manu

21yr ; she/her ; pt/fr ; mclaren

[h0pela]

NEW MASTERLIST!

here! you can find my old masterlist related to kpop and anime. This new masterlist is now focus on formula 1 writing.

✷ SERIES

• Rookies of love (high school!au)

Follow 2025's rookies as certified lovers in this highschool au !

coming soon 𓂃✍︎

✷ DRIVERS

✧ CL16

• The landing level of love (stranger to lovers)

– clumsy! reader x neighbor! charles ;

When a stormy night of summer brings you closer to Charles – the guy living across your flat. This occasion would never come twice, right?

[tsunodaradio]

yes, chef! ⛐ 𝐘𝐓𝟐𝟐

the great yuki tsunoda, who can breeze through a dinner service without breaking a sweat, suddenly looks like he might crumble under the weight of his own feelings.

ꔮ starring: restaurant owner!yuki tsunoda x pastry chef!reader. ꔮ word count: 18.6k. ꔮ includes: implied smut/suggestive, romance, friendship. alternate universe: non-f1, alternate universe: restaurant/service industry. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. yearning, friends to lovers, ensemble of driver cameos. ꔮ commentary box: celebrating turning twenty-something with a monster of a yt22 fic!!! been working on this for what feels like forever. everybody, meet my shaylas 🎂 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Monday mornings always feel like a personal attack.

Your alarm is cruel enough, but the real betrayal is the way sunlight filters through your blinds as if the world is mocking you. You drag yourself out of bed with all the grace of a zombie extra in a B‑list horror film. Teeth brushed, hair tied back, chef’s whites pressed in theory (in reality, the iron stayed untouched), you go through the motions of a routine that has more to do with muscle memory than enthusiasm.

Coffee comes first. Always coffee.

You sip it like medicine, grimacing at the bitterness but knowing you’d be a public safety hazard without it. Bag slung over your shoulder, sneakers squeaking on the pavement, you head out to Venti Due—the only itameshi restaurant along the West Coast and, conveniently, your place of reluctant employment.

The brick façade of the restaurant looks deceptively cheerful in the morning light. You push the door open and step into the familiar hum of pre‑opening chaos. The servers are already buzzing around, though ‘buzzing’ is generous when it comes to Oscar. 

He greets you with his usual sleepy smile, one hand still clutching his phone as if he’s been dragged out of bed five minutes ago. Knowing Oscar, it probably isn’t far from the truth. A uni student pulling part‑time shifts, he’s charming in the way of someone who can’t fully hide his exhaustion but tries anyway.

“Morning,” he mumbles, voice caught somewhere between dreams and reality.

“You’re awake. Miracles do happen,” you shoot back, tossing your bag behind the counter.

Jules pops her head up next, practically materializing from behind a stack of menus. “Don’t jinx him. He’s fragile in the mornings.” Jules, with her eccentric flair and a tendency to turn even simple table setups into performance art, beams at you. She’s already managed to scatter napkins across three different tables in what looks suspiciously like an avant‑garde arrangement. You decide to let her have her moment.

George, the sommelier, is next in line for introductions whether he wants it or not. He shuffles past with a clipboard in hand, brow furrowed in concentration. Frumpy, yes. Well‑meaning, also yes. He greets you with a distracted nod, muttering something about bottle inventories that you’re not entirely sure wasn’t directed at himself. You’ve seen him lose battles with corkscrews more often than you’d care to admit, but his heart’s in the right place.

The bar clinks with the unmistakable rhythm of Lando at work. He’s got that too‑easy grin, the kind that spells trouble before you even reach the counter. “Morning, pastry princess,” he calls, shaking a cocktail shaker despite the hour. You roll your eyes, already bracing yourself. Lando’s in the middle of his Master’s, somehow balancing academia with bartending and an unrelenting commitment to flirting with anything that breathes.

“You’re not supposed to make drinks before noon,” you point out.

“You’re not supposed to look this grumpy before noon, but here we are.” He winks, and you resist the urge to throw a spoon at his head.

The kitchen door swings open and Alex emerges, still tying his apron. Away from kitchen duty, he’s personable and warm, the type of guy who remembers birthdays and always has an extra pen when you’re short. When it’s time to cook, though, the sous chef is Gordon Ramsey reincarnated. “Don’t let him bother you,” Alex says, shooting Lando a look before offering you a smile.

The rhythm of the morning crew is familiar, each cog in the machine spinning in its predictable orbit. You’re halfway to convincing yourself this Monday might pass without incident when the air shifts.

Yuki Tsunoda steps into the room with the kind of presence that demands attention. Not loud, not showy. He’s only sharp, focused, carrying an authority that instantly changes the tempo of the restaurant. He shrugs off his jacket, ties his apron with brisk precision, and surveys the room with an expression that dares anyone to waste his time.

You hate the way your stomach flips. It’s Monday morning. You’re supposed to be miserable. Instead, all you can think is: here we fucking go.

Yuki sets his knife roll on the counter with a soft thud, pulling the ties loose with the focus of someone already two steps ahead of everyone else. You’ve seen him do this a hundred times. Efficient, precise, and more than a little intimidating if you’re new. But you’re not new. You’ve been here since the beginning, which makes you immune to the brunt of his stormy focus. Mostly.

“Morning,” he says finally, not looking up as he inspects a blade for sharpness.

“You mean ‘good morning, how are you, did you sleep well?’” You lean against the prep counter with your arms crossed. “That’s how normal people greet each other.”

He snorts, clearly unimpressed. “If I wanted small talk, I’d ask Jules. Did the flour delivery come in?”

“Wow. Straight to business. My weekend must mean nothing to you.” You slide your phone across the counter so he can see the checklist you’ve already made. “Yes, it came in. Two sacks instead of three. I called the supplier already. They’re sending another one this afternoon.”

Yuki glances at the list, lips twitching in what might almost pass for a smile. “And the pistachios?”

“Safe and sound. Locked away from Lando, in case he gets bored and decides to experiment with nut-based cocktails again.”

“That was one time,” Yuki exhales, lining up his knives like soldiers. He pauses, flicking a look your way. “You remembered to order the hazelnut paste?”

“Do I look like someone who forgets the backbone of her own creations?”

“Sometimes,” he says. But you catch the corner of his mouth fighting upward, and it’s enough to make your pulse skip. This is how it always is. Professional words with just enough bite to keep you on your toes. You can read the rhythm of his moods like sheet music, filling in the gaps with your own easy counterpoint.

“I’ll start on the tarts once the ovens finish preheating,” you say, turning toward your workstation. “If you behave, I might even let you have the first one.”

Yuki shakes his head, feigning exasperation as readjusts his chef’s jacket. “You talk like I can’t just take one.”

“You could,” you concede, glancing at him over your shoulder, “but then you’d miss the fun of me pretending you earned it.”

For a moment, his gaze lingers on you longer than it should, heavy enough that you feel it even without looking directly at him. Then he clears his throat and flips open his notebook. “Inventory meeting in ten. Don’t be late.”

“As if I would ever,” you say, already pulling flour from the storeroom. Your hands move on autopilot, weighing, measuring, prepping for the day ahead. You and Yuki have done this dance so many times, it’s practically second nature. Two halves of the same rhythm, balancing each other without ever needing to speak it out loud.

By midmorning, Venti Due hums like a machine that knows its purpose. Orders aren’t flying in yet, but prep is its own battlefield. Knives chop in rhythm, pans hiss and sputter, and the front-of-house polishes glasses with militant devotion. It’s chaos, but choreographed chaos. You fall into the current without hesitation, sleeves rolled up, fingers dusted in flour before you’ve even noticed.

You catch Oscar fumbling with a tray of wine glasses and Jules swooping in with the dramatics of a knight saving a maiden. George is muttering about pairings to no one in particular, while Lando is teaching himself how to juggle lemons when he thinks no one’s looking. Alex keeps the kitchen calm, redirecting energy like it’s second nature. And Yuki—well, Yuki commands it all with a glance. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t need to. A sharp nod, a clipped word, and everyone falls into line.

You don’t have the luxury of stopping to admire it. The pastries won’t prep themselves, and you’re elbow-deep in dough by the time the clock ticks toward noon. The ovens cycle batches with military precision, trays sliding in and out as you shape and fill with the ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times. Your world shrinks down to sugar, butter, and the hum of timers.

By lunch, Alex slips away first, snagging a plate and scarfing it down with the kind of efficiency only a chef of his calibre can manage. Yuki takes his turn after, pausing just long enough to check on the line before disappearing toward the staff room. You wave him off when he gestures toward you. “I’ll eat after this batch,” you insist, shaping another neat lattice over a tart.

You don’t notice time slipping until the next batch cools and the savory scent of lunch is a faint memory in the air. Wiping your hands on your apron, you finally make your way toward the back, stomach growling in protest. The tray of staff meals is nearly empty, save for a few scraps of bread and what looks suspiciously like the last sad bite of salad. Alex shrugs apologetically from across the room.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you grumble, a little louder than you intend. “I slave away over butter and sugar, and this is the thanks I get?”

Before you can work yourself into a proper tirade, a plate slides into view under your nose. Perfectly portioned, still warm, and suspiciously untouched. You look up to find Yuki standing there, arms crossed, expression caught between exasperation and fondness. “I knew you’d do this,” he says simply, “so I saved one.”

You narrow your eyes, though the twist of relief in your chest betrays you. “What are you, my babysitter now?”

“More like the only one here with common sense,” Yuki replies, pulling out a chair with his foot. “Sit. Eat. Before you faint into a tray of éclairs and make me fire you.”

“I’d haunt this place,” you huff, but you sit anyway. The first bite is a revelation, your stomach sighing in gratitude. You peek up at him through your lashes. “You know, some people might think this is sweet.”

Yuki shrugs, deadpan as ever. “Some people don’t know you well enough.”

It’s meant to be a jab, but the silence that follows is heavier than either of you expect. You break it first with a snort, nudging his hand as you reach for your fork again. “Thanks, chef.”

His mouth twitches, the barest hint of a smile before he turns back toward the kitchen. “Don’t make it a habit.”

The day’s dinner service winds down with the steady rhythm of plates cleared and chairs stacked. The air is thick with the scent of garlic, wine, and the faint sweetness of the last tiramisu you sent out. You wipe down your station, fingers stiff but satisfied, and listen to the restaurant exhale after another day survived.

Yuki gathers the staff near the pass, arms crossed, expression sharp but not unkind. He does this every night. Quick notes, a pulse check on the team, a reminder that tomorrow demands just as much precision as today.

“Service was clean,” he starts, scanning the group. “Oscar, your pacing was better. Jules—don’t rearrange the cutlery mid-shift. It confuses the guests.”

Jules gasps like she’s been personally insulted. “It was art!”

“Save the art for your apartment,” Yuki replies, tone clipped. “George, good pairing tonight. Lando, stop experimenting during service. Alex, solid work on the line.”

The feedback rolls out like clockwork, efficient and even. The crew listens, nods, takes it in. Despite his dry delivery, you can feel it. The respect humming beneath every word, the quiet trust that everyone here leans on. When Yuki speaks, people listen. Not because they’re scared of him, but because he’s earned it.

Finally, his gaze lands on you. “Pastries were consistent,” he says. “Timing was better too. Keep it up.”

There’s nothing in the words themselves, but the weight of his eyes lingers. You offer a small shrug, as if to say, of course they were.

“God, just kiss already,” Lando mutters from the back, which earns him a snort from Jules and a scandalized look from George. Oscar, barely holding back laughter, pretends to check his phone.

Heat prickles your neck, but you roll your eyes and toss your towel at the bar. “Don’t project your tragic love life onto us, Lando.”

“Tragic? Please. I’m thriving.” He sticks out his tongue at you before Yuki clears his throat, sharp enough to cut through the noise.

“Focus,” Yuki says simply. Just like that, the teasing dies down, the crew dispersing with the tired chatter of people who’ve given their all. Bags are slung over shoulders, goodbyes are murmured, and soon the restaurant quiets to its bones.

You linger at your station a moment longer, stacking trays with more care than necessary. Yuki moves past, close enough that his sleeve brushes yours. “Ignore them,” he says softly, not looking at you.

“Who says I care?” you reply, but the laugh in the back of your throat betrays you.

He doesn’t press, doesn’t tease. He only gives the smallest nod before heading toward the office. You’re left with the ghost of his sleeve against yours, wondering why ignoring them feels impossible.

The next week at Venti Due settles into its rhythm: the clang of pans, the rise of voices calling for orders, the sweet hush of pastry cream thickening under your whisk. Between the noise and the chaos, you find yourself drifting. Thinking back to how it all started, how you ended up tethered to this kitchen and, somehow, to Yuki.

Culinary school feels like another lifetime now, all stainless steel counters and the sterile scent of bleach. Yuki had been the one student who managed to make a uniform look like armor, his sharp focus cutting through every room he walked into. You’d first spoken during a class on fundamentals. He’d been hunched over a cutting board, perfecting a julienne that looked like it had been measured with a ruler. You’d leaned closer, deliberately dramatic. “Going for world’s straightest carrot sticks?” you’d teased.

He hadn’t even glanced up. “Some of us care about precision.”

“And some of us care about not boring ourselves to death.” You’d grinned, tossing him a piece of your unevenly chopped onion. “See? Personality.”

He’d finally looked at you then and said, “Your personality smells.”

It was the start of something neither of you had language for yet.

Between classes and late-night study sessions, you carved out a rhythm. Yuki was disciplined to the point of obsession, while you thrived in improvisation, especially once the curriculum turned to pastries. You remember the first time he tried one of your test tarts, biting into it with a seriousness that made your palms sweat. “Not too sweet,” he’d said eventually, and you’d laughed because coming from him, that was the highest form of praise.

One evening, you found him sitting alone in the library, textbooks sprawled around him, a notebook filled with scrawled ideas. “Itameshi,” he’d said before you could even ask. “Japanese-Italian fusion. Not gimmicky, not watered down. Balanced. Something that respects both traditions.”

You’d sat across from him, intrigued despite yourself. “That’s oddly specific.”

He’d leaned back, expression thoughtful. “It’s what I grew up with. Pasta with shoyu, miso in risotto. My mom didn’t think about it as fusion. It was just… dinner. I want to take that and make it into something that belongs on a Michelin menu.”

You’d nodded slowly, tucking that piece of him away. It explained the focus, the drive that sometimes looked like obsession. It wasn’t just food to him. It was identity, stitched together by memory and taste.

“And you?” he’d asked then, catching you off guard. “What do you want?”

“A patisserie,” you’d answered after a moment of hesitation. “Glass display cases, rows of pastries, the smell of butter and sugar hitting people when they walk in. Something that’s mine.”

He’d given you a rare smile then, small but real. “Sounds fitting.”

Graduation came faster than you expected. A blur of exams, sleepless nights, and too much caffeine. The ceremony itself felt like theater, everyone pretending not to care while secretly waiting for their names to be called. Yuki wore the cap and gown like he wore everything else: with a kind of reluctant irritation, as though the whole pageantry offended his sense of efficiency.

It was afterward, when the crowd thinned and the graduates dispersed to dinners and family celebrations, that he cornered you outside the hall. The sky was slipping toward dusk, a warm June evening wrapping the campus in gold. He stood there with his hands shoved into his pockets, expression unreadable, and for a second you thought he was going to comment on how crooked your cap sat.

Instead, he said, “Be my pastry chef.”

Your brows furrowed, wondering if you misheard. “Excuse me?”

“I’m opening a restaurant. Itameshi. You know what I want it to be.” His gaze locked on yours, steady and unflinching. “I want you there. Pastry chef.”

You laughed, nervous but amused. “Yuki, that sounds like a proposal.”

“It is,” he said flatly, his eyes crinkling as he broke out into a proper, toothy grin. “For food. Not marriage.”

“You really know how to sweep someone off their feet.” You had crossed your arms, tilting your head at him. “What makes you think I’ll say yes?”

“Because you already said you want your own place. You won’t waste time at someone else’s restaurant. Not unless it mattered.”

The words hit harder than you expected, like he’d been listening closer than you realized. You rolled your eyes to cover the way your chest tightened. “Fine. But it’s temporary. I’ll help you launch, save up, and then I’m gone. Patisserie, remember?”

He nodded once, solemn, like you’d struck a deal. “Temporary.”

You shook his hand, though it felt oddly ceremonial, and something inside you whispered that this was more binding than either of you admitted aloud.

That was four years ago.

Now, standing in Venti Due’s kitchen with sugar under your nails and the hum of service in the background, you realize the word ‘temporary’ has stretched longer than you ever intended. Every day has carried the same steady gravity of that handshake. An agreement that was never just about work, no matter how hard you both pretended otherwise.

By closing time, the kitchen looks like it survived a small war. Pots stacked high, jam staining your apron, the faint smell of seared fish clinging to your hair. You’re wiping down your station when Yuki approaches, holding out an envelope. “Salary’s in your account,” he says, tone casual. “This is extra. Tips.”

You glance at the wad of cash inside, instantly shoving it back toward him. “No way. I don’t need your charity fund.”

His eyebrow lifts, sharp and unimpressed. “It’s not charity. It’s from the floor. Customers like desserts, apparently. Who knew.”

“Shocking revelation.” You push the envelope across the counter again. “Split it with the servers.”

“They already got their share. This is yours. Take it.” He says it with the stubbornness of someone who will stand here all night until you cave. His arms are crossed now, a silent dare.

You sigh, snatching the envelope before he can start another speech. “Fine. But if I blow it all on overpriced candles, that’s on you.”

“Save it. Or don’t. I don’t care.” 

“Thanks,” you add, quieter than intended. He doesn’t reply, only nods and turns back to check on Alex, as if the conversation never happened.

Later that night, your apartment greets you with the quiet hum of the fridge and the faint creak of floorboards. You set the envelope on the counter, then reach for the Mason jars lined up in the cupboard. Their weight is familiar, each one filled with neatly rolled bills. Months, years of tip envelopes, savings, little sacrifices. The ritual of stacking them has always been your silent countdown to freedom. You pour the new bills into the jar marked with a strip of masking tape, the one labeled Someday. It’s already full to the brim, crammed so tightly that the lid barely twists shut.

Here’s the truth: you had enough last year. 

Enough for the deposit on that storefront downtown, the one with big windows and a perfect corner for displaying cakes that would stop people in their tracks. Enough to hire staff, to design menus, to finally call something yours.

And yet you’re still here. Still showing up at Venti Due every morning, still brushing sugar from your clothes and trading barbs with Yuki across the kitchen. You tell yourself it’s practical. Safe. Sensible.

When you glance at the jar, heavy with possibility, you know it’s none of those things. You’re still here for one reason only. 

The weekend market is already buzzing when you and Yuki arrive, shoulder to shoulder in the lazy late-morning sun. Vendors are hawking their produce with theatrical gusto, baskets of tomatoes and eggplants gleaming under striped awnings. You tug your tote bag higher on your shoulder and try to look like this is just another errand, not some weirdly domestic ritual you’ve fallen into with your best friend-slash-boss. “Which one first?” Yuki asks, scanning the rows of stalls like he’s plotting a battle strategy.

“Whichever one isn’t going to tempt you into buying another box of mushrooms we don’t have fridge space for,” you shoot back.

His mouth curves upward. “That’s very specific. Almost like it already happened.”

“It did. Last month. You held them like a newborn.”

“They were good mushrooms.”

You roll your eyes but follow him anyway, weaving through the crowd. There’s an ease to this—how you match each other’s pace without thinking, how he hands you a sample of melon before even tasting it himself. The vendor grins at the exchange, as though the two of you are some couple straight out of a weekend slice-of-life film. You ignore the implication and bite into the melon, pretending the sweetness on your tongue is the only thing worth noticing. “Thoughts?” Yuki asks, expectant.

“It’s good. Very… melon-y.”

“That’s profound. Truly your culinary school tuition at work.”

You elbow him lightly, earning a laugh that draws a curious glance or two. He doesn’t seem to care, and you pretend not to either. Later, while you’re considering a stack of strawberries, he appears at your side with skewers of yakitori, one already half-gone. He holds out the other without ceremony. “Lunch.”

“You just couldn’t wait?”

“Chef’s privilege.” His voice is light, but his eyes flicker with mischief as you take the skewer from his hand. You mutter a thanks around your first bite, trying not to acknowledge the fact that you’re sharing food in a way that feels intimate.

You keep telling yourself this isn’t a date. You’re here for produce, for scouting local vendors, for the sake of the restaurant. But then Yuki brushes a stray leaf off your shoulder without comment, and you wonder why the lie has to work so hard to convince you.

The market shifts sometime around noon, when the lazy sprawl of vendors and wandering locals turns into a slow-moving human tide. At first you think it’s just you getting bumped one too many times by an elbow or an overenthusiastic shopping bag, but then you notice Yuki’s face. That pinched look he wears when something irritates him but he hasn’t decided if it’s worth a fight. Spoiler: nine times out of ten, it isn’t.

He lingers closer than usual, not that you’re about to complain. His hand hovers once near the small of your back before he thinks better of it, retreating to the safety of his pockets. Instead he becomes a living barrier between you and the chaos of the crowd, always stepping a half second ahead of anyone who might jostle you. He’s subtle about it, or at least he thinks he is. You can read him too well. “You look like you’re about to start body-checking grandmas,” you tease, nudging his arm with your elbow. “Relax, Yuki. I can handle a market crowd.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he says. His eyes dart toward a group squeezing through the aisle, and his jaw ticks. “You’re short, people don’t see you. Easy to get pushed.”

There’s a warmth tucked in that blunt little statement, disguised as irritation. You let it hang in the air, unspoken, savoring it like the last bite of dessert. “Fine,” you grin. “Since you’re obviously seconds away from picking a fight with a produce stand, why don’t we bail? Early dinner?”

He exhales, relief hidden in the smallest curve of his mouth. “My place. Closer than yours. And I don’t want to carry all this stuff any farther.”

You arch a brow at the loaded grocery bags he’s holding in one hand, as if the weight of it is nothing but child’s play. “Uh-huh. Definitely not because you’d rather control the menu.”

You head for his apartment, tucked right next to Venti Due. Convenient for the workaholic. Yuki’s place isn’t new territory. By now, you can navigate it without even thinking. Keys tossed on the counter, shoes kicked by the door, sleeves already rolled to your elbows before Yuki’s even finished locking up. His place is small, but it feels lived-in. Warm. Familiar. The kind of space you drift into without ever needing to ask permission.

You’re already in the kitchen before he joins you, pulling a pan from its usual spot. “You do realize you’ve tricked me into more cooking after a full week of baking, right?” you say, giving him a look over your shoulder.

Yuki shrugs, as if that explains everything. “I’m not tricking. You volunteered. Big difference.”

“Uh-huh.” You set the pan on the stove, nudging him with your elbow when he crowds in beside you. “And what, exactly, did I volunteer for? Being your sous chef?”

He smirks, reaching for the garlic. “More like my commis.”

You make a face. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He tosses you the knife like it’s a challenge. You catch it easily, slicing into the cloves with more precision than he probably expected. He leans just close enough to watch, and you’re tempted to say something biting, but the way he’s looking at you—quietly impressed—makes you bite your tongue.

The rhythm comes easy, though. It always does with him. He stirs while you chop, you season while he tastes. The banter fills the cracks in the silence, steady as muscle memory. “So,” you say, flicking a piece of garlic at him, “what are we calling this masterpiece? Chef’s special?”

“Chef’s survival.”

“Catchy. Michelin will be begging.”

He laughs under his breath, and the sound sticks with you longer than it should. The apartment fills with the smell of browned garlic and olive oil, something simple and grounding. By the time pasta hits the pan, you’re both shoulder to shoulder, stealing tastes straight off each other’s forks. Dinner ends up being just that. Two spoons, one pan, and no patience for plating. Yuki passes you a bite, and you take it without hesitation, like it’s nothing. Like it isn’t something at all.

“You know,” you say around a mouthful, “I think we might actually be good at this whole cooking thing.”

“Finally noticed?” He chuckles, stealing the spoon back. “Took you long enough.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t quite smother the smile that follows. Sitting at his tiny table, sharing dinner out of the pan, it feels too easy. Too natural. And maybe that’s what makes it dangerous.

The bell above the café door jingles as the three of you step inside, the smell of espresso and roasted beans wrapping around you like a blanket. Jules makes a beeline for the counter, and Lando falls into step beside her, leaving you trailing with the quiet suspicion you’ve just been set up. “So,” Jules says with an innocence that fools no one, “Yuki seemed in a good mood last night. Wonder why.”

Lando, ever the accomplice, smirks. “Probably has something to do with a certain pastry chef who practically lives at his side.”

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle you don’t sprain something. “Wow. Stellar detective work. Truly groundbreaking analysis.”

Jules grins at you over her shoulder as she orders her usual oat latte. “Come on, you can’t tell me you don’t see it,” she insists. “You two are practically married already.”

You shoot her a look. “If we’re married, then I want half of Venti Due in the divorce.”

Lando nearly chokes on his laugh, stepping up to the counter to order. “That’s the spirit,” he says offhandedly, “but seriously. You should just date him. It’d save us all the suspense.”

You lean against the counter, the perfect picture of unimpressed. “Right. Because what a restaurant really needs is its manager and pastry chef combusting over a messy breakup. Brilliant idea, ten out of ten,” you bite out.

They exchange a look, conspiratorial in its silence, and you know they’re not about to drop it. You sip your coffee when it arrives and decide you’ve had enough. “You know what,” you say, your voice syrupy sweet, “I think you two should date. Jules, Lando—match made in heaven.”

That does it. Lando goes red immediately, fumbling with the sugar packets like they’re suddenly the most fascinating things in the world. Jules sputters mid-sip, coughing into her sleeve, eyes wide with something close to shame. You grin, mischievous, basking in the chaos. “See? Works every time.”

The walk back is blissfully quiet, the two of them still awkwardly avoiding each other’s eyes. You sip your coffee triumphantly, knowing you’ve just secured yourself at least a week’s reprieve from their meddling.

The coffee run conspirators are barely out of earshot when Yuki finds you back at the counter, sleeves rolled up again like the morning never ended. He raises an eyebrow, the kind of silent reprimand you’ve come to know far too well. “You could at least pretend to rest when you leave the building,” he says, not looking at you as he straightens a tray of glasses.

“Rest? Never heard of her,” you reply, grabbing a towel for no reason other than to look busy.

He shakes his head, but the corner of his mouth betrays him. “One day you’ll thank me for trying to keep you alive.”

“Or curse you when I die of boredom,” you shoot back, and he laughs. Soft but warm, the kind that lingers longer than it should.

You let that moment slip past, choosing instead to busy yourself until George’s bark of laughter cuts through the room. He’s standing with Alex by the espresso machine, both of them suspiciously smug. You narrow your eyes just in time to see Alex slip a bill into George’s waiting hand. “Really?” you say, marching over. “Please tell me you’re not gambling on how long it takes for me to sass Yuki back.”

“Not exactly,” George says, unbothered as he tucks the money into his pocket. “But you two make it too easy.”

Alex shrugs, grin breaking across his face. “It’s good money. Don’t take it personally.”

“Don’t take it personally?” you repeat, scandalized. “You’re making a profit off my tragic, very professional, completely platonic working relationship?”

“Professional,” George repeats, and Alex snorts like that word’s the funniest punchline he’s heard all week.

You swivel to the nearest sane person: Oscar, nursing a mug of black coffee. “Tell me you’re not a part of this.”

He shakes his head, calm as ever. “Nope. I don’t bet.”

“Thank you.”

“But,” he adds, “if I had to calculate it, I’d say the odds of you and Yuki ending up together hover around… eighty-one percent? Maybe higher if you count the market trips. Those skew the data.”

You gape at him. “You’re supposed to be my ally.”

“I am,” he says. “I’m just being scientific.”

George and Alex are wheezing now, delighted by your misery. You throw your hands up. “Unbelievable. I’m surrounded by degenerates.”

With that, you storm off, exasperation trailing behind you like the aroma of coffee grounds. Strong, bitter, and impossible to shake. The shift winds down in its usual rhythm, the clang of pots fading into the background as Yuki does his end-of-day ritual. He moves through the kitchen, giving nods, comments, and the occasional dry joke that has everyone smiling despite their exhaustion. There’s something about the way the crew listens when he talks. Not stiff, not fearful, but attentive, like they’d follow him into battle if the battlefield were lined with stovetops and prep counters.

You hang back, waiting for your moment. All day, people have been throwing you into the ring, teasing you about him like it’s a group sport. You’ve deflected, joked, even tried to flip it back on them. Now, you plan to sneak in a jab of your own, something light, something that will finally even the score. When the last of the staff filters out, you sidle closer. “Big day for me,” you say, leaning against the counter. “Apparently I’m starring in a rom-com I didn’t audition for. Thought you’d like to congratulate me on my lead role.”

Yuki huffs a laugh, one hand tucking into the pocket of his apron. “You’re good at improvising. You’ll win Best Actress, no contest.”

You open your mouth to volley back, but then he adds, almost too casually, “Speaking of… I should get going. I have a blind date tonight.”

The words clatter to the floor between you, louder than the pans ever were. Your brain scrambles, reaching for something witty, something sharp. All you manage is a smile that feels too thin around the edges. “Wow,” you say, and your voice sounds a little too bright even to your own ears. “Someone’s adventurous.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “It’s just dinner with a friend of a friend. Who knows, right?”

You nod, even though you want to shake your head until the whole idea falls out of the universe. “Right. Who knows.”

He gives you a small, easy smile before grabbing his things. “Don’t wait up.”

In the next moment, he’s gone—slipping out the back door, leaving you with the hum of the refrigerators and the hollow thump of your own heartbeat. You stay a moment longer than you should, staring at the empty space where he stood, then finally grab your bag and head out into the night.

You make a valiant attempt at salvaging the night, like it isn’t already slightly soured. Distraction is the name of the game: cleaning out the fridge, reorganizing your spice rack (alphabetical, then rearranged back to the order you actually use them in), watching half an episode of some cooking competition before realizing every contestant is making you think of Yuki anyway. You groan, flop dramatically on your couch, and eventually drag yourself to bed.

Your phone buzzes just as you’re about to fall asleep. It’s a text from Yuki. A TikTok link. 

It’s a video of a cat swatting flour off a counter while the baker screams in horror. You snort so hard you have to clutch your chest. The fact that he thought of you—your flour-covered apron, your tendency to leave powdered sugar handprints everywhere—hits a little too close.

You reply with: That cat has better technique than you.

He answers quicker than you expect: Bold words from someone who once dropped an entire bag of cocoa powder on the floor.

You grin at your phone in the dark, but your thumbs hesitate before typing. Finally, you cave: So… how was the date?

Three dots appear, vanish, reappear. Then his reply comes, simple. There won’t be a second date. 

Your stomach does a traitorous little flip. You squeeze your pillow and type back: Their loss.

His reply is slower this time, but it still arrives. Good night.

You stare at the screen longer than necessary, smiling despite yourself. Then, you type the words you mean and don’t mean all at once: Dream of me, Yukino.

I always do, comes his easy response, and you hold your phone to your chest as you feel the thump, thump, thump of your heart.

Chaos is not new to Venti Due, but today it feels like the world is testing how much caffeine-fueled patience one restaurant can hold. Orders are stacking faster than the ticket machine can spit them out, Alex looks one second away from throwing a pan, and Yuki’s temper is sparking like a gas stove with faulty wiring. You try to keep the rhythm, weaving between stations with that too-bright smile you wear when everything’s going to hell. “Table six says they’ve been waiting thirty minutes,” you announce, voice sugar-sweet, as if sugar could soften the blow.

“Tell them it’ll be thirty-one,” Yuki snaps, slamming a pan onto the burner. The clang echoes through the kitchen, and Alex mutters something sharp under his breath. Yuki hears it, of course. He always does.

“Say that louder, Albon,” Yuki challenges, eyes flicking up like knives. “To my fucking face.”

You slide between them, spatula in hand like it’s a peace offering. “Okay, gladiators, how about no one throws cookware today? Pots are expensive.” Your grin wobbles at the edges, but you keep it in place. Comic relief is your best weapon, even when you’re dying inside.

Alex scoffs, tossing chopped herbs with more force than necessary. “Tell your boyfriend to chill, then.”

Heat climbs up your neck, not just from the stoves. “He’s not my boyfriend. And he is very chill. He’s the definition of chill. Like a freezer.”

Yuki slants you a look that’s anything but chill, though his lips twitch like he almost wants to laugh. Almost. The kitchen keeps roaring, plates keep flying, and you keep tightrope-walking between Alex’s sarcasm and Yuki’s sharpness, pretending your heart isn’t racing for reasons that have nothing to do with service.

Oscar and Jules call in almost at the same time, their voices overlapping through the kitchen phone. You catch fragments—“table six wants their third refill five minutes ago,” “guy at four is snapping his fingers,” “if one more person says ‘extra crispy’ I’ll lose it.” Lovely soundtrack for a Friday night.

Yuki looks like he’s two seconds from ripping the apron off and walking out. His jaw’s set, his shoulders wound tight. You can practically hear the steam whistling from his ears. You know that look. You also know the last thing this kitchen needs is Mount Yuki erupting all over the line.

You step in, hand pressing lightly to the small of his back. A tether, a nudge. “George, pour some free wine, make it look like we’re generous saints,” you start. 

Alex picks up what you’re putting down. He’s already yelling for Lando  to bring out his shaker like it’s a weapon. “Whip up a couple of your science project cocktails,” Alex hollers. “If the drinks are colorful enough, maybe the customers will forget their existential despair.”

It’s not exactly Michelin-star crisis management, but it works. The edge in the air dulls. You feel Yuki breathe out beside you, his shoulders loosening. His hand finds yours, quick, almost stealthy, a squeeze hidden between moments. By the time anyone looks your way, he’s already back to pretending he’s unflappable, barking new orders like nothing happened.

You, of course, are left with your heart pounding harder than it has any right to during a dinner rush.

The aftermath of the shift looks like war survivors slumped against barstools. George has his head tilted back, eyes closed as if he’s auditioning for a Renaissance painting. Jules is counting tips with the air of someone too tired to do math, mouthing numbers like they might bite her if she miscounts. Alex is sprawled over two chairs, dramatically near death, while Oscar taps away on his phone with the clinical detachment of someone who has already emotionally detached from the evening.

Everyone is waiting for the inevitable. Yuki is still standing, arms crossed, expression unreadable as he surveys the wreckage. Normally this is the part where he dissects every misstep, precision-knife sharp. You brace for it too, already preparing your counterarguments and deflections. Instead, he sighs. “Good work tonight, everyone.”

The silence that follows is so loud it could count as a new kind of noise pollution. Yuki continues, voice softer. “It was rough, but you all handled it. I know I was short-tempered. Alex, I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m sorry.”

Alex blinks as if someone just offered him free real estate. “You’re… apologizing? To me?”

“Don’t make me take it back,” Yuki says flatly, but there’s no heat in it.

A ripple of muffled laughter moves through the room. The tension lightens, shoulders drop. Yuki turns to you. His eyes linger, steady. “And you. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you tonight.”

Cue the chorus of ooooooohs from the peanut gallery. George clutches his chest like he’s about to swoon. Jules mutters, “When’s the wedding?”

You roll your eyes and wave them off, forcing breeziness into your tone. “Don’t be dramatic. Yuki did great tonight.” You look at him deliberately, keeping it light but meaning it more than you should. “Seriously. You kept us all together, chef.”

For a moment, Yuki holds your gaze like he knows exactly what you mean, like he can hear all the words you don’t say. But then he clears his throat, turning back to the group, already moving on. The tips of his ears are a little red.

The spray of the sink is too loud, the plates too slick, and the kitchen too cramped to be having this conversation. Which is exactly why you’re having it now, with Oscar. Poor Oscar, elbows deep in soap suds, eyes wide like he can sense danger coming.

“I swear, he’s impossible,” you grunt, scrubbing at a plate like it personally wronged you. “Everyone else can see it. George, Alex, Jules, even Lando, and he barely notices anything. But Yuki? Nothing. Not even a flicker. How do you miss someone literally spelling it out for you with neon lights?”

Oscar clears his throat. “I don’t think anyone here is using neon lights.”

You flick suds at him. “You know what I mean. He’s oblivious. Painfully oblivious. Like, should I start carrying around a banner? Hire a skywriter?”

Oscar fumbles with a glass, nearly dropping it, and you swoop in to take it before disaster. He looks grateful, then immediately regretful that this means you’re still glaring at him. “You could just tell him?” he offers, voice small, like he knows it’s the worst possible suggestion.

“Brilliant. Revolutionary. Why didn’t I think of that?”

He winces. “Right. Sorry.”

“I’m serious, though,” you sigh. “How do you even tell someone like him? He’s either going to laugh it off or think I’m joking. He never takes me seriously unless I’m yelling about oven temperatures.”

Oscar gives you a long, awkward blink, as if calculating whether it’s safer to keep quiet or offer more useless wisdom. “Maybe… yell about this, then?”

You throw your dish towel at his head. “You’re no help.”

He grins, half apologetic, half relieved you’re teasing again. “Didn’t think I would be.”

The dish pit is still warm with steam when you and Oscar finish the last stack of plates. Your hands smell faintly of lemon soap and regret, though mostly the soap. Oscar is drying the last tray of glasses with all the care of someone performing delicate surgery, which makes it an easy moment for him to look at you sidelong.

When you move to leave, tugging your apron off, Oscar catches you just before the door. His voice is casual, but it lands with a strange weight. “You know, you’re pretty oblivious yourself.”

You turn, brows pulling together. “Oblivious about what?”

He just shrugs, retreating back to stack the glasses. “Figure it out.”

The words scratch at the back of your mind all the way into the night, but they don’t get far. Because as soon as you’re free, your phone buzzes with a message from Yuki: Dinner? My treat.

Oscar’s warning evaporates like steam in the dish pit. You don’t hesitate. Sure.

Yuki is already waiting on the sidewalk when you show up, still in your work clothes and very aware that you smell faintly like fryer oil and espresso. You throw your arms out dramatically, as if you’re presenting evidence at a trial. “I didn’t even have time to freshen up,” you announce. “I’m a walking PSA for why service industry workers need hazard pay.”

Yuki just shrugs, easy grin sliding onto his face. “You always look pretty.”

That’s it. Like it’s nothing. Like he hasn’t just lobbed a grenade straight into your ribcage. You do the only logical thing and roll your eyes, pretending the heat in your cheeks is from the streetlights. “Pretty tragic, maybe,” you mutter, but Yuki’s already walking ahead, hands shoved in his pockets, like he’s perfectly pleased with himself.

The two of you gravitate toward one of the food trucks parked down the block, another one of those rituals you’ve fallen into without ever actually planning it. After nights at Venti Due, when the air inside feels too tight and the noise clings to your skin, you both need the antidote. Greasy paper plates, cheap plastic stools, food that drips down your fingers. It’s become its own tradition, like a sort of rebellion against the polished chaos you both live in during shifts.

You sit side by side on stools that wobble dangerously if you breathe too hard, elbows brushing as you dig into whatever fried concoction you’ve ordered this time. Yuki nudges his shoulder into yours as he chews, expression sly. “This is balance, right? Five-star kitchen by day, suspicious street meat by night.”

You point your fork at him. “Suspicious? Please,” you tease. “This is haute cuisine compared to the stuff I eat when you’re not around.”

He laughs, head tilting back, and the sound pulls something warm through your chest. The street hums around you—passing cars, the hiss of the grill inside the truck, the faint buzz of a neon sign overhead—but it all fades when Yuki looks at you again, still smiling like he knows something you don’t. Or maybe like he does, and he’s waiting for you to catch up.

Tonight, Yuki actually going front-of-house to greet guests himself. No clipped instructions to Jules, no waving you over. He’s personally out there, polite smile and all, which can only mean these guests are the kind of people that matter. You lean toward George, eyes following the scene like it’s prime-time television. “Alright, ten bucks says it’s a Michelin inspector.”

George smirks, polishing a wine glass he has no intention of using. “Fifteen says it’s his secret girlfriend,” he says, and you try to ignore the twang in your chest.

“Twenty says you’re both wrong,” Lando chimes, “and it’s just some old man who taught him how to cook noodles.”

Before George can counter, Yuki turns, spotting you. “Come here,” he calls, casual but with the edge of someone about to put you on the spot.

You shoot George a look that says pay up before heading over. When you get there, you freeze in your tracks. Pierre Gasly and Isack Hadjar. Head chef and sous chef of Alpha Tauri, one of those French bistros that food magazines worship like a minor deity. They’re sitting at one of Venti Due’s cramped tables like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Uh,” you manage, because your brain is still buffering. “Hi.”

Yuki, apparently thrilled to be the cause of your speech malfunction, gestures between you. “These are my friends. Pierre, Isack. This is—well, this is who keeps this place from falling apart.”

“Flattering,” you exhale, before catching Pierre’s grin. He looks exactly like the kind of guy who would charm his way through both a dinner service and a black-tie gala. Isack, quieter, has the sharp eyes of someone cataloguing everything in the room.

“Ah, so you are the famous right hand,” Pierre says smoothly, his accent making it sound even more like a compliment.

“Famous for what, exactly?” you ask, because sarcasm is easier than admitting your ears are warm.

“Putting up with Yuki,” Isack deadpans, which earns an actual laugh from Yuki and nearly makes you choke.

Isack and Pierre don’t just order like regular customers. They order like men on a mission. No glancing at menus, no awkward pauses. Just a quick exchange in French—one you don’t need to understand to recognize as fluent culinary shorthand—before Pierre rattles off their requests.

It’s not the safe pasta route or a token pizza either. No, these two go straight for desserts, as if they came here with a purpose. Cannoli with a yuzu mascarpone filling. Matcha tiramisu layered with delicate ladyfingers soaked in sake instead of espresso. A chestnut mont blanc with candied ginger woven into its spiral. Even a semifreddo that borrows from kakigōri, shaved ice folded into the cream and studded with shards of caramelized sesame.

You jot it all down, already picturing the chaos this order is about to cause in the kitchen. Dessert-first people are a different breed. When you step back through the kitchen doors, you brace yourself. You pass the ticket along with the kind of caution reserved for live grenades. To your surprise, nobody panics. Lando perks up, muttering something about having wanted an excuse to torch meringue anyway. Alex groans, but you know he’ll secretly enjoy the challenge.

And Yuki. Yuki tries very hard not to look smug as he passes through the kitchen, glancing at the ticket and then at you. His face is the picture of composure, but you know him well enough to see it—the proud little tilt of his chin, the quick dart of his eyes toward you like he’s saying, See? They trust you. They trust us.

You ignore him, or at least you pretend to, focusing instead on plating. The tiramisu layers neatly. The cannoli shells crackle when you pipe in the filling. Each dish hits the pass like punctuation marks in a sentence you didn’t realize you were writing until now.

When you finally carry them out, Isack and Pierre are waiting, watching like hawks. They murmur their approval before forks even touch plates. For a moment, you let yourself enjoy it. Because maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to see why Yuki looks so proud.

After the sweetest hour of their life, the Frenchmen’s plates are cleared and their wine glasses sit half-full. Isack leans back with a satisfied sigh. “We want to compliment the pastry chef,” he declares, pronouncing it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You glance at Yuki, half-expecting him to wave you off and take the credit himself, but he doesn’t. Instead, he flicks his eyes toward you with the faintest smile, almost as if to say, go on then. You do, your apron still dusted with sugar, sweat threading through the eggshell white of your jacket.

Isack greets you first, his grin boyish and enthusiastic. “Those desserts were brilliant. Clean, balanced, but playful. The panna cotta? It tasted magnifique.”

Pierre nods in agreement, sharper in his delivery but no less genuine. “You’ve got a strong hand. That miso tiramisu was clever without trying too hard. You should be proud.”

You mumble a thank you, cheeks hot, and when the tip comes it’s far too generous to brush off as a gesture of politeness. You try to slide it back discreetly, but Isack just waves you off, already standing to bid Yuki good night. 

Pierre lingers a moment longer. He studies you the way chefs do when they’ve spotted talent they don’t want to miss. “Listen,” he says, lowering his voice. “My pastry chef left two weeks ago. I need someone sharp, inventive. Someone like you.”

You gape, caught off guard, but Pierre presses on. “I know you’re loyal to Yuki. But Alpha Tauri pays better, and I can open doors for you. Connections, stages in Paris, maybe more.” He slides a small card across the table, his name embossed, the number beneath it neat and exact. Pierre Gasly, Head Chef of Alpha Tauri. “Think about it.”

With a final nod, he tucks his hands into his coat pockets and heads off to join Isack. The card is still warm in your palm when you head back toward the kitchen, rehearsing excuses you’ll never have to use. Except Yuki’s waiting, leaned against the doorframe like he’s been there the whole time, eyes sharper than usual.

“What did Pierre want?” he asks casually, which is how you know he’s not being casual at all.

You blink too quickly. “Nothing. Just… you know. French people talk a lot.”

Yuki raises a brow. “Talk a lot, or flirt a lot?”

Your laugh comes out too high-pitched, too guilty, and you instantly want to sink into the nearest stockpot. “Don’t be ridiculous. He was just—” You wave a vague hand, failing to find a word less incriminating than ‘offering me a job.’

“So he did try to ask you out.”

The fact that he says it like a joke makes it worse. Your laugh doubles down, nervous and unconvincing. Yuki narrows his eyes, clearly clocking every octave of panic in your voice. He’s not a jealous type, not really, but he’s also not great at hiding it when it slips out. Right now, it’s all over him, disguised poorly as humor.

“Relax,” you say hastily, brushing past him with an overdone roll of your eyes. “No one’s asking me out, okay? You’re imagining things.”

Still, the weight of Pierre’s card in your apron pocket is impossible to ignore. Instead of tossing it in the trash like you should, you slide it deeper, tucking it away where Yuki can’t see. 

You’ve known from the start that Pierre’s offer would always be a no. 

Not because it isn’t tempting—better pay, prestige, connections most chefs would sell their knives for—but because you already decided your next step wouldn’t be working under someone else’s name. It would be your own place, your own kitchen. The thought is terrifying, but it’s yours. So Pierre’s generous card burns in your pocket, not with possibility, but with a strange sort of ache. The ache isn’t about Alpha Tauri at all. It’s about Venti Due, and how, no matter how many times you swear you’ll eventually move on, you can’t seem to imagine leaving it. Leaving Yuki. That’s the part you don’t say out loud.

You spiral instead, eyes glazed as you plate tiramisu for table six, your thoughts chewing themselves into knots. You barely hear George asking if you’ve gone deaf. You barely register Jules dropping an empty wine glass into the sink. It’s like everything’s muffled, until Yuki’s voice cuts through the fog. “You’re distracted.” He says it like an accusation, sharp enough to slice through your reverie. His brow furrows as he studies you, like you’ve been caught cheating on a test.

You manage a laugh, which comes off as shaky and thin. “Just tired. It’s fine.”

“It doesn’t look fine.” Yuki wipes his hands on a towel, stepping closer, his gaze stubbornly locked on you. He’s trying to read you, as if peeling back layers with his eyes alone.

You shrug, picking up another plate, anything to avoid the weight of his stare. “Really. Nothing’s wrong.”

He doesn’t buy it, not for a second. You can tell by the look on his face. The silence stretches, taut and uncomfortable, until he finally exhales and mutters, “If you say so.”

You keep your eyes on the desserts, but you feel him still there, hovering, unwilling to leave you to whatever storm you’ve walked into. It’s why the sting hits before you even realize what you’ve done. Your hand makes contact with the oven door, and the heat bites instantly. You curse loud enough to make the whole kitchen snap their heads toward you. Yuki is back at your side in seconds, rattling off a string of reprimands in Japanese and English like you’ve personally offended every kitchen safety rule in existence.

“You’re unbelievable,” he says, snatching your wrist up before you can cradle it against your chest. “How many times have I told you to—”

“I know, I know!” you cut him off, wincing as the burn throbs. “I was distracted, okay?”

“Distracted,” he repeats, unimpressed. “You could have lost your hand.”

“Pretty sure I still have it,” you say, trying for humor, though your voice shakes just enough to betray you. The corners of your eyes sting, and you bite down hard on the inside of your cheek.

Yuki catches it immediately. He’s quiet for a beat, just studying your face, before his shoulders drop in a heavy sigh. The lecture dies on his tongue. Without another word, he tugs you toward the back, past the prep stations, and swings open the heavy metal door of the walk-in freezer. The cold rush of air hits you like a wall, prickling your skin, but he’s already pulling you inside.

“Here,” he says simply, guiding your injured hand toward a shelf stacked with frozen containers. He presses the burn gently against the icy surface, holding it there with his own hand covering yours. The temperature bites, but it’s a welcome relief compared to the searing heat from minutes ago.

For a long moment, it’s just the two of you standing in the blue-white hum of the freezer, his fingers brushing against yours as he steadies your hand. His breath fogs in the chill, and you can feel his warmth even in the cold. “You scare me when you do stuff like this,” Yuki admits quietly, his usual sharpness dulled to something softer. You look up at him, ready with another joke to lighten the mood, but the way he’s watching you makes the words stick in your throat.

The freezer hums around you, cold air rolling over your skin as you press your burned hand against the icy metal shelf. Yuki’s brow is furrowed, and though he’s still muttering under his breath about how reckless you are, his eyes keep flicking to your face like he’s waiting for you to break again.

“Seriously, what’s going on with you?” he asks, softer this time. “You’ve been somewhere else all night.”

“Like I said, I’m just tired,” you say with a shake of your head.

“Liar.” He says it plainly, no bite, just fact. He crosses his arms, resting his weight against the shelf stacked with tubs of gelato. “You think I don’t notice when you’re lying? You think I don’t notice anything?”

Your silence only makes him sigh. His shoulders drop, and when he looks at you again, there’s something raw in his expression. 

“Don’t go,” he says. 

That catches you off guard. “What?”

“Don’t go,” he repeats, firmer now, though his voice trembles at the edges. “Don’t… don’t date Pierre. Don’t move to Alpha Tauri. Don’t leave Venti Due.”

The words stick in your throat. You want to remind him of the truth—that your dream has never been someone else’s kitchen, that it’s always been your own patisserie. That Pierre’s offer doesn’t matter because your loyalty was never up for sale. You open your mouth to say all of it.

But then Yuki takes a step closer. His hands hover like he doesn’t know what to do with them, like touching you will make everything collapse, but his voice breaks when he whispers, “Don’t leave me.”

That’s what undoes you. Because the way he says it, it isn’t about work, or restaurants, or loyalty. It’s about him. About the late nights and food trucks and the way he always looks for you in a crowded kitchen. About every joke and fight and moment that’s been stacking up between you like bricks to a house you didn’t realize you were building.

Before you can get a word out, his resolve cracks completely. Yuki leans in, quick and desperate, and his mouth finds yours in the cold of the freezer, his kiss tasting like salt and nerves. You don’t immediately reciprocate, your brain blanking at the feel of finally getting what you’ve always wanted.  

Yuki pulls back just slightly, his forehead brushing yours. His breath ghosts against your lips, uneven, and his eyes flick down to your mouth like he’s caught himself in some kind of crime. For once, he looks nervous—almost shy, like he’s already regretting how impulsive he was. The great Yuki Tsunoda, who can breeze through a dinner service without breaking a sweat, suddenly looks like he might crumble under the weight of his own feelings.

Before he can take it back, before he can wrap his walls back up around himself, you lean in, kissing him harder, catching him before he even thinks of retreat. 

He makes a startled sound in the back of his throat, a half-surprised, half-helpless noise, and then he’s melting into you, his shoulders dropping like he’s been holding tension for years. His hands hover awkwardly before finally finding their way to your waist, fingertips pressing lightly as if afraid you might vanish if he holds on too tightly. The kiss stretches, breaks for a breath, then finds its rhythm again. 

In between breaths, in between the brush of his lips over yours, he murmurs, voice ragged and unguarded, “I’ve wanted to do this for so long.” The honesty in it hits you harder than the kiss itself.

You laugh against his mouth, playful even as your pulse threatens to sprint out of your chest. “Then you’d better make up for lost time.” Your words spark something in him, teasing a spark into flame.

It’s like lighting a fuse. He kisses you again, firmer this time, urgency curling at the edges, no hesitation left. There’s a shift—something determined, something fierce—like he’s trying to prove he means every word, every unspoken thought he’s ever swallowed around you. His thumb strokes the side of your waist, almost absent, almost reverent, and he leans into you as if he’s finally decided this is real, and he’s not about to waste another second.

The cold air of the freezer doesn’t stand a chance against the heat rising between you. The clink of metal shelves and trill of the fan fade into background noise, unimportant, irrelevant. All you can feel is him, close enough that the world seems narrowed to this exact point in space, this kiss, this gravity. For the first time all night, you’re not thinking about burns, or job offers, or all the ways you keep talking yourself into staying at Venti Due.

Right now, there’s only him, and the terrifying, thrilling realization that everything is about to change.

It’s Monday morning, and the first thing you register is that this isn’t your ceiling. You blink at the unfamiliar cracks, the faint water stain that kind of resembles a turtle, and the sudden realization hits: you’re not at your place. You’re at Yuki’s.

The second thing you register is the solid weight beside you, the rise and fall of his breathing. He’s still asleep, hair mussed, lips parted in the kind of slack, unguarded way that makes you grin like an idiot. The third thing—your feet are freezing, and you know exactly what to do about that. You wiggle closer under the covers and press your icy toes against his shins. Predictably, he jolts, groaning like you’ve just personally betrayed him. 

“Why are you like this?” His voice is rough with sleep, muffled into the pillow.

“Because it’s effective,” you reply, unapologetic as you burrow into his warmth. “Human hot water bottle. Don’t complain.”

He cracks one eye open, glaring in the most halfhearted way possible. “You’re evil.”

“And you’re still letting me stay here,” you counter, tracing lazy circles on his chest as if that proves your point. “So, really, who’s the idiot?”

For a second, it seems like he’ll just roll over and go back to sleep. Instead, Yuki shifts, catching you completely off guard as he flips you onto your back with a speed that makes you squeal and laugh all at once.

“Wait—” you start, but he’s already grinning, playful as ever in the low morning light. “You asked for this,” he says simply, and then he disappears beneath the covers.

Your laughter pitches higher, mixing with a breathless kind of disbelief as you grab at the sheets, your toes curling now for a very different reason. 

The smell of coffee fills the kitchen before you’ve even pulled yourself together enough to stand. Yuki’s already moving around, grinding beans, flicking the switch, pouring milk. He doesn’t ask how you take yours; he just sets the cup down in front of you the way you like it, like he’s been keeping track all along. You try not to look too pleased about it, but he catches the gleam in your eye anyway.

“Don’t,” he warns, though it’s half-asleep and half-affectionate, the kind of voice that tells you he’s already lost whatever argument you’re about to start.

You sip the coffee, burn your tongue a little, and grin through it. “I should probably swing by my place, grab clothes, you know,” you say instead of teasing him. “Just to avoid looking like a scandal walking into work.”

His frown is subtle but obvious. “Why? You can just wear what you have.”

“Right, because showing up in the same outfit as last night isn’t suspicious at all.” You tap his cup with yours like you’re toasting him for being so ridiculous. “Let me grab something fresh, then I’ll come back. It’s a quick pitstop.”

He sighs like you’ve just told him you’re moving continents. “You can only be ten minutes late. No more than that.”

You lean over and kiss his cheek, lingering just long enough to watch the tips of his ears turn red. “I’ll take that as girlfriend privilege,” you half-joke. 

The word hangs in the air, light and heavy all at once. You don’t miss the way his eyes dart to yours, startled before settling into something softer. He tries to hide it by taking a very long sip of his coffee, but you see it. The flush that spreads up his neck, the smile he can’t quite hide.

It might be your new favorite way to start a Monday.

The moment you step into Venti Due, the weight of the kitchen settles on your shoulders the same way it always has. The gleam of pans, the rush of prep, the scent of yeast and sugar all return you to familiar ground. Professional. Focused. The kind of atmosphere where there’s no room for slip-ups, especially not the kind that involves stolen kisses and warm glances across stainless steel counters.

You and Yuki made the unspoken agreement clear last night, punctuated with a nod and the brush of his knuckles against yours before he unlocked his front door. Don’t tell the others yet. Don’t make this into a thing. Keep it quiet.

When you pass him in the kitchen this morning, it’s nothing more than a muttered “Morning” and an acknowledging tilt of his chin. He’s every inch the head chef, doling out orders with clipped precision, demanding sauces be reduced faster, knives sharper, plating tighter. You’re every inch his pastry chef, shoulders squared as you pipe cream with steady hands, pretending your chest isn’t buzzing with the memory of his mouth on yours. 

There are the moments in between. The way he adjusts the oven timer behind you when he doesn’t need to, close enough that his hip briefly presses against yours. The way your hand lingers an extra second when you pass him a spoon for tasting. The barely-there smile that flickers across his face before he turns to yell at someone else. No one notices, or maybe they do and they’re too busy to care.

And then there’s the freezer.

You both slip in under the guise of checking stock, of making sure the deliveries match the invoices. Inside, it’s a hush of chilly air and dim light, the hum of machinery wrapping around you like a secret. He presses his forehead to yours, hands skimming your waist. 

“I’ve got éclairs setting,” you whine, “and you’ve got steaks searing.” 

“Don’t care,” he breathes, lips cold from the air as he kisses you deeply. 

By the time you both step back out, it’s like nothing happened. The thread of something softer pulls under every clipped instruction, every quiet acknowledgment. Professional. Focused. But different now. Different in a way you can’t hide from yourself, even if you can from everyone else.

The market looks exactly the same as every Saturday. Stalls lined with crates of tomatoes that still smell of vines, herbs piled high in baskets, the air thick with the mingling scent of bread, flowers, and espresso. But you notice how different it feels with Yuki’s hand looped through yours. It’s casual, almost lazy, the way his thumb rubs the back of your hand as if he’s not even aware he’s doing it. Spoiler: he’s definitely aware.

You pause at the usual olive oil stand, and the vendor offers up tiny wooden spoons dipped in golden green. You lift yours to your lips, and Yuki leans in behind you, bracing his chin against your shoulder so he can taste off the same spoon. “You’re just stealing my sample,” you protest, laughing.

“It tastes better when it’s yours,” he says, lips brushing too close to your skin for you to take it as anything but intentional.

At the cheese stand, he hovers closer than usual, one hand resting at the small of your back as if someone’s about to bump into you every other second. When you roll your eyes at his overprotectiveness, he murmurs, “Crowded. Don’t want to lose you.”

The sourdough stall is the last stop. The vendor, who’s been watching you two banter for years, smiles knowingly. “Finally together, huh? Took you long enough.” Before you can respond, she pushes two warm loaves toward you. “On the house. Congratulations.”

Yuki flushes bright red and mumbles something under his breath in Japanese you can’t quite catch. You thank her quickly, clutching the loaves to your chest, and turn to him with a grin. “Guess it’s obvious.”

He groans, trying to hide his face behind the bread bag. “We should have told her ourselves.”

“Too late. We’ve been exposed.” You lean closer, bumping your shoulder against his. “At least we get free carbs out of it.”

That makes him laugh, finally looking back at you. The sound is delicate, unguarded, and it carries in the crisp morning air. He squeezes your hand, voice quiet but certain. “Worth it.”

You’re mid–bite of a pastry sample when Yuki makes some comment that has you laughing too loud, the kind of sound that makes a few heads turn. He squeezes your hand, and you’re about to shove another piece of croissant in his mouth when you freeze. Because there, weaving between stalls with all the casual energy in the world, are Jules and Oscar.

Panic hits you faster than the sugar rush. You tug Yuki’s sleeve. “Hide.”

“What?”

“Hide!” you hiss, already dragging him behind a stack of crates filled with apples. He nearly trips over your feet but follows, and the two of you crouch down like fugitives in the middle of a farmers’ market.

Yuki whispers, “We look insane.”

“You’d rather they see us holding hands?” You peek through the gaps between crates, spying the two servers. 

Jules is animated, talking with her hands, while Oscar listens, amused. You lean closer to Yuki, lowering your voice. “I thought Jules was with Lando.”

Yuki frowns, squinting at them. “Really? I didn’t notice.”

You glance at him, incredulous. “How do you not notice? We literally work with these people every day.”

He shrugs, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I only ever pay attention to your personal life.”

That knocks the air right out of your chest. The worst part? He says it so casually, like it’s not the most devastating thing anyone’s ever whispered to you while hiding behind apples. Heat crawls up your neck and you smack his back lightly, trying to cover it up with indignation. “You can’t just say stuff like that.”

“Why not? It’s true.” He’s smiling, and you’re doomed.

You straighten up, grabbing his wrist and tugging. Thankfully, Oscar and Jules are already off in some far end of the market. “That’s it,” you declare. “We’re going back to your place.”

“Now?” He tries to sound surprised, but the spark in his eyes gives him away.

“Yes, now.” You lace your fingers with his again, quickening your pace as you begin to haul him away from the market. “Before I combust from secondhand sweetness.”

“Pretty sure that’s firsthand sweetness,” Yuki teases, but he doesn’t let go.

By the time you get back to Yuki’s apartment, you’re already on him like you’ve been starved for weeks instead of just hours. Buttons, zippers, the trail of your jacket. It all blurs. You can’t remember who stumbles first against the wall, only that you’re laughing into his mouth while trying not to trip over your own shoes. By the time you reach the couch, you’re both half-breathless and entirely lost to it.

Later, once the world slows down, you’re stretched out on that same couch, cheek pressed into the curve of a pillow. Your body is still buzzing with the kind of lazy satisfaction that makes the ceiling look prettier than usual. Yuki lies below you, close enough that your fingers brush his when you move.

Of course, it’s not new—the wanting him part. You’ve always wanted him. You remember culinary school, how your heart raced when he’d glance over your shoulder to critique your knife cuts, his voice gruff and teasing like he had a personal grudge against julienning carrots. You remember thinking you’d put up with a thousand more lectures just to feel his breath on your neck again. So maybe it isn’t such a mystery why you agreed to Venti Due in the first place. Professional growth, sure, but also the chance to be near him. Maybe you’re only admitting that to yourself now, in the afterglow, when your guard’s too low to bother with excuses.

You tilt your head toward him, breaking the silence with the most important question you can think of. “What’s for dinner?”

He hums like he hasn’t thought about it, though his lips twitch like he’s already amused by your impatience. “Probably just takeout.”

You glare at him, mock-offended. “After all this effort I put in today, that’s the best you can offer me? Takeout?”

Yuki smiles widely, turning toward you with the kind of look that makes your stomach flip all over again. “I’m trying to save my energy for something else.”

Before you can fire back with another quip, he shifts, rolling smoothly on top of you. The weight of him pins you down, and suddenly it’s hard to remember what you’d even asked in the first place.

Business has been busier than usual, and you know exactly why. You’ve been experimenting more, letting yourself be bolder with flavors, textures, and presentations. The display case looks like a technicolor dream: glossy tarts crowned with jewel-bright slices of candied citrus, delicate choux puffs dusted with pistachio crumble, and a mousse cake layered so neatly it looks like it belongs in a glossy food magazine. Customers linger, phones out, photos taken before the first bite, and you can’t deny the thrill that rushes through you every time someone swoons over something you made.

Alex notices too. Of course he does. He watches as another pair of customers leave, practically glowing with satisfaction. “I’ll admit it,” he says, his mouth curved into a knowing grin. “Your desserts have been next-level lately. Whatever you’ve been doing, it’s working.”

You feign innocence, shrugging as you wipe down the counter. “What, am I not allowed to have creative bursts every once in a while?”

Alex narrows his eyes, still smiling. “Sure, sure. But usually those bursts don’t line up with you glowing all week,” he jabs. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

You roll your eyes, but Yuki, standing beside you, is visibly stiffer than usual. He clears his throat, a little too quickly. “She’s just working harder. Nothing weird about that.”

“Right,” Alex drawls, amusement dripping from every syllable. “Totally normal. Just suddenly decided to reinvent the pastry case out of nowhere. No possible explanation besides ‘working harder.’”

You and Yuki exchange a quick glance—yours amused, his panicked—and you can’t help but cover a laugh with your hand. “Maybe inspiration struck,” you say, aiming for breezy.

“Uh-huh,” Alex says, clearly unconvinced but entertained. He points between the two of you as he turns to leave. “Whatever it is, keep it up. But don’t think for a second I’m not onto something.”

Yuki mutters under his breath once Alex is gone, “He’s too nosy.”

You grin, nudging him with your elbow. “Relax. Deny, deny, deny. It’s practically foolproof.”

Yuki shoots you a look that’s half irritation, half affection, and you can’t resist leaning close enough to add, “Besides, if Alex thinks my pastry game is suspiciously good, wait until he tries what I’ve been practicing at your place.”

A couple of days and a dozen more pastries later, the bell over the door jingles and you glance up, already halfway into your automatic “Welcome to Venti Due” when you freeze. Standing in the doorway is Doriane. You know her instantly. The same bright smile, the same blonde hair. Culinary school feels both like yesterday and a lifetime ago, but here she is, bustling toward you as if no time has passed at all.

“Are you kidding me?!” she squeals, throwing her arms around you. You laugh, startled, returning the hug. The sound of her voice alone drags you back to late nights in the pastry kitchen, sharing half-burnt éclairs and bad coffee while cramming for exams.

You pull back, a little breathless. “Dori. What the hell are you doing here?”

She beams. “Scouting. My bakery just hit one year. Can you believe it? One year, and we’re still standing.” She launches into chatter, telling you about her staff, her favorite customers, the early mornings that nearly killed her and the croissants that made it all worth it.

You smile, you nod, you laugh where appropriate. You mean it—you are happy for her. You are. But somewhere under your ribs something twists, sharp and unexpected, like a knife you didn’t realize you’d been carrying. You keep your hands busy twirling your kitchen towel, because if you don’t, you’ll have to look at her and admit to the ache in your chest.

She doesn’t notice, or maybe she does and ignores it. Either way, she hugs you again before she leaves, clutching your arm like she used to. “I’m so glad you’re still you,” she says warmly, then tilts her head. “Though, honestly, I’m surprised you’re still here. I always thought you’d have your own place by now.”

Her words land heavier than they should, sticking to your skin long after she’s gone. You stand there, smile fading slow in the sterile kitchen you’ve overstayed in. For the first time in a long time, you wonder if you’ve been hiding behind the safety of Venti Due, behind the steady hum of it—and maybe even behind Yuki—longer than you realized.

You don’t notice the dip in your mood right away, but Yuki does. He’s running through the day’s feedback, voice steady and precise as always, while you’re staring off at a smudge on the stainless-steel counter like it holds the secrets of the universe. Normally, you’d be volleying back with sarcastic commentary or reminding him he sounds like an overzealous Hell’s Kitchen knockoff. Today, though, your mind is somewhere else, and Yuki’s sharp enough to take note of it.

He doesn’t call you out in front of everyone. He’s too careful for that, too considerate. But when the night winds down, the last tables cleared, and you’re elbow-deep in soapy water, he finally makes his move. You don’t hear him until his arms are wrapping around your waist from behind, his chin settling against your shoulder like it’s been waiting there all day.

“You’re quiet,” he whispers, not an accusation but an observation. The kind that makes your chest feel tight. “What’s wrong?”

You force a small laugh, too brittle to pass as genuine but hopefully enough to slip by. “I think I’m coming down with something,” you fib, eyes still fixed on the plates in front of you. 

He hums, the kind of sound that tells you he doesn’t believe you, but he’s not going to push. Instead, he presses a kiss to your bare shoulder, warm and unhurried, a promise tucked into the gesture. “I’ll make you soup.”

The words melt something in you and shatter something else all at once. You nod, letting him believe it, letting him take care of you in the way he knows how. All the while, your heart sinks under the weight of the lie you’ve chosen. The one you’re telling the man you love.

“I want to talk to you about something.”

That’s how Yuki starts, right after you’ve both trudged up the stairs to his apartment. Dinner dishes from your late shift still linger faintly in your clothes, and you brace yourself, heart thudding like he’s about to confirm every fear you’ve been carrying. This is it, you think. He’s caught on. He knows you’ve been off for the past few weeks. Maybe he’s about to call you out for lying, for being distant.

Except then he kicks off his shoes, shrugs out of his jacket, and says it all-too plainly, “I’ve been thinking about expanding Venti Due.”

Your brain short-circuits. “Expanding?”

He nods, totally serious, as if he didn’t just blindside you with a bomb. “Yeah. I’ve been eyeing a property not far from here,” he informs you. “Smaller, more intimate. Different vibe, but still under the name.”

You’re still standing there with your arms crossed, waiting for the trick, waiting for the moment he circles back to the thing that’s been gnawing at you all this time. He doesn’t. He just moves around the apartment like he’s casually announcing he bought a new blender.

“Yuki.” You narrow your eyes. “You can’t just drop the word ‘expansion’ like it’s no big deal. That’s—”

“A big deal,” he finishes for you, smiling faintly. “I know. That’s why I wanted to talk to you first.”

“Me?”

“Of course you.” He says it so easily, so matter-of-fact, it throws you off balance. Then he meets your gaze squarely, no hesitation this time. “Because I want you to be the head chef of the branch.”

You blink at him. Head chef. At a branch of Venti Due. The words taste surreal.  “Yuki, I can’t,” you say quickly, as though cutting him off before the idea can breathe.

His brows crease. “Can’t? What do you mean you can’t? You can.”

“No, really—”

“Yes, really.” He walks back to you, already in full persuasive mode, like you’ve thrown down a gauntlet he refuses to leave on the ground. “You’re brilliant. Your desserts bring people through the door. Half the reason Venti Due has a line every Saturday is because of you. Don’t even start pretending otherwise.”

You laugh, though it comes out sharper than you intend. “Flattery noted, but this isn’t about that.”

He gestures with his hands in that animated way he does when he’s mid-rant. “You think I don’t see it? The way you’re always experimenting, always pushing,” he presses. “You’d make a perfect head chef. You’ve been ready for it for a while now.”

You match his steps across the living room. “You’re not listening,” you plead. “It’s not that I don’t think I’m good enough.”

“Then what is it?” He stops pacing and turns to you, frustrated but still trying to soften it with that boyish insistence, with that love for you that you don’t quite feel deserving of at this very moment. “Because from where I stand, the only thing holding you back is you.”

The words sting more than they should, and you feel the knot that’s been lodged in your chest all day finally snap. “What’s holding me back is that this isn’t my dream!” The volume surprises both of you. You’re breathing harder, anger and something raw bleeding through your voice as you go on, “I didn’t bust my ass in culinary school so I could run someone else’s restaurant. I always meant to open my own bakery. Mine, Yuki. Not yours. Not Venti Due. Mine. You’ve known this from the very start.”

You don’t even mean to blurt it out. The words just slip out: “I’ve had the money for over a year.”

Yuki freezes. His head snaps toward you, disbelief flickering across his face. “Over a year?”

“Savings. Investors. The whole thing’s been ready. I could’ve signed a lease last spring if I wanted.”

The air shifts. Yuki’s quiet, too quiet, and when he finally speaks his voice is low, careful, like he’s afraid of stepping on glass. “Then why haven’t you?”

You swallow, throat tight. The truth pulses at the edge of your tongue, desperate and obvious: because of you. Because you’re here, because every morning at Venti Due means seeing him, because the thought of leaving feels like ripping out a piece of yourself. But you don’t say any of that. You can’t. So instead you shrug, trying to pass it off like it’s nothing. “Timing wasn’t right. That’s all.”

Yuki studies you, eyes narrowing, and you can tell he doesn’t buy it. He knows you too well. His lips press into a thin line, and then, almost hesitantly, he admits, “I thought… maybe you’d changed your mind.”

Your chin lifts at that. “Changed my mind?”

His gaze flicks away, somewhere toward the window where the city hums indifferent outside. “About the bakery. About leaving Venti Due. Especially now.” His voice dips softer, a strange mix of vulnerable and tentative, as if he’s not sure he’s allowed to want what he’s hinting at. “Now that we’re… us.”

Because you’re dating. Because you’re together. He’d thought his dreams were suddenly—what? Weightier than yours? Worth bucking for? You reach for your bag without really thinking about it, the weight of Yuki’s words still pressing against your chest. It feels like white-hot humiliation, threading itself with frustration that refuses to dissolve. His apartment, usually warm and safe, suddenly feels stifling, every wall closing in on you.

“Where are you going?” Yuki’s voice is quick, alarmed. You hear the shift of his footsteps, him crossing the room toward you, and you don’t even have to look up to know the crease between his brows has deepened.

“Home,” you say, short, clipped. The bag strap slides over your shoulder, a shield you cling to. You’re not even sure if you mean your apartment or just somewhere that isn’t here.

His hand reaches for your wrist, the way it always does when he wants to tether you to him, but this time you twist free. Your heart stutters at the shock on his face. He wasn’t expecting that. Neither were you.

“Wait,” he tries again, gentler now. “Don’t do this. Don’t just walk out.”

You shake your head. “I’m not doing anything dramatic, Yuki. I just need air.”

“Air here,” he insists, stepping closer, his tone walking that line between pleading and commanding. “Stay. We can—”

But you take a step back, clutching your bag strap tighter, almost like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. “Not right now.” Your voice comes out almost a whisper, but it cuts anyway. His mouth closes on whatever he was about to say.

The silence that follows is thick, the kind that tastes of all the words unsaid. You manage to leave without looking back, even though every part of you wants to.

Venti Due sings with its usual rhythm: pans clinking, knives against boards, the soft hiss of burners catching. You’re in sync with Yuki the way you always are. Plates move from your station to his without a word, garnishes land with exact precision, sauces are poured with timing that borders on instinct. From the outside, it looks flawless.

Inside, though, it’s different. There’s a tightness under your ribs every time his hand brushes too close, a silence that stretches too long when your eyes meet. It isn’t explosive or obvious, but it lingers like smoke, curling in the corners of the kitchen. The others pick up on it. 

Jules keeps glancing between the two of you, eyebrows furrowing like she’s trying to do the math. Alex lingers longer at the pass, waiting for a joke or some playful jab that never comes. Even Oscar, who usually minds his own business, looks like he’s about to ask something and then thinks better of it.

It’s Lando who finally cracks. He drapes himself across the counter during a lull, smirking like he’s caught you in something. “What, did you two have a lovers’ quarrel? Or is this just some weird chef telepathy thing I’m not getting?”

Normally, you’d quip back. Yuki would roll his eyes and toss a towel at him. Something light, something that breaks the tension and lets everyone laugh. But not today. You keep plating, hand steady as you drizzle a sauce. Yuki doesn’t even look up from his pan. The silence that follows Lando’s joke is louder than the busiest dinner rush.

Lando’s grin falters. “Right. Cool. Totally normal vibes here.” He clears his throat and slips away, leaving the kitchen to its strange quiet again.

You and Yuki move on, the machine still running, but the heart of it misfiring. Perfect tandem, imperfect everything else. The end of shift debrief runs like clockwork, but without the usual noise of teasing interruptions or side comments. Everyone stands gathered near the pass, waiting through Yuki’s rundown. His tone is even and precise—too precise, the kind of politeness that feels like it’s been scrubbed down with bleach.

“Alex, your timing on the mains was sharp today,” Yuki says. “Keep that consistency.” Alex nods, offering a faint grin that doesn’t quite last before glancing at you, as if to gauge whether you’ll soften the mood with a sarcastic remark. You don’t.

“Lando,” Yuki continues, “good initiative with plating, but watch your portioning. Two grams might not sound like much, but it matters.” Normally, this would be where Lando fires back with a smart remark. Instead, he just mutters, “Got it,” subdued, like the tension is pressing down on him too.

“George, solid work on prep. You were efficient and organized. Keep that up.” George straightens like he’s back in school receiving a gold star, though his eyes flick curiously between you and Yuki, clocking the distance in your voices.

“Oscar,” Yuki says next, “good rhythm with service. Quicker reaction times today.” Oscar nods once, his usual grin absent, like he knows better than to test the air tonight.

Then Yuki looks at Jules. “Jules, strong on salads and support. I noticed you handled the backup on sauces without being asked. Good work.”

Jules, normally bright and easy with her thanks, only gives a polite nod, her smile faltering at the edges when she glances between the two of you. Everyone is too aware of the cracks in the kitchen’s unspoken choreography.

Finally, Yuki closes the clipboard, his voice steady as he says, “That’s all. Good shift, everyone. See you tomorrow.”

No jokes, no lingering chatter. The crew disperses quickly, leaving the silence behind like a dirty pan nobody wants to scrub. The kitchen feels too clean, too quiet. You’re drying your hands on a towel when Yuki clears his throat like he’s announcing himself.

“So,” he says, leaning against the counter like nothing’s wrong, like the air between you isn’t thin enough to snap. “Good service tonight. Your chocolate tart sold out. Again.”

You nod, polite as a stranger. “Yeah. People like chocolate.”

There’s supposed to be a grin, a nudge, a quick-fire joke to bounce back. Instead, his smile dies before it even arrives. He shifts his weight, trying again. “George didn’t burn the sauce today. That’s progress.”

“Miracles happen,” you answer, and it comes out flat.

It feels like watching someone dance with two left feet. Yuki doesn’t give up, but every line he throws lands awkwardly, catching in the silence. The rhythm you always had—the banter, the shared eye rolls—has abandoned you both. Finally, he exhales through his nose, tired. “Do you want to get dinner? There’s that new ramen place down the street. Or anywhere, really. My treat.”

The offer dangles in the air, heavy with hope you can’t touch. You tuck the towel over the sink and shake your head. “Not tonight,” you say simply. 

Something flickers in his eyes, but he swallows it down. “Right,” he says, pushing away from the counter. He doesn’t press, doesn’t try to argue. “Get home safe.”

You nod, grab your bag, and head for the door. For the first time in a long time, you leave the restaurant before him. When you glance back once, he’s still standing there, hands braced on the counter, like if he stays behind long enough, the kitchen might tell him where he went wrong.

The awkwardness stretches on for a week. Seven whole days of polite hell, where you and Yuki still move around each other in the kitchen, but the heat is gone. It’s all surface-level courtesy, no lingering glances, no teasing brushes of hands at the prep table. You can feel the staff notice it too. Every sidelong glance, every muted conversation that dies when you enter the room. The silence between you and him is louder than the sizzle of pans.

So when Yuki asks to see you after a shift, your stomach twists into knots. He calls it a ‘meeting,’ the word dropping like a blade between the two of you. You scrub your hands clean at the sink, buying time, bracing yourself for what feels inevitable.

The dining area is empty by the time you join him. The low hum of the refrigerators and the soft clink of cutlery being reset by Jules are the only sounds filling the room. Yuki is sitting at one of the tables, posture perfect, face unreadable. It’s the kind of stillness that makes you want to squirm.

You take the seat across from him, pretending you don’t notice how your pulse has picked up speed. “So,” you say. “Is this where you break up with me in a public setting? Very professional.”

He doesn’t smile. Not even a little moment with a corner of his mouth. His hands are folded on the table, knuckles white from how tightly he’s holding them together. The silence stretches, the air so heavy it feels like it’s pressing down on your chest. You swallow hard, waiting for him to just spit it out already, to confirm the thing you’ve been dreading all week.

Finally, he exhales, slow and deliberate. His eyes lift to meet yours, dark and serious.

“You’re being terminated.”

A beat. He doesn’t laugh. He’s not joking. 

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, “but have you lost your fucking mind?” 

That’s the first thing out of your mouth, sharp and incredulous, the words ricocheting off the walls like you’ve just lobbed a pan across the kitchen. Your hands are moving as if they have a life of their own, slicing the air, pointing at him, at the table between you, at anything that isn’t his maddeningly calm face. “Completely gone. Checked out. Cooked through. You’ve officially lost it.”

Yuki doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even try to interrupt at first, letting you get halfway through your tirade about betrayal, about how you’ve slaved in this restaurant, about how you’ve been nothing but loyal. How he’s being unfair, bringing your relationship problems into your employment. His silence only fuels you further, until your voice is tripping over itself, sarcasm and hurt bleeding into every syllable.

Finally, he cuts in. “It’s not your skills,” he says firmly, voice slicing clean through your spiral. “This is about retrenchment. The business is cutting costs.”

You freeze, mid-sputter, blinking at him like he’s just spoken in another language. “Cutting costs,” you repeat, pained. “So, I’m… what, garnish? Disposable parsley?”

He exhales slowly, not rising to your barbs, which only makes them sting sharper when they bounce uselessly off him. “There’s separation pay. I’ve already worked out the numbers. You’ll have enough to—”

That’s when it clicks. The cool tone, the carefully chosen words, the way he’s framing it not as a failure but as some kind of opportunity. You hear the subtext so loudly it drowns out everything else. He isn’t firing you because the restaurant is sinking. He’s firing you because he wants you gone.

“You’re trying to get me to leave.” Your voice is almost stunned, but it settles heavier than any of your earlier shouting. “This isn’t retrenchment. This is you pushing me out.”

Yuki meets your gaze, steady, unreadable. You feel the bottom of your chest drop, because you can’t tell if he’s doing this out of love—or out of fear. In the softest voice, he says, “You know that stupid saying… if you love someone, you have to let them go?”

“Wow,” you say slowly, “quoting fridge magnets now? Should I be worried?”

Yuki’s cheeks go pink and his hands start to fidget with each other, unraveling the neat knot he’d tied them into. “I—I didn’t mean… I mean, we haven’t… I know we haven’t said that. Love. I just thought—God, I didn’t mean to assume. I’m not assuming. Forget I said it. Pretend I didn’t say it.” His words spill in a frantic rush now, each one tripping over the next. “I’m not trying to pressure you. I just—”

“Yuki.”

“I just realized I was so stupid, asking you to head the new Venti Due branch when I’ve always known—”

“Yuki.”

“—and I don’t want you to think I hate you or anything, because I don’t, and—”

You’re already climbing across the narrow space of the table before he can finish, balancing on one hand as you reach him. His eyes widen, panic stopping mid-sentence as your mouth presses against his. The table rattles under your knee, a fork clattering to the floor, but you don’t care. He tastes like the peppermint tea he’d been nursing, warm and grounding, and the way his breath catches against you nearly undoes you.

The moment you break for air, his arms are around you, hauling you into his lap. He mumbles against your mouth between kisses, his voice shaky but sure: “Missed you. Missed you so much.”

You don’t feel the pit in your chest, just the weight of him holding you close, as if letting you go had never been an option. You don’t know how long you two are making out—just that you’re still in his lap, his mouth still pressed against yours—when you finally manage to crack a joke against his lips. “What are the ethics here?” you tease. “Making out with my boss. At my place of work. Pretty sure this is an HR violation.”

Yuki’s laugh rumbles low in his chest, and he bites at your lower lip like he’s trying to underline his point. “I won’t be your boss much longer,” he says before kissing you again. His hand has inched up, hovering just above the hem of your shirt, his fingers spreading over the strip of skin there.

You’re caught between wanting to tease him for how cocky that sounded and wanting to let him prove it when the door swings open. “Oh my God!” George’s shriek bounces off the walls, higher than any soprano’s note could dream of reaching.

You both freeze. Yuki’s hand is suspended mid-climb, your lips still parted against his. Slowly, painfully slowly, you and Yuki turn toward the doorway. George is standing there, wide-eyed, like he’s just stumbled into some cursed ancient ruin. “I did not need to see that,” he screeches, his voice pitching higher as he slaps his hands over his eyes. “Ever. Ever!”

You stifle a laugh that bubbles up, half mortification and half delight at how utterly horrified he looks. Yuki, though, is the picture of calm. His arm still securely around your waist, his voice maddeningly casual. “George,” he says, like you’ve been caught discussing inventory instead of each other’s tonsils. “Knock next time.”

George lets out another noise—something between a whine and a yell—before stumbling backward, muttering curses under his breath about bleach for his eyes. The second the door clicks shut again, you collapse against Yuki’s shoulder, laughter spilling out of you in gasps. He grins into your hair, hand finally resting warm against your side. 

“Well,” you giggle, still catching your breath. “Guess we’re really terrible at keeping secrets.”

“Mm,” Yuki hums, “I couldn’t keep you a secret if I tried.”

Monday morning pulls you out of bed with more force than your alarm ever could. There’s something about knowing the day won’t end with fluorescent lights and order tickets that makes you stand a little straighter as you dress. By the time you step onto the street, coffee in hand, you already feel the hum of something new, something yours, coursing under your skin.

The storefront waits for you downtown, sunlight spilling across its big windows like a spotlight. The glass gleams, showing off the polished counters and the corner you’ve already claimed. The one perfect for cakes designed to stop people in their tracks. You picture passersby pausing, drawn in by sugar and butter made art, their feet carrying them in almost against their will.

When you push the door open, the smell of yeast and vanilla has already settled in, warm and rich. Chloe is at one counter, already elbow-deep in dough. She glances up at you, grinning with that edge she always has. “Took you long enough,” she sings. “We were about to start without you.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” you shoot back, slipping into your apron with practiced ease.

Across the room, Rafaela raises a brow, steady hands piping buttercream rosettes onto cupcakes lined up in perfect rows. She’s the picture of efficiency, her voice dry but not cold. “Don’t tempt me. Chloe was one second away from eating the leftover pastry cream straight from the bowl.”

“That was quality control,” Chloe protests. 

You laugh, and just like that, the morning begins. Easy, familiar, and bright. It feels like the world has rearranged itself around you, and for once, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Mere minutes after you’ve flipped your sign to Open, the bell above the bakery door rings, crisp and cheerful. You don’t even have to look up to know who it is. Jules always comes in first—like clockwork, like the sun, like the personification of caffeine itself in her oversized sunglasses and slightly chaotic hair. You’re already bagging a pastry before she even says hello.

“Morning,” she yawns. “Tell me you’ve got a raspberry croissant today.”

You glance at her over the pastry bags, lips twitching. “Raspberry croissant? So it was Oscar last night.”

Her sunglasses tip down just enough for you to see her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t deny it. Instead, she puts a hand to her chest with mock dramatics. “I feel so seen. Next you’ll be reading my aura.”

You shrug, sliding the croissant into her bag. “I don’t need your aura. You give yourself away with your pastry order,” you point out. “Chocolate twist? Lando. Raspberry? Oscar. Plain croissant? Alone, tragically.”

“Tragically,” she repeats, sniffing like a Victorian widow, then peeks into the bag like she wasn’t sure you’d actually give her what she asked for. “God, I miss you at Venti Due. That kitchen’s a disaster without you. Yuki pretends he’s fine, but we all know the truth. You abandoned us.”

“Funny, I don’t remember you fake-crying when I’m sliding you free pastries.”

Jules lifts her hand and mimes dabbing away tears, complete with a hiccup of false sobbing. “You don’t understand. The pain of losing my favorite chef and the joy of gaining free carbs—it’s tearing me apart.”

You snort. “You’re so full of it.”

She beams, unbothered. “Absolutely. And you love me for it.” In one swift move, she leans over the counter, kisses you on the cheek, and straightens up. “See you tomorrow, babe.”

The bell rings again as she leaves, and you’re still half-smiling at the empty doorway, the echo of her theatrics setting the tone of your day. 

The bell above the door jingles around lunch, and you glance up just in time to see George slipping in with his sunglasses still on, as though the bakery is paparazzi territory. You don’t call him out on it; you’ve learned that George thrives on delivering his own punchline. Sure enough, he drifts to the center of the room, turns a slow circle, and hums. 

“Darling, it’s cute,” he says, drawing out the word like it’s a compliment and an insult at once. “But these chairs? Bold choice. Retro or tragic? The line’s very thin.”

You quirk your lip to one side, flour dusted across your cheek like war paint. “Retro, obviously. Are you going to order something, or did you want me to get your input on the wallpaper too?”

“Please. I’d only charge you a small consulting fee,” he huffs. “Friends and family discount.”

By the time you’re sliding him a plate—croissant sandwich, because you know him—he’s already snapping a picture of the pastry case like he’s secretly going to Yelp-review you. When he leaves, you catch Chloe grinning at the jar. A crisp bill, folded neatly, tucked among the coins.

Not long after, Alex wanders in, hands buried in his hoodie pockets, cap pulled low. He pauses just inside the door as though unfamiliar with the place, then meanders toward the counter with the casual air of someone trying not to look like a regular.

“Can I help you, sir?” you ask, playing into the role. “First time here?”

He deadpans back. “Yeah, just passing by. Figured I’d try the… what do you call them… muffins?”

“Wow,” you say. “Bold to insult me to my face before I’ve even taken your money.”

Alex doesn’t crack, though his eyes crinkle with laughter he can’t quite conceal. He takes his muffin to go, but not before dropping a note in the jar on Chloe and Rafaela’s side of the counter. He doesn’t look at you when he does it. They both leave in their own ways—George flamboyant, Alex pretending he’s a stranger—but the jar fills steadily, and your bakers exchange conspiratorial glances every time you turn away. Proof of love, wrapped in regulars and tips and remembered orders. 

Your bakery winds down, quiet as it opened. No clattering trays, no chorus of orders being shouted across counters, none of the frenetic heartbeat that defined Venti Due. Just the soft shuffle of parchment, the occasional metallic clink of a tray being stacked away, the murmur of Chloe and Rafaela wiping down surfaces as the golden hour light washes through the front windows. It isn’t adrenaline here. It’s yours.

You lean against the counter, notes in hand, giving them feedback. One of the things you’ve picked up from your time at Veni Due. Chloe listens intently, nodding in all the right places, while Rafaela balances the spray bottle on her palm as she listens to your feedback. Both of them grin at each other whenever you say something particularly earnest, but they still take it to heart. It’s a rhythm, and you like it.

“Honestly, you’re cramping my style,” a voice cuts in from the doorway.

Chloe and Rafaela both swivel toward the sound and then immediately turn back to you with the kind of grins that spell trouble. “Ooooh,” Chloe sing-songs under her breath, and Rafaela raises her brows in mock warning. 

“Don’t stay up too late,” Rafaela adds, grabbing her bag and tugging Chloe along toward the back.

You roll your eyes, but they’re already giggling their way out, their laughter lingering long after the bell on the back door jingles shut. Which leaves you with the doorway. And him.

Yuki is standing there like he hasn’t thought this through. Still in his chef’s outfit, hair mussed like he sprinted here. A bouquet of flowers gripped awkwardly in one hand. The sight of him—rumpled, breathless, yet somehow still beaming—is ridiculous enough to make your chest tighten. 

You don’t even think about it. You’re already moving, barreling forward like gravity’s got you tethered to him. Yuki steadies you on impact, arms locking around your waist as though he’d been bracing for exactly this, and the sound he makes—half laugh, half groan—is ridiculously fond.

“Are you always going to tease me like this?” he teases, mock suffering painted across his face even as his hands linger at your back. “One day, you’re going to break my ribs. Then what? No more cooking, no more flowers, just hospital food for the both of us.”

“You’d survive,” you say, voice muffled against the warm press of his shoulder, though your grin is sharp enough to betray you. 

You lean back just far enough to swipe the bouquet from his hand with practiced ease, turning it in your grip like evidence. The blooms are impossibly fresh, bursting with color, every stem perfectly chosen. “Okay, seriously. Do you have some sixth sense for when your last arrangement dies?” you jab. “Because that’s suspicious. Like, stalker-level suspicious.”

Yuki only shrugs, his eyes lit with something playful. “I take one flower for my office at Venti Due. When it starts to wilt, I know it’s time to bring you new ones.” 

He says it like it’s nothing, like it isn’t the most absurdly meticulous, heartbreakingly thoughtful thing anyone has ever admitted. You freeze, bouquet balanced loosely between your palms, suddenly aware that this—this stupid, simple habit—is him in a nutshell. Not grand speeches or flashy declarations. Just steady, impossible attentiveness. The kind of detail only a chef could pull off, as if he’s spent his whole life honing his craft to turn it on you. He notices the smallest things, the almost invisible shifts, the way your world tilts when the petals begin to fall. And he answers it, every single time, with something that says: I see you. I won’t stop seeing you.

It floods you, a strange alchemy of fire and sugar that catches you low in the chest and spreads until you’re nearly dizzy. You’ve tried to outpace this, duck away from it, pretend it won’t undo you. But Yuki’s love, quiet and relentless, doesn’t burn out. It roots itself deeper, until even running feels useless.

The thought barely finishes before you’re kissing him. Not coy, not testing. It’s hungry, reckless, yours. He tastes like the exact thing you’ve been starved for: laughter caught between breaths, a relief so sharp it almost hurts. Your hands fist into his jacket and tug, impatient, demanding.

“Take this off,” you whisper against his mouth, half command, half plea.

His smile slides into the kiss. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hesitate, only tilts closer until his words ghost against your lips, warm and teasing: “Yes, chef.” ⛐

[lvrsatoru]

[18+] satoru gojo┊ teachers!au OF LOVE & LESSON (PLANS) ⭑ ch1. for jane austen

PAIRING. ── teachers au, physics!gojo x english!reader

⭑ ─ everyone thinks you must be in love with gojo. you would rather set the whole school on fire then prove them right.

SERIES SYNOPSIS. ⭑ you’ve spent years teaching english at jujutsu high across the hall from your most unbearable coworker—physics teacher satoru gojo—enduring his smug grins, loud lectures, and endless interruptions. but after a messy breakup with your high school sweetheart, the school rumor mill decides you and gojo must be secretly dating—because apparently all that yelling and eye-rolling counts as foreplay. suddenly, you’re stuck chaperoning events together, dodging nosy students and staff, and dealing with an ex who can’t mind his own business. but the worst part? gojo thinks it’s all hilarious, as you try not to get caught up in his own chaos…or your own feelings. the real question is: how long can you insist you hate him before everyone (and maybe even you) realizes you don’t?

TAGS. 18+, fem reader, modern au, nerd!gojo, the cast of jjk as teachers and students at a normal high school, workplace romance, rom com, sit com, opposites attract, slow burn, enemies to lovers, (kind of), workplace shenanigans, slice of life, lotsss of banter, friendships, fluff, humor, slight angst, jealousy, mutual pining, ex bf! naoya, scenes of smoking cigarettes & drinking, nsfw, eventual smut

STATUS. 1/(11?)

WORD COUNT. 7.7k

NAV. ☆ ao3. playlist. masterlist.

header art twt/@su2kuna. divider by @cafekitsune

⋆˚꩜ mae's note: hi lovelies, welcome to the first chapter <3 thank you so much for all the unexpected love on the announcement post you guys are the sweetest, and it was so exciting to see all the support! i'll see you at the end xx

Sometimes you’re convinced having your classroom across the hall from Satoru Gojo isn’t coincidence at all but some cruel Austenian plot device, the kind even Jane herself would’ve cut for being too implausible—because surely no heroine could keep their sense and sensibility being near him.

The projector whirs like it’s considering bursting into flames, casting flickering light across your classroom. The fourth-years in your English lit. class sit tiredly on their chairs, their bodies slouched in varying degrees depending on their stage of senioritis. Half of them are waiting to be entertained, the other half are already half-checked out.

“Alright,” you say, remote in hand, “Remember the excerpt we just read, and keep in mind that we’re analyzing narrative perspectives and unreliable perceptions. I’m going to show you a clip from the movie, just so you guys can visualize what you just read. Pay attention to what’s said, but more importantly, how it’s said. How does Darcy see himself in this situation versus how Elizabeth perceives him? How does the author, or in this case, the filmmaker, favor one perspective over the other?”

There are a few dutiful nods, and a few blank stares. Someone in the back whispers something about SparkNotes, and you decide to ignore it.

You cue the clip. On the screen, a still-frame. You’re about to show your students Elizabeth Bennet, standing in a rain-soaked gazebo, and glowering as Mr. Darcy stumbles through a confession of love that sounds suspiciously like an insult.

“This,” you add before pressing play, “Is one of the most famous proposal scenes in English literature. Oh, and also keep in mind this is a highly dramatisized version from the actual novel but I just love this scene. So, I’m forcing you all to watch it. And make sure to jot down notes for the questions on the side.”

The room quiets, and you shut off the fluorescent lights, leaving only the warmth of your fairy lights on — the coziness only furthering the exhaustion of your students, you think. But then the orchestra starts in a chaotic frenzy jolting a couple kids awake, before dying down as the sound of rain hisses from the projector speakers. Darcy starts listing the reasons why Elizabeth is unsuitable for him before proclaiming he can’t stop loving her anyway. Elizabeth’s fury is sharp, cutting. Keira Knightley is an angel.

You’re watching your students more than the film, as you take a seat at your desk and grab your sugary coffee for another sip. A few try not to smile at Elizabeth’s sharp tongue. A couple girls try not to smile at Matthew McFadden and his very pretty blue eyes.

It’s as thunder claps over these star-crossed lovers, that the door slams open.

You feel heads turn, but you’ve developed a sixth sense to know who’s at the door without even moving.

And in strides Satoru Gojo, physics teacher across the hall, nightmare of the faculty lounge, and apparently incapable of reading a clock. His white hair is unpleasantly tousled, and as you make eye contact you notice how his half-rimmed black glasses gleam under the fairy lights.

You look up at him, and scrunch your face with emphasis to your exasperation. “Really?”

“Relax,” he says cheerfully, “Just need to borrow your stapler.”

“In the middle of my class? How many times have I talked to you about this–”

“Oh..” He looks up, as if for the first time acknowledging that he’d burst into the middle of your very important—not at all self-indulgent—lesson about Pride & Prejudice. He waves back at a couple students, and obnoxiously smiles. “The lights were off and I thought you had a prep period too. And my stapler jammed. I can’t help it!” He doesn’t even lower his voice.

The students glance between you and him, their attention fully wrenched from the rain-soaked misery of Darcy and Elizabeth. Someone snickers, and your head whips around too fast.

You look back at Gojo, who’s now rummaging over your desk. Inconsiderately blocking part of the projector with his tall frame and big head. You slap his wrist, and he looks down at you, a little amused.

You hiss through your teeth, pointing at the projector. “Can you not?”

Gojo cups a hand to his ear dramatically, and leans closer towards you, as if trying to hear what you had just said, but then you watch his jaw drop as Elizabeth says that Darcy’s the last man in the world she could ever be prevailed upon to marry.

“Wow. What did he do?” Which gets a couple laughs from the students, to your dismay.

He stands, moving aside from the projector and instead going behind your desk now, looking through the drawers like they’re his. You glare at him, and the coffee in your hand suddenly starts feeling like a projectile you could be using.

“If you’re going to interrupt, at least be quiet.” You stage-whisper.

“Me? Loud? Never.” He presses a finger to his lips like a cartoon spy, in an exaggerated shhh sound.

“The stapler is in the small drawer on the left. Leave my classroom.” As he moves a bit closer, opening the only drawer he forgot to check, your eyes pan up to his navy blue shirt, which reads in heinous lettering: Without friction, we’d all slip into despair. It’s a new one, and you have to wonder how many t-shirts with physics puns on them this grown ass man owns.

“Nice shirt.” You sarcastically quip. He pauses for a moment, holding your pretty pink stapler in hand.

“Aw. You like it?” He looks down at you in your chair, and pinches the front of his shirt with his free hand, as if to give you a better look at it. You want to smack that grin off his face.

“Hard not to when it’s screaming, I have no social life! in Comic Sans.”

He frowns, stage whispering back at you. “You’re kidding. This shirt’s a conversation starter. It’s so deep and poetic. Far from anything you could comprehend” 

“Sure,” you deadpan, “Specifically, it starts the conversation: ‘God, what a loser.’” 

“Me? A loser?” He whispers and cups a hand over his mouth this time, saying something now only you should hear. “Didn’t you turn down going to the club with Shoko last weekend so you could rewatch ‘The Great British Bake Off’?” You think that you can feel your face flushing.

“Wha—Why would Shoko tell you that?!” you sputter, a little louder than intended. Shoko Ieiri, what a traitor. A couple students near the front titter, and Gojo tips his head, smug.

You shoot the front row a sharp look. “Don’t encourage him.”

Onscreen, Darcy’s voice cracks with tension: “Forgive me, for taking up so much of your time.” But no one’s watching. They’re watching the way you’re squared off against Gojo like you’ve been through this routine a hundred times before.

You try to will your students’ attention back to the projector, but the air is buzzing with suppressed laughter, and the clip ends. Elizabeth is storming away from Darcy. Silence.

All eyes are on Gojo, as he starts walking towards the door.

One of the students mutters, just loud enough to hear, “Kinda feels like Elizabeth and Darcy right now.” You look around to see who said it, and of course it’s Hakari in the back row, slouched and practically half asleep. Always instigating.

Gojo perks up instantly. “Wait, which one am I?”

“You’re Mr. Collins.” you snap.

Gasps and laughter ripple through the class.

“Ouch,” Gojo says, clutching his chest theatrically. “Marriage proposal still stands, though.”

You can feel your blood pressure climbing as the students shout their ooo’s and ahh’s. “You got the stapler. Now, Get. Out.”

He grins, holding it up like it’s a trophy. He’s almost out the door now, his head is just peeking in like he wants to do one last thing to piss you off. “Thanks, sweetheart.” 

“Don’t call me that.”

“Right, right.” He pushes his glasses up, and his voice sing-songs sweetly. “See you at dinner, honey.”

And then he’s gone, out the door and across the hall to his classroom—and the entire class loses it. You want to sink through the floor.

“Alright,” you flick the lights back on, and try to act like you’re not planning to take that stapler back and whack him over the head with it once the bell rings. “Settle down. I don’t know what Mr. Gojo’s problem is but I want you all to act like that never happened. For my own peace of mind.”

They’re still giggling and you can hear the trail of whispers through the classroom. But still, it’s the image of Gojo’s grin that’s burning hot at the edge of your patience.

Your classroom feels strangely hollow after the bell, like the laughter of your students still clings to the walls even though they’ve all scattered for break. The projector is cooling down with a low hiss, the fairy lights glow faintly on the walls against bookshelves, student projects, and all the Etsy posters you bought for decor, and the only sound is the steady hum of the AC above to cool the late August heat outside.

You sit at your desk, stirring a plastic cup of iced coffee that tastes like melted ice cream and regret. Sickly sweet, just how you like it, though this morning you feel like you made it a little too sugary. You’ll survive, though.

The door creaks open and Utahime steps inside, a familiar relief with her cardigan draped neatly over her shoulder, her keys and staff lanyard swinging around her neck, and her ever-practical cherry red heels clicking against the linoleum. Without hesitation, she sinks into a student desk in the front row, sighing as her knees bump awkwardly against the underside. She lets her heels dangle a little, like she’s trying on a role that doesn’t quite fit.

“Don’t you have your own office?” You ask.

“Mm.” She tilts her head back, studying you from across the room. “Don’t you have better coffee?”

You look down at your coffee, now a bisque-shade from how much creamer you put in it this morning. Unpleasant to the untrained eye. But you snort, and take a sip anyway.

“That’s going to kill you before the students do.”

“It’s called self-preservation.” You swirl the coffee like it’ll magically taste better if you move the sugar around.

Utahime props her chin in her hand. “How’d you sleep?”

The truth is that you stayed up half the night rereading old messages from Naoya until your chest felt too tight to breathe. You could never tell Utahime this, though. First off, she was the one who you had cried to then rewatched the third season of Sex & The City with that weekend he’d broken up with you. Second off, she would use her guru-esque quality, not just as a school counselor, but as one of your best friends, to advise you against your self sabotaging habit of only looking at the good parts in your less than adequate, decade long relationship.

You force a casual shrug and don’t meet her eyes. “Fine. Finished a reread of Gatsby before we start our unit.”

“Mm-hm.” Utahime’s tone makes it clear she doesn’t buy it, but she lets it slide—for now.

Instead, she gestures vaguely toward the hallway. “So. How many times did Gojo barge in this week? I’m still betting under forty for the whole year. Suguru said over. So, no pressure, but just to let you know I have twenty dollars on the line right now.”

You groan and drop your forehead onto your folded arms on the desk. After the bell rang, you had quickly stomped over to his classroom to retrieve the stapler he’d stolen from you, but the idiot had already left and put a bright blue post-it note on his door that read: “BRB. I have the stapler on me. You know where to find me, Ms. L/N ~ ;)”  You had ripped it off and threw it away—and hoped no one else noticed the perpetual steam coming out of your ears.

“Every day. Every single day this week. It’s like living across from an albino raccoon who figured out how doors work.”

Utahime chuckles, but her expression softens. “You’ve gotta stop falling for his bad ragebait.”

You peek up at her through your arms. “I can’t stop him from getting under my skin. It’s like his only hobby.”

“Then ignore him.”

“I’m trying. But then he does that thing where he inhales and then exhales—”

“—You mean breathing?”

“Exactly.”

Utahime shakes her head, amused, but the laughter fades as her eyes search yours. “You sure you’re okay?”

You straighten, wrapping your hands around the icy condensation of your coffee cup so your hands feel numb. “Sure. Never better.”

“You don’t have to joke about everything.”

“I’m not joking.” You smile anyway, the kind that feels plastered on. “I’m deflecting. It’s different.”

She doesn’t say Naoya’s name, but you hear it anyway, tucked inside the silence between you. It’s been about two months and eleven days since you had called it quits on who you thought—at some point or the other—would be the man you would spend the rest of your life with. Your high school sweetheart, the man who had seen you from junior-year prom to your masters thesis. Who you had moved in with at 19, then kicked you out at 27. It was mostly mutual, an unremarkable, inevitable split. The last couple years had felt like the end of a novel, dragging out the last few pages long after the story should’ve concluded. There wasn’t a week where you didn’t argue, scream at each other, or even talk at all. Ten years in, and you felt like it had been about six since the last time you could say without hesitation that you loved him unconditionally. The scary part is you don’t know if he ever loved you that way at all.

Doesn’t mean leaving didn’t hurt, though.

Utahime shakes you out of your thoughts, as she leans back in her chair, letting her heels swing lazily. “So…still dreaming about your good-for-nothing ex, or have you moved on to…physics teachers?”

You nearly choke on your coffee. “Excuse me?!?”

“You know, the students are already starting to speculate ever since you took down those photos of you and Naoya from your bulletin board,” You take a glance to your left, where you had a cute bulletin board you had crafted of scraps and pictures and stickers and sentimental items. It was half empty now…since most of your pictures were of you and your ex. You didn’t really think anyone would notice, but now that you’re looking at it, the emptiness is screaming at you. Yikes. “I’ve caught a few of them whispering whenever you two appear in the same hallway.”

“What? Speculate — speculate about what?!”

“About you two.” She smirks knowingly. “I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to. Your reputation precedes you.”

Your eyes narrow. “Reputation? You mean being a grown woman who actively wants to whack an unfunny physics teacher? Did they finally catch me planning first-degree murder?”

“Kind of,” she says, concealing her amusement. “Except…it doesn’t really sound like murder to the average high schooler. To them, it just looks… interesting. For lack of a better word.”

You groan and press your forehead into your palm. “I can’t. I just can’t. It’s literally my life goal not to give him any fuel, and now—”

“Now they’ve invented a fantasy version of you two,” Utahime finishes for you, tilting her head. “Honestly, it’s kind of impressive. You’ve got some competitive energy going on. Maybe one could even call it sexual tension if I had to give it a word—” You make a gagging noise, profusely shaking your head, and Utahime laughs at you.

“And I mean all of that for a guy who has Digimon collectibles all over his room. And a weirdly large collection of physics shirts.”

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes. “It’s a curse. I walk into the building and somehow my first thought is, ‘Which new physics pun is he wearing today?”

“And the second thought is?”

“Oh. That I should hide my stapler.”

Utahime raises an eyebrow. “Ah. That explains the blue post-it note.” She winks. “Classic Gojo.”

You groan, dramatically dragging a hand through your hair. You had really hoped no one else had seen that. “I don’t even know why he bothers me so much. I feel like he’s gotten worse this year, and we’re not even a full week in yet. Last year, I tried to use his tricks against him and randomly burst into his class to distract his students, but he didn’t even care. He just found it funny so I gave up that tactic because seeing him all golly made me annoyed.”

Utahime’s not looking at you anymore, picking at the fuzzy pills on her cardigan with her nails. “You know, sometimes the people who get under your skin the most aren’t the ones worth your attention, but they’re the ones who teach you the most about yourself.”

You snort softly, half disbelief, half in agreement. “That’s a nice way to say, ‘You’re weak for letting him annoy you this much.’”

“Maybe.” She smirks, playful again, and still not looking up at you. “But be careful around those students. They’re vicious.”

You clear your throat, “Seriously, though, Gojo? He’s like a fungus. The more you try to scrape him off, the more he grows back.”

Utahime smiles at you. “Then maybe you should stop feeding him your attention.”

You sip your coffee, saccharine and stinging. But deep down, you can’t shake the question: if he’s really not worth it, then why does he get under your skin so much?

The gym at Jujutsu High smells like freshly polished floors, popcorn, and a faint trace of febreeze. At least it didn’t smell like BO anymore. Or, at least not yet. Sunlight streams in through the high windows, cutting across the chaos below. The bleachers are completely full, and the gym is buzzing. Students are running everywhere—teams being called, banners being hung, foam fingers waving like flags.

It’s a Friday at lunch, and it's the end of your first week back. You’d almost forgotten that you had volunteered to supervise the Welcome Back Rally, until Utahime–who was also volunteering, against her will—had dragged you out of your classroom and placed a clipboard and whistle in your hand.

You’d imagined a relatively easy job, like patrolling the bleachers, maybe confiscating contraband snacks from first-years, or clapping politely at the cheer routine. What you hadn’t imagined was being paired with Gojo, because apparently the faculty roster is written by someone with a personal vendetta against you.

“Ah, my partner in crime.” He greets, sliding up to you with a grin wide enough to make you want to pull his teeth out. “And here you were, thinking you could make it through one school event without me.”

You eye him flatly. “I was actually hoping that exact thing, yeah.”

Your assignment, according to Mr. Takaba, the school’s activities director and his curt clipboard instructions, is to, “monitor the relay game.” Which translates into standing near a mess of cones and hula hoops while unobservant teenagers attempt organized chaos. Predictably, the chaos wins. A basketball goes rogue, someone trips over a hula hoop, and now some freshman’s already bleeding from the nose. You cover your gasp with your hand, and Gojo makes a surprised face. The crowd goes, oooh..and not in a good way.

“Oh. Um. This is fine.” Gojo says, as you both watch a senior haul away the freshman, who’s holding a hand over his bleeding nose. Shoko could take care of that.

The two of you are the only ones monitoring the home-side bleachers, so you and Gojo are unusually silent for a bit, watching the rally play out. Occasionally blowing your whistle here and there if you notice someone being unfair, but you’re mostly zoned out.

“Where were you this summer?” Gojo says suddenly, leaning against the railing, “I feel like I heard nothing from you.”

You glance at him, clipboard in hand. The dynamic between you and Gojo has always been…perplexing. Some of your closest friends at work, like Shoko Ieiri, the school’s head nurse, and Suguru Geto, the world history teacher and co-advisor of the school newspaper with you—have all been some of Gojo’s closest friends since university. You just can’t pinpoint where you and Gojo’s little back and forth started—it feels like there’s been a great number of reasons and incidents and coincidences that have built up over the years, ranging from things with Naoya that never sat right, to stupid things like using up the last life of ink on their shared printer—but ever since you’ve been teaching at Jujutsu High, so has Gojo. And by some cruel architectural twist of fate, he’s also always been just across the hall. 

You glance at him, clipboard in hand. “I just live a life of mystery, apparently.” You’d spent the whole summer sulking after your break-up. 

He smirks. “Mm-hm. Right. Or you were avoiding me.”

“Please,” you reply, rolling your eyes. “You’re everywhere anyway. I get my fill of Gojo for the entire school year. I need summer to recharge in peace.”

“Touché,” he says, hands tucked in his pockets. “But seriously…did you ever catch up with Shoko while I was off being brilliant and terrifying somewhere.”

You frown, thinking. “Yeah. We hung out a couple of times. Mostly called, though. She lives so far from here.”

He nods, and you glance at him, eyebrows raised. “And you? Did you actually do anything useful, or just flirt your way through your summer like usual?”

“Excuse me,” He feigns offense, tilting his head. “Flirtation is just a bonus. I was busy all summer with coaching baseball camp, and doing research at the university with this NASA-backed team there for Quantum Propulsions. I saw a real rocketship they’re building. You wanna see?”

He side steps a little closer to you, pulling out his phone and scrolling over to his photos app to show you a selfie of him with his face in the corner of the frame, pointing up at a rocketship with a big smile on his face. 

“You like it? I put it in my class introduction slides this week.”

“Mm. It’s not your worst picture.”

“I guess I’ll take it.” He says, turning off his phone and stuffing it back into the pocket of his dark wash jeans. He doesn’t move back to his original spot, but he crosses his arms and watches the game for a bit, playing with the whistle between his fingers.

“Oh. You know I saw Naoya at a family thing last week? He kept glaring at me, but he looked like shit. Did he tell you abou–” He started trailing off, but your head had only registered, he looked like shit. You decided to take it as a small win.

“Don’t.” You grumble under your breath.

He leans closer, voice dropping just enough to carry over the crowd noise. “Oh, come on. I feel like the guys never liked me. Said I was too…flirty? Imagine that—me, flirty? The horror.”

“You know, he thinks that you’re off-putting.” You say, smirking despite yourself.

“I’m ignoring that. But, anyway. He came up to me at the family thing, because it was some Gojo-Corp slash Zenin-Corp schmuck fest I didn’t ask to be a part of, and he just kept glowering at me. Like, hello? Did I do something to you?”

You laugh quietly, shaking your head. “I swear you remember every single time someone’s ever wronged you, even minor stuff.”

“I don’t forget, I catalogue,” he says, mock-proud. “It’s a skill. Besides, it keeps things interesting. You’d be bored if I didn’t stir the pot a little.”

You glance at him, you find it slightly endearing, despite yourself. “I’m…not bored. Just constantly exasperated.”

“Exactly,” he grins, as if he had successfully proved a point. “We’re the perfect team. You, glaring. Me, grinning. Classic combo.”

You roll your eyes again. “I’m not sure ‘classic combo’ is the phrase I’d use for disaster waiting to happen.”

“Semantics,” he says lightly, leaning back a little with arms crossed. “Anyway, I missed this—seeing you overanalyze everything and still manage to look ridiculous while doing it. Kinda like a sport in itself.”

You huff, a little embarrassed but trying to hide it behind your clipboard. 

The gym breaks into claps and whistles as the voice of athletics director, Mr. Ryomen Sukuna, announces over the speaker that the next relay round is about to start. You’re crouched down, trying to untangle two jump ropes that some geniuses thought would be funny to knot together, when you feel it — something flicks against the back of your ear.

You whirl around.

Gojo is standing there, twirling his whistle on a lanyard around his finger, infuriatingly casual as he looks down at you. “What?”

“You just flicked me.”

“Excuse me?” His voice dips into fake innocence, his grin widening when he sees your glare. He does it again.

“Stop that!” You hiss, and you’re back on your feet, glaring at him while he keeps twirling it between his fingers.

He leans down just enough to make his voice carry over the roar of the bleachers. “I’m just keeping you on your toes.”

You pause, and give him the most apathetic look you could muster.

“Get it…cause you were just crouching. On your toes…No?”

“You’re insufferable.” You yank the whistle from his hand and stuff it into your pocket, like you’ve confiscated candy from a baby.

Gojo just shrugs, then cups his hands around his mouth and looks at you, while simultaneously yelling towards the chaos of students, “Hey! Don’t steal school property, only teachers get to do that!” Before he places a hand to emphasize the gap between your height and his, making a show of how much taller he is than you. A few kids laugh, and you want the ground to swallow you whole.

“You are not funny.” You half cross your arms, with your clipboard still in hand.

“Not funny? Please. I’m the highlight of this rally.” He lifts his arms like he’s presenting himself to the crowd, and it gives you a full view of his newest outfit, written in block letters on a white shirt, accompanied with the graphic of a rollercoaster cart going up a drop: I have potential.

You hide your slight smile with a scowl. “Highlight? More like an eyesore. You lost your potential when you came in wearing a shirt like that.” 

He clutches his chest. Offended. “My shirt is a beacon of scientific truth.”

“It’s a beacon of why you don’t have a girlfriend.” You scoff. He pauses, and you think you’ve gone too far… but then he laughs at you, and the sound of it weirdly makes you lighten up.

“Hey, if you called me insufferable, but dated that one awful guy for—what was it—ten years?” He smirks at the way your jaw tenses. “Then that means there’s hope for me.”

You freeze, blinking at him. You wish you could have seen the look on your face at this moment. “Wait—did you say dated? As in past tense, used to date.”

He freezes too, smirk faltering. Absolutely caught. “Uh… I might’ve… overheard. Or someone mentioned it.” You looked at him, completely unimpressed. There’s only one other person who you ran to almost immediately after it was over. Who you called even before the snot had stopped running down your nose. And there was also only one person who was friends with both you and Gojo, who also had a big mouth. “Okay, fine—Shoko told me. But it’s not like I was being weird about it, I swear.”

Shoko Ieiri, that absolute traitor.

You glare. “You asked Shoko about my breakup?”

He scratches his neck, sheepish. “Yeah…? Maybe that was overstepping. I just saw you guys unfollowed each other on Instagram, so I asked.”

You laugh, a little bitter, and shake your head at the sheer audacity of this guy. “Maybe you were overstepping??”

He shrugs, but his eyes flick over you like he’s checking if he can cross a line again. He’s so shameless you have to stop yourself from blowing the whistle in his ear. “I’m just saying—if a dumb t-shirt makes you cringe, but a guy wasting ten years of your life didn’t? Kinda feels like your priorities are flipped.”

You actually can’t believe he just said that. The laugh you let out is sharp and bitter, surprising even yourself. “You would know all about bad priorities, wouldn’t you?”

That shuts him up for a beat. Long enough that the sound of cheering and sneakers squeaking on the gym floor go on for longer than either of you are comfortable with. Then he smiles again, brighter, faker this time. “Tch. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were projecting.”

You snap your head toward him. “Projecting what, exactly?”

“Mm.” He pretends to think, tapping his chin with one long finger. “Frustration. Deep-seated bitterness. Maybe some unresolved romantic trauma?”

Your mouth gapes open. “Excuse me?”

When you look back up at him, you see his head tilt up towards the bleachers, where a gaggle of juniors are very obviously whispering behind their hands, half-giggling, half-staring at the two of you like you’re they’re favorite celebrities. He nods his head at them, and you smile at them, and they burst out giggling before the two of you turn back around. What Utahime said to you yesterday rings in your head suddenly. You know the students are starting to speculate about you two…to them, it looks—interesting.

You shake your head, and he looks back at you, leaning in a little as the crowd roars again. “I mean, hey,” He says with an exaggerated shrug. “You don’t have to take it out on me just because someone dumped you.”

“I didn’t get dumped,” You hiss, jabbing a finger at his chest. “It was mutual.”

He gasps, scandalized. “Mutual? Oh no. That’s just what people say when they definitely get dumped.”

You shove his hand away as he reaches over like he’s about to pat your head. “Just stop talking.”

“Can’t. Won’t.” He beams. “Making you mad is way more entertaining than the relay race.”

“Gojo, I swear—”

“What? You’ll report me to Yaga? Please. He loves me.”

You’d thought about it. Had done your research to see if Gojo making you irritated and contemplate violence every time you see him border on the grounds of workplace harassment. But then you think about the things you’ve done to get him back over the years. Implied he got too excited over Digimon to his class of seniors, (if you know what I mean) which he laughed at. Broke some of his lab equipment after yelling at each other, which got slightly on his nerves. (And you felt bad, so you paid for most of it.) Swapped his whiteboard markers with ones that were dried out, to which he swapped yours with permanent markers. (The janitor had complained about it to Yaga.) Hid his chair in your room and replaced it with a kindergarten-sized one from the art room for a couple days. Hijacked his Spotify playlist to blast Dance Monkey in the middle of his lecture. To which he figured out your Spotify login and added I Am A Gummy Bear to all of your playlists. Those were some highlights among other things over the past four years.

And you know that Principal Yaga would only bring up all these other incidents if you were to complain about Gojo. Ugh.

“Yaga barely tolerates you.”

“Jealous?”

“Of what. Your complete lack of shame?”

“Of my charisma.” He winks. You gag.

“Gojo, if you say one more word, I’m shoving my whistle so far down your throat you’ll be calling plays from your stomach.”

He leans down until he’s eye-level, smile sharp. “Kinky.”

You feel your face flush again, and you spin around to see if anyone else had heard that. Thankfully, everyone seemed too focused on the kids about to hop over the finish-line of the three-legged race.

“You’re unbelievable.” You mutter, storming off towards the cones as the crowd erupts in cheers at the end of the race, commemorating the end of the rally and the start of the final cheer routine, which was highlighted in bright yellow on your clipboard. Behind you now, Gojo’s laughter booms over the crowd, louder than the pep rally itself.

Before he can retort, a cheerleader comes sprinting too close to the sidelines. She collides with one of the relay cones, sending it skidding straight toward you. You stumble back, about to lose your balance—until you feel a strong arm shoot out, catching you around the waist to steady you back on your feet.

And of course, because the universe hates you, Satoru Gojo doesn’t let go immediately. His hand is firm against your side, his face dipping closer than it has any right to be, his breath brushing your ear when he murmurs, “Careful there, wouldn’t want you to sue the school for hazardous cone placement.”

Your pulse spikes, embarrassment and heat searing through your face like you’d just played the entire relay yourself. The squeak of sneakers slows, replaced by a ripple of whispers and a sharp, collective gasp from the bleachers. The sound alone makes your stomach drop. You know people saw. Too many people.

You jerk out of his hold, spin around toward him with your clipboard clutched tight against your chest like a shield. “You’re unbelievable.” You hiss again, but this time it comes out thinner, because you can still feel the ghost of his hand against your waist.

Gojo leans back, his ears a little red, but his expression is unbothered, with that blinding grin spreading across his face like he’s covering another laugh. “Don’t worry,” he says, stretching his arms over his head as if he didn’t practically manhandle you in front of half the school. “I saved your life. You should really be thanking me.”

“You could’ve tripped me harder than the cone did.” You try to snap, but your voice wobbles, and judging by the smug sparkle in his eyes, he heard it.

“Huh. You’re right. Next time I’ll really commit.” He sing-songs, walking away to pick up the cone, and you feel your eye twitch. You step back as the cheer squad rallies into formation, and you can still swear you hear his soft chuckling over the buzz of the crowd. The sound of it echoes in your ears long after the marching band drowns it out.

You’re half-paying attention to the students as they file out of the gym, congratulating teams and waving banners, but the whispers follow you like a persistent shadow. Every time someone giggles behind their hand or nudges a friend, your stomach twists. You’re convinced it’s because pep rallies are dumb, and not because of anything—or anyone—in specific.

You teach English to seniors in the morning, and sophomores after lunch. You go about your last two English 2 Honors classes of the day trying to ignore the lingering heat in your cheeks. You pass out all the worksheets you had printed the day before, teaching the slides to round out your lesson on Literary Devices like you always do in the beginning of the year. You don’t forget to remind your class about their timed summer reading essays next Friday, which gives way to a unanimous groan.

You would’ve forgotten the way Gojo had held you at that pep rally, if only not for every time you glance up, you’d notice the subtle smirks and sidelong glances your students exchange. A few kids even whisper to each other while stealing glances at you, and it sets your nerves on edge. You shift your weight on your tennis shoes, hoping it’s all in your head. Surely, it’s just the lingering excitement from the rally.

By the time the final bell rings, you’re practically sprinting out the classroom, trying to look casual while stuffing papers into your bag. The hallways are still buzzing with students, some waving at friends from other classes, others chattering in small groups. And yet—and maybe you’re just a little paranoid—you notice the occasional pause as someone spots you and then whispers to the next person.

You’re crossing the main hallway near the teacher’s lounge, when you hear a small gasp from the far end of the corridor, followed by muffled laughter. Your stomach lurches. Kids are really scary sometimes. But you have to ignore it, ignore it, ignore it.

Still, the whispers and stifled giggles continue, subtly threading through the hallways as you make your way to the lounge. You’ve barely just closed the door, when it swings open behind you, and Utahime steps in, phone held out in front of her face.

“Explain THIS.”

You’re startled at first, but you follow her gaze, and your heart feels like it fell down to your ass. There it is—the photo. It’s a Snapchat photo, taken in low, zoomed in quality, with a black bar of text below that writes: “English X Physics OTP??????” The background is blurred, the gym chaos still visible, but the focus is zoomed in on the two of you. Gojo, leaning in close, one hand braced around your waist, your face flushed and wide-eyed like something out of a rom-com poster. And it all looks way too intimate than it really was.

“Oh. My. God.” You slump into one of the worn chairs in the lounge. Utahime follows, taking her phone back and staring at it with an infuriatingly gleeful grin plastered across her face.

“Oh, come on,” Utahime says, nudging you with her elbow. “It’s hilarious. Look at this!” She holds up the phone again, and you reflexively shield your face. “The posture! The panic! You’re basically a rom-com lead who just realized the camera’s on.”

“I am not a rom-com lead,” You whisper defensively. Your hands are covering your face out of complete embarrassment. “How many people has this gotten around to?? That looks—that looks criminal out of context—”

Utahime snorts. “Relax. It’s fine. It’s…well, it’s definitely not fine, because everyone’s seen it by now, but at least it’s funny.” She tries to give you a supportive smile, but is clearly savoring your meltdown. “I’ve got to say, though, the way your eyes are this wide—adorable.”

“Utahime!” You squeak, flailing. “Please delete it. Hide it. Burn it. ANYTHING.”

“Too late,” She says brightly, scrolling through her phone like she’s about to share it to everybody but you. “The students have it posted all over their private stories, apparently. You’re viral, congratulations.”

Before you can sputter further, the door to the lounge swings open and Ijichi, the secretary, pokes his head in, clipboard in hand and a polite, but firm expression.

“L/N?” He says, a little shy. “Principal Yaga is asking for you in his office. Right now.”

You jolt upright, nearly tripping over the chair. “Wha–what? Why?”

Ijichi blinks, a little startled at your reaction. “I don’t have details. He said it’s urgent. If you could come with me, please.”

Utahime bursts into another round of laughter, practically doubled over now. “Ohhh, this is perfect. Go on—walk into the storm, Ms. Bennet. (She says in a mock British accent) Make me proud.” 

You groan, flinging your bag over your shoulder and muttering curses under your breath as you follow Ijichi out of the lounge. You can still hear Utahime in there, barely able to contain her giggles while your stomach feels like it’s turning to mush.

As you follow Ijichi down the quiet hallway, now devoid of students, the worst possible scenarios slip through your mind. Of course this had to be about the photo—but can they fire you for that? Surely to any professional teacher, it would just look like a co-worker helping another co-worker from an imminent case of eating straight shit right? I mean, it was only to those hormonal teenagers for it to look like something else entirely, right?

And of course, of course, when you round the corner outside the principal’s office, there he is. Gojo. Sitting casually against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, phone in hand, scrolling with what looks like an irritatingly calm expression. He looks up, just for a second, and behind his glasses, the sparkle in those clear blue eyes tells you he knows exactly why you’re panicking.

“Yikes.” He mutters softly, seemingly more to himself than you, though you can feel it like a poke to the ribs.

Ijichi clears his throat, opening the door to Yaga’s office. “You two can come in,” He says, voice dry, eyes flicking between you and Gojo like he’s silently cataloguing the impending chaos.

Behind the door, Principal Yaga sits behind his desk, expression unreadable behind those visors he wears, even indoors. The office smells faintly of a Bath & Body Works mahogany and teakwood candle, and his chairs are weirdly far from his desk, and also weirdly shorter in comparison, making Yaga seem like a giant in front of them. “Sit,” he says, not bothering with pleasentries. Both of you comply, though Gojo makes it dramatic, leaning back and spreading his arms onto the rests.

“I’ve called you two in for a talk on professionalism.” Yaga begins, folding his hands on the desk. You feel your face cringe, and you don’t even bother looking over at Gojo. “While I don’t care what you do on your own time, I do care about what students see. I’ve seen the picture being spread. Stop giving them fuel for gossip. Stop giving them reasons to speculate about your behavior.”

You quickly nod, scared to look away, but Gojo leans toward you just enough that you can hear him whisper, with a smirk on his face. “Wow. We become that popular that fast?”

You snap your head toward him, voice sharp, but whispering, “Shut up. You’re literally the reason we’re here.”

Yaga sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Again. I don’t care what you two do outside of school, but this—” He gestures at the two of you, Gojo holding his chin with his hand, while leaning his arm on your arm rest, and you, your face unconsciously close to his as you were whispering to him just seconds ago. “—this hallway spectacle—is inappropriate. Since it’s already being spread amongst the students it could become a whole thing with the parents contacting us about professional conduct, and I just don’t want to deal with that headache. It’s happened before, and it wasn’t fun, Mr. Gojo and Ms. L/N.” 

You blink, swallowing hard, trying to gather your words because you’re afraid if you open your mouth you’re going to puke from the embarrassment. “I completely understand, Yaga. Trust me, it won’t happen again. And about the picture, I promise you—”

Gojo leans even closer, completely cutting you off with an amused tone to his voice, “It’s fine, really. It was all totally staged, Yaga. See? She actually tripped on purpose just so she could land in my arms.”

You snap, glaring at him so sharply that he actually flinches slightly. “Stop. Playing. Games. This was not intentional. A rogue cone came flying at me and he just so happened to help me, even though I very clearly did not need any help. You actually made it WORSE!”

Gojo chuckles softly, eyes sparkling, locked into yours. “But it looks so much better when you act flustered. I mean, have you seen the picture? Not the best angle but I thought we looked kind of cu–”

You throw your hands up, exasperated. “Delete that photo from your phone, erase it from everyone else’s memory, and —”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, calm down,” Gojo interrupts, voice still teasing. “You’re making it sound like you’re…obsessed with me or something. Careful, or Principal Yaga might think the same.”

Your eyes go wide, and you’re afraid they’re actually going to twitch this time. The audacity on this motherfucker. “Obsessed? With you? Are you insane??!” 

Yaga groans, clearly done with both of you, and cuts in, voice sharp and final. “Do I make myself clear? Professionalism. Enough of this whispering, smirking, or any other nonsense. Our lead janitor is still angry at the two of you for your antics last year. I don’t care what you do on your own time, please. Go home. Both of you. Now.”

That seems to spook the two of you a bit, and you both look over at each other, immediately shutting up. You gather your things, give Yaga one last nod of understanding, and walk out the door, where Ijichi stands in the corner still, eyeing the two of you with a look of curiosity. You wonder how much of the conversation he’d heard.

As you walk out into the hallway, unfortunately having to walk the same direction to the staff parking lot, Gojo quickens his pace to match yours, and lets out a long, dramatic, mock sigh of disappointment, then leans toward you with a sly grin. “All I got out of that was Yaga just gave us his blessing. Officially. We’re cleared for all future shenanigans.”

You turn your head back at him incredulously. “He just said the exact opposite of that.”

“Opposite, same, potato, potathto…details, details. I prefer to think he secretly agrees with me.”

You close your eyes for a moment, listening to the way your steps sync on the linoleum floor. Imagining the takeout leftovers that are at home, waiting for you, before letting out a long, frustrated breath. “I hate you.”

“And yet,” He says, “You’ll be thinking about today all weekend.”

There’s some quick math done in your head, as Gojo blabbers onto you about his weekend plans. You calculate the amount of weeks in a year. Then you figure out how many weeks are left in a school year. 35 weeks of 36 to go. 35 more weeks of Gojo in your ear. 35 weeks more weeks until Gojo finally shuts up. 35 more weeks until you can find your sanity again. 

You think this year will be so much fun.

⭑ mae's note: HII you've officially finished the first chapter!! i'm sorry if any of it got info-dumpy at one point, but i really wanted you guys to get to know these characters, and get to meet some more familiar friends along the wayyy :D constructive feedback is soo appreciated and my inbox is open for questions & comments (help and ideas for future chapters from a teacher would be sooo appreciated LMAO, i know nothing about teaching, google has been my best friend writing this so far) as for updates, i'm planning to post a new chapter bi-weekly, but there will be some changes depending on my schedule and everything going on. i'm ngl i kind of base my motivation on interactions..💔 so if you liked this at all likes+reposts+comments are my driving force </3 see u guys in the next one!!

TAGS: @deeninadream @kaecient @kpopwh0r3 @waterfallofroises @sacracoeur @sunflxwerhunny @dcvilxswish @shadykittyperfection @lyra-belserion11 @berrychaivibe @littlemisssatorugirl @hastletea @elegancefr @alyistheboss @shiroitobo @disappointedpeaches @zoeyflower @goonslayerr @matchaveins @alnoorim @hnnyflkss @bloopsstuff @casssiesthings @coffee-and-geto @starzbrii @plutosgold @tsukistopglazer @sypnasis @shibataimu @pickuptruck01 @sxgacxbe @khenanadeche @yesdere @ultimateelitepenguin @horriblydownbad

HOME. ⋆˚ LVRSATORU © 2025 ꩜｡☆˖

[foxlaren]

my top 5 oscar piastri expressions

5 - Boyfriend Smile

4 - did not hear what the fuck you just said

3 - 'ehrmmm'

2 - looking up at other men

1 - SMUG

[ed-recoverry]

What a privilege it is to get old.

What a privilege it is to show signs of aging.

What a privilege it is to not have passed at a young age.

What a privilege it is to have smile lines, wrinkles, graying hair, healing scars, and other signs your body has lived for years.

What a privilege it is to get old.

[clarkent]

me @ 10

me @ 30

[suprclark]

𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐮𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝

— you spend months thinking steve harrington is just being nice because that’s who he is. turns out he’s been in love with you the entire time and literally signs up for tutoring, memorizes your favorite books, and color-matches his tie to your dress just for the chance to sit across from you.

👔 5.0k — steve harrington x fem!reader, fluff with a side of yearning, nerd!reader, oblivious girl genius x pathetic yearner boy, peer tutoring as a love language, steve matching his tie to your dress like a loser ( affectionate ), memorizing her favorite authors to impress her, mutual pining so obvious it hurts, everyone knows except you, happy fluffy fix-it ending

request — [ @g0lden-sky ] hii, my lovely! i humbly propose a steve harrington request because i am in love with the jock x nerd trope! except it's king steve harrington being completely and utterly in love with nerd reader and she just doesn't even realize until he has to spell it out for her 😭 and she's just like "huh? so you didn't match your snowball tie to my dress on accident?" stuff like that 🥺 i think it's so cute and funny!!

author's note — literally got a toothache writing this. eek thank you thank you so much for the request, sky, this is easily one of the cutest things i've ever written. i hope you all love it !

masterlist : navigation

gif by @sakura-haruka | divider by @/lavendergalactic

No one expected Steve Harrington, the self-appointed King of Hawkins High with his stupidly perfect hair and his stupidly perfect smile and his stupidly perfect life, to fall in love with you.

Not Tommy, who swore Steve didn’t even know how to spell the word “homework.” Not Carol, who said you were “cute in a studious way” like that explained anything. Not the basketball team, not the cheer squad, not even the teachers who still looked at Steve like he was one bad mistake away from detention.

And definitely not you.

But Steve was. Hopelessly. Embarrassingly. Down-bad in a way that would’ve ruined his reputation if he hadn’t already stopped caring about that months ago.

Because when you walked down the hallway with your arms full of books, chin tucked, lips moving silently while you memorized something under your breath, Steve forgot how to breathe. When you pushed your glasses up with your knuckle and frowned at a problem on your worksheet, he felt this weird ache in his chest like he wanted to fix it for you even though he didn’t understand half the stuff you studied. And when you laughed, he looked at you like you’d just invented happiness.

He was even worse at hiding it.

God, he was awful.

He bought strawberry milk from the cafeteria even though he hated strawberry milk, just because he’d once overheard you telling Nancy it was your favorite. He’d volunteer to run errands for teachers if it meant he might accidentally bump into you between classes.

He held doors open for you even when you were twenty feet away and then just stood there waiting like an idiot. He memorized your schedule 'by accident' and somehow always ended up near your locker. He started hanging around Mr. Clarke’s classroom after school even though science made his brain hurt, just because you were there.

He’d stare during lunch, chin in his hand, smiling like a complete loser while you rambled about scholarships and college applications and how you couldn’t wait to see the world outside Hawkins.

Tommy caught him once and snapped his fingers in his face. “You’re doing the heart-eyes thing again.”

“The what?”

“The pathetic, princess-in-love look. It’s disgusting. I need you to get it together.”

He didn’t get it together.

If anything, he got worse.

The whole school knew. The way he lit up when you waved at him like you waved at everyone else. The way he’d drop whatever he was doing if you so much as looked like you needed help.

Everyone knew.

Except you.

You, apparently, were immune to the obvious because in your head, Steve Harrington was just. . . Steve Harrington. Popular. Nice, lately. Weirdly friendly. Probably like that with everyone.

You never noticed how his entire world tilted toward you.

You had bigger things to think about.

Like getting out of Hawkins.

Mr. Clarke had stopped you after class a week ago, papers tucked under his arm, glasses sliding down his nose. He’d cleared his throat in that hopeful way teachers did when they were about to ask for a favor.

“I’m starting a peer tutoring program,” he’d said. “Colleges love community involvement. It would look very good on scholarship applications.”

You’d said yes before he even finished the sentence.

Anything that helped you leave.

You didn’t hate Hawkins. It just never felt like it belonged to you. It felt small, like a sweater that shrank in the wash. Your dreams didn’t fit here. You wanted big libraries and campus buildings covered in ivy and lecture halls and cities where no one knew your last name.

Your family supported you completely. Your mom already saved college brochures in a neat stack on the kitchen counter. Your dad bragged about you to the neighbors like you’d already made it.

Leaving didn’t feel sad.

It felt necessary.

So you signed up to tutor, figuring maybe a freshman or two would show up for help with algebra or biology. Maybe no one at all. You wouldn’t have blamed them.

Which is why, when you walked into the library after school and followed the little handwritten sign that said PEER TUTORING →, you weren’t prepared to see Steve Harrington sitting at one of the tables.

Waiting.

For you.

For a second, you genuinely thought you’d walked into the wrong place.

Steve didn’t belong here. The late sunlight through the windows caught in his hair, turning it gold, and he looked so out of place it almost made you laugh.

Then he saw you.

And his whole face changed like someone had flipped a switch inside him. He sat up straighter so fast he almost knocked his chair over.

“Hey,” he said, a little breathless, like he’d run here. “Hi. You’re— uh. You’re the tutor, right?”

“. . . Yeah,” you said slowly, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Are you lost?”

His heart actually stuttered.

Lost. God. If only you knew.

“I mean,” you added quickly, “this is the tutoring area. If you’re looking for the magazines or—”

“No,” he said too fast. “No, I’m supposed to be here. I signed up. For tutoring. With you. I mean— not with you specifically. I mean— I guess it is specifically. But like, academically. For school. Obviously.”

You blinked at him.

Steve Harrington. The guy who once asked if The Great Gatsby was a real person.

You stared at the neat pile of books in front of him.

“. . . You need tutoring?” you asked, genuinely confused.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Turns out if you don’t pay attention for, like, three years straight, stuff catches up with you.”

You laughed softly and that sound hit him straight in the chest.

God. He’d do anything to hear that again.

“Oh,” you said, pulling out the chair across from him. “Yeah, that makes sense. Don’t worry, I’m pretty good at explaining things. What do you need help with?”

Everything, he almost said.

But not the homework.

He needed help with how you were sitting across from him, sleeves pushed up, pen tucked behind your ear, already focuse like this was the most important thing in the world. He needed help with how you bit your lip when you concentrated. How you leaned closer to his side of the table without even realizing it.

Instead, he slid the biology book toward you with slightly shaky hands.

“Cells,” he said. “They’re. . . confusing.”

You smiled at him like this was totally normal. Like he was just another student.

And Steve swore he’d never wanted to be anything more and anything less at the same time.

“Okay,” you said. “We’ll start easy.”

Easy. Right.

Except nothing about this was easy for him.

Because every time your fingers brushed his while passing a pencil, his brain short-circuited. Every time you leaned over to point something out, your shoulder bumping his, he forgot what planet he was on. He nodded along to explanations he barely heard because he was too busy staring at your mouth forming the words.

You thought he was struggling with science.

He was struggling with you.

“You’re actually catching on pretty fast,” you said after a while, surprised. “You’re not as bad at this as you think.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re trying. That’s, like, ninety percent of it.”

Trying.

If you only knew.

He’d rearranged his entire schedule to be here. Asked Tommy to quiz him the night before so he wouldn’t look completely clueless. He’d even read the first two chapters so you wouldn’t think he was hopeless.

All because you were here.

Because the idea of you leaving Hawkins one day, chasing some big, shiny future, while he stayed behind. . . it twisted something ugly in his chest.

He wanted you to fly.

He just selfishly wished he could go with you.

“You know,” you said absently, scribbling notes for him, “I didn’t think anyone would actually sign up for this.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” you said with a little laugh. “But I’m glad you did. It’s nice helping someone.”

He swallowed.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

You kept talking and Steve just. . . stared.

Not in a creepy way. Not on purpose.

He just couldn’t help it.

You had this little crease between your brows when you concentrated. You explained things with your hands, fingers tapping the table, drawing invisible diagrams in the air, and every time you leaned closer to underline something in his book, your shoulder brushed his and his brain turned to static.

He tried, really tried, to look at the page.

Cell membrane. Cytoplasm. Nucleus.

None of it stuck. All he could think about was how close you were.

“Okay,” you said, tapping the paper, “so think of the cell like a tiny city. The nucleus is like the mayor’s office. It controls everything. Does that make sense?”

Steve blinked.

You were looking at him so earnestly, waiting for his answer.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yeah, that actually. . . helps. A lot.”

Your face lit up, proud and pleased. “See? I told you. You’re not bad at this.”

God.

He thought, distantly, that this had to be some kind of cosmic joke. Hawkins High’s former golden boy reduced to putty because you told him he understood a metaphor.

Pathetic.

He’d fought monsters. Literally. And this, this tiny smile from you, was what took him out.

You kept teaching, and he kept pretending to follow along, nodding at the right times, scribbling down notes you handed him. But half the time he was just memorizing you instead. The soft little “okay” you said when he got something right.

By the time the session ended, his chest hurt. Not in a bad way. Just. . . full. Like he’d swallowed too much feeling and didn’t know where to put it.

“Same time tomorrow?” you asked, packing your bag.

He tried not to sound too eager. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great.”

Great. Like this wasn’t going to be the highlight of his entire day.

The week after that, something was different. You didn’t notice it at first because you were busy, always busy but Steve Harrington started showing up in your life.

The first time, you were juggling way too many textbooks outside your locker, stack wobbling dangerously, and before you could even adjust your grip, a pair of familiar hands reached out and took half the weight.

“I got it,” Steve said.

“Oh— thanks,” you said, surprised. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine. I’m strong. Carrying books is kind of my thing.”

You knew it was not but you laughed, and he swore he’d carry the entire library if it meant hearing that again.

Then you started noticing him at your debate competitions, leaning awkwardly against the back wall of the classroom, pretending he was just “walking by” even though debate club met on the opposite side of the school from literally everything he did. Every time you looked up mid-argument, there he was, watching you like you’d hung the moon, clapping a little too hard when you finished.

In class, he’d somehow snag the seat next to you before anyone else could, sliding into it with an almost shy, “This taken?” even though he knew you’d never say no. He’d save you a chair at lunch, push it out with his foot like it was nothing, cheeks pink when you thanked him like he’d done something special.

And the tutoring sessions. God, the tutoring sessions.

He started getting good. Like, actually good.

He showed up having already read the chapters. He remembered things you’d explained days ago. Once, he even corrected himself mid-problem and you just stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Wait,” you said, leaning closer to check his work, “this is right. Steve, this is completely right.”

“Yeah?” he asked, trying to sound casual, failing miserably.

“Yeah. That’s really good. Good job, Steve.”

Good job, Steve. It was such a normal thing to say.

You said it the same way you’d say it to anyone else. But to him, it felt like you’d reached into his chest and squeezed his heart. He actually stopped breathing for a second.

Heat crawled up his neck, ears burning, stomach flipping stupidly like he was thirteen again.

“Oh. Uh. Thanks,” he muttered, staring very hard at the paper so you wouldn’t see the way his smile went soft and helpless.

You didn’t notice, just kept going, already onto the next question.

He thought, distantly, that if you ever said you were proud of him, he might actually die on the spot.

He thought about asking you out a hundred times.

Every single session.

When you leaned over him to point at a diagram. When your knees bumped under the table. When you smiled and told him he was improving. When you got excited explaining something and grabbed his sleeve without thinking.

The words sat on the tip of his tongue.

Do you maybe want to get coffee sometime?

Do you want to go to the movies?

Do you want to go out with me?

But then he’d look at you talking about scholarships and universities and all the places you were going to go, all the things you were going to be, and something scared inside him would whisper, She’s out of your league.

You were brilliant. The kind of person teachers wrote recommendation letters for without being asked.

He was. . . Steve.

Former jerk. Former king. Current disaster with questionable grades.

Even if no one else believed it, even if the whole school thought you were lucky to have him hovering around, Steve secretly thought the opposite.

He felt lucky you even talked to him.

So instead of asking you out, he did the only thing he knew how to do.

He tried harder.

He memorized your favorite authors after overhearing you talk about them with Nancy, went home and borrowed the books from the library just so he’d have something to say. He stayed up reading half-asleep, underlining sentences he thought you’d like. The next day, he’d casually drop, “Oh, yeah, I started that book you mentioned,” like it was no big deal while internally panicking.

Your face would light up every time. “Wait, really? You’re reading that?”

“Yeah,” he’d shrug. “It’s pretty good.”

You smiled at him, completely oblivious, and launched into a ten-minute rant about the book and he listened like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

And Steve sat there every single day thinking the same hopeless, aching thought. If he was brave enough, maybe one day you’d finally see what everyone else already did.

How completely, ridiculously, stupidly in love with you he was.

The opportunity came wrapped in cheap tinsel and paper snowflakes taped crookedly to the hallway ceiling.

You were hunched over the library table with Steve again, pencil tapping against your lip while you explained balancing equations for what felt like the fifteenth time, when the intercom crackled to life with some overly cheerful announcement about the Snowball Dance.

You barely registered it beyond a vague mental note that the gym would be unusable for the next week because student council would inevitably turn it into a dance zone.

Steve, on the other hand, heard the words Snowball Dance and nearly swallowed his tongue.

He tried to act normal, nodding along while you talked, but his brain had completely abandoned chemistry and latched onto one thought like a dog with a bone.

Dance.

Dance meant dates.

Dates meant asking someone.

Which meant maybe, possibly, if the universe was feeling merciful, he could finally ask you. His palms started sweating so bad he had to wipe them on his jeans.

You didn’t notice. You were busy drawing little diagrams and saying, “See? You just move the coefficient here.”

When the session ended, you both started packing up, you sliding your color-coded notes into neat folders, him shoving books into his bag with way too much nervous energy, when a familiar voice drifted over.

“Well, if it isn’t my two favorite nerds.”

Nancy.

You looked up immediately, smiling. “Hey.”

Nancy leaned against the table, eyes flicking between the two of you in a way that felt suspiciously knowing. “I was actually looking for you,” she said to you. “What are you wearing to the dance?”

You blinked. “The dance?”

“The Snowball,” she said patiently. “This weekend. You are going, right?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah. I think so. My mom found this amazing blue dress in the back of her closet. It’s kind of old, but it’s nice.” You shrugged, like it didn’t matter.

“And who are you going with?” Nancy pressed, way too casually.

You laughed. “No one? I mean, I’m not entirely sure anyone’s even going to ask me, so I’ll probably just show up and hover near the snack table or something. It’s fine. I mostly just want the extra credit for attendance.”

Steve felt like someone had just set off fireworks inside his ribcage.

Nancy’s gaze slid to him slowly and then she gave him the look.

It was long and pointed and screamed, If you don’t ask her out right now, I will personally strangle you, Harrington.

Steve panicked.

Nancy patted your arm. “Well, you’ll look pretty no matter what,” she said. “Jonathan’s dragging me, so at least we’ll all suffer together.”

You smiled. “Have fun.”

She shot Steve one last sharp stare before walking away.

The silence that followed felt deafening.

Steve’s heart was beating so hard he was convinced you could hear it. You were still organizing your bag, completely unaware that this was possibly the most stressful moment of his entire life.

Just ask her.

It’s not that hard.

It’s literally just words.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He closed it.

Tried again.

“So,” he started, voice cracking like a middle schooler’s. He cleared his throat. “So. Uh. The dance.”

“Yeah?” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

“You said you didn’t have a date.”

“Yeah,” you said. “It’s fine though. I’m not super big on dances anyway.”

Right. Cool. This was fine. He was dying.

“Well,” he rushed out, words tripping over each other, “maybe you. . . I mean— if you wanted we could, uh, like go together? If you want. Totally cool if you don’t. I just thought, you know, since we’re already tutoring and yeah.”

He wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

You just stared at him for a second. Then you smiled. Like he’d just offered you something nice and simple and not the entire fragile state of his heart.

“I’d like that,” you said. “Yeah. I’ll go with you, Steve.”

He stopped breathing.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you laughed. “I mean, you’re basically the only person I talk to after school anyway. Might as well.”

Might as well.

It shouldn’t have made him that happy.

But it did. It really, really did.

The days leading up to the dance were unbearable for everyone around him.

Because Steve would not shut up.

He talked about it constantly. At his locker. In the hallway. During lunch. To Tommy H. and Carol. To random freshmen. To literally anyone who made eye contact for longer than two seconds.

“Do you think blue is, like, a flower color? Should I get her a flower? Is that too much? Do girls still like flowers? What if she hates flowers? Oh my god, what if she hates dancing—”

“You’ve been on actual dates before,” Carol groaned. “Why are you acting like this is your first crush ever?”

“Because it kind of is,” Tommy muttered, annoyed. “He’s gone full loser. It’s painful to watch.”

Steve didn’t even argue. He just grinned like an idiot and kept talking about you.

They were sick of it but he couldn’t help it. He felt like his life was about to start.

When the night finally came, everything felt. . . good.

And then you walked in and you looked like the only thing in the room that mattered.

Steve forgot every single word he’d ever learned.

You smiled when you saw him, waving a little.

“Hey.”

The night blurred after that. He held your hand during slow songs. You talked in the corner about everything and nothing, about college applications and your favorite books and stupid childhood stories. He told you things he didn’t tell anyone, about feeling lost sometimes, about not knowing what came after high school, about being scared of messing up.

You listened and for the first time, Steve felt seen.

You laughed together, danced badly together, shared terrible punch and even worse cookies. At one point your head tipped back when you laughed and he thought, distantly, If this is all I ever get, it’s enough.

Walking you home felt like the end of a movie. His heart was so full it almost hurt.

At your doorstep, you turned to him, smiling, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said softly.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Then you leaned up and kissed his cheek.

His brain shut off completely. He thought he might actually pass out.

And then you smiled at him. “Thank you for being such a great friend, Steve.”

Friend.

It hit harder than anything else. Harder than a punch. Harder than rejection.

Friend.

His heart didn’t just drop. It shattered.

He stood there, frozen, mouth open, watching you disappear inside.

The door clicked shut.

He didn’t move. Just stood on your porch for ten whole minutes, staring at the wood grain, replaying everything in his head and feeling stupider with every second. Of course. Of course you only saw him as a friend. Why wouldn’t you? You were you. He was just some guy who needed tutoring and followed you around like a lost puppy. What made him think you’d ever look at him the way he looked at you?

He laughed once, bitter and quiet.

Idiot.

Absolute idiot.

But then something in his chest twisted, stubborn. If he walked away now, he’d regret it forever. So before he could talk himself out of it, he turned back and rang the doorbell again.

Please don’t be her parents.

Please don’t be her parents.

Please—

The door opened.

It was you.

Hair slightly messy, earrings gone, rings off which told him you were already winding down for the night.

“Steve?” you said. “Did you forget something?”

You stood there in the doorway looking at him like this was the most normal thing in the world, like boys didn’t usually show up on your porch ten minutes after dropping you off at midnight looking like they were about to either confess their love or throw up.

Your hair was half falling out of whatever you’d done to it for the dance, little pieces soft around your face, earrings gone, makeup smudged just enough to make you look real and tired and warm instead of polished and perfect. You had on an old sweater, sleeves too long, swallowing your hands, and Steve thought, distantly, that this version of you might actually kill him faster than the dress did.

“Steve?” you asked again, gentler this time. “Are you okay?”

He opened his mouth.

Nothing.

Closed it.

His brain was screaming at him to abort mission, go home, save whatever dignity he had left, but his heart was louder, pounding so hard he swore you could probably see it through his shirt.

“I— yeah. I mean. No. I don’t know,” he said, running a hand through his hair, messing it up for once. “Can we— can we talk for a second?”

Your brows pulled together immediately, worried. You stepped out onto the porch and closed the door softly behind you so you wouldn’t wake your parents.

“Of course. What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Yeah, he thought. I fell in love with you and you called me your friend and now I feel like I got hit by a truck.

Instead, he just looked at you.

God.

You were looking at him like you cared.

Like you were already bracing to help him.

It made everything worse and better at the same time.

“I just—” He exhaled hard, hands on his hips, pacing once like he was about to give a presentation. “When you said that thing earlier. The friend thing.”

You tilted your head. “What thing?”

“When you said thanks for being such a great friend,” he said.

“Oh.” You smiled a little. “Yeah. Because you are. You’ve been really sweet lately, Steve. Like, really sweet. You didn’t have to come to my debate stuff or help me carry books or—”

“That’s the thing,” he blurted.

You stopped.

He looked at you like he was about to jump off a cliff.

“I don’t do this for my friends, okay?” he said. “I don’t match ties and memorize your stupid study schedule and wait outside tutoring for forty minutes just to walk you there for my friends.”

You blinked.

“. . . You wait outside tutoring?”

“Yeah,” he said helplessly. “All the time. Because you always show up early and I didn’t want you sitting alone.”

Your brain stalled.

“I don’t read Jane Austen and whatever that other one is— Brontë?— for my friends. I don’t buy strawberry milk when it’s disgusting just because you like it. I don’t sign up for tutoring I don’t even need just to sit across from someone for an hour for my friends.”

Your mouth fell open a little.

“. . . You hate strawberry milk?”

“It’s terrible,” he said immediately. “I don't get how you drink it.”

You stared at him. “Huh,” you said faintly. “So you didn’t match your Snowball tie to my dress on accident?”

Steve froze.

“. . . You noticed that?”

“It was literally the exact same shade of blue,” you said. “I thought it was a coincidence.”

He let out this small, broken laugh and covered his face with his hand. “Oh my god. I spent two hours at the store trying to match it. Nancy almost killed me.”

“Oh,” you breathed.

Oh.

All those times he showed up. All those little things. The books. The seat saving. The tutoring. The way he looked at you like you were saying something important even when you were just rambling about mitochondria.

Your stomach flipped.

Steve dropped his hand and looked at you again, eyes wide and terrified and so soft it made your chest ache.

“I like you,” he said, finally, simply, like it cost him everything. “Not like a friend. Not even a little. I’ve liked you for months. I just— I didn’t think you’d ever look at me like that. You’re. . . you’re you. And I’m just me.”

You frowned immediately. “Steve.”

“No, let me finish before I pass out,” he rushed. “I just needed you to know. Even if you don’t feel the same. I just— I couldn’t go home with you thinking I was doing all this because I’m nice. I’m not that nice. I’m selfish. I do it because I want to be around you all the time. Because you’re my favorite person. Because when you talk about leaving Hawkins, it freaks me out because I can’t picture this place without you in it.”

Your heart was beating so loud you could hear it in your ears.

He swallowed.

“So yeah. That’s it. I like you. A lot. Like, embarrassingly a lot.”

For a second, neither of you said anything.

And then you stepped closer.

Steve immediately tensed like you were about to reject him and he was bracing for impact.

Instead, you reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket.

He short-circuited.

“Steve Harrington,” you said slowly, “you absolute idiot.”

His heart dropped. “Oh.”

“I thought you were just being nice,” you continued. “I thought you felt bad for me or something. I didn’t think. . . I mean, why would I think you liked me?”

He stared at you. “Why wouldn’t you?”

You gestured vaguely at yourself. “I’m me. I carry six books at all times and talk about scholarships for fun.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Exactly.”

Your throat tightened.

“Oh,” you whispered.

Oh.

The way he looked at you suddenly made sense.

Everything did.

You laughed a little, shaky and fond. “Steve, you’re such a dork.”

He smiled nervously. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve been told.”

“But,” you said, stepping even closer, “for the record. . . I don’t go to dances with just friends either.”

His brain stopped working.

“. . . What?”

“I said,” you murmured, cheeks warm, “I wouldn’t have gone with you if I didn’t like you too.”

The hope that lit up his face was so bright it almost hurt to look at.

“Wait. Really?”

“Really.”

“Like. . . like like me?”

You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Yes, Steve. Like like you. You’re cute. And you carry my books. And you listen to me talk about boring stuff without falling asleep. That’s basically marriage material.”

He laughed, breathless, disbelieving.

“You’re serious?”

“Steve,” you said softly, “I’ve liked you for a while. I just thought you were out of my league.”

He stared at you like you’d just told him the sky was purple.

“Out of— are you insane?”

You both laughed, nervous and giddy and a little overwhelmed.

And then you were just. . . standing there.

Close.

Really close.

His hands hovered awkwardly at your waist like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch you.

You noticed. So you took pity on him and slid your hands up into his jacket, gripping the fabric.

His breath hitched.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, like it was the most fragile question in the world.

You smiled.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “You can.”

He leaned in slow, like he was scared you’d disappear if he moved too fast, one hand cupping your cheek so gently it made your chest ache. His lips brushed yours soft.

When you pulled back, you were both smiling like idiots, foreheads touching, noses bumping.

Steve let out a quiet, shaky laugh. “So. . . not just friends?”

You smiled, kissing him again. “Definitely not just friends.”

© suprclark . all rights are reserved. copying, translation, or claiming of my writing or works as your own is prohibited .

[verstarris]

HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN 10 DAYS: MONACO EDITION¹

You set out to write “How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days” by driving someone crazy—except he was Lando Norris, F1 superstar and chaos in human form, completely immune to your schemes. Over ten days of bets, sabotage, and ridiculous antics, neither of you expected to fall in love… but Monaco had other plans. PART TWO

pairing. Lando Norris x journalist! fem! reader.

warnings. rom-com, humor, 15,9k words; out of 29,8k, part one of two. fake dating, slow burn -ish, bet trope. chaotic & cringe hijinks, mentions of alcohol use, pet names (cutie, love, baby, darlin), pov switch, profanity. inspired by how to lose a guy in 10 days.

soundtrack. he stayed through all that??, an official playlist

THIS IS PART ONE OF HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN 10 DAYS: MONACO EDITION. FIND PART TWO HERE.

YOU’D NEVER BEEN GREAT AT SAYING THINGS OUT LOUD. Feelings, fears, awkward truths—you tended to keep those locked up tight, buried under sarcasm and a half-decent skincare routine. It was kind of your thing. Everyone had their flaws. Yours just happened to be pretending everything was fine while the ship was very much on fire.

The one thing you’d never admit—not to your friends, not to your therapist (if you had one), and definitely not to yourself—was that your journalism career was quietly, painfully, undeniably dying. You weren’t exactly winning awards or breaking stories anymore. You were mostly just refreshing your inbox and pretending that unpaid “exposure” gigs were part of some grand plan. Spoiler: they weren’t.

And okay, maybe—maybe—you’d thought about quitting. Maybe you’d had a few late-night fantasies about giving it all up and becoming a full-time gold digger. The classy kind, obviously. The kind who drank rosé on yachts and wore silk robes while pretending to care about crypto. It wasn’t the worst idea. You did live in Monaco, after all. Land of superyachts, supermodels, and super-rich men who thought “journalist” is just a cute way of saying “between jobs.” Honestly, if you were going to fail at something, at least you’d picked a scenic place to do it.

“I just need to write something life-changing. Then everything will be fine.” You leaned against the heater with all the drama of a woman on the brink, your back pressed to the window like you were starring in a very slow, very tragic film. You weren’t sure if you were trying to convince your coworkers or yourself. Probably both.

“Right,” Carol said, not even glancing up from her laptop. “And do you actually know what that is, or are we just manifesting now?”

“Well… no,” you admitted, with the kind of shrug that said please don’t ask follow-up questions. At least you were being honest. Sort of.

Across the room, Hanna looked up from her coffee. She was probably the smartest person in the office, which was both comforting and deeply annoying. She studied you for a second, her expression unreadable—somewhere between pity and amusement, with just a dash of judgment for flavor.

“I watched a movie the other night,” she said, her voice slow and deliberate, like she was trying to decide if this was worth sharing. “And it actually had a plot that might work. For an article, I mean.”

Your ears perked up the second Hanna spoke. “Wait… what is it?” you asked, straightening up like a detective who’d just caught the scent of a lead. You didn’t mean to sound so desperate, but honestly, you were one more rejection email away from pitching a story about the emotional lives of houseplants.

“How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days,” Hanna said, her voice lilting with that particular brand of smugness that only came from knowing she was about to drop something good.

Carol perked up immediately. “Oh my god, I love that movie!”

You blinked. Once. Twice. A third time for good measure. Was this a cultural reference you were supposed to know? Judging by the way both of them were looking at you—with matching expressions of mild horror and secondhand embarrassment—you had, in fact, missed something. Something big.

You tried to play it cool, nodding like you were totally on board. “Right. That one. Classic.” You had no idea what you were agreeing to.

Hanna didn’t buy it. She leaned forward, eyes glinting with something that looked suspiciously like mischief. “So, the girl has to find a guy,” she said slowly, drawing it out like she was telling a ghost story. “And then she has to do everything—everything—in her power to make him dump her. In ten days.”

You stared at her. “That’s… the plot?”

“That’s the plot,” she confirmed, clearly delighted by your confusion. “And it’s perfect.”

You weren’t sure what she meant by perfect, but your brain was already racing. Ten days. A doomed relationship. A built-in deadline. It was ridiculous. It was chaotic. It was… kind of brilliant.

And also, probably, a terrible idea.

But then again, what did you have to lose?

“So… you’re telling me I have to find some poor soul and make him dump me in ten days?” you asked, the words sounding ridiculous even as they left your mouth. It felt like the kind of thing you’d say as a joke at brunch, not something you’d actually consider doing. And yet—your brain was already buzzing, flipping through mental flashcards of eligible men and increasingly unhinged ways to drive them away.

“Exactly!” Hanna said, her eyes lighting up like she’d just invented the concept of journalism itself. “But make it Monaco. Find a billionaire, an athlete, someone with a yacht and a god complex. Go wild.”

Carol nodded solemnly, like she was blessing a sacred quest. “Yeah, like… traumatize someone rich. For journalism. Totally fair. Do you know the insane stuff these people do for money? You’d be doing the world a favor.”

You tried to keep a straight face, but a laugh slipped out anyway. The idea was unhinged. Unethical, probably. Definitely unprofessional. But also? It had legs. It had chaos. It had the kind of messy, clickbait-y energy that editors loved and readers devoured. And more than that—it sounded fun. Stupid, reckless fun. The kind you hadn’t had in ages.

You could already picture it: the awkward dates, the fake meltdowns, the slow unraveling of some poor, unsuspecting man’s patience. It was terrible. It was brilliant. It was exactly the kind of disaster you needed.

And if it just so happened to be the thing that saved your career? Even better.

“But who exactly is supposed to be my victim? Do we have any tributes?” you asked, glancing between the girls like you were about to host a very glamorous, very morally questionable Hunger Games. Honestly, in Monaco, the options were endless. The city was practically crawling with eligible men who had more money than sense and a deeply concerning relationship with their own reflections.

“Jannik Sinner!” Carol said immediately, like she’d been waiting her whole life to shout his name. “What does he play? Tennis? Whatever. He’s hot.”

You wrinkled your nose. Jannik was objectively attractive, sure, but he gave off the kind of energy that screamed protein shakes and motivational podcasts. Probably the type to say things like “rise and grind” without irony. Not your vibe.

Hanna tapped her pen against her notebook, eyes narrowed in thought. “What about the orange guy who drives fast cars? Piastri. Oscar. He’s cute.”

You tilted your head, considering it for half a second before shaking it. Also not your type. Too polite. Too clean-cut. He looked like the kind of guy who’d apologize for sneezing too loud. You needed someone cockier. Someone who could handle a little chaos. Someone who wouldn’t immediately crumble the second you fake-cried in a restaurant or brought up your imaginary Pinterest wedding board.

No, you needed someone who could take a hit. Someone who thought he was untouchable.

“I need to think it through,” you said, pausing just long enough to make it sound like a life-or-death decision. “But don’t worry—I’ll let you know the moment I choose my victim.”

You said it with a grin, but your mind was already racing. Monaco was full of possibilities—sleek suits, smug smiles, men who’d never been told no in their lives. It was practically a buffet of bad decisions. All you had to do was pick one and ruin his ten days of life. For journalism, of course.

Totally ethical. Totally fine.

Probably.

────────────

What happened when you mixed alcohol with four Formula 1 drivers—especially Lando Norris?

Bad decisions. The kind that started with expensive cocktails and ended with someone losing a shoe, a phone, or their dignity. Sometimes all three.

They were tucked into a velvet booth in the corner of the lounge, half-hidden by low lighting and the thump of bass-heavy music. Their table was cluttered with half-empty glasses and a bottle of something that probably cost more than most people’s rent. Oscar, Max, and Charles were deep in conversation, laughing about something that involved a yacht, a seagull, and a very unfortunate misunderstanding in Ibiza.

Lando, though, wasn’t listening. He was staring across the room, eyes fixed on the dance floor like he was watching a live documentary on human chaos. A group of girls had climbed onto the tables, dancing like they were auditioning for a music video—heels off, hair wild, dresses clinging to skin that shimmered with sweat and glitter. It was a lot. Like, a lot.

He blinked slowly, lips parted in mild horror. The kind of look you’d give if you walked into your hotel room and found a raccoon going through your minibar. He wasn’t judging, exactly. More… confused. Concerned. Maybe a little afraid.

“What are you staring at, man?” Oscar asked, leaning over to follow his gaze.

Lando pointed, eyes still wide. “Those girls. Do you see them? They have no dignity.”

Max snorted so hard he nearly spilled his drink. “You’re talking about dignity? You, Lando?”

Lando turned to him, offended. “Hey! I have dignity. Do I look like I’m up there shaking my almost bare ass to the music? No. Exactly.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. “Should I remind you what you did after your Monaco win?”

Lando opened his mouth, then closed it again. He could already feel the memory creeping in—champagne-soaked, shirtless, standing on a table with a traffic cone on his head, yelling something about being the king of the world. Okay, maybe not his finest moment.

“That was different,” he muttered, taking a long sip of his drink. “That was… celebratory.”

Max grinned. “Sure, mate. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Lando rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched. He hated how well they knew him. Hated it even more that they were right.

“That’s not even the point,” Lando said, letting out a dramatic sigh as he slumped back in his seat. “My point is—it’s actually so hard to find a girlfriend who isn’t a gold digger.”

He knew how it sounded. Rich, famous, young. Boo-hoo, right? But still. It was a real problem. Everyone around him seemed to have someone. Real relationships. People to text goodnight. People to come home to. And then there was him—third-wheeling his way through life, pretending he didn’t care.

“Right, because you’re the only one who’s single here,” Max said, grinning like he’d just caught Lando in a lie. “Even Oscar has a girlfriend.”

“Sorry?” Oscar blinked, confused. “We’ve been together since high school, Max.”

Max rolled his eyes, like that somehow made it worse. “Exactly my point. You’re the last one standing. We need to find someone for you.”

He clapped Lando on the back like he was doing him a favor, but Lando just groaned and took another sip of his drink. The idea of someone “finding” him a girlfriend felt like ordering love off a menu. And yet… maybe Max wasn’t wrong. Maybe it was time to try something new.

“Let’s make it more interesting,” Charles said, leaning back in his chair with a grin that made Lando’s stomach twist. “A bet.”

Oh no. Absolutely not. This was how chaos started. This was how group chats exploded and friendships got temporarily ruined. Lando had seen this look before—Charles was about to say something reckless, and once he did, there’d be no going back.

“A bet?” Lando repeated slowly, already feeling his shoulders tense. “Why does that sound like you’re about to say something ridiculous?”

“Because he is,” Oscar muttered, sipping his drink like he’d already accepted the disaster as inevitable.

Max perked up instantly, eyes wide and excited, like someone had just said the magic word. “Ooooh, I love bets! What are we betting on? Lando’s dignity? Because that’s already gone.”

Lando shot him a look, deadpan. “Very funny,” he said, voice flat and dripping with sarcasm. But deep down, he knew Max wasn’t entirely wrong. His dignity had taken a few hits lately. Mostly self-inflicted.

Charles ignored them all, clearly enjoying himself. He leaned forward, hands spread like he was presenting a TED Talk. “Lando, you need a girlfriend. We all know it. So…” He paused for dramatic effect. “You have ten days to pull a girl.”

Lando blinked. “Uh… okay. And the catch?”

Charles smiled like he’d just invented the concept of suffering. “No money. No fame. No cars. No F1 clout. Just… pure personality.”

Lando choked on his drink.

Pure personality? That was basically all the stuff he didn’t use. His whole charm package was built on fast cars, expensive watches, and being Lando Norris. Strip that away and what was left? A guy who made bad jokes, forgot birthdays, and still didn’t know how to fold a fitted sheet. He wasn’t even sure he had a personality outside of racing and nonchalant Instagram captions.

He looked around the table, hoping someone would jump in and shut this down. But Max was already nodding like this was the best idea he’d ever heard. Oscar looked mildly entertained. And Charles? Charles was practically glowing with evil joy.

Lando sighed, sinking deeper into his seat. This was going to be a disaster.

But part of him—some reckless, competitive part—kind of wanted to try.

Lando narrowed his eyes, already suspicious. “Okay… but what do I get out of this?”

He didn’t trust that look on Charles’s face. It was the same look he’d had before convincing Max to race a golf cart through a hotel lobby. The same look that had ended with a very awkward call from PR. Lando wasn’t about to walk into something stupid without at least knowing what was on the table.

Charles smirked, clearly enjoying the moment. “Oh, something big. Something worth your time.”

Oscar leaned in, lowering his voice like they were planning a heist. “A brand-new car. Your choice. Top model. Think of it as… motivation.”

Lando blinked. Then blinked again. A car? A new car? His brain immediately started spinning through possibilities—sleek lines, custom interiors, that new car smell. He already had a garage full of toys, sure, but this would be different. This would be earned. Won. A trophy with wheels.

He leaned back in his seat, trying to look casual, but his eyes were already gleaming. “Okay… now you’ve got my attention.”

Charles raised a brow, clearly not done. “Don’t get too cocky. You still have to actually… do it.”

Lando grinned, the kind of grin that usually got him into trouble. “Oh, don’t worry. I will. And when I do, that car is mine.”

“And who’s supposed to be the lucky girl?” Lando asked, scanning the club with a mix of curiosity and dread.

There were plenty of options—if you counted sequins, fake tans, and women who could smell wealth from across the room. The place was packed with designer heels and glossy lips, all circling like sharks in glitter. It was loud, chaotic, and exactly the kind of scene Lando usually tried to avoid unless he was already tipsy or being dragged in by Max.

Charles pointed toward the dance floor, where a blonde was holding court in the middle of a glittery circle. She moved like she knew everyone was watching, hips swaying, hair flipping, smile sharp enough to cut glass. “The blonde over there? I think her name is Magui or something like that.”

Lando squinted, trying to place her. She looked familiar in that Monaco way—like someone who’d probably dated three footballers, a tennis player, and maybe a prince. “Mate, she looks like she’s already dated half the athletes in here… and would probably make me sign a nondisclosure agreement before the first drink.”

He shook his head, already bored. “Pass.”

He wanted someone different. Someone who didn’t treat flirting like a business transaction. Someone who didn’t already know his net worth before he said hello.

“And what about her?” Oscar asked, nodding toward the bar.

Lando turned his head, following Oscar’s gaze—and then he saw you.

You were perched on a barstool, one leg crossed over the other, deep in conversation with a friend. There was something about the way you sat—relaxed, like you belonged there but didn’t need anyone to notice. You weren’t dressed like the usual Monaco crowd. No glittering diamonds, no designer logos screaming for attention. Just a simple outfit, effortless and cool, like you’d thrown it on without a second thought. And your expression? Calm. Unbothered. Like the chaos of the club didn’t touch you. Like you were in your own little world and perfectly happy to stay there.

Lando tilted his head, studying you. You didn’t look like someone who cared about fast cars or famous faces. You weren’t glancing around the room, hoping to be seen. You weren’t trying too hard. You weren’t trying at all.

And that? That was rare.

His lips curled into a slow, intrigued smile. Something about you felt like a challenge. Not the kind he could win with a wink and a flashy watch. The kind that might actually take effort. Honesty. Personality. Whatever that meant.

“Perfect,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.

And just like that, the game was on.

────────────

With a few hours to kill before work, you figured you might as well be productive. Or at least pretend to be. So you parked yourself in a quiet café, ordered something overpriced and frothy, and settled in by the window with your laptop open and your eyes doing anything but working. You told yourself you were brainstorming. Researching. Casually scouting for your potential victim. You had ten days, after all. No time to waste.

Unfortunately, the selection was… bleak.

Too old. Too young. Too married. Too into themselves. One guy looked promising until he took a phone call and started yelling at someone named “Mum” about crypto. Another had a man bun and a tattoo of a lion on his neck, which felt like a red flag wrapped in a cliché. And then—Charles Leclerc. Sitting two tables away, laughing with someone you assumed was his girlfriend. Taken. Obviously. And thank God, honestly. The last thing you needed was a swarm of Ferrari fans in your DMs accusing you of ruining his focus.

You were just about ready to give up. Your coffee had gone cold, your cursor blinked mockingly on a blank document, and your brain was spiraling into that familiar pit of “what am I even doing with my life?” You stirred your drink like it might reveal the answers at the bottom, already preparing to pack up and call it a failed mission.

And then—someone stepped into your peripheral vision.

You didn’t look up right away. You were too busy wallowing. But then a voice cut through the low hum of conversation, casual and familiar in a way that made your stomach flip.

“Hey.”

You looked up.

And nearly died on the spot.

Lando Norris.

Standing right there, like the universe had just dropped him into your lap with a wink and a challenge. He looked annoyingly good—messy curls, easy smile, hands shoved into the pockets of a hoodie that probably cost more than your rent. He didn’t look like a celebrity right now. He looked like a guy who’d wandered in off the street, maybe to grab a coffee or flirt with the barista. But you knew better.

Your heart did something weird in your chest. Not because you were starstruck—please, you were a professional. Mostly. But because this was it. The moment. The setup.

Great. Fantastic. Wonderful.

The universe had officially outdone itself.

Because standing in front of you was a man who was, quite frankly, perfect for the job. He checked every single box on your very short, very specific list:

1. Famous.

2. Attractive.

3. Almost definitely dumb enough to fall for whatever psychological warfare your article required.

Your brain lit up like fireworks on New Year’s Eve. Oh. Oh. This was it. This was him. Your ten-day victim had just walked straight into your life, no effort required. You didn’t even have to chase him down—he came to you. Like a lamb to the slaughter. Or, more accurately, like a golden retriever to a squeaky toy.

“Hi,” you said sweetly, already spinning the first few lines of your article in your head. The headline was practically writing itself.

Of course, you had to play it cool. You had to pretend you had absolutely no idea who he was. Not the guy you’d written five separate articles about. Not the guy with a garage full of sixteen cars you could list from memory. Not the guy whose face had been on your Twitter feed more times than your own.

No. You were going full amnesia. Blank slate. Just a girl, sitting in a café, definitely not plotting emotional sabotage.

“I saw you yesterday in the club. What a coincidence,” he said, voice a little too high, a little too nervous for someone who regularly drove a rocket ship at 300 kilometers an hour.

You raised a single eyebrow. He saw you?

Interesting.

He seemed to realize how that sounded because he immediately panicked. “I mean—uh—may I sit with you?”

And just like that, your suspicions were confirmed.

Oh yeah. He was the one.

So it had begun.

Your challenge: make Lando Norris dump you in ten days.

You watched him settle into the chair across from you, all casual charm and nervous energy. It was almost too easy. He looked relaxed, but you could see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—the way he scanned your face like he was trying to figure out if you were safe, or secretly filming him for TikTok.

“What’s your name, cutie?” you asked, voice syrupy sweet. The word cutie tasted weird coming out of your mouth, but you leaned into it anyway. You cringed internally—asking for his name when you knew every single gossip headline about him felt borderline criminal. You’d written about his dating history. His car collection. His skincare routine. You could probably recite his net worth in three currencies.

Still… you were curious. Would he lie? Would he play it cool, pretend to be someone else? Or would he go full Lando Norris, Monaco’s golden playboy, the city’s most sought-after souvenir?

“Lando,” he said.

Wow.

So he was actually telling the truth. No fake name. No mysterious alter ego. Just Lando. Bold move. And maybe also a little dumb. Perfect.

“That’s nice, Larry.”

He blinked. “It’s… Lando.”

You smiled innocently. “That’s what I said.”

He paused, eyebrows pulling together just slightly. Confused. Not alarmed, not offended—just trying to figure out if you were messing with him or genuinely bad with names. A regular Monaco man would’ve already made an excuse and bolted. But he stayed. That was promising.

“And what’s your name?” he asked, still trying to play it cool.

“I’m Y/n,” you said, offering him a soft smile that you hoped read as warm and just a little curious. At the same time, your eyes flicked toward the rest of the café, scanning the space like you were expecting someone to jump out from behind the espresso machine with a hidden camera. Was this a setup? Was he scouting the place? Spying? The whole thing felt too easy, too convenient. You’d barely started your mission and already the universe had dropped Monaco’s most eligible bachelor into your lap.

“So… you saw me at the club, huh?” you asked, keeping your tone light, like it was just a passing comment. Of course you knew he had. You’d been there with Hanna, sipping overpriced cocktails and pretending not to notice the swarm of athletes and influencers orbiting the VIP section. You’d clocked him immediately—messy curls, easy smile, the kind of presence that made people turn their heads without even knowing why. But you’d played it cool. You always did.

“Um… yeah,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. His voice was softer now, a little unsure. “I was with my friends, and you… caught my attention. But you were with a friend, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

You tilted your head slightly, pretending to think. Caught his attention? That was… unexpected. You tried to guess which friend he’d been with—Oscar? Max? Carlos? Probably one of the three.

But what really surprised you was how polite he was. No cheesy pickup line. No smug grin. Just a little awkward, a little nervous, and honestly? Kind of sweet. You’d heard the rumors—Lando Norris, playboy of the paddock, heartbreaker with a grin. But this version? This slightly fidgety, maybe-too-honest guy sitting across from you?

You could work with this.

You could definitely work with this.

As much as you wanted to keep the conversation going—keep watching him fidget with his sleeves and stumble over his words like a boy who wasn’t used to being nervous—time was not on your side. Hanna and Carol would absolutely murder you if you were late to work again. And honestly, you were already pushing it.

“Anyway, I should get going. Y’know… work,” you said, slipping your laptop into your bag and trying to sound like a normal person with a normal job and not someone actively plotting emotional sabotage for a living.

But then—

“Wanna go out for dinner or lunch sometime?” Lando asked, voice hopeful, like he wasn’t sure if he was reading the moment right.

You froze.

Oh.

This was suspiciously easy. Like, too easy. You hadn’t even done anything yet. No fake tears, no chaotic energy, no weird stories about your ex-boyfriend’s ghost haunting your apartment. And here he was, asking you out like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’d love that,” you said, keeping your tone light, breezy. Inside, your brain was doing backflips. You could already hear Hanna and Carol screaming when you told them.

“Perfect,” he said, smiling now, more confident. “So… tomorrow, 6 p.m.? Here?”

You blinked. Here? Same café? That was bold. And kind of adorable. He was either really into you or really bad at dating. Maybe both.

“Deal,” you said, trying to sound casual, like this wasn’t the exact outcome you’d been hoping for. Like you weren’t already planning your outfit and your first sabotage move.

You slung your bag over your shoulder, gave him one last smile, and walked out the door with your heart racing and your mission officially in motion.

You burst into the office like a storm, practically tripping over your own feet as you threw your bag onto your chair without even bothering to sit. Your heart was still racing, your thoughts spinning, and you couldn’t hold it in for one more second.

“You are not going to believe what just happened to me!” you shouted, loud enough that someone in the hallway probably heard.

Hanna and Carol looked up from their desks, already exchanging that familiar look—the one that said here we go again. Hanna raised an eyebrow, and Carol tilted her head, both waiting for whatever chaos you were about to unload.

“Hm?” Hanna asked, calm but curious.

You started pacing, arms flailing a little as you tried to find the words. “Okay, so I was sitting in the café, right? Just doing my usual thing—pretending to work, sipping coffee, maybe scouting for the guy—and then boom. Out of nowhere. The universe just drops Lando. Fucking. Norris. right into my lap.”

Hanna gasped like she’d just been slapped. “You’re kidding!”

Carol’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She blinked, stunned, like her brain was still buffering.

You nodded, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “I swear. He walked right up to me. Sat down. Started talking. And the best part?” You paused for dramatic effect, letting the tension build. “I literally did nothing. I didn’t flirt. I didn’t even try. I was just sitting there, spiraling about my life, and he came to me.”

Carol finally found her voice. “Wait—what does that even mean?”

You dropped into your chair, still buzzing. “It means he invited me to dinner. Tomorrow. Six p.m. Same café.”

Hanna let out a shriek that echoed off the walls. Carol covered her mouth like she’d just witnessed a miracle. You leaned back, heart pounding, mind already racing through outfits and sabotage strategies.

This was it. The mission had officially begun.

────────────

DAY ONE

Dinner was at six.

You arrived at 6:07—just late enough to be annoying, but not late enough to be unforgivable. It was a calculated move. A soft push. You wanted him just a little off balance, just enough to wonder if you were the kind of person who always ran late or if you were testing him. Either way, it worked.

Lando was already there, sitting at the table with his fingers wrapped around a glass he hadn’t touched. He was spinning it slowly, staring at the condensation like it held answers. He looked nervous. Not panicked, but definitely unsure. Like a kid trying to act normal in front of the cool teacher. You loved that. You loved a man already on edge.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said brightly, sliding into your seat like you hadn’t just made a dramatic entrance. “My cat threw up on my shoes.”

You didn’t have a cat. You didn’t even like cats. But if tonight was about sabotage, you were going to start strong. Lies, confusion, chaos—your holy trinity.

Lando blinked, clearly trying to process. “Oh—uh, I hope they’re okay?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Shoes or cat?”

“…Both?” he guessed, voice soft.

Cute. He was trying. You could see it in the way he sat up straighter, the way he kept glancing at you like he was checking to see if you were real. He wasn’t smooth, not yet. But he was polite. Sweet, even. And that made it better. You didn’t want a player. You wanted someone who’d fall hard and fast and then wonder what the hell happened.

The waiter came, and you ordered something expensive—something with ingredients you couldn’t pronounce and a price tag that made Lando’s eyebrows twitch. You watched him carefully, waiting for the reaction. He didn’t say anything, just nodded and ordered something simple. Interesting. He wasn’t going to challenge you. Not yet.

And then came your moment.

The first crack. The first twist.

You leaned forward, smile soft, voice sweet. Time to plant the seed.

Then came the inevitable question. The one that always showed up early, no matter how much small talk you tried to stretch out.

“So… what do you do? For work?”

You watched him closely as he answered. His eyes flickered, just for a second, like he was searching for the right words—or maybe the safest lie.

“I’m a… mechanic,” he said.

You blinked. Mechanic? Really?

You raised an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him squirm. “A… mechanic? Here in Monaco?”

He nodded, stiffly. “Yeah… cars. Fixing cars.”

He looked like you’d just asked him to perform open-heart surgery with a spoon. His shoulders were tense, his voice too careful. Like he was trying to sell a story he hadn’t rehearsed enough.

You leaned back in your chair, pretending to think it over. Mechanic. In Monaco. Sure. Because that made perfect sense. You knew what kind of cars he drove—cars that cost more than your entire apartment building. And now he wanted you to believe he spent his days elbow-deep in engine grease?

Something didn’t add up.

But you didn’t call him out. Not yet. You just smiled, nodded slowly, and filed the lie away for later.

Because if he was going to play pretend… well, two could play that game.

“Enough talking about me,” Lando said, waving his hand like he’d just cracked some kind of code. “I want to talk about you.”

Uh-oh.

You smiled, but inside, you groaned. Of course he wasn’t that interesting. You’d already figured that out. He was charming, sure, and a little nervous, which was cute—but the moment he called himself a mechanic, you knew you were dealing with someone who wasn’t exactly built for deep conversation. Still, you had to play nice. You were supposed to be sweet. Mysterious. Just weird enough to keep him guessing.

So you rolled your eyes—internally, of course, because externally you had to look polite and engaged—and braced yourself for whatever awkward questions were coming next. This was the part where he’d ask something basic, like where you were from or what you did for work, and you’d have to lie through your teeth without blinking.

“So… what do you do?” Lando asked, leaning forward a little, his elbows resting on the table, eyes wide with what looked like actual curiosity.

You blinked, caught off guard. He sounded so sincere. Like he really wanted to know. Like he wasn’t just asking to be polite or to fill the silence. You hadn’t expected that. You thought he’d be more self-absorbed, more interested in talking about himself, or at least flexing a little. But no—he was looking at you like you were the most interesting thing in the room.

You gave a small shrug, pretending to think hard. “Uh… I, um… I specialize in… finding lost socks.”

His eyebrows lifted, just a little. “Lost… socks?”

You nodded, keeping your face serious. “Yeah. People’s socks. It’s very niche. Very demanding. You’d be surprised how emotional people get about it. Some socks never come back. It’s tragic, really.”

You watched him closely, waiting for the confusion to settle in. Waiting for the polite smile to crack, for the awkward silence to stretch too long. This was supposed to be weird. Off-putting. You were trying to throw him off, to make him question your sanity just enough to regret asking.

But instead, Lando’s lips twitched. Then curled into a smile. “That’s… actually kind of cute.”

You blinked.

Cute?

You were trying to annoy him, for crying out loud. You were trying to be strange and mildly concerning. And somehow, he’d taken your fake sock-finding career and turned it into something adorable. Like you were a quirky rom-com lead instead of a woman actively plotting her own romantic downfall.

This was going to be harder than you thought.

“So… do you have any hobbies? Or… weird talents?” you asked, leaning forward just a little, pretending to be genuinely curious. You tilted your head, smiled softly, and gave him space to answer. It was a test, really. You wanted to see what kind of lie he’d come up with next.

Lando hesitated. You could see the gears turning in his head, trying to land on something believable but still interesting. Finally, he shrugged. “Uh… I’m really into, um… pottery.”

You blinked.

Pottery.

Sure. That made total sense for someone whose actual life involved screaming engines, million-dollar cars, and a fanbase that could probably crash your Wi-Fi. You stared at him for a second, trying to picture it—Lando Norris in an apron, gently shaping clay with his hands, surrounded by half-finished mugs and lopsided bowls. It was… oddly charming. And also completely ridiculous.

“Pottery, huh?” you said, smiling like you weren’t internally laughing. “You know… you kind of remind me of someone.”

He tilted his head, clearly bracing for whatever you were about to say. His shoulders tensed just slightly, like he was preparing for impact. “Oh? Who?”

You grinned, letting the moment stretch. “I don’t know… someone fast, maybe… drives cars professionally? Something like that?”

His eyebrows shot up, panic flickering across his face. “Fast… drives cars? No, no, I… I just ride bicycles sometimes. Very competitive bicyclist.”

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. He was trying so hard. You could see it in the way he sat up straighter, the way his voice got higher, like he was clinging to the lie with both hands. It was almost sweet. Almost.

But mostly? It was hilarious.

You were just about to go in for the kill. Just one little question. One tiny, innocent syllable that would’ve cracked the whole thing wide open.

“Are you, by any chance, L—”

But before you could finish, he jumped in, fast and a little too loud.

“Are you into F1, perhaps?”

You blinked.

Excuse you?

Where had that come from?

Your brain scrambled to catch up. Why would he ask that? Was this some kind of reverse psychology? Was he trying to throw you off? Or maybe he was testing you—trying to see if you’d slip up, if you already knew who he was. Did he think you were stupid? Or worse, a fan pretending not to be?

Your lips curled into a slow, suspicious smile. Two could play this game.

“F1?” you repeated, like you were trying to remember what that even stood for. “Ooh, fancy sport,” you said, waving your hand in the air like you were shooing away a mosquito. “Those guys go like—” you leaned in and made the most ridiculous zooming noise you could muster, “vroooom.”

He snorted. Actually snorted. The sound was half laugh, half surprise, and it made your stomach do something it absolutely should not have done.

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “Something like that.”

You shrugged, keeping your expression casual. “I don’t really follow it,” you lied, smooth as silk. “Not my thing. Too many rules, too much noise, too many men who think they’re hot shit just because they can turn left at high speed.”

He laughed again, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. And maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he was wondering if you were serious or just messing with him. You hoped it was both. You wanted him confused. Off balance. Unsure of where he stood.

Because if he was going to lie, then so were you.

And you were better at it.

“Should I be interested in it?” you asked, tilting your head just slightly, letting your voice go soft and curious. You were playing innocent now, like you hadn’t just spent the last five minutes trashing the very thing that made him famous. You’d called it loud, ridiculous, full of egos—and somehow, he was still sitting across from you. Still smiling. Still trying.

Miracle.

Lando Norris was famously allergic to commitment. That much you knew. Commitment, honesty, basic emotional presence—pick one. He wasn’t known for sticking around. And yet… here he was. Not bolting. Not making excuses. Just sitting there, sipping his drink, looking at you like you were the most fascinating person in the room.

“Pff, no,” he said, waving his hand like F1 was a mosquito buzzing near his ear. “It’s a shit sport. Is it even a sport? I mean—everyone can drive a car.”

You stared at him.

He said that with his whole chest. No hesitation. No irony. Just pure, unfiltered disgust. And he was supposed to be one of the faces of the sport. You had to fight the urge to laugh. It was too good. Too ridiculous. You couldn’t have scripted it better.

“So you hate F1?” you asked, keeping your expression soft and sweet, like you were genuinely concerned. Inside, you were cackling.

“Hate,” he repeated, voice flat, eyes serious.

You let out a dramatic sigh of relief. “Good. Because I’ve never watched a single race.”

Lie. Massive lie. You’d watched every race. You’d written about half of them. You could probably quote his post-race interviews word for word. But tonight? You were just a girl who thought F1 was a bunch of guys turning left really fast.

And somehow… he was still into it.

You leaned back in your chair, squinting at him like you were trying to solve a puzzle. There was something about him—something in the way he smiled, all relaxed and smug, elbows resting on the table like he had nothing to hide. He looked far too confident for someone who should probably be sweating under the weight of his own lies.

“But still…” you said slowly, letting the words stretch, “you’re so familiar to me.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “From your dreams, probably.”

Smooth. Annoyingly smooth.

You smirked back, refusing to let him win the moment. You were supposed to be the one in control here. The one pulling strings. But he was playing along a little too well.

“No—joke,” he said, leaning in slightly. “I mean, a lot of people mistake me for some Landon who cheated on Wizard Liz.”

You blinked.

Wait. What?

No way. No way he actually knew about that bizarre internet mess. That was deep TikTok drama. The kind of thing you only knew if you spent way too much time online, scrolling through chaotic storytimes and conspiracy threads at 2 a.m. And yet… he said it so casually. Like it was common knowledge. Like he’d been following the whole thing, too.

“Yeah… I think that’s it,” you said, nodding thoughtfully, pretending it all made perfect sense. “You’ve got that same energy. Real Landon vibes.”

He laughed, and you took another sip of your drink, hiding your grin behind the glass. You weren’t sure if he was messing with you or just weirdly well-informed. Either way, it was working. You were supposed to be throwing him off—but somehow, he kept surprising you.

And you kind of loved it.

You let out a dramatic sigh, swirling your glass just a little too hard, watching the liquid slosh dangerously close to the rim. And then—oops. In the most “accidental” way possible, you tipped it forward, sending a neat splash of red wine straight onto Lando’s crisp white shirt. It was a perfect hit. Right across the chest. A slow, blooming stain that spread like a watercolor painting. You gasped, loud and theatrical, already grabbing your napkin and flinging it at him like it might somehow undo the damage.

“Oh no! I’m so sorry!” you cried, pushing back your chair with a screech and jumping to your feet. You clutched your hands to your face, eyes wide, voice cracking like you were on the verge of tears. “I ruined your shirt! I can’t believe me!”

You didn’t wait for a response. You turned and bolted toward the door, fake sniffles bubbling up in your throat, your heart pounding—not from guilt, but from the thrill of it. This was it. The first real move. The first real test. You imagined the chaos of the next ten days unfolding like a movie montage—awkward moments, weird lies, emotional sabotage. You were already halfway to the exit, ready to disappear in a cloud of fake shame, when—

You felt a hand close gently around your arm.

“Hey, hey—stop,” Lando said, his voice low and calm, not even a little annoyed. He pulled you back, not hard, just enough to make you pause. “It’s okay. Really. Don’t cry.”

You turned, blinking up at him, caught off guard. He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t flustered. He wasn’t even looking at the wine stain. He was looking at you, like he actually cared. Like he believed you were upset and wanted to make it better.

Your heart did something stupid in your chest.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to get annoyed. Embarrassed. Maybe even storm out. But instead, he was being… kind. Gentle. The exact opposite of what you’d planned for.

Just as you were about to protest—maybe tease him a little more, maybe push the conversation into slightly weirder territory—he tilted his head, eyes sparkling with something that looked dangerously close to hope.

“Hey… so, random and funny thing,” Lando said, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to play it cool. “I, uh… accidentally bought two tickets to the Monaco vs PSG match. Would you… maybe want to come with me?”

You blinked.

Accidentally bought two? Sure. Totally believable. Because people just accidentally buy extra tickets to one of the biggest football matches in the country. You stared at him for a second, trying to decide if he was bluffing or just bad at lying. Either way, it didn’t matter. The offer was real. The moment was real. And it was falling into your lap like the universe had skipped ahead in your ten-day plan and decided to speed-run the romance part.

Part of you wanted to scream. This was too easy. You hadn’t even pulled out the weird stories or the fake emotional breakdowns yet. And already he was inviting you to a second date. A public one. With crowds and noise and cameras. You could practically hear Hanna and Carol losing their minds.

But the other part of you—the part that knew how to play this game—kept your face calm, your voice breezy.

“Uh… sure,” you said, shrugging like it was no big deal. “I guess I could… watch a football match. Why not?”

He lit up. Like you’d just handed him the moon. His grin was wide and boyish and way too sincere for someone who was supposed to be emotionally unavailable.

“Perfect! Tomorrow, then,” he said. “You’ll love it. It’s… actually really fun.”

You nodded, sipping your drink slowly, pretending to think about it like you hadn’t already started planning your outfit and your next sabotage move.

────────────

DAY TWO

The truth was… Lando had actually bought five tickets. Not two. Five. One for you, one for himself, and three for the chaos committee—Max, Oscar, and Charles. The plan was simple: they’d sit a few rows back, close enough to watch the match, but mostly there to keep an eye on things. On you. On him. On whatever this was turning into.

Now the four of them were outside the Stade Louis II, leaning against a low wall, the sun dipping low behind the stands. The air buzzed with the usual pre-match energy—fans shouting, vendors yelling, the smell of beer and hot dogs drifting through the air. But Lando barely noticed any of it. His head was still spinning from the night before.

“So…” Charles started, his voice full of mischief, “how was the date?”

Lando groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Somewhere between horrible and amazing.”

It was the only way he could describe it. The whole thing had been a mess—an actual mess. The lies he’d thrown out? Completely unplanned. He’d panicked. Said the first thing that came to mind. Mechanic. Pottery. Bicycles. He wasn’t even sure what story he’d told by the end of it. It was all a blur of fake jobs and weird jokes and you looking at him like you knew exactly what he was doing and were choosing not to say anything.

“Why’s that?” Max asked, grinning like he already knew the answer.

Lando shook his head, still half in disbelief. “She has no idea who I am,” he said. “Told her I’m… a mechanic.”

Oscar choked on his drink. Charles burst out laughing. Max just stared at him, eyebrows raised, clearly impressed.

Lando sighed, staring out at the stadium. “I don’t even know why I said it. She asked what I did and I just… panicked. It came out before I could stop it.”

And the worst part? You’d believed him. Or at least, you’d pretended to. You’d nodded like it made perfect sense, like you hadn’t already guessed something was off. And then you’d gone and made up your own job—something about finding lost socks—and he still wasn’t sure if you were joking or just completely unhinged.

But you’d said yes to football. You were coming tonight. And that meant something, didn’t it?

Lando leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, a small shake of his head giving away just how much he was still processing. “And also… she told me she’s never watched an F1 race,” he said, almost like he still couldn’t believe it. “So she probably doesn’t know any of you. Honestly, it’s safer than I thought.”

Max let out a loud laugh, tossing a peanut into his mouth like this was the best entertainment he’d had all week. “Oh, please. Everyone knows my name.”

“Yeah,” Charles cut in, raising an eyebrow. “Because of how fucking arrogant you are.”

Max didn’t miss a beat. “And you’re known by everyone thanks to your seven-year-long Ferrari depression,” he shot back, grinning.

Charles scoffed, but didn’t deny it.

Oscar groaned, rubbing his temples like he was the only adult in the room. “Can you two please be quiet? You sound like an old married couple.” He turned to Lando, eyes narrowing with interest. “I want to hear more about her.”

Lando hesitated for a second, then let a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Her name’s Y/n,” he said, voice softer now. “She’s… a bit weird. Like, really weird. But mostly cute.”

He didn’t mean it as an insult. If anything, it was the opposite. There was something about the way you said things—so confidently, so casually—that threw him off in the best way. You didn’t try to impress him. You didn’t ask for anything. You just sat there, sipping your drink, making up stories about lost socks. And somehow, that had been the most fun he’d had in ages.

Max raised an eyebrow. “Weird how?”

Lando just shook his head, still smiling. “You kind of have to see it to get it.”

“You look like you’ve been daydreaming about her,” Max said, nudging Lando with his elbow and grinning like he already knew the answer. “Does Lando Norris have a crush?”

Lando scoffed, too fast, too loud. “Gosh, no,” he said, waving a hand like he was brushing the whole idea away. “It’s not like that.”

It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. It was just the car. The thrill of knowing he could still pull someone without the name, the fame, the noise. Just him. Just a guy with a fake job and a half-baked lie and somehow, she’d still said yes. That was all it was. A little ego boost. A reminder that he didn’t need the spotlight to be interesting. That he could still be wanted without the helmet and the cameras.

“I just want the car,” he added, more firmly this time. Like saying it again would make it true.

Max raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying a word of it. “Uh-huh. Sure, mate. Totally just the car.”

“Lando,” Oscar said slowly, narrowing his eyes like he was piecing together a mystery on a whiteboard, “you like her.”

Lando’s head snapped up. “I don’t,” he said, way too fast. Too sharp. The kind of answer that only made it more obvious.

Oscar raised his eyebrows, clearly not buying it. Charles didn’t even look up from his drink. He just took a slow sip and added, “You do. You get that face.”

Lando frowned. “What face?”

“That face you make when Max starts talking about his sim results,” Oscar said, deadpan.

Max gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been personally attacked. “My sim results are important.”

Charles didn’t even blink. “No one’s arguing that, Max,” he said, still focused on Lando. “The concept of Lando Norris liking girl who doesn’t know who he is…insane.”

Lando opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Because what was he supposed to say? That he didn’t care? That it was all part of some weird game? That he was just having fun?

Except… he wasn’t sure anymore.

You’d gotten under his skin faster than he expected. And now, with the boys looking at him like they’d already figured it out, he felt like the only one still pretending.

Lando opened his mouth, ready to deny it again—ready to insist, for the hundredth time, that he didn’t like you, that this was just a game, just a bit of fun—but then Oscar’s eyes went wide, like he’d just seen a ghost.

“Uh, guys? Incoming.”

Lando turned.

And there you were.

Walking toward the stadium entrance, eyes scanning the crowd, your steps steady but your expression just a little uncertain. And then—like it was the most natural thing in the world—you spotted them. Him. And you started walking straight toward them.

“Shit.”

Lando shot to his feet so fast Max actually blinked. His heart was suddenly racing, his palms weirdly sweaty, and he had no idea why he felt like he was about to be caught doing something illegal.

“Okay—be normal,” he muttered under his breath, eyes darting between his friends. “Stop smiling like that, you look stupid. Oscar, stop waving at her. Max—Max, stop breathing loudly. And for the love of God, don’t mention anything F1.”

“I’m literally just EXISTING,” Max hissed, offended.

Too late. You were already there.

You were walking straight toward them, and your heart was pounding. Not just fluttering—leaping. Like it had launched itself into your throat and was now trying to escape through your mouth. Because there they were. Not just Lando, but Oscar Piastri. Charles Leclerc. And Max motherfucking Verstappen.

Holy. Shit.

He brought them with him?

You tried to keep your face calm, but your brain was screaming. Max was hotter in real life. Stupidly hot. It was actually rude. And Charles? Even prettier than the internet made him out to be. Oscar looked like he’d just stepped out of a Netflix teen drama. And they were all just… there. Standing around like this was normal. Like this wasn’t the most surreal moment of your life.

And Lando—poor, clueless Lando—was standing in the middle of it all, looking like he was trying not to panic. He had no idea. No idea that Carol and Hanna were just a few steps behind you, phones already out, documenting every single detail. Every glance. Every awkward smile. Every second of this ridiculous, perfect disaster.

This was it.

The article was writing itself.

You turned on the sparkle like it was a performance, digging deep into your emotional catalog for the most over-the-top, painfully sweet smile you could manage. It was the kind of smile that belonged in a cheesy soap opera or a reality show reunion—big, bright, and completely fake. You practically skipped the last few steps toward him, arms already outstretched like you were running into the arms of a long-lost lover.

“Babyyy!!” you shrieked, throwing yourself at Lando like you hadn’t seen him in a decade. Like you’d survived a war, a shipwreck, and a dramatic love triangle just to be here now, in his arms.

For a second, his soul visibly left his body. You saw it in his eyes—the pure panic, the moment of hesitation, the silent scream. Max’s eyebrows shot into another dimension. Oscar made a choking sound even though he hadn’t been eating or drinking anything. Charles just stared, wide-eyed, like he was watching a car crash in slow motion and couldn’t look away.

And then—somehow—Lando played along.

He caught you, steadied you, and wrapped an arm around your back like this was something he did every day. Like you hadn’t just given him the biggest ick known to mankind. Like this wasn’t the most unhinged greeting he’d ever received in public. He held you like it was normal. Like it was fine.

“Hey, love,” he said, his voice cracking just a little at the edges, like it was trying to hold itself together with duct tape and hope. “Good to see you.”

You almost broke character. Almost. Because the fact that he was committing to this? That he was actually going along with it? It was ridiculous. It was stupid. It was kind of… adorable.

You pulled back just enough to cup his cheeks in both hands, tilting his face toward yours like you were about to burst into tears from joy. “Lan-Lan,” you said, dragging out the nickname with as much drama as you could, “I missed you sooo much.”

You didn’t even have to look to know Max was cringing. You could feel it radiating off him like heat. Oscar had turned away, probably to keep from laughing. Charles looked like he was one sarcastic comment away from collapsing to the ground.

And Lando—sweet, poor, flustered Lando—somehow kept smiling. Barely. His eyes were wide, his jaw tight, but he didn’t let go.

“Yeah,” he wheezed, patting your arm like he wasn’t sure if you were going to kiss him or stage a public proposal. “Missed you too.”

You beamed at him, heart pounding with the thrill of it all.

You turned your attention to the trio standing just behind Lando, letting your gaze sweep over them slowly, like you were sizing up a suspicious group of teenagers loitering outside a convenience store. Their expressions were… well, interesting, to say the least. Somewhere between startled and deeply uncomfortable. Like they’d just been caught doing something illegal and weren’t sure if they should run or smile.

“You brought your little friends with you?” you asked sweetly, voice dripping with mock horror. You clutched your chest like you were genuinely scandalized. “Lando, I thought this was our special day.”

All three of them froze.

Their eyes went wide, like you’d just accused them of a federal crime. Max looked like he was calculating how fast he could disappear. Charles blinked once—slow, suspicious, like he was trying to figure out if you were dangerous or just deeply unwell. Oscar looked like he wanted to melt into the pavement.

“Um… yeah,” Lando said, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly regretting every decision that had led to this moment. “But they won’t bother us much. They’ll sit somewhere else.”

You raised an eyebrow, giving the trio a long, slow once-over. These were the famous F1 drivers? The legends? The icons? Honestly, they looked less like elite athletes and more like a trio of overgrown Powerpuff Girls—one brooding, one smug, one already emotionally exhausted.

“Well, yeah,” Lando added awkwardly, gesturing toward them like he was introducing a school project group he didn’t pick. “This is Oscar, Charles, and Max.”

The boys did not look thrilled. Not even a little.

Max crossed his arms, jaw tight, clearly plotting revenge in real time. Charles gave you the slowest blink you’d ever seen, like he was trying to process your entire existence in one go. Oscar just shook his head, muttering under his breath, “This is going to be a disaster.”

“Let’s go, Lando,” you said, grabbing his arm like you’d done it a hundred times before and tugging him toward the stadium entrance. No hesitation, no looking back. Just full steam ahead into the next phase of chaos.

Behind you, Max’s voice rang out, loud and delighted. “Have fun, lovebirds!” he called, waving like a maniac, clearly enjoying every second of this trainwreck.

You leaned in close to Lando as you walked, lowering your voice just enough to make it feel like a secret. “Ugh… Oscar,” you whispered, wrinkling your nose. “Seriously. He looks like he hasn’t felt a single emotion in his life. Creepy, right?”

You expected him to flinch. To pull away. To get weird about it. You were talking trash about his best mate, after all. This was supposed to be the moment he started to question you. To feel the ick. To wonder what he was doing here.

But instead—he laughed.

A real laugh. Not forced. Not polite. Just a soft, surprised huff of amusement that made his shoulders shake a little.

“Yeah… he’s a little scary, isn’t he?” Lando said, grinning as he shook his head. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from emotionless men in black.”

You blinked at him, thrown off for a second. That wasn’t the reaction you were expecting. Not even close. You’d meant it as a jab. A little test. Something to make him uncomfortable. But he’d just… rolled with it. Turned it into a joke. Matched your energy without missing a beat.

And now you were stuck somewhere between mild annoyance and reluctant admiration. Because damn it, he was quick. And charming. And apparently not as easy to rattle as you’d hoped.

You and Lando found your seats—surprisingly good ones. Padded cushions, perfect view, close enough to see the players’ expressions but far enough to avoid beer spills. It made sense, really. Lando was absolutely terrible at pretending not to be rich. He could say “I’m just a mechanic” all he wanted, but the man booked seats like he had a black card and a personal assistant.

You settled in, smoothing your jacket, crossing your legs just so. You took a slow sip of your drink, letting the moment settle. The sun was warm, the crowd buzzing, and Lando was next to you, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. For a second, everything felt weirdly… calm.

Then you glanced over your shoulder.

And froze.

A few rows behind you—just far enough to pretend it was a coincidence, just close enough to ruin your life—sat Carol and Hanna. Your best friends. Your co-conspirators. Your chaos committee. Phones already out, eyes locked on you like hawks. You could practically feel the group chat exploding in real time.

And right next to them?

The Powerpuff Girls.

Max, Oscar, and Charles. All three of them. Sitting there like they were just regular guys, not international celebrities with faces you’d seen on billboards and magazine covers. Max looked like he was already bored. Oscar had his arms crossed, eyes scanning the crowd like a security guard. Charles was sipping something fizzy, legs crossed, sunglasses on, giving off the energy of a man who had seen things and was not impressed.

Of course.

Because coincidence wasn’t just real—it was a vindictive little bitch with a flair for drama.

You turned back around slowly, heart pounding, brain already racing through backup plans. This was supposed to be a controlled environment. A simple, low-stakes outing. But now the stakes were sky-high, and the audience was stacked with people who knew exactly what you were doing.

You turned back to Lando slowly, narrowing your eyes like you were about to interrogate him under a spotlight. He was trying to look relaxed, legs stretched out, hands in his lap—but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched slightly against his thigh.

“So tell me,” you said, leaning in just enough to make him nervous, “where exactly did a mechanic get the money for seats like these?”

He froze for half a second. Blinked. And then, like a switch had flipped, he pasted on the most painfully casual smile you’d ever seen. It was the kind of smile that screamed I’m lying and I know it but I’m hoping you’re too polite to call me out.

“Uh—well—they were on sale,” he said, voice cracking just a little at the end. “And, you know… anything to charm a girl like you.”

You stared at him.

Right. And you were the Queen of England.

He cleared his throat, clearly scrambling now, and gestured around with a little flourish that looked like it had escaped before he could stop it. “And besides,” he added, trying to sound breezy, “you’re in Monaco, love. Every seat here is nice.”

You raised an eyebrow, sipping your drink slowly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him sweat. Sure. Keep lying, little mechanic boy. Keep digging that hole.

Because the more he tried to sell the story, the more obvious it became that he had no idea how to lie properly. And honestly? It was kind of endearing. In a deeply chaotic, wildly suspicious, how-is-this-your-plan kind of way.

You straightened in your seat, trying to look like you were deeply analyzing the game—like you were one of those people who said things like “high press” and actually meant it. You nodded slowly, seriously, as if you were watching a chess match instead of a bunch of men chasing a ball.

“Ah… yes, yes,” you said, voice low and thoughtful. “So… if he passes here, then—oh! And look! The defense… they’re, um… not very… aggressive?”

Lando turned to look at you, blinking once. You could see the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, and he was clearly trying to hold it back. Failing, but trying.

“Uh… yeah… sure,” he said, nodding solemnly. “That’s… exactly what’s happening.”

You leaned in a little closer, lowering your voice like you were sharing a secret. “I think if they just… like… kick it more… maybe… he’ll score? Or something. Totally strategic.”

That did it. He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re… adorable when you pretend to know football.”

You froze.

Adorable?

Seriously?

You were trying to be chaotic. Weird. Mildly annoying. You were trying to make him question every decision that had led him to this moment. And instead, he was looking at you like you’d just handed him a puppy and a warm blanket.

“Uh… thanks,” you muttered, suddenly flustered. “I totally know what I’m talking about. Obviously.”

He winked, all smug and sweet at once. “Obviously.”

You turned back to the field, cheeks warm, heart doing something it absolutely shouldn’t be doing. This was not the plan. You were supposed to be giving him the ick. Making him regret this whole thing.

Instead, he was smiling like he actually liked you.

Perfect.

Your plan? Failing. Spectacularly.

────────────

DAY THREE

“This shit is not working!” you shouted, storming across the living room like a CEO about to fire her entire board. Your arms flailed, your voice echoed, and your pacing was so aggressive it was a miracle the floor didn’t file a complaint.

On the couch, Hanna and Carol lounged like they were watching a nature documentary. Hanna was even eating chips, legs tucked under her like this was just another Tuesday. Monsters. Absolute monsters.

“Yesterday was a disaster,” you groaned, pressing a dramatic hand to your forehead like a Victorian woman about to faint. “The football match? Horrible. It started horrible. First of all—he brought the idiots with him.”

“Powerpuff Girls,” Carol corrected, completely serious, not even looking up from her phone.

“Yes. Them.” You pointed like you were naming suspects in a murder trial. “And then I turn around and see you two talking to the idiots.”

Hanna raised a hand, calm as ever. “Correction: we were not talking to them. They were talking to us. Big difference.”

Carol nodded, still scrolling. “Yeah. Max said he liked my earrings.”

You stared at them like they’d just committed treason. “Jesus Christ.”

But you didn’t stop pacing. You couldn’t. Your brain was on fire, your plan was in shambles, and your friends were acting like this was a casual brunch recap.

“Doesn’t matter,” you muttered, throwing your hands in the air. “None of it matters. Then I try to give him the ick—again—and he just smiles. Smiles! Like I’m adorable or some shit.”

Hanna snorted, reaching for another chip. “Maybe he thinks you’re adorable.”

You froze mid-step, eyes narrowing.

That was not the point.

That was exactly the opposite of the point.

“No! Don’t even mention this,” you groaned, flopping onto the couch like your soul had left your body. You threw an arm over your eyes for dramatic effect, already spiraling. “I literally tried everything.”

Hanna raised an eyebrow, calm as ever. “Everything?”

“Yes!” you cried, sitting up just to gesture wildly. “I fake cried. Twice. I told him I don’t watch F1. Shit-talked Oscar—his teammate—in front of him! Nothing! He just smiled. Is he… is he immune to stupidity?”

Carol snorted from the other end of the couch. “He is stupidity.”

You blinked at her, thrown. “What?”

Carol shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The more you act stupid, the more he plays along. He likes it.”

You let out a groan so loud it could’ve cracked glass. You flopped back again, arms splayed like you were auditioning for a tragic stage play. “No. No. No. That is not supposed to happen. That’s cheating. He’s cheating the system.”

Hanna popped a chip in her mouth, completely unbothered. “Maybe the system’s broken.”

You opened your mouth, ready to launch into the next chapter of your meltdown—something about how the universe was clearly conspiring against you—when—

“Y/n.”

You froze mid-breath.

Hanna froze, chip halfway to her mouth.

Carol froze with a mouthful of pretzels, eyes wide.

The three of you turned to each other in perfect sync, sharing one identical look of pure, unfiltered horror.

“…Please tell me that was the TV,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

“We’re not watching TV,” Hanna whispered back, eyes locked on yours.

Then it came again—louder this time, unmistakable:

“Y/N! COME DOWN!”

Your body snapped toward the window like someone had yanked an invisible string. You crept over, heart pounding, and slowly peeled back the curtain.

And there he was.

Lando Norris.

Standing on the sidewalk like it was the most normal thing in the world. Hands shoved in his pockets. Helmet dangling casually from one wrist. And next to him? A tiny electric scooter that looked like it belonged to a twelve-year-old. It was bright red, slightly scuffed, and absolutely not the kind of vehicle a humble mechanic would be zipping around Monaco on.

You stared.

He looked up and spotted you instantly, grinning like this was a romcom and you were about to run down the stairs into his arms.

You, meanwhile, were dying. Actively. Internally combusting.

“WHAT DOES HE WANT?! HOW DOES HE EVEN KNOW WHERE I LIVE?!” you whisper-shouted, pacing the living room like a cat that had just had three shots of espresso. Your hands were flying, your heart was racing, and your brain was doing somersaults. This was not part of the plan. This was not supposed to happen.

“AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW?!” Hanna shouted back from the couch, just as dramatic, throwing her arms in the air like she was in a soap opera.

Carol, of course, was completely calm. She shrugged, still chewing on a pretzel. “He probably followed you home.”

You spun around to glare at her. “CAROL.”

She blinked. “What? It’s Monaco. Everything’s five minutes apart.”

You groaned, threw your hands up, and marched over to the window. With a deep breath, you leaned halfway out, trying to look casual even though your soul was screaming.

“Lanny, babyy!” you called, voice high and sweet and fake. “What are you doing here?!”

And then you froze.

Lanny? What the hell had just come out of your mouth? You didn’t even know where that nickname came from. Maybe—hopefully—it would finally give him the ick. Maybe he’d turn around and scooter away forever.

But no. Of course not.

Because there he was. Lando Norris. Standing on the sidewalk like it was the most normal thing in the world. Hands in his pockets, helmet dangling from one wrist, next to a tiny red scooter. It was 11 PM. He was smiling like this was a perfectly reasonable time to show up uninvited.

“I was going by,” he said, grinning up at you, “and I thought I could take you for a ride… and ice cream?”

You squinted at him, trying to figure out if he was serious. “At 11 PM?”

He shrugged, lifting the helmet slightly. “Yeah. Midnight gelato. Best time of day.”

You stared at him.

Well, of course you agreed.

This man was going to ruin your life. And somehow, you were starting to think you might let him.

The scooter ride had been… a lot. Wind in your face, your hair whipping around like it had a personal vendetta, and Lando narrating the entire journey like he was hosting a motorsport documentary. “This corner’s perfect for leaning,” he’d said at least three times, like that meant anything to a normal person. Meanwhile, you were just trying not to scream or fall off the back of his ridiculous little scooter.

Eventually, you pulled up outside a tiny gelato shop tucked between two quiet buildings, its windows glowing soft and golden like something out of a fairy tale. Or a fever dream. Honestly, it could go either way.

You hopped off, brushing your hair out of your face, hands on your hips. Your brain was already spinning with possibilities. You needed a new tactic. Something bold. Something unhinged. Something that would finally make him back away slowly and question all his life choices.

Marriage.

Yes. That was it. Commitment. The ultimate ick. Lando Norris hated that stuff, right? Weddings, forever, matching bathrobes—probably his worst nightmare. Right up there with McLaren strategy meetings and running out of hair product.

You turned to him, gelato in hand, and went for it.

“Lanny! Guess what!” you said, voice high and bright and full of fake joy. “I already planned our wedding!”

You even held your gelato up like it was a bouquet. Cringe level: maximum. You were proud of it.

He blinked at you. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to think, Yes. This is it. He’s going to run.

But then—he grinned.

“No way, love,” he said, eyes sparkling. “That’s perfect!”

You froze mid-bite, spoon halfway to your mouth.

Perfect?

This was your third date. Third. And he was already playing along like you’d just told him you booked the venue and he was picking the cake. No hesitation. No weird look. Just… full commitment to the bit.

You stared at him, completely thrown.

This man was not playing fair.

You inhaled sharply, steeling yourself. Fine. If marriage didn’t scare him, you’d just have to take it up a notch. Go bigger. Weirder. Push the chaos to its limits.

“So!” you chirped, looping your arm through his as you strolled toward a little table outside the gelato shop. “The wedding theme is… Disney princesses.”

Lando stumbled a little, catching himself with a quick step. “Princesses?”

“Mm-hm,” you said, taking an exaggerated lick of your gelato like it was a royal decree. “I’ll arrive in a giant pumpkin carriage pulled by actual white horses. Real ones. With little flower crowns. And you—” you paused for dramatic effect, “—you’ll be in a sparkly blue tux. Like Cinderella. But, you know, the man-version.”

Lando blinked at you, clearly trying to picture it. “A blue tux? With sparkles?”

You nodded, dead serious. “And glass slippers. Obviously.”

He stared at you for a beat too long. You waited for the grimace. The hesitation. The slow backing away. But instead—

He snorted.

The man snorted.

Then he smiled, wide and warm, like you’d just told him the most charming thing he’d ever heard. “If it makes you happy,” he said, eyes dancing, “I’ll wear two pairs.”

You froze, spoon halfway to your mouth.

Two pairs?

Oh my god.

Was he… enjoying this?

This was supposed to be the moment he cracked. The moment he realized you were too much, too weird, too extra. But instead, he was grinning like he was already halfway to the altar, glass slippers and all.

You stared at him, heart thudding, brain short-circuiting.

You stared at him, completely baffled. This was it. Time for the nuclear option. If this didn’t send him running, nothing would.

“And our honeymoon?” you said sweetly, like you hadn’t just declared emotional war.

He raised an eyebrow, playful. “Oh? Where are we going, Mrs. Norris?”

Mrs. Norris.

You nearly dropped your gelato. The spoon wobbled in your hand. Your brain short-circuited for a full second. That name should’ve made you gag. Instead, it made your stomach do something deeply inconvenient.

“Hawaii,” you said, recovering fast. “But not the pretty honeymoon part. The volcano part. I want us to take couple photos in front of lava. Like, actual lava. Bubbling. Dangerous. Symbolic.”

Lando paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. You waited for the grimace. The hesitation. The what is wrong with you look.

But no.

He nodded, completely serious. “Lava’s romantic. Warm lighting.”

You choked. “Warm lighting?!”

He just smiled, soft and easy, and scooped another spoonful of gelato—then held it out to you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he wasn’t supposed to be running for his life right now.

You stared at him, stunned. Melting faster than the gelato in your hand.

This was supposed to be sabotage. A slow, strategic unraveling. But instead, it was turning into something else entirely.

────────────

DAY FOUR

Somehow, Lando had found out you really liked art. Not just “likes pretty pictures” liked it, but the kind of like where you could spend hours in a gallery, quietly walking from one painting to the next, letting the colors and brushstrokes sink into your chest. You never told him that. Not directly. And yet, here you were—walking into a gallery with soft lighting and quiet music, your hand tucked into his like it belonged there.

It was thoughtful. Suspiciously thoughtful. Because Lando didn’t exactly scream “art guy.” His idea of creative expression started and ended with the design of his race helmets. And yet, he’d brought you here. To this place. With its white walls and whispered conversations and paintings that made your heart ache in the best way. You had no idea how he knew. It almost felt like he’d read a listicle about you. “Top 25 Things Y/n Loves.” If anyone else had done that, it would’ve been creepy. But when it was Lando? It was… weirdly flattering. Dangerous, even.

You walked through the gallery hand in hand, and it was soft in a way that made your chest feel tight. The kind of soft that made strangers smile at you. The kind of soft that felt like a photo someone would take and keep forever. But Lando? He stuck out like a sore thumb dipped in neon paint. He looked completely out of place—like a man trying to read a menu in a language he didn’t speak, hoping the pictures would help. His eyes darted from painting to painting, his head tilted like he was trying to understand what made them special. It was obvious he didn’t get it. But he was trying. For you.

And that? That was dangerously hot.

You stopped in front of a massive Monet. The colors were soft and glowing, like a dream you didn’t want to wake up from. Blues and greens and gentle reflections, water lilies floating like they were made of light. It made something shift in your chest. Something quiet and warm and a little overwhelming.

Lando squinted at the corner of the painting, leaning in slightly. “Wow… Monet, huh?”

You glanced at him, lips twitching. At least he could read.

But when you looked closer, you saw it—the way he was watching you, not the painting. Like he was trying to figure out what you saw in it. Like he wanted to understand, even if he didn’t.

You nodded, relieved to be on familiar ground. “Yes! One of the greats. Impressionism. Emotion. Atmosphere. He basically reinvented how people saw the world—how they painted light, movement, feeling—”

“I could totally do that myself,” Lando said.

You gasped so loudly it echoed off the gallery walls. An elderly couple turned around, startled. A security guard glanced over. Somewhere, you were sure Monet rolled in his grave.

“I’m serious,” Lando said, completely unfazed, hands on his hips like he was inspecting a construction site. “Give me five minutes, a sponge, and some paint, and—boom—same thing.”

Your hands flew to your chest like you’d just been personally attacked. “Are you comparing yourself to MONET?!”

He shrugged. Shrugged. Like he hadn’t just committed art blasphemy in public. “What? It’s just… blurry flowers.”

You stared at him, mouth open, heart pounding, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or drag him out by the collar. But then he looked at you with that stupid grin, like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he’d said it just to get a rise out of you. And damn it, it was working.

“BLURRY—” you gasped, clutching your chest like you’d just been stabbed. “Blurrrrry FLOWERS?! Lando, that’s Water Lilies. That’s history. That’s emotion. That’s art.”

He didn’t even flinch. Just raised one eyebrow, calm and smug, like he was about to win a debate he hadn’t studied for. “Looks like flowers having an identity crisis to me.”

You stared at him, stunned. You could actually feel your soul leaving your body. Packing its bags. Booking a one-way flight. Waving goodbye.

“You can’t even draw a straight line, baby,” you snapped, turning to glare at him like he’d just insulted your entire bloodline.

He shrugged. Shrugged. With the kind of confidence only a man who had never been humbled by a blank canvas could pull off. “If I actually put effort into it, it’d be way better.”

Oh.

Oh, perfect.

A beautiful opportunity had just fallen into your lap. A chance for public humiliation. A dramatic scene. The kind of moment that would live in his memory forever, filed under reasons to never date Y/n again.

The ultimate ick delivery system.

Your plan?

Back on track.

And this time, you were going to make sure he regretted ever doubting Monet.

“Better?” you repeated, voice low and dangerous, eyes narrowing like you were about to put him on trial. “You think you could do better than Monet?”

Lando lifted one shoulder in a lazy half-shrug, hands tucked into his pockets like this was a casual chat about breakfast options. “I mean… yeah? If I tried hard enough.”

You let out a laugh so loud it echoed through the gallery. Two old ladies turned around, scandalized. One of them clutched her pearls. The other narrowed her eyes like she was ready to defend Monet’s honor with her handbag.

Amazing. Perfect. A crowd.

Exactly what you needed.

“OH! OH REALLY?!” you cried, stepping back and throwing your arms wide like you were about to deliver a Shakespearean monologue. “YOU think you could paint something better than WATER LILIES?!”

Lando blinked at the sudden attention, clearly clocking the small audience now watching your meltdown like it was performance art. But instead of backing down, he just smiled, cool as ever. “Well, yeah. Not saying I will, just saying I could.”

You slapped your forehead with a dramatic groan, staggering back like his words had physically wounded you.

The old ladies gasped in unison.

A child nearby giggled, delighted.

And Lando?

Still standing there, smug and unbothered, like he hadn’t just committed artistic blasphemy in public.

“HE THINKS HE CAN OUT-PAINT MONET!” you shouted, voice echoing through the gallery as you pointed at Lando like he was a medieval criminal awaiting judgment. Heads turned. A security guard looked mildly alarmed. Somewhere in the distance, a docent paused mid-tour.

Lando just smiled, hands lifted in mock surrender, like he was being arrested for stealing hearts. “Okay, okay. Calm down, darlin’.”

Darlin’.

Oh. New nickname unlocked. But no. He wasn’t getting off that easy.

“No!” you snapped, arms crossing with dramatic flair. “No calming down. Do you even understand how insulting this is to me? I bring you to Monet—MONET—and you say… ‘blurry flowers’?!”

“I stand by it,” he said, completely calm, like he wasn’t actively committing art treason in front of witnesses.

You gasped, loud and theatrical, like you’d just been told your favorite childhood pet was a lie. “You know what?” you said, stepping closer, voice dropping into something serious and dangerous. “This is serious.”

Lando tilted his head, eyes soft and steady. “Serious?”

“SERIOUS,” you said, stepping closer like you were about to deliver life-changing news. You lowered your voice, slow and dramatic, like a doctor in a movie. “I think… we need couples therapy.”

There was a sharp gasp from the couple standing nearby. Someone behind you whispered, “No way…” like they were watching a soap opera unfold in real time.

But Lando?

He didn’t even blink.

He just nodded, calm as ever. “Alright,” he said, like you’d just suggested grabbing coffee. “If that’s what you want, yeah. We can totally do it.”

You stared at him, completely thrown. “I—what?”

“We can do couples therapy,” he repeated, voice gentle, like this was the most normal thing in the world. “If it’ll help you feel better.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Your brain made that weird crashing sound, like an old computer freezing mid-task. You could almost hear the error message pop up in your head. System overload. Please restart.

“What—Lando, we’re not— I mean, it’s been—” You stopped yourself just in time. You were about to blow the whole thing. The fake relationship. The sabotage plan. The carefully crafted chaos.

But then he reached out, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. Soft. Steady. Like he meant it.

“Whatever you need, love,” he said, eyes warm. “I’m in.”

Your mouth fell open. You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t even think. Because what the actual fuck was happening? How was he not running? How was he not even confused?

Was he immune to everything? Or—worse—was he playing you at your own game?

Because if this was reverse psychology, it was working. And if it wasn’t… you were in serious trouble.

Your heart was doing something it absolutely should not be doing.

And your plan?

Yeah. It was falling apart in the most terrifying, wonderful way.

────────────

DAY FIVE

The therapist—poor, unsuspecting woman—looked between you and Lando with the exact expression of someone who had just realized they’d walked into a live minefield wearing flip-flops. Her smile was polite, but her eyes were already scanning for exits. She folded her hands gently in her lap, trying to keep things calm. “So,” she said, voice soft and careful, “what brings you two here today?”

You took a deep, dramatic breath, like you were about to deliver a monologue. Lando, meanwhile, sat beside you like he’d been preparing for this moment his entire life. One leg crossed over the other, completely relaxed, like this was just another casual stop on his calendar. He looked like the kind of man who thought therapy was a fun little bonding activity. You, on the other hand, were ready to burn the room down.

“Where do I begin?” you said, throwing your hands up like the weight of your fake relationship was too much to bear. “There’s a lot wrong.”

Lando nodded, serious as ever. “We’re very complex.”

You turned to glare at him. He just smiled back, soft and golden and infuriating, like a golden retriever who’d just chewed up your favorite shoes but still expected a cuddle. It was impossible to stay mad at him, which only made you more mad.

The therapist blinked, clearly trying to keep up. “Alright… maybe start with something specific?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Monet.”

Lando let out a quiet groan beside you, already sensing where this was going. “Oh, come on—”

“No,” you said, cutting him off, leaning forward like you were about to present evidence in a courtroom. “Because I need you to understand this. He pointed at Water Lilies—WATER. LILIES.—and called it ‘blurry flowers.’”

You could feel your heart rate rising just thinking about it again. The betrayal. The audacity. The complete lack of respect for one of the greatest artists in history. And Lando? He just sat there, looking mildly amused, like this was all part of some inside joke you hadn’t been let in on.

You weren’t sure what was worse—the fact that he’d said it, or the fact that he still didn’t seem sorry.

And the therapist?

She looked like she was starting to regret her career choices.

Lando shrugged, completely unbothered. “It’s objectively true. They were blurry.”

You slapped your hand over your face, dragging it down slowly like you were trying to physically hold in your soul before it escaped your body.

“And!” you said, voice rising again as you pointed at him like you were building a case in front of a jury. “He genuinely believes he could paint better than Monet if he—” you made air quotes with your fingers, “—‘put effort into it.’”

The therapist turned to Lando slowly, like she was bracing herself for whatever nonsense might come next. “Do you truly believe that?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Thought for a second. Then, with the confidence of a man who had never once been told no in his life, said, “…Yes?”

You gasped so hard it felt like your lungs had collapsed. “SEE?! He’s delusional!”

Lando reached over and patted your knee like you were the one who needed comforting. “It’s okay to be intimidated by my artistic potential.”

You stared at him, stunned. The therapist cleared her throat, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. “Right… okay… let’s maybe explore other areas of concern?”

“Oh, fantastic,” you said, sitting up straighter, ready for round two. “His friends.”

Lando perked up, suddenly alert. “What about my friends?”

“Everything,” you said, waving your hand like you were listing off crimes. “Max is terrifying. Charles is too beautiful—it’s offensive, honestly. And Oscar? Oscar looks like a man who hasn’t felt a single emotion since 2017.”

Lando choked on air, coughing as he tried to speak. “That’s so rude—”

“I’m not done,” you said, holding up a finger like a warning sign. “The real issue is that you’re basically in love with them. All of them. But mostly Oscar.”

The therapist blinked, then turned to Lando again, her voice cautious. “Are you… romantically involved with Oscar?”

Lando sputtered, eyes wide. “WHAT? No! He’s just my—he’s not even emotional enough for romance—”

“Ah!” you said, pointing at him like you’d just cracked the case wide open. “Defensiveness. Classic sign.”

The therapist, bless her, didn’t even flinch. She just nodded and scribbled something down in her notebook, probably under a heading like delusional couple, possibly unhinged.

Lando turned to you with a soft glare, the kind that said he was trying very hard not to laugh. “I am not in love with Oscar.”

The therapist turned to you next, her voice calm and curious. “And why do you feel he acts… ‘too in love’?”

You crossed your arms, settling into your seat like you were about to deliver a TED Talk. “Because,” you said, slow and serious, “he looks at me with the same face he looks at Oscar with. And that is not comforting.”

Lando groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “That is just my face.”

“Exactly,” you said, like you’d just won the argument.

The therapist nodded again, thoughtful. “And how does that make you feel?”

You opened your mouth, ready to launch into a dramatic answer about emotional neglect and facial ambiguity—

But Lando beat you to it.

“Very loved,” he said softly, “I hope.”

You froze.

Just for a second.

Because the way he said it—quiet, honest, like he meant it—hit you somewhere you weren’t expecting. It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t smug. It was just… real.

And suddenly, all your fake complaints and dramatic gestures felt a little too close to something true.

You didn’t know what to say.

The therapist smiled like she was watching her favorite slow-burn romance unfold in real time. Like she was already planning to tell her coworkers about this session over lunch. Fantastic. Completely useless.

Your heart did a stupid little flip at the look on Lando’s face—soft, steady, like he meant every word he hadn’t even said yet. You crushed the feeling immediately. Sat on it. Smothered it. Set it on fire. This was not the time.

“ANYWAY,” you said, louder than necessary, trying to drag the conversation back to safer, more chaotic ground. “He also acts like he’s already in love with me. Which is weird. And suspicious. And wrong.”

Lando just shrugged, like you’d pointed out the weather. “Can’t help it.”

You nearly slipped off the damn chair.

The therapist turned to him with that warm, encouraging gaze that made you want to throw a pillow at her. “And Lando, how do you feel about what she’s saying?”

He didn’t pause. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t even blink.

“I love her,” he said, voice low and sure. “And I want her to believe it. There’s no one else. Especially not Oscar.”

You stared at him.

Because there was no smirk. No teasing glint in his eye. No wink to let you know he was still playing the game. Just… honesty. Like he’d peeled something open and handed it to you without asking if you wanted it.

The therapist, still clearly recovering from the “no one else except Oscar” revelation, folded her hands with the kind of calm that only made things feel more chaotic. She tilted her head, voice gentle, like she was asking something simple. Harmless.

“And… how long have you two been dating?”

You opened your mouth.

Lando opened his at the exact same time.

“Five days—” you said.

“Three months—” he said.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Even the potted plant in the corner seemed to lean away from the tension.

You turned to him so fast your neck cracked. “THREE MONTHS?!”

Lando blinked at you, wide-eyed and innocent, like he hadn’t just detonated a lie in the middle of a therapy session. “It feels like three months,” he said softly, with a little shrug. “Time moves differently when you’re in love.”

You stared at him, completely thrown. Your brain was trying to reboot, but the loading wheel was spinning uselessly. This man was lying. Boldly. Casually. With a straight face and a soft voice and a look that said I’d do it again.

The therapist, meanwhile, looked like she was watching the final scene of her favorite romance movie. She clasped her hands tighter, eyes practically glowing. “Oh, that’s beautiful.”

Beautiful?

Beautiful?!

What the actual fuck was this man’s plan?

Because if this was still fake, he was terrifyingly good at it.

And if it wasn’t…

You were in so much trouble.

© verstarris 2025

babs radio ! I’d love to dedicate this one to @zariacore in the honor of lando winning the 2025 championship 🩵. What a weekend. If you told me in 2022 he will fight for wdc instead of points, I’d laugh in your face… times change! Anyway, this is only part 1 of 2. I did not in fact start writing the other half🫣 but please be patient, two weeks before Christmas in school are pure hell lol.

taglist. @haniette @plantlover28 @lgl2003 @gripitlikelando @jenxjar @gossenabitur @chuusussss @ohwhoisyou-rubyjane @basicchelsea @keepyoureyesonmeboy @filmleclerc @llama-07 @piastri-pages @l4ndo-norizz @chala-mala-bing-bong @majdoline @procrastination-queenie @clovermoters @alliesreblogs xx (if u wanna be added or removed, comment or let me know into my inbox)

[mvkacl]

𖥻 OP81 : kissing tutor

"How do you kiss girls?"

You blinked, breath catching in your throat as you turned to look at him.

"Like—as a girl kissing another girl, or are you trying to find tips to kiss a girl from a girl?"

The air felt thicker, honestly too suffocating now.

It's not like you both never talked about intimate—borderline sexual situations, godsake you've been friends since high school, it was happening one way or another. Jokes or not.

Oscar wasn't really one to care about beating around the bush, that you knew way too long since meeting him, and his constant spurts of information you don't really need to know. But asking your best friend how to kiss was not on your radar until now.

You've had enough boyfriends—or girlfriends—to know a thing or two about it, Oscar hasn't. So, what's the best way to satisfy the curiosity?

Ask your closest female friend, of course.

The show randomly playing on the television, the hum of the air conditioning filled the silence that seemed to envelop both of you in the living room. You waited, gaze fixed on each other, his mind was practically in a different world, trying to find the right answer to make this less awkward.

"The—uh. Latter. You're a girl, you'd know how you want to be kissed." He cleared his throat, face unreadable, but the way his voice cracked in the slightest was evident. "Right..." you spoke, turning your head to look around as if it would change the tension slowly growing.

"You're overthinking it I assume." You shook your head, leaning back against the cushions, shoulder brushing against his from how close you two sat to each other. "Just press your lips against hers and, well, if either of you open your mouths, it's just instinct from there."

"Can you do it with me?"

"You're serious?" It wasn't a question, more of a statement out of pure disbelief. You could see how his face flushed while trying to keep his composure, fingers fiddling with the hem of his own shirt.

"Wait, wait. Why are you asking me? Do you have a date you're not telling me about?"

"I'm just curious."

"You were never this curious, Oscar."

"You're stalling." He was getting impatient, and you're only dragging this conversation instead of closing the scant distance between you two. "You could go to a club in Monaco right now and ask this to a complete stranger. Less awkward."

"I want it to be you."

…

"You're impossible."

Leaning in, body shifting to face him better directly, his own mirroring your actions—the distance slowly closing between you two.

So close you could probably count every single mole from his face to his neck, the pink of his blush, how he's trying so hard to hide how nervous he was. "Man. Relax. No girl wants to kiss a pole." You joked, trying to uplift the once suffocating energy.

You grabbed his hand, guiding it to your waist. "Hold her by the waist," you whispered, almost too intimate, Oscar believed you saw this more than just teaching. "Or the nape. Depends."

Oscar's fingers tightened around from where he held you, fighting the urge to just pull you closer and—fuck.

"Tilt your head. lean in slow. Close your eyes if you need to. Don't make it abrupt, show that you're taking your time with her." He nodded instantly, following along. The heat of you was too much, gulping hard, stopping just close enough that your lips hovered over his.

"And for fucks sake, don't lick your lips before it. Drink water if it's chapped." You muttered, lips brushing against his as you spoke.

Lips met in a simple kiss. Just mouths pressed, eyes closed, the intimacy of two best friends becoming more—becoming too real. Staying like that for longer than necessary.

Then Oscar pulled away, eyes looking at you insistent, a flicker of desperation in them. "Teach me more." You pressed your lips in a line, nodding along. "Jesus—yeah. Sure. Okay."

"Don't think too much about it." You exhaled, shaking off the tension in your shoulders. "Open your mouth, slow. match hers if you can." A pause. "Push your tongue in slow, not too slow. Don't shove it in. You'll be fine from there on." you reassured

It was surprising to find out how fast Oscar can hang onto things. And how good he could be with it. Following every single thing you said, his mouth opening in sync with yours, the feel of his shaky exhale against your cheek at each brush of your tongues. Head tilting just enough to deepen it.

Completely losing track of time when he hovered over you. Standing between your legs, leaning down while you still sat. Hands fisting his shirt just by the sternum.

Each of your soft noises making him press his lips harder against your as if he could swallow your sounds whole. Hands cupping your face up to keep you in place as he kept kissing you like a drowning man in need of air.

And he was. He wanted this for so long, he finally took the chance the second it laid out on him.

You never expected to find out your best friend was an exceptionally good kisser because he decided to use you as his practice. Or maybe you're just a good tutor.

Either way—he's turned his best friend into a puddle just from his mouth, and god forbid him for loving it.

a/n : good morning, inexperienced oscar for those pure of heart

[mcrdvcks]

take my hand

summary: Steve tries his hardest to make a move, but every time he gets close to saying the words, your younger brother Dustin interrupts him. Every. Single. Time. word count: 9.3k+ pairing: steve harrington x henderson!fem!reader notes: every time a new season of stranger things comes out, my obsession and love for steve harrington comes back. so, this is my first time writing for him! i've read pretty much every steve x shy!reader fic out there and since i have this account now i thought i'd try my hand at writing for him warnings/tags: no use of y/n, reader is dustin's older sister, shy!reader, takes place at some point in between seasons (aka steve works at family video), dustin is accidentally cockblocking steve and his sister, yearning!steve, dustin is pure chaos, fluff, robin is done with steve's shit and excuses, steve is a bit awkward when it comes to romance

The Henderson house was always a little too full of noise, but it wasn’t the kind that grated on you. It was the kind you’d grown up with. Dustin’s voice carried down the hallway while you sat in the living room sorting through a pile of tapes Steve had let the two of you borrow. Someone had returned Back to the Future without rewinding it, and Steve would absolutely yell about “proper tape etiquette” the next time he saw Dustin. You smiled to yourself as you sifted through the stack.

Soft knocking sounded at the front door. It wasn’t frantic—not monster-knocking—just two taps and a beat. The kind Steve used when he didn’t want to startle anyone. You pushed up from the floor, dusted your hands on your jeans, and opened the door to find him leaned against the frame in that casual way of his that was way too intentional to be casual.

He gave you that lopsided grin, the one that always sat just shy of confident when it was directed at you. “Hey. Dropping these off before Henderson scratches them. I swear he puts the tapes in the VCR with the same enthusiasm he has for summoning demodogs.” He lifted a paper bag full of rentals and offered it out.

You stepped aside to let him in, taking the bag but not before his fingers brushed yours. The contact sent a flick of warmth up your arm, not the dramatic kind that makes people gasp in books, but the kind that catches quietly under your ribs. You weren’t sure if he noticed, but his hand pulled away a little quicker than necessary.

Dustin shouted something from the back room, loud enough to rattle the vents. Steve huffed a laugh and nudged the door closed behind him as he walked into the living room. He kicked his shoes off like he’d done it a thousand times, because he had. This place had become familiar to him. You’d become familiar to him. And somehow that knowledge warmed you more than the afternoon sun slanting across the carpet.

He flopped onto the couch, elbows over the back, letting his head fall back dramatically. “I swear, every time I pick something up from Family Video, Kline shows up to yell about our shelving. Every time. Like I chose the shelving. Like I personally installed the shelving.” He peeked at you through the fall of his hair, the grin returning. “Anyway. I figured you might need something new to watch, unless Dustin has you trapped in one of his weird sci-fi marathons.”

You settled on the other end of the couch, cross-legged, the tapes set between you. “It’s not that weird,” you said softly, though the smile gave you away. “And you survived the marathons, too.”

“Barely.” He let out a dramatic sigh, then let the act falter as he turned to face you fully. His knee brushed yours in a way that felt almost accidental but never quite was when it came from him. He always hovered near you—not close enough to overwhelm, but close enough that you felt seen. You’d gotten used to it. Maybe too used to it.

There was something different in his face today, something you couldn’t place. Not nerves exactly, but something halfway between steady and uncertain. His gaze lingered on you longer than normal before shifting to the tapes in your lap. “You find anything good?”

Your fingers drifted over the covers without thinking. “Trying to. He mixed everything up again. I’m pretty sure one of these cases has two different movies shoved in it.”

“Classic Henderson,” Steve murmured, but he didn’t seem focused on the tapes anymore. His eyes had softened in a way that made your pulse stumble. He looked like he was about to say something—something real, something heavy enough that he hesitated. “Hey, I was actually gonna—”

Dustin barreled into the hallway, a crash of sound and limbs. “Steve! You’re here! Good, because I figured out what was wrong with the antenna, and you have to see it, it’s so sick—”

Steve deflated in an instant, head dropping back against the couch. The moment snapped like it had never been there at all. Dustin launched himself into the room, completely oblivious, waving a broken piece of metal dangerously close to Steve’s face.

Steve sat up with a tight smile, rubbing his hands over his jeans like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. You felt the shift, that soft invisible thread between you pulled taut before disappearing entirely. He shot you a glance—quick, almost apologetic—before catching whatever Dustin was waving at him. “Okay, okay, dude, relax before you impale me. What’d you do now?”

Dustin launched into an enthusiastic explanation, words tumbling over each other. Steve tried to look interested. Mostly, he looked like a man who’d been shoved out of a doorway he’d just worked up the courage to walk through.

You sat quietly beside him, listening to your brother ramble, but your attention kept drifting back to Steve. It was in the set of his shoulders, the unfinished words still lingering behind his eyes. He’d been trying to tell you something. And whatever it was, he wasn’t done trying.

You weren’t sure what would happen when he finally managed to get you alone long enough to say it. But for the first time in a long time, the thought didn’t scare you. It sent that same gentle warmth rising in your chest—the kind you didn’t quite know how to name yet, but couldn’t ignore anymore.

---

The ride home from the Wheelers’ had always been a cramped, loud, chaotic experience, mostly because Dustin treated the back seat like a moving laboratory. Tonight was no different—he’d tossed a backpack stuffed with papers, wires, and half-built gadgets across the seat before climbing in, muttering about how he needed to reorganize everything “for efficiency.” Steve had glanced at you in the driveway with a weary, amused smile that told you he already regretted offering the ride, but he’d unlocked the car anyway. He always did.

You slid into the passenger seat and buckled in while Dustin slammed the back door shut with enough force to make Steve wince. Once everyone was settled, Steve started the car, the headlights cutting through the warm, late-evening haze that hovered over the quiet street. The windows were cracked just enough to let in the summer air, and you rested your hands in your lap, feeling that comfortable, familiar tension settle between you and Steve—the kind that was never unpleasant, only warm and awkward in a way you’d grown used to.

He glanced over as he pulled away from the curb. “So. Did you guys have fun or did you suffer through another round of Wheeler Monopoly hell?”

The question was casual, but the look he slid you was not. It lingered, soft at the corners, a little nervous in the middle. You felt the weight of it press lightly beneath your ribs. “It wasn’t that bad,” you said quietly. “Dustin tried to cheat four times.”

“Hey!” Dustin snapped from the back seat. “Three times. The fourth doesn’t count because the rulebook didn’t specify—”

“It absolutely specified, dude,” Steve said, shaking his head. “It’s a published game. There are rules. You can’t just invent your own stock market mid-round.”

“I was innovating,” Dustin insisted, already rummaging for something in his bag.

Steve exhaled through a laugh and shot another glance your way. He always did that—threw his jokes toward the air, but aimed his eyes at you, as if checking whether you were smiling. And you were, even if you looked down to hide it.

The road curved toward your neighborhood, streetlamps drifting past in golden streaks. From the corner of your eye, you noticed Steve tap his fingers nervously on the wheel, like he was working himself up to something. His shoulders were tight, his jaw flexing softly the way it did when he was trying to gather courage without drawing attention.

After a moment of silence, he tried again. “Listen, I—” He cleared his throat. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Actually, not tell you, more like… ask you? Or maybe—”

Dustin leaned forward between the seats so suddenly that both you and Steve flinched. “Okay, so imagine this,” he said, breathless with excitement, waving a notebook near Steve’s face. “If I rewire the antenna and get the gain up by just, like, one decibel—”

“Dude, hold on,” Steve said, swatting the notebook away gently. He tried to keep his voice even, but you could hear the frustration simmering underneath. “I’m talking.”

“You weren’t saying anything important yet.”

“I was literally in the middle of talking!”

“To me,” Dustin corrected smugly. “You weren’t saying anything interesting to me.”

Steve inhaled slowly through his nose, gripping the wheel like it might keep him grounded. You bit the inside of your cheek to stop from laughing, because you could see the exact moment he abandoned his almost-confession and resigned himself to Dustin’s rambling.

“Just… go back to whatever you were doing back there,” Steve muttered.

“You mean saving science? Already on it.” Dustin retreated to the back seat and immediately started scribbling again.

Steve let out a long, slow breath, the kind he usually saved for demobat stories or Customer Service Nightmares at Family Video. He didn’t look at you yet. You didn’t look at him either. The interrupted moment hung between you, fragile and obvious.

When he finally risked a side glance, the faintest smile tugged at his mouth—a mix of embarrassment and something softer. “Anyway,” he said quietly, “I was just gonna ask if you, uh… had a good time tonight.”

He’d changed his wording at the last second. You heard it. You wondered if he knew you heard it. “I did,” you murmured, letting your gaze settle on him. “It was nice.”

That small smile of his grew a little, warming the dim car. He was about to say something else—you saw the breath he pulled in, the shift of his shoulders—but Dustin cut him off again. “Steve, turn left! You missed the shortcut!”

“It’s literally two minutes longer,” Steve snapped. “Two minutes! We’re talking blocks, man, not a cross-country trip.” You stifled another laugh. Steve shot you an exhausted, pleading look before turning onto the familiar street. When he parked outside your house, he put the car in park but didn’t immediately shut off the engine. His fingers tapped the wheel again, a restless rhythm. “Hey,” he tried once more, turning slightly in his seat. “I wanted to—”

“Steve, can you help me carry my stuff!?” Dustin bellowed as he launched himself out of the back seat, already grabbing for the door to your house. “I need both hands and probably yours too!”

Steve sagged back against his seat like someone had deflated him. He dragged a hand down his face, muttering something that sounded like a plea for mercy.

You reached for the door handle, hesitating for just a heartbeat. “You can tell me whatever it was later,” you said, voice soft enough that only he would hear.

His eyes found yours again. Whatever he’d been trying to say was still there, simmering just under the surface. A slow smile curved onto his lips, small but genuine. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Later.”

You stepped out of the car, the warm summer air brushing your face. Dustin yelled your name from the porch. Steve groaned, climbed out of the driver’s side, and shot you one last look before going to help your brother.

It wasn’t the confession he’d wanted to give you. But it was coming—you could feel it. And judging by the way he watched you walk toward the house, he wasn’t giving up yet.

---

Family Video was quiet in that late-afternoon way that made the fluorescent lights buzz louder than any customer ever could. The aisles were empty, the return bin was half-full, and Steve was leaning over the counter like a man whose soul had been wrestled out of his body. He kept folding and unfolding the same tape return slip, eyes unfocused, jaw set in that defeated angle that Robin recognized instantly. She flicked a pen cap at his shoulder. “Okay, what’s with the tragic slouch? Did someone rent all the good horror movies again, or are you just being dramatic for attention?”

Steve didn’t look up. He just made a noise that could’ve meant many things: frustration, embarrassment, existential collapse. Robin sighed, circled around the counter, and planted herself across from him with the posture of someone preparing for an interrogation. “Talk,” she demanded, snapping her fingers in front of his face.

He swatted her hand away. “Stop. I’m not a dog.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she muttered. “Now spill it. Your energy today is… weird. And not the usual ‘I’m pretty but tired’ weird. This is ‘something happened and I’m repressing it like a coward’ weird.”

Steve groaned, then let his forehead drop onto the counter with an audible thunk. “I tried to talk to her again.”

Robin perked up instantly. “Oh! Finally! Great! So what’d you say? Did you ask her out? Did you actually form a full sentence? Did you—”

“I didn’t get that far,” he mumbled into the countertop. “Dustin wouldn’t shut up.”

Robin blinked once. “Like… interrupting you?”

“Like climbing over the front seat of my car with a notebook to show me a sketch of an antenna while I was trying to confess my feelings.” Steve lifted his head, eyes hollow with dramatic suffering. “It was like being attacked by a hyperactive raccoon.”

Robin snorted so hard she almost choked. “God, that’s beautiful. Horrible. Hilarious. But mostly horrible.”

“Thank you for your support,” he said dryly.

“Oh, I’m supporting you,” she assured, tapping the counter rhythmically. “Just not your terrible strategy. You need to stop trying to talk to her when Dustin is within a three-mile radius. He’s like a tiny tornado with opinions.”

Steve pushed his hair back with both hands. “I know, I know. I just thought maybe he’d… I don’t know, fall asleep? Or get distracted? Or explode?”

“He’s Dustin,” Robin reminded him, eyebrows raised. “He gets more energized as the day goes on. By midnight he’s seconds away from achieving orbital lift.”

Steve sighed again and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed tight. “I just… I’m not good at this stuff, okay? She’s not like those other girls I used to date. I don’t want to rush it or freak her out.”

“That’s sweet,” Robin said. “But also incredibly stupid.”

He glared at her. “How is that stupid?”

“Because you’re overthinking it, dingus,” she said, flicking his forehead as punishment. “She already likes you.”

Steve froze, blinking. “She—she does?”

“Oh my god.” Robin pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. “You’re helpless. You’re actually helpless.”

“That’s not an answer!” he hissed.

Robin dropped her hands and stared him down, speaking slowly for maximum effect. “She. Likes. You.”

Steve stared back, a flush creeping up the side of his neck. “You don’t know that.”

“I absolutely do.” She jabbed a finger into his chest. “You get all flustered and stupid around her, and she gets all quiet and wide-eyed around you. It’s like watching two baby deer try to merge onto a highway.”

Steve let out a despairing noise. “I can’t believe you compared me to a deer.”

“Oh, you’re both deer,” she insisted. “Deer in love. Pathetic. Adorable. Infuriatingly slow.”

He ran a hand over his face again, groaning. “I just… I want it to be the right moment. And every time it almost is—”

“Dustin blows it,” Robin finished. “Because that kid has zero awareness of anything except science and snacks.”

Steve laughed, but it was tired around the edges. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

Robin planted her hands on her hips like she was about to deliver a lecture. “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to ask her out. Soon. Not ‘eventually’ or ‘when the universe aligns.’ Soon. Before Dustin adopts you into his personal schedule for the week.”

“I’m working on it,” he insisted.

“No, you’re not,” she said. “You’re waiting for signs and moments and dramatic lighting. What you need to do is open your mouth and say, ‘Hey, I like you. Want to go out?’”

Steve looked deeply scandalized. “That’s—no, that’s too blunt. I can’t just say it like that.”

“Well, you definitely can’t say it while Henderson is crawling on the car seat like a feral goblin.”

“Okay, that’s fair.”

Robin leaned her elbows against the counter, eyeing him closely. “Be honest. Are you scared because she’s quiet?”

He hesitated before nodding once. “I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. She’s been through… a lot. We all have, but she… you know.”

Robin softened. “Yeah. I get it. But trust me, she’s not scared of you. She’s scared of… saying the wrong thing. Or being too much. Or not enough. You two speak in the same dialect.”

Steve’s breath stalled at that, chest tightening with something warm and nervous. “So… what do I do?”

“What I’ve been telling you from the start.” Robin shrugged, smirking. “Ask her out, dingus.”

The bell above the door chimed as a customer wandered in, and Robin gave Steve one last pointed look before heading into the aisle to help. Steve stayed behind the counter, resting both palms flat on its surface, grounding himself. He took a deep breath and whispered to no one, “Okay. Ask her out. I can do that. I can do that.”

But even as he said it, he already knew one thing for sure: if Dustin showed up again, this plan didn’t stand a chance. And somehow, that made him smile anyway.

---

The Henderson garage always smelled faintly like dust, motor oil, and whatever science experiment Dustin had last abandoned on the workbench. That afternoon, the air was warm enough that the open door let in a slow spill of sunlight, brightening the cluttered space in strips. You stood beside one of the folding tables, sorting through the mess of screws and wires Dustin had dumped out “for easier access,” which, in reality, only made everything harder to find.

Steve hovered nearby with a half-hearted attempt at organization. He picked up tools, put them down, nudged wires into a neater line, and occasionally wiped his palms on his jeans like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. You noticed the way he kept drifting closer, every few seconds glancing at the house as if waiting for an opening that hadn’t come yet.

Dustin had barreled inside moments earlier shouting something about a “crucial component” and promising to return quickly. Experience had taught you that “quickly” usually meant at least fifteen minutes. The sudden silence left the garage feeling strangely private, a pocket of quiet neither of you were used to sharing without your brother’s voice filling it.

Steve leaned a hip against the table, crossing his arms loosely. “You’d think for someone so obsessed with organization, he’d, I don’t know… actually organize things.”

A soft laugh slipped out of you before you could hide it. “He says he has a system.”

“Yeah, well, his system is ‘pile everything in the same place and pray.’”

You didn’t mean to meet his eyes, but when you did, the warmth there caught you off guard. He smiled—not the big, charming grin he saved for customers or jokes, but the smaller one he used when it was just you. Something quieter, something that made your stomach tug downward and your breath lift higher at the same time.

For a moment you thought he might look away. Instead he took a step closer, letting his fingers trail lightly over the table until they stopped near yours. He didn’t touch you, but the space between you shrank until it was impossible not to feel the gravity of him. “Hey,” he said softly, more serious now, “can I ask you something?”

Your pulse jumped. He didn’t try to hide the nerves this time—his voice was careful, his eyes steady but uncertain, like he was testing thin ice. You tucked a loose screw back into the tray just to have something to do, but you nodded. “Yeah. What is it?”

Steve drew in a slow breath, shoulders rising, then dropping. He shifted so he was standing directly across from you now, close enough that you felt his warmth even through the small distance. “I’ve been… trying to find the right moment to say this. Probably overthinking it. Definitely overthinking it,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “But every time I try, something happens, and then I lose the nerve, and—”

He stopped, hands falling to his sides. His gaze flicked to your lips before returning to your eyes, almost apologetically, like the glance had slipped out by accident. “I really like—”

He didn’t get the rest out because Dustin slammed the back door open so hard it ricocheted off the wall with a loud crack. “Found it!” he shouted triumphantly.

Steve jolted back like someone had yanked him by the collar. You startled, the sound hitting you like a small explosion in the otherwise quiet garage.

Dustin sprinted inside with a fistful of random parts, not noticing the way Steve took two hasty steps backward or the way your breath had caught halfway up your throat. He launched straight into an explanation, words tumbling over each other at impossible speed.

“Okay, okay, okay, so remember last week when the signal strength dropped? I swear it wasn’t my fault, but I triple-checked, and it turns out the grounding was off by like a millimeter, but I fixed it, and then I realized if we attach this—this right here—” He shoved the piece of metal inches from Steve’s face. Steve blinked rapidly, stunned, trapped in the whirlwind of Dustin’s enthusiasm. “—then the whole thing works even better! Isn’t that awesome?”

“Yeah,” Steve croaked, the word paper-thin. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yeah, buddy. That’s—uh. Great.”

Dustin looked between the two of you, oblivious to the tension he’d vaporized. “Come on, we have to test it. Steve, you hold the end with the clamp. And don’t drop it this time.”

You watched as Dustin pulled Steve by the wrist toward the other table. Steve threw you a look over his shoulder—a silent, desperate I was so close—before letting himself be dragged into whatever experiment Dustin was constructing.

You swallowed, grounding yourself against the table as the adrenaline slowly ebbed. You replayed the moment in your mind, the warmth in his voice, the way he’d leaned in like he was finally ready to say the thing he’d been dancing around for weeks.

You didn’t need the rest to know what he’d meant. And even though the confession had shattered midair, it left a soft, glowing heat in your chest that didn’t disappear.

Steve shot you another look while Dustin explained the next step, his expression full of apology and frustration and wanting. He wasn’t done trying. And now, for the first time, you knew that for certain. Even if Dustin was determined to make it the longest confession in history.

---

The Wheelers’ basement was the kind of cramped, mismatched space that should’ve felt chaotic, yet somehow always managed to settle into its own kind of rhythm. Blankets draped over the back of the couch, half-finished board games littered the coffee table, and a small mountain of snacks threatened to avalanche off the folding card table by the wall. The worn carpet muffled footsteps, and the single lamp cast the whole room in a warm amber glow that made everyone look a little softer, a little more like themselves.

Mike sat cross-legged near the TV, fiddling with the dials like he was performing surgery. Will had his sketchpad propped on his knee, quietly drawing as he waited. Lucas and Max were arguing over whose movie pick was superior—which mostly meant Max was calling Lucas boring and Lucas insisting she had no taste. Eleven sat beside Max, combing her fingers through a bowl of M&M’s in strict color order. Nancy leaned against the far wall, arms crossed as she offered periodic commentary, half amused and half exhausted by the group’s indecision.

Robin stood behind the couch drumming her fingers along the backrest, eyes drifting toward you with the kind of knowing smirk that made you want to hide under a blanket. She’d been watching Steve all night like she was tracking wildlife behavior for a nature documentary.

And Steve—Steve had claimed the floor beside you the moment everyone settled. He hadn’t even pretended to consider another spot. He’d just dropped down next to you, close enough that your knees brushed whenever either of you shifted. Every now and then you felt the light press of his shoulder barely grazing yours, the warmth of him almost magnetic. He looked relaxed, but you’d known him long enough to recognize the tension coiled beneath the easy slouch. He wasn’t just sitting near you; he was waiting.

The chaos around you built into its usual storm of voices, and you let yourself sink into the noise until it felt like background static. You were comfortable like this—surrounded by people you trusted, tucked into a corner where nothing demanded too much of you. Steve must’ve sensed the way your shoulders unknotted, because he leaned in slightly, voice pitched softer than the rest. “Hey,” he murmured, letting the word drift just for you. “You holding up with all these maniacs fighting about cinema like it’s life or death?”

You smiled, looking down at your hands for a moment. “I’ve witnessed worse. Dustin tried to convince me Star Wars counts as a Thanksgiving movie.”

Steve snorted, head tipping just a little closer. “He tried that on me too. Henderson logic is a dangerous thing.”

The way he said it—soft and amused, with that small, private grin—made your cheeks warm. You felt it before you could control it, and you ducked your head slightly, pretending to focus on Max and Lucas arguing in the middle of the room. Max pointed her movie case at Lucas like a weapon. “This is a classic. You have no taste.”

Lucas folded his arms. “You say that about everything you like.”

“That’s because I’m right.”

Robin leaned closer to Nancy and muttered, “I’m taking bets on when this turns into a wrestling match.”

Steve laughed under his breath, then looked back at you. The basement noise faded as his attention settled directly on you, the air shifting in that fluttery way it always did when he got close. His knee nudged yours—gentle, deliberate. You looked up, and the moment your eyes met, something tender flickered across his face.

He angled toward you fully now, ignoring the group entirely. “Hey,” he said again, quieter this time, “there’s something I’ve been wanting to—”

“Oh my god.” Dustin’s voice ricocheted down the stairs like a missile.

Steve closed his eyes, shoulders slumping in a despair that bordered on spiritual defeat. You startled just slightly as Dustin burst into the basement carrying two bags of popcorn and a bowl of something that was probably too sticky to be allowed near the carpet.

“I got snacks!” Dustin declared triumphantly. “Mike, move over! Will, stop drawing sad trees! Everyone, I have news!”

Robin groaned. “Here we go.”

Nancy pinched the bridge of her nose. “Do we want to know?”

Dustin ignored everyone and marched directly toward you and Steve. “Okay, so, you’re all gonna think this is genius, because it is,” he announced, setting the popcorn in the middle of the floor like it was an offering to the gods. “I mixed extra sugar into the caramel corn so we can stay awake through Lucas’ boring movie pick.”

Lucas sputtered. “It’s not boring!”

Max kicked him lightly. “It’s very boring.”

Steve tried to inhale, tried to restart the thing he’d been about to say, but Dustin plopped down between the two of you before he could get a syllable out, wedging himself with a full-body flop. Steve’s head snapped toward the ceiling like he was pleading for divine help.

“Dude,” Steve said weakly, “I—I was literally talking—”

“Great, you can finish later,” Dustin chirped while shoving popcorn into Steve’s hands. “Right now we need someone to test if the caramel-to-corn ratio is perfect.”

Robin snickered from behind the couch. “That’s the face of a man in agony.” Steve shot her a death glare. Robin only winked.

You sat very still, aware of how drastically the moment had shifted. Steve’s knee no longer brushed yours. His shoulder was no longer angled toward you. His expression, however, still carried that raw, half-exposed something he’d tried so hard to reveal before the interruption.

He looked at you again, a brief, fragile glance over Dustin’s head—apology, longing, frustration, all tangled together. You smiled gently, a small reassurance even if the moment was lost. His chest eased, just a bit.

Dustin, oblivious, leaned back between you both. “Okay! So. Who’s ready for a triple-feature?!”

Mike groaned loud enough to shake dust from the ceiling. Eleven offered a polite but confused nod. Will kept drawing. Nancy debated walking out. Lucas and Max started another argument. Robin leaned over the couch, whispering something at Steve that made him mutter a threat with no real bite.

And you sat there, tucked between your friends and your brother, with Steve only inches away behind an accidental Dustin-shaped barricade.

Another moment ruined.

Another truth postponed.

But Steve caught your eye again, a small promise resting quietly behind the frustration. He wasn’t giving up. Not yet. Not at all.

And you found yourself hoping—maybe for the first time—that Dustin might eventually take a snack break long enough for everything to finally fall into place.

---

A Saturday afternoon at your place was usually a safe bet for quiet, especially when Dustin wasn’t home. He’d taken off earlier with Lucas and Mike, something about a “high-stakes campaign planning session,” which meant you finally had a few hours where the house wasn’t vibrating with teenage enthusiasm. Steve had stopped by under the guise of “checking on that toolbox he left in the garage,” even though you both knew he’d left it on purpose the last time he was here.

You were sitting beside him on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, a gentle buzz of nerves threading through your chest. He was closer than usual—not subtle about it, either. His knee brushed yours whenever he shifted, and he kept glancing over with this determined little crease between his brows. You could tell he’d spent all morning psyching himself up to try again.

He cleared his throat and leaned toward you, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he needed to keep them steady. “So I’ve been thinking,” he started, voice softer than the TV hum filling the room. “There’s something I’ve, uh… wanted to ask you. For a while.”

Your breath caught, your pulse fluttering. You met his eyes, and the look there—hesitant, hopeful, warm—made the room feel smaller. You felt him gather courage, felt something inside you answer it without needing words.

His knee bumped yours again, this time deliberate. “I just— when it’s us, like this… I feel—”

The front door slammed open so hard the hinges squealed. “There you are!” Max’s voice echoed down the hallway.

Steve’s shoulders sagged with the kind of dramatic despair that would’ve been funny if your heart hadn’t been thumping so hard a moment before. You both sat up straighter as Max stormed in, Eleven close behind her, both flushed from the walk and carrying enough urgency to power the whole house.

“Okay,” Max announced breathlessly, hands on her hips, “we need a ride.”

Eleven nodded with solemn intensity. “Very important.”

Steve blinked. “Why… why do you need a ride?”

“Because Robin said it was a good idea,” Max said, as if that answered everything.

You frowned. “Where is Robin?”

A beat later, Robin burst in through the still-open door, out of breath and dramatically pointing at the girls like an indictment. “They asked me first. But I don’t drive. And I told them that. Repeatedly.”

Eleven stepped forward with wide, pleading eyes. “Mall?”

Steve groaned into his hands. “Right now?”

Max crossed her arms, fully annoyed. “Yes, right now. We need new tape for Eleven’s headphones, a book I have to return, and Robin wants pretzels. Also, I’m bored.”

Robin raised a finger. “The pretzels are a necessary part of this trip. Not optional.”

Steve exhaled, long and pained, rubbing his face like fate had personally wronged him. You watched him, and even though frustration drew tight lines around his mouth, you saw the faint flicker of something else—desperation. Not for escape, but for the moment he’d been trying so hard to build. He’d almost done it this time. He had been right there, the words practically in the air between you when the cavalry burst in.

Max stepped closer. “Can you take us?”

You opened your mouth, but Steve sat up quickly, eyes wide. “Wait, she doesn’t have to. I can—”

“Nope,” Max interrupted. “We saw your car on the street. There’s a giant metal pipe sticking out the window and it looks like someone attacked your backseat with a screwdriver.”

Steve blanched. “That was Dustin’s… whatever. I told him not to—”

Eleven nodded solemnly. “It is broken.”

“It’s not broken,” Steve protested weakly, then looked at you with a kind of pleading horror. “Please don’t let them make you drive them. You don’t have to—”

Robin clapped her hands together. “You’re literally the only one here with a functioning car and a valid license.”

Max added, “also the only one we trust with directions.”

Eleven finished with, “Please? Please, please?”

Their combined staring was intense enough to melt steel. You sighed softly, looking at Steve with an apologetic tilt of your head. “It’s okay. I can take them.”

Steve’s mouth opened like he wanted to protest again, but something gentler ran through his expression. He softened, sitting back a little like he didn’t want to push. “Only if you want to,” he said quietly, voice low enough for just you.

“I don’t mind,” you said, even though part of you did—not the drive itself, but the interruption, the way the moment had slipped through your fingers again just when it felt like it might finally settle.

Max grabbed your hand and tugged you toward the door. “Yes! Thank you.”

Robin followed, muttering about soft pretzels and cinnamon sugar. Eleven smiled at you like you were the solution to every problem she’d ever had. You moved toward the doorway, keys in hand, but paused when you felt a gentle touch on your wrist. Steve had stepped after you, stopping you with light fingers that traced warmth across your skin. “Hey,” he murmured, eyes meeting yours with that same earnest something from earlier, “when you get back… can we finish that conversation?”

The question hit you softly, settling under your ribs in a place already warm for him. You nodded. “Yeah. We can.”

A slow, relieved smile spread across his face, not the charming one he used to flirt or joke, but something smaller, realer—something just for you.

Robin’s voice echoed from outside. “Let’s go, I’m starving!”

You stepped away from Steve and toward the chaos gathering around your car, but you looked back once. He stood in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, trying and failing to hide the way he was smiling. This time, you knew the moment wouldn’t slip away forever. It was waiting for you. So was he.

---

The mall on a Saturday was a maze of sound — laughter echoing off tile, music thumping faintly from different stores, the squeak of sneakers on polished floors, the chatter of people weaving around one another like they were all part of some vast busy hive. The second you stepped inside with Max, Eleven, and Robin, it felt like stepping into a warm wave of noise and movement. Max immediately scanned the storefronts like a general surveying a battlefield, Eleven stayed close to your side with quiet determination, and Robin pointed at the pretzel shop with the single-minded hunger of someone who had already been thinking about it for hours.

The girls moved quickly, practically dragging you along, their energy sweeping you forward before you even realized you were fully inside. The light overhead was bright, reflecting off the glossy floor, and you adjusted to it slowly, breathing in the smell of cinnamon sugar and perfume samples drifting from the nearby department store. Even with the crowd, the moment felt surprisingly calm—nothing like the monster-hunting days, nothing like the chaos of Dustin’s science experiments or the loud clusters of voices in the Wheeler basement. Just… the mall. Just a typical weekend afternoon.

Max took the lead, weaving down the walkway toward the bookstore. “This won’t take long,” she promised, even though her tone strongly suggested she planned to browse. “I just need to drop off the return, maybe look at the new releases, maybe check the comics—"

Robin groaned dramatically. “I’m going to starve before the pretzels. And then who’s gonna explain to Steve that you let me die of hunger in a suburban mall? He’ll never forgive you.”

Eleven blinked up at you. “She needs pretzels first,” she said with the same seriousness she used when discussing mind flayers.

You smiled because you knew it was hopeless to try changing their priorities. “Okay. Pretzels first, then the bookstore.”

Robin fist-pumped like she’d just won a war. “Yes. Justice prevails.”

You led the way toward the food court, letting the steady hum of conversation settle around you. Eleven walked close enough that her sleeve brushed yours every few steps, her eyes darting between the crowds with a watchfulness that came from experience, not fear. Max strode ahead, confident and unbothered, her ponytail swinging behind her with each purposeful movement.

When you reached the pretzel stand, Robin stepped forward eagerly. “Four pretzels,” she told the teenager behind the counter. “One cinnamon, one butter, one salted, and one mystery pick for Eleven.”

The kid blinked, confused. “Mystery pick?”

Robin waved broadly. “Dealer’s choice. Make it fun.” Max rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Eleven seemed excited by the idea, gaze fixed on the warming racks with awe.

You helped gather napkins and drinks while everyone else debated who got which pretzel, though Eleven’s mystery pretzel was so coated in cheese that Robin declared it a masterpiece of culinary chaos. You all found an empty table near the railing overlooking the lower floor, and the four of you sat down, the air filled with warmth and chatter that felt strangely comforting.

Max took a bite of her pretzel before pointing it at you. “So what were you and Steve talking about before we barged in?”

Robin inhaled sharply and kicked Max lightly under the table. “We don’t ask those questions.”

“But I just did,” Max said, completely unapologetic. “I’m curious.”

Eleven tilted her head. “You and Steve were sitting very close.”

Heat crept up the back of your neck, and you tried to hide it by taking a long sip of your drink. “We were just talking,” you said softly, though you felt the weight of the truth under your ribs. You were almost talking about something else—something bigger—and that weight felt warm in a way that wasn’t unpleasant at all.

Max watched you knowingly, like she was piecing together a puzzle she’d already solved. “Uh-huh. Sure. Talking.”

Robin sighed with the posture of someone carrying too much knowledge. “We’re not interrogating her. We’re here for snacks, not emotional espionage.”

You wanted to thank her, but before you could, Eleven leaned in with genuine curiosity. “Do you like him?”

Your breath caught, and the world seemed to soften—not collapse, not tighten, just… soften. The noise of the mall blurred into a distant hum, and your hands stilled around the napkin you were folding subconsciously.

Max kicked her under the table. “El! You can’t just ask!”

Eleven frowned. “Why not? If she likes him, she should say.” Robin groaned but didn’t disagree.

You set the napkin down slowly, heart thumping against your ribs in that quiet, fluttery way it always did whenever Steve said your name a little too gently or leaned just a little too close. “I… I don’t know,” you said, though that wasn’t the truth. You knew. You just weren’t used to saying it out loud. “Maybe.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Maybe yes?”

You exhaled, looking down at your hands. “Maybe… yes.”

Robin slapped her palms on the table and grinned like she’d been waiting for this revelation for months. “Finally. Emotional progress. Steve is going to combust when he hears that.”

You stared at her. “Robin!”

“What? He’s still alive. Mostly. Probably pacing in your living room right now practicing a speech.”

Eleven smiled brightly, lifting her pretzel. “I am happy,” she said, content and certain.

Max leaned back in her chair with smug satisfaction. “Called it.”

Despite the embarrassing warmth on your face, you felt something untangle inside you—something quiet, hopeful, and strangely steady. Saying it aloud didn’t feel as terrifying as you’d expected. If anything, it felt like you’d opened a small door that had been waiting for too long.

Robin nudged your foot under the table. “Finish your pretzel,” she said playfully. “We should get back soon. Wouldn’t want to keep loverboy waiting.”

You groaned, but a smile tugged at your lips anyway.

And across the mall, beyond the noise and the shining floors and the crowds moving in every direction, you found yourself thinking not about monsters or interruptions or whatever chaos awaited at home—but about Steve.

And the conversation he’d asked to finish.

---

Dustin had invited Lucas, Mike, and Will over with the promise of “the most important campaign decision of their lives,” which meant the basement was already cluttered with graph paper, dice, snack wrappers, and an unnecessary number of pencils. They were mid-argument about whether the party should take the mountain pass or the hidden forest trail when Steve wandered down the stairs, hands shoved in his pockets, pacing with a restless energy that immediately caught Dustin’s attention.

“Why are you down here?” Dustin asked, squinting at him suspiciously from behind his Dungeon Master screen. “Aren’t you supposed to be home? Or at work? Or not pacing around my basement like you’re trying to burn a hole into the carpet?”

Steve ignored him, and that alone was weird enough that Mike, Lucas, and Will exchanged glances. Steve never ignored Dustin. Not unless something had gone very, very wrong.

Steve raked a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. He crossed the room, turned around, crossed it again, muttering under his breath. “She said we’d talk later. Later. Which could mean anything. What if something happens? What if she changes her mind? What if—”

Will’s pencil rolled off the table as he slowly lowered it. Mike froze mid-chew with a pretzel rod sticking out of his mouth. Lucas leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised. Dustin set his pencil down slowly, staring at Steve with an expression that drew gradually from confusion into dawning horror. “Why do you look like you’re waiting for the apocalypse?”

Steve stopped pacing. “I mean—it might be. For me.”

Mike slapped a hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh. Lucas elbowed him hard. Will quietly slid his chair just a few inches farther away from the table.

Dustin rose from his seat like someone being pulled upward by invisible strings. His voice dropped to a deadly calm. “Steve. What did you do.”

Steve swallowed. “Okay, so don’t freak out—”

Instant freak-out. Dustin threw his hands up. “Why would you say that? Why would you say that unless there is something to freak out about?”

Will stood. Mike stood. Lucas stood. It was like watching prey animals rise together, ready to bolt.

Steve ran both hands down his face and groaned. “I didn’t do anything. I tried to do something. But, like… the universe hates me. Every time I get close, someone interrupts. Mostly you. Actually, almost always you.”

Dustin blinked twice. “Interrupts what?”

Steve held up a finger like he was about to explain something complicated. “Okay. Just listen. I wanted to talk to her—”

Will paled. Lucas’s eyes widened. Mike mouthed oh no under his breath.

“—because I really like—”

“No.” Dustin cut him off, both hands raised like he was physically blocking the words. “No. No, no, no. You’re not—you can’t—that’s my sister!” He said it like it was a curse, a prophecy, and a threat rolled into one.

Steve exhaled, bracing himself. “Yeah. I know. Believe me, I know. But I—”

Mike took a step toward the stairs. Lucas followed. Will whispered, “should we… leave?”

Mike nodded slowly. “We should leave.”

But Dustin wasn’t paying attention to anything except the tidal wave of emotion crashing over him. He advanced on Steve like a general ready to declare war. “You can’t like her!” Dustin yelled, jabbing a finger into Steve’s chest. “She’s my sister! There are rules!”

Steve threw up his hands. “What rules?”

“The unwritten ones!”

Lucas tugged Will toward the stairs. “Back away slowly.”

“Already doing that,” Will whispered, clutching his sketchbook to his chest.

Mike didn’t even whisper. “Steve, this is gonna be bad. Good luck,” he said before sprinting up the stairs and abandoning him entirely.

Dustin kept going, and Steve kept retreating until his back hit the wall. “You can’t—you can’t just date her! What if you break up? What if things get weird? What if she gets hurt? What if you hurt her? I can't—I can’t be stuck in the middle of that!” Steve opened his mouth to respond, but Dustin didn’t give him a chance. “And I swear—I swear— if you ever hurt her, I will kill you.”

Steve blinked. “Dustin, you can’t even reach my neck.”

“I’ll use a ladder!”

Steve threw his hands up. “Oh my god—listen! I would never hurt her. Ever. I like her. I’ve liked her. For a long time. Okay? That’s why I’m freaking out. That’s why I’m pacing. Because I’m terrified. Not of you—”

“Oh really?” Dustin snapped, crossing his arms.

“—but of her.”

Dustin paused. “Her?”

Steve nodded emphatically. “Yes! Do you remember the demogorgon? Because I do. I watched your sister take a baseball bat with nails in it and swing so hard the thing went flying. I have nightmares about that moment sometimes. She was feral.”

Dustin hesitated. “…okay, yeah, that was cool.”

“It was terrifying!”

“Also cool,” Dustin corrected, but the fire behind his words had dimmed. He stopped pacing, shoulders dropping slightly as the panic drained from his face. “She really was awesome that day.”

Steve softened, his voice calmer now. “I like her because she’s… her. And she deserves someone who actually pays attention. Someone who cares about her, and wants to make her feel safe, and doesn’t push her to be someone she’s not. I’m trying to be that person. But every time I try to tell her how I feel, you interrupt and drag me to test an antenna or fix a wire or—”

“That was important,” Dustin muttered weakly.

“It really wasn’t!”

Dustin went quiet. He looked at Steve, really looked at him, as if seeing him differently for the first time. The frantic defensiveness slowly melted into something begrudging, conflicted, but not outright hostile. After a long silence, Dustin let out a tired breath. “You really like her.”

Steve nodded. “Yeah. I really do.”

“And you’re not gonna screw it up.”

Steve shook his head. “Not if I can help it.”

Dustin pressed his lips together, thinking hard, weighing his loyalty to you against his loyalty to Steve. Eventually he let out a groan loud enough to shake dust from the ceiling. “Fine! Fine. But I swear, Harrington, if you hurt her—”

“I know,” Steve said quickly. “Ladder. Got it.”

Dustin pointed at him one last time. “And my point still stands!”

“Which point?”

“That she’s scarier than I’ll ever be.”

Steve actually laughed, shoulders relaxing for the first time in hours. “Yeah. She is.”

Dustin huffed, then turned toward the stairs. “I need a snack. And time to emotionally process this.”

From the top of the stairs, Mike’s voice drifted back down. “Is it safe to come back?”

“No!” Dustin shouted, slamming the door behind him.

And Steve let out a long, relieved breath—because the hardest part was over. Now all he had to do was actually talk to you.

---

You returned home before sunset, the sky outside tinted gold and pink as the heat of the day finally began to fade. The girls piled out of your car with arms full of pretzels, shopping bags, and the chaotic energy of teenagers loose in a mall. Max jogged ahead toward the front door, Eleven lingered close to you with a quiet smile, and Robin walked backward while lecturing both of them about “the importance of proper snack distribution in a household ecosystem.”

But the moment you stepped inside, the energy shifted. Something hung in the air—not tension, exactly, but a strange, anticipatory stillness. The lights in the living room were on. The TV was off. Steve was perched on the edge of the couch like he’d been waiting for hours and didn’t know what to do with his hands, his posture, or his entire existence.

Dustin stood beside him, arms crossed, nodding solemnly like he had just finished delivering a very long speech. All three girls froze mid-step.

Steve shot to his feet the second he saw you. “Hey. You’re back.”

You blinked, half smiling. “Yeah. We—"

“You,” Dustin interrupted loudly, pointing at Steve with one hand and at you with the other, “need to talk. Now. Immediately. Right now.”

You stared at him. “Dustin?”

Dustin nodded with the seriousness of a courtroom judge. “I’ve… reflected.” He placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “And I have decided that I am granting you two permission to have a conversation without interruptions.”

Robin’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Oh god. He found out, didn’t he.”

Max elbowed Eleven and whispered, “told you.”

Steve’s face turned the shade of someone who had been emotionally waterboarded all afternoon. “Reflected,” he muttered. “He screamed at me for twenty minutes.”

Dustin glared at him. “Emotional reflection is loud sometimes.”

Robin snorted. Max barely held in a laugh. Eleven leaned close and whispered, “he must’ve been very loud.”

Dustin cleared his throat theatrically and stepped forward like he was taking center stage. “Anyway,” he said, arms spreading with dramatic flair, “I am officially leaving the premises. As are the rest of you.” He pointed toward the door like a tiny general evacuating troops. “Go. All of you. Get out. I need this to happen so my sister stops looking at Steve like a kicked puppy and Steve stops pacing grooves into our floor.”

Your face went hot. “Dustin!”

“What?” he said. “It’s embarrassing. For both of you. Fix it.”

Steve groaned into his hands.

Max shrugged and headed for the hallway. “Come on. Let’s leave the awkward adults alone.”

Eleven nodded gravely. “Important moment.”

Robin gave Steve a long, slow, knowing smirk. “Don’t choke, dingus.”

And just like that, the girls disappeared down the hall. Dustin lingered one more second, squinting at Steve like a overprotective watchdog. “Remember,” he warned, “I will absolutely end you if—”

“I know!” Steve snapped. “Ladder. Got it.”

“Good.” Dustin huffed, then looked at you, softened, and squeezed your arm gently. “He’s nervous. Be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” you murmured.

Steve made a strangled noise. Dustin pointed at him one more time, then marched off after the others. And then there was silence. The house felt suddenly huge. The space between you and Steve felt even bigger. He let out a long breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked at you with a dozen emotions flickering across his face—fear, hope, determination, affection. “So,” he said, voice rough but warm, “we… finally have a minute.”

You stepped farther into the room, closing the door behind you. “We do.”

He didn’t sit. He didn’t pace. He stayed exactly where he was, like moving even a step might break whatever fragile, shimmering moment had finally landed in his hands. “Look,” he started, letting his arms fall to his sides, “I’ve been trying to tell you something for—actually, I don’t even know how long anymore. Weeks? Months? A while. And I kept messing it up. Or people kept messing it up. Mostly Henderson.”

You breathed out a soft laugh. “He does that.”

“He does,” Steve agreed. Then his expression shifted—softer now, more sure. “But I’m glad he’s not here right now. Because I… I don’t want to keep dancing around this.”

You looked up at him, and the way he stared back made your chest tighten with something warm and heavy and sweet.

He took a steady breath. “I like you,” he said simply, without theatrics or stumbling, every word shaped with sincerity. “I really, really like you. More than I meant to. More than I planned to. Definitely more than I told Dustin when he cornered me today.”

You blinked, startled. “He cornered you?”

“Oh yeah. Full interrogation mode. I thought he was gonna map out my emotional failings on a chalkboard.” He shook his head, then took another step toward you, closing the distance until he was right in front of you—close enough to feel the quiet warmth radiating between you.

Your breath caught.

Steve swallowed, voice dropping softer. “And I know you’re… you. You get quiet. And nervous. And sometimes I can’t tell what you’re thinking. But I’ve seen the way you look at me sometimes. The same way I probably look at you. And I just—I needed you to know. Even if it freaked you out. Even if it scared me to say it.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest, skipping unevenly as you tried to gather your voice. “It doesn’t freak me out.”

He smiled—small, startled, almost relieved. “No?”

You shook your head, letting your eyes meet his without dropping away this time. “I… like you too.”

The warmth that spread across his face was immediate—bright, soft, disbelieving in a way that made something inside you loosen and settle all at once. He let out a breath he had clearly been holding for far too long, his shoulders dropping as tension melted from them.

He reached for your hand slowly, giving you room to pull back. You didn’t. His fingers brushed yours, then curled around them gently—warm and steady, not asking for anything more than the space you chose to give. “I was really scared you’d say no,” he admitted quietly.

“I was scared you’d get tired of trying,” you whispered.

He laughed under his breath—a soft, breathless sound—and shook his head. “Not a chance.”

The moment stretched comfortably, a soft glow settling between you both like something that had been waiting a long time to finally land. Then, from down the hall, “is it safe yet!?” Dustin shouted.

Steve groaned, squeezing your hand. “He’s going to make this so complicated.”

You smiled—full, warm, a little shy but no longer afraid of the feeling settling inside your chest. “We’ll handle him.”

Steve grinned. “Yeah. We will.”

And this time, nothing interrupted the moment you shared—warm hands, quiet breath, and the certainty that this was only the beginning.

everything taglist: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005

i'll be making a steve taglist! if you want to be added you can comment down below :)

[verstarris]

HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN 10 DAYS: MONACO EDITION¹

You set out to write “How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days” by driving someone crazy—except he was Lando Norris, F1 superstar and chaos in human form, completely immune to your schemes. Over ten days of bets, sabotage, and ridiculous antics, neither of you expected to fall in love… but Monaco had other plans.

pairing. Lando Norris x journalist! fem! reader.

warnings. rom-com, humor, 15,9k words; part one of two. fake dating, slow burn -ish, bet trope. chaotic & cringe hijinks, mentions of alcohol use, pet names (cutie, love, baby, darlin), pov switch, profanity. inspired by how to lose a guy in 10 days.

soundtrack. he stayed through all that??, an official playlist

YOU’D NEVER BEEN GREAT AT SAYING THINGS OUT LOUD. Feelings, fears, awkward truths—you tended to keep those locked up tight, buried under sarcasm and a half-decent skincare routine. It was kind of your thing. Everyone had their flaws. Yours just happened to be pretending everything was fine while the ship was very much on fire.

The one thing you’d never admit—not to your friends, not to your therapist (if you had one), and definitely not to yourself—was that your journalism career was quietly, painfully, undeniably dying. You weren’t exactly winning awards or breaking stories anymore. You were mostly just refreshing your inbox and pretending that unpaid “exposure” gigs were part of some grand plan. Spoiler: they weren’t.

And okay, maybe—maybe—you’d thought about quitting. Maybe you’d had a few late-night fantasies about giving it all up and becoming a full-time gold digger. The classy kind, obviously. The kind who drank rosé on yachts and wore silk robes while pretending to care about crypto. It wasn’t the worst idea. You did live in Monaco, after all. Land of superyachts, supermodels, and super-rich men who thought “journalist” is just a cute way of saying “between jobs.” Honestly, if you were going to fail at something, at least you’d picked a scenic place to do it.

“I just need to write something life-changing. Then everything will be fine.” You leaned against the heater with all the drama of a woman on the brink, your back pressed to the window like you were starring in a very slow, very tragic film. You weren’t sure if you were trying to convince your coworkers or yourself. Probably both.

“Right,” Carol said, not even glancing up from her laptop. “And do you actually know what that is, or are we just manifesting now?”

“Well… no,” you admitted, with the kind of shrug that said please don’t ask follow-up questions. At least you were being honest. Sort of.

Across the room, Hanna looked up from her coffee. She was probably the smartest person in the office, which was both comforting and deeply annoying. She studied you for a second, her expression unreadable—somewhere between pity and amusement, with just a dash of judgment for flavor.

“I watched a movie the other night,” she said, her voice slow and deliberate, like she was trying to decide if this was worth sharing. “And it actually had a plot that might work. For an article, I mean.”

Your ears perked up the second Hanna spoke. “Wait… what is it?” you asked, straightening up like a detective who’d just caught the scent of a lead. You didn’t mean to sound so desperate, but honestly, you were one more rejection email away from pitching a story about the emotional lives of houseplants.

“How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days,” Hanna said, her voice lilting with that particular brand of smugness that only came from knowing she was about to drop something good.

Carol perked up immediately. “Oh my god, I love that movie!”

You blinked. Once. Twice. A third time for good measure. Was this a cultural reference you were supposed to know? Judging by the way both of them were looking at you—with matching expressions of mild horror and secondhand embarrassment—you had, in fact, missed something. Something big.

You tried to play it cool, nodding like you were totally on board. “Right. That one. Classic.” You had no idea what you were agreeing to.

Hanna didn’t buy it. She leaned forward, eyes glinting with something that looked suspiciously like mischief. “So, the girl has to find a guy,” she said slowly, drawing it out like she was telling a ghost story. “And then she has to do everything—everything—in her power to make him dump her. In ten days.”

You stared at her. “That’s… the plot?”

“That’s the plot,” she confirmed, clearly delighted by your confusion. “And it’s perfect.”

You weren’t sure what she meant by perfect, but your brain was already racing. Ten days. A doomed relationship. A built-in deadline. It was ridiculous. It was chaotic. It was… kind of brilliant.

And also, probably, a terrible idea.

But then again, what did you have to lose?

“So… you’re telling me I have to find some poor soul and make him dump me in ten days?” you asked, the words sounding ridiculous even as they left your mouth. It felt like the kind of thing you’d say as a joke at brunch, not something you’d actually consider doing. And yet—your brain was already buzzing, flipping through mental flashcards of eligible men and increasingly unhinged ways to drive them away.

“Exactly!” Hanna said, her eyes lighting up like she’d just invented the concept of journalism itself. “But make it Monaco. Find a billionaire, an athlete, someone with a yacht and a god complex. Go wild.”

Carol nodded solemnly, like she was blessing a sacred quest. “Yeah, like… traumatize someone rich. For journalism. Totally fair. Do you know the insane stuff these people do for money? You’d be doing the world a favor.”

You tried to keep a straight face, but a laugh slipped out anyway. The idea was unhinged. Unethical, probably. Definitely unprofessional. But also? It had legs. It had chaos. It had the kind of messy, clickbait-y energy that editors loved and readers devoured. And more than that—it sounded fun. Stupid, reckless fun. The kind you hadn’t had in ages.

You could already picture it: the awkward dates, the fake meltdowns, the slow unraveling of some poor, unsuspecting man’s patience. It was terrible. It was brilliant. It was exactly the kind of disaster you needed.

And if it just so happened to be the thing that saved your career? Even better.

“But who exactly is supposed to be my victim? Do we have any tributes?” you asked, glancing between the girls like you were about to host a very glamorous, very morally questionable Hunger Games. Honestly, in Monaco, the options were endless. The city was practically crawling with eligible men who had more money than sense and a deeply concerning relationship with their own reflections.

“Jannik Sinner!” Carol said immediately, like she’d been waiting her whole life to shout his name. “What does he play? Tennis? Whatever. He’s hot.”

You wrinkled your nose. Jannik was objectively attractive, sure, but he gave off the kind of energy that screamed protein shakes and motivational podcasts. Probably the type to say things like “rise and grind” without irony. Not your vibe.

Hanna tapped her pen against her notebook, eyes narrowed in thought. “What about the orange guy who drives fast cars? Piastri. Oscar. He’s cute.”

You tilted your head, considering it for half a second before shaking it. Also not your type. Too polite. Too clean-cut. He looked like the kind of guy who’d apologize for sneezing too loud. You needed someone cockier. Someone who could handle a little chaos. Someone who wouldn’t immediately crumble the second you fake-cried in a restaurant or brought up your imaginary Pinterest wedding board.

No, you needed someone who could take a hit. Someone who thought he was untouchable.

“I need to think it through,” you said, pausing just long enough to make it sound like a life-or-death decision. “But don’t worry—I’ll let you know the moment I choose my victim.”

You said it with a grin, but your mind was already racing. Monaco was full of possibilities—sleek suits, smug smiles, men who’d never been told no in their lives. It was practically a buffet of bad decisions. All you had to do was pick one and ruin his ten days of life. For journalism, of course.

Totally ethical. Totally fine.

Probably.

────────────

What happened when you mixed alcohol with four Formula 1 drivers—especially Lando Norris?

Bad decisions. The kind that started with expensive cocktails and ended with someone losing a shoe, a phone, or their dignity. Sometimes all three.

They were tucked into a velvet booth in the corner of the lounge, half-hidden by low lighting and the thump of bass-heavy music. Their table was cluttered with half-empty glasses and a bottle of something that probably cost more than most people’s rent. Oscar, Max, and Charles were deep in conversation, laughing about something that involved a yacht, a seagull, and a very unfortunate misunderstanding in Ibiza.

Lando, though, wasn’t listening. He was staring across the room, eyes fixed on the dance floor like he was watching a live documentary on human chaos. A group of girls had climbed onto the tables, dancing like they were auditioning for a music video—heels off, hair wild, dresses clinging to skin that shimmered with sweat and glitter. It was a lot. Like, a lot.

He blinked slowly, lips parted in mild horror. The kind of look you’d give if you walked into your hotel room and found a raccoon going through your minibar. He wasn’t judging, exactly. More… confused. Concerned. Maybe a little afraid.

“What are you staring at, man?” Oscar asked, leaning over to follow his gaze.

Lando pointed, eyes still wide. “Those girls. Do you see them? They have no dignity.”

Max snorted so hard he nearly spilled his drink. “You’re talking about dignity? You, Lando?”

Lando turned to him, offended. “Hey! I have dignity. Do I look like I’m up there shaking my almost bare ass to the music? No. Exactly.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. “Should I remind you what you did after your Monaco win?”

Lando opened his mouth, then closed it again. He could already feel the memory creeping in—champagne-soaked, shirtless, standing on a table with a traffic cone on his head, yelling something about being the king of the world. Okay, maybe not his finest moment.

“That was different,” he muttered, taking a long sip of his drink. “That was… celebratory.”

Max grinned. “Sure, mate. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Lando rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched. He hated how well they knew him. Hated it even more that they were right.

“That’s not even the point,” Lando said, letting out a dramatic sigh as he slumped back in his seat. “My point is—it’s actually so hard to find a girlfriend who isn’t a gold digger.”

He knew how it sounded. Rich, famous, young. Boo-hoo, right? But still. It was a real problem. Everyone around him seemed to have someone. Real relationships. People to text goodnight. People to come home to. And then there was him—third-wheeling his way through life, pretending he didn’t care.

“Right, because you’re the only one who’s single here,” Max said, grinning like he’d just caught Lando in a lie. “Even Oscar has a girlfriend.”

“Sorry?” Oscar blinked, confused. “We’ve been together since high school, Max.”

Max rolled his eyes, like that somehow made it worse. “Exactly my point. You’re the last one standing. We need to find someone for you.”

He clapped Lando on the back like he was doing him a favor, but Lando just groaned and took another sip of his drink. The idea of someone “finding” him a girlfriend felt like ordering love off a menu. And yet… maybe Max wasn’t wrong. Maybe it was time to try something new.

“Let’s make it more interesting,” Charles said, leaning back in his chair with a grin that made Lando’s stomach twist. “A bet.”

Oh no. Absolutely not. This was how chaos started. This was how group chats exploded and friendships got temporarily ruined. Lando had seen this look before—Charles was about to say something reckless, and once he did, there’d be no going back.

“A bet?” Lando repeated slowly, already feeling his shoulders tense. “Why does that sound like you’re about to say something ridiculous?”

“Because he is,” Oscar muttered, sipping his drink like he’d already accepted the disaster as inevitable.

Max perked up instantly, eyes wide and excited, like someone had just said the magic word. “Ooooh, I love bets! What are we betting on? Lando’s dignity? Because that’s already gone.”

Lando shot him a look, deadpan. “Very funny,” he said, voice flat and dripping with sarcasm. But deep down, he knew Max wasn’t entirely wrong. His dignity had taken a few hits lately. Mostly self-inflicted.

Charles ignored them all, clearly enjoying himself. He leaned forward, hands spread like he was presenting a TED Talk. “Lando, you need a girlfriend. We all know it. So…” He paused for dramatic effect. “You have ten days to pull a girl.”

Lando blinked. “Uh… okay. And the catch?”

Charles smiled like he’d just invented the concept of suffering. “No money. No fame. No cars. No F1 clout. Just… pure personality.”

Lando choked on his drink.

Pure personality? That was basically all the stuff he didn’t use. His whole charm package was built on fast cars, expensive watches, and being Lando Norris. Strip that away and what was left? A guy who made bad jokes, forgot birthdays, and still didn’t know how to fold a fitted sheet. He wasn’t even sure he had a personality outside of racing and nonchalant Instagram captions.

He looked around the table, hoping someone would jump in and shut this down. But Max was already nodding like this was the best idea he’d ever heard. Oscar looked mildly entertained. And Charles? Charles was practically glowing with evil joy.

Lando sighed, sinking deeper into his seat. This was going to be a disaster.

But part of him—some reckless, competitive part—kind of wanted to try.

Lando narrowed his eyes, already suspicious. “Okay… but what do I get out of this?”

He didn’t trust that look on Charles’s face. It was the same look he’d had before convincing Max to race a golf cart through a hotel lobby. The same look that had ended with a very awkward call from PR. Lando wasn’t about to walk into something stupid without at least knowing what was on the table.

Charles smirked, clearly enjoying the moment. “Oh, something big. Something worth your time.”

Oscar leaned in, lowering his voice like they were planning a heist. “A brand-new car. Your choice. Top model. Think of it as… motivation.”

Lando blinked. Then blinked again. A car? A new car? His brain immediately started spinning through possibilities—sleek lines, custom interiors, that new car smell. He already had a garage full of toys, sure, but this would be different. This would be earned. Won. A trophy with wheels.

He leaned back in his seat, trying to look casual, but his eyes were already gleaming. “Okay… now you’ve got my attention.”

Charles raised a brow, clearly not done. “Don’t get too cocky. You still have to actually… do it.”

Lando grinned, the kind of grin that usually got him into trouble. “Oh, don’t worry. I will. And when I do, that car is mine.”

“And who’s supposed to be the lucky girl?” Lando asked, scanning the club with a mix of curiosity and dread.

There were plenty of options—if you counted sequins, fake tans, and women who could smell wealth from across the room. The place was packed with designer heels and glossy lips, all circling like sharks in glitter. It was loud, chaotic, and exactly the kind of scene Lando usually tried to avoid unless he was already tipsy or being dragged in by Max.

Charles pointed toward the dance floor, where a blonde was holding court in the middle of a glittery circle. She moved like she knew everyone was watching, hips swaying, hair flipping, smile sharp enough to cut glass. “The blonde over there? I think her name is Magui or something like that.”

Lando squinted, trying to place her. She looked familiar in that Monaco way—like someone who’d probably dated three footballers, a tennis player, and maybe a prince. “Mate, she looks like she’s already dated half the athletes in here… and would probably make me sign a nondisclosure agreement before the first drink.”

He shook his head, already bored. “Pass.”

He wanted someone different. Someone who didn’t treat flirting like a business transaction. Someone who didn’t already know his net worth before he said hello.

“And what about her?” Oscar asked, nodding toward the bar.

Lando turned his head, following Oscar’s gaze—and then he saw you.

You were perched on a barstool, one leg crossed over the other, deep in conversation with a friend. There was something about the way you sat—relaxed, like you belonged there but didn’t need anyone to notice. You weren’t dressed like the usual Monaco crowd. No glittering diamonds, no designer logos screaming for attention. Just a simple outfit, effortless and cool, like you’d thrown it on without a second thought. And your expression? Calm. Unbothered. Like the chaos of the club didn’t touch you. Like you were in your own little world and perfectly happy to stay there.

Lando tilted his head, studying you. You didn’t look like someone who cared about fast cars or famous faces. You weren’t glancing around the room, hoping to be seen. You weren’t trying too hard. You weren’t trying at all.

And that? That was rare.

His lips curled into a slow, intrigued smile. Something about you felt like a challenge. Not the kind he could win with a wink and a flashy watch. The kind that might actually take effort. Honesty. Personality. Whatever that meant.

“Perfect,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.

And just like that, the game was on.

────────────

With a few hours to kill before work, you figured you might as well be productive. Or at least pretend to be. So you parked yourself in a quiet café, ordered something overpriced and frothy, and settled in by the window with your laptop open and your eyes doing anything but working. You told yourself you were brainstorming. Researching. Casually scouting for your potential victim. You had ten days, after all. No time to waste.

Unfortunately, the selection was… bleak.

Too old. Too young. Too married. Too into themselves. One guy looked promising until he took a phone call and started yelling at someone named “Mum” about crypto. Another had a man bun and a tattoo of a lion on his neck, which felt like a red flag wrapped in a cliché. And then—Charles Leclerc. Sitting two tables away, laughing with someone you assumed was his girlfriend. Taken. Obviously. And thank God, honestly. The last thing you needed was a swarm of Ferrari fans in your DMs accusing you of ruining his focus.

You were just about ready to give up. Your coffee had gone cold, your cursor blinked mockingly on a blank document, and your brain was spiraling into that familiar pit of “what am I even doing with my life?” You stirred your drink like it might reveal the answers at the bottom, already preparing to pack up and call it a failed mission.

And then—someone stepped into your peripheral vision.

You didn’t look up right away. You were too busy wallowing. But then a voice cut through the low hum of conversation, casual and familiar in a way that made your stomach flip.

“Hey.”

You looked up.

And nearly died on the spot.

Lando Norris.

Standing right there, like the universe had just dropped him into your lap with a wink and a challenge. He looked annoyingly good—messy curls, easy smile, hands shoved into the pockets of a hoodie that probably cost more than your rent. He didn’t look like a celebrity right now. He looked like a guy who’d wandered in off the street, maybe to grab a coffee or flirt with the barista. But you knew better.

Your heart did something weird in your chest. Not because you were starstruck—please, you were a professional. Mostly. But because this was it. The moment. The setup.

Great. Fantastic. Wonderful.

The universe had officially outdone itself.

Because standing in front of you was a man who was, quite frankly, perfect for the job. He checked every single box on your very short, very specific list:

1. Famous.

2. Attractive.

3. Almost definitely dumb enough to fall for whatever psychological warfare your article required.

Your brain lit up like fireworks on New Year’s Eve. Oh. Oh. This was it. This was him. Your ten-day victim had just walked straight into your life, no effort required. You didn’t even have to chase him down—he came to you. Like a lamb to the slaughter. Or, more accurately, like a golden retriever to a squeaky toy.

“Hi,” you said sweetly, already spinning the first few lines of your article in your head. The headline was practically writing itself.

Of course, you had to play it cool. You had to pretend you had absolutely no idea who he was. Not the guy you’d written five separate articles about. Not the guy with a garage full of sixteen cars you could list from memory. Not the guy whose face had been on your Twitter feed more times than your own.

No. You were going full amnesia. Blank slate. Just a girl, sitting in a café, definitely not plotting emotional sabotage.

“I saw you yesterday in the club. What a coincidence,” he said, voice a little too high, a little too nervous for someone who regularly drove a rocket ship at 300 kilometers an hour.

You raised a single eyebrow. He saw you?

Interesting.

He seemed to realize how that sounded because he immediately panicked. “I mean—uh—may I sit with you?”

And just like that, your suspicions were confirmed.

Oh yeah. He was the one.

So it had begun.

Your challenge: make Lando Norris dump you in ten days.

You watched him settle into the chair across from you, all casual charm and nervous energy. It was almost too easy. He looked relaxed, but you could see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—the way he scanned your face like he was trying to figure out if you were safe, or secretly filming him for TikTok.

“What’s your name, cutie?” you asked, voice syrupy sweet. The word cutie tasted weird coming out of your mouth, but you leaned into it anyway. You cringed internally—asking for his name when you knew every single gossip headline about him felt borderline criminal. You’d written about his dating history. His car collection. His skincare routine. You could probably recite his net worth in three currencies.

Still… you were curious. Would he lie? Would he play it cool, pretend to be someone else? Or would he go full Lando Norris, Monaco’s golden playboy, the city’s most sought-after souvenir?

“Lando,” he said.

Wow.

So he was actually telling the truth. No fake name. No mysterious alter ego. Just Lando. Bold move. And maybe also a little dumb. Perfect.

“That’s nice, Larry.”

He blinked. “It’s… Lando.”

You smiled innocently. “That’s what I said.”

He paused, eyebrows pulling together just slightly. Confused. Not alarmed, not offended—just trying to figure out if you were messing with him or genuinely bad with names. A regular Monaco man would’ve already made an excuse and bolted. But he stayed. That was promising.

“And what’s your name?” he asked, still trying to play it cool.

“I’m Y/n,” you said, offering him a soft smile that you hoped read as warm and just a little curious. At the same time, your eyes flicked toward the rest of the café, scanning the space like you were expecting someone to jump out from behind the espresso machine with a hidden camera. Was this a setup? Was he scouting the place? Spying? The whole thing felt too easy, too convenient. You’d barely started your mission and already the universe had dropped Monaco’s most eligible bachelor into your lap.

“So… you saw me at the club, huh?” you asked, keeping your tone light, like it was just a passing comment. Of course you knew he had. You’d been there with Hanna, sipping overpriced cocktails and pretending not to notice the swarm of athletes and influencers orbiting the VIP section. You’d clocked him immediately—messy curls, easy smile, the kind of presence that made people turn their heads without even knowing why. But you’d played it cool. You always did.

“Um… yeah,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. His voice was softer now, a little unsure. “I was with my friends, and you… caught my attention. But you were with a friend, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

You tilted your head slightly, pretending to think. Caught his attention? That was… unexpected. You tried to guess which friend he’d been with—Oscar? Max? Carlos? Probably one of the three.

But what really surprised you was how polite he was. No cheesy pickup line. No smug grin. Just a little awkward, a little nervous, and honestly? Kind of sweet. You’d heard the rumors—Lando Norris, playboy of the paddock, heartbreaker with a grin. But this version? This slightly fidgety, maybe-too-honest guy sitting across from you?

You could work with this.

You could definitely work with this.

As much as you wanted to keep the conversation going—keep watching him fidget with his sleeves and stumble over his words like a boy who wasn’t used to being nervous—time was not on your side. Hanna and Carol would absolutely murder you if you were late to work again. And honestly, you were already pushing it.

“Anyway, I should get going. Y’know… work,” you said, slipping your laptop into your bag and trying to sound like a normal person with a normal job and not someone actively plotting emotional sabotage for a living.

But then—

“Wanna go out for dinner or lunch sometime?” Lando asked, voice hopeful, like he wasn’t sure if he was reading the moment right.

You froze.

Oh.

This was suspiciously easy. Like, too easy. You hadn’t even done anything yet. No fake tears, no chaotic energy, no weird stories about your ex-boyfriend’s ghost haunting your apartment. And here he was, asking you out like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’d love that,” you said, keeping your tone light, breezy. Inside, your brain was doing backflips. You could already hear Hanna and Carol screaming when you told them.

“Perfect,” he said, smiling now, more confident. “So… tomorrow, 6 p.m.? Here?”

You blinked. Here? Same café? That was bold. And kind of adorable. He was either really into you or really bad at dating. Maybe both.

“Deal,” you said, trying to sound casual, like this wasn’t the exact outcome you’d been hoping for. Like you weren’t already planning your outfit and your first sabotage move.

You slung your bag over your shoulder, gave him one last smile, and walked out the door with your heart racing and your mission officially in motion.

You burst into the office like a storm, practically tripping over your own feet as you threw your bag onto your chair without even bothering to sit. Your heart was still racing, your thoughts spinning, and you couldn’t hold it in for one more second.

“You are not going to believe what just happened to me!” you shouted, loud enough that someone in the hallway probably heard.

Hanna and Carol looked up from their desks, already exchanging that familiar look—the one that said here we go again. Hanna raised an eyebrow, and Carol tilted her head, both waiting for whatever chaos you were about to unload.

“Hm?” Hanna asked, calm but curious.

You started pacing, arms flailing a little as you tried to find the words. “Okay, so I was sitting in the café, right? Just doing my usual thing—pretending to work, sipping coffee, maybe scouting for the guy—and then boom. Out of nowhere. The universe just drops Lando. Fucking. Norris. right into my lap.”

Hanna gasped like she’d just been slapped. “You’re kidding!”

Carol’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She blinked, stunned, like her brain was still buffering.

You nodded, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “I swear. He walked right up to me. Sat down. Started talking. And the best part?” You paused for dramatic effect, letting the tension build. “I literally did nothing. I didn’t flirt. I didn’t even try. I was just sitting there, spiraling about my life, and he came to me.”

Carol finally found her voice. “Wait—what does that even mean?”

You dropped into your chair, still buzzing. “It means he invited me to dinner. Tomorrow. Six p.m. Same café.”

Hanna let out a shriek that echoed off the walls. Carol covered her mouth like she’d just witnessed a miracle. You leaned back, heart pounding, mind already racing through outfits and sabotage strategies.

This was it. The mission had officially begun.

────────────

DAY ONE

Dinner was at six.

You arrived at 6:07—just late enough to be annoying, but not late enough to be unforgivable. It was a calculated move. A soft push. You wanted him just a little off balance, just enough to wonder if you were the kind of person who always ran late or if you were testing him. Either way, it worked.

Lando was already there, sitting at the table with his fingers wrapped around a glass he hadn’t touched. He was spinning it slowly, staring at the condensation like it held answers. He looked nervous. Not panicked, but definitely unsure. Like a kid trying to act normal in front of the cool teacher. You loved that. You loved a man already on edge.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said brightly, sliding into your seat like you hadn’t just made a dramatic entrance. “My cat threw up on my shoes.”

You didn’t have a cat. You didn’t even like cats. But if tonight was about sabotage, you were going to start strong. Lies, confusion, chaos—your holy trinity.

Lando blinked, clearly trying to process. “Oh—uh, I hope they’re okay?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Shoes or cat?”

“…Both?” he guessed, voice soft.

Cute. He was trying. You could see it in the way he sat up straighter, the way he kept glancing at you like he was checking to see if you were real. He wasn’t smooth, not yet. But he was polite. Sweet, even. And that made it better. You didn’t want a player. You wanted someone who’d fall hard and fast and then wonder what the hell happened.

The waiter came, and you ordered something expensive—something with ingredients you couldn’t pronounce and a price tag that made Lando’s eyebrows twitch. You watched him carefully, waiting for the reaction. He didn’t say anything, just nodded and ordered something simple. Interesting. He wasn’t going to challenge you. Not yet.

And then came your moment.

The first crack. The first twist.

You leaned forward, smile soft, voice sweet. Time to plant the seed.

Then came the inevitable question. The one that always showed up early, no matter how much small talk you tried to stretch out.

“So… what do you do? For work?”

You watched him closely as he answered. His eyes flickered, just for a second, like he was searching for the right words—or maybe the safest lie.

“I’m a… mechanic,” he said.

You blinked. Mechanic? Really?

You raised an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him squirm. “A… mechanic? Here in Monaco?”

He nodded, stiffly. “Yeah… cars. Fixing cars.”

He looked like you’d just asked him to perform open-heart surgery with a spoon. His shoulders were tense, his voice too careful. Like he was trying to sell a story he hadn’t rehearsed enough.

You leaned back in your chair, pretending to think it over. Mechanic. In Monaco. Sure. Because that made perfect sense. You knew what kind of cars he drove—cars that cost more than your entire apartment building. And now he wanted you to believe he spent his days elbow-deep in engine grease?

Something didn’t add up.

But you didn’t call him out. Not yet. You just smiled, nodded slowly, and filed the lie away for later.

Because if he was going to play pretend… well, two could play that game.

“Enough talking about me,” Lando said, waving his hand like he’d just cracked some kind of code. “I want to talk about you.”

Uh-oh.

You smiled, but inside, you groaned. Of course he wasn’t that interesting. You’d already figured that out. He was charming, sure, and a little nervous, which was cute—but the moment he called himself a mechanic, you knew you were dealing with someone who wasn’t exactly built for deep conversation. Still, you had to play nice. You were supposed to be sweet. Mysterious. Just weird enough to keep him guessing.

So you rolled your eyes—internally, of course, because externally you had to look polite and engaged—and braced yourself for whatever awkward questions were coming next. This was the part where he’d ask something basic, like where you were from or what you did for work, and you’d have to lie through your teeth without blinking.

“So… what do you do?” Lando asked, leaning forward a little, his elbows resting on the table, eyes wide with what looked like actual curiosity.

You blinked, caught off guard. He sounded so sincere. Like he really wanted to know. Like he wasn’t just asking to be polite or to fill the silence. You hadn’t expected that. You thought he’d be more self-absorbed, more interested in talking about himself, or at least flexing a little. But no—he was looking at you like you were the most interesting thing in the room.

You gave a small shrug, pretending to think hard. “Uh… I, um… I specialize in… finding lost socks.”

His eyebrows lifted, just a little. “Lost… socks?”

You nodded, keeping your face serious. “Yeah. People’s socks. It’s very niche. Very demanding. You’d be surprised how emotional people get about it. Some socks never come back. It’s tragic, really.”

You watched him closely, waiting for the confusion to settle in. Waiting for the polite smile to crack, for the awkward silence to stretch too long. This was supposed to be weird. Off-putting. You were trying to throw him off, to make him question your sanity just enough to regret asking.

But instead, Lando’s lips twitched. Then curled into a smile. “That’s… actually kind of cute.”

You blinked.

Cute?

You were trying to annoy him, for crying out loud. You were trying to be strange and mildly concerning. And somehow, he’d taken your fake sock-finding career and turned it into something adorable. Like you were a quirky rom-com lead instead of a woman actively plotting her own romantic downfall.

This was going to be harder than you thought.

“So… do you have any hobbies? Or… weird talents?” you asked, leaning forward just a little, pretending to be genuinely curious. You tilted your head, smiled softly, and gave him space to answer. It was a test, really. You wanted to see what kind of lie he’d come up with next.

Lando hesitated. You could see the gears turning in his head, trying to land on something believable but still interesting. Finally, he shrugged. “Uh… I’m really into, um… pottery.”

You blinked.

Pottery.

Sure. That made total sense for someone whose actual life involved screaming engines, million-dollar cars, and a fanbase that could probably crash your Wi-Fi. You stared at him for a second, trying to picture it—Lando Norris in an apron, gently shaping clay with his hands, surrounded by half-finished mugs and lopsided bowls. It was… oddly charming. And also completely ridiculous.

“Pottery, huh?” you said, smiling like you weren’t internally laughing. “You know… you kind of remind me of someone.”

He tilted his head, clearly bracing for whatever you were about to say. His shoulders tensed just slightly, like he was preparing for impact. “Oh? Who?”

You grinned, letting the moment stretch. “I don’t know… someone fast, maybe… drives cars professionally? Something like that?”

His eyebrows shot up, panic flickering across his face. “Fast… drives cars? No, no, I… I just ride bicycles sometimes. Very competitive bicyclist.”

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. He was trying so hard. You could see it in the way he sat up straighter, the way his voice got higher, like he was clinging to the lie with both hands. It was almost sweet. Almost.

But mostly? It was hilarious.

You were just about to go in for the kill. Just one little question. One tiny, innocent syllable that would’ve cracked the whole thing wide open.

“Are you, by any chance, L—”

But before you could finish, he jumped in, fast and a little too loud.

“Are you into F1, perhaps?”

You blinked.

Excuse you?

Where had that come from?

Your brain scrambled to catch up. Why would he ask that? Was this some kind of reverse psychology? Was he trying to throw you off? Or maybe he was testing you—trying to see if you’d slip up, if you already knew who he was. Did he think you were stupid? Or worse, a fan pretending not to be?

Your lips curled into a slow, suspicious smile. Two could play this game.

“F1?” you repeated, like you were trying to remember what that even stood for. “Ooh, fancy sport,” you said, waving your hand in the air like you were shooing away a mosquito. “Those guys go like—” you leaned in and made the most ridiculous zooming noise you could muster, “vroooom.”

He snorted. Actually snorted. The sound was half laugh, half surprise, and it made your stomach do something it absolutely should not have done.

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “Something like that.”

You shrugged, keeping your expression casual. “I don’t really follow it,” you lied, smooth as silk. “Not my thing. Too many rules, too much noise, too many men who think they’re hot shit just because they can turn left at high speed.”

He laughed again, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. And maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he was wondering if you were serious or just messing with him. You hoped it was both. You wanted him confused. Off balance. Unsure of where he stood.

Because if he was going to lie, then so were you.

And you were better at it.

“Should I be interested in it?” you asked, tilting your head just slightly, letting your voice go soft and curious. You were playing innocent now, like you hadn’t just spent the last five minutes trashing the very thing that made him famous. You’d called it loud, ridiculous, full of egos—and somehow, he was still sitting across from you. Still smiling. Still trying.

Miracle.

Lando Norris was famously allergic to commitment. That much you knew. Commitment, honesty, basic emotional presence—pick one. He wasn’t known for sticking around. And yet… here he was. Not bolting. Not making excuses. Just sitting there, sipping his drink, looking at you like you were the most fascinating person in the room.

“Pff, no,” he said, waving his hand like F1 was a mosquito buzzing near his ear. “It’s a shit sport. Is it even a sport? I mean—everyone can drive a car.”

You stared at him.

He said that with his whole chest. No hesitation. No irony. Just pure, unfiltered disgust. And he was supposed to be one of the faces of the sport. You had to fight the urge to laugh. It was too good. Too ridiculous. You couldn’t have scripted it better.

“So you hate F1?” you asked, keeping your expression soft and sweet, like you were genuinely concerned. Inside, you were cackling.

“Hate,” he repeated, voice flat, eyes serious.

You let out a dramatic sigh of relief. “Good. Because I’ve never watched a single race.”

Lie. Massive lie. You’d watched every race. You’d written about half of them. You could probably quote his post-race interviews word for word. But tonight? You were just a girl who thought F1 was a bunch of guys turning left really fast.

And somehow… he was still into it.

You leaned back in your chair, squinting at him like you were trying to solve a puzzle. There was something about him—something in the way he smiled, all relaxed and smug, elbows resting on the table like he had nothing to hide. He looked far too confident for someone who should probably be sweating under the weight of his own lies.

“But still…” you said slowly, letting the words stretch, “you’re so familiar to me.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “From your dreams, probably.”

Smooth. Annoyingly smooth.

You smirked back, refusing to let him win the moment. You were supposed to be the one in control here. The one pulling strings. But he was playing along a little too well.

“No—joke,” he said, leaning in slightly. “I mean, a lot of people mistake me for some Landon who cheated on Wizard Liz.”

You blinked.

Wait. What?

No way. No way he actually knew about that bizarre internet mess. That was deep TikTok drama. The kind of thing you only knew if you spent way too much time online, scrolling through chaotic storytimes and conspiracy threads at 2 a.m. And yet… he said it so casually. Like it was common knowledge. Like he’d been following the whole thing, too.

“Yeah… I think that’s it,” you said, nodding thoughtfully, pretending it all made perfect sense. “You’ve got that same energy. Real Landon vibes.”

He laughed, and you took another sip of your drink, hiding your grin behind the glass. You weren’t sure if he was messing with you or just weirdly well-informed. Either way, it was working. You were supposed to be throwing him off—but somehow, he kept surprising you.

And you kind of loved it.

You let out a dramatic sigh, swirling your glass just a little too hard, watching the liquid slosh dangerously close to the rim. And then—oops. In the most “accidental” way possible, you tipped it forward, sending a neat splash of red wine straight onto Lando’s crisp white shirt. It was a perfect hit. Right across the chest. A slow, blooming stain that spread like a watercolor painting. You gasped, loud and theatrical, already grabbing your napkin and flinging it at him like it might somehow undo the damage.

“Oh no! I’m so sorry!” you cried, pushing back your chair with a screech and jumping to your feet. You clutched your hands to your face, eyes wide, voice cracking like you were on the verge of tears. “I ruined your shirt! I can’t believe me!”

You didn’t wait for a response. You turned and bolted toward the door, fake sniffles bubbling up in your throat, your heart pounding—not from guilt, but from the thrill of it. This was it. The first real move. The first real test. You imagined the chaos of the next ten days unfolding like a movie montage—awkward moments, weird lies, emotional sabotage. You were already halfway to the exit, ready to disappear in a cloud of fake shame, when—

You felt a hand close gently around your arm.

“Hey, hey—stop,” Lando said, his voice low and calm, not even a little annoyed. He pulled you back, not hard, just enough to make you pause. “It’s okay. Really. Don’t cry.”

You turned, blinking up at him, caught off guard. He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t flustered. He wasn’t even looking at the wine stain. He was looking at you, like he actually cared. Like he believed you were upset and wanted to make it better.

Your heart did something stupid in your chest.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to get annoyed. Embarrassed. Maybe even storm out. But instead, he was being… kind. Gentle. The exact opposite of what you’d planned for.

Just as you were about to protest—maybe tease him a little more, maybe push the conversation into slightly weirder territory—he tilted his head, eyes sparkling with something that looked dangerously close to hope.

“Hey… so, random and funny thing,” Lando said, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to play it cool. “I, uh… accidentally bought two tickets to the Monaco vs PSG match. Would you… maybe want to come with me?”

You blinked.

Accidentally bought two? Sure. Totally believable. Because people just accidentally buy extra tickets to one of the biggest football matches in the country. You stared at him for a second, trying to decide if he was bluffing or just bad at lying. Either way, it didn’t matter. The offer was real. The moment was real. And it was falling into your lap like the universe had skipped ahead in your ten-day plan and decided to speed-run the romance part.

Part of you wanted to scream. This was too easy. You hadn’t even pulled out the weird stories or the fake emotional breakdowns yet. And already he was inviting you to a second date. A public one. With crowds and noise and cameras. You could practically hear Hanna and Carol losing their minds.

But the other part of you—the part that knew how to play this game—kept your face calm, your voice breezy.

“Uh… sure,” you said, shrugging like it was no big deal. “I guess I could… watch a football match. Why not?”

He lit up. Like you’d just handed him the moon. His grin was wide and boyish and way too sincere for someone who was supposed to be emotionally unavailable.

“Perfect! Tomorrow, then,” he said. “You’ll love it. It’s… actually really fun.”

You nodded, sipping your drink slowly, pretending to think about it like you hadn’t already started planning your outfit and your next sabotage move.

────────────

DAY TWO

The truth was… Lando had actually bought five tickets. Not two. Five. One for you, one for himself, and three for the chaos committee—Max, Oscar, and Charles. The plan was simple: they’d sit a few rows back, close enough to watch the match, but mostly there to keep an eye on things. On you. On him. On whatever this was turning into.

Now the four of them were outside the Stade Louis II, leaning against a low wall, the sun dipping low behind the stands. The air buzzed with the usual pre-match energy—fans shouting, vendors yelling, the smell of beer and hot dogs drifting through the air. But Lando barely noticed any of it. His head was still spinning from the night before.

“So…” Charles started, his voice full of mischief, “how was the date?”

Lando groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Somewhere between horrible and amazing.”

It was the only way he could describe it. The whole thing had been a mess—an actual mess. The lies he’d thrown out? Completely unplanned. He’d panicked. Said the first thing that came to mind. Mechanic. Pottery. Bicycles. He wasn’t even sure what story he’d told by the end of it. It was all a blur of fake jobs and weird jokes and you looking at him like you knew exactly what he was doing and were choosing not to say anything.

“Why’s that?” Max asked, grinning like he already knew the answer.

Lando shook his head, still half in disbelief. “She has no idea who I am,” he said. “Told her I’m… a mechanic.”

Oscar choked on his drink. Charles burst out laughing. Max just stared at him, eyebrows raised, clearly impressed.

Lando sighed, staring out at the stadium. “I don’t even know why I said it. She asked what I did and I just… panicked. It came out before I could stop it.”

And the worst part? You’d believed him. Or at least, you’d pretended to. You’d nodded like it made perfect sense, like you hadn’t already guessed something was off. And then you’d gone and made up your own job—something about finding lost socks—and he still wasn’t sure if you were joking or just completely unhinged.

But you’d said yes to football. You were coming tonight. And that meant something, didn’t it?

Lando leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, a small shake of his head giving away just how much he was still processing. “And also… she told me she’s never watched an F1 race,” he said, almost like he still couldn’t believe it. “So she probably doesn’t know any of you. Honestly, it’s safer than I thought.”

Max let out a loud laugh, tossing a peanut into his mouth like this was the best entertainment he’d had all week. “Oh, please. Everyone knows my name.”

“Yeah,” Charles cut in, raising an eyebrow. “Because of how fucking arrogant you are.”

Max didn’t miss a beat. “And you’re known by everyone thanks to your seven-year-long Ferrari depression,” he shot back, grinning.

Charles scoffed, but didn’t deny it.

Oscar groaned, rubbing his temples like he was the only adult in the room. “Can you two please be quiet? You sound like an old married couple.” He turned to Lando, eyes narrowing with interest. “I want to hear more about her.”

Lando hesitated for a second, then let a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Her name’s Y/n,” he said, voice softer now. “She’s… a bit weird. Like, really weird. But mostly cute.”

He didn’t mean it as an insult. If anything, it was the opposite. There was something about the way you said things—so confidently, so casually—that threw him off in the best way. You didn’t try to impress him. You didn’t ask for anything. You just sat there, sipping your drink, making up stories about lost socks. And somehow, that had been the most fun he’d had in ages.

Max raised an eyebrow. “Weird how?”

Lando just shook his head, still smiling. “You kind of have to see it to get it.”

“You look like you’ve been daydreaming about her,” Max said, nudging Lando with his elbow and grinning like he already knew the answer. “Does Lando Norris have a crush?”

Lando scoffed, too fast, too loud. “Gosh, no,” he said, waving a hand like he was brushing the whole idea away. “It’s not like that.”

It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. It was just the car. The thrill of knowing he could still pull someone without the name, the fame, the noise. Just him. Just a guy with a fake job and a half-baked lie and somehow, she’d still said yes. That was all it was. A little ego boost. A reminder that he didn’t need the spotlight to be interesting. That he could still be wanted without the helmet and the cameras.

“I just want the car,” he added, more firmly this time. Like saying it again would make it true.

Max raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying a word of it. “Uh-huh. Sure, mate. Totally just the car.”

“Lando,” Oscar said slowly, narrowing his eyes like he was piecing together a mystery on a whiteboard, “you like her.”

Lando’s head snapped up. “I don’t,” he said, way too fast. Too sharp. The kind of answer that only made it more obvious.

Oscar raised his eyebrows, clearly not buying it. Charles didn’t even look up from his drink. He just took a slow sip and added, “You do. You get that face.”

Lando frowned. “What face?”

“That face you make when Max starts talking about his sim results,” Oscar said, deadpan.

Max gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been personally attacked. “My sim results are important.”

Charles didn’t even blink. “No one’s arguing that, Max,” he said, still focused on Lando. “The concept of Lando Norris liking girl who doesn’t know who he is…insane.”

Lando opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Because what was he supposed to say? That he didn’t care? That it was all part of some weird game? That he was just having fun?

Except… he wasn’t sure anymore.

You’d gotten under his skin faster than he expected. And now, with the boys looking at him like they’d already figured it out, he felt like the only one still pretending.

Lando opened his mouth, ready to deny it again—ready to insist, for the hundredth time, that he didn’t like you, that this was just a game, just a bit of fun—but then Oscar’s eyes went wide, like he’d just seen a ghost.

“Uh, guys? Incoming.”

Lando turned.

And there you were.

Walking toward the stadium entrance, eyes scanning the crowd, your steps steady but your expression just a little uncertain. And then—like it was the most natural thing in the world—you spotted them. Him. And you started walking straight toward them.

“Shit.”

Lando shot to his feet so fast Max actually blinked. His heart was suddenly racing, his palms weirdly sweaty, and he had no idea why he felt like he was about to be caught doing something illegal.

“Okay—be normal,” he muttered under his breath, eyes darting between his friends. “Stop smiling like that, you look stupid. Oscar, stop waving at her. Max—Max, stop breathing loudly. And for the love of God, don’t mention anything F1.”

“I’m literally just EXISTING,” Max hissed, offended.

Too late. You were already there.

You were walking straight toward them, and your heart was pounding. Not just fluttering—leaping. Like it had launched itself into your throat and was now trying to escape through your mouth. Because there they were. Not just Lando, but Oscar Piastri. Charles Leclerc. And Max motherfucking Verstappen.

Holy. Shit.

He brought them with him?

You tried to keep your face calm, but your brain was screaming. Max was hotter in real life. Stupidly hot. It was actually rude. And Charles? Even prettier than the internet made him out to be. Oscar looked like he’d just stepped out of a Netflix teen drama. And they were all just… there. Standing around like this was normal. Like this wasn’t the most surreal moment of your life.

And Lando—poor, clueless Lando—was standing in the middle of it all, looking like he was trying not to panic. He had no idea. No idea that Carol and Hanna were just a few steps behind you, phones already out, documenting every single detail. Every glance. Every awkward smile. Every second of this ridiculous, perfect disaster.

This was it.

The article was writing itself.

You turned on the sparkle like it was a performance, digging deep into your emotional catalog for the most over-the-top, painfully sweet smile you could manage. It was the kind of smile that belonged in a cheesy soap opera or a reality show reunion—big, bright, and completely fake. You practically skipped the last few steps toward him, arms already outstretched like you were running into the arms of a long-lost lover.

“Babyyy!!” you shrieked, throwing yourself at Lando like you hadn’t seen him in a decade. Like you’d survived a war, a shipwreck, and a dramatic love triangle just to be here now, in his arms.

For a second, his soul visibly left his body. You saw it in his eyes—the pure panic, the moment of hesitation, the silent scream. Max’s eyebrows shot into another dimension. Oscar made a choking sound even though he hadn’t been eating or drinking anything. Charles just stared, wide-eyed, like he was watching a car crash in slow motion and couldn’t look away.

And then—somehow—Lando played along.

He caught you, steadied you, and wrapped an arm around your back like this was something he did every day. Like you hadn’t just given him the biggest ick known to mankind. Like this wasn’t the most unhinged greeting he’d ever received in public. He held you like it was normal. Like it was fine.

“Hey, love,” he said, his voice cracking just a little at the edges, like it was trying to hold itself together with duct tape and hope. “Good to see you.”

You almost broke character. Almost. Because the fact that he was committing to this? That he was actually going along with it? It was ridiculous. It was stupid. It was kind of… adorable.

You pulled back just enough to cup his cheeks in both hands, tilting his face toward yours like you were about to burst into tears from joy. “Lan-Lan,” you said, dragging out the nickname with as much drama as you could, “I missed you sooo much.”

You didn’t even have to look to know Max was cringing. You could feel it radiating off him like heat. Oscar had turned away, probably to keep from laughing. Charles looked like he was one sarcastic comment away from collapsing to the ground.

And Lando—sweet, poor, flustered Lando—somehow kept smiling. Barely. His eyes were wide, his jaw tight, but he didn’t let go.

“Yeah,” he wheezed, patting your arm like he wasn’t sure if you were going to kiss him or stage a public proposal. “Missed you too.”

You beamed at him, heart pounding with the thrill of it all.

You turned your attention to the trio standing just behind Lando, letting your gaze sweep over them slowly, like you were sizing up a suspicious group of teenagers loitering outside a convenience store. Their expressions were… well, interesting, to say the least. Somewhere between startled and deeply uncomfortable. Like they’d just been caught doing something illegal and weren’t sure if they should run or smile.

“You brought your little friends with you?” you asked sweetly, voice dripping with mock horror. You clutched your chest like you were genuinely scandalized. “Lando, I thought this was our special day.”

All three of them froze.

Their eyes went wide, like you’d just accused them of a federal crime. Max looked like he was calculating how fast he could disappear. Charles blinked once—slow, suspicious, like he was trying to figure out if you were dangerous or just deeply unwell. Oscar looked like he wanted to melt into the pavement.

“Um… yeah,” Lando said, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly regretting every decision that had led to this moment. “But they won’t bother us much. They’ll sit somewhere else.”

You raised an eyebrow, giving the trio a long, slow once-over. These were the famous F1 drivers? The legends? The icons? Honestly, they looked less like elite athletes and more like a trio of overgrown Powerpuff Girls—one brooding, one smug, one already emotionally exhausted.

“Well, yeah,” Lando added awkwardly, gesturing toward them like he was introducing a school project group he didn’t pick. “This is Oscar, Charles, and Max.”

The boys did not look thrilled. Not even a little.

Max crossed his arms, jaw tight, clearly plotting revenge in real time. Charles gave you the slowest blink you’d ever seen, like he was trying to process your entire existence in one go. Oscar just shook his head, muttering under his breath, “This is going to be a disaster.”

“Let’s go, Lando,” you said, grabbing his arm like you’d done it a hundred times before and tugging him toward the stadium entrance. No hesitation, no looking back. Just full steam ahead into the next phase of chaos.

Behind you, Max’s voice rang out, loud and delighted. “Have fun, lovebirds!” he called, waving like a maniac, clearly enjoying every second of this trainwreck.

You leaned in close to Lando as you walked, lowering your voice just enough to make it feel like a secret. “Ugh… Oscar,” you whispered, wrinkling your nose. “Seriously. He looks like he hasn’t felt a single emotion in his life. Creepy, right?”

You expected him to flinch. To pull away. To get weird about it. You were talking trash about his best mate, after all. This was supposed to be the moment he started to question you. To feel the ick. To wonder what he was doing here.

But instead—he laughed.

A real laugh. Not forced. Not polite. Just a soft, surprised huff of amusement that made his shoulders shake a little.

“Yeah… he’s a little scary, isn’t he?” Lando said, grinning as he shook his head. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from emotionless men in black.”

You blinked at him, thrown off for a second. That wasn’t the reaction you were expecting. Not even close. You’d meant it as a jab. A little test. Something to make him uncomfortable. But he’d just… rolled with it. Turned it into a joke. Matched your energy without missing a beat.

And now you were stuck somewhere between mild annoyance and reluctant admiration. Because damn it, he was quick. And charming. And apparently not as easy to rattle as you’d hoped.

You and Lando found your seats—surprisingly good ones. Padded cushions, perfect view, close enough to see the players’ expressions but far enough to avoid beer spills. It made sense, really. Lando was absolutely terrible at pretending not to be rich. He could say “I’m just a mechanic” all he wanted, but the man booked seats like he had a black card and a personal assistant.

You settled in, smoothing your jacket, crossing your legs just so. You took a slow sip of your drink, letting the moment settle. The sun was warm, the crowd buzzing, and Lando was next to you, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. For a second, everything felt weirdly… calm.

Then you glanced over your shoulder.

And froze.

A few rows behind you—just far enough to pretend it was a coincidence, just close enough to ruin your life—sat Carol and Hanna. Your best friends. Your co-conspirators. Your chaos committee. Phones already out, eyes locked on you like hawks. You could practically feel the group chat exploding in real time.

And right next to them?

The Powerpuff Girls.

Max, Oscar, and Charles. All three of them. Sitting there like they were just regular guys, not international celebrities with faces you’d seen on billboards and magazine covers. Max looked like he was already bored. Oscar had his arms crossed, eyes scanning the crowd like a security guard. Charles was sipping something fizzy, legs crossed, sunglasses on, giving off the energy of a man who had seen things and was not impressed.

Of course.

Because coincidence wasn’t just real—it was a vindictive little bitch with a flair for drama.

You turned back around slowly, heart pounding, brain already racing through backup plans. This was supposed to be a controlled environment. A simple, low-stakes outing. But now the stakes were sky-high, and the audience was stacked with people who knew exactly what you were doing.

You turned back to Lando slowly, narrowing your eyes like you were about to interrogate him under a spotlight. He was trying to look relaxed, legs stretched out, hands in his lap—but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched slightly against his thigh.

“So tell me,” you said, leaning in just enough to make him nervous, “where exactly did a mechanic get the money for seats like these?”

He froze for half a second. Blinked. And then, like a switch had flipped, he pasted on the most painfully casual smile you’d ever seen. It was the kind of smile that screamed I’m lying and I know it but I’m hoping you’re too polite to call me out.

“Uh—well—they were on sale,” he said, voice cracking just a little at the end. “And, you know… anything to charm a girl like you.”

You stared at him.

Right. And you were the Queen of England.

He cleared his throat, clearly scrambling now, and gestured around with a little flourish that looked like it had escaped before he could stop it. “And besides,” he added, trying to sound breezy, “you’re in Monaco, love. Every seat here is nice.”

You raised an eyebrow, sipping your drink slowly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him sweat. Sure. Keep lying, little mechanic boy. Keep digging that hole.

Because the more he tried to sell the story, the more obvious it became that he had no idea how to lie properly. And honestly? It was kind of endearing. In a deeply chaotic, wildly suspicious, how-is-this-your-plan kind of way.

You straightened in your seat, trying to look like you were deeply analyzing the game—like you were one of those people who said things like “high press” and actually meant it. You nodded slowly, seriously, as if you were watching a chess match instead of a bunch of men chasing a ball.

“Ah… yes, yes,” you said, voice low and thoughtful. “So… if he passes here, then—oh! And look! The defense… they’re, um… not very… aggressive?”

Lando turned to look at you, blinking once. You could see the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, and he was clearly trying to hold it back. Failing, but trying.

“Uh… yeah… sure,” he said, nodding solemnly. “That’s… exactly what’s happening.”

You leaned in a little closer, lowering your voice like you were sharing a secret. “I think if they just… like… kick it more… maybe… he’ll score? Or something. Totally strategic.”

That did it. He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re… adorable when you pretend to know football.”

You froze.

Adorable?

Seriously?

You were trying to be chaotic. Weird. Mildly annoying. You were trying to make him question every decision that had led him to this moment. And instead, he was looking at you like you’d just handed him a puppy and a warm blanket.

“Uh… thanks,” you muttered, suddenly flustered. “I totally know what I’m talking about. Obviously.”

He winked, all smug and sweet at once. “Obviously.”

You turned back to the field, cheeks warm, heart doing something it absolutely shouldn’t be doing. This was not the plan. You were supposed to be giving him the ick. Making him regret this whole thing.

Instead, he was smiling like he actually liked you.

Perfect.

Your plan? Failing. Spectacularly.

────────────

DAY THREE

“This shit is not working!” you shouted, storming across the living room like a CEO about to fire her entire board. Your arms flailed, your voice echoed, and your pacing was so aggressive it was a miracle the floor didn’t file a complaint.

On the couch, Hanna and Carol lounged like they were watching a nature documentary. Hanna was even eating chips, legs tucked under her like this was just another Tuesday. Monsters. Absolute monsters.

“Yesterday was a disaster,” you groaned, pressing a dramatic hand to your forehead like a Victorian woman about to faint. “The football match? Horrible. It started horrible. First of all—he brought the idiots with him.”

“Powerpuff Girls,” Carol corrected, completely serious, not even looking up from her phone.

“Yes. Them.” You pointed like you were naming suspects in a murder trial. “And then I turn around and see you two talking to the idiots.”

Hanna raised a hand, calm as ever. “Correction: we were not talking to them. They were talking to us. Big difference.”

Carol nodded, still scrolling. “Yeah. Max said he liked my earrings.”

You stared at them like they’d just committed treason. “Jesus Christ.”

But you didn’t stop pacing. You couldn’t. Your brain was on fire, your plan was in shambles, and your friends were acting like this was a casual brunch recap.

“Doesn’t matter,” you muttered, throwing your hands in the air. “None of it matters. Then I try to give him the ick—again—and he just smiles. Smiles! Like I’m adorable or some shit.”

Hanna snorted, reaching for another chip. “Maybe he thinks you’re adorable.”

You froze mid-step, eyes narrowing.

That was not the point.

That was exactly the opposite of the point.

“No! Don’t even mention this,” you groaned, flopping onto the couch like your soul had left your body. You threw an arm over your eyes for dramatic effect, already spiraling. “I literally tried everything.”

Hanna raised an eyebrow, calm as ever. “Everything?”

“Yes!” you cried, sitting up just to gesture wildly. “I fake cried. Twice. I told him I don’t watch F1. Shit-talked Oscar—his teammate—in front of him! Nothing! He just smiled. Is he… is he immune to stupidity?”

Carol snorted from the other end of the couch. “He is stupidity.”

You blinked at her, thrown. “What?”

Carol shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The more you act stupid, the more he plays along. He likes it.”

You let out a groan so loud it could’ve cracked glass. You flopped back again, arms splayed like you were auditioning for a tragic stage play. “No. No. No. That is not supposed to happen. That’s cheating. He’s cheating the system.”

Hanna popped a chip in her mouth, completely unbothered. “Maybe the system’s broken.”

You opened your mouth, ready to launch into the next chapter of your meltdown—something about how the universe was clearly conspiring against you—when—

“Y/n.”

You froze mid-breath.

Hanna froze, chip halfway to her mouth.

Carol froze with a mouthful of pretzels, eyes wide.

The three of you turned to each other in perfect sync, sharing one identical look of pure, unfiltered horror.

“…Please tell me that was the TV,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

“We’re not watching TV,” Hanna whispered back, eyes locked on yours.

Then it came again—louder this time, unmistakable:

“Y/N! COME DOWN!”

Your body snapped toward the window like someone had yanked an invisible string. You crept over, heart pounding, and slowly peeled back the curtain.

And there he was.

Lando Norris.

Standing on the sidewalk like it was the most normal thing in the world. Hands shoved in his pockets. Helmet dangling casually from one wrist. And next to him? A tiny electric scooter that looked like it belonged to a twelve-year-old. It was bright red, slightly scuffed, and absolutely not the kind of vehicle a humble mechanic would be zipping around Monaco on.

You stared.

He looked up and spotted you instantly, grinning like this was a romcom and you were about to run down the stairs into his arms.

You, meanwhile, were dying. Actively. Internally combusting.

“WHAT DOES HE WANT?! HOW DOES HE EVEN KNOW WHERE I LIVE?!” you whisper-shouted, pacing the living room like a cat that had just had three shots of espresso. Your hands were flying, your heart was racing, and your brain was doing somersaults. This was not part of the plan. This was not supposed to happen.

“AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW?!” Hanna shouted back from the couch, just as dramatic, throwing her arms in the air like she was in a soap opera.

Carol, of course, was completely calm. She shrugged, still chewing on a pretzel. “He probably followed you home.”

You spun around to glare at her. “CAROL.”

She blinked. “What? It’s Monaco. Everything’s five minutes apart.”

You groaned, threw your hands up, and marched over to the window. With a deep breath, you leaned halfway out, trying to look casual even though your soul was screaming.

“Lanny, babyy!” you called, voice high and sweet and fake. “What are you doing here?!”

And then you froze.

Lanny? What the hell had just come out of your mouth? You didn’t even know where that nickname came from. Maybe—hopefully—it would finally give him the ick. Maybe he’d turn around and scooter away forever.

But no. Of course not.

Because there he was. Lando Norris. Standing on the sidewalk like it was the most normal thing in the world. Hands in his pockets, helmet dangling from one wrist, next to a tiny red scooter. It was 11 PM. He was smiling like this was a perfectly reasonable time to show up uninvited.

“I was going by,” he said, grinning up at you, “and I thought I could take you for a ride… and ice cream?”

You squinted at him, trying to figure out if he was serious. “At 11 PM?”

He shrugged, lifting the helmet slightly. “Yeah. Midnight gelato. Best time of day.”

You stared at him.

Well, of course you agreed.

This man was going to ruin your life. And somehow, you were starting to think you might let him.

The scooter ride had been… a lot. Wind in your face, your hair whipping around like it had a personal vendetta, and Lando narrating the entire journey like he was hosting a motorsport documentary. “This corner’s perfect for leaning,” he’d said at least three times, like that meant anything to a normal person. Meanwhile, you were just trying not to scream or fall off the back of his ridiculous little scooter.

Eventually, you pulled up outside a tiny gelato shop tucked between two quiet buildings, its windows glowing soft and golden like something out of a fairy tale. Or a fever dream. Honestly, it could go either way.

You hopped off, brushing your hair out of your face, hands on your hips. Your brain was already spinning with possibilities. You needed a new tactic. Something bold. Something unhinged. Something that would finally make him back away slowly and question all his life choices.

Marriage.

Yes. That was it. Commitment. The ultimate ick. Lando Norris hated that stuff, right? Weddings, forever, matching bathrobes—probably his worst nightmare. Right up there with McLaren strategy meetings and running out of hair product.

You turned to him, gelato in hand, and went for it.

“Lanny! Guess what!” you said, voice high and bright and full of fake joy. “I already planned our wedding!”

You even held your gelato up like it was a bouquet. Cringe level: maximum. You were proud of it.

He blinked at you. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to think, Yes. This is it. He’s going to run.

But then—he grinned.

“No way, love,” he said, eyes sparkling. “That’s perfect!”

You froze mid-bite, spoon halfway to your mouth.

Perfect?

This was your third date. Third. And he was already playing along like you’d just told him you booked the venue and he was picking the cake. No hesitation. No weird look. Just… full commitment to the bit.

You stared at him, completely thrown.

This man was not playing fair.

You inhaled sharply, steeling yourself. Fine. If marriage didn’t scare him, you’d just have to take it up a notch. Go bigger. Weirder. Push the chaos to its limits.

“So!” you chirped, looping your arm through his as you strolled toward a little table outside the gelato shop. “The wedding theme is… Disney princesses.”

Lando stumbled a little, catching himself with a quick step. “Princesses?”

“Mm-hm,” you said, taking an exaggerated lick of your gelato like it was a royal decree. “I’ll arrive in a giant pumpkin carriage pulled by actual white horses. Real ones. With little flower crowns. And you—” you paused for dramatic effect, “—you’ll be in a sparkly blue tux. Like Cinderella. But, you know, the man-version.”

Lando blinked at you, clearly trying to picture it. “A blue tux? With sparkles?”

You nodded, dead serious. “And glass slippers. Obviously.”

He stared at you for a beat too long. You waited for the grimace. The hesitation. The slow backing away. But instead—

He snorted.

The man snorted.

Then he smiled, wide and warm, like you’d just told him the most charming thing he’d ever heard. “If it makes you happy,” he said, eyes dancing, “I’ll wear two pairs.”

You froze, spoon halfway to your mouth.

Two pairs?

Oh my god.

Was he… enjoying this?

This was supposed to be the moment he cracked. The moment he realized you were too much, too weird, too extra. But instead, he was grinning like he was already halfway to the altar, glass slippers and all.

You stared at him, heart thudding, brain short-circuiting.

You stared at him, completely baffled. This was it. Time for the nuclear option. If this didn’t send him running, nothing would.

“And our honeymoon?” you said sweetly, like you hadn’t just declared emotional war.

He raised an eyebrow, playful. “Oh? Where are we going, Mrs. Norris?”

Mrs. Norris.

You nearly dropped your gelato. The spoon wobbled in your hand. Your brain short-circuited for a full second. That name should’ve made you gag. Instead, it made your stomach do something deeply inconvenient.

“Hawaii,” you said, recovering fast. “But not the pretty honeymoon part. The volcano part. I want us to take couple photos in front of lava. Like, actual lava. Bubbling. Dangerous. Symbolic.”

Lando paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. You waited for the grimace. The hesitation. The what is wrong with you look.

But no.

He nodded, completely serious. “Lava’s romantic. Warm lighting.”

You choked. “Warm lighting?!”

He just smiled, soft and easy, and scooped another spoonful of gelato—then held it out to you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he wasn’t supposed to be running for his life right now.

You stared at him, stunned. Melting faster than the gelato in your hand.

This was supposed to be sabotage. A slow, strategic unraveling. But instead, it was turning into something else entirely.

────────────

DAY FOUR

Somehow, Lando had found out you really liked art. Not just “likes pretty pictures” liked it, but the kind of like where you could spend hours in a gallery, quietly walking from one painting to the next, letting the colors and brushstrokes sink into your chest. You never told him that. Not directly. And yet, here you were—walking into a gallery with soft lighting and quiet music, your hand tucked into his like it belonged there.

It was thoughtful. Suspiciously thoughtful. Because Lando didn’t exactly scream “art guy.” His idea of creative expression started and ended with the design of his race helmets. And yet, he’d brought you here. To this place. With its white walls and whispered conversations and paintings that made your heart ache in the best way. You had no idea how he knew. It almost felt like he’d read a listicle about you. “Top 25 Things Y/n Loves.” If anyone else had done that, it would’ve been creepy. But when it was Lando? It was… weirdly flattering. Dangerous, even.

You walked through the gallery hand in hand, and it was soft in a way that made your chest feel tight. The kind of soft that made strangers smile at you. The kind of soft that felt like a photo someone would take and keep forever. But Lando? He stuck out like a sore thumb dipped in neon paint. He looked completely out of place—like a man trying to read a menu in a language he didn’t speak, hoping the pictures would help. His eyes darted from painting to painting, his head tilted like he was trying to understand what made them special. It was obvious he didn’t get it. But he was trying. For you.

And that? That was dangerously hot.

You stopped in front of a massive Monet. The colors were soft and glowing, like a dream you didn’t want to wake up from. Blues and greens and gentle reflections, water lilies floating like they were made of light. It made something shift in your chest. Something quiet and warm and a little overwhelming.

Lando squinted at the corner of the painting, leaning in slightly. “Wow… Monet, huh?”

You glanced at him, lips twitching. At least he could read.

But when you looked closer, you saw it—the way he was watching you, not the painting. Like he was trying to figure out what you saw in it. Like he wanted to understand, even if he didn’t.

You nodded, relieved to be on familiar ground. “Yes! One of the greats. Impressionism. Emotion. Atmosphere. He basically reinvented how people saw the world—how they painted light, movement, feeling—”

“I could totally do that myself,” Lando said.

You gasped so loudly it echoed off the gallery walls. An elderly couple turned around, startled. A security guard glanced over. Somewhere, you were sure Monet rolled in his grave.

“I’m serious,” Lando said, completely unfazed, hands on his hips like he was inspecting a construction site. “Give me five minutes, a sponge, and some paint, and—boom—same thing.”

Your hands flew to your chest like you’d just been personally attacked. “Are you comparing yourself to MONET?!”

He shrugged. Shrugged. Like he hadn’t just committed art blasphemy in public. “What? It’s just… blurry flowers.”

You stared at him, mouth open, heart pounding, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or drag him out by the collar. But then he looked at you with that stupid grin, like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he’d said it just to get a rise out of you. And damn it, it was working.

“BLURRY—” you gasped, clutching your chest like you’d just been stabbed. “Blurrrrry FLOWERS?! Lando, that’s Water Lilies. That’s history. That’s emotion. That’s art.”

He didn’t even flinch. Just raised one eyebrow, calm and smug, like he was about to win a debate he hadn’t studied for. “Looks like flowers having an identity crisis to me.”

You stared at him, stunned. You could actually feel your soul leaving your body. Packing its bags. Booking a one-way flight. Waving goodbye.

“You can’t even draw a straight line, baby,” you snapped, turning to glare at him like he’d just insulted your entire bloodline.

He shrugged. Shrugged. With the kind of confidence only a man who had never been humbled by a blank canvas could pull off. “If I actually put effort into it, it’d be way better.”

Oh.

Oh, perfect.

A beautiful opportunity had just fallen into your lap. A chance for public humiliation. A dramatic scene. The kind of moment that would live in his memory forever, filed under reasons to never date Y/n again.

The ultimate ick delivery system.

Your plan?

Back on track.

And this time, you were going to make sure he regretted ever doubting Monet.

“Better?” you repeated, voice low and dangerous, eyes narrowing like you were about to put him on trial. “You think you could do better than Monet?”

Lando lifted one shoulder in a lazy half-shrug, hands tucked into his pockets like this was a casual chat about breakfast options. “I mean… yeah? If I tried hard enough.”

You let out a laugh so loud it echoed through the gallery. Two old ladies turned around, scandalized. One of them clutched her pearls. The other narrowed her eyes like she was ready to defend Monet’s honor with her handbag.

Amazing. Perfect. A crowd.

Exactly what you needed.

“OH! OH REALLY?!” you cried, stepping back and throwing your arms wide like you were about to deliver a Shakespearean monologue. “YOU think you could paint something better than WATER LILIES?!”

Lando blinked at the sudden attention, clearly clocking the small audience now watching your meltdown like it was performance art. But instead of backing down, he just smiled, cool as ever. “Well, yeah. Not saying I will, just saying I could.”

You slapped your forehead with a dramatic groan, staggering back like his words had physically wounded you.

The old ladies gasped in unison.

A child nearby giggled, delighted.

And Lando?

Still standing there, smug and unbothered, like he hadn’t just committed artistic blasphemy in public.

“HE THINKS HE CAN OUT-PAINT MONET!” you shouted, voice echoing through the gallery as you pointed at Lando like he was a medieval criminal awaiting judgment. Heads turned. A security guard looked mildly alarmed. Somewhere in the distance, a docent paused mid-tour.

Lando just smiled, hands lifted in mock surrender, like he was being arrested for stealing hearts. “Okay, okay. Calm down, darlin’.”

Darlin’.

Oh. New nickname unlocked. But no. He wasn’t getting off that easy.

“No!” you snapped, arms crossing with dramatic flair. “No calming down. Do you even understand how insulting this is to me? I bring you to Monet—MONET—and you say… ‘blurry flowers’?!”

“I stand by it,” he said, completely calm, like he wasn’t actively committing art treason in front of witnesses.

You gasped, loud and theatrical, like you’d just been told your favorite childhood pet was a lie. “You know what?” you said, stepping closer, voice dropping into something serious and dangerous. “This is serious.”

Lando tilted his head, eyes soft and steady. “Serious?”

“SERIOUS,” you said, stepping closer like you were about to deliver life-changing news. You lowered your voice, slow and dramatic, like a doctor in a movie. “I think… we need couples therapy.”

There was a sharp gasp from the couple standing nearby. Someone behind you whispered, “No way…” like they were watching a soap opera unfold in real time.

But Lando?

He didn’t even blink.

He just nodded, calm as ever. “Alright,” he said, like you’d just suggested grabbing coffee. “If that’s what you want, yeah. We can totally do it.”

You stared at him, completely thrown. “I—what?”

“We can do couples therapy,” he repeated, voice gentle, like this was the most normal thing in the world. “If it’ll help you feel better.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Your brain made that weird crashing sound, like an old computer freezing mid-task. You could almost hear the error message pop up in your head. System overload. Please restart.

“What—Lando, we’re not— I mean, it’s been—” You stopped yourself just in time. You were about to blow the whole thing. The fake relationship. The sabotage plan. The carefully crafted chaos.

But then he reached out, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. Soft. Steady. Like he meant it.

“Whatever you need, love,” he said, eyes warm. “I’m in.”

Your mouth fell open. You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t even think. Because what the actual fuck was happening? How was he not running? How was he not even confused?

Was he immune to everything? Or—worse—was he playing you at your own game?

Because if this was reverse psychology, it was working. And if it wasn’t… you were in serious trouble.

Your heart was doing something it absolutely should not be doing.

And your plan?

Yeah. It was falling apart in the most terrifying, wonderful way.

────────────

DAY FIVE

The therapist—poor, unsuspecting woman—looked between you and Lando with the exact expression of someone who had just realized they’d walked into a live minefield wearing flip-flops. Her smile was polite, but her eyes were already scanning for exits. She folded her hands gently in her lap, trying to keep things calm. “So,” she said, voice soft and careful, “what brings you two here today?”

You took a deep, dramatic breath, like you were about to deliver a monologue. Lando, meanwhile, sat beside you like he’d been preparing for this moment his entire life. One leg crossed over the other, completely relaxed, like this was just another casual stop on his calendar. He looked like the kind of man who thought therapy was a fun little bonding activity. You, on the other hand, were ready to burn the room down.

“Where do I begin?” you said, throwing your hands up like the weight of your fake relationship was too much to bear. “There’s a lot wrong.”

Lando nodded, serious as ever. “We’re very complex.”

You turned to glare at him. He just smiled back, soft and golden and infuriating, like a golden retriever who’d just chewed up your favorite shoes but still expected a cuddle. It was impossible to stay mad at him, which only made you more mad.

The therapist blinked, clearly trying to keep up. “Alright… maybe start with something specific?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Monet.”

Lando let out a quiet groan beside you, already sensing where this was going. “Oh, come on—”

“No,” you said, cutting him off, leaning forward like you were about to present evidence in a courtroom. “Because I need you to understand this. He pointed at Water Lilies—WATER. LILIES.—and called it ‘blurry flowers.’”

You could feel your heart rate rising just thinking about it again. The betrayal. The audacity. The complete lack of respect for one of the greatest artists in history. And Lando? He just sat there, looking mildly amused, like this was all part of some inside joke you hadn’t been let in on.

You weren’t sure what was worse—the fact that he’d said it, or the fact that he still didn’t seem sorry.

And the therapist?

She looked like she was starting to regret her career choices.

Lando shrugged, completely unbothered. “It’s objectively true. They were blurry.”

You slapped your hand over your face, dragging it down slowly like you were trying to physically hold in your soul before it escaped your body.

“And!” you said, voice rising again as you pointed at him like you were building a case in front of a jury. “He genuinely believes he could paint better than Monet if he—” you made air quotes with your fingers, “—‘put effort into it.’”

The therapist turned to Lando slowly, like she was bracing herself for whatever nonsense might come next. “Do you truly believe that?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Thought for a second. Then, with the confidence of a man who had never once been told no in his life, said, “…Yes?”

You gasped so hard it felt like your lungs had collapsed. “SEE?! He’s delusional!”

Lando reached over and patted your knee like you were the one who needed comforting. “It’s okay to be intimidated by my artistic potential.”

You stared at him, stunned. The therapist cleared her throat, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. “Right… okay… let’s maybe explore other areas of concern?”

“Oh, fantastic,” you said, sitting up straighter, ready for round two. “His friends.”

Lando perked up, suddenly alert. “What about my friends?”

“Everything,” you said, waving your hand like you were listing off crimes. “Max is terrifying. Charles is too beautiful—it’s offensive, honestly. And Oscar? Oscar looks like a man who hasn’t felt a single emotion since 2017.”

Lando choked on air, coughing as he tried to speak. “That’s so rude—”

“I’m not done,” you said, holding up a finger like a warning sign. “The real issue is that you’re basically in love with them. All of them. But mostly Oscar.”

The therapist blinked, then turned to Lando again, her voice cautious. “Are you… romantically involved with Oscar?”

Lando sputtered, eyes wide. “WHAT? No! He’s just my—he’s not even emotional enough for romance—”

“Ah!” you said, pointing at him like you’d just cracked the case wide open. “Defensiveness. Classic sign.”

The therapist, bless her, didn’t even flinch. She just nodded and scribbled something down in her notebook, probably under a heading like delusional couple, possibly unhinged.

Lando turned to you with a soft glare, the kind that said he was trying very hard not to laugh. “I am not in love with Oscar.”

The therapist turned to you next, her voice calm and curious. “And why do you feel he acts… ‘too in love’?”

You crossed your arms, settling into your seat like you were about to deliver a TED Talk. “Because,” you said, slow and serious, “he looks at me with the same face he looks at Oscar with. And that is not comforting.”

Lando groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “That is just my face.”

“Exactly,” you said, like you’d just won the argument.

The therapist nodded again, thoughtful. “And how does that make you feel?”

You opened your mouth, ready to launch into a dramatic answer about emotional neglect and facial ambiguity—

But Lando beat you to it.

“Very loved,” he said softly, “I hope.”

You froze.

Just for a second.

Because the way he said it—quiet, honest, like he meant it—hit you somewhere you weren’t expecting. It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t smug. It was just… real.

And suddenly, all your fake complaints and dramatic gestures felt a little too close to something true.

You didn’t know what to say.

The therapist smiled like she was watching her favorite slow-burn romance unfold in real time. Like she was already planning to tell her coworkers about this session over lunch. Fantastic. Completely useless.

Your heart did a stupid little flip at the look on Lando’s face—soft, steady, like he meant every word he hadn’t even said yet. You crushed the feeling immediately. Sat on it. Smothered it. Set it on fire. This was not the time.

“ANYWAY,” you said, louder than necessary, trying to drag the conversation back to safer, more chaotic ground. “He also acts like he’s already in love with me. Which is weird. And suspicious. And wrong.”

Lando just shrugged, like you’d pointed out the weather. “Can’t help it.”

You nearly slipped off the damn chair.

The therapist turned to him with that warm, encouraging gaze that made you want to throw a pillow at her. “And Lando, how do you feel about what she’s saying?”

He didn’t pause. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t even blink.

“I love her,” he said, voice low and sure. “And I want her to believe it. There’s no one else. Especially not Oscar.”

You stared at him.

Because there was no smirk. No teasing glint in his eye. No wink to let you know he was still playing the game. Just… honesty. Like he’d peeled something open and handed it to you without asking if you wanted it.

The therapist, still clearly recovering from the “no one else except Oscar” revelation, folded her hands with the kind of calm that only made things feel more chaotic. She tilted her head, voice gentle, like she was asking something simple. Harmless.

“And… how long have you two been dating?”

You opened your mouth.

Lando opened his at the exact same time.

“Five days—” you said.

“Three months—” he said.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Even the potted plant in the corner seemed to lean away from the tension.

You turned to him so fast your neck cracked. “THREE MONTHS?!”

Lando blinked at you, wide-eyed and innocent, like he hadn’t just detonated a lie in the middle of a therapy session. “It feels like three months,” he said softly, with a little shrug. “Time moves differently when you’re in love.”

You stared at him, completely thrown. Your brain was trying to reboot, but the loading wheel was spinning uselessly. This man was lying. Boldly. Casually. With a straight face and a soft voice and a look that said I’d do it again.

The therapist, meanwhile, looked like she was watching the final scene of her favorite romance movie. She clasped her hands tighter, eyes practically glowing. “Oh, that’s beautiful.”

Beautiful?

Beautiful?!

What the actual fuck was this man’s plan?

Because if this was still fake, he was terrifyingly good at it.

And if it wasn’t…

You were in so much trouble.

© verstarris 2025

babs radio ! I’d love to dedicate this one to @zariacore in the honor of lando winning the 2025 championship 🩵. What a weekend. If you told me in 2022 he will fight for wdc instead of points, I’d laugh in your face… times change! Anyway, this is only part 1 of 2. I did not in fact start writing the other half🫣 but please be patient, two weeks before Christmas in school are pure hell lol.

taglist. @haniette @plantlover28 @lgl2003 @gripitlikelando @jenxjar @gossenabitur @chuusussss @ohwhoisyou-rubyjane @basicchelsea @keepyoureyesonmeboy @filmleclerc @llama-07 @piastri-pages @l4ndo-norizz @chala-mala-bing-bong @majdoline @procrastination-queenie @clovermoters @alliesreblogs xx (if u wanna be added or removed, comment or let me know into my inbox)

[verstarris]

Is there anyone else who would like to be tagged? (If you already commented, dw, you’re already in the taglist, waiting to be posted) 💟

[verstarris]

ACROSS THE COURT¹

Lando Norris, brilliant and cocky, pushed you to your limits on court and off, and when your federation paired you for mixed doubles at the Australian Open, rivalry turned into something dangerously close to desire.

pairing. tennis player! Lando Norris x tennis player! fem! reader.

warnings. non-f1 au; tennis au. romance, angst, sports drama 21,3k words; out of 36,9k, part one of two. rivals/enemies to lovers, slow burn, forced proximity. set in Melbourne, Kimi as Toto’s son. tennis/grand slam inaccuracies, medical injury, implied mental struggles, high ambitions, pet names (baby, darling), alcohol use; profanity. part two here.

soundtrack. love all, an official playlist.

THIS IS PART ONE OF ACROSS THE COURT. FIND PART TWO HERE.

ONE DAY, IT WOULD GET BETTER. That’s what you kept telling yourself, over and over, like a quiet promise whispered into the dark. You said it in the mornings, when your knee throbbed before your feet even touched the floor. You said it after long matches, when the ache in your body made it hard to breathe.

Maybe one day the pain would ease. Maybe your body would stop reminding you of every match you’d played through when you should’ve rested, every time you’d ignored what it was trying to tell you. Maybe one day you’d wake up and feel like yourself again.

You were ranked sixth in the world now. People smiled when they said it, like it was something to be proud of—and it was, you knew that. But your eyes always drifted to the names above yours, to the top five, to the players who seemed just out of reach. It was right there, close enough to taste, and yet every time you stretched for it, it slipped through your fingers like a damn mist.

You’d made it to the Australian Open. That should’ve felt like a win. But as you stood there, sweat drying on your skin, your muscles tight and your thoughts heavier than they should be, all you could think about was how much it had taken to get here. How much it still cost. And how long you could keep pretending that none of it mattered.

There wasn’t supposed to be space for doubt here. Not with Max. Not when you were training with your mixed doubles partner—the one person who was supposed to match your pace, your drive, your hunger to win. On paper, it made sense. Two top-ranked players, both sharp, both relentless. It should have been easy. It should have worked.

But lately, training with him felt less like a partnership and more like something you had to survive. He kept hitting balls at you with that same ruthless precision, never easing up, never checking in. Normally, you could keep up without thinking. Today, though, your timing was off. Your legs felt heavy. Your body wasn’t listening the way it used to.

“You’re late on it,” Max said, his voice flat, eyes already on the next shot.

Like you didn’t already know.

You exhaled slowly, biting back the sting in your chest. “Thanks for the reminder,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as you bent to pick up another ball. The words came out sharper than you meant them to, but you didn’t take them back. You were too tired to pretend it didn’t bother you.

He looked at you then—just for a second. His expression was tight, unreadable, the kind of glance that didn’t ask questions or offer anything close to concern. Just a flicker of irritation, like your mistake had thrown off his rhythm. Like you were a problem to work around, not a person trying to hold it together.

“Again,” he said, already tossing the next ball into the air.

You didn’t argue. You adjusted your grip, shifted your stance, and forced your body to move faster. Your knee screamed in protest the moment you pushed off, a sharp, familiar pain that you’d learned to ignore. You chased the shot anyway, stretched too far, and barely managed to flick the ball back over the net.

Max sighed. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was enough. Just enough to land like a slap, quiet and cutting.

“Keep up,” he muttered, already turning his back, like the drill was more important than you were. Like you weren’t standing there, trying not to fall apart.

You swallowed hard, the words burning at the back of your throat. But you didn’t say them. You just nodded, even though he wasn’t looking. Even though it didn’t matter. Quitting wasn’t an option. Slowing down wasn’t either. You told yourself you could handle it. That you’d get through this. That you always did.

Even if it was getting harder to believe.

After a few more shots, Max stopped. No warning, no signal—just stopped. The balls rolled to a quiet halt at your feet, and the silence that followed felt heavier than the drill ever had. It wasn’t just the end of a session. It felt like something else. Like he’d made a decision. Like he’d given up—not just on the practice, but maybe on the partnership. Maybe on you.

He finally turned to face you, his expression unreadable. “Look, Y/n,” he said, voice clipped. “The Open starts tomorrow. You need to get your shit together.”

Your chest tightened, but you kept your voice steady, even though it cost you. “Yeah. I’m trying, Max.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t nod. Didn’t soften. He just grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and stood there for a beat too long. Then he said, “Good,” like it was final. Like that was all there was left to say.

And then he walked off the court, leaving you standing there alone, staring at the baseline, your racket hanging loosely at your side. The ache in your knee pulsed in time with your heartbeat, but it was the quiet that hurt more. You’d been trying. You were always trying. But somewhere along the way, it had stopped being enough—and you didn’t know when that happened. Or how to fix it.

“Y/n!”

You turned at the sound of your name, and there she was—Lily. Your doubles partner, your best friend, the one person who could still make you smile without trying. Just seeing her standing there, sun in her hair and concern in her eyes, made something in your chest loosen. That was the thing about Lily. She didn’t need to ask if something was wrong. She already knew.

She walked over and handed you a water bottle, shaking her head with a small, crooked grin. “You look awful.”

You let out a tired laugh, the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I feel like that too,” you said, taking the bottle and pressing it to your forehead before unscrewing the cap.

Lily didn’t say anything right away. She just watched you, her expression softening as she took in the slump of your shoulders, the way you were holding your weight off your left leg. “What happened?” she asked gently. “Is it about Max?”

You shrugged, trying to sound casual, like it didn’t matter. “Just him being grumpy, as usual. Nothing serious.”

“You can’t take him seriously. You know that,” Lily said, shaking her head like it was obvious, like Max’s mood didn’t still cling to your skin.

You didn’t answer. Just stared down at the court, jaw tight, the silence between you stretching a little too long.

Lily didn’t push. She never did. Instead, she shifted gears, her voice lighter. “Come on. Oscar’s on Court Four,” she said, her eyes brightening as she mentioned him—her boyfriend, her mixed doubles partner, the one person who always seemed to make her laugh, even on the worst days. At least someone had figured out how to make it work.

You glanced up. “With… Norris?”

The name came out sharp, bitter on your tongue. Lando Norris. Just saying it made your shoulders tense.

That man was everything you couldn’t stand. Ranked fourth in the world. Always smirking. Always talking. Loud, cocky, flirty—and somehow, impossibly, good. The kind of good that made it hard to ignore him, no matter how much you wanted to.

You grimaced, the thought of sharing a court with him making your chest tighten. But Lily didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she did and just didn’t care. She reached for your arm and tugged gently, already pulling you toward the other courts.

“Come on,” she said again, smiling like she knew something you didn’t. “It’ll be fun.”

You weren’t so sure.

You followed her anyway, even though every step felt heavier than the last. Training had wrung you out, left your limbs sluggish and your knee aching with that familiar, stubborn throb. It wasn’t sharp enough to stop you—never was—but it lingered, a quiet reminder of everything you’d pushed through to get here. Walking toward Court Four felt like walking straight into something you weren’t ready for. Something you didn’t want to face, but couldn’t avoid either.

You sank onto the edge of the stands, letting your bag drop beside you with a dull thud. Your eyes drifted to the court before you could stop them. Oscar and Lando were already mid-rally, moving like they shared a brain. Their rhythm was easy, practiced. The kind of chemistry that didn’t need words. Every shot was clean, every return precise. It looked effortless. Like they’d been doing this forever.

Your gaze caught on Lando for a moment too long. His curls were damp with sweat, pushed back from his forehead, his movements sharp and sure. He looked like he belonged out there—confident, focused, completely in control. You clicked your tongue softly and looked away, annoyed at yourself. Idiot.

They noticed you then. Both of them paused, rackets dropping slightly as they turned. Lando’s eyes found yours instantly, like they always did. Like he’d been waiting. You rolled your eyes, slow and deliberate, making sure he saw it.

“Hey, baby!” Lily called out, her voice bright as she waved at Oscar, completely unfazed by the tension simmering beside you.

Oscar lit up the moment he spotted Lily, lifting a hand in greeting before jogging over to the stands. He looked so at ease—sweat-slicked and flushed from the rally, but smiling like the world hadn’t asked anything of him today. Like he hadn’t just spent an hour under the sun, chasing points. That kind of ease made something twist in your chest, sharp and quiet. You didn’t want to name it.

Lando followed behind him, slower, spinning his racket in one hand like it was second nature. He stopped a few steps from the bench, his eyes flicking over you in quick, practiced glances—your stiff posture, the way you leaned ever so slightly off your left leg, the tension in your jaw. He didn’t say anything about it. He didn’t have to. You could feel the weight of his attention, and it made your skin prickle.

“Didn’t think you’d come watch,” he said, voice light, almost teasing.

You didn’t bother softening your tone. “Trust me, I didn’t plan to.”

Oscar chuckled under his breath, clearly unfazed. “Nice to see you too.”

Lando’s smile tugged wider, just enough to be annoying. “Rough session?”

You met his gaze, steady and unflinching. “I’m fine.”

It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. But it wasn’t the truth either. And from the way Lando’s eyes lingered on yours, you had a feeling he knew that.

Lando leaned against the fence, casually tossing a ball from one hand to the other. The sun caught the edge of his , casting a flicker of light across the court. “So,” he said, voice light, almost lazy, “Open starts tomorrow. Last meeting with the coaches, final schedule, all that fun stuff.”

You tilted your head slightly, keeping your tone as even as you could manage. “Yeah. I know. Don’t need another reminder.”

He didn’t flinch. Just kept that same maddening smirk on his face. “Just making conversation,” he said, like it was nothing. “I’d hate for you to forget.”

Your jaw tightened. The way he said it—like he was amused, like he knew exactly how to get under your skin—made your pulse tick faster. “I can handle it,” you said, arms folding across your chest. “Unlike some people, I don’t need constant coaching tips to function.”

He raised an eyebrow, the ball still spinning lazily in his hand. “Oh? I didn’t realize you were the only one capable of surviving a Grand Slam.”

You opened your mouth, the retort already forming—sharp, fast, something that would land clean and cut deep. He’d done this too many times. Pushed just far enough to make you snap. And maybe that was the point.

But before the words could leave your mouth, Lily’s voice cut through the tension—sharp, bright, and unmistakably hers.

“Enough,” she said, stepping between you with a look that was half exasperation, half amusement. “We’re here to watch, not start a war. Save the drama for the court.”

You and Lando both froze, glancing at her like kids caught misbehaving. Her eyes were wide, but there was steel behind them—serious now, even if her tone still carried that familiar edge of teasing. She looked between you, arms crossed. “Seriously. You two look ridiculous. Stop glaring at each other like you’re about to throw rackets. The tournament hasn’t even started yet.”

You muttered something under your breath—something unkind, probably—but the heat in your chest had already started to cool. Lily had a way of doing that. Of stepping in just before you said something you couldn’t take back. You leaned back on the bench, jaw still tight, but your hands unclenched. For now, at least, you could sit still and watch instead of letting the frustration boil over.

Even if Lando was still standing there, smirking like he’d won something.

────────────

There were only thirty minutes left until the final meeting with the coaches and the tournament organizers. You stood near the edge of the room, eyes scanning the crowd, searching for one familiar face. But Toto wasn’t there. No clipboard in hand, no calm voice cutting through the noise, no steady presence to anchor you. Your stomach tightened. He was never late. And that kind of silence didn’t feel like a good sign.

Without thinking, you turned and made your way down the hallway, pushing open the door to his office with more force than necessary. “Toto?” you called, stepping inside.

But it wasn’t him.

It was Kimi.

You blinked, caught off guard. Kimi—Toto’s son. The boy who used to sit on the sidelines with toy cars while you learned how to serve. The one who used to fall asleep in the stands with his head on your shoulder, juice box still in hand. He was taller now, older, but still Kimi. Still the kid who felt like your little brother.

“Kimi!” you shouted, a grin breaking across your face as you jogged over and pulled him into a tight hug. “What the fuck!”

He laughed, hugging you back without hesitation. “I thought you said you couldn’t make it!” you said, pulling back just enough to look at him.

“Plans changed,” he said with a grin. “I couldn’t miss my big sister playing at a Grand Slam.”

You laughed again, the sound lighter than it had been all day. You squeezed him once more, holding on for a second longer than you needed to. Somehow, just seeing him—his familiar face, his easy smile—made the pressure in your chest ease. Not all the way. But enough to breathe again.

“I’m so glad you came,” you said, and you meant it—but your mind was already drifting, scanning the room again. “Do you know where Toto is?”

Kimi shrugged, leaning back against the desk. “He said he’d be back in five minutes. That was a while ago, though. Haven’t seen him since.”

You let out a long sigh and dragged a hand down your face, the weight of the day pressing harder against your shoulders. Of course. The final meeting with the coaches and the tournament organizers was about to start, and the one person you needed most—your anchor, your constant—was nowhere to be found. Just your luck.

“Anyway,” Kimi said, nudging your arm with his elbow, trying to pull you back to the present. “How’s Australia treating you so far?”

You snorted. “Horrible,” you muttered. “It’s too hot. Lily and Oscar are being disgustingly cute, and Max is acting weirder than usual.”

Kimi grinned, arms folding across his chest like he’d been expecting that answer. “That’s why I’m here,” he said, eyes warm. “To make it better.”

You laughed, the sound slipping out before you could stop it. It wasn’t much, but it was real.

The door creaked open behind you, and you turned just in time to see Toto step inside. His face was unreadable—calm, composed, but set in that way you’d come to recognize over the years. The kind of look he wore when something was wrong and he hadn’t figured out how to say it yet. Your stomach dropped before he even spoke.

“Kimi,” he said, voice low but steady, “can you give us a minute?”

Kimi hesitated, glancing between the two of you. His brow furrowed, like he didn’t want to leave, like he could feel the shift in the air too. But after a beat, he nodded. He gave you one last look—quiet, reassuring, the kind that said I’m still here—before slipping out and closing the door behind him.

Toto crossed the room and sank into the chair across from you as you sat down too. He didn’t waste time. Just leaned forward, eyes fixed on yours.

“We’ve got a problem, kid,” he said.

And just like that, the room felt smaller. Heavier. Like the walls had moved in a little closer, waiting to hear what came next.

“What is it, Toto?” you asked, the words catching in your throat as a knot began to form in your stomach.

Something was off. You could feel it in the way he looked at you—steady, serious, like he was bracing for impact. And suddenly, you were too.

He didn’t waste time. “Max doesn’t want to play with you anymore.”

The words hit harder than you expected. For a second, you just sat there, blinking, like maybe you’d misheard him. Like maybe if you stayed quiet long enough, he’d take it back.

But he didn’t.

What the fuck.

Everything you’d been working toward—the endless drills, the long hours on court, the pressure you’d carried like a second skin—suddenly felt like it had been for nothing. Max, the one person who was supposed to be in this with you, had walked away before the match even started. Just like that.

You sank back in your chair, hands gripping the edge like it might keep you grounded. But your chest was tight, your thoughts spinning too fast to catch. Anger flared first, hot and sharp. Then disbelief. Then something colder, heavier—exhaustion that settled deep in your bones.

“What?” you said again, the word sharper this time, cutting through the silence like glass. As if saying it out loud might change something. As if it might make this feel less real.

But it didn’t.

“He and Horner told the ITF he can’t play with you anymore,” Toto said, his voice low, steady in that way that only made it worse. He let out a slow breath, like he hated saying it out loud. “No explanation beyond that.”

You stared at him, the words echoing in your head, refusing to settle. So that was it. That’s why Max had been so off yesterday—the clipped tone, the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes, the drills that felt more like punishment than practice. It hadn’t just been a bad day. It had been a warning. You just hadn’t seen it.

Your stomach twisted. “What the fuck,” you muttered, dragging a hand through your hair, fingers catching in the tangles. “Is it because of my knee? Or—” your voice sharpened, rising with the heat in your chest, “—because he couldn’t handle playing with someone just as good as him?”

The words hung in the air, bitter and raw. You didn’t know which answer would hurt more.

Toto shook his head slowly, his expression unreadable. “You know how he is.”

“No,” you snapped, sharper than you meant to. “No, I don’t, Toto. Not at all.”

Your voice cracked at the edges, tight with disbelief. “I’ve trained. I’ve pushed through every session, every drill. I’ve done everything he asked—everything—and he just walks away? Just like that?”

Toto didn’t flinch. His voice stayed calm, steady in the way it always was when everything else felt like it was falling apart. “You’ve done nothing wrong,” he said, firm. “This isn’t on you. Sometimes people—”

“Sometimes people?” you cut in, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “He’s my partner. He’s supposed to show up. He’s supposed to work with me, not—” your voice caught, your throat tightening, “—not bail when it gets hard.”

You dropped your head into your hands, pressing your palms against your face like you could hold it all in. The anger, the confusion, the ache in your chest that had nothing to do with your knee. It wasn’t just about the tournament. It was about trust. About being left behind by someone who was supposed to be in this with you.

And now, you were alone.

“Look, kid, we have to go to the meeting,” Toto said, already reaching for his jacket. “The ITF will definitely bring it up.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. The last thing you wanted was to sit in a room full of officials and coaches, all of them dissecting what had just happened—your partner’s betrayal dressed up as a scheduling change, a strategic shift, a footnote in someone else’s press release. You could already feel their eyes on you, waiting to see how you’d react. Waiting to see if you’d crack.

“But Toto—”

“No arguments,” he cut in, his voice firm but not unkind. “We’ll find someone for you. Or you play singles and women’s doubles. That’s still a full load.” He paused, meeting your eyes. “Not everyone has to play all three categories.”

But that wasn’t you.

You weren’t here to do the bare minimum. You weren’t here to coast. You were known for showing up in every bracket, every match, every damn point. You and Lily were ranked number one in women’s doubles. You’d clawed your way to the top of singles. And mixed doubles? That was supposed to be the final piece. The one you’d been grinding for. Giving it up wasn’t just a change in schedule—it was surrender. And surrender had never been part of your game.

If Max didn’t want to be your partner? Fine. You didn’t want him either.

You wouldn’t beg. Not for a spot. Not for a second chance. And definitely not for someone who didn’t even have the decency to say it to your face. He could walk away. You’d find another way forward.

Or you’d win without him.

You followed Toto down the hall, each step heavier than the last. The glass-paneled doors of the meeting room loomed ahead, silhouettes shifting behind them—coaches, officials, players. The hum of low voices filtered through the glass, a quiet storm already in motion. Your stomach twisted.

Inside, the room was a square of tension and strategy. Lando and Oscar sat with their coach, Zak, deep in conversation. Across from them, Max and Horner had already taken their seats, their expressions unreadable. Lily was there too, waiting for you and Toto, her posture relaxed but her eyes tracking everything.

As you slid into your seat beside her, she leaned in just enough for her voice to reach you. “What took you so long?” she murmured, offering a small, knowing smile.

“Business,” you said, keeping your tone even, your face unreadable.

Your gaze swept the table, instinctively searching for the cracks. Lando’s eyes found yours almost immediately—sharp, steady, like he was trying to read something off your skin. You met his stare for a beat, then rolled your eyes, slow and deliberate. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how close you were to unraveling.

Max didn’t even glance your way.

He sat stiffly, arms crossed, gaze fixed on some distant point on the table. Like you weren’t even there. Like none of this mattered. And somehow, that burned more than anything he could’ve said.

The room held its breath.

For a moment, no one spoke. Just the quiet rustle of papers, the creak of a chair shifting, the low hum of tension pressing in from all sides. It was the kind of silence that made your skin prickle, your nerves coil tighter with every second it stretched.

Then, finally, an ITF official cleared his throat. “Let’s begin,” he said, voice clipped and professional. “Today’s focus is the upcoming Australian Open. We’ll review schedules, training adjustments, and—” his eyes flicked toward you, just for a beat, “—mixed doubles pairings.”

Your stomach dropped.

There it was. The thing you’d been dreading. The thing everyone in the room knew was coming. You straightened in your seat, spine stiff, jaw set. You kept your face neutral, your hands still, even though every part of you wanted to get up and walk out. Run, maybe. Anything but sit here and let them talk about you like a problem to be solved.

Across the table, Lando shifted in his chair, slow and deliberate. His gaze never left yours. There was something in it—sharp, unreadable. Not quite smug, not quite concerned. Just… watching. Measuring. You felt the familiar flicker of irritation rise in your chest, tangled with something else. Something quieter. Something you didn’t want to name.

Max didn’t look at you. Not once.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, jaw locked tight. His silence was louder than anything he could’ve said. You didn’t need words to feel the wall he’d built between you—cold, final, impenetrable.

The meeting began with the usual rhythm of formality—schedules, regulations, court assignments. The kind of logistical noise that could lull you into a daze if you let it. ITF officials took turns reading from their notes, outlining start times, warm-up slots, dress codes. The words blurred at the edges, a steady drone of structure and protocol.

Beside you, Toto leaned in every so often to murmur reminders—small things, practical things—but your mind kept drifting. To Max, silent and distant across the table. To Lando, still watching you like he was waiting for something. To the quiet truth that tomorrow, every person in this room would be watching your next move.

Then the tone shifted.

“Let’s move on to women’s doubles,” one of the officials said, tapping a finger against the chart projected on the screen.

The room stilled, just slightly. Eyes flicked toward the display.

“Here we have the rankings,” another added, gesturing toward the list.

Your name appeared at the top. And right beside it: Lily Zneimer.

“Y/l/n and Zneimer,” the official announced, voice even but unmistakably clear. “Ranked number one in women’s doubles. The pair has demonstrated exceptional synergy and dominance throughout the past season. They are expected to perform at the highest level.”

You felt the words land in the room like a quiet drumbeat. Not boastful. Not dramatic. Just fact.

You turned your head slightly, catching Lily’s eye. Her smile was small, tight at the corners, but proud. The kind of smile that said we earned this. The kind that made you want to reach under the table and squeeze her hand, just to say I know. I feel it too.

Even here, surrounded by the best of the best, the words carried weight.

You were the best.

And no one could take that from you.

The praise for you and Lily still lingered in the air, a faint echo of something steady and earned. But it didn’t last.

One of the ITF officials cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the quiet. “And now, on to mixed doubles,” he said, his voice noticeably tighter. “There’s an issue we need to address regarding pairings.”

Your stomach dropped like a stone.

Beside you, Toto went still, his posture sharpening in that subtle way that told you he already knew what was coming. Across the table, Max shifted—arms crossed, jaw set, his gaze fixed on the far wall like it held something more interesting than the fallout he’d just detonated.

You didn’t need him to look at you. You could feel the tension radiating off him, the cold wall he’d built between you. It was already there yesterday, in the clipped words and the silence between drills. You just hadn’t wanted to believe it.

Lando noticed it too. You could see it in the way his eyes flicked between you and Max, sharp and calculating. Like he was watching a match unfold before the first serve had even been hit.

The official continued, reading from the paper in front of him like it was just another line item on the agenda. “Max Verstappen has informed the ITF that he will not be participating in mixed doubles with Y/n Y/l/n. No further explanation has been provided.”

The words landed like a slap.

Lando’s gaze snapped to you, unreadable. Oscar’s followed, his brow furrowed. And Lily—Lily turned to you with wide eyes, her voice barely above a whisper. “What?”

Before you could speak, one of the officials cut in, his voice brisk. “Mr. Wolff, have you started looking for a replacement?”

Toto didn’t flinch. “We’re exploring options, yes,” he said, calm as ever. “But you need to understand—we’re not just filling a slot. We have to find someone worthy to play alongside Y/n.”

Your jaw tightened at the word worthy. It wasn’t meant as a slight, not from Toto. He was defending you, holding the line. But still, the word scraped something raw. Like your value needed to be justified. Like you were a risk now, a question mark.

You stayed quiet, letting Toto’s steadiness anchor you. If he hadn’t been there, you might’ve said something you couldn’t take back.

The official didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, don’t worry about that, Mr. Wolff,” he said, his tone turning sharp, almost smug. “We’ll find the perfect match for Miss Y/n.”

Your hands curled into fists beneath the table.

Perfect match, you thought, the words sour in your mouth. As if Max had been perfect. As if this wasn’t a mess of his making. As if you were the one who needed fixing.

You bit the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to stay still. The insult was subtle, but it landed all the same. You weren’t the one who walked away. You weren’t the one who quit.

But now you were the one being discussed like a problem to solve.

The official cleared his throat again, the sound slicing through the room like a blade. “We’ll continue discussing logistics,” he said, tone clipped, “but please remember: we need all players ready and committed by tomorrow’s first practice session.”

He turned his gaze toward you and Toto, eyes steady, voice firm. “Miss Y/n, Mr. Wolff, a replacement for mixed doubles must be confirmed before then.”

The words landed with finality, like a door clicking shut.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, spine straight, hands folded tightly in your lap. The pressure was familiar—this was the sport, after all—but today it felt different. He wasn’t just talking about logistics. He was talking about your future. Your reputation. Your ability to adapt, to survive, to prove that you weren’t the one who broke the partnership.

────────────

The next day, you stepped onto the court with Lily, racket in hand, and for the first time in what felt like forever, something inside you loosened. Just a little. The weight in your chest didn’t vanish, but it shifted—less like a stone, more like something you could carry.

The sun hung high overhead, warm but not punishing, casting long shadows across the court. The ball moved between you in a steady rhythm—clean, sharp, familiar. Back and forth, like breath. Like memory. The world narrowed to just the two of you, the thud of sneakers on clay, the soft grunt of effort, the satisfying pop of the ball off your strings. No Max. No ITF. No headlines or whispers or meetings. Just this.

“Nice shot!” Lily called, laughing as you sent a cross-court winner skimming past her reach. She jogged after the ball, scooping it up with practiced ease and tossing it back without missing a beat.

“You’re lucky I’m letting you win today,” you said, grinning as you twirled your racket in your hand.

“You wish,” she shot back, eyes gleaming. Then she returned the next ball with a speed that made your legs scramble and your breath catch.

And for a while—an hour, maybe two—you weren’t thinking about the mess waiting outside the court. You weren’t thinking about Max’s silence or the way the ITF official had said perfect match like it was a threat. You were just here. With Lily. Your partner. Your friend. Laughing, sweating, pushing each other to move faster, hit harder, stay present.

You both paused at the baseline, breath catching in your chests, sweat cooling on your skin. Lily tossed you a bottle of water with a flick of her wrist, her eyes narrowing just slightly as she watched you.

“So,” she said, voice light but laced with curiosity, “about mixed doubles… who would you want to play with if Max is out?”

You took a long sip, letting the water cool your throat while your mind spun. The question was simple enough, but the answer wasn’t. Not anymore. Anyone else felt like a gamble—an unknown rhythm, a new language you’d have to learn mid-match. And after everything, you weren’t sure how much more risk you could take.

“I don’t know,” you said finally, leaning on your racket. “It has to be someone I can actually work with. Someone who won’t make everything harder than it already is.”

Lily raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Oh, come on. There’s got to be someone out there who’s good—and maybe even tolerable.”

You let out a dry laugh, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Tolerable? That narrows the list down to zero.”

She grinned. “What about Sainz?”

Carlos Sainz. You blinked. The image of him flashed in your mind—perfect hair, perfect smile, that infuriatingly smooth confidence.

“Definitely not,” you said, shaking your head. “He looks like he spends more time on his hair than his serve.”

Lily burst out laughing, tossing the ball lightly toward you. “Fair. Noted. No Sainz.”

You caught the ball with one hand, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. For a moment, the weight of everything else faded. Just a little.

Before you could answer Lily, a shadow fell across the edge of the court. You turned to see Toto standing there, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

“Y/n,” he said, voice low and clipped. “I need to talk to you. Now.”

You frowned, the shift in his tone enough to make your pulse skip. You set your racket down slowly, brushing the sweat from your brow. “What is it?”

He didn’t answer. Not right away. Just tilted his head toward the far side of the court, away from Lily, away from the easy rhythm you’d just found again. “Come with me,” he said. “It’s important.”

That word—important—landed like a stone in your gut. When Toto said it like that, it never meant something small. Never meant something you could brush off.

You glanced at Lily, and she gave you a quiet nod, her expression soft with understanding. No questions. Just support.

You followed Toto without a word, each step across the court making your chest feel tighter, your breath a little shallower. The sun felt hotter now, the air heavier.

You followed Toto through the maze of courts and corridors, the noise of bouncing balls and shouted drills fading behind you. He didn’t speak, didn’t look back, just kept walking with that purposeful stride that always meant something was coming. Something big.

He stopped near a shaded corner of the facility, tucked behind a row of benches and a half-empty water cooler. It was quiet here—too quiet. The kind of quiet that made your skin prickle.

His face gave nothing away.

“So?” you asked, trying to sound steady, though your foot tapped against the concrete, betraying you.

“I have news,” he said, voice low and even.

You swallowed, the tension in your chest winding tighter. “Good or bad?”

Toto looked at you for a long beat, unreadable. “Depends,” he said finally.

And just like that, your pulse kicked up, sharp and fast. Because when Toto said depends, it never meant simple.

“So, basically, the ITF found you a partner,” Toto said, his voice even, like this was just another update. Nothing special. Nothing explosive.

For a second, your heart lifted. That sounded like good news. A solution. A way forward. Maybe this whole mess was finally turning around.

“Who?” you asked, eyes flicking up, hope creeping in before you could stop it.

“Lando.”

Your brain stalled.

Your jaw actually dropped, like in a bad movie. “Norris?!” you blurted, too loud, too fast. It felt like the words had been yanked out of you before you could catch them. No. No way. This had to be some kind of fever dream. Any second now, you’d wake up in your hotel bed, drenched in sweat, heart racing, and laugh at how ridiculous it all was.

But Toto didn’t blink. “Lando Norris,” he said again, calm as ever, like he was telling you the weather.

You just stared at him, frozen. Your thoughts were a mess—half-formed, tangled, loud. Of all the people. Him? The cocky, smug, insufferably talented top-four player who never missed a chance to get under your skin? The one who always had something to say, always with that smirk, always acting like he knew better?

You could barely stand him on a good day. And now you were supposed to play with him?

Your mind spun, trying to make sense of it. Trying to find the part where this made any kind of sense. But it didn’t. It just didn’t.

“No. No, no,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. Panic rose fast and hot in your chest, tightening everything. “I’d rather die than play with him.”

Toto didn’t flinch. “And the best part?” he said, voice flat. There wasn’t even a hint of amusement in his face.

You let out a single, sharp laugh—dry, disbelieving. “What? It can’t possibly get worse than this.”

He didn’t blink. “Zak and Lando already confirmed it.”

You stared at him, your breath catching.

“They’re waiting for your confirmation,” he added, calm as ever.

Your mind reeled. What the fuck.

This wasn’t just a hypothetical. This wasn’t a joke or a bluff or some cruel twist of fate waiting to be undone. It was real. Lando—Lando—had said yes. Zak too. They’d already agreed. And now it was on you.

You felt the ground shift beneath you, the weight of it all pressing down. You weren’t just being asked to tolerate him. You were being asked to trust him. To share the court. To rebuild something with someone who’d spent the last year getting under your skin every chance he got.

“No, Toto. I won’t confirm.”

The words came out fast, sharp, before you could stop them. Your voice was too loud, too final, but you didn’t take it back. You couldn’t. As soon as you said it, your body seemed to catch up with everything you’d been holding in. Your knee throbbed. Your shoulders ached. Even your head pulsed with a dull, relentless pressure. Like your body had finally decided it was done carrying the weight of all this—of Max, of the meetings, of the expectations pressing in from every side.

“Find me someone else,” you said, quieter now, but no less certain. Even though deep down, you already knew. There wasn’t anyone else. Not really. But saying it out loud would make it real, and you weren’t ready for that. Not yet.

Toto exhaled, and for the first time, the edge of frustration cracked through his calm. “I can’t, kid,” he said, voice low. “There is no one better than him.”

You flinched, the words landing harder than you expected. “Yes, there is,” you snapped. “What about Leclerc? Sainz?” You could still hear Lily’s voice from earlier, teasing, hopeful.

But Toto just shook his head. “Leclerc’s already paired with Mleux. And Sainz doesn’t play mixed doubles. Never has.”

And just like that, the list was gone. The excuses ran out. The silence that followed was thick and heavy, like the air before a storm.

You looked away, jaw clenched, throat tight. Because the truth was settling in now, slow and unwelcome.

It was Lando… or no one.

And you weren’t sure which was worse.

“Toto, this won’t work,” you said, shaking your head, voice low and frayed at the edges. “We hate each other.”

He didn’t flinch. Just looked at you with that steady, unshakable calm he always carried, like nothing you said could surprise him. “Y/n,” he said, “you don’t need to love each other.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh, the sound catching in your throat. “We can barely stand being in the same room.”

Toto didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. He just let the silence stretch for a moment before answering, voice quiet but certain. “You’re both the greatest,” he said. “That’s what the ITF sees. Not your arguments. Not your egos. Your results.”

You swallowed hard, the truth of it landing like a weight in your chest. Because that was the part that stung the most—he was right. On paper, it made perfect sense. Two top players. Two names that carried weight. Two people who knew how to win.

“They don’t care how you feel,” Toto added, softer now. “They care about what you produce on court.”

You closed your eyes, just for a second. Long enough to feel the exhaustion settle in your bones. It wasn’t just about Max or Lando anymore. It was everything. The pressure. The expectations. The constant need to prove yourself, to hold it all together, to pretend like none of it touched you. But it did. And it was catching up.

“What if I say no?” you asked, your voice low but sharp, like you were daring him to give you a way out. “What if I decline the partnership?”

Toto didn’t even blink. “You’ll be disqualified from the Grand Slam.”

The word slammed into you. “WHAT?!” It tore out of you before you could stop it, loud and raw and full of disbelief.

But even as it echoed in the quiet space between you, you already knew. Of course they’d do this. Of course the ITF would back you into a corner, smiling politely while they took away your choices one by one. They didn’t want your comfort. They wanted your compliance. Walk away, and you’d lose everything you’d worked for. Stay, and you’d have to do it with him.

“That’s what the ITF told me,” Toto said, softer now. “That’s why Lando already confirmed. He didn’t have a choice either.”

The fight drained out of you all at once, like someone had pulled the plug. The anger, the panic—it all gave way to something heavier. Something quieter.

So this wasn’t arrogance. This wasn’t Lando going behind your back or trying to one-up you. He hadn’t chosen this any more than you had. He was stuck too. Just like you.

Now you couldn’t even hate him for it.

“Y/n,” Toto said, his voice firm, steady, and final. “Either you put your ego aside and play this Grand Slam with Norris—prove to Max that you can win without him—or you get disqualified completely.”

You didn’t respond right away. You just stared at him, the words sinking in like slow poison. They didn’t hit all at once. They settled, heavy and cold, curling around your ribs and tightening your chest until it was hard to breathe.

“It’s all or nothing,” he added, softer now, but no less certain.

And just like that, every exit you’d been clinging to vanished. All the ways you’d tried to delay, to deflect, to pretend there might be another option—they were gone. There was no middle ground. No loophole. No one coming to save you from this choice.

You looked down at your hands, still trembling faintly from the morning’s practice. Callused fingers, taped knuckles, wrists that had carried more weight than they should’ve. You’d built your whole life with these hands. Match by match. Win by win. Loss by loss. And now, they were shaking.

You looked up at Toto. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t disappointed. He was just… steady. Concern flickered behind his eyes, but it didn’t soften the truth. He was here to help you stand, but he wasn’t going to carry you.

Winning without Max Verstappen. Winning with Lando Norris.

You let out a breath, shaky and uneven, like your body was trying to make space for the decision already forming in your chest. This wasn’t just about tennis anymore. It hadn’t been for a while. This was about pride. About survival. About proving—to Max, to the ITF, to yourself—that you were still standing. That you could still fight.

And somewhere deep down, you realized the choice had already been made.

“Fine,” you said at last, lifting your head. The word came out steady, clear, even though your insides still felt like they were shaking. “Tell the ITF I’ll do it. I confirm.”

For a moment, Toto didn’t speak. He just looked at you, something shifting in his expression—less relief, more recognition. Like he saw the cost of what you’d just agreed to. Like he knew exactly how much it had taken to say it out loud.

His voice was quiet when it came. “That’s my girl.”

────────────

You stayed on the court after Lily left, even though the sun was starting to dip and the shadows were stretching long across the baseline. She and Oscar had plans—dinner, a movie, something that sounded like a life untouched by chaos. You waved her off with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes and told her you’d be fine. A lie, but an easy one. One she didn’t press.

You weren’t supposed to be alone for long anyway. Zak, Lando, and Toto were on their way. A meeting, they’d said. A conversation about your “future partnership.” The phrase alone made your jaw clench. You could think of a hundred better ways to spend a Monday afternoon than waiting for the guy you could barely stand.

So you stayed busy.

You picked up a ball and hit it across the court. Then another. And another. No rallies. No rhythm. Just you and the silence and the sting in your arm as each shot landed harder than the last. Your breath came faster. Your muscles burned. But you didn’t stop.

Anger bled into every swing. Not just at Max, or the ITF, or Lando. At the whole damn situation. At how unfair it all felt. You were ranked sixth in the world. Sixth. And still, somehow, you were the one being forced to prove yourself. To adapt.

And now you were supposed to play mixed doubles with someone who lived comfortably in the top five. Someone who made it all look effortless. Someone you’d spent your whole career trying to catch—and never quite reaching.

The thought lodged in your chest like a splinter. No matter how many hours you trained, how many sacrifices you made, it always felt like you were one step behind him. Always chasing. Always just short.

Your knee twinged as you lunged for another shot. You ignored it. Hit harder.

If this was what it took to prove you belonged—next to him, not beneath him—then fine.

You’d burn yourself out trying.

Better that than letting anyone think you weren’t enough.

“You should take a break,” a voice said, low and familiar.

You didn’t need to turn around. You knew that voice. Kimi.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, keeping your eyes on the court, your grip tightening around the racket. You tried to make your voice sound firm, unshakable. But even to your own ears, it rang hollow.

“You say that a lot,” he said, stepping closer. His tone wasn’t sharp, just steady. Observant. His gaze moved over you—your stiff shoulders, the way your weight shifted to protect your knee, the tension you couldn’t quite hide.

You clenched your jaw. “Because I am fine. Don’t read too much into it.”

Kimi didn’t flinch. “That’s what you said last year,” he said gently. “And the year before that.”

You let out a breath, sharp and frustrated. “Things are different this time.”

“Are they?” he asked, voice calm, even. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks the same. You’re not just angry about Max. Or the ITF. You’re still carrying that injury. Still pushing through it like it’s not there. Still trying to outrun something that’s already inside you.”

You looked away, blinking hard. Because he was right. And hearing it out loud made something twist in your chest. You hated how much it stung. Hated how much it felt like truth.

Kimi crouched down a little, bringing himself to your eye level. He didn’t touch you, didn’t crowd you. Just looked at you with that quiet steadiness of his. “You’re good,” he said. “You’re strong. One of the best I’ve ever seen. But even the strongest players need to breathe. You don’t have to prove everything all at once.”

You stared at the ground, your fingers clenched around the racket handle like it was the only thing keeping you upright. You didn’t know if you wanted to yell at him or lean into his words and let them hold you up.

“Just… think about it,” he said softly, rising to his feet. “Before you meet them.”

You watched him walk away, and couldn’t help the thought that slipped in, uninvited and sharp.

He sounded just like Toto.

You stood there for a moment after Kimi left, the court stretching out around you, suddenly too wide, too quiet. The silence pressed in, broken only by the steady thud of your heartbeat and the echo of his words in your head. Take a break. As if it was that simple. As if stopping didn’t feel like surrender. Like letting go of the only thing holding you together.

You bent down, picked up a ball, and served it hard. Too hard. It clipped the net and rolled back toward you, slow and mocking. You stared at it, chest rising and falling faster than it should have. Your knee pulsed with pain—a sharp, familiar warning you’d been ignoring all afternoon.

You dropped onto the bench, elbows on your knees, racket dangling from your fingers. For a moment, you let your head fall forward, eyes closed. Just a breath. Just a pause. The anger that had carried you through the day began to slip away, leaving something heavier in its place. Not rage. Not even frustration.

Fear.

Fear that Max had been right to walk away. Fear that this new pairing—this forced partnership with Lando—wasn’t a second chance, but a spotlight. One that would show everyone just how far you’d fallen. How much you were still hurting. How much you were still trying to pretend you weren’t.

You glanced at your phone. 6:56 p.m.

Time to go.

You wiped the sweat from your face with a towel, grabbed your bag, and started walking. Out of the facility, down the quiet path toward the café where Toto, Zak, and Lando would be waiting.

The café wasn’t far—just a short walk from the courts, tucked behind a row of hedges like a secret only the players knew. It was the kind of place where people pretended, for an hour or two, that their lives weren’t ruled by rankings and press conferences and the weight of expectation. Just coffee, quiet, and the illusion of normal.

You pushed the door open and stepped into the cool hush of the room. The air smelled like espresso and something sweet, and the low hum of conversation wrapped around you. Relief and dread twisted together in your chest, tight and tangled.

They were already there.

Toto saw you first. He lifted a hand in a small, steady wave—reassuring, grounding. Zak sat beside him, posture easy but eyes sharp, already reading you like a stat sheet. And then there was Lando.

Leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, cap turned backwards like always. He looked relaxed. Effortless. Like this wasn’t a meeting about a forced partnership or a career-defining gamble. Like he hadn’t been dragged into the same mess you had.

Of course he looked fine.

You hesitated for half a second, then crossed the room and dropped your bag beside the empty chair across from him. You didn’t sit. Didn’t look at him. Just stood there, letting the silence stretch a little too long.

“Sorry,” you said finally, voice flat. “Training ran late.”

Lando’s mouth twitched, just barely. “Yeah. I can tell.”

You turned then, sharp and fast, eyes narrowing. The look you gave him was a warning—don’t.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, but his gaze didn’t waver. Still watching you. Still too calm. Still too curious.

“I’m glad you came,” Zak said, turning toward you with that smooth, practiced tone of his.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Zak Brown. The most infuriating man on the planet—second only to the player sitting across from you. There had always been something about him that rubbed you the wrong way. Maybe it was the way he smiled like he already knew the outcome. Or maybe it was the fact that, years ago, he’d told Toto you were too “unruly” to manage. You’d been seventeen. Fiery. Determined. And apparently, too much.

You kept your expression neutral, fingers tightening around the strap of your racket bag like it might anchor you to the floor. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much this still grated.

“Thanks,” you said, voice even, polite. Controlled. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Zak smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. It was the kind of smile that said he was already five steps ahead, already moving the pieces into place. “Good,” he said. “Let’s talk about this partnership, shall we?”

You nodded once, slowly, and finally took your seat. The chair felt too stiff. The air too still. Across from you, Lando hadn’t said a word.

Toto leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his voice low and steady. “Let’s be clear,” he said, eyes flicking between you and Lando. “This partnership isn’t about liking each other. It’s about results. The ITF made the call. Now it’s our job to make it work.”

You didn’t look up. Just stared at your hands, fingers curled tight around the strap of your racket bag like it might hold you together. “I get it,” you said quietly. The words came out flat, thin. Even you could hear how hollow they sounded.

Across from you, Lando shifted in his seat. You didn’t have to look to know he was watching you. You could feel it—like a weight pressing against your skin.

“Funny,” he said, voice light, almost amused. “I was thinking the same thing.”

Your head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “I highly doubt that.”

He didn’t flinch. Just tilted his head slightly, that faint smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth. Like this was all a game to him. Like none of it mattered.

Zak raised a hand before either of you could say more, his voice cutting clean through the tension. “Enough,” he said, sharp but calm. “We’re not here to rehash old drama. We’re here to make a plan—practice schedules, match strategy, communication on court. Every detail matters if you two want to win.”

You leaned back in your chair, jaw tight, heart still pounding. You weren’t sure what was worse—Lando’s smirk, or the fact that Zak was right.

Toto leaned back slightly, his voice calm but clipped. “We don’t have much time. You play singles tomorrow. There won’t be much time. You need to train together in the meantime.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh, the sound sharp in your throat. “Oh, yes. Waited for that my whole life.”

Across the table, Lando’s smirk bloomed before he even opened his mouth. “Excuse me?” he said, voice light and needling. “That sounded suspiciously like complaining.”

You snapped your head toward him, eyes narrowing. “Well, it is complaining,” you said, the words landing hard. “I didn’t spend years clawing my way up the rankings just to be forced into a partnership with someone I can’t even stand.”

Lando leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, his expression shifting from amused to something sharper. “Oh, come on. You act like I begged for this. The ITF picked me. I didn’t pick you.”

“That makes it worse!” you shot back, heat rising in your chest. “I didn’t ask for Max to walk away either, but here we are!”

He raised an eyebrow, tone cooling. “So what?” he said. “You’re mad at me for being good at my job?”

You shot him a look that could’ve burned through concrete. “I’m mad?” you repeated, voice rising. “You’re cocky, infuriating, and you walk around like the world owes you something.”

Lando didn’t flinch. If anything, his smirk deepened, like he was enjoying this far more than he should. “That’s rich coming from you,” he said, eyebrow arching. “Don’t act like you’re some saint, Y/n. You’ve got an ego the size of Australia.”

Your hand slammed down on the table before you could stop yourself, the sound sharp and sudden. Zak flinched. “Better an ego than being a pain in everyone’s ass every time you show up,” you snapped, heat rising in your chest.

Lando leaned back in his chair, arms folding behind his head like he had all the time in the world. “Pain in the ass, huh?” he said, grin widening. “You’ve clearly spent a lot of time thinking about me.”

You leaned forward, eyes blazing. “I’ve spent way too much time thinking about you already,” you shot back, the words landing harder than you meant them to.

The silence that followed was thick and electric, both of you breathing hard, neither willing to back down.

Toto cleared his throat, voice low but firm. “Enough,” he said, cutting through the tension like a blade. “If you two can’t start with some professionalism, this partnership won’t survive a single training session.”

“Training starts in fifteen minutes,” Toto said, standing up. Zak followed him out without a word, leaving you and Lando alone.

You didn’t move. Neither did Lando. You just stared at each other, locked in a silent standoff, the air between you charged and unyielding.

Zak exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “This is going to be… interesting,” he muttered.

The silence that followed was thick—awkward and bitter, stretching too long to ignore. You shifted in your chair, arms crossing tightly over your chest, gaze fixed on the table. You refused to look at him. Not yet.

Lando leaned back, the edge in his posture softening. His smirk faded, replaced by something quieter. “Look,” he said, voice lower now, less sharp. “I didn’t want this either. I didn’t ask to be your partner.”

Your arms tightened around yourself, a reflex you couldn’t stop. “Glad we’re being honest,” you said, the words clipped, brittle.

He let out a breath, then shrugged. “But… I did save us both from getting disqualified. So… you’re welcome, I guess.”

You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Thanks for that,” you said, the sarcasm barely masking the exhaustion underneath.

It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t even peace.

But it was something.

A crack in the wall, maybe.

Fifteen minutes later, the court was already a disaster.

“You call that a forehand?!” Lando shouted across the net, his voice echoing through the empty stands. A teasing smirk tugged at his lips as the ball zipped past you, just out of reach.

You spun around, breathless, glaring. “It’s fine! You just aim like a toddler!”

He laughed—loud, unbothered, infuriating. “Fine? That’s hilarious!” He tossed another ball into the air and hit it with ridiculous ease. “Seriously, Y/n, do you even know which way to swing that thing?”

“Shut up!” you snapped, stepping into the next shot and yanking it back over the net with more force than necessary. The ball cracked against the baseline, but you barely registered it. Your pulse was too loud in your ears.

Toto’s voice boomed from the sidelines. “Enough! Both of you!”

Zak’s voice followed, sharper, clipped. “Focus. This isn’t a playground—it’s training.”

You and Lando froze, still breathing hard, still glaring across the net at each other.

And yet, neither of you moved to apologize.

You and Lando barely registered the shouting from the sidelines. Too caught up in your own storm, too busy hurling balls across the net like weapons, swinging with more spite than strategy, arguing over every single point like it mattered more than the match itself.

“Your backhand is worse!” Lando shouted, his voice echoing across the court.

You didn’t miss a beat. “You wish you could even touch mine!”

He scoffed, sending another ball flying your way. “In your dreams!”

You lunged, returned it with a sharp crack. “Only when they’re nightmares!”

Toto’s voice cut through the chaos like a whip. “Stop shouting!” he barked, marching toward the net, his patience clearly fraying. “You’ll wear yourselves out before the first match!”

Toto’s whistle cut through the chaos like a blade. The ball skidded to a stop between you and Lando, the silence that followed almost louder than the shouting had been.

“Enough,” Toto said, rubbing his temples like he could physically press the headache away. “We’ll deal with the attitude later.”

You scoffed under your breath, turning away. Lando muttered something low and sharp that you didn’t quite catch—but you didn’t need to. You could feel the heat still radiating between you.

Toto pointed between you both, his voice firm. “Tomorrow, you each play singles. Y/n, your match is first. After that—no excuses. You train together again.”

Zak crossed his arms, his tone clipped. “And not just drills.”

Toto nodded. “You’ll train against Oscar and Lily.”

That made you look up.

Lily and Oscar. Calm, in sync, terrifyingly efficient. They moved like they shared a brain, like they’d been playing together since birth. Watching them was like watching choreography—fluid, precise, unshakable.

“They’re one of the best doubles pairs here,” Toto continued. “If you want to survive mixed doubles, you’ll learn from them. Communication. Movement. Trust.”

Lando let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “So we get destroyed on purpose.”

“Exactly,” Toto said, not missing a beat. “And you’ll thank me later.”

You didn’t respond. Neither did Lando.

But for the first time all day, neither of you had anything to argue about.

────────────

You sat alone in the locker room, the silence pressing in around you like a second skin. The hum of the stadium was distant, muffled by thick walls and the weight of your own thoughts. Your elbows rested on your thighs, head in your hands, leg bouncing restlessly. You hadn’t moved in minutes. Maybe longer.

The Australian Open. The one that always slipped away. You’d won everything else—Wimbledon, the US Open, Roland Garros. But Melbourne had always found a way to break your rhythm. A bad draw. A rolled ankle. A match point that vanished in the heat. It had become a ghost you couldn’t shake. And now, here you were again. Minutes from walking out. Minutes from trying—again—to rewrite the ending.

You told yourself this time would be different. You were stronger now. Sharper. You’d survived heartbreak, injury, Max leaving, the ITF’s games. You were still standing. That had to count for something.

Still, your chest felt tight. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

A soft knock broke through the quiet.

“Come in,” you said, voice low, not bothering to lift your head.

The door creaked open. “Just checking on you,” came a voice you knew by heart.

Kimi.

Of course it was him.

He didn’t ask if you were okay. He never did. He just knew. Always had. Like he could feel it in the air when you needed someone to show up.

Kimi stepped closer, his presence calm and steady in the way it always was. “You got this,” he said simply.

And somehow, that meant more than any speech ever could. Because if there was anyone who still believed in you—truly, without conditions—it was Kimi. He didn’t need you to win to believe in you. He just did.

You looked up at him, your voice soft. “Thanks, Kimi. I hope so.”

He gave a small nod, then added, “Lily couldn’t make it. She’s got training. But she told me to tell you she’s wishing you luck.”

You tried to smile. “I’ll see her after the match,” you said, but the words felt thinner than you meant them to. The thought of training with Lando later, of facing Lily and Oscar on the other side of the court—it crept in like a shadow, dulling the edges of your focus.

Kimi opened his mouth to say something else, maybe to ground you again, maybe just to stay a little longer.

But the loudspeaker crackled to life, cutting him off.

“Welcome to the first women’s singles match of this year’s Australian Open! Y/n Y/l/n versus Alexandra Saint Mleux!”

The words echoed through the locker room, sharp and final.

It was time.

You stood slowly, gripping your racket like it was the only thing tethering you to the ground. You gave it a few light swings, trying to shake the tension from your arms, but your muscles still felt tight, coiled like springs. From somewhere beyond the locker room walls, the roar of the crowd filtered in—louder than you expected. It hit you in the chest, sudden and real, and your stomach twisted.

Kimi stood just off to the side, arms folded, calm as ever. He gave you a small nod, his voice low and steady. “Focus,” he said. “You know what to do.”

You nodded back, not trusting yourself to speak. Then you turned and walked down the long hallway toward the court, each step echoing in the narrow space. You passed Toto near the entrance, his expression unreadable but his voice warm.

“Good luck, kid,” he said. “Remember Mleux’s weaknesses.”

You managed a quiet, “Thanks,” as you stepped past him and into the light.

The sun hit you like a wave—bright and hot, wrapping around your skin. The stadium opened up in front of you, vast and humming with energy. The crowd’s cheers rolled over you in waves, and your heart kicked up, faster than it should’ve been. You blinked against the brightness, against the noise, against the weight of it all.

This is it, you thought. This is finally your Australian Open.

You walked to your baseline, the court beneath your feet familiar and foreign all at once. You took a deep breath, let it fill your lungs, and exhaled slowly. The racket settled into your hands like it belonged there.

You bounced lightly on your toes at the baseline, trying to shake the nerves from your limbs. Your eyes stayed locked on the other side of the net, where Alexandra stood like a statue—calm, composed, her expression unreadable. She looked like she was waiting for a warm-up rally, not the start of a Grand Slam match. Of course she did. That was her thing. Ice in her veins. No cracks in the armor.

The umpire’s voice broke through the hum of the crowd. “Time.”

You inhaled slowly, steadying your breath. The racket felt solid in your hand, familiar. You tossed the ball into the air, eyes tracking it as it rose against the bright sky.

Focus.

The ball met your strings with a clean, satisfying snap. It flew wide and fast, clipping the line. Ace. The crowd erupted, a wave of sound crashing over you, and for a moment, it lit something in your chest. A spark. A reminder. You were here. You were ready.

The next point didn’t come as easy. The rally stretched long—baseline to baseline, shot for shot. You felt your knee twinge, a dull ache that flared with each push off your right foot. You ignored it. There was no space for pain today. You moved sharper, hit deeper, pulling from every drill Toto had hammered into you. Attack her backhand. Drag her wide. Don’t let her settle.

Point by point, the match found its rhythm. Brutal. Demanding. Sweat rolled down your spine, your grip tightening with every swing. The world narrowed to the ball, the lines, the breath in your lungs. Everything else fell away.

The first set had taken everything out of you. Long rallies, sharp angles, your knee screaming every time you pushed off just a little too hard. You’d won it—barely. And now, standing at the baseline in the second set, the heat pressed down heavier than before. The sun clung to your skin, sweat pooling at the base of your neck, soaking into your wristbands. You bounced the ball, trying to find your breath, trying to find your focus.

One point at a time.

You returned serve cleanly, chased the next shot, sent it down the line with just enough spin to pull it out of reach. The crowd responded, a low murmur rising into something louder, warmer. You didn’t let yourself react. Not yet.

But as you walked back toward the baseline, towel draped around your shoulders, your eyes drifted—just for a second. You didn’t mean to look. But you did.

And there he was.

Lando.

Sitting in the stands, elbows on his knees, cap pulled low. No smirk. No lazy grin. Just stillness. Focus. Watching you—not like a teammate, not like a rival. Like someone trying to understand something he hadn’t seen before.

Your grip tightened around the racket handle.

Why is he even here?

You shook the thought off, forced your gaze back to the court. It didn’t matter. He was just another face in the crowd. Just another distraction.

But the next rally dragged long—brutal, punishing. You chased a wide ball, stretched too far, and your knee flared in protest. Sharp. Immediate. You bit down on the pain, forced yourself through the motion, barely masking the wince.

And from the corner of your eye, you saw him move.

Lando straightened in his seat, jaw tight, eyes locked on you.

Like he felt it too.

You’d taken the second set, but your heart was racing for all the wrong reasons. Not from the heat or the effort or the pressure of the match—but from something else. Something you couldn’t quite name.

As the applause rolled over the court, you let your eyes drift—just for a second, just long enough to betray yourself. And there he was.

Lando.

Still in the stands. Still watching. Elbows on his knees, cap pulled low, gaze fixed on you like he hadn’t looked away once.

You turned quickly, heading for the sidelines. The crowd was loud, the sun relentless, sweat dripping down your temple as you moved straight toward Toto. You didn’t wait for him to speak.

“What is he doing here?” you asked, voice low but sharp. “Doesn’t he have his own match?”

Toto handed you a bottle of water, calm as ever. “He already played,” he said. “He won.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

He’d finished his match. And he’d still come to watch yours.

The thought landed in your chest with a strange weight. Not heavy, exactly. Just… tight. Unsettling. Maybe he was here to see you fall apart. Maybe he wanted proof that you weren’t as good as everyone said.

Or maybe—worse—he wanted to see for himself just how good you really were.

“Focus, kid,” Toto said, his voice low and even, cutting through the noise like a metronome. He gave you a steady look, the kind that didn’t waver, didn’t rush. “You’ve already taken two sets out of three. You’ve got this in the bag.”

You nodded, but it didn’t quite reach your chest. Your heart was still racing, your body humming with adrenaline and heat and something else—something harder to name. Pressure, maybe. Or fear. Or the weight of knowing how close you were to finally breaking the curse of this tournament.

You looked down at your hands, fingers wrapped tight around the water bottle, knuckles pale. You’d done the hard part. You were ahead. But the finish line always felt the farthest when it was right in front of you.

Still, Toto’s voice stayed with you. Calm. Certain. Like he believed in you even when you weren’t sure you could believe in yourself.

You took a breath. Then another.

And when you stood, racket in hand, the world narrowed again—to the court, the ball, the next point.

Just one more set.

The whistle blew, sharp and final, slicing through the heat-soaked air.

You stepped to the baseline, and something inside you shifted. Not snapped, exactly—more like something uncoiled. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the weight of the moment. Or maybe it was the image of Lando, still watching, still there, etched into the back of your mind like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

Whatever it was, it lit a fuse.

You served with more bite, more speed. The ball cracked off your strings and kissed the line. Your returns came cleaner, heavier, each one landing with purpose. Your feet moved before your thoughts could catch up, your body slipping into that rare, elusive rhythm where everything just worked.

The crowd roared, but it barely registered. Their cheers blurred into a distant hum, like waves crashing somewhere far away. All you could hear was the thud of the ball, the scrape of your shoes, the steady beat of your breath.

Focus. Timing. Instinct.

It all clicked.

Each point you won fed the next—momentum building, confidence blooming in your chest like something wild and overdue. The anger, the nerves, the noise—they all faded, burned away by the fire in your blood and the clarity in your mind.

And then, between points, as you turned to towel off, your eyes flicked to the stands.

Lando was still there.

Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on you. No smirk. No smugness. Just focus. Just… attention.

The rally stretched on, longer than you thought your body could handle. Sweat dripped into your eyes, your muscles screamed with every lunge, every pivot, every desperate reach. Your breath came in ragged bursts, the court blurring at the edges as you chased one more shot, then another, refusing to let go.

Alexandra lunged for your return, her body fully extended, racket slicing through the air. The ball clipped the edge of her strings—then spun wide.

Out.

The stadium erupted.

For a second, you didn’t move. Couldn’t. The sound hit you like a wave, crashing over your shoulders, and then your knees gave out. You dropped, the racket slipping from your hand, your fists clenched and raised as you let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh.

You’d done it.

The Australian Open. The one that had always slipped through your fingers. The one that haunted your off-seasons and whispered in your dreams. You’d won the first round. And this time, it was real.

Toto was there in an instant, dropping to your level, gripping your shoulder with both hands. His eyes were bright, voice thick with something that sounded suspiciously like pride. “You did it,” he said, shaking you gently. “You did it, kid!”

You laughed, still catching your breath, the weight of the last few months crashing down all at once. The pressure. The burnout. The doubt. The noise. It all spilled out in one long, shaking exhale. “We did it,” you said, voice cracking. “We actually did it.”

Toto pulled you into a quick, fierce hug. “No,” he said, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. “You did it. That’s all you.”

And in the middle of the chaos—the roar of the crowd, the flash of cameras, the blur of movement—you let yourself feel it.

Not relief. Not survival.

Triumph.

Real, unfiltered, earned.

You had won the first round of the Australian Open.

You and Toto stepped into the hallway, the buzz of the crowd still echoing faintly behind you. You didn’t have to look to know he was smiling—that quiet, proud smile he only wore when words weren’t enough. The kind that said I knew you could without needing to say it at all.

And then you saw them.

Lily, Oscar, Kimi… and Lando.

Lily was the first to reach you, arms already outstretched. “You did it, Y/n!” she beamed, pulling you into a tight hug that nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.

You laughed, still catching your breath, still riding the high. “Thanks, Lil. It’s—God, it’s unbelievable.”

Oscar clapped a hand on your shoulder, his grin wide and easy. “That was insane. You dominated out there.”

Kimi didn’t say much— he never did—but his smile was warm, steady. “Told you,” he said simply. “You’ve got this. Always.”

And then your eyes found Lando’s.

He stood a little apart from the others, hands in his pockets, cap still low over his brow. His expression was unreadable—no smirk, no teasing glint. Just something quieter. Something still.

“Congrats,” he said.

Just that. One word. No fanfare. No sarcasm.

And honestly, you hadn’t expected more.

But somehow, it lingered. The way he said it. The way he looked at you when he did. Like it meant something. Like he’d seen something out there—something real—and couldn’t quite put it into words.

You’d won today. That much was clear.

But maybe, just maybe, you’d also proved something.

To yourself. And to him.

“Training in one hour,” you said, glancing at Lando, Lily, and Oscar as you reached for your bag.

Toto’s voice followed, calm but edged with quiet disapproval. “You should take a break.”

You didn’t look at him. “Don’t wanna,” you muttered, brushing past, fingers already curling around your racket.

Lando raised an eyebrow, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “Seriously? You just crushed your singles match and now you’re jumping straight into doubles?”

You turned, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Yeah. Seriously.”

He didn’t push, but the look he gave you lingered—half impressed, half questioning.

“No rest for the best,” you added, tugging your shoes on with quick, practiced movements.

Lily let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “You really don’t know how to relax, do you?”

You paused for half a second, then shrugged. “Relaxing’s for people who aren’t chasing Grand Slams,” you said, tightening the laces. “I don’t have that luxury.”

No one argued with that.

────────────

An hour later, you were back on court.

The adrenaline from your win still pulsed through your veins, sharp and heady, like a second heartbeat. Your limbs buzzed with leftover energy, your mind still half caught in the echo of the crowd. Only your knee whispered its quiet protest, a dull throb you refused to acknowledge. Not now. Not in front of them.

Across the net, Oscar and Lily were already in motion—laughing, tossing balls back and forth, their movements fluid and in sync. They looked like they belonged together on and off a court—in which, they did. Like they didn’t even have to speak to know what the other was thinking.

It was annoying, honestly. How easy they made it look.

Meanwhile, you stood near the baseline with Lando, Zak, and Toto, the four of you in a loose circle that felt more like a standoff than a strategy session.

“You two need to communicate,” Toto said, his voice clipped, no room for argument.

Zak chuckled, hands on his hips. “And not argue, by the way. Just to be clear.”

He was the only one who found that funny.

Toto didn’t even blink. “Communication doesn’t mean yelling,” he added, eyes flicking between you and Lando. “Call your shots. Trust each other.”

You scoffed before you could stop yourself, the sound sharp in the quiet. Your gaze snapped to Lando, heat rising in your chest. “You think I can trust someone like him?”

Lando let out a breath that was half a laugh, half disbelief. “Wow. Starting strong, aren’t we?”

Toto pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath. “This,” he said, “is exactly what I mean.”

“Take example from Oscar and Lily,” Toto said, nodding toward the other side of the court.

You followed his gaze. There they were—laughing, bumping shoulders, moving like they shared the same rhythm. They looked relaxed, completely at ease, like this was just another afternoon. Like they weren’t about to run drills in the heat. Like they weren’t being watched. It was effortless. Disgustingly effortless. And, of course, they were in love. That probably helped.

“Toto, please,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. “They’re dating.”

“And?” Toto shot back without missing a beat. “They communicate. They know each other’s next move before it even happens.”

You opened your mouth, but Lando beat you to it, his voice dry. “That’s because they’ve been playing together for, like, four years.”

Toto sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this entire setup. “Exactly my point. They didn’t start like this. They learned. They worked at it.”

Lando let out a quiet scoff, not even trying to hide it. “Yeah. Over four years. We’ve had—what—twenty-four hours?”

You turned toward him, heat rising in your chest. “And half of that,” you snapped, “you spent mocking my forehand.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Because it was late.”

You glared at him, jaw tight. “It won the match.”

“Barely,” he said, and though his voice was even, the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile.

Toto clapped his hands once, the sound loud and sharp. “Enough,” he said, stepping back. “On court. Both of you. Now.”

You didn’t argue. Neither did Lando.

But as you walked to your side of the net, you could feel the tension still crackling between you—sharp, stubborn, and not going anywhere anytime soon.

The first rally hadn’t even properly begun before it all fell apart.

Oscar’s serve came fast and clean, skimming just over the net. You moved to cover your side, expecting Lando to shift with you—but he didn’t. The ball flew past him, bounced once behind you, and rolled to a stop near the fence.

Lando groaned, spinning around with his arms outstretched. “Seriously?!”

You turned too, already bristling. “What was that?” he snapped, glaring.

“What was that?” you shot back. “You weren’t ready!”

He didn’t answer—just lunged for the next ball that Oscar had casually returned to keep the rally going. You stepped forward to help, swung too late, and clipped the net. The ball dropped dead at your feet.

“You’re late again!” Lando barked, breath short. “Move your ass!”

You whipped around, eyes blazing. “Excuse me? You’re the one standing there like a statue!”

He didn’t respond. Just dove for another shot, barely keeping it in play. You tried to recover, swiped at the return, and missed entirely.

From the sidelines, Toto and Zak were shouting—something about spacing, about communication—but their voices barely registered. The court had shrunk to just the two of you, locked in a rhythm of blame and frustration, every word sharper than the last.

“You’re impossible!” you shouted, voice sharp and raw as another ball zipped past you, missing your shoulder by inches.

Lando didn’t miss a beat. “You think you’re perfect?” he snapped, slamming the next ball toward your side with a little too much force, like he wanted to make a point with the sound of it hitting your half of the court.

You lunged, off balance, barely getting your racket to it. “Fuck!” you hissed as the ball clipped the strings and dropped straight into the net, limp and useless.

“Shit!” Lando barked, scrambling after the next shot, his foot catching awkwardly as he stumbled, barely staying upright.

The rally kept going, but it was a mess. Every shot felt like a fight. Every movement turned into a complaint. You weren’t playing together—you were playing around each other, like two magnets repelling on contact.

“Move your feet!” he yelled, frustration bleeding into every word.

“You’re blocking me!” you snapped, trying to sidestep him and nearly colliding instead.

“Watch the net!”

“How the hell did you miss that?!”

The ball skidded out of bounds, and you both stood there, breathing hard, glaring across the court like enemies instead of teammates. Somewhere on the sidelines, you could hear Zak groaning and Toto muttering under his breath, but it all felt distant.

The shouting had reached a boiling point—sharp, fast, and full of heat. Every word felt like it was meant to hurt. You missed two more volleys in a row, your timing completely off, your head spinning with frustration. And then you heard Lando’s voice, panicked and too late.

“I—shit—watch out!”

But you were already moving. Both of you lunged for the same ball, and the collision was loud and jarring. A solid thunk of shoulder against ribs, racket against thigh.

“Ow!” you gasped, stumbling back, clutching your shoulder as the sting bloomed deep and fast.

“Fucking hell,” Lando muttered, bent over slightly, rubbing his side with a grimace. His eyes snapped to yours, sharp and angry. “What the hell was that?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not right away. Your chest was tight, your breath shallow, your body aching in more ways than one. And then you looked across the court.

Lily and Oscar were still playing—still laughing, still moving like they shared the same heartbeat. They bumped shoulders, exchanged a high-five, and didn’t even glance your way. The contrast was brutal. It made your stomach twist.

You threw your racket down, the sound loud and final against the court. “I can’t,” you said, voice cracking. “This is impossible.”

Lando’s head snapped up. “Impossible?” he repeated, his voice rising. “You’re the one yelling at everything!”

You took a step forward, anger flaring. “You think I’m the problem? You’re a—”

“—a cocky idiot?” he cut in, eyes blazing. “Yeah. I know. You’ve said it enough times.”

The words kept coming, fast and sharp, like neither of you could stop. Insults, blame, frustration—spilling out until your throat burned and your chest ached from the effort of it all. You weren’t even sure what you were fighting about anymore. The match? The pressure? Each other?

All you knew was that it hurt.

Toto stormed onto the court, arms raised like he was trying to physically push the tension back into place. “Enough!” he barked, voice cutting through the heat and noise. “Both of you!”

You and Lando froze, still breathing hard, still glaring at each other like you were seconds away from swinging your rackets at something other than tennis balls. And then, slowly, you both looked down—realizing at the same time that your grips were too tight, your stances too sharp. You weren’t holding rackets. You were holding weapons.

Toto’s voice dropped, low and firm, the kind of tone that didn’t invite argument. “Take a break. Sit down. Drink some water. And calm the hell down. Because whatever this is—it’s not doubles. It’s a screaming contest.”

You didn’t argue. Just turned and walked to the bench, legs heavy, lungs still burning. You dropped onto the seat like your body had finally remembered it was tired, water bottle clutched in your hand like it might keep you from unraveling. Your heart was still racing, your thoughts still tangled in the last ten minutes of chaos.

Across the court, Lando didn’t sit. He leaned against the fence instead, arms crossed, head tipped back like he was trying to breathe through whatever storm was still brewing inside him. He didn’t say a word. But the tension coming off him was thick enough to feel from where you sat, like heat rising off the pavement.

You and Lando had finally cooled down enough to approach Oscar and Lily, rackets in hand, the silence between you still heavy but no longer sharp. The earlier shouting had drained something from both of you, leaving behind a kind of raw quiet. Not peace, exactly—but maybe the start of it.

Lily glanced up as you approached, bouncing the ball gently on her racket. Her tone was light, but kind. “So,” she said, “watching you two out there… maybe try calling your shots before swinging. It really helps.”

Oscar nodded beside her, his expression easy but sincere. “Yeah. And trust each other. You don’t have to chase every ball alone. Let the other person take their shot.”

You nodded slowly, the words settling somewhere in your chest. It still felt tight, like your ribs hadn’t quite relaxed since the last argument. But you were listening. “Call our shots,” you repeated under your breath. “Right. And… trust. Sure.”

Lando let out a soft huff, not quite a laugh. “Sounds easy when you two say it.”

You glanced at him, your voice quieter now. “It’s not. Trust doesn’t just show up.”

“No,” he agreed, and for once, there was no edge in his voice. “It doesn’t.”

Lily smiled gently, stepping closer. “Exactly. It takes time. You’ll get there. Just… breathe. And listen to each other.”

While Lando nodded along to Lily and Oscar’s advice, you shifted slightly to the side, adjusting your grip on your racket. That’s when you heard it—Zak’s voice, low and curious, just behind Toto.

“Was she always like this?” he asked. “I mean… with Max?”

The words hit like a sudden gust of wind. You froze mid-step, heart thudding once, hard and loud. You didn’t turn around, didn’t move. Just listened.

Toto’s voice came a moment later, calm and even, but softer than usual. “Yeah,” he said. “She’s always been like this. Fiery. Stubborn. Unrelenting.”

There was a pause, and you could almost hear the memory in his voice when he added, “Max knew it. And honestly, that’s why he respected her. She drove everyone else crazy, but he never flinched. He always saw the good in her—even when she couldn’t see it herself.”

You swallowed, the air suddenly thicker in your lungs.

“She pushed him,” Toto went on, his gaze distant now. “Hard. He had to adapt, trust her instincts, keep up. And he did. Because he knew what she was capable of. He never doubted it. Not once.”

You shifted your weight, fingers tightening around the handle of your racket. The words settled deep, stirring something you hadn’t let yourself feel in a while. Pride, yes. A flicker of irritation, maybe. But mostly… something quieter. Something that ached.

Longing, maybe.

Or the echo of something you hadn’t quite let go of.

“Why did he bail on her though?” Zak asked, his voice low, curious in that way people get when they think you’re not listening.

But you were.

God, you were.

No. No. No. You didn’t want to hear this. You weren’t ready. But your feet stayed planted, your breath caught somewhere in your chest, and your ears strained for every word.

Toto let out a slow breath, the kind that carried weight. “She had a knee injury a few months ago,” he said, his voice quieter now, more careful. “Max probably thought she wouldn’t be the same after that.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Your stomach twisted, breath catching. You stared straight ahead, but your vision blurred at the edges.

He thought you wouldn’t be the same.

Like you were broken. Like you were less.

Toto kept talking, his tone dipping into something darker. “But I don’t know for sure,” he added, jaw tight. “You know Horner. That piece of shit probably twisted something, planted doubts in Max’s head. God knows what he told him.”

You clenched your jaw, teeth grinding together as the heat rose in your chest. Anger flared, sharp and sudden, curling around the old ache in your knee and the deeper one in your chest. Betrayal. Confusion. Hurt. It all tangled together, heavy and bitter and impossible to swallow.

Zak’s voice cut through your thoughts, sharp and impatient. “Alright, enough resting. Back to work.”

You didn’t need to look to know he’d caught you listening. The way he said it—clipped, pointed—made it clear. But you didn’t flinch. You just exhaled, slow and steady, letting the anger and anxiety settle somewhere low in your chest.

Something shifted then. Maybe it was the leftover fire from the earlier chaos. Maybe it was the sting of hearing Max’s name spoken like a closed chapter. Or maybe it was just the simple, stubborn truth: if you didn’t figure this out—if you and Lando couldn’t find some kind of rhythm—this whole doubles thing was going to crash and burn.

“Let’s do this,” you muttered, stepping back onto the court beside him.

Lando didn’t say anything, but he followed.

The first serve came fast, skimming low over the net. You didn’t hesitate.

“Mine!” you called, loud and clear, lunging forward with purpose. Your racket met the ball with a clean, satisfying thwack, sending it deep into the corner.

“Got it!” Lando barked, shifting behind you, his stance sharp, alert. He moved like he was actually paying attention this time—like he trusted you to hold your ground.

The second volley came quicker, a blur of motion. “Backhand, yours!” you called, already pivoting to cover the other side.

“On it!” he replied, and this time, he was. He stepped in, met the ball with a clean return, and for once, you didn’t have to roll your eyes or bite back a curse.

You adjusted without thinking, sliding low to intercept a drop shot that barely cleared the net. “Switch!” you called, already pivoting.

“Yeah, yeah, I see it!” Lando shouted, his voice tight with focus as he sprinted to cover the other side.

And somehow, it worked.

The next rally came, and then another. Each one steadier than the last. The rhythm wasn’t perfect, but it was there—hidden in the chaos, waiting to be found. You started calling your shots more clearly, your voice cutting through the air with short, sharp commands.

“Net, mine!”

“Middle, yours!”

“Don’t rush, hold it!”

“Got it, don’t worry!” Lando called back, his tone clipped but not biting. Focused. Present.

Then came a tricky volley—fast, low, aimed right between you. For a split second, you both moved. But this time, there was no hesitation.

“Mine!” you shouted, stepping in.

“Good!” Lando called, grinning as he followed up, slamming the ball over the net with just the right amount of force.

You caught the return cleanly, your body moving before your brain could catch up. “Yours!” you called, already shifting to cover the next angle.

And he was there.

The small victories started to stack up. Clean hits. Fewer mistakes. A kind of coordination that hadn’t been there before. The bickering still hummed beneath the surface—old habits didn’t vanish in an hour—but it didn’t get in the way. Not this time.

Across the court, Zak had stopped pacing. He stood still, arms folded, one eyebrow raised as he muttered something under his breath. You didn’t catch the words, but the tone was unmistakable: surprise, maybe even a little relief.

Toto stood beside him, arms crossed, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You and Lando paused at the baseline, both bent slightly at the waist, catching your breath. Sweat clung to your skin, your chest rising and falling in heavy bursts, but the air between you felt different now. Less sharp. Less combative. There was still tension, sure—but it had shifted. Smoothed into something closer to rhythm. A kind of truce, maybe. Or the beginning of one.

Across the court, Lily grinned, bouncing the ball lazily on her racket. “Well, would you look at that,” she called, her voice light with amusement. “They’re actually talking to each other. Miracles really do happen.”

Oscar leaned on his racket beside her, smirking. “Yeah, I can’t decide if I’m impressed or mildly horrified.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away.

For the first time all day, it didn’t feel like the court was a battlefield.

It just felt like tennis.

────────────

You hated media day. Always had, always would.

The questions never changed. Same dull rhythm, same tired faces. Who do you think will win? Who’s the better player? How much sleep did you get? You could practically mouth the answers before the reporters even opened their mouths. It was all noise—predictable, exhausting noise.

“Gosh… I really don’t wanna do this,” you muttered under your breath, dragging your feet behind Toto as he led the way down the corridor toward the press room.

“You tell me,” Toto said, not even turning around, though there was a flicker of amusement in his voice.

Up ahead, Zak and Lando were already waiting by the entrance. Zak stood with his arms crossed, scanning something on his phone. Lando leaned against the wall like he had all the time in the world, curls a mess, that familiar smirk tugging at his mouth like he actually enjoyed this circus.

Zak looked up as you approached, his expression shifting into something sharper. “Alright,” he said, gesturing between the two of you, “don’t argue. Don’t yell. If someone asks how you’re doing, just say ‘fine.’ Got it?”

He paused, letting the silence stretch for a beat.

“They’ll be annoying,” he added, voice flat. “Be ready for that.”

You exchanged a glance with Lando. He raised an eyebrow, still smirking.

You stepped into the room behind Lando, moving quietly, like slipping into a space you didn’t really want to enter. The setup was exactly as you remembered—two long rows of tables, each seat marked with a neat little name card, everything lined up in perfect, press-friendly order.

Your eyes scanned the row, already bracing for the worst.

And then you saw it.

Two empty seats.

Side by side.

Your name on one. Lando’s name was on your left.

And on your right?

Max.

Your chest tightened, breath catching for just a second. Of course. Of course they’d put you next to him. Like it was nothing. Like the last few months hadn’t happened. Like you were still a team.

Right. Of course you were stuck in the middle.

You and Lando made your way toward the table, walking side by side, both a little too quiet, a little too stiff. Your nerves buzzed just beneath your skin, making your steps feel heavier than they should’ve.

You kept your eyes down, focused on the floor, the chairs, anything but him. God forbid you looked at Max. You didn’t want eye contact. Not now. Maybe not ever.

But somehow… it happened anyway.

A flicker of movement. A shift in your peripheral vision. And then—his eyes met yours.

“Hey,” he said, soft and casual, like it was nothing. Like the last few months hadn’t happened. Like he hadn’t left.

You didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. “Hey,” you said, sharp and flat, sliding into your seat without another glance.

The space between you felt like a live wire.

And the press hadn’t even started yet.

The first question came fast, before you’d even fully settled into your seat.

“Y/n, congratulations on your singles win yesterday. How are you feeling heading into the rest of the tournament?”

You straightened, smoothing your expression into something calm, composed. The cameras were already clicking. “Good,” you said, offering a polite smile. “Focused. It’s a long tournament, so I’m just taking it one match at a time.”

Another hand shot up. “You’ve won every Grand Slam except the Australian Open. Does that add extra pressure?”

You let out a slow breath, measured and even. “Pressure’s part of the job,” you said. “If I couldn’t handle it, I wouldn’t be sitting here.”

A few reporters nodded. Someone murmured approval. The cameras clicked again.

Then came the question you’d been waiting for.

“And how’s the knee?”

The tone was too casual, like they were asking about the weather. You didn’t blink.

“It’s fine,” you said, voice steady. Firm.

Beside you, Lando shifted in his seat. You felt his glance, quick and quiet, but you didn’t look his way. You kept your eyes forward, your posture still.

Another voice chimed in. “Do you see yourself as the favorite this year?”

You didn’t hesitate. “I see myself as prepared,” you said. “That’s all that matters.”

The room quieted for a beat, the weight of your words settling in.

The camera shifted slightly, its lens angling just enough to frame you and Lando side by side. You didn’t need to look up to know what was coming. You could feel it in the way the room shifted, in the way the air seemed to pause for a beat.

“Lando,” a reporter began, voice smooth and practiced, like he’d been waiting for this one, “how do you feel about your partnership with Y/n? Especially considering the history you two have.”

Your shoulders tensed. You kept your eyes on the table in front of you, jaw tight. Of course they’d go there. Not the matches. Not the training. Not the actual tennis. Just the story. The drama. The past.

Beside you, Lando let out a quiet breath. You could hear the way he shifted in his seat, leaning slightly toward the mic. “I mean,” he said, with a shrug that sounded more tired than casual, “we’ve definitely had our moments.”

You almost rolled your eyes. Almost. But you held still, biting back the urge to scoff. Moments was one way to put it.

“But we’re both competitive,” he went on, and this time his voice was steadier, more grounded. “We both want to win. And at the end of the day, that matters more than whatever history people think we have.”

You didn’t look at him. But something in his tone—calm, honest, maybe even a little tired—made the knot in your chest loosen just a little.

The reporter didn’t waste a second.

“Y/n, do you agree?”

You lifted your head slowly, schooling your features into something neutral. Not cold, not warm—just steady. “We’re professionals,” you said, voice even. “We don’t have to like each other to play well together.”

The room stilled for a beat, that kind of pause reporters lived for. The kind that made every word after feel heavier.

Another voice jumped in. “And do you think this partnership can actually work?”

You felt the smallest shift beside you—Max, adjusting in his seat. You didn’t look, but you felt it. Lando, on your other side, glanced at you, just for a second. You caught it in your peripheral vision, but kept your gaze forward.

“Yes,” you said, clear and firm. “I do.”

There was no hesitation. No room for doubt.

Lando leaned forward slightly, his voice low but certain. “Same.”

You blinked.

That was… unexpected.

No smirk. No sarcasm. Just a quiet agreement, like he meant it.

The questions had started off simple. Predictable. You almost let yourself believe it wouldn’t be so bad.

But of course, that didn’t last.

“Max,” a reporter said, leaning forward just enough to make it feel personal. The camera clicked, the flash catching the edge of your vision. “There’s been some controversy around your sudden withdrawal from mixed doubles. Care to explain?”

Your mouth twitched. A flicker of something—disgust, maybe. Annoyance. You swallowed it down, kept your eyes forward, your hands folded neatly in your lap. But your heart had already picked up speed.

Max didn’t miss a beat.

“Singles are my priority,” he said, voice smooth, practiced. Sharp in that way he always was when he didn’t want to be questioned. “I decided to focus on myself this Grand Slam. Simple as that.”

You stared at the table in front of you, jaw tight. The words landed like a slap, even though you’d heard them before. Even though you’d lived them.

Focus on myself. Simple as that.

You clenched your fists just enough to feel your nails press into your palms. Not enough to show. Just enough to stay grounded.

Beside you, Lando shifted. You didn’t look, but you felt it—the way his body turned slightly, the way the air changed. Then came the glare. You could feel it radiating off him, sharp and unfiltered, aimed straight at Max.

Another journalist leaned forward, voice calm but loaded. “Do you regret your decision?”

Max didn’t even blink. “No. I don’t,” he said, smooth as ever. “Mixed doubles can be limiting if you’re not perfectly aligned…”

You blinked. What does that even mean?

Your stomach twisted, a slow, sour knot forming deep in your gut. The words echoed in your head, looping in that same clipped, careless tone. Limiting. Like you were a weight. Like you’d held him back. Like the months of training, the hours of work, the trust you’d built—meant nothing now. Just a footnote in his story.

Before you could even process that, another reporter jumped in, voice sharper now. “And what do you think of this new pairing? Y/l/n–Norris? Do you think they’ll do better than you and Y/n? You two were top three before—no one reaches that level easily.”

Your breath caught.

What the fuck.

Your fingers curled around the edge of the table, nails digging into your palm. You didn’t trust yourself to speak. Didn’t trust yourself to move. The heat in your chest was rising fast, too fast, and you could feel it pressing against your ribs like a warning.

Beside you, Lando’s jaw clenched. You saw it in your peripheral vision—the way his whole body tensed, the way his eyes snapped toward Max, sharp and furious.

Max just shrugged, like none of this mattered. “I think they’ll do fine,” he said, voice light, almost bored. “It’s not my problem anymore.”

And just like that, he tossed the words out like they were nothing. Like he hadn’t just lit a match and dropped it at your feet.

Fucking idiot.

You didn’t say it out loud. But the words burned in your throat, bitter and hot.

Suddenly Lando’s head snapped to Max, sharp and unflinching. “You know what’s funny, mate?” he said, voice tight. “You didn’t just walk away. You dumped everything on me. All the pressure, all the expectations—like it was nothing. That’s for that. Really.”

Max didn’t flinch. He raised an eyebrow, his tone smooth, almost amused. “And? That’s your problem now, isn’t it?”

The words landed like a slap.

Lando’s hand hit the table with a dull thud, loud enough to make a few heads turn. He leaned forward, the smirk gone, replaced by something sharper. “No,” he said, voice low and steady. “No, that’s our problem, and you walked out like it meant nothing. You think it’s easy being stuck cleaning up your mess?”

You kicked him under the table, not hard, just enough to say stop. Not here. Not now. But he didn’t look at you. His eyes were locked on Max, jaw tight, breathing hard.

Max didn’t blink. “I don’t see it as my mess,” he said, calm as ever. “I made the decision that was best for me. Don’t blame me for that.”

Lando let out a short, bitter laugh. “Oh, I’m not blaming you, mate,” he said, quieter now, but no less sharp. “I’m just saying… it’d be nice if you owned up to it instead of pretending it’s nothing. You shot everything at me, and now you act like you’re better off alone. Well, congrats. You’re not.”

You cleared your throat, the sound small but sharp in the heavy silence. “Hey…” you said, voice steady, even if your chest was tight. “He made his choice, alright? I get why he did it. It sucks, yeah. But it’s not the end of the world.”

You didn’t know why you said it. Maybe because someone had to. Maybe because, deep down, it still stung to hear Lando tear into Max like that—even if you had every reason to be angry too. Even if you weren’t sure you’d ever forgive him.

Lando turned to you, eyes wide with disbelief, frustration flickering just beneath the surface. “Seriously?” he said, voice low but sharp. “You’re defen—”

“Enough,” Zak snapped, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Out. Both of you.”

The word landed hard.

You didn’t argue. Just stood, slow and stiff, your chair scraping quietly against the floor. Lando rose beside you, jaw clenched, hands balled into fists at his sides. The cameras clicked in a frenzy, flashes popping like fireworks as you made your way toward the door.

You could feel the weight of every stare, every whispered comment. The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on. You didn’t need to check your phone to know what tomorrow’s headlines would say.

Almost at the door, Lando stopped.

You turned just in time to see him spin on his heel, eyes locked on Max, voice rising above the hum of the room.

“You’re a selfish piece of shit, Max!”

The words rang out, sharp and clear, echoing off the walls and straight into every microphone in the room.

Zak and Toto exchanged a look as the door shut behind you, the noise of the press room fading into a dull hum. Both men let out quiet scoffs, the kind that said this again?

“You two are impossible,” Zak muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Do you even realize how that looked? Cameras everywhere. Journalists hanging on every word. Do you care what kind of mess you just made?”

“Impossible? Me?!” Lando snapped, his voice sharp as he turned toward you, finger jabbing through the air. “I just called him out! Someone had to say it!”

You crossed your arms, stepping in closer, heat rising in your chest. “Oh, please. You think yelling in front of every camera makes you some kind of hero? You’re just as ridiculous as he is.”

Lando’s jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. “Ridiculous? Maybe. But at least I’m not sitting there pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. At least I say what I mean.”

You shook your head, the words coming out before you could stop them. “Spare me. You’re not some moral crusader, Norris. You’re just loud idiot.”

“Oh, and you’re what? Enlightened?” he shot back, voice rising. “Defending the guy who bailed on you like it was nothing? Are you stup—”

“Enough!” Zak barked, cutting him off before the sentence could land. “My head hurts just listening to you two. You’re like children.”

Toto stepped in then, his voice quieter but firmer. “Go to the hotel. Take a shower. Sleep. You’ll need it tomorrow.”

No one argued.

You just turned and walked, the silence between you and Lando louder than anything either of you had said.

────────────

Sleep wouldn’t come.

You weren’t even sure why. Maybe it was the press conference, still playing on a loop in your head. Maybe it was the match tomorrow, the weight of it pressing against your chest like a stone. Or maybe it was just your body—too wired, too used to adrenaline and noise and movement to understand that it was finally allowed to rest.

You lay flat on your back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, tracing the faint cracks in the plaster like they might spell something out. The hum of the air conditioning filled the room, soft and steady, but it didn’t help. If anything, it made the silence feel louder.

Then your phone lit up on the nightstand.

The buzz was sharp in the quiet, startling in its suddenness.

You groaned, already bracing yourself. Probably Lily, checking in. Or Kimi, sending some half-asleep meme. Maybe Toto, reminding you to hydrate.

You reached for it lazily, thumb swiping across the screen.

One message.

norris u asleep?

Your eyebrows lifted.

What the hell?

You glanced at the time. 11:07 p.m.

Your thumb hovered over the screen.

For a moment, you thought about ignoring it. Pretending you hadn’t seen the message. Just going back to staring at the ceiling, letting the silence stretch on.

But instead—before you could talk yourself out of it—you typed a reply.

yn no. why?

Short. Dry. On purpose.

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

Then disappeared. Then came back.

You watched it, heart ticking a little faster for reasons you didn’t want to name.

norris me neither was thinking maybe we should train? court one’s free

You blinked at the screen.

Of all the things he could’ve said—that wasn’t what you expected.

Not an apology. Not a joke. Not some half-hearted attempt to explain the press conference.

Just… train? At 11 p.m.

You stared at the message, thumb hovering again.

yn it’s late.

And it was. The kind of late that made your limbs feel heavy, your thoughts a little slower, your body unsure if it wanted rest or movement.

norris that’s the point. no zak. no toto. no cameras. just tennis.

You stared at the message, thumb hovering. He wasn’t wrong. You did need the practice. There was still so much to figure out—timing, rhythm, trust. The match tomorrow wasn’t going to wait for you to feel ready.

Still, something about this felt… off. Or maybe just unexpected. Lando reaching out like this. Not to argue. Not to gloat. Just to play.

You hesitated for a second longer. Then typed before you could overthink it.

yn fine. see you there in 15.

You set the phone down, heart ticking a little faster now.

What could possibly go wrong?

Plenty, if history was anything to go by.

But you were already pulling on your hoodie.

The court was washed in the harsh white of the floodlights, every corner lit too brightly, every shadow stretched long and strange across the surface. The city murmured in the distance—cars, wind, the occasional far-off siren—but here, it was mostly quiet. Just the soft thud of tennis balls echoing in the stillness.

Lando was already there, leaning on his racket like he had all the time in the world. His silhouette cut a sharp line against the light, curls messy, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He looked over as you stepped onto the court, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Wow,” he said, voice light. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

You rolled your eyes, but there wasn’t much heat behind it. “Don’t be so surprised,” you said, walking toward your bag. “We’ve got work to do.”

“Right,” he said, flipping a ball into the air and catching it again, his gaze following its lazy arc. “Can’t exactly win a Grand Slam sitting on our asses, can we?”

You didn’t answer. Just bent to lace your shoes, the weight of the day still clinging to your shoulders.

Lando flicked a few switches on the ball machine, that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes. “Alright,” he said, stepping back with a grin. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The first ball shot out like a bullet.

You swung—and missed.

The second came even faster. Another miss.

“Oi! Watch it!” Lando shouted, half-laughing, half-annoyed. “Your forehand’s still a disaster!”

You glared at him, breath already short. “Maybe if you didn’t hog the settings like a control freak, I’d have a chance!”

You swung at the next one—missed again. The frustration boiled over, and you slammed your racket down against the court with a sharp crack that echoed under the floodlights.

The machine didn’t care. It kept firing, relentless and mechanical, balls flying at you both like it had something to prove. You and Lando kept shouting over the noise, blaming each other, tossing insults mid-rally like they were part of the drill.

“You’re late on it!” he snapped, ducking a ball that whizzed past his shoulder.

“No, you’re late on your—”

CRASH.

You collided mid-swing, shoulders slamming together, rackets clattering to the ground. You stumbled back, breath caught in your throat, heart pounding from the impact and the sheer absurdity of it all.

The machine kept going, balls bouncing wildly across the court.

You both froze, glaring at each other, chests heaving, sweat dripping down your temples. The tension between you was thick enough to cut with a knife.

If Toto or Zak had been watching, they’d be having a full-blown meltdown.

Lando finally threw up his hands. “Alright! Break! Now!”

He sounded so much like Zak that you almost laughed.

Almost.

Instead, you nodded, dragging your sleeve across your forehead as you walked off court, muttering under your breath.

The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, but not entirely uncomfortable. You sipped your water slowly, the coolness of it grounding you as your eyes traced the white lines on the court. They looked sharper under the floodlights, like they’d been drawn just for you to stare at while you questioned every decision that had led you here. The press conference. The match tomorrow. The fact that you were out here, in the middle of the night, training with someone who drove you absolutely insane.

Then Lando’s voice cut through the quiet. “Can I ask you something?”

You didn’t look at him. “No.”

It came out flat, automatic. You weren’t in the mood. Not for more questions. Not for whatever was brewing behind that tone of his.

But of course, he ignored you. That was just who he was—always pushing, always poking, always talking even when you told him not to. You rolled your eyes, already regretting showing up. And yet, despite yourself, a small laugh slipped out. Just a breath of amusement, soft and tired.

“Why do you keep defending him?” he asked.

You didn’t answer right away. You kept your eyes on the court, pretending you didn’t know exactly who he meant. “Who?”

Lando didn’t take the bait. “You know who,” he said, voice dipping lower, almost teasing. “Max. At the press conference. You jumped in like you were his lawyer.”

You sighed, the weight of it catching in your chest. Jesus. Why does he care? Why now, after all the yelling, after all the tension, after everything that had gone unsaid for weeks?

“Because he didn’t deserve what you said,” you said finally, voice quiet but firm. “Yeah, he messed up. He made a shitty call. But that doesn’t mean you get to tear him apart in front of the world. It was unnecessary.”

Lando turned toward you, eyebrows raised like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “Since when does Y/n Y/l/n empathize with anyone?”

You shot him a look, sharp and tired, but there was a flicker of something else behind it. A smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth, despite everything. “Maybe I’m full of surprises, Norris.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly, that familiar smirk creeping back onto his face. “Oh, you definitely are.”

The quiet settled again, heavier this time. Not the kind that felt peaceful, but the kind that pressed down on your chest, made the air feel thicker. You could hear the soft hum of the lights above, the distant buzz of the city beyond the fences, but between the two of you, there was nothing. Just the weight of everything unsaid.

Then Lando spoke, and his voice was different now. No teasing. No edge. Just quiet confusion. “No, seriously,” he said. “I don’t get it. Why would you defend someone who bailed on you?”

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t want to see whatever was in his eyes—judgment, pity, curiosity. You weren’t sure which would be worse. “You’re reading into it too much, Norris,” you said, trying to keep your voice flat, dismissive. Like it didn’t matter. Like he didn’t matter.

But something in you shifted. The way he was looking at you—soft, searching, not smug or sarcastic—made something twist in your chest. It caught you off guard. You almost felt bad for brushing him off. Almost.

What the fuck is happening to you?

You exhaled slowly, your eyes dropping to the court, to the lines you’d been staring at all night. You didn’t mean to say it. Not really. But the words slipped out anyway, quiet and raw.

“It’s because I got injured.”

And there it was.

The truth, sitting between you like a stone dropped in still water. No excuses. No spin. Just the thing you hadn’t said out loud until now.

You didn’t look up to see his reaction. You weren’t sure you could.

Lando didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, racket hanging loosely at his side, the ball resting by his shoe like it had been forgotten. His face was hard to read—no smirk, no sharp comeback, just stillness. And that somehow made it worse. You could feel his eyes on you, waiting, trying to make sense of what you’d just said.

“Injured?” he asked finally, and his voice was quieter now. Not accusing. Just… unsure.

You felt your stomach twist. Of course. Even him. Even Lando Norris, who never shut up, who always had something to say—now he was looking at you like he didn’t know what to believe. Like maybe you were making it up. Like maybe you were just another excuse.

But something in your chest shifted. You didn’t want to lie. Not this time. Not about this. You didn’t want to brush it off or change the subject or pretend it didn’t matter. Because it did. It mattered more than anything.

“It happened last year,” you said, your voice soft, almost like you were telling the story to yourself. “Wimbledon. One wrong step. That’s all it took.”

You paused, swallowing hard. The memory was still sharp, still vivid—the way your foot slid, the way your knee twisted, the way everything changed in a second. You hadn’t even screamed. Just laid there, stunned, knowing something had gone very, very wrong.

“I didn’t tell anyone at first,” you went on, eyes fixed on the court. “Not the doctors. Not the federation. I thought if I ignored it, it would go away. I thought I could push through it. But it didn’t get better. It got worse. And by the time I finally told Toto, it was already too late.”

You let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Max knew, though. He could tell something was off. He always could.”

Lando didn’t say anything. He just stood there, still and quiet, his expression unreadable. But you could feel him listening. Really listening. And somehow, that made it harder to keep talking.

Still, the words kept coming.

“So when he left,” you said, your voice steady but worn thin at the edges, “I understood why. I didn’t like it. I hated it, actually. But I got it.”

You stared down at the court, the white lines blurring slightly under the harsh lights. The silence that followed wasn’t sharp anymore. It didn’t feel like a fight waiting to happen. It just felt… full. Like everything you hadn’t said until now was finally catching up to you.

“So yeah,” you said, softer now, “that’s why I defended him.”

You paused, the words sitting heavy in your chest.

“Because in the end…” You swallowed. “It’s kind of my fault.”

There it was. The truth, bare and quiet and a little bit ugly. You hadn’t meant to say it out loud, not like that. But once it was out, you didn’t take it back. You just sat there, heart thudding, waiting to see what he’d do with it.

“That’s bullshit. It’s not your fault,” Lando said at last, his voice low but firm, like he’d been holding it in and couldn’t anymore.

You let out a soft scoff, but there was no humor in it. Just bitterness. “Sure it is,” you muttered, eyes still on the ground. “I hid it. I kept playing like nothing was wrong. If I’d just been honest—”

“Shut up, Y/n.”

The words hit you like a slap, not because they were harsh, but because of how suddenly they came. You blinked, startled, and looked up.

Lando had stepped closer, his expression tight, serious in a way you rarely saw. No smirk. No teasing glint in his eyes. Just something raw and real.

“If you’d been honest,” he said again, slower this time, “you would’ve been benched. You wouldn’t have played singles. You wouldn’t have won. You would’ve been sidelined, and you know it.”

You stared at him, heart thudding a little harder now. Because he wasn’t wrong. And because he wasn’t saying it to hurt you—he was saying it like he needed you to hear it. Like he needed you to stop blaming yourself for something that was never really yours to carry alone.

To be honest, you didn’t know what to say. Your mind was still catching up, still trying to make sense of the version of Lando standing in front of you now—calm, steady, almost gentle. It didn’t fit the version of him you’d been arguing with just hours ago. It didn’t fit the version who yelled across press rooms or snapped at you mid-rally. And yet, here he was. Saying things that made your chest ache in a way you weren’t prepared for.

“Just so you know,” he said, voice low, words careful, “I won’t bail on you because of an injury. I can promise that.”

You stared at him, heart ticking a little faster. Lando Norris, making promises. Since when did he do that? Since when did he say things that made your throat tighten?

You swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. “What does that mean for me?”

He stepped closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough that you could feel the shift in the air. His eyes met yours, steady and clear. “It means I want you to promise me something,” he said. “That if it gets worse—if anything feels off—you tell me. No more pretending it’s fine. Got it?”

You blinked, caught somewhere between disbelief and something softer. Something warmer. You weren’t used to this version of him. You weren’t sure what to do with it. But you knew one thing—you believed him.

“Got it,” you whispered, nodding slowly.

And just like that, something shifted between you. The weight of the night, the tension, the rivalry—it didn’t disappear. But it softened. Just a little.

“Now…” Lando said, his voice lighter again, like he was trying to shift the mood, to pull you both back into something that felt more familiar. “Let’s train again, shall we?”

He held out his hand.

You were still sitting on the bench, water bottle resting loosely in your grip, legs stretched out in front of you, muscles cooling too fast in the night air. You looked at his hand for a moment, unsure. Not because you didn’t want to take it—but because something about the gesture felt different. Not performative. Not sarcastic. Just… simple. Steady. Like he meant it.

Against your better judgment, you smiled. A small one, barely there. Then a quiet laugh slipped out, soft and surprised, like it had caught you off guard. Like it had been waiting for a reason to surface.

And then—without really thinking—you reached out and placed your hand in his.

His palm was warm. Solid. Familiar in a way that made your chest tighten. Like muscle memory. Like something you hadn’t realized you missed until it was there again. His fingers curled around yours, not too tight, not too loose. Just enough to hold you steady.

Something flickered in your chest. A strange little flutter that didn’t belong here. Comfort, maybe. Or reassurance. Or something else entirely—something you didn’t have a name for. You weren’t supposed to feel it. Not with him. Not like this.

This was supposed to be a late-night training session. That’s all. Just two players trying to find their rhythm again. Just you and the guy who’d driven you insane for years, who knew exactly how to get under your skin.

So why did your heart skip a beat at his touch?

You didn’t know.

© verstarris 2025

babsie radio ! so here it is, my dearest child </33 this was so much fun to write!! also sorry for the possible inaccuracies, but I played tennis, like, twice in my life, and one time my friend nearly broke my nose! So if you spot any mistakes, just pretend you don’t see them! thank you! Hope y’all like it anyway and see you in part two, which will be available in few seconds <3 big thanks belongs to @lvrclerc for allowing me to take inspo from her graphic and layout in general. Without A Dent In The Ice this fic wouldn’t exist!!!

taglist. @haniette @amyelevenn @clovermoters @zariacore @darling-suee @wwwynette @landosaints @piestri @plantlover28 @lgl2003 @gripitlikelando @jenxjar @gossenabitur @basicchelsea @ohwhoisyou-rubyjane @biscuitjuice @keepyoureyesonmeboy @filmleclerc @taetae-armyyyyy @jewelsm481

[orangeblossomsintheair]

GRIEF ASIDE (1/4) | MV33

summary : You fancied your fiancé, you realized with horror. Oh, God. You fancied your fiancé.

wc : 13k

an : this took.. a while ☹️ anyway

For as long as you could remember, you had been engaged to Max Emilian, scion of House Verstappen.

On paper, it was a triumphant match, a union to secure your house's fortunes for generations. To be betrothed to the son of a duke was a dream most could only aspire to.

Yet, no one envied House Button’s lovely heiress.

Instead, the court pitied you.

Jos Verstappen, your future father-in-law and Duke of the North, was a name steeped in infamy. Known as the Butcher of the North, his reputation was as frigid and cruel as the land he ruled. Whispers of his war crimes haunted corridors, and songs of lament cursed his name in taverns.

To marry into such a legacy meant tying yourself to shadows you could never escape.

But duty had bound you to this path as tightly as the chill of the northern wind now clung to your skin.

Raised to bridge alliances and strengthen bonds, you had no illusions about the weight of your role.

Now, you stood before the towering iron gates of the Verstappen estate, carriage behind you, your wool cloak and one of your knight’s heavy coats offered little respite from the North’s unforgiving cold.

“Keep your chin up, my lady,” Lily murmured beside you, adjusting the trunk she carried, her voice nearly drowned by the howling wind. Her cheeks were flushed from the frost, and her attempts at reassurance felt as thin as your cloak.

You nodded mutely, clenching your chattering teeth. Complaining about her poor preparation, or your shared underestimation of the northern winter, would achieve little.

The gates groaned open, revealing the sprawling estate beyond.

The fortress-like walls loomed high, their grey stone stark against the snow-laden landscape. Narrow windows glinted like ice shards under the weak winter sun.

Smoke curled lazily from the distant stables, a muted sign of life in an otherwise bleak expanse.

“Cheerful place,” Lando muttered behind you, his voice dry. He pulled his hood lower, trying to shield his face from the biting wind.

“More like a tomb,” Oscar replied, tone low. His eyes scanned the walls warily, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Crossing the threshold of the estate, you were greeted by a cavernous main hall that carried little more warmth than the outdoors. Though a fire crackled at one end, its heat barely touched the far corners of the room.

The scent of pine mingled with the cold tang of iron, likely from the spiked chandelier that loomed overhead, casting jagged shadows across the floor.

“Presenting Lady (Y/N) of House Button,” the steward announced, his voice echoing up the vaulted ceilings.

The words washed over you, irrelevant compared to your struggle to stop trembling. The knight closest to you, Oscar, shifted closer, his presence a silent bulwark, but you scarcely noticed.

A figure descended the grand staircase, drawing your attention despite the icy haze clouding your mind.

Max Emilian Verstappen.

He moved with a grace that could only be borne from years of court presence, strides measured and deliberate yet still managing to not look stiff.

Pale hair neatly combed, save for a few strands that fell across his forehead, softening the otherwise hard edges of his face. His broad shoulders were draped in a heavy black coat lined with fur, swallowing what little light the room offered.

You had heard tales of him: a skilled warrior, an even better horseman, and a temper so fierce people began claiming the Verstappen rage was a hereditary trait.

His eyes fell on you then, surprise flickering across his face before being quickly replaced by a furrowed brow and the unmistakable air of annoyance.

“Gods,” he muttered under his breath, his tone cold enough to make you flinch.

You stiffened, unsure whether to speak or remain silent.

Was that usually how the Northern Lords greeted their betrothed?

Max’s eyes roved over you, taking in your trembling form, pale cheeks, and the inadequate cloak clutched around your shoulders.

His frown deepened, and he turned sharply toward your knights, his expression hardening.

“Why in the seven hells is she dressed like this?” he demanded.

Sir Lando bristled but maintained his composure. “My lady insisted, Lord Verstappen, that we keep ourselves alive. We offered additional layers-”

“She’s half-frozen. Who cares if you're alive if your Lady is dead?” Max cut him off, already shrugging out of his own coat.

You opened your mouth to protest, to insist you were fine, but before you could utter a word, he was draping the fur-lined garment over your shoulders.

The residual warmth from his body enveloped you, burying you under the scent of pine and leather.

“Your stubbornness will kill you,” he muttered, crouching slightly to adjust the coat. His tone was still sharp, but his hands were steady and careful as they brushed over you.

You glanced at Lily, who hovered nearby, her eyes darting between you and Max. “Fetch tea,” Max ordered, voice brooking no argument.

She hesitated, clearly unsure whether to take orders from a person who was decidedly not her Lady, but a sharp look from him sent her scurrying away.

Max turned back to you, his expression unreadable as his hand brushed over your elbow, guiding you forward. “Sit,” he gestured to the high-backed chair closest to the hearth.

You sank into the seat gratefully, abandoning the appearance of grace in lieu of the warmth of the fire and the heavy coat easing the worst of your shivers.

Max crouched before you, his face illuminated by the flickering light. “You were standing in the cold far too long,” he said, softer now as though talking to an injured bird.

“I didn’t realize…” you started, but your voice faltered.

Max’s lips quirked in a faint, reluctant smile. “Not even when you were shivering like a leaf?”

He leaned back, regarding you for a moment before adding, “The North will swallow you whole.”

His words should have stung, but you found it hard to be insulted for there was no malice in them, only a hint of amusement.

The tea arrived swiftly, Lily handing it to you with a pinched expression, steam curling from the delicate porcelain as if reluctant to break the stillness of the hall.

You wrapped your frozen fingers around the cup, savoring the way the heat kissed your skin, thawing the numbness in your fingers.

Max walked to stand a few paces away, matching your knight and maid's distance, watching you with a detached sort of interest, his arms still crossed over his chest.

The flickering firelight carved sharp angles along his face, illuminating the high cut of his cheekbones and the stern set of his jaw.

“You look better now.” His voice was quieter this time. “At least you have some color in you.”

You weren’t sure if that was meant to be a kindness or merely an observation, but you offered a polite nod regardless.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Max will do.”

The correction startled you. Men of his station, sons of dukes especially, rarely made such allowances. Betrothed or not.

“As you wish… Max.”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it vanished just as quickly.

“I imagine you have questions.”

Of course, you did.

Too many, and yet none seemed appropriate to ask.

You had spent years preparing for this union in theory, but now that you were standing on the threshold of it, the rehearsed words died in your throat.

“Only a few,” you said carefully.

He hummed, a noncommittal sound. “Then ask.”

You hesitated. “Your father… the Duke… is he here?”

Max’s expression cooled.

“No. My father is at the border fortresses, inspecting the garrisons. He will return before the winter feast to welcome you.”

Relief and dread tangled in your chest. It was a reprieve not to face Duke Jos immediately, but you knew it was temporary at best.

“And your father will be joining us soon enough as well, won’t he?” Max’s tone was unreadable, though something sharp glinted beneath it.

You nodded. “Yes. My father will come north after his duties are finished. To meet with the Duke and… formalize the engagement.”

The words felt heavy on your tongue. This visit wasn’t just a quiet retreat to adjust to your future home. It was a public commitment. Before long, the entire North would know you belonged to him.

You dreaded what that would do to your public image.

Max’s jaw tightened although his expression remained carefully distant. “Of course.”

He turned slightly, gaze sweeping the cold stone hall.

“You’ll find the North is not like the South. Comfort is scarce, and the people scarcer. They will not warm to you easily.”

His words felt more like a warning than a courtesy.

“I don’t expect them to.”

That seemed to surprise him. Perhaps he had been expecting you to be one of those Southern ladies that demanded everyone to bend over backwards for their comfort.

His eyes flicked back to you, studying you in a way that made you want to shrink under his coat.

“Good.”

The fire cracked loudly, sending a shower of sparks upward. Max tilted his head toward it, the flicker of light catching in his pale hair.

“You’ll need to adjust quickly. My father won’t tolerate weakness in his house.”

“And you?” The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Max’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes hardened.

“I won’t coddle you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

It wasn’t. But the way he said it made your stomach twist.

Still, you straightened your spine. “I wouldn’t ask for that.”

A tense silence settled again, though this time, it felt more contemplative than cold.

Max’s gaze drifted from you to the door behind you.

“You must be tired from the journey. I’ll have your rooms prepared.”

“I thought we would stay in the west wing,” you said, recalling the arrangements made in the letters exchanged between your families.

Max’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“The west wing is being repaired. Storm damage. You’ll stay closer to the main hall until it’s finished.”

It was a small thing, perhaps, yet it unsettled you.

The west wing was meant to be yours. A space to adjust quietly, away from the imposing grandeur of the estate.

Now, you were being denied that distance.

But what could you do? Refuse? Argue?

“Very well,” you said softly.

Max nodded once then turned to the waiting steward.

“Have the rooms near the library prepared. And make sure the fires are lit.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Oscar and Lando approached then, boots scuffing against the stone floor as they stopped just shy of your side.

Their eyes darted toward you, assessing your posture, searching for some silent confirmation that you were unharmed.

You gave them a small nod, and the tension in Oscar’s broad shoulders seemed to ease, though Lando’s hand remained near the hilt of his sword, his body coiled like a spring.

Max’s sharp gaze swept over the two knights, his expression unreadable but undoubtedly calculating.

“Your people will stay nearby,” he said, his voice firm but unhurried. “Your maid is not to wander without escort. Your men may walk around but not too far from the fortress. I'd rather not deal with the politics of a Southern knight dying in my land.”

Lily bristled at the casual remark, her cheeks coloring with indignation. “We Southerners aren't as fragile as you seem to think,” she said sharply, her words cutting the silence like a knife.

“Lily,” Oscar said quietly, catching her arm before she could step forward. His grip was gentle but firm, head shaking in a silent plea for restraint.

Max didn’t even flinch at her outburst, his cool demeanor unwavering as his gaze flicked back to you.

“Your people are bold.” His tone was tinged with something akin to amusement. “Let’s hope they’re wise enough to temper it.”

“They’re loyal,” you replied evenly, meeting his eyes without faltering. “I wouldn’t have brought them otherwise.”

“Loyalty is admirable but it doesn’t mean much if it gets you killed.”

Lando shifted beside you, jaw tight. “With all due respect, my lord,” he began without much respect at all. “We’re more than capable of keeping her safe.”

“I’m sure you believe that.” Max’s gaze settled on Lando. “But I’ve seen capable men bleed out on these stones for lesser causes. My rules are for your protection as much as mine.”

Lando’s grip on his sword tightened, but Oscar’s hand on his shoulder stilled him.

“We’ll abide by your rules,” Oscar confirmed, voice calm.

“Good.” Max turned back to you. “Come. I’ll show you the library. You should know where it is if you’re to live here.”

The offer caught you off guard. The scion of House Verstappen switched conversations so casually he seemed to slap you with his casualness.

“The library?”

“You can’t spend all your time staring at the snow,” Max replied evenly, though there was a faint lilt to his words.

Was that… humor? It was hard to tell with him.

“Well..” You tugged your coat tighter. “It is very captivating snow.”

Max’s brow arched. “And yet, I think you’ll survive without it for an hour.”

You blinked, taken aback by the dry remark.

Was he… teasing you?

Shaking off the ridiculous thought, you rose from your chair, trailing behind as he turned and strode toward the door.

You glanced at your companions, giving them a small and, hopefully, reassuring smile before stepping forward to follow Max.

Max’s pace was long, purposeful, and you found yourself scrambling to keep up without looking breathless.

(You decidedly ignored Sir Lando's small snort of laughter.)

The manor was a labyrinth of cold stone and dim corridors, the walls lined with tapestries dulled by age.

Shadows flickered where sparse torches burned, giving the place a haunted sort of stillness.

You found it hard to ever imagine yourself calling this place home.

Max moved through the halls like someone who had been shaped by this place, his presence carved into the very bones of the estate.

His stride was confident, measured, purposeful.

You, on the other hand, felt like an outsider, a stranger, each step heavy on the cold stone floor.

Finally, Max stopped before a pair of massive oak doors, their wood darkened with age. He didn’t look back at you as he spoke, his voice low, but managing to carry through the quiet hall.

“Your men stay outside. Your maid may enter,” he said, the command clear.

Your knights exchanged a brief look.

Lando’s lips curled into a smirk, clearly less than thrilled with the command. He let out a sigh, posture straightening with a resigned huff.

With a dramatic roll of his eyes, he moved to one side of the door, giving a theatrical bow as though he were playing a part in some grand performance.

Oscar shook his head but followed suit, taking his place at the other side, hands clasped with a more restrained expression.

Lando’s voice broke the silence, dripping with mock sweetness. “Enjoy the library, my Lady. Try not to get too lost in there.”

You laughed, unable to contain yourself and bid them a silent goodbye.

Without another word, he pushed the doors open, the hinges groaning in protest, and led you and Lily inside.

The library was vast and dim, lined wall-to-wall with shelves that stretched high into the shadows above.

Dust motes floated lazily in the beams of light filtering through the narrow, arched windows, painting the room in shades of gold and gray.

You inhaled deeply, the scent of aged paper and polished wood filling your senses.

“It’s beautiful…” you breathed, the words slipping out unbidden.

“It is,” Max replied, stepping farther into the room. “And it’s yours to use as I allow while you’re here.”

You followed him in, your fingers brushing the spines of the books closest to you. They were thick and heavy, their titles embossed in faded gold.

“Are these… first editions?” you asked, your voice hushed, as if speaking too loudly might awaken some slumbering beast.

“Many of them, yes,” Max said, his gaze sweeping the shelves as if cataloging them in his mind. “You’ll find original prints of histories, poetry, philosophy. Most of it quite rare. Some of the works were commissioned specifically for this collection.”

“Commissioned?” you echoed, eyebrows lifting in surprise.

He nodded. “Yes. House Verstappen has always valued knowledge. There are some volumes here you won’t find anywhere else.”

You let your hand fall from the books and turned to face him. “You must spend a lot of time here then.”

“Not as much as I should,” he admitted, his tone crisp. “But I’m familiar with the layout. If you’re planning to lose yourself, I can point you in the right direction.”

The corner of your mouth quirked up at his phrasing. “Lose myself?”

“It happens.” He shrugged, glancing away.

You laughed softly. “Is that your way of warning me?”

“A mere suggestion,” he corrected, his lips twitching in what might have been the hint of a smile. “Start with the poetry under the windows. It’s a good place for… wandering minds.”

“Poetry under the windows,” you repeated the words under your breath, glancing toward the far end of the room where a faint glow spilled across the shelves. “Any other recommendations?”

“The histories on the east wall are worth your time.” He gestured briefly. “And if you’re feeling adventurous, there’s a collection of letters on the upper mezzanine. They’re in French, though.”

“I can manage French,” you said with a small smile.

His eyebrow arched faintly. “Good. Then you’ll also find some rather colorful accounts of court scandals tucked in the back corner. A few are probably embellished, but they’re entertaining nonetheless.”

Your laughter came easier this time. “Court scandals? I didn’t expect you to recommend something so… frivolous.”

“Frivolity has its place,” he said dryly. “Just don’t let the staff catch you reading them. They might talk.”

“Noted.” You attempted to suppress your grin.

For a moment, the two of you stood in companionable silence, the quiet weight of the library wrapping around you like a cloak. You turned back to the shelves, running your fingertips lightly over the spines once more.

“This is incredible,” you murmured.

You glanced over your shoulder at his lack of a response, catching a faint glimmer of something softer in his eyes, though it vanished almost as quickly as it appeared.

Max seemed to compose himself, clearing his throat. “You will be fetched come dinner time.”

The heavy doors of the library groaned shut behind him, leaving you and Lily in the cavernous stillness.

As soon as the sound of his footsteps faded, Lily let out a sharp exhale, breaking the silence. “I thought he’d never leave,” she muttered, her voice pitched low but urgent.

You turned to her, startled by her tone. “Lily-”

“He’s impossible to read!” she interrupted, her hands gesturing animatedly as she paced a small circle near the door.

“One moment, he’s scowling like the world owes him something, and the next, he’s… he’s practically pointing you toward the best books for a cozy evening! What am I supposed to make of that?”

You blinked, caught between amusement and exasperation. “I don’t think it’s meant to be deciphered, Lily.”

“But it should be!” she shot back, stopping abruptly to face you. “You’re supposed to marry him. How are you supposed to live with someone who switches moods faster than the weather?”

“I don’t think he’s as unpredictable as you think,” you said cautiously, though you weren’t entirely convinced of your own words. “He’s… reserved.”

“Reserved?” Lily snorted. “He looks like he’s trying not to bite anyone’s head off half the time.” She softened slightly, adding, “Although, I’ll admit, it was nice of him to show you this place.”

Her eyes wandered around the library, her earlier frustration melting into a quieter awe. “It really is something, isn’t it?”

You nodded, letting your gaze sweep the towering shelves. “It is. I could lose hours in here.”

“Maybe you’ll have to,” Lily said, her tone lighter now. “If he’s not going to be forthcoming about himself, you might have to dig through the history books to figure him out. Perhaps you'll even find a diary of his.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I think even the books might not have the answers to that mystery.”

Lily gave you a sly grin. “Well, if anyone can figure him out, my lady, it’s you.”

With a roll of your eyes, you turned back to the shelves. “My betrothed's dour personality aside.. help me find that poetry section he mentioned.”

Lily smiled, stepping closer to follow you deeper into the quiet sanctuary of the library.

“Of course, my lady.”

—

Hours later, as the manor stirred for the evening meal, a servant was dispatched to your quarters. The boy found it strange that the two knights he'd heard his Lord's betrothed had come with weren't stationed by the door.

A sharp knock echoed once. Then again, louder, more insistent.

“My lady?”

Silence.

The servant hesitated, damp palms against the polished wood.

“My lady?” He said again, voice cracking. “My lady, may I come in?”

“...My lady, I'm coming in.”

Then, cautiously, he pushed the door open.

The room was untouched. The bed still perfectly made, the hearth’s fire reduced to flickering embers. Shadows stretched long across the walls, and a chill crept in where warmth should have lingered.

Panic tightened his throat.

He checked the adjoining rooms. The empty sitting area, the silent halls. Nowhere.

Not even your guards and maid were present.

Sweat gathered at his brow as he hurried through the winding corridors, heart hammering as he sought out Lord Verstappen.

He found Max standing near the great hall’s window, dusk spilling through the glass in muted gold.

“My lord,” the servant panted, voice tight. “She’s- she’s gone.”

Max turned slowly. “Gone?”

“I searched her chambers, the halls, the west wing-”

“And the library?” Max’s voice was sharp, cutting through the servant’s stammering explanation.

The servant faltered. “The… the library, my lord?”

“Yes,” Max said evenly, already striding toward the east corridor. “She’s there.”

The servant froze, his jaw slackening. “You… you allowed her inside?”

“Are you questioning me?” Max didn’t even glance back as he continued down the hall, his boots echoing sharply on the stone floor.

“N-no, my lord!” the servant stammered, bowing reflexively. “But should I-”

“Stay where you are,” Max ordered. “I’ll handle this myself.”

Your two knights stood sentinel by the library doors when he approached, arms crossed, their expressions a mixture of boredom and indifference.

They barely acknowledged him, their attention elsewhere as the echo of his boots rang down the corridor.

Max didn’t slow his pace. “Is she still in there?”

Lando flicked a glance toward Oscar, then shrugged. “Yep. She's buried in a book or something,” he said with a nonchalant flick of his wrist, as if it were of little concern.

Max’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t think to remind her of the time?”

Oscar raised a brow, voice dry. “A certain scion has, unfortunately, forbidden our entry, my lord.”

Max sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose, but Lando was quick to interject with a smirk. “And it’s a lost cause trying to pry our Lady away from a good book. Trust me, we’ve tried.”

Max’s frustration bubbled over into a short, exasperated laugh as he pushed the heavy doors open.

And there you were.

Curled into a high-backed chair, utterly absorbed in the thick, ancient book resting open in your lap.

A few other volumes lay scattered around your feet, their spines cracked open, as if you’d moved through them in a frenzy of curiosity.

Max’s gaze lingered on the sight before him. On the way your head tilted slightly as you read, your brow furrowed in concentration.

His grip on the doorframe loosened, but his jaw remained tight.

“My lady.”

You glanced up, startled but then smiled when you saw him. “Oh, my- Max, What are you doing here again?”

Max’s brow arched slightly at your casual tone. His irritation wavered.

He knew you were about to say ‘my Lord’ again, knew it was a mere slip of the tongue, court etiquette taking over before personal sense.

But.. my Max. Yes, he supposed he was indeed yours.

He couldn't say that though so when he spoke, it was only a disinterested, “It’s dinner time.”

You blinked, glancing toward the tall windows where the light had shifted to deep amber.

“Already? I hadn’t even realized-” You glanced down at the book in your lap, reluctant to put it aside. “I haven’t even finished this chapter.”

His gaze dropped to the title in your hands. “Faust,” he noted, tucking the information away. “You read German?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I… only at an elementary level.”

Max's eyebrow arched slightly. You were either a liar or terribly humble.

“Faust,” he repeated dryly. “Hardly a book for someone with only elementary German. Your skills are passable, at least.”

“Just enough to get by,” you admitted, more honest now, brushing invisible dust from your skirt as you stood.

Max offered his arm, and you took it without hesitation this time.

He noticed, though he said nothing about the change, afraid that if he voiced it out you'd withdraw again.

“You might find Faust more rewarding if you read it in context,” he remarked as you walked down the hall, your knights and maid following behind.

You glanced up at him, curious. “And what context would that be?”

“Understanding Goethe’s philosophical explorations, for one. Or at least recognizing the poetic structure in its original form.”

You tilted your head. “So now you’re saying my German isn’t good enough?”

“I’m saying it’s a pity to read something monumental in fragments,” he replied. “Not a criticism.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” The corners of your lips quirked upward.

“Take it as you like.” He offered you a small shrug, though there was the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes.

A beat of silence passed before he spoke again. “Which German do you struggle with?”

“Official documents,” you admitted. “The kind that's full of overly formal phrasing and unnecessary flourish.”

Max hummed, thoughtful. Most official documents were indeed like that. “I could assist with that, should the need arise.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the offer. “You would?”

“If I find myself having time.”

“Thank you.”

He shook his head, brushing off your words. “And don't sit too close to the mezzanine shelves,” he added. “They’re unstable.”

Your brows rose. “Unstable?”

“I don’t need you buried beneath three hundred years of German history,” he said, his tone casual but his meaning clear.

A laugh bubbled up before you could stop it. “You’d miss me, then?”

“More likely, the servants would revolt,” he said, gesturing to the doors to the dining hall. “Dinner then, shall we?”

—

The dining hall was an expansive, imposing space, its vaulted ceilings casting long shadows over the vast table.

Candles decorated much of the available surfaces in a surprisingly tasteful way.

Their flames flickered weakly, struggling to combat the cold that clung to the stone walls like it was a living, breathing thing.

The table stretched far ahead, but only two places were set.

Max took his seat at the head without so much as a glance in your direction, and you slid into the chair opposite him.

Lily quietly withdrew to prepare for your night routine while Lando and Oscar remained a fair distance away, leaving the two of you some privacy to discuss.

Servants moved efficiently, placing the first course on the table: roast venison, honeyed carrots, and freshly baked bread that had already begun to cool in the chill air.

The earlier conversation about books had petered out, leaving a quiet in its wake.

Max ate as though entirely alone, his focus on the meal before him.

You shifted in your seat, the faint scrape of your fork against the plate feeling almost intrusive.

"You know," you began tentatively, "for someone who seems to enjoy books, you’re surprisingly difficult to talk to about them."

Max’s knife paused mid-slice, his eyes flicking up to meet yours.

There was no hostility in his gaze, but his expression was unreadable all the same. “Talking about books is rarely as rewarding as reading them.”

“That sounds suspiciously like an excuse,” you said, trying to inject a bit of lightness into the moment. “Or maybe you just don’t know how to have a proper discussion about them.”

His lips twitched slightly, as if the idea amused him, though he didn’t smile. “Do you often accuse your dining companions of conversational ineptitude, or am I a special case?”

“That depends.” You tore off a piece of bread. “Are you going to prove me wrong?”

Max tilted his head, studying you with quiet curiosity, like someone turning over a puzzle piece in their mind.

“Very well.” He set his knife down carefully. “What would you like to discuss? Goethe? Schiller?”

“Bold of you to assume I am especially fond of German authors. Perhaps I just picked up Faust in the library on a whim.” You smiled. “But if you must know, I’ve been working through Balzac recently.”

He raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting slightly, though still difficult to read. “Balzac? Ambitious. And how are you finding him?”

“Dense,” you admitted with a laugh. “Brilliant, but dense. Definitely not light reading.”

“Few worthwhile things are,” he replied, returning to his meal. “Though I’ve always found Balzac’s fascination with ambition rather… tiresome.”

“Really?” you asked, curious. “Why?”

He took a measured sip of wine before answering. “Because I’ve seen enough ambition in reality to find little appeal in it as fiction.”

You smiled faintly, tilting your head. “And yet, here you are. A product of generations of ambition.”

His gaze darkened slightly, though not in anger.

There was a flicker of something, maybe hesitation, before he spoke. “Careful,” he said, his voice low and quiet. “You’re treading close to dangerous ground.”

“Am I?” you asked, though your tone was gentler now, almost teasing. “I thought we were just talking about books.”

Before he could respond, the servants re-entered, clearing the first course and placing the next before you.

The interruption softened the tension, and you let the moment breathe.

When the room was quiet again, you spoke, this time more cautiously. “Alright, then. Enough about me. What about you? What are you reading?”

Max’s fork paused mid-motion, and he set it down with deliberate care. “Does it matter?”

“Of course, it matters,” you replied, leaning forward slightly. “How else am I supposed to judge your taste?”

For a moment, you thought you saw the faintest glimmer of a smile. “If you must know, The Sorrows of Young Werther.”

You blinked, surprised. “Goethe’s most sentimental work? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“Sentimentality has its uses,” he said dryly, though there was no real bite to his words. “Even you might agree.”

“Are you suggesting I’m sentimental?” you arched a brow.

“I’m suggesting you’re curious,” he replied, his tone even. “Perhaps overly so.”

“Fair.” You conceded with a small laugh. “But I’m curious.. what draws you to it? The tragedy? The unrequited love?”

He hesitated for just a moment, his gaze dropping briefly before he answered.

“The futility,” he said quietly, lifting his wine glass. “Of longing for something you cannot have.”

For a moment, you didn’t know how to respond, the honesty in his tone catching you off guard. When he didn’t elaborate, you picked up your own glass, letting the silence linger without pressing further.

“You have a rather bleak outlook, don’t you?” you asked finally, your voice softer now.

“Realistic,” he corrected, not unkindly, his gaze flicking back to yours. “Not everyone has the luxury of optimism.”

You frowned slightly, not entirely sure how to reply. “It’s not about luxury,” you said after a pause. “It’s about perspective.”

“Perspective is shaped by reality.” His eyes met yours, boring. “And reality is rarely kind.”

The conversation lulled again, but this time it felt less uneasy and more thoughtful.

As dinner wrapped up, Max glanced at your knights before settling on you, his tone lightening as he spoke. “I trust you can find your rooms?”

You nodded, standing from your chair. “Yes, I think so.”

“No late-night wandering, then?” he asked, his voice carrying the faintest trace of amusement.

Max’s lips twitched again, softer this time, as if he might actually be considering a smile. “Good. I’d hate to have to rescue you from some misstep in the dark.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “What makes you think I’d need rescuing?”

“Experience,” he said simply, the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes.

The air between you shifted slightly, the earlier sharpness fading into something more subdued.

You allowed yourself a small laugh, breaking the lingering tension. “I’ll have you know I’m quite capable of finding my way around.”

“Is that so?” he replied, leaning back in his chair. His tone had softened, the sharp edges dulling to a quiet curiosity. “Well, then. I suppose I’ll trust you.”

“Trust,” you repeated, letting the word hang between you. “A bold move, considering we’ve only just met.”

Max regarded you for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Bold, perhaps. But necessary.”

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. There was something in his voice, quiet, measured, and entirely unexpected, that made you pause. The weight of the moment settled around you like the faint flicker of the candlelight, warm yet fragile.

“Well,” you said finally. “I suppose I should be flattered.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

He rose from his seat with practiced ease, the flicker of warmth in his eyes quickly hidden behind his composed demeanor. “Goodnight, then.”

You watched him as he left the dining hall, his steps measured and deliberate, the echo of his footsteps fading into the vast, empty space.

For a moment, you sat in the quiet, your gaze lingering on the door where he had disappeared.

Finally, you stood, the faintest smile playing at your lips. “Goodnight, Max,” you murmured to the empty room.

—-

The first light of dawn crept through the heavy drapes of your room, painting the walls in soft hues of gold and silver. The air carried a sharp chill, the promise of frost lingering just outside the thick panes of glass.

Everything was still, save for the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth and the soft rustling of fabric as Lily moved about with quiet precision.

She bent over a polished wooden chair, her deft hands smoothing out the folds of the attire she’d chosen for you.

A cloak of deep crimson lay draped across her arm, its rich, heavy fabric catching the faint light. You stirred in your bed, watching her through half-lidded eyes as she worked.

“Good morning, Lily,” you murmured, sitting up and drawing the blankets closer against the morning chill.

Lily turned with a warm smile, setting the cloak on the bed beside you. “Good morning, my Lady. Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough,” you replied, your fingers brushing the thick velvet of the cloak. You tilted your head, examining it with curiosity. “I don’t recall seeing this in my wardrobe before.”

“It was delivered just this morning,” Lily explained, her tone light but tinged with amusement. “A gift, I believe, from Lord Verstappen.”

Your brows lifted as you traced the intricate embroidery along the hem, tiny silver threads woven into delicate patterns. “From Lord Verstappen?”

She nodded, folding her hands in front of her. “He must have assumed the worst given your attire yesterday.”

“It’s rather heavy,” you remarked, holding it up to feel its weight.

Lily gave you a knowing smile, her tone dry but affectionate. “I think I speak for all of us when I say that I’d rather you walk with less grace than freeze, my Lady.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head as you draped the cloak over your shoulders.

It was impossibly warm, the kind of warmth that seeped through your skin and settled in your bones. “You’re not wrong. I suppose there’s no room for vanity when winter comes knocking.”

“None at all,” Lily agreed, moving to adjust the cloak, fastening the silver clasp at your throat. “Besides, the color suits you. Lord Verstappen has surprisingly good taste. I'd have assumed he’d just grab any old thing and force you into it.”

You raised a brow at the tone that laced her words, giving her a sidelong glance. “Flattery for him, Lily? Are you trying to curry favor? And here I thought you were quite ready to sock him just yesterday.”

She feigned innocence, stepping back with a twinkle in her eye. “Not at all, my Lady. But if he keeps sending gifts like this, I might just start.”

Your laughter filled the room, chasing away the last remnants of sleep. You were somewhat glad Lily saw him as redeemable after yesterday.

After all, she was usually a good judge of character.

As you stood, the cloak fell around you like a royal mantle, its weight grounding but comforting.

By the time you entered the dining hall, Max was already seated at the long table, a vision of composed efficiency.

His pale hair was still perfectly swept back, not a strand out of place, and a small stack of documents sat before him.

His pen moved steadily across the paper, his focus unbroken even as the golden morning light softened the sharpness of his features.

“Good morning, Max,” you said, sliding into the chair across from him, your tone deliberately chipper.

Max glanced up briefly, eyes meeting yours with the barest flicker of warmth.

“Good morning,” he replied, setting his pen down with the precision of a man who never did anything carelessly. “You’re up early.”

“It’s rather difficult to stay in bed when the frost feels like it's climbing up to sleep with you,” you said, grabbing a warm roll from the plate near you. “Do you have a deal with the weather to ensure I never sleep in?”

A faint smile tugged at his lips. “I’ll admit to nothing. But if the frost succeeds, perhaps I should reward it.”

“Ha! I’d like to see you try,” you said, tearing a piece of bread and slathering it with butter. “I’ve made my peace with it, though. I realized there was a charm to the winter once I got over the whole ‘freezing to death’ aspect.”

Max arched a brow, his eyes sparkling faintly with what you hoped was amusement. “A charm, you say? I wasn’t aware you were so poetic in the mornings.”

“Oh, I’m a veritable bard before breakfast,” you said. “In fact, I was just composing a sonnet about how frostbite builds character.”

He snorted softly as he reached for his tea, the sound barely audible, but it felt like a victory. “I’ll be sure to commission a copy of it for the library.”

You leaned back in your chair, feeling emboldened by his rare moment of humor

“Speaking of things worth writing about, I was thinking of spending some time in the garden today. It looks magical with the frost.”

Max paused, his teacup halfway to his lips, and gave you a look that bordered on incredulous. “The garden? In winter?”

“Yes, the garden,” you said, undeterred. “You do realize it’s still a garden, even when it’s cold?”

He set his cup down slowly, as if trying to process your words. “You are aware that nothing grows in the garden during winter, yes? Unless you count the weeds, which I doubt have much aesthetic appeal.”

“There are flowers that survive in winter,” you said with a pointed look.

He tilted his head, his expression blank. “Like what? Frozen dandelions?”

“Snowdrops, holly, winter jasmine,” you listed off, ticking them off on your fingers. “I saw some while passing by yesterday. Honestly, do you even know what’s in your own garden?”

Max leaned back slightly. “I delegate. Why bother when there are people who are willing to brave the frost to catalog it all for me?”

You rolled your eyes, unable to hide your grin. “How magnanimous of you.”

He inclined his head slightly, as though you’d paid him a genuine compliment. “It’s a skill.”

“You should come with me,” you said suddenly. “A little walk in the fresh air couldn’t hurt. Who knows? You might even enjoy it.”

He hesitated, his fingers tapping lightly against the rim of his teacup. “I appreciate the invitation,” he said finally, his tone carefully polite. “But my duties don’t often allow for such… luxuries.”

“Luxuries?” you raised a brow. “Surely even a Lord like yourself deserves a moment to himself.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and rare, but it faded quickly. “Perhaps another time.”

You nodded, masking your disappointment with a practiced smile. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to distract you from your responsibilities.”

“Distraction,” he repeated, his gaze lingering on you longer than necessary.

Something unspoken flickered in his eyes, and though his expression remained composed, there was the faintest hint of something warmer beneath the surface.

“Perhaps,” he said again, this time softer, almost to himself.

You glanced down, heat creeping up your cheeks, and busied yourself with your breakfast.

—-

The steady scratch of a quill against parchment filled the room, broken only by the occasional shuffle of papers.

Max leaned over his desk, eyes scanning the dense columns of reports.

The study was dim, the late afternoon light barely filtering through the heavy curtains. The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long, flickering shadows across the walls.

Yet, for all his focus, his pen paused mid-sentence.

His thoughts drifted. Again.

To you.

He could see it vividly in his mind: the garden cloaked in frost, each branch thin and brittle beneath the weight of winter.

You would be there, wouldn’t you? Bundled in that wool cloak you favored, breath curling in the cold air as you traced the icy edges of dormant rose bushes.

You had mentioned it offhandedly this morning, your plan to spend the afternoon outside despite the chill.

Max let out a slow breath, frowning at the parchment before him.

The words blurred, meaningless.

It was ridiculous.

You were likely gone by now, the cold too sharp to endure for long.

Rationality urged him to stay, to finish the reports that demanded his attention.

Yet the thought persisted.

Why did it matter if you were still there?

It shouldn’t.

And yet.

The chair scraped quietly against the floor as he stood.

He didn’t bother with his coat. The cold would be a brief inconvenience.

His steps were measured as he left the study, though there was a certain tension in his stride, as if he was trying to convince himself this was a simple walk and nothing more.

The manor’s halls gave way to the biting air of winter, and Max inhaled sharply, the cold seeping through the thin fabric of his sleeves.

The gravel path crunched beneath his boots as he crossed into the garden.

The world was quiet here. Still.

The pale sun sagged low in the sky, casting a silver sheen over frost-laced branches and brittle hedges. Even the air felt suspended, holding its breath.

He scanned the expanse, expecting, no, hoping, to see a flicker of movement among the barren trees.

Nothing.

Max’s jaw tightened.

Of course. You wouldn’t have waited. Hours had passed. Why would you linger in the cold for him? The thought was absurd.

He moved forward anyway, slow and deliberate, his hands clasped behind his back as if that could restrain the growing restlessness in his chest.

Each turn of the path yielded only more empty frost-covered stone.

Once.

Twice.

A third time around, and still nothing.

Perhaps this was a mistake.

He turned to leave.

Then, faintly, the sound of movement, a soft rustle of fabric.

His head snapped up.

And there you were.

Tucked into the curve of a stone bench, half-hidden by the skeletal branches of the hedgerow.

A book lay open in your lap, your gloved fingers idly turning the page.

Max stared.

You hadn’t left.

A strange feeling settled in his chest, something between relief and unease.

He didn’t speak, not immediately. For a moment, he simply watched you, the way your breath misted in the cold, how your hair caught the pale light.

He wasn’t sure why he’d come out here.

But now that he had, he found he didn’t want to leave.

Max exhaled quietly, letting the breath curl away into the cold.

He stood perfectly still, half-concealed by the bare limbs of the hedgerow, his figure blending into the stark winter landscape. The cold gnawed at him, a sharp wind threading through the thin fabric of his sleeves, but he didn’t move.

His breath escaped in thin, controlled streams of vapor, dissipating into the frigid air.

And still, his eyes remained fixed on you.

You sat quietly on the stone bench, bundled in the cloak he'd ordered a servant to bring to you last night come morning, its edges stiff with frost.

A book rested in your lap, your gloved fingers lazily tracing the brittle page edges as you turned them.

Every now and then, you paused, eyes lifting to watch the pale sun as it sagged toward the horizon, before returning to your reading.

Max’s hands tightened behind his back.

He shouldn’t be here.

There was no reason to be.

And yet, he didn’t leave.

He told himself it was coincidence, that his steps had simply led him here after hours of restless pacing in his study.

But even that excuse felt thin, crumbling under the weight of his own unease.

He exhaled slowly, the breath catching in the cold.

Why didn’t you go inside? The air was sharp and biting.

Anyone with sense would’ve retreated to the warmth of the manor by now. Yet you sat there still, as if waiting for something.

Or someone.

A ridiculous thought.

Max’s jaw tightened.

"You know," a dry voice cut through the stillness, "standing there staring is a bit creepy, my Lord.”

Max turned sharply, his cold glare snapping to the armored figure leaning casually against the frosted stone archway.

Oscar.

The knight stood with an infuriating air of nonchalance, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, the other shoved lazily into the crook of his elbow. His breath misted lazily in the cold air, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re out of line.” Max’s voice was flat, the warning unmistakable.

Oscar only raised an eyebrow, entirely unbothered. “Probably. But you’ve been standing long enough that I figured someone should say something.”

Max’s glare deepened.

Oscar tilted his head slightly toward the garden. “You could just speak to her, you know. I’m half certain she wouldn’t mind.”

“I have no intention of interrupting her,” Max said coolly, though the words rang hollow even to his own ears.

Oscar made a thoughtful noise, tapping a gloved finger against his chin. “No, of course not. That’s why you’re skulking in the hedges instead of being a normal person and saying hello.”

Max’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “You have duties. Attend to them.”

Oscar chuckled under his breath. “Oh, I am attending to them. Protecting the lady, making sure her suitors aren’t lurking about. You know, the usual.”

Max’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

Oscar didn’t flinch.

“Did she not mention this morning she hoped you’d join her out here?” the knight asked offhandedly, brushing frost off his shoulder. “But maybe I heard wrong. Could’ve been the wind.”

Max didn’t respond.

Oscar let the silence stretch for a moment before shrugging. “Well. Suit yourself.”

With that, he pushed off the archway and strode casually toward you, boots crunching against the frost-laden gravel.

Max didn’t move. His gaze followed Oscar with a cold, sharp focus, but his feet remained planted, weighed down by something heavier than pride.

Oscar’s figure grew smaller as he neared you.

And then, you looked up.

Your face softened in recognition, lips curving into a faint smile as your knight approached. Max’s chest tightened inexplicably.

“You’ve been out here a while, my lady,” Oscar remarked lightly, stopping beside the stone bench.

You laughed softly, the sound carrying faintly through the still air. “Longer than I meant to. Has it gotten that late already?”

“Late enough,” Oscar said, leaning slightly against the stone edge. “Cold enough too, I imagine.”

You exhaled, watching the breath curl away. “The cold’s not so bad.”

Oscar smirked. “If you say so. Though I passed Lord Max earlier. He was out here too.”

Your eyes lifted, blinking in quiet surprise. “Was he?”

Oscar hummed. “Looked like he was thinking about joining you. Or maybe just staring at you. Hard to tell with him.”

Your gaze flicked toward the distant paths, searching the empty garden.

Oscar watched you carefully. “Still might be lurking somewhere. Shadows seem to agree with him.”

You smiled faintly, but your eyes lingered on the hedgerows, thoughtful.

Oscar nudged a frost-coated pebble with his boot. “You know… if you wanted him here, you could just call him out. Maybe the shame will make his feet move.”

You glanced at him, arching a brow.

He smirked. “Just a thought, my Lady.”

Oscar pushed off the bench. “Come on. You’ll catch cold if you stay out much longer.”

As they turned to head back toward the manor, Max stood still, hidden beyond the hedges.

His hands clenched slowly at his sides.

And then, finally, he turned and walked away.

The frost crunched beneath his boots, louder than before.

—

The rest of the month at the Verstappen estate unfolded in slow, deliberate strokes, like the steady brush of winter wind against frosted glass.

The walls of cold formality between you and Max didn’t crumble overnight, but there were cracks now. Thin, hairline fractures where something softer threatened to seep through.

Max remained composed, distant, his every word and gesture measured. Yet every so often, something flickered.

A hesitation before he spoke. A glance that lingered longer than necessary.

Small, fleeting moments that barely seemed to matter, but they did. They built something fragile and new, fragile as frost on stone.

It started with the garden.

You had grown fond of the winter gardens. Quiet, stark, and untouched. The biting air sharpened your senses, and the stillness gave you space to breathe, something you often struggled to find within the Verstappen estate's cold, towering walls.

You were seated at the breakfast table one morning, fingers curled around your tea for warmth.

Your eyes traced the frost-laced hedgerows beyond the tall windows, lost in thought.

“I’ll accompany you today.”

The voice was quiet but certain, breaking through your reverie.

Your head snapped up.

Max stood across the room, a stack of documents in hand, his expression unreadable.

“…Pardon?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “To the gardens. I’ll walk with you.”

You stared at him, caught off guard. “You want to… walk. Outside. In the cold.”

A slight tilt of his head. “Yes.”

“You?”

His jaw tensed, a muscle ticking. “Is that so difficult to believe?”

“Frankly? Yes.” You set your teacup down carefully, studying him. “Don’t you have something far more important to do than trail after me like some-”

“I hardly think safeguarding my betrothed is beneath me,” he cut in smoothly, though something in his tone lacked its usual sharpness.

You raised a brow. “Safeguard me? Max, it’s a garden, not a battlefield.”

He didn’t answer, only held your gaze steadily.

A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “Well, far be it from me to refuse the protection of a lord.”

Max inclined his head, as if the matter was settled.

—

The cold met you both immediately as you stepped into the garden.

You drew your coat tighter. Max, of course, didn’t seem to notice the cold at all.

His steps were measured, boots crunching against the frost-dusted path. He kept half a step ahead of you, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.

The silence stretched. And stretched.

Then, abruptly-

“Those are evergreens.”

You blinked.

“…Yes. They are.”

Max gave a small nod, as if confirming a fact. “They endure the winter well.”

"That is typically how evergreens work."

Silence.

You bit your lip, fighting the smile threatening to surface.

Max cleared his throat, his eyes flicking forward again. "I thought it was worth mentioning."

"It was very insightful," you teased lightly.

His jaw tightened, though you noticed the faintest flush at the tips of his ears.

The silence stretched again, but it didn’t feel so suffocating now.

"I don’t…" he started, then stopped. His hands flexed behind his back. "I’m not particularly… good at this."

You tilted your head. "At walking?”

A sharp exhale, half a laugh, half frustration. "At this. Talking. Being-" he paused, as if the word itself burned. "-approachable."

You considered him for a moment. "You’re not as terrible as you think."

His eyes flicked to yours, uncertain.

"You just talk about trees a lot."

That earned a genuine huff of breath. Not quite a laugh, but close.

"I’ll… keep that in mind.”

—

Days slipped by like soft falling snow, quiet and unhurried. And so did the walks.

The first few outings had been brittle, every step and word sharp with awkwardness. But little by little, the stiffness began to melt.

It wasn’t anything grand, no sweeping gestures or sudden confessions, but something quieter. Subtle.

Max no longer fumbled for conversation, and you no longer waited for him to.

Sometimes you spoke. Sometimes you didn’t. And somehow, the silences became easier.

There was comfort in it, like the steady crunch of frost beneath your boots or the way your breath curled in the cold air.

It started with small things.

One morning, as you walked past a thicket of frost-covered hedges, Max slowed his pace, watching you with a flicker of curiosity.

“You always stop here.”

You glanced at him, surprised he noticed. “It’s peaceful.”

His eyes followed yours to the bare branches dusted in white.

“Hm.” He made a low sound of acknowledgment, then fell quiet.

The next day, you noticed he lingered near that spot, as if waiting for you to pause first.

He didn’t say anything, but it was enough.

Another morning, you stumbled slightly on the uneven path, your boot catching on a patch of ice.

Before you could right yourself, a steady hand caught your elbow.

You blinked, looking up.

Max’s hand hovered there, his grip careful but sure.

His expression was unreadable, but his touch was steady.

“You should watch your step,” he murmured.

You stared at him for a beat too long.

“I was,” you said finally, a little breathless.

His hand dropped back to his side, and he turned away before you could see the faint pink creeping up his neck.

The next day, the path had been salted.

You never mentioned it. Neither did he.

But the air between you felt lighter.

Then, there was the matter of the scarf.

It was colder than usual that morning. Bitter wind snuck through the layers of your coat and scarf, nipping at your skin.

Max noticed.

“You’re cold,” he said flatly.

You glanced at him, defensive. “It’s winter. Everyone’s cold.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, without a word, he unwound the dark wool scarf from his neck and held it out to you.

You blinked.

“…What are you doing?”

“You need it more than I do.”

You stared at the scarf, then at him. “Max, I’m not going to take your scarf. That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s practical,” he replied, tone perfectly serious.

You huffed a laugh. “Oh, is it? And what about you?”

“I’ll manage.”

His expression didn’t waver.

After a long pause, you sighed and took the scarf from his hands.

It was warm. Warmer than yours, and it smelled faintly of cedar and something crisp, like winter air.

You looped it around your neck, hiding a small smile.

“Happy now?”

Max gave a short nod. “Good.”

The next day, he wore a thicker coat.

You said nothing.

Neither did he.

But his gaze lingered on the scarf around your neck.

And that was enough.

The silences softened after that.

Some days, Max would walk slightly ahead, hands behind his back, eyes on the path.

Other days, he matched your stride, quiet but near.

Once, as you passed a row of brittle rose bushes, you paused, brushing your glove over the thorns.

Max stopped beside you.

“They won’t bloom again until spring.”

“I know.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“They’re still... nice to look at,” he admitted.

You glanced at him.

“That’s surprisingly sentimental of you.”

A slight shrug. “They’re resilient. Even now.”

You smiled, soft and secret.

Another day, you caught him watching you when you laughed at something small. A small squirrel darting through the snow, slipping and scrambling back up a tree.

Max didn’t laugh, but something flickered in his eyes.

Not amusement.

Something warmer.

He looked away when you caught him, but you didn’t tease him for it.

The walks stretched longer. The conversations grew softer.

There were no grand declarations, no sweeping changes.

Just the slow, steady thaw of winter.

And for now, that was enough.

—-

It happened on an ordinary day, so ordinary that you couldn’t have guessed it would stand out for any reason at all.

You were sitting in the common room, absentmindedly flipping through a file, your thoughts half on the task and half on the cup of tea cooling beside you.

You were aware of Max nearby, as you always seemed to be. The two of you had taken to spending your quiet moments together for some reason.

He was seated at the far corner, half-hidden behind a stack of papers, his focus presumably locked on his work.

Or so you thought.

It wasn’t until you reached for your tea, your eyes lifting momentarily, that you noticed it. His gaze.

Max was staring at you.

It wasn’t a casual glance or a quick flicker of attention. His eyes were fixed, steady, like he was studying you without even realizing it.

There was something almost unreadable in his expression, his usual guarded demeanor softened by a hint of… curiosity? Thoughtfulness? You couldn’t quite place it.

For a moment, you froze, unsure what to do. Should you look away? Pretend you hadn’t noticed? Confront him?

The options raced through your mind in a tangle, but before you could decide, Max blinked, as though snapping out of a trance.

His gaze shifted back to the papers in front of him, his movements abrupt and uncharacteristically awkward.

He cleared his throat quietly, shuffling the documents with more focus than necessary.

You felt your cheeks warm, a faint heat creeping up your neck. It wasn’t like Max to lose his composure, even slightly.

You wondered what he’d been thinking. Or if he’d even realized what he was doing.

“Everything alright?” you asked, breaking the silence before it could stretch uncomfortably long. Your voice was casual, light, as though the moment hadn’t happened.

Max didn’t look up immediately, his jaw tightening for a fraction of a second. “Fine,” he said, his tone clipped, but there was a faint edge to it, something almost defensive.

You tilted your head, studying him for a beat longer. “You sure? You looked… distracted.”

He finally met your gaze, his expression unreadable again, but this time you thought you caught the faintest flicker of something.

Embarrassment, maybe, or irritation at being caught.

“I’m sure,” he said, his tone more even now.

“Alright,” you said lightly, turning back to your file with a small shrug. But your heart was still racing, and you couldn’t stop yourself from wondering what had just passed between you.

As the moments ticked by, you resisted the urge to glance at him again, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of his earlier stare.

—

The two of you found yourselves in the library again, a rare moment of calm amidst the usual chaos.

Max sat across from you, his attention drifting between the book in his hands and the room around him.

For once, he wasn’t buried in paperwork or fielding endless questions from others, and the quiet was almost comforting.

The soft rustle of turning pages and the muted hum of your own reading filled the air.

It was a stillness that wrapped around you both, unspoken but shared, a silence that felt like an unacknowledged truce.

Until the peace fractured.

A faint groan of wood sliced through the quiet, subtle at first but growing louder, sharper. You frowned, your eyes flicking upward from your book.

Max noticed the sound too, his head tilting slightly as his attention shifted.

“What was that?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Max didn’t answer right away, his eyes narrowing as the groaning intensified. “Stay here,” he muttered, already rising from his chair.

But before either of you could move further, the source of the noise revealed itself.

The tall shelf in the corner swayed unnaturally, its weight shifting in a way that made your stomach twist.

“Max-” you started, panic creeping into your voice.

And then it happened. The shelf gave way.

Books tumbled from its upper shelves like a cascade of water, filling the air with dull thuds and sharp cracks.

The massive structure pitched toward you, and you froze, your feet rooted in place.

“Move!” a voice yelled.

You barely registered the shout before a strong hand grabbed your arm, yanking you back with such force that your book flew from your grasp.

Your back slammed into something solid. Someone’s chest.

A deafening crash filled the room as the shelf slammed into the ground, its impact sending vibrations through the floor.

Books scattered in every direction, some sliding to a stop at your feet.

“Are you okay?” Max’s voice was sharp, edged with panic. His hand still gripped your arm, his knuckles white from the effort.

You turned toward him, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps. “I… I think so.”

His eyes darted over you, scanning for any sign of injury. “Did it hit you?” he asked, his voice quieter but no less urgent.

“No,” you managed. “I’m fine. Just… shaken.”

Max exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging as some of the tension left him.

He dropped his hand from your arm, stepping back to give you space, but his gaze stayed locked on you.

“I should’ve seen it coming,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “I knew it was old..” He trailed off, his jaw tightening.

You shook your head, still trying to steady your breathing. “You couldn’t have known it would fall like that.”

His brow furrowed, frustration flickering across his face. “I should’ve checked it. What if-” He cut himself off, his jaw working as he looked away.

“It didn’t,” you said firmly. “You pulled me out of the way. That’s what matters.”

Max’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, his frown deepened. “This shouldn’t have happened in the first place. I should’ve-”

“Stop,” you interrupted, your voice firmer than you expected. “Max, you can’t blame yourself. You didn’t push the shelf. You didn’t make it fall.”

He met your gaze then, his eyes dark and filled with a storm of emotions. “But I could’ve stopped it,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. The raw guilt in his voice surprised you. It was rare to see Max shaken. You didn't even think it possible.

“You did stop it. At least for me,” you said softly.

He stared at you for a moment, his expression unreadable.

Finally, he sighed and stepped toward the wreckage. “This is a mess,” he muttered, his tone shifting to something more clipped, controlled. “I’ll get someone to clean it up. You should go sit down. Get some air.”

You followed his gaze to the pile of broken wood and scattered books. The sight made your stomach twist, but you forced yourself to speak. “I’ll help. I was here too.”

“No,” Max said quickly, holding up a hand. “You’ve had enough of a scare for one day. Just… take a break, alright?”

You hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “Fine. But only because you asked.”

Max gave a short, almost reluctant nod in return. “Good. I’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

As you turned to leave, you glanced back at him. He was already moving toward the debris, his focus shifting entirely to the mess. But the tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased, and you knew he’d be carrying the weight of what could have happened for a while.

And so would you.

—-

The realization that you fancied Max struck with all the subtlety of a thunderclap.

You fancied your fiancé. Oh, God. You fancied your fiancé.

The thought struck you like a bolt of lightning, the weight of it settling heavily in your chest as you paced back and forth across your room.

With each step, the walls of the room seemed to shrink around you, the air thick with the suffocating pressure of your own spiraling thoughts.

How had this happened? Why him? Of all people, why Max?

Stoic, distant Max, the man you barely even knew.

“It’s a trick of the mind. A reaction to circumstance,” you whispered, the words directed at your own reflection in the mirror.

Your face was pinched, your brow furrowed, and your eyes wide with a mixture of dread and something… else.

You rubbed at your temples, as though the act might banish the errant thoughts swirling in your mind.

“It’s admiration,” you said aloud, as if hearing the words would make them true. “Respect for his… demeanor. His resolve.”

You faltered, the image of Max flickering to life in your mind.

His measured gaze, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth when he was deep in thought.

The way his presence seemed to command the air around him.

Stop it.

“Lily!” you called out suddenly, your voice higher than you intended, panic rising sharply in your throat. “Lily, please, come here!”

The door creaked open, and Lily entered with her usual composed air, her eyes softening as soon as she took in the sight of your distress.

“My Lady, what’s wrong? You look...” she trailed off, hesitation in her tone as she glanced at you, clearly noting the unease written across your face.

“Don’t even say it,” you interrupted quickly, pressing your palms to your temples in an effort to stave off the rising panic. “I’m losing my mind, Lily. I think... I think I have feelings for Max.”

Lily regarded you for a long moment, her expression unreadable, but there was a subtle shift in her eyebrow.

A hint of intrigue that you couldn’t quite place. She did not seem surprised.

“Max?” she asked, her voice calm, though the faintest hint of something stirred in her eyes. “As in, your betrothed, Lord Max Verstappen?”

“Yes! That Max!” you exclaimed, turning toward her with wide, frantic eyes, feeling the chaos inside you deepen with every word you spoke. “What other Max would I be talking about?!”

Lily paused for a moment, her eyes assessing you, the soft lines of her face betraying no judgment, only careful understanding.

Finally, she spoke, her tone even, but with an edge of something like amusement.

“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “I’m glad it’s not hatred you’re feeling.”

You blinked, surprised at her response. “What?”

She gave you a small, wry smile, her hands folding gently in front of her. “I’m glad you don’t detest the man you’re engaged to. That’s a start, isn’t it? At least you’re not loathing him.”

You gaped at her, your mind still reeling from the gravity of your own emotions. “But this isn’t nothing, Lily! This isn’t just some passing fancy. I can’t stop thinking about him. Every time he’s near, I feel like I’m going to lose my mind. I don’t know how to act around him. It’s like- like he’s too close and I’m too far from myself.”

Lily’s gaze softened, but she did not rush to soothe you with easy words.

She tilted her head slightly, her voice measured but firm. “Feelings like these don’t appear overnight, My Lady. They don’t disappear either. But you’re right. You don’t know him very well yet. You’ve got time to work this out, slowly. You don’t have to have it all figured out now.”

You nodded, but the knot in your stomach only tightened as a new wave of uncertainty washed over you.

“I don’t know what to do with all of this, Lily. What if I say something wrong? What if I act like a fool in front of him? What if... what if he doesn’t care at all?”

Lily stepped closer to you, her presence steady, constant.

“Then he doesn’t,” she said simply. “If he doesn’t care, then... then you’ll be no worse off than you are now, My Lady. But know this: no other woman is taking him from you. He’s already yours. That’s settled.”

Her words settled over you like a weight.

He was already yours.

There was no escaping the finality of it, the truth in her calm tone.

The idea that you didn’t need to chase after him, that he was already tied to you in ways you couldn’t control, both unsettled and reassured you.

“I’m not even sure I want him, though,” you murmured, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “I don’t even know what this is. What if I’m just... confused? What if it’s just... attachment? I mean, he’s always there, he’s my betrothed, but- he’s not-”

“Stop,” Lily’s voice sliced through your spiraling thoughts. “You don’t need to understand it all right now. You don’t need to be sure of your feelings just because you’ve realized them.”

You took a slow breath, your chest tight as you tried to keep your composure.

Her words were soothing in their simplicity, but they didn’t change your feelings. “I just... I don’t know what to do with all this. It’s too much. Too fast. I can’t keep up.”

You let the words hang in the air, unsure if you were speaking to her or to yourself.

Lily gave you a small, understanding smile, though it was tinged with a trace of amusement.

She didn’t speak for a moment, as though carefully weighing her response. “Then take it slow, my Lady. You’re allowed to feel all of this, in your own time. You don’t have to rush to make sense of it. No one’s going to force you to figure it out on anyone else’s schedule.”

A tiny sense of relief swept over you, but the knot in your stomach still refused to loosen.

You glanced at the door, as though the mere idea of being near Max would send everything crashing down again.

“So... you’re saying I can avoid him... for a while?”

Lily raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with the suggestion. “Avoid him?” she repeated, the edge of disbelief creeping into her voice. “My Lady, if I may-"

“But I can?” you pressed, cutting her off, eyes wide with urgency. “You said I could take my time, right? Well, avoiding him sounds like taking my time to me.”

Lily sighed, the sound long and heavy, as though you were testing her patience. “Yes, My Lady, your free will does indeed allow you to avoid him, if that’s truly what you wish.”

A spark of triumph flickered inside you.

“Perfect.” You stood straighter, a plan forming in your mind. “Call for Sir Lando and Sir Oscar.”

Lily’s eyebrows furrowed as she eyed you suspiciously. “What for, My Lady?”

You gave her an almost manic grin, feeling the tension in your shoulders ease slightly as your plan took shape. “They’re going to help me.”

“Help you... with avoiding your betrothed?” Lily asked slowly, a hint of disbelief creeping into her voice. She crossed her arms, studying you with a bemused expression.

“Yes,” you replied firmly, not an ounce of hesitation in your voice. “They’ll help me stay away from him. They’ll distract him, tell him I’m busy with... other things.”

Lily opened her mouth to respond but stopped herself, narrowing her eyes at you as if you had just suggested something ludicrous.

“My Lady,” she said, her voice dipping into a tone of mild reproach, “I must say, I don’t think that’s the most productive course of action.”

“Oh, please.” You threw your hands up dramatically. “I’m just trying to buy myself some time here. I can’t face him, not with these... feelings…whatever they are…bubbling up every time I even think about him. If I can just avoid him for a little while, I can breathe again.”

Lily shook her head, a small, resigned smile playing on her lips. “I don’t think this is the solution you’re looking for, My Lady. But if you insist on this... strategy, I can’t stop you.”

You raised an eyebrow, suddenly intrigued by the shift in her tone. “You can stop me, can’t you? You’re my lady’s maid. You’re supposed to stop me from making poor decisions.”

Lily raised an eyebrow right back at you. “I’m also supposed to help you navigate poor decisions, not prevent them entirely. And right now, this is just one of many decisions I’m going to let you make on your own.”

She paused, eyeing you carefully. “But just know, avoiding him isn’t going to give you the answers you need. It’ll only prolong the inevitable.”

You smiled sweetly, still not convinced. “Sometimes, a little delay is exactly what I need. Besides, it’s not like he’s going anywhere. We’re betrothed, after all.”

“That you are,” Lily replied, her tone becoming slightly sharper. “Which is exactly why you shouldn’t be avoiding him. You’ve got time, but you also have a responsibility to work through your feelings. Even if it’s uncomfortable.”

You glanced toward the door, already plotting the next phase of your plan. “I’ll figure it out. But in the meantime, I’m going to need some assistance.”

Lily sighed again, louder this time.

She didn’t speak for a long moment, her gaze flicking to the door as though she were silently debating whether or not to humor you.

Finally, she gave a small nod. “Very well. I’ll fetch Sir Lando and Sir Oscar. But I’m warning you, My Lady, this avoidance strategy won’t last long.”

You grinned triumphantly as she turned to leave. “Thank you, Lily. You’re the best.”

As she stepped out of the room, you sank back into your chair, letting your mind wander to the next step of your plan.

You weren’t entirely sure what you were doing, but it felt better than facing Max and trying to make sense of the chaos swirling inside you.

For now, avoiding him was the only option that seemed remotely manageable.

When Lily returned with your knights, they each looked at you with varying degrees of confusion and amusement, but you gave them a firm, confident look.

This plan was going to work.

You could make it work.

“Alright,” you said, standing tall, as though the sheer gravity of your decision had transformed you into a seasoned military strategist. “Here’s the plan. We’re going to make sure Max never sees me again.”

A pause hung in the air, heavy and expectant.

“Or at least… not for a while.”

Lando and Oscar exchanged a glance. Lando’s lips twitched upward, the beginnings of a grin playing at the corners of his mouth, while Oscar’s furrowed brow and pursed lips betrayed his confusion.

“Right,” Lando said finally, leaning back and crossing his arms. His tone was equal parts incredulous and amused. “This ought to be good. What, exactly, do you want us to do, my Lady? This sounds like it’s going to be excellent for my boredom.”

Oscar’s expression tightened further. “You can’t be serious,” he muttered, half to himself, his arms now folded.

You straightened your back, summoning all the confidence you could muster. “I am entirely serious. From this moment forward, I have suddenly become… extremely busy.”

Oscar blinked. “Busy,” he repeated flatly.

“Yes, busy,” you replied, the words tumbling out with an exaggerated air of importance. “So busy, in fact, that I won’t have a single moment to spare. And I need you two to help make sure that’s… believable.”

Lando arched an eyebrow, a grin now fully blossoming on his face. “Wait, let me get this straight. You want us to..what? Fabricate your life for a bit?”

“Exactly,” you said with a flourish of your hand, as though the absurdity of your request was irrelevant. “A little misdirection here, a well-timed excuse there. Between the two of you, I’m sure you can come up with something convincing.”

Lando let out a low whistle, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “So, you’re asking us to keep Max, the man who has been running this house like a clock, distracted? To throw him off the scent entirely?”

“Precisely,” you said, lifting your chin.

Oscar looked less amused and more concerned, his practical nature coming to the forefront. “And what exactly is this plan supposed to achieve? You think if we keep him occupied for long enough, he’ll just… forget about you? You do realize who we’re talking about, right?”

“I don’t need him to forget,” you replied quickly, your voice rising slightly in pitch. “I just need him to be… preoccupied. Thoroughly distracted. He can’t be allowed to think about me, let alone come looking for me.”

Lando, who had been quietly observing, suddenly burst out laughing. “This is incredible. You’re trying to dodge the one man who could probably find you in his sleep.”

Oscar sighed again after a moment , clearly reluctant. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Excellent,” you said, clapping your hands together. “Now, let’s get to work.”

As Lando leaned back in his chair, still grinning, and Oscar reluctantly nodded his agreement, you couldn’t help but feel a surge of triumph. Surely, this would work. How hard could it be to outmaneuver Max Emilian Verstappen?

You tried to ignore the nagging voice in the back of your mind whispering that you might have just made a very, very big mistake.

—-

Permanent tag list:

@papichulomacy

[h0pela]

ROOKIES OF LOVE SERIES

Follow 2025's rookies as certified lovers in this highschool!au

✦ Cupid was right | OB87

─ oblivious! reader x brother best friend! Ollie ─

In which, reader has a terrible love life and is tired of watching people's love lives. But apparently, it seems that Cupid had other plans, and so did her brother.

✦ Louder than words | FC43

─ club journalism! reader x soccer player! franco; stranger to lovers ─ 

coming soon 𓂃✍︎

✦ Desk of love | IH6

─  school president! reader x class clown athlete! Isack; tutoring ─

coming soon 𓂃✍︎

✦ Crash and burn | KA12

─  control freak! reader x laidback! Kimi; academic rivals ─

coming soon 𓂃✍︎

[lvrclerc]

✶ THE EX EFFECT

summary: being oscar piastri's pr manager is... uneventful, to say the least. that is, until your most recent ex winds up the mclaren garage. in an attempt to prove him something, the arm you end up grabbing is oscar's. now the word is spreading around the paddock that you're his (fake) girlfriend and it turns into a beneficial pr opportunity for him and a perfect cover up for you. except oscar gets a little too good at it, and all the reminders in the world are not enough for you to keep in mind that this is fake.

F1 MASTERLIST | OP81 MASTERLIST

pairing: oscar piastri x pr manager!fake gf!reader

wc: 19.2k

cw: not proofread, past toxic relationship, annoyances/colleagues to lovers, fake dating, he falls first, sort of third act breakup, oscar is slightly ooc, very light angst, season timeline is fucked but who cares! romance! clichés! drama!

note: requested here, i know nothing about pr, this was supposed to be short but i couldn't stop myself so you have this monster of a fic! i kinda hate this. anyways, enjoy!

WHEN YOU FOUND out you’d aced your interview, you thought to yourself, the sleepless nights carrying group projects every other member had procrastinated were worth it. The number of social events you passed on to finish top of your class─valedictorian, Communications major with a Journalism minor─had paid off because you had just landed a job as PR manager in Formula One. Not just in any team, either: McLaren. You were ready to dive into the glamour, the glitz, and the hardships of the sport. To thrive in the pressure, the politics, the media storms. You were ready to shine.

Except you were managing Oscar ‘No Emotions’ Piastri, and nobody thought about telling you that.

Oscar Piastri, a quiet semi-rookie when you first crossed the headquarters’ threshold, who gave you five words max per interview, had a sarcastic comment to every command the team social media manager threw his way, and disappeared at every media opportunity like a ghost, deadpanning instead of showing enthusiasm. Needless to say, there wasn’t much for you to manage.

It’s not like you didn’t try. You nudged him gently at first: helpful suggestions, friendly reminders to loosen up a little. Be more engaging. Play the game. But every time you did, he looked at you as if you'd sprouted a second head and proceeded to swiftly ignore you. The first time it happened, you were offended, and maybe a little concerned. You complained to Charlotte, Lando’s PR manager at the time, and she gave you the wisdom of a woman who had seen some things: “Assert yourself,” she’d said.

It was your first month on the job. You were fresh out of university. You didn’t even know where the best coffee machine was. How were you even supposed to do that?

Still, you decided to try again.

During a long and taxing car drive to the McLarens’ HQ, one you were sharing with Oscar after a last-minute driver swap and a logistical disaster, you figured it was now or never. Assert yourself, Charlotte had said. Be firm. Be confident.

You went for humor instead. A joke. 

Terrible idea, in hindsight.

“You know,” you said lightly, breaking the silence that had stretched across three roundabouts, “you’re kind of boring.”

Oscar simply glanced at you, expressionless, so you clarified. “I mean, you’re not even letting me do my job. Throw me a bone here.”

And it was supposed to be playful. Oscar was supposed to quietly snort, asking how he could finally help you, and boom, you’d finally get to apply all that polished knowledge you’d studied for years.

Instead, he tilted his head slightly, puzzled, as if you’d just spoken in Morse code aloud, and said, “Imagine being boring and still more interesting than your ex.”

“What?” You blinked. Saying you’d been taken aback would have been a euphemism.

He didn’t even look away from the road.

“You talk in your sleep. Don’t nap in the common room again.”

Silence fell again, but this time it wasn’t peaceful. It was personal.

That was the moment you decided, with startling clarity, that you very much disliked Oscar Piastri.

You didn’t know you talked in your sleep. You didn’t even know he’d stumbled upon you squeezing a thirty-minute nap in the common room of McLaren’s headquarters. And you certainly didn’t remember the dream you’d had─ or why exactly it had featured your ex out of all people. All you knew was that, no matter what he heard, it was a low blow.

Especially when it came to the one man who somehow slithered his way into your heart just to shatter it from the inside out.

Disliking the person you were assigned to manage wasn’t unheard of in the world of public relations. It was practically a rite of passage. Most of the time, it came with celebrities who were a walking headline: strippers, drugs, arrests, rumors of twins with three different people. That, you could’ve handled.

Oscar wasn’t like that at all. Oscar was just… rude.

Not loud rude, or messy rude. Just… quietly, unbotheredly rude. He was unreadable, dry, and too clever. Not a PR nightmare, just a PR black hole. Just to you.

And if there was one thing you happened to be very good at─besides the job you weren’t even getting the chance to do─it was holding a grudge.

After that episode, you kept your interactions with Oscar to the bare minimum, or as much as you could without being fired. The paycheck was just too good, especially as a fresh grad still recovering from student debt.

Any advice or directions you had for him came during team meetings, always surrounded by enough people that he couldn’t hit you with his usual blank stare. When he messed up during interviews, which was sometimes inevitable, and you followed up with a politely scathing email, bullet points and all. Face-to-face convos were reserved strictly for emergencies… or if you happened to be seated beside him, in which case you communicated via foot. Strategic, silent, and sharp. You’d step on his sneaker under the eyes of all, and he’d keep smiling at the camera like nothing happened. Except for the tiny, throbbing vein on his temple─ oh, you lived for it. 

It was a perfect arrangement. Passive-aggressive peace, mutually tolerated detachment. It worked for both of you.

Sometimes, you caught him glancing your way, wondering why you were still here. But you didn’t care. You had a system, and it was stable. It would’ve stayed that way for a long time, until your or his contract expired, whichever came first.

But then your ex decided to show up, and that messed everything up.

It was a very nice Thursday, dare you say. The kind of morning that made you think the season wouldn't be so bad.

You’d expected Bahrain to be hotter, considering the furnace it had been last year during the start of your first season with McLaren. But today, the air was warm without being unbearable, a soft breeze threading through the paddock and playing with the loose strands of your hair. Your cardigan slipped off one shoulder, but it didn’t cling or suffocate─ just draped like it was meant to be styled that way.

Oscar had just rolled out of the garage, off to log laps and data and whatever mysterious things drivers did during testing, which meant you were officially off-duty for the next three hours. You had time for yourself, maybe for a proper coffee and a chocolate croissant. Eventually, a little conversation with Lando, if you ran into him.

Yeah. This was a good morning.

You should have known it wouldn’t last.

It should have hit you when the coffee machine didn’t work, so you had to walk all the way to Lando’s side of the garage to fetch yourself a cup. It should have hit you when you didn’t even see Lando, and they were out of your favorite chocolate croissant. It should have hit you when you passed by grown men in their forties gossiping like schoolgirls about the new additions to Oscar’s car engineering team, you never heard anything about. It should have hit you when the feelings in your gut made you hesitate near the orange-colored walls.

But it really, really hit you when he grabbed your elbow.

“Y/N?”

Your body locked up like someone had flipped your off switch. The voice was familiar in the worst way─ like a nightmare you thought you’d finally grown out of. You didn’t even need to turn around. Your body already knew. Still, you did, as if asking the universe for confirmation.

And there he was. Theodore Silva, in full McLaren uniform, lanyard slung around his neck. Dark brown hair, messy, tied up in a bun, with his characteristic three o’clock shadow. Your ex-boyfriend. Your heartbreak origin story that, somehow, had the nerve to smile.

You would have backhanded him if the shock didn’t make your mind go blank.

“Wow,” he said, and you felt like a funny coincidence. “Didn’t expect to see you there. Always knew you were the ambitious one.”

Oh, you knew that tone. That patronizing little tone he used when he wanted to seem impressed while reminding you he could always do better. As if you hadn’t told him a million times about your fascination with motorsports and all of its scandals. You weren’t 19 and easily diminished anymore.

You slapped on a polite, seething smile. “I could say the same. I wouldn’t have guessed they hired people with so little… experience. Or the grades to back it up.”

Theodore Silva wasn’t the richest man alive. No, that title was reserved for his father, who owned a few businesses that took off in the early 2010s and left him with an outrageous amount of money and too much to do with it─ including sending his incompetent son to a prestigious business school even though he could barely manage to keep up half of the average required. Even his father’s money couldn’t get him to graduate the same year as you.

But after another year, it could apparently get him a job at McLaren.

Yet, Theodore still chuckled, brushing off your remark as if it were just another inside joke you two shared. “They just brought me on- engineering for Piastri’s car. Funny how life works out, huh?”

He was on Oscar’s team. You’d be obligated to see him, be near him, every day. You didn’t answer, just stared at him blankly, too busy cataloguing every sharp object in the vicinity, trying to ignore the twist of your heart.

“Small world,” he added to your silence.

You tried to smile again, but you knew it came out weird when the words that came out of your mouth sounded more like a screech than anything else. “Smaller than I’d like.”

Theodore tilted his head, studying you with calm eyes, as if he hadn’t watched you, arms dangling near his side, as you broke down in his apartment’s parking lot. “You look good,” he said softly. “I’m glad you’re doing well.”

You stared at him.

Hell no. He had that voice, wearing guilt like an optional accessory, looking at you like he was the one that got away. The nerves. You hated how your chest tightened, the smell of his cologne, and how he thought he could just waltz in, throw some compliments around, hoping to win you back.

Fuck him. “I’m doing very well, Theodore. Loving my job. How’s Anna?”

That landed. He physically winced, scratching his neck. “We, uh─ We broke up, actually.”

How surprising.

“So─”

You weren’t about to let him finish. You weren’t about to let him think he even had the sliver of a chance. He wasn’t about to wreck the life you built for yourself by simply being here, no. Instead, you did the sanest thing anyone would have done in your place.

You lied.

“I have a boyfriend, actually.” The words came out so fast you almost flinched, not registering them yourself.

Theodore paused, eyebrows lifting. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” you smiled, wildly too sharp for the context. “He’s great. Amazing, supportive. Emotionally available. You know─ faithful.”

He blinked, and his fake-casual mask slipped for a second. “What’s his name?” He asked, all lightness gone from his expression. 

That’s when it hit you. Unspoken panic rose in your throat because, believe it or not, you didn’t have a boyfriend. You barely even had a social life─ you spent most nights in bed with a sheet mask and Youtube videos. If you hesitated now, even for a second, Theodore would know. And he’d never let go, flashing you his smug little grin of his, strutting around the garage for a season, thinking he had a chance.

Not today, Satan.

The garage door behind you creaked open and footsteps echoed in your direction.

You didn’t look, didn’t think. You just grabbed the first arm that brushed against yours.

“This is him!” You said, an octave too high. “My boyfriend.”

And Oscar Piastri, your emotionally repressed, sarcasm-saturated PR headache of a driver, froze mid-step. As much as you wanted it, there wasn’t any way to back out now. His eyes dropped to your grip, white-knuckled, around his bicep. Then to you. Then to Theodore.

“... Sorry, what?” He said under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Babe,” you hissed between your teeth, eyes still set on Theodore and smiling like your life depended on it. “Go with it.”

Finally, your ex managed to speak up. He was frozen, mouth half-opened in shock. “This is your─ You’re dating─ Oscar Piastri is your boyfriend?”

Oscar opened his mouth, definitely to ask what was going on, but you beat him to it. “Yes! Yep. It’s, um─ it’s very new. A few months.”

You finally turned to face him fully.

His brown eyes, sharp and unreadable as ever, flicked across your face─ first your eyes, then your mouth, then down to where your fingers were still digging into his arm. There was confusion there, definitely, but also a kind of calculation unique to him.

“This is Theodore,” you added, swallowing thickly. “He’s one of your new engineers.” You hesitated. “... and my ex.”

That’s when something clicked.

You felt it. The subtle shift in Oscar’s expression─ the way his shoulders straightened or the brief flicker of understanding behind his eyes. He glanced at Theodore just once before looking back at you. You pleaded silently. With your eyes, with your fingers brushing lightly over the sleeve of his fireproof top, even with the part of your lips that whispered please without making a sound.

But the longer you stood there, the more the panic crept up your spine. Oscar didn’t owe you anything. The man barely liked you. He could’ve thrown you under the bus without blinking, called you out right there and made your life ten times harder.

Which is why you almost jumped when his hand, much larger, reached up and gently settled above yours.

“Ah, Theodore,” Oscar said, like the name physically bored him. “Nice to meet you. Sorry about my reaction,” he added, fingers tightening just slightly over yours. “I just didn’t expect… this.”

He turned to glance at you. An innocent smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“Y/N’s told me a lot about you.”

Theodore snapped out of the shock that froze him into place, and his smile flickered. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Oscar said casually. “All the highlights.”

You blinked up at him, heart in your throat, unsure whether to laugh or sob. Was Oscar Piastri helping you?

“The highlights?” Theodore asked, dumbfounded.

Oscar hummed, thumb absentmindedly brushing over your hand─ just once, like punctuation. You weren’t dreaming, he was playing along. And the look on Theodore’s face was worth every single of it.

“Funny, she never mentioned you, or the fact she was dating an… F1 driver, as a whole.” As if you even talked to him anymore!

Oscar shrugged, way too relaxed. “That’s all right. We’re keeping it on the down low for now, I’m sure you understand. And we don’t do much… talking, anyways.”

Your jaw nearly hit the tarmac. You stepped on Oscar’s foot, a habit by now, and he barely flinched. Apparently, that was enough for Theodore. “Well,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing. “Guess I’ll see you two around the garage.”

“Guess I’ll see you around my car,” Oscar answered, a little too quickly.

Theodore just glanced at him before muttering, “Small world.”

“So small,” you nodded stiffly.

The second he was out of sight, you yanked Oscar by the wrist like a woman possessed, dragging him to the nearest utility alleyway─ dim, slightly greasy smelling, and blessedly empty. For how long, though? You didn’t know. “Okay,” you hissed. “Wow, what the hell was that line?! We don’t do much talking?!”

Oscar raised a condescendent eyebrow, arms crossed on his chest. “I don’t know, you tell me, Mrs. This Is My Boyfriend. I just followed along. You’re welcome, by the way.”

You groaned so loud it echoed, looking up to the ceiling, hoping answers will fall off it and solve your life, simultaneously pacing a short line across the floor. “I know what I did, alright? I just─ I panicked! That guy─ he… he cheated on me. With my best friend. In my own bed. And I just─ he looked so smug and self-satisfied standing here like I’d run back to him. I needed to shove something in his face, show him I’m fine. Better. And I didn’t look and you were there and your arm was right there and now I’m going to have an aneurysm─”

Oscar blinked. “Wow. Okay. That’s… a lot of information, considering we barely know each other.”

“Thank you so much for the support, Oscar. I wonder whose fault that is, exactly!”

“I’m just saying. That was a whole soap opera act in thirty seconds,” he snapped back, rolling his eyes.

You exhaled harshly. “Whatever. I didn’t actually mean to drag you into this, okay? I’ll fix it. I’ll… tell him it was a misunderstanding or… I’ll figure it out. I’ll PR my way out of this, because whether you like it or not, it’s actually my job─”

“It’s fine,” he said, cutting you off, eyes closing briefly like he needed to reboot.

You paused. “Huh?”

“I said it’s fine.” His eyes opened again, locking onto yours. “Now that he thinks you’re dating someone, his delusional ego’s going to spiral and he’ll leave you alone. Especially if it’s someone… above in station, let’s say. Not to stroke my own ego.” He tilted his head, tone flat. “He looks like the insecure type.”

“He is,” you aggressively agreed, pointing at him like he’d just cracked the Da Vinci code, and you swore you saw his lips pull up. “So we just… leave it alone?”

“Let it die down,” Oscar continued with a casualness you could only hope to replicate. “Maybe have a conversation here and there for consistency, but that's about it. It’s not like he’s going to go around bragging that his ex-girlfriend is dating the guy he’s working for.”

You snorted. “I think he’d rather die.”

Oscar’s mouth twitched, trying not to smile. “Exactly.”

You sighed, finally letting your shoulders drop as the tension bled out of you. The adrenaline was still rushing through your veins, waterfall-like, but slowly softening, giving way to a quiet panic that you could make do with until the end of the day. It’s fine, you told yourself, it’ll be fine. “Okay,” you murmured, giving him a small nod. “Thank you. Seriously.”

“Don’t mention it,” Oscar replied, already turning away. “Literally.”

“Deal,” you said. “Never again.”

The plan was to return to your regularly scheduled programming─ distant and professional. With the way Theodore worked (or more accurately, didn’t), you were pretty sure he wouldn’t last long in the McLaren garage anyway. Life would go back to normal soon enough. You were sure of it.

Rule number one of PR management: never assume anything. Certainty was a myth. Because as long as there was even a sliver of doubt, it could all go wrong. Maybe you’d gotten complacent in your ways, Oscar never gave you anything to work with after all, but you really thought that this time, it would be fine. You slept like a rock that night, the kind of sleep where your mind recharged so hard it forgot you had responsibilities in the morning.

That’s probably the reason it took you so long to notice. First, it was the way people lingered as you passed. How engineers muttered behind their coffee cups and went dead silent when you got too close. You weren’t used to this level of attention─ as a whole, you were a pretty discreet presence in the paddock, so when the smiles came and the knowing smirks got thrown your way, you started becoming suspicious.

“Morningggg,” Lando sing-songed as you entered the McLaren hospitality tent.

“Good… morning?” You muttered, narrowing your eyes as you plopped down next to him. “What’s got you in such a good mood today?” You asked as you bite into the chocolate croissant you’d been craving since yesterday.

Lando studied you. Waiting.

“Do I have to guess, or…?”

The curly-haired man sighed dramatically, as if your question alone had aged him. “No, but I thought we were friends. Guess I was wrong, since I had to hear it from my race engineer. During briefing.”

You blinked. “Okay, what the hell are you on?” you admitted. “Have you been doing crack? Is that it?”

“Whatever, keep your secrets, Y/N,” Lando conceded, a smug little grin on his lips. “You’ll talk to me when you’re ready. Or I’ll just get the truth from Osc’. He seems… chatty, lately.” 

You couldn’t imagine Oscar Piastri being chatty to save your life. “What? What does Oscar have to do with anything?” But Lando was already up and walking off.

Alone with your chocolate croissant and your detonated sense of peace, you scanned the room, eyes darting in panic.

Across the tent, Oscar stood by the coffee station, talking to a staff member with his hands-in-pockets casual disinterest. His eyes met yours, and he paused mid-sentence, one eyebrow raised in that really? kind of way that made you want to slap him. There was a silent question in it. 

One you didn’t have an answer to.

The answer actually came knocking that night─ quite literally. Loud, incessant, unforgiving knocks at your hotel room door.

You were in the middle of taking off your makeup, cotton pad in one hand and dabbing at your under-eye concealer like it personally offended you. “Seriously?” You audibly commented, exhausted. It was nearly 10 PM. You’d done your job, answered more emails than anyone should in one day. The very least the universe could offer was twenty-four uninterrupted minutes of peace.

But the knocking didn’t stop, so you opened the door with a groan and a complaint on your tongue, only for the sound to die the moment you registered who was standing on the other side.

Oscar Piastri. In a hoodie, track pants, socks that did not match, and looking far too calm for someone who’d just banged on your door as if the apocalypse was tracking him down. You stared in confusion, words refusing to come out of your mouth no matter how hard you tried.

“Sooo… we might have a problem,” Oscar finally spoke in the silence stretching between you.

He walked in your room with no hesitation, without you even inviting him in─ the audacity! Sure, yeah, come on in, ruin my night, you thought. He glanced around, sizing your room and seemingly expecting paparazzis behind the mini-bar, before turning to face you with a flat look.

“What’s this problem that has you acting so dramatic for─”

“You’re trending on F1 Twitter. Well, we are,” he said simply, tone measured. “Someone took a photo. You holding my arm next to your ex. In the garage. And the caption is─”

He pulled out his phone. A screencap of big, red, capital letters: IS OSCAR PIASTRI SOFT-LAUNCHING HIS PR MANAGER?

It took a while for reality to set in. 

You stared at the screen blankly, eyes flicking from Oscar to the headline, erratic. Soft-launching. Soft-launching. You tasted blood in your mouth. Oh, no─ it was actually just your soul leaving your body. “This is not happening,” you mumbled, blinking rapidly. “It’s fake. This is fake. I’m hallucinating.”

Oscar hummed. “Want me to read you the quote tweets?”

You pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you dare.”

He shrugged and put his phone down. You sat down on your bed, hands flying to your temple. “Okay, okay. No big deal. I’ll just tell the team we were talking about… a car issue. A steering problem. Brake pedal feedback. That sounds fake, right? Like, real-enough fake.”

Oscar gave you a look. “You could try that,” he said slowly, “but your ex has apparently been sniffing around the garage asking people if we’re actually dating.”

“No way.”

“I overheard Lando’s race engineer telling him. He asked five different people.” A beat. “He’s not subtle.”

You could feel your eyes twitch. “Jesus Christ.”

Oscar crossed his arms, leaning back against the mini-bar, staring at you. “So I don’t think your little oh it was just a brake issue! excuse is going to cut it.”

“I’m going to end it all,” you said, dropping your face in your hands. “I’m going to crawl into my media kit and live there forever.”

He raised an eyebrow at you. “I’ll bring you snacks.”

“How are you not freaking out? Like, at all? It’s your face on every headline, and my job on the line!” You didn’t want to think about the repercussions this would have on any future jobs you might want, or your actual one. Future employers were going to Google you and find dating rumors about a fake relationship with a driver you were managing.

“Oh, I freaked out,” Oscar cut in smoothly, walking toward you. “Trust me, I had a whole mini-existential crisis in the elevator.”

“That’s good for you, Oscar. Why aren’t you still freaking out?”

“Because I figured this might be a job for my PR manager,” he said, toned laced with sarcasm. “Who also happens to be the cause of the PR disaster in the first place.”

You opened your mouth just to close it, and to open it again. “That’s fair.”

“And you said I was too boring.” Oscar gave you a dry smile, and weirdly, that was the moment it clicked.

You were his PR manager. This─whatever mess the universe had decided to dump in your lap─wasn’t just a disaster. It was an opportunity. A viral, narrative-controlling opportunity. The kind of chaos you could work with. You’d complained that Oscar gave you nothing: too quiet and acidic. Well, he certainly wasn’t that anymore, or almost.

You straightened up, the panic slowly morphing into focus. Your heart was still pounding, but now to the rhythm of the plan puzzling itself in your head. No one had trained you for what to do when you were the story but if anyone could improvise, it was. Your idea was wild, unhinged, even. But you knew better than anyone that the line between unhinged and brilliant was just the execution. And if you played this right, it could be exactly what the both of you needed.

You turned to Oscar slowly, the corner of your lips twitching into something almost insane. “Oscar,” you said carefully. “What if we didn’t let this go to waste?”

“Come again?”

“I mean, this,” you gestured vaguely toward his phone, screen down on the counter. “Oscar Piastri’s mystery romance unveiled, blah blah blah. It’s a mess, but it doesn’t have to be.”

Oscar’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “... You’re about to say something crazy.”

You got up from your spot on the bed to face him fully. “Fake dating.”

“There it is.”

“No, seriously, hear me out,” When he started taking a few steps back, you rushed toward him, hands animated. “People are already talking. We can’t undo the articles or stop the whispers, but we can own the story. It’s simple PR strategy: if the narrative’s out of our hands, we grab it back, shift the focus and make it work for us.”

“And what, exactly, would we be gaining from this?” Oscar looked deeply, deeply unconvinced.

You got closer to him and his eyes widened discreetly, quickly shifting from your eyes to your lips, and to the one finger you were holding up in front of his face. “One, you get press engagement. You’ve been called the human spreadsheet by more than one person─”

“Never heard of that.”

“Okay, maybe it’s only me, but my point still stands. This? It gives you dimension. Warmth. Personality. More people of all age groups rooting for you.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Because I’m dating you?”

“Don’t flatter yourself too much. Two,” you continued without missing a beat, “I get a break from Theodore. He’s more likely to leave me alone if he thinks you’re in the picture long-term, or as close as we can get to it.”

“Isn’t that the reason you picked me in the first place?”

“I was desperate. You were here and tall.”

Oscar shrugged at your words, quietly agreeing with you, which egged you on for the last point of your argument. “Three, if this all goes up in flames, we just say we broke up. That wouldn’t be the ideal outcome until Theodore’s out of the picture, but if push comes to shove, we do this quietly. Classic ‘we ask for privacy during this time’, then ghost the media. End of story, and we go back to our ways.”

The silence stretching between the walls of your hotel room seemed to last a lifetime too long as the Australian studied you carefully, arms crossed on his chest. “You’ve really thought about this.”

“Actually, I just did. I’m that good.”

He exhaled loudly at your comment, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and you tried your best not to let a little quip past your lips. “And how long would this have to last?” Oscar asked, voice muffled by his palm.

“Until Theodore goes away, which shouldn’t be more than a few weeks knowing his talents. Enough to let the story peak and settle and it would include a couple public appearances, some social media crumbs─ low effort, maximum payoff for you.”

Hope swirled in your chest with the intensity of a storm when he dropped his hands, his dark eyes locked onto yours.

“And your ex leaving you alone would be the only thing you’d gain out of all this?”

You didn’t hesitate a single second when you answered. “That, and peace. Maybe a little petty revenge over him and honestly? A challenge.” Because this is what you’ve been dying to do ever since you stepped foot in the paddock a year ago.

And maybe Oscar saw the hellfire of determination in your eyes as he scanned you, either that or you sold your reckless idea with the confidence of a politician, because after long, skeptical minutes. He held out his hand, and the overwhelming weight pressing against your shoulders seemed to evaporate in the flight of a hundred butterflies.

“Fine, count me in,” he said, voice a little hoarse, “but if it all goes to shit, you’re taking the blame.”

You hastily took his hand, his rough palm fitting into yours, and you blamed the electricity rushing in your spine and the powdery pink of his cheeks on the ridiculous situation and the relief coursing through your body. “Deal, but it won’t go to shit if you keep up with me.”

The ghost of a smirk pulled at his lips, which made you smile. Your heartbeat was thundering in your chest and the heaviness of what you’d just agreed upon settled over you like a second skin.

Fake dating Oscar Piastri. How hard could it be?

First thing you did the next morning was to warn a handful of team members: there was no world in which running a fake dating scheme in secret wouldn’t come back to bite you and frankly, your job and reputation were already hanging by a thread due to yesterday’s PR earthquake. You and Oscar pulled Lando, Zak, and a few key staff members─social media, comms, and PR support─into the smallest available hospitality room you could find, locking the door behind you.

You explained the situation as fast as you could, hands raised in surrender under their gazes. How the rumors were technically true but not real, what conclusions you came to in such little time, and the thought process behind your idea, carefully excluding Theodore’s implication.

“Wouldn’t lying to the public make it worse?” Someone from comms piped up, deadpan.

You winced. “Damage control isn’t always about truth. It’s about optics, controlling the narrative before it controls us. We’ve assessed the risk, this buys us time to refocus headlines onto the cars, not the garage drama all while boosting Oscar’s popularity.”

Zak blinked at you as if you’d grown a second head. “You assessed the risk?”

“With me,” Oscar added from his chair, facing you. “I see the strategic upside. I’ll blow over in a few weeks, it’s fine. No harm done.” You sent him a silent thank you, holding his eyes just long enough for him to notice.

“Soo, when’s the wedding?” Lando piped up, leaning forward. “Or do we just have the break-up arc planned?”

You ignored him, preferring to explain the conditions of you and Oscar’s little agreement: no posts unless you greenlit them, no press comments and if anyone asked, yes, you were together. Happy. In love, but still casual. Social media staff were already scribbling notes or rapidly typing on their keyboards, and Zak looked like he might die of a heart attack.

So were you. Still, when you glanced at Oscar during one of McLaren’s CEO's silent breakdowns, you couldn’t help but share a silent laugh.

The following days were catastrophic, to say the least. Navigating the Bahrain paddock for the last of testing and media obligations for the first Grand Prix of the season the week after had turned into a minefield of knowing looks and suspicious stares. You and Oscar were learning how to walk the tightrope of fake affection with the grace of two toddlers. A few shared smiles, a shoulder brush, but every interaction felt rehearsed, taken off a badly written script. By some given miracle, it did work on some people but not all, and especially not Theodore. You could feel his eyes on you everytime you walked through the garage, narrowed as if waiting for a slip-up, but you’d rather die than prove him right.

By the end of the first few days, Oscar’s social media manager handed you a photo of the both of you to approve for Instagram─ one where Oscar had his arm slung around your shoulder awkwardly while you stood next to the car, all too aware of the massive lens pointed right at you. It was…

“It looks like we lost a bet,” you muttered, horrified.

Oscar leaned in over your shoulder to look at the picture. “Oh. Yeah, that’s bad.”

You threw your hands in the air, movements more powerful than words to transcribe the frustration elevating your blood pressure. Before a flurry of complaints and insults could slip past your lips, Oscar spoke.

“Okay, maybe it’s not very convincing, but it’s also because we haven’t figured out how to sell it correctly.”

“What a revolutionary thought.” He shrugged your comment off. 

“Well, I figured since we skipped the whole dating part and went straight to the whole madly-in-love thing, maybe it’s time we… backtrack?”

You felt the lightbulb switch on in your mind, eyes widening in realization. “Backtrack… like a backstory?”

Oscar nodded solemnly. “A timeline, yeah. How it started, how it’s going, first dates and everything. The whole fake fairytale.”

You couldn’t argue with that. You hated to admit he was currently beating you at your job, but Oscar was right. People were already speculating about the two of you a week in your fake relationship; everyone, including you, needed some foundations to be settled and fast. “Okay, alright. We can figure this out tonight, preferably in my hotel room since it apparently became the headquarters of this,” you made circle hand gesture between the two of you, “operation. Also because nobody will bust us in there.”

Oscar showed up at an ungodly hour of the evening─ the clock showcased numbers that hurt your sleep cycle, but nothing made the press talk more than going to your girlfriend’s room in the middle of the night, right? He knocked once before letting himself in, dressed in the same sweats and hoodie as a week ago, and holding a suspiciously large energy drink. “I come bearing poison,” Oscar announced, lifting the can.

You squinted at him from your spot on the bed-your hotel room lacking a desk-surrounded by a battlefield of notebooks and your wheezing laptop that was one short breath away from the grave. “Perfect, that’ll keep us up. We have work to do. Welcome to the Ted-talk-slash-lie-building meetup.”

Oscar kicked off his shoes, walking toward you. He eyed the chaos with a low whistle. “Oh wow, you weren’t kidding.”

You handed him a purple glitter pen without even glancing in his direction. “Sit your ass down and write with honor, Piastri.”

“Glitter? Really?”

“Don’t patronize me. I love glitter gel pens. Better memorize that if you want to be a good fake boyfriend.”

Oscar snorted but didn’t protest as he took the pen, sitting down next to an open notebook on the edge of your bed. He cracked the energy drink open with a hiss, and you took it from his hands before he had the time to bring it to his lips. “Jesus, you’re bossy.” You shot him a look. “Alright, alright. Where do we begin?”

You exhaled, eyes settling on your computer screen. A bright, pink page was showcasing Date Idea: Where To Take Your Beloved For A First Date? “With the basics. When we started dating, how we met, how many fake months we’ve been in fake love, which side of the bed you sleep in for continuity purposes.”

“Right side.”

“Wrong answer. It’s mine.”

You gradually settled in a surprisingly comfortable rhythm. Between the quiet clicking of the keyboard, the buzzing of Chinese nightlife outside your window, and the rhythmic scratch of the glittery ink on paper, you and Oscar brainstormed.

Ideas came slowly at first, awkward and stilted the way two kids forced together in a group project would work─ which it was, in a way. It didn’t take you long to realize you didn’t know Oscar at all, and he didn’t know you either, and the recognition of that fact put a certain strain on your interactions, as much as there already was. Yet, the tension softened as the minutes from midnight trickled away. You found yourself building a history out of thin air, questions after questions and jokes after jokes─ inside jokes that didn’t exist and justified why you laughed so hard at ‘soft tyres’, a first date that involved a tragically undercooked lasagna which Oscar and you had to fight over because neither of you wanted to look like a bad cook. You chose May 21st as the anniversary date because it sounded cute. Oscar protested, “How can a date even be cute? It doesn’t make sense.” He still settled on it.

Snorts, teasing looks as you drew a clumsy timeline in the middle of your designated ‘Relationship Basics’ notebook. “What about our first kiss?”

“Mmh, that’s a good one. People are going to ask.”

“Duh,” you fought the smile on your lips with little effort. “C’mon. You were wearing that hideous orange puffer, it was raining, and I was mad because you didn’t share your umbrella.”

“Oh right, and you were soaked and… okay, you said I owed you a kiss for compensation. Sounds like something you’d do,” Oscar replied, leaning forward in mock seriousness.

You made a sound, halfway between a gasp and a laugh. “You do remember!”

He laughed. A real one, warm and easy, going right through your chest. You quickly joined him, and his eyes lingered on you a second too long after the joke faded. “I made it up with hot chocolate later, though,” he added with a lazy smile that didn’t belong in any scenarios.

You scribbled that in your notebook. “Ew. We are sickeningly cute.”

And somewhere between a fabricated ski trip and the great debate of who said ‘I love you’ first, something shifted, just a little. Oscar had moved from the edge of the bed to sit beside you, arms behind his head against the headrest, legs stretched on the covers. His knees bumped yours every now and then, but you didn’t flinch away. The notebooks laid abandoned now, pens scattered across the duvet. Your laptop screen dimmed after an hour of neglect and your limbs were heavy with the sweet stickiness of fatigue that only came when you laughed too much and too hard.

You glanced over at Oscar and his hair was a little messy, eyes a little sleepy, softened by the light of the space. He was already watching you. “You know,” he spoke up. “For a so-called meeting, it suspiciously looks like a sleepover.”

You couldn’t help but giggle at that, tiredness winning over your resolve. “It’s almost four,” he continued,  voice lower in the hush of your hotel room. “We’ve officially survived our first week of fake dating. Well, we did four hours ago, but…”

“And we haven’t accidentally gotten married in Vegas like they do in movies. I’d call that a win.”

“Oh yeah, that’s definitely not because of our amazing chemistry.”

A huff escaped you again, and your head fell back against the pillows. Shanghai still hummed outside the window, quieter this time, and the city lights threaded through the thin curtains you pulled. The room was just as still, if warmer─ you could feel the tired blush on your cheeks and the heat of Oscar’s thigh against yours. “You know, you’re not as annoying as I thought,” you said, a lazy sigh curling into your words.

It came out like an offhand casual observation, but you didn’t meet his eyes. Truth be told, you were ashamed. The whole year you’d convinced yourself Oscar Piastri was a nuisance and a stain on your work life had been shattered in the shine of glitter pens and the drafting of a romance novel-worthy story. Because he was actually kind of funny, and even though he delivered his jokes like he was bored half the time which you used to interpret as condescance, they still made you laugh. He listened when you spoke. He had a dry, understated charm you were starting to recognize as very authentic.

And he hadn’t complained once tonight. Not when you made him pick an anniversary date for the third time, or reenact a fake first meeting with your best friend. He was just… there.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he replied, but his voice melted at his usual edges. “You’re alright too. Surprisingly.”

When you turned your head, you found he was already looking at you for the second time, and a moment passed. You gave him a smile, barely there, and he looked away. “Guess we do make a decent team,” Oscar mumbled.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you mimicked him. He snorted.

You walked him to your door after an exchange of soft chuckles and breathy goodnights. Fake dating Oscar would be harder than you thought, but it definitely wouldn’t be as bad as you made it out to be.

You weren’t sure what it was between the sleep deprivation, the amateur acting, or the emotional whiplash of building an entire relationship with a guy you were only acquainted with, but something about it shifted the rhythm you’d gotten used to. Whatever happened during that night, being Oscar Piastri’s fake girlfriend became easier after it.

It started with texts. You couldn’t remember which one of you sent the first non-work related one, but it became a daily occurrence of linking the other pictures the press took of the both of you.Oscar would often comment something along the lines of Do I look like a man held hostage or a man in love? Be honest. You’d roll your eyes everytime, answering: All I can say is that I’m not flattered. At first, it was mostly logistical─ scheduling photo ops, making sure neither of you veered your scheme off the track. But somewhere between sarcastic captions and oddly flattering candids, the conversations grew longer. It became a way to kill time, a habit.

Oscar was easy to talk to, which was a thought that would’ve originally terrified you. Except the conversations carried off screen, and you found yourself enjoying them an awful lot.

Along the lines of your ruse, you started saving seats beside each other during lunch breaks or waiting up for the other to go back to the hotel together─ not for the cameras or Theodore’s heinous stare, but for a reason as simple as the enjoyment of the other’s company. Oscar was more than a colleague by that point, he became something else that you couldn’t quite call a friend the way you called Lando one. You stopped overthinking every step you took beside him, every glance and sentence. You had your script, sure. But more than that, you had a quiet kind of understanding. He knew when to press his hand to the small of your back when it was needed, and you knew when to lean in just enough to sell the look of something intimate. 

It wasn’t perfect, but it was practiced. Comfortable, even. Maybe, just maybe, a little fun. Which is why you couldn’t tell when the little things started to feel not as little anymore.

Rare were the times you arrived late to a team briefing, but a late-night spiral reviewing articles about your little charade had stolen more sleep than you’d expected, and for the first time since you started out at McLaren, your alarms lost the battle. You slipped in your seat next to Oscar, a movement you barely thought about anymore, breathless, cheeks warm from your run across the paddock and the drizzle misting your hair. Your pants were drenched, there was a pounding behind your eyes and you were thirty minutes away from biting someone’s head off if they even dared mention your tardiness.

Oscar didn’t say anything at first, just glanced your way as he often did, eyes flicking up and down once. You braced for a comment, a joke, preparing to hold yourself back from doing something you’ll regret doing to your fake boyfriend in public.

Instead, he leaned down, reaching for a paper bag next to him, from where he pulled out a steaming paper cup and a chocolate croissant that he slid toward you without a word. Your name was scribbled across the side of the wrapper along with your very specific order, down to the temperature.

You looked at Oscar. At your breakfast. Then at Oscar again. “How─”

“You weren’t answering my texts,” he said, still looking forward. “Figured you’d be late, so I got you this. You get cranky with no sleep or caffeine in your system.”

“I don’t get cranky,” you muttered, wrapping your cold hands around the hot beverage. “You get sassy when you don’t sleep.”

“Sure,” Oscar said casually, meeting your eyes for the first time since you sat down. “There’s extra vanilla, by the way.”

You didn’t answer, just rolled your eyes, but his gaze was still on you when Zak burst through the door. The fact he remembered that you took extra vanilla syrup in your extra hot latte and that your favorite pastry was a chocolate croissant should be nothing, because you’re sure you told him at some point during your many one-on-one briefings. Except it wasn't. Not really.

Then, there was the flight. There was nothing the fans and the media loved more, and Theodore despised just as much, than couple apparitions at airports, which led to Oscar’s social media manager to nudge you into the believable. That’s how you found yourself catching the same flight as Oscar, Lando and a few others on their jet. It had become recurrent in the past few weeks and you’d never admit it out loud, but there were non-neglectable perks: fewer crying babies, more space, and the occasional poker game where you absolutely obliterated Lando’s ego. You know I’m just that good at acting, you’d said, throwing a cheeky smile at Oscar that he gave you right back.

This time, though, none of you had the energy to talk, let alone play cards. It had been an exhausting and emotional race weekend─ back-to-back media obligations underneath the fire of reignited on-track rivalries, rain delays, and disputes amid the team you couldn’t legally disclose. The jet was unusually quiet as it took off into the night sky, everyone slipping into their respective silence.

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You usually didn’t in airplanes, they stressed you out too much─ you’d just leaned against the window for a little moment, eyes fluttering closed. The buzz of the engine and the soft cabin light blurred the world into static and you drifted away in a split second, as soon as the city was turned to insignificant holes in the black tapestry underneath you.

After a while, you felt a warmth, subtle at first. There was something solid against your shoulder, enough to make you crack one eye open.

Oscar’s head was resting against yours, and you were tucked comfortably against him. At some point, he’d dozed off too, and the both of you had slumped toward each other in your sleep. You could’ve moved, you know you would have a few weeks back, but you didn’t. You let your eyes close again and let yourself drift in and out of sleep along the quiet sync of your breath. His arms wrapped around your waist, your legs rested on his knees, and you weren’t quite sure how long you stayed like that─ten minutes, an hour─but when you finally woke up again, it was to the obnoxious flick of Lando’s phone camera and his barely contained laughter.

It was the accumulation of those little things, the seemingly insignificant moments that, piled together, made them bigger than they should have been. It was when Oscar took the habit of sleeping in your hotel room after qualifications to watch a movie under the pretense of simulating ‘passionate encounters’. It was when, one morning, bleary-eyed, you accidentally threw on his hoodie with his number printed on the back, and his hands lingered on the small of your back a little more possessively that day. It was when you were running low on your orange glitter gel pen and a full set was mysteriously delivered to your door, even if you didn’t need one. In the way his pupils dilated ever so slightly when you caught him staring, when he pointed right at you after his podiums, how your skin fizzed with heat for hours after he kissed your cheek in front of the cameras.

But what really blurred the line was the night in Spain.

It hadn’t been a particularly thrilling race─ tame from lights out to chequered flag. Oscar had finished P3, Lando snagged P2, both holding their qualifying positions with sharp determination. But the crowd had been wild, the champagne flowing and before you knew it, Lando dragged you and Oscar into Carlos’ plans for the night. All that happened after was a blur of neon lights and ear-shattering singing.

The walk back to the hotel was your idea- just a short stroll through warm cobblestone streets, the air sweet with late night chatter and the slow beginning of summer. You and Oscar snuck out the back entrance of the club, the latter clearly not fitting in the Spanish nightlife, your heels dangling from your fingers and his cap pulled low to hide the flush of his cheeks. Both of you were just tipsy enough to feel invincible, shoulders brushing as you exchanged anecdotes and very real inside jokes, something about not-much-talking, laughter echoing against the dead of the night.

It was quiet for a moment after that, the comfortable kind that sometimes settled between you. Oscar decided to break it.

“You know,” he started, softer than usual. “I’ve been meaning to ask─ why didn’t you like me at first?”

You turned your head up slowly, the reality of the question dawning on you. You raised an eyebrow. “What made you think I didn’t like you?”

“Come on.” Oscar gave you a look, and in the dark of his eyes you swore you saw the polite, Shakespearean insults you sneaked in your emails, the harsh tap on your foot on his, flashing in the quarter of a second. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“Okay, maybe I didn’t. At first.” 

He kept his eyes on you, waiting. You sighed, tipping your head back to look at the night sky─ no stars were visible, but it didn’t take away from the beauty of it. “You were just─” You paused, choosing your words carefully. “Honestly, you were rude, smug and condescending. I felt like you were trying to make my job harder than it should be by just- not doing anything. People were talking about you as this nice, quiet boy and I secretly wanted to bash your head against a wall.”

A beat. “Wow. That’s brutal,” he simply answered. “I don’t get how I gave that impression. I always thought you were the one being rude to me.”

Your head whipped in his direction and you could physically feel the disbelief splashed across your features. “Me? You started it!”

“How?”

“That one car ride in my third month,” you deadpanned. “You made a very snobbish comment about a dream I had about my ex. You said, and I quote─” you cleared your throat dramatically, dropping your voice to the flattest Oscar impression known to man, “‘Imagine being boring and still more interesting than your ex.’” Oscar was half-laughing by that point. “Oh, don’t you dare! You also said something about how I shouldn’t sleep in the HQ again, but for the record? It was my first triple-head─”

He held a hand up in mock surrender, mouth agape in stupor. “Is this what started this whole… passive-aggressiveness?”

“Uh… yeah? It was unnecessarily arrogant!”

Oscar made a face. “Unnecessary, sure. I get it. But you know what was also unnecessary? The intimidating, pretty new girl at McLaren─who also happened to be my new PR Manager─calling me boring to my face.”

The words hung in the air between the two of you. Your froze, caught off-guard by the ease with which the compliment slipped out. Oscar was continuing with his rant, either completely oblivious or choosing not to care. You cut him off. “... You thought I was pretty?”

That’s when he faltered, his lips parted in a half-word as if he hadn’t realized what he said before you pointed it out. Oscar’s gaze flicked to yours, then away, suddenly far more interested in the cracks of the sidewalk than anything else. “Well, yeah,” he took off his cap and brushed a hand through his hair like it might undo the sentence. “I mean, you still are. It’s not like that changed.”

It would be lying to say you had considered the possibility that you caused the tension between you and Oscar in the first place. While your sad attempt at humor might have been the catalyst, something must’ve already been simmering under the surface for things to go cold so quickly after it. Your heart gave the tiniest, traitorous jump, chest pulling in a reluctant way, at the thought he’d noticed you then. You despised how easy it was to smile, to fall into the warmth of the possibility.

“Oh,” you said softly, and it explained everything and nothing all at once.

“I’m just saying,” Oscar added quickly, flustered, “it didn’t feel great.”

You couldn’t tell if the red of his cheeks was from the heat, the alcohol, or the embarrassment, but what you could tell was how hopelessly cute you found him in this moment. You tried to play it cool, despite the fact your heartbeat had skipped a full chord. “Noted. And for the record, now I know you aren’t boring,” you added, teasing, playfully nudging your shoulder with his. “You’re just… private. Or mysterious. A sardonic brick wall, if you will.”

It successfully had him looking up, a light-hearted scoff slipping past his lips - you could see the relief in his facial traits. “I’ll take mysterious. It’s better than boring.”

When you got into your hotel room, Oscar slipped past your door as he normally would, and you collapsed onto the bed with your legs tangled together like always─ but something was different now. The air around the mattress was slower, stuck in time, warm in the way his breath ghosted over the nape of your neck when he settled beside you, eyes already fluttering shut.

For the first time since this whole agreement began, you had to consciously remind yourself that it wasn’t real. The comfort in your chest wasn’t made to stay. The steady rhythm of his breathing next to yours, the way your body naturally molded into the other─ it was all pretend. 

At least, that’s what it was supposed to be.

Like silk curtains flowing with the breeze, the change was discreet but there nonetheless, in the shared silences that felt less like pauses and more like instances captured with a polaroid. There was hesitation, once again, but unlike the one you chased away before─ in how you touched, how you laughed, how you glanced at each other and closed the gap under the bright flashes. You were both tiptoeing around something fragile and new.

Neither of you said anything, but it was something too heavy not to notice─ at least, you hoped Oscar did as well: the reluctant awareness of how hazy the lines had started to get and the stunned realization that maybe they’d never really been that straight to begin with after Oscar’s tipsy confession in Spain. You were still doing everything to showcase your relationship to the media, Theodore’s presence in the paddock still overwhelmingly present and Oscar’s popularity sky-rocketing. You were still holding hands and tucking yourself to his side in the garage between two meetings, carefully weaving the continuation of the story you made up together. Yet, when no one was watching, it didn’t feel as plastic. Not when Oscar whispered in the crevice of your ear in a crowded room, or when your heart jumped at the sound of his laugh. When it started to hurt, just a little, when he pulled away.

The day he called you at five in the morning from Canada was confirmation enough. The switch from the heat of Spain to the rainy weather of the United Kingdom for work had taken its toll on you, and you had to call in sick for the Montreal race weekend. Tucked in your covers with a cup of coffee and an inability to sleep due to your clogged nose, you watched your phone screen lit up with his name. You answered with a hoarse, “Why are you awake?”

Oscar chuckled, his voice slightly muffled by the hotel air conditioning in the background. “Why are you?”

“Respiratory betrayal,” you said, dragging your blanket further up your chin. “What’s your excuse? The race’s tomorrow.”

You talked about everything and nothing for a little while. Oscar told you how the track felt a little underwhelming, how the social media team messed up with their main Instagram account, and of Lando’s endless complaining about the lack of your presence─ apparently, the paddock was too quiet now. You nodded in your pillow with a smile like he could see you.

Eventually, the conversation drifted away, like it always did now. Oscar asked what you were listening to lately and you told him of a song that sounded like spring and reminded you of long drives at night, especially the instance when he drove you home after Monaco. He said it sounded like something you’d play to get out of your own head. You said it was. He told you about this stupid childhood habit he had of organizing cereal boxes in alphabetical order and you laughed so hard it triggered a coughing fit.

Oscar’s voice dropped. “I wish you were here.”

It wasn’t dramatic or purposeful in the slightest. He said it as if he was realizing it at the same time he pronounced the words. It was your case too when you answered, “Yeah, me too.”

Your chest ached, because there was no camera to capture the softness of the moment and you just found out you preferred it that way.

And then you came back for the Austrian Grand Prix. You didn’t see Oscar much that weekend. You’d barely touched the ground before you were swallowed whole by emails, debriefs, documents you missed during your sick leave and Theodore side-eyeing you every time you so much as coughed next to him. There was no time for soft moments, not even time to stop and just glance at Oscar even if you wanted to.

He crossed the line in P1 that day. You were mid-conversation with Zak, animated with excitement even during your lengthy talk about the following media duties, when arms pulled you in so strongly you lost track of what you were saying. You recognized him by touch alone: Oscar was wrapped around you, body sweaty and warm from his maddened laps. He held the helmet in his hand, still catching his breath when his head dropped on your shoulder. 

“You’re back,” he said, voiced laced with something a lot like relief.

“Of course I’m back,” you whispered back, fingers twitching on the back of his race suit. He sounded like you were gone for years and somehow, it really did feel like it. You could’ve stayed there for hours, you thought, until Zak obnoxiously cleared his throat next to you.

Oscar pulled back, eyes brighter than his usual post-race exhaustion, the glint of something you couldn’t name just yet dancing in his pupils. His hands came to rest on your wrist, barely brushing your hands. “Stay with me?” He asked, and your heart might have stopped just there. Realizing how it sounded, Oscar quickly corrected, “For the interviews. I’ve been dodging the media since you weren’t there.”

“I will,” you smiled. Your feet were already moving anyway.

He kept glancing sideways everytime the journalists asked about strategy and pace, and the little tug in your guts told your mind you were enjoying it, even though shamefully missing the feeling of the circle his thumb drew on the inside of your hand. When the interviewer asked about the less than discreet glances, making a comment on the obvious chemistry you two shared and how well you worked together─as colleagues and as a couple─Oscar didn’t laugh it off like you always practiced. He nodded, bashful and sure.

The sentence kept blinking in the back of your head like a warning sign: this was all fake. But even telling yourself that wasn’t enough anymore because your heart apparently didn’t get the memo. The touches and the sleepovers made your dreams spiral and your cheeks warm. You became his phone wallpaper for authenticity and his picture became yours as well without as much as a second thought, every little attention as natural as the cycle of seasons.

You were falling for your own fake dating ruse. Which meant you were quietly, miserably falling for Oscar Piastri in the process, in the realest and most literal way known to man. That was terrifying.

Never, in your short but hectic PR career, had you ever experienced that.

Not the newfound feelings you were harboring for your fake boyfriend, no. You tried your best to think about that as little as possible─ if you didn’t look at them, maybe they wouldn’t look back. Right now, you were talking about the diplomatic ambush you and the F1 grid and staff just walked into. The hotel hosting the drivers and half the sport’s staff for the Silverstone weekend had decided to organize a charity gala. Last minute. Mandatory, if you had any desire to keep your reputation intact.

It was a smart move─ brilliant, even: Host a fancy event for a cause, pick a night when the entire motorsport world is under your roof, and leak just enough information to the press so no one can afford to skip it. Declining? Not donating? Refusing to schmooze with the hotel owners? You’d be crucified online by breakfast. Genius, really. You respected the play. 

But damn, give a girl some warning. You didn’t have anything to wear.

Apparently it was the case of everyone else as well, which made you feel less self-conscious. When you walked out your hotel room the morning of FP3 and qualifying, the hallway wasn’t buzzing with race talk but with chaotic murmurs about last-minute outfits, shoes emergency and the drama of Max Verstappen only packing team merch─ which, much to his dismay, was absolutely excluded from the dress code.

You were promptly swept away by a group of female staff members from different teams, mostly working in comms or PR, determined to save you from showing up in jeans and a prayer after a heated conversation around the breakfast table. It turned into a surprisingly wholesome mission: shared complaints, budding friendships, and a chorus of tender laughter when you found the dress. “Your boyfriend’s going to be a happy man!” one of the older women teased, earning cackles from the others and a fiery blush from you.

You were, admittedly, very lucky─ as much as someone in a fake relationship could be.

Especially when Oscar knocked on your hotel door later that evening, fresh from his post-quali shower, hair a little messy, still buttoning up the blazer of his suit and eyes flickering with something unreadable when you opened the door, ready.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t expecting a reaction. When you were tearing down your skin with your scented body scrub and carefully smoking out your eyeliner in the mirror, you told yourself it was for you only─ but faced with Oscar’s eyes roaming over you, you knew you were clearly lying to yourself.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He silently took you in, and you feared that maybe you didn’t achieve the effect you hoped for. Maybe a hair was out of place, or the dress looked awkward on you. But Oscar’s lips parted in a discreet intake of breath and the way his mind blanked out was painfully visible on his features. Quietly, “You look…” He trailed off, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck as if he could try to scrub off the red climbing out of his collar. “You look really nice.”

Really nice. That wasn’t quite what you expected, but his reaction was telling enough for you and knowing Oscar, you knew you weren’t getting anything more unless he was under a copious amount of alcohol or sleep-deprivation. You rolled your eyes at him, biting back a satisfied smile. “You don’t look half bad either.”

And he did. Devastatingly so. His suit was tailored within an inch of its life, cinched right at the waist and the lapels hugging his chest, his frame striking in the color. It was all very James Bond of him, minus the reckless charm─ though tonight, he seemed to be toeing the line. Your gaze dropped to his tie, and your fingers twitched at your side when you realized the shade was an exact match to your dress. You hadn’t said anything about your outfit ahead of time so you didn’t believe it was on purpose, but when your eyes met his again, there was a flash of something knowing and boyish─ almost proud that you noticed.

“Come on,” Oscar finally broke the silence. “You’re setting the bar too high. Everyone’s going to think I’m the lucky one tonight.”

“That’s because you are.”

The hallway was quiet as you two walked down together. You could feel it again─ that invisible thread pulling tighter, a weightless tension lodging in your chest and the incessant smile pulling at your lips. This was fake. Totally fake, you repeated to yourself again as you stepped with Oscar in the elevator, arm slithering around his bicep, ready to make your entrance.

The hotel hall was drenched in gaudy decorations, shimmering chandeliers and overly sparkly dresses, the kind of excessive elegance that only made sense in photoshoots and unnecessarily overpriced galas. Everywhere you looked, sequins caught the light and laughter echoed over the clink of crystal glasses. You weren’t in your element at all, Oscar wasn’t either and clearly, none of the drivers or the team principals who showed up wanted to be there. But in the name of keeping up appearances, you spent the evening with Oscar and a glass of champagne, stepping on his foot from time to time for old time’s sake. You knew how to mingle, after all it was everything you studied for four years.

You drifted through conversations in tandem. His hand stayed on the small of your back, occasionally brushing lower in ways that felt more unconscious than performative, or maybe it was just wishful thinking. When you’d lean into him to talk, he always dipped his head to hear you better on instinct. When Lando started tagging along, he was quick to complain about third-wheeling.

The whole evening was spent like that: finding amusement where you could in the middle of obligations, which was often spent sending sharp comments Oscar’s way, which amused him greatly, or Lando’s with Oscar’s help, which definitely amused him less. But gossiping could only get you so far, and soon enough the height of the heels you chose and the weighty ambience was enough to uncomfortably tighten your ribcage. You were quick to excuse yourself to the empty entry of the hotel, where you collapsed on a chair with a sigh.

You took a slow sip of your almost empty glass, letting the fizz of the bubbles distract you from the uncomfortable twist in your chest. Oscar would have followed you if you didn’t ask for some alone time, and God knows you needed some away from him. You were trying to find a distraction, anything to make you stop thinking about the brush of his fingertips or how you could have sworn his gaze lingered a second too long on your lips when you laughed at one of his jokes.

You didn’t expect, and especially didn’t want, Theodore to be that distraction.

His voice cut through the fog. “Tired?”

The glass nearly slipped from your fingers. Your body tensed, and you jumped to your feet out of reflex, ready to leave at any given moment. “Oh wow, didn’t mean to scare you like that,” he raised his hand in mock surrender. You rolled your eyes.

Theodore had the same haircut, same smug face, same cologne that lingered like melted plastic. The longer you looked at him, the longer of an eyesore he became─ nothing about him stood out: not his suit, the false casual way he was holding his blazer in his hands, and certainly not his demeanor. You couldn’t help but draw a silent comparison to Oscar.

That’s when you realized: you hadn’t seen much of Theodore the past week around the paddock. You hadn’t paid a lot of attention to his presence in general, too caught up in Oscar and the torment of your own conflicting feelings to even grace him with acknowledgement. You voiced the first part of your thought, casually sipping your drink.

His expression tightened as he forced a smile. “Ah. Yeah, well, they… they let me go. Budget cuts, you see.”

It took all your will and decency not to explode in laughter. Budget cuts. Ah, yes. Incompetence must have had a change of definition in the Oxford Dictionary recently. “So… why are you here?”

“My dad knows the hotel owner. I got an invite last minute.”

“Oh,” you said with a mocking tilt of the head. “So nepotism and unemployment. Got it.” The fake niceness you sported on during your first interaction at the start of the season had vanished out of thin air─ you weren’t going to put up with this pathetic excuse of a man any longer than you had to, precisely now that you had no reason to anymore.

Theodore laughed. Your hand prickled with the need to punch him in the nose. “You know, it’s not even that important that I lost my job at McLaren.” Said no one ever, you thought. How far did his privileges go? “I─ well, I only took it up because I learned you were working there. I thought… maybe if I was around again, we could fix things.”

You must have hit your head, this had to be a fever dream. The words reaching your ears made no sense to you whatsoever. 

“Fix─?” You scoffed, eyes widening. “That job was supposed to be your redemption arc? Is that it? Oh my god, Theo. You slept with my best friend and you thought I’d fall back in your arms because you barged into my career?”

“I made a mistake─”

“You made a choice,” you spat.

“I didn’t think it would matter this much to you!”

“Did I not cry enough the first time or do you want me to reenact it? Were you really hoping I’ll welcome you with open arms, open legs and a memory loss?”

“Well─”

“Don’t answer that. Actually, stop talking.”

Theodore threw his arms in the air, taking a step forward as he hurled his jacket on the chair you sat on a few minutes ago. “I just thought maybe seeing me again would remind you of what we’ve had!”

Rage and indignation alike rose in your throat like vomit, and your hands shook imperceptibly as you answered. “It did. It reminded me that what we had was never good enough to keep me from building something better. So thanks for the little nostalgia trip, but I’ll pass.”

Something in Theodore’s gaze darkened, dangerous and petulant, and before you could step back, he leaned in. “Oh, I get it now,” he snarled at you, voice dropping into something bitter. “It’s because of Piastri, isn’t it?”

“Back off, Theodore.” Your back had straightened instinctively. Discomfort crept under your skin like cold water─ you didn’t like the way he hissed his name and how close he was getting.

He didn’t back away. Instead, he took another step. “Didn’t realize you’d fall for the first man who gave you attention after me. Guess I underestimated how lonely you─”

“Everything alright there?”

His voice, warm and familiar, sliced through the tension and your shoulders slumped in relief. Oscar.

He was standing just behind Theodore, who turned around comically slow. Oscar’s expression was unreadable. You never saw him angry, but you did know how to recognize the calm before a storm.

“Yeah,” Theodore answered, too fast. “Just… catching up.”

Oscar’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Well, I think you’ve done enough catching up for tonight.”

He walked toward you, and you subtly stepped to his side, his heat grounding in the absurdity of the situation. He didn’t look at you─ his eyes were locked on Theodore’s, cold and measured. “If you’ve said your piece,” he started, “I think you should head back to whatever table your father pulled strings to get you to.”

Theodore scoffed, his features twisting into something ugly, but he didn’t push his luck. He wouldn’t be winning this fight. After a beat of tense silence, he turned and stormed off the entry hall, muttering something beneath his breath you didn’t bother catching.

The moment he was out of sight, you could feel the rigidity in your body melt away. You hadn’t even realized how tightly you’d been wound until now, standing frozen in place. You reached out instinctively, gripping Oscar’s sleeve in order to keep you on your feet. “Shit,” you whispered. “I didn’t expect him.”

Oscar’s hand closed gently over yours and how thumb drew slow circles across your knuckles. You could feel his eyes on you attentively. “You okay?”

You sniffled, breathing fast as a breathy, nervous laugh slipped past your lips. “God.” You wiped your cheek, pausing when you saw the glint of moisture on your fingers, “I didn’t even realize I was crying.”

Oscar didn’t say anything right away─ he reached up with his other hand and brushed your tear track, cradling your cheek with the gentlest touch, like you’d break if he pressed too hard. “He’s a real dick,” he murmured, brows drawing together. “Trust me, he’s never coming near you again.”

That made you laugh─ quiet, and undeniably tired, but real. You looked up at him, something vulnerable sitting openly between you now. “Thanks for stepping in,” you breathed out. “You know, you’re awfully good at being a fake boyfriend. You nailed the attitude down.” You tried to make light of the situation, but the words stung when you got them out. You regretted uttering them as soon as you felt the frail openness in the air retract. Something in Oscar’s eyes dimmed a little, but they didn’t move from yours. 

“Always, that’s my job,” his tone dripped with a strange kind of acerbity. “Now, let’s get you to your room. I think we’re done for the night.”

You couldn’t agree more.

The way to your room was spent in silence, apart from the click of your heels on the carpet and the faint sound of breathing. The quiet was now oppressing, seeping with an anxiety that took you back to when he shook your hand in a similar hotel room a few months ago. When you released his arm as you reached your door, you half-expected him to mutter a polite goodnight and disappear at the end of the hallway.

Instead, Oscar leaned against the doorframe, hands shoved in his pockets. “Can I ask you something?”

You gave a small nod.

“What made you say yes to him?” He asked. Faced with your confused expression, he clarified, gaze flicking down. “Theodore. Why did you date him?”

There wasn’t a trace of judgment in his voice, just a searching sort of curiosity. The answer sat heavy on your tongue, unfamiliar and painful, but still, the question pulled something sharp through your chest─ you didn’t know why you were suddenly so self-conscious about it. 

“I’d like to say I don’t know but…,” you leaned back against the wall next to him, folding your arms to hold yourself together and eyes fixed on a point somewhere past his figure. “I think… I was tired. I used to put everything into school, so much that I skipped out on everything else. I didn’t even know who I was beside the pressure and achievements, and Theodore… just happened to be there during that confusing time of my life. My roommate’s, and ex-best friend’s, friend. I thought he was charming, in his own sort of way. He was persistent, used to leave flowers by my dorm room every morning.” You chuckled sadly. “They weren’t even my favorite - turns out they were hers.”

You heard Oscar exhale. “It still made me feel noticed, like I mattered to something outside of studies. Like someone actually saw me, you know? So I fell in love. And turns out he didn’t see me at all─ he sure as hell doesn’t now either, if he thought showering Zak with dollar bills and side-eyeing me across the paddock would be enough to win me back. That’s without mentioning the cheating.”

The silence of the hallway was deafening, your words echoing against the walls. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just dense. Until Oscar broke it.

“I don’t get it,” he murmured, “how anyone could cheat on you. It doesn’t make sense.”

It made you look at him. You’ve gotten used to turning around and finding his eyes already on you; it shouldn’t have been much of a surprise, but your chest still tightened when you met the darkness of his irises. You waited for him to reply, lacking any explanation yourself of why it couldn’t meet the simple principles of logic in his head, why he couldn’t find the flaws in you that lead Theodore to another woman.

Oscar’s answer came under a different form. “For what it’s worth,” he said, gaze steady. “I like to think I see you.”

You blinked. “Do you?”

The question slipped out before you could stop it, and the moment it did, the answer came rushing in. He did. You knew it in the way his head tilted slightly to the side, like he was still trying to see more of you, even now.

Oscar knew your coffee order by heart, the temperature and how much milk to ask for when you were too tired to speak it aloud. He knew which bakery carried your favorite pastry and what time he had to sneak away from media duties to grab it for you─ especially when the paddock version tasted like cardboard. He noticed when your hands got cold before you did, kept spare hand warmers in his bag in colder countries because “you’re always freezing.” He sent you stupid memes during long flights because he knew take offs made it hard for you to sit still. He carried spare glitter gel pens in his bag, and never teased you about it─ just handed you another one when you absentmindedly noticed yours was running out.

He remembered that you always got motion sick if you sat in the backseat of a car for too long. That you needed silence when thinking. That you hummed when you were concentrating and tapped your pen when you weren’t.

And suddenly, you weren’t just asking if he saw you the way you’d always wanted to. You were asking if he’d always been seeing you, even when you weren’t looking.

“I do,” he answered, barely above a whisper.

You nodded. There couldn’t be anything more true than that.

Just like that, the air tilted. Toward him, engulfing you both in a fragile, sacred space. Everything narrowed down to Oscar and the small buzz between your two bodies─ dense and electric, full of every feeling that had been lurking beneath the surface. His eyes flickered to your lips for the briefest of seconds. Back to your eyes. 

He moved subtly, like he wasn’t sure you’d let him, the idea of losing the moment scarier than not having it at all. Your body was still, breath hitching and heart racing, as his hand reached up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing softly over your cheekbone, memorizing the shape.

And when he finally leaned in, he hesitated just inches from your lips, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath and the tremble in yours. “Is this okay?” He whispered.

You closed the space.

The kiss was gentle at first─ careful and tentative. The gentle, kind sweep of two people trying to find their footing, but the electric shock of the feeling brought everything back to you: the months of tension, the stolen glances, the fumbled excuses to stay close. Your mouths crashed over each other, deepening in the split of a second, slow and aching in the pants you let out and the touch of roaming, curious hands. You breathed into his mouth, seeking his air to make it yours.

Oscar’s other hand slid to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer and your back flush against the wall as your fingers curled into the lapels of his jacket. You could feel his heart hammering under your palm, fast and desperate, mirroring yours. His tongue demandingly slipped past your lips, and he kissed you like he had wanted to for a long time, and there was no denying he had. Raw and needy, you felt stripped bare by the small whine he let out when you bit down on his bottom lip.

You thought, the world could fall apart tomorrow and this would have been everything you needed to go peacefully.

When you finally pulled apart, both breathless, he didn’t move far. You wouldn’t have let him anyways, the heat of his body too comfortable, the weight of his mouth branded on your own. His forehead rested against yours, eyes closed and lips swollen.

“You have no idea how long I wanted to do that,” he whispered, voice hoarse and rough with honesty.

You fingers tightened in his jacket, and you brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. “Trust me, I think I do.” He laughed against your lips and you kissed him again. Because after all of it─all the pretending, the teasing, the overthinking─you didn’t have to lie to yourself anymore, to convince yourself. You couldn’t make up the way he was kissing you back.

Yet, you still went to bed alone.

You hadn't planned on it─ well, not exactly. After the emotional whirlwind of the evening, the kiss, the honesty, the confession, you’d invited Oscar into your room without really thinking. It had been an instinct, comfort-driven by the nights already spent together, even if everything was entirely different─ including your intentions and his. But Lando had to barge in, clumsily looking for his room next to yours, doing a double-take at the sight of you tucked into Oscar’s side, your makeup smudged from tears and kisses like a hormonal teenager, Oscar looking all too rumpled and embarrassed next to you.

“Jesus,” Lando muttered. “I’m just─ you know what, we’ll unpack that later. Good night. Please don’t make too much noise.”

Oscar laughed, arms wrapping tighter around your waist when your friend disappeared, whispering, “I’ll come back tomorrow. After I take you out on a date. A real one, this time.”

You’d smiled. “You better.” He kissed you again, quick and soft and annoyingly perfect, more than your dreams made it out to be, and you went to bed glowing, with his name lighting your phone screen with sweet nothings and promises of conversations tomorrow.

But tomorrow never came, because the knocks that woke you up were giving you a sickening déjà-vu. They were urgent, a trumpet announcing the complete turning of your world just like they had done a few months back, in February, and loud enough to slice through the sleepiness in your bones along with the drowsy haze of your mind.

You got up with difficulty and barely had the time to wrap a blanket around yourself before answering the door. You half-expected to find the Grim Reaper himself waiting on the other side with how early it was for anyone else to be knocking. Instead, you were faced with Oscar. Your heart gave a small, automatic jolt when you saw him. After how last night ended, he should have been the best thing possible to wake up to.

The expression on his face stopped you cold.

Oscar, who rarely wore his emotions so plainly, looked visibly shaken. The sharp lines of his face were pulled tight with worry, brows furrowed and jaw clenched. And that─more than the hour, more than the knocks─was what stopped you from throwing yourself into his arms.

You opened the door wider to let him in, which he did with hurried steps. “What’s happening?”

“Can you close the door first?” You did without much of a question.

Oscar sat on the edge of your bed, phone cradled in hand. He looked up at you, and distressed wasn’t enough to describe it─ he looked wrecked. “Have you checked your phone this morning?” He asked.

Dread pooled in your stomach. “No, I─ I just woke up,” you answered. “Oscar, I─”

“Someone leaked it. Our agreement, the fake dating. It’s all out.”

The world tipped.

The air in your lungs vanished and, for a moment, all you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears. His words repeated like static, a taunting echo getting louder and louder the more you realized what it meant. “What?” You whispered, eyes locked on his. The truth could have looked different there, but didn’t.

You sat down next to him, every limb leaden, cinching the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “How─? Who even─? We were so careful and─”

“Nobody knows, they’re searching for it right now,” Oscar replied, but it came out strained. “Everyone's trying to trace it now, but it landed on DeuxMoi and basically everywhere after that. They’ve got… receipts. Pictures, testimonies, photos- and a very incriminating audio recording.”

His throat bobbed with a swallow. “Of you. Saying something like… how good of a fake boyfriend I am. From last night, before we went up.”

Your stomach flipped. “But─ we were alone.”

Different scenarios flashed in your mind, engulfing you both in a spiral of questions and worry. Someone could have been filming you, and the lights were too low to spot the silhouette. Maybe Theodore’s jacket, draped over the chair you’d sat on, had a recording device on it in an attempt to prove himself something, or to get revenge on you. But how would he have guessed? There were so many possibilities, and Oscar’s silence didn’t help you feel any better about any of them─ not knowing burned hotter than the betrayal itself.

He took your hand in his, your intertwined fingers resting between the two of you. The contact made you flinch.

Your breath came out in a shaky exhale. “I mean… it was going to end anyways, right?” Oscar’s frown deepened, so you pushed forward. “The whole relationship. Theodore left. That was the plan, wasn’t it? It wasn’t supposed to last past him. It’s a very shitty way to end, sure, but… you can work with it.” You were tearing up by the time the last word left your lips.

Oscar winced. His grip on your hand tightened. “Don’t say it like that.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it?” You let out a wet, pathetic laugh. “It’s over.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” he said, and it sounded a lot like a plea. “We can figure something out─ Zak, the rest of the PR team-someone will know what to do, there-”

You scoffed─ not at him, never, but at the cruel absurdity of it all. Your incapability of keeping something good for yourself. “You don’t get it, Oscar.” Your voice wavered. “Apparently, we’re everywhere. There’s an audio recording. People feel like they’ve been made fools of. They won’t forgive that so easily─ they’ll turn on you. They won’t believe in something that’s already been exposed as fake, even if─”

You couldn’t finish your sentence. Because that was the worst part, wasn't it? You weren’t faking it anymore. Neither of you were, and hadn’t been for a really long time. You could have stumbled around, trying to figure out what it meant, searching his mouth and holding on to the feeling long enough to put a name on it, but the headlines didn’t give you that chance. They took it from you, carved it out of your hands before you even got to claim it as yours.

A beat.

“It was real for me,” Oscar said. “It is.”

You looked at him, the details of his eyes that made promises you were sure he could have kept under different circumstances. You tried to smile, but your face cracked under the weight of it, tear tracks shining under the early morning light. “They don’t know that,” you whispered. “They won’t care.”

Oscar’s gaze fell on the floor, and you shook your head gently. “You still have a career to protect. Just say it was my idea, you were helping me out and I got you into all of this─ which is the truth, technically. You just got too caught up. They’ll forgive you eventually, they’re here for the racing.”

“And what about you?”

The silence spoke for itself, heavy with the undeflectable nature of the situation. Carefully, as to not startle him, you took back the hand he was holding and folded both of them on your lap. There would be no other outcome to this story. “I’ll figure it out. It’s my job.”

He didn’t believe you, you could see it in the lopsided curve of his mouth, the prominent vein near his temple you traced with your eyes before falling asleep. You realized you never had the opportunity to pass a night in his arms.

“You go get ready for your race, Oscar. Don’t worry about me.” Your chest ached as your mouth shaped the words, barely hearing them yourself. The only thing that mattered was the low lights in the Australians’ eyes, how his mouth opened and closed around something. He never said whatever was pending at the edge of his tongue, but he closed his eyes when you put your lips on the skin of his cheek.

Oscar just left quietly, in the imperceptible click of a hotel door. You couldn’t watch him go─ if you did, you might not have had the strength to let him.

You were let go by McLaren before the race even began.

The decision had been clear from the get-go. Still, it didn’t make sitting in that sterile room any easier knowing the lanyard around your neck would be up to grab for someone else in seconds. It wasn’t cruel or personal─ it was just business.

You spent over three hours with members of staff, going over the facts and projected damage. You nodded along and asked questions you could predict the answers to, but the conclusion was written into the walls: the scandal was too loud, and you weren’t quiet enough to survive it─ at least, not with a badge that read McLaren on your chest.

You gave it back, sliding it over the table to the chief of staff. They booked you a flight home as discreetly as they could manage and it wasn’t until you stepped in your apartment, suitcase dropped by the door and keys shaking in your hand, that the overwhelming silence caught up with you.

And with it, everything else.

Your face was headlining the front pages of multiple websites and you’d just lost the best job you’ll ever have─ if not the only one, because a simple search would now lead every possible employer to the failed scheme you tried to put up.

You collapsed onto your bed, entirely dressed and only one shoe off, still wrapped in the airport chill. They made you hand-over your team-issued phone, along with the contacts of everyone that mattered back at Silverstone. You didn’t even have a chance to explain yourself or to say goodbye.

Oscar would finish the race and find out you vanished, and you had no way of telling him 

You let the weight of it all crash down on you.

If you had to estimate, you’d say you let yourself rot in your own misery for about a week, give or take. You weren't counting the days, but you knew you hadn’t opened your curtains since you got home. Your eyes were red, rubbed raw every time another wave of emotion struck you, and you hadn’t so much as looked in a mirror. Instead, you moved through your apartment like a ghost, sidestepping your own reflection as if it might reach out and confirm what you already knew─ you’d lost something you didn’t realize mattered this much until it was gone.

The past year had been everything. You successfully worked your way into a world that worked too fast for second chances where you found a rhythm, built friendships and connections. As tiresome as the lifestyle could sometimes be, you fell in love with what you were doing and what you came to be. In the past months, your life had mirrored the tracks─ swift and brutal, with enough turns to break a few wheels. Now, you were left with nothing but the emptiness in your stomach and for someone who always strived for more, the bitter aftertaste in your mouth was enough to keep you from wanting.

Your wake-up call came in the form of your rent.

Turns out heartbreak didn’t pause rent or the cost of groceries rising due to inflation. McLaren paid well, but not well enough so that you could afford to disappear off the grid and wallow in self pity with your last check. So you did what you always did, reminiscent of your past college superhuman efforts: you opened your laptop and got to work.

You applied to everything you set your eyes on─ LinkedIn, obscure websites, Facebook Ads, no one was safe. You didn’t dare touch anything remotely F1 related, or even F2, F3 or F4, the wound was still fresh and your name was probably too much of a touchy subject for you to be accepted anywhere near. You stuck to motorsports-adjacent companies, agencies, development programs, even local circuits. Just… something, anything that would let you keep your toes in the world you loved.

Eventually, it came.

A small karting company in the Netherlands, of all places. Barely enough to fill a spreadsheet on a good day, but they had promising talents and were expanding, so in need of someone to help build their communications structure from the ground up. Preferably someone who knew how to handle press and build narratives, connect people to stories. They were desperate, which means they probably didn’t even look you up when they interviewed you. You took the opportunity with your first real smile in a minute.

It wasn’t as glamorous. The office had flickering lights, and you hadn’t come with the most adapted wardrobe. But it was something─ so you got to work.

You were surprised by how much you ended up loving it.

The people were awkward but nice, you went out with a few of your colleagues by the end of your first week, and the kids racing under your name were awfully sweet and their parents just as kind. The work wasn’t overbearing, but you put every ounce of your attention in building its perfect image with your team. Your new apartment was small and comfortable, and the city you settled in a neverending discovery of wonders. You felt fine─ which was a step away from the state you had been in not so long ago.

But even though you tried to build yourself another life, you still couldn’t shake the memory of Oscar. He was still there─ not in person, but in every memory you were not capable of erasing just yet. You caught yourself ordering his coffee order alongside yours as a force of habit, and accidentally took the notebooks with the overly precise details of your fallacious history with you to work. There was so much of him in you now, you had trouble picking apart the pieces. You scanned articles for his face but skipped race reports in case his name hurt more to see.

You tried to bury the ache in your schedule and the excitement of the company’s mediatic expansion, you wrote press releases, attended networking events with a tight smile and let small wins feel bigger than they were. Yet you knew your heart was sitting in his hands, thousands miles away- and you refused to wonder if, without knowing, you were still holding his. It was a hope you couldn’t entertain, all in the name of letting go. It was an act of healing of some sorts. Putting Oscar behind you was growth, not grief, and letting go of something that had no chance of being anymore was the most adult thing you’d ever do.

Except you have a history of your past catching up with you─ deep down, you should’ve known this time wouldn’t be any different.

It happened when you bumped into someone on your way out the café, hands full with the Communications team’s comically large coffee order. It was the end of August, and your mind was anywhere but on the street─ mostly focused on not spilling anything. Of course, that’s what made the crash even more cinematic.

Cold drinks flew in the air, splattering across the pavement and down your pants in dramatic, sticky rivulets. You were halfway into a curse when someone said your name in an all-too-familiar voice.

“Y/N?” You looked up from your drenched legs, and there he was.

Lando Norris in the flesh, unruly mullet and all. “Oh my god,” you muttered, halfway between disbelief and horror. “Hi?”

He stared at you like he was trying to convince himself he wasn’t hallucinating. You’d feel offended if you couldn’t understand where he was coming from- you did disappear suddenly, those two months ago. “You’re─ holy shit, what are you doing here?”

You awkwardly wiped your hands on the napkin that came with the order, glancing at the wasted money on the ground. “Clearly failing my duties. I work for a karting company just outside the city. Communications consultant.”

“No way, seriously? In the Netherlands?” Lando asked, eyebrows shooting up. “That’s… kind of awesome.”

You gave him an awkward smile. “Yeah. It’s not McLaren, sure, but I like it there.”

The mention of the team brought an icy breeze to the conversation and had Lando shuffling on his feet before you changed the subject. “And what are you doing here?” You asked, too enthusiastic for it to be spontaneous.

“Zandvoort race this weekend,” he answered with a slight grin.

“Oh, true.” With the drastic changes in your life and the newfound popularity the company had gained, you’d forgotten all about the fast-paced calendar you had become so accustomed with. The fact there was even a race taking place in the Netherlands, despite Max Verstappen being Dutch, had completely slipped your mind.

It should feel like a win, but your heart twisted to punish you.

Faced with another silence, Lando spoke up again. “You know, it’s not the same without you there, Oscar’s new PR manager is an old man.” That made you chuckle, although bittersweet. “We miss you. A lot.”

You didn’t miss the implication in his words. The air suddenly felt a bit thinner in your lungs than it did a few minutes ago. “He shouldn’t,” was all you could manage to reply in the tightening of your throat.

“Why not?”

You shrugged, forcing your voice to stay level. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It ended. He has to focus on his career.”

Lando opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it, only giving you an hesitant smile in return. “Well… I’ll tell him I saw you. If you want.”

“No,” You shook your head with a soft laugh. “No. Just… good luck, alright? For the Grand Prix.”

It got Lando to smile wider, at least, something warm in the spreading of his lips. “Thanks. And Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad I bumped into you. Let me make up for the spilled coffee.”

He did. Brought the entire order again and handed it over with a sheepish shrug, reminiscent of the friend you had two months ago, before disappearing down the cobblestone street. You stood there a bit too long, dazed by the improbability of it all. The universe decided to shake you a little, but somehow it had to be just when you made peace with the fact it had moved on without you.

You went back to the karting center where reality demanded your full attention. The rest of the day passed in a blur of last-minute adjustments─ tomorrow, you were hosting a little event in order to showcase the rising talents driving in your colors, which needed your immediate attention, no matter how divided by the episode this morning. You didn’t even notice everyone else leaving until the sun dipped below the horizon, painting gold across the windows and casting long shadows on the now-empty space.

You exhaled slowly, closing your computer and feeling the soreness in your back from being hunched over too long. The cons of being a workaholic, you guessed, but you’d done your part. You gathered your things, slid your jackets over your shoulders, and stepped out into the cooling evening.

You could have missed him if you hadn’t hesitated a second too long in the doorway, but you could also recognize Oscar anywhere, eyes closed or blindfolded.

He was leaning against a car, parked a few meters away from the entrance, hoodie loose around his shoulders and hair tousled by the breeze. His gaze was distant, unfocused as he was watching the distance. The second the door thudded shut behind you, the sound cutting through the quiet evening, his eyes snapped up, finding yours.

He looked lost, beautifully so. It froze you in your tracks. It didn’t seem to have the same effect on Oscar, as he pushed off the car and took careful steps forward.

“Hi,” was all he said, soft and steady.

You hadn't realized how much you missed the silken casualness of his voice before it reached your ears. It hit you harder than you’d expected. “How─?”

“Lando,” Oscar cut in gently. “He said you worked at a karting company near the city. I… looked it up. Thought maybe, with a little chance, you’d still be here.” He scratched the back of his neck and he looked away for a second, just one, before his eyes snapped back to yours.

Neither of you moved, unsure how to cross the canyon that had cracked open between you.

“I wasn’t expecting…” You trailed off.

“Yeah,” Oscar breathed out a humorless laugh, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Me neither. It was, uh, pretty impulsive. But I couldn’t just…” He trailed off too, shaking his head.

You nodded, even though you didn’t understand. This whole conversation made no sense. “How’s it going? Life, I mean. At McLaren?” you asked, desperate to ignore your heart clawing at your ribs.

Oscar’s lips thinned. “Fine. Busy.”

“That’s good.”

He took a step closer, so very little you could have missed, and so slow it gave you the opportunity to step back. You didn’t take it. “And you? How’s─ all this?”

“It’s… something. I like it. I do.” You laughed, and it came out wrong.

“I’m glad.”

Silence fell, weighty on your shoulders. You didn’t know what to do, and you couldn’t guess how to act when Oscar looked so closed off, out of reach─ something he hadn’t been to you in a long while. You chose to let it stretch, unsure of what else.

Finally, it came down to Oscar. “You left.”

The words stung with the strength of a slap, and heartbreaking enough to put you back in front of your apartment door, two months back. You gripped the hem of your jacket, bringing it closer to your body in hope to substitute for the warmth his tone lacked. You inhaled sharply, fighting the sting behind your eyes.

“I didn’t have a choice. They made it very clear there was no place for me anymore, and it would be the better option for one of us to come out unscathed.” Your voice faltered despite your best efforts. “I didn’t want to leave that way, Oscar. Not without saying goodbye.”

You couldn’t help the comment that bordered on your lips. “But I figured you weren’t too concerned. You didn’t look too hard to reach me either.” Not an e-mail, no nothing. You were deprived of his contact information due to your work phone being taken away, but he wasn’t. 

Oscar’s hands curled into fists at his side. “I couldn’t. If I did, they assured me it could make everything worse if someone leaked it again, for the both of us.” A scoff escaped him. “Told me I had to wait until they found the person who took the audio recording in the first place before I could try anything.”

“And did they?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I don’t really care.”

Again, he took a step forward. Oscar was close, not overly, but close enough for you to see the wild and desperate edge etched in his delicate traits, regardless of how much he tried to hide it. “I wanted to reach out. Every day. I just─” He ran a hand through his hair. “I guess I thought that’s what you wanted. I kept thinking that maybe you hated me for how it ended, or─ maybe you regretted it.”

Your laugh broke out sharp and ugly, more hurt than anything else. “Hated you? Regretted it?” You shook your head in disbelief. “Oscar, how could you even think-?”

He didn’t interrupt you. You had to do it yourself, because Oscar just watched as if waiting for a confirmation between the lines. “You really think I’d regret you?”

He still didn’t move. “I mean…,” he finally rasped out, barely carrying over the wind, “it cost you your career in F1. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

“I cost me my career, Oscar. Not you. The fake relationship was my idea. I told you from the beginning I’d take the fall if it came to it. You were just helping me.”

You watched his jaw contract with the need to argue back, but you wouldn’t let him. Oscar was wrong on all accounts in his reasoning, blinded by whatever had been clouding his mind during your disappearance, and you were making sure it stopped there.

“I couldn’t hate you even if I tried. Well, not now at least- you were pretty insufferable at first.” His shoulders shook in the semblance of a laugh. “And if there’s anything I regret, it’s not realizing that it stopped being fake a lot sooner.”

There it was, the hefty topic you had been dancing around─ the kiss, gentle in its unearthing, and the whispered promises of explanations in the morning. Something that had been stolen from you and was now coming back to the surface for a last gasp of air. You could either take it or let it drown.

Oscar’s eyes searched yours, and for a second you believed he’d apologize and leave.

But that’s not what he did.

“It was never fake for me,” he said. “When- When you walked in and introduced yourself as my PR manager, and you were all smiles and nerves and─” he huffed, breathless, shaking his head, “and I was gone. I didn’t know how to act around you or what to do with myself.”

He got so close, you had to tilt your head to look up at him. “I kept thinking it would pass,” he continued. “That it was just a stupid fixation. But you kept being you, and you got close to Lando, and you stuck around. It just kept getting worse. Or better, I guess, depending on how you looked at it.”

“Then there was your ex,” He said, breaking into a soft laugh. “You took my arm and called me your boyfriend and all I could think was, yeah. I’d like to hear that again.” His fingers grazed the inside of your wrists, a ponctuation in his confession. “I didn’t fake a single thing. Not once. It’s been real from the beginning.”

Almost delirious, you broke into a cackle that had your hand flying to your mouth─ a half-sob, half-choke ripped from your chest. “So you were a douchebag… because you liked me?”

Oscar’s mouth quipped, sheepish. “Yeah.”

“And you acted like an idiot because you didn’t know how to show it?”

“... Yeah.” Now he sounded embarrassed.

Another watery laugh bubbled out of you, and you wiped at your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket. “Oh my god, you’re such a man,” you said, voice wobbling between amusement and heartbreak, and Oscar’s smile cracked wider at the sound of it. You sniffled, rolling your eyes to try and hide the hopeful pain in your chest as you asked, intertwining your hand with his. 

“So… what do we do now?”

The pad of his fingers trailed up your arm, sending shivers down your spine. He cupped your elbows gently, steadying you like you were at risk of breaking at any minute. “Well,” Oscar murmured, the ghost of a demand parting his mouth. “Now that we got everything out of the way, I’m here for a reason. Only if you’ll have me.”

You didn’t need any more convincing, the days spent in his company during the tired mornings  and warm nights gave you ample amounts of reasons not to deny him.

As if you had the strength to even think about it.

You surged up, and your mouth caught up with his in the same way a puzzle piece would fit into another. It felt like homecoming, how the weight of his lips balanced against yours. Oscar hands went up your sides, painfully slow, wrapped around your waist and pulled your body flushed against him. You curled your fingers in the air at the nape of his nec, tugging slightly, and he sighed into your mouth─ broken and hopelessly in love.

The world shrank to just this: the press of his chest to yours, the warmth of his skin and how intensely Oscar Piastri kissed you back.

When you broke off contact for air, Oscar chased after your mouth. You tried to contain a giggle, unsuccessfully. “I can’t believe it took a whole fake relationship, messy break up and all, for you to do and say all that,” you teased.

He rolled his eyes and before you could react, the hands resting on your hips pinched your sides. You yelped, stepping on his foot. Old habits die hard, apparently, no matter what may have transpired in between.

“Well, I think you wouldn’t have liked me as much without that fake relationship.”

“I wonder whose fault it is, Oscar.”

“I’m just saying, I─”

You kissed him again. And again, and again, until the sun was well gone and stars were the only witnesses.

That night, you made sure to take Oscar back to your apartment. There was no awkwardness in the small talk made in the car, no hesitation in your movements. It was a slow series of quiet laughs against skin, not rushed or frantic in the slightest, whispered confessions tangled between languid kisses. You were curled up against him, a blanket thrown haphazardly on your legs and you talked. The way you wanted and needed to.

He murmured you might need to lay low for a while into your hair, eyes already closing with tiredness, in order to let everything die down and you agreed, brushing his knuckles with the featherlight touch of your lips. You could always come out with the truth later on, and you were content with your life in the Netherlands─ even more so if Oscar could share it with you in some hidden place in his heart. Your palm rested over his heart, feeling his heartbeat slowing down by sleep and lulling you into Morpheus’ arms just the same.

He kissed you one more time. The taste of home and future lingered in your mouth. Oscar will be there in the morning, when the sunlight will shine through the window. And then you could discuss it, about you, more in detail around a cup of coffee, when he’ll drive you to work before disappearing in his orange car, feelings less raw and more authentic.

Real didn’t have an expiration date. You had all the time in the world to figure it out.

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

[landoslog]

On Call | Two of Two

Pairing: Lando Norris x EX!Personal Assistant!Reader

Description: You're Lando Norris's former personal assistant—fired eighteen months ago after he told you he loved you in a Qatar hotel room, then panicked. Now he's a World Champion with a new girlfriend and a mess of an assistant, and he needs you back. Just for two weeks of training, he says. Except Lando's never been good at keeping things professional, and some feelings don't stay buried.

Genre: second chance romance, forced proximity, angst with a happy ending, workplace-adjacent tension, emotional groveling, he's down BAD

WC: 21k

Note: Firstly, I want to apologize for how long this took to put out. I really struggled with finding the ending that felt right. And the paragraphs may feel overwhelming in length—I hit the 1,000 block limit like 40 times and had to condense everything. I proofread, stopped, then proofread again because it didn't feel good enough, and the cycle continued. So, about half is proofread and half isn't, which means there could be errors. Thank you for your patience and your kind words. I want to wish you Happy Holidays if you celebrate, and I'll continue doing my best with this little hobby of mine.

Leaving your job is the best thing that's ever happened to you. That's what you tell yourself, anyway. That's what you've been telling yourself for a year and a half now, and if you say it enough times, eventually it might feel true. The severance package Lando gave you was obscene. Guilt money, obviously, even though you're not calling it that out loud, but that's what it is—guilty money, hush money, please don't sue me for firing you thirty seconds after I came inside you money. Enough that you don't need to work. Enough that you're free.

Free. You're so fucking free that you've tried pottery three times and hated it every single time. You're so free that you've reorganized your closet by color, then by season, then by color again because the first way was better. You're so free that last Tuesday you stood in the shower and counted to three hundred just to see if you could.

The clay fights you. That's what they don't tell you about pottery. Your hands cramp and the instructor keeps saying feel the clay's energy like the clay has energy, like the clay is anything other than wet dirt that collapses the second you think you're getting somewhere. You even tried running. Running is just you and your thoughts for however many miles you can stand. Not ideal. Not even close to ideal. Guitar's gathering dust in the corner. Duolingo sends you passive-aggressive notifications about your streak. You've considered learning Portuguese but that feels pointed, feels like something you shouldn't examine too closely.

Two weeks ago, Lando Norris won the World Championship. You watched it from your apartment because you're a masochist, apparently. You sat on your couch in Monaco and watched him spray champagne and cry and lift the trophy, and you thought, good for him. You thought, I'm happy for him. You thought those things and none of them were true.

Last Friday he went to the FIA Prize Giving ceremony in Rwanda with his beautiful girlfriend to collect his trophy. The photos were everywhere. Every sports website, every F1 account, probably on the fucking news in countries that don't even have racing. His girlfriend, Magui, wore a black dress that made her look like a goddess reincarnated. He wore a tuxedo. They looked like they were attending their own wedding. That's a thought you're not examining. That way lies madness.

You abandon your collapsing bowl. Scrub the clay off your hands—it gets under your fingernails, stays there for hours. The instructor asks if you're signing up for next week. "I'll think about it," you say.

You're not signing up. You already know you're not signing up. Outside, Monaco is cold for December. Your apartment is fifteen minutes away if you walk fast, twelve if you're really moving. You've timed it. You don't go home, and you tell yourself you're just walking. Just getting some air. Just clearing your head after an hour of fighting with clay that had no interest in becoming anything other than a lopsided mess. That's what you tell yourself, and maybe it's even true. Except you're walking toward the harbor instead of toward your apartment, which is the opposite direction, which means you're either lost in your own city or you're lying to yourself. Probably the second one.

And the wonderful thing about Monaco is that it's small. Stupidly small. You can walk from one end to the other in under an hour. Which means you can't really avoid anything, can't really escape anyone, can't really pretend you're not living in the same two square kilometers as—you stop that thought before it finishes.

There's a sports bar on the corner. The kind that has screens covering every available wall, the kind that shows every race, every match, every game that matters. You've walked past it a hundred times. You've never gone in.

Today, you're going in. Just for a drink, you tell yourself. Just for one drink because it's cold outside and your apartment is empty and you're allowed to get a drink at a sports bar without it meaning anything. The bartender is maybe twenty-five, definitely Australian, probably works here because Monaco is where F1 people end up when they're not important enough to actually work in F1. He looks up when you walk in.

"What can I get you?"

"Vodka tonic." He makes it. You don't drink it. Instead, you just hold it and look at the screens because that's what you do in sports bars, you look at the screens. There are eight screens total. Three of them are showing football. Two are showing tennis. One is showing some sport you don't recognize—maybe rugby, maybe something else entirely. And one is showing a replay of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix. The final lap. Lando crossing the line. The radio message. The celebration. You watch him climb out of the car. Watch him collapse into his team's arms. Watch the whole thing you already watched two weeks ago from your couch, except now you're watching it in a bar in Monaco while a drunk British guy three seats down yells "FUCKING LEGEND" at the screen.

The bartender notices you watching. "You follow F1?"

"Not really," you lie.

"Shame. That race was incredible. Norris finally did it, you know? After all these years."

"Yeah. I heard."

"Best season I've ever seen. Guy's a machine." He's polishing a glass, still talking. "And his girlfriend, mate. You seen her? Absolute smoke show."

You finish your vodka tonic in one go. It burns. "Another?" the bartender asks.

"No. Thanks." You pay and leave. Outside, the cold air hits you like a slap. You start walking. Not toward home. Just walking again. The thing about Lando firing you is that you still don't understand it. You've had a year and a half to make it make sense and it doesn't. It will never make sense.

He'd looked at you. Really looked at you, the way he used to in hotel rooms and empty conference rooms and all those in-between moments when it was just the two of you and nothing else in the world mattered. He'd touched your face. You'd touched his. For one perfect second, you'd thought maybe this is it, maybe this is where everything gets fixed. Then his expression changed and he'd pulled away and gotten dressed like he couldn't stand to be near you anymore.

I fucking love you, he'd said. In that hotel room in Qatar, buried inside your cunt, saying it like it was being torn out of him. Like he couldn't help it. Like he actually meant the fucking words. And then ten minutes later, boom, you're fired.

Just like that. You're fired. Two words that ended everything. You've spent eighteen months trying to figure out how someone tells you they love you and then removes you from their life entirely. How someone can look at you like you're the only person who matters and then just stop. Just move on. Just win a championship and fall in love with someone else and be happy, be so fucking happy that you can see it in every photo, every interview, every goddamn Instagram story.

He touches her differently than he touched you. He touches her casually. His hand on her waist, his fingers interlaced with hers, easy and comfortable and public. Like he's allowed to. Like it's simple. He never touched you like that. He touched you like he was desperate. Like he was trying to memorize the feeling. Like he was afraid—of what, you still don't know. Afraid you'd disappear, maybe? Afraid someone would see? Afraid it meant something.

It did mean something. It meant everything. At least it did to you. You miss him. That's the pathetic truth of it all. You miss him so much that sometimes you can't breathe. You miss his 3 AM phone calls. You miss fixing his disasters. You miss the way he'd look at you when he thought you weren't paying attention, like he was trying to figure out a puzzle he couldn't solve. You miss the feeling of him. His hands, his mouth, the weight of him, the way he'd say your name like it meant something.

You miss all of it and he's moved on and you're walking through Monaco at sunset thinking about someone who fired you eighteen months ago and probably hasn't thought about you since.

Your doorbell rings at 9:16 PM on December 19th. You're not expecting anyone. You consider ignoring it—consider pretending you're not home, consider going back to the book you're not reading. mBut, then, the doorbell rings again.

You should just pretend you're not home. Should pretend a lot of things that aren't walking to the door. You walk to the door anyway. Look through the peephole and your heart stops. Actually fucking stops in your chest. Lando Norris is standing in your hallway. He's wearing a cream Loewe sweatshirt and jeans, one hand shoved in his pocket while the other coddles his phone, and he's looking at it like he has all the time in the world. His hair is also shorter than it was in Qatar.

So, you do the only rational thing, the totally rational thing, and open the door. "Finally." He looks up from his phone. "I was about to use the spare key."

"You don't have a spare key."

"Don't I?" He walks past you into your apartment before you can stop him. "Nice place. Very clean and entirely very sad."

"Excuse me?"

"It looks like no one actually lives here." He's examining your bookshelf now, tilting his head to read the spines. "When did you become this person?"

"What are you doing here, Lando."

"Came to see you, obviously." He picks up a book, flips through it, puts it back in the wrong spot. "How've you been?"

"How have I been? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Yeah. How are you? What've you been up to? Pottery, I heard. That's cute."

Your stomach drops. "How did you know about pottery."

"I know things." He sits on your couch. Your couch. Like he belongs there. "You quit that too, I assume. Seems to be your pattern lately."

"My pattern."

"Quitting things. Pottery, yoga, that book club." He gestures at your apartment. "Living like a goddamn ghost."

"Get out."

"In a second. I need to talk to you about something first." He leans back, arms spread across the back of your couch. "The new assistant isn't working out."

You stare at him. "Emma. She's trying, I'll give her that. But she's not you. Doesn't think like you. Doesn't anticipate things like you did." He says it so casually. Like he's commenting on the weather. "She's kind of useless, actually."

"And?"

"And I need you to train her."

The audacity. The fucking audacity of Lando Norris. "Are you insane?"

"No. Why would I be insane?"

"You fired me."

"I know. I was there."

"You fired me eighteen months ago and now you're asking me to train your replacement."

"She's not your replacement. That would imply she's anywhere near as competent as you were. Which she's not." He examines his nails. "I'm asking you to train her so she can be at least seventy percent as useful as you were. That's all."

"Get out of my apartment."

"Why are you being so difficult about this? It's a simple request. A few weeks of your time. I'll pay you whatever you want. You're not exactly busy." His eyes flick around your apartment. "Are you."

"That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?"

"The point is you fired me. The point is you told me I was done. The point is you haven't spoken to me in a year and a half and now you show up here like nothing happened."

"Something happened?"

You want to hit him. Want to actually punch the asshole in the face. "Qatar. Something happened in Qatar."

"Oh, that." He waves a hand. "Ancient history. We've both moved on."

"Have we."

"Haven't we? You have your pottery classes. I have my championship." He smiles. That smile. The one that used to make you feel like you were in on a joke and now just makes you want to scream. "We're both doing great."

"Lando."

"What?"

"Get the fuck out."

"I'm at the Fairmont. Room 412." He stands up, stretches. "Think about it. I need an answer by tomorrow morning."

"The answer is no."

"Sure it is." He's walking toward the door. Pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "You look good, by the way. Tired, but good."

He leaves before you can respond. You stand there in your apartment. Your very clean, very empty apartment. Your heart is doing something in your chest and your hands are shaking. Lando Norris showed up after eighteen months and asked you to train his assistant like it was the most reasonable request in the world. Made you feel crazy for being angry. Commented on your home and your pottery classes and the fact that you're living like a ghost. How does he know about the pottery classes. How does he know anything?

You walk to your couch. The cushion where he sat is still slightly compressed and you stare at it. He knows about pottery. About yoga. About the book club you got kicked out of. He's been watching. Or keeping track. Or something. For eighteen months you thought he'd forgotten about you entirely. That you'd been erased from his life as cleanly as you'd been erased from his Instagram captions. And now it turns out he's been aware of you this whole time. Aware enough to know about pottery classes in Monaco. Aware enough to know you quit.

The Fairmont is twelve minutes from here if you walk fast. You're not going to the Fairmont. You're not training Emma. You're not doing any of it. You lasted forty-seven minutes before you grabbed your keys.

When you enter Fairmont hotel, you walk past the front desk without making eye contact with anyone, past the bar where well-dressed people are having well-dressed conversations, past the elevator bank to the one marked for floors three through six.

You press the button. Wait. Watch the numbers descend. Four, three, two, one. The doors open and you step inside before you can change your mind. Fourth floor. Room 412. The elevator is playing jazz, soft and inoffensive, the kind of music designed to make you forget you're in a metal box suspended by cables. You watch the numbers climb. One, two, three, four. The doors open.

The hallway is long and carpeted in a pattern that's probably meant to be elegant but just makes you slightly dizzy if you look at it too long. Room 412 is at the end, past eleven other rooms, past the ice machine, past the window that overlooks the harbor. You stand there for a moment. The door is dark wood with a brass handle and a number plaque that's slightly crooked. You can hear voices from one of the other rooms, muffled by walls and distance. Someone's watching television. Someone else is laughing. You knock on Lando's door.

The door opens immediately, like he was standing right there, like he was waiting.

"Took you long enough," Lando says. He's changed. Different sweatshirt, this one grey, same jeans. His hair is still damp like he showered after leaving your apartment, and you can smell his soap from here—clean and you don't recognize it but that fits him anyway, fits this version of him that exists in hotel rooms and galas and Instagram posts with his girlfriend.

"Can I come in or are you going to make me stand in the hallway?"

He steps aside and you walk in. The room is bigger than you expected, bigger than it needs to be for one person. There's a king bed with white sheets, a sitting area with a couch and two chairs, a desk by the window with a view of the harbor that's probably spectacular in daylight but right now just shows darkness and distant lights. His suitcase is open on the floor, clothes spilling out in a way that's chaotic and familiar and makes your fingers itch to organize it. There's a bottle of champagne on the desk. Two glasses next to it.

"You knew I'd come," you say.

"Of course I knew." He closes the door behind you. "You always come." The certainty in his voice makes you want to scream.

"Don't flatter yourself."

"I'm not flattering myself. I'm stating facts." He walks past you to the desk, picks up the champagne bottle, examines the label like it matters. "You lasted, what, an hour?"

"Forty-seven minutes."

"Forty-seven minutes." He looks at you now, really looks at you, and there's something in his expression that you can't read, something that might be satisfaction or might be something else entirely. Either way, you don't entertain the thought. "You counted."

"I count everything now."

"I know you do." He says it so casually, like it's obvious, like of course he knows. And maybe he does know. Maybe he knows about the counting and the pottery and the book club and every other pathetic thing you've been doing for the past eighteen months while he's been winning championships and falling in love.

"How do you know about the pottery classes?" you ask.

"I told you. I know things."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer you're getting." He pours champagne into both glasses even though you haven't said you want any. "Emma will be there on Monday. I need you there by nine."

"I didn't say yes."

"You're here, aren't you?"

He hands you a glass and you take it. You're not sure as to why you take it but you do, and now you're standing in his hotel room holding champagne and trying to remember how you got here, trying to remember the exact sequence of decisions that led from your apartment to this moment. "This is insane," you say.

"Probably."

"You fired me."

"I remember."

"You told me you loved me and then you fired me."

Something flickers across his face. Fast, there and gone before you can identify it. "That was a while ago."

"So?"

"So we've both moved on." He takes a sip of his champagne, watching you over the rim of the glass. "Haven't we?"

"I don't know, have we?"

"You tell me." He sets his glass down on the desk, leans back against it. "You're the one who showed up at my hotel room at ten PM."

"You literally asked me to."

"I asked you to think about training Emma. I didn't ask you to come here." He tilts his head, studying you in that way he used to. "But here you are anyway."

You hate that he's right. Hate that he knew exactly what would happen when he showed up at your apartment. Hate that after eighteen months of nothing, he can still make you do exactly what he wants with barely any effort at all. "Why me?" you ask. "Why not hire someone else to train her? Someone who doesn't have a history with you?"

"Because no one else knows how I work."

"That's not a good enough reason."

"It's the only reason." He crosses his arms. "You know my schedule better than I do. You know what I need before I need it. You know how to fix problems before they become problems. No one else can do that."

"Emma could learn."

"Emma is twenty-three years old and terrified of me. Every time I ask her a question she looks like she's going to cry." He says it without sympathy, just a simple observation, a simple fact. "She's not you."

Your stomach lurches, "Good. She shouldn't be me."

"Why not?"

"Because being me got me fired."

"No." He pushes off from the desk, takes a step closer. "Being you got you promoted from assistant to whatever we were. Getting fired came after."

"After you decided you were done with me."

"I never said I was done with you."

"You fired me. That's pretty definitive."

"Is it?" He's close enough now that you can see the exact color of his eyes in the hotel room lighting—that blue-green that changes depending on what he's wearing, what the weather is, what mood he's in. Right now they're darker, more blue than green, and fixed on you with an intensity that makes your stomach twist. "Because here you are. In my hotel room. Eighteen months later. Doesn't seem very definitive to me."

You should leave. Should put down the champagne glass you're still holding, should walk out of this hotel room, should tell him to train Emma himself or hire someone else or figure it the fuck out on his own. You don't leave.

"Monday," he says. "Nine AM. MTC. I'll have everything ready for you—schedules, systems, all of it. Two weeks. That's all I need."

"And after two weeks?"

"After two weeks you go back to your life. Pottery classes or whatever else you're doing to pass the time." The dismissiveness in his tone makes you want to throw your champagne in his face.

"I want double your normal consulting rate," you say instead.

"Done."

"And I'm not working with you directly. Just Emma."

"Fine."

"And if she's actually incompetent, if she can't learn this, I'm out. I'm not babysitting someone who can't do the job."

"She can learn. She's not stupid, she's just not you." He picks up his champagne glass again. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. What does your girlfriend think about this?" The question comes out before you can stop it. You watch his expression carefully, looking for any sign that it bothers him, that the mention of Magui does something to him the way the thought of her does something to you.

Nothing. His expression doesn't change at all. "Magui doesn't care about my work arrangements," he says.

"You told her you're hiring your ex-assistant as a consultant?"

"I told her I'm getting help training the new hire. She said that's great." He takes another sip. "She's very supportive." Of course Magui is supportive and understanding and completely unthreatened by the fact that her boyfriend is hiring the woman he fired after sleeping with her. Of course she's goddamn utterly perfect.

"Monday," you say. "Nine AM. Two weeks. Then I'm done."

"Deal." He sets his glass down, extends his hand like this is a business transaction, like you're colleagues making an agreement and not two people who destroyed each other eighteen months ago.

You shake his hand. His palm is warm, rough with calluses from the steering wheel, and the touch of it against your skin makes something in your chest crack open. He doesn't let go immediately. Just holds your hand for a beat too long, his thumb brushing once against your knuckles in a gesture that might be accidental or might be completely intentional.

"It's good to see you," he says quietly.

You pull your hand back. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't do that. Don't make this into something it's not."

"What am I making it into?"

"You know what."

He smiles. That smile. The one that used to make you feel like you were the only person who mattered and now just makes you feel like you're losing a game you didn't know you were playing. "Monday," he says again.

You leave before you can do something stupid like stay. The hallway is the same length it was before—forty-three steps from his door to the elevator. You count them again anyway. Count them and try not to think about the way his hand felt against yours, the way his eyes looked in the hotel lighting, the way he said it's good to see you like he meant it.

The elevator arrives. You step inside and watch the numbers descend. Four, three, two, one. The doors open to the lobby and you walk out past the bar, past the front desk, past all the well-dressed people living their well-dressed lives. The night air hits you when you step outside and it's cold, colder than it was before, or maybe that's just you.

Monday. Nine AM. Two weeks. You just agreed to spend two weeks training Lando Norris's new assistant, in the same building as him, probably seeing him multiple times a day, pretending that Qatar never happened and that the past eighteen months of pottery classes and counting ceiling tiles were a completely normal and healthy way to process getting fired by someone who said they loved you.

This is fine. You're fine. Everything is completely fine. You walk the twelve minutes home and try to convince yourself that you haven't just made a catastrophic mistake.

Monday arrives with the kind of crystalline Monaco morning that makes you hate how beautiful everything surrounding you is. The sky is aggressively blue. You stand outside the MTC building at 8:47 AM because you're not going to be late, not going to give Lando the satisfaction of waiting for you.

The severance money means you don't technically need this. Could've said no. Should've said no. But here you are anyway, in black trousers and a cream cashmere sweater, your hair pulled back, looking professional and composed and like someone who definitely didn't spend three hours last night googling "how to train someone when you're emotionally compromised."

The building looks the same. Glass and steel and McLaren orange accents, you've been here a thousand times. Walked these halls, sat in these conference rooms, fixed Lando's disasters in every possible corner of this building. You take the elevator to the third floor. Lando's offices are on the fourth, but you're meeting Emma in the conference room, neutral territory. The elevator doors open and she's already there.

Emma is standing outside Conference Room B, clutching a tablet to her chest like it's a life preserver. She's twenty-three, with dark hair in a neat ponytail and wide brown eyes that get wider when she sees you. "Oh my god," she says, and her voice is high and nervous and sweet. "You're here. You're actually here. I'm Emma. Obviously. You know that. Lando said you'd be here at nine but I got here at eight-thirty because I didn't want to be late and I've been standing here for—sorry, I'm talking too much. I do that when I'm nervous. I'm Emma."

"You said that already," you say, but you're smiling despite yourself because she's like a puppy, earnest and eager and probably thirty seconds away from peeing on the floor from excitement.

"Right. Yes. Sorry." She clutches the tablet tighter. "Thank you for doing this. Lando said you were the best and he wasn't exaggerating, I've read all your notes, like all of them, the system you set up is incredible and I've been trying to follow it but I keep messing things up and last week I accidentally booked him on a flight to Barcelona instead of Budapest and he didn't even yell, he just looked at me like I'd kicked a puppy and that was somehow worse—"

"Emma."

She stops mid-sentence. "Yeah?"

"Breathe." She takes a breath. Then another one. "Sorry. I'm nervous. You're kind of a legend around here."

"I'm really not."

"You are, though. Everyone talks about how you could predict what Lando needed before he even asked, how you saved the Singapore weekend when his passport got stolen, how you once fixed a PR disaster with seventeen minutes' notice—"

"That was fifteen minutes."

"See?" Emma's face lights up. "That makes it even more impressive."

You can't help it. You laugh. It's been eighteen months since you laughed in this building, maybe longer. "Come on. Let's get started."

Conference Room B hasn't changed. Same long table, same uncomfortable chairs, same view of the parking lot where you can see Lando's cars if you crane your neck. You don't crane your neck. You spend the first hour going through systems. Calendar management, how Lando color-codes everything but never looks at the color-coding so you have to verbally remind him anyway. The specific way he likes his schedule printed—landscape, not portrait, because he's a psychopath. His coffee order, which changes based on what country he's in but follows a pattern if you pay attention.

Emma takes notes on everything. Actual notes, handwritten in a neat script, asking questions that are surprisingly intelligent. "What about when he's being difficult?" she asks around 10:15. "Like when he just doesn't want to do something?"

"Give me an example."

"Last month he had a sponsor call with Tag Heuer and he just didn't show up. Turned his phone off, then I found him at the gym."

You nod. "That's a Marcus problem."

"Marcus?"

"The Tag Heuer exec. Lando hates him. Too corporate, talks in buzzwords, makes Lando feel like he's in a business school presentation." You pull up the calendar on your tablet. "Did you reschedule?"

"I tried. Marcus was pissed."

"Marcus is always pissed. Did Lando at least send him something? Gift basket, signed merch, something to smooth it over?"

Emma's face falls. "I... uhhhhhh, no?"

"Rule one," you say, and you sound exactly like you used to, competent and certain and completely in control. "When Lando fucks up with a sponsor, you fix it before it becomes a problem. Send Marcus a bottle of something expensive with a handwritten note from Lando. I'll show you where we keep the stationary. Lando won't remember doing it but that's fine. That's the point."

"That feels like lying."

"It's not lying. It's managing expectations. Lando's job is to drive fast and look good in photos. Your job is to make sure he can do both without accidentally destroying his entire career." You look at her. "Can you do that?"

She straightens up. "Yes."

"Good." You're explaining the intricacies of Lando's travel preferences—aisle seat but only on long-haul flights, hates flying commercial but won't admit it's because he's claustrophobic, needs noise-canceling headphones or he gets migraines—when the door opens.

You don't have to look up to know it's him. You can feel it, the way the air in the room shifts, the way Emma's posture goes rigid. "Morning," Lando says, and his voice is casual, easy, like this is completely normal. Like he didn't show up at your apartment four days ago asking you to do exactly this.

You look up. He's in McLaren team gear, black joggers and a papaya polo, his hair still damp from a shower. He looks good. He always looks good. You hate that you still notice. "We're in the middle of something," you say.

"I know. Just wanted to check in. See how it's going." He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, and his eyes are on you. Just on you. Not on Emma, not on the conference room, just you. "How's she doing?"

"She's sitting right here," Emma says, and there's a tiny bit of spine in it that makes you like her more.

"Right. Sorry." But he doesn't look at Emma. Still looking at you. "How's she doing?"

"Fine. We're going through travel protocols."

"Riveting." He pushes off the doorframe, walks into the room like he owns it. Which, technically, he does. He owns this whole building, or at least McLaren does and he's their golden boy so it's basically the same thing. He stops at the head of the table, one hand braced on the back of a chair. "Mind if I sit in?"

"Yes," you say, at the same time Emma says "No, of course not."

Lando smiles. That smile. "Majority rules." He sits down across from you. Emma looks between you like she's watching a tennis match and can't figure out who's winning.

"Continue," Lando says, gesturing at you like a professor encouraging a student. "Don't let me interrupt."

"You're already interrupting."

"Am I?" He leans back in his chair, arms behind his head. "I'm just sitting here. Very quietly. Being super helpful."

You want to throw your tablet at his head. "Emma, where were we?"

"Um." Emma's looking at her notes but you can see her hands are shaking slightly. "Travel preferences?"

"Right. So Lando needs—"

"I need a lot of things," Lando interrupts. "Very high maintenance. Must be exhausting to keep track of."

You ignore him. "Lando needs at least seven hours of sleep before a race. Which means you're coordinating with his trainer and his PR team to make sure he's not scheduled for anything after nine PM on Saturday nights."

"Unless it's important," Lando adds.

"Nothing is more important than you not crashing the car because you're tired."

"I would never crash because I'm tired. I'd crash because someone else did something stupid."

"Abu Dhabi 2023."

He sits up straighter. "That was different."

"You were exhausted. You'd done press until eleven the night before and you missed the apex on lap forty-three because you were too tired to focus."

"I missed the apex because Ocon was being a dick."

"Lando." You level him with a look. "Are you going to let me train Emma or are you going to argue with me about things that happened two years ago?" Something flickers across his face. Something that might be hurt or might be anger or might be something else entirely. "Fine. Continue."

You continue. Emma asks about race weekend protocols. You explain the specific way Lando likes his debriefs, bullet points, not paragraphs, because he won't read paragraphs. The way he gets quiet before qualifying, needs space, don't try to cheer him up or pump him up just let him be.

"He's a headphone person," you explain. "If he's wearing them, don't bother him unless the building is on fire."

"What if it's actually important?" Emma asks.

"Then text me first— sorry, text whoever his performance coach is and they'll handle it."

"You mean text you," Lando says quietly.

You don't look at him. "Text whoever is listed as his primary contact."

"That's you."

"I'm not his primary contact anymore."

"Yes, you are." He says it with complete certainty. "Never changed it. It's still you."

The room goes very quiet. Emma is looking at her tablet very intently, like she's trying to disappear into it. "We should take a break," you say, standing up. "Emma, fifteen minutes?"

"Yeah. Yes. Absolutely." She practically bolts from the room.

You start gathering your things. Lando stays seated. "You're still my primary contact," he says again.

"Change it."

"Why?"

"Because I don't work for you anymore."

"You're working for me right now."

"I'm consulting. It's temporary."

"Right." He stands up, walks around the table. He's too close now, close enough that you can smell his cologne and your head spins. "Two weeks."

"That's what we agreed."

"Then what?"

"Then I go back to my life and you figure out how to not destroy Emma's will to live."

"C'monnnn, I'm not that bad." You finally look at him. Really look at him. There's a small scar on his left eyebrow that wasn't there before—probably from a crash you didn't see, didn't hear about, weren't there for. He's broader in the shoulders. More defined. Like he's been training harder, pushing himself harder.

"You called her useless," you say quietly. "Emma. You told me she was useless."

"I said she wasn't you."

"Same thing."

"It's really not." He takes another step closer. "You were terrifying. Efficient and cold and you knew exactly what I needed before I needed it. Emma's trying but she's not—"

"She's twenty-three years old and you make her cry."

"I don't make her cry."

"You make her feel like she's failing even when she's doing everything right. That's worse than making her cry."

His jaw tightens. "That's not what I'm doing."

"Isn't it?" You cross your arms. "She accidentally booked you to Barcelona instead of Budapest and you looked at her like she'd killed your dog."

"It was a stupid mistake."

"It was an honest mistake. A mistake I made three times in my first six months working for you and you just laughed and fixed it."

"That was different."

"Why? Because you were fucking me?"

The words hang in the air between you. Lando's expression shutters closed, that thing he does when he doesn't want you to know what he's thinking. "That's not fair," he says finally.

"Nothing about this is fair." You grab your tablet. "I need air."

"Wait—" But you're already leaving, walking out of Conference Room B, past Emma who's hovering in the hallway pretending to look at her phone, toward the elevator. You hit the button. Wait. The doors open.

Lando catches them before they close.

"Move," you say.

"No."

"Lando, I swear to fucking god."

He steps into the elevator. The doors close behind him. It's just the two of you in this small space, and he's looking at you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. "You're right," he says.

"About what?"

"About Emma. About me being too hard on her." The elevator starts moving down. "I don't mean to. I just—"

"You're comparing her to me."

"Yeah."

"Then stop."

"I can't." His voice is quiet now, raw. "You set an impossible standard and now everyone else just feels wrong."

"That's not my problem."

"Isn't it?" He moves closer. "You're here, aren't you? Training her. Which means some part of you still cares."

"I care about her. Not about you."

"Liar." The elevator dings. Ground floor. The doors open to the lobby and you walk out without looking back. You can feel him following you, his presence like a heat at your back. Outside, the Monaco sun is aggressive and bright. You walk toward the parking lot, no destination in mind, just moving because if you stop moving you might do something stupid like turn around.

"Where are you going?" Lando calls after you.

"Away from you."

"Your car's the other direction." You stop and turn around. He's standing there in the middle of the parking lot, hands in his pockets, looking at you like this is all some game and he's already won.

"What do you want from me?" you ask.

"I want," he stops. Runs a hand through his hair. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do."

"Fine. I want you to stop looking at me like I'm the villain in your story."

"Then stop acting like one."

"I fired you because," He stops again, and this time he looks genuinely frustrated, like the words won't come. "It was getting complicated."

"You said you loved me and then you fired me. That's not complicated. That's just fucking cruel, Lando."

"It wasn't— I wasn't trying to be cruel."

"Then what were you trying to be?" He doesn't answer. Just stands there in the parking lot while people walk past, employees and engineers and team members who definitely recognize both of you and are definitely going to talk about this later.

"Two weeks," you say finally. "I'm going to train Emma for two weeks and then I'm done. I don't want to have this conversation again. I don't want to analyze what happened in Qatar. I don't want closure or explanations or whatever it is you think you need to give me."

"What if I want those things?"

"Then you should've thought about that eighteen months ago." You walk back to the building, back to Conference Room B where Emma is probably still trying to make herself invisible. Lando doesn't follow you this time.

When you get back upstairs, Emma looks up nervously. "Everything okay?"

"Fine," you lie. "Let's talk about how to handle media obligations." You make it through the rest of the morning. Make it through lunch—salads in the cafeteria, Emma chattering nervously about her girlfriend and her apartment in Nice and how she got this job. Make it through the afternoon session on crisis management.

At 4:47 PM, your phone buzzes.

You stare at the messages. Emma is explaining something about how she organized his sponsor contacts but you're not listening anymore. "I need to take care of something," you tell her. "Can you review the crisis management protocols we just covered? I'll quiz you when I get back."

"Yeah, of course." She's already pulling up the documents, eager and focused.

You take the elevator to the fourth floor. Lando's office is at the end of the hall, corner office with windows overlooking the harbor. The door is half-open. You knock anyway.

"Come in," he says. His office is exactly how you remember it. Sleek brown desk, nice chair, shelves lined with trophies and helmets and racing memorabilia. There's a new addition—a photo from Abu Dhabi, him holding the championship trophy, surrounded by his team. You're not in it. Obviously.

Lando is standing by the window, back to you, still in his team gear. "Close the door," he says without turning around.

You close the door. Stay by it. Keep your hand on the handle. "What."

"I owe you an explanation." He turns around finally. His face is serious, none of that cocky confidence from this morning. "About Qatar."

"I don't want a fucking explanation."

"I know you don't want to hear it. I'm telling you anyway." He leans back against the window ledge. "I fired you because I was in love with you and I didn't know what the fuck to do about it."

You stare at him. At Lando Norris standing in his corner office with the nice windows and a championship trophy on his shelf, telling you he fired you because he loved you like that makes any fucking sense at all.

"No," you say.

"No?"

"No. You don't get to do this." You take a step forward, then another, until you're in the middle of his office and your hands are clenched into fists at your sides. "You don't get to rewrite this to make yourself feel better."

"I'm not rewriting anything. I'm telling you what happened."

"What happened is you fucked me and then you panicked and then you got rid of me. Don't dress it up as some grand romantic gesture."

"It wasn't—" He pushes off from the window, agitated now. "I wasn't trying to get rid of you. I was trying to protect you."

"From what?"

"From me. From this." He gestures around the office, at the trophies, at everything. "From being the person everyone whispers about. 'Oh, she's only here because she's sleeping with Lando Norris.' From having everything you accomplished reduced to who you were fucking."

You laugh. It comes out sharp and bitter. "How noble of you. Firing me to protect my reputation."

"It wasn't just about reputation."

"Then what was it about, Lando? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you got scared. You said something you didn't mean in the heat of the moment and then you couldn't take it back so you just removed the problem entirely."

"I meant it." He takes a step closer. "I meant every fucking word."

"Then why—"

"Because I couldn't keep you and race at the same time!" His voice rises, echoing off the glass walls. "Because every time I got in the car I was thinking about you instead of the track. Because in Suzuka I nearly crashed in turn seven because I was wondering if you were watching. Because I was so gone for you that it was making me dangerous."

You open your mouth. Close it and try to find words that make sense. "You don't get to blame me for your driving," you say finally.

"I'm not blaming you. I'm explaining."

"You're making excuses."

"Jesus Christ." He runs both hands through his hair, messing it up completely. "Why are you being so difficult about this?"

"Difficult?" Your voice is rising now too. "You fired me, Lando. You looked me in the eye and told me I was done and then you disappeared from my life for months. You moved on for fucks sake! You found someone else. You won a fucking championship. And now you want me to what? Thank you for protecting me?"

"No, I want you to understand!"

"I understand perfectly. You wanted me gone so you could focus on your career. Mission accomplished. You got everything you wanted. Congratu-fucking-lations!"

"Everything except you."

The words hit you like a physical blow and you take a step back. Lando closes the distance. He's too close now, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his blue-green eyes, close enough that you're breathing the same air.

"You think I moved on?" His voice is lower now, dangerous. "You think I just forgot about you?"

"You're with Magui—"

"Magui is—" He stops. His jaw works. "Magui is uncomplicated. Easy. She doesn't make me feel like I'm losing my fucking mind."

"How nice for you both."

"You're not listening to what I'm saying."

"I'm listening. I just don't believe you."

"Why not?"

"Because if you actually loved me, you would've fought for it. You would've figured it out. You wouldn't have just thrown me away like I was—like I was disposable."

"You were never disposable." His hands come up like he's going to touch you, then drop. "You were the opposite. You were so important it fucking terrified me."

"Past tense."

"What?"

"Were. You keep saying were." You're shaking now, with anger or something else you refuse to name. "Past tense, Lando. Because whatever you felt, it's over now. You made sure of that."

"Is it?" He moves even closer, so close now that his chest is almost touching yours. "Because you came to my hotel room. You agreed to train Emma. You're standing in my office right now when you could've said no to all of it."

"I came because you manipulated me—"

"I asked. You chose."

"Fuck you."

"Yeah?" His voice drops even lower, rough and intimate and infuriating. "Is that what you want?"

Your breath catches. "Don't."

"Don't what? Don't point out that you're still here? That you haven't left even though you could? That you're looking at me right now like you want to hit me or kiss me and you can't decide which?"

"I want to hit you."

"Liar." He reaches up slowly, giving you time to move away. You don't. His fingers brush your jaw, the same way they did in that hotel room in Qatar, and your traitorous body remembers. Remembers everything. "You're still the worst liar I've ever met."

"And you're still an asshole."

"Yeah." His thumb traces along your bottom lip. "But you liked that about me."

"Past tense."

"Sure." He's smiling now, that devastating smile that means he thinks he's winning. "Keep telling yourself that."

You should leave. Should push him away, walk out of this office, text Emma that she's on her own, block Lando's number, and get on the first flight to literally anywhere else. You don't leave. "You're with someone else," you say, but your voice comes out breathy, unconvincing.

"Am I?"

"Magui—"

"Isn't here." His other hand comes up to cup your face, tilting it up toward him. "Hasn't been here. Not in any way that matters."

"That's not—you can't just—"

"I know." His forehead drops to yours. "I know it's fucked up. I know I have no right to any of this. I know I'm the villain in your story and I probably deserve it. But I can't," His voice cracks slightly. "I can't keep pretending I don't still feel it. Can't keep watching you in that conference room teaching Emma things you used to do for me and act like it doesn't make me want to flip the fucking table."

"Lando."

"Tell me you don't feel it too." His eyes search yours. "Tell me Qatar meant nothing. Tell me you don't think about it. Tell me you're over it and I'll back off. I'll let you train Emma and I'll stay away and I'll never bring this up again."

It would be so easy to lie. To say the words he's asking for and walk out and go back to your empty apartment and your pottery classes and your carefully constructed life without him. "I can't," you whisper.

"Can't what?"

"Can't tell you that."

His grip on your face tightens. "Why not?"

"Because it's not true." The admission feels like it's being torn out of you. "I think about it every day. I think about you every day. And I hate it. I hate that you still have this much power over me. I hate that you fired me and moved on and I'm still—I'm still stuck in that hotel room in Qatar waiting for you to explain why you ruined everything."

"I'm explaining now."

"It's too late."

"Is it?" He's so close now his lips are almost touching yours. "Tell me it's too late. Mean it. Make me believe it."

"Lando, don't."

"Don't what? Don't tell you I haven't stopped thinking about you? Don't admit that Magui was supposed to help me move on and it didn't work? Don't say that I've been keeping track of every pottery class and yoga session and book club meeting because I couldn't stop myself?"

"That's creepy."

"I know." He laughs, but it sounds broken. "I know it is. I know I'm fucked up about this. About you. But I can't."

You kiss him before you can talk yourself out of it. It's not soft. It's not sweet. It's eighteen months of anger and hurt and want colliding all at once. Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he makes a sound low in his throat that you remember, that you've heard in dreams and hated yourself for missing. His hands slide from your face to your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and it's exactly like Qatar and nothing like Qatar at all. In Qatar, it was desperate and finite, both of you knowing it was ending even as it was happening. This feels different. More dangerous.

This feels like a beginning. He walks you backward until your back hits his desk, and his hands are on your waist, lifting you onto it like you weigh nothing. Your legs wrap around him automatically, muscle memory from all those times before, and he's between your thighs and you're both breathing hard. "Fuck," he mutters against your mouth. "Fuck, I missed this."

"Shut up." You pull him back in, kissing him harder, meaner, putting all your anger into it. He takes it, gives it back, his teeth catching your bottom lip hard enough to sting.

His hands slide under your sweater, palms hot against your ribs, and you arch into the touch. You've been so cold for eighteen months and now you're burning up. "We can't," you gasp when he moves to your neck, biting down on that spot below your ear that makes you see stars. "Lando, we can't."

"Why not?" His voice is muffled against your skin, and his hands are still moving, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your bra.

"Because—because Emma is downstairs, because this is your office, because you have a girlfriend."

"I'll break up with her." He says it so casually, like it's already decided. "I'll call her right now."

"Don't be stupid."

"I'm not being stupid. I'm being honest." He pulls back to look at you, and his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. "I don't want her. I want you. I've always wanted you."

"You fired me."

"Worst decision I've ever made." His hands frame your face again, forcing you to look at him. "And I've made a lot of bad decisions, so that's saying something."

You want to laugh. Want to cry. Want to pull him back in and forget everything that happened between Qatar and now. "This is insane," you say.

"Probably."

"We'll ruin everything. Again."

"Maybe." His thumb brushes across your cheekbone. "Or maybe we'll figure it out this time."

"You don't know that."

"No." He leans in, presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then the corner of your mouth. "But I'm willing to risk it if you are."

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You both freeze. "Don't," Lando says.

"It might be Emma—"

"It can wait." But the spell is broken. Reality is seeping back in through the cracks—the fact that you're sitting on his desk with your sweater rucked up and your lipstick definitely smeared. The fact that Emma is downstairs waiting for you. The fact that Magui exists, whether Lando wants to acknowledge it or not. You slide off the desk, putting distance between you. Your hands are shaking as you pull your sweater back down, try to smooth your hair.

"This was a mistake," you say.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Pretend it didn't mean anything. You're shit at it." He's watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. "Always have been."

"It meant something in Qatar too. Look how that turned out."

"This is different."

"Is it?" You find your tablet where you dropped it on the floor, clutch it to your chest like Emma did this morning. "Or are you going to fire me again in two weeks when you remember why this is a bad idea?"

"That's not going to happen."

"You don't know that."

"I do, actually." He takes a step toward you. You take a step back. His jaw tightens. "Don't run."

"I'm not running. I'm leaving. There's a difference."

"Is there?" You open the door. Emma is definitely going to know something happened—your face is probably flushed, your lips probably swollen. But you can't stay here. Can't keep looking at him without wanting to touch him again. "Two weeks," you say without turning around. "I'm training Emma for two weeks. That's all this is."

"If that's what you need to tell yourself."

You walk out. Down the hallway, into the elevator, down to the third floor. Emma looks up when you walk in, takes one look at your face, and wisely says nothing. "Sorry," you manage. "That took longer than expected."

"It's fine." She's studying you though, those wide brown eyes taking in everything. "Everything okay?"

"Fine. Let's go over crisis management one more time." You make it through the rest of the day. Make it through Emma's questions and the review session and the walk to your car. Make it all the way home before you finally let yourself fall apart. Your apartment is exactly as empty as you left it. Clean and sad and full of the ghost of pottery classes and yoga sessions you quit.

Your phone buzzes and you brace yourself.

You throw your phone onto the couch. Pour yourself a glass of wine you don't drink. Stand in your living room and touch your lips where they're still tender from his teeth. This is going to end badly. You can see the car crash coming from a mile away and you're walking toward it anyway. Monday down. Thirteen days to go, and you are so undeniably fucked.

Tuesday passes in a blur of Emma and schedules and carefully avoiding the fourth floor. You arrive at 8:45 AM, earlier than necessary, because if you're early then you're in control. Emma is already there—of course she is, eager puppy that she is—with coffee for both of you and questions written neatly in her notebook.

"I was thinking about what you said yesterday," she starts, and you're grateful she doesn't mention the fact that you came back from Lando's office looking like you'd been thoroughly kissed. "About anticipating his needs before he asks?"

"Yeah?"

"How do you do that? Like, how do you know what he's going to want before he knows?" You think about all the times you just knew. Knew he needed silence before quali. Knew he needed distraction after a bad race. Knew he was spiraling before he even realized it himself. "You pay attention," you say finally. "To patterns. To mood shifts. To the things he doesn't say."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It is."

You spend the morning going through his sponsorship portfolio. Emma takes notes on everything—which sponsors require more hand-holding, which ones Lando actually likes, which ones are just obligatory. "Tag Heuer," she says, reading from her tablet. "You mentioned Marcus yesterday. What's the deal there?"

"Marcus is—" You stop, because Lando's walking past the conference room. You can see him through the glass wall, talking to someone from engineering. He doesn't look at you. Doesn't even glance in your direction.

Good. That's good. "Marcus is old-school corporate," you continue, dragging your attention back to Emma. "Thinks racing should be serious and professional. Doesn't understand that half of Lando's appeal is that he's not those things."

"So Lando hates him."

"Lando tolerates him because Tag Heuer pays extremely well."

Emma makes a note. "Got it. Tolerate with expensive gifts."

"Exactly."

Lando walks past again twenty minutes later. Still doesn't look. Wednesday is worse because Lando isn't there at all. "He had to fly to London," Emma explains when you arrive at 9 AM to an empty building. "McLaren board meeting. Won't be back until late."

"Oh." You hate the disappointment that floods through you. Hate that some part of you was expecting him to show up, to push, to do something. "Okay. Good. We can focus without distractions."

Emma gives you a look that suggests she's not as oblivious as you thought. You spend Wednesday going through worst-case scenarios. PR disasters, contract disputes, the time Lando accidentally liked a tweet criticizing the team principal and you had to do damage control for six hours straight.

"The key," you tell Emma, "is to fix it before it becomes a story. Lando's going to fuck up. That's not the question. The question is whether you can contain it before it explodes."

"That's kind of dark."

"Welcome to Formula 1." Your phone stays silent all day. No texts from Lando. No calls. Nothing. Which is fine. Which is what you wanted. You definitely don't check it seventeen times. Wednesday evening you're back in your apartment, staring at your laptop without seeing it, when Charlotte, your close friend finally calls.

"You're avoiding me," she says without preamble.

"I'm not avoiding you. I'm busy."

"Busy doing what? I thought you were living your best unemployed life."

"I'm consulting."

There's a pause. "Consulting for who?"

"It's temporary."

"Babe. Consulting for who?"

You close your eyes. "Lando."

Charlotte makes a noise that's somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "You're kidding."

"I'm training his new assistant. Two weeks. That's it."

"Two weeks of seeing your ex-boss who you were definitely in love with and who fired you after fucking you? That Lando?"

"I wasn't in love with him."

"You counted ceiling tiles for four months after he fired you."

"That's not—that's different."

"Babe." Charlotte's voice goes soft. "What are you doing?"

"I'm helping someone who needs help. Emma's sweet and she's trying and Lando's going to destroy her confidence if someone doesn't teach her how to handle him."

"Very altruistic."

"It is altruistic."

"So nothing's happened?" You think about Monday. About his office and his hands and the way he kissed you like he was drowning.

"Nothing's happened," you lie.

"You're such a bad liar." But Charlotte doesn't push. "Just be careful, okay? I don't want to watch you fall apart again."

"I'm not going to fall apart."

"Promise me."

"I promise." You hang up and immediately check your phone. Still nothing from Lando, which is good. Which is what you need. Right? Right? You make it to 11 PM before you break and text him.

You stare at that last message for longer than you should. Beautiful. He used to call you that, in hotel rooms and early mornings and moments when he thought you weren't paying attention. You plug your phone in across the room so you won't be tempted to respond. It doesn't help. You lie awake until 2 AM thinking about his hands and his mouth and the way he said I'll break up with her like it was simple.

Thursday morning Emma is vibrating with excitement when you arrive. "Okay so I have a question about the simulator sessions," she says before you've even sat down. "How often does he do them and do I need to coordinate with the engineers or does that happen automatically and—"

"Emma. Breathe."

"Right. Sorry. I'm just," She pauses. "He texted me last night."

Your stomach drops. "Lando texted you?"

"Yeah. Just to say I'm doing a good job and he appreciates me being patient while I learn." She's beaming. "That was nice, right? That he took the time to do that?"

"Very nice." Your voice sounds strange even to your own ears.

"He's not as scary as I thought he'd be. I mean, he's still intense, but you can tell he cares about getting things right."

You think about Monday, about the way he looked at you in his office, the way his voice cracked when he said I can't keep pretending. "Yeah," you manage. "He cares about getting things right."

You're midway through explaining the intricacies of coordinating with his performance coach when the door opens. Lando walks in with two coffees and that fucking smile. "Morning," he says, like this is casual, like he didn't disappear for two days. He sets one coffee in front of Emma. "Vanilla latte, right?"

Emma lights up. "You remembered!"

"Course." Then he turns to you and sets the second coffee down. "Oat milk cappuccino. Extra shot."

You stare at the cup. It's from the specific café three blocks away that you used to make him stop at every morning when you worked for him. The one with the good oat milk, not the shit oat milk. "I didn't ask for this," you say.

"I know." He sits down at the table, directly across from you. "But it's 9:30 AM and you've been here since 8:45 and you haven't had your second coffee yet. You get mean after 9:15 if you don't have caffeine."

"I'm not mean," you say.

"You're terrifying." But he says it like it's a compliment. "So. What are we covering today?"

"We?"

"I'm sitting in again. Making sure Emma's getting the full picture." He leans back in his chair, arms crossed. He's in team gear again—black joggers, papaya polo. His hair is messy like he didn't bother styling it. "That okay?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not really."

You want to throw the coffee at him. You take a sip instead. It's perfect. Exactly how you like it. The bastard remembers everything. "Fine. We're covering travel coordination. Emma, pull up Lando's schedule for Japan."

The next hour is torture. Lando sits there asking questions, making comments, watching you explain things to Emma with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. Every time you look at him he's already looking at you. "So when we're coordinating flights," you say, pulling up a calendar, "you need to account for jet lag. Lando needs at least two days in-country before a race weekend if it's long-haul."

"What if there's not two days?" Emma asks.

"Then you make it work. But he'll be pissy about it."

"I don't get pissy," Lando interjects.

You level him with a look. "Singapore 2024. You had one day in-country and you snapped at everyone for three days straight."

"That was different."

"How?"

"I had food poisoning."

"You were jet-lagged."

"I was dyyyyying."

"You had a very mild stomachache." Emma is trying very hard not to laugh. Lando is glaring at you, but there's something else in his expression. Something that looks almost like fondness.

"Anyway," you continue, turning back to Emma. "Two days minimum. Schedule accordingly."

At 11 AM, Lando's phone rings. He glances at the screen and his expression shutters. You make it through another twenty minutes before Lando comes back. His expression is carefully neutral, but you can see the tension in his jaw.

"All good?" Emma asks brightly.

"Fine." He sits back down. "Where were we?"

"Simulator sessions," you say. "Emma needs to know how to coordinate."

"Actually," Lando interrupts, "I need to talk to you about something. Work thing. Won't take long."

Emma looks between you. "I can step out—"

"No need." Lando is already standing. "Conference room down the hall. Five minutes."

He walks out. You have no choice but to follow. The conference room is smaller than the one you've been using, no windows, just a table and six chairs and fluorescent lighting that makes everything look slightly sickly. Lando closes the door behind you.

"What's the work thing?" you ask.

"There is no work thing."

"Then why—"

"I needed to see you alone." He's standing too close again, crowding into your space. "Needed to know if Monday was real or if I imagined the whole thing."

"Lando—"

"Did you think about it?" His voice is low, urgent. "The past two days. Did you think about it?"

"That's not, we can't do this here."

"I texted Emma. Told her she's doing a good job. Did she tell you?"

"Yes."

"I did it so you wouldn't think I was only here for you. So you wouldn't accuse me of using this as an excuse." He takes another step closer. "But I am here for you. I'm always here for you."

"You were in London."

"McLaren board meeting. Had to present the championship review. Couldn't get out of it." His hand comes up to your face but doesn't quite touch. "Thought about you the entire time. Especially during the part where they asked about my personal life."

Your breath catches. "What did you say?"

"Said it was complicated." His thumb brushes your cheekbone, so light you might be imagining it. "Said I was working on fixing something I broke."

"Did they ask about Magui?"

Something flickers across his face. "Yeah."

"And?"

"And I told them we were taking a break."

The world tilts. "You what?"

"Called her last night. Told her I needed space to figure some things out." His eyes search yours. "She was surprisingly understanding about it."

"Lando, you can't just do this."

"Can't what? Can't be honest? Can't admit that I've been in a relationship with someone I don't love because I was too fucked up over you to be alone?"

"That's not fair to her."

"I know. Which is why I ended it." His hand is fully cupping your face now. "I'm not doing this halfway. I'm not sneaking around or lying. If we're doing this, I'm all in."

"We're not doing anything—"

"Liar." He's so close now you can count his eyelashes. "You're still the worst liar I've ever met."

"You're being crazy."

"Probably." His lips brush against yours, barely a kiss, more a promise. "But I'm done pretending I don't want this. Want you."

You should push him away. Should remind him that Emma is down the hall, that this is insane, that he broke your heart eighteen months ago and you're not giving him the chance to do it again. You kiss him instead. It's different from Monday. Slower, deeper, less angry and more inevitable. Like you're both finally admitting something you've been avoiding. His hands slide into your hair and you press closer, your back hitting the wall, and he makes that sound again, the one that's half-groan and half-surrender.

"We have to stop," you gasp against his mouth.

"Why?"

"Because Emma is waiting. Because we're in an office building. Because—"

"Because you're scared."

"I'm not scared."

"You're terrified." His forehead rests against yours. "But that's okay. So am I."

"Then why are you pushing this?"

"Because eighteen months without you was worse than being scared." His eyes meet yours. "Because I'd rather risk everything than spend another year and a half counting how long it's been since I touched you." You're saved from responding by your phone buzzing in your pocket. You pull it out, grateful for the interruption.

"Shit." You step back, putting distance between you. "We need to go back."

"In a second." He catches your hand. "Tonight. Come over."

"Lando."

"Not to my place. Neutral ground. There's that restaurant you like on Avenue Princess Grace. The one with the good risotto."

"I know the one."

"Seven PM. Just dinner. Just talking."

"And if I say no?"

"Then I'll respect it." His thumb traces circles on your palm. "But you won't say no."

"You're very sure of yourself."

"I'm sure of you." He lifts your hand to his lips, presses a kiss to your knuckles. "Seven PM."

He leaves before you can argue. You stand there in the conference room, heart racing, lips tingling, completely and utterly fucked. When you get back to the main conference room, Emma takes one look at your face and mercifully says nothing. You make it through the rest of the day. Make it through explaining simulator protocols and race weekend logistics and all the things Emma needs to know.

Lando doesn't come back. At 6 PM, Emma starts packing up. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Tomorrow's our last day of basics, then we'll start shadowing some actual events."

"Sounds good." She hesitates. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"You and Lando. You have history, right?"

You should lie. Should definitely keep it professional. "Yeah," you say instead. "We have history."

"I figured." Emma adjusts her bag. "For what it's worth, I think he's different around you. Lighter. Like he can actually breathe."

She leaves before you can respond. You sit in the empty conference room staring at your phone. At the time. 6:03 PM. You could go home. Pour wine. Pretend tonight isn't happening. Instead, at 6:47 PM, you're standing outside La Maison du Caviar in a black dress you haven't worn in two years, watching Lando get out of his car.

He's in dark jeans and a white button-down, no tie, sleeves rolled up. He looks unfairly good. "You came," he says, and he sounds surprised.

"Don't gloat."

"Wouldn't dream of it." He offers his arm. "Shall we?" Day three. Tension officially at breaking point. This is going to end in flames.

"Wine?" Lando asks once you're seated.

"I can order my own wine."

"I know you can. I'm asking if you want wine."

You do. You desperately do. "Red."

He orders a bottle of something French and expensive without looking at the menu. The sommelier practically bows before walking away. "So," Lando says, leaning back in his chair. "How am I doing?"

"At what?"

"At this. Dinner. Normal human interaction."

"It's been five minutes."

"And?"

"And you're doing fine. Very restrained."

He smiles. That dangerous smile that means trouble. "Just wait."

The wine arrives. It's good. Too good. The kind of good that makes you forget you're supposed to be maintaining boundaries. "Emma's doing well," you say, because work is safe. Work is neutral territory.

"She is. Thanks to you."

"She's a fast learner. She actually listens."

"Unlike me?"

"You listen. You just choose to ignore half of what people tell you."

"Not true. I listened when you told me I needed to be nicer to Emma."

"You texted her once."

"And I brought her coffee this morning. And I'm letting her leave at reasonable hours instead of texting her at midnight about random shit." He takes a sip of wine. "See? Growth."

"Impressive. Want a gold star?"

"I want you to admit I'm trying."

"You're trying," you concede. "Doesn't mean it's working."

"Ouch." The waiter comes to take your order. You get the risotto because Lando was right, it is good here. He gets something with fish that you know he'll eat half of before getting distracted. Once the waiter leaves, Lando leans forward. "So. Eighteen months."

"We're not doing this."

"Doing what?"

"The post-mortem. The 'where did we go wrong' conversation."

"Why not?"

"Because I already know where we went wrong. You fired me."

"Before that. You're skipping the part where we were in love."

Your grip tightens on your wine glass. "We weren't in love."

"I was."

"Don't."

"Don't what? Don't tell you the truth?" He stops, frustrated. "Why are you being so difficult about this?"

"Difficult?" Your voice rises slightly. An older couple two tables over glances your way. You lower it. "You think I'm being difficult?"

"I think you're refusing to have an actual conversation because you're scared of what might happen if you do."

"I'm not scared of anything."

"Bullshit. You're terrified. You've been terrified since Monday when I kissed you and you kissed me back and realized that maybe you're not as over this as you want to be."

"You're so fucking arrogant."

"And you're deflecting."

"I'm being realistic. You broke my heart, Lando. You don't get to just decide we're doing this again because you're bored of your girlfriend."

His jaw tightens. "That's not what this is."

"Then what is it?"

"It's me finally having the balls to fix the worst mistake I ever made."

"By taking me to dinner? By kissing me in conference rooms? That's your plan?"

"My plan is to show you that I'm serious. That this isn't just—" He gestures vaguely. "—nostalgia or whatever you think it is."

"It's been two days."

"It's been eighteen months. Two days is just how long it took me to get you in the same room as me." He refills your wine glass even though you haven't asked. "And before you say it—yes, I know I'm the one who caused those eighteen months. I know I fucked up. I know I hurt you. But I'm here now and I'm trying and you won't even give me a chance to explain. I've had eighteen months to figure out exactly how miserable I am without you." His voice drops. "Because I've tried to move on and I can't. Because every time I get in that fucking car I still think about you in Qatar watching me in FP2 and smiling like you were proud of me."

Your chest aches. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't say things like that."

"Why not? It's true."

"Because it's not fair." You set your wine glass down too hard. "You don't get to fire me and disappear and show up eighteen months later with pretty words and expect me to just—"

"Just what?"

"Just forget. Just forgive. Just let you back in like you didn't completely destroy me."

The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut. "I know," Lando says finally, quietly. "I know I destroyed you. You think I don't know that? You think I didn't see what I did to you?"

"Clearly not, since you still did it."

"I did it because I was fucking terrified. Because I'd never felt that way about anyone and it was making me insane. Because every time I looked at you I wanted things I didn't know how to want." His hands are clenched on the table. "And I know that's not an excuse. I know it doesn't make it better. But I'm trying to explain—"

"I don't want an explanation. I want you to leave me alone."

"Liar."

"Stop calling me that."

"Then stop lying." He leans forward. "You want me to leave you alone? Fine. Tell me Monday meant nothing. Tell me you felt nothing when I kissed you. Tell me you're not sitting here right now wishing we were anywhere else so you could do it again."

"You're delusional."

"Am I? Because your pupils are dilated and your breathing is uneven and you've been staring at my mouth for the past thirty seconds." Fuck. He's right. You have been.

"That's—I'm not—"

"You're a terrible liar," he says again, and there's something almost gentle in it now. "Always have been. It's one of my favorite things about you."

"I need to use the bathroom." You stand up before he can respond. Navigate through the restaurant on unsteady legs—from the wine or from him, you're not sure. The bathroom is in the back, single-stall, the kind with a heavy wooden door and a lock that actually works.

You close yourself inside and immediately brace your hands on the sink. Your reflection looks back at you—flushed cheeks, bright eyes, lips slightly parted. You look like someone who's losing an argument. Worse, you look like someone who wants to lose. Deep breath. You can do this. You can go back out there, finish dinner like a professional, go home, and forget this ever—

The door opens and Lando steps inside and locks it behind him. "What are you doing?" Your voice comes out breathy, unconvincing.

"What do you think I'm doing?" He's crossing the space between you in two strides, and then his hands are on your waist and he's lifting you onto the sink.

"Someone could—"

"Let them." His mouth finds your neck, that spot below your ear that makes you gasp. "I'm done pretending. Done watching you try to convince yourself you don't want this."

"Lando."

"Tell me to stop." His hands slide up your thighs, pushing your dress higher. "Tell me you don't want this and I'll walk out right now. I'll finish dinner, take you home, never bring it up again."

You should. You should absolutely tell him to stop. "I hate you," you say instead.

"I know." His mouth moves to yours, kissing you hard enough to bruise. "Hate me louder."

Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer even as you're trying to push him away. It's all contradiction—your mouth saying one thing while your body says another, and he can read every single signal.

"This is insane," you gasp when he bites down on your lower lip.

"Probably." His hands are everywhere now—in your hair, on your waist, sliding up your ribs. "Don't care."

"We're in a restaurant bathroom."

"I know." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are dark, dangerous. "You want me to stop?"

"Yes."

"Liar." His hand slides higher, fingers tracing the edge of your underwear. "Try again."

"I—fuck—" Your head drops back against the mirror as his fingers slip beneath the fabric, teasing. "This doesn't change anything."

"Doesn't it?" He's watching your face, cataloging every reaction. "Because you're shaking. And your breathing's gone all uneven. And you're so wet I can feel it through your underwear."

"That's not—" You gasp as he presses exactly where you need him. "—not fair."

"Nothing about this is fair." His mouth is on your neck again, biting, sucking, definitely leaving marks. "Been thinking about this for eighteen months. Eighteen months of wondering if you tasted the same, if you'd make those same sounds, if you'd still fall apart the same way."

His fingers slide inside you and you bite your lip to keep from making noise. "Don't." He uses his free hand to pull your lip from between your teeth. "Want to hear you. Want everyone in this fucking restaurant to know what I'm doing to you."

"You're insane."

"And you love it." He adds another finger, curling them just right, and your hips buck against his hand. "There she is. There's my girl."

"Not your girl."

"No?" He slows his movements, teasing. "Then whose girl are you?"

"I'm not—I don't belong to—fuck, don't stop—"

"Say it." His thumb finds your clit and you actually whimper. "Say you're mine."

"Go to hell."

He laughs, and it's dark and possessive and makes you clench around his fingers. "We're already there, beautiful. Might as well enjoy it." He works you with devastating precision—eighteen months and he still remembers exactly what you need. The pressure, the angle, the rhythm that makes your thighs shake. You're gripping his shoulders, nails digging in through his shirt, and he's muttering against your neck in a voice gone rough and desperate.

"So fucking perfect. Missed this. Missed you. Missed making you fall apart on my fingers like you're mine, like you've always been mine—"

"Lando—" You're close, embarrassingly close, everything building sharp and inevitable.

"I know. I can feel it. Can feel you getting tighter." His mouth finds yours, kissing you through it. "Come on, beautiful. Show me. Show me you still want this as much as I do."

You come with his name on your lips and your hands fisted in his hair, and he works you through it, drawing it out until you're shaking and oversensitive and pushing his hand away. "Fuck," you breathe.

"Yeah." He's breathing hard too, forehead pressed against yours, and you can feel how hard he is against your thigh. "So that happened."

Reality comes crashing back. You're in a restaurant bathroom with your dress rucked up and Lando's fingers still inside you and at least twenty people on the other side of the door who definitely heard something. "Oh my god." You push at his chest. "Oh my god, we just—in a public bathroom—"

"Technically a private bathroom." But he's pulling back, giving you space. "No one's going to say anything."

"Everyone's going to say something." You slide off the sink on shaky legs, trying to pull your dress down with trembling hands. "They're going to see us walk out and they're going to know—"

"So what if they know?" He's watching you in the mirror, his reflection overlapping with yours. "I told you. I'm done pretending."

"That's easy for you to say. You're Lando Norris. You can do whatever you want."

"And what are you?"

"I'm the girl who got fired for sleeping with her boss and now everyone's going to think I'm pathetic for coming back."

"No." He steps behind you, hands on your hips, meeting your eyes in the mirror. "You're the girl I've been in love with for two years who I was too much of a coward to keep. And if anyone says anything about you being pathetic, I'll personally destroy them."

You want to argue. Want to list all the reasons this is a terrible idea. Want to protect yourself before he has the chance to hurt you again. Instead you turn around and kiss him. Slower this time, softer, and when you pull back his eyes are closed like he's savoring it.

"This doesn't mean I forgive you," you whisper.

"I know."

"And it doesn't mean we're back together."

"Okay."

"And I still think you're an asshole."

"Fair." He opens his eyes. "But you're here. You came to dinner. You let me—" He gestures vaguely at the sink. "—do that. So maybe we're not as hopeless as you think."

"We're absolutely hopeless."

"Probably." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "But I'm willing to risk it if you are."

You should say no. Should walk out, go home, block his number, and never look back.

"One chance," you hear yourself say. "You get one chance, Lando. You fuck this up, I'm gone. For real this time."

"I won't fuck it up."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do." He kisses you again, quick and sure. "Because I'm not losing you twice."

You fix your makeup as best you can. Lando runs his fingers through his hair, trying to make it look less like you've had your hands in it. You both look thoroughly fucked and there's nothing to be done about it.

"Ready?" he asks.

"No."

"Me neither." He unlocks the door. "Let's go anyway."

The meal continues in a strange sort of limbo. Lando orders dessert—some chocolate thing that's probably obscenely expensive—and insists you try it even though you say you're not hungry. He feeds you a bite from his fork and you let him, and somewhere in the back of your mind you're aware that this is a turning point, that you're crossing a line you swore you wouldn't cross.

"Good?" he asks.

"It's fine."

"Just fine?" He takes another bite, considering. "I think it's better than fine."

"You think everything here is better than fine. You probably have stock in this place."

"I don't have stock in this place." He pauses. "I know the owner, though. Nice guy. Makes excellent risotto."

"Of course you do." By the time the check comes, it's nearly 10 PM. The restaurant has thinned out—just a few tables left, couples lingering over wine, the staff starting their closing routines. Lando pays without looking at the total, leaves a tip that's probably more than your entire meal cost.

"Ready?" he asks, standing and offering his hand. You look at it for a moment. At his palm, open and waiting. At the decision you're about to make. You take his hand. Outside, Monaco is cold and beautiful. The kind of night where the Mediterranean is dark glass reflecting city lights, where everything feels suspended and possible. Lando's car is waiting where the valet brought it around—matte black Porsche,

"I can walk," you say, even though you're not letting go of his hand.

"It's cold."

"It's twelve minutes."

"It's twelve minutes in heels." He opens the passenger door. "Let me drive you. Please." There's something in the please that gets you. Something vulnerable and honest that wasn't there before. You get in the car. Lando slides into the driver's seat and the engine purrs to life. He doesn't immediately drive. Just sits there with his hands on the steering wheel, staring out at the street.

"You okay?" you ask.

"Yeah." He glances at you. "Just thinking."

"About?"

"About how I'm going to convince you to let me come upstairs."

Your stomach flips. "Lando."

"I know, I know. You said one chance. I'm not fucking it up." He pulls out into traffic, smooth and controlled. "But I also know that if I drop you off and drive away, you're going to spend the entire night convincing yourself this was a mistake."

"It might be a mistake."

"Or it might not be." He takes the turn toward your apartment, like he's made this drive a thousand times. Maybe he has, in his head. "Either way, I'd rather find out tonight than spend another eighteen months wondering."

You don't respond. Just watch the city slide past through the window, trying to organize your thoughts into something coherent. Trying to figure out when exactly you decided to let this happen. Your apartment building appears too quickly. Lando pulls into a spot on the street—not in front, not obvious, but close enough. He kills the engine and the sudden silence is deafening.

"So," he says.

"So."

"This is the part where you invite me up for coffee that we both know we're not going to drink."

"Is it?"

"Or—" He shifts to face you properly. "—this is the part where you tell me to leave and I respect that and go home alone and hate myself for approximately six hours before texting you something stupid at 4 AM."

"Those are my only two options?"

"Probably not. But they're the most likely ones." His hand finds yours in the dark. "For what it's worth, I'm hoping for the coffee."

You should tell him to leave. Should protect yourself, keep the boundary you've barely managed to maintain. Should remember that this is Lando Norris, who broke your heart eighteen months ago and has given you no real proof that he won't do it again.

"Do you actually want coffee?" you ask instead.

His smile is slow and dangerous. "Not even a little bit."

"Then why did you offer?"

"Because you need the plausible deniability. Need to tell yourself we're just having coffee, just talking, just two adults having a completely professional and appropriate conversation at 10 PM in your apartment." He brings your hand to his lips, kisses your knuckles. "And I'll play along. I'll make coffee and sit on your couch and keep my hands to myself until you give me permission to do otherwise."

"You're very confident I'm going to give you permission."

"I'm not confident about anything right now except that I want you. Have wanted you for two years. Will probably want you for the rest of my life." His eyes meet yours in the dim light. "But I can wait. I'm good at waiting now. Eighteen months taught me patience."

Your heart is doing something complicated in your chest. "One coffee."

"One coffee," he agrees.

You get out of the car before you can change your mind. Lando follows, keeping a careful distance as you walk to your building's entrance. You're aware of his presence behind you—not crowding, not pushing, just there. Patient in a way he never was before. The elevator ride is silent. You're both watching the numbers climb—three, four, five, six, seven. Your floor. The doors open and you lead him down the hallway to your apartment.

Your hands shake slightly as you unlock the door. Lando notices but doesn't comment. Inside, your apartment looks exactly the same as it did when he was here four days ago. Clean and empty and sad. You see it through his eyes again—the bookshelf organized by color, the lack of personal photos, the overall sense that no one actually lives here.

"Coffee," you say, moving toward the kitchen. "How do you take it?"

"However you're making it." He's still standing by the door, hands in his pockets. Not moving. Not presuming. "Nice place."

"You said it was sad last time you were here."

"I said it looked like no one lives here. Different thing." He finally moves, but only to the living room, sitting on the edge of your couch like he's not sure he's allowed. "Do you actually live here or do you just exist in it?"

"That's a very philosophical question for 10 PM."

"I'm a very philosophical guy."

"Since when?"

"Since I spent eighteen months thinking about what I did wrong." He watches you move around the kitchen, getting mugs and grounds and trying to remember how your coffee maker works. "Lots of time to think when you're alone."

"You weren't alone. You had Magui."

"I told you. That was—"

"Uncomplicated. I remember." You measure out coffee with more precision than necessary. "How is she taking the break?"

"She said she saw it coming."

You turn to look at him. "She did?"

"Yeah." He runs a hand through his hair. "Apparently I talk about you. A lot. Even when I'm trying not to."

"That's—" You don't know how to finish that sentence. "—unfortunate for her."

"She's already seeing someone else. Some photographer. They've been friends for a while." He says it casually, like it doesn't bother him at all. "She's happy."

"And you're here."

"I'm here," he confirms.

The coffee maker gurgles to life. You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him watch you.

"Why did you really come to Monaco?" you ask. "Not the story about Emma being useless. The real reason."

He's quiet for a moment. "You want the truth?"

"That would be nice."

"I came because I couldn't stay away anymore. Because I won the championship and the first person I wanted to tell was you and you weren't there. Because I went to the Prize Giving with Magui and spent the entire night wishing it was you in that dress." He stands up, finally, moving toward the kitchen. Not quite entering it, just leaning in the doorway. "Because I've been tracking your pottery classes and your yoga sessions and every other thing you've tried to distract yourself with, and I realized I was being a creepy stalker instead of just coming here and saying what I should've said eighteen months ago."

"Which is?"

"That I love you. That firing you was the worst decision I've ever made. That I'm sorry." His voice cracks slightly on the sorry. "That I don't expect you to forgive me but I'm asking anyway."

The coffee maker beeps. You don't move.

"How were you tracking my pottery classes?"

"Really? That's your question?"

"It's a relevant question."

He sighs. "Charlotte."

"Charlotte?" Your voice rises. "Charlotte's been spying on me for you?"

"Not spying. Updating. She thought I should know you were okay."

"I'm going to kill her."

"She was trying to help."

"By reporting my activities to my ex-boss like I'm under surveillance?"

"When you put it that way it sounds bad—"

"It is bad, Lando!" You're fully yelling now, and some part of you knows you're not actually angry about Charlotte, you're angry about everything else—the eighteen months and the pottery classes and the fact that he's standing in your kitchen looking unfairly good and you want him so badly you can barely breathe. "You can't just—you can't track me and show up and expect me to just—"

"To just what?" He moves into the kitchen properly now, crowding into your space. "To just admit you still feel it too? To just let yourself want something instead of punishing yourself for wanting it?"

"I'm not punishing myself—"

"You're living like a ghost. Like you're waiting for permission to actually be alive again." His hands find your waist, not pulling, just holding. "Let me give you permission."

"I don't need your permission."

"Then take it anyway." His forehead drops to yours. "Take what you want. For once, just take it."

You're gripping his shirt. You don't remember reaching for him but you're holding on like he's the only solid thing in the room.

"This is going to end badly," you whisper.

"Probably."

"You're going to break my heart again."

"I'm going to try really hard not to."

"That's not good enough."

"I know." His lips brush yours, barely a kiss. "But it's all I've got."

You kiss him properly this time. Slower than in the restaurant bathroom, less desperate, more like you're both admitting something you've been avoiding. His hands slide up your back and you press closer, and the coffee sits forgotten on the counter, getting cold.

"Bedroom," you breathe against his mouth.

"You sure?"

"If you ask me one more time if I'm sure, I'm changing my mind."

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist automatically. He carries you down the hallway, kissing you the whole way, only fumbling slightly when he has to navigate your bedroom door. Your bed is exactly where beds go, and he sets you down on it with a gentleness that makes your chest ache.

"Hi," he says, hovering over you.

"Hi yourself."

"Just so we're clear—this isn't just sex."

"Lando."

"I need you to know that. This isn't me trying to get laid. This is me trying to—" He stops, searching for words. "—to show you I'm serious. That I'm all in."

"You're going to show me you're serious by sleeping with me?"

"I'm going to show you I'm serious by staying." His hand cups your face. "By waking up here tomorrow. By making you actual coffee in the morning. By not running away when it gets complicated."

"It's already complicated."

"Then I guess I'm not going anywhere." He kisses you again, and this time there's a promise in it. A commitment you're not sure either of you are ready for but are making anyway. Your hands find the buttons of his shirt. Start working them open one by one. He watches your face the whole time, like he's memorizing this, like he's afraid if he blinks you'll disappear.

"Still with me?" you ask when his shirt is open, hands spread on his chest.

"Always." His hand slides into your hair. "Even when you don't want me to be."

"Annoyingly persistent."

"One of my best qualities." He pulls your dress over your head in one smooth motion, and then you're both just staring at each other in the dim light from the hallway. "Fuck. I forgot how beautiful you are."

"You saw me three days ago."

"Wasn't close enough." His hands map your body like he's relearning it—ribs, waist, hips, thighs. "Wasn't touching you like this."

You pull him down, tired of talking, tired of thinking, tired of all the reasons this is a terrible idea. His weight settles over you and everything else falls away—the eighteen months, the fear, the certainty that this will end in disaster. Right now, there's just this. Just him. Just the feeling of finally, finally being exactly where you want to be.

Even if it's temporary. Even if it's going to hurt later. Right now, though, it's enough.

Days four through fourteen pass in a blur of Emma and schedules and Lando showing up at your apartment every single night like he lives there. He doesn't live there. You've been very clear about that.

"I'm just here a lot," he says on day seven, making coffee in your kitchen at 6 AM like he belongs there. Like it's normal, like this is normal. "That's different from living here."

"You have a toothbrush in my bathroom."

"Emergency toothbrush."

"You have clothes in my closet."

"Just in case."

"Lando."

"What?" He's grinning now, that insufferable grin that makes you want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure. "I'm respecting boundaries. You said I couldn't move in. I'm not moving in. I'm just visiting. A lot."

"You stayed here six nights in a row."

"And I went home on the seventh. See? Not living here."

You throw a dish towel at his head. He catches it, still grinning. The thing is—it's good. Terrifyingly good. He makes you coffee in the morning and you pretend to be annoyed about it. He stays up too late watching old race footage and you fall asleep on his chest listening to his heartbeat. He fucks you against your kitchen counter on day nine and you return the favor in your shower on day eleven and somewhere in between all of that, you stop counting days.

Emma is thriving. That's the word everyone keeps using—thriving. She's confident now, anticipating Lando's needs before he asks, managing his schedule like she's been doing it for years instead of two weeks. "You're amazing," she tells you on day twelve, over coffee in the MTC cafeteria. "Seriously. I don't know how you did this job for so long."

"Practice. Lots of practice."

"And patience. God, so much patience." She stirs her latte. "He's different lately though, have you noticed?"

Your stomach flips. "Different how?"

"Happier? Less stressed? I don't know, he just seems lighter." She smiles. "Whatever you said to him about being nicer to me, it worked. He actually asked about my Christmas plans yesterday. Like, genuine interest. It was weird."

"Good weird?"

"The best weird." She leans forward. "Can I ask you something personal?"

"That depends on the question."

"You and Lando. Are you... I mean, it seems like—" She stops, cheeks flushing. "Sorry. That's none of my business."

"It's complicated."

"That's what everyone says when they're together but don't want to admit it." She's still smiling, not judging, just observing.

Day fourteen arrives with the weight of finality. Your last day training Emma. Your last day having an excuse to be at MTC every morning. Your last day before everything becomes real or falls apart or some combination of both. Emma brings you flowers. Actual flowers—a bouquet of peonies tied with a ribbon.

"Thank you," she says, and her eyes are suspiciously shiny. "For everything. For being patient with me. For not making me feel stupid when I messed up. For teaching me how to do this job without losing my mind."

"You're going to be great," you tell her, and you mean it. "Better than great. You're going to be exactly what he needs."

"I hope so." She hugs you, quick and tight. "Will you still answer if I text you with questions?"

"Of course."

"Even stupid questions?"

"Especially stupid questions."

Lando doesn't show up all day. You tell yourself it's fine, that he's busy, that he's giving you and Emma space to wrap things up properly. You tell yourself a lot of things that aren't quite true. At 5 PM, Emma leaves. You pack up your things—tablet, the notes you've accumulated, the coffee mug you've been using that technically belongs to McLaren. You're stalling. You know you're stalling when your phone buzzes.

You take the elevator to the fourth floor for what might be the last time. Lando's office door is open. He's standing by the window, still in team gear, and he turns when you walk in. "Hey," he says.

"Hey."

"So. Two weeks."

"Two weeks," you confirm.

"Emma's going to be fine."

"She is."

"Thanks to you." He moves toward you, hands in his pockets. "I, uh. I got you something. To say thank you. For the training."

"Lando, you don't have to—"

"I wanted to." He pulls an envelope from his desk drawer. "It's not much. Just a little something." You open it. It's a check. A very large check. More than double what you agreed on.

"This is too much."

"It's not enough." His voice is quiet. "You came back when I asked. You trained Emma. You gave me two weeks when you could've told me to fuck off."

"I did tell you to fuck off."

"And then you came anyway." He's smiling now, that soft smile that's just for you. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." You fold the check, tuck it into your bag. "So I guess this is it."

"Is it?"

"The two weeks are up. I'm done. You and Emma are set."

"What about us?"

There it is. The question you've been avoiding for fourteen days.

"I don't know," you admit. "What about us?"

"I don't want this to end." He says it simply, honestly. "The two weeks are up but I'm not ready to stop seeing you every day. Coming to your apartment. Waking up next to you. All of it."

"Lando."

"I know it's fast. I know we're still figuring things out. But I'm all in. I told you that. I meant it." He takes your hands. "Move in with me."

You stare at him. "What?"

"Move in with me. My place. I have space. A lot of space. You could—"

"No."

"No?"

"We've been doing this for two weeks. That's not enough time to—"

"It's been two years," he interrupts. "Two weeks is just how long it took us to stop being idiots about it."

"That's not how this works."

"Then how does it work?" He's frustrated now, you can see it in the set of his jaw. "Tell me. Tell me what I need to do to prove I'm serious."

"I don't know! I don't have a checklist of requirements. I just," You pull your hands back. "I need time. I need to know this isn't going to fall apart the second things get hard."

"Things are already hard. We're still here."

"Two weeks isn't hard, Lando. Two weeks is the easy part. The hard part is six months from now when you're traveling and I'm here and we haven't seen each other in weeks. The hard part is when I do something that pisses you off and you remember why you fired me in the first place."

"That's not going to happen."

"You don't know that."

He opens his mouth. Closes it. "You're right. I don't know that. But I know I want to try. I know that two weeks with you has been better than eighteen months without you. I know that I'm in love with you and I don't want to waste any more time pretending I'm not."

Your chest aches. "I need to go."

"Where?"

"Home. My home. I need space to think."

"Okay." He doesn't try to stop you. "Will I see you tonight?"

"I don't know."

"Tomorrow?"

"Lando."

"I'm just asking. I'm not pushing." But you can see it in his eyes—the fear that this is it, that you're walking out and not coming back.

"I'll text you," you say finally.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

You leave before you can change your mind. Drive home in a daze, your apartment appearing too quickly. Inside, it's exactly as you left it this morning—coffee mugs in the sink from breakfast with Lando, his shirt draped over your chair, evidence of him everywhere. You sink onto your couch and try to figure out what the fuck you're doing.

Christmas comes three days later and you spend it alone. Lando's in the UK—family obligations, his mum's house in Somerset, the kind of traditional British Christmas that involves too much food and badly wrapped presents and everyone arguing about charades. He invited you. Asked you three times, actually, each time more hopeful than the last.

You said no.

"I don't want to meet your family," you'd told him. "Not yet. It's too much."

"They'd love you."

"That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?"

"The point is I need space. I need to figure out if this is real or if it's just us getting caught up in each other again."

He'd looked like you'd slapped him. "Right. Space. Okay."

He texted you on Christmas morning, then a hour later, and the hour after that. Charlotte called twice asking if you're spending Christmas alone, you lied, she definitely didn't believe you.

The day after Christmas, you're sitting in your apartment in pajamas and the same book you've been pretending to read for three days when your doorbell rings at 2:47 PM. Lando is standing in your hallway in a Christmas sweater—an actual, honest-to-god Christmas sweater with reindeer on it. He's holding a small gift bag, silver with white tissue paper, and he looks nervous.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi."

"Can I come in?"

You step aside. He walks in, setting the gift bag on your coffee table like it might explode. "You didn't have to get me anything," you say.

"I know. I wanted to." He shoves his hands in his pockets. "How was your Christmas?"

"Fine. Quiet."

"Mine was loud. Too loud. Kept thinking about how you'd hate it—all the noise and the people and my mum asking a million questions."

"She asked about me?"

"Yeah. She wanted to know why I invited someone and then showed up alone. Gave me a whole lecture about not screwing things up." He smiles, but it's strained. "She's very wise."

You gesture to the couch. He sits. You sit on the opposite end, keeping distance between you. "The training finished well," he says, like this is a business meeting. "Emma's doing great."

"I know. She texted me."

"Right. Of course." He's fidgeting now, picking at a loose thread on the couch. "I, uh. I missed you. At Christmas. Kept looking around like you might show up even though I knew you wouldn't."

"Lando."

"I know you need space. I'm trying to give you space. But it's been three days and I'm going insane." He looks at you finally. "I don't know how to do this. Don't know how to prove I'm serious without being overwhelming. Don't know how to give you time without feeling like I'm losing you."

"You're not losing me."

"Aren't I?" His voice cracks slightly. "You spent Christmas alone. You won't move in with me. You barely text me back. What am I supposed to think?"

"That I'm scared." The admission comes out quiet. "That I'm terrified this is going to fall apart and I don't know if I'll survive it a second time."

"So don't let it fall apart." He moves closer. "Stay. Fight for this. Give us an actual chance."

"I am giving us a chance."

"Are you? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're preparing for the end before we've even really started." His hand finds yours. "I'm not going anywhere. I don't know how many times I need to say it. I'm not firing you. I'm not leaving. I'm not changing my mind."

"You can't promise that."

"Yes, I can." He reaches for the gift bag, holds it out to you. "Open it."

"Lando."

"Please. Just open it."

You take the bag. Pull out the tissue paper. Inside is a small box, velvet, the kind that makes your heart stop. "It's not what you think," he says quickly. "I mean—just open it."

You open it and it's a key. A single key on a keyring, simple and silver.

You stare at it. "It's to my place," Lando says, words tumbling out fast now. "I know you said you won't move in. I heard you. But I want you to have it anyway. So you can come over whenever. So you know you're always welcome. So you can—" He stops. Takes a breath. "So you can stop thinking of my place as mine and start thinking of it as ours."

Your vision blurs. "Lando."

"I know it's not a grand gesture. I know it's just a key. But I don't know how else to show you I mean it. That I want you in my space, in my life, in everything." His thumb brushes your knuckles. "You said I needed to prove I'm serious. This is me proving it. Take the key. Use it or don't use it. But know it's there. Know you have a place with me whenever you're ready."

You're crying now. Properly crying. And Lando looks panicked.

"Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you cry. If it's too much—"

You kiss him. Hard and desperate and with your hands fisted in his ridiculous Christmas sweater. "It's perfect," you whisper against his mouth. "You're perfect."

"I'm really not."

"Shut up and let me have this."

He laughs, and it sounds like relief. "Okay."

You pull back, wiping your eyes. The key sits in the box, catching the light.

"I'm still scared," you admit.

"Me too."

"But I want this. I want us."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You pick up the key, test its weight in your palm. "I'm not ready to move in yet. But maybe—maybe I could stay over more? Start keeping more things there?"

"Yes. Absolutely. Whatever you want." He's grinning now, that full devastating smile. "You can reorganize my entire closet if you want. Color-code my kitchen. Do that thing you do where you arrange everything by frequency of use."

"You make me sound like a psychopath."

"You are a psychopath. It's one of my favorite things about you." He pulls you into his lap, arms wrapping around you. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas." You press your face into his neck, breathing him in. "For the record, I missed you too."

"Yeah?"

"So much I almost got on a plane to Somerset."

"You should've."

"Your mum would've hated me. Strange woman showing up on Christmas."

"My mum would've loved you. She already does, actually. Based entirely on my descriptions." He pulls back to look at you. "Fair warning—she's going to want to meet you. Properly. Probably at Easter or something equally family-oriented and terrifying."

"Easter's months away."

"So we have time to prepare." His hand cups your face. "You'll be ready by then. I know you will."

"How are you so sure?"

"Because you're here. Because you're crying over a key. Because you're scared but you're doing it anyway." He kisses your forehead. "That's the bravest thing I know."

You stay like that for a long time—curled up on your couch with Lando, the key in your hand, the future stretching out uncertain and terrifying and full of possibility. It's not perfect. You're still scared. He's still Lando Norris with all the complications that entails. But it's real. And maybe that's enough. Maybe that's everything.

Eight Months Later

The private jet levels off somewhere over Europe. You're curled up in the leather seat across from Lando, watching him pretend to read the same page of his book for the fifth time. You've been living together for six months now—his place became your place became our place somewhere around month three when you finally stopped keeping a drawer at your apartment "just in case." You sold that apartment four months ago. Haven't regretted it once.

"Nervous?" you ask.

"About what?" He sets the book down, reaches for your hand. The promise ring sits on your right hand, exactly where it's been for eight months. You've gotten used to the weight of it. Used to the way Lando looks at it sometimes, like he's planning something.

"You've read the same page five times."

He laughs, caught. "Fine. Maybe a little nervous." He stands up, walks to his bag. "Actually, I have something for you."

"Lando—"

"Close your eyes. Trust me."

You close your eyes. Feel silk brush against your face—a blindfold. He ties it carefully at the back of your head. "What are you doing?"

"Surprising you." He takes your hand. "Just trust me. We'll land soon."

"We're supposed to be going to Belgium."

"We are. Eventually." You can hear the smile in his voice. "But first—a detour." Twenty minutes of torture. You can hear everything but see nothing—the engine, the change in air pressure as you descend, Lando's thumb tracing circles on your palm like he's the one who needs reassurance. The plane touches down. Smooth landing. Lando helps you stand, guides you down the stairs carefully, his hand firm on your waist. The air is different here—warmer than Monaco, with a breeze that smells like salt and something floral you can't quite place.

"Are we at the beach?"

"Maybe. Keep walking." He guides you across tarmac, then pavement, then sand. Definitely sand. You can hear waves now, the rhythmic crash of water against shore. The sand gives way to wood—a deck, maybe a dock. The sound of the waves is louder here. Then he stops. His hands on your shoulders.

"Okay," he says, and his voice is different now. Nervous. "You can take it off."

You untie the blindfold, let it fall.

You're standing on a dock. The sun is setting over crystal-clear water that stretches to the horizon. There's a villa behind you, white stone and huge windows, the kind of place that's definitely not in Belgium. Palm trees. Bougainvillea climbing the walls. The most beautiful sunset you've ever seen painting everything gold and pink.

"Where are we?" you breathe.

"Greece." Lando's voice comes from behind you. "Santorini, specifically."

You turn around and Lando Norris is on one knee. Your heart stops. Actually fucking stops because he's holding a box—a different box than the one from eight months ago. This one is smaller, more delicate, and when he opens it there's a ring inside that catches the sunset and throws light everywhere.

"I know this is fast," he starts, and his voice is shaking. "I know eight months isn't very long in the grand scheme of things. But I've been in love with you for two years. I wasted eighteen months of that being an idiot. And the last eight months have been everything. Coming home to you. Waking up next to you. Fighting about whose turn it is to do dishes and making terrible pasta at midnight and watching you reorganize my closet for the third time." He takes a shaky breath. "I don't want to waste any more time. I don't want to wait until it's been a year or two years or whatever arbitrary timeline is supposed to make this acceptable. I know what I want. I've known since Qatar. I've known since before Qatar."

You're crying already. God, what is happening?

"You make me better. You make everything better. You call me on my shit and you're there at 3 AM when I can't sleep and you make Emma text you updates because you're worried about her even though you don't work for me anymore. I love you. I love you so much it's stupid. And I want to marry you. I want to marry you and fight about coffee orders and have you reorganize our entire life and grow old and—"

"Yes," you interrupt.

He blinks. "What?"

"Yes. I'll marry you. Obviously I'll marry you, you idiot."

"I had a whole speech prepared—"

"I don't care about the speech." You're pulling him up off his knees, laughing and crying at the same time. "Ask me. Properly."

He laughs, stands up, takes the ring out of the box with shaking hands. "Will you marry me?"

"Yes. A thousand times yes."

He slides the ring onto your left hand—your actual left hand, the important one. It sits there catching the light, real and perfect and terrifying. "I can't believe you did this," you say, and you're in his arms now, held tight against his chest. "Greece. A sunset. What about Spa? The race?"

"Fuck Spa." He's grinning against your hair. "We'll get there Sunday. I told Zak I needed a couple days. Told him it was important. Everyone knows—McLaren, Emma, Charlotte. They're all in on it. I've been planning this for three months." He pulls back to look at you, and his eyes are shiny. "I'm yours. For as long as you'll have me."

"Forever, then."

"Forever." He kisses you as the sun sets over Santorini, soft and deep and perfect. When he pulls back, he's still grinning. "No take backs."

Lando pushes the door open to the bedroom and you see champagne on ice, rose petals scattered across the bed, the whole romantic setup that he definitely planned down to the last detail. "You're very sure of yourself," you say, even as he's walking you backward toward the bed. "What if I'd said no?"

"You didn't." His hands find your waist, slide under your shirt. "And even if you had, I would've asked again tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that until you said yes."

"That's insane."

"That's commitment." He pulls your shirt over your head, tosses it somewhere behind him. "Now stop talking and let me worship my fiancée." The word makes you clench. Fiancée. You're his fiancée now. The ring on your finger catches the candlelight as you reach for him, pulling him closer.

"I love you," you whisper against his mouth.

"I love you too." His hands are everywhere now—in your hair, on your skin, working open the button of your jeans. "And I'm going to spend the rest of the night proving it." He pushes you down onto the bed and follows you, covering your body with his. His mouth finds your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp, and you arch into him. "Shh." He's working his way down, kissing and biting and marking you as he goes. "Let me take care of you. Let me show you what it means to be mine." He makes quick work of the rest of your clothes, and then his mouth is between your thighs and you're fisting your hands in the expensive sheets, gasping his name. He takes his time, licking and sucking and bringing you right to the edge before pulling back.

"Not yet," he says, grinning up at you with his mouth wet and obscene. "Want you desperate for it. Want you begging."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't." He slides two fingers inside you, curling them just right. "You love me. You're going to marry me. And right now, you're going to come for me." He lowers his mouth again and you shatter, coming hard with his name on your lips and your hands in his hair. He works you through it, drawing it out until you're shaking and pushing him away.

"Too much," you gasp.

"Not nearly enough." He's pulling off his own clothes now, and when he's finally naked he settles between your thighs, the head of his cock brushing against you. "Ready?"

"God, yes." He slides in slowly, so slowly, and you can feel every inch. When he's fully seated he stops, just breathing hard against your neck.

"Fuck," he groans. "Feel so good. Always feel so good. My perfect girl. My fiancée. Mine."

"Yours," you agree, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Always yours."

He starts moving then—slow at first, then harder, faster, until the bed is slamming against the wall and you're both gasping. His hand slides between your bodies to find your clit and you're coming again, clenching around him as he fucks you through it. "That's it," he growls. "That's my girl. Come on my cock. Let me feel it, baby."

You're barely down from the second orgasm when you feel the third building. Lando shifts the angle and hits something inside you that makes you sob.

"Right there?" he asks, doing it again. "That the spot?"

"Yes—fuck—yes, don't stop—"

"Never stopping. Never letting you go. You're mine now. Forever." His rhythm is getting erratic, his grip on your hips tightening. "Gonna come inside you. Fill you up. You want that?"

"Yes—please—Lando—"

"Mine," he says fiercely, and then he's kissing you as you both come, him spilling inside you as you clench around him, both of you shaking and completely wrecked. He collapses on top of you, breathing hard. You can feel his heart racing against your chest, matching your own.

"Holy shit," you manage eventually.

"Yeah." He lifts his head to look at you, and he's grinning. "So. Still want to marry me?"

"After that? Absolutely." You trace his jaw with your finger. "Though I'm going to need you to do that again. You know, to make sure."

"Fiancée has demands." He's already hardening inside you again. "I think I can work with that." He does it again. And then again. By the time you finally collapse in a tangle of sweaty limbs and expensive sheets, the moon is high and you can barely move. "Can't believe you're mine," Lando murmurs against your hair, his hand finding yours to trace the ring there.

"Can't believe you proposed on a dock."

"Romantic as fuck."

"Insane as fuck."

"Same thing." He kisses your temple. "Get some sleep. We have Spa on Sunday and I need you well-rested."

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to win that race for you. For my fiancée." He says the word like he's testing it out, like he can't quite believe it's real. "And then I'm going to take you back to Monaco and fuck you in our bed as a race winner and your future husband."

"Very confident."

"Very in love." He pulls you closer. "Now sleep. I'll wake you up properly in a few hours." You fall asleep like that—engaged, thoroughly fucked, in Greece with Lando already planning tomorrow. It's him. It's always been him. And finally, you're both brave enough to admit it.

[h0pela]

Cupid was right | OB87

─ oblivious! reader x brother best friend! Ollie ─ ROOKIES OF LOVE

In which, reader has a terrible love life and is tired of watching people's love lives. But apparently, it seems that Cupid had other plans, and so did her brother.

includes: romance ; high school ; childhood friends ; jealousy ; overprotective brother ; brother best friend ; mutual pining ; unspoken feelings

word count: 9k

author's note: shout out to my fellow hopeless romantic, who never held hands with boys (just like me). It's my first time writing an 9K fic. I hope you enjoyed it and be looking forward rookies of love serie !

cw/tw: overprotective brother, alcohol, hopeless romantic, being stood up, overthinking, self-comparison,

songs inspo: 𝅘𝅥𝅮Cruel Summer𝅘𝅥𝅮 - Taylor Swift ; 𝅘𝅥𝅮Wildfire𝅘𝅥𝅮 - Cautious Clay ; 𝅘𝅥𝅮People Watching𝅘𝅥𝅮 - Conan Gray

SITTING ON THE ENTRANCE STAIRS OF STALVEY HIGH, you folded your arms to warm yourself up, as the fresh spring wind gave you chills. It’s been less than one hour since you have been waiting for your brother, Sasha, to pick you up. He was supposed to end classes at the same time as you. And yet, here you are, phone in your hand, schoolbag at your feet, still waiting for him.

You sighed in annoyance as you checked the hour on your phone. “I’ll beat his ass,” you swore to yourself. 

Just as you were about to call your brother, with your phone in your hand, you heard footsteps on the pavement getting closer. Until the person towered over you. Your patience had already been tested; you didn’t need someone to get on your nerves. Confused, you glanced at the person standing in front of you, blocking the sun, and were left surprised when you recognized it was Ollie, your brother’s best friend. 

He grimaced when he noticed your annoyed stance, “Looks like someone was about to throw a punch.” He teased. 

You lazily smiled, hands rubbing on your lap, in an attempt to warm them. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

He glanced around, but then his eyes lingered on you, quite worried. “What are you doing here? It’s getting late”. It was past 6 pm, and the sky was gradually turning orange, signalling that the sun would soon set. 

“Well, Sasha was supposed to pick me up, but here I am,” you sighed, shoulders heavy from tiredness. 

Confused, Ollie tilted his head.  “He didn’t tell you?” 

You frowned, “Tell me what?”

He sighed, hand brushing his face from what he had to tell you. “Sasha had to leave earlier to check on Joanne, apparently she caught a severe case of the flu.” 

You groaned, standing up. The disappointment hit harder than the cold. “No, he didn’t even call me.” You threw your bag over your shoulder, feeling more drained than angry. “Thanks for telling me, I’ll just walk then.” You shrugged, gathering the little energy that you still had.  

He rolled his eyes, completely deadpan. “Don’t be silly, you’re freezing”. He was already fumbling his keys in his pocket. “I’ll give you a lift.” 

You didn’t have the chance to protest when Ollie gently tugged you with him, making you smile softly. You both walked side by side, your hands rubbing your arms, as the wind started to blow again. Ollie noticed from the corner of his eye. 

You sensed Ollie moving at your side before he handed you his jacket uniform. “Take it,” he reassured, “I don’t want you to be sick because of your brother.” Too cold to pretend otherwise, you grabbed it without protest. You zipped it up, comforted by the familiar scent of Ollie that enveloped you. It felt as if a warm hug was embracing you. 

Indirectly, Ollie has also been a part of your life when he started hanging out with your twin brother. Always at your place, always around, and always nice to you. It soon became a trio, with Sasha and Ollie consistently pranking you, leading you to plan your revenge – Ollie sometimes on your side, just like now. 

Now, in front of his car, he opened the door for you as you sat on the passenger seat. It’s the first time he’s giving you a lift; it used to be your brother, but now that he has a girlfriend, it happens less often.

Ollie drives through the city, humming the tune of the song playing. You grinned silently, amused by him. Your eyes darted through the window, watching people walking on the streets. Some of them are couples walking hand in hand, making you wonder when love will come to you. 

You wished you had someone, too. Someone who could drop everything he has planned just to make sure you were alright. Someone who waits for you. You were getting tired of being the witness to your friend’s love life. Of course, you’re happy for them, but you can’t stop thinking about why you never experienced it. 

But the reality is different from what you see. Without realising, you have been experiencing those moments with someone. You were just blind to see who it was. 

Too caught up in your thoughts, you didn’t realise Ollie turned off the engine. “There you go, Ma'am”.  He grinned, eyes focused on you. 

You snorted, holding back your smile, “Thank you, Sir”. Your finger was working to untuck your belt, then you remembered. “Oh, here before I forgot,” you said, ready to take off his jacket. 

Quickly, his hands on your, stopped you from removing it. “Keep it, don’t worry. You can hand me next time”. His brown eyes lingered on you, trying to convince you. 

You gave in, not wanting to protest. “Thanks, I’ll take care of it.” You towered over the control center to place a kiss on his cheek as a goodbye. You did it naturally, like routine.

Back in your seat, you soon realized that this innocent act felt different to him; his eyes were wide, and his lips parted, but no sound came out. 

He coughed lightly, trying to regain his composure. “No worries, text me next time if you need a lift after class.”

You nodded, pleased by the offer. “Sure, you drive better than Sasha anyway,” you joked before leaving his car with the sound of Ollie laughing in the back.

Ollie stayed parked in front of your house, waiting for you to get in. This simple action warmed you. You waved at him before opening your front door, signalling to him, he can go now. 

Now standing in your living room, your mother came by. “Oh, hi sweetie, you finally made your way back.”

You greeted her, dropping your schoolbag and your shoes at the entrance. “Yeah, Sasha left me for Joanne, so I got late”.

Her eyes widened. “You walked through here?” she asked, not pleased at all about your brother's behaviour.

You shook your head as you walked through the kitchen looking for a sweet. “No, thankfully, Ollie dropped me.”

“Oh, that’s nice of him,” you heard her say from the living room. “I suppose the jacket is also his, huh?” Even if you could see her, you could bet she was smirking with her mocking tone. 

You blushed at her insinuation. “It’s not like this, Mom,” you whined, suddenly embarrassed. 

“Sure, sweetie, whatever helps you”. She laughed, brushing off the subject, not wanting to press you.

Ollie Bearman may have gained a supportive fan.  

Lying on your bed, you stared at the ceiling, wishing sleep would come find you. But, unlike what you wanted, you kept shifting positions on your bed. Even though you craved some rest, your mind wasn’t cooperating at all. You sighed in exhaustion when you checked the hour on your phone, indicating now 1.40 am.

It has been a long time since you had insomnia. Your case wasn’t severe; it only happens days a year, so you didn’t need to take medicine. The only thing that could work is watching TV shows until you fall asleep.

So, you decided to accept your fate and get out of bed, in the direction of your living room. You tried to be as sneaky as possible, not wanting to wake up anyone. Each step was taken meticulously on the wooden stairs; the house was left in the dark and silence, the kind that overwhelms you. You chose to switch the light on the lamp beside the sofa, offering now a warm atmosphere to the room. You also grabbed the plaid resting on the armchair to curl yourself in, now comfortable on the sofa, ready to binge-watch.

After two episodes of Teen Wolf you which has been playing in the background, you heard someone making his way downstairs. Too lazy to take a glance, you waited for the person to talk first. 

 “Couldn’t sleep too?” Ollie whispered from the back of the sofa, close.

You turned your head to face him. His hair was messy, and you noticed bags under his eyes, tiredness written on his face. He was worse than you; you can’t deny that. 

You nodded. “Did I wake you? I didn’t know you were staying tonight”, you apologized because sleep is sacred, and you know it.

Ollie is quick to shake his head, “Your brother wanted to play together; guess time passed by really fast”. He laughed softly, hand rubbing the back of his neck.

You smiled at that but couldn’t help to pity his state. “You should rest; you look like shit”.

He chuckled at your statement. “Wow, you wound me”, he answered, placing his hand on his heart.

You were about to answer back when he sat gently beside you.  Not too close but not too far to make you feel there was a gap between you two. You rolled your eyes and sighed at his stubbornness, while Ollie seemed to be more than okay, even amused.

Now focus on the show; you didn’t feel the need to talk with Ollie, and neither did he. Just two people bounding over Stiles Stilinski on a couch.  You could feel the heat of his arm resting on the back of the sofa just behind your head. It felt cosy and peaceful to the point that your eyes were fighting to stay open.

From the corner of his eyes, Ollie watched you struggling to stay awake. He can’t deny that it was cute. You were squinting slowly, strands of hair covering your face, with your lips slightly parted. You’re soon to fall asleep, Ollie just has to wait a few seconds. He tries, he really tries to ignore the annoying tie on his chest that he has when he looks at you.

He didn’t remember when it first started, probably back in times when his mother kept inviting you over to stay for a meal at his place when Sasha came playing. He found it funny the way you were so eager to help his mother with dinner. Or the first time you won the soccer competition at school, and you dedicate your win to Sasha and him. His heart was truly filled with pride, or maybe something else.

—

As you woke up and opened your eyes, you were surprised when you realised you were back in your bedroom. You remember watching Teen Wolf with Ollie and then nothing. It could only mean that Ollie had carried you to your room.

You groaned at the realisation, hiding yourself under your blanket from the embarrassment. The situation left you confused. Ollie has always been nice to you, but not to that point. You sighed, mentally preparing yourself because you’ll have to face him at breakfast, and you are not sure how to act now.

Then, reality hits you, brushing away your confused thoughts about Ollie. “He’s Sasha’s best friend, my friend, and that’s it.” You muttered, convincing yourself that it’s nothing, before heading downstairs.

You soon noticed your brother still eating his breakfast, with Ollie sitting next to him. The bags under his eyes were still there, but less present, which means he rested too. You resisted the urge to blush when your eyes met, not wanting to make things awkward.

Sasha interrupted this moment to greet you, “Look at this, the Grinch finally woke up”, he said, amused, making Ollie chuckle.

“Very funny”, you fake-laughed and rolled your eyes as you left them for the kitchen.

Fumbling in the kitchen, you were searching for something to eat, and you swore you could feel a certain pair of eyes following your movements. You chose to brush it off again until your mother interrupted your thoughts.

She stood beside you, making herself a cup of tea when she elbowed your side, with her teasing demeanour. “He would be a perfect son-in-law, don't you think so?"

Your eyes widened, taken aback by her statement, making you spill the cup of water you were pouring yourself. Cheeks now creeping with red, your mother was definitely enjoying the show.

“Mom”, you whispered, threatening her to stop it. You even narrowed your eyes, trying to regain composure when in reality you were down bad.

But little did you know, or maybe your mother did it purposely, Ollie overhears that conversation from the table across. He cannot help but smile, honoured by the huge compliment your mother made.

“Why are you smiling like an idiot?" your brother asked him, confused and unaware. But Ollie is quick to react, not wanting to seem suspect.

 "N-nothing”, he stuttered.

Your brother nodded, not entirely convinced, but didn't press about it. Meanwhile, you were left in embarrassment with your mother mocking you.

After all, a mother always knows when her daughter lies, right?

Lab class was hell with Mrs Dougan and her seatmate system.  She loved to pair her students based on their energy together and affinity. She thought of herself as the Cupid of Stalvey, and maybe she does deserve the title sometimes when her matches worked throughout the year.

That’s why you ended up with Josh as a seatmate. He was a little bit cold and shy at first, almost not saying a word to you during activities. But then it soon turns out that he was quite funny and attentive to you. He worked when you asked him to and completed his tasks (not like your last seatmates).

Most of the time, you ended up snorting during classes when Josh cracked a joke about Mrs Dougan always being late. Lab classes were always followed by a “study session” at the self, but in reality, you just ended up chatting together. A pretext to get closer to you.

You couldn’t name the dynamic with Josh: was it just friendship? Were you just fantasising about a possible romance with someone who gives you attention?  You tried to stay unbothered, to remain reasonable while he subtly dropped hints of being in to you — until it was clear enough to you. When he asked you to go on a date. A real date outside of school, just the two of you.

So, here you are, excited as ever and stressed as hell in front of your mirror, struggling to pick up an outfit. You hesitated between wearing a casual outfit or something cute yet a bit too much for a first date.

You wondered if Josh was also nervous, if he was also struggling with something to wear.

Too deep in your thoughts, looking at your figure, you didn’t pay attention to the knock at your door. It wasn't until you saw the reflection of the door opening in the mirror and Ollie coming in that you turned quickly, surprised to see him. And you could feel he was too, but not for the same reason. You were stunning in that simple black dress, cute yet casual, with your hair done in a low, messy bun.

He cleared his throat, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I-uh came to say hi before you leave for Carla’s house”, he told you as he closed your door.

“No, I’m still struggling to find what to wear,” you sighed, sitting on the edge of your bed.

He stepped closer, brows furrowed. “Well, isn’t it supposed to be a casual hangout?” The question felt as if he already knew your plan.

You fidget with your fingers, already preparing yourself for your confession. “I actually lied,” you paused. Your heart pounded in your chest, and you couldn’t help but think that it was harder than you thought. “I’m about to see Josh,” you finally admitted.

Something flickered on his face; you're sure about it.

His brows were even more furrowed, and his mouth opened but soon closed, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t bring himself to do it. “Josh? Like the guy in lab classes?”

You nodded in confirmation, looking at your hands as you fidgeted them to support yourself.

“And does your brother know about it?” he asked carefully, voice barely audible, somehow still shocked.

His tone caught your attention. “No, and he doesn’t have to,” you insisted. “Please don’t tell him”, you stood up, eyes begging him. 

He nodded slowly, still processing the fact that you’re going on a date with Josh, and that he must hide it from your brother. It wounds him.

The girl he has crushed on for ages is going on a date, and he must lie to his best friend to cover for his little sister. What a mess. 

None of you spoke, yet the way his eyes flickered on you says it all. His gaze heavy on you made the silence between you two loud enough, making you shift in your position.

You were no longer nervous about the date, but because of Ollie… and the way he looked at you, begging you to stay here.  It came to the point that you couldn’t hold it anymore. You needed to avoid him.

You turned your back, now in front of your mirror, looking at your outfit. Ollie, still behind you, was also looking at your reflection, and you tried your best not to hold his gaze.

You cleared your throat.“Since you're here, could you help me choose between these two?" He nodded through the mirror.

He stepped closer, standing just behind you, and you could feel his breath hitting your neck. You studied him carefully through the mirror, eyes never leaving his movement.

Ollie was focused, eyes flicking between dresses, considering the options. His hands brushed the dress you were wearing, examining it, and his eyes lingered longer than they should have on your body. 

Ollie cleared his throat and stepped back. He realises how close he was to you. “Wear that one,” he pointed to the black dress. “You’re pretty in it,” he said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

You didn’t have the time to answer back as he stormed out of the room.

He left, and now you don’t know what to think anymore. He left like nothing had happened or mattered.

And simply as that, you realise how Ollie Bearman may affect you. 

Sitting at Donna’s Café down the river, you were still waiting for Josh to come over. It's been over twenty minutes since you’ve been waiting for Josh. You can’t help but be nervous. You keep checking your phone, hoping for a message — but there's nothing. Not a text, not a call. Nothing.

Once again, you don’t understand what happened. Have you been imagining things? No, absolutely not, he was the one asking you to go out. Maybe he’s just late, right?

Legs bouncing, you’ve sensed the pity look the waiters have given you from the counter. You were fuming and disappointed because you had been expecting this for a week now. This date with Joshua and his funny jokes. Yet nothing came, and you’re now left with nothing but pain and broken expectations. The worst part of this? You hated that part of you that still hopes he might show up.

You could feel the employee's judgment following you when you left the café. The fresh air down the river hit your bare legs, making you shiver. You almost regretted putting effort into your outfit.  All you want is to go home and rest after the humiliation you have been put in.

You were filled with shame and anger. It felt too much.

You wiped your eyes quickly, scrolling through your contacts for someone to pick you up. You tried calling after your brother, but once again, he never answers when you need him. You thought about Carla too, but she doesn't have a driver's licence, so it would be useless to call her. And no way you’re calling your parents. You didn't want to embarrass yourself - they already think you're a lost cause in love with all the failures you faced.

There is only one option left: Ollie. He has a car; he’s a close friend, and he knew where you went. You sighed, unsure if it was the right idea after what happened in your room. Too exhausted and desperate to find another solution, you still pressed his contact.

He answered too quickly, which caught you off guard. He was the one who spoke first, quite worried.   "Hey, is everything alright?"

You closed your eyes, focusing on controlling your sobs. "I'm sorry to burden you, Ollie…but could you pick me up at Donna’s Café?"

"Sure, give me ten minutes, I’ll be there," he reassures you. “And stay where you are”.

He had already hung up the phone before you had the chance to thank him. You felt relieved, not having to explain yourself over the phone, even though you knew he would question it later.

Ollie rushed. He was hell worried and surprised by your call. You were supposed to have a great date, and yet he has to come and pick you up. Ollie doesn't ask questions; he simply came, and that’s what you do when you care about someone: you act.

You spotted Ollie’s car right away and sighed in apprehension. You don’t know how to act anymore. Too caught in your thoughts, you didn't pay attention to Ollie getting out of his parked car, now walking towards you.

He greets you with his soft smile signature, and without thinking, you run into his arms, reaching for his warmth. Little did you know that Ollie is more than willing to offer you that.

Head resting on his chest, his arms curled around you, the noise and what Josh had done became more bearable in Ollie's arms.

Eyes closed, your focus was on his heartbeat, relaxing you. You could feel his hand gently stroking your hair, as if you were fragile. "Would you tell me what happened? " he muttered carefully, not wanting to press you. "Where is he so that I could go talk to him?"

You scoffed, still hurt about the fact that Josh stood you up."No need to," you paused, eyes focused anywhere but on Ollie. "He simply didn't show", you confessed, ashamed.

Taken aback, his eyes snapped to catch your face. He gently took a step back to look at you properly. To say Ollie was surprised by your confession would be an understatement. Who on earth would want to lose his chance with you when some are craving one?

His warm hands were now stroking your bare shoulder, giving you the support and the comfort you needed. Ollie's eyes flickered on your face.

"I think you deserve way better", he stated softly, catching your attention. Your eyes finally met, wrecking your inner thoughts. "You'll find someone who acts on their words and treats you better, I promise you".

Ollie's words resonate inside you. You know you are worthy of love; the question is, when will it come? You try your best to control your emotions, suppressing your worries and your fears, when deep down, you wish someone like Ollie could be interested in you, because instead of others, he would treat you right.

You struggled to maintain your composure from the tightening of your throat. Now incapable of speaking to the risk of crying again, you nodded to Ollie's comment. He soon noticed your vulnerable state and chose not to press any further.

"Come on, let's go", he gave you his hand for you to reach, and naturally, you took it without thinking. It felt as if it was meant to be in this way.

Hand in hand towards his car, like many times before. And maybe it's the way it should be.

Come on! We have to go to Gabriel's party tonight, everyone will be there", Carla begged you, her hands on your shoulder with determined eyes. You roll your eyes, smiling because you were actually considering it.

"Give me one reason why we should go there, and maybe I'll say yes," you teased her, clearly amused by the situation.

Carla is quick to squeal with enthusiasm, "Well, Franco Colapinto, I mean, have you seen him? He's fine as hell".

You burst out laughing at her bluntness. "Okay, deal. My brother is out of the town, and I do want to have fun-" You didn't have enough time to finish your sentence, she squeals happily.

She clapped her hands happily. "You won't regret it". The bell rang, meaning classes were about to begin. "Let's meet at 8 pm at his house!" she yelled through the corridor on her way to class. You nodded in response, already excited for the night ahead.

—

You don't entirely remember how you managed to get your mother to agree, but here we are in Gabriel's living room, full of people dancing and loud bass blasting pop songs. He was known in Stalvey to throw huge parties and invite everyone in. Fair to say, you didn't expect that much of people.

You could feel the music thumping through the walls as you dance with Carla around people swaying way too close. Now sweaty and breathless, all you wanted was a drink. You informed her of your motives and stepped out in the direction of somewhere you could find what you needed.

Now away from the crowd, you heard laughter echoing from what you supposed to be the kitchen, where plastic cups were scattered on the counter. You smelled cheap beer spilled on the counter. Then, your eyes landed on Franco fucking Colapinto, standing near the bar with some of his friends.

And damn, Carla was right, he's fine as hell.

You tried focusing on your quest again, but you felt a pair of eyes on your back, following your movement through the kitchen. You tried pretending you didn't notice him and his friend Isack, if you're right. You poured yourself your drink of vodka — not the first of the night and surely not the last.

"I've never seen you before, have I?"

You turned your back, impressed that Colapinto, known as one of the popular jock of Stalvey, was talking to you.

You smirked, quite amused by the sudden interaction. "Well, it's just you didn't pay attention to me."

Franco chuckled, watching his feet. "Fair enough. I'm Franco. What's your name?" he presented himself, offering his hand to you.

You considered before grabbing his hand. "I'm Sasha's sister," you answered, shaking his hand.

Your response seems to surprise him — you caught the glance he shared with Isack. "Yeah, I remember him during the junior team, he was good at it".

From the hallway, Ollie witnessed the scene. His eyes darted to where your hand was in Franco's. It physically pains him to watch every guy being into you while all he wants is to be with you.

The flirt was obvious, way too obvious, and he couldn't stand it. Fists tightened, and jaw clenched, he finally decided to step in. Ollie was annoyed because he was worried about your safety, knowing too well that Franco Colapinto was a huge flirt, but obviously, it wasn't only that.

You were about to take a sip of your cup when you felt a hand take away your drink. Brows furrowed from confusion and annoyance, you were ready to make a scene, until you recognised Ollie. Your expression softened.

"Ollie, you came !" you squealed happily.

He swore his heart exploded a little just from the way you said his name."Yeah, and I'm glad I did", Ollie answered, staring directly at Franco, who was amused by the scene playing in front of him.

Sensing the tension, you're quick to try easing it.

"You're exaggerating, Ollie. He was just being nice," you stated

From the back, Franco was smirking, used to these kinds of scenes. "Yeah, Ollie, I'm not stealing your girl, don't worry". Franco answered back, hands up.

He exhaled, avoiding your gaze, "She's not-".

You noticed the surprise expression on Franco. "Anyway, I need to dance, let's go, would you?" you cut Ollie, wanting to end this. And thankfully, he took the hint by following you into the corridor.

Even though you didn't expect anything from Ollie, it still hurt you what he was about to say. You wished you mattered a little more than being his best friend's little sister.

You were walking together in the direction of the living room when you heard the first echoing note of Dancing Queen by ABBA.

"Ollie, you have to dance with me, please," you begged.

He shakes his head. "No way, you can't even walk straight, I'm taking you home."

"Just one dance, please." You plead, grabbing his hands.

Your sudden reaction surprised him. His eyes were focused on how you held his hands closer to you and played with them. He never realised until now how comfortable you are with him. "Fine, let's go", he conceded.

You smiled brightly and took the lead, grabbing his wrist to find your way in the crowd.

He's so screwed, but it doesn't matter if, in the end, he can hold your hands.

You bumped shoulders, but you didn't mind them, because at the moment, the dance floor mattered.

You could feel the bass vibrating through the floor, guiding your flow. You shared giggles and laughs with Ollie, who tried his best in his moves. The bass was so loud that you couldn't hear each other, and the crowd was feral around you, making you bump into him.

Your hands rested flat on his chest to steady yourself, while Ollie's hands found their way on your waist, instinctively. You held your breath, aware of the sudden proximity. Ollie's heart was running a marathon under your palm.

"Thanks for this," you insisted, grateful that he was always taking care of you. His eyes lingered on your face, pensive.

He gulped, nervous from the sudden proximity; your hands were burning his skin. "It's normal, I'm always here".

And you blame it on the power of ABBA, but in the dim lights, close to you, Ollie has never been so pretty. The way his eyes locked into yours, you felt your stomach flip.

Too tipsy to think clearly, you lean on him hesitantly, on your tiptoes with your eyes closed. Ollie flexed his hands, still on your waist, grounding himself, fingers tightening slightly. He has to react, but can't bring himself to move.

He doesn't want his first kiss with you to be that way. Not when you're drunk, and then the next morning you'll regret it. Every nerve in his body was torn between desire and security. Because what if he had lost his chance forever?

Yet nothing happened — and your heart hated how much you wished it had, craving just a simple move.

Instead, he pulled back gently, his hands leaving your side. You felt the emptiness where his hands had been. The loss of warmth made you realise what you were about to do. You could see the red creeping up his neck. He still hadn't said a word.

Then he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I think it's time to go- "

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-". You interrupted him, eyes closed, ashamed of your action. Your chest ached, and you wondered if you'd ever feel that close again.

He exhaled, eyes softening. He hates himself for hurting you. He stepped closer, catching your attention. "I hope for better timing next time," he confessed.

You studied him, slightly confused. "What do you mean, 'better timing' ?"

He looked around, searching for Carla, avoiding, and playing dumb. "Let's go find Carla, so that I can bring you both home".

"Hello, are you there?" Carla waves her hand in front of your eyes, cutting you from your thoughts.

"Sorry, what were you saying?" You gain back your focus on her

Across the table, she sighed in despair, concerned about you. It's the fifth time you've been absent in your mind this week, making Carla wonder about the origin.

She planted her fork in her pasta, taking a bite. "I was asking what you are planning to wear for the prom?"

You didn't bother to look at her, "Easy, I won't go," you stated nonchalantly.

"WHAT!"She choked on her water, "But we have to, it's our last year", she whined. "They announced it last week, you still have time to figure it out".

You let go of your fork and take a breath. "Carla, please, what's the worth if no one asked me out?"

"Well, aren't I asking you, dummy ?" She stated blatantly.

You rolled your eyes, amused. "You know what I mean".

"And who cares? I mean, we're in 2025, you don't have to be with someone if you want to go there and have fun."

"The problem is I don't know if I would have fun if I go there alone", you confessed.

Her gaze flickered, and she offered you a knowing smile until her eyes widened full of mischief. "What about Leon?"

Leon was the guy from Spanish classes who was super nice to you and often offered to sit together. Small talks there and there after classes brought you closer until you made a fatal error.

"Oh, please, the second I told him I was Sasha's sister, he went white and left in a hurry." She laughed out loud, imagining the scene and his face. You smile at the anecdote now, taking a sip of your drink.

"How chivalrous of him", she wheezed. "And what about Ollie?"

The question caught you off guard, making you choke on your water from the bluntness.

Two weeks have passed since Gabriel's party, and you didn't get the chance to meet Ollie again. Since Sasha spent most of his time with his girlfriend at her place, Ollie didn't come to your home (sadly).

And now you're left with the imagination of a moment you never got the chance to experiment with. Your chest tightened just remembering how closed he had been that night.

You give a forced laugh, "Please, he would never dare to ask me."

"But you could," she specified.

You hated how the idea didn't sound entirely insane. Carla really has the power to shut your mouth with a few words, and you hate her for that even though you know she's right.

"Hello, are you there?" Carla waves her hand in front of your eyes, cutting you from your thoughts.

"Sorry, what were you saying?" You gain back your focus on her

Across the table, she sighed in despair, concerned about you. It's the fifth time you've been absent in your mind this week, making Carla wonder about the origin.

She planted her fork in her pasta, taking a bite. "I was asking what you are planning to wear for the prom?"

You didn't bother to look at her, "Easy, I won't go," you stated nonchalantly.

"WHAT!"She choked on her water, "But we have to, it's our last year", she whined. "They announced it last week, you still have time to figure it out".

You let go of your fork and take a breath. "Carla, please, what's the worth if no one asked me out?"

"Well, aren't I asking you, dummy ?" She stated blatantly.

You rolled your eyes, amused. "You know what I mean".

"And who cares? I mean, we're in 2025, you don't have to be with someone if you want to go there and have fun."

"The problem is I don't know if I would have fun if I go there alone", you confessed.

Her gaze flickered, and she offered you a knowing smile until her eyes widened full of mischief. "What about Leon?"

Leon was the guy from Spanish classes who was super nice to you and often offered to sit together. Small talks there and there after classes brought you closer until you made a fatal error.

"Oh, please, the second I told him I was Sasha's sister, he went white and left in a hurry." She laughed out loud, imagining the scene and his face. You smile at the anecdote now, taking a sip of your drink.

"How chivalrous of him", she wheezed. "And what about Ollie?"

The question caught you off guard, making you choke on your water from the bluntness.

Two weeks have passed since Gabriel's party, and you didn't get the chance to meet Ollie again. Since Sasha spent most of his time with his girlfriend at her place, Ollie didn't come to your home (sadly).

And now you're left with the imagination of a moment you never got the chance to experiment with. Your chest tightened just remembering how closed he had been that night.

You give a forced laugh, "Please, he would never dare to ask me."

"But you could," she specified.

You hated how the idea didn't sound entirely insane. Carla really has the power to shut your mouth with a few words, and you hate her for that even though you know she's right.

—

You walk determined toward the stadium, the warm breeze of May brushing your bare skin. Your eyes scanned the field, hoping you'd find your brother.

Your mother is working her night shift again, and you forgot that this morning. Now, you have no keys, and you don't even know if your brother will be at home tonight. You're good to sleep under the bridge if you don't find him.

You sighed in relief when you noticed Stalvey's joke team and recognized your brother among the crowd. You quickened your pace, some players recognizing you as you reached the fence. It's been a while since you came to Sasha's session.

You were looking after Sasha, calling out his name. But it's not him who comes to you. It's Ollie.

He was wearing the official Stalvey jersey, and you can't help but think that red suits him well. His chest was rising fast, out of breath as he trotted towards you. His hair was messy, and his cheeks were pink. You weren't prepared for this.

He smiled cheekily, half confused by your presence but still pleased to see you. "Hey, what are you doing here?" he asked, wiping the sweat from his face by lifting his shirt.

You looked away, cheeks reddening, your heart beating fast at the sight. "Have you seen Sasha today?"

"Yeah, he's at the fountain right now," he stated, amused that he caught a reaction from you.

You thanked him and turned your feet, ready to go, but then you recalled Carla's words in your mind. You stopped your moves and looked back over your shoulder to see Ollie still standing near the fence, looking at the team.

"Ollie?" You call after him, heart beating fast.

"Hm," his eyes lingered from the team to you. He seemed composed, almost confident, hands in his pockets.

You fidgeted with your fingers. "Would you — I mean, if you want to," you paused mid-sentence, mentally cursing yourself for what you're about to do. You exhaled, eyes squeezing. "Would you go to the prom with me?"

His eyes widened, taken aback. He never thought you would ask him, that you would do a move. Yet, here you are, standing in front of him. It means something, right? He's not entirely sure, but how could he know if he doesn't make a move too?

"Yeah — Yes, I mean I'd like that, a lot," he confessed, eyes softened, holding yours. You could feel something warming inside your chest. "But, let me ask Sasha first, just in case", he said gently, his eyes flickering over your face, searching for any reaction.

You gulped, nervous, already expecting how your brother could react."Wouldn't it be better if I were the one asking?"

Ollie seemed to consider the option for a second. "No, let me," he insisted, looking down. "I want to do it properly", he admitted, his eyes now back on you, cheeks slightly flushed.

"O-okay," you answered, biting your lips, half in worry and half in expectation.

The moment felt intimate, as if you were both finally naming something, together. You swear he could hear your heart hammering inside.

—

Ollie couldn't help but smile after you had left the field. He was too pensive, finding ways to ask Sasha for approval, which led to Ollie being scolded by Coach Graham.

His performance was mediocre, but he didn't care that much. He has top priority right now. You.

Sitting on the bench in the locker room, he watches Sasha walking around changing.

"Bro, what was that on the field?" Sasha asked from the bathroom. "You had never missed that much of penalties shootout before".

Ollie stayed silent, mind miles away, eyes fixed on the locker across from him. He was so absent that he didn't hear Sasha's footsteps coming back until he felt the smack behind his head. That worked well; Ollie finally snapped out of his bubble.

"She asked me," Ollie blurted out of context.

Sasha, with brows furrowed, was all ears, "Who asked you what?"

"Your sister-". Ollie paused mid-sentence, eyes following each movement Sasha made in the lockers. "She asked me to take her to the prom", Ollie confessed. And those words made Sasha freeze in place.

"Oh-"

Ollie couldn't tell what Sasha was thinking. And he hated that. Was Sasha mad, or was he considering it? The silence was eating him alive.

Sasha shifted his weight from one foot to another. "It's just for that night, right?" he finally asked, eyes scanning Ollie's motive.

Sasha never expected that you could be that bold. Worse, he never thought there was something between you and his best friend. But, it doesn't have to mean something, right? You have known each other for ages; it's normal. It's what friends do.

"Sure, just that night", Ollie stated, lying with no shame to his best friend. The one he never thought he could. Because he knows it deep down, it won't be just one night. He's been craving more since the moment he held back at Gabriel's party.

He was so close to what he's been longing for, but not in the way he wanted to.

"He's coming, don't worry," Carla reassures you, sitting at your desk, still applying lip gloss.

You both had decided to get ready together at your place so that it would be less stressful and lonely to prepare for the final prom of your life. You decided you would put effort into your outfit by buying the damn red dress that caught your eye. But right now, you're more than stressed — and Carla was sensing it

"But what if he's like the other?" you asked, pacing in your room, full of expectations and ready for the night ahead.

She gave you that look, the one that says, 'Are you stupid or what?' and yeah, you could admit on that, but who blames you? You have every right to after what the past months have thrown at you.

Carla stopped her routine and got up to stand in front of you, her hand holding yours. "Girl, this boy is head over heels in love with you. I'm sure he was the happiest man in the world when you asked him out — damn, I wish I was there to see that," she mumbled the last part. "Anyway, he will come, and you know it." She stated, eyes reassuring.

You nodded, processing her words."Do I look great at least?" You fidgeted with your fingers.

She rolled her eyes, still smirked at how affected you are. "You're perfect". You can't help but hug Carla, feeling so grateful to have someone wonderful like her by your side.

But then, you heard a car pulling up at your home entrance. The signal. He's there. Your heart was hammering, excited as never. And a knock on your door confirms it all.

"Ladies, your knights are there," Sasha spoke through the door. He was also attending the prom with Joanne. He told you he would go, so that she could meet his people, but you can't help but think it's just an excuse for him to keep an eye on you, just in case…

You and Carla both shared an encouraging nod, determined to enjoy the night ahead.

As you made your way down, you noticed your parents and Ollie figures standing at the bottom of the stairs, talking and waiting for you. You can't name why, but the sight of it warmed your heart.

From the moment he heard the footstep, his attention was on you. You gulped nervously, feeling small under his stare that lingered on your figure, admiring — almost worshipping. But so do you: he was wearing a black costume with a red tie that matched your dress — it suited him incredibly well.

"Okay, children, time for pictures," your mother announced happily, clapping her hands to get attention. Carla and Derek were the ones to open the ball; it was now the turn of Sasha and Joanne.

"You're incredible," he confessed softly, fearing to be caught by Sasha. You looked down at your feet, smiling with rosy cheeks. Ollie Bearman really knows how to fluster you, and he seems to enjoy it.

You were lost in your thoughts that you didn't hear Sasha clearing his throat. Almost ashamed of interrupting your lovey-dovey moment, "It's your turn," he announced flatly, eyes roaming over Ollie and you. You grabbed Ollie's hand instinctively, ready to take the pictures before things became awkward.

Ollie was standing beside you, his arm behind your shoulder — a classical move. But you decided on something else. You gently tugged his hand, lower, so that his hand could rest on your waist. You knew your brother was watching, but you didn't care. You've sensed Ollie stiffening from your side. You smiled, knowing you affected him, just as he did before.

"Already starting problems, I see," Ollie muttered to your ear, so that only you could hear. He offered you his arm to hold on, and you took it without hesitating, cheeks warming.

"Have fun tonight," your parents yelled from the porch, waving goodbye to you as you headed to Ollie's car with Carla and Derek behind you. Oh, you don't need to worry about it, Mom.

The gymnasium of Stalvey High was unrecognisable.

Fairy lights cascaded from the ceiling, softening the harsh lines of the walls you'd known your entire life. The bass of the music vibrated under your feet as couples gathered near the entrance, laughter echoing in every corner.

Your heart was racing, full of anticipation. Ollie noticed your nervousness instantly.

His hand tightened slightly around yours, enough to anchor you. "You okay?" he asked softly, leaning closer so only you could hear him.

You were still processing everything — your hand in his, the prom, your brother's approval.It can't be anything but real to you. And deep inside, you hope it matters to him, the same way it does to you.

You nodded with a smile, squeezing his hand. "Yeah, I'm just happy to be there."

"Okay, lovebirds, it's time to have some fun." Carla clapped her hands following the rhythm of the bass as the group entered the gymnasium. Derek follows her into the mass of students gathered in the center.

Just as you entered, you felt it. A shy, tiny squeeze, so subtle that you almost didn't feel it, but that still screams "I'm scared too, and you are not alone". Yet, he didn't stop smiling.

Across the room, you spotted Franco Colapinto speaking with Sasha at the buffet; that fact didn't surprise you, knowing your brother. Carla was already dancing with Derek, her eyes landing on you among the crowd, mouthing I told you, earning an eye roll from you.

The music shifted — slower now, smoother — and Ollie straightened beside you, suddenly aware of every inch of space between you.

"Do you want to dance?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck. Timid, carefully. Very Ollie.

You raised an eyebrow, amused — yet delighted that he considered it. "You're asking me now? Already?"

He smiled sheepishly, "I wanted to do it properly."

And your heart did that loop again. "Yeah," you confessed, stepping closer, "I'd love that."

His hand found yours again, this time with more certainty, guiding you toward the dance floor.

And as the lights dimmed, you realised something quietly.

You weren't watching others anymore.

You were living it.

The song was slower than the others. Almost fragile.

"Can I?" he muttered, eyes asking permission. You nodded silently, words caught in your throat. His hand carefully found the nape of your waist. You answered by resting your hand on his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his suit.

You fit together too easily. Like he had done it many times before.

The world blurred around you — the lights, the noise, the laughter — nothing mattered more than the gentle sway of your bodies and the quiet rhythm you shared.

It was your moment. And no one could break it right now.

"You seem worried," he leaned to your ear. The sudden proximity made you nervous.

"Am I ?" you looked up at him.

He nodded, thumb brushing reassuring circles against your side. "Just a little". You melted under his warm caresses. Feeling finally seen.

You swallowed, "I'm scared".

"Of what?" His steps slowed, afraid.

You hesitated a moment, scared of the consequences of your words, knowing it would change it all. "That this isn't real. That I'll wake up tomorrow and it'll be nothing," you confessed softly.

Ollie stopped moving. Not abruptly — just enough to make you look up at him. You felt something twist in your chest. Were you misinterpreting everything?

You rethink all your moments together — the dress, Gabriel's party, the almost kiss, and his reaction when you asked him out.

"This is real," he said, voice low, steady, his hands remaining on your waist, anchoring himself."You are real. And so is what I feel."

Your breath caught.

He leaned his forehead against yours, eyes searching your face, as if giving you time to pull away. And when you didn't, his grip tightened slightly, protective, grounding.

"I didn't kiss you that night," he continued nervously, "because I didn't want you to regret it. I didn't want to be another 'almost' in your life".

"And now?" you asked, heart pounding loudly in your chest.

A pause. One heartbeat. Two.

"Now", his eyes searched yours, "I'm asking".

His hand lifted to your cheek, warm, tentative. But waiting. As always.

You nodded.

And that was all he needed.

The kiss was soft. Unrushed. Careful in the way that mattered most. Not desperate — slow and intentional. Like a promise finally kept. Both claiming and savouring.

When you pulled back, breathless, he rested his forehead against yours again, smiling, like he couldn't quite believe this was happening.

"Told you," he smirked, "better timing".

And this time you smiled back, knowing he was right.

But your eyes drifted past Ollie's shoulder.

Sasha was standing a few meters away. Watching.

His expression was unreadable. Not angry, not amused either. Just aware. As if he wasn't surprised

You stiffened under Ollie's hands, and he noticed immediately. His eyes drifted from you to where your brother stands.

His body froze, guilt written all over his face. Almost ashamed — not of you, but of being seen.

You looked up at Ollie."We should talk to him". You stated, squeezing his hand, anchoring both of you.

He nodded, squeezing back.

Sasha didn't move when you approached.

He stayed where he was, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes flickering between you and Ollie. The music kept playing behind them, laughter rising and falling among the couples — a cruel contrast to the stillness wrapped around the three of you.

"So," he finally said, voice low. "That didn't take long."

You felt Ollie's hand tighten around you. Not to stop you. To stay.

"It's not what you think," you started instinctively, but Sasha exhaled sharply, cutting you off.

" I don't know what I think yet", he replied. "That's the problem".

His gaze settled on Ollie's hands — intertwined with yours. Sharper. He wasn't angry, but disappointed. And that hurt worse.

Not that Sasha didn't trust Ollie or you, but what if it comes to an end? It means losing Ollie. His best friend. It means no more late nights at home, no more stupid arguments. No more trio. It means choosing sides. He hates that.

"You said one night," Sasha continued, eyes on Ollie. "Just prom."

Ollie nodded slowly, "I know what I said."

"And that," Sasha added, glancing pointedly at your hands intertwined, "didn't look like 'just prom'."

The silence stretched, heavy, among the playlist blasted and the crowd of students dancing.

Ollie didn't let go of you.

"That kiss wasn't planned," he said calmly. "But it wasn't a mistake either."

Sasha laughed. Short. Humorless."You're really saying this to me right now?"

"Yeah, because I won't lie to you."

That made Sasha falter — just a fraction. He scrubbed a hand over his face, turning away for a second like he needed air.

"You're my best friend," he said calmly. "And she's my sister. Do you have any idea what you're risking there?"

You stepped forward then, heart hammering. "We do"

Both of them looked at you, waiting for you to continue.

"I'm not a glass thing that's going to shatter if this doesn't work", you said, voice steady. "And I'm not a territory either."

Sasha's eyes softened. "That's not what this is about."

"Then what is it about?" you asked gently. "Do you think I didn't know that all the guys who have been rejecting me were because of your protectiveness?"

That made Sasha step back.

He hesitated for a second. "What happens if it ends?" he admitted, "What happens to us? To him and me ? To everything."

There it was. The truth, finally exposed.

Ollie swallowed. "I don't want to lose you," he said honestly. "I never did."

"But you're still willing to risk it", Sasha shot back.

"Yeah, because pretending I don't feel this won't save anything. It would mean I should give up without even trying." Ollie confessed. "I know what I'm risking," he said, finally meeting Sasha's eyes. "

You felt your throat tighten.

Sasha looked at you again. Really looked. Not as a brother guarding, but as someone seeing you choose.

"You care about him, don't you?" he said.

"I do." You nodded, squeezing Ollie's hand.

"And you?" Sasha asked Ollie. "Is this just curiosity? Or are you going to hurt her because you didn't think it through?"

Ollie didn't hesitate. "I've been thinking about her for years."

That landed hard.

You looked at him, taken aback by his confession. You never thought he considered you for years. And just thinking about this makes your chest tighten.

"I held back when I shouldn't have," Ollie continued. "Because I was scared. Of you. Of messing things up. Of being the reasons things change," He met Sasha's gaze, unwavering. "I've thought about it more times than you think. And I chose not to be a coward this time."

Silence.

Finally, Sasha exhaled, long and tired.

"You're idiots", he muttered, hand rubbing his face.

You almost smiled.

"But", he added, looking at Ollie, "if this blows up… I'm not choosing sides."

Ollie nodded," I wouldn't ask you to."

Sasha turned to you then, eyes softer than you expected. "And if he hurts you-".

"I'll survive," you cut it off, softly. "But he won't. Not if he wants to keep you".

Ollie snorted under his breath. Sasha shot him a look

"Don't push it," Sasha warned, then stepped back, uncrossing his arms. "Just… don't make me regret trusting either of you".

He walked away before either of you could respond.

You stood there for a second, stunned.

Then Ollie looked at you, breath shaky, relief and fear tangled in his eyes. "Well, that went better than expected".

You laughed softly, leaning into him. "Don't get cocky".

He smiled, "Never, I wouldn't dare to risk that after all".

Because, despite every arrow that missed its mark, the right one had been closer than you ever dared to believe.

Cupid may have fooled you many times, but this time, he got it right.