how could we know that this was a happy disaster?

[harianaswhore]

❝ i'm glad we crashed and burned, i'll never forget when you told me...❞

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ariana grande. harry styles. zayn malik. one direction. formula 1. charles leclerc. sebastian vettel. max verstappen. lewis hamilton. ✧˖*°࿐

: ̗̀➛ fic recs ✭・.

❝usually i'm fucked up, anxious, too much but i'll love you like you need me to. imperfect for you.❞

[mariclerc]

Static in the bassline | rafe cameron

Summary: you and Rafe were best friends in middle school, but right now you're strangers... Or so you thought.

Warnings: angst, bass player!reader, frat!rafe, mentions of drugs and alcohol, shy reader, jealous rafe, kind of an au blurb(?, soft rafe, fluff.

The music was so loud it felt like your ribcage was vibrating. You stood near the edge of the living room at some senior Kook’s beach house party: bodies everywhere, red cups sweating, the kind of party where the floor was already sticky at 10:37 p.m. You weren’t supposed to be here, not really. You’d only come because Sarah begged, because she said “please just this once, you never come out anymore” and she also had looked at you with those big hopeful eyes and said “you can bring your bass if you want, they have a whole music room upstairs.”

So here you were, your bass still in its soft case leaning against the wall behind you like a quiet bodyguard, arms wrapped around yourself, trying to become part of the wallpaper.

And then there was Jaxon Caldwell... Golden-boy quarterback, all dimples and easy charm, the kind of guy every girl in the Outer Banks was supposed to want. He’d been orbiting you for weeks with texts, hallway smiles, “accidentally” bumping into you at the pier when you were getting ice cream with Sarah. Tonight he’d finally cornered you near the makeshift bar, which was really just a kitchen island drowning in liquor.

“You look really pretty tonight,” he said for the third time, leaning in too close looking at your vintage Hollister red long sleeve and soft leggings. His breath smelled like tequila and mint gum. “You always hide in hoodies at school, should’ve known you were holding out on us.”

You gave him the smallest, tightest smile possible. “Thanks.”

He laughed like you’d told a joke. “C’mon, loosen up. Dance with me, just one song.”

“I’m… not really a dancer.” you said softly.

“You don’t have to be good, just move with me.” His hand grazed your elbow.

You stepped back half a step, the bass case bumped your calf like it was reminding you: you can leave whenever you want.

Across the room Sarah caught your eye, her brows raised in silent question: you okay? You gave her the tiniest head shake, she mouthed I’m coming over, but then Topper appeared, tugging her toward the back patio, and she hesitated.

So you were alone again and Jaxon stepped way more closer. “You’re so quiet all the time... Makes me wanna figure you out.”

You swallowed. “There’s… not really much to figure out.”

“I doubt that.” He grinned wider. “Bet you’ve got secrets.”

You hated this, hated how small he made the space feel, hated that your heart was hammering like you’d run a mile when all you’d done was stand here.

And then a voice cut through the noise like a snapped string.

“The fuck are you doing, Caldwell?”

Low, rough, dangerous in that quiet way that made people freeze.

Rafe Cameron pushed through two juniors like they were nothing, melon polo half-untucked, hair messy from the wind or someone’s hands, you never knew with him anymore, his eyes were bright, too bright, pupils blown. But they were locked on Jaxon.

Jaxon straightened, smile going tight. “Just talking, man. Chill a little.”

“Doesn’t look like talking.” Rafe’s gaze flicked to you, only for a second, then back to the quarterback. “Looks like you’re crowding her.”

You felt your face burn, you hadn’t spoken to Rafe Cameron in… God. Three years? Maybe five? Not really, not since middle school when you used to sit on the curb after school sharing sour candy and pretending you were going to run away and start a band, back when he still laughed like he meant it. Before Ward started riding him so hard he forgot how to breathe without being angry.

Jaxon laughed once, sharp. “She’s fine, Cameron. We’re good.”

Rafe tilted his head, that slow, predatory tilt he did when he was deciding how much trouble he wanted tonight.

“You sure about that?” he asked, voice dangerously soft. “’Cause she looks like she wants to climb inside that bass case and disappear.”

Your breath caught and Jaxon glanced at you. You couldn’t meet his eyes, you stared at Rafe’s sneakers instead: white, scuffed, one lace untied.

After a long, ugly beat, Jaxon raised both hands. “Whatever, bro. Not worth it.”

He walked off, not stormed, walked. Like he was doing Rafe a favor by leaving.

The space around you opened up and the air rushed back in.

Rafe didn’t move right away. He just stood there, staring at the spot Jaxon had been, jaw working like he was chewing on something bitter.

Then finally, slowly, his eyes dragged to you.

You hadn’t seen him look at you like that in years. Not angry, not high, just… Rafe. The old one, the one who used to draw dumb stick-figure comics on your math homework.

He dragged a hand through his greasy hair and exhaled hard through his nose. “You good?” he asked, his voice is quieter now, rougher.

You nodded too fast. “Yeah... yeah, I’m- thank you.”

He gave you a jerky shrug, like he didn’t want the thanks. “Didn’t do it for you,” he muttered. “Just don’t like that guy, he thinks he can take whatever he wants ’cause he throws a ball good.”

You bit your lip shyly. “Still… thanks.”

Silence stretched, the music changed: something slower, bass-heavy, fitting.

Rafe glanced at your case. “You still play that thing?”

You blinked a little surprised he remembered. “Yeah, all the time. Just… not here.”

“Why’d you bring it then?”

“Sarah said-” You stopped and shrugged. “I don’t know. Habit, I guess. Feels weird to leave it home.”

He huffed a laugh that had no humor in it. “Yeah, I get that.”

Another beat. He shifted his weight and looked anywhere but you. Then finally he spoke again.

“You used to play that one Green Day song... The long one, with the guitar solo that went on forever.”

“‘Jesus of Suburbia’,” you said automatically.

He snapped his fingers. “Yeah, that one. You’d play it in your garage and make me clap at the end like it was a concert.”

You felt your cheeks heat again. “I was twelve.”

“You were good.” He said it so simply it hurt. “Still good?”

“I… don’t know. I think so? I play alone mostly now.”

“Why?”

You shrugged and looked down at your sneakers. “People don’t really… care about bass, not like guitars. And I’m not- I’m not like” You gestured vaguely at the party. “This.”

He watched you for a long moment.

Then he said, very quietly, “You don’t have to be like this.”

You looked up and his eyes were still too bright, but something else was there too. Something tired, something that remembered sitting on your bedroom floor listening to you tune for twenty minutes because you were a perfectionist even at twelve.

He swallowed and his voice dropped lower. “I’m not… good company anymore. You probably know that, I mean, everyone does. But-” He laughed once, bitter. “If you ever want someone to sit there and listen while you play that stupidly long Green Day song again… I’m around... Sometimes.”

Your heart did something painful and stupid in your chest. “I thought you hated me,” you whispered.

His brows crashed together. “What? Why the fuck would I hate you?”

“You stopped talking to me, after… everything. After you started hanging with Kelce and Topper and-”

“I didn’t stop talking to you because I hated you.” He looked almost angry now, at himself. “I stopped because I was turning into someone you wouldn’t recognize. And I-” He cut off, his jaw tight. “I didn’t want you to see it.”

The words hung there. Heavy, honest, more honest than Rafe Cameron had been in years and you didn’t know what to say... So you didn’t say anything.

You just reached out; slow, careful, and touched the sleeve of his polo, just your fingertips. Barely there and he froze but didn’t pull away.

After a second he looked down at your hand like he didn’t understand what it was doing there.

Then he covered it with his own. Big, warm, shaking just the tiniest bit.

“I’m sorry,” he said, so quiet you almost missed it over the music. “For disappearing.”

You shook your head. “You didn’t owe me anything.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I did.”

He didn’t let go of your hand, you didn’t ask him to.

Behind you, Sarah finally broke away from Topper and started walking over, eyes wide when she saw Rafe standing so close to you.

Rafe noticed too. He dropped your hand like it burned, but not before giving it one last small squeeze.

Then he stepped back. “Look-” He rubbed the back of his neck. “If that asshole bothers you again, text me. Or Sarah. Or- fuck, just yell. I’ll hear it.”

You smiled. A small one, shy, real. “Okay.”

He nodded once, sharp. Then he turned to leave, but stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “And maybe… sometime, when it’s quiet. You can play that song again... For me.”

Your throat got tight.

“Maybe,” you whispered.

He gave you the smallest, crooked smile you’d seen on him in years. Then he disappeared back into the crowd and you stood there for a long time after he was gone. Your hand still warm where he’d touched it, your bass still waiting behind you.

And for the first time in forever... you didn’t feel like disappearing.

***

The party noise swelled again the second Rafe disappeared into the crowd, like the room had been holding its breath and finally let go.

You stayed exactly where you were, back against the wall, fingers still tingling where his hand had covered yours. Your heart was doing that stupid fluttery thing it used to do when you were thirteen and he’d sling an arm around your shoulders on the walk home from school, calling you “bug” because you were always hiding behind your hair like it was a curtain.

Sarah finally made it through the bodies. “Oh my god,” she whisper-yelled, eyes huge. “Did I just see what I think I saw?”

You swallowed. “I don’t know what you saw.”

“Rafe, my brother. Being… nice? Protective? And talking to you like a human being instead of growling?”

You tucked your hair behind your ear. “He was just… helping. Jaxon was being pushy.”

Sarah studied your face like she was trying to solve a puzzle. “He doesn’t do that... Not anymore, not for anyone.”

You didn’t answer, but you weren’t sure you had an answer.

She glanced toward the sliding doors to the back patio. “He’s out there now, smoking alone. Which is… weird, he usually has at least three people orbiting him at all times.”

You followed her gaze instinctively.

Through the glass you could see the outline of him; shoulders hunched against the railing, orange glow of a joint or cigarette flaring every few seconds. The ocean breeze kept tugging at his shirt.

Sarah nudged you gently. “Go talk to him.”

Your stomach flipped. “I can’t just-”

“You can, you literally just did. And he didn’t bite your head off. That’s progress!”

You chewed the inside of your cheek.

Sarah softened. “Look… I know things got messy. With him, with all of us. But I’ve watched him the last year and he’s-” She hesitated. “He’s trying. In his own fucked-up way. And he never talks about middle school anymore, never mentions anyone from back then... Except you, once, drunk. Said something about how you were the only person who ever made him feel like he wasn’t gonna explode.”

Your throat closed.

Sarah gave you one last gentle push. “Go on, before he decides to leave... Or punch someone, or both.”

You exhaled shakily and grabbed your bass case by the handle like it was a life raft. You walked toward the patio doors.

The night air hit you like a cold slap when you stepped outside, music muffled instantly. Just waves and wind and the low crackle of whatever he was smoking.

He didn’t turn around right away, you just stopped a few feet behind him, close enough to be heard. Far enough he wouldn’t feel cornered.

“Hi.” you said softly.

His shoulders tensed, then relaxed. He flicked ash over the railing without looking. “Didn’t think you’d come out here.”

“Sarah… kind of made me.” you whispered.

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, she’s good at that.”

You shifted your weight and the case bumped against your leg. There was silence again, not uncomfortable. Just… full.

He finally turned halfway, enough that you could see the side of his face in the dim patio light. Jaw still tight, eyes still glassy, but softer around the edges when they landed on you.

“You bring that thing everywhere like a security blanket?” he asked, nodding toward the bass.

“Pretty much.”

He smirked, just the corner of his mouth. “Still my little bug, huh? Hiding behind big black cases and hoodies.”

The nickname hit you like a sugar cube melting on your tongue.

You hadn’t heard it in years. You felt your face go warm despite the cold.

“Didn’t think you still remembered that,” you murmured.

Rafe looked away again, out at the dark water. Took a slow drag, held it, and let it curl out slow. “Remember a lot of shit I pretend I don’t,” he said quietly. “Easier that way.”

You stepped closer, hust one step. The railing was right there now. “I missed you,” you said. The words slipped out before you could catch them, they were small, honest and terrifying.

He went very still.

Then he laughed, low, rough, almost painful.

“Yeah?” He flicked the joint over the edge. Watched the ember fall into the dark. “Most people don’t miss the version of me that showed up after middle school.”

“I didn’t miss that version,” you said carefully. “I missed… you. The one who used to steal my sour straws and draw mustaches on my sheet music and say I was gonna be famous one day even when I sucked at playing in front of people.”

He swallowed hard enough you saw his throat move. “You never sucked,” he muttered. “You were just… quiet about it. Didn’t need everyone watching.”

You looked down at the case, thumb rubbing the zipper nervously. “I still am.”

He turned fully toward you now, leaned one hip against the railing. Arms crossed like he was trying to keep himself contained.

“Then why’d you come out here, bug?” Voice softer than you’d heard it all night, almost careful. “You could’ve stayed inside, let Sarah play bodyguard or let Jaxon fucking Caldwell keep trying his lame pickup lines.”

You lifted your eyes to his. “Because you asked me to play for you,” you whispered. “And I… I think I want to, someday. When it’s quiet, when it’s just us.”

His expression cracked just for a second. Something raw and unguarded flashed across his face before he locked it down again.

He dragged a hand over his mouth like he was wiping the words away before they could escape and then he reached out, slow. He gave you time to step back.

You didn’t.

His knuckles brushed your cheek, barely there. Just enough to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear that the wind had pulled loose.

“You’re still too good for this place,” he said, voice wrecked. “Too good for me, you always were.”

You shook your head. “That’s not true.”

“Yeah it is.” He dropped his hand, but he didn’t step away. “But if you ever decide you wanna slum it with someone who’s half a mess… I’ll sit on your floor. I’ll listen to every goddamn minute of ‘Jesus of Suburbia.’ I’ll clap like an idiot at the end, same as before.”

Your eyes stung but you smiled anyway, a small, shaky smile.

“Promise?”

He looked at you for a long, long time.

Then he reached out again, this time he hooked his pinky around yours.

The way you used to do when you were kids making unbreakable pacts.

“Promise, bug.”

You curled your finger around his and neither of you said anything else.

You just stood there, pinky to pinky.

Bass case between your legs like a quiet chaperone, the ocean breathing in the background.

And for the first time in years, the space between you didn’t feel like a canyon.

It felt like something you could maybe, someday, cross.

***

The walk from the beach house to yours took almost forty minutes. You didn’t talk much at first.

Rafe kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders up against the January night chill that had rolled in off the water. You carried the bass case between you like a bridge nobody quite knew how to cross yet. Every few steps your knuckles brushed the soft case, and once, only once, his pinky hooked yours again for three heartbeats before he let go like he’d been caught.

The streets were quiet, the Kook side of Figure Eight slowly giving way to the slightly less manicured edges where your house sat, modest, one-story, porch light always left on because your mom worried even when she pretended she didn’t.

You glanced sideways at him once.

He was looking straight ahead, jaw working like he was chewing on thoughts too big to swallow.

“You don’t have to walk me all the way,” you said softly. “It’s late.”

He snorted. “Yeah, and leave you to get jumped by some drunk tourist? Or worse, like, Jaxon circling back like a fucking vulture? Nah.”

You smiled down at the sidewalk. “My hero.”

He shot you a look, half smirk, half warning. “Don’t start with that shit, bug.”

But the nickname sounded different now, it was softer. Like he was testing how it still fit after all this time.

When you reached your driveway, the porch light painted everything gold. Your mom’s car wasn’t there, she worked night shifts at the hospital three times a week, so your house was dark except for that one light.

You hesitated at the front steps.

Rafe stopped too, looked up at the house like he hadn’t seen it in forever.

“Still got that creaky third step?” he asked and you tested it, creak.

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Some things don’t change.”

You unlocked the door. “Come in. Just… be quiet. The neighbor’s dog barks at everything.”

He followed you inside like he was stepping into a museum, careful, almost reverent. He kicked off his shoes by the door without being asked, you noticed his socks had a tiny hole at the big toe and something about that made your chest ache.

You led him down the short hallway, past the framed photos of you at eight with braces and a too-big bass, past the one of you and him at twelve, arms slung around each other at the end of year school picnic, both of you sunburned and grinning like the world couldn’t touch you.

He paused in front of that picture, he didn’t say anything. Just stared at it.

You kept walking and opened your bedroom door.

Same fairy lights looped around the headboard you’d strung up in ninth grade, same faded Green Day poster peeling at one corner, same bass stand in the corner, waiting.

You set the case down gently and unzipped it.

Rafe leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching. “You sure about this?” he asked quietly. “I’m not… I’m not exactly sober. And I’m probably gonna say something stupid.”

You pulled the bass out. “You always did.”

He give you a ghost of a smile.

You sat on the edge of your bed. Legs crossed, bass across your lap like an armor.

He finally moved, slow, like he was afraid of breaking something, and sank down on the floor in front of you. Back against the wall, knees up, elbows resting on them. Looking up at you the way he used to when you’d play in your garage and he’d sit on an overturned bucket pretending to be your number-one fan.

You plugged in the small practice amp beside your bed, low volume, just enough for two people.

Your fingers found the strings, familiar, steady.

You looked at him and he nodded once.

You started soft, the opening riff of “Jesus of Suburbia.” was clean, there was no distortion. Just the warm, woody tone of the bass carrying the melody nobody ever paid attention to because they were all waiting for the guitar to scream.

You played the verses slow, let the notes breathe and Rafe didn’t move, he didn’t look away.

When you hit the transition into “City of the Damned,” you let your eyes close for a second, just feeling it. The low thrum in your chest, the way the room seemed to shrink around the sound.

You opened your eyes again and he was still watching you, but his expression had changed.

Something cracked open, something soft and unguarded and almost painful and you kept playing.

Through “I Don’t Care,” through the quiet parts, through the build, through the long, winding solo section that you’d practiced a thousand times alone in this exact room.

He didn’t clap between movements like he used to when you were kids. He just… listened.

When you finally let the last note fade, long, low, lingering, he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the whole time.

Silence rang louder than the music had.

You set the bass carefully beside you on the bed.

Rafe dragged both hands down his face. Then back up into his hair, messy. “Fuck,” he whispered with a thick voice.

You waited.

He looked up at you, really looked.

“You’re still so fucking good, bug.”

You ducked your head, your cheeks burning at the attention. “I practiced a lot.”

“Yeah. I can tell.” He laughed once, short, rough. “I forgot what it felt like, to just… sit. And hear something that wasn’t screaming in my head.”

Your heart squeezed.

He shifted, scooted forward until his knees almost touched the bed.

“I used to think-” He stopped, swallowed. Tried again. “I used to think if I could just keep you around… maybe I wouldn’t turn out like this, like him.”

You knew who he meant.

You reached out, slow, and let your fingertips rest on his wrist, just there.

“You’re not him,” you whispered.

He stared at your hand on his skin like it was the only real thing in the room.

“Maybe not yet,” he said, his voice is barely audible. “But I’m close.”

You shook your head. “You’re here, right now. Listening to me play a song most people think is too long and too loud. That’s not close to him.”

His eyes lifted to yours, shiny. He blinked fast.

Then he reached up, careful, like you might vanish, and brushed the pad of his thumb over your cheekbone.

“You’re gonna ruin me, you know that?” he murmured.

You gave a tiny, nervous laugh. “I’m literally the most un-ruinous person alive.”

“Nah.” His thumb stayed. “You’re the most dangerous thing I’ve ever let close again.”

He didn’t move to kiss you, didn’t even lean in.

Just kept his hand there, warm against your face, pinky brushing the corner of your jaw, you didn’t move either.

The fairy lights glowed soft above you both.

Somewhere outside, the ocean kept breathing.

And in your quiet bedroom, with the bass still humming faintly from the amp, Rafe Cameron looked at you like maybe, just maybe, he could still be saved.

***

The amp was still humming faintly when Rafe shifted, he’d been sitting on the floor for so long his legs must’ve gone numb, but he didn’t complain. Just pushed himself up slowly, joints popping like he was older than nineteen going on thirty. He looked at the bed, then at you, then back at the bed like he was asking permission without using words.

You scooted over instinctively, made room. Your heart thudding so hard you were sure he could hear it.

He sat on the edge first, mattress dipping under his weight. Then he kicked his legs up, leaned back against your headboard, long limbs taking up more space than seemed fair. Fairy lights caught in the sharp line of his jaw, turned his tired eyes golden.

“C’mere,” he mumbled, his voice is gravelly. Sleep already dragging at the edges of him.

You froze, he patted the space beside him once. Lazy, expectant.

When you didn’t move fast enough, he reached out, slow, careful, and hooked two fingers in the sleeve of your hoodie.

“Bug,” he said, softer this time. Almost pleading. “I’m not gonna bite, I promise.”

You swallowed and nodded. Crawled across the comforter on your knees until you were close enough that your thigh brushed his.

He looked at you, really looked. Not the quick, high flick of eyes he usually gave people. Slow, steady, like he was memorizing you.

Then he reached again.

This time his hands found your waist, big palms, warm through the thick hoodie fabric. He tugged, gentle, but insistent.

You let out a tiny, nervous sound, half squeak, half exhale.

He paused, thumbs stilled against your sides. “You okay?” he asked quietly.

You couldn’t look at him, you stared at the faded band logo on his shirt instead.

“I’m… heavy,” you whispered. The words tasted like shame. “My thighs are... I mean, I’m not… small. Like the girls you usually-”

“Stop.”

One word, sharp, not angry. Just… final.

He tugged again, firmer this time.

You let him pull you forward until your knees bracketed his hips. Until you were hovering awkwardly above his lap, arms stiff at your sides, trying to keep most of your weight on your own legs.

Rafe exhaled through his nose, sounded almost amused, but the kind of amusement that hurt a little. “Bug,” he said, low and sleepy. “Sit.”

“I-”

“Sit.”

You lowered yourself inch by inch, the second the backs of your thighs touched the tops of his, you tensed. Every insecure thought screamed at once: too much, too soft, too wide. The little pouch of your stomach pressing against the hem of your hoodie, breasts barely filling out the fabric. Everything wrong.

And he felt it, of course he felt it.

His hands slid from your waist to the outside of your thighs, not grabbing. Just… resting. Palms flat, warm, heavy in the best way. You were shaking just the tiniest bit.

He noticed that too. “Hey,” he murmured. Forehead dropping forward until it rested against yours. “Breathe.”

You tried and his thumbs started moving. Slow, absent circles over the softest parts of your outer thighs. No hesitation, no pulling away.

“These-” he said, voice thick with sleep and something deeper, “are my favorite fucking thing about you right now.”

You let out a startled laugh that was mostly air.

“I’m serious,” he muttered. One hand slid up to your hip, squeezed once, gentle, possessive. “Soft, real. Not some… plastic Kook bullshit. You feel like home.”

Your eyes stung.

He shifted you carefully, helped settle your weight more fully onto him until your chest brushed his. Until there was no more hovering, no more trying to disappear.

His arms came around you then, one hand splaying wide across your lower back, right over the curve you hated most, holding you flush. The other sliding up between your shoulder blades, fingers threading into your hair.

You tucked your face into the side of his neck and you could smell the faint salt of the ocean still clinging to him, mixed with weed and that stupid expensive cologne he wore when he wanted to pretend he had his shit together.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered against your temple.

“’M sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His hand on your back rubbed slow, soothing arcs. “Just means you’re here, means you’re feeling it. I like that.”

You stayed quiet and let yourself sink into him a little more. Let your arms finally come up, hesitant at first, until they looped around his shoulders. Fingers curling into the back of his shirt.

He sighed, long, relieved. “Fuck, I missed this,” he breathed. “Missed you, even when I was pretending I didn’t.”

Your throat got tight. “Rafe…”

“Shh.” He pressed a kiss to your hairline. Not your lips, not yet. Just there, soft and sleepy. “Go to sleep, bug. I’m not going anywhere tonight.”

You felt his heartbeat under your palm. Steady, a little fast, but is matching yours.

The fairy lights blurred above you both.

His hand kept moving, slow, mindless patterns over your back, your hips, the parts of you you’d spent years trying to hide.

And for once... you didn’t try to hide them, you just let him hold them, let him hold you.

And when his breathing finally evened out, deep, slow, the tiniest snore catching at the end, you stayed right there, curled in his lap feeling safe, wanted and whole.

***

Morning light slipped through the gaps in your curtains like it was trying not to wake anyone. It was the kind of soft January gray that made everything feel quieter, slower.

The fairy lights were still on, faint now in the daylight, and the room smelled faintly of last night: salt air on his skin, the tiniest trace of weed that had burned off hours ago, your vanilla body lotion, and the warm, lived-in scent of two people who’d finally stopped pretending they were strangers.

You woke up first.

Rafe was still underneath you, one arm slung heavy across your lower back, the other tucked under his head. His breathing was deep, even, the tiniest snore every few inhales that you’d never admit was kind of adorable. Your cheek was pressed to his collarbone, one of your legs thrown over his hip, hoodie rucked up just enough that your bare stomach rested against his shirt, you could feel the steady thud of his heart under your palm where it had ended up sometime in the night.

You didn’t move, not yet.

You just breathed him in and let yourself exist in the impossible softness of it all, Rafe Cameron, the boy who used to break things when he got angry, sleeping like he hadn’t known peace in years.

Then you heard it, the front door’s deadbolt turning. Your mom was coming back from her shift.

Shit.

You tensed, Rafe stirred immediately, instinct, probably, from too many mornings waking up somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be.

His eyes cracked open, deep blue, sleepy. Confused for half a second before they focused on your face. “Morning, bug,” he rasped. Voice wrecked from sleep and smoke.

“Mom’s home,” you whispered, panicked.

He blinked once and then smirked, slow, lazy, completely unbothered. “Guess we’re meeting the parent then.”

You tried to sit up, but he tightened his arm around your waist.

“Five more minutes,” he mumbled, already closing his eyes again. “She can wait.”

“Rafe-”

He cracked one eye. “She gonna shoot me?”

“No.”

“Then relax, bug.”

You didn’t relax... But you didn’t move either.

A few minutes later, the smell of coffee drifted down the hall.

Then some footsteps. Your bedroom door, still half-open from last night, creaked a little wider.

Your mom stood there in her navy scrubs, hair in a messy bun, travel mug in one hand. She looked at the scene: you half-draped over a very tall, very recognizable Kook boy, both of you still mostly clothed (thank god), bass leaning against the wall like a silent witness.

She didn’t gasp, she didn’t yell, she just… smiled.

Small at first, then wider. The kind of smile that reached her eyes and made the tired lines around them soften.

“Well,” she said quietly, voice warm with amusement, “this is new.”

You scrambled to sit up. Rafe let you, but kept one hand on your hip like he was anchoring you.

“Mom- I- he just- we didn’t-”

She raised an eyebrow, took a sip of her coffee. “I can see that, sweetheart.”

Rafe pushed himself up slowly, his hair a disaster, his shirt wrinkled. He rubbed the back of his neck, classic Rafe nervous tell, and gave her the most polite, sheepish look you’d ever seen on him.

“Morning, ma'am.”

“Rafe Cameron,” she said, like she was tasting the name. “Been a while.”

“Yeah.” He swallowed. “Sorry for… uh… crashing here.”

She tilted her head. “You’re wearing socks with holes in them, that’s commitment to authenticity.”

He looked down and laughed once, short, surprised. “Yeah. They’re my favorites.”

She nodded like that made perfect sense.

Then she looked at you, really looked. And she saw the way your hands were trembling just a little, the flush on your cheeks, the way you were trying (and failing) to look casual while sitting in Rafe’s lap.

Her smile turned softer, kinder.

“I saw the shoes by the door,” she said. “Two pairs. One of them definitely not yours.” She glanced at Rafe’s beat-up white Nikes. “Figured either you finally made a friend with big feet… or something else was going on.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Mom.”

She laughed, quiet, fond. “I’m not mad, honey. Surprised? A little, but not mad.” She leaned against the doorframe. “I remember when you two used to sit on the porch steps eating popsicles and planning your world takeover. Thought that version of you two was gone forever.”

Rafe looked down at the comforter. Voice low. “Me too.”

She studied him for a long moment.

Then she pushed off the frame. “Come on, both of you. Breakfast. I’m not sending anyone out into the world on an empty stomach.”

You stared at her. “You’re… okay with this?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “I’m okay with you being happy. And right now? You look happier than I’ve seen you in… God, years maybe.” Her eyes flicked to Rafe. “And you, young man… you look like you could use a pancake and someone who isn’t screaming at you for once.”

Rafe’s throat worked. He nodded once. “Yeah. I could.”

She disappeared down the hall, calling over her shoulder, “Five minutes! Coffee’s fresh!”

Silence settled again. You looked at Rafe and he looked at you.

Then he leaned forward, slow, and pressed his forehead to yours. “Your mom’s cool,” he muttered.

“She’s… something.”

He huffed a tiny laugh. “Think she’s gonna poison my food?”

“No.” You smiled despite yourself. “She might make you do dishes though.”

“Worth it.”

He kissed your forehead, soft, lingering, then helped you off his lap.

You both stood up, you fixed your hoodie and fixed his collar. You smoothed his hair down, it was pointless, but you did it anyway. He tucked a strand of yours behind your ear.

Then hand in hand, tentative, like you were both afraid it might disappear if you looked too hard, you walked out to the kitchen.

Your mom was already at the stove and the pancakes were sizzling, coffee pouring.

She glanced over her shoulder when you walked in and she grinned.

“Sit,” she said. “Both of you. And Rafe?”

“Yeah?”

“Syrup’s in the cabinet on the left. Help yourself son. And don’t be a stranger anymore, okay?”

He stared at her like she’d just handed him the moon.

Then he nodded.

“Okay.”

You sat at the little round table you’d had since you were six.

Rafe sat beside you, close enough that your knees touched under the table.

Your mom slid plates in front of you both.

Golden pancakes, bacon, fresh strawberries she must’ve picked up on her way home.

She sat across from you and took another sip of coffee. She looked between the two of you with that same soft, knowing smile.

“So,” she said lightly, “tell me everything I’ve missed.”

And for the first time in forever... you thought maybe you could... Maybe you both could.

Right here, in the morning light, with pancakes and coffee and a boy who used to be your best friend finally coming back home.

[harianaswhore]

⟡ 𝐎𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑 𝐏𝐈𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈 𝟑 ⟡

NONE OF THESE ARE WRITTEN BY ME

𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐬 ☆ 𝐟𝟏 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐬

— ᶠᴸᵁᶠᶠ ⟡

9 note of my love - @ghwostcult

falling for you...literally - @iheartsophie

the two kiss strategy - @f1withespresso

— ᴬᴺᴳˢᵀ⟡

unheld - @avreygrid

if my wishes came true, it would've been you - @gatsby-20

not over for me - @flowergirl1243

— ˢᴹᵁᵀ⟡

don't stand so close to me - @lovelytsunoda

subspace - @oztri

— ˢᴼᶜᴵᴬᴸ ᴹᴱᴰᴵᴬ ⟡

so american - @housepartyprotocol

hole in one - @emsdrabbles

kiss the witch - @stzrgirl4norris

— ˢᴱᴿᴵᴱˢ ⟡

[harianaswhore]

⟡ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐑𝐂 𝟔 ⟡

NONE OF THESE ARE WRITTEN BY ME

𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐬 ☆ 𝐟𝟏 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐬

— ᶠᴸᵁᶠᶠ ⟡

a piece of you - @0scarp1astr1

confession - @annaswrites00

sick - @valiwrites

madhouse - @his-sleepy-birdie

then there were three - @daydreamingatnight209

if love is a movie, then you're the best part - @paddocklove

parfait - @piastrri

two dogs, one girl, one love story - @yuyuyukiii

the girls are girl-ing (suggestive) - @formulafanfics13

— ᴬᴺᴳˢᵀ⟡

— ˢᴹᵁᵀ⟡

autograph session - @formulafanfics13

you're so mean (^)

couldn't wait (^)

monaco in your mouth (^)

let me love you (tw: body insecurity) (^)

— ˢᴼᶜᴵᴬᴸ ᴹᴱᴰᴵᴬ ⟡

just keep watching - @mrspossessiveleclerc

mamma mia - @33forthew1n

yearning from afar - @dannyriccsystem

— ˢᴱᴿᴵᴱˢ ⟡

game of heart fluent in love keeps getting better je t'aime - @suliigwp

[sushirrrry]

READ PART ONE: CASA AMOR READ PART TWO: CRASH OUT

TONIGHT ON LOVE ISLAND...

PART THREE | TRUTH OR DARE || a harry styles x you fic. word count: 8,866 content warning: tension & arguments & love island antics

summary: the islander's partake in the game 'truth or dare' which elicits some unfinished business between you and harry... and maybe sparks a few other interests.

author’s note: the attention that this story has gotten... thank you for guys for being so excited to read what happens next <3 it's seriously so fun & I hope you have as much fun continuing to read it! this one is about twice the length as the other two! all the notes, all the messages about it have been so fun to read and react with you, so please continue to send me suggestions and what you'd like see <3

hope you guys enjoy <3

A REMINDER OF THE COUPLINGS...

You are Single | Luca is Single | Megan is Single | Tash and Harry | Ella and Johnny | Megan and Ronan | Tiana and Liam | Jess and Mitch

“Rise and shine, Islanders!” You hear from Tiana on her side of the room.

You push your eye mask up just a bit to reveal everyone starting to arise and awaken for the day. The sun had only just begun to slide through the windows of the bedroom.

The girls began to stir slowly, tangled in duvet covers and last night’s whispers. There was a collective murmur of breathy yawns and bodies stretching under thin sheets. You turned onto your side instinctively, expecting warmth; it was a space where someone used to be, and had been for the better part of the last few weeks.

But there was no one next to you now. You were still alone.

Across the room, Tash sat upright in bed, her hair in blonde braided pigtails, her eyes already open but maybe you can see they’re a bit puffy from either lack of sleep or something else. She didn’t say much but just swung her legs off the side and sat there for a moment, contemplating as she started staring at the floor.

The others slowly came to life around her; Ella mumbling something about needing caffeine, Megan humming absently to herself as she padded barefoot across the room. There was no giddy giggling this morning like there had been previously; there was a certain shift around here now. Just the sound of people existing in the strange, weighty quiet that follows a long, emotional few days.

And somewhere, on the other side of the villa, Harry was waking up in the Hideaway. Not with Tash, not with you. Just him and the weight of his choices, staring up at the ceiling fan. He stretched his arms above his head as he laid there for a moment on his own.

He hadn’t slept much. The bed was too soft without conversation and the feeling of a cuddle against him. The walls felt too quiet when they weren’t filled with your laughter. He rubbed a hand across his jaw, knowing he’d earned the isolation — and not knowing what, if anything, he was supposed to do next.

A little while later, the smell of eggs and toasted sourdough drifted through the villa as the boys took over the kitchen with their shirtless bodies and sunglasses resting over tired eyes. Mitch had tied a tea towel around his head like a makeshift bandana, humming while he burned half the bacon which only made Johnny laugh. Luca was more precise — plating avocado slices like he was on Master Chef, and sneaking glances toward the hallway that led to the dressing room.

Harry stood at the espresso machine, pressing buttons with purpose, like maybe he could steam out the tension in his chest with milk froth and timing.

“Double shot, oat milk,” he muttered to himself.

He poured two cups— carefully, quietly and without any acknowledgement from the other boys.

Inside the dressing room, the girls had taken up their usual spots, hairbrushes in hand, bronzer palettes out, eyes still a little puffy from sleep as they started to place sunscreen and lip gloss. You were seated at your vanity, lips slightly parted as you curled your lashes. Tash was two spots down, brushing through her hair in slow, even strokes, as if control over the tangles meant control over something else too.

Ella was halfway through a winged liner when the door opened. Harry stepped in, coffee cups in hand.

The ease of the morning girl conversation faltered when lingering eyes watched as he held two.

“Morning,” he said, voice smooth but cautious. “Figured you might want one.”

He handed you a cup first — oat milk, the way that you always wanted it. Then extended the second to Tash, whose eyes flicked up to him and lingered for just a second longer than necessary before she reached for it.

“Thanks,” you said, placing it on the vanity in front of you.

He nodded, eyes searching yours for something he couldn’t quite name. Harry made his way out of the dressing room quietly, without much more conversation. But before anyone could comment or fill the space with a joke — Luca walked in behind him, grinning, holding another cup.

“Oi, Y/N — told you I’d get yours right,” he said proudly. “One sugar, just how you like it.”

You blinked, surprised, accepting the second cup with a laugh that you didn’t expect to bubble up.

“Two coffees?” Ella whispered beside you with a smile and a giggle to match. “She’s got them fighting in beans and steamed milk.”

You set one coffee down, still unsure which to drink from first. You hadn’t expected that there would be a moment like this where you had two boys fighting for your attention; you knew how one looked. Harry brought coffee for both girls, but now you had coffee from two boys. You took in a breath as you looked at the girls around you and raised your brows.

“Get it, girl,” Tiana giggled across from you, as she painted on a few freckles.

Tash took a sip of her coffee with a quietness, obviously not impressed that she wasn’t the only one who received the cup, but it seemed to hold implications on either side.

“Dammit, Harry,” you mumbled out, shaking your head.

Ella leaned closer with a wide, knowing smirk as she gave you an eye. “So… which one are you drinking first?”

You bit back a smile, eyes flicking between the cups. “One was made with care. The other with guilt.”

“Ohhh!” Jess gasped, spitting out a laugh, “He really is double-dipping.”

Tash let out a quiet huff of amusement but didn’t look over. She was busy applying lip liner — and pretending she didn’t care. But of course, she cared; she didn’t want to be between them, either. She wanted to explore connections with Harry, but not if it was going to be at the cost of her dignity.

“Let me get this straight,” Megan said, leaning on her elbows. “Harry brings you a coffee… and then Luca walks in and does the same? Back-to-back baristas?”

“It’s giving Y/N is the main character,” Tiana added, twirling her brush. “It’s giving she’s got options.”

You shook your head, laughing despite the twist in your stomach. “I didn’t ask for either. They just—did it.”

“Exactly,” Ella said, pointing at you through her brow pencil. “You didn’t ask. Which means they’re chasing. Which means…”

“You’ve got both of them in a milk steamer,” Jess finished, tongue-in-cheek with her Scouse accent that made you smile every time she spoke. “Extra froth going on, girl.”

The girls started laughing at that comment, even Tash cracked a smile at that one. You stared into one of the cups, then glanced at the other. Luca’s had a smiley face drawn on the lid in Sharpie.

You didn’t say much after that. But your silence said enough.

Down in the main villa, the boys were in various states of gym effort: some actually working out, some just lounging in joggers with towels over their shoulders pretending they might start.

Harry was lifting dumbbells like his life depended on it, trying to stay focused, but mostly failing when he let his mind wander. His thoughts kept drifting — to the coffee, to your expression, to the way your fingers curled around the cup when he handed it to you.

Then Mitch wandered in over to him, towel draped over his neck, taking a sip from his water bottle.

“You see Luca this morning?” he asked casually, flopping down on a bench near Harry.

Harry didn’t look up at him, shaking his head when he placed the thirty-pound weights down. “What about him?”

“He was buzzing, mate,” Mitch looked over to see Luca by the pool with Ronan, casually having a conversation, but Mitch tried to keep his quiet, “Said he made Y/N a coffee and brought it up to her.”

Harry paused, looking over at Mitch with a completely confused expression, almost like he hadn’t completely understood what he had said—or thought that it made sense.

Luca and Y/N?

“What?”

Mitch leaned back, unfazed by it. “Yeah, said he got in there. Drew a little smiley face on the lid and everything. Bit cheeky, actually—sounds like he’s moving in on that, then.”

Harry’s jaw shifted, tongue pressing into the inside of his cheek. He didn’t say anything for a long second before he shrugged and placed his sunglasses over his eyes and on the bridge of his nose.

“Fair enough,” he muttered finally, reaching for his towel and tossing it over his shoulder, wiping some of the sweat from the back of his neck. But then the way he grabbed his water bottle with a little more force than necessary didn’t go unnoticed.

Mitch raised a brow, smirking at his annoyance. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied quickly. “It’s fair game, innit?”

“Right,” Mitch drawled, licking his tongue over his bottom lip as he stared at Harry for a moment. “Course. All’s fair in love and war or whatever.”

But Harry wasn’t really listening anymore. He was already replaying the image in his head: Luca, smiling, handing you coffee with that stupid Sharpie face that probably made your heart flutter. You laugh, you sip it, you choose it over his.

Maybe choosing him over him. He let out a long, slow breath and stood, making his way back to the bedrooms to get himself dressed and showered for the day.

The midday sun was relentless over the villa, bronzing bare shoulders and soaking into the terracotta tiles that circled the pool. A few of the boys lingered by the make-shift gym, shirtless and smug as they just want the ladies to give them a second look, attempting half-hearted workouts between bursts of banter.

You were stretched out on a beanbag near the lawn, sunglasses perched on your nose, the edge of your thigh sticking to the vinyl under you. Ella sat beside you, her legs swinging gently as she watched Mitch try to pull himself up on the bars — and fail spectacularly.

“Bless him,” she muttered. “That bar’s got more fight in it than he does.”

You huffed a laugh, only half-listening, your attention flicking, despite every reason to not look, across the pool, to where Harry stood. His curls were messily pushed back into a backwards hat, his skin kissed golden, and he was laughing at something Mitch said with his arms crossed, shoulders flexing with the movement.

He looked good—which, of course, only made it worse.

PING, PING.

Tiana nearly dropped her sunglasses scrambling for it, “I got a text!”

She swiped up, squinting at the screen, then read aloud with a grin in her voice, “Islanders, it’s time for a friendly game of Truth or Dare! Gather at the lawn and get ready to spill… or snog. #NoSecretsNoMercy #MakeItHot”

Jess immediately groaned into her palms. “This is going to end with someone crying or kissing the wrong person.”

“Or both,” Ella added brightly, standing and smoothing down her bikini bottoms.

You pushed up to stand, smoothing your own top with steady hands. You could feel it creeping in — that dull twist of dread in your belly that held fear and anticipation. These challenges always rubbed salt into the wounds, so you hoped that you could at least stand through it.

Harry was still across the way. He had been giving you a glance, gaze catching yours. You didn’t look back.

The Islanders gathered on the lawn, sitting cross-legged in a loose circle around a crate filled with rolled-up dares. Everyone was in swimwear, glistening with SPF and tension so high on their shoulders that it felt like the weight of the world. On the surface, it was all grins and sun and bare skin as they prepared for the game to start.

Mitch, of course, stood up to go first while the rest of the Islanders clapped around him. He reached in dramatically and read it out loud with an exaggerated gasp.

“Dare — give a lap dance to the Islander you think is most your type.”

“Oh God,” Jess muttered, already dreading what was coming. She placed a hand over her face to keep the blush off of it.

Mitch grinned, turned to her like it wasn’t obvious. “Well, she already knows it’s her.”

Then he dropped into a squirming, floppy attempt at a lap dance, humping the air while Jess screamed laughing and swatted at him. The circle erupted into chaotic laughter and dramatic sound effects of barking and whooping.

“I swear,” Jess muttered, wiping tears from her eyes, “if I wanted to see trauma in real time, I’d rewatch Movie Night.”

Next was Tiana, standing up to stand in front of everyone. She plucked a scroll and arched a brow as she took in a deep breath.

“Truth — which couple do you think won’t last on the outside?”

The noise simmered as everyone leaned in, Harry’s nose scrunched at the question before he bit the inside of his cheek.

She chewed the inside of her cheek for a second as she thought and hummed. “I’ll say Harry and Tash. No shade, really. Just… not feeling it.”

Jess and you look at one another as the boys give a slight groan; Tash gives a look of defeat, shrugging.

“Can I ask what you’re not feeling?” She asks Tiana quickly before catching her off guard.

Tiana licks over her lips, “Don’t know—guess it just feels more physical, and don’t think that will translate outside the villa.”

There’s a bit of tension before Tiana sits back in her space with a few people clapping at her wrapping up, and Tash turns to Megan, “She doesn’t even know what kind of conversations we’ve had.”

“Girl, it’s just a game, yeah?” Tiana leans over with a bit of defensiveness in her words, “Don’t need to be worried about it.”

Instead of allowing the bit argument to continue, it was Harry’s turn to stand up as he wiped his palms on his swim trunks.

You felt the air change around you, hugging your knees to your chest as you squint in the sun. You didn’t look at him, but your body was suddenly very aware of his presence — of the way the game could turn, any second, into something personal. He reached into the crate and pulled a scroll, unraveling it.

“Dare — kiss the Islander you think you have the most unfinished business with.”

The entire group fell quiet; you could tell there was a bit of animosity. You kept your face neutral — lips slack, shoulders relaxed, as you bit the inside of your lip, but your heartbeat had gone tight and fast under your ribs. Your lungs would be bruised from the pace of it.

His barefoot steps were soft in the grass before he let himself move towards you. You didn’t look up until he stopped in front of you. When you did, he was already leaning down and into you.

The kiss landed gently on you, a warm hand cupping your cheek, his lips brushing against yours in a way that was neither showy nor smug. It wasn’t for the crowd, it wasn’t performative. It held a tenderness that you had forgotten about, but you welcomed it without any protest. He meant it, and that somehow made it feel worse.

You didn’t kiss back, not really, but you didn’t pull away either. And when he stepped back, your lips still tingled with the ghost of it. Around the circle, the other Islanders were quiet for a beat. Then Ella let out a low whistle.

“Well,” she muttered, “did we just finish it?”

Tash looked away, not wanting to see the aftermath with a jaw clenched when she knew how this felt. You didn’t care—you couldn’t care about her when you felt this. You were too busy being furious with yourself for how much you felt it.

Then it was your turn. You reached into the crate, pulled a scroll, and unrolled it slowly.

“Dare — whisper a secret into the ear of the person you trust least in the villa.”

The entire group erupted in shrieks and dramatic gasps; you took in a breath as you knew that this could change the entire game.

“Oh my God,” Jess howled. “That’s insane.”

You took another breath, another beat. You contemplated for a moment before you looked around the circle, seeing the faces of them looking back at you. Especially one that felt necessary.

One long, slow inhale, and then you started walking around the circle to the one person that you knew you wanted to whisper to.  You didn’t even glance around too much, his expression unreadable.

You leaned in — lips near his ear, your voice low enough that no one else could hear as you cupped your hand around to keep it soft.

“I almost came up to the Hideaway last night but I wanted you to miss me, and I respect myself too much.”

He flinched; a knowing smile left on his lips just barely. Your eyes met his as you pulled away, even though the sunglasses kept them separate—thankfully. Then you turned, walked back, and sat down again.

Around the circle, mouths were open. Tiana’s jaw was practically on the lawn. Even the boys were murmuring amongst themselves, whispering about the fact that you chose him, “Did she just—?”

Harry didn’t move, didn’t say anything cheeky like he normally would. Instead, he just nodded and leaned back on his palms with his legs stretched out. You didn’t say anything else, you pulled your knees back to your chest.

The game rolled on — more dares, more chaos ensued with the truth bombs letting the Islanders laugh until their stomachs and cheeks hurt just the same. Ella kissed Johnny when asked to kiss the Islander with the sexiest tattoos, Megan was asked her favorite sex position. The usual mess unfolded in the usual way.

But nothing that followed hit quite like that kiss, or that whisper. It was all that you could think about; you knew from how quiet he had gotten, he had it just on his mind the same.

You shifted slightly, adjusting your bikini top and leaning back on your palms as the game moved on. The wooden crate at the center was filled with rolled-up dares and truths, some scrawled in eyeliner, others in smudged pen. Tiana had joked it looked like a cursed offering to the gods of villa chaos.

Harry sat across the circle, his legs stretched out in front of him, ankle crossed over ankle, his sunglasses low on his nose. Tash was next to him, knees grazing his. You hadn’t said a word to him since the kiss earlier.  You weren’t sure if that was better or worse.

Ella nudged you gently as Megan reached into the box.

“She’s definitely pulling something,” Ella murmured under her breath.

You gave her a small shrug, feigning indifference. “She’s always pulling something.”

Megan read the scroll silently first to herself before her lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile.

“Dare,” she read aloud, voice syrupy. “Kiss the Islander you’d most like to share a bed with tonight.”

There were instant reactions around the circle — gasps, hollers, the obligatory Ooooh! from Mitch, who had clearly been hoping it would land on him. But Megan didn’t laugh like everyone had started to. Being another single girl in the villa, you could see the wheels turning in her head before she contemplated her decision.

For a moment, you thought she might play it safe. Choose Mitch or Ronan or even Luca — something cheeky, something meaningless since none of them were in completely serious couples. Something that would make everyone laugh, that would be a passing joke.

But then she looked at Harry and didn’t look away as she started to approach him.

“Oh, come on,” Tiana whispered beside you.

Megan walked, slow, confident steps in the purple bikini that held tight against her bronzed skin, until she was standing directly in front of him. Harry looked up at her, head tilted, his grin lazy.

“Hope you don’t mind,” she commented softly with a smile on her face.

He chuckled back with his head tilted back for more access. “Not complaining.”

The kiss wasn’t long, but it was intentional. She kissed him like she wanted people to watch — like she wanted you to watch. Her hand on his shoulder, lips lingering just a breath longer than necessary. You turned your head away from watching, because it wasn’t worth seeing the stupid, cocky grin that laid on his face.

When she pulled back, she winked at him, then sauntered back to her place like she’d just won a round. You didn’t move with the reaction that was probably stoking. But the heat behind your ribs spread into something cold.

Ella exhaled with a whisper. “That was messy.”

“She’s desperate,” Tiana said flatly, raising her brows as she brushed some of the grass off the back of her thighs.

Harry, to his credit, didn’t say anything—no cheeky comment, no turning towards the boys to give a stupid, irreverent statement. He rubbed his jaw again and avoided looking directly at you, which only confirmed everything you already knew.

Then, it was Tash’s turn to draw from the crate.

She reached into the crate, cheeks already slightly pink from sun or nerves, hard to tell. She unraveled the scroll with a flick of her nails and read it aloud:

“Dare,” she said. “Kiss the Islander with the most underrated chat.”

There was a gap after she stated that it was a dare; her eyes wandering around the group for a moment. The girls looked at one another, then back to you.

“Well, that’s dangerous,” Luca muttered.

All eyes shifted to Harry.

Even he seemed to expect it, already straightening his posture slightly, his smirk creeping back. You could see the hope flicker behind his expression — the assumption that he was the obvious answer. That even after the kiss, even after everything, she’d come back to him.

But she didn’t.

Tash stood, didn’t look at Harry, and walked across the circle toward Ronan. Your head tilted slightly. Ella sat up straighter beside you.

Ronan blinked with a stupid smirk, like all of his hopes and dreams had suddenly come true. “Wait, what?”

“I think you’re slept on,” Tash said casually, then leaned in and kissed him.

It was quick with no lingering, but it was certainly not meaningless in the slightest, either. When she returned to her spot, still not looking at Harry, the silence that followed was louder than the few gasps and groans.

“How do you feel about that, Harry?” Johnny asked quietly, a smug smile on his face as he leaned to look at his friend.

Harry shrugged, nonchalance lacing over his features before he shook his head. “We’re not real big on chatting, are we. Guess I can get over that.”

Tash let the smirk on her face take over before she shook her head, “At least we have finished business.”

Harry’s expression didn’t change much, but you noticed the tension in his jaw. The flex of his fingers against his thigh. He didn’t like not being chosen.

And when he finally glanced at you, your face was unreadable.

You didn’t smile; you didn’t gloat. You just looked at him like you’d finally stopped expecting anything at all, which hit him harder than anything had before.

{NARRATOR}

Well, the sun might be going down… but Harry’s emotional confusion? That’s just getting warmed up. Nothing like a kiss with your ex to make your current flame feel super secure.

The heat still clung to everything, the railings, the beanbags, the inside of Harry’s chest. He wasn’t really in a rush to process what just happened — not the way his lips had moved against yours in front of everyone, not the way you’d looked at him after, not the way his pulse had lingered there in his throat for minutes after he’d sat back down.

Instead, he wandered through the villa and caught sight of the daybeds.

He found Tash sprawled on the edge of the daybeds, long legs crossed at the ankles, sunglasses perched on top of her head, glinting in the last light. She was leaning back on her elbows, looking almost bored as she talked with Megan quietly; to which, Harry couldn’t understand the seriousness of the conversation — except for the glint in her eye when she saw him approaching.

“Can I pull you for a chat, then?” Harry asked quietly before Megan gave a smirk, and Tash nodded softly before taking Harry’s hand to get yup.

“So…” she said, her voice light and teasing, “unfinished business, yeah?”

Harry scratched at the back of his neck as he grinned, the charm returning like a reflex he couldn’t help but show off. “What can I say? I follow instructions.”

Tash approached the benches under the balcony, laying softly on them before she arched a brow in question. “Didn’t seem like a hard decision.”

“Didn’t say it was.” He dropped down beside her without ceremony, settling into the cushions with an easy familiarity, head tilted toward her. The tension between them had always been this — playful, poking, just a little dangerous.

“But don’t get it twisted,” he added, voice lowering slightly. “You’ve been trouble since the second you walked into Casa.”

Tash laughed softly, her eyes narrowing in amusement. “You liked it, though.”

Harry pursed his lips, shaking his head, “Never said I didn’t.”

She shifted, leaning in just a hair, her voice dipping into something slower. “Still think I’m a bit of a nightmare?”

Harry chuckled, deep and quiet, making eye contact now before he let his dimples protrude with a smirk. “One hundred percent.” Then, after a beat: “But I rate it. Keeps me on my toes.”

That earned a proper smile from her — small, pleased, but not smug. She liked the game just as much as he did; she liked the teasing, and she knew how much it had bothered him that she kissed someone else.

“So, what now?” she asked, flipping her sunglasses onto the top of her head. “You’ve had your dramatic moment. What’s next, Mr. Mixed Signals?”

He exhaled through his nose, letting his gaze drift up to the dusky sky for a moment. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’m not closed off.”

“Oh, clearly,” Tash said, her voice dry and soft, almost like it was just under her breath.

He turned toward her again, laughing. “Oi.”

“What?” She smirked. “You snog your ex-missus with unfinished business and then come lay with me — what am I supposed to think?”

Harry leaned in slightly, his elbow brushing hers. His eyes flicked to her mouth for a split second — barely long enough to register, but enough that she noticed.

“That I’m exploring my options,” he told her with honesty laced in his voice. He stared up at her, pulling his sunglasses into his curls before he tilted his head.

Tash tilted her head, unimpressed but intrigued. “Exploring… or just being greedy? Can’t buy the cow and get the milk, or whatever the phrase is.”

That slow, half-smirk returned to his face — the one that made it hard to tell whether he was serious or just playing.

“It’s my money, innit?” He joked, “I’m paying my dues.”

She let out a low, breathy laugh and leaned back, giving him space again. “Well. If you’re still exploring…and if you’re paying for the milk.”

She looked at him, all glittering eyes and heat beneath her lashes; she didn’t want to lean in when she knew that others were looking, but Tash felt that her “You know where to find me.”

{CONFESSIONAL - TASH}

Tash shook her head, pulling her lips into her mouth.

“I think that Harry is playing a game with me, but I do think we have undeniable chemistry, so I can see it in his face,” She bites her lip, “I know he was with Y/N, but the whole point of Love Island is to test that connection and I think I’m throwing him for a loop a bit.”

{IN THE VILLA}

Harry watched her for a moment, neither leaning in nor pulling away because they both know what they want but can’t have. Just letting the tension hang there — that charged, magnetic in-between that he never seemed to leave lately.

He didn’t answer; he didn’t have to.

{CONFESSIONAL – HARRY}

He’s sitting on the confessional bench, arms draped on his thighs, sunglasses pushed into his curls. He sighs with a little smirk, shaking his head like he’s completely unaware of the fact that he could potentially be making a huge mistake.

“Look, I don’t regret bringing Tash back.” A single beat passes before he looks up, “But I needed to be more respectful.”

All that he displays is a shrug and a much wider grin, almost like he can’t control himself.

“Did I handle any of this perfectly? Nah. Do I still think Tash is fit? Absolutely. But I’ve got history with her… and now I’ve got chemistry with Tash.”

He leans forward slightly, eyes mischievous.

“The villa’s just got complicated again, hasn’t it?”

{IN THE DRESSING ROOM}

Somewhere outside, a bottle of sunscreen hit the deck with a hollow thud, and someone’s laughter echoed near the pool. Ella tossed her sunglasses onto the marble counter with a casual flick of her wrist, shaking out her hair to prepare to slick it back for the evening cocktail hour.

“Did anyone else clock that little daybed moment?” she said, not looking at either you or Tiana, just raising an eyebrow at her own reflection as she reached for her mascara.

Behind her, Tiana let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Harry and Tash? Yeah, babe. Clocked it, logged it in my journal, highlighted it in bold.”

You sat down on the bench beneath the vanity row, toweling the back of your neck slowly, methodically — like if you focused hard enough on that one motion, it might help you care a little less. It didn’t, obviously.

Ella turned slightly, watching you in the mirror now. “He kissed you today because of ‘unfinished business’. And now he’s laid out all flirty with the girl he brought back?” Her voice was sharp but not cruel; it was the kind of protective edge that only surfaced when someone she cared about was getting mugged off.

“He’s playing it both ways,” Tiana added, applying bronzer without missing a beat. “It’s like he’s not getting properly told off.”

You glanced at your reflection for a moment; you see your hair damp at the ends, face slightly flushed from the heat and all the things you weren’t saying. You weren’t crying. But you looked… tired.

“He said he still wanted to explore,” you murmured, the words tasting thinner out loud than they had in your head.

Ella blinked, putting a hair tie in her mouth to pull her hair back into a pony. “And you think Tash is gonna back off now?”

You shrugged, rubbing the towel between your hands. “She said I could trust her,” you said softly. “I just… feel like I’m the one looking stupid again.”

There was a silence then after you spoke, not a cold one, just the kind that falls when friends are trying to find the right words to say. Then Tiana twisted in her stool to face you properly.

“Babes,” she said, voice firmer now. “He’s the one looking confused.” She gave you a once-over, head to toe. “You? You’re still the girl everyone wants, and you’re going to move on if he’s going to never mind the bollocks.”

You looked up, meeting her eyes — and there it was. That flicker of belief passed between you. You weren’t sure you fully felt it yet, but it was something. Enough to hold onto for the moment, at least until you could talk with him. A slow, reluctant smile curved your mouth.

It wasn’t big or overstated, but it was real. And in this villa, that counted for a lot.

{IN THE VILLA – EVENING}

Glasses clinked on countertops as everyone made their way from the bedroom and dressing rooms down to the main portion of the lawn. Laughter drifted like smoke across the patio as Johnny made a comment about earlier; Harry sat with Tash next to him, having a quick chat. The cocktail hour hum had settled — less chaotic than daytime, more dangerous in its calm.

You walked over to Luca who was standing next to Megan; the light from the string lights overhead was just starting to glow faintly, casting a warm halo on the top of his head.

As you approached, he glanced to the other side of him at the subtle notice of someone next to him. “Well, well,” he said, eyebrows raised. “This feels suspicious.”

You gave him a tired smile. “Mind if I pull you for a quick chat?”

He grinned, tilting his head. “Ooooh. What’s this, then? Bit of unfinished business?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smirk tugging at your mouth. “If I have to hear that one more time,” You joked, shaking your head as you started walking towards the seats underneath the terrace, “Just a little something different, then. Come on.”

You led him toward the corner of the garden, where the fairy lights were brighter and the noise faded to murmurs. There was a bench tucked between two planters, shaded by a low-hanging olive tree. The kind of spot you could be overheard in — but only if someone really wanted to.

Luca dropped beside you, his knee knocking lightly against yours as you both melted into the seats.

He looked at you, taking a drink from his cup. “So… what’s going on? How was that challenge for you today?”

You exhaled, giving him a solid smile but knowing how much was beneath it. “I’m trying really hard not to spiral—but I genuinely think I’m going mad.”

He didn’t press. Just nodded once, because he knew exactly what you meant and exactly who you were referring to.

You shrugged, eyes flicking toward the pool where the rest of the villa buzzed around. “It’s like… I know who he is. I’ve known since the start, right? I could tell he was a flirt and he doesn’t hide it. But today — the kiss, then chatting to Tash after like it didn’t even mean anything — I just…” Your voice trailed off when you realized how mad it all sounded—how completely lost in delusion you may have been from it. The knot in your chest cinched a little tighter.

“I need to stop waiting for someone to pick me, and I guess I’m just stuck in wondering if I should continue with the connection or not because I don’t want leave here with the thought of knowing we could patch things up, you know?”

Luca was quiet for a moment. Then he smiled with a soft, tilted, a little cocky but not performative grin.

“Well,” he started, hands in his lap as he held his cup against his knees, “if you’re done waiting… maybe it’s time you start getting picked by someone who actually sees what’s in front of him—like you’re a catch, and I know that Casa kind of rocked the villa, as it does, but I think you may need to have a bit more stability.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how gentle it landed, and how it could be harsh in the softest of ways.

He shrugged, taking in a deep breath as he turned his eyes up to look at you. “I’ve been single two days and I already know you’re better than that mess.”

You gave a laugh — not the tight, forced one you’d been perfecting lately. A little breathy, but yours.

“So what,” you said, bumping your shoulder into his, “Will you be pulling me for more chats then?”

Luca smirked, licking over his lips. “I mean…,” He bit his lip, letting the silence from your private dwelling hang for a beat before finishing: “If the door’s cracked open, I’d be mad not to try. You’re gorgeous and I think you have a lot more connections you could build, but you put all of your eggs in his basket the first day.”

You looked at him, really looked at his brown eyes and his bronzed skin and something in you settled. Maybe not all the way, but enough.

You smiled, leaning back for a moment. “Consider it cracked—ajar, really.”

His grin widened as he gave you a small laugh, confident now. Sure, but not smug like you had known from some of the other boys. He didn’t reach for your hand, didn’t lean in. Just stayed close — close enough for you to feel the shift.

{CONFESSIONAL – LUCA}

Luca sits on the confessional bench, freshly showered, with his hair still damp, and a grin lazily crossing his features.

“Look, I didn’t come in thinking me and her would be a thing, yeah? She’s been locked in with Harry since the first week, so I didn’t even try.”

He pauses, smirks a little and looks into the camera. “But now? Door’s cracked open. She pulled me for a chat, and I’m not stupid — she’s stunning, she’s smart, and she’s not about the games. Which is rare in here.”

He leans forward, eyes glinting with something that resembled hope and a bit of change that felt scarier to initiate than to think about.

“Do I know where it’s going? Not yet. But if there’s a spark — I’ll go for it. Life’s short, the villa’s mad… might as well see what happens.”

{NARRATOR}

As the sun sets on another chaotic day in paradise, Harry’s losing grip, Tash is lying low, and Y/N might just have a new someone cracking on. And if we’ve learned anything by now, it’s that nothing stays quiet for long in this villa.

You sat near the fire pit, your knees pulled up to your chest on one of the cushions, sipping from your water bottle and letting the warmth of the flames kiss your shins. Most of the Islanders had drifted to have more chats with their respective couple, others bantered laughter which still echoed faintly from the hallway.

Footsteps approached behind you, slow and tentative, and you didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

He hovered for a second, then took the empty cushion beside you without a word—he didn’t ask to sit, didn’t ask for a chat. The space between you felt charged—not in an angry way, but a cautious way. Like the next few minutes would matter more than either of you wanted to admit.

He let out a long breath, then looked ahead at the fire.

“You alright?” he asked finally, voice low, barely above the crackle of the flames.

You nodded once, wanting to give an air of confidence that would allow him to shuffle in his own skin for a minute; you just didn’t have it in you. “Yeah.”

The silene was louder than anything else around here, you came to find. Then you turned slightly, your cheek resting on your knee, eyes on him. His curls were a little damp from his post-game shower. The firelight flickered in his eyes.

“That dare,” you commented softly. “Unfinished business, huh?”

His jaw tensed, then relaxed again. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, like the words he needed were stuck somewhere deep.

“Everyone’s been on me about this, but I just don’t know who else I was supposed to say, like,” he said eventually. “Didn’t do it to stir things. I just—” He looked at you, properly. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

You didn’t answer right away, you just chewed on the inside of your cheek as you stared at the flames in the firepit. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“I know I messed it up—like I know the Tash thing looks like—well, it looks like exactly what it is. And I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like it was the worst thing that could ever happen to our relationship, because it’s not. I’m here to build a connection.”

You looked at him carefully, watching how his shoulders slumped slightly when he said it — like it cost him something to admit out loud.

“It’s not about that Harry,” you said, not wanting to raise your quiet voice. “It’s—fuck, it’s about the trust, you know? Like I get it, I know where you’re coming from. But you were sharing a bed, you were—”

“I know.” His eyes were pained; he rolled them almost like he couldn’t believe himself at how ridiculous it all sounded. “And you had every right to. I shouldn’t’ve—Christ, I shouldn’t’ve let it get to that point with her. I told myself we were open, that I was just testing stuff like everyone else.”

He trailed off, shaking his head.

“But I wasn’t thinking about the game. I was thinking about you. And I just—I didn’t want to be the guy who came back alone and looked pathetic.”

You gave a slight frown at his word choice. “So you brought someone back to save face?”

“No.” He looked at you sharply. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I didn’t use her. I just—look, we got on. But I didn’t feel what I feel with you. And that kiss today?” He leaned back slightly, his voice lowering. “That wasn’t to be a dick. That was real—we have unfinished business because I’m attracted to you and it all just keeps coming back to being intimate and having that to hold onto.”

Your heart kicked at the memory — of his hands, his voice, his mouth whispering into your shoulder in the dark of that shared bed. The covers pulled over your heads, the soft breaths and the warmth of his fingertips as they crept over your skin in a way that felt needed.

“Everything about that meant something to me,” he added, his voice wavered a bit, but you still didn’t look him in the eyes. “And I never said it, because I thought we were taking it slow. But I shouldn’t’ve treated what we had like it was replaceable. I see that now.”

You looked down at your hands, fingers twisting in your lap as you let your legs fall from your chest, down to the group.

“I don’t know if I can trust you again,” you murmured, contemplating. “I don’t know if that door’s still open.”

“I’m not asking you to throw it wide, you know,” he said, licking over his lips with a hesitancy, “I’m just asking if it’s still on the hinges.”

That made you laugh, just a little — a tiny exhale through your nose. He took that as permission to go on.

“I want to do it right,” he said, more quietly now. “I don’t want to force it. I just want the chance to show you I can be who you thought I was — before Casa. Before all this.”

You turned your head toward him; his eyes, his expression wasn’t smug, or flirty, or even hopeful. It was sincere. It was a part of Harry that you hadn’t seen before, this sincerity that wasn’t laced in a flirtation or hunger. You bite your lip, unsure of what to say. You weren’t ready to forgive, but not ready to walk away either.

“Actions will speak louder than words,” you whispered, the only words that would come to mind as you nodded.

He nodded, to confirm with you. “I’m not rushing you. I just… needed you to know where I’m at.”

The silence stretched again — but this time, it felt gentler. Less jagged. Eventually, you both leaned back on your cushions, saying nothing more. The fire crackled between you, and the rest of the villa buzzed quietly behind you.

For the first time in days, you weren’t sure what came next. And maybe that gave you unexplained clarity that you were looking for, in an odd sense.

{LATER IN THE VILLA}

It was late enough that the villa had quieted, the sky a rich navy with stars just beginning to peek through the gaps in the night. Most of the Islanders were winding down — some lingering in the kitchen for a final snack, others getting their microphones changed or slipping into their PJs.

Tash sat outside on the large blue beanbag near the edge of the pool, her hair up in a lazy bun, shoulders bare beneath the thin straps of her pajama cami. She looked tired — not in a physical way, but in the way someone did when they were thinking a little too hard about things they weren’t quite ready to say out loud.

Mitch dropped down beside her without asking, swinging a leg up and letting his water bottle rest against his knee.

“You look like your head’s doing circles,” he said, nudging her with his elbow.

Tash gave a weak smile, sniffling in as she took in a breath. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” Mitch added, more gently this time. “Where’s your head at?”

“Don’t know, really. Guess it’s just a bit confusing because I think he’s telling her something different than what he’s telling me,” She huffed, folding her arms. “I knew something was still there with them. You can just… tell, right?”

Mitch tilted his head. “Yeah. But I don’t think that makes you a mug, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

She hesitated, pushing her glasses up on her nose, removed of the makeup that had been added. “I mean, it kind of does. He brought me back here, kissed me, slept in the same bed. And now he’s acting like she’s the only one who ever mattered, you know what I mean? Like, sure, he didn’t do everything right—but he brought me back because we had a connection, too, and now Y/N has his tail between his legs.”

Mitch raised an eyebrow, knowing those were words that would stir the villa up. “Did he tell you he was done with her?”

“No. Not in those words.” She picked at a loose thread on the beanbag. “But he let me think there was space for something. And now he’s running off whispering by the fire pit with her, acting like I’m invisible.”

There was a beat of silence, as Mitch looks over to see Harry talking with Y/N as they brushed their teeth; it looked more of a passing conversation but understanding where the pain may have come from. She looked at him, something honest flickering across her face.

Mitch nodded slowly, taking a sip of his water. “So what’s the move, then?”

Tash exhaled through her nose, looking out at the still water on the beaches beyond the villa.

“I’m not chasing anyone,” she told him firmly, with confidence and a bit of disbelief that he’d think that of her. “If he wants her, fine. But I’m not gonna be the fallback girl he cuddles up to when she ignores him.”

Mitch grinned. “There she is.”

Tash smirked at that. “I’m still in this villa. I’ve still got options. If Harry’s not gonna take me seriously, someone else might.”

Mitch leaned back on his own beanbag. “Fair play. Just… don’t let his drama dim you, yeah? You’ve got more going on than being a plot point in their love story.”

She nudged him with her foot with a giggle. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Anytime, kiddo.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the sounds of laughter drifting faintly from the dressing room. And for the first time that day—or the entire time since she had shown up, Tash didn’t feel like the villain in someone else’s romance. She felt like a girl who still had something to play for.

{THE NEXT DAY}

The villa had that still, sticky quality that made everyone move slower — sunscreen being slathered on shoulders, sunglasses traded back and forth, bodies sprawled on beanbags in soft, easy conversation. You were lying by the pool, legs dangling in the water, head tilted back toward the sun.

It felt like the calm after the storm. Truth or Dare had left its mess, but the edges were softening, and  conversations were mending or fraying quietly in corners.

Until the voice rang out:

“Islanders!”

Everyone’s heads snapped up in unison.

There, framed perfectly in the entrance, stood Maya Jama — radiant as ever in a red halter-neck sundress and heels that somehow didn’t sink into the grass. Her sunglasses were already pushed up onto her head, dark curls bouncing as she stepped down the path like she owned it.

Chaos always followed Maya, and that made your heart skip a beat as you stood and started to put yourself back together.

Ella let out a gasp, quickly walking next to you. “Oh, she’s here. That means something’s happening.”

You stood up slowly, water dripping from your legs, a jolt of nerves waking in your chest.

Maya gave a little wave, her smile knowing. “Get up, everyone! Come join me by the fire pit!”

The Islanders scrambled, towels dropped, sunglasses adjusted. Harry was the last to move, hanging back slightly, his jaw already tight.

Maya waited until everyone was in place, scanning the group with that perfect host smile — the one that said brace yourselves without needing to say it. Then she turned to the entrance.

“How is everyone doing?” She asked with reverent happiness and calmness that told you all that something was going to happen—something was coming.

Everyone gave a few grunts and nods of acknowledgement before Luca answered for the group, “Think we’ve had our share of some ups and down, but I think overall, we’re doing well.”

Maya smirked slightly before she nodded, “Good—good to hear. Well, we have a recoupling tonight, and to help with that, I thought it may be time for you all to meet two new bombshells!”

“Oh, shit—oh hell.” Gasps rippled through the firepit area instantly as your heart started to beat faster in your chest.

From behind her walked a tall, athletic guy with sandy brown hair and bright blue eyes, his white shirt open enough to show off his chest tattoos. A beat behind him came a dark-haired girl in a cobalt blue bikini top and wrap skirt, her smile confident and eyes already flicking over the group like she was scanning for prey.

“This is William and Catie,” Maya announced to the group when they came to stand next to her. “And they’re ready to make some waves.”

You barely had time to register William’s sharp jawline and the fact that Catie was already eyeing the boys like she was placing bets, before Maya continued, looking over at both of them as they looked back at her.

“William, Catie — you’ll each be taking an Islander of your choice on a date today. You’ve had a sneak peek… so who are you choosing, and who needs to get ready to go?”

William stepped forward, his grin easy, his gaze landing right on you—you’d almost wish he stopped looking at you like that, because your heart fluttered for a moment.

“I’d like to take Y/N,” he said, a bit confident. You hear a strong accent, similar to Harry’s, really. You can tell that his blood boils at that—you just know that he’s buzzing.

The breath caught in your throat — not from shock, exactly, but from the sudden shift in atmosphere. You felt Harry look at you before you even turned your head, but you kept your expression neutral.

Catie went next. Her voice was smooth. “I’d love to take Luca.”

Luca laughed, clapping his hands together. “Let’s go, then, Catie.”

The two of you were whisked away a moment later — escorted out to get ready, the villa already buzzing behind you with whispers, glances, smirks.

Back at the fire pit, Harry stood with his arms crossed, watching the path where you’d disappeared. His mouth was set in a tight line, sunglasses hiding his eyes — but everyone who knew him could see the shift.

Mitch leaned over, nudging him. “Fair play, mate. Bit of your own medicine, that.”

Harry didn’t answer. He just stared after you.

{IN A CONFESSIONAL - HARRY}

 Harry leaned back on the bench, rubbing a hand through his hair.

“She looks fit today in that tiny yellow bikini,” he admitted, lips twitching into something that might’ve been a smile — or a grimace. “The lad’s not blind.”

He paused.

“D’you know what, though? Fair play. I’ve made mistakes. I brought someone else back. So if this tests our connection — maybe it needs testing.”

But his eyes didn’t quite match his voice. Not when he added:

“I just hope she remembers what we had before everything got messy. That it meant something..”

He shook his head with a quiet laugh, looking straight into the camera.

“Let’s see what happens.”

[harianaswhore]

i’m so invested in this

[harianaswhore]

⟡ 𝐊𝐈𝐌𝐈 𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐈 ⟡

NONE OF THESE ARE WRITTEN BY ME

𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐬 ☆ 𝐟𝟏 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐬

— ᶠᴸᵁᶠᶠ ⟡

i'm alright - @no-144444

the tube top incident - @landoughnut

parole d'amore - @itsnesss

pretty in pink (amore mio) - @gr4cier4cie

classmate? yeah right - @suliigwp

caught on camera - @mywritersmind

five more minutes - @jo-com

interview things (^)

half a step- @jocelynellie

fate had a better taste than me - @slutforvoldy

yours, even when everyone is watching - @ccupcakqs

lesson plan (^)

fairy godmother max - @cheftsunoda

my lucky charm - @ipushhimback

— ᴬᴺᴳˢᵀ⟡

the gap between us - @lnracer

— ˢᴼᶜᴵᴬᴸ ᴹᴱᴰᴵᴬ ⟡

gorgeous (smau) - @leclercsaintmleux

[harianaswhore]

⟡ 𝐌𝐀𝐗 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝟓 ⟡

NONE OF THESE ARE WRITTEN BY ME

𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐬 ☆ 𝐟𝟏 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐬

— ᶠᴸᵁᶠᶠ ⟡

every race, every hug - @daniiiboo

superman - @starset21

love is patient - @cheftsunoda

rules were made (to be broken) - @norristrii

with love, verstappen (^)

birthday surprise - @lxndonorris

yapper gf x listener bf - @hoolaand

grumpy max x soft reader (^)

daddy duties call - @vibeswithdivs

who spoke to you like that (^)

always you - @flowergirl1243

velcro boyfriend - @formulafanfics13

— ᴬᴺᴳˢᵀ⟡

give me a chance - @verstappenverse

in every city, it's still you (^)

and if i stay? - @miaaaxxz

mad max - @sydwritess

the things we do for love - @hoolaand

escape fund (tw: jos verstappen) - @clowneryplusftf1

— ˢᴹᵁᵀ⟡

touch first, talk later - @charles-leclerizz

control and collision (suggestive) - @ccupcakqs

mad max - @formulafanfics13

never let you go (^)

your biggest fan (^)

— ˢᴼᶜᴵᴬᴸ ᴹᴱᴰᴵᴬ ⟡

pda - @hoolaand

actress!reader - @hoolaand

pap photos (^)

you're so golden - @mickyschumacher

— ˢᴱᴿᴵᴱˢ ⟡

this time tomorrow same time yesterday - @trashytracktales

rich bf x spoilt gf smau two three - @hoolaand

[pucksandpower]

All the Hard Things

Oscar Piastri x obsessive compulsive!Reader

Summary: sometimes OCD has a way of taking over your mind beyond all logic, but that’s okay because the love you and Oscar share goes far beyond all logic too

Warnings: depictions of obsessive compulsive disorder and inadvertent self-harm due to it

It happens like this: your cap is crooked, your tassel’s stuck in your hair, and your mum’s crying harder than you expected. You don’t even feel that proud. Just tired. Wrung out and blinking against the flash of someone else’s camera.

“Y/N!” A voice calls from behind a crowd of hugging classmates.

You turn, already smiling. Oscar is leaning against a brick column, arms folded, sunglasses pushed up on his head. He’s trying not to grin too wide, but he’s doing a shit job of it.

“There she is,” he says, and then, a beat later, “How’s my graduate?”

“I feel exactly the same,” you say, walking into him, arms wrapping around his middle. His hands slide up your back, and he presses a kiss into your temple.

“You smell like other people’s success,” he mutters into your hair. “It’s disgusting.”

You laugh. “You’re disgusting.”

Behind you, your dad’s saying something about parking validation, your brother’s holding a balloon that says “YOU DID IT!” and your mum’s trying to pull out her phone without dropping her purse.

Oscar pulls back. “You’re done.”

You nod. “I’m done.”

“Like … officially?”

“I walked across the stage. They pronounced my last name wrong. I think that’s the official benchmark.”

He tilts his head. “Y/L/N is not that hard.”

“They added a G in the middle.”

“That’s impressive.” He slides his hand into yours, lacing your fingers like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I got you something.”

You blink. “I told you not to-”

“It’s not a gift,” he says. “It’s a … proposal.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. He catches it instantly.

“Not like that!” He says, laughing. “Jesus. No, I mean like, an offer. A plan. Sort of.” He reaches behind the bench near the column and pulls out a slim black binder.

You frown. “You made me a presentation?”

“I made you an itinerary.”

You stare at the front cover: in big, bold letters across a map background, it reads WORLD TOUR WITH MY FAVORITE PERSON.

Your stomach flips.

He says quickly, “You said once, like ages ago, that when you finished uni, you wanted to travel. No job yet. No responsibilities. Just a year off. And I thought … well, I’ve got all these races. All these cities. And it’s not really traveling if I’m just doing it without you. So … why not come with me?”

You flip open the binder. Inside, there are tabs. “First Half of the Season,” “Packing Lists,” “Important Travel Dates,” “Rainy Day Snacks”. And, in the back, a hand-drawn doodle of the two of you in front of a cartoon world map.

It’s stupid and sweet and meticulous and everything you love about him.

You swallow around a knot in your throat. “You made this.”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I also laminated the cover. For durability.”

“I-” You’re blinking too fast now. “I don’t even know what to say.”

Oscar’s voice softens. “Say yes.”

Your heart thuds.

“Yes,” you say, and it’s barely a whisper. “Yes, obviously yes.”

He lifts you, spins you in a way that has your brother making gagging noises behind you. But you don’t care. Your hands are in his hair, his arms around your waist, and the sun is catching his grin just right.

You’re in love. That terrifying, stable kind of love that doesn’t burn — it holds.

But when you step into the airport two days later, something shifts.

You know the moment it happens: the automatic doors slide open, the air conditioning hits your arms, and the white floor tiles stretch in front of you like a trap.

Oscar walks ahead, wheeling your shared suitcase. He turns to smile at you. “Gate 18. Let’s go.”

You nod, follow, but not before pausing. You have to.

Boarding pass in your hand. Tap it twice. Your fingers tremble. Tap. Tap.

You whisper his name under your breath. Quiet. Careful. “Oscar.” If you don’t say it, if you don’t get it exactly right-

“Y/N?”

You look up. He’s waiting near security, one eyebrow raised.

You step forward, but there’s a pattern now. Left tile, skip the crack, right tile. You count. Three steps forward. One step back.

You are not spiraling. You are fine. You’ve been fine for years.

Only … you weren’t in love then.

Back then, if you skipped the whisper, if you touched the door handle wrong, it was just … a mistake. A thought. A ghost.

But now there’s something to lose. Now, if you don’t do it just right, he might-

You touch the strap of your backpack twice. Tap. Tap. Breathe in. Hold for four seconds.

You’ve done this before. Since you were eleven. Since your brain decided it could protect people through ritual. Since the term magical thinking first entered your therapist’s vocabulary.

It’s been quieter these past few years. A murmur instead of a scream. Because routine was everything. Your days were built like puzzles — tightly shaped. No pieces missing. Study at 10, class at noon, walk back the same route. Sleep at 1:07 a.m. on the dot.

But now? Now the flight might be delayed. The hotel might smell wrong. Oscar might crash on a track in Italy because you didn’t count to eight before getting on the plane.

“Y/N,” he says again. “You good?”

You smile too fast. “Yeah. Sorry. Just spaced out.”

He takes your hand, squeezes it. “I mean, you’re allowed to be emotional. You graduated. You’re about to travel the world with your super-hot boyfriend. Big week.”

“Hmm. Debatable.”

“What, that it’s a big week?”

“That you’re super hot.”

“Rude.”

You exhale through your nose. Your pulse is still off.

Security is slow. You hate taking your shoes off. You hate the bins. You hate how close everyone stands. Your hands ache with the need to count something.

Oscar is pulling your backpack off your shoulders, placing it gently on the belt. “Don’t stress. We’ve got time.”

You nod. You don’t meet his eyes.

He’s so patient. Too patient.

He’s seen the worst of it. The meltdown in second year when you washed your hands until they bled. The days you didn’t leave your flat. The scripts you clung to like lifelines: tap twice, count backwards, check again, again, again.

He’s never flinched. But that was then. That was with structure. Now it’s airports and motorhomes and the whole world on wheels.

You touch your wrist once. Then again. Then again.

Oscar bumps his shoulder into yours. “You hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Wanna grab something anyway?”

“Sure.”

It’s a stupid dance, the pretending. The masking. It exhausts you before the flight even boards.

But then he says, “I put extra highlighters in the binder. You know. In case you want to color-code where we’ve been.”

You look at him.

He’s not teasing. He’s serious. Earnest.

You swallow. “Thank you.”

He shrugs, but his eyes are searching. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

You hesitate. Just one second too long.

He drops his voice. “Hey.”

You can’t speak. You can’t explain that if you say the wrong thing you might curse him.

He steps closer. “Y/N. You can tell me.”

You whisper, “It’s starting again.”

He doesn’t say what is? He knows. He just nods. Quiet.

“Okay,” he says. “So we take it slow.”

You nod, your throat thick.

“If the rituals come back, we deal with them. We make space. We adjust.”

“I don’t want to ruin it,” you say, and your voice cracks. “This was supposed to be-”

“You haven’t ruined anything.”

“But if I mess it up-”

“You won’t.”

You look away. “You don’t know that.”

“I know you.”

You cover your face with your hands. You want to hide in his chest. Climb into his suitcase. Dissolve into the binder he made you.

Instead, he steps forward and wraps his arms around you right there in the middle of the terminal.

“Tap my arm if you need to,” he says, mouth near your ear. “Count the tiles if you have to. Say my name twenty times. I don’t care. Just … do it with me. Don’t do it alone.”

You nod against him.

You feel him kiss your temple. “It’s us,” he says. “Just like always.”

And somehow, it makes it a little quieter in your head. Just enough to walk toward the gate.

***

The first thing you notice about Melbourne is the sky. It’s the wrong kind of blue. Too open. Too big. It glares down at you like it’s waiting for you to flinch.

And you do.

The second thing you notice is the noise — brash, bright, city noise. Not like back home, where even the chaos has a rhythm. Here, everything is fast and clashing and late.

You’re sweating in a hoodie because you weren’t expecting the heat, and you can’t remember if you packed your toothbrush, and Oscar’s already halfway to the garage.

“I’ll be back by five!” He calls over his shoulder, lugging a small bag that probably has six identical team polos and nothing else. “Don’t wait for me to eat!”

You nod, smile, wave, try to match his energy. But the hotel door clicks closed behind him and you just stand there. Still. In the middle of a perfectly lovely hotel suite with perfectly white sheets and a view of the track just three buildings over. You don’t move for a while.

When you finally do, it’s to unzip your suitcase for the fifth time and root through it like you didn’t already check it back at the airport.

You’re looking for the toothbrush. You know it’s not about the toothbrush. It’s about the fact that you don’t know. About the fact that maybe you packed it, maybe you didn’t, maybe it’s in the front pocket, or the side one, or maybe it fell out when security made you re-check your liquids and now it’s sitting on some conveyor belt collecting strangers’ breath and dust.

You touch your wrist three times. Check the bathroom drawer. Again. Again. Again.

By noon, you’ve unpacked and repacked the toiletries bag twice and lined all your socks up by color. You’ve opened the minibar, then closed it again without taking anything out. You’ve opened Instagram, then shut it. Twitter, then closed it.

Everything itches.

Oscar texts at 12:47.

Garage is chaos but I love you

Also tell me you remembered the sunscreen this time

You don’t answer. You pull the sunscreen out of the side pocket and line it up next to the tiny bottle of hand sanitizer. Then you sit down on the bathroom floor, back against the cool tile, and count the seconds between your breaths.

One. Two. Three.

You try not to picture the FP1 crash in Bahrain two years ago. The one where Oscar hit the wall and climbed out shaking his wrist.

You try not to imagine it happening again. Try not to think that if you forget to lock the door before 9 p.m., that if you don’t re-pack your bag in the right order, if you don’t wash your hands after touching anything metal-

You try not to think that he’ll die. But you do. You do.

The thought is sticky. Loud. It wraps around your ribs and tightens.

That night, he comes back wired and sweaty, a towel around his neck, still halfway through a story about someone’s brake sensor malfunctioning.

“And I swear to God, the look on his face — like, full terror — but then it just reset itself! Like boop, nothing happened. Which is either very reassuring or the worst thing ever — are you okay?”

You freeze in the middle of the room.

Your hand is on the lock. Click. Click. Clickclickclickclickclick-

Seven. Always seven.

“Hey,” he says, voice gentler now. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You nod. “No, you didn’t. It’s not — it’s nothing.”

His eyes flick to the door. Then to your hand.

He doesn’t say anything. Just walks over and kisses the top of your head. “Food?”

You try to smile. “Sure.”

You order room service because the idea of navigating a restaurant tonight is too much. You both eat cross-legged on the bed, watching reruns of some terrible home renovation show. He makes fun of the lighting choices and does impressions of the narrator.

You laugh at the right moments. You kiss him when he nudges your knee.

But after he falls asleep, the thoughts come back.

You get up. Check the lock again. Seven times. Seven always felt safe. Always felt symmetrical.

You wash your hands before getting back into bed. Then again. Then again. Until the soap makes your skin sting.

You press your palms to the towel. It’s soft. New. Not the one from earlier.

Your chest tightens. You turn on the bathroom light.

There’s a post-it on the mirror.

I love you more than the lock clicking 7 times.

Your legs give out a little. You sit on the edge of the tub and press your face to your knees.

You don’t cry. Not yet.

***

The next day is FP1.

Oscar’s in the car and you’re in the paddock with noise-cancelling headphones and a credential that still feels fake around your neck.

You wave at someone on the team. Try to remember their name.

Try to remember how to breathe.

The first time he comes out of the garage, your heart stops. Not figuratively. Not poetically. Actually.

Everything in your body goes cold, then hot. Your fingers twitch. Your legs feel heavy. You touch the metal railing in front of you.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Someone else’s girlfriend is laughing nearby. Someone else’s sister is filming a TikTok.

You can’t move. Your skin feels like it’s crawling off your bones.

He flies past, and you don’t see the turn.

You don’t know if he made it. You check your phone. No texts. No alerts. You picture the worst anyway. A wall. A fire. A miscalculation.

You go to the bathroom and scrub your hands raw. You do it because the soap is thin and the water is too cold and you don’t trust any of it. You do it because maybe it will help. Maybe it will protect him.

When you come out, he’s already changed. Hair damp. Laughing with a mechanic.

You smile when he catches your eye. Walk toward him.

He kisses your cheek and asks, “Hungry?”

You lie. “Yeah.”

He holds your hand all the way back to the hotel.

That night, he doesn’t say anything when you check the door again. Or when you rearrange the toiletries by size. Or when you flick the light switch twice before turning it off.

But when you step into the bathroom to shower, the towel has been switched again. Softer. Thicker. No tag to scratch your wrists. And there’s another note.

I love you more than the thoughts that tell you I’ll crash.

You stand under the hot water for too long. Your shoulders shake, and the water hides the tears.

You don’t tell him.

When you come out, he’s already asleep, one arm stretched toward your side of the bed like he was waiting for you in his dreams. You climb in beside him and press your nose to his shoulder.

He stirs, just a little. Murmurs, “You okay?”

You whisper, “Yeah.”

He turns toward you, eyes barely open, and kisses the center of your forehead.

You’re not okay. But maybe you don’t have to be. Not alone.

***

The sun in Bahrain hits different.

It’s not just the heat — it’s the glare, the dry air, the way the sky never seems to turn fully blue. The way the desert hums under everything, invisible and endless.

Oscar tells you it’s one of his favorite places to race. You nod, pretend to agree, then ask if he remembered to pack his cooling vest. He didn’t. You repacked it for him two nights ago. It's already folded neatly between his gloves and his race boots in the side pouch of his duffel.

But you don't tell him that. You don’t say much at all anymore.

Now you sit on the floor of the hotel suite, cross-legged, a pile of his things laid out beside you: team gear, toiletries, gum, charger, sunglasses, protein bars, custom earplugs.

You fold everything the same way. Three creases, not two. Socks rolled, not folded. Charger coiled clockwise, not counter. And the gum has to go on top. Always the gum.

You’ve unpacked and re-packed this bag twice already. You’re halfway through a third round when the door opens behind you.

You don’t look up.

Not until he says, gently, “Didn’t we already pack that?”

You pause. The toothpaste is in your hand, and your chest starts to tighten. You forgot if you’d put it back in yet.

You can’t answer until you do. So you place the toothpaste in its slot, adjust the zipper mesh around it, and zip it shut — smoothly, not too fast, not too slow.

Only then do you look up. Oscar’s standing by the door. He hasn’t moved.

He’s wearing the black McLaren polo you like — the one that clings to his arms in a way that makes your brain short-circuit. His hat’s turned backwards. He looks like he should be holding a skateboard, not stepping into a hotel room thick with compulsions.

He drops his keys on the table. Steps forward.

“Hey,” he says, kneeling beside you. “Are you okay?”

Your throat tightens. You nod. Too quickly.

His eyes search yours, quiet. Not accusing. Just watching.

You say, “I’m just double-checking this stuff. Making sure everything’s where it should be.”

“You mean my stuff.”

You nod again. “Right. Yours.”

He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t make a joke.

Instead, he touches your knee, softly. You hate that it makes you tear up.

You blink fast, pretending to scratch your face. “I’m just making sure.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t want to forget anything.”

“I know.”

A silence falls between you. It’s not heavy. Not entirely.

He kisses your forehead. Not dramatically. Just once, warm and real.

Then he says, “Do you want help?”

Your laugh is brittle. “You’d pack the gum upside down.”

“That’s fair.”

You zip the bag closed again. Touch the zipper head three times. Oscar notices but doesn’t comment. He sits with you for a few minutes like that — shoulder to shoulder on the hotel floor, watching you breathe.

You don’t tell him about the prayer.

The one you whisper in your head every time he gets into the car. The one with no origin, no clear logic — just syllables. A rhythm. A bargain.

It’s not from any religion. It’s not even a complete sentence. Just words. A shape. One you’ve repeated over and over so many times it doesn’t sound like anything anymore.

Keep him safe, keep him whole, turn the wheels, pay the toll.

You say it twelve times. Every time. If you lose count, you start over.

Even during FP1. Even when the crowd cheers and music blares and your phone buzzes in your back pocket. Even when someone talks to you mid-mantra and you forget if you were on the seventh or eighth round, and suddenly you can’t breathe until you start from the top again.

You don’t tell anyone that, either.

It started three years ago. But maybe it really started back at school.

***

You were fifteen when you told him.

It was late. You were supposed to be in your dorm.

You were in the library, sitting under the long window seat in the back corner, knees pulled to your chest, hoodie sleeves covering your hands. The kind of night that felt infinite. The kind where your chest buzzed with thoughts you couldn’t get out of your head.

He found you by accident. Probably looking for somewhere quiet to FaceTime his mum.

He said, “Did you fall asleep here or are you just hiding from your roommate again?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He crouched down, noticed your red hands. “Did you burn yourself?”

You shook your head. “Washed them.”

His brow furrowed. “With bleach?”

“Soap,” you said. “Just soap. Too much, maybe.”

He sat beside you without asking. Without flinching. Just crossed his legs and leaned his back against the bookshelf.

“I check the windows,” you said. “At night. Three times each. Left to right. Then the desk drawers. Then the closet.”

He didn’t speak. Just waited.

“If I don’t,” you said, “I feel like something terrible will happen. Like my brother will die in his sleep. Or my mum will get hit by a car.”

He was silent for a beat. “Is that why you were late to maths yesterday?”

You turned, startled.

He shrugged. “You checked the doors, didn’t you?”

“Three times.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I noticed.”

You blinked.

“You think I don’t notice stuff,” he said. “But I do. Especially about you.”

You didn’t say anything. The library was too quiet.

Then he said, “Okay, so what do we do?”

“What?”

“To keep your family safe. What’s the plan? You check the drawers, I’ll do the closet.”

And then he smiled. Crooked. Boyish.

You hated how much you wanted to cry.

But you laughed instead. “You would make a terrible closet checker.”

“I’m excellent. Thorough. Award-winning.”

“You’d leave the hangers crooked.”

He paused. “That feels like a personal attack.”

You looked at him.

He looked back.

“Okay,” he said softly. “We’ll straighten the hangers.”

***

Back in Bahrain, he leaves you alone with the travel bag.

You don’t repack it a fourth time. But you think about it. You feel guilty for lying to him. Even now. Even when you know it’s not really a lie — it’s protection. It’s control.

It’s survival.

That night, Oscar’s busy with press. You curl up on the couch with a throw blanket and his credential on the table beside you. It has his face on it. His smile.

You say the prayer once under your breath. Just once.

Keep him safe, keep him whole, turn the wheels, pay the toll.

You feel a little better. Until the guilt creeps back in. Until the soap on your skin starts to sting again.

Later, when he comes back, you’re brushing your teeth.

He wraps his arms around you from behind, rests his chin on your shoulder.

“You taste like spearmint and fear,” you say through the foam.

He snorts. “Only because I saw the tyre wear report.”

He presses a kiss to your jaw. You close your eyes.

“Did you eat?” He asks.

“Sort of.”

“What does that mean?”

“Popcorn,” you mumble. “And two Oreos.”

He makes a face in the mirror. “Dinner of champions.”

You lean into him. “I didn’t feel like going out.”

“That’s okay.”

“I just wanted everything quiet.”

“That’s okay, too.”

You’re quiet a long time.

Then you say, “Do you ever feel like … if you do things wrong, someone you love might get hurt?”

He meets your gaze in the mirror. “Like … jinx it?”

You nod.

“All the time,” he says softly. “Every time I get in the car.”

You swallow.

“I used to have this ritual,” he says, moving your hair back from your shoulder. “When I first started karting. I’d knock my helmet twice before putting it on. Thought if I didn’t, I’d spin out. I was eight. Super serious stuff.”

You smile, faintly.

“I still do it,” he admits. “Out of habit.”

“But if you forget-”

“I don’t die,” he says. “I just feel a bit weird.”

You stare at the sink.

“I know it’s different,” he adds. “But I’m just saying … rituals don’t make you broken. They make you human.”

You don’t answer.

But when you fall asleep that night, you whisper the words in your head again.

Keep him safe, keep him whole …

You lose count at ten. You start over.

Oscar stirs beside you and pulls you closer without waking.

You start over. And over. And over again.

Until sleep finally wins.

And for the first time in days, you don’t dream of fire.

***

You wake up late the next Saturday.

The hotel curtains don’t block the light the way they should, and your eyes snap open to the wrong kind of brightness, too early to be actual morning, too late to start over.

You sit up too fast. Reach for the watch on the nightstand.

It’s 9:07.

Panic squeezes your ribs. You were supposed to tap the face of the watch five times before 9:00. Five times. Right index finger only. In rhythm.

The rules are stupid. You know that. That’s the worst part — you know.

But it’s like knowing you’re not supposed to need oxygen. Doesn’t make breathing optional.

You tap it anyway. One, two, three, four, five. Then again. Then again.

Oscar stirs beside you, rubbing his eyes.

“Hey,” he says groggily. “Alarm didn’t go off?”

“No,” you whisper.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. I just … overslept.”

“You never oversleep.”

You manage a hollow smile. “First time for everything.”

***

Jeddah’s paddock buzzes with the usual pre-race chaos — carts clattering across asphalt, reporters huddled around coffee, engineers shouting over radio chatter.

Oscar kisses your temple before FP3. “Back soon. Don’t worry.”

You nod. Smile again. Fake it. You’re getting good at that.

As he disappears into the garage, you whisper it.

Keep him safe, keep him whole, turn the wheels, pay the toll.

Twelve times.

You lose count on the seventh. Someone brushes past you with a headset, jostling your shoulder. You whisper faster. Eyes closed.

Start again.

Once, twice, three times — you say the whole sequence over and over until your throat’s dry and your heart pounds.

You should have tapped the watch. You shouldn’t have overslept. You shouldn’t have broken the rhythm.

You glance up at the screen just in time to see the rear of Oscar’s car slide into the wall.

Not hard. Not catastrophic.

But jarring.

The commentators are already talking: “Oh, and that’s a little moment for Piastri — looks like a minor rear contact with the barriers coming out of Turn 13. Shouldn’t be anything major.”

He’s already out of the car. Helmet off. Shrugging. Fine.

He’s fine.

But your legs stop working. You sit on the concrete behind the pit wall and start to cry. Big, full-body sobs. Like your chest is folding in on itself.

You don’t care who sees. You cover your face and shake and shake and shake.

Someone says your name, distant and worried. A team liaison maybe. A reporter who’s seen too much. An assistant trying to help.

You can’t answer.

He’s okay. But it’s not okay.

Because it’s your fault.

You’re still crying when Oscar finds you, fifteen minutes later, hair wet with sweat, gloves still in his hands.

He crouches fast. “Hey, hey, what happened?”

You grab his arm.

“I forgot the numbers,” you choke out. “I didn’t — this morning — I didn’t do it right. The watch. I was late. I didn’t tap it right. I broke the pattern. I knew something would happen-”

“Stop. Stop. No — hey. Hey.” He cups your face with both hands. “Look at me.”

You don’t.

He doesn’t let go. Just presses his forehead to yours.

“I’m fine,” he says. “I’m here. I walked away. You see me? Still annoying. Still sweaty. Still very much alive.”

“I didn’t protect you-”

“Love.” His voice cracks. “That’s not your job.”

You break. Really break.

You bury your face in his chest and cry like you’re thirteen again and trapped inside your own mind, like you’re five and lining up your stuffed animals in perfect color order so your mum won’t crash on the drive home, like you’re you — messy and cracked and terrified.

And he holds you. Not like you’re fragile. Like you’re real.

The car isn’t totaled. The garage can fix it. He’s fine. You are not.

***

Back at the hotel, the lights are dim. He’s quiet. So are you.

He doesn’t say anything when you pick up your water glass, then put it down, then pick it up again just to hear the sound.

You sit on the bed with your legs folded under you. He’s beside you, back against the headboard, iPad in his lap.

When he speaks, it’s soft. Careful.

“Do you want me to read?”

You blink. “Read?”

“Out loud. Something gentle. You don’t have to talk.”

Your throat is raw. But you nod.

He opens a book. You don’t see the title. It doesn’t matter.

He reads something about quiet rivers. A woman feeding birds by a window. A person learning to sleep again.

His voice is low, even. Not like a performance. Like a promise.

You stare at the blanket. Listen.

You don't speak for a long time.

Then you say, “I feel insane.”

He doesn’t look up from the page. “You’re not.”

“I knew something would happen.”

“You didn’t.”

“But it did.”

He finally turns to you. “And if I’d stubbed my toe getting out of the car? Would that have been your fault too?”

You wince.

“Is every breath I take your responsibility now?”

“No. I just … I just needed something to matter. I needed something to control.”

He closes the book.

Silence swells between you.

Then he says, “You’re not a burden.”

You flinch. “I didn’t say I was.”

“I know. But I see it in your face when you fold my shirts six times. When you don’t eat until the toothpaste is facing the right way. When you cry over a crash that wasn’t your fault.”

You wrap your arms around your knees. “I hate that you have to see it.”

“I want to see it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s part of you. And I love all of you.”

You swallow hard.

He leans closer. “You’re not a burden,” he repeats. “You’re a person. My person.”

You look down. The tears come again, slower this time. Like they’ve made peace with gravity.

“You’re not going to fix me,” you say quietly.

“I’m not trying to.”

“You can’t love it out of me.”

“I wouldn’t try that either.”

You finally look at him.

He smiles, small. Crooked. Devastating.

“I’m just here,” he says. “Reading badly-written novels and trying not to leave my gum upside-down in the bag.”

You laugh, just once. Sharp and surprised.

Then you lean your head against his shoulder.

“I want to get better,” you say.

“I know.”

“But I don’t know how.”

“That’s okay.”

He presses his mouth to the top of your head. “We’ll figure it out.”

You don’t respond. Not right away.

You just breathe.

It’s not better. Not yet. But for the first time in weeks, it’s not getting worse.

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s where healing starts.

***

You start therapy on a Monday.

It’s raining in Tokyo — some poetic, cinematic drizzle that clings to the windows and makes the skyline blur into watercolor.

Oscar has back-to-back media obligations, which means he won’t be in the room.

You’re glad. You’re scared.

You’re both.

Your laptop is perched on the edge of the hotel desk, camera propped just above the little glass dish of paperclips you keep moving but can’t seem to throw away. Behind you, the bed is unmade. Oscar’s hoodie is draped over the chair. It still smells like him — clean and sun-warmed, like laundry detergent and the inside of a helmet bag.

You touch the sleeve once, for courage.

Then you click “Join Meeting.”

The screen flickers.

And there she is.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

Her voice hasn’t changed.

You swallow. “Hi.”

She looks older — maybe because she’s in a sweater and not a blazer, maybe because you are. But her eyes are the same: kind, clear, and sharp enough to see you even when you’re trying to disappear.

“Time difference okay for you?” She asks.

You nod. “Yeah. It’s weird being this many hours ahead.”

She smiles gently. “And how’s traveling?”

You hesitate.

“Hard,” you admit.

Then you take a breath. “I thought it would feel free. Like finally being with him full-time would make all the bad stuff … smaller.”

“And does it?”

“No.”

Her voice stays soft. “Does it make it louder?”

“Sometimes,” you say. “Sometimes it makes it everything.”

She nods. She doesn’t write anything down. She’s never needed to.

You stare at your hands.

“I have this thing,” you say, “where I think if I don’t do the right ritual, someone I love will die.”

She nods again. “That’s a pretty common fear.”

“But it doesn’t feel common. It feels — magic.”

“Magical thinking,” she offers gently.

“Yeah,” you say. “But it’s not like fairies and spells. It’s rules. Like … invisible math. And if I get the equation wrong …”

You trail off. Your throat burns.

“If I get it wrong,” you whisper, “he might not come back.”

***

In the next room, Oscar sits with headphones on, pretending to scroll.

He’s not eavesdropping. Not exactly.

But sometimes the walls in these hotels are thin, and her voice is just soft enough that he can’t make out the words — but yours carries.

Especially when it cracks.

He hears your pacing steps. The way the chair squeaks. The moment you stop and go still.

He doesn't move.

He just waits.

***

You tell her about the watch.

About the crash.

About the way your stomach hasn’t fully unclenched since Bahrain.

“I can’t tell what’s real anymore,” you say.

“What do you mean?”

“Like — okay. Oscar’s talented. Smart. He’s got a great team. All that. I know that.”

“Right.”

“But I also know he could die in the car.”

She nods slowly. “Both things can be true.”

“I don’t want to believe that I can control it. That a prayer or a tap or a word whispered at the right second could protect him.”

“But?”

“But I do. I believe it with everything in me.”

“And how long have you felt that?”

You pause. “Since I was a kid.”

“Do you remember when it started?”

“After the fire,” you say without thinking.

You blink, surprised you even said it out loud.

She doesn't flinch.

You go on, slowly. “We were on holiday in Cornwall. Someone left a candle burning in the hallway. No one got hurt. But after that, I started checking everything. Light switches. Stoves. Then it wasn’t just candles. It was — anything. If I left the bathroom light on, maybe Mum would crash her car. If I didn’t count the steps right, maybe my brother would fall off his bike.”

She nods. “And over time?”

“I stopped trusting anything random. Everything had to have meaning. Rules. Cause and effect.”

“And now?”

You rub your face.

“I know the crash wasn’t my fault,” you say. “But knowing doesn’t help. I still feel like I almost killed him.”

Her voice is steady. “That’s the trick of OCD. It doesn’t need logic. It just needs fear.”

You laugh, quiet and exhausted. “I’m so tired of being scared.”

***

Oscar waits until the door creaks open.

You step into the room with your arms wrapped around yourself, and he doesn't push. Doesn't ask.

He just smiles.

“Hey,” he says. “I ordered tea.”

You smile back. It doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

He nods to the tray on the table. “Chamomile. With honey. And one of those weird sugar cubes shaped like fish.”

“Fancy.”

“Only the best for you.”

You pick up the mug. Warm. Comforting. Just the right weight in your hand.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

He leans against the windowsill, watching the city blur behind glass.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks.

You shake your head. “Not yet.”

He nods. “Okay.”

Then he adds, “How are you feeling?”

That part makes your throat catch.

Not what did you say or what did she tell you to do or when will you be fixed.

Just: how are you feeling.

You sit on the edge of the bed. “Better, I think. Lighter.”

He smiles, small. “Good.”

You take a sip of tea.

He wanders to the TV. “Want to put something on? Something stupid?”

You glance up. “How stupid?”

“Rom-com level stupid.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Meg Ryan stupid?”

He gasps. “Ma’am, I will defend Meg Ryan with my life.”

“You’ve seen You’ve Got Mail like five times.”

“I was emotionally held hostage!”

You laugh into your mug.

He queues it up anyway.

You lie back on the bed, head resting just below the crook of his shoulder. He drapes an arm around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your hand finds his.

And for the first time in days, it doesn’t tremble.

The movie starts. Meg Ryan opens her laptop and narrates an email like it’s a Shakespearean sonnet. Tom Hanks appears with a golden retriever. The early 2000s flood the screen in pixelated nostalgia.

Oscar grins at the dumbest parts.

You watch him more than the movie.

Halfway through, he turns to you. “You good?”

You nod.

“You sure?”

You squeeze his hand. “Yeah.”

He kisses your temple and doesn’t say anything else.

And in the warmth of the blanket, in the quiet of the city that doesn’t know your name, in the tea mug cooling on the table — you realize you don’t feel like a walking emergency.

Not right now.

Right now, you just feel held.

***

Monaco smells like salt and champagne and pressure.

You’ve been here three days, and it’s already too much. Everything glints. Everything shines. Even the people — white linen, Cartier sunglasses, voices pitched to carry. You haven’t seen a single stain or out-of-place thread. It’s like the whole city got polished for camera.

Oscar laughs at the absurdity of it, but even he is sharper here. Quieter. Hungrier.

You don’t mind that. It’s part of the deal.

You love that about him — that locked-in look in his eyes when he’s half-listening, half-chasing the apex in his head.

But today, it’s harder to watch.

He qualifies P2.

You watch from the hospitality deck, hands wrapped tight around a sweating bottle of water, trying to look normal. Trying to stay still.

There’s celebration, but subdued — the kind that says good job, now finish it tomorrow.

Oscar waves once toward the team’s box. Gives you a small grin. You smile back. You hope it looks real.

“You alright?” One of the junior engineers asks, nudging you with a gentle elbow. He’s no older than twenty. Looks like he still does math homework on Sunday nights.

“Yeah,” you say, clearing your throat. “I’m good.”

You’re not.

But it’s Monaco.

And you’ve got it under control.

***

Sunday starts slow. Oscar leaves early for prep. You kiss his cheek three times — once at the door, once at the elevator, once at the paddock entrance.

Just in case.

The numbers are tight today. No room for error.

You eat half a croissant, then stop. The knife next to your plate isn’t aligned.

You move it. Then move it back. Then again.

“Fuck,” you mutter.

Then you put the knife down and walk away.

It’s not about the knife. It’s never about the knife.

***

You think you’ll be okay until Lap 47.

He’s still holding P2. Holding it well. It’s a processional race, like always, but still — one tiny mistake in Monaco and it's done. He brushes the wall near Tabac once and your throat clamps shut. But he saves it. He always saves it.

Until the chicane.

The car twitches. A flicker — half a second of skid, of oversteer, of what if-

He catches it.

But your brain doesn’t.

You start counting before you even know you’re doing it.

Twelve, twenty-four, thirty-six.

By the time he crosses the line — P2, perfect, unhurt — your nails have left crescent moons in your palm.

You try to clap. You try to smile.

You can’t feel your hands.

You can’t feel your face.

***

You don’t remember leaving the viewing area.

Somehow you’re in the hospitality tent — empty now, except for the cleanup crew and a tray of untouched macarons that looks radioactive in the light.

You sit. Then stand. Then sit again.

Your chest feels like it’s locked in a vice.

Forty-eight, ninety-six, one hundred forty-four.

The pattern slips.

You start over.

Twelve, twenty-four, thirty-six-

“Hey.”

A voice. Close. Familiar.

Kim.

Oscar’s performance coach.

He’s crouching a little, not touching you. His voice stays calm, neutral.

“You with me?”

You nod. Then shake your head.

He sits on the ground next to you. “Alright. We don’t have to talk. Just breathe.”

“I’m trying,” you rasp. “I-I can’t-”

“You don’t have to get it right,” he says. “You just have to stay.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “It’s my fault. I didn’t — I started too late — if I’d just counted faster-”

“Hey.”

He looks you in the eye.

“I’ve worked with athletes for twelve years. I’ve seen crashes. Injuries. Worse.”

He keeps his voice even. Gentle. Like he’s talking to someone learning how to walk again.

“You didn’t cause that twitch at the chicane. Oscar just got a little loose. It happens.”

Your breath is coming too fast. Your ears ring.

“I can’t stop counting,” you say. “It feels like if I stop — he’ll — he’ll-”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“C’mon.”

He stands slowly. Offers you a hand.

You hesitate.

Then take it.

***

He brings you behind the McLaren motorhome, around the side where the generators hum and no one bothers to look.

Oscar is already there.

Still in his suit, helmet tucked under one arm, hair damp with sweat.

He doesn’t speak.

He just kneels down on the pavement beside you and sits.

Right there. In the dirt. In Monaco.

You lower yourself next to him, legs crossed, breathing shallow.

He sets his helmet down. Rubs your back in slow circles.

Not trying to fix. Just being here.

Minutes pass. Maybe ten. Maybe thirty.

You lose track.

But eventually your breath evens.

Your hands stop shaking.

You lean against him. He adjusts to fit you in like muscle memory.

“Better?” He murmurs.

You nod. Barely.

He presses a kiss into your temple.

“I left the media pen,” he says, like it’s a secret.

You blink. “You didn’t have to-”

“Yes, I did.”

He turns to look at you, eyes clear, steady.

“You’re not broken,” he says softly. “You’re just trying too hard to keep me safe.”

You bite your lip.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” You ask.

“It is.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “But not at the cost of you.”

You let out a long breath. “I don’t want to ruin this.”

“You’re not.”

“I just … I want it to be perfect.”

Oscar smiles faintly. “It is. It’s messy and weird and real and ours. That’s perfect enough.”

You lean your head on his shoulder.

“Kim found me,” you say.

“He told me. He said you were trying to multiply by twelve.”

You laugh, wetly. “It felt important.”

“It’s not.”

“I know.”

You sit in silence for a moment longer.

“Are people mad?” You ask. “That you left?”

Oscar shrugs. “Probably.”

“Are you mad?”

He turns to you fully. “I’ve known you for eight years. I watched you line up your pencils at boarding school until your hands hurt. I listened to you explain how you couldn’t eat dinner until you’d washed your hands exactly four times. I fell in love with that girl.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

“Because she never gave up. Even when her brain told her the world would burn if she blinked wrong.”

He pauses. Takes your hand.

“And because she saw me. Not the driver. Just me.”

You stare at your joined fingers.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He kisses your knuckles. “Okay.”

***

Later, in the hotel room, he brings you sushi in a to-go box and lets you rearrange the soy sauce packets until it feels right.

You eat sitting cross-legged on the floor.

No counting.

Not tonight.

Not here.

***

Rain slicks the track like oil.

The kind of cold, wet weekend where nothing dries, not even your bones. Where you feel damp under your hoodie, in your socks, in your lungs. It’s the kind of weather that makes you want to retreat somewhere soft and warm, and not come out until August.

But you’re in the paddock.

And Silverstone doesn’t care how cold your fingers are.

The air smells like diesel and coffee and nerves. Fans press up against barriers in plastic ponchos, teeth chattering, makeup smudging, still screaming for photos.

Oscar waves as he walks past. You trail a few paces behind him, hood up, hands shoved deep into your coat pockets.

He’s already soaked. Hair curling at the edges. The drops slick down his race suit like they belong there.

You pretend you're fine.

You smile when Lando jokes about the weather.

You sip the tea someone offers in hospitality.

You kiss Oscar goodbye before FP1 and tell him to drive safe.

But your fingertips ache from being scrubbed raw under the bathroom faucet, and your left wrist still has a faint red mark from the band of your watch — tightened, loosened, tightened again until the numbers added up to eight.

***

You wash your hands again after FP1.

Twice after FP2.

Four times before dinner.

You pack and repack your overnight bag even though you're not going anywhere. Move your toothbrush from one pocket to another. Align the zippers. Count them.

Oscar notices.

He doesn’t say anything, not at first.

But you feel it — the way his eyes stay on you a second longer, the way he sets down the takeaway containers a little more gently, the way he exhales when he thinks you won’t hear.

You sit on the edge of the bed that night, brushing your hair with a plastic comb you almost threw away this morning. The bristles aren't even, but the sound is soft and repetitive and helps you think.

Oscar’s on the other side of the room, scrolling through weather updates.

“I don’t think quali’s even gonna happen tomorrow,” he mutters. “They’re saying 80% chance of thunderstorms.”

You hum a reply.

Keep brushing.

He sets down his phone. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

You force a smile. “Just tired.”

But your voice is off. You know it. He knows it.

He gets up slowly, walks over, and crouches in front of you.

You pause the brush.

“I can tell when you’re not okay,” he says softly.

You look away. “I said I’m fine.”

He doesn’t move.

You hate how kind his face is.

“Please don’t hide from me,” he says. “I want all of it. Even the hard.”

The comb slips from your hand. It clatters on the floor.

You don't reach for it.

“What if all I am is the hard?” You whisper.

He swallows. “You’re not.”

“You don’t know what it’s like.”

Your voice comes out sharper than you mean. But now it’s out, and you can’t stop.

“You don’t know how exhausting it is to be terrified all the time,” you say. “To feel like if you look the wrong way, or touch the wrong thing, or think the wrong thought, someone dies.”

“I know it’s not easy-”

“No, you don’t.” You stand. “You get in that car and everyone’s scared for you. But you’re ready. You choose it. I don’t choose this. I don’t want this.”

“I didn’t say you did-”

“I feel insane half the time,” you snap. “And the other half I’m pretending I’m fine so I don’t drag you down with me.”

“You’re not dragging me-”

“Yes, I am!”

The words echo. Not loud, but final.

You stand there, hands shaking, breath shallow, eyes burning.

Oscar doesn’t yell back. He just looks at you.

“I never said you had to protect me,” he says quietly. “I never asked you to.”

The silence between you stretches.

“I know I can’t understand exactly what it feels like,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to help.”

You wrap your arms around yourself. “Helping me means watching me fall apart.”

“No,” he says. “Helping you means holding your hand while you put yourself back together.”

You don’t say anything. You walk into the bathroom and close the door.

***

You don’t cry, not really.

But you stand under the hot water until it runs cold, and when you crawl into bed later, you don’t say a word.

Oscar's already under the covers. Facing the other way.

You lie on your back, staring at the ceiling, counting the shadows.

Eight. Sixteen. Twenty-four.

The numbers don’t fix anything. They don’t stop the ache in your chest. They don’t bring him closer.

You close your eyes and try to sleep.

***

At some point in the early hours, you feel the mattress shift.

He’s turned toward you now. Closer.

You feel his hand brush yours under the duvet.

“I don’t need you to protect me,” he whispers.

His voice is hoarse. Sleep-rough.

“I just need you to be with me.”

You don’t say anything. But you curl toward him, just a little. And he wraps his arm around you, just enough.

***

The next morning, the rain’s still coming down sideways.

Oscar has meetings.

You have a session on Zoom with your therapist.

You sit on the floor of the hotel closet — because it’s quiet, and dark, and small enough to feel safe — and talk about shame.

Not about fear. You’ve done fear. This one’s newer. This one's sharper.

“I hate that I still struggle with this,” you admit. “I hate that I can’t just … fix it.”

Your therapist nods slowly. “What would being fixed look like?”

You blink. “I don’t know. Quiet?”

“Do you think Oscar wants you quiet?”

“I think he wants me better.”

“Has he said that?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

***

That night, you leave a note on his pillow.

It’s on the back of a receipt from a sushi place in London.

You write:

I don’t know how to be better yet.

But I want to be.

And I want to do that with you.

If you’ll still have me.

When you come out of the bathroom, Oscar’s holding the note.

He doesn’t say anything. Just opens the covers and waits.

You slide in beside him. He doesn’t let go of your hand once.

***

ERP sounds gentle.

Exposure and Response Prevention.

Like a soft wind brushing against a windowpane.

But it’s not gentle. It’s brutal.

It’s standing in the middle of a war zone and refusing to put your armor on.

It’s choosing not to do the thing that makes your chest stop clenching … on purpose.

It’s sitting still while your mind screams.

And today, your therapist wants you to watch Oscar leave the garage without doing anything.

No numbers. No taps. No whispered names, no aligned bracelets, no rearranged backpack straps.

“Let the thought come,” your therapist says calmly, over Zoom, earbuds tucked in. “Let it exist. Don’t push it away. Don’t answer it. Just … sit with it.”

You nod.

Because logically, you understand. The rituals don't actually keep Oscar safe. They just give the illusion of control.

But logic and compulsion do not live in the same house. They barely exist on the same continent.

So you sit there, perched on a low stool beside the monitors in the McLaren garage, heart clawing at your ribs, and you don’t tap your fingers against your knee. You don’t whisper his name seven times under your breath.

You just watch.

Oscar gives you a thumbs up before putting on his helmet.

He doesn’t know what you’re doing.

Or maybe he does. Maybe the way your hands are clenched and your breathing is off is enough for him to guess.

But he doesn’t say anything.

He just gives you that quiet little nod — I see you.

Then he’s gone.

The car whines out of the garage and into the pit lane.

Your vision blurs.

You keep breathing.

You count each second until the radio crackles with his voice: “Car feels good.”

And then … nothing happens.

He’s okay. He’s okay.

You don’t unclench right away. You sit there through all of FP2, sweat prickling down your spine, nails digging into your palms. But you don’t give in.

***

That night, you go out for dinner.

It’s nothing fancy. A little tapas place near the hotel, wood-paneled walls and pitchers of sangria, tables squished too close together.

Oscar lets you pick the table.

You choose the one by the window.

You don’t swap the silverware. You don’t ask him to move the glass an inch to the left. You don’t tap your wine glass before drinking. Your hand trembles a little when you lift it, but you do it.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Just nudges the plate of croquetas closer to you and smiles.

You eat one.

You don’t count your bites. You chew. You swallow.

You’re still alive. He’s still alive.

***

On the balcony later, you pull your legs up to your chest and wrap your hoodie tighter.

Oscar sits beside you, ankles crossed, drink in hand.

The sky is a watercolor blur — deep blue bleeding into velvet black. You watch a plane pass overhead.

“I didn’t do it,” you say quietly.

He turns his head toward you.

“The thing,” you clarify. “I didn’t tap. I didn’t whisper. I didn’t check the floor tiles in the garage before he left.”

Oscar’s quiet for a second.

“Yeah,” he says. “I noticed.”

“You did?”

He nods. “You were shaking so hard I thought you might bite through your tongue.”

You laugh, startled.

He grins. “Not that I blame you. Watching me drive is terrifying even without OCD.”

You swat his arm. “You’re an excellent driver.”

“Lando says that’s debatable.”

“You are.”

“Well,” he shrugs, “you’re braver than me.”

You snort. “You drive a car at 300 km/h.”

“And you sat still while your brain told you I might die.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

“You’re brave,” he says. “Not because you keep the thoughts out. Because you let them in, and still stay.”

Your throat goes tight.

“That’s not how it feels.”

“I know.”

He shifts, slides a little closer, shoulder brushing yours.

“But I saw you tonight,” he murmurs. “You didn’t tap. You didn’t check. You didn’t sit facing the door, which I know you usually want.”

“I wanted to.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I was scared.”

“I know.”

He nudges your leg with his knee.

“I’m proud of you.”

Your eyes sting. You look away.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You glance back.

He’s watching you with that same look he gave you during that second-to-last boarding school dance — the one where you wore that ugly purple dress with the uneven hem and he said, quietly, like it was a secret I like this version of you best.

Not the polished one. Not the presentable one. Just you.

“I don’t want perfect,” he says.

You whisper, “What do you want?”

“You.”

His voice is firm. Simple. Undeniable.

“I want you. Even when your hands shake. Even when you’re afraid. Even when you’re angry with me for not understanding something I’ll never fully live.”

You blink fast.

“I don’t want to be hard to love.”

“You’re not hard to love,” he says. “You’re hard on yourself. That’s different.”

***

You lie in bed later that night, curled under the blanket he tucked around you.

Sleep doesn’t come easy. It hasn’t for a while. But it comes. Eventually.

Without a single ritual.

Without a single tap.

And when you dream, it isn’t of the car crashing.

It’s of rain on the window, Oscar’s hand in yours, and your own voice whispering, not out of fear, but faith.

You are safe. He is safe. You are safe.

***

The sky over Spa is angry.

Charcoal clouds roll over the hills like they're in a rush to be somewhere else. The forest holds its breath. The grandstands hum with tension. And in the paddock, everything feels slower. Heavier.

You always forget how much this place looms — how the trees crowd the circuit, like spectators themselves. Spa has history in its bones. And ghosts in its corners.

Oscar says, “Weird energy, yeah?”

You nod, fingers tightening around your coffee cup.

“Want to skip the garage today?” He offers, already knowing the answer.

“No,” you say. “I’m okay.”

You’re not sure if that’s a promise or a hope.

***

It’s FP2 when it happens.

Not Oscar.

Someone else.

A pink car. A snap. A spin. The wall.

The crash is hard enough that everyone on the pit wall stands. Hard enough that your stomach drops and you forget how to breathe for a second.

You don’t even realize you’ve stood up until Oscar’s hand brushes your elbow.

He’s out of the car already. Session red-flagged.

“They’re saying he’s okay,” he says, voice low. “Shaken up. But talking.”

You nod. Swallow. Your pulse still drums in your ears.

“I know that was scary,” Oscar adds, gently. “You want to step outside?”

You look down at your hands. They’re steady.

Your thoughts are loud — God, they’re so loud — but they’re not screaming. Not like before.

You don’t need to count. You don’t need to tap your thigh seven times. You don’t need to start the prayer, or walk out on only even tiles, or hold your breath and close your eyes until the silence passes.

“I think …” You take a deep breath. “I think I’m okay.”

Oscar just nods, eyes warm. He doesn’t call it progress. You don’t want him to. But he squeezes your hand once — tight and sure — and doesn’t let go.

***

That night, the paddock is quieter than usual.

No one likes to see a crash, even if it ends with thumbs up and waving arms. Everyone’s reminded. How fragile this is. How fast it can go wrong.

You and Oscar eat dinner in the motorhome. Leftover pasta, half-warm, eaten cross-legged on the little couch with Netflix playing softly in the background.

You rest your chin on your knees, fork dangling from your hand.

He nudges your ankle. “You’re quiet.”

“Just thinking.”

“About?”

You shrug. “Everything.”

“Wanna share with the class?”

You glance at him. He’s got sauce on his cheek.

You wipe it away with your sleeve before answering. “I think … I stopped counting.”

He tilts his head. “Like today?”

“Like … this week. I don’t know when. But I didn’t realize it until now. There wasn’t a number in my head when he crashed. There wasn’t a ritual I forgot. I just felt scared. And then I didn’t.”

Oscar watches you, patient and careful.

“I’m not saying it’s gone,” you add quickly. “The thoughts are still there. But I didn’t obey them. That’s a win, right?”

He smiles. “That’s a huge win.”

You laugh, a little surprised. “I kind of want to cry.”

“That’s allowed.”

“But I also want cake.”

“That’s especially allowed.”

You set the plate down on the floor. He stretches his legs until his toes bump yours.

“So,” he says, tone casual, “what else have you been thinking about?”

You hesitate. “I think I want to go back to school.”

He blinks. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Not right away. Next year, maybe. My therapist says the structure could help. And I miss it. I miss the library. The lectures. The … I don’t know. The me I used to be, when I wasn’t just surviving.”

“What would you study?”

You pause. “Psych. Maybe. Or public health. Or something with writing. I want to help people who think the way I do. Maybe not as a therapist. But … something adjacent.”

Oscar doesn’t speak for a moment. Then he smiles. “That sounds like you.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

He nods. “You’re good at seeing people. Even when they don’t want to be seen.”

“Must be all the years I spent hiding.”

“I don’t think you were hiding,” he says. “I think you were surviving. And now, maybe, you get to do more than that.”

You feel tears prick again. You press your palm against your cheek.

Oscar leans closer. “Whatever you want,” he says. “I’m here.”

You whisper, “Even if I go back to school?”

“Even if you move to the other side of the world.”

“Even if I’m not on the circuit every weekend?”

“I’ll FaceTime you from parc fermé.”

You smile. “I might get boring.”

“You’ve never been boring a day in your life.”

***

Later, you sit on the hotel balcony.

It’s cooler than usual. The wind rustles the edge of the curtain behind you. Oscar’s inside, brushing his teeth, humming something off-key.

You hold your tea in both hands and breathe.

No counting. No compulsions. Just a breath. A moment. A you.

You’re still not fixed. But maybe that was never the point. Maybe you don’t have to be perfect to be whole. Maybe being human is messy and uneven and a little cracked.

And maybe love is what happens in the spaces between.

The sliding doors open. Oscar steps out, barefoot and sleepy.

“You,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Me?”

He grins. “You’re my favorite part of all of this.”

You laugh. “Even when I rearrange your backpack contents for the third time?”

“Especially then.”

He pulls a chair closer and plops down beside you, hair damp from the shower, skin warm from the room. You rest your head on his shoulder.

“I’m proud of you,” he says, again.

You don’t respond right away. But you reach for his hand. And this time, yours isn’t shaking.

***

The air smells like engine heat and sunscreen. The paddock hums with end-of-season energy — tired mechanics, championship points being tallied in real time, drivers swapping hats and handshakes. This is where everything ends and begins again.

You lace your fingers through Oscar’s as you step out of the car.

It’s nothing dramatic. No stage directions. No swells of music. You just walk next to him, flats hitting the concrete like you belong there. Because you do.

You don’t walk beside him because the compulsion told you to. You walk beside him because you love him. And because he loves you.

“First one to hospitality gets control of the Spotify queue tonight,” Oscar says, trying to jostle ahead.

You deadpan, “Do you really want to lose that badly?”

He shoots you a look. “I’m sorry, who introduced you to German techno at 3 a.m. in Singapore?”

You arch a brow. “I believe I blacked that out for my own wellbeing.”

Oscar grins. “Sure you did. But if I win, it’s five hours of vibraphone jazz.”

You pretend to gag. “You’re a menace.”

He kisses your temple. “A menace with good taste.”

And then he lets go of your hand just long enough to jog ahead. You roll your eyes and walk slower, the early morning sun warm on your back.

You’re not racing anymore. You don’t have to.

***

The garage is a tangle of nerves.

Oscar straps in for the final qualifying of the season with calm precision. You sit just outside the chaos, headset looped around your neck, not because you have to be close, but because you want to. You sip water and trace your finger along the seam of your jeans.

Your therapist calls it a “grounding gesture.”

It’s a better alternative than the numbers.

He goes out. He flies.

You breathe. You do not count.

***

P3.

It’s not a win. But it’s enough.

He comes back beaming, helmet off, suit unzipped to his waist. His smile splits his face in half, flushed and real and bright.

You run straight to him. He catches you easily, arms slung low around your waist, forehead pressed to yours.

“I’m proud of you,” you say, before he can.

He laughs. “I’m proud of you too.”

You don’t have champagne. You don’t have fireworks. You just have a hotel suite where the lights are low, and the room service is still warm, and his socks are mismatched, and you’re both slightly delirious with exhaustion.

But it’s perfect.

***

“Do you remember,” you say, voice soft, legs tangled with his beneath the sheets, “when you made that binder?”

Oscar feigns offense. “You mean my meticulously curated romantic gesture?”

“Yes,” you murmur, smiling. “That one.”

“You mean the one with the tabs labeled ‘Y/N’s Favorite Snacks by Country’ and ‘How to Spot When She Needs a Break But Won’t Say It’?”

Your throat tightens.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “That one.”

He squeezes your fingers. “Still carry it in my backpack.”

You blink. “You don’t.”

“I absolutely do.”

“That’s so-” You break off, covering your face with a pillow. “God, I love you.”

His voice is steady. “Good. Because I love you too.”

You drop the pillow slowly. “I don’t know who I’d be if I hadn’t come this year.”

“You’d still be you,” he says. “Maybe not the same version. But still you.”

You press your cheek to his shoulder. “You know it’s not over, right?”

“I know.”

“I’ll still have days when it’s hard to touch doorknobs. Or leave the house. Or when I’ll cry because I saw a number I don’t like and convinced myself it means something bad.”

“I know.”

“I’ll still panic. And count. And spin. Even if I try not to.”

“Yeah,” he says gently. “I figured.”

“But I’m trying,” you say, voice cracking.

Oscar doesn’t hesitate. “You don’t have to try to be lovable. You already are.”

You blink fast.

“You’re not my problem,” he adds. “You’re my person.”

The tears fall, warm and quiet.

“Come here,” he says, and pulls you against his chest. “I’ve got you.”

***

Later, when he’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth and making obnoxiously loud slurping sounds just to make you laugh, you sit on the edge of the bed, phone in hand.

A message from your therapist buzzes through.

How did the weekend feel?

You start typing.

Loud. But not terrifying. Beautiful, actually. Still had the thoughts. Didn’t follow all of them. Still me. Still learning. But better. I think.

You hesitate. Then send.

Oscar flops onto the bed beside you, fresh from the shower, towel draped over his head like a cartoon ghost.

“Boo,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “You're ridiculous.”

He peeks out from under the towel. “I’m adorable and you know it.”

“You’re something.”

You lean over to kiss him, soft and slow. He kisses back like there’s no hurry. Because there isn’t.

***

The next morning, your suitcase is packed. The flight home is in five hours. The sky outside is pink and pale gold. You stand at the window, watching the light change.

Oscar’s still in bed, one leg thrown dramatically across the blankets, face smushed into a pillow.

You reach for your bag. Your ring — just costume jewelry, something you found in a Azerbaijani flea market and now wear on instinct — is on the table.

You slip it on. And you tap it twice.

Habit.

Your brain registers it, but not as danger. Not as control.

You pause. You exhale.

Then you whisper, almost to yourself, “You’re safe.”

You close your eyes.

“Even if I don’t do anything.”

And for the first time, you believe it. The fear doesn’t vanish. It just … takes a back seat.

You walk back to the bed. Slide under the covers.

Oscar stirs, barely awake.

“Hey,” he mumbles, reaching for you. “You okay?”

You press your nose into the crook of his neck.

“Yeah,” you say.

And this time, it’s not just a hope. It’s the truth.

[harianaswhore]

this is so wonderfully written as always 💞

[catswellsy]

still proud — max verstappen.

hi! while working on a little max series, i decided to post this short hurt/comfort piece i wrote after today’s race incident. it’s my first time sharing my writing in the f1 fandom, and english isn’t my first language, so please be kind and feel free to leave any (gentle) feedback. hope you enjoy it!

pairing: max verstappen x girlfriend!reader

summary: Max’s crash at the Austrian GP leaves him crushed and disappointed—until your unwavering support and comfort remind him that he’s more than a result.

The grandstands were still buzzing with the residue of chaos when you made your way to the paddock. Noise blurred in your ears—commentators, fans, tire guns, the low rumble of helicopters above. None of it mattered. Your heartbeat had dropped to your stomach the moment the Red Bull hit the wall.

It had only taken a second. You’d seen it unfold from the screen—Kimi’s car locking up, sliding too deep, Max turning in with nowhere to go. The hit looked worse in slow motion, like the car had no weight, like time had paused just long enough to let your stomach sink.

All weekend had felt like a battle. Practice was scrappy, the balance never quite right, and qualifying had left him disappointed with that P7. You’d spent every minute cheering him on—texting little “you’ve got this” reminders, waving your scarf so hard it threatened to unravel, shouting encouragement through gritted teeth when the radio went quiet. You’d watched him put on a brave face in interviews, tried to steal him smiles in parc fermé, only to see the doubt creep back whenever the next session rolled around. And now this.

Now, Max was back. Not in the way he wanted to be.

He stood in the Red Bull hospitality, silent, visor still down, race suit half undone and hanging around his waist. You found him alone near the back entrance, away from the cameras, the engineers, the debrief. His head was tilted low, lips tight, eyes unreadable. His gloves were still on. Like maybe if he didn’t take them off, the race wouldn’t really be over.

You walked over slowly, quietly, your pass brushing against your chest with every step. He heard your footsteps, but didn’t lift his head until you were inches away.

And when he looked at you, your chest hurt.

He wasn’t angry. Not like he was on the radio. This was worse. Shame. That deep, bitter disappointment he always reserved for himself when he felt he'd let someone down.

“You saw?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“I saw.”

His jaw clenched. He looked like he wanted to apologize, even if none of it was his fault. And then he said it anyway.

“I wanted to win today.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to win for you.”

You reached for him before he could fold in on himself again. Arms around his waist, your cheek resting on his chest, you let the silence hold the words he couldn’t say. His hands came to your back slowly, hesitantly at first—like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to be held—but they didn’t let go once they did.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into your hair. “I—I know it wasn’t my fault, but I just wanted you to see me win. To be proud of me. Not end the race in a wall.”

You felt your throat tighten.

“Max, look at me.”

He did, reluctantly.

“You think I only come here for the trophies? For the points?”

He didn’t answer. You held his face, thumbs brushing the edge of his jaw, like grounding him could change the way he saw himself.

“I come to see you. Not the standings. Not the race. Not the car. Just you. The one who wakes up every day and gives his everything to this. The one who keeps fighting, even when he doesn’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

You leaned up, brushing a kiss to his temple. “I’ve never been more proud of you than I am right now.”

His shoulders shook. Not a sob, not quite. Just a release—like the tension that had been strangling him since Turn 3 had finally started to break. The kind of tremble that only happens when someone finally lets themselves believe they're not alone.

The two of you stayed there for a moment. Pressed together, surrounded by the low hum of a paddock that had already moved on to its next headline. But you hadn’t. You stayed in this one, because Max needed you to.

There was a knock on the hospitality door. Hesitant. Soft.

A second later, it opened just enough for someone to slip in.

Kimi stood there—still in his Mercedes race suit, pale and stiff, hands twisted nervously in front of him.

“I... I wanted to say sorry again,” he said, eyes flickering from you to Max. “I know I already did, but I just felt like I needed to say it again.”

Max turned, posture unreadable. For a second, you saw the old Max flash behind his eyes. The competitor. The fighter.

But then he sighed, long and tired. And human.

“You don’t need to keep apologizing,” he said. “It happens. It’s racing.”

Kimi nodded quickly, still tense.

“I just— I look up to you. And I didn’t want this to be... how it goes.”

Max looked over at you, then back at the boy in front of him. You could see it hit him—that same feeling he’d had once, early in his career, when things spiraled too fast and too rough, and he hadn’t known how to breathe through the fallout.

“Believe it or not, I know that feeling.”

You stepped forward before Kimi could shrink back into himself. “He means it,” you said gently. “You’re not the first driver to make a mistake. You won’t be the last.”

Kimi’s shoulders fell, relief loosening his posture.

“Thanks,” he said. “For not yelling. Or—punching me.”

Max let out a tired laugh. “I already did that on the radio.”

He offered a hand. Kimi took it, and for a second, something like understanding passed between them.

“Go get some rest, kid,” Max said.

Kimi nodded and slipped out the way he came.

Max turned back to you, lighter than he’d been a minute ago. Still hurting, but standing straighter.

“See?” you murmured. “Still a champion.”

He pulled you close, resting his forehead against yours.

“Only because I have you.”

[harianaswhore]

soooo cute 🥹

[checkeredflagggs]

To Paint a Picture: Patch

pairing: max verstappen x webber!reader

summary: y/n webber swore she was done with formula 1 and race drivers forever. max is determined to change her mind

a/n: I’ve had this piece rumbling about in my mind since like November so I’m really excited to actually start posting it!

a/n2: please repeat after me — this is fanfiction and not real. I don’t know how emancipation or boarding schools actually work so let’s all hand wave this ok? Thanks

a/n3: banner is art by anastasia trusova

Masterlist

Email, Mark’s Inbox

Private Messages, Sebastian and y/n

Private Messages, The Grid (2010 version)

Private Messages, Sebastian and Michael

Private Messages, the Grid (2010 edition)

Private Messages, Y/N and Jenson/Fernando

Private Messages, Y/N and Michael

Private Messages, Y/N and Lawyer

Private Messages, Sebastian and y/n

Private Messages, the Grid (2010 version)

Private Messages, Sebastian and y/n

Email, Mark Webber

Taglist

If you want to join my taglist, interact with my taglist post. I won’t be adding anyone else

@daniskywalkersolo @thenerdysimp @quinquinquincy @lecfosimaxbull @gr3yhues @armystay89 @simplylovelysworld @mimisweetz @angelluv16 @hamiltonforwdc @alexxavicry @suns3treading @ymrereads @monzipan @stuffyownswrld @kuolonsyoja @ky14-1 @devilacot @justheretoreadthxxs @minrayven @albonoracers @hc-dutch @somerandomf1fan @purplephantomwolf @shadowreader07 @spilled-coffee-cup @galaxygurlll l @anamiad00msday @freyathehuntress @widow-cevans @1-of-my-many-obsessions @charlesgirl16 @ihaveitprinteddout @deena-beena-weena @lilyofthevalley-09 @nightrose-18 @kodeelyn @star73807-blog @avengers-assemble123456 @howling-wolf97 @boke-hinata-boke @hannahmotors10 @mountainshuman @daisydaze111 @evie-119 @shadowreader07 @r0nnsblog @1800-love-me @edgyficuselastica @everydayimagineer

[harianaswhore]

ohhh i love this already, so excited to read the upcoming chapters !!

[mariclerc]

caribbean beauty — 01 running to him | rafe cameron

Summary: your mom criticized you once again and you just run over to your safe place.

Warning: somewhat body shaming, latina!pogue!reader, ed mentioned, rafe being such a softie.

a/n: this first part is, almost, inspired by some situations of my life... situation in which I would have liked to have someone like reader does. I hope you guys like it <3

It's a very hot afternoon, you're at your family home in the Cut, well... between the Cut and Figure Eight if you're honest. You came back from the backyard, you had hung some clothes to dry in the sun and lifted up your shirt a bit while fanning yourself with your hand, leaving a little of your tummy exposed.

Your mom speaks from the kitchen, fanning herself too. “¿Por qué tienes esa camisa tan arriba? Bájala mi vida, mira esa pancita. ¿Qué te ha pasado? Déjame decirte que tú antes no estabas así...” she said with her voice full of that kind of her skeptical. (Why are you wearing that shirt so high up? Pull it down, honey, look at that little tummy. What happened to you? Let me tell you, you weren't like that before...)

You looked up startled, pulling your shirt down quickly, eyes flickering with shame. “Es que… hace mucho calor mamá.” you say in a low voice. (It's just... it's super hot, Mom.)

“Calor o no, te estás dejando. Te la pasas comiendo todo el día… y luego te miras en el espejo y te quejas. ¿Y el gimnasio? Solo fuiste una sola vez y en Florida nada más, no haces nada para ti.” she said with her voice full of venom. (Hot weather or not, you're letting yourself go. You spend all day eating... and then you look in the mirror and complain. And the gym? You only went once, and only in Florida. You're not doing anything for yourself.)

You talked quietly, trying not to cry. “Pero si yo... Yo no me quejo…” (But if I... I'm not complaining...)

“No me alces la voz, no seas malcriada. Te lo digo porque te quiero, pero si sigues así, vas a parecer inflada. No es bonito y a tu noviecito no le vas a seguir pareciendo atractiva.” she said again. (Don't raise your voice at me, don't be bratty. I'm telling you this because I love you, but if you keep this up, you're going to look inflated. It's not pretty, and your boyfriend won't find you attractive anymore.)

Your voice breaks a little. “Tal vez… tal vez necesito ser anoréxica para que estés feliz conmigo. Que opinas?” you say ironically but maybe intentioned. (Maybe… maybe I need to be anorexic for you to be happy with me. What do you think?)

“¡¿Qué dijiste?!” she said very shocked. (what did you say?)

You're already turning towards the door, crying now. “Nada…” (Nothing)

You run, you don’t even need to look back... You grabbed just your phone, your bag slipping from your shoulder. Everything around you blurs. The tears won’t stop. You feel humiliated, wrecked and every single voice in your head is screaming that you’re not good enough. Not even for her or yourself, maybe not for anyone, but then… his name echoes in your mind. Rafe.

You don't know how but you arrived to Tannyhill in the late afternoon sun, golden and hot. You reach the door and you knock — hard, again and again. Your breath is erratic.

Rafe opened the door, surprised, shirtless and barefoot, eyes immediately scanning your face. “Baby—? Hey, hey, what’s wrong? What happened?” he asked softly.

You can’t really speak, your lips tremble, you drop your gaze, arms crossed over your chest like you’re hiding. You try to say his name, but nothing comes out. Your knees buckle slightly.

His voice softens, worried now. “Oh, shit—come here. Come here, mami.”

He steps out, catches you before you fall, arms circling around you tight. You sob hard into his chest, shaking, your hands grabbing his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you here.

He lift you up, both arms under you, rocking you gently on the porch, not caring who sees. “Shhh… I got you, I got you, baby. You’re okay, I got you.”

He carries you inside, closing the door with his foot. He walks you to the couch, sitting down with you in his lap, arms wrapped around your waist. He doesn’t let go, you cry into his neck and your hiccups start.

You tried to talk between hiccups, barely audible. “I… I didn’t know where to go…”

He pressed kisses into your hair, your temple, your wet cheeks. “You came to the right place, 'kay? You’re safe here, mi amor. You hear me? You’re safe here.”

You whimpered. “She said I’m fat… that I need the gym… that I eat too much… every time… she always says something…” you sighed. “And it hurts me so much...”

His hands gently run up and down your back, grounding you. “No, no, no—no one gets to talk to you like that, baby. Not even your mom.”

You sniffle. “I feel ugly Rafe… I— I hate how I look. Maybe she’s right… maybe I should stop eating at all.” you whispered.

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, hands on both your cheeks now, firm but gentle. “Hey, don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.”

He wipes your tears away with his thumbs, but they keep falling. He kisses the corner of your mouth, your nose, your cheeks again. He doesn't care how soaked they are.

“You’re beautiful, mami. The way you are, right now. Your body’s perfect, you think I don’t notice it? Every damn curve on you? I love your tummy, I love your thighs, your little laugh when you eat something sweet, your cheeks when you’re full and happy. You think I want some damned robot version of you?” he kisses you again, slow this time, soft and lingering. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. And I’m not just saying that to make you feel better, I mean it. I see you... All of you, even when you don’t.” he says softly.

“But she always makes me feel like I’ll never be enough… like I need to fix something.” you say barely whispering. “And I know I should be over it, but it hurts every single time.”

His voice darkens just slightly, protective and fierce. “She’s wrong, baby. You don’t need fixing! Not now, not ever, you’re enough for me. Hell, you’re more than enough. You’re my light!” he presses his forehead against yours. You can feel the heat of his skin, how steady his breath is compared to yours. “And I know it hurts you, I wish I could carry a bit of it for you... I wish I could take every awful word she’s said and burn it away. But I can be here, every time she tries to tear you down, I’ll build you back up from scratch. You hear me?”

You nodded slowly, your fingers tightening on his shirt. “I was so scared you’d think I was ugly too…”

He spoke again, almost growling. “Don’t you ever say that again! You’re the most gorgeous, feisty, sweet, soft little thing I’ve ever held. And I’ll fight anyone who tries to make you believe otherwise.” he winks.

You finally let out a breath. A long, shaky one, and he leans in, lips brushing your ear.

“You’re my girl, my angel, my baby, mi princesa. Tummy and all! And you look so, so, so damn good in every inch of your skin.”

You spoke softly. “You really think so, Rafe?”

He talked without hesitation. “Oh, baby, I know so. And if you ever forget it again… just come back here and I’ll remind you. Every single time.”

He kisses your forehead, then your lips again, slow and steady. You curl tighter into his lap, burying your face into his chest, feeling his arms around you like a shield. You don’t have to pretend with him, not here, not like this.

There’s a long silence, his heart beats steady under your ear. You feel small — but safe. And the thought you've had a long time ago comes out before you can even stop it.

“Rafe... Can I tell something?” you asked and he nodded, paying attention to your words. “Sometimes… sometimes I think about throwing up after I eat.” you whispered.

His arms tense slightly, but not from anger at you — but at the pain in your voice. He breathes in deep, steady, he doesn’t let you go.

“You’ve done that before, baby?” he asked you quietly.

You shake your head slowly. “No… but I’ve wanted to, so many times. Especially after I eat something sweet or heavy. I hear her voice in my head, telling me that I’m disgusting, that I’m ruining myself, that I should be ashamed of my body.” your voice breaks, you don’t even realize you’re crying again until you feel his thumb is under your eye, catching a tear before it falls. “I’ll eat something I love, and then I just… I want it out of me. Like it’ll erase everything, like I’ll be clean again.”

He speak in a low, pained whisper. “God, baby…”

He shifts you gently so you're straddling his lap now, face-to-face. His hands are cupping your cheeks, his thumbs wiping away the fresh tears. His expression is raw — like your pain is tearing him up inside.

“You don’t need to erase a single part of you. Not what you eat, not your softness, not your tummy, not your past. Nothing, you hear me?”

He kisses your forehead, your nose, your cheeks again, tender and slow, like trying to kiss away the thoughts themselves.

“That voice in your head? That’s not you, that’s someone else’s poison. And I’m gonna do whatever the hell it takes to drown it out. Even if I gotta remind you every damn day that you’re worth loving exactly how you are.” he says confident.

You whispered again. “But what if I can’t stop thinking it? What if… what if I become that? What if I hurt myself?”

He pressed his forehead against yours, his voice hoarse. “Then you tell me, every time. I don’t care if it’s 3a.m or you’re sobbing so hard you can’t say a single syllable. I’ll come find you, I’ll sit with you, hold your hair back if you’re sick, rock you until you sleep. Whatever it takes.” he spoke so gently it make your heart melt and you nodded.

***

Is now late evening in Rafe’s house, after your emotional confession. You’re still in his arms, but the silence now feels softer, like something heavy has lifted. Outside, the cicadas hum, the world has calmed.

He strokes your hair, voice low. “You feel a little better?”

You nodded slightly, eyes still swollen. “Yeah… just a little tired, emotionally.”

“You been carrying that weight too long, mami.” he tilts his head to look at you gently. His thumb brushes along your cheekbone. “You want me to make you something? Something light? We can eat together, just a little. You need strength, cariño.”

You hesitate a little. “I don’t know if I can… it’s like the idea of eating makes me anxious now.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay. Then we take it slow, there's no pressure. I’ll make you something small — just a little plate. And if it’s too much, you don’t have to finish it. I’ll sit with you. No judgment. Just… let me take care of you.” he whispered.

You give him a tiny nod, vulnerable, trusting. He kisses the side of your head and gently helps you up from the couch.

In Rafe’s kitchen the lights are dim. And he moves around quietly, grabbing a few things. He’s not flashy, just real, simple. He slices fresh mango, toasts a slice of sourdough and pours you cold water with lemon. Then he brings it to you, sitting beside you on the kitchen island like it’s a sacred moment.

He speaks softly. “Here… try the mango first. It’s cold, sweet. Thought maybe that’d feel nice.”

You pick up a slice hesitantly. He doesn’t watch you like he’s judging — he watches you like he’s making sure you’re okay. You take a bite and the juice hits your tongue, it’s comforting, familiar, a part of home that feel so distant now.

“It’s… good.” you say quietly.

He smiles at you softly. “I knew it would be.”

You eat a few more pieces slowly, he eats too, not making it a big deal. Just the two of you sharing something simple. At one point, he reaches out and brushes mango juice off your chin with his thumb like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“That’s my girl.” he says and you giggled. “There's that little smile”.

And the way he says it? Like you just did something brave. Like surviving the day was an accomplishment, and maybe it was.

***

You're now in Rafe’s bedroom, the lights are soft now — just a warm lamp in the corner. The window’s cracked open, the covers are messy, inviting. You’re in one of his old shirts now, soft but big on your frame. He’s beside you in bed, the both of you curled under a light blanket. He’s not touching you yet — just letting you breathe. Then slowly, he scoots closer.

“Are you okay if I hold you?” he asked in a whisper.

You nodded. “Please, cielo.”

He pulls you into his chest, arms tight but tender around your waist, your back against his chest. One of his hands finds yours under the blanket and laces your fingers together.

He murmured against your shoulder. “You were so brave today.”

“I didn’t feel brave.” you say softly.

“That’s how I know you really were. You were falling apart, but you still came to me, you let yourself be seen and that’s strength, baby.”

You turn slightly in his arms, burying your face against his collarbone. His skin is warm, familiar. He smells like clean laundry and a little cigarette smoke and something distinctly him.

“Do you really think I’m enough?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you. “I think you’re more than enough. I think you don’t even know how powerful your heart is. You feel things so deeply, mi amor. That’s not weakness, that’s beautiful. You don’t need to change your body to earn love — you are love, always have been.”

You feel tears coming back again, but softer this time. “I just… I wish I could believe it all the time.”

He pressed his lips to your forehead. “And that’s okay. When you can’t believe it… I will do it, for both of us.”

You curl into him more, your legs tangling with his under the blanket. He wraps his other arm around you, holding you like you’re something sacred.

His voice's sleepy now, thick with love. “We’re gonna get through this, one breath at a time. You and me, hermosa. Always.”

“Always.”

He hums softly, not a song — just a sound to comfort you and you close your eyes. The storm inside you doesn’t feel so loud anymore, not tonight.

You fall asleep with your head on Rafe’s chest, his hand still wrapped around yours. He stays awake a little longer, watching you breathe, as if guarding your dreams from everything the world tried to break in you.

[harianaswhore]

LOVE THISSSS

[trashytracktales]

PLSSSS part 2 to this time tomorrow but it’s a year or so later and he’s dealt with his grief and guilt and happily ever after pls

Same time yesterday | MV³³

𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧 𝟮 𝗢𝗙 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗦 𝗧𝗜𝗠𝗘 𝗧𝗢𝗠𝗢𝗥𝗥𝗢𝗪

*can’t be read as a standalone.

✦ summary ──── It’s been eleven months since she left, and her absence haunted every aspect of Max’s life.

✦ pairing ──── Max Verstappen x she/her reader

✦ rating ──── explicit

✦ warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, feelings of unworthiness, emotional angst, isolation, themes of guilt, grief and self-doubt, panic attack with descriptions of physical symptoms, struggles with self-worth, insecurity and personal trauma, healing through intimacy, smut, fingering & oral ─ (f)receiving, unprotected sex, pet names, praise, multiple orgasms, overstimulation.

✦ word count ──── 8.5k

✦ date ──── Jun. 12, 2025

✦ a/n ──── This is not very I don’t do part 2s of me, but the amount of people requesting it made me feel guilty, so here we are. YOU WIN (ILY) 🙄. All jokes aside, writing this healed something in me. Goodnight 🤍✨

MAX DIDN’T EXPECT her to actually leave.

In his stubbornness, he hoped that he’d find her back in his apartment once he returned from work a week later, when her mind would clear up and the adrenaline of the breakup would be long gone. But when that didn’t happen, and he came back to an empty place, he slowly began to panic. On the inside, of course. Because Max is the kind of person who rarely ever displays his feelings out in the open, and when he does it, it’s usually his ruthless side that comes out. He would never admit in front of anyone that he has weaknesses. The only time he’s ever done it was in front of the mirror, in those mornings when everything became too heavy to carry for a pair of shoulders already weighed by the burdens of the past.

He did not expect her to leave.

Not after everything they’d said to each other, not after the way she’d touched his face the night she walked out, and the way her lips lingered on his cheek like a goodbye she didn’t want to make real. Not after she whispered that he knew where to find her. That she was still willing to give them a chance, but this time, they as a whole had a price. And he needed to cover it in its entirety.

When her absence has finally caught up to him, Max got angry.

Not at her, but at the hole she left behind. At himself for not begging her to stay, even though that goes against everything he is as a person. At the way grief still had its claws in his chest even when he thought he’d buried it deep enough to allow himself to love again.

She said she understood. She acted like she did for so long. But then she left. She promised she wasn’t asking for more than he could give, and then she still walked away when he couldn’t give it fast enough. It felt like betrayal to Max, twisted and misplaced, but real.

After that, he threw himself into work like he always did: training, simulation, back-to-back race weekends. Late nights at the gym, longer ones behind the wheel. But no matter how many laps he ran, no matter how fast he drove, he couldn’t outpace the noise inside his own head. At times, it felt as if it tried to deafen him completely. And sometimes, there were so many voices in there that they overlapped and he had the impression that he could go mad.

It got worse when doubts started creeping in.

What if he’d ruined something good once again?

What if she was right, and he never actually moved on, not from grief, not from guilt, not from his dead wife?

He couldn’t trust himself anymore. The same instincts that made him a four-time World Champion now betrayed him on track. He second-guessed overtakes, overcorrected in turns, and crashed into his rivals on purpose.

The paddock noticed it, so did the press. Max Verstappen didn’t make mistakes, until he did. And the worst part of all: he stopped caring.

His despair was subtle at first. It bled in during the long flights, in the lonely hotel rooms, and in the silence after a shitty race. He tried texting her a couple of times, but it was always short, dry, and empty. She responded kindly, as usual, but never let it go further. Though Max hated it, he respected that, because he respected her, even if he thought it was bullshit. All of it.

It wasn’t until one particularly sleepless night, many months after she left, that the loneliness finally did what the anger couldn’t: it made his mind quiet. It made him sit with himself and be brutally honest. Realistically, he realized that no trauma will ever completely heal. A shadow of guilt will always follow him, no matter who he ends up becoming, what he achieves in his career and who’s going to be there with him.

That night, Max stood in front of the mirror, the ring on his finger slightly sparkling in the bathroom light. It somehow looked dull, like it, too, got tired from being worn by a man who didn’t know how to let go. Only this time, he didn’t see his wife. Instead, he saw the woman who stayed even when he didn’t have the words to explain himself, the one who kissed him like she was pouring pieces of herself into the cracks of him, the one who left not to hurt him out of spite, but to save them both. Or at least try.

And he understood that the ring didn’t remind him of grief anymore. It reminded him of who managed to give it a whole another meaning. It reminded him of what he stood to lose if he didn’t start choosing life instead of loss. And just like that, still panicking on the inside, he figured a new way of feeling the pain and owning it without hurting so much.

Max’s fingers trembled, but he took it off. He took. The damn ring. Off.

And something about the silence cracked open the moment he did it. At first, it was a strange numbness, like his skin and limbs and even his thoughts didn’t belong to him. Then the trembling turned into tremors. His hands shook so badly that the ring slipped from his palm, clinking against the sink like a warning. He had a tiny impulse to put it back, but he didn’t. His breath hitched, chest rising in short bursts that couldn’t catch enough air. The walls of the room seemed to press in, tighter and tighter, so he gripped the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white. His heart thudded violently between his lungs, and he could hear it.

Then his knees gave out, and he collapsed to the cold tile floor, curled onto his side, eyes wide and unfocused as his mind raced with fear — am I dying? Is this how it ends? All alone…

He didn’t call anyone. He didn’t move, because he couldn’t. He just lay there, whispering to himself that he deserved this. That maybe this was part of it: the punishment, the penance, the cost of finally letting go. But he’d chosen grief so long, it felt wrong to be free of it. And, ultimately, he ended up convincing himself it was better that way, but every time he looked at the empty space on his finger, he wondered how long she’d wait. If she was still waiting at all.

He couldn’t stand the thought of her saying no after that, so he never texted her again.

IT’S A RANDOM Tuesday when Max is in the pet aisle, squinting at a row of identical cat food cans, wearing an old Red Bull hoodie from the early 2010s. The hood is up, casting a shadow over his face, a subtle shield against the world.

He isn’t expecting anything. Maybe a fan or two who may recognize him. But not her. However, the second she walks through the automatic doors, pushing her cart slowly, head tilted like she’s scanning the shelves for something specific, he sees her. Her hair is a little shorter now. Her coat swings open as she walks, and she’s humming softly to herself, unaware.

Until she turns, and her eyes meet his. Time doesn’t stop, but it does slow, just enough for Max’s chest to go tight. And they both realize it at the same time: they’re going to have to choose. Quickly. A nod and a half-smile, play it off like strangers passing in the middle of something ordinary.

Or talk.

Max does it before she gets the chance to. He doesn’t even glance at the shelves again. His hand reaches out and grabs two random cans of cat food, the labels facing the wrong way, something he wouldn’t normally touch. But it’s not about the cat food anymore.

It’s about how she notices the way Max squeezes the cans in his hands, and how his left hand, in particular, molds around the circular container, making her heart stop for a beat.

“Your hand’s all naked,” her mouth talks without her permission the moment he gets close enough for him to hear her; the fact that it’s the first thing she tells him doesn’t come as a suprise for either of them.

Max smiles a little, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Uh, yeah,” he says quietly, looking down at it like he hadn’t realized it himself until now. “It’s been for a while.”

They stand there, hands full of domestic normalcy, bodies not quite knowing what to do next.

“Hi,” her lips curl slightly into something that isn’t quite a smile, but not quite neutral either.

“Hi,” he echoes, voice a little raspier than he’d like. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” adds Max, glancing around like maybe the store has changed since he last looked.

“Yeah, well,” she shrugs, looking anywhere but at him.

There’s too much unsaid between them to make small talk feel right. Too many memories that exist in kitchens and beds and mornings with whispers and kisses. And yet they try.

“You look good,” Max says, his eyes flicking up and down, unsure of where to land. “Shorter hair suits you.”

She nods. “Thanks. You look…,” her voice trails off, checking him out from head to toe in order to find something nice to connect with, but when she can’t do that, she chooses to be honest instead. “Tired.”

Max smiles, but looks defeated as he does. “Not sleeping much.”

“Work?”

He hesitates. “And everything else.”

They both look like they want to leave but can’t quite make their feet move. It feels like there’s too much air between them, and yet, too many things have already been said, cried out, and broken open like bones that never healed right. Max can feel it rising in his throat. It’s bitter and sweet all at once. The fucking guilt. The longing. It’s her, actually. Right here, in front of him again, after eleven months and three days of not seeing her. Of only surviving her through old texts and ghost limbs.

His fingers twitch around the cans.

She’s standing like she’s braced for impact, but her eyes finally land all over him: his face, the hoodie she actually wore a few times before when she was waiting for him to come back home, his hand, his left hand. His bare left hand.

“This is weird, right?” Max finally asks, his voice sounding like he hasn’t spoken a single word for weeks.

She lets out a sigh. “A little, yeah,” she agrees, nodding.

And still, neither of them moves.

“You know, I almost didn’t come in,” she admits, fingers curling tighter around her cart. “I was parked outside for, like, ten minutes just sitting there. Because I realized this is your neighborhood and I’d risk seeing you,” she adds quickly.

Max feels his heart racing again before he even understands it. His throat goes dry, and when he speaks, he sounds hurt. “You didn’t want to see me?”

She blinks, startled, like she hadn’t expected the question to come out that way. “No,” she breathes. “No, Max, that’s not what I meant.”

He holds her gaze, and this close, he can see the sheen of emotion swimming in her eyes. There’s no anger in there anymore. Just, maybe, a little ache.

“It’s nice to see you,” she says. “I did want to see you so badly that I almost turned the car around, because I wasn’t sure if I could handle it.”

Max’s chest caves inward, his brows drawn together like the weight of all those lost months just landed right between his ribs. “Well, I think you’re handling it very well,” he jokes, but she doesn’t laugh, which makes his smile fade a little, not knowing if he crossed a line he shouldn’t have.

She looks down for a moment, biting at her kower lip, then back up. “I think you do, too.”

They both go quiet again, surrounded by fluorescent lights and grocery store music and the quiet chatter of other people, but none of it registers. The world has narrowed down to just them in the shortest time, like it always did. Knowing someone so intimately does that to a space, no matter how big or small.

Max rubs the back of his neck, like he’s trying to release the tension lodged there. “Listen, I don’t want to do this here. In front of the cat food and the Goldfish treats.”

His words earn the smallest smile from her, just for a second. “And what is this, exactly?”

He stops, looking around in order to get his thoughts together. “If you’re not busy, I was about to order a pizza for dinner,” Max hesitates, then adds quickly, “I swear, I just want to talk. I just…” he runs a hand over his jaw. “I haven’t been able to say anything that matters in a long time, and I want to. I owe you.”

She swallows, wary. “You don’t owe me anything, Max. Not anymore.”

He shakes his head. “I owe you my time.”

He sees the way her brow furrows, confusion flickering across her face, and Max knows she doesn’t understand what he means by that. And he can’t quite tell her that he means all the months he spent with her while only giving her a fraction of himself, because the most part was still buried in grief, clinging to a past he couldn’t change. He means the smiles she gave him that he didn’t return fast enough, the quiet ways she showed up for him while he kept one foot in a world that no longer existed. He means every second he spent being afraid to choose them, and every moment he let that fear win. What he owes her is his precious time, the kind that’s undivided, intentional, and fully present.

The time he should’ve been spending loving her without hesitation. Without conditions.

The time he still hopes to give, if she’ll let him.

THE MOMENT HE turns the key in the lock and nudges the door open, the apartment comes alive with a flurry of soft meows and pattering paws. Jimmy is the first to appear, coming out from the hallway with the usual cheeky air, followed by Sassy, who practically chirps in recognition when she sees that her owner is not alone.

The girl barely has time to step out of her shoes before the cats are circling her feet, tails high, meowing as if they’ve been abandoned for weeks. They don’t hesitate, don’t even sniff to confirm, yet the purring starts instantly, the kind of sound they only made when she used to come home late and curl up with them on the couch. Both cats cling to her like she’s their mother, like home walked back through the door after years of waiting.

Max watches it all unfold, frozen, with the cans stacked on top of the other still in hand.

“Fuckin’ assholes,” he complains under his breath, shutting the door behind him. “The only reason I even left the apartment was because they wouldn’t shut up about being hungry. And now they won’t even look at me,” adds Max, a little irritated.

She looks up with a smirk and gently takes the cans from his hand. “Allow me,” she says with a mock bow, brushing past him on her way to the kitchen with the ease of someone who still remembers exactly where everything is.

Max leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching her open the cabinets to pull out the tiny cat dishes they once picked together at a pet store in Italy. Her movements are fluid, the muscle memory guiding her every gesture; the clink of the spoon against the dish, and the way she splits the food evenly, as if it still matters that Sassy used to pout when Jimmy got more.

The remembering. That’s what gets to him every single time. The way it all looks like she wasn’t away for months. The way his own pets remember her scent and presence — more than that, they crave it. And they’re not the only ones, he figures.

Eventually, Max leaves her to it and goes to order the food he promised, knowing that he will be ignored anyway, at least until the cats eat and get bored of playing. The pizza arrives just as she finishes washing her hands, and they settle on the couch like they’ve done a hundred times before, the box open between them, the cats finally dozing at their feet.

For a moment, the quiet sets peacefully around them and it almost feels like they never fell apart at all. Their legs don’t touch, but the distance isn’t as wide as it used to be. Between bites, their eyes meet, without causing unnecessary tension, just a bittersweet quiet wrapped in intimacy. He watches the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and she catches the way he still wipes his fingers on his thighs, like always.

Finishing his second slice, Max finally decides to disturb the peace. “Thanks for giving them some attention,” he says, pointing at the cats that are now back in their donut beds. “They’ve been such jerks lately.”

She glances at the cats, her gaze softening. “You know they treat you like you treat them.”

He rolls his eyes, but the corners of his mouth lift. “I’ve been nothing but an endless fountain of joy around them since you left, so I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her smile falters the second his sarcasm slips out. And suddenly, the guilt wraps around her ribs like a vice, because she had no idea just how lonely it must have been. She tried to imagine it a few times, sure, but the truth is always harsher.

“Back at the store,” she begins, a little hesitant, “You said it’s been a while since you took it off.”

Max takes a moment before he nods, not immediately meeting her gaze. “Yeah, I did.”

“Why didn’t you tell me when you… you know,” she says, gesturing at his hand. “I thought that was our agreement.”

He swallows, running his fingers over his jaw, which he often does when he’s struggling to think of the right thing to say. “And say what? Thank you for waiting, I’m ready to finally offer you more than the bare minimum?” he says in a sarcastic tone, shaded by a trace of anger. “You deserve better.”

She doesn’t speak right away. Just watches him with those eyes that always made him feel seen. Like she could read the gaps between his words, without needing anything else but him.

The girl shrugs. “That would’ve been a start,” she says casually, taking the pizza box and putting it on the coffee table in front of them.

Max almost flinches at the thought. It tastes so wrong in his mouth, because he doesn’t want to act as if the time they spent together was just a draft. He wants what they had and what they were. The laughter in the kitchen. Her voice humming in the bathroom. The weight of her body curling toward his in the middle of the night when she thought he was asleep. The way she used to look at him like he wasn’t broken beyond repair.

“I don’t want a start,” he insists. “I want what we left behind.”

Her brows lift slightly, her expression unreadable, but her lips part like she’s about to speak. He beats her to it.

“It’s been fucking awful,” the words come out unfiltered. “Missing you, I mean,” he explains, like the thought has been sitting on his brain for months, maybe since the second she walked out of his life. “Not just in passing. Every day.”

His hand moves without thinking, crossing a distance far greater than the space between them, and when his calloused fingers curl gently around hers, all those months of pain fade somewhere into a distant past. Her skin is just as he remembers, warm and soft like silk. The touch is tender, Max’s thumb brushing the back of her hand like he’s reminding himself that she’s real, and not just a figment of his twisted imagination.

He doesn’t want to go beyond the invisible line they’ve both drawn, but when she squeezes him gently, it’s more than a confirmation. It’s her equally strong desire to return to their own normalcy. And after that, it takes almost nothing, maybe just a look and the smallest shift in the air, and he pulls her in his lap.

Her legs straddle him, fitting there with maddening ease. Her hands wrap around the back of his neck, fingertips threading into his hair, playing with it absentmindedly like it’s second nature.

The sudden closeness forces him to breathe in sharply, inhaling her scent that fans across his lips.

“Max...” she whispers, her face tilting toward his, eyes dropping to his mouth as if kissing him is inevitable.

But he can’t have that. What good thing has ever come so easily in his life? Twice.

Max’s hand presses against her waist to push her away, and his head turns as a response. At that, she stills in his arms, eyes searching his face.

“Liefje?” she whispers again, hurt and confused.

He shakes his head, still avoiding to look at her. “I can’t.”

She frowns. “Why?”

Finally, Max’s eyes flick to hers as he swallows the lump in his throat. The blue in them is dark and faded, and it scares her a little. They’re glassy, full of things he’s never been good at saying out loud. “Because I don’t... I don’t deserve it,” he says, quiet like a confession passed through gritted teeth.

Her hands slide from his neck to either side of his face, forcing him to keep his gaze on her.

“Look at me,” she demands when he tries to look away again, but it sounds almost pleading. She can feel the way his muscles are tense beneath her, how hard he’s trying to stay composed. “You think I’d be here if I didn’t want to?” she asks.

His mouth opens, shuts, then opens again, “How could you possibly still want this?”

Her thumbs brush along his cheekbones, pressing closer, her nose brushing his. “Because you want this,” she replies simply. “I left because I thought you didn’t want us, and that hurt the most.”

Max flinches, “I did,” he nods, “Want us.”

“The ring on your finger told a different story at the time,” she smiles, a trace of sadness shadowing her face.

“I’m sorry,” it’s all he says.

She tilts his chin slightly, kissing the corner of his mouth, careful. She understands that, after all, this is their dynamic. She’ll always have to wait for him, one way or another. Do everything at Max’s pace. It may not be ideal, but it has worked in the past, when the tallest walls separated them.

He lets out a trembling breath, arms circling her waist to bring her closer.

“Please,” she whispers, “Let me kiss you.”

This time, his lips crash into hers with a desperate need. Her attempt was soft, but there’s nothing gentle in the way needs her. It’s heat and hunger and all the months of silence and aching compressed into one kiss. His fingers move to cup her face, and he groans against her mouth, finally letting go.

She shifts as the kiss deepens, slowing down until it becomes worshipful.

“I missed you,” he says again.

She smiles through the ache in her chest. “Yeah, I can tell.”

Her hips move unconsciously, but it’s enough for Max to catch her meaning. The girl slides forward and presses down right where he’s already hard beneath her. The friction hits hard between them, and they both still for a moment. Max breathes in through his teeth, and a silent gasp stutters out, all distance suddenly dissolved.

She traces down the curve of his neck, over his collarbones and lower, palms gliding across the fabric of his hoodie. It’s soft and worn, but it hides too much for her liking. So she hooks her fingers underneath it, pushing up, and Max doesn’t stop her. He lifts his arms, helps her peel it off, and the warmth of his skin underneath makes her breath catch in her throat. The muscles of his torso flex as he breathes, tight and lean, built by years of control and discipline.

But right now, he’s giving her none of that control. He just looks at her like he’s ready to rip his heart out and give it to her on a silver platter. With a smile on his face.

Her blouse is next, coming off in a smooth motion. And then, before she can say anything more, he shifts quickly underneath her. In a blink of an eye, he has her on her back, stretched out along the couch, his body poised above hers.

She barely has time to register the change in position before his mouth is back on hers, as possessive as it used to be, like the last kiss wasn’t nearly enough. Max’s lips trail down over her jaw and neck, leaving heat in his wake. Patient, he kisses along the edge of her bra, then he looks up at her. His pupils are blown wide, but there’s still that sliver of restraint behind them.

“Can I?” he asks, a tiny smile blooming in the corner of his mouth, because he already knows the answer.

She nods. “Yes.”

Swiftly, he unclasps her bra and slips it away, tossing it somewhere behind him. His hands slide down her sides as his mouth drops to her chest, breathing her in deeply. The first touch of his tongue on her nipple makes her inhale sharply, her hands flying to his back, gripping and squeezing. Max groans quietly against her skin when she arches up into him, and his hands weld themselves to her thighs to encourage her to wrap her legs around his waist. After that, he changes his position just slightly and grinds down into her, swallowing her whimpers with his mouth still latched onto her breast.

She closes her eyes, allowing herself to feel everything, all at once. His mouth moves from one nipple to the other, teasing, sucking, and she pulls him closer and closer by the shoulders, as if she can’t get enough of his weight. His presence. Him.

“Can you stay like this for a sec?” she asks in a trembling voice, the emotion evident in every word. She keeps him pressed down against her with her arms locked around his shoulders before Max can even process. “Just stay here, please.”

He lifts his head to search for her eyes, but doesn’t say anything. Then, he kisses between her breasts, and rests his forehead there, listening to her heartbeat decrease in intensity with each passing second. His weight is warm and secure around her, his breathing slowing, too. She brushes his hair back with one hand, and the other strokes his spine.

“I missed you, too,” she finally says. “So much it started making me sick.”

Max’s eyes flutter closed, but he’s content to just listen, offering her the space to speak her mind.

“I had to buy a weighted blanket,” she chuckles shyly. “I couldn’t sleep, either. My anxiety was so bad I felt like I was floating out of my skin.”

Max blinks, then slowly pushes up on his forearms to look at her fully. There’s concern etched into every inch of his face, and he sounds stern when he speaks again, “You never told me it got that bad.”

She shrugs, trying to brush it off. “Didn’t want to make you feel worse. You already blame yourself for everything else.”

His jaw tightens, fingers twitching against her ribs. “That’s for me to worry, right? You should’ve told me.”

With a small sigh, she shakes her head as if it doesn’t even matter anymore. “I’m telling you now.”

Her words settle into the air between them like a sudden change in gravity, and it makes Max still completely. It takes him a second to process what she’s said, and not just the meaning, but the weight of it. That she hurt too. That while he was spiraling in silence, buried in self-loathing and racing to outrun emotions he couldn’t face, she was also falling apart as quietly.

His forehead presses against hers, but this time, the tension in his shoulders give away the war he carries in his mind, the guilt and regret in his soul, the anger, and the fear that he might still mess this up. He chokes on a breath, the kind of harsh inhale you take before something breaks and can’t be stopped.

She can feel him slowly but surely detaching, so she doesn’t hesitate to bring him back to the present moment with her. She kisses him all over, not just his lips. A sweet series of soft, scattered kisses along his cheek, his temple, his nose. His shoulders. His collarbones. She kisses him as if that would cure him of all his guilt, insecurities and self-hatred.

Max lets out a broken laugh, unexpected yet warm, as she keeps going, clumsier now. “That’s how you used to kiss Sassy when you stepped on her paws,” he reminds her. “You didn’t break me, baby,” he assures her. “It’s not your fault.”

The words hang there, heavy with understanding, because he can see she feels guilty, as if his pain is somehow hers to fix. Even now. His heart cracks at the thought of her carrying that weight, but it also warms at her tenderness and the quiet way she’s trying to make everything stop hurting. For both of them.

He sighs. “Maybe we should just finish the food, hm?” Max offers, his tone laced with hesitation, trying to give her an out, without putting too much pressure.

She shakes her head instead, then stares at him for a second. While continuing to maintain eye contact, her hand moves down between them with purpose. The metallic sound of his zipper being undone slices through the air like a whip in an empty room, and Max’s body responds instantly, looking like he’s suddenly struggling to breathe, as she pushes his pants lower over his hips.

“I’m hungry for something else,” she says, smirking at him.

The last of their clothes disappear in a blur of heat and touch, the space between them closing until it’s completely gone, and not a speck of dust can seep in. Their bodies press together, skin on skin, making Max curse under his breath, his hands roaming her waist, thighs, and ribs, remembering the shape of her all over again. After taking the ring off, he convinced himself that being alone and deprived of her entirely was the new punishment. But now, he’s surprised to find out that no amount of penance could ever be worth losing her again.

She gasps when his lips catch her off guard, kissing her deeply, hand sliding south, slipping between silk folds already wet with want.

“Shit,” he whispers through gritted teeth, barely able to contain himself. “I forgot how soaked you get from a little nipple play.”

She moans faintly into his mouth, hips lifting with ease toward his touch. His fingers stroke through her slowly, savoring her sounds, while his middle finger presses in. Just the tip, to test her patience and give her all the time in the world to open up for him.

As if he’s under a spell, Max watches her face, completely transfixed. “I swear you’re trying to kill me,” he praises her deliriously, pushing his finger deeper. “You missed this, didn’t you?”

“Mhm,” she hums, her nails digging lightly into his back, leaving faint love scratches behind.

At that, he smiles a little smug, and starts pumping his finger with much purpose. He’s on a mission now, intending to relearn every twitch and tiny flinch, because for some reason, making her come like this has become his new life’s purpose. And the fact that she’s obscenely wet, encourages him to keep going, gliding his finger in effortlessly, the slick noises echoing between them like he’s already halfway inside her with his cock instead.

“I fucking missed it, too,” he admits, voice cracking at the way he feels her clenching around him. Every time his finger strokes against that soft, spongy spot inside, her thighs lock around his wrist like Max is her puppeteer, hips canting up, chasing more. “There it is,” he says with satisfaction.

Without pulling away, he eases in another finger, curling them with surgical precision, dragging against that same spot until she’s shaking. Her tiny gasps turns into broken moans, high and breathless, her palms squeezing his shoulders harder. Max starts scissoring them in the way he knows it’ll make her see stars, stretching her open, happy to watch her squirm and melt because of him.

“Want me to keep going until you can’t think straight?”

She tries to answer, but all that comes out is just another pathetic whimper. Her slick coats his knuckles, dripping down his palm, earning a low hum from Max while driving his fingers faster.

“So tight and desperate,” he says mostly to himself. “Let me see you,” his thumb finds her clit, rubbing delicious circles as his fingers keep fucking up into her, stretching her sweetly.

Her reaction is immediate: her whole body jerks, thighs quivering as her pussy fights to hold him in, harder than before.

“Max,” she tries to warn him in a shaky voice.

He doesn’t even hesitate. Instead, he pulls his fingers out and dives in on instinct, burying his face between her thighs like a man starved. His tongue replaces where his fingers had just been, fucking into her with messy, greedy strokes. Max grips her thighs, making sure to groan loudly into her, wanting her to hear exactly how much he’s enjoying this. She keens, hands flying to his hair as he eats her out with a kind of reckless devotion that leaves her gasping for air.

Her orgasm crashes over her with an unexpected loud cry. Her hips arch off the couch, body convulsing as she soaks his face, a warm flood dripping down his chin and onto the cushion beneath him. Max agrees satisfied, like he lives for this, licking her through it until she’s shuddering and whimpering and very much not thinking straight, trying to push him away from overstimulation.

He pulls back with a glossy mouth, chin dripping, and eyes blown wide. That clear blue has finally returned, contrasting beautifully against the bright pink of his flushed face. His hair is a mess, and he’s breathing hard like he just came. She wishes she could paint him like that, but she knows that no brush would ever do justice to the beauty she sees in him.

“My god, Max,” she laughs, still breathless, reaching up to pull him toward her. She wipes his chin with her palm, eyes half-lidded, before tugging him in for a kiss, tasting herself on his tongue. “You’re such a show-off.”

He smirks, resting his forehead to hers. “Well, I am a professional.”

“Oh yeah?” she teases, brushing her fingers through his hair. “Did they add that as part of your pre-race routine?”

Max shrugs with a deceptively serious expression on his face. “Helps with focus. And finger control.”

The girl chuckles. “You’re disgusting.”

“You’re perfect,” he replies quickly, leaning in to finish their kiss.

His lips are soft and plumped, and they give her the second she needs to breathe before the air shifts. Max’s hand cups her cheek, and when he looks at her, his voice drops, eyes filled with a tamed concern.

“You okay?” he asks, the kind of okay that means are you still with me?

It’s the care behind his voice that gets to her. The one that she only saw a couple of times in him, when Max really let her see the purest version of him. The version that’s not on any screen, nor the version that walks out the door everyday to go to work. This Max is too soft, afraid, and weak. Or so people would say if they’d know.

She finds it hard to speak, instead, she reaches down, fingers curling around his cock. She nudges the thick head through her folds, dragging it up and down in maddening passes, not letting him in, just coating it in the mess he made of her. It’s a sweet tease, a challenge, and a bit of revenge from her side, that gets the expected reaction out of him: Max whines, and his hips twitch in anticipation.

But before she can do it again, he bucks forward just enough to slip between her lips. Not inside. Just there. Nestled. Pressed. Bothering.

“Shit,” she gasps at the drag of his cock against her folds. Is too much already, yet not enough, her body betraying her before she can play it cool.

Max laughs at her failed attempt, dragging himself up her slit again, slow and sticky. “What do you think you’re doing, schatje?”

She moans, frustrated. “Nothing.”

He keeps going, rubbing himself through her wetness, teasing her entrance, but never pushing in. After all, she just showed him how to, didn’t she? It’s punishment for both of them, his cock is throbbing, coated in her, and every pass just winds them tighter.

“You feel that?” asks Max in a quiet whisper. “That’s how much you want me,” he continues, finally pushing in. The stretch is sweet, tight and wet and warm, and the moment he’s fully inside, everything goes still. He lets out a relieved sigh, his head dropping to her shoulder, “And this is how much I want you.”

Perfection in just the right amount. Being inside her like this shuts his brain off and, soon enough, the silence inside his skull becomes addictive.

The first thrust feels like coming home.

The second thrust brings all the memories back.

The third thrust makes her eyes roll, her hands clutching at his arms, hips trying to chase every retreat he makes.

Max has to grip her tighter to keep her in place, and gently pushes her thighs apart wider. He watches the way she spreads, how easily she welcomes him, and it lights something heavy in him, but also devastatingly tender. It pushes him to slide in again and again, deeper and deeper, and the sound she lets out has the power to knock the breath out of his lungs.

It’s not difficult to find their rhythm. That perfect pace that makes it feel less like fucking and more like a love language only they understand. Every push and pull is a new promise. Every moan, a certainty that they will keep those promises this time. As the pleasure builds, they understand it’s more than that. It’s healing. With every stroke and every breathless sound between them, they’re stitching something back together. Something they thorned and fractured because they didn’t know better, now is slowly mending, making them stronger than they’ve ever been.

Max fucks her like he’s never going to get another chance to be this whole again. Like this is the last time it’ll ever hurt, and the first time they’re finally allowed to live. Their bodies slap together, the sounds echoing like music against the walls; it’s hot, thirsty, a song made by them, just for them. He keeps her open, holding her thighs in place because he wants to see all of it. The way she takes him. The way she glistens for him. The way she gives herself so fully, without flinching. And if she can do that — if she can give him this —, then maybe he’s not broken beyond repair.

He fucks into her harder, hips slamming and claiming. It’s like his darkest side cracked open and poured out all the ugly through need, hope, love, all tangled in sweat and skin and moans and and and.

“Fuck, Max. Yes, you feel so good,” her praise makes him sob, hips jerking like he’s being praised for something holy.

He leans down to kiss her, but they’re both too far gone. It ends up being just open mouths, shared breath, moans between lips that can’t quite meet, not with how their bodies are still colliding, over and over.

“Mine,” Max spits out breathless, as he feels her start to tighten around his cock, fluttering repeatedly like her body is begging to fall apart with him.

Her hands curl around his biceps in order to be able to meet his thrusts halfway, nails digging in. “All yours,” she wails.

He shifts her legs higher around his waist, his hand sliding beneath her knee to angle her just right, and when he thrusts again, her whole body jolts. “Right there?” he asks, watching her eyes closing shut, her mouth falling open. “Ja, that’s it. That’s how my baby needs it.”

Her entire body shakes with pleasure, panting with every thrust as he drives into her with a need that’s no longer just physical. It’s every moment he missed her, every second he hated himself for letting her walk away, instead of ripping that ring off his hand, finger and all.

Max’s voice breaks against her skin, “You have any idea what you did to me for eleven months?”

She nods, arms wrapping around his neck.

“Of course you do,” Max smiles into her neck, maintaining the pace, sweat dripping from his brow as her walls spasm around him, pulling him deeper. “You know I jerked off to the thought of you every night,” he continues, the confession nearly unraveling him. “Couldn’t touch anyone else because your pretty face was everywhere I looked.”

Her fingers slide into his hair, pulling gently. “My good boy,” she purrs, and the sound he makes in response is feral, like it strips him down to his most basic instinct.

Max cries out, thrusts faltering for a second before he slams into her harder. “Say that again,” he demands in a pleading voice.

“You’re my good boy,” she whispers, then kisses his cheek, smiling as he loses himself a little more. “You always were.”

The words wreck him. He breathes wetly into her neck, almost embarrassed by how much he needs to hear it, and how much he actually craves being her good boy. Beneath his though exterior, there’s always been a constant need to belong to someone entirely. Not out of weakness, but out of a desire to be seen and chosen. To be loved, treasured, and protected like he mattered. Because as a kid, those things came rarely, if ever. And though Max learned to survive without them, part of him never stopped longing for that kind of love. The kind he once found and lost, the kind he almost recklessly pushed away. The kind she gave him, without asking for anything but his love in return.

“I didn’t let anyone else touch me, either,” she continues, breathless but determined to let him know, her fingers now tracing down his spine. “Told every guy that hit on me I had a boyfriend waiting for me at home. Did I lie, Maxie?”

He moans louder, his body surging forward like something inside him just snapped. His thrusts grow rougher, driven by the need to prove her right. To remind her that she is, indeed, his, and no one else can ever make her feel this way.

“No,” replies Max. “You’re mine,” he pants, “My little kitten, ja?”

She laughs, half-sob, half-moan, body shaking as she clings to him.

Somehow, his lips find her breast again, latching onto her nipple like it’s instinct. He sucks on it a little rough, making her head bury further into the couch cushion with a soft whimper. She’s obsessed with The Feel of Max — his weight, the way he pushes into her and how his skin presses into hers, the sound of his breath against her chest. Every cell in her body burns for him, a deep fire that’s been waiting to reignite since the moment she did one of the hardest things: removing herself from her heart, because she had to choose herself for once.

His left hand reaches for hers blindly, pulling her out of the dreamy state she’s fell into. Max threads their fingers together and pins them above her head against the cushions. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes as she clutches his hand tighter, her stomach flipping with emotion. Her eyes fly open, not from surprise but from the intensity of it and how light it is. It’s impossible not to feel the difference; that tiny missing weight that used to sit there like a wall between them.

Max notices the shift in how she exhales, in the way her body clings to his. He doesn’t ask, but he knows.

“I see you,” he says. “I fucking see you, baby.”

She sobs out a sigh, something between a moan and an overwhelmed yes.

“You feel so good. So good, my love,” repeats Max again and again, like he can’t say it enough. “I’m never letting anything come between us, I swear.”

His honesty is poured into every thrust, every kiss against her jaw, her mouth, her neck and shoulder. Everything she needed to hear, he’s saying now, as if he finally realizes that she’s been waiting. And he knows she believes him. He feels it. Feels it in the way her walls flutter around his length faster, needier. Sees how her hips lift to meet his and how her chest expandes rapidly.

Her stomach coils tight, pleasure rising sharp inside her, “Max, if you don’t shut up,” she cries, “I’m gonna fucking come all ov—”

He laughs softly against her lips, silencing her, but he doesn’t stop. “Make a mess for me then,” he encourages her, thumb brushing her cheek. “I’ve got you.”

He does. He always did.

With Max’s name on her tongue, his hand in hers, and every part of her clinging to him like gravity isn’t ever going to be enough again, she lets go. Her climax sends him spiraling, soaking everything, from the couch to his thighs and cock, with the kind of release that leaves no question how much she needed him. He wraps one arm around her waist in order to keep himself present as he shoves in deep one last time and stills, body shaking.

“Fuuuck,” Max chokes, forehead falling to her collarbone.

His cock throbs as he empties himself into her, her body welcoming every drop from him. His heart is hammering against her ribs, and he needs to breathe her in a few times before lifting his head, eyes glazed as they drop to where their bodies are still connected.

The sight nearly makes him come again.

Her thighs are trembling, spread wide, their slick mixed with his cum, smeared across her skin and his cock and the ruined couch. It’s absolute chaos, and he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

Satisfied, he collapses onto her fully, letting his weight sink into her just like he knows she needs. The girl sighs, breath tickling his temple, her hands finding his arms, scratching soft patterns along his skin. Goosebumps rise in waves, but Max doesn’t move. He just melts into her, letting her touch soothe him.

Her body acts before her brain has time to process. Gently, she lifts his hand and presses her lips to each knuckle. One by one. Then soft pad beneath his thumb. His palm, and the faint scar across it. She remembers how he caught the knife by the blade that night, and all the blood that spilled into the sink.

“Come home,” he whispers, voice cracking from the effort of saying it aloud. “Please.”

When there’s no answer, Max’s hands grip her waist, but he can’t find the strength to get up and look at her.

“Please,” he repeats. “I want to cook for you. Fight with you over stupid shit. Watch you fall asleep on this couch again. Just… let me love you right, baby.”

She closes her eyes, breathing in deeply. Max’s scent clings to her skin, to her hair, to the air around them, and that mix of sweat and sex drives her insane. It’s in the crook of her neck, on the inside of her thighs, behind her knees, soaked into her very inhale and exhale. It’s impossible to tell where she ends and he begins.

“What did you do with the ring?”

Max stills. Not the soft kind of stillness that comes from rest after sex, but the rigid kind, where his muscles lock and his breath stops short, like her words caught him mid-step somewhere deep inside himself. And unfortunately, she feels it in the way his touch pauses, not pulling away, but no longer moving forward either.

Her heart sinks into her stomach.

She hadn’t meant it to feel like an ambush, or a test she didn’t even want the answer to in the first place. But the silence stretches just long enough that fear creeps in. And her mind is relentless, thoughts flying around, mean and uninvited: It still means something to him. Maybe more than you ever will.

But then Max’s voice cuts through all that, pushing all the dark clouds aside.

“I gave it back to her,” he says. “Took it to her grave and—”

“I’m sorry,” she cuts him off, fighting the tears in her eyes. She reaches to cradles his face in her hand, thumb sweeping gently across his cheek. His skin is warm beneath her touch, his stubble coarse. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”

It’s his turn to interrupt her this time. “It’s okay,” Max assures her. “You were right. I needed to let it go if I wanted to be here. With you. It’s just… I am sorry it took so long.”

“No,” the girl shakes her head. “We can’t get mad at time for doing its thing,” she says gently.

Max’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t realize how badly he needed to hear that until it lands in him, like puzzle pieces falling into place. His eyes drift, settling on the digital clock glowing faintly on the wall. At the same time yesterday, he was lying in a cold bed, silence drilling through his ears louder than anything else. Swallowed whole by a grief so dark it didn’t even feel like sadness anymore. It was just a big hole of nothing.

A day later, he’s pressed against her, inside her, held by her. Breathing the same air as her.

Even though she didn’t say yes yet, even though he still has troubles sleeping, he’s content with the fact that the clock has reset itself for him. And for the first time since he got that call, he’s at peace.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

© trashy track tales, 2025

[harianaswhore]

this was so perfectly written oh my god, this is such a sensitive topic and i feel you’ve done it beautifully!!! the absolute vulnerability in this is just insane 😭🥹

[feinzleclerc]

A Hundred Kisses I've Already Given You | Cl16

starring ; charles leclerc x reader fem!

summary ; Where you make a list of 100 kisses very important to you and Charles.

warnings ; ¹ English is not my first language. ² Brazilian making a point of mentioning Brazil. 🙋🏻‍♀️

word count ; 5.1k words.

notes ; PART 01 | 02 • 03, 04 & 05 COMING SOON.

MAIN MASTERLIST CHARLES LECLERC MASTERLIST

21. Victory Kiss

The phone was still trembling in your hands when the apartment door slammed against the wall. Charles stood there, in his gym clothes—he’d made a point of sprinting out of the gym as soon as he got the news—with the wildest eyes you’d ever seen.

—SAY IT’S TRUE.— he demanded, his voice roaring like an engine.

You barely had time to nod before he lifted you into the air, spinning you like a tire skidding through the final turn. Your phone flew onto the couch, the FIA’s message still glowing on the screen: "Congratulations, you’ve been accepted into the sports journalism program."

—YOU’RE GONNA COVER MY RACES!— he growled, his white teeth flashing in a smile that would make the sun jealous.

The kiss felt like celebrating on the podium—he pinned you against the wall, his hands—the same ones that adjusted front wings with millimeter precision—shaking as they cradled your face.

—Merde, I love you— he gasped, pulling away just enough to speak. —You’re gonna be the worst distraction on the track.

You laughed, the imaginary trophy of your career replaced by something far better—his lips tasting like cheap champagne and the future.

—Promise you’ll give me exclusive interviews?— you teased, nipping at his lower lip.

Charles responded by throwing your arms over his shoulders and marching toward the bedroom:

—I’ll give you coverage so exclusive the FIA will have to make new rules.

Now your notepad stayed open on the page where "Questions for Charles Leclerc" had turned into "1001 Ways to Distract Me in the Paddock."

And the charming way he called you "Miss Journalist" every time you complained about the next day’s practice schedule.

Your first FIA badge hung on his bedroom mirror. "To remind us we now have two careers to cheer for."

22. Relief Kiss

The apartment was silent, lit only by the blue glow of the TV tuned to some random movie channel. You sat on the couch, feet aching after an endless day, when the sound of the door opening echoed. Charles walked in, his Ferrari jumpsuit tied around his waist, his shirt damp with sweat, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. He didn’t even need to speak—you opened your arms, and he collapsed into you like a sinking boat reaching safe harbor.

—Dead?— you asked, fingers tangling in his damp curls.

He only groaned in response, burying his face in your neck like it was the only place in the world that still made sense. His warm lips brushed your skin in a kiss that was more sigh than movement, and you felt the weight of the entire day leaving him in an almost imperceptible shudder.

—Hated every second without you— his voice was muffled, the words warm against your collarbone.

You laughed, breathing in his familiar scent—gasoline, coffee, and something uniquely Charles—seeping into you.

—You’re only saying that because you lost.

He lifted his face just enough to glare at you, his green eyes dark as wet asphalt.

—Losing I can handle.— he murmured, lips finding that spot below your ear that made you squirm. —Being without you? Never.

Then he settled back into place, his cold nose nuzzling into the crook of your neck, his heavy hands pulling you closer. There was no hurry, no hunger, no desperation—just Charles, his warmth, and the certainty that the world could wait.

And when you finally led him to bed? He gripped your wrist like a child afraid of losing his favorite toy. "Stay," he mumbled, already half-asleep. As if you could be anywhere else.

23. Heart-Soothing Kiss

Your phone buzzed in your pocket as you made coffee. A message from Charles himself:

"Love, got into a little accident. I’m fine, swear. Just the bumper’s a bit bent."

Your heart stopped. This wasn’t an F1 race—no tire barriers, no medical team rushing in. Just some random intersection, a distracted driver, ordinary life proving just as dangerous as the track.

You arrived before the tow truck. His car—the one he loved so much—had its rear crumpled, glass shattered on the asphalt. And there he was, leaning against a police car’s hood with a sheepish smile and a bruise on his forehead.

—Looks worse than it is— he tried as soon as he saw you.

You didn’t answer. Just crossed the three meters between you like it was the final straight of a Grand Prix and threw your arms around his neck. The kiss was all trembling lips and hands clutching his jacket like you needed proof he was here, whole.

—I had my seatbelt, love— he murmured between kisses, hands steady on your waist. —Airbag didn’t even deploy, it was nothing...

—Shut up— you ordered, voice thick as your hands roamed his face, his arms, his chest—searching for any sign of pain. —You just gave me ten years of fear in thirty seconds.

Charles pulled you into another hug, longer this time, quieter. Your heartbeats matched, racing in sync.

—I’m here.— he whispered in your ear, face buried in your hair. —I’m okay. I’m all yours.

24. Goodbye Kiss—When Three Months Feels Like Forever

The airport was packed. You’d be spending three months visiting family in Brazil. The two of you stood still in the chaos like the only unmoving thing in the world. Charles held your hands with a grip bordering on pain, his fingers—usually so precise on the wheel—now trembling like he didn’t know how to let go.

—You’ll forget me— he murmured, his crooked smile not reaching his eyes.

You rolled your eyes, tugging him by the collar of the shirt that smelled like your favorite perfume (he’d worn it on purpose, you knew).

—Impossible. You’ll be everywhere—news, social media, our daily calls...

The loudspeaker announced your flight for the third time. Charles swallowed hard.

—Three months, mon cœur— he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. —I don’t know how to be me without you for that long.

The kiss was salty with unshed tears, sweet with promises, bitter with goodbye. When you pulled apart, your heartbeats were in sync.

—Here— he shoved something into your pocket—an old, worn Ferrari hoodie he used during practice. —So you won’t forget my smell.

25. Homecoming Kiss

The airport was louder now, but you heard nothing except the blood pounding in your ears. Three months. Three months of delayed calls, photos that couldn’t capture his scent, waking up at odd hours just to hear a "sleep well, mon cœur" in the dead of night.

And then you saw him.

Charles stood exactly where you’d left him, but different—hair a little longer, wearing that blue shirt you loved (the one that made his eyes look like the Mediterranean in July), with an expression of pure relief, desperation, adoration.

He didn’t wait.

The kiss was like crossing the finish line after the longest lap in history. Your lips collided so hard you felt his pendant—the same one that had pressed against your chest during your goodbye—digging into your skin like a "welcome home" stamp.

—Fuck— he growled against your mouth, hands gripping your hips like he wanted to fuse you together right there in the middle of the terminal. —Never again.

26. End-of-the-World Kiss

The Italian beach was nearly empty, the sky painted in honey and lavender as the waves kissed the shore in slow rhythm. You buried your feet in the still-warm sand, feeling the grains slip between your toes, when Charles’ arms wrapped around you from behind.

—Perfect, isn’t it?— he murmured in your ear, his voice rough like the wind rustling the olive trees behind you.

You smiled, feeling his heart pound against your back—the same rapid beat as race starts, but now only yours, only for you. He turned you slowly, his calloused hands cradling your face like you were made of porcelain, and then, under the golden light that gilded his lashes, he kissed you.

The kiss was slow, sweet, like the wine you’d had at lunch. When you pulled apart, the sun had nearly vanished below the horizon, leaving only the glow in his eyes.

—I love you— he said, simple, direct, just like he was with the things that truly mattered.

—I know— you answered, pulling him in for another kiss as the waves hummed softly and the world seemed to pause just for the two of you.

27. Three Words in One Breath

The Monaco hotel room was silent, lit only by the harbor lights dancing on the walls. You lay on his arm, fingers tracing the scar on his shoulder—the one he got in karting at 12—when he suddenly turned, pinning you beneath him.

The kiss started like all the others.

Light at first, his lips moving with the same precision as his steering. But then something shifted—he deepened it like he was searching for something, one hand on your neck, the other lacing your fingers against the bed.

When you broke apart, the air left your lungs. Your eyes met in the dark, and you saw in him the same vulnerability he only showed when he missed a corner.

—Je...— his voice cracked. He swallowed hard, fingers trembling slightly against your cheek. —Je t’aime. (I love You)

Three words. Three words that made your chest ache like he’d crashed straight into it. You pulled his face back, kissing him with a desperation that stole your breath all over again.

—Say it again— you begged against his lips.

Charles smiled, that rare grin that only appeared when he truly, completely couldn’t hold back.

—Eu te amo (I love you) — in Portuguese this time, his accent terrible and perfect, his hands firm on your face like you might disappear.

And the next day? He said it again. And again. And again. Until you believed it. Until he believed it. Until there was no doubt left.

28. Dance and Destiny

The Vegas nightclub was at its peak, lights cutting through the dark like lightning, the bass thrumming in your chest. You were in the middle of the dance floor, barefoot because the heels had been abandoned hours ago, when Charles appeared with two cups of something sweet and strong.

—Didn’t know you danced like this— he shouted over the music.

You laughed, spinning into him, your hands finding his shoulders like they belonged there. He wasn’t the best dancer—especially not with the Brazilian rhythm you’d tried to teach him—but he made up for it with enthusiasm, his arms locking around your waist like he feared you’d slip away.

Then the song changed. Something slow. Something hot. Something that made the outside world vanish.

Charles didn’t hesitate. He pulled you close, your bodies pressed together like two puzzle pieces finally clicking into place. Your hearts beat in sync, racing from the dance, the closeness, the sheer want.

The kiss didn’t wait for the song to end.

It was urgent, sweet, desperate—like he’d waited all night for this. Your hands tangled in his curls, the soft strands between your fingers, while the music kept playing around you, as if the universe insisted on moving forward even as the two of you stood still in time.

When you broke apart, the song had changed again, but he was still frozen, staring at you like it was the first time.

—Let’s go?— he asked, voice rough with want.

You just nodded, knowing no song in the world could compare to the silence of his room later.

29. The First "Wife"

Dinner was nearly over—melted candle wax dripping onto crystal, wine glasses half-empty, the last bite of strawberry tart forgotten on the plate. Charles toyed with the fingers of your left hand, his features softened by the restaurant’s golden light, when suddenly he stopped.

—Happy dating anniversary, my lovely wife— he said, as casually as if he were commenting on the weather.

Your fork clattered loudly against the plate.

—What?— you choked, making sure you hadn’t misheard.

He grinned, that mischievous smile he only wore when he’d caught you off guard, and lifted your hand to press a kiss to your promise ring.

—You heard— he murmured, eyes locked on yours like he was seeing decades ahead. —

One day. Our day. When you’ve had enough of me butchering Portuguese and still choose to stay.

The kiss that followed was as sweet as dessert, as warm as the candles, and as promising as the ring he’d one day replace. You could taste strawberries on his lips, and something else—future, pure and simple.

—I’ll want my name on your car— you grumbled against his mouth, making him laugh so loud the couple next to you turned.

—It’s already there— he answered, suddenly serious, his hand on your cheek like a silent vow.

30. The Bear and the Kiss

The amusement park glowed under a thousand colored lights, the air thick with cotton candy and popcorn. Charles was determined—that competitive glint he usually saved for the racetrack now fixed on the ring-toss booth.

—One more try— he insisted, shoving more bills at the attendant, his arms already marked by failed attempts.

You laughed, clutching the sad little plush bear he’d won at the fishing game after three tries and a lot of sweet-talking.

—Give it up, Charlie. Some things aren’t meant to be.

But then it happened. The last ring spun through the air and—miraculously—landed around the bottle’s neck. The booth owner sighed, handing over the giant pink teddy bear (a monstrosity with bulging eyes) reluctantly.

Charles turned to you, the ridiculous trophy in his arms, grinning prouder than you’d ever seen—more than victories, more than poles, more than anything.

—For you— he announced, shoving the bear into your arms like it was the most precious prize in the world.

You tried to thank him, but the words vanished when he pulled you in by the bear, your lips meeting his in the middle of the crowd, under the flashing lights and carnival noise.

The kiss was awkward (the bear’s nose squished between you), tasted like cotton candy and cheap soda, and was perfectly teenage, like you were both sixteen again.

31. The First Addiction

It was just a kiss. Or it should have been.

You were on the couch, the movie had ended half an hour ago, and Charles was explaining for the third time how that overtake at Silverstone had been his masterpiece. You interrupted him with a quick kiss—just to shut him up. But then…

He stopped mid-sentence. Took a deep breath. And something shifted. The first touch was soft—just his lips testing yours, like it was the first time. But when you responded, he lost control.

His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back for better access. The kiss deepened, slow but relentless, like a rising tide. You tasted coffee on his tongue and something else—pure need.

—Merde— he gasped when he pulled back for a second, his eyes dark as asphalt at night. —This… this isn’t fair.

You didn’t have time to reply before he captured your lips again, this time with an urgency that made your stomach flip. It was like he’d discovered a new kind of adrenaline—and you were the only place he could get it.

—You… have to… stop— he lied between kisses, his hands already sliding under your shirt. —Or I’ll never be able to think about anything else.

32. Digital Kiss

The phone screen showed Charles sprawled on the motorhome bed, his hair a mess from how much he’d been running his hands through it, exhaustion from practice still heavy in his eyes. The connection flickered, stealing pieces of his image, but not enough to hide the way he frowned when you said:

—I have to go. Meeting in five.

He made that face—half abandoned puppy, half spoiled driver—and leaned closer to the camera until all you could see were his lips, bitten raw from missing you.

—Do this— he ordered, his whisper crackling through the speaker.

And then he kissed the screen. It was ridiculous. It was cheesy. It made your heart ache.

You laughed but ended up doing the same—your lips pressing against the cold glass where his face had been seconds before.

—Pathetic— you grumbled, the smile ruining your complaint.

—Missing someone feels like this— he replied. —See you tomorrow, mon cœur.

The call ended, leaving you staring at your own reflection in the dark phone—your lips still curved in a stupid smile, your heart heavy with something you couldn’t even name.

33. Home Remedy

The apartment smelled of garlic, ginger, and lemon—a scent that screamed home even in the middle of chaos. Charles was cocooned on the couch under a mountain of blankets, his nose red, his hair a disheveled mess, wearing that kicked-puppy look he only used on truly bad days.

You set the steaming bowl in front of him—perfect chicken soup, with the star-shaped pasta he’d loved since he was a kid.

—Nonna’s Italian cure— you announced, pushing the medicine aside.

He looked at the bowl, then at you, and something shifted in his expression—that rare vulnerability that only appeared when he was sick or deeply moved.

—Tu es…— His voice caught, more from emotion than congestion.

Before he could finish, he grabbed your wrist, knocking half the tissues to the floor. The kiss was fever-hot.

You wiped the broth off his chin with your thumb, laughing when he tried to bite your finger.

—Have some shame, Leclerc. Not even the flu makes you less insufferable.

He kissed your palm before you could pull away, his eyes half-lidded, half-dreaming.

—Love you more than nonna’s pasta— he declared solemnly, as if it were the highest compliment.

34. The Future Kiss

The press conference had ended, the murmur of journalists still echoing through the paddock, when you spotted the little boy—no older than seven, his toy F1 jumpsuit worn thin, eyes wide as saucers as he clutched a miniature helmet. You crouched, microphone in hand, and conducted the cutest interview of your life.

—What’s your name, champ?

—Enzo— he announced, proud as if he were on pole. —One day, I’ll race like Charles!

You laughed, your heart squeezing for no reason, and kept asking about his dreams. You didn’t notice Charles stopping behind you, arms crossed, smile soft.

[ .... ]

In the car back to the hotel, he was unusually quiet. You waited, knowing he’d speak when ready.

—That boy…— he started, fingers tapping the steering wheel nervously. —I thought about… if he were ours.

The air left your lungs. You’d never spoken about this directly.

Charles parked abruptly, silence heavy between you, until he turned. His green eyes were serious but soft—like he was seeing far beyond that moment.

—Have you ever thought about it?— he asked, voice quieter than you’d ever heard.

You didn’t answer with words. Just pulled his face close, the kiss starting gentle but deepening when he groaned against your lips, his hands gripping your waist like an anchor.

—I have— you admitted when you broke apart, forehead against his. —Just didn’t know if you…

He cut you off with another kiss, sweeter this time but with an urgency that made your stomach flip.

—I want it— he murmured, so softly you almost missed it. —A little Leclerc for you to teach how to be good… and for me to teach how to drive.

35. The Paper Kiss

You woke to the smell of fresh coffee and an unusual silence in the apartment. On the kitchen table—usually home to forgotten mugs and bread crumbs—was a cream-colored envelope with your initial handwritten in ink.

Inside, a sheet of Ferrari letterhead ("borrowed for noble reasons," his handwriting joked in the corner) and, in the center, the simplest note in the world:

"Love you more than pole position. Back by 6. P.S.: Look behind."

You flipped the paper and there it was—the perfect imprint of his lips in the corner. You froze, realizing Charles had secretly raided your closet for your lipstick to do what you always did—leave kiss marks on notes scattered around the apartment, since he had the memory of a goldfish.

Without thinking, you brushed your fingers over the mark, as if you could still feel his warmth. Then you noticed the tiny smudge—where he’d clearly hesitated before getting it just right.

And now you were picturing the absurd sight of Charles with red lips, all for the sake of a joke on paper.

36. The Secret Song

You pushed the apartment door open quietly, still dripping sweat from the gym, when the sound of piano music stopped you in your tracks. It was a melody you’d never heard before—sweet, melancholic, perfect—and then his voice joined in, softer than you’d ever heard in interviews or even in late-night whispers.

Your heart stalled.

Peeking through the cracked door, you saw him—Charles, his back to you, shoulders relaxed, fingers dancing over the keys. The open notebook on the piano made it obvious: scribbled lyrics, rewritten verses, a work in progress he’d never mentioned.

You couldn’t resist.

—So this is how you spend your free time?

He jumped off the bench like he’d been caught stealing a car, the notebook tumbling to the floor. His face was redder than his Ferrari race suit.

—Merde! I—

You snatched the notebook before he could hide it, your eyes scanning the page filled with “love,” “forever,” and—your pulse spiked—“children” scribbled in the corner.

The kiss didn’t wait. You grabbed his collar, your lips crashing into his with a urgency that made the piano let out a discordant note behind you.

—Sing for me— you ordered when you broke apart, cradling his face in your hands.

He swallowed hard, but when he started playing again—this time with you beside him—the music sounded different. Like it had finally found its audience.

37. Instant Kiss

The afternoon was perfect—endless lavender fields stretching to the horizon, the warm air thick with their scent. You stood with your back to the sunset, shaking the Polaroid camera in growing frustration.

—Another blurry one!— you complained as the photo slowly revealed a half-cut-off Charles, a purple smudge that was supposed to be lavender, and your finger accidentally covering the lens. —That’s five tries!

Charles, sprawled lazily in the field like he was modeling for a luxury perfume ad, let out a laugh. His green eyes glowed brighter than the setting sun.

—Maybe the problem isn’t the camera, mon cœur — he teased, lips curled in that mischievous smile you loved.

Before you could retort, he rose in one fluid motion—dirt and petals falling from his jeans—and closed the distance between you. The camera hit the grass as he cupped your face.

The kiss was like the Polaroid—instant but permanent. His lips tasted like rosé and infinite patience. When he pulled back, his expression was as soft as the twilight.

—Better?— he murmured, thumb swiping at the lipstick smudged on his mouth.

You exhaled, your heart fluttering like the birds taking flight around you.

—Take another one— you said, picking up the camera.

This time, when the flash went off, it captured perfection—him pulling you into another kiss, lavender petals swirling like natural confetti, the sun disappearing behind the two of you.

38. The Drunk Kiss

That summer night in Monaco was too hot—the city lights glittering like fallen stars, Charles drunk on wine and courage, trying to kiss you in front of everyone at the club.

You turned your face away, half-laughing, half-scolding.

—You’re drunk, Leclerc— you said, pushing lightly on his chest.

He frowned, his eyes desperate, like he couldn’t understand why the universe wasn’t aligning in his favor.

—But I—

—No buts. I’m taking you home.

But Charles, stubborn even under the influence, decided it was the perfect night for a love confession. Result? He ended up sitting on the sidewalk outside your building, clutching a bouquet of flowers he didn’t remember buying, slurring words even he didn’t understand.

—You’re… you’re my favorite corner— he announced solemnly, his grave tone ruined by a hiccup. —The one I never get right but always wanna try again.

You laughed, your heart pounding anyway, and helped him into the Uber.

—Say that again when you’re sober.

[ .... ]

Years later, on a quiet night at home, you reminisced about the incident.

—God, stop— Charles buried his face in his hands, ears red with embarrassment, as you mimicked his drunken voice: “You’re my favorite corner!”

—At least I was right— he grumbled, pulling you into a hug.

—Oh, were you?— you teased, fingers playing with his shirt buttons.

He looked at you, his eyes serious now, and finally repeated the words—no alcohol, no audience, just the raw truth you’d both known since that night.

(And if he ever found out you still kept the blurry selfie of him on the sidewalk—your secret treasure—he’d never let you live it down.)

39. The Kiss the World Discovered

The Ibiza sun gilded everything in gold when it happened. You were at that hidden café near the harbor, the one he insisted on showing you, where Charles could take off his cap and just be. He’d just told a terrible joke about the engineers, and you laughed so loudly he couldn’t resist—leaning in to press a quick, spontaneous kiss to your cheek.

Then the shutter clicked.

A quiet sound, nearly drowned by the sea, but enough to make Charles stiffen, his eyes scanning the surroundings.

—Merde — he muttered, his expression shuttering like it did after a bad race.

You laced your fingers with his under the table, a silent code: It’s okay. It was time.

[ .... ]

Forty-eight hours later, the photo was everywhere: “Leclerc in Love? F1 Star Caught Kissing Mystery Woman!”

Charles called that night, his voice uncharacteristically tense:

—I never wanted it to be like this. Are you okay?

You laughed—a light sound that made him sigh in relief through the phone.

—Charles, it’s just a peck on the cheek. The world’s seen worse.

His silence was heavy with something sweet and vulnerable:

—I wanted our first photo together to be… better.

—It’s perfect— you replied, picturing his flushed face in the image. —Because it’s real.

40. The Kiss of Lost Hours

The lamp was still on when he finally came home. 2:37 AM, according to the bedside clock. You’d fallen asleep curled on his side of the bed, the book splayed open on your chest, fingers slack against the pages.

Charles paused in the doorway, the scent of stale coffee and exhaustion clinging to him. He should’ve gone straight to the shower, should’ve been careful not to wake you—but then he saw the exposed curve of your neck, your necklace slightly twisted, and all the should’ves vanished.

He knelt onto the bed carefully, his calloused hands sinking into the mattress beside you, and leaned down.

The first kiss was just a whisper, his lips barely grazing your nape—a test. You mumbled something incoherent, turning your face away, and he took the chance to kiss the spot below your ear, the one he knew made you shiver.

—Sorry— he whispered, the words warm against your skin as his hands slowly unzipped his race suit.

You didn’t answer. Just pulled his arm around your waist, anchoring him there, as if your sleepy body already knew what it needed.

He chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating against your back, and finally settled around you—your neck still his favorite place that night.

[harianaswhore]

ohhh i just love this series 🥹🥹

[frickyeahfanfic]

〉the enemy of my enemy

chapter 2 - interrogation.

ethan hunt x f!reader 》 read chapter 1 here summary: You’re alone. Prague is the first real lead you’ve had on VANTAGE since everything went haywire—and you’re not about to let some fancy IMF agent ruin your shot. But when Ethan Hunt intercepts you mid-mission, everything spirals. word count: 1919 tags: enemies to lovers, slow burn, spy, forced team-up, female operative reader, pre-rogue nation ethan warnings: none. a/n: sorry there's lots of dialogue. action is coming soon hehe

PRAGUE. UNKNOWN IMF SAFE HOUSE, 03:25 HOURS.

He takes a step forward, gun now flush against your chest. “Who are you?”

You look down at the pistol pressing into your sternum. “You’re not gonna shoot me.” 

Agent Ethan Hunt squints, his green eyes cutting into yours under the dim hotel room light. “Says who?”

“Says the fact that you won’t be able to decrypt that key. It’s impossible.”

His grip on the gun doesn’t flinch.

“Who are you?” he repeats.

“Why should I tell you?”

He shakes his head in frustration. “How could you possibly know what that chip has on it? Are you in it for money?” 

“Oh. You don’t know what’s on that chip, do you?” 

You can see the muscles tense in his jaw. That’s all the answer you need.

“Trust me,” you say softly, “there’s a reason you don’t know.”

“And how do you?” 

You look down at the pistol. “Okay, can we lose the gun now?” 

His eyes trail down your body. “Not until you can get rid of this.” 

Your heart stammers, but your face doesn’t flinch. Right, he meant the knives.

With a small sigh, you reach down slowly and let the blade strapped to your thigh clatter to the ground.

“Happy?” 

For the first time, a smile tugs at the corner of Hunt’s lips. 

“You’re not finished.”

He’s not an idiot. He’s actually a genius, a highly trained spy, assassin, asset, agent, mystery, whatever you want to call him. You reach into the side of your bra, and retrieve another knife, and then toss it aside. Only then does Hunt flick the safety and lower the weapon. 

“Finally.” You exhale, relaxing your shoulders slightly. “But if you were going to shoot me, you would’ve already.” 

He doesn't argue.  

“Who do you work for?” 

“No one.”

His brow lifts. “You’re alone? I don’t buy it.”

You shrug. “Wish I wasn’t, I’d have the chip in my possession if I had backup, like you do.” You nod your head to his left where you can see a thin wire hanging behind his ear. 

“Well it’s not yours to take.” He says.

“It’s not yours either. What does the IMF want with it, anyways?” 

Now that gets his attention. You read the flicker of surprise on his face and you lean in. 

“Yeah. I know who you are. I’ve done my research. But I guess I missed the part where you planned to show up tonight and ruin my op.” 

Hunt’s grip on the pistol tightens slightly.

“Don’t you have nukes to stop or something? The chip is… tiny, for someone like you.” 

He takes a step closer, his presence cold and quiet and utterly in control. “I’ll ask one more time, who are you? I don’t have time for games.” His voice is low now.

“No point in telling you my name. It won't show up in any database you got and I’m sure your comms team has already tried looking me up. I’m on my own. It’s been this way for a while now. And honestly, you’re making it a lot harder than it needs to be.”

A second of silence.  

“I don’t need your IMF protocols getting in my way. You’re just slowing me down.”

Hunt’s hand reaches up and loosens the tie on his neck. “What’s your goal?”

You daringly take a half step closer to him. “VANTAGE erased me. So I’m planning to erase them.” 

He sighs. Actually sighs. 

“And you’re really planning to do this, alone?” 

You wave a hand in the air. “Do you think I had a choice?”

Your eyes flick back up to his. “Besides, when I say I’m the only one who can decrypt that chip, it’s because I wrote the encryption.”

That lands. You can practically see the gears turning in his head. 

“You wrote the code?” It’s not disbelief, it’s reevaluation. 

A sweet fake-innocent smile spreads across your face. “Surpriiise,” you sing. “I’m not just some freelancer agent in a dress” 

“How do I know you’re not lying?” 

“Well I guess there’s only one way to find out,” you turn your head, looking over at the computer sitting on the coffee table. You noticed it when you first walked in. 

You can hear a vibrating noise coming from Hunt’s pocket, and he quickly grabs a phone out, answering it immediately. 

“Yeah. She’s with me here, not yet, but -” he stops talking for a brief moment, and you barely make out the words on the other line. 

“Ethan, I don’t think we’re going to be able to decrypt the files, there’s a safety feature attached to everything that will instantly delete it all if someone tries and is unsuccessful. I’ve done all we can, but, wow, I’ve never seen anything like this before.” 

“I think I might have figured out a way, actually,” Hunt looks back to you, and you pretend to not be paying attention, looking around the room at the bed, the furniture, the walls -

“Oh. Okay. Wait a minute, is it the girl you kidnapped?” 

You turn around in surprise, giving away that you could hear the conversation the whole time.

“Kidnapped?” You mouth to Hunt. Maybe in a way, you were his hostage, but also you weren’t leaving Prague without the chip. You were following him… in a way. Not the other way around. 

He rolls his eyes. “I’ll let you know soon. Just, hang tight.” 

A short beep cuts off the call and Hunt slips the phone back in his pocket. 

“You’ve got an assignment to do.” 

A clock on the nightstand glows the time. 04:15 AM.

“Can this wait till tomorrow?” You whine. You weren’t that tired, just wrung out from all this… emotional tension, and having your night totally ruined by some IMF agent in a shiny suit. 

Hunt shakes his head. “No. Now. At least get us in. Prove that you can decrypt it, and then we do the rest in the morning.” 

It’s no use fighting with him. You’ve already lost the chip to him. Might as well win back some points by getting into the drive and figuring out the coordinates, for yourself at least. 

He looks over your shoulder and nods his head towards the computer in the sitting area behind you. You shuffle your feet over to it and plop down on the couch. Agent Hunt puts his pistol on the small table by the door and takes off his tie, following you. 

You reach for the computer. 

“Ah -” Hunt lunges forward and grabs it before you can. 

You fold your arms and sit back on the couch, pouting. “Can you just maybe not treat me like a threat for like five seconds?” 

“Are you not?” He says haughtily, but slides the computer over to you once it’s unlocked. 

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out what looks like a black thumb drive, the vessel for the chip that has the information that we both so desperately want. The second he plugs it into the computer, a black terminal window pops up on the screen and a little white line in the top left corner blinks. 

He moves behind the couch to watch. And maybe to stop you from going anywhere. It was easier if he was already on his feet. 

You ignore his intimidating presence behind you and type a few lines of code. 

cd /mnt/drive

ls -a

A list of oddly named files flashes across the screen, numbers and letters combined in gibberish to the untrained eye, but not to you. 

The encryption interface loads after a few taps. It’s sleek, custom, multi-layered and definitely not something the IMF has seen before.

You lean in closer to the computer, fingers clicking rapidly across the keyboard. 

./decode --override-lock --key="Vale.008"

The screen stalls for a moment. Then - 

ACCESS GRANTED. 

WELCOME, AGENT Y/L/N. 

Hunt says your last name under his breath. 

You almost swear under your breath, dying a little inside from embarrassment. You were trying to stay under his radar, but it was inevitable that he would eventually figure out your name.  

A file tree displays underneath the welcome message. One of the files says 

/relay_nodes

With two keyboard clicks, you open it, and five coordinates display on the screen. 

39.0438° N, 77.4874° W

50.1109° N, 8.6821° E

1.3521° N, 103.8198° E

43.2965° N, 5.3698° E

64.1466° N, 21.9426° W

You hear a sharp inhale behind you. Hunt’s crossed arms drop. 

“Well?” he asks. 

Glancing back at him, you smirk. “Glad you didn’t shoot me?”

Although he’s serious, you can see that he’s impressed. Maybe more relieved that you’re in the mix and could break into the files so easily. 

“Since I wrote the code, I wrote a backdoor. They had no idea, of course.”

“And you wrote a welcome message to yourself?”

Wait. Yeah, that’s odd. 

“Not sure what that’s about. I don’t remember putting that into the program, but since a lot of the code is artificial intelligence, it might have just happened randomly,” you lie. 

There’s a pit in your stomach. Part of you fears that they now know you got into the drive. 

Before Hunt can ask any more questions, you yawn. Not overly dramatic, but enough to sell your next line. “So are you gonna tie me to the chair until the morning?” 

He circles around the couch and heads to a cabinet on the other side of the room. “No. But you’re not going anywhere. Get some rest and we’ll continue in the morning.” 

He grabs a t-shirt and sweats out of one of the drawers and tosses it to you. You catch it, noticing the smell of clean laundry and cologne on it. They’re his. 

“Make do. You can use the bathroom now if you want.” 

You take out the drive, placing it on the table and shut the laptop, slightly paranoid now that someone could track your location on it. You can feel Hunt’s eyes on you as you make your way to the bathroom, and now you’re painfully aware of how sweaty, tired, and uncomfortable you’ve been in the dress all night. 

He turns away now and you shut the door. Your shower only lasts a few minutes, thankfully there were some basic toiletries on top of the toilet, and you quickly change into Hunt’s borrowed clothes. 

Wow. IMF agents are spoiled. 

As you walk out, you see Hunt back over by the computer, typing something away. He's discarded his navy suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves to his white shirt, revealing his muscular forearms.

He glances up at you, does a double take, but says nothing. Something about you, undone, hair wet, and in his clothes makes him feel something unfamiliar in his chest. Dangerous. 

You walk over to him and fold your arms. 

“I can take the couch,” you say before he can argue with you. “I don’t need IMF thinking I tried to seduce you in your sleep.” 

He doesn’t look up from the laptop. “You’d fail,” he says. But his tone is lighter. “Take the bed. I got some more things to take care of here.” 

You sigh and walk over to the bed, not even bothering to get under the covers. You could sleep on a cobblestone road right now. 

"I’m shocked you’re not handcuffing me to the bed. You’re getting soft, Agent Hunt," you say loud enough for him to hear your final words for the night.  

He doesn’t laugh. But his mouth twitches like he wants to. 

‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗

~ % TAGLIST: @sarahskywalker-amidala @mirrorballbb

[harianaswhore]

loving this series, can’t wait to read more !!

[cheftsunoda]

heal your heart—cl16

part two (very very long and wordy)

smau + real life

carlos sainz x !sister singer reader

charles leclerc x sainz reader

catalina sainz has it all— she is a successful grammy award winning artist, her brother is a well known formula 1 driver, she has an amazing family and wonderful friends. she was also blessed with a fiance and a beautiful baby boy.. she had everything.. until she didn't. her fiance disappears and takes her son with him. catalina watches as her world crumbles...who will be there to help pick up the pieces?

fc : kali uchis

⚠️ATTENTION : TRIGGER WARNING! MENTIONS OF DEPRESSION AND ABUSE. ⚠️

part one here

—

f1gossipgirls

liked by 475,943 people.

f1gossipgirls : Catalina Sainz has made a paddock appearance shortly after Carlos Sainz announced he would still be driving in the Japanese GP. This is the first time Catalina has been seen since the rumors started circulating that her son was taken by her fiance who has disappeared without a trace. Her son was not seen anywhere near the paddock and Catalina was only seen by press and paps for a few moments before Williams team members swooped her into hospitality. She was later spotted in the paddock cuddled up with Rebecca Donaldson, Carlos' partner, who seemed to be comforting her in this time of need. Carlos seemed to be agitated and quiet with the press. Let us know what you all think about Catalina's appearance.

username2 : her relationship with rebecca has always been so special..idc if y'all don't like rebecca due to her past- she is always there for our girl

liked by author

username5 : the silence, the matching sunglasses, the fact they are not speaking to anyone… something WENT DOWN and they’re coming back in blood pact formation

username7 : okay but imagine your brother is a world-famous driver and you just quietly vanish across international borders and he SHOWS UP TO FIND YOU IN THE MOUNTAINS?? this family is cinematic

username8: If this ends in Carlos winning the GP and dedicating it to her with a whispered “para mi hermana” on the radio, I will lose ALL composure...

username10 : before you all start shitting on her for making a public appearance in this state... she has always been very very supportive of carlos' career and she probably begged him to not fully drop out and she came with so she didn't have to be alone again.

liked by author

username20 : and she did not really even make an appearance...you can tell they were trying to sneak her in and the paps and press were just being absolutely RELENTLESS

liked by author

username15 : You can tell she didn’t sleep. You can tell he hasn’t smiled in days. You can tell someone’s getting sued.

username17 : Carlos showing up like her personal security, emotional support brother, AND legal representative 😭 I’m in love..

username9 : mother is mothering again...i feel like i haven't seen her flip off paps in like 2 years (it's been 2 months)

liked by author

usernameee : not to be dramatic but if this was 1830 he’d have challenged someone to a duel by now

username2 : BYEEE

username0 : Ok but did anyone notice the way she didn’t make eye contact with a single camera?? She’s been media trained for this moment.

—

twitter!

@/williamsracing : Carlos Sainz is present at the Japanese Grand Prix and will be participating in the weekend as scheduled. At this time, he will not be making any personal statements. We kindly ask that media respect his and his family’s privacy.

view comments

username : I saw Carlos' PR officer physically block a tabloid guy from asking about Catalina. She body-checked him. Things are tense.

username0 : what a queen give her a raise

username4 : Carlos racing with THIS on his mind is terrifying. He’s either gonna win by 30 seconds or drive straight into the garage and file for custody mid-race.

username00 : If your brother doesn’t fly across the world mid-race week to rescue you from a life-shattering betrayal, is he even a brother???

username5 : They said no comment. I said no problem, I’ll make up the entire timeline myself.

—

I woke up early, the light just creeping into the room. The soft hum of Carlos pacing in the next room is the only thing that lets me know he’s still here. His presence is steady, a constant. But right now, he’s not just my brother, he’s the man trying to fix everything, trying to be everything for me when I don’t have the energy to pretend anymore. The last few weeks feel like a blur...like I’ve been running on autopilot and suddenly, the ground has dropped from under me. I want to tell him everything, that I’m not okay, that I feel lost, but I can’t. I can’t because I don’t want to break him too. But this morning, the room is still quiet, the soft morning light casting long shadows on the floor. I hear Carlos on the phone, his voice low and urgent, but the words aren’t clear. Lawyers. Calls to his manager. Something about custody arrangements. I can’t listen. I don’t want to listen. But I can’t let him drop everything for me. I can’t be the reason he cancels a race weekend. He’s worked too hard, come too far. I won’t be the reason he fails.

I take a deep breath, pushing myself up from the bed. I’m still wearing the same clothes from yesterday. My head hurts, but I ignore it. I have to. When I walk into the room, Carlos is at the desk, holding his phone in his hand, his eyes glued to the screen. He doesn’t see me at first. His face is a mask of concentration, but underneath, there’s something else. Worry. Fear.

“Carlos…” I whisper, my voice cracking as I say his name. He looks up at me immediately, the relief flooding his face the second he sees me.

“Cat.” He doesn’t even stand up. His eyes, though—they’re softer now, less angry. But still, I see that question in them. That question I don’t know how to answer. "How are you?"

I nod, even though I’m not. “I’m fine.” It’s a lie, but it’s all I’ve got.

Carlos sets the phone down slowly, his fingers brushing against the edge of the desk as if he’s about to grab it again. “I’m not letting you do this alone again, Catalina. I have been on the phone with several lawyers and some officials in Spain. You’re not handling this alone. You can’t handle this alone.”

“I don’t want to,” I say quickly, almost desperately. I can’t stand the idea of him being that worried. “But I don’t want you to cancel your race. I can’t let you do that for me. I watched you build this career piece by piece, Los. I am not going to let you ruin it for me."

His eyes flash with something I can’t quite place. “You’re not in any state to be alone right now, Catalina. You’re not okay, and I can see it. You’re…” His voice cracks, and I hate that I’m the reason for it. “You’re slipping.”

"I can't stand the thought of losing you too." His words hit me like a truck.

“Carlos, I’ll be fine. You can’t cancel your race for me. Please. I’ll be okay,” I plead, but it doesn’t feel real even as the words leave my mouth. I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay again. But he can’t see that.

He’s silent for a moment, his gaze never leaving mine. I feel the weight of his stare, the pressure in the air thickening as he contemplates everything.

“I’m not racing without you,” he finally says, his voice soft but firm. “I’m not going to leave you alone with all of this, not after what happened.” He runs a hand through his hair, frustration flashing in his eyes. “You’re coming with me. You’re going to the race with me. I won’t do this without you.”

“I—” I begin, but I can’t finish the sentence. I don’t have the strength to fight him on this. I don’t want to fight him on this. I need him, too.

“I’ll race, but only if you’re with me,” he adds, his voice quiet but resolute. “You’re coming with me. We’ll go together. I’ll be there with you, every step. I’m not leaving you in this place, Catalina. Not after everything.”

"I can't race if I am worried about you the whole time. I will take care of everything, I will shield you from the press, Rebecca will be there to be with you. Please. Just let me take care of you."

I don’t say anything for a moment. I feel like I’m suffocating, but there’s something about the way he says it that calms me, just a little. Maybe because I know he’s not going to leave me.

Finally, I nod, swallowing back the lump in my throat. “Okay,” I whisper. “Okay. I’ll go with you. But only because you’re sure. I don’t want you to drop everything for me. You need to race. You need to keep going.”

His eyes soften. “We’ll keep going together, Cat. Always.”

I nod again, unable to say anything more, my chest heavy with the weight of his words. With the weight of everything.

—

TW! This section discusses abuse.

The jet hums beneath us as we fly through the thick cloud cover, heading toward the race. The only thing I can hear clearly is the steady rhythm of my own heart, and the thoughts swirling in my mind, too tangled to untangle. I’m here. I’m on my way to a race weekend, but I don’t feel like I’m really here. My body is on the plane, but my mind is somewhere else entirely. Somewhere dark. I should feel relief, maybe even some semblance of peace. I have Carlos with me. He’s here, sitting across from me, his eyes on the window, his jaw tense. But inside, I feel like I’m falling apart. I want to say something. Anything. The truth. But the words are lodged in my throat, thick and suffocating. I don’t want to break in front of him, not again. I’ve already put him through too much. But Carlos isn’t going to let me stay silent. He never does.

“Cariño” his voice is low, but it cuts through the quiet of the cabin like a knife. “I need you to talk to Mama y Papa. They have seen the press and they know where I am. They do not want you feeling alone in this.”

I can’t look at him right now. I keep my gaze trained on the floor, focusing on the way the carpet fibers shift beneath my feet with every slight movement of the jet. His words, though, they hit me like a punch to the gut.

“I can’t,” I whisper, the refusal almost automatic. “I can’t tell them.”

Carlos sighs, his voice softer now, but still filled with that quiet urgency. “Cat, they need to know. They deserve to know what’s happening. You can’t keep hiding this from them. They’ll understand. You don’t have to carry it all on your own.”

I close my eyes and lean my head back against the plush seat, trying to steady myself, but it feels like the world is spinning. Why am I so scared? I’m not scared of telling them...I’m scared of what it means. I’m scared of how they’ll look at me once they know everything. Scared of how they'll feel about me, about what I allowed to happen.

“I’m scared of what they’ll think of me,” I confess, my voice cracking. “I… I’m scared they’ll think I was weak. I let him in again. I let him hurt me. And I should’ve known better.”

Carlos is quiet for a moment. I can feel his gaze on me now, even though I’m not looking at him. The weight of it presses on me, but there’s something gentle in it, something I can’t quite put into words. His next words come slow, deliberate.

“You’re not weak, Catalina. You never were. He made you believe that. He made you believe that you were the problem when you weren’t. He was the problem. What happened to you, what he did to you, none of it is your fault. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

I can feel the walls I’ve spent so long building around myself crack, the cold walls I put up to protect myself from feeling anything. But the cracks don’t stop. They break open, and suddenly, I’m not so sure I’m ready to face the storm that’s going to come.

“Carlos, you don’t understand.” I shake my head, my chest tightening with every word I say. “It wasn’t just… it wasn’t just the controlling stuff. The gaslighting. The manipulation. It was the… the times when I would tell him I didn’t want to do something, and he would ignore me. He would make me feel like I was being unreasonable. And then, when I’d try to leave, when I thought I could leave, he would beg me to stay, and I’d… I’d believe him. Every time. Every damn time.”

My voice falters. “And then it turned physical. I never wanted to say that, but it did. There were times when I’d say no, but he didn’t stop. And I’d... I’d freeze, Carlos. I didn’t know how to say no anymore. I didn’t know how to stop him.”

The words are raw, bleeding from me before I even realize it. The shame burns like fire inside me, but I can’t stop talking now. It feels like I’m finally releasing everything I’ve been holding inside, even though I know I can never take it back.

“I didn’t know how to get out. I thought if I left, he’d destroy me. If I told anyone, they wouldn’t believe me. They’d think I was just being dramatic. And I didn’t want to be the girl who let that happen. I didn’t want anyone to know.”

"I thought he'd take my son from me which clearly that assumption was not far off." I choked out.

Carlos doesn’t interrupt me, doesn’t say anything. But I can feel his hand, reaching for mine. Gently, but with a strength that tells me he’s here. And he’s not going anywhere.

“I finally left him. I did. But I... I let him back in. And I thought it would be different, that things would go back to the way they were. But they didn’t. And I couldn’t leave again. I didn’t have the strength. And I thought I could handle it.” I swallow hard. “I was wrong. I was so wrong, Carlos. And now I’m... I’m just broken. I don’t know how to fix this.”

His hand tightens around mine, his grip firm and comforting, as if he’s holding me together when I can’t. His voice is quieter now, but it’s thick with emotion, more raw than I’ve ever heard it before. He comes over and sits beside me and I lean into him- needing him more than ever.

“You’re not broken. You never were. And you’re not alone, Catalina. I’ll never let you be alone in this.” He whispers as he leaves two kisses on the top of my head and then rests his chin there.

I’m shaking, my tears finally coming as I lean against the seat, squeezing my eyes shut. “I don’t know how to fix this, Carlos,” I whisper again, almost pleading. “I don’t know if I can.”

“You don’t have to fix it all at once. Just take it one step at a time. But you can’t carry this on your own anymore, okay? Let us help you. Let me help you.”

The jet rocks slightly, turbulence lifting us a little before settling. But even as the world outside shifts, I feel something inside me begin to settle too. Carlos is right there, beside me. And for the first time, I feel like maybe—just maybe—I don’t have to carry this alone anymore.

I look up at him, my voice barely a whisper, but my heart full of something I’ve been afraid to feel for so long. “I’ll talk to them. I’ll tell them what happened. I won’t do this alone anymore.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes soften. He’s not angry, not frustrated. Just... there. He’s with me. And for the first time in so long, I feel like maybe I can breathe again.

—

The paddock is a blur of flashing cameras, murmuring press, and engine rumbles. I step off that jet and straight into the chaos with Carlos by my side, his hand firm on my back like a silent promise, I’ve got you. He’s in protective mode—shoulders squared, jaw tight, sunglasses shielding his eyes even in the cloudy morning light. He doesn’t say much as we walk, but he doesn’t need to. I can feel the heat of the stares, the way heads turn as whispers ripple through the crowd. He has a soft but protective grip on my hand. I hear my name. His name. Questions I can’t make out.

"Catalina, are you okay?" "Where have you been?" "Is it true—?"

Carlos steps in front of me, shielding me with his body, and one of the team PR reps steps up to intercept the worst of it. I keep my head down. My hands tremble, stuffed into the pockets of the oversized jacket I borrowed from Carlos on the plane. I’m only here because I didn’t want him to race alone. Because he wouldn’t leave me behind.

"Ignore them," Carlos mutters under his breath. "Just a few steps more. Becs is waiting for you."

And she is—right at the garage entrance, her arms crossed and eyes scanning the crowd like a hawk. The moment she sees me, her whole face softens. She walks toward me, brushing past a reporter with her usual cool grace, and without asking, she wraps me in a hug and presses a light kiss to my cheek. I tense for a second as I'm not used to this kind of softness lately but then I sink into her. Her hold is warm, grounded. She smells like lavender and leather and something clean.

“Hey,” she says softly, brushing my hair back as she pulls away. “You don’t have to say anything. Just breathe. I’ve got you, okay?”

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. Rebecca’s not overly emotional, she’s steady, patient, and completely unfazed by the circus around us. I don’t know how she does it, but in this moment, I’m grateful she’s here.

“Come with me,” she says, her hand on my arm. “I’ve set you up with a quiet space in the back of the hospitality suite. No cameras, no questions.”

I glance at Carlos, who’s already being pulled aside by engineers. He gives me a look...a question and a reassurance all at once. I nod. I’ll be okay. Rebecca leads me away, shielding me with her presence like armor. As we step inside the garage area, I spot a familiar mop of curls down the corridor.

“Lando?” I ask as my voice cracks.

He perks up instantly and makes a beeline for me, his face lit up with a mix of worry and relief. “There you are. I came down here to check on you, princess."

Before I can react, he pulls me into a hug...his hugs are always a little too tight, a little too long, but never unwelcome.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he says, his voice muffled by my hair. “Carlos wouldn't speak and I saw all of the bullshit in the press and you didn't answer my calls."

“I’m okay,” I lie, a practiced reflex. But he pulls back, studies me.

“You don’t have to be,” he says gently and rubs a stray tear from my cheek. “You just have to let us be here.”

I feel the tears prick again, unexpected and inconvenient. I blink them back and smile, just barely. “Thanks, Lando.”

"I got you always, bug. Remember that. I got a race to work on but I love you. Stay strong for us, okay?" He says and I nod.

"Love you, Lan. Work your magic out there." I said and he lightly chuckled.

He nods, then glances at Rebecca. “Take care of my girl, yeah?"

Rebecca nods and grabs my hand. "Always."

—

The room Rebecca set me up in smells faintly of fresh linen and citrus. It’s quiet—soundproofed, probably—and the lighting is soft and warm. There’s a cozy armchair in the corner, a tray of snacks and water on the table beside it, and a small diffuser puffing lavender into the air. It’s a strange kind of peace, the sort that feels like it doesn’t belong to me. I haven’t moved much in the past hour. My limbs feel heavy, my chest hollow. Rebecca laid right next to me, our legs intertwined. We had sat in a comfortable silence.

Eventually, I speak. “You don’t have to stay. I’m fine.”

She tilts her head. “You’re not.”

I look down into my tea. “No. I’m not.”

"And I stay because I love you, you are like my sister and I cannot stand seeing you in this kind of pain." She said and I felt my heart ache.

There’s another beat of silence, and then she says gently, “Carlos told me some of it. Not all. Just enough to know you’ve been holding the weight of a lot for a long time.”

The lump rises in my throat again, the one I keep swallowing like it might stay down if I’m disciplined enough. I nod slowly, not trusting myself to speak.

Rebecca leans forward a little. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Did you think you wouldn’t be believed?”

I look up. That question cuts deep, and it’s honest, not cruel. There’s no pity in her eyes—just curiosity, concern. Empathy.

“I didn’t think anyone would believe me,” I say quietly. “He was... polished. So charming. Good with people. He said all the right things in public. And I thought if I told someone what happened behind closed doors, they’d just... think I was being dramatic. Emotional. Jealous. Difficult.”

Rebecca nods slowly. “That’s what they count on, people like that. They build the perfect illusion and then isolate you inside it.”

I blink at her. “You say that like you’ve known someone like him.”

She doesn’t flinch. “I have.”

It’s the first time I see something shift behind her calm, composed exterior. Not pain, exactly—but understanding that’s been lived.

“I’m not going to pretend I know exactly what you went through,” she says, her voice even, “but I do know what it’s like to lose yourself. To have your reality twisted until you can’t tell what’s real anymore. To feel like leaving means you’ll lose everything...even if staying is what is destroying you.”

I feel the tears now. Hot, quiet, just slipping down my cheeks. I nod again, the relief of being seen cracking something open. She held my hand, rubbing circles on my knuckles with her thumb.

“I stayed longer than I should have,” I whisper. “I thought I was protecting my son. But I was just... too scared to see what it was doing to both of us.”

“You were surviving,” Rebecca says, her voice firm now. “You don’t owe anyone an apology for that.”

I breathe out a shaky breath. “It’s like... I don’t know how to come back from this. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

Rebecca leans back, sipping her tea. “Then start small. You don’t have to find all the pieces at once. Just... start with the ones in front of you. The ones that feel like yours.”

I look at her for a long moment. “Is it weird that you’re the one comforting me? I mean, you’re dating my brother.”

She laughs softly. “It’s not weird. He’s kind of an emotional hurricane sometimes. I’ve got plenty of practice in disaster management.”

That actually makes me smile, for real this time.

Rebecca looks directly at me with a softness in her eyes. “You’re not alone anymore, Catalina. Not even close. We’re in your corner. All of us.”

I nod, and for the first time in weeks, I believe it.

—

The race is over. The paddock is slowly emptying...journalists clearing out, team members packing down, drivers giving tired, sweaty interviews. I’m tucked in the corner of the Williams Hospitality where I had been since the beginning of FP1, legs curled under me on a quiet sofa. Carlos had actually finished P1, and for a moment, I felt like maybe things were okay. Or at least survivable. But as the adrenaline fades, the weight returns—an ache at the center of my chest that nothing really eases. I hear the door open, soft footsteps. I glance up.

Charles.

His suit is half-unzipped, fireproof top tied at his waist, a towel slung around his neck. His curls are damp with sweat, his jawline sharp, but there’s something new in his eyes. Something unreadable. And focused entirely on me.

“Hey,” he says gently.

“Hey.”

He glances around, then walks toward me, slow and deliberate. “Can I sit?”

I nod, suddenly very aware of how quiet it is.

He doesn’t sit across from me. He sits beside me, not too close—but not far, either. His presence fills the room in that effortless way he has, but it’s softer now.

“I heard what happened,” he says after a moment. His voice is low, steady. “Not everything. Just... enough.”

I flinch, even though I’d known this moment was inevitable. Word spreads fast in this world.

“Carlos didn’t mean to—” I start, but Charles shakes his head.

“He didn’t tell me. I heard pieces from Lando. And... the press and I could tell. Something in your face this weekend. The way Carlos hasn’t left your side.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t trust my voice.

Charles looks down at his hands, then back at me. “I keep thinking about how many times I saw you, these last few years. Smiling. Showing up for everyone. And I never noticed.”

“It wasn’t your job to notice,” I say softly.

“I still should’ve,” he says, voice tightening. “I thought you were just private. Quiet. But now...” He cuts off, jaw clenching. “He took your son. Left you like that. I swear to god, if I ever see him—”

His voice breaks a little, and I blink. I wasn’t expecting this kind of fury. Not from him.

My voice is barely audible. “You’re angry?”

He turns his head toward me, eyes burning now. “I’m furious. For you. For your son. I can’t even imagine what you’re feeling, but I want to. I want to understand. If you’ll let me.”

Something in me crumbles, then steadies. I didn’t come here for this. I didn’t expect him. But here he is—intense, protective, kind. The same Charles I’ve always known, and also... something more. Charles and I have always been extremely close since him and Carlos' time as teammates but I had never seen this side of him...even after a bad race or horrible Ferrari strategy. There was something different behind those eyes...something different brewing from within him.

“Everyone keeps asking if I’m okay,” I say. “But you—you’re the first person who’s just sat beside me and let me be not okay.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, quietly but with unmistakable weight. “And for what it’s worth, I think you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

I look at him. Really look. And for a flicker of a second, I wonder what it would be like to let someone see me like this—not because I’m broken, but because they want to see me whole again.

His hand brushes mine. Not fully holding it—just a quiet, lingering connection. I don’t pull away. Neither does he.

He’s quiet for a moment. “You don’t have to talk, but… if you want to. I’m here.”

The offer is so simple. Not pressure. Not pity. Just space.

And maybe it’s the night, or the exhaustion, or the unbearable silence I’ve been carrying around—but this time, I speak.

“It wasn’t always bad,” I begin, my voice hoarse. “He wasn’t always… like that. There were good months. Good memories. That’s the part that makes you stay too long. You start believing the kindness is who he really is—and the cruelty is just a phase.”

Charles doesn’t interrupt. His hand still rests atop mine, his body turned slightly toward me, like he’s giving me all his attention but none of his weight.

“He hated when I worked. When I traveled. He said it made me selfish. That I should want to be home, with our son. That I was choosing my ambition over motherhood.” My throat tightens. “I started to believe him.”

I look down at my hands. “He told me I was nothing without him. That no one would believe me if I left. That I’d be alone. And… I was.”

A pause. I feel the sting in my eyes.

“But Carlos came. I didn’t even ask. He just came. And now I’m here. And I don’t know who I am anymore.”

I expect silence. Or awkwardness. But Charles exhales slowly, then says, Cat, you are so very strong, and brave, and brilliant. You love fiercely, even when it hurts. You’re not broken. You’re healing. That takes time.”

I turn to look at him.

His gaze is steady. And kind. And something else—something undeniable sparking beneath the calm.

“I wish I’d known,” he says. “I would’ve said something. Done something.”

“You couldn’t have fixed it.”

“No,” he agrees. “But I would’ve stood beside you anyway.”

And there’s something in his voice that cuts through me. That sees me.

I nod, slowly. “Thank you. For this. For... not trying to fix me. Just sitting here.”

“I don’t want to fix you,” he says quietly. “I just want you to know you’re not alone anymore.”

And then, silence again. But it’s different now. Not empty. Full of something fragile, and new, and quietly powerful. His hand brushes mine again—and this time, I take his. Just for a moment. But that moment feels like the start of something I might one day be brave enough to hold onto.

—

celebgossiproom

2,468,473 likes.

celebgossiproom : Carlos Sainz just dedicated his win to his sister (Catalina Sainz) and then said “I will find him” before walking off the stage. The air left the paddock. Absolutely wild. Sources say Lando Norris and Charles Leclerc were seen talking quietly with Carlos post-race. Some say the three are planning something… off-track. #F1 #JapaneseGP

username : carlos sainz saying “i will find him” with that dead calm voice after dedicating the race to catalina??? i’m unwell. this is becoming a netflix-level drama.

username0 : everyone at home: yay carlos!! carlos on live international television: threatens a man with god and vengeance this season is unhinged.

username5 : not even joking if i was the ex i would go into witness protection TONIGHT. you don’t mess with a sainz sibling and live to tell the tale

username7 : if you don’t think charles and lando are already behind carlos with ski masks and an unmarked van you don’t know this paddock. #protectcatalina

username14 : not carlos sainz turning into a real life telenovela brother. i need this scripted for tv IMMEDIATELY.

username1 : no bc imagine being THAT man. carlos sainz just threatened your entire bloodline in front of the global motorsport community and FIA can’t even penalize it. art.

username00 : lando: “carlos i don’t think we can actually murder someone” charles, loading a slides presentation : “speak for yourself”

username15 : what’s the FIA gonna do? black flag him for emotional terrorism? he already WON. he already ASCENDED.

username20 : he didn’t say “i will find him” in anger. he said it like a promise. calm. cold. terrifying...oh this man is on a mission.

—

carlos pov

The paddock is still buzzing, even hours after the race. People are celebrating. Reporters are still trying to get quotes. Cameras are still pointed in my direction. But all I hear is the ringing in my ears from those words I said into the mic.

“This one’s for my sister. I will find him.”

I meant it.

I’m still in my race suit, sweat drying uncomfortably against my skin, when my phone buzzes in my hand.

Private Line – Alberto (Legal)

I answer on the first ring. “Tell me something. Good."

Alberto doesn’t waste time. “One of our private investigators traced a withdrawal from a secondary bank account—one Catalina didn’t know existed. The transaction happened two days ago, from a small town outside Geneva.”

My heart kicks into a different rhythm.

“That’s his hideout?”

“Looks like it. There’s more—we got eyes on a vehicle rented under an alias he used in the past. The location matches the bank activity. We're triangulating exact coordinates now.”

I press a hand to my temple. “And Mateo? Was he seen?”

There’s a beat of hesitation. “Not confirmed. But there’s a credible sighting of a child matching his age at a pharmacy nearby. The store’s owner remembered the boy had a small stuffed monkey with him."

I close my eyes. His favorite toy. He takes it everywhere. That’s him. That’s my nephew.

I grip the edge of the table, breathing hard through my nose. “How long until we know for sure?”

“We’ve already got a team flying out. 24 to 36 hours max. If it’s him, we’ll get a court order in place and local authorities involved immediately.”

I open my eyes and stare at my reflection in the dark window. There’s no victory glow. No pride in this win. Just fire in my chest and the dull ache of rage behind my ribs.

“Good,” I say. “Get me on that plane."

“And Carlos…” Alberto lowers his voice. “He’s scared. That’s why he’s moving. He knows what’s coming. He could possibly move again. We are lucky we even got this lead."

“He should be scared,” I murmur. “Because I’m coming.”

I hang up. The celebration around me fades into static. I move through hospitality like a ghost until I reach the back room, where Catalina’s curled up on the couch, half asleep with Charles sat next to her. Eyes locked on her. She looks up at me with red-rimmed eyes.

“Did you find something?” she whispers.

I nod once. “We are close."

She just nods, voice shaking. “Get him back. Get my boy back. Please.”

I kneel in front of her, my hand gripping hers tightly. “I will. I am going to be gone for a few days. Charles and I already discussed you would stay with him. I trust him and I know you trust him."

She nods gently looking to Charles for reassurance and he gives her a light smile and rubs her back.

—

f1gossipgirls

410,493 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Catalina Sainz left the Paddock after the Japan GP hand in hand with Charles Leclerc whilst Carlos Sainz seems to have made a break for his Private Jet and argued with the press. I am not even sure what to think at this point.

username00 : oh so catalina and charles are giving “trauma bond turned slow burn romance” while carlos is giving “i will fly this plane myself if you keep asking questions”

username1 : carlos probably has 0 patience left and 14 lawyers on speed dial. i do not blame him one bit.

username0 : not charles holding her hand while her brother is out here threatening to dismantle the press one by one 😭😭😭 the whiplash

username5 : idc what anyone says. carlos is stressed about his nephew. the press needs to back OFF. and also… charles? take care of our girl

username7 : if we get a soft charles x catalina photo drop and a grainy carlos yelling “NO COMMENT” video in the same week?? i’m never recovering

usernameee : no bc catalina walking out with charles after the week she’s had?? and not just walking. hand in hand?? i’m throwing myself into the sea

username15 : carlos probably hasn’t slept in 3 days, got a lead on the guy who took his nephew, and now some rando asked “if this win was strategic”...i too would swing carlos

username17 : i want whatever love potion charles brewed. bc that soft hand-hold in PUBLIC while the world burns?? that’s ride or die energy.

username20 : the moment carlos turned around, fist ready and said “back the fuck off” to that reporter, i grew wings and ascended. captain. legend. king.

username22 : soft boy charles x shattered girl catalina x feral brother carlos = the holy trinity of paddock energy right now

username11 : i need one (1) blurry pap photo of charles putting her in his passenger seat and carlos speed-walking to his jet like he’s about to raid a compound

—

The silence in the car was gentle, not heavy. He didn’t press. He didn’t ask. His hand just rested, palm up between us, waiting. I held it the entire ride. Now we’re in his hotel room... it is quiet, dim, impossibly still after the noise of the paddock. He shuts the door behind us with a soft click, then pauses like he’s afraid to move too fast. Like he’s afraid I might shatter if he breathes too hard. I’m still holding it together by a thread.

"You know you don't need to watch over me. I won't shatter."

"I know you won't, you are incredibly strong but I want to be here so you don't have to be strong...put some of the hurt...some of the weight on me."

He nods, his eyes dark and warm, full of something I can’t name but feel down to my bones. “You don’t have to be okay with me. You don't have to put up that wall. You just have to be honest.”

I look down at my hands, still shaking slightly. “It’s hard to breathe sometimes. Like my ribs forgot how to move without fear lodged between them.”

He steps forward slowly, close enough that I can smell the faint salt of sweat, the lingering edge of cologne. “Can I hold you?”

The question undoes me.

I nod, and he pulls me into him, not with rush, not with urgency, just… shelter. His arms wrap around my shoulders, one hand cradling the back of my head as I fold into him. I press my forehead against his chest and try not to cry again. He gently lies us both down on the bed.

“He took my baby, Charles. The one thing left that he knew brought me joy. I never knew someone could want to see another person suffer so much.” I murmured into his chest.

“I know, Mon cœur. I know. We will get him back to you. If it’s the last thing I do, I will make sure you have your son.” He said and began to rub my back. I feel myself start to cry harder. There was a long pause of silence.

“You’re safe,” he says softly. “You’re not alone.”

My fingers grip the fabric of his shirt. “I didn’t even realize how bad it had gotten. I kept telling myself it was normal. That I could handle it. That if I was strong enough, I could make him love me again.”

Charles pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes shining, his voice barely audible. “You didn’t fail. He did.”

I exhale a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding, my throat tight. “I don’t even know how to start over.”

He leans his forehead against mine, tender and grounding. “One moment at a time. You’re already doing it.”

I feel the tears come again, not from pain this time, but relief. Relief that someone sees me. That someone cares without asking me to shrink, or smile, or explain.

I whisper, “Thank you.”

Charles brushes his thumb against my cheek, catching a tear. “I’ve got you, Catalina. As long as you want me to.”

And I believe him. Every word he said.

—

p2 complete:) thank u all sm for the great response on the first part, im glad you all enjoy it. this chapter was definitely a little heavy for me…as someone who has went through something similar to catalina it was a rough write but also sort of healing in a way. hope you all enjoyed this part. as always requests are welcome and I am always open to suggestions!

my messages are always open if you need someone 💋

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loving this series so much !!!

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[pucksandpower]

In Every Quiet Moment

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: as a gifted pianist struggling to make ends meet in Monaco, you never expect your quiet world to collide with Formula 1’s fiercest driver … until a rain-soaked night, a stray kitten, and a cup of hot chocolate change everything

The rain comes hard and sudden, like a tantrum. It slaps against the café windows in sheets, hammering the cobblestones and turning the square outside into a glossy watercolor. The sky is bruised, the streetlights yellowing the mist, and the world feels like it’s been dunked underwater.

You glance up from where you’re wiping down the espresso machine, sighing. Another late night. Another storm.

You're alone. The chairs are flipped upside-down on the tables, lights low, Edith Piaf humming quietly from the little speaker you keep on the counter. The smell of cinnamon and leftover croissants lingers faintly.

You stretch your wrists. Eight hours of class, three hours on shift, and you still haven’t practiced your Liszt etude. The anxiety tightens like thread in your chest.

And then — movement. Outside. You blink, stepping closer to the window.

There’s a man. Tall. Absolutely soaked. He’s crouched beside the steps just past the awning, knees bent, arms out. You squint through the glass.

A kitten. Small, skinny, trembling.

He’s trying to coax it out from beneath a stone bench, his jacket shielding it from the storm.

You hesitate. Logic says to mind your business. Let the guy deal with his savior complex in peace. But your hands are already reaching for the door.

It groans as you pull it open. Cold air slaps your face. “Hey,” you call, barely audible above the downpour. “Hey, do you need-”

He turns.

Your breath catches — not because he’s handsome, though he is — but because there’s something strange in his expression. Like you’ve caught him in something private. His jaw tightens. He doesn’t say anything. Just lifts the tiny ball of fur against his chest with careful hands.

You frown. “Is it hurt?”

“I don’t know.” His voice is low. Rough like gravel. A weird contrast to how gently he’s holding the kitten. “It’s freezing.”

You open the door wider. “Come in.”

He hesitates. Glances down the street, like maybe there’s somewhere else he’s supposed to be. Then back to you. You think he’s going to refuse.

But he steps forward.

The bell jingles above the door. You lock it behind him.

“Sit,” you say, motioning to the bench along the wall. “I’ll get towels.”

He doesn’t argue. Just lowers himself silently, kitten still tucked inside his jacket. Water drips in small pools around his boots.

You disappear into the back room, grabbing the cleanest dish towels you can find and one of the café’s emergency hoodies you sometimes wear when the heat’s out. You hand them to him.

“Thanks.” His eyes flick up to yours briefly. They’re blue — so much lighter up close. He rubs the kitten dry first, talking to it under his breath like it’s a scared child.

You don’t ask questions. Just move behind the counter and start the steamer.

“You want hot chocolate?” You ask.

A pause. Then a quiet, “Yeah. Sure.”

You make it the way you like it — extra thick, pinch of cinnamon, real whipped cream — and slide the mug across the counter. He looks at it like he doesn’t know what to do with something that kind.

“What’s its name?” You ask, settling across from him.

He lifts a shoulder. “Didn’t ask.”

You smirk. “Well, she looks like a Phoebe.”

“That’s a horrible name.”

“I like it.”

“She’ll get bullied at school.”

“She’s a cat.”

He actually smiles at that. It’s barely there, but it softens something in his face. You realize, suddenly, how tired he looks. Not just from the rain. The kind of tired that lives deep in the bones.

You lean forward, chin on your hand. “What were you even doing out there?”

“Walking.”

“In this?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

You nod slowly. “Insomnia or caffeine?”

His brows lift slightly. “Why not both?”

You laugh, short and surprised. “You’re really not gonna tell me your name?”

Another pause. He blows into the mug, watching the steam curl around his fingers. “Do I have to?”

“No,” you say. “But I’ll name you too, if you’re not careful.”

His eyes lift, direct and unreadable. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

That makes you curious. But something about his tone — quiet, almost pleading — makes you let it go.

You sit there a while longer. The storm beats on. He finishes the hot chocolate and wipes the kitten’s nose. You give him a take-home box for croissants and leftover brioche. He accepts it with a small nod, still saying nothing about who he is or where he’s going.

He leaves without giving you his name.

You only realize who he is when you’re sweeping up later. You find the receipt under his mug, flipped upside down, with the credit card slip still attached.

€2,000 tip.

You stare. Check the name.

Max Emilian Verstappen.

You almost drop the broom.

***

The next evening, it rains again. Not as hard, more of a romantic drizzle this time. You’re closing up, humming through your teeth, when the bell above the door chimes softly.

You turn, halfway into your apron. And there he is. Dry this time. No kitten.

He doesn’t say anything. Just stands in the doorway like he’s waiting for you to yell at him for being weird.

“You came back,” you say, blinking.

He shrugs. “You were nice.”

You smile, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You left two thousand euros. I could’ve retired.”

“You work too hard to retire,” he says quietly.

That stops you. You don’t know how he knows that — but somehow, he does.

You clear your throat. “Hot chocolate again?”

He nods.

This time he sits at the counter instead of the bench. Closer. You make the drink slowly, trying not to stare. He’s different tonight. Relaxed. Still quiet, but not like he’s hiding. Like he’s … watching. Noticing.

You set the mug in front of him. “So. Phoebe survived the night?”

“She’s living in my guestroom now. Chewed through my charging cord and pissed on my sock.”

“Sounds like love.”

He smirks, sipping. “She’s angry. Loud. A menace.”

“Like you?”

“Worse.”

There’s a comfortable silence that stretches between you. You wipe down the bar again, more for something to do. He traces a finger along the wood grain.

“I meant to say thank you,” he says after a moment. “For last night.”

You glance up. “You did. With money.”

“That wasn’t-” He sighs. “I didn’t mean to do it like that.”

You raise a brow. “Then how did you mean to?”

He pauses. “I panicked.”

“Panicked?”

He shifts in his seat, suddenly sheepish. “I … don’t usually talk to people like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like-” He cuts himself off. “Like a normal person.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. “Are you not a normal person?”

He tilts his head, studying you. “Depends who you ask.”

The bell rings softly as a breeze sneaks in through the window crack. You tug your sleeves over your hands, watching him quietly.

“Why are you here?” You ask. “I mean, really.”

He sets the mug down. “Because I wanted to be.”

You blink. “That’s not an answer.”

He leans in slightly, forearms resting on the counter. “You didn’t ask a real question.”

You look at him. Really look. There’s something magnetic in the quiet way he holds your gaze. No arrogance. Just … interest. Like he’s trying to memorize the way you wrinkle your nose or tug your sleeves.

You tilt your head. “Okay, then. Real question.”

“I’m listening.”

“Why come back if you don’t want anything from me?”

He looks down. “Who says I don’t?”

Your breath stutters. You laugh, but it’s nervous this time.

“I don’t-” you start, then shake your head. “I’m not really looking for anything.”

He shrugs. “Me neither. Maybe that’s the point.”

You’re quiet.

You don’t know why this is happening. Why a man like him is sitting here, watching you like you matter. Like he wants something real in a world where everything around him is so curated and artificial.

You take a breath. “What if I like things slow?”

“Then I won’t rush.”

“What if I have too much going on? I study ten hours a day, I work nights, I barely remember to eat.”

“I’ll remind you.”

You blink. “You’re a stranger.”

“I’m Max.”

The sound of his name makes something shift. It sounds … different when he says it. Not like a brand or a headline. Just a person.

You swallow. “You want more chocolate?”

He smiles — small, genuine. “Yeah. Please.”

So you make another mug. And this time, when you slide it toward him, your fingers brush his.

Neither of you move.

Outside, the rain keeps falling.

***

Max begins showing up every few days. Never on a schedule, never with warning. Just … appears. Quiet. Steady. Always a little after dusk, when the tourists thin out and the locals disappear behind shuttered windows. You’ll be wiping a table, or refilling the sugar jars, or humming some half-remembered étude under your breath, and then — there he is. That same quiet presence at the counter.

He never makes a move. Never flirts. Never pries.

Just sits. Watches. Listens.

You talk. He answers. Sometimes only in nods or dry little asides, but you get used to the cadence of it. The careful way he measures his words. You find it oddly comforting, the way he’s so still in a world that never stops spinning.

He tries everything on the menu eventually. Buys an absurd number of pastries he doesn’t eat. Leaves tips like he’s trying to buy the building.

“Max,” you say one night, eyes narrowed as you hold up the receipt. “You’ve got to stop. This is getting offensive.”

He shrugs. “It’s a good café.”

“It’s a tiny café.”

“Still good.”

You lean across the counter, mock stern. “Do you do this at Starbucks too?”

“I’ve never been to a Starbucks.”

You blink. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head. “Do I look like someone who’s been to a Starbucks?”

You stare at him. The sweatshirt he’s wearing is probably worth more than your rent. “… Touché.”

He just smirks into his coffee.

That becomes the rhythm. Every few days, a quiet ritual. A strange, tender peace you hadn’t realized you needed.

And maybe it would’ve gone on like that forever — slow, safe, unspoken — if not for the man with the red scarf.

***

It’s a Thursday night. Cold enough that your breath fogs when the door opens. The café is quiet. A few locals sipping espressos near the back, and a lone stranger nursing something bitter at a corner table.

You’re behind the counter, arms elbow-deep in hot water and soap, humming under your breath when you feel it. That prickling sensation between your shoulder blades.

You glance up.

The man in the red scarf is watching you.

You ignore it. Keep washing. Then he clears his throat. Loud. Once.

You look again.

He crooks a finger. “Petit cul.”

Your eye twitches. You dry your hands, approach slowly. “Don’t call me that.”

He smiles, too wide. “Pardon, mademoiselle. I forget how things work here.” His French is lazy, Parisian. The kind that pretends not to see dirt. “You’re the one from the other night, no?”

You frown. “Other night?”

“You were playing piano in the square. Badly.”

You blink. “Wow. Thanks.”

He grins like he’s charming. “No, no, I meant it with affection. You're pretty. That’s what counts.”

You take a deep breath. “Can I get you anything else?”

He leans forward. “Maybe your number?”

You pull back. “Not for sale.”

He laughs, but there’s something sour underneath it. “All these pretty girls think they’re so above it now. What happened to politeness?”

You don’t answer. Just walk away.

And that’s when you hear the chair scrape.

At first, you think it’s the man standing. But the weight of a different presence hits you.

You turn.

Max is at the counter. You hadn’t seen him come in.

His voice is low. Unmistakable. “Is there a problem?”

You look between them. Max is calm — too calm. His hands rest lightly on the counter, but his stance is taut. Controlled. Lethal in the way a loaded gun is.

The man in the red scarf scoffs. “This your boyfriend?”

Max doesn’t blink. “No.”

Your stomach twists.

“But you’re going to leave now,” Max continues, “and you’re going to do it without saying another word to her.”

The man’s smile fades. “Who do you think you are?”

Max steps forward once. Not threatening, exactly. Just closer. “I think I’m someone you don’t want to test tonight.”

It’s not a threat. Not really. It’s said with the same calm tone you’d use to discuss weather. But something in it shifts the air. The man goes pale.

He mutters something under his breath and grabs his coat. Leaves without looking back.

You exhale slowly, trying to uncoil the tension in your spine.

Max says nothing. Just waits until your eyes meet his.

“Are you okay?” He asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

He looks unconvinced.

“I’ve had worse,” you add. “Waitresses aren’t exactly the least harassed demographic.”

Max’s jaw clenches. He says nothing.

You run a hand through your hair. “Thank you. For that.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t do anything.”

“You scared the hell out of him.”

“That wasn’t hard.”

You pause. “Want a hot chocolate?”

He hesitates. “Walk with me instead.”

You blink.

His voice is softer now. Almost hesitant. “If you’re off?”

You glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes to close. The café is empty now. Quiet.

You untie your apron. “Let me grab my coat.”

***

The streets are still damp as you walk. The air carries the smell of sea salt and wet stone. Max keeps close, hands in his pockets, his steps slowing to match yours.

You pass under a streetlamp, and for a second, it feels like you’re inside a movie.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

“But I’m glad you did.”

He glances sideways. “Some people think silence is an invitation.”

You snort. “Story of my life.”

He watches you. “You shouldn’t have to fight them off alone.”

You smile, but there’s something sad behind it. “I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

You fall into silence again. His coat brushes yours.

Then — voices.

A small group of teens cross the square ahead. They freeze mid-step when they see him.

One gasps. “No way. Max Verstappen?”

He stops. Exhales. “Yeah.”

“Can we get a photo?”

He nods, patient, stepping aside. You stand back, awkward, watching him smile for the camera. His posture shifts. Not stiff, but practiced. Familiar.

They thank him, then run off, giggling.

He turns back to you.

You raise a brow. “Is that your normal walk home?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I forget, sometimes, who you are.”

His voice is quiet. “Good.”

You glance up at him. “Doesn’t it get annoying? Being known everywhere you go?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do it?”

He’s quiet for a while. “It used to mean something different. Now … I don’t know. I like the racing. Not the circus around it.”

You hum. “You’re still in the circus.”

“Yeah. Guess I am.”

You stop at the edge of your building. A narrow stone façade with ivy curling up one side. Your windows are dark. The air smells like lavender from the old woman’s garden next door.

Max lingers.

You bite your lip. “Want to come up?”

He lifts a brow. “Do you want me to?”

You shake your head. “No. Not tonight. Just — thank you for walking me.”

He nods. “Of course.”

But he doesn’t leave right away.

You hover near the door. “Max?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not … doing all this just to be nice, are you?”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“I mean …you don’t have to fix everything. Or show up every time it rains. Or save me from creeps. I don’t want you to feel like-”

“I don’t.”

You study him.

He meets your gaze. “I don’t do things I don’t want to do.”

Silence.

Then he adds, quieter, “You’re not a project. You’re not something broken.”

Your throat tightens.

“I come here,” he says, “because I want to see you. That’s it.”

You nod. Swallow. “Okay.”

He turns like he’s about to go, then pauses again. “You were playing Debussy in the square. That night.”

You blink. “You where there?”

He nods once. “It was raining then, too.”

A small smile touches your lips. “You like Debussy?”

He shrugs. “I liked how you played it.”

You step inside, the door clicking softly behind you.

And for the first time in a long time, you fall asleep with music in your head and something steadier than loneliness in your chest.

***

It’s late when Max asks.

You’re locking up the café, hands stiff with cold and knuckles raw from the wind, when he leans against the doorway — hood up, collar high — and says, “Come with me.”

You blink, keys half-turned in the lock. “Where?”

“My place.” His eyes hold yours. “Just to get away. For a few hours.”

You hesitate. Not because you’re nervous — well, you are — but not like that. It’s the weight of the offer. The intimacy of it. Not romantic, not sexual — something quieter. Like stepping into the private heart of a man who doesn’t let anyone inside.

You don’t say yes right away. You just meet his gaze, and after a long pause, nod once. “Okay.”

***

His apartment is tucked above the marina. You’d walked past the building a dozen times and never once imagined it held something this still, this understated. High ceilings, wide windows, warm wood and cool stone. Light, but not too much. Modern, but lived-in.

The scent hits you first. Cedar, citrus, and something darker. Probably him.

And cats.

There’s a blur of movement as you step inside. Then a paw. Then two. Then all at once, they’re there.

Max just smirks faintly. “Good luck.”

A sleek, skeptical Bengal perches on the armrest of the couch and stares at you like you’re a problem it’s been sent to solve.

“That’s Sassy,” Max says, slipping his coat off and hanging it neatly. “She owns the apartment. I just live here.”

A white blur shoots past your ankles. “Jimmy?”

“Donut,” Max corrects, heading toward the kitchen. “Jimmy’s the one with the attitude problem. You’ll know when he arrives.”

You bend down slowly, letting Donut sniff your fingers. Phoebe — the little kitten you first met in the rain — tumbles out from under a blanket and immediately starts scaling your leg.

Max’s voice floats in from the kitchen. “They’ll destroy your clothes. Sorry.”

“They’re worth it,” you murmur, untangling the kitten from your tights.

He gestures toward the open-plan kitchen, nodding at the counter. “Hungry?”

You raise a brow. “You cook?”

He rolls up his sleeves with a small smile. “Well. I try. Don’t get your hopes up.”

You step beside him. The fridge door opens to reveal fresh herbs, vegetables, and a frankly unnecessary amount of expensive cheese.

You smirk. “Trying to impress me?”

“Maybe.”

You laugh, and he gives a soft chuckle in return. It’s the most open you’ve seen him. Not the composed driver, not the cool-eyed guardian of Monaco cafés — just Max. Just a guy in a dark t-shirt who stocks more parmesan than sense and keeps four cats alive somehow.

***

You cook together slowly, messily. He slices vegetables with surprising precision while you burn garlic twice. At one point, you knock over a spice jar and send a dust storm of paprika across the marble. Max doesn’t flinch.

“Paprika’s overrated anyway,” he murmurs, sweeping it away with a practiced hand.

The radio plays softly in the background. Old jazz, something French. You hum under your breath while stirring the sauce, and Max leans back against the counter, watching you.

Not in a lustful way. Not even admiring. Something deeper. Like he’s memorizing the moment. Committing it to a part of him that doesn’t let go.

You glance over, caught by the intensity of it. “What?”

He just shakes his head. “You look peaceful.”

“I am peaceful.”

He grins. “Good. That was the point.”

***

Dinner is simple. Pasta, fresh salad, warm bread he didn’t bake but proudly heated up. You eat on the couch, curled under a blanket, with Donut curled beside your thigh and Phoebe nuzzling your ankle.

Max eats slowly. Savors things.

You, however, eat like someone who’s lived on café leftovers all week.

“Jesus,” you mutter, swallowing a bite. “This is good.”

His eyebrow lifts. “So you are impressed.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Too late. His smirk grows.

Afterwards, you both stay where you are. The room glows with soft, golden light. The windows show the harbor below, lights glittering across water like scattered coins. You tug the blanket higher, eyes growing heavy.

Max barely speaks. Just watches you fight off sleep, his hand curled around a mug of something warm, his body still like he’s afraid of ruining the quiet.

“Is it always this calm here?” You ask.

He nods. “When I want it to be.”

You yawn, half-smiling. “I like it.”

Phoebe climbs onto your lap and purrs herself into a tiny, warm puddle. Your eyes flutter.

You don’t mean to fall asleep. You just … do.

***

When you wake, the lights are lower.

The room is quiet, save for the rhythmic purring of cats.

There’s a blanket draped over you now, thicker than before. Heavy with warmth. You shift slightly and feel the unmistakable weight of Jimmy — angrily curled beside your feet. You smile.

Then you hear it.

Max. In the next room. His voice is low, sharp. Controlled — but furious.

“No. I said no.”

You blink, pushing the blanket down slightly. The door to the hallway is ajar.

“I don’t care what they think — she’s not a story. She’s none of their business. Pull it. Now.”

Pause. A longer silence. Then his voice again, colder this time.

“If I see one word printed about her, I’ll bury the piece myself. Understand?”

You sit up slowly, heart pounding. His voice is quieter now. But still hard. Still carved from something that doesn’t yield.

“I don’t give a damn if they think it’s innocent. She’s not part of this. And I won’t let her be.”

Silence.

You don’t wait for him to hang up.

You push the blanket aside and step quietly into the hallway.

He’s in the small office off the kitchen. Back half-turned, one hand braced against the desk, the other holding his phone. He doesn’t hear you at first. Not until you speak.

“Max.”

He tenses. Freezes. Then slowly turns.

His eyes are darker than usual. He looks like someone who’s just stepped out of a ring — wound tight, ready for a fight.

“You heard that,” he says flatly.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He straightens. “I didn’t mean for-”

“Were they writing about me?”

He doesn’t answer. Just sets the phone down.

“Max,” you press. “What were they saying?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

A beat. Then, quietly: “They had pictures. From the café. From the night we walked home. Nothing bad, just … invasive.”

You blink. “Why?”

He shrugs, but the motion is rigid. “Because they can. Because you’re next to me.”

You step closer. “And you called them?”

“I made a call, yeah.”

“To shut it down?”

His jaw tightens. “Yes.”

“Max.” You stop in front of him. “You can’t just-”

“Yes,” he cuts in, voice low but firm. “I can.”

There’s a pause. The air between you shifts. The house is too quiet now.

You exhale. “You don’t need to protect me from everything.”

“I know that.”

“Then why-”

“Because I want to.”

You look up at him. He’s close now. So close it almost hurts.

“I’ll never let them touch you,” he says quietly. “Not while I’m breathing.”

You don’t answer right away. Can’t.

He watches you carefully. “If that’s too much-”

“No.” You shake your head. “It’s not too much.”

A silence falls between you. Not awkward. Not unsure. Just … full.

Finally, you say, “You care about me.”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

“And you’re not going to say it.”

“I just did,” he says softly. “In the only way I know how.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you step forward, press your forehead to his chest, and let the warmth of him settle around you.

His arms come up, slow, careful — like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Like he’s not quite sure you’re real.

But you don’t vanish.

You stay right there. Wrapped in his arms, the soft thrum of his heart in your ear, with the cats still curled on the couch and the rest of the world held outside.

***

It happens the next morning.

You're still warm with the echo of his arms when you sneak out the back entrance of Max’s building, hoodie pulled tight, hair tucked under a beanie. You think you’ve done everything right — quiet footsteps, sunglasses, even that cautious glance around the alley before you step into the light.

But it’s not enough.

The flash comes out of nowhere.

One. Two. Three rapid shots. Then a voice — male, giddy, breathless.

“Miss, are you seeing Max Verstappen? Were you with him last night?”

You don’t answer. Just duck your head and walk faster, ignoring the burn in your throat, the sudden thud of your pulse. You don’t run — you know better — but your steps go tight, clipped. A door slams shut behind you, a car engine revs.

By the time you reach the music academy, your hands are shaking.

You don’t tell anyone. Not at first.

But the whispers start by lunch.

You catch your name in a student’s hushed voice. You hear Max’s in another. Then the article hits — small but vicious, your blurry figure circled in red, a headline that wants blood.

Verstappen’s New Flame? Mystery Girl Leaves Monaco Apartment at Dawn.

By evening, it’s everywhere.

***

Max calls. You don’t answer.

He texts: I’m handling it.

You stare at the message for a long time. Then turn your phone off and leave it on the counter like it’s something that might burn you.

By the next day, the article disappears.

Completely. As if it never existed.

A notice appears in its place.

Retracted at source.

Later, you overhear a barista talking about it with wide eyes. “Apparently his lawyers sent something like — what’s the word? A cease and desist? Except angrier. Like, terrifyingly angry.”

Someone else adds, “I heard he called someone at the top. Shut it down like that.” She snaps her fingers. “No wonder they’re scared of him.”

You press your hands into the counter, steadying yourself. Your phone pings when you step into the storeroom.

A screenshot.

An anonymous deposit confirmation. Six months of your rent. Paid in full.

Another message: Let me do this. Please.

You stare at it for a long time. Then close your eyes, lean your head against the cold concrete wall, and try not to cry.

***

The panic hits later.

Not all at once. Not in an obvious way. It comes quietly, like a tide. Like a soft pull at your ankles before it drags you under.

The guilt first — sharp and sour.

He’s spending his influence, his money, his power — to protect you.

You. A girl who plays piano in a dusty practice room and works shifts to afford cheap ramen. You never asked for this.

And the fear — oh, the fear — of what it means. Of what he might want. Of what you might want back.

So you do the only thing that feels safe.

You pull away.

***

You stop replying.

Not rudely. Just slowly.

A message takes a day to respond. Then two. Then none.

You say no to his quiet invitations — coffee, a walk, just ten minutes — offering gentle excuses that grow thinner by the day.

Your shifts at the café get longer. Your time at the piano stretches until your hands ache. You avoid the harbor. Avoid the old streets he likes.

Avoid everything that makes your heart hurt.

***

He doesn’t chase.

He doesn’t knock on your door. Doesn’t text again and again or show up late at night demanding answers.

Instead, he sends you a care package when you get sick.

It shows up at the café on a Wednesday — delivered by someone who doesn’t ask for a signature. Inside is some lemon tea, cough syrup, throat lozenges, two cans of the soup you once said reminded you of home, and a small stuffed cat.

A note, tucked between the teabags.

I’ll wait.

Nothing else.

Not even his name.

***

You cry in the break room. Not a lot. Just enough to taste salt when you breathe.

You feel stupid.

Then you feel worse — for thinking you were stupid.

You hug the stuffed cat against your chest and whisper, “I’m sorry,” even though he can’t hear you.

***

Three days pass.

Then four.

By the fifth, you can’t breathe when you walk past his street.

On the sixth, you stand outside his apartment building for fifteen minutes and never press the buzzer.

On the seventh, it rains.

Hard. Monaco rain. Thunder at the edges. Wind that flattens your jacket to your spine and makes your cheeks sting.

You don’t bring an umbrella.

You don’t bring excuses either.

You just walk, quiet, soaked to the bone, and let the elevator carry you to the only door that’s ever made you feel like you’re not pretending.

You knock once.

It opens almost instantly.

He doesn’t look surprised.

Just steps back and lets you in, eyes sweeping over you like he’s checking for bruises.

“Hi,” you whisper, wet and breathless.

He says nothing. Doesn’t ask where you’ve been. Doesn’t demand explanations or apologies or promises you’re not ready to give.

He just opens his arms.

And you fall into them like you never left.

His hoodie smells like him. Warm and clean and steady. You press your face into it and wrap your arms around his waist, trying not to shake.

He closes the door behind you with one hand, the other already sliding up your back.

You don’t speak. Don’t have to.

His chin rests on your hair.

You whisper, “I didn’t know how to-”

“I know,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to explain.”

Your breath hitches.

“I just didn’t want to mess it up,” you admit. “It’s so big. What you did. What you do. And I’m-”

“You,” he says gently. “You’re you. That’s enough.”

Your eyes sting again. You bury your face deeper into his chest.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His voice is low. Kind. “You don’t have to be strong around me.”

You pull back, just a little.

Look up at him.

His eyes are impossibly gentle. No walls. No edge. Just patience. Just Max.

“I’m scared,” you say quietly.

He nods. “So am I.”

You laugh — just a breath, wet with tears. “Yeah?”

“I don’t usually let people in,” he admits. “I didn’t expect you.”

You blink. “Then why …”

His fingers brush your cheek, slow and reverent. “Because I’d regret losing you more than I fear what happens next.”

You stare at him. At his mouth. At the way he’s looking at you — like he’s memorizing this moment, too.

You lean in.

So does he.

The kiss is soft.

No urgency. No heat. Just warmth. Just yes.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone. Yours curls into his hoodie, anchoring you.

When you finally pull back, you’re both smiling.

You exhale. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He rests his forehead against yours.

“I’m here,” he murmurs.

You close your eyes. “So am I.”

Outside, the rain keeps falling.

Inside, everything finally feels quiet again.

***

Max doesn’t say “I love you.”

Not with words.

He says it when he hands you a mug of tea without asking how you take it. He says it when he walks on the side of the pavement closest to the street. When he drapes a blanket over your knees during a movie, and casually shields your face from a photographer’s lens with the curve of his body.

He says it like that. Constant. Quiet. Absolute.

But tonight, he speaks more than usual.

It starts after dinner, while you sit curled against the arm of his couch, legs tucked under you, his hoodie hanging loose off your frame like it belongs there.

He’s staring into the middle distance, a glass of something amber untouched in his hand.

“I used to think loneliness was normal,” he says, voice low, like he’s not sure if he means to say it out loud. “Like it just … came with the job. The way you get used to jet lag or waking up in hotel rooms not remembering what country you’re in.”

You glance over, but don’t interrupt. You’ve learned with Max — he only opens the door a crack at a time. If you’re too eager, it closes.

He takes a breath, gaze still unfocused.

“There’s so much noise around me. All the time. Team, press, fans, cameras.” He finally looks at you. “And it’s not that I don’t appreciate it. But it’s like … you have to wear this mask so long you forget it’s not your real face.”

You reach out without thinking, fingers resting over his wrist. His skin is warm. Solid.

He watches your hand for a moment, then flips his wrist so his palm is up, letting your fingers slot into his.

“I’m not used to people wanting me without the mask,” he says, quieter now.

Your heart tightens.

“I don’t want the mask,” you whisper.

His eyes meet yours, sharp and grateful.

“I know,” he murmurs. “That’s why you scare me.”

You laugh, soft. “I scare you?”

Max nods, serious. “You don’t treat me like I’m something untouchable. You just … look at me.”

You squeeze his hand. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. For someone to see me.”

That breaks something open in him. You feel it. The shift. The way his shoulders soften, eyes grow tender.

“Tell me,” he says.

So you do.

You tell him about the nights you spent alone in the conservatory practice rooms, pretending the piano was a friend, not a thing you owed perfection to. You tell him about how scared you are to want something for yourself. How it feels to be surrounded by people chasing dreams so loudly you sometimes forget how to hear your own.

He listens like he has nowhere else to be.

Not just hearing — holding.

Your words. Your silence. Your fear. All of it.

When you finish, he doesn’t speak right away. Just leans forward, brushing his lips to your temple.

“You’re not invisible here,” he whispers. “Not with me.”

***

The next few weeks are full of small shifts.

Your toothbrush finds a place in his bathroom. His hoodie disappears from his closet and ends up on your body more than his.

His cats take turns sleeping on you like you’re furniture now. Even Sassy.

Max kisses you in the kitchen. In the car. Once, under a streetlamp with rain brushing your cheeks, his hand cupped gently around your jaw like you’re something rare.

He doesn't let the world touch you. Not even once.

He’s fiercely protective — but not in a loud way. In the way he speaks to hotel staff when you travel with him for a race, making sure you’re not put near the media floor. In the way his hand never leaves your lower back when cameras are near, like he’s placing a shield between you and the noise.

You try not to need it.

You try not to expect it.

But when it’s him, it’s hard not to let yourself be protected. Just a little. Just this once. Just again.

***

The comment comes three races into summer.

You’re not even in the paddock — just sitting at a corner table in a nearby coffee shop, flipping through sheet music and sipping a drink Max had delivered for you before he left for press.

You look up when the door opens.

It's another driver — one of the younger ones. Cocky. Loud. The kind of guy who courts cameras like he was born for them.

He stops at your table, smirking. “Didn’t think Verstappen would go for your type.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Just saying. He usually dates models. You’re … different.”

Your stomach twists, cold and ugly.

You don’t reply.

He doesn’t give you time to.

“Anyway,” he adds, eyes trailing a little too slowly down your body, “guess even the best get bored of the same thing. Nice upgrade, though.”

The chair screeches back before you realize you’re standing.

But Max is already there.

You don’t know how he found out. You don’t even see him enter.

But one second, it’s just you and the smirking boy — and the next, Max is between you, not touching, not yelling.

Just present.

Heavy.

Silent.

The other driver’s smirk falters. “Hey, I was just-”

Max tilts his head. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“That line. Say it to her face. Slowly this time.”

Silence.

Max’s voice stays calm, almost soft. “You want to flirt, do it with someone who hasn’t told you no with their body language. You want to insult her, you say it so I know exactly what I’m responding to.”

The boy opens his mouth.

Max raises a single brow. “Try me.”

The tension shifts. Not loud. Not violent.

But dangerous.

The kind of promise you don’t test.

Max leans in, just a breath. “Next time you speak her name, it better be with respect. Or not at all.”

Then he turns, takes your hand, and leads you out like nothing happened.

Your heart doesn’t slow until you're back at his place, leaning against the door while he kicks off his shoes, jaw still tight.

“Max-”

He holds up a hand. “I know. I shouldn’t have. I know.”

You shake your head. “No. That’s not-”

He exhales, sharp. “I just saw red.”

“I know,” you say again, quieter now.

“I didn’t want you to hear it. I didn’t want you to feel that way. Like you're less.”

You step into him. “I didn’t.”

His hand curls around your waist. “But you could’ve. And I’d never forgive myself.”

Your fingers trace the edge of his jaw. “You stood up for me.”

He lifts his eyes to yours. “I will always stand up for you.”

The kiss is slower this time.

No heat. No anger.

Just need.

Just want.

***

It happens later — after dinner, after soft conversation, after you laugh so hard at a video he shows you that your ribs ache and your makeup smudges from tears.

You’re standing in his bedroom doorway, shirt too big, your hands gentle on the back of his neck, and you say, simply:

“I want you.”

His eyes search yours. Careful. Serious.

“Are you sure?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He takes a breath, slow. Measured. Then presses his forehead to yours.

“Then I’m going to take my time.”

And he does.

***

It’s not rushed.

Not some fevered tangle of limbs or gasping urgency.

It’s reverent.

It’s slow hands under fabric, Max murmuring praises against your skin like scripture.

“So perfect,” he whispers. “Look at you.”

He never stops looking.

Not once.

He undresses you like he’s being given a gift. Touches you like you’re something he’s memorizing for a time when the world is dark.

You tremble beneath his hands, and he notices.

“Breathe for me,” he whispers, mouth trailing down your neck. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

And you are.

You feel it in the way he checks in with every touch. The way he waits for you to nod before he moves. The way he groans when you whisper his name like it’s a secret meant only for him.

He’s everywhere. Hands, lips, voice.

Guiding. Worshipping.

“Let go for me,” he says against your ear, tone wrecked. “I’ll catch you.”

And when you do, it’s not with noise — but with surrender.

The kind that only comes when trust is absolute.

***

Later, you lie tangled together in the sheets, his chest to your back, hand resting over your heart.

You don’t speak.

You don’t have to.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, and you close your eyes.

The mask is gone now.

For both of you.

***

The letter comes on a Tuesday.

You almost miss it — tucked between a utility bill and a flyer for a French tutoring service you don’t need. The envelope is heavy, your name written in raised black letters, the seal pressed with something official.

You open it with the caution of someone who’s learned that good things don’t always come without cost.

Max is in the kitchen, barefoot, pouring coffee like it’s just another quiet morning. One of his hoodies drowns your frame. Phoebe is perched on the windowsill, blinking slowly at the rising sun.

And then you’re holding the future in your hand.

“Max?” Your voice wavers.

He glances over. “Yeah?”

You hold the letter up.

He stills. Puts the coffee pot down.

You don’t have to say anything. He knows.

The logo at the top says everything: New York Philharmonic.

You stare at the words like they might vanish.

They don’t.

You’ve been offered a position. A permanent one. Full-time, first-chair piano. They want you.

“You okay?” He asks gently, crossing the space between you.

“I-” You look up at him. “This is everything I wanted.”

He nods. “Yeah. I know.”

Before.

Before him.

Before Monaco and rainstorms and kittens and coffee shops and a Dutchman who looks at you like you’re made of sunlight.

You sink onto the couch. Max sits beside you, silent, waiting.

“It’s New York,” you say finally, like that’s the problem and the answer all in one.

“I’ve heard of it,” he murmurs, trying to make you smile.

You almost do. But your eyes blur a little.

“I don’t know what to do.”

He exhales slowly. “You don’t have to know yet.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” you say. “But I don’t want to regret staying.”

Max nods again. No flinch. No disappointment in his eyes.

Only patience.

Only love.

“I’ll never ask you to stay,” he says softly. “Not if it means giving up something you’ve dreamed of your whole life.”

You swallow. “But you’re everything I never dreamed of. And now I don’t know how to want both.”

He takes your hand in his.

“If you go,” he says, voice steady, “I’ll come to you every free weekend. I’ll fly out after every race, I’ll sit in the first row of whatever concert hall they put you in. I’ll drink burnt American coffee and learn the subway system and wait outside rehearsal with a sandwich if that’s what it takes.”

You laugh, eyes damp.

He keeps going.

“If you stay,” he murmurs, “I’ll make Monaco feel like home. I’ll move us closer to the sea, or the mountains, or wherever you sleep best. I’ll build you a studio. I’ll buy you ten pianos and soundproof walls and whatever else you need to play until your fingers are sore.”

Your throat tightens.

“I don’t care where you go,” he finishes. “I care that I go with you. So just … say the word.”

Silence stretches between you. Not tense. Just full. Full of every version of your future playing out behind your ribs.

Then you press the letter flat on the coffee table.

And you say, softly, “I want to stay.”

Max doesn’t speak.

He just pulls you into his arms like he knew all along.

***

You don’t waitress anymore.

One day you show up to work, and the manager meets you at the door with wide eyes and a folded note.

You open it slowly.

It’s Max’s handwriting.

Come home. You don’t need this job anymore. Your job is playing. And writing. And being exactly who you are when no one’s making demands on you. I bought the place. They can keep running it — unless you want it. Then it’s yours.

PS: The espresso machine’s still broken. Tell them I said to fix it.

You stare at the letter for a long time before smiling so hard it hurts.

And you do go home.

But not before waving goodbye to the café that’s now owned by a Dutchman with sharp eyes and a soft smile who only has eyes for you.

***

At night, the café changes.

The lights dim. The chairs shift. A piano appears at the front like it’s always belonged there.

Your concerts start quiet — friends, regulars, a few curious neighbors.

But word spreads.

You begin to compose your own pieces. Sometimes inspired by rain. Sometimes silence. Sometimes Max’s laugh or the way he breathes your name when he’s half-asleep.

He listens to every note like it’s a secret meant for him.

“You should record these,” he says one night, lying on the rug with Phoebe curled under his arm and Sassy on your shoulder.

You snort. “Right. Because everyone’s dying for a six-minute ballad about emotional intimacy and unresolved childhood grief.”

Max smiles, slow and sure.

“I am.”

You meet his eyes.

He means it.

***

You play at the café again that Friday.

The room’s fuller than usual. A couple journalists. A few photographers. Max sits in the back, quiet but unmistakable. Always watching.

You wear black tonight — simple, elegant. Your fingers skim the keys like they’ve always known where to go.

Before your last piece, you clear your throat.

“This one’s new,” you say, voice low. “I wrote it about someone who makes everything feel … easier. Even when it’s not.”

You glance at Max.

His eyes don’t leave yours.

The first chord is soft. Then swelling. A little sad. A lot hopeful.

When the final note fades, the room doesn’t move.

Then, applause.

But you only hear the sound of Max’s hands, steady and certain.

Afterward, he meets you at the edge of the stage.

You smile. “Was it too dramatic?”

He leans in, kisses your temple.

“I like dramatic.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

His mouth brushes your ear. “I’m in love with dramatic.”

***

You find the recording equipment a week later.

Just … waiting.

Set up in the spare room. Wires. Mics. A soundboard you can’t name.

There’s a post-it on the chair.

In case you change your mind.

You roll your eyes. Laugh to yourself.

And start writing again.

***

You don’t take the job in New York.

You don’t regret it.

Not because it wouldn’t have been beautiful. Not because it wasn’t a dream.

But because some dreams change shape when you see what’s possible.

What’s real.

Like playing under golden café lights while Max sits in the shadows, looking at you like music was invented just so he could hear you play.

Like your name written in his handwriting on folded notes left by the stove.

Like Sunday mornings wrapped in each other’s arms, no performances, no cameras, just skin and breath and warmth.

And maybe someday you’ll tour. Maybe someday you’ll go to New York — not to live, but to play. To be heard.

But for now?

For now, you stay.

Because love like this?

You don’t walk away from it.

Not when he’s willing to give you the world.

And not when the life you never knew to dream about turns out to be everything you ever wanted.

[harianaswhore]

this was so beautiful oh my god 😭😭😭😭 so glad ur back !!