of him breathing, shaky and uneven, made your chest ache. “But you’re my dream too,” he whispered.
Your heart split clean in two.
“I’ll always love you,” he said, his words thick and earnest, like they were carved straight out of him. “That doesn’t change, no matter how far away I am or how much time passes. You’ll always be the first person who believed in me. Who… who made me feel like I could do this.”
You pressed your hand to your mouth, muffling the sob that threatened to escape. “And I’ll always love you,” you whispered back. “That’s why I have to let you go.”
There was another long silence, but this one felt different—like two people holding onto each other as tightly as they could before finally loosening their grip.
When Ollie spoke again, his voice was steady but soft, almost reverent. “Promise me one thing?”
“What?”
“Promise me you’ll be happy. In whatever way you can. That you’ll live your life and not wait around for me.”
Your tears finally spilled over, streaking hot down your cheeks. “I promise.”
“Good,” he said quietly. “Because if anyone deserves that, it’s you.”
You sat there with the phone pressed to your ear, neither of you ready to hang up, even though you both knew the moment had already passed.
The flowers sat between you and the silence, their petals crumbling slowly, as if they too understood what was ending.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ
present day
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ
You’d been refreshing your email every ten minutes for the past two days, waiting for a response you half-believed would never come. PR jobs in Formula 1 were competitive enough, and you knew applying for a rookie’s press assistant role meant you were up against a flood of other candidates who were probably more qualified, more polished, more everything.
But then, there it was. The subject line that made your heart stutter:
“Offer of Employment – Haas F1 Team”
Your hand flew to your mouth as you opened it, eyes scanning the words once, twice, three times just to be sure. They wanted you. You’d gotten the job.
You laughed out loud, giddy and overwhelmed, spinning in your desk chair before grabbing your phone to call your sister.
“I got it!” you nearly yelled the moment she picked up.
“What?” she asked, startled.
“The job. The PR assistant job I told you about. I start next week!”
You could hear her clapping on the other end. “No way. That’s amazing! See? I told you they’d love you. Who are you working with?”
You glanced back at the email, scrolling to the line that listed your assignment. Press Assistant to Driver Oliver Bearman.
You froze.
Oliver. Bearman.
Your heart thumped painfully in your chest, the sound suddenly loud in your ears. No. No, it couldn’t be. There had to be more than one. But your gut knew before your brain caught up. You blinked at the screen, rereading it over and over.
“YN?” your sister’s voice came through, cautious now. “Who is it?”
You swallowed hard, gripping your phone so tightly your knuckles went white. “Ollie.”
There was a beat of silence before she gasped. “No. No way. Not that Ollie?”
You groaned, pressing your forehead into your hand. “Yes. That Ollie. They hired me to be his PR assistant. Oh my god, this cannot be happening.”
Her laughter filled the line, loud and uncontrollable. “This is—this is the best thing I’ve ever heard. The universe has a sick sense of humor.”
“It’s not funny,” you snapped, though your lips were tugging upward despite yourself. “I haven’t spoken to him in years. We broke up so he could focus on racing, and now I’m supposed to… what? Write his media statements and make sure he doesn’t put his foot in his mouth? This is insane.”
“It’s poetic,” she corrected, still laughing. “Full circle. The girl who used to help him with school speeches is now his press secretary. You can’t make this up.”
You sat back in your chair, heart racing, brain spinning. She was right—it was poetic. Too poetic. And terrifying. You thought back to the night you’d let him go, to the ache in his voice when he told you he’d always love you. You’d buried that part of your life under time and distance. And now, here it was again, alive and waiting for you at the starting line of a new season.
“What if it’s awkward?” you asked, voice small.
Your sister softened, her tone gentler now. “It will be, at first. But you’re good at your job. And you cared about him. Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive. You’ll handle it.”
You nodded, chewing your lip as your eyes lingered on his name in the email. Oliver Bearman. The boy who once sent you flowers, who held your hand on ferris wheels, who whispered that he’d always love you.
Now he was the man whose image you were being paid to protect.
And whether you liked it or not, your paths had circled back to each other.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ
You’d spent the whole morning rehearsing in your head. Smile, shake hands, keep it professional. You’d even stood in front of your mirror practicing how to say, “Hi, Ollie, nice to see you again” without sounding like your voice was going to crack in half.
And yet, nothing could’ve prepared you for actually walking into the media office on your first day.
The paddock buzzed with energy, mechanics and engineers rushing past, journalists already hovering in corners, the air thick with the hum of engines being tested in the garages. You clutched your lanyard like it was a lifeline as someone from Haas PR led you toward the smaller meeting room at the end of the hall.
“He should be in here,” your new supervisor said casually, like she wasn’t about to throw you into a situation that had been haunting your chest all week. “You’ll be shadowing him for all media responsibilities. Just start with introductions and go from there.”
Your stomach twisted. Introductions. As if you didn’t already know him better than you knew yourself, once upon a time.
The door creaked open, and there he was.
Ollie Bearman.
Not the boy from your memories, lanky and wide-eyed, but the man who’d grown out of them—taller now, shoulders broader, his hair still a little unruly like it refused to be tamed. He was perched on the edge of a chair, scrolling through something on his phone, his race suit tied around his waist. When he looked up, those same green eyes you’d fallen in love with years ago landed on you.
For a moment, the world just… stopped.
His phone slipped slightly in his hands before he caught it. “YN?” His voice was quiet, almost disbelieving, but threaded with a softness that made your chest ache.
You swallowed hard and forced a smile. “Hi, Ollie. Looks like we’re working together again.”
There was a beat of silence before his lips tugged into that familiar, lopsided grin. “Wow. I—uh. This is… unexpected.” He stood quickly, shoving his phone into his pocket, as if suddenly remembering how to function. “You look… good. Great, actually. Really great.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you glanced down at the notepad in your hands. “Thanks. You too. You’ve, um, grown into the whole F1 driver thing.”
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck in that same nervous habit you remembered from years ago. “Trying my best. But, wow… you’re really here. My PR assistant.” He shook his head in disbelief, eyes flicking over you like he was still trying to convince himself you weren’t a dream.
You cleared your throat, reminding yourself why you were there. “Right. So, first order of business—media training. I’ll help prep you for interviews, make sure your answers are polished, keep you from saying anything that could get you in trouble.”
His grin widened, soft and knowing. “Just like you used to.”
The words hit you square in the chest. You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “Yeah. Guess some things don’t change.”
He tilted his head, eyes never leaving yours. “Some things do.”
The air hung heavy between you, full of unspoken memories and the kind of familiarity that no amount of years could erase. You were both different now, older, with lives that had moved in opposite directions. And yet, standing there in a cramped media room in the middle of a Formula 1 paddock, it felt like no time had passed at all.
Your supervisor popped her head back in, breaking the moment. “Everything good in here?”
You and Ollie both jumped slightly, stepping apart.
“Yeah,” you answered quickly, forcing your voice into something professional. “All good.”
But as your supervisor disappeared down the hall again, you felt Ollie’s gaze linger on you. And when you dared to meet his eyes, he smiled—not the cocky grin he wore for cameras, but the soft, earnest smile that used to be just for you.
“Guess it all circles back, huh?” he said quietly.
Your heart skipped, and for a split second, you forgot how to breathe.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “It does.”
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ
f1gossipgirls
1,205,000 likes.
f1gossipgirls : Ollie Bearman and his press secretary (and ex girlfriend), YN LN were spotted in the paddock today and they were all smiles! Talk about a reunion, huh?
—
view 75,000 other comments.
username00 : omg i have longed for this moment.
username55 : he looks so happy to see her im CRYING
username50 : they def deserved their full circle moment. i’m so happy
username15 : i so hope ollie’s mum is there. i want to see her reunion w yn😌😌
username155 : idk why i thought this would be awkward. that boy clearly never lost love for her
username78 : this is the cutest and sweetest thing ever
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ
The sun was barely up when you followed Ollie into the paddock for his first full day as a Formula 1 driver. He tugged nervously at the sleeve of his Haas polo, but the moment he stepped past the turnstiles, a few photographers already called his name, shutters clicking.
You walked just behind him, iPad in hand, dressed in team uniform—professional enough that most people would assume you were part of his management team rather than his ex-girlfriend. That little fact felt like a secret between you, one that hummed uncomfortably under your skin every time his arm brushed yours.
“Schedule?” Ollie asked quietly, glancing at you as though you were the only steady thing in the chaos around him.
“Media pen at nine, panel at ten,” you replied smoothly. “Then a sponsor shoot, then back to the garage before FP1.”
His lips twitched. “You sound terrifyingly organized.”
You raised a brow. “That’s literally my job.”
Ollie smirked but didn’t push further, and you couldn’t help noticing how often he looked to you for reassurance—like this wasn’t just a job, but something you’d always done for him.
The Sky Sports crew were waiting. Ollie straightened his posture instantly, falling into the polished persona Haas had coached him on, but his fingers fiddled with the hem of his shirt.
“How are you feeling ahead of your rookie debut?” the journalist asked.
“Nervous, but excited,” Ollie said honestly, though his eyes flicked toward you in the corner. “I’ve worked a long time to get here, and I’ve got a great team behind me.”
You scribbled a quick note on your clipboard—smile when saying that—and tilted it just enough for him to catch. He chuckled softly and added, “Yeah, I couldn’t do it without the people supporting me.”
The journalist didn’t notice, but you saw the way his smile reached his eyes that time.
When the interview wrapped, you leaned closer as he stepped off. “Good. A little less rambling than yesterday.”
He groaned playfully. “Always my toughest critic.”
“Someone has to be,” you teased, though your pulse jumped when he gave you that familiar, grateful smile—the one you remembered from karting paddocks years ago.
By ten, you were ushering him into the lounge where three other rookies sat waiting. Kimi Antonelli was hunched over his phone, Isack Hadjar was joking with Gabriel Bortoleto, and the room instantly smelled like too much cologne and energy drinks.
The moment Kimi looked up, his face broke into a grin. “No way. I know you!”
You blinked, caught off guard. “You do?”
“Yeah,” Kimi said, already standing to greet you. “Prema days. You were always at the track with Ollie. You used to carry snacks in your backpack.”
Heat crept up your cheeks as you laughed. “Wow, I can’t believe you remember that.”
“How could I not? You basically babysat us. Always telling Ollie to drink water.”
“God, don’t remind me,” Ollie groaned, covering his face. “She’s still doing it.”
Isack perked up instantly, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Wait, wait, wait—are you the girl?”
You hesitated, lips parting. “Uh—”
“My PR assistant,” Ollie cut in quickly, a little too firmly. “That’s all.”
“Ohhh,” Gabriel drawled, exchanging a look with Isack. “So the rumors were true.”
Your face burned, but Kimi just smirked knowingly at Ollie, who looked like he might combust.
“Okay,” you said briskly, waving your clipboard. “The panel starts in two minutes. Please try to act like professionals for at least half an hour.”
The moderator led the panel, asking questions about nerves, expectations, and how it felt to join the grid.
Kimi was confident but careful. Isack was charming, leaning into humor. Gabriel was laid-back, throwing in jokes at the right time.
Ollie, though, kept glancing at you off to the side. You’d jot down quick prompts—shorter answers, smile, don’t fidget with your collar—and he would adjust mid-sentence, like you were tethering him in real time.
At one point, Isack teased, “I mean, Kimi’s the youngest, but Ollie’s the one with a babysitter.”
The crowd laughed. Ollie stiffened, then his eyes darted to you. You wrote in big bold letters: laugh it off.
He took a breath, then grinned. “To be fair, she’s been bossing me around way before I made it to Formula 1.”
The audience laughed even harder. Your lips curved despite yourself.
By the end, all four rookies were buzzing with camaraderie, trading banter and elbowing each other. But as soon as cameras were off, Ollie drifted back to your side like a magnet.
“You okay?” you asked quietly.
He nodded, exhaling. “Better now.”
Walking back toward Haas hospitality, Ollie’s voice dropped. “Do you realize how weird this is? Having you here again?”
You tilted your head. “Weird bad or weird good?”
He gave you a small, crooked smile. “Weird… comfortable. Like, I’ve been waiting for this my whole life, and you’re still here making sure I don’t screw it up.”
For a second, you forgot about your clipboard, your job, the cameras lurking in every corner. It was just you and Ollie again, like all those years ago.
And though you reminded yourself firmly that you were here as his PR assistant, not his girlfriend—your chest still tightened with something you hadn’t felt in a long time.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ
The morning’s chaos finally wound down after the rookie panel. You found yourself perched on a low wall in the paddock, flipping through your notes while Ollie sat beside you, stretching his long legs out in front of him. For the first time all day, no cameras or microphones were shoved in his face—just the soft hum of generators and the smell of coffee wafting from hospitality.
“You’re scarily efficient,” Ollie murmured, leaning back on his hands.
You glanced at him, smirking. “Efficient is literally what they hired me for.”
“Yeah, but…” His eyes crinkled as he looked at you. “You don’t just keep me on track—you make me feel like I can breathe.”
Your chest tightened at that, the weight of history in his words pressing down on you. You laughed lightly, trying to shake it off. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is.” He bumped your shoulder with his, gentle and familiar. “It all circles back, doesn’t it? You used to make sure I said the right thing back then, too.”
You froze for half a second before smiling. “Yeah. Guess some things don’t change.”
There was a silence between you, comfortable and terrifying all at once. You busied yourself with your notes, but you could feel him watching you, like he wanted to say something else but didn’t dare.
A sudden voice cut through the quiet. “YN?!”
You looked up, startled, and there was Terri Bearman striding toward you, wide-eyed and already grinning. She looked just the same—kind eyes, warm smile, and that same motherly energy that had always made you feel welcome.
You barely had time to stand before she was hugging you tightly. “Oh, sweetheart, I can’t believe it! You’re here? With Ollie?”
You laughed into her shoulder. “Hi, Terri. Yeah—it’s a long story.”
Behind her came David, looking just as shocked but smiling. “Well, this is a surprise,” he said warmly, clapping your shoulder in greeting.
And then Thomas and Amelie barreled forward, both taller than you remembered, both looking like they’d just seen their favorite celebrity.
“YN!” Amelie squealed, wrapping her arms around you. “You came back!”
Thomas, trying to act cool but failing, gave you a quick hug too. “This is… actually sick. I didn’t think we’d see you again.”
Your throat tightened as you hugged them back, a rush of nostalgia hitting you so hard it almost knocked the air from your lungs. They weren’t little kids anymore, but they still looked at you with the same wide-eyed affection they always had.
Ollie, standing a few steps back, watched the scene with something soft in his eyes.
“I didn’t know you were going to be here,” Terri said, beaming as she held your hands. “When Ollie said he had a new PR assistant, he forgot to mention this.” She gave her son a pointed look, which made him flush bright red.
“It… didn’t exactly come up,” Ollie muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
Amelie tugged lightly on her own sleeve, bouncing on her toes. “You’re staying all season, right? You’re not going to leave again?”
You smiled and reached out for her. “I’ll be here,” you promised gently. “I’ve got to make sure your brother behaves, after all.”
She giggled, and Thomas smirked. “Good luck with that.”
David chuckled. “Honestly, I think Ollie might actually need you more than the team does.”
The words made Ollie groan, but he didn’t deny it.
After they moved on toward the Haas garage, Ollie lingered at your side. His face was still flushed, but his voice was low, soft.
“They love you,” he said simply. “They never stopped asking about you, you know. Even after…”
Your heart skipped. “Even after we broke up?”
“Yeah.” He glanced at you, his expression vulnerable. “They always hoped they’d see you again. I guess… so did I.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again, unsure what to say with the weight of his family’s warmth still wrapping around you like a blanket.
So you did what you’d always done: kept it professional. “Come on, Bearman,” you said lightly, nudging him with your elbow. “We’ve got a schedule to stick to.”
But as you walked beside him toward the garage, you couldn’t ignore the flutter in your chest—or the way he kept sneaking glances at you like you were the only familiar thing in this brand-new world of his.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ
several weeks into the season…
yourusername
liked by olliebearman, kimi.antonelli, flavy.barla and 345,000 others.
yourusername : i love my job, flavy and whoever gave me the bear hat🧸❤️🤍
tagged : kimi.antonelli, olliebearman, thomasbearman1 and flavy.barla
—
view 12,000 other comments.
olliebearman : the hat is mine. it was given to me ‼️‼️
liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername : finders keepers bearboy
liked by olliebearman
flavy.barla : and i love you my girl 🤍
liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername : love you even moreeeee
kimi.antonelli : go ahead and add ollie to that list
liked by olliebearman
↳ yourusername : do you ever stfu
↳ kimi.antonelli : i might…if you guys stop acting like you’re not madly in love w each other
↳ yourusername : kimi!!! you’re gonna get me fired. finger is hovering over the block button
↳ kimi.antonelli : relax. they could never find someone who keeps ollie on track AND makes him sound intelligent. you have endless job security and that man around your finger
liked by yourusername and olliebearman
↳ yourusername : mercedes needs to retrain you
↳ mercedesamgf1 : on it ! 📝
↳ username000 : i can’t with all of them
terribearman : so lovely to see you and the kids together 🥰 we’re so proud of you, yn.
liked by olliebearman and yourusername
↳ yourusername : thank u momma bear 💕💘
liked by terribearman and olliebearman
username005 : ollie holding her heels??? the soft launch is soft LAUNCHING 👀
↳ username74 : guys i totally don’t think they’d get back together. it’s totally unprofessional
↳ isackhadjar : they can do whatever they want. #day1ollieynshipper
liked by olliebearman
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ
The paddock had been empty for hours, the once-bustling garages now echoing with the occasional metallic clank of someone locking up equipment. You and Ollie were holed up in one of the media rooms, fluorescent lights buzzing softly overhead, laptops and printouts scattered across the table.
You rubbed your temples, glancing at the notes you’d made for him. “Okay, so tomorrow’s interview isn’t the usual pre-race chatter. They’re going to ask about your long-term goals, how you see yourself fitting into the bigger picture. It’s… bigger.”
Ollie leaned back in his chair, hair messy from running his hands through it a hundred times. “Bigger, scarier, you mean.”
You smiled despite yourself. “You’ll be fine. Just remember not to undersell yourself—you have to look ambitious but grounded.”
“Ambitious but grounded,” he repeated, making a face. “That sounds like I’m describing a coffee order.”
You snorted, shaking your head. “You know what I mean. They want confidence, not arrogance.”
He studied you across the table for a moment. “You’ve always known how to translate me.”
Your pen stilled in your hand. His words hit deeper than you expected, dragging up memories of late nights during school, when you’d quiz him before karting interviews, coaching him through answers while he flopped dramatically on your bed. Back then, it hadn’t felt like work—it had felt like part of being his person.
“Old habits die hard,” you said softly, forcing yourself to look back down at your notes.
The room went quiet again, the hum of the lights and the distant sound of a door closing somewhere down the hall the only reminders of the world outside.
After a while, Ollie sat forward, resting his arms on the table. “Can I be honest?”
You glanced up. “Always.”
“I don’t care about the interview. Or the new team, or the noise. The only time I actually feel like I can do this…” His gaze caught yours, steady and unflinching. “…is when you’re here.”
Your throat tightened, and suddenly the air between you felt charged. Dangerous.
You opened your mouth, ready with something safe and professional, but then he was leaning closer, just slightly, enough that your heart stuttered.
“Ollie—”
And then he kissed you.
It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t desperate. It was gentle, a brush of lips that carried years of unsaid words, promises, regrets. Your hands trembled where they rested on the table, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away.
You let yourself sink into it for one stolen second. One breath. One heartbeat.
Then you pulled back like you’d been burned. “No. No, we can’t.”
Ollie blinked, startled. “YN—”
“This is—this is completely unprofessional,” you stammered, standing too quickly, nearly knocking your chair over. “I’m your PR assistant, Ollie. My job is to keep you on track, not—” Your voice cracked. “Not this.”
He stayed seated, watching you with wide, earnest eyes. “I know. I know, and I’m sorry. I just—” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I couldn’t help it. I’ve wanted to do that since the day I saw you walk back into the paddock.”
Your chest ached, but you shook your head, pacing a few steps away. “It can’t happen again. It won’t. I won’t let it.”
For a moment, the silence was unbearable. Then Ollie stood too, careful not to crowd you. His voice was steady, calm in the way it always had been when you were spiraling.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “If you say it won’t happen again, then it won’t.”
You looked up at him, surprised by the lack of protest. But then you caught the flicker in his eyes—the quiet defiance, the unspoken but I know it’s not true.
And maybe you knew it too.
He gave you a small, crooked smile, like he was trying to soften the edges of your panic. “Come on. It’s late. Let’s go before they lock us in.”
You exhaled shakily, forcing yourself to nod, forcing yourself to step back into the role you were supposed to play. But as you followed him out of the empty media room, your lips still tingled with the ghost of his, and the thought you couldn’t chase away was that maybe—just maybe—it was only the beginning.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ
You hadn’t slept much the night before. Every time you closed your eyes, you felt it again—the press of Ollie’s lips, the warmth of his hand brushing yours, the quiet defiance in his eyes when he’d agreed that it “wouldn’t happen again.”
By morning, you had perfected your mask: professional, calm, collected. You went through media duties with Ollie as if nothing had happened, kept your notes tidy, your tone brisk. And yet, every time your hands brushed when you passed him a water bottle or straightened his lanyard, your stomach lurched.
By lunchtime, you felt like you were suffocating.
That’s when Flavy found you.
She slipped into the seat across from you in the Haas hospitality lounge, sliding her sunglasses onto the top of her head. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said matter-of-factly, sipping her iced coffee.
You blinked. “What?”
Flavy arched a brow. “You’ve been pacing around like a robot since this morning. Something’s up.”
You laughed nervously, fiddling with the edge of your notebook. “It’s nothing. Just… long night prepping Ollie for that interview.”
“Mm-hm.” She leaned forward, chin propped on her hand, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Let me guess. Long night… and maybe a kiss?”
Your face went hot instantly. “Flavy!”
Her grin widened. “Oh my god, I’m right, aren’t I?”
You buried your face in your hands. “Please tell me I didn’t make it that obvious.”
“Relax, chérie, I only guessed because you have the same look I had the first time Esteban kissed me. Completely dazed, like someone rewired your brain.”
You groaned. “It was a mistake. A total, complete mistake.”
Flavy tilted her head, studying you. “Did it feel like a mistake?”
That silenced you. You stared at the table, voice barely above a whisper. “No. It felt… like everything all over again. And that’s the problem.”
She softened instantly, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand. “YN. You’ve been carrying this weight, non? Like it’s your job to protect him and keep things perfect. But you forget—you’re not a machine. You’re allowed to feel.”
You looked at her, conflicted. “But it’s unprofessional. He’s my client. I’m supposed to be focused on his career, not—”
“Not falling in love again?” Flavy finished gently.
You swallowed hard.
She smiled knowingly. “Listen. I know it’s messy. But I also know what I see when you two are together. The way he looks at you, the way you steady him. That isn’t just PR. That’s history. That’s care. That’s love.”
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, and you blinked them back quickly. “I can’t risk hurting him. Or myself.”
Flavy squeezed your hand again, firm but kind. “You can’t risk not being honest either. Pretending those feelings don’t exist? That hurts worse in the long run.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “When did you get so wise?”
She smirked. “I’ve had practice. Esteban was… not easy in the beginning.” Her eyes softened. “But he was worth the risk. Maybe Ollie is too.”
Her words sat heavy in your chest, comforting and terrifying all at once.
Finally, you exhaled, leaning back in your chair. “Okay. I’ll… think about it.”
“That’s all I ask.” Flavy grinned, grabbing her sunglasses again. “And if you need someone to scream into a pillow with, you know where to find me.”
You laughed despite yourself, the knot in your chest loosening just slightly.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ
The hotel is quiet in that soft, late-evening way, the hallways muted except for the distant hum of the elevator. You’ve just changed into an oversized t-shirt, your hair still damp from a shower, laptop open on the bed with notes glowing on the screen. You’re trying—really trying—to focus on bullet points and media strategies for tomorrow, but your mind won’t stop replaying last night.
That kiss. The warmth of Ollie’s hand brushing your jaw, the way you leaned into him without hesitation, the way your heart had sprinted like it was 2021 all over again. And then your own panicked voice telling him it couldn’t happen again. You’ve been chanting it to yourself since—you’re his press secretary, you’re professional, you can’t ruin this.
So when the knock comes on your door, you assume it’s housekeeping or maybe Flavy dragging you out for tea. But when you open it and find Ollie standing there—hoodie half-zipped, curls messy from running his hands through them—your breath catches.
“Ollie,” you whisper, clutching the doorframe. “It’s late—what are you—”
“I had to,” he blurts out, almost breathless, eyes searching yours like he’s afraid you’ll slam the door. “I couldn’t just sit in my room pretending like… like that didn’t happen.”
Your stomach flips. For a second you actually consider closing the door, because you know if he comes inside, your heart won’t stand a chance. But his voice cracks, and your hand betrays you—you step back.
He slips in, the faintest hint of his cologne following him, and stands in the middle of your room like he has no idea what to do with himself. His hands stay buried in his pockets, but his whole body is restless.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you murmur, closing the door softly. “Ollie, if anyone finds out—”
“I don’t care.” His words are sharp, certain. His eyes lock on yours, stubborn and desperate all at once. “YN, I don’t care if it’s unprofessional, I don’t care if people talk, I don’t care if the team yells at me. I’ve tried to be calm, to just… work with you, but I can’t anymore.”
Your throat tightens. “Ollie…”
He takes a step closer. “I’m still madly in love with you. I never stopped.” His voice softens, pleading now. “I know I was stupid when I let you go. I know I hurt you. But these last few months… being with you again, even like this—it’s the happiest I’ve been in years. And I can’t go another night pretending I don’t want you back.”
The room feels too small, the air too thin. You wrap your arms around yourself, torn between running and throwing yourself at him. “This is crazy. You’re my driver. I’m your press secretary. If anyone finds out—”
“Then let me handle it,” he cuts in, steadier now. He closes the gap between you, leaving only a breath of space. His hand twitches like he wants to reach for yours but waits. “I’ll handle the team. I’ll handle the press. I’ll take every consequence if it means I get to have you. Just… don’t push me away again. Please.”
You stare at him, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it. Finally, you whisper, “You’re not supposed to say things like that.”
“Then tell me to leave,” he challenges gently. “Tell me you don’t feel the same, and I’ll go. I’ll walk out that door right now.”
But you don’t. You can’t. It’s written all over you—the way your lips part, your hands tremble, your chest aches at the thought of him leaving.
And Ollie sees it. His face softens, and before you can stop yourself, you grab the front of his hoodie and tug him forward. His lips crash against yours, urgent and desperate, like years of longing finally snapping.
You stumble back until your shoulders hit the wall, his hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones like he needs to memorize you. You kiss him back feverishly, twisting your fingers in his hoodie, and it feels like home and wildfire all at once.
When you finally break apart, breathless, he leans his forehead against yours. “See?” he whispers, grinning through uneven breaths. “That’s not something you just walk away from.”
A shaky laugh escapes you, and you bury your face in his chest, heart racing. “We’re so screwed.”
“Maybe,” he admits, pressing a kiss into your hair, voice low and certain. “But at least we’ll be screwed together.”
And somehow, in that quiet hotel room, with his arms tight around you, it doesn’t feel terrifying anymore—it just feels right.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ
The morning light is soft and warm as you pull your jacket tighter around yourself, trying to act casual while glancing around the Haas paddock. The roar of engines and chatter of team members makes it feel like a completely different world from the quiet hotel room where Ollie had confessed his feelings the night before.
You’re checking your phone for updates, pretending to scroll through emails, when you feel a nudge at your side. Ollie’s there, hoodie zipped up, sunglasses slightly crooked, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips.
“Are you ready?” he asks quietly, voice low enough that no one nearby can hear.
You blink at him, heart thudding. “Ready for what?”
“For our little escape.”
You stare at him for a beat, realizing what he means. And then a smile curls your lips despite the nerves fluttering in your chest. “Oh. Right. Yeah… let’s go.”
He slides his hand into yours, fingers interlacing perfectly. You’re careful to glance over your shoulder, making sure no team members are watching. Together, you weave through the paddock, ducking behind hospitality units, hugging the shadows, until you reach the side exit that leads out toward the quiet streets of the town near the track.
Once you’re out of sight, Ollie lets out a quiet laugh. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
“You said it yourself,” you tease, tugging him along. “We’re screwed, remember?”
He rolls his eyes, but the smile in his eyes is all mischief. “Yeah, yeah. But secretly, this feels… perfect.”
The streets are empty and calm, the hum of traffic distant. You walk together, talking quietly about nothing in particular—how loud the paddock is, a ridiculous story Kimi had told you yesterday, the way Esteban keeps sending you memes. The ordinary chatter makes everything feel surreal, like the world has melted away and it’s just the two of you.
Eventually, you spot a small, cozy café tucked down a side street. The sign is hand-painted, and the aroma of fresh bread and coffee drifts toward you. Ollie glances at you with a grin that’s all teeth and warmth.
“Perfect. You picking?”
You nod eagerly, pushing open the door. The café is quiet, almost empty, with soft jazz playing in the background and a few patrons typing on laptops or sipping coffee. It’s the opposite of the paddock—a little bubble of calm and normalcy.
You find a small table in the corner, close enough to the window that you can watch people pass by but tucked enough that no one will notice you. Ollie sits opposite you, eyes flicking around before he finally focuses back on you, and the grin fades into something softer, warmer.
“You know,” he murmurs, voice low, “I think this is the first time in… I don’t know how long, that I’ve just… existed without thinking about the team, the press, the schedule.”
You reach across the table and take his hand, squeezing it gently. “I know. That’s why we needed this.”
He exhales, leaning back in his chair, but doesn’t let go of your hand. “I can’t believe how much I missed this. Missed you.”
Your chest tightens. “Me too,” you whisper. “I didn’t think… I didn’t think we’d get a chance like this again.”
The waiter comes over, and Ollie orders a coffee for himself and a hot chocolate for you, just the way you like it—extra whipped cream, a drizzle of caramel on top. You both watch the barista work in silence for a moment, and then Ollie leans forward, resting his chin on his hand.
“So… what’s our plan?” he asks, eyes locking with yours. “We can’t exactly be… open, but I also can’t stop wanting this. Wanting you.”
You bite your lip, trying not to blush. “We… figure it out together. Slowly. Carefully. But… we enjoy moments like this. Just us.”
He grins, leaning across the table to brush a soft kiss across your forehead. “Deal.”
The coffee and hot chocolate arrive, and you both dig in, laughing quietly when he steals a piece of whipped cream from the top of your mug. You swipe a finger across his lip and he laughs, the sound low and happy, and you realize your heart might actually burst from how good this feels.
After the drinks, he insists on walking you back the way you came, hand-in-hand. Every step feels charged, but safe. You duck back into the paddock, slipping behind a garage just in time to avoid a passing engineer. Both of you are giggling quietly like teenagers sneaking out for the first time.
Once you’re back in the quiet corner of the paddock, he presses a gentle kiss to your lips again, slower this time, savoring it. “I could get used to this,” he murmurs against your mouth.
“Me too,” you admit, your hands clutching the back of his hoodie.
He grins. “Then maybe we don’t have to hide all the time.”
You laugh softly, the tension of the paddock and the secrecy melting away, if only for a little while. And in that stolen afternoon, walking back to the chaos together, you realize that no matter how tricky this all is, having Ollie by your side makes everything feel… right.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ
f1gossipgirls
1,345,000 likes.
f1gossipgirls : Ollie Bearman and his press secretary getting way too cozy for just work ☕❤️ secret smiles, stolen laughs, and maybe a little more than coffee… looks like office hours are getting very interesting 😏
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ
The morning light was just creeping through the curtains when you blinked awake, tangled in Ollie’s arms. For a moment, everything feels perfect—warm, quiet, safe. But then your phone buzzes on the nightstand, and a pit forms in your stomach before you even glance at it. One look, and your heart drops.
Screenshots from the café—taken by some fan or passerby—are all over social media. There you are, hand-in-hand with Ollie, laughing over hot chocolate, heads dangerously close together.
Your hands shake as you tap the screen. “Ollie… oh no. Oh no no no.”
He sits up, rubbing his eyes, then sees the panic on your face. “What’s wrong?”
“It… it’s all over the internet,” you whisper, voice trembling. “The café pictures—they’re everywhere. The press, the fans… the team will see. We’re screwed.”
Ollie runs a hand through his hair, calm and grounding. “Okay, okay. Slow down. We deal with this before it gets worse.”
“Deal with it?” You nearly shriek. “Ollie, they’re going to fire me! Or—”
He takes your hands in his. “Then we go to the team. Now. Before anyone else sees it. I’ll handle it.”
The walk back to the paddock feels surreal. Engines roar, engineers chatter, but Ollie’s grip on your hand is the only thing keeping you tethered. By the time you reach the garage, the team is already aware—their faces stormy, phones out, murmurs all around.
Inside the office, the senior management has gathered. One of them slams a tablet down on the desk, displaying the café photo in full.
“This. This is completely unprofessional,” Mark, the senior manager, says sharply. “You’re here to be Mr. Bearman’s press secretary, not… whatever this is.”
You open your mouth, “I—”
“Please,” Ollie interrupts, stepping forward, hand lightly on your shoulder. “Listen. YN has been exceptional in her role. Nothing about her performance has suffered. I take full responsibility for the situation, but she is professional and essential to this team.”
Mark’s jaw tightens. “We understand, Ollie, but this is highly inappropriate. The optics—fans, sponsors, press—it’s a problem. We can’t overlook it.”
You hold your breath, hoping he can sway them.
Then the words drop like a hammer. “YN,” Mark continues, voice cold, “this is serious. You have a choice. Either you end this… relationship immediately, or you lose your position here. There’s no compromise.”
Your stomach twists, and your throat goes dry. Ollie’s hand tightens on yours, but his face is a mask of controlled frustration.
“You can’t be serious,” Ollie says, jaw tight. “She’s done nothing wrong. She’s the best PR assistant I’ve ever had, and this—” He gestures to the screen. “This is her private life. It doesn’t affect her work. She’s not being unprofessional in her job. And you know it.”
Mark shakes his head. “We’ve considered that. But perception is everything. We can’t risk this becoming a distraction for the team, or the sponsors will push back.”
Your heart pounds, fear and frustration and helplessness all mixing together. You glance at Ollie—he’s calm on the surface, but his jaw is tight, his eyes flashing. “You’d do anything?” you whisper.
“Anything,” he murmurs back, squeezing your hand reassuringly.
“I…” you begin, voice trembling. “I can’t just—choose like that… end things because of a rule that wasn’t even written down.”
The team’s expressions are unyielding. “That’s your ultimatum,” Mark says. “Now decide.”
Ollie exhales, running a hand through his hair, leaning slightly toward you. “YN… you don’t have to answer right now. But whatever you choose, I’m not letting this ruin us.”
Your chest tightens as the weight of the ultimatum presses down. You love him. You want him. But now the stakes are higher than ever—not just your heart, but your job, your stability.And somewhere deep inside, you know this decision isn’t just about work or love. It’s about choosing together, and nothing will ever be the same after today.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ
You push open the doors to the hospitality lounge, barely noticing the faint hum of conversation and clinking cups. The chatter and laughter around you feel distant, like you’re underwater, as your stomach twists and your chest aches. You barely make it to one of the corner sofas before flopping down, shoulders heavy, head in your hands.
Flavy spots you immediately. “YN?” she says softly, sliding onto the couch next to you. Her eyes take in your expression—usually composed, confident, and radiant—and she falters at the sadness etched across your face. “Hey… what happened?”
You shake your head, trying to form words, but your throat tightens. Flavy places a hand on your knee, warm and grounding. “Talk to me,” she says gently.
“I—I don’t know where to start,” you whisper. “It’s… it’s Ollie. The café pictures got leaked. And the team… they’ve given me an ultimatum. Either the relationship ends, or I lose my job.”
Flavy’s mouth opens in shock, then she leans back, processing. “Wait… what? They’re actually trying to fire you… over a picture?”
You nod, blinking rapidly. “I… I love him. I can’t just end things. But… they’re serious. They said perception is everything, and they don’t want me here if I’m with him. I don’t know what to do.”
At that moment, Esteban steps out of the kitchen area, tray in hand, and freezes when he sees your face. He carefully sets the tray down and crouches beside you. “YN… what’s going on?”
You can’t hold it in anymore. Your voice cracks as you explain everything—the café pictures, the ultimatum, the team insisting that you end things or lose your job. You feel exposed, vulnerable, and completely drained.
Flavy squeezes your shoulder, while Esteban listens intently, jaw tightening as he takes in the story. “That’s… insane,” he mutters finally. “They can’t seriously think firing you over this is okay.”
You shrug helplessly, tears threatening to fall. “I don’t know what to do. Ollie… he’s madly in love with me. He wants to fight for it, but—” Your voice catches. “I can’t lose my job.”
Just then, the lounge door opens, and a familiar, warm voice cuts through the tension. “What’s going on in here?”
You look up and see Ollie’s mum, Terri, standing in the doorway, arms crossed, but eyes soft and concerned. She’s always been fiercely protective of Ollie, and the sight of her scanning the room and immediately noticing your distress makes you exhale a shaky breath.
“What happened?” she asks, walking over, noticing the tension in your shoulders, the glimmer of tears in your eyes.
Flavy explains quickly, gesturing to you. “YN just told us… the team gave her an ultimatum. Either she ends her relationship with Ollie or she loses her job.”
Terri’s eyes narrow immediately, the protective, no-nonsense energy you’ve seen a thousand times in Ollie radiating off her. “Excuse me?” she says, voice sharp but controlled. “They’re threatening her? Over what? Love? For goodness’ sake, this is ridiculous.”
You bury your face in your hands. “I just… I can’t… I love him. I don’t know what to do…”
Terri kneels beside you, placing her hands gently on your shoulders. “Listen to me, darling. You’re not going to let anyone bully you out of this. And you’re certainly not going to lose your job without a fight.”
Esteban nods, standing beside her. “I’ll come with you,” he says firmly, glancing between you and Terri. “If you’re going to talk to them, you shouldn’t go alone. I know a thing or two about standing up to them.”
Flavy gives you a reassuring squeeze. “Whatever happens, we’ve got your back. You don’t have to face this alone.”
You look at them all—Flavy’s warm, loyal presence, Esteban’s quiet, solid support, and Terri’s unshakable determination—and a small flicker of courage ignites inside you. You realize that maybe you can confront this, that maybe this isn’t a battle you have to face alone, and that Ollie would want you to stand your ground.
Terri stands, straightening her shoulders. “Come on. Let’s go have a little chat with those so-called decision-makers before they make a huge mistake.”
Esteban slips an arm around your shoulders, giving you a steadying squeeze. “You’ve got this,” he says. “We’ll make sure they hear you loud and clear.”
You take a deep breath, letting the courage settle in your chest. For the first time all morning, the pit in your stomach eases a little. Maybe, just maybe, with the right allies beside you, you can fight this. And maybe Ollie won’t have to face this without you either.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ
The hallway outside the team office feels impossibly long as you, Terri, and Esteban walk toward the conference room. Every step makes your heart pound faster, but the warmth of Terri’s hand on your shoulder and Esteban’s quiet, steady presence at your side gives you a sense of grounding. You can’t help stealing a glance at Terri, whose jaw is set and eyes hard, and you realize that nothing short of a hurricane could break her today.
When the three of you push open the door, the room falls silent. The senior team management—Mark, two other PR heads, and the sporting director—are already seated, looking up in surprise.
“YN,” Mark starts, voice sharp but cautious, “we didn’t expect—”
Terri cuts him off with a voice that leaves no room for interruption. “No, you weren’t expecting me. And you should be glad I showed up. Because this… this is outrageous.” She strides forward, eyes blazing, stopping just short of the table. “You think threatening a young woman over who she chooses to love is acceptable? Do you even understand what you’re doing?”
You swallow nervously, gripping Esteban’s arm, but he gives you a small, reassuring squeeze. Terri continues, her voice rising slightly, though still measured and commanding. “I have raised my son to work hard, to be the best, to take responsibility for his career. But I have never seen him this happy—ever. And that happiness? It’s because of her.” She points toward you, and your chest warms despite the tension in the room. “You threaten to fire her over… love? Over a private moment? If you truly care about your drivers’ mental health, their wellbeing, you wouldn’t be doing this. Not now. Not ever.”
Mark opens his mouth, but Terri doesn’t pause. “I don’t care what ‘perception’ you think you’re protecting. I don’t care about optics. What I care about is my son being treated like a human being—and YN being treated like the professional she is.”
Esteban, who has been standing quietly beside you, finally speaks, his tone calm but firm. “And I’ll back her up. YN has done nothing wrong in her role. She’s organized, professional, and completely competent. And Ollie—” he glances pointedly at Terri and then the managers—“he’s happier than I’ve ever seen him. You’re jeopardizing both their wellbeing for a rule that doesn’t exist. That’s not leadership. That’s fear and control.”
Your throat tightens as you listen. You glance at Ollie, who has arrived quietly behind the trio, taking in the scene. His jaw is set, but his eyes are soft on you, and you feel the flutter of hope in your chest.
Terri leans forward, her hands flat on the table, voice lowering but cutting through every doubt in the room. “Let me make this simple for you. YN stays. Ollie stays happy. And you focus on racing, not policing hearts. This ends now. You threaten her again, and you’ll have me to answer to. Do I make myself clear?”
Mark and the other managers exchange glances, tension thick in the air. You can almost feel the silence stretching. Esteban steps forward slightly, voice steady: “We’re not asking for special treatment. We’re asking for fairness. Let them be together. It’s not a distraction—it’s support, happiness, and trust. That should be your priority, not scandal-mongering over a private moment.”
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Mark exhales, shoulders slumping, and says, “Fine. They can… continue their relationship. But… discretion is expected. We don’t want unnecessary attention from the press.”
Terri tilts her head, a satisfied but still wary expression on her face. “Good. That’s all I wanted to hear. They deserve that much.”
Ollie finally steps forward, closing the distance between you and him. He gently takes your hand in his, giving it a small squeeze, eyes locking with yours. “You okay?” he murmurs.
You nod, feeling a rush of relief and emotion. “I think so. Thanks… to both of you,” you say softly, looking at Terri and Esteban. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”
Esteban smirks slightly, clapping you on the shoulder. “You’d have figured it out. But it’s more fun with people by your side.”
Terri crosses her arms, but her eyes are softer now. “Now come on. You two. Back to work—and maybe a little less sneaking around, hmm?” she teases gently, though you know the sparkle in her eyes is approval.
Ollie laughs quietly, leaning down to brush a quick kiss across your temple. “Guess we’re officially allowed to be ourselves,” he whispers.
You grin, heart light for the first time all morning. “Yeah… officially. Finally.”
And as you leave the room, hand in hand with Ollie, you realize just how much it means to have people fighting for you, and that sometimes, love—no matter how complicated—can be strong enough to push through anything.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ
The final lap felt like it had lasted an eternity. Your heart is pounding so hard you’re sure Ollie can hear it from the paddock, even though he’s in the car. The radio crackles with the familiar tension, engineers shouting final lap times, the pit crew counting down. And then… the checkered flag.
You scream so loudly you’re probably scaring the nearby fans, your hands clenching the railing as Ollie crosses the line in P3. Your stomach flips, a mixture of relief, pride, and excitement all at once. He did it. Your Ollie—the boy who’d once nervously called you about karting results, the boy you’d loved long before F1—did it.
The team erupts in the garage, but you barely notice. All you can see is him, climbing out of the car, helmet in hand, racing suit soaked with sweat. He’s running. Not toward the cameras, not toward the podium—he’s running straight toward you.
You freeze for a split second, heart in your throat. And then he’s there.
“I did it!” he practically yells, voice hoarse and wild with joy. Before you can even respond, he grabs both your hands and spins you around. He kisses you like it’s the only thing that matters in the world—long, breathless, a mixture of adrenaline and pure happiness. Your legs tingle, your stomach does somersaults, and for a second, nothing else exists.
“You did it!” you manage between laughs and kisses, clutching at his shoulders.
He grins, forehead pressed against yours, chest heaving. “We did it,” he corrects, spinning you around again. “I did it, but… you—you kept me sane through it all. You made this happen, YN.”
Somewhere behind the railing, Kimi—who’d been waiting with the rest of the rookies—is practically shouting. “FINALLY!” His hands are on his hips, and you can see a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “About time you let her see you actually win something! I was starting to think she’d have to start cheering for someone else!”
Ollie laughs, still spinning you around. “Shut up, Kimi! This is my moment!”
You laugh along, arms wrapped around his neck, and he lifts you slightly, spinning again. “No, our moment,” he insists, voice full of joy. “You and me, okay? This podium is as much yours as it is mine.”
Flavy appears at the edge of the scene, grinning and taking in the chaos. “You two are ridiculous,” she teases, holding up her phone, probably already documenting every second. “You should probably save some of this energy for the trophy photos, guys.”
Ollie pretends to pout at her before pressing one more quick kiss to your forehead. “Sorry, we can’t help it! This is too big to be subtle.”
You nuzzle against him, laughing, trying to steady your breathing. “I think the whole paddock knows now,” you whisper.
“Good,” he says, pulling you close again. “Let them know. They can all see that this is my girl. Always has been. Always will be.”
Kimi groans dramatically from behind you. “Ugh, I hate you guys. But also… this is really cute, I admit it.”
And as the confetti starts to fall, cameras flash, and the podium looms in the distance, you realize that for the first time in your life, standing here with Ollie, nothing else matters. You’re here. He’s here. You’re together. And somehow, amidst the chaos and cheers, it feels like the whole world has shrunk down to just the two of you—and it’s perfect.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ
olliebearman
liked by yourusername, kimi.antonelli, thomasbearman1 and 2,500,000 others.
olliebearman : first ever f1 podium and got the love of my life back🤍
I know you have a lot of drafts right now so feel free to wait to write this. Also I know it’s already post new years, but let’s play pretend.
For new years, Reader does, 12 grapes under the table, and then maybe the day (weeks or months any works) your best friend (Ollie or Osc) starts looking like more than a friend? Something where the two start seeing other in a different light? 🦋
12 Wishes
⪩⪨ featuring: oliver bearman
⪩⪨ synopsis: this year, you decide to do the infamous 12 grapes under the table tradition for new year's expecting nothing. little did you know, your best friend would start looking a little different.
⪩⪨ genre: fluff, friends to lovers
new year’s was never something you took too seriously. it was mostly an excuse to dress nicely, eat too much, and stay up later than you should. but this year, somewhere between laughter and the final countdown, you found yourself crouched under the table with twelve grapes in your hand.
“what are you doing?” your cousin whispered, crouching down too, even though she definitely did not need to be there.
“tradition,” you said, trying not to laugh. “twelve grapes. one wish for each month.”
she raised an eyebrow. “and you have to be under the table?”
“yes,” you nodded. “otherwise it doesn’t work.”
she grinned, “you’re ridiculous.”
when midnight hit, you rushed through the grapes, cheeks full, laughing quietly so no one would catch you. your cousin counted the seconds, tapping your knee gently when you almost fell behind. when you swallowed the last one, you both froze for a moment.
“what’d you wish for?” she asked.
you shrugged. “doesn’t work if i tell.”
she nodded, like that made perfect sense. “then i hope it comes true.”
the weeks that followed were normal. too normal.
one of your wishes was to find love. not money, just someone who wanted your company. the days went by and you hung out with your best friend oliver like usual. you still texted every day, still met up whenever you could, still knew each other’s bad habits. new year, same you.
but you started noticing things.
the way ollie looked at you when you spoke, like he was not really listening, but admiring you instead. the way he lingered when saying goodbye, like he wasn’t in a rush to leave anymore. the way his hand always found yours when crossing a street, protective.
and then there was the silence.
not awkward silence but comfortable silence. the kind that felt heavier than before, something different. you’d sit next to him on the couch, shoulders touching, and heart doing things you pretended not to notice.
you told yourself it was nothing.
until one night, some months later, you caught your reflection in the window laughing at something ollie had said, and realized you were looking at him like he was more than your best friend.
that realization scared you. because once you saw it, you couldn’t unsee it.
it was ollie who broke first.
you were walking together, late evening, city quiet around you. he shoved his hands into his pockets, clearly nervous, and you recognized the signs immediately. you had known him too long not to.
“can i ask you something?” he said.
“yes, of course.”
he stopped walking. you did too.
“do you ever think,” he started, then stopped, exhaling slowly. “that maybe… we missed something?”
your heart stopped for a second.
“like what?” you asked softly.
he looked at you then. “like maybe we were so busy calling each other best friend that we didn’t notice when it became something else.”
the air between you felt different. you thought of grapes under a table. of a wish you hadn’t dared name. of months of stolen glances and unspoken tension.
“i think,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, “i noticed. i was just scared. what if i was the only one noticing these things? could've been delusions.”
relief washed over his face so openly it made your chest feel weird.
“me too,” he admitted. "i was scared too."
he didn’t kiss you right away. instead, he just stepped closer, forehead resting gently against yours, like he needed a second to believe this was real.
"maybe the grapes worked,” you murmured.
he laughed quietly. “grapes, huh?”
and for the first time, standing there with him, it felt like the year had finally given you exactly what you’d asked for.
