[dobaara]

looking back at my old posts and god time has flown by literally in unfathomable ways, I just hope I can find the people who once gave meaning to my life back then, after I wake up in the morning because these meds are strong af...

[starr-jazz]

break up now, make up later ⏾⋆.˚

aged!up damian wayne x reader

“You may not be with Damian at the moment but you’re still very much his. And Damian is very protective of his things.”

WARNINGS: clubs, drinking, swearing, reader gets called ‘slut’ by background character NOT BY DAMI. no smut

TAGS: established toxic relationship, jealousy jealousy that goes both ways, protectiveness bordering on possessiveness, obsession tbh, aged!up damian, adults but ages unspecified, damian wayne pulled a baddie, mind games tbh. sleek black sports cars mwah.

ᯓ★ NOTES: i had that ‘love you love you love you’ audio playing in my head as i wrote this but also wrote it between 3-5 am so like idk babe it’s toxic

It was a routine now.

You argue, mostly about things that don’t matter. Break up, for 2-4 days. And end up back in each other’s arms. Mostly because you couldn’t keep your hands off each other.

It’s toxic. It’s destructive. You both know that. You just don’t care.

This was just another of those ‘breaks’.

You argued again, this time about how his ex, Raven, looked at him ‘wrong’. You got jealous, argued, yelled a classic ‘fuck you, we’re done’ as you strutted out of his apartment.

But Damian knew you, too well. He knew exactly how you’d react, try to retaliate. And you knew he’d follow, he can’t resist.

You call up your girlfriends, arranging an impromptu night out. They don’t even ask why, they’ve grown used to your games with him. You choose the perfect club. One that’s on Damian’s radar, one that he knows you like.

Short dress, black and backless. High heels and Damian’s credit card. Location off.

You catch him in the crowd within 15 minutes of getting there. You knew he’d do it but it still impresses you everytime.

He’s dressed to blend in. Drenched in black, taking fashion inspiration from his father perhaps. A baseball cap covering his upper face, one being too recognisable in your goddamn city. Practically the Royal family of Gotham

But even in this outfit, in this light, he stands out. You lock eyes with him, on purpose, you want him to know that you know that he’s watching you. Your attention is pulled away, and you drown yourself in the music.

You vibe, sing, dance away with your girls.

But you can feel it. Feel his eyes on you, burning into your back, or your hips. You make it a point to sway your hips, just the way that drives him insane. It’s an hour and then another.

There’s also the booze. It starts with the margaritas and graduates to shots. You clink your glass with the group, turning to where Damian is siting. He’s already looking at you, hasn’t taken his eyes off. Then you down it.

The night moves. It goes from throbbing, dance music to slower, sensual music taking over. Damian hasn’t moved from his spot at the bar, nursing one club soda after another. You didn’t even need to use his card. The man himself had told the bartender that the drinks for the entire group was on his tab. Perks of being with a rich guy, you suppose.

Damian can’t say he’s fond of the games you too play. You keep him on his toes, always something new with you. You usually don’t like gifts, usually don’t spend his money, you don’t do anything he expects you to do, until you get angry at him. It’s a flipped switch, you become another person. And that’s exactly what has his entranced with you.

Now there you were, on the dance floor, chatting with a friend when a man, as most Gothamite men do, reaches over to place his hand on your hips.

Now you’ve been careful all night, not to get too close to any guy on the dance floor. You may not be with Damian at the moment but you’re still very much his. And Damian is very protective of his things.

You push the stranger’s hand off, disgust twisting in your features. You barely get the words ‘what the fuck’ out before you feel Damian standing behind you. Agile.

You sober up immediately, knowing what comes next if you didn’t stop it. You still have the newspaper clipping from last time. “Wayne son gets in a bar fight defending his partner’s honour.” Something along that line but way more dramatic.

“Dami—“

“Get your fucking hand off her.”

His voice is low, intimidating, terrifying. It’s not like him to swear but you tend to make him do things that are so out of character. His oh-so beautiful green eyes, now dark with angry that’s ready to be spent. You place yourself between the two men, both hands on Damian’s chest, beckoning him away.

“Woah, buddy,” the stranger throws this hands up defensively. “How am I supposed to know she’s your girlfriend if she’s dancing around like a slut?” The man has a smirk on his face, like that is a valid reason for his actions.

You don’t give Damian an opportunity to say anything. “Baby, please.” You whisper with a sense of urgency. “Take me home.” You tug slightly at his shirt collar for his attention.

That snaps him out. He moves you to walk in front of him, strategical gears ticking in his head already, hands on your hips. You shout hurried goodbyes to your friends as he guides you out, his unmistakable sleek black sports car already out front.

You turn towards him, grabbing his arm before he can move to open the door for you. His face is telling you all you need to know. His determined eyes that won’t meet yours, focused on the ground somewhere, the way his jaw tightens and that muscle in his cheek flexes when he sets his mind on something.

“Promise me you won’t go back in and hurt that guy. Even approach him.” His eyes snap to yours, glaring into your soul, not angry at you, never at you.

Then he sees it. You’re pleading him. And he hates that immediately. One of your hand comes up to cup the side of his face.

His eyes softened. He unclenches his jaw. He relaxes ever so slightly.

A few moments pass, just…looking at each other. “Would be rather rude if I left your friends with the bill when I agreed to pay for it.” He grumbled. You open your mouth to say something but he doesn’t let you. “Yes, I…promise. Not to hurt or approach that insolent human.” He says it like a pledge and he means it like one too.

So there you two are again, making up and completing the cycle.

wc:1001

[void-in-blue]

𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 // 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

Summary: “do guys from therapy usually hit on you?” – or the one where oscar has to go to group counselling after a turbulent race incident and meets you, the quiet girl at the back of the hall.

Pairing: oscar piastri x afab! reader with she/her pronouns

Word count: 19k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ★ smut, unprotected penetrative sex, oral (f! receiving). they meet in therapy, so it's all angst. fraudulent behavior and mention of former drug abuse.

A/N: i wrote this in 2024 and had it posted on an F1 blog i used to have (@/immoral-stranger, if anyone remembers). i don't write for F1 anymore, but i wanted this to be posted somewhere because i'm really proud of it still. don't worry, this is only a blog for hockey fics, i'm just making one exception.

Abu Dhabi, 2024. Oscar could still smell the smoke sometimes, in nightmares or if he zoned out for too long. The scent clung to his mind—burning tires, scorched metal, and marshals running around in panic. In his dreams, he could hear the crackle of flames, feel the searing heat against his skin, as they carefully dragged him out and placed him in the medical car. He was sure that it was already in some compilation on youtube about the worst crashes of the season. Hell, maybe even in history. 

Verstappen had already claimed his title, but getting the last win of the season would be a dream for anyone. It was a matter of pride, ending the season on a high note. For Oscar, it ended with a crash instead, just as he was about to overtake for the win on the last stint of the race. 

And of course, it had to be with Charles. 

Everyone loved Charles. And everyone hated Oscar for being the reason their favourite driver lost out on a win. Hate was a strong word and he was used to people having varying opinions about him, but there was something about this that he couldn’t shake off. 

The worst part was the screaming—screaming that he had later been told never even happened. He'd made it up in his head. When he was being pulled from the wreckage, he could have sworn he’d heard Charles crying out in pain. He’d replayed it over and over, only to learn that Charles had gotten out first—before the fire even started to spread. Sore from the impact, but otherwise unharmed.

Oscar didn’t realise in the moment that the crash would affect him. It took months for it to catch up to him. It all cumulated into a breakdown during the pre-season testing for 2025, where he had locked himself in a room to drown out Charles’ screaming, getting the attention of his trainer and people on his team that something was wrong. 

He was supposed to be the calm one. This was the opposite of calm. 

He had Murphy’s Law on loop in his head. Everything that can go wrong will. It had never been like that for him before—analysing every possible mistake. It wasn’t even the mistakes he actually made, but the ones that never happened. It made him paralysed to get in the car every single time, but once he actually started driving, all those thoughts went away. 

It was the imaginative screaming that had led him to where he was today—the parking lot outside of St. Anne’s Church before a group therapy and support meeting. It wasn’t a grand building by any means. The stones of the church were worn, weathered with years of storms battering its exterior. It always seemed to rain in this fucking town. 

His therapist, trainer, and team had decided that this was best for him. Mandated meetings once a week until he could feel calm outside of the car and not just while driving it. This wasn’t about talking to some high-paid therapist; he already had one of those. No, this was about learning to cope with normal people, people who had been through real trauma, people who didn’t live their lives in the fast lane.

“You need support,” they’d said, as if these weekly gatherings at a worn-out church with other equally messed-up strangers would patch up whatever was broken inside him. 

He had talked on the phone with the man leading the group, explaining that it would most likely be best for Oscar to show up to his first meeting, take a seat, and just get a feel for how it worked. 

The meeting was held in a hall on the side of the church, an annex built sometime in the seventies while the church itself was centuries old. He was hit with the smell of old wood and damp air as soon as he entered. The group wasn’t small—maybe twenty people scattered around the room, sitting on mismatched chairs. It didn’t feel like one of those alcoholics anonymous meetings he’d seen in movies, which had been his first preconception. 

He found a spot on one of the middle rows, on the edge to not draw attention to him. The personalities he could see around the room were all different. There were the nervous ones, bouncing in their seats—maybe it was anxiety, maybe it was abstinence. The tired ones seemed to be the majority. He fitted into that group himself—tired of life. You also had the desperate ones, sitting in the front, almost leaning forward to better grasp whatever words of wisdom were being said. 

Guilt seemed to be a theme for everyone. 

One after one the facilitator let people go up and speak at a makeshift lectern. Some just gave little updates, giving Oscar the impression that they’d gone to meetings for a long time. Others were speaking up for the first time. One that stood out was a mother, maybe in her fifties, whose daughter had just passed away in a car accident. She cried as she spoke, searching for some way of dealing with the guilt she felt, having let her daughter borrow her car even though she knew it was old and unsafe. 

This was around the time when Oscar thought to himself that he should just take the money he had, find a way out of his contract, emigrate to Iceland, and change his name to Fabio. Never ever have to think about a race car again.

People were going on about their lives, their regrets, their struggles with addictions, or just their attempts to survive whatever the world had thrown at them. But none of it really resonated with him. Oscar didn’t feel like he belonged here. His problems felt different. And he wasn’t sure if that was because they actually were different or because he just couldn’t find the right words to describe them.

At some point, his gaze shifted toward the back of the room, and that was when he noticed you. 

A girl his own age. You were sitting there, apart from everyone else, half-hidden in the shadows near the exit. You looked like you didn’t want to be seen—shoulders hunched, sat far down in your seat. You stared at your hands, fidgeting with skin around your nails. Oscar could spot your chipped black nail polish from across the room. He had a hard time reading your face, mostly obscured by your hair and the collar of your jacket. 

He couldn’t help but wonder why you were here. He wondered it about everyone else too, but you stuck out since you were similar in age—young enough that people didn’t automatically assume that you’d gone through hardship. You looked… different. Troubled, maybe. Definitely out of place. 

Oscar forced himself to look away, trying to focus on the group facilitator, who was droning on about acceptance and healing. He felt restless, a creeping anxiety gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. Why had he even come? This place didn’t feel like it could fix anything. 

By the time the session ended, he hadn’t spoken a word.

As the last of the attendees dispersed, Oscar lingered under the arched entrance, watching the downpour. He pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt, offering him some warmth from the cold rain. A faint glow from distant streetlights illuminated the soaked pavement, creating an eerie atmosphere that somehow felt fitting. 

That’s when he saw you again, as the heavy church doors closed behind him with a slight thud. You were the last one out of the building. Out of the corner of his eye, Oscar saw you light a cigarette. His eyes met yours briefly, but you were quick to look away. 

You exhaled smoke, sitting down on the stone steps leading up to the entrance, letting single raindrops fall onto your leather jacket, while still being mostly covered by the awning. 

For a second, Oscar thought about walking away. He didn’t know you—he didn’t know anyone here—but something kept him rooted to the spot. Maybe it was because he knew he would need to talk to someone here, not easily getting away from the mandated meetings. Maybe it was because you looked so damned lost. 

Either way, he found himself speaking before he could stop himself.

“Uh,” he started awkwardly. “I like your stockings.” 

You blinked, glancing down at your legs. Through the rips in your jeans, a pair of sheer black stockings peeked out, the floral lace pattern barely visible. You didn’t say anything right away, just stared at him with a look that was half-surprised, half-annoyed. Then, you blew out smoke from between your lips. 

“Thanks,” you muttered. 

Oscar shifted uncomfortably, unsure if he should leave or try to salvage the moment. Why had he said that? He wasn’t good at small talk, never had been. He had no idea why he thought this was the time to start improving that skill.

You let out a low chuckle, almost like you were laughing at him. Wordlessly, you asked him if he wanted a cigarette, lifting the carton up in his direction. 

He shook his head. “I don’t smoke.” 

You took another drag, shrugging your shoulders, basically saying suit yourself to him. With your gaze turned back to the ground, the silence stretched on awkwardly, only broken by the sound of raindrops splattering against the asphalt.

“Aren’t white lighters supposed to be bad luck?” he asked suddenly, noticing the bright plastic you were flicking between your fingers. He’d heard that somewhere, an old superstition and coincidence—that a group of famous people who had died at a young age all had white lighters in their possession. It was a stupid thing to say, but it felt better than nothing.

You looked down at the lighter in your hand and then back at Oscar, a humourless smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Maybe that’s the fucking point.” 

Oscar didn’t know what to say to that. He wondered if you actually meant it—that bad luck didn’t matter to you, like you almost welcomed it. He wasn’t sure he believed in luck in that sense anyway. To him, life felt more like a balance of choices and chances, not fortune’s favour. But sometimes, maybe when the stars aligned and all that palaver, he believed in luck and he believed in doing the right thing to experience that luck. 

Call it superstition, if you must. 

The both of you continued to stand there in silence. Well, technically, you were still sitting.  Two strangers, clinging to the building that was supposedly about to fix them, all while not really knowing if they even wanted to be fixed. 

After a few long moments, you stood up, stubbing out the cigarette on the wet stone. You stuffed your hands into your pockets, casting him one last glance before heading out into the rain. The water immediately soaked your hair, but you didn’t seem to care. You hopped into a car that had pulled up at the end of the parking lot, an older woman in the driver seat. 

You left him without a word and a strange feeling inside of him—like this situation wasn’t already odd enough. 

______________________

You put out your cigarette as you reached the entrance of the church, again. Just another Tuesday in your life. You’d lost count on how long you had been going to these meetings. Two hours every Tuesday and one hour every Sunday. 

It was a bit of a lie, that you didn’t know how long it had been. You just didn’t want to know how long it had been and therefore told yourself to not think about it until you’d all but forgotten about it. 

However, Oscar was a new addition to the meetings, for a month or so. Seeing him, seemingly waiting for you before going inside, was odd? But not uncommon by now. 

You didn’t say anything as you walked up beside him on the church steps, only giving him a slight nod as a way of saying hello. You looked out over the parking lot, glistening wet from the rain that seemed to haunt this small town. You were practically lucky that it wasn’t raining at the moment. 

Something about the parking lot was different today, though. It stood out like a diamond in a drawer of costume jewellery. 

There, parked conspicuously at the curb, was a sleek McLaren. The kind of car that didn't belong in this part of town, especially not parked outside a church where people came to unload their emotional baggage.

As if reading your thoughts, Oscar caught you staring with raised brows. “What nobhead takes their McLaren to counselling?” you muttered under your breath, clearly not expecting him to hear. But he was close enough, and the corner of his mouth twitched up into a smile.

He chuckled, a low, surprised sound. “That would be me.” 

You blinked, not expecting it to be him, let alone be so direct about it. “I’m sorry.” 

“No, you’re not,” Oscar chortled, shaking his head, like he found your frankness refreshing, if not amusing, as though he wasn’t often spoken to like that. 

“Yeah, it’s a dickish thing to do,” you admitted, giving him a half shrug. You couldn’t help but smile a little, though. He had a way of taking the sting out of your sharp words, as if he didn’t mind your snark. 

You’d quite frankly been rude to him at a few of the former meetings, yet he still didn’t mind sitting in silence next to you for two hours every Tuesday. You were both here, after all—both stuck, both dealing with whatever mess had brought you to therapy. 

The last few sessions had been the same—catching each other’s eye as you sat in the back of the room, listening to people’s stories. Neither of you said much during the meetings, but you always seemed to find each other afterward, just outside the church, where the air felt a little less suffocating. You smoked, and Oscar just stood there, pretending not to be bothered by the cold weather. 

It had become something of a routine. You weren’t friends, exactly, but there was a strange sort of understanding between you. Tonight was no different as the meeting started. 

You slipped into your usual spot near the back, watching as Oscar settled in a seat nearby. The room was filled with voices, people exchanging quick pleasantries before it started, just like every week, with people telling their stories. 

You’d gone to meetings for such a long time that you knew the backstories of most people. It had been so long that some regulars had even stopped going, claiming they were fixed. Or at least fixed enough. You guessed that was the real goal—to not completely overcome trauma but to learn how to live with it. Then there were the people who were mandated to be there, by their workplace or by a court order. They were more hesitant than the people who went by their own free will, but their stories were always better when they finally got to talking, more interesting to listen to. 

“Have you ever gone up there?” Oscar whispered at one point, curious. 

“Nope,” you replied without hesitation, not looking at him. “They can force me to be here, but they can’t force me to talk.” 

He looked at you for a moment, head tilted slightly, like he wanted to ask more but thought better of it. You could practically feel the question hanging in the air—who the fuck were they?—but he didn’t press. Instead, he glanced around the room again. 

You liked that he didn’t push. That meant you didn’t have to lie to him. 

There was an unspoken rule in these circles. Speak, or don’t, but never fake it. It couldn’t be about pretending, and for now, silence was as close as either of you seemed willing to come to honesty. 

When the session ended, you found yourselves once again standing on the church steps, the night air brisk and cutting. You fumbled with a cigarette, attempting to light it against the persistent wind. Oscar lingered nearby, hands in his pockets, as he watched your futile attempts, half amused. 

“Not getting picked up today?” he asked. 

You shook your head, giving up on the cigarette and putting the lighter and carton back into the pocket of your jacket. 

Oscar hesitated for a second, unsure whether to say anything. He was starting to feel that familiar awkwardness creep back in, the same feeling he’d had the first time he spoke to you. But before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “I could give you a lift.” 

You shot him a sidelong glance. “I’m not sleeping with you, Oscar,” you said flatly. 

Oscar’s eyes widened, and he spluttered, “W-what? No! That’s not—” He stumbled over his words, horrified.

You raised a brow, watching as he struggled to find his words. He was blushing, his ears practically glowing red under the streetlight. “You offered to drive me home without ulterior motives?” you asked, sceptical. 

“Yes, I was just trying to be nice,” he said firmly, but flustered. “Do guys from therapy usually hit on you?” 

You let out a dry laugh, almost feeling guilty for your wrong assumption about him. “You’d be surprised at how many men find head-cases attractive.” 

He only became more embarrassed, his mind flashing back to the first thing he’d ever said to you—a compliment on your stockings, of all things.

There was a vulnerability to him you hadn’t expected—something behind the stubborn façade and expensive car. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who was used to rejection. Or awkwardness. Or therapy, for that matter. But his loser personality made all of those things very possible. 

“Well… I just wanted to make sure you got home safely,” he said, shifting awkwardly.

You studied him for a moment, weighing his words. Then, with a sigh, you jerked your head toward the McLaren. “Fine. Start the fucking car.” 

Inside the car, the quiet was different, somehow more suffocating than outside on the church steps. Maybe it was the notion of having to actually talk to each other now that hadn’t felt as forced outside of the car. 

 “So, where to?” Oscar asked, his hands gripping the wheel a little tighter than necessary.

You glanced out the window, your fingers tapping idly on the door handle, almost scared to touch the absurdly shiny car. “Do you know the council houses behind the post office?” 

“By that one pub? With the—” 

“The Swan, yes that’s the one,” you interrupted. “My aunt lives right there.”

Oscar nodded, pulling away from the curb and heading in the direction you’d indicated. You kept your gaze fixated out the window as the car began to move. The streets passed by in a blur, the rain-slicked asphalt reflecting the dim glow of the town’s yellow lights.

“Aunt?” he asked after a beat of silence. “Parents not around?” 

You didn’t answer immediately. For a moment, Oscar thought he’d overstepped, thought you were going to turn to a rudeness that he couldn’t joke his way out of.  

Then, quietly, you muttered, “I think I am the one who’s not around.” 

He heard you clearly, but he didn’t press further. He didn’t try to fill the space with meaningless chatter, and for that, you were both grateful. For a moment, it was peaceful, almost as if you were just two people out for a casual drive instead of a pair of strangers bound by a not-so-positive common denominator. 

As the car approached the run-down council houses, you unbuckled your seatbelt but didn’t immediately move to get out. Instead, you turned to him, studying his profile in the low light, something unreadable in your expression. 

“Thanks,” you said after a moment. 

“For the ride?” he asked. 

“For not being a complete dick,” you replied as you pushed open the door and stepped out into the cold. You didn’t look back, but you knew that he was smiling behind you. 

______________________

The following week, you were late. Not late enough for it to actually be a problem, but late enough that Oscar felt the awkward tension of deciding whether to wait for you outside like he usually did or go inside. He definitely could have waited, but he was particular about time, so he went in. 

Oscar glanced around the room, sitting somewhere in the middle now that you hadn’t decided seats for the two of you. He noticed the faces that had become a strange sort of fixture in his life over the past months. 

The season had started and it was going fairly well. He had thoughts of disaster almost every weekend, but he didn’t hear Charles’ screaming as often. It was usually worst during qualifying, when the short amount of time made the anxiety build up quicker. But he was stable. Even his therapist had said that. He wasn’t a danger in any way, but he still just wished to get an answer as to why this crash had affected him in the way that it did. 

Your heavy footsteps interrupted his thoughts, your Doc Martens making a thumping sound against the old hardwood flooring. You looked like a drenched, unhappy cat, caught in one of the town’s relentless downpours. For a moment, Oscar smiled; he hadn’t thought he’d ever see you sit anywhere but the back row, yet here you were, sliding into the empty seat next to him with a huff.

You took off your wet leather jacket and threw your bag on the floor, almost curling into your seat on the uncomfortable chair, a paper cup of hot water warming your hands. There was a station outside of the room with tea and coffee and you would grab a cup of tea for yourself before every meeting. Oscar had learnt that by now—also knowing that you brought your own tea bags since they only offered black tea and you drank rooibos. Oscar had lived in England for a long time, but the science behind drinking tea was still something that confused him. 

You rubbed your face dry with the sleeves of your oversized sweater, not caring that your mascara smudged around your eyes. Oscar thought about offering his own hoodie, or at least a tissue, but you didn’t seem the type to want help with something so small. Instead, he kept quiet, simply watching as you tried to shake off the rain.

A beat of silence passed between you both. Then, you spoke first.

“You never come to the Sunday meetings.” 

You tried to sound casual, but the question was deliberate; it was thought through. He glanced at you, surprised. It wasn’t often that you were the one to initiate a conversation, and when you did, they were short and edged with sarcasm. 

“Didn’t even know they had meetings during the weekend,” Oscar replied with a shrug. “I work most Sundays.” 

“So do I, but I manage to show up here anyway.” 

He noticed the way your eyes held his gaze, challenging but curious. You weren’t shy to look him straight in the eye, unlike himself. The light from the nearby windows cast a muted glow over you, softening the lines of your face, your smudged makeup giving you a look of tiredness that felt familiar to him. 

It was like you were waiting, expecting him to talk again, and he felt that familiar twist of unease, a reminder that vulnerability wasn’t something he navigated easily. A hint of a smile crossed Oscar’s face as he looked away, not sure how much to say.

Today’s meeting wasn’t much different from all the others. There was the mother who dealt with guilt after losing her daughter in a car crash. There was Anthony, a local restaurant owner, who was there as part of his probation plan after an assault charge. There was Jenny, a girl in her thirties who was mandated by her therapist to be there as exposure for her agoraphobia. It was definitely ironic that the girl with a social anxiety disorder did more talking than you and Oscar combined. 

During a brief five-minute break, Oscar looked over at you again, seemingly lost in your thoughts. 

“You think you’ll ever get up there?” he asked, nodding toward the lectern. 

Oscar knew he had asked similar questions before, but this one was more to ask if you thought this group counselling thing would ever lead to you opening up—if you saw an end to these countless meetings by actually letting them help you, letting them make you feel better.

“No,” you answered flatly. “Opening up to strangers is weird.” 

He smiled at that. “I think this is supposed to have the opposite effect,” he said, crossing his arms. “That it’s easier with strangers because we won’t feel judged in the same way.”

You looked up at him, amusement flickering in your eyes. “Keep talking Oscar, and we won’t be strangers by the end of this.”

He laughed, shaking his head. There was a subtle humour to your banter, like you both enjoyed pushing boundaries without really crossing them. Oscar settled on the idea that he didn’t want you two to be strangers after all.

As the meeting came to a close, people began to shuffle out, some lingering to chat with one another, others heading straight for the door. You, as usual, made your way outside without a word. Oscar followed, as he always did, keeping a respectful distance but close enough that it didn’t feel like a coincidence.

He never knew why he lingered. He wasn’t even sure if you wanted him to. But the silence you shared after group therapy felt easier than the forced vulnerability inside.

Outside, the air was crisp, the rain from earlier having tapered off, leaving the ground damp and slick, the sun breaking through the clouds. You leant against the stone wall of the church, lighting another cigarette with the same white lighter he’d seen you use before. 

Oscar frowned slightly, feeling a strange sense of unease creep into his chest as he watched you. He wasn’t entirely sure why he cared, but before he could stop himself, he spoke up. “Can you stop buying white lighters, please?”

You raised your brows, almost mocking him. “Why? Are you superstitious?” 

“No,” Oscar replied, shaking his head. “It just feels like a weird thing to jeopardise.” 

“What do you know about the 27 club anyway?” you asked, taking another drag. You were mindful enough to turn your head in the opposite direction as you blew out the smoke. 

The 27 Club—a bunch of musicians, mostly rockstars, who had died at the age of 27 due to rough lifestyles. Rumour had it that they all used white lighters for their cigarettes and other smokeable substances. Oscar didn’t know anything about their music or the club they were in. He just knew of the rumour. 

“Literally nothing except that they died carrying white lighters,” Oscar admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “And that you deserve to live way past the age of 27.”

You blinked, taken aback, and for a moment, the armour you wore around yourself seemed to crack. You stared at him, cigarette halfway to your lips, processing what he’d just said. 

“Who knew you could be so sweet?” you teased, trying to be your usual sarcastic self, but there was a warmth in your voice that hadn’t been there before. That tiny hint of warmth made his chest feel strangely tight.

A few moments passed in comfortable silence before you broke it; your voice quieter now. “Why do you keep coming here anyway? You don’t talk much either. So why show up?”

Oscar hesitated, unsure how much to say. He wasn’t a stranger to lying about his job to people, often times just because he couldn’t be arsed to explain or have people ask if he was rich and famous. It wasn’t like that with you, but he still decided to lie—or opt out of telling the entire truth. He wanted you to think he was normal.

“I’m mandated to be here by my workplace,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “I caused a car accident with a colleague of mine, and I kind of need to be able to drive to keep my job.” 

You frowned in confusion. “But you drove me home? Are you scared of driving?” 

“It’s… different,” he admitted. “Driving long distances for work or just around in this little hellhole.” 

You studied him for a long moment, as if weighing his words. Then, in a surprisingly gentle tone, you asked, “Do you like… get flashbacks of the crash and blame yourself all over again?” 

Oscar nodded, exhaling softly. “Yeah, I guess it’s like that. I keep replaying it, even though my colleague was fine. It’s like this... loop in my head, where I keep imagining every possible way it could have gone worse. Murphy’s Law, you know? Like, I can’t help but think of every possible mistake I could make.”

“Murphy’s Law is about engineering, though,” you pointed out. “You can’t just apply that to your everyday life. It’ll turn you into an impossible perfectionist, constantly waiting for everything to fall apart.”

Oscar smiled, appreciating the unexpected insight. It reminded him of how little you knew about him, since, y’know, he hadn’t told you the truth—that engineering actually was involved in his everyday life. And yet, somehow, you still seemed to understand. The irony wasn’t lost on him, and he found himself wondering what other surprises you might be hiding.

You stubbed out your cigarette, bending down and reaching into your bag for a piece of chewing gum. He watched as you unwrapped it, slipping it into your mouth, the familiar scent of artificial strawberry filling the air. It was a ritual he’d seen before, almost like you were trying to erase the smell of smoke as quickly as you’d created it. The action was so practiced, and he found himself charmed by the small, sort of endearing quirk.

“You’re not gonna ask me why I keep on showing up here?” you asked, looking wondering up at Oscar, mumbling slightly as you chewed to get the gum soft. 

He glanced at you with a faint smile. “You’ll tell me when you feel comfortable enough. I know that.” 

A soft, almost approving nod was your only response.

“There’s my ride,” you murmured as a car drove into the parking lot—the same car he’d seen many times before, the same old woman driving. He could now assume it was your aunt. “I guess I’ll see you next week, then.” 

Oscar stumbled on his words as he tried to say goodbye to you, caught off guard by how you almost skipped down the church stairs, looking happier than ever. It was a weird juxtaposition, because you obviously weren’t—happier than ever, that is. You actually dared to look back at him, smiling as you walked over the parking lot. The mascara still sat heavy under your eyes as light shone down on you from the clouds breaking above, and in that moment, you looked like the saddest thing under the sun.

After the car had driven away, Oscar stood still with his thoughts outside the church for a second. He had to look into the weekend meetings. Even if he could never attend them himself, he needed to know why they were important enough for you to mention them to him. 

With a last glance toward the parking lot, he went back inside, his eyes drifting toward the bulletin board in the hallway. Various flyers covered its surface. The community really tried its hardest, offering support groups for just about anything—newly becoming parents, cancer survival, dealing with grief and death. 

Oscar looked at the schedules, most of them being on weekdays. However, anonymous groups for recovering alcoholics and narcotics were on Saturdays, respectively, Sundays. 

It didn’t take long for Oscar to understand.  

He also understood why you had asked him. You wanted to know if you had another thing in common other than the group meetings. You hadn’t known he was there because of a car crash, so in your mind he might as well have been there for other issues, like drugs or alcohol.

Oscar didn’t know your full story. He didn’t know why you were here, why you kept showing up week after week, or what had led you to seek out meetings. But he did know one thing: you weren’t as unreachable as you pretended to be, and he was willing to wait until you felt ready to show him the parts of yourself you’d kept hidden.

______________________

The soft clink of glasses and low murmur of voices filled the pub as you wiped down the counter for what felt like the hundredth time that day, your hands moving out of habit, eyes scanning the sparse crowd. Picking up an afternoon shift instead of the night shift wasn’t something you normally did, just for that reason. It was the same amount of hours, but it felt a lot longer since the customers were fewer. Thankfully, the evening crowd was starting to build up. 

A woman sat at the counter, maybe ten years older than you, her fingers tracing the rim of an empty glass, her gaze flitting between the door and her phone. She had a nervous look and was dressed too nicely for the pub. You knew the type—the first daters—planning nights to the last detail, hoping for it to go well but preparing for disaster.

“Waiting for someone?” you asked, offering to take her glass. 

“Yeah, a first date. I needed some liquid courage in advance,” she replied with a tight smile. 

“Well, you look gorgeous,” you assured, showing her a genuine smile. “If they turn out to be a wanker, just come up and order an angel shot and I’ll help you out of here.”

Her smile widened, a bit more relaxed now, as she thanked you. 

You made a point to watch over her as your shift went on. Her date arrived shortly after, looking just as nervous as she did. You let yourself relax; at least he wasn’t a no-show, and he didn’t look like the type to catfish someone. In fact, he looked almost as nervous as she did, and you found yourself rooting for them.

Working in a gritty pub had never been your dream, but it was what your CV got you at this point in life. You had tried living in London, making ends meet by working at a cocktail bar, but you had crash-landed back in your hometown, like big time crashing. 

Thankfully, the owner of The Swan hadn’t looked too closely into your past, or he at least didn’t care. You knew how to pour a pint, you knew how to clean up, and you knew how to deal with rowdy drunk people. That made you a top employee. 

You moved on autopilot around the familiar bar with its familiar patrons. Some old, who frequented the bar even on weekdays, and some young, who you mostly saw on weekends. 

You had learnt to listen to some and to eavesdrop on others. Like, you knew all about Denny’s divorce and custody battle because he sat by the bar and went on and on about it as he downed London Prides. But you had to eavesdrop to know that the group of girls who came in after work on Fridays had finally staged an intervention for their friend who put up with too much shit from her boyfriend. 

Little things like that made bartending enjoyable. 

Other things—like loud groups of lads your own age—almost always made it less enjoyable. That was why you felt a tiredness fall over you like an anvil in a slapstick comedy when you, even with your back turned to the door, could hear them enter. You let out a resigned sigh, knowing that the evening was about to take a livelier turn, and maybe not for the better. 

However, they weren’t the usual group that gave you and your colleagues trouble. This were customers you’d never seen before. Strange for being such a small town with only The Swan and two other pubs. Sure, the boys were loud as they came to the bar to order from your colleague, but they were patient and not overly rude. 

You froze in surprise. 

You felt your grip slip from the glass you were holding, almost dropping it. While his friends filed up to the bar with an eagerness for drinks, Oscar lingered, his eyes darting around the room before landing on you. The shocked look on his face was almost priceless. He looked as startled as you felt, his eyes widening briefly as they locked onto yours.

He seemed out of place in the gritty atmosphere of the pub—too put-together, too polished. You knew he wasn’t British from his strong accent, and you knew he wasn’t the most outgoing type from his well… personality. He didn’t belong in here, but for some reason his friends had waltzed right in to The Swan, never having done so before. 

You were scared to think about why, but deep down you knew. 

Before your colleague could ask him for his order, you stepped forward. You wiped your hands on a towel and raised an eyebrow. “You lost?” you teased lightly, leaning against the bar.

Oscar’s friends were still gathering their drinks, a couple of them glancing your way with open curiosity. Your colleague doing the same, knowing full well that you would have to explain this to them afterwards. 

Oscar smiled back, a bit shyly. “No, just… here with some friends.” He gestured vaguely behind him, looking mildly uncomfortable.

“So,” you said, folding your arms. “What can I get you?”

Oscar chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not drinking tonight. Just…moral support, I guess.”

“You know where to find me if you change your mind.” 

For a moment, you both stood there, the noise around you fading into the background.

His friends soon called after him to join them at their table and you had a job to do. As you moved around the bar, greeting regulars, wiping down counters, and handing out drinks, you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Oscar was still there, his presence lingering even when he was out of view.

Each time you glanced over at their table, you caught him glancing back. The first few times he seemed nervous to be caught, but when he realised how often you looked at him, he really had nothing to be ashamed of if he stared back at you. 

After a while, the place grew livelier, and you lost sight of him in the ebb and flow of customers, the noise picking up as more people filled the seats. The usual rowdiness of a Saturday night began to take hold. 

Eventually, you saw his friends begin to gather their things, settling their tabs, pulling on jackets, and nudging each other as they headed out. You felt yourself get stuck in your steps behind the bar as you watched Oscar stand up from his seat. He exchanged a few words with his friends as they left, but he stayed, earning what you assumed were amused laughs and some crude comments. 

Oscar waited a moment, watching them go, before he turned his gaze toward the bar. You tried to make yourself seem busy, cleaning a counter that wasn’t even dirty. You felt a flicker of nerves as he approached, unsure if you should be the first to talk. He sat down on an empty bar stool next to Denny. He didn’t have to dare to look at you because you already had all of his attention. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen you this long without a cigarette before, y’know,” he said, breaking the silence.  

You rolled your eyes, smirking. “I only smoke when I’m stressed, which is less often than you’d think.”

Oscar’s smile lingered, a warm glint in his eyes that hinted that he understood that the only time he saw you was at the group meetings and that they were the thing that caused you stress to the point where you felt the need to smoke. You wouldn’t even consider yourself a nicotine addict. However, of all things, nicotine wouldn’t be the worst thing to admit that you were addicted to. 

Your conversation was briefly interrupted by your other patrons, like Denny, who flagged you down for another pint. You poured his drink wordlessly, and Oscar waited, his presence somehow calming amidst the usual chaos of the bar.

The couple you’d served earlier—the first-daters—approached to settle their tab.

“That looked successful,” you remarked with a friendly smile, referring to their date.  

“Yeah, honestly green flags all around,” she replied, throwing her date a soft smile as he took out his wallet. “Thanks for the angel shot advice, though.”

You smiled. “Glad you didn’t need to use it.”

The woman chuckled, her eyes twinkling as she looked from you to Oscar, as if piecing something together. She tilted her head toward you. “Do… you need an angel shot yourself?” 

“For this bloke?” you asked in surprise, pointing at Oscar. “Nah, I can handle him myself.” 

The woman nodded, smiling in amusement as she gave Oscar another once-over before heading out with her date, holding hands. Oscar, who had been listening to the entire exchange with a bemused expression, raised an eyebrow.

“What’s an angel shot?” he asked.

“It’s a code we use for people on bad dates,” you explained with a shrug. “If they order one, it means they need help, and I step in. It’s a subtle way for someone to signal they’re uncomfortable without making a scene.”

Oscar’s eyes widened slightly in understanding, and he nodded. “That’s pretty smart.”

“Yeah, it can be useful. When I worked at a cocktail bar in London we had to use it almost every night. This place is a lot calmer.”

You knew it, Oscar knew it too—that rich people drinking Negronis at a rooftop bar in London were more troublesome once they got drunk than what people like Denny did once they were in on their seventh pint of the evening in a small town pub. 

There was a brief lull in the conversation, the uncomfortable kind where you just waited for someone to break the silence. Oscar’s fingers tapped lightly on the bar, and he seemed lost in thought for a moment before, as if summoning courage, he spoke again, his voice a bit hesitant. 

“So… when are you off?” 

“In…” you stopped to check the clock on the wall behind you. “Three minutes.” 

Oscar shifted, clearly nervous. “Do you want to maybe hang out? Get dinner or something?” 

You blinked, taken off guard. He looked so uncomfortable. It was endearing in a way you hadn’t expected. He was as unsure of himself as anyone else was. 

Oscar, meanwhile, felt as though he was the world’s worst at this. It was no wonder he never had casual things like Lando seemed to have every other weekend, one night stand after one night stand. Not that Oscar necessarily wanted that, but to even feel like he had the possibility to ask someone out would’ve been nice. 

“I mean, if you’re up for it,” he added quickly, tripping over his words. “Like, we don’t have to or anything. I just thought—”

You cut him off with an uncharacteristic giggle, the sound breaking through the tension. “Only if I can use your shower. I smell like cheap beer and fryer oil,” you said, lifting your t-shirt with the pub’s swan logo on it to your nose, grimacing at the smell. 

“Oh,” he breathed, his face lighting up in relief. “Absolutely.” 

You tossed the towel onto the counter, giving him a playful smile as you stepped around the bar to join him. “But I’ll let you know,” you said, lowering your voice, “you shouldn’t hang out with someone like me. I’ll defile you.”

“I’m not as innocent as I act,” he said teasingly, but he wasn’t even sure if he believed his own words, let alone did he fool you. 

______________________

Oscar sat like a sociopath on the sofa waiting for you to finish showering. He was not sure his posture had even been this good. You’d made your way to his flat after your shift had ended. He’d offered you his shower and clothes while he said he’d fix the rest. However, every film he could think of watching seemed pathetic. Every type of food he could think of ordering seemed disgusting. He hadn’t exactly thought this through when he asked you to hang out. He hadn’t expected it to be so… casual? Or maybe easy? Like you actually wanted to be here, in his flat, spending the evening with him.

He was probably overthinking this—no, he was overthinking this. But how could he not? He tried so hard to not think of the fact that you were wet and naked just a wall away, but he was pretty sure his brain broke in the process. Every detail was suddenly monumental, as though he was a teenager again.

The faint sound of the shower stopped, and he quickly sat up straighter, mentally scolding himself to look less… tense. He wasn’t sure he was pulling it off. He could hear the bathroom door open, and then you were padding down the hall, and he practically whipped his head around to see you. 

You were wearing one of his favourite shirts, the maroon fabric hanging over your frame, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs. Your hair was still damp, small droplets darkening the shirt where they fell. The sweatpants you’d borrowed were too long, so you’d tucked them into your socks—baby pink, fuzzy socks with little red hearts on them. The socks were definitely not Oscar’s. He couldn’t believe that was what you were hiding under your Doc Martens. 

Oscar blinked, trying to reconcile the idea that this—this ridiculously adorable version of you—was the same person who’d honestly scared him during your first conversation. 

“Cute socks,” he chuckled, unable to stop himself. 

“Shut up,” you muttered, hiding a smile, before flopping down on the sofa next to him, already more casual than Oscar could ever be. “What are we watching?” 

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He was acutely aware of how close you were, your leg brushing against his as you made yourself comfortable. You didn’t hesitate to grab a blanket that was thrown over the back of the sofa, cuddling into it as you wrapped it around yourself. 

“We could watch… uh, anything you want,” Oscar finally managed. 

You rolled your eyes, sinking into the sofa cushions. “If you let me pick, it’s going to be something dumb.”

“I’m okay with dumb.”

Your lips curled into a smile, but you didn’t say anything as you leant forward to grab the remote. Oscar sat there, watching as you navigated through streaming options. You were on the hunt for something specific, he noticed. Right in on Disney+ and quickly you searched for…Brother Bear? 

Oscar’s brow lifted in surprise, but he didn’t question it. In a way, it felt perfectly fitting. He let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding and settled into the cushions, letting himself ease into the film, into the quiet comfort of the moment.

You both ordered pizza that arrived sometime in the middle of the film. You liked pineapple on pizza, but he guessed he could overlook it. Especially if it meant you were here, sitting beside him, taking a bite with a content look on your face. 

You’d grown soft around the edges, for him. This was domestic, bordering on romantic. The girl he had first met—cigarette and white lighter in hand—would’ve never admitted to liking Disney films and to wearing pink fuzzy socks. 

When the pizza was finished and the movie neared its end, you laid down in the corner of his L-shaped sofa, blanket fully surrounding you. Oscar wanted to scoot over, closer to you, maybe put your feet in his lap, but he hesitated, scared to cross boundaries. He chewed the inside of his cheek, lost in thought, hoping that his nerves would miraculously disappear. 

And then you made a sound—a soft, involuntary awe that escaped your lips during the scene where Koda, the little bear cub, was reunited with his deceased mother through some sort of glowing spirits in the sky. Oscar had to admit that even though he’d seen this film as a kid, the plot was now completely lost on him because of you. 

It was cute. Like, painfully cute, and Oscar felt that weird mix of cute aggression, where something is so adorable you just want to squeeze it. Instead, he let himself simply watch you, taking in the way your eyes glistened and your mouth parted slightly, as if you’d forgotten everything around you, wrapped up in this world of animated magic. He mentally cursed himself when you caught him looking. 

“Why are you staring at me?” you muttered. 

“You look like you’re about to cry,” Oscar teased and smiled boyishly.

“Shut up, I do not,” you shot back, rubbing your eyes with your fingers. You were sharp enough to draw blood, and he was somehow always left unscathed.

He couldn’t help but smile wider, watching as you tried to hide your embarrassment. In a brave moment, he moved closer, daring to take a hold of your wrist so that you couldn’t hide from him. Your eyes were shining and a couple of your eyelashes had clumped together from the moisture. 

“It’s okay to cry to movies,” he said, nudging you gently. “Especially one’s about animated animals.” 

“I am not crying. Not even close,” you insisted, laughing, sinking further into the sofa, pulling the blanket up to your chin. 

You moved to the side and somehow, Oscar felt himself fitting naturally into the space behind you. He felt something shift inside him, a strange warmth settling in his chest. This was soft, quiet, almost painfully domestic. Yet it was real. You were here, cuddled up on his sofa, wrapped in his blanket, wearing his clothes, and laughing at something he’d said. 

Neither of you said another word as you moved to lay together like you’d done it a million times before. He found his arm moving to wrap around you, pulling you in closer until your back was touching his chest. You lifted the blanket to cover him partly too. The movie rolled through its final scenes, and Oscar found himself paying even less attention now that you were literally touching him. 

“You’re gonna stay there?” you whispered as the end credits rolled. 

“Yeah, we’re watching the sequel.”

But neither of you moved to get the remote. 

After a still moment, with a deep breath you moved to lay on your back. You glanced up at him, your gaze holding his for a long moment. Oscar didn’t dare look away, even if his confidence told him to do it. At least it was easier to look you in the eye than to take in the rest of you. 

His heart picked up when you adjusted yourself, the blanket slipping from your shoulders and the maroon fabric of his shirt shifted slightly, revealing the outline of your body beneath. Your breasts moved gently, and he couldn’t help but notice the lack of anything underneath the soft cotton. His throat felt tight, and suddenly, every molecule of air around him seemed saturated with the scent of you.

Then, he realised that the scent of you was actually the scent of his laundry detergent and the soap he kept in his shower mixed with something that was uniquely you. And oh, how Oscar hated being a man. Was he really pathetic enough to pop a boner because you smelled good? 

His body reacted before his brain could process it, betraying him in ways that were anything but subtle—warm and spreading, settling quickly. He shifted uncomfortably, moving his legs in a feeble attempt to hide the evidence of just how much you affected him. 

“Oscar…” Your voice was soft, questioning.

He shook his head, looking anywhere but at you as he managed to respond. “I know, I’m sorry,” he said, mortified. His face burned with embarrassment. He couldn’t believe this was happening—couldn’t believe he was that guy right now.

“You don’t have to apologise,” you whispered, and you still weren’t scared to look him in the eye. Oscar for once wished you were. 

“Yes, I do. It kind of ruins the mood,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Your expression softened and then you shifted to give him a bit of space. In the process, you nearly tipped off the edge of the sofa, and instinctively, Oscar reached out, his hand steadying you by your arm. The warmth of your skin under his touch sent a spark up through his palm, grounding him, but he couldn’t help feeling a pang of guilt if he’d made you uncomfortable.

“Ugh… it’s just…you just smell good, and you’re wearing my shirt, and your skin is the softest thing ever, and I can’t think straight—” he stopped himself abruptly. 

A laugh escaped your lips, soft but warm, and Oscar froze, unsure if he’d actually said all that aloud or if his brain had finally imploded.

“What are you doing?” you asked, tilting your head as you watched Oscar suddenly move away from you, sitting up in an awkward half-way position with the limited space he had behind you. It probably looked like he was about to bolt out of the flat out of sheer embarrassment. 

“What am I doing?” He frowned. “I just—I don’t want you… I mean, you shouldn’t have to, y’know, feel it.”

At that, your smile deepened, and you moved your legs, spreading them just enough to make space for him to settle between them, throwing the blanket off the sofa. 

“Oscar, can you… just calm down for a second?” you said gently, meeting his gaze with a reassuring look. “I’m not appalled by it, y’know? But you’re acting like I should be.”

His heartbeat thundered in his chest as he looked at you, processing your words. You didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. It was in this moment that Oscar also realised the position you were in, with him between your legs, fighting with his arm propped up to not fall flatly over your body. You weren’t scared to brush his sides by shutting your thighs just the slightest. 

“You’re okay with this?” he felt the need to ask. 

“I am.” 

Oscar let his eyes linger for the first time, deciding for once to let the awkwardness melt away. And just like always, your eyes were on him, almost shamelessly scanning his broad shoulders and the way the fabric of his grey sweatpants stretched.

The shirt you’d borrowed had ridden up slightly, revealing your soft stomach and the hem of your underwear—a black cotton thong, the thin material peeking out. What was the frontal version of a whale-tail called? When the elastics sank into the soft parts of your hips and showed on either side above the waistband of your sweatpants. 

Yeah, Oscar’s brain was definitely broken. 

His mind spun, grasping for words, but all he managed was a shaky breath as he leaned in, like he couldn’t believe that he was seeing it, that he was this close. The air brushed against your skin. His mouth was as dry as a desert. You inhaled so sharply that he could hear it and see your stomach rising. He was eye level with your belly button and he decided upon… kissing it. Or right next to it, on the softest part of your stomach, the world narrowing down to just that patch of skin. 

He looked up for reassurance, and you just smiled. A perfectly content smile where light sparkled in your eyes. Oscar’s hands found your waist as he kissed you again, his lips trailing gently across your stomach. Your skin was impossibly soft, practically melting into his hands. 

Oscar’s next step was unplanned—like this entire thing—and maybe a bit silly, but when he was down there, kissing your stomach, he couldn’t help but want to venture higher up. So, like any other unreasonable person with hormones clouding their judgement, he stuck his head under your shirt, starting by kissing your ribs. 

You let out something between a gasp and a giggle as your breathing picked up the higher up Oscar’s mouth wandered. Where your ribs connected in the middle of your chest, right where the skin was the thinnest, was where he started to gently suck and he earned his first moan. You could feel him start to smile as it escaped you. 

When you looked down at him, all you could see was how his head stretched the fabric, and it was simply just humorous. 

“I could just take my shirt off, y’know?” you teased, though you were out of breath.  

”No,” he mumbled, lips brushing against your skin, an audible mwah leaving his mouth as he moved higher, planting a soft kiss in the valley between your breasts. “It’s warm under here.” 

You let out a small laugh, your fingers resting on top of his head, the shirt still acting as a barrier as you felt his hair through it. “Wouldn’t have taken you for such a boob guy.” 

Oscar closed his eyes as he felt your quiet laugher vibrate through your chest against his lips. Your breasts were practically lodged against his cheeks and he was definitely flushed red all over so it was actually convenient for him to be hidden under your shirt. 

“Shut up,” was all he could manage to mutter. 

He couldn’t hide anymore when he felt you pull the shirt up by the hem, first over his head and then swiftly over your own, it landing somewhere on the floor. Oscar was left laying there, chin resting against your sternum, feeling totally exposed as your eyes met his again. He didn’t dare to take in the sight of you shirtless, even though he was literally on top of your breasts. 

And while he probably looked like a flustered mess, you looked totally unfazed. 

“You motorboated me,” you exclaimed, laughter in your voice, “and you haven’t even kissed me on the mouth! Feels a bit backwards, don’t you think?” 

Oscar chuckled, not having the time to think that he should be ashamed because of what you just insinuated. His hand moved to gently cup your cheek as he lifted himself to look at you.

“What I’m hearing is that you want to kiss me.”  

He hated to sound cocky. He promised he really did. But with your jaw slacked and disbelief plastered on your face, he felt like he had said the right thing. You weren’t pushing him away, weren’t closing off the moment like he half-expected.

Instead, you were pulling him in.

If he thought your chest had been soft, your lips were like fucking velvet. It was like he was scared to touch you with how delicate you felt; with how softly you met his own lips. The initial connection was quick before he pulled away an inch or two to gather your reaction. With pure lust in your eyes, you were back to kissing him again before he had the chance to overthink what had just happened. 

The kiss deepened slowly, a tender exploration of new territory, a silent acknowledgement that this—whatever this was—wasn’t just a one-off moment.

Oscar’s heart hammered in his chest as he shifted, his body now hovering over yours. His lips brushed against yours in a series of soft kisses. Then, before he knew it, your tongue was fighting his own. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him in closer, and he let himself be totally absorbed by you. 

And oh my god, you were shirtless beneath him. He struggled with where to place his hands, feeling strange holding your face for too long but scared to grip your bare waist with his wandering hands. But when he felt you push up towards him—your nipples rubbing his shirt, the soft flesh of your breast squished against his chest—Oscar felt like he could indulge fully. 

With his forehead pressed against yours, Oscar pulled away and asked, “Do you want this to go further?” 

You nodded first, swallowing your breath, before verbally saying a low and desperate yes too. 

He wasn’t sure if he answered anything coherent or just let out a loud huff when he leant back down to kiss you. As his hands travelled up your body, you could feel goosebumps form under his fingertips. He stoked the underside of your breasts, taking in the way you reacted, before fully cupping them in his palms. 

You tipped your head back between the sofa cushions as his lips moved down your jaw and neck, littering you with open-mouthed kisses. He towered over you, his lower body fitting perfectly with how your legs spread for him. 

Oscar smiled as he grazed his teeth against your nipple, hearing you gasp at how he purposely teased you. And while he hadn’t thought about it like that before, you were definitely right with calling him a boob guy. Because fuck, could he spend his time adoring and fondling your soft tits, malleable in his hands and stimulating on his tongue. The way they perked up and became more sensitive with his touch was about to make him delirious. 

And the sounds you were making—the gentle breathy groans—were better than any sound he’d ever heard before, practically deafening to his ears by how much he was concentrating on it. God, was he glad to have to turned on the sequel because having sex to Phil Collins wasn’t really on any bucket list. Especially not with how overwhelming he found your noises.  

He released your nipple with a smacking sound, gazing at the attacked skin of your chest and neck. It would leave bruises, which made him feel even more like a horny teenager. 

“Can you take your shirt off?” Your voice felt airy and small. 

While your hands had already crept under to rake down his back as you were kissing, Oscar hadn’t exactly thought about the imbalance. He’d do just about anything to make you comfortable, meaning that his t-shirt soon joined yours on the floor. 

He was an athlete, yet he hadn’t personally ever thought he looked like one. He’d never been one of those guys to confidently parade around without a shirt on in summer or post pictures of himself flexing in the gym. He just couldn’t do it.

But your eyes on him, the way you nestled your lower lip between your teeth, and how your hands immediately reached out to touch him… yeah, that was maybe the closest thing he’d felt to confidence in a long time.

“Do you feel okay?”

He wasn’t sure how his own voice would sound when he spoke again—dry and muffled, distracted by a million different things. 

“Mhm,” you sighed out. “You wanna take off the rest of my clothes or should I do it myself?” 

Oscar gulped at your forwardness, but he guessed he already knew that you wanted to take this further. So did he, like insanely. With fumbling fingers, he untied the drawstring on your sweatpants and worked them down your hips, until you laid there in front of him in just your thong and fuzzy socks. 

He had sat up to take off his shirt, but he now nestled down between your legs again. There was no way in hell that he would last long inside of you, so he would need to please you beforehand. A gentleman, after all. 

Oscar felt like he was about to die at the thought of going down on you, his blushing cheeks almost hurting from how warm they were. His hair was messy, his lips were kissed raw, and his pupils had dilated until all you could see in his eyes was darkness. 

“Y’know you don’t have to—” you tried to tell him. 

“What if I really want to?” he questioned, almost rhetorically. You didn’t fight him on it. 

He kissed down your stomach until he came to the hem of your panties, absentmindedly rubbing soft circles on your hips and then down your thighs. There, his thoughts were simply reduced to the need to have you, in whatever way you allowed him. 

You were impatient, while Oscar took his time to enjoy you. He tortuously dragged his lips across your thighs; the faint pattern of your skin looked like thin, pale lines spreading like lightning strikes. Once he dared to touch you over the fabric and feel the wetness that had soaked through, he could hear your breath hitch. 

Slowly, he hooked his fingers in the sides of your thong and dragged them down your legs, leaving them discarded on the floor with the other clothes. Fully naked, except the socks, but those were staying on, Oscar decided. 

“Have I told you that you’re gorgeous yet?” 

You were looking down at him with an expression akin to frustration—mouth slightly open and heavy breaths spilling out, almost scoffing at his cliché words. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride as his own breaths hit your skin, blowing against your exposed heat. He pecked the stretched skin on your inner thigh to soothe you, stopping your writhing.

At a loss for what to do with your hands, they found their way down to his hair, weaving through his soft curls, tugging gently to get his attention. 

“Osc…” you said with a simple breath. 

That was really all Oscar needed—to hear you want him. That stupid little nickname was also something special. He hummed against you, feeling your reassurance as he kissed gently over your clit. And before you were able to complain for more, he latched his lips around it, suckling in a way that made your vision momentarily blank. His movements were tentative at first, unexperienced and lacking confidence. 

“Oh, you’re so good,” you exhaled, praising him. 

And there was something about the way you say it that just drove Oscar mad. It wasn’t that it felt good—it was that he was good. He got off on your reaction. It was as simple as that. It made him determined, building something with precise dramatics. 

You felt his left hand grasp at the skin of your thigh, slowly inching upwards before he carefully sank a finger into you. Your hips twitched and you moan out loud as he played with you. He worked you open before adding another finger, his mouth never leaving your clit in the process. Even when your thighs fought to stay open, caging him between them, he didn’t falter. And every once in a while, when his eyes looked up to meet yours, you only felt yourself falling apart quicker. 

His voice was low, the tone soft, when he mumbled something against your swollen cunt; something about how you tasted good. His free hand gently pressed down on your stomach to make you focus on the sensation—to feel his fingers ripping you apart from the inside out. 

“God, fuckfuckfuck—” You were barely making sense of your own words as you bucked up against his mouth, completely buried over you, nose bumping your clit with his repeated motions. 

Automatically, your hands grasped your breasts, fingers toying with your already sensitive nipples. Moving from your stomach, Oscar’s right hand was placed on your tits too, clasping his fingers over your own as he squeezed. 

When you inevitably fell apart, he didn’t stop—not until you were a complete mess beneath him. Arching, white-hot, and expanding with intensity before his very eyes as he continued to softly lick. The way he was making out with your soaked core and babying your clit with the tip of his tongue would make one believe that this was a man who had never been shy or embarrassed over a single thing in his life. 

And he wasn’t going to stop until you begged him.

With a pleasured and defeated “Oscar, please…” you were letting him know that he had done his job—that he had won you over in more ways than was necessary, that you were spent by him. 

“I know,” he cooed, kissing your stomach. “I know.” 

He moved to lay beside you, gently sliding his fingers out of you before tap, tap, tapping at your puffy clit, keeping his eyes steady at how you reacted. A slight hiss left your mouth before a hoarse laugher slipped out too. Your legs were still trembling from how intense your orgasm had been. 

“You’re a mess,” you chuckled, raising a hand to brush his hair back then wiping his mouth with the back of your hand to clean him. “And a menace.” 

“Well, so are you,” he smiled, kissing you on the mouth, neither of you caring about said mess. 

You took a moment to breathe, and Oscar took a moment to think. While he couldn’t think straight, he could still come to the conclusion that this was such a good feeling—an overwhelmingly good feeling that he hadn’t felt in a long time, maybe never before. 

By now, his cock was painfully hard beneath his sweatpants, definitely having leaked pre-cum through his boxers. If it had been bad before, it was so many times worse now with you heaving next to him, naked and looking at him through your eyelashes. He was practically seeing stars, and you hadn’t even touched him where he ached the most.

It was almost unjustifiable the way he was feeling—someone should just tape a sign to his forehead that said practically a raging virgin and call it a day. He wasn’t one, just to clarify, but you made him feel like one.  

Your hand trailed gently down his chest, your nails painted black like always. Oscar wasn’t sure he was breathing anymore. He wished he could react normally to your touch, but instead it was like his skin raised like a mountain range wherever your hand wandered, his eyes following your movements with a pitiful desperation. 

And when your hand moved below the waistband of his sweatpants, resting gently over his boxers, and therefore his erection too, he wasn’t sure what exactly would happen to his body—something new, a biological error, or a supernatural phenomenon. 

You were so close to him, pulling his trousers down in such a fashion that your legs almost clashed together while it happened. Then he was naked, and you turned quiet. 

Abashedly, he tried to think about what he looked like from your perspective. He wondered if he was too thick or too thin, if he should’ve groomed better, or if his upper body was disproportionate to his legs, or if he smelled bad, if he was just plain weird, or—

“Holy shit,” you whispered. 

“W-what?” Oscar stuttered. 

While Oscar was busy analysing himself, you were gawking. Maybe people on TikTok would call it a ’sleeper-build’, but there was nothing subtle about it. His pale skin looked pretty in a flushed pink tone, easily scratching under your sharp nails. Broad shoulders, toned stomach, thick thighs. Your eyes couldn’t help but look lower and lower. The pure size of him sank in a second later. 

“You’re… big,” you said like a matter of fact. “It’s been a while, so you’ll have to go slow.” 

“W-what?” Oscar stuttered, again. 

His eyes widened to the point where it strained them. Of all the things you could’ve said, that was probably the one he expected the least. He tried to read your face, waiting for more of an explanation. 

With your brows furrowed, all you asked were, “You’re surprised that I haven’t had sex in a while?” 

“No!” he hurried to say, not thinking about other implications his reaction could’ve had. He’d curse himself for eternity if you thought he meant to slut-shame you. “I’m surprised about the other… thing. No one’s ever said that before,” he gesticulated with his hand, unsure what to call the thing that had just happened. 

You glanced up at his face to see that he was now sporting a smirk, letting you know that your words had gone completely to his ego. Motherfucker, was he pretty. 

“I’m not sure I believe that,” you mumbled, kissing him again. Laying side to side next to each other on the sofa, both of your hands had grown eager to touch. It was waists and chests, up bare backs to tangle fingers in hair.  

“I promise you that it’s the first time I hear that,” he mumbled back. 

Your hand sneaked down between your bodies, and any cockiness that Oscar gained from his newfound ’big dick energy’ was washed away in seconds. A whimper. A fucking whimper was ripped from his throat as soon as your fingers were wrapped around him. He couldn’t stop himself. Your movements were slow and languid, spreading the beads of pre-cum around his tip with your thumb. Oscar closed his eyes as he tried to not fall apart instantly. 

“How’s your pull-out game?” you asked between placing kisses on his neck and jaw. He had beautiful freckles and birthmarks all over his skin. 

And, fuck, how Oscar couldn’t think when dirty words left your mouth. 

“I—, Uhh… Not good?” 

He let out a moan mid-sentence. He felt both pathetic and tortured as your delicate fingers kept stroking him up and down. 

“I’m on birth control anyway.” 

“I could go and get a condom,” he fought himself to say. 

“Do you have one?” you questioned, and Oscar’s lack of an answer told you what you already knew. “I thought so.”  

And while Oscar knew that he came across looser-like, he didn’t also need it to be so transparent to you. Even though he sort of liked the dynamic built between you. He had always liked that you were quick-witted and a little mean. 

Oscar exhaled, concealing another moan with a breathy chuckle. “You need to stop making fun of me when I’m naked. It’s going to affect my self-esteem.” 

“Can’t help it, you’re an easy target.” You quickly pecked his lips, a little laugher slipping out. “You’re also a very pretty target.” 

He wasn’t used to being called pretty. His mum called him handsome. His instagram comments called him a polite cat. Pretty was entirely new territory. But he liked it, and impossibly, he blushed even harder. 

“Are we really doing this?” 

He just had to be sure, still in a bit of disbelief. 

“Please,” you said. “Fuck me.” 

Oscar propped himself on his elbow, placing it beside your head, caging you beneath him. He took himself in his hand, giving his cock a few slow stokes. He looked tortured, the tip pink and engorged as it curved up towards his stomach, a thatch of hair connecting to his faint happy trail. 

The head of his cock sat heavy against your entrance as he aligned himself, and you felt yourself desperately clenching around nothing. His free hand rubbed circles on your hip comfortingly. He was hesitant, and maybe that was your fault for asking him to take it slow, but the last thing he wanted was to cause you pain. With an eager nod, you gave him the green light. 

“God, you’re tight,” Oscar murmured, his voice breathless as he pushed forward. 

“No,” you gasped, gripping his bicep for something to hold onto. “You are massive.” 

A low, strained laugh escaped him. “You really wanna argue right now?” 

No, you didn’t. Not when you felt him slide inside you completely. 

“I’m okay,” you whispered, breathing heavily, unable to help the way you tightened around him. “F-fuck, you can move,” you told him, voice muffled against his neck. 

Oscar inhaled sharply, softening to the touch by your reassurance, as he pulled his hips from yours before slowly moving back, tentatively creating a steady rhythm, stretching your around him. 

It was intoxicating, and warm. While he knew that he liked you, he had never imagined it to feel like free falling. You still smelled like a mixture of him and yourself, and your soft skin was touching him in ways and places he couldn’t describe. It was gratifying that you were just as desperate as he was.  

He lifted your leg up by gripping under your knee, thrusting at a deeper angle. The sounds of your bodies crashing together filled the room as your moments only got quicker and needier. 

Looking down at you, he saw your eyes struggling to stay open and your jaw dropping loose with the whimpers and moans you were letting out. Your tits bounced in pace every time he came to the hilt inside you. 

“Holy f-fuck, you feel good,” he stuttered right in your ear. “You feel like you were fucking made for me.” 

He was being lewd and you giggled. God, you giggled—like Oscar didn’t have enough of a hard time keeping it together. You were teasing him, but it was gentle and honeyed, like a beautiful song to his ears. 

He forcefully dug his fingers into the soft fat of your thigh, spilling out between his fingers, doing just about anything to ground himself, but it was impossible. Admittedly, Oscar had never felt this good before in his life. 

His living room was ablaze with your movements—an incoherent mess between two bodies, all skin and bone, at each other’s disposal to use. 

“Fuck…” Oscar moaned, grinding his cock into you. “I’m already so fucking close.” 

“Me too,” you whined out, voice strangled. “Let it all go.” 

Oscar buried his face in your neck to try and hide his desperation, moaning and biting down into the soft skin. He was moving frantically, feeling it all approaching rapidly. 

With a soft cry, Oscar was cumming, stuttering and needy, groaning everything from your name to all the curse words he could think of. He twitched inside of you, coating your walls with his cum. You moved one of your hands to his cheek and you held his face, staring intensely into his eyes, as he rode out his high. 

Damn you and your damn eye contact. 

He continued to slowly thrust, doing whatever he could to get you off while being totally spent. The hand on your hip drifted to your pubic bone before delving between your folds, his pointer and ring finger running steady halos over your clit. Thankfully, you weren’t long after. He wasn’t sure he could take the embarrassment of not making you cum when it had been so easy for him. You arched your back as it hit you, throwing your head back in blind pleasure. 

And then it all slowed. The moans disappeared, and all that was left were heavy breaths in an eerily quiet living room. He felt warm air hit his neck as he laid down and you cuddled up against him. Mindlessly, you ran your fingertips along his skin, soothing the marks your nails had left. He’d gone soft inside you, his release mixed with your own leaking out the sides. 

“I’m gonna slide out, okay?” 

“Mhm, slowly,” you whimpered as he did it, going from feeling full to achingly empty. A single tear ran down your cheek out of exhaustion and pleasure, and Oscar stopped to kiss it away, tasting the saline on his lips. 

“Talk to me,” he whispered. 

You let out a deep breath, your body feeling heavy but sated. “I’m good,” you murmured, your cheek pressed against his chest. “Can feel you dripping down my thighs though.” 

“We should probably clean up.” 

He didn’t move, and neither did you. You were perfectly content with the mess if it meant that you would stay cradled in his arms. He wrapped his arms tighter around you, legs intertwining. His pec was soft against you, and you could hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, a soothing backdrop to the quiet intimacy of the moment.

“I was going to let you wait annoyingly long before sleeping with you. I can’t believe I caved in so easily,” you said suddenly, your voice soft but teasing. The words hung in the air for a moment, light and playful, but you could feel the way his chest rumbled as he chuckled.

Oscar raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “Oh, really?”

You nodded, hiding your face in his chest. “Yeah. Like, painfully long. Months, at least.”

“What changed?” 

You hesitated for a moment, your face still pressed against him. But then you tilted your head slightly, sneaking a glance up at him through heavy lashes. “Can’t help the fact that I’m insanely attracted to you,” you admitted shyly. 

Oscar took in your smile before embarrassment made you hide it into his chest again. You were so… soft, like he couldn’t actually believe it.  

“Glad we’re on the same page,” he exhaled, sinking down further into the sofa cushions. He ran a hand through his hair, trying and failing to contain the pleased grin that spread across his face.

You kissed his chest gently, the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulling you into a sense of peace. For a while, neither of you spoke, the comfortable silence stretching between you. You were glad this hadn’t turned awkward. 

Then, his voice broke the quiet, low and soft. “Are you staying the night?”

You didn’t look up at him, sort of scared to say a right-out yes to his question. 

“If you want me to.”

His arms tightened around you slightly, and you could feel the smile on his lips as he pressed a soft kiss to the crown of your head. “I’d love that.”

______________________

Oscar wasn’t sure how long he spent starring at himself in the bathroom mirror afterward. He moved through his routine on autopilot—brushing his teeth, rinsing his mouth—only for his movements to slow as his reflection pulled him back in. His messy hair was still tousled. The love bites on his neck, faint but unmistakable, stood out against his pale skin. His fingertips grazed over the scratches on his shoulders, his cheeks warming as he recalled how they got there. He didn’t think he would ever stop blushing tonight. 

When he finally mustered the courage to step back into his bedroom, he found you there: bare feet on the hardwood floor, wearing only his maroon t-shirt. You stood in front of his dresser, looking intensely at something placed on it. 

The trophies.

You had fucked his brains out so good that he had forgotten about the intricate web of omissions and half-truths he had woven around you. And now, his lies were staring back at him, literally and metaphorically. 

This was about to be awful. 

“So, this is where you keep them?” Your voice was calm, deceptively so, as you turned to face him.

Oscar stood frozen in the doorway. He opened his mouth but no words left it, his body rigid as he grappled with the realisation: you already knew.  

He hadn’t wanted to keep these things out in the open. Unlike some drivers whose homes were practically shrines to their achievements, Oscar preferred subtlety. Most of his trophies were tucked away, gathering dust in storage. But these— mostly medals and pictures from his childhood, tokens of his early racing days—remained on his dresser. 

“I’ve known for a while,” you admitted, as if offering him a way out of the confession he hadn’t yet made. “Since I questioned you driving a McLaren to counselling.”

Oscar blinked, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place with an awful, grinding clarity. It wasn’t like he had tried to be undercover or specifically careful about concealing his identity. 

“I thought you just worked for McLaren at first,” you continued, gesturing vaguely to the trophies. “But then I googled your name and the brand… My brother used to be a big Hamilton fan, so I made the connection.”

He exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping slightly as the tension drained out of him. “Why didn’t you say something?” He didn’t mean for his voice to sound defeated, but it did. 

“Figured there was a reason as to why you didn’t tell me,” you shrugged, taking a seat on his bed. “I won’t force you to talk about things you don’t want to. We met in an unconventional way and I fully understand that you don’t want a stranger to know everything about you.” 

“Don’t say that,” Oscar interrupted, his voice sharper than he intended. He stepped further into the room, his hands flexing at his sides. “We’re not strangers, we know each other.” 

You tilted your head, your expression softening as you studied him. His sudden reaction surprised even himself, but he couldn’t let the word “strangers” hang in the air between you. Oscar guessed he was more emotionally involved than he had let himself believe, but that he now couldn’t deny it. He sat down beside you, the bed shifting under his weight, and your eyes searched his for something—an explanation, perhaps

“I know you,” he argued. “I know that you only smoke after counselling since it stresses you out and you think that because you smokeMarlboro Silvers, it won’t affect you as badly. know that immediately after, you chew strawberry gum to get rid of the taste, because you don’t actually like it.” 

He started at you intensely as he kept talking, finally not scared of your eye contact. But he could see that you were crumbling. 

“You only drink rooibos tea because it’s naturally sweeter than black tea. You carry white lighters to appear fearless, but in reality it’s because you’re sad and you don’t care if something bad happens to you.” 

“Oh, and you cry to Disney movies,” he lastly added, “because you are in fact not fearless. You’re scared shitless of the emotions you harbour inside and never tell anyone about. So, yeah, I know you. ” 

You blinked, his words hanging in the air between. “That doesn’t sound like you know me,” you said after a long pause. “That sounds like you’ve observed me.”

“We also quite literally just had sex,” he reminded you, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “And I think we’re alike in that sense—that we don’t casually do that with random people.” 

“Fair point,” you conceded, unable to suppress your own smile. 

And there it was again—the strange, undeniable truth between you. There was truth in what you had shared with each other, always. Even if he had skipped the specifics, his feelings had never been false. 

You exhaled loudly, your back hitting the mattress. It was like a balloon had popped, the tension in the taut latex having exploded into nothing. You were so tired. You always were. 

Oscar knew not to push further. Not right now at least. He fell back on the mattress too, hiking further up to rest his head on his pillow. He lifted the covers to invite you underneath, cuddling you closer as your arms and legs were now slightly cold to the touch. 

He also came back to the realisation that you knew him too. That you knew why he went to the group meetings. That you knew what he did all those weekends he spent working. That the car crash he blamed himself for wasn’t exactly average. 

“Did you see the crash?” he asked quietly after a moment, his voice murmuring between the sheets. 

He felt you shake your head. “No, I haven’t seen a race since Hamilton last won the championship.” 

“Right, because of your brother,” Oscar remembered. “Is he no longer a fan?” 

“I don’t know if he is. Haven’t talked to him in over a year.” 

Oscar nodded slowly, taking in the weight of your words. You hesitated for a moment, your fingers tracing the edge of the covers. “Do you want me to see the crash?” 

“No,” he answered quickly. “Not really.” 

“My first impression of you racing probably shouldn’t be a crash anyway.” 

The corners of his mouth lifted in a small, grateful smile, and he reached for your hand, lacing his fingers with yours. The weight of that topic seemed to drift away, and you found yourself sinking into the comfort of his embrace again, your head resting on his bare chest. He could feel your warmth tucked against his side, your breathing steady like a rhythm. You traced little patterns along his palm and fingers. 

For a moment, it felt easy again. Soporific, even.

He could’ve easily fallen asleep, for once without thinking about nightmares. Oscar also didn’t want this to end, for the night to be over and for him to have to say goodbye to you in the morning. Not that he imagined it to be a dramatic goodbye, you’d see each other soon enough again, but still, he didn’t want to. 

“You should come with me to a race,” he said softly, breaking the peaceful silence, looking at you almost succumbing to slumber. 

“I can’t—” you began and Oscar could immediately sense your hesitation. 

“I’d pay for everything. I just want to have you there,” he added quickly, tilting his head to gaze down at you. It wasn’t about the money. It wasn’t about showing off. He just needed you near him, in whatever way he could. 

Your body tensed up against him. “I can’t leave the country Oscar.” 

The words didn’t make sense at first. He frowned, confused. “I’m sure you can get time off from work,” he said, worrying that was the reason. 

You turned your gaze away, your cheek no longer resting against him, and the absence of your touch sent a quiet ache through him. You couldn’t meet his eyes, and the pause that followed felt agonisingly long. The words felt stuck in your throat, your chest tightening. 

“I mean—,” you paused, swallowing hard. “I’m not allowed to leave the country.” 

The room fell silent, save for your faint whisper. 

“I’m on probation.” 

Oscar’s mind went blank. Probation. That was for criminal offences. You’d done something deserving of a court sentence. Silence stretched between you, and Oscar pulled away slightly, just enough to look at you more closely. His brow furrowed, but he didn’t speak.

“So, I’m sorry for calling us strangers,” you said finally, “but you don’t know the half of what I’ve done.” 

You sat up fully now, a cold weight settling in the bed. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice steady, watching as you untangled yourself from the sheets, kicking the comforter off your legs.

“I’m leaving.” 

“No. You’re not.” 

His voice was firm, almost commanding, as he reached out and grasped your arm before you could move further. His grip wasn’t harsh, but it was resolute. He wasn’t going to let you walk away—not like this.

“You’re going to stay and tell me about this. I feel like you owe me that after what we just did.” 

You froze, whole body going rigid, but Oscar didn’t let go. 

“I need to know if I’m falling for a serial killer or not,” he added with a half-smile, trying to lighten the mood, “because then I’ll seriously need to reconsider my life choices.”

Your heart ached at his attempt to make you laugh, but the knot in your chest didn’t loosen. The humour didn’t land, not fully, and the weight of what you were about to confess pressed down on you like a heavy stone.

 You bit your lip, your voice trembling as you said, “I c-can’t tell you.” 

“Why?” 

Your body trembled beneath his touch and he loosed his grip, thumb rubbing soft circles on your arm. 

“Because you’re a good person,” you whispered. “You’re going to find me repulsive and never want to see me again.” 

Oscar could see it in your eyes—the battle raging within you, the fear that once the words left your lips, he would be gone. But he wasn’t going anywhere. You cared about seeing him again. That alone gave him something to hold on to.

“Unless you’ve actually murdered someone—I don’t think that’s possible.” His voice was soft, almost coaxing.

“I don’t think you get probation for murder. I promise no one got hurt physically.” 

And even in this state, you still kept that sarcastic edge that he’d grown to adore. 

“Okay,” Oscar said softly. “Then tell me.”

You sighed, your hands trembling as you ran your fingers through your hair. Your eyes squeezed shut, as though blocking out his gaze would somehow make it easier to speak.

“When I was 19 I got into a relationship with a guy who was a lot older than me,” you began, your voice uneven. “He had a very… destructive lifestyle that I became a part of. I let him use me.” 

Oscar’s stomach twisted, but he stayed quiet, letting you continue. He could see how much it was costing you to admit this, and the last thing he wanted was to make it harder for you.

You slowly opened your eyes, not to look at him, but to look at the ceiling, blinking to fight tears from running down your cheeks. 

“The reason as to why I haven’t spoken to my brother in such a long time… ” Your voice broke, and you paused, taking a shaky breath. “…is because I committed fraud with his identity. I took out a loan using his name because I was desperate for money.” 

Oscar couldn’t hide his shock, but he didn’t pull away. You were laying it all out, raw and exposed, and he wasn’t going to judge you. He couldn’t. He stayed rooted in place, his hand still on your arm, grounding you.

“When he found out, he turned me in. I confessed to doing it and agreed on accepting help which is the only reason I’m not currently in prison.” 

“And the boyfriend?” Oscar managed to ask.

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “He took the money and fled the country. Haven’t seen him since. But I paid my brother back. Every penny.”  

Oscar nodded slowly. “What did you need the money for?” 

Your lips trembled as you looked down at your hands. “Don’t make me say it. I feel like you already know.” 

And he did. He’d known since he realised what those Sunday meetings were for. 

“Are you clean now?” 

“14 months,” you quickly said. “Ever since he turned me in. I have a badge on my keys if you—” 

“I’m proud of you,” Oscar said, cutting you off gently.

Your breath hitched as he said it. It had surprised you. “See?” he whispered. “You didn’t scare me away.” Oscar gathered his courage to hold you in his embrace again, laying you gently down on the mattress, letting your body relax on top of his. 

“Besides,” he added with a wry grin, “I’m in an industry where if you haven’t committed tax fraud, you’re probably the odd one out.”

You blinked in surprise, a startled laugh escaping your lips despite yourself. “What?” 

Oscar chuckled, the tension between you easing ever so slightly. “I know drivers who’ve had people go to prison on their behalf because of embezzlement,” he said, clearly exaggerating, but the humour in his voice was infectious. “You’re practically a saint compared to some of them.” 

“Fucking corrupt rich people,” you muttered. 

“Well,” Oscar said, his hand moving down to hold yours, “the point is… you can’t scare me away.”

He heard you exhale loudly. He even felt it against his shirtless skin. Your arms tightened around him, clutching both yours and his chest. It was adding pressure to stop you from panicking. 

And then you started crying. For real this time. It wasn’t you fighting the tears from falling or shyly getting watery eyes from Brother Bear. You were sobbing. He hadn’t thought he would ever see you cry. 

Oscar’s heart broke a little as he watched you finally let go, your body shaking with the weight of everything you’d been holding in. He immediately pulled you closer into his arms, holding you close, his hand gently stroking your hair as you cried against his chest.

“I’ve got you,” Oscar whispered softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You clung to him, your tears soaking into his skin, but he didn’t mind. You were essentially a stranger—even though he hated the word—crying in his arms, and he’d do anything in his power to never see you like this again. He had fallen for your softness, not the jagged edges you put up around yourself in protection. He’d accept you unconditionally if it meant you didn’t see him as something you needed to protect yourself from. 

As your sobs quieted and your breathing got steady, you remained tucked against Oscar’s chest, resting over his heartbeat. You could feel his hand tracing soothing circles on your back. He almost thought you had fallen asleep. 

“Thank you,” you whispered after a long silence, your voice hoarse from crying.

Oscar pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “For what?” 

“For making me stay.” 

______________________

A couple of weeks later, on a Tuesday at St. Anne’s Church, you did something you’d never expected yourself to do. You found yourself standing at the lectern in front of the room of strangers that you had spent the past year of your life with. And Oscar, but he had never really been a stranger. 

It felt stupid at first, when you walked up there and said your name, the people in the room saying it back to you like a choir. Some clichés from movies really were true. 

You started off by giving a brief background as to why you went to meetings. It was supposed to be a guilt-free environment, one where you wouldn’t be judged for anything. But opening up about betraying your own brother and getting probation because of it wasn’t guilt-free no matter how you twisted it. 

“Some of you might recognise me from NA meetings as well, but the drugs were never my main issue. I mean, I was— or am an addict, that’s how they want you to say it in NA at least. There is really no denying that, but the real problem was how it made me treat the people around me.” 

You didn’t like how your voice sounded in the echoing room, but it didn’t stop you from trying. You knew that the people listening had their own issues so present that yours wouldn’t bother them.

“I understand that my brother never wants to speak to me again,” you continued, your gaze falling to your hands, a cuticle bleeding from unconsciously picking at it. “I think I almost feel the same way. But then… I’ll go to Sainsbury’s and buy green apples, even though I hate them, but he loves them, and I used to buy them for him.” 

It was true. You’d have vivid flashbacks about apples every time you saw them. You’d get them from the store as if you were moving on autopilot and hate yourself for it when you got home and unpacked the groceries. Your aunt would always question why you bought them but never ate them, and you couldn’t put that into words. 

“I’ll have a mental breakdown over some stupid apples and realise that… we are connected in a way that can never be erased. That’s my fault, my guilt to carry—that I ruined it, that I get to argue with apples instead of arguing with him,” you said with an almost laugher. 

You fixed your gaze on Oscar, whose eyes had never left yours for as long as you spoke. He held a tight smile, like understanding the humour in how trauma tended to materialise. 

The facilitator asked you a question, like he normally did when he saw people trying to find the right words but struggling to get them into actual sentences. He asked you how time had changed the guilt you felt and if your probation still felt fair to you. 

“It’s just so… fucked up that you can convince yourself that you’re evil and unfixable,” you answered, your voice growing steadier. “But it turns out you’re just young. And you’ll make mistakes because of it. I’m paying for those mistakes, but I can’t let them define me.” 

You decided that you were done there. You could say more, and you could’ve said less, but you’d done it now. That was the important part. And even though you’d never admit it, it really did feel better to have said it out loud. 

As you stepped down and walked back to your seat, a small wave of applause followed you. You felt Oscar’s hand slip into yours as you sat down, his fingers squeezing gently, a wordless assurance.

It took a bit longer for Oscar to finally walk up to the front of the room, a month or so. But he did it in the end. You understood that he felt like his problems weren’t like everybody else’s, because no normal person could really understand his job. And feeling guilt over a car crash where no one was hurt wasn’t easily explainable either. 

Oscar’s movements were deliberate, almost stiff, as though he was trying to keep himself together with every step. He stood at the lectern, his hands gripping the edges tightly, and you could see the tension in his knuckles.

He talked about the crash in broad terms, but most of his focus was on Charles, and Oscar’s messed-up idea about how he had hurt Charles. When the facilitator asked him to base his guilt around something real, something factual, you saw the struggle in his expression.

“It’s just… guilt,” he said finally, his voice low. He paused, searching for the right words, but they didn’t come. “I’m not sure I can explain it or give it a likeness. Not everything feels like something else.”

Not everything felt like something else. Issues were allowed to be unique and entangled. It wasn’t about understanding them as much as it was about accepting them. You watched him closely, and you raised your arm to ask him a question, waiting for him to acknowledge you with a silent nod. 

“If Charles felt like he never needed to forgive you because he knew all along that this was an accident and no one was actually hurt—why can’t you forgive yourself?” 

Oscar’s gaze dropped, his shoulders slumping slightly. He stood there for a long moment, the words sinking in. 

He realised then and there that his main issue wasn’t the crash or the possibility of it happening again. It was that he blamed himself for hurting someone else—a hurt that granted hadn’t even happened, Charles was fine—but his mind hadn’t cared about that. He had the lives of others at risk with the turn of a wheel, and the crash had made him mentally unprepared for that risk. He guessed he knew now what to bring up the next time he met up with his therapist.  

After that meeting, Oscar talked for a moment with the facilitator, before he walked out to find you standing by the big doorway into the actual church, looking down the isle to the altar. He stood quietly behind you, placing his arm around your waist. The quiet of the church was profound, almost unsettling. The rows of pews stretched out before you, bathed in a soft glow of candlelight. 

“I don’t think I ever understood religion,” you said, whispering in the stillness. “Or God, for that matter. It’s too quiet. Too much about self-reflection and not enough about the old men in the Bible for me to grasp it.”

Oscar didn’t respond right away, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder as he followed your gaze to the altar.

“I see it as a last ditch effort for when you have no one else to talk to, but all you end up doing is talking to yourself,” he explained. 

“Sounds a lot like self-reflection to me,” you huffed a little. 

Maybe that was the thing people needed most—to get to know themselves. Bad people don’t wonder if they’re bad people. A truly evil person wouldn’t feel guilty for something bad they’ve done. You were both paralysed by guilt, but standing there with Oscar, it felt just a little less heavy.

“Oscar…” you began again, turning to meet his gaze. “Please don’t tell my secrets to anyone else.” 

“We literally had to sign an NDA to join the group, babe.” 

“You know what I mean,” you said, rolling your eyes but unable to suppress a small laugh.

“I promise.” 

When you left the church that evening, it was abnormally sunny. Early summer, colouring the nature around you green. You walked across the parking lot hand in hand, that silent show of affection a normal occurrence between you now. 

“Oh,” he said suddenly, stopping by his car. “I got you something.”

From his pocket, he pulled out a lighter, its surface bright orange. He held it out to you, his expression almost shy. You blinked, caught off guard. You hadn’t expected anything like this, the small, unspoken care behind the gesture. No more conscious bad luck. 

“It’s a myth, y’know?” you said, taking the lighter and looking at him softly. “Most of the 27 club died before Bic started making the white version.” 

Did Oscar feel a little stupid for not thinking to google the superstition before buying you—granted, a very cheap gift—but also something so laced with thoughtfulness? Maybe. Did he also deeply want you to stop being reliant on nicotine to feel calm? Definitely. But that was too late to say right now when you already had the lighter in your hand and he was blushing from how exposed he felt. 

“Well, I think orange suits you better anyway.” 

______________________

Oscar had insisted, of course—gently but persistently—until you’d finally agreed to come to a race. Silverstone wasn’t out of the country, which meant it didn’t violate any of your probation rules. A technical loophole, but a loophole nonetheless. Your 18 months were nearly over, but Oscar hadn’t been able to wait.

Now, standing among the sea of spectators in the garage, the weight of his world began to settle. The sheer scale of it all was overwhelming. You couldn’t deny it was exhilarating, but it also made you feel small, like an intruder. It was fucking Silverstone, after all—on a Sunday afternoon just minutes before the lights would go out. 

You glanced down at your phone, trying to distract yourself from the growing tension in your stomach. That’s when a message appeared.

Eli: “Are you at Silverstone?? I swear I just saw you on TV.”

Your breath caught in your throat and your fingers tightened around your phone. Eli. What happened to hello? What happened to how are you? You stared at the message for a long moment. Before you could even process how to respond, another message appeared.

Eli: “Are you with Piastri?? What the hell?” 

A startled laugh escaped your lips, nerves bubbling beneath the surface. You glanced around, as if half-expecting Eli to appear out of thin air. Of course, he wasn’t here. He’d gone once to Silverstone with your father when he was young, but nowadays it was cheaper to try and go to Hungary or another European race. 

So, right now you knew exactly where your brother was—in the living room at your parents’ place because even though he’d moved out a long time ago, he still went home every Sunday to watch F1 because he leached off of their streaming services. 

You took a deep breath and typed back.

You: “Yeah, I’m here with Oscar.”

For a moment, you stared at the screen, your thumb hovering over the send button. Then, with a rush of courage, you pressed it. The three dots indicating Eli was typing appeared, disappeared, and reappeared again.

Eli: “Why didn’t you tell me? You’re at an F1 race with a driver, and I have to find out on TV?” 

He definitely didn’t mean to guilt-trip you—you knew that. It was his way of breaking through the awkwardness. In a way, you supposed it was better to feel guilty about not telling him about Oscar than about the bigger things. The real things.

Before you could reply, you felt a tap on your shoulder. Turning around, you saw Oscar in his race suit, his face flushed from the adrenaline of pre-race preparations. He looked out of breath, but his smile was unmistakable, the sight of you clearly easing some of the tension in his own chest.

“Hey,” he said, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “You good?”

You nodded. “Yeah. My brother just texted me.”

Oscar’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. You bit your lip, holding up your phone so he could see the messages. Oscar leant in, glancing at the screen, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“He recognised you on TV?”

“Apparently,” you said with a soft laugh. “He’s freaking out.”

Oscar’s expression softened, his hand squeezing yours reassuringly. “That has to be good, right? That he’s talking to you?” 

“I hope so,” you whispered. 

Before either of you could say more, someone called Oscar’s name from across the paddock. He sighed, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “I have to go. National anthem and all that.”

You nodded, your fingers reluctantly slipping from his grasp as he stepped back. “Good luck,” you called after him.

He grinned over his shoulder, his confidence infectious. “Thought you didn’t believe in luck.” 

And while in the past you hadn’t minded your own bad luck and superstitions, you definitely didn’t want to spread that mindset to Oscar. You would start carrying wishbones, four-leaf clovers, and horseshoes if it meant that just a smidge of luck would be transferred to his life. 

As he disappeared into the crowd, the nervous energy around you seemed to intensify. The minutes ticked by, stretching into what felt like hours. Your phone buzzed again, pulling your attention back.

Eli: “I’ve missed you. We should talk whenever you can.”

Your breath caught, and for a moment, the chaos around you seemed to fade. You read the message twice, three times, the words sinking in slowly. For so long, you’d been afraid that you’d lost him for good, that the damage you’d done was irreparable—that you were irreparable. But here he was, reaching out.

You: “I’ve missed you too. I’m back in town tomorrow.” 

You hit send just as the formation lap started. You were not sure for how long you held your breath after that. 

Oscar was good—so good—and as you watched him race, you couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. He was in his element, completely focused, completely in control. You were glad to not have seen the crash that still haunted him at times, because this proved that it was just a fluke, a temporary stumble rather than a career-defining event. 

As the checkered flag waved, you felt a sense of relief wash over you, knowing he had made it through safely. By the time the race was over, Oscar had finished in fourth place—a strong result considering weak qualifying. Most positions gained by anyone in the race. As the crowd erupted in cheers, you found yourself smiling, the tension in your chest finally easing.

Afterward, you found yourself standing in Oscar’s drivers room, waiting for him to return. Your phone buzzed in your hand, and you glanced down to see another message from your brother.

Eli: “That was an insane race. Piastri is a beast. Proud of you for being there.”

You smiled, feeling lighter than you had in months.

Moments later, Oscar appeared, his hair slightly damp from the helmet, his face flushed. He spotted you immediately, his eyes lighting up as he walked over, his smile wide despite exhaustion. 

“How’d I do?” he asked, his voice breathless. 

“You were amazing,” you grinned, stepping closer to him. “How are you so calm? That was nerve-wracking as hell.” 

“I’ve done this a couple of times before,” he teased. Oscar laughed, pulling you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you tightly. “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered into your ear. 

You buried your face in his shoulder, holding him close, and felt the last remnants of tension melt away. “Me too.”

Pulling back slightly, he looked down at you, his smile soft. “You haven’t been sarcastic with me all day, y’know? Is there something wrong?” 

You smirked, tilting your head. “I can always start—” 

Before you could finish, he leant down and kissed you, cutting off your words. Smack dab on the mouth, messy and rushed. When he pulled back, his eyes were bright and his grin was infectious. You guessed you didn’t need to resort to sarcasm and snarky comments when you were happy. Simply happy. 

thank you for reading ★ please tell me what you think my asks are always open!

[pitlanepeach]

Fault Lines | Chapter One

Max Verstappen x Relia Albert (OFC)

Summary — Relia avoids the subject of her soulmate mark like a curse. But between her mother’s new boyfriend, the constant mentions of his son, and the suddenly itchy mark, she's not sure how much longer she can outrun fate. No matter how much she wants to.

Warnings — Soulmate AU, ultra slow burn, parental loss, anti Jos Verstappen, forbidden relationship, step-siblings (no blood relation), angst, fluff, and eventually smut.

Notes — I've broken my writers block with this fic. At least, I hope I have. We're taking it one chapter at a time. And I want you guys to help me out with this one. Your thoughts, reactions, and what you want to happen next are greatly appreciated!!!!

There were roughly four billion men walking the Earth. Four billion faces, four billion personalities, and—well, maybe not quite four billion names, but close enough. 

Actually… if Relia thought about it, there were probably more than four billion names. Maybe not all at once, but spread across time and languages and the countless phases humanity had limped, sprinted, and occasionally danced through. Humans were creative like that. And with the number of regions in the world—with their alphabets and Gods and scattered histories—names were endless. 

Gwyneth Paltrow named her daughter Apple, for God’s sake. 

So names were not quantifiable, Relia decided grimly as she stared across the table and tried to contain the anger bubbling in her gut at the sight of her mom’s new boyfriend. 

The one she had chosen out of four billion possibilities. 

Her mom was talking—rambling nervously about the drive into town, the “cute” café she’d spotted, the price of mushrooms at the Thursday market—but the words slid right past Relia. 

All she could focus on was him. 

Jos. Out of four billion names, four billion chances, her mother had landed on Jos. 

A man who carried a reputation like a permanent stain. A man with a temper. She didn’t know the details, not really, and she didn’t want to. But she had googled him. She had read the articles. The ones that described court cases and headlines and a past filled with choices she didn’t want anywhere near her mother. 

He was not the kind of man she wanted within a hundred kilometres of her family. 

And yet he was sitting at the same table, in the same restaurant, and he was smiling. 

Relia glanced down at her plate of roasted vegetables and scowled. 

At least he wasn’t her soulmate. 

He couldn’t be. 

Her father would always retain that title. 

“—so, do you watch any motor racing?” Jos’s voice cut through the static in her head. Dutch cadence, thick around the vowels. He leaned forward slightly, trying to capture her attention. 

Relia blinked. He was talking to her. 

Great. 

“No,” she said flatly. 

There was a brief silence before he tried again, a strained chuckle shaping his words. “Ah. Well… a lot of people don’t. But maybe you’ve seen—” 

“No,” she repeated, sharper this time. “I do not like sports, and fast cars make me nauseous. I don’t follow any of it.” 

Viviana shot her a warning look, but Relia ignored it. 

She didn’t think Jos was dangerous, not in a sudden explosive way, but there was something about him that scraped at her nerves every time he shifted or spoke or breathed too loud. 

He sat back, clearing his throat. “Right. Well. Different hobbies, then.” 

Relia nodded once, lips pressed together. 

Viviana jumped in with a too-bright laugh, launching into a story about all the dancing Relia had done as a child. 

Jos watched her talk, and the lines around his eyes softened. 

Relia bit her lip, grip tightening around her fork. 

All she could think was, Dad would’ve hated him. 

—

Relia barely made it up the stairs before the tears she had been fighting all night broke loose, flooding her vision until she had to catch herself against the wall. 

She shut her bedroom door with a soft click. Trembling, she pressed her back to it. 

Her whole body felt like it had been waiting for impact for over an hour, and now that she was alone, everything inside her had collapsed at once. Her chest hurt. Her jaw ached from clenching. Her hands were still curled into fists without her noticing. 

She squeezed her eyes shut. 

Her mother’s sparkling laughter still echoed faintly in her head. That bright, pretty sound that attracted attention like a magnet. The one Relia had grown up hearing in every room of the house. 

Relia sank to the floor, pulling her knees up and resting her forehead on her arms. She exhaled shakily. 

It wasn’t fair. 

None of it was fair. 

Her father had been her mother’s soulmate. Truly and completely. 

Relia had grown up watching the way they looked at each other, the way they moved around each other, the way everything between them seemed effortless. She had believed in soulmates because of them. She had wanted a love like theirs because of them. 

And then he was gone. 

Just like that. 

Relia sniffed and wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. 

The universe didn’t care about fate.

Fate didn’t care about soulmates. Not in the way people pretended it did. 

She knew that because she had watched her mother fall apart piece by piece. Losing a soulmate wasn’t just losing a person. It was losing something built into you. Something no amount of time could repair. 

She’d had to grow up inside the emptiness that loss created. 

So how was she supposed to sit at a table and watch her mother smile at someone else? 

Someone who wasn’t meant for her. 

Someone who wasn’t her soulmate. 

Relia wiped her face again as a new sting gathered behind her eyes. 

She refused to cry over Jos. 

She clenched her teeth and looked at her wrist—the spot where the words had appeared on her tenth birthday. A mark she had spent years trying not to think about. 

People talked about soulmates like they were blessings. Miracles. Gifts from somewhere above. But Relia had seen the reality behind all that. She had seen what happened when the universe took the one thing it had promised. 

If she never met him, her so-called destined other half, then he would stay distant. He would stay hypothetical. He would never become someone she could lose. 

Relia pushed herself off the floor and stood on unsteady legs. She walked into her bathroom, opened the cabinet, and pulled out the box of two hundred extra-large bandage plasters. Her hands shook as she peeled one open. 

She pressed it firmly over her soulmate mark. 

She wasn’t going to give fate the chance to hurt her again. 

—

The next morning, the smell of coffee and toasted bread filled the kitchen, but it didn’t loosen the tightness in her stomach. 

Relia slid into her usual seat quietly, trying to take up as little room as possible. 

Viviana looked tired—shadows under her eyes, hair pulled into a loose braid that had clearly been slept in. She set a plate of scrambled eggs in front of Relia, then paused. 

Her gaze dropped to the bandage on Relia’s wrist. 

A small frown formed. 

But she didn’t say anything. 

She turned back to the counter and stirred honey into a mug, her movements slow and careful. The silence grew heavier by the second. 

Across the table, Jos noticed the bandage too. His eyes flicked to it, lingered, then he cleared his throat. 

“Sleep alright?” he tried. 

Relia stabbed at her eggs. “Sure.” 

He nodded awkwardly. “So… uh… is your wrist okay?” 

Her mom inhaled sharply. She spun around, eyes wide, silently begging him to stop talking. 

Too late. 

Relia didn’t hesitate. She lifted her wrist. “Oh, that? No. My soulmate’s first words to me are that I’d make a great prostitute. You can imagine how embarrassing that was for a ten-year-old.” 

Jos froze. 

Then he blanched. 

“Relia—” Viviana nearly dropped the kettle. “No, no, she’s joking! Jos, she’s sixteen, she—Relia, please don’t—” 

“I’m kidding,” Relia muttered. She took a sip of her tea without looking at either of them. “It was just a joke.” 

Jos rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable. “Teenagers,” he said quietly. “My kids were the same.” 

Viviana forced a tight smile and sat. “She’s… very unserious in the mornings.” 

“Right,” Jos said. 

“How many kids do you have?” Relia asked. 

Jos shrugged, trying for jovial. “Just a few.” 

“Right,” she muttered slowly, before pushing back her chair. “The bus will be here soon.” 

She walked toward the front door quickly, hoping to escape before anything else could be said. 

“Relia, wait.” Her mother caught up to her, dish towel still in her hand, worry written all over her face. “That was a bit much,” Viviana murmured gently. 

“I was just joking,” Relia replied. 

“Honey…” Viviana hesitated. “Jos doesn’t know you like to cover your mark sometimes. We can’t expect him too just... I should’ve told him. But I—” She looked down, then back up, voice soft. “He’s kind. He’s good to me.” 

Guilt rose in Relia’s throat. 

Viviana stepped closer. “I’m not asking you to like him. Just try to be nicer. A little. He wants to get to know you. He’s trying.” 

Relia’s stomach twisted. She couldn’t say he’s not Dad. She couldn’t hurt her mom like that. 

“I just want you to give him a chance,” Viviana whispered. 

Relia swallowed. “Whatever.” 

Viviana’s relief was immediate, gentle. “Have a good day at school,” she said. “We can get pizza tonight, if you want.” 

“Yeah,” Relia muttered. “Sure.” 

She stepped outside before the guilt became too much. 

—

That night, Relia lay in bed, staring at the faint line of light under her door. 

Her mother and Jos were watching a movie downstairs. Their voices drifted up the stairwell. Calm. Steady. Comfortable. 

Relia pulled the blanket over her head. 

It won’t last, she told herself. I just have to get through it. A few months. She’ll get bored. Or he’ll get annoying. Or they’ll disagree about something stupid. It’ll end. 

She closed her eyes. 

It won’t last forever. I just need to be patient. 

She repeated the words until they blurred into the darkness around her. 

She held onto them until sleep finally dragged her under. 

—

Three Months Later 

Relia stood in the hallway, arms crossed tightly as her mom fussed with her hair, smoothing down strands that didn’t need smoothing. 

“It’s just a small gathering,” Viviana murmured, adjusting Relia’s jacket collar even though it was already straight. “Nothing formal. Just some family.” 

Relia nodded once. “Okay.” 

“And they’re all very excited to meet you.” 

Relia didn’t answer. She didn’t trust her voice not to give away the small, restless knot stuck somewhere under her ribs. 

She wasn’t scared. Not exactly. She was good with people. Could make conversation with a brick wall.  

She just hated that this felt… official.  

Like Jos wasn’t a temporary disruption but somebody her mother was actively folding into their lives. 

She grabbed her shoes and followed them out the door. 

Jos’s house was a little outside of town; too far to walk, too close to feel like a separate life. The house was loud before they even stepped inside. Voices, laughter.  

As soon as they pushed inside, they were swarmed. A handful of faces turned toward them. Some older, some around Relia’s age, a few somewhere in between. They looked curious, not particularly warm but not unkind either. 

Relia forced a small nod. “Hi.” 

“Come, sit,” an unfamiliar face said, waving her toward a long table crowded with plates and bowls. 

Viviana squeezed her hand before joining a cluster of adults. Jos drifted toward his children, greeting them with quick hugs and Dutch words and fond smiles.  

Relia sat at the edge of the table. She kept her hands folded in her lap.  

Jos’s oldest daughter, Victoria, slid into the seat beside her. “Hello,” she said, voice friendly enough, “You’re very pretty.” 

Relia stared down at her plate. “Thanks.” 

She smiled gently. “He said that you were shy.” 

Relia just nodded, keeping her gaze downcast.  

She wasn’t shy. She’d never been shy.

She just didn’t want to be there.

The room hummed with conversation. Food was passed around. Someone put a slice of cake on Relia’s plate before she could protest. 

A woman across the table lifted her glass. “It’s a shame Max couldn’t come,” she said lightly. “He would’ve liked to be here.” 

At the mention of Jos’ oldest son, a few people made small sounds of agreement. 

Jos shrugged. “He’s training,” he said. “He’s a good boy. Focused. He doesn’t care about silly birthday parties.” 

The comment passed easily through the room. 

Relia bit her lip until it stung.  

Because she liked birthdays. She liked the idea of them. She liked the little rituals her father used to do. She liked the way the day felt like it mattered, even if nothing changed. 

She swallowed and looked down at her slice of cake. 

It wasn’t even her birthday; it was Jos’s. A late celebration after a busy week. She’d helped her mother wrap his present. She’d watched Viviana write his name on the card with careful handwriting; even drawing a little heart. 

She shouldn’t care that some boy she didn’t even know thought that birthdays were pointless. 

But she felt something tighten in her chest anyway. 

Jos laughed at something that somebody said. Viviana smiled at him, warm and easy. 

Relia pushed a piece of cake around with her fork. 

It had been three months. 

And Jos wasn’t going anywhere. 

—

Six Months Later 

Relia lay on her stomach across her bed, the lights off, curtains drawn, her bedroom dim except for the soft blue glow of her phone. 

Her headphones sat snugly over her ears. 

She double-checked, again, that her door was shut. 

Her mom thought she was doing homework.  

Nobody had any reason to think she was streaming the final laps of a Formula One race she absolutely, definitely, completely did not care about. 

She turned the volume down another notch anyway. 

Her thumb hovered over the screen as the commentators’ voices filled her ears, fast and bright, building toward the end of the race. 

She didn’t understand the rules.

She didn’t understand how the scoring worked.

She didn’t even recognize most of the names that flashed across the leaderboard. 

Except one. 

Verstappen. 

Jos’s son. 

The one who didn’t go to birthday parties. 

The one who people always spoke about with a mix of fondness and awe. 

The one Relia still hadn’t met, despite seeing his name printed across Jos’s travel itineraries on the kitchen counter. Despite overhearing calls late at night. Despite how often he drifted uninvited into conversations. 

Her mother talked about him like he was already family. 

Relia didn’t know what he sounded like. 

What he looked like in motion instead of on a still photo frame on the mantle. 

On the track, a flash of orange and black swept around the final corner, engine screaming through her headphones.  

“Max Verstappen crosses the line to take an impressive second place,” the commentator said, adrenaline sharp in his voice. “Another incredible performance from the young Dutchman—” 

Relia exhaled.  

She didn’t know why she felt relieved. 

She hadn’t even realised that she’d been holding her breath. 

One by one, the rest of the cars crossed the finish line. The race ended. The screen filled with stats she didn’t understand. The drivers started climbing out of the cars.  

She closed the tab. Cleared her browser history even though nobody checked her phone. Pulled her headphones off and let them fall beside her pillow. 

In the quiet, her heart thumped.  

She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. 

Then she scratched her wrist, sighing irritably as the skin there tingled beneath the plaster she still wore every day. 

It wasn’t supposed to tingle. 

Not unless— 

No. 

No, no, no. 

It was nothing. Just nerves. Or fabric irritation. Or the fact that she’d been lying in one position too long. Or literally anything that wasn’t the reason people whispered about in soulmate forums and school stairwells. 

She pressed her thumbnail hard into the edge of the plaster until the feeling dulled. 

She wasn’t going to meet him. 

She wasn’t looking for him. 

And she sure as hell wasn’t getting pulled into whatever cosmic nonsense had broken her mother's heart. 

“Stupid,” she muttered under her breath, flinging her arm over her eyes. 

Across the house, she heard the front door open and close again as her mom ushered her book club inside.

Relia rolled onto her side, tugged her blanket up to her chin, and squeezed her eyes shut. 

Her wrist kept tingling. 

She ignored it. 

She’d gotten very, very good at ignoring things that made her uncomfortable.  

—

Relia’s seventeenth birthday arrived like any other day—just her phone buzzing against her cheek at 7:03 a.m. with a flood of messages from the people in her life who loved her enough to remember.  

By the time she walked through the front gates of school, her friends had already gathered.  

“Birthday girl!” Maren yelled across the courtyard, loud enough to turn several heads. She bounded over, nearly knocking Relia off the pavement as she threw her arms around her. “Seventeen! Welcome to the club! We’re, like, so close to adulthood.” 

“I’m aware,” Relia muttered into her shoulder, but she didn’t pull away. 

Behind Maren trailed the rest of their little cluster, Lina with her oversized football hoodie, Jin balancing a carrier of coffee cups, and Paul trying to wrangle his backpack shut.  

Jin thrust a cup at her. “Here, we got your favourite.” 

“Which resembles a cup of sugar and milk more than coffee,” Paul said. 

“Which is why she likes it,” Lina said smarmily. 

A small smile tugged at Relia's mouth. “Thanks.” 

They walked toward the main building, the morning as loud as usual; sneakers squeaking against linoleum, lockers slamming open and closed.  

Maren leaned close, nudging her. “So? Any special birthday plans tonight?” 

Relia shrugged, her stomach twisting bitterly for some reason. “Just dinner at home with my mom.” 

“Pizza?” 

“Probably.” 

Maren grinned. “Classic.” 

Relia didn’t mention the unspoken variable in that dinner. She didn’t mention Jos or how unpredictable the house felt now depending on whether he was travelling or not.

She didn’t mention that she’d already told her mom that she didn’t want any kind of party. 

She didn’t mention the tingling under her bandage that had woken her up again in the middle of the night. 

“Hey,” Lina said, tugging gently at Relia’s sleeve. “You okay? You’re doing that... like, twitchy thing you do.” 

Relia dropped her hand instantly. “Sorry. I'm fine.” 

Maren threw an arm around her shoulder . “Anyway! At lunch we’re getting cake. The shitty cafeteria kind. It’s our tradition.” 

“Our tradition tastes like drywall,” Relia said. 

“And yet,” Paul replied, “we all still smile and lie and say that we love it. Which, by the way, is also part of the tradition.” 

The bell rang overhead, echoing down the hall. 

Everyone dispersed with quick goodbyes, and Relia headed to her first class—still smiling faintly, still warm from the attention, still very aware of the quiet electric buzz at her wrist she refused to think about. 

Seventeen felt… different. 

—

Relia expected the smell of tomato sauce to hit her the moment she pushed open the front door. Or at least the sound of her mom humming in the kitchen, or the TV playing a rerun.

Instead, the house was silent. 

Completely silent. 

Relia stepped inside, dropping her bag by the shoe rack. “Mom?” 

No answer. 

She checked the kitchen. Empty. The living room. Empty. Her mom’s car wasn’t in the driveway either. 

A little prickle of confusion crawled up her spine. 

Viviana wouldn’t forget her birthday. That was impossible. Even in the ugliest times, those awful years after her dad died, her mom had still baked the lopsided cakes and wrapped the handmade gifts.

Relia pulled out her phone. 

Relia: hi. is mom with you? 

It took a full minute for the typing bubble to appear. 

Jos: Yes. She’s with me. 

Relia’s stomach tightened. 

Another bubble. 

Jos: Max had an issue during training. Nothing severe, but she came with me to check on him. We will make it up to you.  

Relia read the message twice. Then a third time. 

Her hand felt stiff around her phone. 

Relia: ok. 

She didn’t add anything else. She didn’t ask what happened, or how bad it was, or why her mom hadn’t texted her herself. 

She just set the phone down on the coffee table and lowered herself onto the couch. 

The living room looked like it was waiting for a party that never arrived. 

A cheap metallic birthday balloon hovered near the ceiling fan, bobbing slightly in the draft from the vent. On the counter sat a box of candles; unopened. And on the table was the stack of plates she’d set out that morning before school, too early, too excited, too hopeful. 

Relia stared at the balloon. 

The house hummed quietly around her. The refrigerator clicked on. A car passed outside. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked. 

Her chest hurt. 

A slow, strange pressure that sat right behind her ribs, dull and warm and heavy. 

She wondered if it was normal. 

If seventeen was supposed to feel like this. 

If other people spent their birthdays alone on the sofa, watching a balloon drift in and out of the overhead light while their mom took care of someone else’s kid who wasn’t even a kid anymore.  

Relia pressed a hand against her sternum. 

The ache didn’t go away. It pulsed. 

She swallowed, blinking up at the balloon again. 

Happy Birthday. 

The words looked ridiculous floating above a room full of nothing. 

Relia hugged her knees to her chest and waited for someone, anyone, to walk through the door and tell her that she wasn’t being forgotten. 

Nobody did. 

Not for a very long time. 

—

Two days later, Relia sat at her desk with her homework laid out in-front of her.  

A soft knock sounded on her door. 

“Honey?” Viviana pushed it open before Relia answered. She held a grocery bag in one hand, the faint smell of roasted chicken drifting out. “I… I picked up dinner. Your favourite. I thought we could have a little birthday redo.” 

Relia looked at the bag, then at her mother’s face. Something inside her twisted uncomfortably. 

“I’m not hungry,” she said. 

Viviana paused. “Sweetheart… we should celebrate your birthday.” 

Relia shrugged. “It’s just a day.” 

“That’s not true,” Viviana said quietly. “You used to love your birthday. You—” 

“I said I’m not hungry, mom.” She snapped.  

Viviana’s mouth trembled at the edges. Not a full wobble; just enough to make Relia feel like she’d kicked something fragile. 

“I’m sorry,” Viviana whispered. “I’m sorry, honey.” 

Relia looked down at her hands. “Whatever.” 

“I didn’t want you to spend it alone,” her mother said, voice shaking. “But I just... Jos was shaken up, and it just made sense to go with him, and I had no idea that we’d be gone for longer than a few hours.”  

Relia felt the guilt settle in her chest, thick and heavy. But the pain was still there, stubborn and sharp. 

“It’s fine. I don’t care. I’m just tired,” she said. “That’s all.” 

Viviana nodded too quickly, brushing under her eyes. “Okay. I’ll keep the food warm.” 

The door closed softly. 

Relia didn’t move. 

Later that night, she heard her mother crying quietly in the kitchen.

She didn’t go downstairs. 

—

The next morning, the tension still lingered in the air, thin and uncomfortable. Viviana barely met her eyes as she handed over a travel mug of tea before leaving early for work. 

Jos was waiting near the front door, keys in hand. 

“You shouldn’t have to catch the bus,” he said. “I’ll drive you today.” 

Relia stiffened. “I’d rather walk.” 

“It’s raining,” he pointed out. 

“…School has showers.” 

“You’ll be late.” 

She scowled. “How do you even know what time my classes start?” 

He tapped his nose. “I know everything.”  

Relia opened her mouth to say something snappy back, but she didn’t have the energy. She stepped past him toward the car without saying anything. 

They drove in silence for several minutes, the sound of the wipers filling the car. Relia stared out the window, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She could feel Jos glancing at her every so often. 

Finally, he cleared his throat. “About your birthday,” he said quietly. “I’m very sorry.” 

Relia didn’t react.  

“I didn’t mean to do what I did… I was selfish,” he continued. “I know that your birthday is important. I know that your mom wanted to be there with you.” 

Relia felt her throat tighten. “It’s fine.” 

“It’s not,” he said. “She was worried about you the whole time."  

Relia shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I was fine,” she muttered. 

“I know that,” he said. “You’re almost grown-up, but that doesn’t mean you should have spent your birthday alone.”  

She didn’t say anything.

After the silence had stretched for too long, Jos tapped the screen on the dashboard, and music began to play.  

When they pulled up in front of her school, he put the car in park but didn’t look at her. 

“Relia,” he said. “For what it’s worth… I hope your next birthday is better.” 

She stared at the road for a long moment. 

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Me too.” 

Then she got out of the car before he could say anything else. 

—

Her mom had been talking about their trip back home for weeks, and Relia had let herself look forward to it. 

Just a little. 

Just enough to imagine a weekend without Jos in the picture. 

But when she came downstairs Saturday morning, backpack ready, shoes tied, excitement tucked carefully behind a neutral expression— 

Jos was already standing by the door. 

Holding her mom’s suitcase. 

“Ready?” he asked.  

Relia froze on the last step. 

Her grip tightened on the railing. 

“You’re coming with us?” She asked. 

Viviana shot her a cautious look. “He just thought it might be nice to see… you know… where I grew up.” 

Relia swallowed the sting in her throat. 

“Right,” she muttered. “Of course.” 

The flight was easy. The drive from the airport to the village was long, winding through hills and stray patches of fog. Viviana spent half of it pointing out familiar landmarks; old orchards, the fields where she used to sneak out with her cousins, the dirt road where her father taught her to ride a bike over the summer. 

Jos listened politely.  

When they reached the village, Relia felt the usual tug in her chest. 

The houses were old and painted in faded pastels. 

Vines curled around gates. 

The church bell, rusty and slightly off-key, rang once as they stepped out of the car. 

It always felt like stepping into a memory. 

Relia inhaled the air; it smelled like damp earth, yeast, and wood smoke. 

Like every summer of her childhood. 

They walked toward her grandmother’s house together. Neighbours waved from their porches. 

“Bine ați venit!”  

Viviana beamed. “Bună ziua!” 

Relia smiled.  

Jos nodded awkwardly, lifting a hand to wave.  

Inside, her grandmother greeted them with a hug that nearly cracked Relia’s ribs. Then she turned to Jos, gave him a long, appraising stare, and said something quick and sharp into her mom’s ear.  

Relia walked straight to the fridge.  

At lunch, the table was covered in dishes—sarmale, mămăligă, cozonac, roasted peppers, bread still warm from the oven. Viviana slipped easily back into her mother tongue, speaking faster than she ever did in English. 

Jos looked lost. 

He kept glancing at Relia, like she might help him follow the conversation. 

She pointedly did not. 

For almost a year, her mom had been making the effort to learn Dutch. It would be her third language. 

Jos had made no such effort.  

Relia dug into her food, answering questions from her grandmother, slipping back into Romanian without effort. 

At one point, Jos leaned toward her. 

“What is she saying?” he whispered, gesturing at Viviana. 

Relia didn’t look at him. “Family stuff.” 

“Right,” he said with a small, stiff laugh. “I, uh, I feel a bit left out.” 

“Yeah,” she said. “Kind of the point.” 

Jos blinked at that, his expression tightening for a second. Not hurt; irritated. 

He covered it quickly, but she saw it anyway. 

Her grandmother noticed too. She gave Relia a knowing look across the table, patting her hand once before launching into another story.  

From that moment forward, Relia couldn’t help but notice the way Jos’s jaw clenched anytime the conversation excluded him. 

She hated the way he corrected her grandmother when she handed him the wrong utensil, even though he didn’t understand a word she said. 

She saw how his smile thinned whenever the attention shifted away from him. 

Four days later, when they were packing to leave, Viviana hugged her mother tight and promised they’d visit again soon. Relia swooped in afterward, letting her grandmother kiss her cheeks and mutter a string of well-wishes and prayers under her breath. 

When her grandmother reached out to hug Jos, he hesitated a little too long before leaning forward. Barely touched her. Pulled away fast. 

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. 

Relia stepped between them without thinking, not willing to let him make her sweet grandmother self-conscious. 

As they walked toward the car, gravel crunching under their shoes, Jos said, “Your family is… very lively.” 

Relia shrugged. “We’re Romanian.” 

“Right.” He paused. “Some people are too lively.” 

Relia didn’t laugh.  

“I had a good time,” Jos added, glancing at her. “Thank you for inviting me.”  

“I didn’t,” Relia said quietly, not letting her mom overhear. “But you came anyway, didn’t you?” 

Jos’s steps slowed behind her. Then stopped. 

Viviana turned to look at him, confused. He recovered quickly with a tight smile and told her everything was fine. 

Relia didn’t wait to see if he kept that tone or dropped it the second her mother turned her back. 

She just got in the car and shut the door before anyone could say anything else. 

—

“—I don’t understand why you keep doing this!” Viviana’s voice cracked as she slammed the drawer shut. “You’re rude, you’re cold, and you don’t even try. He has done nothing to deserve this.” 

“He’s done plenty,” Relia snapped back. “You just don’t want to face the reality of any of it.” 

Viviana spun around, face flushed. “Relia, stop. I am tired of this. You act like you know him better than I do—” 

“I know what I’ve read,” Relia shot back. “I know the truth. The women who said he hurt them. The fights. The arrests. The way he treated his kids—” 

Viviana’s expression hardened. “Those were allegations. Old ones. And most of them weren’t even true.” 

“You don’t know that!” Relia threw her hands up. “You don’t! You’re just trusting him because he smiles at you and buys you flowers and pretends to be this perfect, harmless—” 

“He is harmless!” Viviana shouted, her voice sharp enough to sting. “You’re repeating rumours. People love tearing down anyone connected to fame. You don’t know the whole story.” 

“I don’t need to,” Relia hissed. “I know enough to know he was accused of killing someone—” 

Viviana flinched. 

Relia didn’t stop. 

“—enough to know he went to jail. Enough to know the awful, borderline abusive things he did to his son just to make him a better athlete.” 

“That is not fair,” Viviana said, shaking her head. “You’re taking the worst moments of hislife and acting like that’s the whole person. People change!” 

“No. No, mom. People don’t change that much.” 

Viviana’s breath hitched. “He’s good to me.” 

Relia’s throat tightened. “For now.” 

“For now?” Viviana repeated, stunned. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“That you don’t know him.” The words came out low, shaking. “Not really. You’re so desperate to feel something again that you’re ignoring every warning sign right in front of you.” 

Viviana stared at her, eyes wide and hurt. 

Relia instantly regretted saying it—but she couldn’t take it back. 

Viviana shook her head slowly. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.” 

“I’m trying to protect you,” Relia whispered. 

“I don’t need protecting from him,” Viviana said, voice flat. 

Relia opened her mouth—but Viviana held up a hand. 

“No. Stop.” Her voice was final in a way that made Relia’s stomach drop. “I won’t let you ruin this for me.” 

Relia felt something in her chest twist. 

“I’m not—” 

“You are,” Viviana said. “And I’m done arguing.” 

She turned away, shoulders trembling. 

Relia stood there, fists clenched, breathing too shallow, the rest of her protest trapped somewhere behind her teeth.  

—

The sun was brutal, glaring off the rows of plastic chairs set up across the football field. Parents waved little paper programs like fans and the loudspeakers crackled. 

Her name was called, mispronounced as always. 

Relia walked across the stage, shook the principal’s clammy hand, and forced a smile for the camera. Her mom was in the crowd somewhere, crying openly, and Jos stood beside her with one arm wrapped around her waist.  

Relia didn’t look at them. 

After the ceremony she found a patch of shade by the bleachers, kicked off her heels, and scrolled through her phone, letting herself breathe for the first time all day. 

Her notifications were exploding; classmates, cousins, a few teachers, people she barely talked to tagging her in their graduation pictures and quotes.  

She scrolled through her camera roll to find a picture of her own to post.  

She found one that Maren had taken. It was a shot of her from behind, in her cap and gown, her long dark hair falling in cascading waves down her back.  

She didn’t caption it, just tagged her best friends and hashtagged it with her high school's name.  

She locked her phone, shoved it in her lap, and leaned her head back against the bleacher. 

High school was over. 

She stared at the sky.  

Two weeks ago, she’d promised her mother that she’d go to a race with her and Jos “as a family” after she’d graduated. 

The promise had been wrung out of her on a night when her mom had looked tired and hopeful and so heartbreakingly in love that Relia couldn’t bring herself to say no. 

She’d regretted it every day since. 

—

That evening, when the sun was setting into an orange hue, her mom clapped excitedly. “Picture time! Come on. Let’s go outside for photos!” 

“Yeah,” Relia muttered. “I just need to grab something first.” 

She bolted up the stairs before her mom could argue, her pulse hammering hard enough to shake something loose inside her. On the wall beside her, more pictures of Jos’s kids. Smiling, posed, carefully framed. 

At the centre, as always, Max. 

Bright grin, confident shoulders, trophy catching the light. 

She glanced away before irritation could curdle into something worse. 

Her room was tidy. She crossed to her desk, slid open a drawer, and grabbed the small stack of documents she’d been quietly gathering. Early employment papers, scholarship forms, brochures for programs far from home. 

Not escape. 

Just preparation. 

Just the knowledge that eventually, she’d have an out. 

She tucked them into her backpack and zipped it shut just as footsteps thudded up the stairs. Heavy, deliberate. 

Jos. 

Her stomach tightened. 

He stopped in her doorway, leaning against the frame. “Look at you,” he said. “Big day.” 

She adjusted her backpack. “Yeah. Whatever. Mom wants pictures.” 

“She does.” He nodded slowly. “You should appreciate how proud she is.” 

“I do,” Relia said sharply. 

He raised his eyebrows, amused in that quiet, condescending way. “Good. Because she’s been looking forward to the race this weekend too. First big trip after your graduation. Good timing, hm?” 

Her jaw tightened. “I said I’d go. So I will.” 

“You’re part of my family now,” he said, an edge of satisfaction threading through the words. “We do things together; and we support Max.” 

Relia felt her skin prickle. 

She stepped past him, close enough to smell the cologne he overused, but far enough to avoid brushing him. 

“You’re not my family,” she said under her breath. 

He heard her anyway. 

His smile was thin. “You’ll come around.” 

“Don’t hold your breath,” she muttered. 

She walked down the stairs, her heart a wild, trapped flutter against her ribs. Behind her, Jos didn’t follow, but she could feel his eyes on her all the way to the front door. 

Viviana was waiting outside with her phone, smiling wide, proud and tired and radiant in that way only mothers could manage. 

Relia forced a smile back. 

Because she had graduated. 

And even though she wasn’t free yet, she would be soon. 

—

Night had fallen before she finally escaped upstairs. She sat on her bed, diploma tossed aside, gown still tangled around her shoulders. 

She pulled off the plaster that concealed her wrist. 

Her soulmate mark sat there, as humiliating as ever. 

Don’t cry about it. 

She’d always hated those words. 

Hated the implication. 

Hated the way they made her feel. 

And that night, with everything else pressing in around her, they felt like an insult. 

She washed her wrist with water and mild soap to get rid of the tacky bandage glue before getting into bed and laying down flat, staring at her ceiling. 

If the person fate had chosen for her was as condescending as his words made it seem, she wanted nothing to do with him. 

Ever. 

[martysimone]

Agent Provocateur | Halley • sheer tulle + satin corset + scalloped eyelash lace + soft ruched tulle + organza bows + lace-up back

[wanderingpages]

CEO AU, All Human TFOTA AU. Jude is Cardan’s personal assistant and she doesn’t mind getting a little more personal. An opportunity arises when a deal starts to go south :

Part 1: Dinner goes awry, something about a fake engagement.

Part 2: The morning after, something about a Big Deal getting invested.

Part 3: A meeting with Jude’s last 3 brain cells, something about getting spanked.

Part 4: Jude realizes how oblivious she’s been, something about Cardan being bossy.

Part 5: Dinner gets hijacked, something about Oriana owing her kids some money.

Part 6: A past is revealed and a future is planned, something about sabotage.

Part 7: Anxiety runs deep, something about amateur night.

Part 8: Miscommunications galore, something about cowboys.

[shimmeringterroroblivion]

[moonologyy]

𐔌 𐙚 ₊˚⊹˚ IN A TRANCE ୭̥*ೃ

pairing: damian wayne/assassin!gnreader

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 - inspired by that scene in Princess Mononoke, or with a blade at his throat, Damian Wayne surprises both of you by saying, “You’re beautiful.” In that tense moment, the fight fades, replaced by an unexpected tension.

wc: 4.6k

Damian’s grandfather, Ra’s al Ghul, was one pain in the ass.

People in the League spoke his name with a kind of hushed awe, as if even mentioning him too loudly would pull his attention from whatever ancient scheme he was weaving. They talked about him as an immortal king who carried centuries of blood on his hands and never once regretted the weight of it. He led armies built from silence and shadows, and he regarded Damian as the successor he had shaped since birth.

The title of heir was always presented to Damian with the elegance of a practiced gesture, as if Ra’s were offering him a priceless artifact rather than a life of violence.

There was a softness in his eyes when he extended the invitation, but the softness felt deceptive, like velvet covering a sharpened blade.

Damian understood exactly what accepting that crown would mean.

It would trap him inside his grandfather’s legacy, the life of an assassin, one with an unstoppable force until he became another weapon to be reckoned with, another ruler who mistook dominance for destiny.

He refused every time since the age of ten years old.

“My grandson, my legacy. I once pinned my hopes for the future on you,” Ra’s sighed, his face twisted into an imitation of affection, the kind that might have fooled a stranger.

It never fooled Damian.

The expression was empty, stretched too tightly across centuries of entitlement.

Ra’s stepped closer, the air shifting with the faint scent of incense and cold stone. His voice lowered into something elegant and poisonous.

“Yet you dare to betray me.”

Damian felt the familiar heat of defiance settle in his chest.

The room around them was quiet, lit only by braziers that illuminated the carved walls of the hidden chamber. Shadows clung to Ra’s like loyal servants, forming a dark halo around his frame. His eyes watched Damian with the patience of someone who had waited through countless lifetimes for people to break.

“You speak of betrayal,” Damian spoke, keeping his posture calm.

“Yet you ignore the fact that I am not yours to command.”

A faint smile touched Ra’s lips, colder than the stone beneath their feet. “You were created through my will. Your blood carries my purpose. You cannot run from what you are.”

Damian refused to look away.

“I can choose what I become.”

Ra’s gave a soft sound that was neither a laugh nor a sigh. It was disappointment shaped into breath. He lifted his hand slightly, as if lifting the weight of his expectations once more.

“Then the League will remind you.”

From then on, it became a steady rhythm of blood and shadows.

Even now, as he stood as a proud figure among Gotham’s vigilantes, a young adult who had only recently turned eighteen, nothing had changed. The city treated him with a wary respect, yet Ra’s still treated him like an asset gone astray.

Assassins slipped into Gotham like whispered curses, each one trained with the precision Ra’s cherished so deeply. They appeared on rooftops where the wind scraped against rusted metal, in the narrow alleys that smelled of rain and old brick, and behind the dim glow of neon signs that painted their silhouettes in sickly, artificial light. Some arrived like phantoms, hoping to end him before he could draw a breath. Others stepped into view without hesitation, carrying themselves with the pride of hunters who believed they already understood how the night would end.

Damian learned to anticipate their presence by the way the city shifted around them.

Every time a new assassin arrived, the rhythm faltered.

The alleys grew quieter than they should have, heavy with a silence that felt pressed down by an unseen hand. Even the streetlights flickered in the subtle patterns he had learned to read, as if the city itself was warning him that another shadow had entered its borders.

These warnings became familiar, almost routine. He met each attack with a calculated calm, defeating them with training that rivaled their own.

No matter how many the League sent, Damian refused to bend.

“I would assume Grandfather would have grown tired by now,” he muttered, surveying the rooftop with an unimpressed glance. The city lights painted faint gold across the edges of his armor. “It has been years, and he still fails.”

But tonight, something was off.

The wind rolled across the rooftop with a cool bite, carrying the metallic scent of rain and something faintly unfamiliar. Damian straightened slightly. His voice had been meant for himself, but the air seemed to tighten around the words, as if something had listened.

He scanned the surrounding structures.

Nothing moved.

Nothing breathed out of rhythm.

The pigeons on the far edge of the roof suddenly launched into the air, wings beating in frantic unison. Their abrupt retreat struck him harder than footsteps would have. Gotham’s animals did not spook easily, especially not around him.

Damian remained still, letting Gotham speak to him the way it always did.

The city was never truly quiet, yet now its usual noise felt strangely distant, as if someone had placed a thin layer of glass between him and everything else. He heard the faint hum of traffic far below, the occasional siren, the drip of water sliding off rusted gutters. All of it sounded muted, softened, almost swallowed by the night.

Something was pressing against the edges of the rooftop’s silence, shaping it into an unnatural calm.

A calm that did not belong to Gotham.

Damian narrowed his eyes and walked toward the center of the roof.

His steps were slow and measured, testing the air with each shift of his weight. He half expected a blade to whistle past his ear or a shadow to lunge out from one of the ventilation shafts. That was the League’s pattern. Attack fast. Attack decisively. Attack before he could see the whites of their eyes.

But tonight, the threat lingered at a distance, watching.

He could feel it.

The sensation brushed against the back of his neck like a breath that refused to go unnoticed.

A soft scrape echoed from somewhere behind him, so faint that anyone else might have overlooked it as settling metal. Damian turned his head slightly, not enough to give away tension, but enough to show he was aware. Nothing moved between the dim orange glow of the old security lights. No figure detached itself from the shadows. The surface of the roof remained empty.

His grip tightened.

He knew the League’s tactics well enough to recognize when he was being studied. Someone was observing him with the kind of patience that did not belong to a novice. Someone was waiting for the right moment, not rushing toward the kill but savoring the led-up to it.

Rain began to fall, first in slow, heavy drops that tapped against the concrete. The air cooled and the scent of wet asphalt spread across the rooftop. The slight breeze shifted, carrying with it a faint trace of something he could not place. Not blood. Not metal. Something subtle, almost earthy, as if carried from a place far outside the city.

Damian lifted his chin, scanning the skyline one more time.

“You can keep hiding,” he raised his voice, steady and unimpressed.

“But it will not change the outcome.”

The rain deepened, turning the rooftop into a muted chorus of dripping water and distant thunder. Damian remained perfectly still, letting the droplets slide down his cheek, letting the city settle around him.

Damian exhaled once through his nose.

He turned his back to the edge of the rooftop, exposing himself deliberately. It was an invitation, sharp and insulting, designed to provoke the attack and break the stalemate.

There was a soft, almost imperceptible exhale from somewhere in the shadows behind him.

Not loud enough to be a gasp.

Not sharp enough to be surprise.

It sounded more like someone adjusting their stance, redistributing weight, and listening to the rooftop speak beneath their feet.

Damian felt a prickle move down his spine.

That sound was intentional.

It was for him to hear.

“Subtle,” he said quietly, “but not subtle enough.”

A faint tap echoed from behind him.

Then another.

Soft.

Deliberate.

A footstep on wet stone.

Damian slowly turned his head, but not fully. He wanted them to think he had only heard, not seen.

The presence finally approached, moving like someone who trusted the night entirely. Each step was precise and soundless except for the whisper of raindrops slipping from the edge of the roof onto their clothing.

A shadow detached from the dimness at the far end of the rooftop.

Then another shift.

Closer this time.

You were moving with the confidence of someone who had tracked him long before this moment, someone who had studied the rhythm of his breath and the cadence of his steps. Every motion held purpose. Every pause carried intent.

He straightened, the rain dripping from his hair as he raised his chin slightly.

“Finally,” he said, his voice calm but sharper now.

“You decide to show yourself.”

The rooftop answered with another soft footstep.

And then your silhouette began to form out of the darkness.

You emerged from the darkness with a kind of silent certainty that pulled Damian’s attention like gravity. There was no dramatic entrance, no flare of theatrics. You stepped into the faint spill of a streetlamp as if you belonged there, as if the light had always been meant to reveal you.

Rain clung to your figure, outlining the sharp lines of your stance. Your clothing blended perfectly with the night, but the way you held yourself made it impossible to mistake you for ordinary. Your posture was balanced, almost graceful, each movement controlled with the patience of someone who understood their own lethality.

Your eyes tracked over him with a calm, evaluating precision, as though you were memorizing every angle of him before the fight even began. The rain slid down your face, catching briefly on the curve of your cheek.

He lifted his chin slightly, refusing to give you the satisfaction of seeing his curiosity.

“So,” he said, voice steady, “you are the League’s newest attempt.”

Your gaze did not waver.

When you finally spoke, your voice was quiet, low, and unhurried.

“Not the newest,” you stated. “Only the last.”

Damian’s pulse sharpened. The phrasing struck him with a coldness that threaded down his spine. You were not boasting. There was no arrogance in your tone.

Just certainty.

“You have tracked me long enough,” Damian replied.

“If you intend to strike, do it.”

For a moment, the rooftop was silent again except for the rainfall.

Then you stepped closer, the distance between you narrowing by a few measured paces. The way you moved told him more than words could. You did not rush. You did not falter. You approached him like someone walking toward an inevitability.

“You have always been quick, you know that?” You mused.

“You were always quick to see. Quick to understand. And quick to survive out of anything, like you’re untouchable.”

Damian’s jaw tightened.

Compliments from an assassin were rarely anything but distractions.

“You speak as if you already know me.”

“I do.” Your eyes stayed on him, unreadable.

“I have been watching you for months, Damian.”

His heartbeat stumbled once.

Just once.

Not in fear, but in irritation at the faint shiver of awareness the admission sent through him.

“A stalker.”

“Not a stalker.”

He narrowed his eyes.

Anyone who said that was always a stalker.

He kept the thought buried, though the corner of his mouth twitched in annoyance.

“You followed me through half the city,” Damian begins. His voice was calm, but there was a steady edge beneath it. “You observed me. You studied my movement patterns. You waited for the right night to reveal yourself to me.”

Your gaze remained fixed on him, unblinking. Rain trickled from your eyelashes, caught briefly on your jawline, and fell to the ground without sound.

“That is not stalking.”

“Then enlighten me.”

“It is preparation.”

He shifted his stance, shoulders angled slightly, eyes locked on yours. He kept a measured distance, but the rooftop felt smaller, the air tighter, with your presence shaping every inch of it.

“Whatever you call it,” Damian muttered quietly, “you are still here to try to kill me.”

Your expression softened by a fraction, not in kindness, but in understanding. Your fingertips brushed the hilt at your side. The movement was almost delicate, as if you were touching something sacred.

“I am here,” you declared, “to see if you deserve to live.”

The words fell between you like a blade.

Damian felt the city around him shift again. The rainfall thickened, the cold deepened, and the rooftop became a stage with only two figures left standing on it.

He did not retreat.

He did not hesitate.

“I have survived every assassin the League has sent,” Damian pointed out.

“I doubt you will be any different.”

Your eyes lifted slightly, almost amused, though your face never fully relaxed.

“We will see.”

Then you moved.

Your first step was silent.

Your second was sharper.

By the third, you were a blur cutting through the rain.

And Damian met you head-on.

You struck first. Your blade sliced through the curtain of rain with a clean, disciplined arc.

Damian parried, twisting his wrist at the exact moment of impact, redirecting your strike past his ribs. The metal sang for a heartbeat before the storm swallowed the sound.

Your second attack came faster.

Then a third.

Then a fourth, a sweeping motion aimed at his shoulder that forced him to shift his weight and step back.

You were testing him.

You were measuring the distance between his skill and your own.

Damian felt the pressure building with each step you took. Your movements flowed with a calculated rhythm, almost like a dance. Every strike from you was trained discipline, but there was something else underneath it, something almost instinctive. Something that did not belong to the rigid traditions of the League.

He caught your wrist on the next strike and pushed forward, forcing you back by a single step. It should have been enough to break your pattern. Any other assassin would have stumbled.

But you did not stumble.

You twisted your arm free with a fluid turn of your body, pivoting on your heel and using his own momentum to sweep his leg. Damian jumped before your foot could knock him off balance, his cape snapping behind him.

You were already correcting his dodge.

Your palm pressed against his collarbone the moment he landed. A shove followed, sharp and precise, meant to knock him back and open a vulnerable angle. Damian seized your arm, intending to drag you off balance with him.

But you did not budge.

There was a steadiness in you that irritated him, the same steadiness that came with absolute intention.

“Prepared,” Damian hissed through his breath, meeting your gaze as the two of you locked briefly in a push against each other.

“That is what you called it.”

You leaned in slightly, close enough for him to see the droplets gathering on your lower lashes. Close enough for him to notice the calm in your breathing.

“Yes,” you simply replied.

“Then why not finish this?”

Your fingers tightened around the blade.

Your eyes did not leave his.

“Because you are still holding back.”

Damian’s jaw clenched. The accusation was not wrong, but hearing it spoken aloud by an assassin sent for him was an irritation he felt down his spine.

He released your arm, stepped back, and attacked with his full speed this time.

The rooftop erupted into motion the instant Damian lunged forward. Steel clashed with a hard, ringing snap that cut through the rainfall. Droplets scattered beneath their feet as they slid, pivoted, and crashed into each other with force that vibrated through bone. Every blow carried weight now, no longer a test but a true strike from two fighters who understood exactly how dangerous the other was.

Damian moved with precision that had been carved into him since childhood. His steps were tight and purposeful, every strike thrown with intent to end the exchange. He angled his body to limit openings, shoulders turning, hips following, the rhythm of a trained assassin who had unlearned the League’s cruelty but kept every skill.

You moved differently. Not with the rigid structure of a trained soldier, but with a fluid, unpredictable grace.

Your limbs flowed like water shaped into a weapon, shifting from soft to sharp in an instant. One moment your movements were languid and deceptive, the next they snapped forward with enough force to jolt his shoulders.

He threw a punch toward your jaw. You slipped beneath it with a low bend, your hand grazing the wet ground for balance. You twisted, using the momentum to strike upward with your elbow toward his ribs. He blocked with the side of his gauntlet, sparks flaring between metal and bone.

Rain streaked across both of you in uneven lines. Every step splashed water into the air, droplets glittering around your silhouettes under the dim rooftop lights. Damian pivoted left and drove his knee toward your side, but you caught his leg mid-strike, redirected the force, and shoved him back.

Then Damian misjudged a slick patch of stone.

It was small.

Barely noticeable.

But the fraction of a second it stole from him was enough.

You caught it.

And moved.

Your palm slammed against his chest with brutal accuracy, the impact sharp enough to echo through his ribs. Damian felt the shock ripple across his sternum, felt the immediate loss of balance that followed. His foot skidded across the rain-slick rooftop, boot sliding through a shallow film of water that offered no traction.

He tried to recover his stance, but his momentum betrayed him. His center of gravity lurched backward. The edge of the rooftop lights blurred for a fraction of a second as the world tilted.

You pushed him downward.

Hard.

His back struck the concrete in a burst of cold shock, water splashing up around him as the impact sent a tremor through his entire body. The force of it knocked the breath from his lungs, leaving a quick, involuntary gasp caught in his throat.

You were already above him.

Rain slid down your face in quiet trails, gathering on your jaw before falling onto his. You held him steady beneath you, not straining, not shaking, simply anchoring him with controlled strength. Your breathing was calm. His was sharper, uneven, chest rising in quick bursts against your palm.

One knee pressed to the ground beside his ribs.

One hand braced on the pavement near his head. The other held your blade at his throat, close enough for him to feel the cold kiss of steel.

Damian’s breath steadied, but only just. The fight still raced through his blood, hot and electric, yet there was something else threading through it now.

Something quieter.

Something he hated recognizing.

He could see every detail of you from this distance. The wet strands of hair clinging to your cheek. The droplets scattering over your lips as the rain slid down your face. The way your chest rose and fell with controlled, even breaths, not the ragged panting of someone who had barely managed to pin him, but the calm of someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

Your thigh pressed lightly against his side for balance. Your shadow fell over him. Rain gathered on your jaw before falling onto his collarbone in cold, little drops that made him twitch.

You stared down at him, your gaze steady, sharp, and maddeningly unreadable.

“You fight well, Damian,” you murmured. “Better than the ones before you. Better than many I have hunted.”

He scoffed, but the sound was thin.

“If this is you impressed, I would hate to see you bored.”

Your expression didn’t shift. If anything, your eyes softened a fraction, barely noticeable, but enough to make his heartbeat stumble once before slamming back into its rhythm.

Then you leaned in.

Your face hung over his, close enough that he could feel the faint warmth of your breath despite the cold rain. Close enough that the heat building under his skin had nothing to do with the fight.

From this angle he could see everything with startling clarity, every detail magnified by the intimacy of the moment.

The rain slid across your features like it had been crafted to touch them. Droplets gathered against your lashes in perfect trembling beads before falling onto his cheek, each one colder than the last. Your eyes caught the faint rooftop light, turning their color into something deep and vivid, something that pulled at him with a quiet force. There was a steadiness in your gaze, a depth that felt ancient, like it had seen more than someone your age ever should.

A lock of your hair clung to your cheek, darkened by the downpour, curving across your skin with a softness that looked almost deliberate. The wet strands framed your face the way the night framed the moon, making your features stand out sharply against the gloom. The rain made your lips appear fuller when you breathed, the faint parting of them almost luminous in the low glow.

Damian’s breath hitched despite his best effort to keep still. Up close, the fight stripped away, you were something he had no training for. Your expression held an intensity that was beautiful in the rawest, most disarming sense. Not delicate. Not fragile. Beautiful the way storms were beautiful. Beautiful the way fire was beautiful when it danced instead of destroyed.

You were close enough that he could see the way your pupils tightened when you studied him. Close enough to see the faint tremor of your eyelashes when another drop of rain caught them. Close enough for the shape of your cheekbones, the cut of your jaw, and the gentle curve of your mouth to sear themselves into the front of his mind with a clarity he did not want.

He had seen beauty in the world before, in curated rooms, in oil paintings, in the perfect poise of a blade being balanced. But this was different. This was natural beauty, born of motion and rain and breath. Shakespeare would have compared you to daylight breaking through storm clouds. Damian, pinned beneath you with the cold edge of your blade at his throat, could only think one thing:

You were unfairly, unforgivably beautiful.

And that realization struck him harder than any blow you had landed.

The words rose before he could stop them, pulled from the place inside him that recognized beauty even when he wanted to deny it.

“You’re beautiful.”

It came out low.

Unsteady.

Like the truth had forced its way past his discipline.

Not the casual arrogance he used to disarm people.

Not the smooth charm he sometimes adopted to get information.

This felt like confession.

Like something dragged out by the gravity of your presence.

Your breath stilled.

Your eyes widened the smallest fraction, catching the faint rooftop lights in a way that made them glow. Rain slid down your cheek, carrying a sheen across your skin that made you look even more unreal, too striking for the world he lived in.

“You should not say things like that,” you murmured, voice lower now with a new expression painting across your face, a tad bit flustered.

“Not while I have a blade to your throat.”

The faint tremor in your voice did not match the steadiness of your grip. Your blade remained poised at the hollow of his throat, but your eyes flicked away for the smallest second, betraying something you had managed to hide through every strike, every dodge, every step of the fight.

Flustered.

Thrown off balance.

By him.

Damian felt the shift like a pulse under your palm.

His gaze followed the slither of rain from the curve of your cheeks for a heartbeat until it drops, then lifted to your eyes. You were so close he could see the faint quiver in your lashes. So close he could feel the warmth of your breath against his lips despite the chill in the air.

He tilted his head just enough that the blade grazed him, a silent challenge.

“Your blade is not what concerns me.”

Your gaze wavered, conflicted while your fingers tightened around the blade, not a threatening way, but unsure whether to pull back or press closer.

Damian’s sharp gaze stays locked onto yours.

“You misunderstand me,” you slowly spoke, and your voice was quieter now, less certain.

“Words like that… they make things complicated.”

“Do they?” he murmured. His chest rose under your palm again, slow and deliberate, his expression unreadable except for the faint intensity of his eyes.

“Or do they make things clear?”

Your breath drew in, unsteady this time.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, your blade began to lower, the sharp edge retreating from the warmth of his throat.

Your gaze held his, searching, questioning, something raw and unguarded shining through the storm.

Damian met you halfway, his hand lifting to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing over the wet skin with surprising gentleness. The world narrowed, the fight forgotten, replaced by a fragile moment where only truth remained.

“You’re beautiful,” he repeated, softer this time, like a vow.

Your hand moved almost of its own accord, lifting to cover his where it cupped your cheek. The cold of the rain and the warmth of his skin collided beneath your palm, grounding you in the fragile reality of the moment.

“Ra’s didn’t mention this part.”

You quietly commented before lowering his hand from your face. Your fingers lingered a moment longer, tracing the sharp line of his jaw almost without thinking.

Then you winced, realizing the intimacy of the gesture and quickly pulling your hand away.

You began to rise, pushing yourself up from his chest, every movement deliberate but weighted with hesitation.

Just as you started to slip away, Damian’s hand shot out, grasping your wrist with firm yet gentle strength.

His eyes locked onto yours, sharp and searching, holding a question you could not yet answer.

Slowly, he pushed himself up as well, rising to meet you on even footing. The rain slicked the rooftop, droplets clinging to his dark hair and suit, but his focus never left your face.

Without a word, he lowered his head and pressed a soft, fleeting kiss to the back of your hand. The touch was unexpected, intimate, and tender, breaking through the walls you both carried.

You froze, caught between the impulse to pull away and the strange pull that held you rooted in place.

“I have to go,” you whispered again, voice barely more than a breath, your heart pounding beneath the storm’s steady rhythm.

His grip loosened just enough to let you slip free, but his gaze stayed locked on you, intense, questioning, and unyielding.

As you turned to disappear into the night, his voice came low and deliberate,

“When we meet again, don’t make me chase you.”

Between the patter of rain and the stillness of night, his words wove a delicate promise neither of you could ignore that night.

a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts for quite some time. It was only half-finished but decided to yk what, whynot finish it and upload it! I’ve been wanting to upload something for damian and this is officially my first post for damian, so I hope you guys enjoyed it! Make sure to interact!! I love when you guys interact and let me know of your thoughts!! <3

[moonologyy]

WHEN THE SPITE IS DESIRE

pairing: CEO!damian wayne/PA!reader

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 - whereas, you rightfully want to keep it professional at work, which damian wayne “agrees,” but this man is doing the opposite, he’s trying to find every reason to have you in his office and unknowingly creating a stir of drama about your love life?! Is he trying to kill you?!? This is the aftermath of ‘when the spite dies.’ (part 1)

just fluff no smut (not proofread) I have a headache and my eyes hurt as I put this out

“Dami…”

Damian’s lips tear from yours only because he has to breathe, and even then he stays close, panting against your cheek. He’s trapped you against his desk, one hand leaning against his while the other is on your waist. Before the world can settle, he dips his head, dragging his mouth along the line of your jaw like he needs to taste every inch he’s missed.

“Dami—”

His hand at your waist tightens possessively from the sound of his name, pulling you flush to him as he lowers his mouth to your neck. His lips move with a hunger he usually buries beneath discipline and restraint, each kiss firmer than the last, like he’s finally letting himself break, to be consumed by you.

“Damian!”

Your voice breaks out of you in a breathless gasp as you push his chest just enough to see his face. His eyes snap open like you’ve yanked him out of a dream, or interrupted some suspended moment between the two of you that he had no intention of leaving. For a heartbeat he looks almost dazed, pupils blown wide, lips parted, chest rising and falling like he’s still chasing the taste of you.

“Damian,” you said again, trying to steady your own breathing with a bit of urgency in your tone.

“You have a meeting to go to, I forgot you have a meeting—”

He lets out a sharp exhale, almost a laugh, rolling his eyes with that infuriating, effortless arrogance he was born with.

“Is that what you’re worried about?” He mutters, disbelief dripping from every syllable.

He looks at you like you’ve said the most ridiculous thing imaginable.

You glare at him, heat flaring in your cheeks.

“Are you a goddamn barbarian? We have been in your office for nearly an hour, you have a meeting!” You hiss, smoothing your skirt back into place, trying to regain any semblance of professional composure.

“Thought you wanted to finish what you started.”

You looked around his desk, grasping onto Damian’s phone that lay face down and flick the camera open.

The front camera catches everything.

Your lipstick is smudged in the center, a blurred gradient of color softening the shape of your mouth. The edges are slightly undone, faintly feathered from how hard he kissed you. A tiny patch of the color marks your jaw, another faint stroke near your collarbone, and a ghost of your gloss shines on the corner of your mouth.

Honestly?

It could’ve been worse.

You let out a breath you did not realize you were holding.

“Sheesh,” you mutter, turning your face slightly to check different angles. “This is fixable.”

You place his phone down gently, but the moment you do, you feel his gaze.

Damian tilts his head slightly, an expression caught between annoyance and amusement. His thumb sweeps from your waist before he answers, as if he still isn’t convinced he wants to let you go.

“You do know it’s been canceled, right?”

You blink.

“What?”

He lifts a brow, unimpressed with your shock.

“I canceled it when I sent you the email to come into my office.”

Your jaw drops. “Damian— what the hell—”

He cuts you off with a small, maddening smirk.

“You seemed busy.”

“Busy?” You look at him like you might strangle him while your arms fold together. “I was busy because I thought you had a meeting in ten minutes an hour ago!”

“And now,” he says, leaning in just slightly, gaze flickering down to your lips again, “you don’t have to worry about it.”

His voice dips low, warm, dangerously soft.

“You can worry about me instead.”

He starts to lower his head again, the intention unmistakable— another kiss, another twenty or thirty minutes lost to his ridiculous, infuriating, and addictive mouth.

Though, you supposed it’s the same for him.

To Damian, you were that drug. A quiet, relentless addiction with spite that’s mixed with it. A craving that sank into his bones no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, or ignore you. The kind of hunger that does not fade or soften, only sharpens every time he finds himself with you.

When he kisses you, it is never enough.

When he touches you, it is never enough.

It sits in the way his eyes darken when he looks at your lips.

His mouth is a breath away from yours, his fingers firm on your hips as if he has already decided exactly what this next kiss will do to both of you.

But you move faster.

Your fingers press firmly against his lips, stopping him mid-lean. His breath warms your fingertips, and his eyes flick up to yours, surprised but amused, like he hadn’t expected you to have the nerve to deny him.

“Absolutely not,” you deny him, the irritation and the leftover desire tangled in your voice. “We are not doing this again. Not right now.”

“Again. Not right now?”

His brows lift a fraction.

“You know exactly what I mean.”

He lifts his hand and curls his fingers around your wrist, not to pull you closer this time, but to keep your hand where it is, resting against his mouth. He kisses your fingertips once, slow and intentional, like he’s testing how long your resolve will last.

You feel the warmth of his breath spill across your skin, the heat of his lips tracing the very spots that made you shiver minutes ago. Your spine tightens and softens at the same time, your breath catching as if he’s found a nerve directly wired to your pulse.

He keeps your wrist suspended between you.

“Move your hand,” he murmurs. His voice is low, quiet in a way that feels far more dangerous than if he had raised it.

“Or I’ll make you.”

His thumb begins to stroke along the side of your wrist, the slow drag of skin against skin sending a warm ache through your stomach. His gaze lifts to yours, pupils wide, dark green nearly swallowed in black. He looks like he’s barely holding himself back.

Your heart stumbles.

Your resolve wavers like it was made of paper.

Damian’s mouth brushes your fingers again, softer this time, a breath of a kiss as he whispers against them.

“Last warning.”

He tilts his head just a fraction, bringing your hand with him, letting your fingers drag against the line of his jaw. Your fingers lightly gliding against your skin, a quiet reminder of how close you are, how close he wants you again.

“Move it,” he repeats, eyes locked on yours, “or I’ll show you exactly what I do when someone tells me no.”

“Damian,” you warn, but it comes out softer than you meant, almost like a plea. His lips brush the inside of your wrist again, slower this time, his breath warm against your skin.

“We can’t.” You urge.

“One kiss,” he negotiates.

“Then I will let you fix your lipstick and let you be on your way out.”

You try to pull your hand back, but he turns your palm over and presses another kiss there, firmer, coaxing the resistance right out of you.

“Fine, one kiss.” you agreed, but your voice betrays you, trembling a little that he won’t follow through, flustered that you’ll be more of a wreck than he is.

He takes that as permission.

He cups the back of your neck with his free hand. His movements are steady, unrushed, but determined in a way that sends your pulse skyrocketing.

“Just one,” he whispers against your mouth.

The kiss lands deep, slow at first, then hungrier as his hand slides from your wrist to your waist, pulling you closer until there’s not a breath of space left between you.

When you pull away, he’s breathing heavily.

“One more—”

“Absolutely not.”

“Five minutes.”

“No!”

You shut him down, firm and breathless, wiping your lips with the back of your hand.

“No,” you say again, sharper this time. “No more.”

Damian freezes. His brows knit together in something between annoyance and disbelief, his hands still braced on your waist like he’s not convinced this moment is over.

“You cannot expect me to stop after that,” he says quietly, watching you grab a tissue from his desk to wipe where the lipstick stains you could feel burning on your skin.

“I expect you,” you counter, poking his chest, “to behave like a man with a schedule and not like a dog.”

Damian scoffs under his breath.

“You kiss me like that and then expect me to be rational.”

“You kissed me like that.”

“And you kissed me back.”

“Damian.”

He groans, jaws tighten, and drags a hand through his hair.

“You are impossible.”

He says it like a confession.

You turn away before he can kiss you again, forcing yourself to breathe.

“I’m going back to my office, I will be finishing up my end. You need to actually do your job instead of messing around, Mr. CEO.”

“Stay.”

You freeze for half a second.

Of course he would say something like that when your back is turned.

Of course.

“Stop it,” you warn without looking.

“I am not doing anything,” he replies, voice smooth and innocent in a way that is absolutely not innocent.

You can practically hear the smirk he is trying not to show.

Your fingers tighten around the door knob.

You take a breath, bracing yourself, and finally turn to glance over your shoulder.

Damian stands against his desk like sin incarnate.

His shirt is wrinkled from your hands. His hair is a mess, soft strands fallen over his forehead. His lips are swollen from your kisses, color smeared at the corner of his mouth where your lipstick branded him like a secret.

His chest rises and falls a little too fast, like he has not fully regained control of himself.

His eyes lock on you immediately, hungry and unguarded and desperate in a way that he would deny until his dying breath. He does not move toward you, but the tension in his posture tells you he wants to. Every part of him wants to.

“Let’s keep it professional at work,” you say lightly, fingers curling around the doorknob. “I can’t have you distracting me and you forgetting deadlines along with work drama.” Your smile is teasing, but the way he looks at you isn’t playful at all.

Damian exhales slowly, through his nose like he’s trying to rebalance every frayed nerve you just set on fire.

“I do not forget deadlines,” he says, voice low, steadier than his pulse. “You simply… complicate my focus.”

His eyes roam your face once more, hungry in a way that makes your knees nearly betray you. “Professionalism,” he repeats, almost to himself, as if tasting the word and finding it intolerable.

You open the door— and he adds, softer, just loud enough for you to hear, “If anyone will be distracting anyone, it will not be me.”

You don’t turn around, but you don’t have to.

“I haven’t been focused on anything else since you walked into my office this morning,” he adds, voice low, saying it loud enough in the office.

“Down, dog,” you warn again, teasing, your smile widening.

His jaw tightens from the lack of bite in your word, eyes narrowing just enough to show you you’ve struck a nerve.

“I am not a dog,” he corrects, clipped and offended in that uniquely Damian way.

“I didn’t say anything either.” He lies as well before your figure disappears.

You slip out of his office before he can trap you in another line that makes your stomach plummet to your knees. The air outside feels cooler somehow, less charged, but your pulse doesn’t settle.

A few steps down the hall feels like miles, each one echoing louder than it should, your heartbeat still thudding in your ears. The cool air of the hallway barely helps; your skin is still warm, flushed, in places his hands touched. You turn left, trying to force your breathing to steady, trying to look like a normal, composed employee instead of someone who had just—

You reach your door.

Finally.

You slip inside and close it gently, the latch clicking into place like a secret being sealed. The moment it’s shut, your back finds the wood, shoulders sinking as the tension you’d been holding finally unravels.

Your lips still sting— tender, swollen, and marked by him.

Every time you breathe in, you swear you can still smell his cologne clinging to you like a stubborn reminder, settling into the fabric of your clothes, into your hair, into your skin. It lingers like he’s still standing too close, like his hands are still on your waist, like his mouth never actually left yours.

Your pulse refuses to slow, beating too fast beneath your ribs as if it thinks he’s still kissing you. Your legs feel a little unsteady, your palms still warm where they’d pressed into him, and your reflection in the darkened window across your office room looks… wrecked.

It’s ridiculous.

He’s ridiculous.

You sink into your office chair, posture slouched in a way that would make your posture-obsessed boss scold you if he saw it, which only makes your stomach twist harder because he had seen you in far worse positions about ten minutes ago.

You try to refocus. You really do.

You click open your document.

Paragraph three. Line seven.

You’ve been reading the same five words over and over, your eyes tracing each letter without absorbing a single thing. Your brain is still stuck in his office. You exhale through your nose, giving your head a small shake to snap yourself out of it.

It doesn’t work.

Your heartbeat is still a frantic, traitorous thing, and every beat whispers the same exact syllable:

Damian.

You lean back, staring blankly at your ceiling as if it might offer divine intervention.

It doesn’t.

“And we were supposed to keep it professional,” you mutter at the acoustic tiles.

They don’t respond either.

Your phone vibrates sharply on your desk, jolting you out of your spiraling thoughts. The sudden buzz from your phone feels louder than it should, echoing through the quiet of your office.

You glance down at the screen.

MR. DAMIAN WAYNE

I would send this through an email, but I found it inconvenient and too long to make.

Would you come to my office.

YOU

Damian

No, I am going into your office.

I was just in your office not that long ago??

MR. DAMIAN WAYNE

I want to discuss something.

YOU

right…

What does this discussion include?

MR. DAMIAN WAYNE

I would prefer to speak in person.

YOU

that didn’t answer my question

Another pause. You can practically feel the tension through the screen. Like he’s trying to calibrate his pride with the fact that he absolutely does not have a legitimate work-related reason to summon you.

MR. DAMIAN WAYNE

It is regarding a matter.

You slam your head gently against the back of your chair, groaning a laugh.

YOU

Wow, that’s very specific. super helpful.

is this about work or the other thing that happened oh literally fifteen minutes ago

MR. DAMIAN WAYNE

Come back to my office, please.

YOU

are you incapable of waiting

or

did u miss me already

MR. DAMIAN WAYNE

Come. Here.

YOU

no, you’ll distract me.

You try— honestly try— to refocus on the document open on your screen after his messages. You even straighten a few papers, click your pen, sit up a little straighter as if better posture might physically shove him out of your thoughts.

It doesn’t work.

Because the whole room still feels warm from the heat he left on your skin. And every time you blink, you can still see the flush across his cheekbones, the way your lipstick smeared against his mouth, the way his breath hitched when you pulled away.

You’re supposed to be working, not remembering the exact sound he made when you told him “no.”

A quiet, decisive knock lands on your door.

Your stomach drops.

Not the hesitant kind of knock someone uses when they’re unsure. Not the polite tap of a coworker asking for signatures or updates. No. This knock is firm, self-assured, and the kind given by someone who already knows you’ll answer.

Before you can even form a proper thought, the handle turns.

Damian steps inside without waiting.

The door clicks shut behind him with an incredibly soft sound, but it might as well echo. He fills the doorway like he owns it, like coming to your office uninvited is a natural consequence of you denying him what he wants.

His tie is still slightly crooked— your fault.

His lips are still faintly tinted— also your fault.

And his expression…

God.

He looked annoyed, determined, and entirely too focused on you.

“You didn’t answer,” he says, as if that explains barging in. “I did answer,” you shoot back, pulse immediately spiking. “I said no.”

He doesn’t blink. “I didn’t like that answer.”

You lean back in your chair slowly, trying to appear unaffected even though your ribcage is doing its best impression of a drumline.

“Damian,” you warn, “we just talked about professionalism—”

“I am attempting to be professional,” he cuts in. His voice is low, even, maddeningly controlled. “You are the one who made things… difficult.”

Your breath catches. “Me?”

He steps closer.

Then closer.

Until he’s standing right in front of your desk, hands resting on the edge as he leans forward slightly, like he’s trying to get eye-level, trying to corner you without actually touching you.

“I asked for you in my office," he says quietly, eyes fixed on yours, “but you didn’t come while I had a question for you.” You swallow hard.

“Can I take you out to dinner.”

Everything in you stills.

For a moment, you think you misheard him. The question felt more of a statement than what it is, it brought a stutter in your heart, none of it prepares you for the bluntness of that sentence, the way he drops it into the room like it’s just another line item on a meeting agenda. Your fingers tighten slightly around the armrests of your chair.

“Dinner?”

His jaw flexes, just once. “Yes, dinner.” He says it like it’s the simplest request in the world, though his eyes give him away— sharp, intent, and brighter than they were a second ago. “A proper one, not from takeout or your cafe order. I want…” He pauses, searching for the right wording, something deliberate. “…time with you. I want to take you out for dinner, preferably tonight if possible.”

You can feel your pulse in your throat.

“Damian,” you breathe, “that’s not— you can’t just walk into my office and—”

“I can,” he replies, voice low but never unsteady. “I am. And I am asking.”

He’s still leaning into your space, but not touching you. It makes it worse— makes your skin feel electrified, like he’s everywhere and nowhere at once, like you’re aware of every inch between you because you want it gone.

You manage to find your voice again.

“You came all the way here just to ask me to dinner?”

“Actually,” he admits, eyes momentarily flicking down to your lips before catching himself, “I came because you wouldn’t come to me.”

You stare at him.

He stares right back.

He finally straightens, fixing his crooked tie after realizing it, though his hands still lingered on your desk. “It is not a workplace request. It is me asking you— personally.”

The air feels thick enough to choke on.

“And if I say no?” you ask, because you need to hear him say it out loud, you would need to know if he’ll push or step back.

He watches you carefully.

“You won’t,” he says softly.

“Bold assumption.”

“Accurate assumption,” he corrects, unbothered.

“You kissed me back.”

Heat rushes up your neck.

“You kissed me,” you counter.

“And you let me.” He smirks.

You drag a hand across your forehead, trying to think around the static buzzing in your skull.

“And you want dinner.”

“I want you,” he says before he can stop himself.

The words hang there— heavy, startling, and brutally honest. He inhales once, sharply, as if realizing what my he’s confessed, but he doesn’t take it back whatsoever.

Your mouth feels dry.

“Damian…”

He leans in just a fraction again— barely noticeable, but you feel it like a gravitational pull.

“Say you’ll come,” he murmurs. His voice is low, but not demanding. It’s quiet in that dangerous way of someone who rarely asks for things, who’s learning how to want something openly.

“Tonight, after work.”

You exhale slowly, trying to calm the fluttering chaos in your chest.

Your gaze softens without your permission, drawn in by the intensity in his eyes, the expectation, the unguarded hope he’s trying (and failing) to hide. He looks almost… unsure. Damian Wayne, unsure. The thought alone twists something inside you.

Your voice comes out softer than you mean for it to. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I’ll accept dinner.”

You look away for a second, suddenly aware of how warm your face feels. “But,” you add, clearing your throat, “we’re still at work. So you’re going to have to-”

“I know,” he interrupts, but there’s something new in his tone.

A hint of anticipation and victory, even.

“I will be professional.”

You lift a brow. “Will you?”

There’s a tiny pause. A guilty, begrudging pause.

“…Yes…”

It’s the least convincing yes you’ve ever heard in your life..

Damian Wayne, for someone who prides himself on discipline, control, and unnerving composure, he is doing a catastrophically bad job of acting normal.

Damian becomes a quiet orbit around you, one that wouldn’t stop being around you as if he couldn’t bear the fact he’s down the hall from your office.

In the break room, he stands at the counter far longer than necessary, staring at the coffee machine like it personally offended him. He isn’t even drinking the coffee he made; it just sits steaming in his hand while his eyes drift toward where you’re pouring creamer into your mug.

When you catch him, he straightens immediately and nods once like he’s acknowledging a meeting that doesn’t exist. Then he walks out, calm on the surface, tension rippling in the stiffness of his shoulders.

Ten minutes later, he somehow materializes outside the conference rooms right as you’re organizing files for the afternoon client.

He isn’t scheduled to be here.

He isn’t assigned to this meeting. He just stands there, arms crossed, pretending to check something on his tablet even though— you swore you saw his screen was black.

He glances at you once, twice and a third time, with a subtle furrow of his brow that gives him away entirely.

By noon, it’s laughable.

You head down the hall toward the supply room to get another batch of printer ink, and you swear he appears out of thin air like a summoned ghost. He’s leaning against the wall with a folder that you knew was suspiciously empty, you can tell from how weightless it looks— flipping it open and closed like he’s trying to justify being there.

Your steps slow.

He notices.

Eyes flick to yours, cool and composed… except not at all, because there’s that tiny tell again: his fingers tap once against the folder’s edge, a habit he only has when he’s restless.

You walk past him, raising an amused eyebrow.

He pretends not to react, though his gaze follows you like he’s trying very hard not to.

By mid-afternoon, every employee on the floor has noticed that Mr. Wayne is circling your general vicinity. Someone from HR walks by, offering you a confused look. Another person from the same floor whispers something to their coworker, looking at you.

You’re finally in a women's only lounge with a few of your coworkers you’ve familiarized with.

The moment they see you, they light up.

“Hey! Girl, how are you?” one of them calls, spinning away from the mirror with a grin.

You laugh, lifting a hand. “I’m doing pretty good! Just… y’know, it’s a Wednesday.”

They snicker knowingly.

One of them leans her hip against the counter, eyes narrowing like she’s about to interrogate you over brunch mimosas.

“So… what’s been up with Mr. Wayne today?” she asks. “He keeps walking around like he’s looking for something… or someone.”

Another gasps dramatically.

“Oh my god, did you mess up a file? Is he mad at you? He has walked past our area like— three times. And he never leaves his office!”

You inhale slowly, pretending like your boss didn’t basically corner you in his office to steal your breath, or is still trying to maintain professionalism, yet it’s particularly failing— an absolute liar.

“He’s just been… relentless about the Q4 project,” you explain, waving a hand like that somehow explains everything. “Deadlines are creeping up, he’s stressed. I’m stressed. It’s all very… stressful.”

They nod with an affirmative hum, sort of buying it, sort of not.

“Huh,” one murmurs. “I mean, sure, he’s always intense, but today? He’s like—” She makes a spiraling gesture with her finger. “Hovering. Weirdly aware of where you are. He even came into the other break room earlier and didn’t get anything. Just stood there.”

Your stomach flips.

You try your best to shrug like this is all, somehow, absolutely normal. “Maybe he’s… doing rounds?”

“He doesn’t do rounds,” one counters immediately. “He sends email reminders from behind his bulletproof glass.”

You choke on a laugh.

“It’s probably the miniskirt,” one of them points out jokingly, snickering the way you smooth it out. “Oh, come on! It’s really not that much different.” The girls all shook their heads, noting their disagreement.

“You look like you’re going on a date!”

The chorus of teasing rises instantly, playful and loud, echoing off the tiled walls.

You throw your hands up. “It’s literally just a skirt.”

They give you a collective yeah right look.

“Who’s the lucky person?” They all poked through, giggling into their hands, watching your expression flicker to a bit flustered.

“I can’t dress up nice for once?” You fold your arms. “Oh my god,” another groans dramatically, tossing a paper towel into the bin. “She totally dressed for someone.”

A third gasps. “Wait— is it someone here? Is it someone not here? Is it—”

“No one,” you insist, crossing your arms tighter. “There is absolutely no one.”

“Mm-hmm,” they hum in unison, unconvinced.

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “Look, I can dress up nice to work, once at least.”

“Once?” a girl snorts. “Honey, you’re always cute. This is just… extra.” You sigh heavily, leaning against the counter of the lounge, work-gossip will always be the death of you.

“Anyways, nothing happened between you two?” another asks, purely curious, no suspicion— just gossip. “You and Mr. Wayne, I mean?”

“Nope,” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “Nothing at all.”

“Well,” one of them says while reapplying lip gloss, “if anything does happen— don’t leave the company.” The others chime in immediately, a chorus of agreement and dramatic groans.

“Please don’t,” another laughs, tugging her blazer straight. “God knows we cannot survive another ‘Mr. Wayne PA meltdowns.’ The last time we had to interview replacements he almost made Karen from HR cry.”

“Yeah,” the HR girl herself adds, pointing at you with the hand holding her phone. “Don’t leave. I am begging you. If we have to hire someone new, I might actually quit on the spot too. He already seems to tolerate you, and that’s like… rarer than a solar eclipse.”

You smile, lifting a mischievous brow, the expression coming naturally, almost reflexive. “He tolerates me because I do my job and actually don’t take his shit.” That earns an even louder laugh, one of the girls nearly bending over the sink.

“God, you’re bold,” one wheezes.

“He likes that,” another adds without thinking, messing around her hair.

The memory flickers warm in your chest, because back then, when you first joined the company— you didn’t know how close he’d stand to you one day… or how your lipstick would end up smeared across his mouth. The girls keep laughing, completely unaware of everything threading under your skin.

One nudges you playfully with her shoulder. “Well, whatever it is— keep doing it.” You chuckle, shaking your head lightly.

“You all are reading way too much into it, seriously.”

“Mhmm,” one says, unconvinced. “If you say so.”

“Don’t you think this is a bit much for dinner?” you ask, your voice low as you take in the scene around you— because God, this place looks like it was carved out of someone’s luxury daydream.

The restaurant is dim in that intentional, expensive way, where the lighting isn’t actually dark, but warm—golden, soft, glowing off crystal glassware that’s probably worth more than your entire paycheck. Each table is draped in pristine white linen, so smooth and crisp it looks ironed right there on-site. The centerpiece is a single, blooming orchid. It was a real orchid, resting in a sleek black vase that reflects the light like polished stone.

Muted conversations hum around you, the kind that belong to people wearing suits that cost as much as cars. Servers glide between tables like it’s choreographed, all quiet footsteps and polished trays, barely disturbing the air.

And then there’s the absurd, impossible view!? It was floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the Gotham skyline glittering like a thousand fractured stars.

You didn’t feel like you belonged here.

No one without generational wealth belongs here.

Your chair is too plush, the napkin is too soft, even the water tastes like it’s been filtered by angels.

You fold your hands in your lap, leaning slightly toward Damian across the candle-lit table.

“Seriously,” you murmur, glancing around at the chandelier that probably has its own security. “This is… extremely much for dinner.”

Damian barely looks fazed. He’s calmly setting his utensils straight, posture perfect, suit immaculate, like he was born to sit here, like this restaurant was just waiting for him to walk in.

He lifts his gaze to you, that infuriatingly steady green stare locking onto yours.

“It is simply dinner,” he says, as if this five-star Michelin fantasy is the equivalent of grabbing takeout. “I wanted it to be… suitable.”

“Suitable?” you whisper, nearly choking. “Damian, this place has a waiting list longer than my lifespan! I would’ve been fine going to a mom & pop shop!”

A hint of a smirk touches the corner of his mouth.

“I made a reservation already.”

“Of course you did.” You lean back, helpless, glancing at the menu, noticing the lack of prices listed.

Of course there aren’t.

“Are you trying to scare me away or impress me?”

He tilts his head, considering.

“Impress you.”

“I wanted something worthy,” he continues quietly, “of the fact that you said yes.”

Your heart lurches, unprepared for the simplicity of that honesty, how it cuts through all the polished elegance around you and lands right, squarely, in your chest.

“Still, Damian, this is a lot for dinner.” You manage, though your voice has softened despite your best efforts.

He meets your gaze steadily.

“For you,” he murmurs, “it is appropriate.”

And somehow, in a room built of wealth and quiet power, he’s the only thing that feels overwhelming.

A server glides by to refill your water, and Damian doesn’t even look away from you while he murmurs a polite thank you. It should be intimidating, how intensely he focuses, but instead it feels like warmth pressed directly into your ribs.

“Well, I hope you know that it isn’t very appropriate when you aren't very subtle at work.” You give him a pointed look, watching his expression glance somewhere else.

“…Subtle?” he repeats, tone flat in that way it gets when he’s trying very hard not to react. You raise your brows.

“You circled my office like you were doing reconnaissance.”

“I was not circling.”

“You walked by three times in ten minutes.”

“That hallway is a central artery of the building.”

“There’s a supply closet and a water fountain.”

He exhales through his nose, the closest Damian Wayne ever gets too flustered. His fingers tap once against the linen tablecloth before going still again. “I wanted to… ensure you were managing your workload.”

“Right,” you say slowly.

He sits a little straighter, shoulders tight with the admission.

“Is that… unacceptable?” He asks like a man bracing for impact, the smallest thread of uncertainty slipping through an otherwise composed expression.

You shake your head, smiling despite your best effort.

“No. It’s not unacceptable. It was just… obvious.”

His eyes soften, something faintly triumphant passing through them. “Good.”

“Good?” you echo, heart thudding.

“It means,” he says, leaning just a fraction closer, “that you noticed.”

“Damian…”

He lifts his glass, not drinking, just holding it like it gives him something to do with his hands. “I did not want there to be any mistake tonight,” he says, steady as stone. “About my interest. Or my intentions.”

Your pulse flares.

“And what are your intentions?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He sets the glass down, deliberately, eyes never leaving yours.

“It’s obvious,” he says simply. “I want to be with you.”

The server returns with your appetizers, both plates set gently between you, and again Damian barely acknowledges the interruption, gaze dropping only long enough to make space on the table before returning to your face like it’s the only thing worth looking at.

“And,” he adds after a beat, quieter, “I would like to be the reason I make your day brighter.” You could feel the rush of warmth flooding to your cheeks, the back of your neck has a tinge of heat with it.

“Damian…” you murmur, not sure what you’re even trying to say.

He doesn’t push. He just watches you, hands relaxed but folded neatly in front of him, a picture of restraint, except for the way his foot has shifted slightly under the table, just enough that you can feel the faintest brush of his shoe against yours. It’s barely there, but it’s purposeful.

His voice comes softer this time, almost careful.

“You brighten mine,” he admits. “Every day. Whether you realize it or not.”

Your heart does a painful, helpless flip.

“Do you hear yourself? You can’t just say things like that.”

He blinks once, slow. “Why?”

“Because it’s—” you gesture vaguely, flustered, “it’s a lot!”

“You don’t like when I’m honest?” He smirks, leaning against the tablecloth.

“I—” you use your fork to pick up the appetizer, focusing your gaze somewhere else, his eyes are just intensifying by the second into your figure. “Quit it!”

“Quit what? We’re just having a conversation.”

You glance back before looking away.

A mistake to make.

“A conversation where you’re staring at me like you want dessert before the entrée even arrives.”

His brows lift. “I would never. I have excellent table manners.”

“You do not,” you say immediately.

“I do,” he insists, tone deceptively dignified. “I am perfectly capable of waiting.”

“Debatable,” you mutter, stabbing another bite just to have something to look at that isn’t him.

Yet, he begins to say the most outrageous things in public.

“But you are making it very difficult.”

Your hand freezes halfway to your mouth.

“Damian,” you warn, heat flooding your cheeks. “We’re in public.”

“I noticed.” His voice is all silk and steady restraint.

“You look beautiful in public.”

“Dear god, I hope you get food poisoning.”

Damian couldn’t help but smile at your quips, tugging at the corner of his mouth like he can’t quite hold it back.

It hits you harder than it should.

“Food poisoning?” he echoes, amused, leaning back slightly against his chair as if giving you space is some kind of generous favor. “That is a brutal wish.”

“You deserve it,” you fire back, stabbing your appetizer a little too forcefully. His smile only deepens, eyes warm and annoyingly unbothered. “If this is the reaction I get simply for complimenting you, then I am deeply curious to see how you’ll handle the rest of the evening.”

You nearly choke.

“Damian—!”

“What?” he asks innocently, the picture of calm elegance as he folds his napkin across his lap. “I am behaving, smiling, and conversing with my date. I’m not touching you, nor am I kissing you, yet.”

You glare, knowing exactly what he’s doing.

His voice drops to a teasing murmur meant only for you.

“I am, in fact, an exemplary dinner companion.”

Before you can fire back— before you can even roll your eyes, the server appears with your entrées, balancing two immaculate plates that smell like heaven, money, and several culinary degrees you definitely don’t have.

The server is just about to walk away when he hesitates, clearing his throat politely.

“If there’s anything else you need—”

“We’re fine,” Damian replies smoothly, but for once, there’s a faint upward curve tugging at the corner of his mouth, watching the server slowly walk away with grace in their steps.

“‘Exemplary dinner companion’, don’t get ahead of yourself.” You snort, immediately tasting the luxury of your meal that automatically felt like you were on a whole different planet.

“Never,” he says. “I prefer when we match pace.”

You blink. “…Was that flirting?”

“If it worked,” he says, meeting your gaze over the table, “then yes.”

You shove a bite of food into your mouth just to have a distraction. “I hope you choke on your entrée,” you mutter. “Maybe, I’ll even poison the dish myself, if it gets you to shut up.”

He actually laughs— soft, warm, and entirely unguarded. The sound surprises even him; you can see it in the way he briefly glances down like he wasn’t prepared to enjoy himself this much, grinning a little wide.

Then he says, low and sincere, “one of us must enjoy your attempts at intimidation.”

“Attempts?!”

You nearly choke on your entrée.

He poked his food, bringing it to his mouth with the confidence of a man who absolutely planned that outcome.

“Eat,” he says gently after finishing a bite. “Before you pass out, unless you want me to explain to the entire restaurant why my date stopped breathing.” You grip your fork like it personally offended you, glaring straight at him that’s enjoying this way too much.

“Oh my god,” you mumbled, “I should’ve worn the ugly skirt.”

He pauses, lowering his fork.

“Hn, there is no skirt you own,” he says, voice dipping, “that would make you any less distracting.”

Your brain short-circuits.

He’s entirely too pleased about it.

Damian was absolutely NOT SUBTLE WHATSOEVER!

After the dinner date from last night, a long make out session that had both of you in his car panting for air while he marked love bites onto your neck, blooming constellations that’s hidden under the turtle neck. You were lucky that it’s winter, so it was normal to wear it in the office.

However, the flashes of his mouth hot on your skin, his fingers tangled in your hair, the way he pulled you into his lap in the backseat of his car like he’d been starving for you for years.

But nothing— nothing— prepares you for the roses.

Plural.

A massive bouquet, easily the size of a carry-on suitcase, overflowing with deep red petals and dark green stems, wrapped in black paper and tied with a ribbon that probably costs more than your entire weekly grocery run. The flowers are fresh enough that the scent hits you before you even round the final corner toward your office. It’s rich, velvety, unmistakably romantic.

And sitting right in front of your office door.

Your name lettered elegantly on the card.

You freeze so abruptly you almost skid on the polished floor.

The flashes come at you all at once:

Damian in the darkened backseat, breath hot against your neck. His hands gripping your waist like he was trying not to drag you closer. The soft, broken sound he made when you kissed him first, the way he whispered your name like it was a prayer and a warning all at once. His mouth trailing lower, slower, until your voice shook against his ear. The faint, wicked smirk when he pulled back just enough to murmur, “I’m not done with you.”

Your knees genuinely wobble.

“Holy—” you breathe out, pressing a palm to your face because your expression is dangerously close to giving everything away.

The bouquet is obscene.

Lush, heavy, velvet-red roses packed so tightly they look like they were arranged by angels with PhDs in floral seduction.

Someone from Marketing actually stops mid-sentence in the hallway. “Oh my god,” one of your coworkers murmurs behind you, awe creeping into her voice. “Who… who are those from?” You swallow hard, heart banging against your ribs, heat threatening your face again.

Behind you, the girls from the lounge all cluster like startled pigeons, far too excited for your wellbeing.

“Girl, you must’ve cracked him real good if he’s sending you expensive roses—“ one of the girls from the lounge whispered with excitement in her voice, one that definitely would spread the gossip around.

You choke on nothing.

“They’re— they’re just flowers,” you attempt, voice embarrassingly thin.

“Just flowers?” one of them repeats, scandalized. “BABE, that bouquet costs more than my paycheck.”

“Way more,” another corrects.

Gossip is already forming like storm clouds.

And because life hates you, because the universe wants you to suffer—

You spot Damian down the hall.

He’s talking to someone from Legal, posture sharp and steady as always, but the moment his eyes lift and find yours a few feet away with the bouquet in your arms, coworkers buzzing around you like excited bees— everything changes.

The person eventually notices Damian isn’t responding.

“Mr. Wayne?”

Damian blinks once. “Hm? Yes. Fine. Continue.”

Except he’s not looking at them at all, he’s looking at you like the damn hallway doesn’t exist.

Your coworkers follow his line of sight.

There are muffled gasps.

A whispered oh my god.

Someone actually mutters, “No way. No way.”

His gaze softens.

Just a fraction.

But enough to send a hot, dizzy rush straight to your face.

You can feel the turtle neck suddenly strangling you, trapping all the heat under it, suffocating you with the memory of his mouth on your throat last night. The ghost of his hands on your hips. The way he whispered your name like he wasn’t sure he’d ever be full of you.

The hallway feels ten degrees warmer and you feel the need to rip the turtleneck off of you.

One of your coworkers whispers, much too loudly:

“Oh my god—he’s coming over!”

And sure enough, he is.

Damian excuses himself with a polite nod, the kind only CEOs know how to do, and starts walking toward you with that annoyingly calm stride, like he didn’t spend half the night kissing you breathless in the backseat of his car and your hand in his hair and your lipstick once against smudging across his lips like it’ll become a regular, permanent thing.

Like he didn’t leave marks he’s now forcing you to hide.

Like he didn’t send you half a garden this morning.

Your coworkers scatter, not because they’re subtle, but because the presence of a Wayne is basically a natural predator to office gossip. They hover nearby, pretending to check their emails, watch the wall, examine the ceiling, but every one of them is definitely listening in the conversation between the both of you.

Damian stops in front of you, hands clasped behind his back, expression gentle enough that your stomach flips.

“Good morning,” he says softly.

Too softly.

It’s a voice only meant for you.

You tighten your grip on the bouquet so you don’t drop it. “Hi.”

His eyes flick to the roses in your hands— not smug, but warm, relieved and then they settle back on your face, searching, lingering too long in a way that makes your blood thrum when he briefly glances back down onto your lips.

Dear god, he needs to stop looking at them.

“I trust,” he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear, “that they were delivered safely.”

“Damian,” you hiss under your breath, smiling too wide because everyone is watching. “People can hear you.”

“I hope so,” he replies without shame, eyes glinting.

Your breath catches.

Somewhere behind you, two coworkers gasp in unison. He leans in just a millimeter— not enough to break professionalism, but enough to make your knees wobble.

“Your sweater looks lovely,” he adds, voice brushing against your ear like velvet.

“Though I imagine the reason you chose it is… beautiful, as well.”

You nearly choke on air.

You elbow him lightly, because you can’t actually hurt him—and hiss, “Knock it off!”

Damian straightens with a small, unmistakable smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Your coworkers collectively stop breathing.

“Have a productive morning,” he tells you, calm again, voice smooth like nothing happened at all.

Then, because he has to make your day harder— his gaze sweeps down your figure with the briefest flicker of memory, and heat curls into your spine.

“I’ll see you later,” he murmurs.

And he walks away.

Leaving you standing there, holding a bouquet the size of a small tree, legs weak, face burning, and your coworkers absolutely losing their minds in silence behind you.

And all you can think is:

He is absolutely not subtle.

And you are absolutely in trouble.

BONUS SCENE:

A woman hums a tune, wandering barefoot across the hardwood floors of her Metropolis apartment as she checks the tracking updates on yet another online order she forgot she placed. Chelsea plucks up the medium-sized box sitting by her door, balancing it on one hip as her cat winds between her ankles.

“Alright, alright, hold your fur,” she mutters, nudging the door closed with her foot. She sets the package on her kitchen counter, grabs a pair of scissors, and slices through the tape with the casual confidence of someone who receives far too many deliveries to be surprised by any of them.

But the moment she lifts the flaps—

She screams.

A real, full-volume shriek that sends her cat launching off the counter and scrambling across the floor with a furious mrrraow!

Because inside the box isn’t any of the usual things she impulse-buys at 2 a.m.

No.

Inside is a small treasure trove.

A luxury beauty set she’s been eyeing but refusing to buy on principle. A bottle of perfume, the exact one she once joked she’d sell a kidney to afford. A soft cashmere scarf in her favorite color, even her favorite chocolate from the shop you found together during your first week of college.

All arranged neatly.

All wrapped with absurd care.

And on top of it all—

A card.

Chelsea,

You’re not stupid. You already know what this package means. And I don’t wanna say it, but you’re right. So much has happened, call me when you get this package! I want to know your reaction, but I guess I didn’t need anything more than the first step, um.. I’m now with the CEO?

xoxo your girl

a/n: well that’s the second part of when the spite dies! The end of the aftermath! I was thinking of adding smut, but I lwk got tired and didn’t want to write that out ngl, so I did what I want with my motivation and wrote out what I like!! My eyes and my head is lwk hurting, so take this while I go on a small break until then! I hope you guys enjoyed it <3 pls do not ask for part 3, or I will genuinely die. 😭 still, I hope you guys enjoyed it!!!!

[o-rion-sta-r]

I LOVED THIS

He is so obsessed with her

I honestly did not wanting this to end with every scroll I was hoping it was not the end everything was so perfectly executed I’ll reread this a thousand times lol

[oscpia81]

we got a video of the piastri family hug 🥺

[moonologyy]

WHEN THE SPITE DIES

𐔌 ↳ ༉‧₊˚ art by @huedmmi

pairing: CEO!damian wayne/personalassistant!reader

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 - whereas, you were expected to quit after Damian Wayne’s first vicious insult, but fueled by spite you stayed— only to end up hopelessly attracted to the despicable man. You decided to strut into work in stockings and a miniskirt, but he frustratingly refuses to notice. Inspired by ‘miniskirt’ - aoa

cw: no smut just fluff, no y/n mentioned (you will absolutely never catch me using y/n), bad first impressions, enemies(?) to lovers, comedy/humor, bad at feelings, slightly in denial with feelings, happy ending, reader is sick of damian, no angst, and a makeout session.

wc: 18.1k. | part 2

You don’t really remember how you ended up getting the job.

You just knew the economy is going to shit, much to your dismay. You were an adult and life as an adult isn’t what it’s cracked up to be, especially when you’re in a world that has heroes, vigilantes, and villains that pop a perc and run around causing havoc.

Just like many other people in the country, you’re applying to several jobs a day and receiving multiple rejection emails almost daily. However, you decided to run around Gotham with your applications after moving here. The hiring manager in front of you was skimming your resume, nodding along and telling you they were impressed, which felt like a small personal victory to you!

Yay! Pat yourself on the back!

They decided to have an interview with you, right then and there!

“That’s amazing! Could you tell me what made you interested in this position?”

Money.

“What made me interested—” And right in the middle of your interview with the hiring manager, the office door slammed open.

A woman that seemed to be in their late twenties or early thirties, long gorgeous blonde curls stumbled in, red-eyed and shaking, sobbing so hard her words broke apart as she begged you not to work here.

“THE CEO IS AN ABSOLUTE SHITHEAD—”

“Ma’am you need to lea—”

“Do not work with that sorry-excuse of a MAN!”

“Alright, that’s it—”

“Get your hands off of me NOW! I AM SAVING THAT POOR GIRL—” Security dragged her away while she kicked and cried, and the hiring manager cleared their throat like they were trying to swallow an entire cough drop.

“Anyway…” they awkwardly moved on.

Yikes didn’t even begin to cover it.

After the interview, you just went back to your life. You were cleaning your apartment, keeping your mind busy with chores the next few days, binge-watching a series, and applying to different jobs. Honestly, You kind of assumed that you weren’t going to get the job after that happened, I mean would you hire someone after that interruption? Yeah. After that incident, there was no way they were calling you back.

“I mean, that was the craziest thing I’ve ever experienced, and I just moved here!” You said loudly, half–talking over the sizzle of the pan as you stirred your dinner with one hand and kept an AirPod tucked in the other ear. “What do you expect, babe? You moved from Star City on the west coast all the way to the east coast.” Chelsea’s voice crackled lightly through your AirPod.

You glanced at your phone on the counter. The FaceTime screen showed your friend lounging on her couch in Metropolis, her hair tied up and a mug in her hand, looking far too comfortable compared to the chaos you had walked into this week. Her eyebrows were raised like she already knew you were regretting the relocation.

“You should’ve just come with me to Metropolis, I don’t know why you decided to end up in Gotham, New Jersey. For god sake's, have you seen the crime rate!?” You snort, rolling your eyes.

“I’d rather see dumbass people try to get into my nice apartment and not my whole ass apartment blown away by some creature from another planet—”

“Oh please! At least one of them erases the problem easily!” You frowned at that.

Okay. Maybe she got you there.

“Doesn’t Metropolis rip in half like every once a month—” Chelsea cut you a look through the screen, lifting her mug like she was preparing to smack you with it through FaceTime. Her expression said don’t even start, which you replied with your hands up in surrender, your spatula raised with it.

“Where’d you even apply, anyways?”

You shrugged and kept stirring your food. “I don’t even know. I applied to a bunch of companies, but I think the interview I actually went to was at Wayne Enterprises.”

Silence.

A dangerous, heavy silence.

“Are you dumb—!?”

“Chill! I have my AirPods in!” you shouted back, flinching from the raise of her voice. Chelsea let out a long, exhausted sigh that somehow felt like a lecture.

“Which position did you apply for?”

“…personal assistant?”

She immediately screamed your full government name, and you winced so hard your shoulders nearly hit your ears.

You decided to turn her volume down.

“Are you just going to keep screaming at me without actually telling me what’s wrong with applying there?” you snapped, waving your spatula like it could shield you from her judgment.

Chelsea grumbled, pure disappointment settling into every line of her face. “I cannot believe you live under a rock. Damian Wayne. One of the youngest, successful, and arguably the hottest CEO in the country— not my type, but his father is, he’s a standard DILF in my book and will always be in my heart. Ring any bells?”

You blinked.

Slowly.

Did she have to mention the fact her type is the CEO’s father?

“He is notorious for going through personal assistants,” she couldn’t believe your lack of knowledge while continuing. She gestures wildly with her mug with a click of her tongue. “Girl, they all leave within the first month, it’s all over Reddit! Constantly! And it’s not even because he fires them. They just cannot deal with him!”

“Not even the paycheck can make them stay in this economy?” Chelsea slapped her hand on the coffee table so hard her cat shot straight into the air and sprinted out of frame like it feared for its life.

“Not even the paycheck can make them stay in this economy!” She shouted, leaning so close to the camera you could see every stressed-out pore on her face.

“Well, it’s a good thing I won’t be hired then, right?” You begin to scoop your food into a bowl, turning the stove off while you listen to Chelsea relievingly sigh in approval, her shoulders relaxing when she recalls the story you’ve told her.

“Yeah, I doubt they’ll hire you since Goldilocks decided to save you from the trenches. You’re lucky you dodged a bullet.”

Chelsea was wrong.

The next day, you received an email from the poor hiring manager with stressed eye bags that showed straight through the concealer, informing you that you had been accepted for the job.

You stared at the screen.

You got the job.

You should reject it.

Yet, you’ve been rejected left and right.

And the salary was so good—

Chelsea’s vice echoes through your head, the warnings she has told you.

“They all leave within the first month!”

Well. If you’re expected to leave the first month, you might as well get your money and dip when it gets intolerable. I mean, like, fuck it, the worst you can do is ghost the job.

What’s the worst that can happen?

No one warned you.

Well, Chelsea technically warned you.

But, you knew he would be presentable, but not—

Not like this.

“Ah! There he is, this is your boss, Damian Wayne.”

He didn’t walk into the room so much as he cut through it like gravity pulled differently around him. Sharp posture, silent steps, and sharp narrowed eyes that hit you with the same force as a spotlight— green, but not soft. More like polished jade or a blade’s edge reflecting light. It spoke of calculation, assessing, and it felt so direct when it landed on you.

It felt like getting pinned to a corkboard.

His face was almost unfair.

They were clean, symmetrical, and sharp lines. He had a strong jaw that looked like it had been carved deliberately.

There was no boyish charm to him; he had the kind of beauty people hesitate to call beautiful because it sounds too delicate for someone who carries that much confidence. But handsome didn’t feel strong enough either. He was absolutely striking to look at, unattainable, and unforgettable. He had that kind of attractiveness that makes your brain lag for half a second while your mouth tries to remember how to say ‘hello.’

And his expression didn’t help.

He looked at you the way someone looks at a report they already expect to be disappointed by (it was awful), brows slightly drawn, and lips pressed flat in a line that made you painfully aware of just how nice his lips were, they were clearly well taken care of, moisturized and a hue of color on them.

His hair was annoyingly perfect too. Dark, thick, not a strand out of place, like it was styled by sheer discipline instead of product. The kind of hair you could imagine falling into his eyes if he let it grow even a little longer but he never would, of course.

Then there was the way he dressed: crisp, tailored, so flawlessly put-together that you suddenly felt underdressed in clothes you had ironed twice in your blouse and your slacks. He didn’t even have to try; he just existed and the room rearranged itself around him.

But the worst part?

He didn’t even seem aware of how attractive he was. Or maybe he was and just didn’t care.

He looked at you, held your gaze for a fraction too long, and said flat, cool, and without so much as a greeting.

“Um, it’s nice to meet you, I’m your—”

“Tt, I know who you are. You’re the new assistant. HR must be desperate nowadays. You look like someone they scraped off the bottom of the applicant pile.”

Your first impression of Damian Wayne?

You want to absolutely kill him.

Surely you misheard him. Right?

Surely no living person with a functioning sense of self-preservation would say that out loud. Right?

But no. Damian Wayne just stood there, expression carved from ice, like your existence itself was an inconvenience he was being forced to endure.

You inhaled slowly through your nose.

“I—” You forced your voice to stay even.

“I’m here to make your schedule easier, Mr. Wayne.”

“Good,” he plainly said with a monotone voice, already brushing past you like you were a piece of office furniture. “I don’t have expectations for you to stay here longer than a month, so don’t try too hard as a temporary assistant, they always do.”

Your eye twitched.

This aggravating piece of shit—

He stopped at his desk, not even glancing back before gesturing to a stack of folders that’s on his desk.

“Organize these by priority and competency.” He paused, glancing briefly at your figure.

“Assuming you’re capable of both.” You wore the most corporate expression you’ve ever worn in your life, a face that felt like you wanted to shatter yourself and slap the shit out of him. “Of course,” you said sweetly with the fakest smile you’ve ever worn on your life.

Venomously sweet.

“I’ll handle it.” You knew he could hear that sickening sweet fake voice.

“Good.” He simply stated, sighing before he shooed you away. “Try to keep up.”

You didn’t trust yourself to respond.

Not with words. Not with sounds.

You swallowed every snarky comment sitting on your tongue, because nothing in that office could legally be used against you in a workplace lawsuit. Instead, you scooped up the stack of folders he shoved into your arms and marched out before your own mouth created problems your paycheck could not fix.

God, you needed this job.

The salary alone was enough to chain you here for at least a few weeks, maybe even longer if your spite stayed strong. A traitorous part of you even considered turning this into a personal challenge. If you had to endure the daily torment of working for Damian Wayne, then fine. You would survive this place. You would outlast his attitude. You would make it to the one month mark just to prove a point.

And before you finally walked out of this corporate purgatory, you would leave a little surprise in his office, something truly unforgettable, something that would remind him that you had been here. The door shut behind you with a soft click that somehow felt like it saved your life.

The hiring manager trailed after you like a ghost fleeing the scene of a violent crime. Their footsteps were rushed, panicked, like they were afraid Damian might call them back inside if they didn’t move fast enough. They had been completely silent during the encounter, which— given what just happened— felt like its own form of apology.

Or guilt.

You didn’t speak at first.

You needed a second.

Your soul needed a second.

Your blood pressure needs at least 30 seconds.

Finally, once you’d made it a safe distance down the hall, far enough that Damian can’t hear the rattling cage of your heart that wanted to scream at him.

You exhaled.

“…Okay,” you muttered, gripping the folders so tightly they crinkled. You’re going to need to find different folders if they end up creased.

“So that happened.”

The hiring manager let out a strangled sound that might have been a laugh. It might’ve been a whimper. It was hard to tell. “That,” they said, “was… one of his better mornings.” You stared at them in stunned silence.

They avoided eye contact, shoulders tensed like someone with chronic fight-or-flight syndrome. “I hoped he’d be in a good mood today. He had coffee. And a board meeting went well. Usually that helps.”

“That was him in a good mood?”

They nodded, grimly. “Comparatively.”

You stared down the hallway toward Damian’s office door, half expecting it to burst open again just to finish you off.

Honestly? You kind of hoped he would. At least then you could be the first assistant in Wayne Enterprises history to get fired in under ten minutes.

But no.

You were still employed. And you wanted so badly to prove that dickhead wrong.

“Don’t take it personally,” the hiring manager mentions quickly, hands fluttering like they were trying to calm a spooked animal. “He’s usually like that! I mean, not worse, but not better either.” They winced at their own explanation. “Here, let me… let me just take you to your office.”

You followed with the folders clutched to your chest. Your inch-heels clicked softly against the sleek hallway floors, each step a quiet reminder that you were officially in too deep to turn back.

The office around you was alive in that overwhelming, corporate-machine kind of way. Murmurs drifted from half-open doors, printers whirred like they were running for their lives, phones rang nonstop, and people in tailored suits rushed past with urgent expressions and coffee cups that looked dangerously full.

It was the kind of place where everyone seemed to be moving toward something important.

Except you.

You were just trying not to drop the folders or spontaneously combust. You adjusted your grip, inhaled slowly, and forced yourself to match the hiring manager’s brisk pace.

Every passing face glanced at you, all of them were curious, sympathetic, or simply entertained by the existence of a new victim. The looks were so blatant you started to wonder if there was a running office bet on how long you’d last. If there was, you were absolutely putting your money on surviving a month.

A month and a day. And an extra minute just to spite all of them.

You were going to get through this.

You were going to make it through the first month, even if you hated your boss with the intensity of a thousand suns. If not out of ambition…

Then out of pure, unadulterated spite.

Within an hour, you’ve finally settled into your new office, which was far too large for any normal personal assistant, you began plotting. Every drawer, every neatly stacked folder, every perfectly lined pen became part of your mission to prove him wrong.

You were going to arrive early, organize everything to perfection, and carry yourself with the righteous fury of someone determined to weaponize competence.

You were going to be the best goddamn assistant he had for a month!

You’re going to look him in the eye, tell him to eat fuckin’ shit, and walk out of his office with your dignity intact and his pride dented.

Except.

This is going to be really awkward.

You have been his personal assistant for three months.

Chelsea sits across from you in a high-end Gotham café, the kind of place with marble tables, velvet chairs, and coffee so expensive it feels like a personal attack. It is a luxury you can finally afford thanks to the absurdly generous salary that comes with being Damian Wayne’s personal assistant.

“So what’s been up with you—”

Once she settles into her seat, you launch into the whole story, unpacking every chaotic detail of your first week under the city’s most insufferable, sharp-tongued, walking stress migraine of a boss while she gaped at you, even she choked on her coffee once you mentioned the fact you were originally going to plan to tell your boss to eat shit!

“You have been keeping this from me for months!?”

Chelsea nearly shrieks, her voice shooting up enough that you can practically picture her cat back home sprinting under the nearest piece of furniture in self-defense. She drags a hand through her hair with the kind of exasperation that suggests she is seconds away from either combusting or demanding financial reparations for emotional distress.

“I thought you worked at a different company! I thought you didn’t get the Wayne job!” You flinch and lean forward, shushing her as a few nearby patrons glance over with raised eyebrows.

“I’m sorry! Trust me, I am surprised too!” You exclaimed in a quieter voice, pinching the bridge of your nose before your nerves started leaking out of your mouth. “I thought you would have seen it on the news or Reddit. People keep making threads about Damian Wayne’s personal assistant. Me! I am the longest assistant he has ever had.”

Chelsea just stares.

It is the kind of stare reserved for witnessing small miracles, natural disasters, or an animal walking into a Walmart wearing a vest.

“He hasn’t fired you,” she says.

“He hasn’t fired me,” you repeat.

“Not yet.”

“Hopefully not.”

Chelsea sighs, not out of dialing but exaggeration. “At least it pays you well, right?”

“It does, it pays really well actually.” You point to your bracelet, displaying Tiffany and co., that you were surprised to even purchase with the first paycheck that came in, it could cover your rent, car insurance, and two months worth of groceries!

Chelsea hums.

“Well, it’s been a few months now, why haven’t you left your boss if you hate him, babe?”

Well. Things have changed.

You fiddled with your drink, turning the cup in slow circles before lifting it to your lips. The moment you glanced off to the side, pretending to admire the ridiculously pretentious light fixtures or the overpriced pastries behind the counter, you knew you were done for. Chelsea had known you for years.

She could read you like a billboard on a highway.

Her eyes narrowed. “That,” she said, pointing her straw at you like a weapon, “is your I am hiding something face.”

“I’m not hiding anything!”

“That’s your lying voice too.”

You groaned, slumping your shoulders. “I don’t wanna tell you.” You leaned against your arm on the table with a frown, looking at her with the most depressing gaze ever.

She sighs.

“Tell me, what’s wrong.” You mumbled incoherent words that she couldn’t catch.

“It can’t be that bad, but you gotta tell me clearly, babe.”

“I said I like him,” you folded your arms together against the table, slowly hiding your face while you looked at your friend.

Chelsea froze, processing your words slowly.

For a full three seconds, she did not blink, breathe, or otherwise behave like a living organism. Then she leaned forward, squinting at you like you had just confessed to worshipping a fantasy character.

“You what.”

You pulled your arms in tighter, sinking into yourself like you could physically escape the consequences of your own admission.

“I like him,” you repeated, quieter this time, feeling a burn on your neck and the tip of your ears, and your cheeks as well.

Was it getting hotter in this cafe?

Chelsea slapped both hands on the table so hard the silverware rattled. “You have got to be kidding me,” she hissed, keeping her voice just barely below a scream. “You like Damian Wayne?! THE Damian Wayne!? I thought you said you hated him not even five minutes ago!?”

You winced.

“I know.”

“He insulted you on sight!”

“I know.”

“He made three assistants cry before lunch in one week according to that Reddit post five months ago when I last went on there!”

“I know, I read that too.” You cringed.

She leaned in even closer, eyes wide with catastrophic disappointment.

“And you like him.”

You nodded, defeated.

Chelsea dropped her face into her hands.

“Oh my god,” she whispered into her palms. “There’s absolutely no way.” She dragged her fingers down her cheeks in slow, tortured disbelief, then lifted her head just enough to glare at you through the cracks.

“What happened to your standards!? He was rude, mean, a dickhead, a shit-head! And he said you wouldn’t last a month!”

You huffed, crossing your arms with a pout.

“It’s not my fault,” you muttered. “He’s… different when he’s not being… rude.” Chelsea scoffed loudly.

“Different how. Does he switch from dickhead to mildly tolerable asshat? Does he say please once every equinox?”

Chelsea shook her head, disbelief etched on her face.

“He basically insulted your existence before you even started!”

You glared at her, already feeling a creak of embarrassment from the reminder she’s given.

“He… holds doors sometimes.”

“Oh dear Jesus,” she groaned quietly, staring at you like you had personally disappointed the entire human race, shock was an understatement for her.

“Sometimes? Not all the time!? You are not just down bad. You are subterranean! You are in the Earth’s core and you are at the center of the planet melting!”

You were starting to feel like you were melting into a puddle.

“Holding doors? Are you kidding me!? I fear that’s the bare minimum!” She reiterated once more, shooting back with a cry.

You wilted a little.

“Babe! I literally held the door for you 30 minutes ago!”

She wasn’t wrong.

Chelsea sighed, long and heavy, like she was preparing herself for a friendship intervention. “Okay,” she finally came down from her thoughts, sitting upright again. “Start from the beginning. And tell me exactly how long you’ve had this tragic, misguided crush so I know how early the corruption began.” You glanced away, a small, knowing smile tugging at your lips.

You already knew where it began.

Damian Wayne didn’t just hold doors for you— sometimes, he could actually be kind.

Actually, erase that.

What the fuck are you talking about?

It started off when there was an office party at the end of your second week at the company.

The team decided it was best to celebrate after successfully completing a tough collaboration, and despite your reservations, you found yourself there, trying to blend in among Gotham’s elite.

The “party,” which was really just a glorified networking event, was held in a sleek, modern lounge with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering sprawl of Gotham. Soft jazz curled through the air, creating a warm atmosphere while coworkers clustered in small circles, murmuring over half-finished drinks. Glasses clinked. Ice chimed against the crystal. Someone laughed too loudly at a joke that probably wasn’t funny.

You lingered by the refreshment table, holding a champagne flute you had barely touched, watching the room from the safety of the sidelines. The dim lighting made everything feel softer, warmer, less like the corporate machine you worked in and more like a scene from a movie you didn’t belong in.

You were debating whether to grab a cheese cube or just take another sip of your second drink when you felt a shift in the atmosphere beside you. A quiet disturbance, like the air bracing itself.

Damian had appeared.

He stood a few feet away, dressed sharply as always, although the usual severity in his expression seemed dulled by the warm glow of the lounge lights. His posture was still rigid, but the sharp scowl you had come to mentally prepare for wasn’t as deep.

His gaze found yours immediately.

“Oh. It’s you. I wondered why all the birds stopped singing.”

Damian’s voice cut through the hum of conversation, quieter than usual but still carrying that cool edge that scraped your nerves raw.

You raised a brow and crossed your arms, turning to face him fully with a slight fire of irritation, faking a smile in his direction. “No one's forcing you to be around me? Pick another spot, or fire me. I don’t care.”

You were surprised he didn’t fire you right then and there.

It was only your second week.

His eyes flicked over you, assessing, unreadable, before he reached for a drink from the nearby table. “I highly doubt you want to be fired within two weeks.” You furrowed your brows, the anger rising quickly.

You cannot believe you work with this man.

Around the two of you, the soft buzz of the party carried on. Laughter drifted from a nearby table, someone popped open a bottle of sparkling water, and the jazz band eased into a slower melody. Yet despite the noise, the space between you and Damian felt strangely isolated, a small bubble of tension carved clean out of the room’s warm energy.

Please don’t stand next to me. Please don’t come stand next to me. Pleasenotnexttome!

But he shifted, stepping just slightly closer as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Of course, he stands next to you, but just far enough away that there’s an empty space between you.

“Do you really have to stand there?” you muttered, frowning at him.

“You don’t own the space,” he replied, rolling his eyes with that signature Damian Wayne disdain, the type that somehow felt personally designed to get under your skin.

Before you could bite back, the crowd shifted.

A girl you didn’t recognize wove through the party’s glittering mess of people, smiling so brightly it made your teeth ache. She slipped right between you and Damian, brushing your shoulder with a light, oblivious, “Oops, sorry!”

You step back, momentarily thrown off, while Damian’s eyes narrow slightly, but he says nothing.

Luckily, your drink wasn’t spilled.

Oh! Mr. Wayne,” she gushes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in a move so practiced it should’ve come with choreography. “I didn’t expect to see you here. You look amazing tonight!”

Damian gives her a flat, polite look that is somehow more dismissive than if he’d ignored her entirely.

“Thank you.”

She steps a little closer, her shoulder nearly brushing his.

“I was just telling my friends I’d love to get to know more people in the industry. Maybe you could give me some tips?”

Damian’s expression doesn’t change.

“Tips,” he repeats, voice cool.

“I do not offer those.”

“Oh! Well, maybe you could show me instead?”

“Not interested.”

“Not even one minute of your time, sir?”

“I’m busy.”

“I could jus—”

“Are you deaf, woman?” you cut in before she can finish, smiling sharply when her head snaps toward you in offense.

Your tone is honeyed, your eyes absolutely not. You watch her expression, her mouth opening, outrage bubbling up.

“Excuse me?”

You tilt your head, taking a slow sip of your drink. Her jaw works soundlessly, cheeks flushing red, and she sputters a half-formed insult before managing,

“Who do you think you are?”

Before you can respond, Damian does.

“She’s my childhood best friend.”

You choke on your drink so violently you almost decorate the floor with it.

Childhood best—

The hell is this coming from?

The girl snaps her head toward Damian, frowning, irritation breaking through her forced sweetness.

“Really? She doesn’t look like it.”

You raise a brow so sharp it could cut glass.

What is that supposed to mean?

“Well, she used to be.”

She raised an infuriating brow at Damian with a twisted frown, clearly offended by your continued existence and a tad bit curiosity shining within them.

You mouthed seriously over her shoulder at your boss that completely ignored you.

You lean in slightly, lowering your voice in a conspiratorial tone that makes her perk up just enough.

“If you’re so curious,” you say, smiling with all the sincerity of a cat staring at a canary, “we’re not childhood friends for a reason.”

You lie through your teeth without hesitation.

And right beside the woman, Damian watches over you— quiet, unreadable, and unmistakably intrigued.

“Why is that?” she asks, hesitating, clearly torn between morbid curiosity.

You smile sweetly.

“When we were young, I went over to his house and watched him drink his own blood for breakfast, like it was some artisanal smoothie because he thought he was a vampire.” You shook your head. “His family had to send him to a mental hospital after he bit four of our classmates' necks, luckily he only killed two.”

There is a silence so thick you could scoop it with a spoon.

The girl’s eyes widened in absolute horror.

And beside her, Damian— Damian Wayne, Gotham’s coldest, most composed, most impossible-to-shake man stares at you over her shoulder, lips parted, expression stunned.

“Seriously?” She say, absolutely turning pale by the second with a hint of disbelief and skepticism in her tone, yet she’s starting to believe you.

You nodded solemnly, as if delivering a tragic, documented truth.

“One of the nurses put garlic in his sandwich and he absolutely freaked out. Therapists had to come in and talk him down while he kept yelling about curses, mortal treachery, and how garlic was the ‘bane of his eternal existence.’”

You shrugged.

“Thank god he’s on medication.”

Damian closes his eyes for one long, suffering second. When he opens them again, there’s a spark there.

A dangerous one.

“I’ll do you better,” he says, voice smooth and deadpan. “When she was younger, she used to crawl into the garbage at one in the morning because she was fully convinced she was a raccoon. She tried to square-up with the actual animal for dominance. She lost.”

Your smile freezes, peering over her shoulder. Raccoon? Are you serious? You mouthed. “She ate the wrappers in our garbage. Ate them. Like they were gourmet. A total nutcase. She walked on all fours so committedly she developed calluses. Hissed at anyone who got too close— neighbors, mailmen, and the mayor once. Animal control tried to trap her three separate times. A complete lost cause.”

The woman looks like she’s about to throw up, hand hovering near her mouth as if bracing for a second round of trauma.

Your jaw drops.

“She’s come a long way,” Damian adds, eyes glinting with quiet amusement, “but sometimes she relapses and we find her in a dumpster in the back of BatBurger.”

You stare at him, appalled.

You turn to her, lowering your voice like you are sharing the saddest, darkest secret of your generation.

“One time he didn’t take his meds and someone accidentally spilled water on him. He thought it was holy water,” you say gravely, watching her head swivel back to you. “So he started screaming about being burned alive like bread in a toaster. In public. Very loud. Very dramatic. He threw himself onto the floor and writhed like a dying Victorian child. People thought an exorcism was happening in aisle five.”

You sigh, shaking your head as if reliving the tragedy.

“He yelled that he was going to die. It took four security guards and his dad to calm him down.”

“She had to wear an ankle monitor that she bit off,” Damian cuts in, no longer staring at her, but at you.

What the absolute fuck.

“She sharpened her claws since she still thought she was a raccoon and gouged someone’s eyes out in a local church. She ate those eyeballs, but told the police that god took them. The victim is still alive. They’re blind and they no longer go to church.”

The woman swallows so hard you can hear it.

“You’re absolutely joking.”

Yes, he is,” you say sweetly, pinning the woman with a reassuring smile that is only a few degrees away from a threat.

“I’m not, he killed two of my cats and my other friend for one of his sacrificial rituals, trying to summon the damn devil to get immortality. At age ten. We had to get a priest, and the actual exorcist,” you continue, as if you’re giving her directions to the mall.

“We had to strap him to a bed. Full head spin. Latin chanting. He spoke in seven different voices— none of them his. One of them was an elderly Italian man who’s been dead since 1842.”

She looks absolutely sick to her stomach.

“Holy symbols were flying off the walls. The lights flickered, and the temperature dropped twenty degrees. At one point, he levitated. Horizontally. Like a possessed IKEA shelf.” You lift your glass, sipping unbothered.

“He nearly killed the priest, too. Launched him across the room with telekinetic rage. The priest survived only because we dumped an entire Costco-sized vat of holy water on him and force-fed him garlic cloves like he was a charcuterie board and faced him towards the sun.”

“You— both of you are absolutely insane!” The woman sways a little, looking between the two of you like she’s trying to decide whether to run, scream, or call the police.

“I thought this was a networking event. I’m not… I’m not spiritually prepared for whatever that was.” She makes a choked noise, turns on her heel, and speed-walks away like she expects one of you to start foaming at the mouth.

You watch her disappear into the crowd. Then you turn to Damian, giving him the flattest, most pointed look you can manage.

“Childhood friends? Seriously.”

He exhales through his nose, the closest he ever gets to an eye roll without actually doing it.

“A vampire. Are you kidding me?”

“I just wanted to tell someone that you drank blood for breakfast.”

After that incident, Damian had somewhat tolerated you.

You were going to make it— the first month, you’ve found yourself also tolerating Damian’s presence after that incident.

He stopped ignoring you like you were a ghost only he wished was dead.

You stopped fantasizing about strangling him with his own tie.

He stopped snapping at you every time you breathed within a three-foot radius.

You stopped wanting to shove him into the nearest supply closet (and lock it).

You started walking into his office without rehearsing three insults in your head first.

He started not sighing dramatically every time you would walk in, only because you told him to quit it.“What’re are you fuckin’ five years old? Get a grip.”

You were surprised you weren’t fired the minute you said that too.

There was honestly a lot of things that you’ve been lucky to get away with.

It was honestly nice.

He started becoming too nice.

He started holding doors for you.

Not in a showy, look-how-chivalrous-I-am way.

More like: he’d reach the door, pause, and wordlessly keep it open without looking at you. As if it was simply easier than watching you juggle your bag, tablet, water bottle, and your will to live all in one minute.

Then came the coffee.

Not just any coffee.

Your order.

Perfectly correct down to the amount of sweetener you never told him about.

It would appear on your desk at 8:07 every morning. The exact minute you usually sat down, being 23 minutes early as always with no explanation except a quiet, muttered:

“The barista on the first floor kept messing up my drink. They gave me this instead.”

He said it like it annoyed him.

He handed it to you like it didn’t.

And he walked away before you could question him about how the barista “accidentally” made your drink four days in a row.

Then there were the other things.

He’d push the elevator button for both of you without being asked.

He’d slow his stride by half a step so you could keep up with files in your arms to attend the next meeting with him, pretending it was unintentional.

If you were carrying too many folders, he’d take half without comment, eyes forward, as if he could pretend he wasn’t helping you.

Once, he even redirected a rude executive who barked at you in the hallway, stepping in with a clipped, cold:

“My personal assistant is busy. Speak to someone else.”

You almost dropped your tablet at that comment.

That was when your heart started racing. It was sharp, sudden, and betraying you before you even understood why.

It wasn’t the dramatic kind of fluttering people wrote about in books, nothing soft or romantic. It was a tight, startled thump in your chest, the kind that made your breath catch for half a second as heat crawled quietly up your neck.

It happened in the small moments, the ones you never expected to matter— when his hand brushed yours as he passed you a file, when his voice dropped lower than usual as he asked a question, when he stood just a little too close in the elevator and you could feel the faint warmth radiating from him.

Every quiet act of consideration, every glance that lingered a beat longer than it should have, stirred something unsteady beneath your ribs. It felt like your body realized something before your mind did, like your instincts were trying to tell you that Damian’s sudden gentleness wasn’t random at all.

And once you noticed it, once your heart reacted— you couldn’t un-notice it.

Each day it only beats a little faster.

Especially that one night, the night everything went sideways so violently it felt personal.

The office was unnervingly quiet after hours. Most of the overhead lights had already clicked off, leaving long stretches of the floor in a low, ambient glow. The only illumination near you came from your monitor, washing your desk in a cold, bluish light that made the scattered papers look like crime scene evidence.

Your shoulders ached from sitting too long.

Your eyes burned.

Your coffee had gone cold sometime around 7 p.m., and you kept drinking it anyway because the bitterness felt like fuel.

You had taken on too much work. You knew that. You felt it as soon as your fingers began to tremble over your keyboard.

The HVAC system hummed softly above you. Somewhere far down the hall, a printer woke up and made a lonely mechanical noise before going quiet again. Your own breath sounded too loud in the open, empty space.

You clicked into the project folder that was supposed to contain sixty-eight documents.

It had six.

Six documents blinking back at you like they were mocking you.

Your stomach dropped so fast it made you dizzy.

You refreshed the tab. Nothing changed. You tried again. Still six. The rest had vanished— scrambled somewhere across Wayne Enterprises’ ocean of internal servers.

You whispered, “No, no, no… oh, come on, not tonight.”

Your fingers flew, searching through subfolders, archives, misnamed files. You found some mislabeled under an entirely different project. Others were saved in outdated formats. A few looked corrupted, their icons taunting you with dull, broken symbols.

You spent the next hour piecing them back together, shuffling between windows, dragging things into place, the soft clicking of your mouse echoing in the cavernous silence.

When you finally rebuilt the folder and opened it again…

Half of it was still missing.

Gone.

Deleted.

Not even a ghost in the recycle bin.

Your pulse thundered in your ears.

The fluorescent light above your cubicle flickered once, dramatically, like it was judging your life choices.

The air felt too thin.

Your throat tightened.

All of this— every file, every signature, every revision— was due in two days.

You pushed both hands into your forehead and muttered, “This is it. This is where I die. Right here. In this stupid chair. They’ll find my corpse fossilized into this mesh ergonomic backing.”

You mumbled to yourself before glancing at the clock on your screen.

8:43 p.m.

The rest of the floor was a graveyard. Dark offices. Empty chairs. Silent conference rooms. Not even the janitorial staff had come by yet.

You forced yourself to sit down and get to work because no one else was going to fix this disaster, even if it wasn’t your fault. The responsibility still sat heavy on your shoulders if you didn’t do anything, almost like a physical weight pressing between your shoulder blades.

You had to track down every missing document, rebuild what was gone, and prepare the entire set before the deadline that glared at you from your calendar in a furious shade of red.

Your own workload sat beside it, equally demanding after you’ve redone the first five of the thirty documents.

Your email inbox kept chiming every few minutes, each notification a tiny reminder that you were behind.

The piles on your desk had grown uneven and tall enough to lean like stressed-out skyscrapers.

Half of Damian’s stack stared at you like it had been personally offended by your existence. Your shared calendar flickered on your monitor with overlapping meetings, last-minute adjustments, and bright color-coded tasks that all claimed to be the highest priority.

You glance at the time.

10:28 p.m.

Just as you’re about to dive back into the mountain of paperwork, the door to the office swings open. Damian steps in, his expression a mix of confusion and mild irritation.

“You’re still here?” His voice is calm but edged with disbelief.

You look up, blinking away the exhaustion.

“I have one more thing to finish.”

Multiple things actually.

He shakes his head slowly, eyes narrowing. “It’s late. Everyone else has gone home hours ago. Your light is the only one on.”

Oh.

You bite back the exhaustion creeping into your voice.

“I’m almost done.”

Damian’s gaze lingers on you for a moment, unreadable.

Then, without another word, he steps back toward the door, the quiet weight of the night settling once more around you.

You thought he had left, leaning against your chair to take at least a five minute nap without any interruption.

But moments later, he reappears, holding his jacket in one hand, his eyes fixed on you with that same sharp intensity.

“Let’s go.”

You blink in surprise.

“What—?” You shake your head, stubbornness flaring despite your exhaustion.

“I’ve got it under control. I just need a little more time.”

He cuts you off with a flat tone, hearing you yawn afterwards.

“It’s almost 11 p.m. I don’t trust you behind the wheel when you’re this close to falling asleep in your office chair.” You blink, caught off guard by his blunt concern, the tension in the room shifting just a little.

“I can just call an Uber?” you offer weakly, half out of stubbornness, half because you don’t know what else to do with the sudden warmth crawling up your neck.

What are you supposed to do in this situation?

“Don’t be stupid and waste your money on that…” he fiddles with his cuffs, “I’ll drive you home.” His tone snaps like a reprimand, firm and irritated, but underneath it is something unmistakably protective.

He clicks his tongue, already annoyed for you, at you, around you, like you were the one being unreasonable for… existing past 10 p.m. in a corporate building.

He gestures sharply at your desk with a small glare, the kind that isn’t really anger but more of a silent command.

Pack up. Now.

And despite yourself.

Despite how confusing this whole moment is, despite the way your face warms at the edges, you actually listen. Your hands move on instinct, gathering your things while your thoughts spiral in a confused, flustered whirl:

Why does he care?

Why is he doing this?

Why is he taking you home?

Is this normal? You thought.

It’s just work related, right?

Yeah. Work-related.

For a boss to take their personal assistant home?

The realization lands with a quiet, heavy thud— one that makes your fingertips fumble over the zipper of your bag, your breath catching for just a beat.

Did he do this to his other assistants?

You glance at the man and the calendar on your desk.

He shows up at your doorframe at almost eleven at night, jacket in hand, eyes lingering on you as he patiently waits for you to gather your things. And as you sling your bag over your shoulder, heart a little too light and a little too frantic, you can’t stop thinking:

Why is he still at Wayne Enterprise at 11 p.m. when his schedule was cleared after 6 p.m.?

You follow him out the door, steps quiet, falling just a half-pace behind him like your body hasn’t caught up to the situation yet. Confusion presses tightly across your face, your brows drawn together, lips thinned as you stare at the back of his head. His strides are steady, purposeful, like this is the most normal thing in the world.

Meanwhile, your thoughts are a mess, tumbling over each other as you trail him down the dim hallway lit only by recessed lights and the soft hum of overnight ventilation.

He doesn’t glance back once.

Of course he doesn’t.

Damian Wayne never does anything as obvious as checking if you’re following.

He just expects you to.

And you do.

You both get onto the elevator, pressing onto the garage floor button while you both stand awkwardly next to each other.

“I hope… you don’t mind me asking sir, but what were you doing here past 10 p.m…”

“Finishing reports,” he says simply. His tone is flat, businesslike, but not sharp. “Some of the board files were delayed, so I stayed to review them before tomorrow.”

You nod, knowing he can see it from the corner of his gaze.

The elevator hums around you, the soft whir of machinery filling the quiet. The two of you stand side by side, close enough that you can feel the faint heat radiating off his suit jacket but not close enough to touch. You could smell his cologne that lingers on him. It drifts toward you in soft waves: clean, subtle, and expensive in a way that doesn’t brag.

Something sharp at the start, like bergamot or cedar, softened by something warm underneath, like velvet.

The elevator quietly dings, the soft chime echoing through the empty garage as the doors slide open. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting long shadows across rows of empty parking spots. You trail after Damian, your footsteps sounding small in the cavernous space.

He walks with purposeful strides, not hurried but direct, straight past the reserved spaces, toward a sleek black car with two doors, a nice Porsche 911 that looks too polished for how late it is. He doesn’t check if you are keeping up, yet somehow you know he is fully aware of every step you take behind him.

You follow him through the quiet, cool air of the garage, watching the way his jacket shifts with each movement, the way he reaches into his pocket for his keys without slowing his pace.

He unlocks the car with a soft click.

He reaches the car and stops beside the passenger side, pulling the handle without hesitation. The door swings open smoothly, the interior lights blooming to life in a soft glow that spills onto the concrete floor.

He doesn’t look at you while he does it.

His gaze stays forward, jaw set, expression unreadable, as if this is purely routine and not an act of shockingly old-fashioned courtesy from a man who once told you “move faster” instead of “good morning.”

He steps back just slightly, giving you room. “Stop standing around and get in.” He says quietly.

You blink at him, unsure whether to be offended, flustered, or concerned that your notoriously rude boss is speaking to you like a person instead of a defective office appliance.

His hand still rests on the top edge of the door, waiting.

You feel more awake than ever.

You think you can drive home.

“Mr. Wayne, it’s fine, I can drive myself home—”

He gives you a look.

Just one sharply raised brow that communicates an entire paragraph:

You’re not driving. Get in the car.

Your protests die on your tongue.

You swallow once, pulse kicking up for reasons you refuse to examine, gather yourself, and finally slide into the seat. The leather is cool beneath you, the interior quiet, the door closing with a soft, final click that feels far too intimate for something so mundane.

He walks around the hood, steps measured, and unhurried.

Instead, he glances at you. Just once. Brief, unreadable, but with enough weight behind it to pin you to the seat.

“Seatbelt,” he says.

Two syllables. Low. Firm. Not unkind, which is worse somehow. Your fingers move before your brain catches up, tugging the belt into place with a soft click.

Dear god. Sitting this close to your boss, the one you’ve found attractive, annoying, tolerable, and infuriating in rotating intervals— has to be the worst experience of your entire life.

You stare firmly ahead, refusing to let your gaze drift even an inch in his direction, because if it does, you’re almost certain you’ll combust on the spot. Meanwhile, he shifts into gear, turning the notch of the volume of his music that slowly settles into the air with the same calm, controlled ease he applies to everything, as if your internal panic isn’t loud enough to fill the whole car.

You exhale once, quietly.

This is fine.

You’re fine.

You’re absolutely not fine.

“Your address.”

You blink, turning your head a fraction before you can stop yourself.

“What?”

Damian raised an amused brow, the expression subtle but unmistakable. “I can’t drive you home if I don’t know where you live. The address.”

You swallow, suddenly aware of how loud your pulse sounds in your ears. “Oh. Right. It’s—” you recite it, stumbling only once over the street name.

He inputs it into the GPS with the same calm efficiency he approaches everything with, one hand steady on the wheel, the other moving with practiced ease across the screen.

“You shouldn’t be working overtime without telling me.” You blink, taken aback.

“What? I didn’t— I mean, it wasn’t— that late.”

“It was past ten,” he counters, tone flat but unmistakably irritated, what’s with him and having that underlying tone of passive aggressiveness? This is why everyone’s scared of him.

“That qualifies as late.”

“It really isn’t that late,” you argue, crossing your arms even though it does absolutely nothing to make you feel less defensive.

Damian shifts his grip on the wheel, making a turn at an intersection, leading to the freeway. “For you, maybe,” he says.

“You look like you were five minutes away from face-planting into your keyboard.”

Your shoulders stiffen.

“I was fine.”

“You were drooling,” he adds without missing a beat. You snap your head toward him, scandalized.

“I was NOT—”

He doesn’t even look at you— just continues driving, voice maddeningly even.

“You were. A small puddle. Tragic, really.”

Your jaw drops.

“A puddle—?!”

“Don’t worry,” Damian says, completely unbothered. “Nobody saw, except I did.”

Unbelievable.

This man was lying to your face.

“I didn’t drool.”

“You did.”

“I did not.”

He exhales through his nose, like you’re the unreasonable one here.

“You were unconscious in your chair. Head tilted back. Mouth open. Classic drooling posture.”

YOU DIDN’T EVEN SLEEP?!?

“I wasn’t drooling,” you repeat, slower this time, because you know— you know— you weren’t.

“You’re lying.”

Damian’s lips twitch.

Not a smile.

Not quite.

But close enough that your stomach flips.

“I don’t lie,” he says coolly.

“You’re lying right now.”

Silence. A beat.

“…You were about to drool.”

Your jaw dropped.

“You—!”

“That’s worse,” he adds dryly.

You’re ready to launch into a full rebuttal, but he cuts in before you can speak: “You should thank me,” he says. “If you had actually started, I would’ve had to mop you off your desk.”

You’re actually going to kill him.

“Get me out of this car now.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

“If I stop on the freeway, we’ll both die.”

“That’s fine.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes. It is.”

He finally glances your way, one eyebrow raised with a spark within his eyes, you knew he was reveling in it.

“You’re being dramatic.”

“You literally invented dramatic.” His fingers drum lightly against the steering wheel, betraying a flicker of amusement he refuses to acknowledge.

“That’s rich coming from you,” he says, voice calm but edged with something warm.

“If anyone here has a flair for theatrics, it’s the person who nearly face-planted onto a stack of financial reports and told that woman that I’ve supposedly killed two kids and was possessed.” You glare at him.

“It was for a good reason and I did you a favor!”

Damian turns his head just slightly, enough that you can see the curve of disbelief at the corner of his mouth.

“A favor,” he repeats, tone dry enough to evaporate water. “Your solution,” he says slowly, “was to convince her I bit a classmate, splashed with holy water by accident, summoned the devil, and committed— what was it?—‘multiple cat sacrifices.’”

You lift your chin. “To be fair, you added the part about me gouging out a guy’s eyes in church. And face-planting into the reports? Are you serious?”

“It haunts me to this day.”

“You didn’t even see it happen!” You scoffed.

“I didn’t have to. I heard the thud from halfway across the floor.”

Your jaw drops.

“You liar!”

“Possibly,” he admits, gaze returning to the road, “but you can’t prove it.” You grip your bag tighter, fighting the urge to throw it at him.

He’s impossible! A douchebag! A liar!

Despicable. Insolent. Smug. Humorous.

And Handsome with the capital ‘H’ annoying.

A soft, almost amused exhale slips out of him and you hate that your heart notices.

Your apartment building edges into view through the windshield. The familiar, worn brick and warm lights in the windows, something easy curls in your stomach.

You glance at him, then at the building, then back at him. You should probably at least have the decency to thank him for dropping you off to your place.

“Thank—”

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow before work.”

Your mouth snaps shut, staring at him.

“…What?” you finally manage, voice embarrassingly thin.

He wants to pick you up.

He’s planning to pick you up.

Damian slows to a stop at the curb in front of your building, the streetlight casting soft gold across the sharp line of his jaw. His hands remain steady on the wheel, expression irritatingly unreadable.

“I said I’ll pick you up tomorrow,” he repeats, this time he’s looking at you with a tilt of his head, like he’s informing you of the weather. “You clearly can’t be trusted to get adequate sleep, and I’m not dealing with you hallucinating through spreadsheets.”

Your jaw drops.

“I do NOT hallucinate— you’re— ugh! Unbelievable.” For a second of silence, there was a look of gentleness settling in his eyes, softening the sharp green into something that lingers a little too long on you.

“Seven thirty,” he says, ignoring your previous comment.

“Don’t be late.”

You grip your bag, still stunned, still not sure you’re hearing him correctly. “You don’t have to do that,” you protest, even though your voice comes out softer than you’d like.

“I know,” he replies simply.

You step out of the car on unsteady legs, heart beating far too fast for reasons you refuse to examine yet… but you do look back. You shift your weight, gripping your bag strap until your knuckles ache.

You watch the passenger window slide down. “Mr. Wayne, seriously. You don’t have to—”

“Damian.”

You ignore that.

Your front steps are only a few feet away now, but you suddenly feel like you’re standing on the edge of something a lot higher.

“You’re confusing me, you’re not making any sense at all,” you murmur, even though your voice betrays you by going soft again.

A cold breeze skims across your cheeks, the kind that promises Gotham’s autumn is heading towards the colder month. You pull your coat a little tighter, but it does nothing for the strange warmth curling under your ribs.

“It makes perfect sense,” he counters. “You run yourself into the ground. You forget meals and you revise everyone’s work.”

“I—”

“Twice,” he says without hesitation. “You revise their work twice.” He continues, quieter now, “you need to take care of yourself.” You blink, stunned by the simplicity of it.

By sincerity.

By the fact that it sounds dangerously close to concern.

“And that concerns you?” you ask, trying to keep it light, teasing, anything but the vulnerable thing it threatens to be. His eyes flick to yours, a spark of truth breaking through his usual restraint.

“It should,” he murmurs. “Shouldn’t it?”

There’s a silence that feels unsteady, fragile in a way neither of you dare acknowledge. He watches the faint cloud of breath that escapes you in the cold Gotham air, the way your frown tries and fails to hide the shift in your expression.

His gaze flicks toward your apartment, then back to you.

“Go inside. Get some rest.”

And even though you want to argue… you don’t. You can’t with him. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Your fingers curl around your keys. “Seven thirty,” you echo, trying not to sound as flustered as you feel.

He gives the smallest nod, the kind that somehow manages to feel like both approval and silent victory.“Good,” he says, a smirk across his lips.

You hesitate for half a second, then turn toward the entrance. “Goodnight,” he adds, voice low, steady and almost gentle if you weren’t careful with how you interpreted it.

You start walking, each step slow enough that you hate yourself a little for it. The lobby lights spill warm against the pavement, and just before you reach the door, something makes you glance back.

He’s still there, watching you get in safely.

One hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely by the gearshift, posture composed— but his eyes remain fixed on you until the very moment you slip inside with a scan of your apartment’s key and disappear from his sight.

Only then does he finally look away.

“And then? Did he pick you up?”

Chelsea asks, her face squished between her palms, eyes wide and sparkling like she’s watching the season finale of her favorite drama.

You stare at her.

She stares back, vibrating.

As if she wasn’t hating your boss 30 minutes ago.“Chelsea,” you say slowly, “I don’t even know what that was.”

“Oh my god, stop—did he pick you up?” She demands again, shaking your arm like she’s trying to rattle the answer out of you.

You sigh, drop your forehead onto the table, and mumble into the wood, “Yes.”

Chelsea gasps so violently you’re pretty sure she inhaled half the air in the café.

“There’s no way—”

“Not only that!” you cut in, throwing your hands up. “He would do it multiple times! My poor car would be stuck here at my job forever!” Chelsea doesn’t even try to hide her disgusted wince.

“Honestly… that thing has seen better days.”

“It still works just fine!” you snap, offended on behalf of your dented, aging, slightly rattling Honda civic. She raises a brow. “It screams when you turn left.”

“It groans,” you correct. “And only in winter.” Chelsea leans in, looking way too delighted while you picked yourself up from the table to sit up straighter. “And winter is here, with that next paycheck you should really get a new car.” You sigh, shoulders sinking because— annoyingly— she’s right.

But you can’t help it.

You’re attached to that stupid car. It was your first big purchase after high school, the thing you saved for through every miserable minimum-wage shift, every extra hour you picked up, every time you resisted food to stash a few more dollars away.

“It’s sentimental,” you mutter, poking at your empty drink. “I practically raised that car.”

Chelsea stares at you.

“It’s dying, babe.”

“It has character.”

“It has medical issues.” You glare.

“You’re rude.”

“I picked it up from the best,” she says, giving you a slow, pointed once-over before winking. “Don’t act shocked, you taught me to be quick with it.” Okay, maybe it was about time to get a new car.

“So… what are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll buy a damn new car,” you grumble, dragging a hand down your face.

Chelsea snorts.

“No— I mean Damian.”

You freeze. Of course that’s what she meant. “What about him?” you ask, already regretting it. Chelsea lifts both brows like she’s about to deliver a divine revelation.

“Well, are you going to shoot your shot…?” You blink.

“What shot?” She just stares at you.

“Look, you’re not that dumb, but you can’t be THAT dumb.”

“There’s absolutely no way,” you insist, shaking your head.

Chelsea throws her hands up before pointing her pretty manicure finger at you. “Babes, you told me what he’s done. It sounded pretty obvious he didn’t like you at first— sure, but clearly there’s something now.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Chelsea—”

“No, don’t ‘Chelsea’ me. He’s clearly teasing you. He picks you up. He drops you off. He notices when you haven’t eaten. He scolds you for working late. That’s not normal boss behavior. That’s not even barely normal human behavior!”

You blink.

She leans closer, voice lowering conspiratorially.

“It’s playground logic,” she says. “Pulling pigtails to get the girl’s attention. That man is either in love with you… or putting a suspicious amount of effort into someone he claims is ‘just an employee.’”

You fold your arms, leaning toward her, unimpressed and curious all at once.

“Okay, if you’re right. What do you think I should do then?”

Chelsea’s grin spreads slow and wicked, like she’s been waiting for you to ask.

“Babe, I know I am right. What’s your dress-code policy lookin’ like?”

You narrow your eyes at her.

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Oh, I will say it like that,” she fires back immediately, kicking her heel against your chair. “Because if your boss is driving you home, picking you up, buying you coffee, acting all nonchalant like a storm cloud with feelings—”

“He doesn’t have feelings.”

“—then,” she continues loudly, ignoring you, “it is time to… gently nudge the situation.”

You stare. “Gently nudge?”

She lifts her brows.

“Keep up, dummy.” She rolls her eyes. “Wear something that’s not what you’re wearing now.” She gives a pointed look at your cute button-up blouse and slacks. “You need to remind him you’re not just his sleep-deprived assistant who alphabetizes spreadsheets for a living, ya’know.”

You narrow your eyes at her theatrics, but she just lifts her chin smugly.

“A theory?” you echo, suspicious.

She nods, all-knowing, all-smug, infuriatingly Chelsea.

“Mm-hmm. A very important, scientifically proven theory.”

“What theory?”

“That if you dress even slightly hotter than usual,” she says, leaning in like she’s sharing a state secret, “your boss will start to make advancements.”

Your face heats. “He is not—”

“He is,” she interrupts, unfazed. “And I want updates. Detailed ones. Because when I’m right—”

“When,” you repeat flatly.

“When,” she confirms with a decisive nod, “I expect a thank-you gift. Preferably edible. Or expensive.”

You groan into your hands.

She pats your shoulder.

“Don’t worry. It’s just step one.”

“Step one?” you muffle.

“Oh absolutely,” she says, already pulling out her phone. “I’m making a checklist.”

“Okay,” she announces, displaying the screen of a small list. “Step one: act normal, but slightly hotter and slightly busier. Men go insane if they don’t receive attention.”

“I’m literally his assistant. I can’t ‘act busy,’ I am busy.”

“Perfect,” she says brightly with a wide grin. “You’re already a natural!”

You drop your face back into your palms.

“Chelsea, this is a terrible idea.” She leans in until she’s a mere few inches away from your gaze, nose nearly touching your hands.

“But you’re going to do it anyway.”

Your silence betrays you.

Chelsea gasps scandalously.

Loudly. Dramatically. Offensively.

“Oh my god, you’re already thinking about what you’re going to wear!”

“I’m not—!”

“You are,” she sings, grabbing your wrist and shaking it like you’ve won a prize. “This is amazing. I love this for you. I love this for me!”

You yank your hand back, trying and failing to will down the heat in your cheeks.

“This is not a romance novel,” you mutter. “He’s my boss.”

“And he’s driving to your apartment at seven-thirty in the morning to pick you up from overworking,” Chelsea retorts. “Sweetheart, you already skipped half the tropes and went straight into the slow-burn danger zone.”

You stare at her, she’s grinning like she’s narrating your funeral. “Text me tomorrow,” she says, gathering her purse. “And remember: make his jaw drop!” She winks, watching your face twist into a frown.

“You’re welcome in advance.” And like the good friend you were… you listened to her.

The next morning, you woke earlier than usual, the soft glow of dawn just beginning to filter through your curtains. You began your daily routine that made you groan at the crack of dawn, except this time— you carefully sifted through your clothes, weighing options, second-guessing, and finally settling on the outfit that felt just right.

You stood in front of your mirror with your arms crossed, face scrunched up, judging your own reflection with the same intensity Damian reserved for quarterly reports.

After a full minute of squinting, stepping back, stepping forward again, and muttering to yourself like a deranged tailor, you finally picked an outfit that was technically within the dress code.

It wasn’t your usual safe, comfortable, neutral-choice outfit.

You wore an outfit with clean lines, sharp edges, the kind of put-together that didn’t just fit you, instead it looked like it had been waiting for you. The skirt hit exactly where it should, the stockings gave just enough edge to balance the professionalism, sexiness, and confidence without tipping into trying too hard.

Your skin had that annoying, unfair glow too— not the “I slept a full eight hours” kind, but the lived-in, effortless natural appearance. It kinda gave you that youthful look with a charming smile. It was professional but warm. It made you look like someone who knew exactly what they were doing with both their life and their wardrobe, even if you’d spent the last thirty minutes pacing and overthinking every choice.

You told yourself it had nothing to do with him.

You were lying to yourself and you knew it.

Especially this morning, when you found yourself running later than usual. You had spent too much time trying to look good, carefully applying a light layer of makeup and a nice lipstick color that felt almost weightless on your skin and blended perfectly. It wasn’t just about professionalism; it was about feeling confident in your own skin.

Then there was the traffic. Slow, frustrating, testing your patience at every turn. This was exactly why you usually came in early— to avoid moments like this.

Today is going to be different.

It already felt different.

You clutched your bag a little tighter as you walked through the halls, acutely aware of the way heads subtly turned your way. The usual hum of the office seemed to shift around you, as if your presence had suddenly carved out a new kind of attention— one you weren’t quite used to but didn’t entirely dislike.

A few compliments floated your way, especially from the friendly female coworkers you often chatted with, all emphasizing how great your outfit looked.

“You look amazing today! Who are you trying to impress?”You shook your head with a laugh that escaped.

“Date tonight? You’re glowing!”

“I’ve never seen you in a skirt before! You look good!” Clearly, you were doing something right.

Yet, beneath the surface, your mind was racing, waiting for Damian’s reaction. You told yourself to follow Chelsea’s advice— play it cool and don’t give him any obvious attention. That should be simple enough, right? But the anticipation buzzed quietly in your chest, making it hard to focus on anything else.

You made your way down the hallway toward your office, the soft morning light filtering through the windows and casting long shadows across the floor. Your heart fluttered just a bit faster with every step, the nerves mixing with the rush of the new day ahead. The usual hum of early activity filled the air. The quiet chatter, the clatter of keyboards waking up, and the faint hiss of the coffee machine from the break room.

“Alright, time to get to work,” you muttered under your breath, already mentally bracing yourself for the long day ahead.

Your fingers wrapped around the cool metal of the doorknob as you pushed the door open.

Only to freeze mid-motion when you spotted the figure inside.

Damian was there, leaning casually against the edge of the desk, a cup of coffee in one hand, his sharp eyes fixed on you with that familiar unreadable expression.

He didn’t bother to hide his surprise or disapproval as his gaze flicked to the clock on the wall behind him before snapping back to you.

“You’re late.”

The words hung in the air, low and deliberate, cutting through the quiet hum of the office as if he’d been waiting for this moment all along.

His gaze briefly flickers to your outfit before meeting your eyes again.

You frowned, glancing at the time on your phone.

“I’m not even late, I just came in a bit later than usual.”

He lets out a quiet, almost amused sigh, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smirk.

“Later than usual still counts as late,” he mumbled, but there was a subtle shift in his voice. Less of a reprimand, more of a teasing edge that made it clear he wasn’t really mad.

“Are you going to fire me over it?” You raised a brow.

“…No, but do you have the documents I asked you to review before my next meeting?” His tone was calm, laced with that usual professionalism.

You nodded slowly, pressing your lips together as a familiar ache settled in your chest. There was disappointment, and something deeper that’s unspoken.

That quiet hope you’d been nursing quietly unraveled, leaving behind a sting of frustration that simmered just beneath the surface.

You fought the urge to let it show, burying the mix of longing and irritation behind a controlled expression as the silence stretched between you.

“Uh, yeah, it’s in the drawers in my desk, let me hand it to you.” You replied, moving around your desk and quietly pulled out the documents that’s given to him immediately.

Damian took the stack without looking away, his grip firm but not unkind. The faint rustle of the papers felt loud in the stillness between you. For a moment, you both stood there. He focused on the documents while you watched the subtle lines around his mouth soften just a fraction. It was small, almost invisible, but it made your chest tighten in a way you could not quite explain.

“I’ll review these now,” he comments, voice low and steady. “Make sure nothing is overlooked.”

You nodded, suddenly feeling the weight of the morning settle on your shoulders, relief and that quiet, stubborn hope that maybe, just maybe, he noticed more than just the paperwork today.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out of the office, the door closing softly behind him.

Well, okay… fuck you too, I guess.

You slump into your chair, crossing your arms tightly while you lean back against your chair.

Why does he act like he doesn’t notice, yet does all these little things that say otherwise?

Like the way he always somehow knows your coffee order, or the way he holds the door without a word, takes you home and picks you up from your apartment to arrive at work together before anyone else,

You bite your lip, frustrated and confused. You want to ignore him, to stop caring so much, but it’s like he’s woven into the edges of your day whether you like it or not.

Maybe that’s the worst part.

“Men go insane if they don’t receive attention.”

Chelsea’s voice rang out in your head.

Hmph. Okay.

If there’s one thing Damian knew, it was this.

You were filled with spite.

Spite that rivaled his own.

Damian walked into your office again, the quiet sound of his footsteps sharp enough that you knew it was him before you even looked.

Not that you did look.

He carried the documents he’d reviewed, the ones covered in his perfectly neat handwriting. Normally, you would have glanced up. Maybe rolled your eyes. Maybe muttered something under your breath. Anything.

But not today.

Today, your spite had a bit of purpose.

You kept your attention fixed on your monitor, staring at a screen full of the usual information. Your schedule. A few reports. His own schedule, and a spreadsheet you’d already finished hours ago. You weren’t even pretending to work well— just clicking occasionally, scrolling through nothing.

You didn’t look at him.

You didn’t greet him.

You didn’t acknowledge him.

“Just set them down,” you swat your hand in the air calmly, voice flat and professional. “I’ll look over them and send next week’s project to your email. And the financial reports.”

You didn’t turn.

You didn’t give him a single glance.

You just kept staring at the monitor like he was irrelevant.

You could feel him pause beside the desk, like he was expecting you to react.

You didn’t.

Good.

Let him feel it.

Let him choke on it.

You clicked your mouse once, the smallest little sound, but in the silence of your office it felt loud. Almost pointed.

He set the documents on your desk carefully, almost too carefully, as if waiting for you to turn your head.

You didn’t.

Your heart was pounding, but your face stayed neutral. Your posture stayed still. Your eyes stayed glued to the screen. The stubborn part of you reveled in the fact that Damian Wayne, of all people, was just… standing there, trying to figure you out.

“You will have them done by the end of the day?” he asked, his tone cool but edged with something else. Something you weren’t used to hearing from him.

Irritation?

Annoyance?

Confusion?

Good.

“Of course,” you said, still not looking at him. “That’s my job, isn’t it?”

You heard him inhale very quietly, the smallest break in his composure.

For the first time, you realized something.

He didn’t like being ignored.

Not by you.

You could feel him lingering in your peripheral vision, the way someone stands in a doorway when they aren’t done with a conversation. Except you weren’t giving him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. You clicked again, scrolling through a report you had already memorized.

You could almost picture his expression without looking.

Brows drawn just a touch.

Mouth pressed into a thin line.

That proud, composed, annoyingly perfect face trying to figure out what exactly you were doing.

Good.

Let him think.

You kept your posture straight and your breathing even, even though your heart thudded a little harder with every second he didn’t walk away. Normally, you would have caved by now— just a glance, just a look.

Something.

But Chelsea’s voice was louder.

Men go insane if they don’t receive attention.

He exhaled quietly. You could feel his patience wearing thin, like the air itself tightened.

“You usually provide updates when I walk in,” Damian said, tone smooth but laced with something sharper.

“Are you not doing that today?” You moved your mouse, opening another tab, to click into your email.

You did not even blink in his direction.

“My updates will be in your inbox once everything is finalized,” you said in the same neutral, pleasant tone used with distant coworkers. “You’ll have them before noon, Mr. Wayne.”

A beat of silence, he was absolutely staring at you.

You could feel it.

The weight of it warmed the side of your face, heavy and irritated and trying to cut through your indifference.

“You seem…” His voice paused for a split second, almost like he was choosing the word.

“Preoccupied.”

You nearly smirked.

Nearly.

Instead, you let out the smallest hum of acknowledgement and said, “Just focused on work.”Your silence after that was deliberate. It was something Damian had felt when you began working here, and now it was back.

It was clean and sharp enough to make something in him twitch. For a man who commanded rooms, who intimidated CEOs twice his age, who was used to precise attention at all times… Being dismissed by you hit differently.

You could practically feel it.

He shifted his weight.

You heard the faint rustle of his suit jacket as he straightened, something colder slipping into his composure.

“Fine,” he said quietly. “I will expect the email.” There it was— that clipped tone he only used when something actually annoyed him.

He walked toward the door.

The sound of his steps was sharper this time.

More pointed.

But right before he left, he hesitated.

Just for half a heartbeat.

As if waiting for you to turn.

You didn’t move.

The door opened.

Closed.

And you finally let yourself breathe, jaw tight with a mixture of triumph and nerves.

Okay.

So ignoring Damian Wayne actually worked.

And that little discovery warmed you with the most satisfying, petty spark of victory.

You really did have things to handle. Your inbox was already overflowing with messages from partner companies, potential investors, a few overeager rivals, and the usual crowd of people who suddenly decided they “urgently” needed a meeting with Damian Wayne. You sifted through each request, drafting replies, rerouting calls, flagging anything even remotely suspicious.

If nothing else, it kept your hands busy.

It kept your eyes on the monitor.

And most importantly, it kept your attention away from him.

Except.

You see Damian Wayne’s email sitting at the very top, stamped with a fresh timestamp that tells you he sent it less than a minute ago.

Of course he did.

The room feels a little too quiet all of a sudden. You hover your cursor over the subject line, debating with yourself like the fate of Gotham depends on whether or not you open a single email.

But your pulse betrays you anyway.

DAMIAN WAYNE

Subject: Regarding the Adjusted Projection Report

Your amended notes are missing from page 14. Correct this and send the updated file before noon. You also forgot to attach the preliminary figures for the Q4 meeting. Re-send.

YOU

Re: Regarding the Adjusted Projection Report

Mr. Wayne, I’ll have the updated file on your desk before noon. The missing attachment will be included.

DAMIAN WAYNE

Re: Regarding the Adjusted Projection Report

Have them by my office an hour from now.

Your stomach drops. Your irritation flares. And something traitorous inside you sparks to life. And being the petty person you are, you did exactly what you were supposed to do.

You compiled the missing files, fixed the notes on page 14, double-checked the preliminary figures, then triple-checked them, because if you were going to be petty, you were at least going to be professionally petty. You formatted everything in the crisp, immaculate style you knew Damian preferred: every header perfectly styled, every section labeled, every graph aligned down to the pixel because God forbid you accidentally offend his sense of order.

Fine. He wanted flawless? You’d give him flawless.

With nothing else left to tweak, you stacked the pages, tapped the spine against your desk to neaten the edges, and slid the packet into a folder. A neat folder. A purposely nicer folder than the one he usually gave you.

You grabbed your things and stepped out of your office, heels clicking down the hall in a steady, determined rhythm. The Wayne Enterprises floor was quiet at this hour— most people had gone for lunch, leaving only the echo of distant printers and the hum of central air vibrating through the walls.

You rounded the corner toward Damian’s office, folder in hand, ready to slam it onto his desk with the polite professionalism of someone who absolutely was being petty and absolutely refused to acknowledge it.

But something shifted in the corner of your vision.

A familiar figure stepped out of the stairwell, head bowed over a tablet, moving with the kind of restless focus that suggested he hadn’t slept in three days.

Tim- ‘F’ucking- Drake.

Sometimes you ran into him in the café on the first floor, where he’d already be two coffees deep and debating whether a third was “necessary or just responsible.” Other times, you’d cross paths when Damian sent you to drop something off for him, because— according to Damian, seeing Tim’s face could “derail the productivity of an entire day.”

Dramatic much? Yes.

Always. Every single time.

Tim, on the other hand, never seemed bothered. If anything, he’d take the file with a blink, a grateful nod, and then immediately forget to breathe while reading it. One time you were pretty sure he walked into an elevator door while scrolling through an email.

IT also adored him.

Half the departments relied on him. He had an office here but never seemed to actually use it. And today, based on the speed he was walking straight toward Damian’s area, he was clearly on some kind of mission.

You slowed just slightly.

His gaze flicked to you, then paused, brow lifting in mild surprise.

“Oh— hey,” he said, offering a small, apologetic smile. His eyes dipped once, taking in your outfit, and he actually registered it. “You look really nice today, the skirt looks good.” He chuckles, which you replied with a coy smile.

“Thank you, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you around, Tim!” You smiled brightly.

At least someone in this building had functioning eyeballs.

“Yeah, I’ve been busy lately.” He hums, “Damian around? I need to drop something off and—” he looks at the folder in your hands.

The universe practically handed you the moment on a silver platter. “Yeah, he’s in his office.” You replied, having a plan already forming within your head. “I’ve actually got some documents for him.”

Tim nodded, stepping closer. “Want me to take them? I’m going straight there and you’re his personal assistant, right? You probably have better things to do than babysitting that kid.”

You laughed, “you don’t say?”

He chuckled under his breath, the tired kind that said he understood exactly what you had to deal with. You didn’t hesitate to give him the folder.

Not even half a second.

You placed the folder into his hands with a soft, grateful smile, one that hid the mild, sparkling pettiness coiling in your chest.

“Thank you, Tim.” He accepted it with the solemn responsibility of someone who absolutely did not realize the chaos he was about to deliver.

“Of course, anytime!”

And somewhere, in his office, Damian Wayne was probably waiting, expecting your knock, anticipating your appearance, ready to critique your delivery or your timing or your skirt or your existence—

Only for his brother to walk in instead.

You remembered turning back to your office, going back to your daily tasks and answering a phone call.

“Wayne Enterprises, this is the office of Mr. Damian Wayne. How can I help you?” The caller launched into a pitch about a potential collaboration, some sleek new product they believed could be mutually beneficial. You took notes, asked the right questions, nodded along even though they couldn’t see you.

By the time you hung up, your head was already drifting back toward your inbox, another email from a vendor, a reminder for next week’s meeting, and three new calendar changes—

A soft knock hit your door.

It wasn’t Damian’s solid, impatient rhythm.

It wasn’t security.

You looked up just as Tim Drake slipped inside, easing the door shut behind him like he was afraid of startling you, or maybe afraid of being seen. He moved with that deliberate quietness he always had, but this time something in his posture was different. His shoulders were too tight.

His mouth twitched like he was holding back commentary.

His expression said he had something to say and definitely something you would want to hear. “Hey,” he greeted, stepping in a little further. His voice carried a strange mixture of sympathy and amusement, as if he had walked straight into a soap opera and was still processing the plot twist.

“So… I delivered your files.” You raised an eyebrow, leaning back ever so slightly in your chair.

“Yeah? And?” Tim inhaled sharply, the way someone does before delivering bad news wrapped in entertainment, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Then he started laughing.

Not loudly, it was just that soft, incredulous laugh of someone who’d just witnessed pure, distilled bullshit and needed a moment.

“He was not amused,” Tim said finally.

You blinked. “Define not amused.”

“Oh, you know.” He waved a hand in the air. “Classic Damian. He gave me the look.”

“The… look?”

“He was both offended and confused.” You felt heat prick the back of your neck.

“Well,” you said, turning back to your computer as if you were totally unfazed, “maybe he should’ve specified how he wanted the files delivered.”

Tim leaned against the wall, studying you with that annoying detective perceptiveness he was born with.“No wonder why you’ve given me your files, for someone trying very hard not to care,” he said, rocking back and forth at the heel of his dress shoes.

“You are enjoying this a little too much.” You scoffed at Tim. “I’m not enjoying anything. I’m working.” He snorted at your response. “Sure. And I didn’t watch Damian stare at that folder like it personally betrayed him.” Your heart thudded but you kept your expression flat.

Tim shook his head, still amused.

“Whatever’s going on between you two… I don’t want to know,” he said with a little grimace. “But I do feel obligated to tell you that he told me— very coldly, very dramatically— to ‘inform his assistant she is expected to deliver important documents directly.’”

“Oh, he said that?”

“Word for word.” You let out a slow breath, releasing a very slow, very smug breath.

“Huh,” you murmured, eyes returning to your screen.

“Sounds like a him problem.”

Tim chuckled under his breath as he pushed off the wall.“For a personal assistant I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long, you’re driving him insane,” he laughs, heading for the door while you didn’t bother to look up, but you smiled when the door shuts.

DAMIAN WAYNE

Subject: Incompetence

You forwarded the documents through Timothy. Why? If you are capable of delivering them yourself, then do so. If you are not, inform me so I can make the appropriate adjustments to your workflow.

Confirm you received this.

You stared at the screen for a moment, feeling your pulse flicker between irritation and… something far less dignified. The man had the emotional intelligence of a cinder block, yet here he was, typing sentences that made you feel like you were being called into the principal’s office and dragged behind the bleachers at the same time.

Chelsea would call it a toxic cocktail.

You called it Tuesday.

Your fingers hovered above the keyboard before you slowly began to type your response.

YOU

Re: Incompetence

Received. Sent the files through Timothy because he was already going to your office. It was efficient for the both of us. Let me know if you have any other concerns regarding the workflow.

DAMIAN WAYNE

Re: Incompetence

Your definition of efficiency is questionable. Next time, deliver the documents yourself. I expect accuracy and consistency, not shortcuts. Report to my office in ten minutes. We need to review the adjustments together.

YOU

Re: Incompetence

You have a meeting in ten minutes. I’m busy, my schedule is booked out the entire week.

DAMIAN WAYNE

Subject: That Was Not a Request

You will make time. You have 5 minutes to get here.

The cursor blinked at the bottom of the screen, taunting you. Five minutes. Not ten. Not politely asking. A downgrade. A summons. You could practically hear the clipped irritation in every word.“Unbelievable,” you muttered, grabbing your tablet. “Now he wants to act like I’m late twice in one morning.”

You stood, smoothing down your skirt, steadying your breath, choosing professionalism over the urge to slam your forehead into the desk repeatedly.“Fine,” you said to the empty room. “If he wants a meeting, he’s going to get the most unbothered, least impressed version of me alive.”

And with that, you stepped out of your office, spine straight, chin high, fully prepared to make Damian Wayne question every life choice that led him to ordering you around in five-minute intervals. You walked down the hall with purpose, your heels clicking firmly against the polished floor, each step echoing your determination. The usual flutter of nerves twisted in your chest, but you shoved it aside.

Damian wanted your attention? He was going to get it on your terms.

As you approached his office, the door stood slightly ajar, the faint aroma of leather and coffee drifting out. You paused for a brief second, smoothing your blouse, making sure you looked every bit the professional, confident, composed, and untouchable. You stepped inside without knocking. Damian looked up from the sleek glass desk, his sharp eyes briefly scanning you before narrowing ever so slightly, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Five minutes,” he said, voice low but steady. No anger, no impatience, just that razor-sharp control you both knew too well. You nodded once, crossing your arms. “I’m here. What’s the emergency?”

His gaze flickered to the screen, then back to you. “Your revisions on the Q4 projection report. There are discrepancies in the sales figures for three key markets.” You raised a brow, already prepared with a mental list of where things might have gone sideways. “I triple-checked those. Unless you want to explain what you found, I don’t see the problem.”

Damian smirked, the faintest lift of his lips betraying his amusement. “I’m not here to argue. I’m here to make sure you’re not missing something.”

Something about the way he said it. It was calm, controlled, but not dismissive. It softened the edge of your frustration. You almost wanted to remind yourself to stop overthinking it.

Almost.

Instead, you pulled up the file on your tablet, ready to dive back into the numbers, ignoring the quiet thrum of something unspoken hanging between you. You tapped through the pages, fingers steady despite the fluttering in your chest. Damian watched you closely, leaning back in his chair with that same unreadable expression, as if waiting to catch you slipping.

“Here,” you said, pointing to the figures that didn’t line up. “This market’s revenue was recorded late, which threw off the totals. I flagged it in the notes, but it looks like your version missed that.”

He leaned forward, scanning your screen carefully.

“I see. Good catch.” The brief praise caught you off guard. He can compliment your work but not your fucking outfit—

“Is that it?” You said in the most infuriating tone ever, a leak of poison lying underneath it.

Damian quirked a brow.

“Is there something else you want to say?”

Oh, this infuriating man.

“No, sir,” you say firmly, trying to keep your irritation in check. Without a word, Damian rises and crosses the room with purposeful strides. He stops just in front of you, leaning casually against his desk with his arms folded, his eyes locked on yours.

“No, really,” he insists, voice low but laced with that unmistakable challenge. “Say it. I’m waiting.” You glare up at him, the frustration bubbling just beneath your skin.

You think back to all the little things he’s done. All those moments you tried to dismiss as nothing more than duty or habit, yet they added up— small cracks in the fortress he built around himself.

Say it? Say what? How maddening he is? How crazy does he makes you feel?

How every little thing he’s done, every unexpected coffee, every silent check-in, every begrudging act of care has tangled up your thoughts and emotions into a frustrating knot you can’t quite unravel. You want to blow up at him for making you feel like you’re under a microscope one moment, and the next, like you’re the only person who matters in his whole damn world.

You want to shout at him for how his sharp gaze can cut through your defenses, leaving you exposed and scrambling to catch your breath, yet somehow, it also holds a softness that drives you crazy because it’s so rare, so fleeting. You want to scream at him for the way he invades your thoughts when you least expect it, like the memory of a red scarf he wrapped around your neck, so unexpectedly gentle it made your skin burn with warmth, or the mysterious lunches that somehow felt like silent apologies or unspoken promises.

You want to tell him how unfair it is that he can act so cold and detached while making your heart race like you’re the most important person in the room. How annoying it is that despite every sharp word, every sarcastic barb, you find yourself wanting him to notice, to care, to see beyond the suit and the stoic facade.

“It’s—”

But most of all, you want to tell him that he’s become this impossible puzzle you can’t stop trying to solve, even if it’s driving you mad.

“Say it.”

And you’re absolutely sick of it.

You are sick of the way he pushes, prodding at you like a stubborn wound that won’t heal. The tension is thick in the air, every word a battle you don’t want to fight but somehow can’t avoid.

“You are—” you start, voice tight with frustration. He cuts you off with a slow, deliberate sigh that feels like it’s dragging the weight of the entire world. “Say it, right now.” He demands, eyes sharp and unblinking, daring you to defy him.

Fine.

You grit your teeth, trying to keep your voice steady, though it trembles with the effort it takes to keep everything inside from spilling out.

“I am trying to best to say it! Mr. Wayne, please, you’re so—” He raises a hand, silencing you without a word.

“No, that’s wrong, I’m not going to listen if you don’t say it.”

Say what?!?!! You’re absolutely done with Damian Wayne, the way he gets under your skin.

“Mr. Wa—”

“Wrong.”

Done with his cold, infuriating way of twisting your feelings into knots, like some cruel game only he knew the rules to.

“Fucking— eat shit, Damian!”

The words ripped out of your mouth, raw and unapologetic, carrying every ounce of frustration and anger you had held inside for far too long. They lingered between you, heavy and electric, like a spark igniting a fire that had been smoldering beneath the surface. It was a release, a challenge, and maybe the first honest thing you had said aloud in weeks.

You whipped around, determined to leave before your emotions could spiral into something even more reckless. Your chest felt tight, burning with a mixture of disappointment and hurt that you hadn’t allowed yourself to fully acknowledge. But before you could put space between you, his hand shot out and closed firmly around your wrist.

He pulled you back with quiet, steady strength. It was enough to stop you but never enough to cause pain. Slowly, deliberately, he turned you to face him.

His grip was warm and unyielding, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your skin prickle. Usually, his gaze was sharp and distant, but now it was something different—focused, unreadable, and strangely alive. The cold, controlled expression you expected softened just enough to reveal a small, almost smug smirk. It was the kind of smirk that said he was both amused and pleased by your outburst.

“Took you long enough to say my name,” he murmured, his voice low and edged with something like satisfaction, as if your words were exactly what he’d been waiting for all along.

Your breath caught. Excuse me?

“You wanted me to say your name?” you snap, incredulous, heat rising under your skin. “That’s what this was about?” You try to yank your hand back, fueled by a spark of irritation beneath the haze of desire, but he doesn’t let go.

His grip tightens just enough to stop you, not enough to trap you, his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist in slow, steady circles that make your anger stutter. “Don’t twist my words,” he says, gaze steady, unflinching. “But yes.” His voice softens, becomes something quieter, more dangerous. “Hearing you say my name like that…” His eyes hold yours, burning.

“I’ve wanted that for a long time.” Your heart skips, the fight in you wavering. “You’re unbelievable,” you whisper, torn between shoving him away and pulling him back in.

“You unravel me,” he cuts the tension, his fingers ghosting over your clenched hand, gentle but insistent. His touch was slow, like he was afraid to break something fragile, yet impossible to pull away from. Carefully, he eased your fingers open, one by one, before weaving his own through yours. His grip was quiet but absolute, as if claiming you wordlessly, without need for permission.

“Every time I told you to drop the titles, to leave the distance between us, you never did.” His voice was softer now, threading through the space between you like a secret. “You didn’t even realize… how long I’ve been waiting for this. Want you.”

You tried to pull away, heart suddenly thundering in your chest, mind spinning too fast to catch a single thought. But his hand stayed firm around yours, steady and warm, holding you not to restrain you, but to keep you from slipping out of the moment.

“Wait,” he breathed, and the word washed over you like a shiver. His grip wasn’t demanding, just certain. Certain in a way that made your pulse jump.

“Do you know you make me insane?” The words left him low, almost ragged, like he’d been holding them back for far too long. His gaze pinned you in place, sharp enough to cut through every layer you tried to hide behind. And the way he stood so close, his cologne wrapping around you in a rich, intoxicating warmth, made it impossible to pretend you weren’t affected.

You glared at him, a rush of heat blooming in your chest, a mixture of anger and something more tangled.

“Well, good,” you snapped, voice trembling despite yourself. “Maybe now you understand how it feels.”He didn’t let go. “No,” he murmured, low and rough, “I know exactly how it feels.” His eyes darkened, shadowed with something deeper than frustration or desire— something raw and aching.

“You walk into a room, and everything shifts. The air tightens around me, like a storm rolling in, and I can’t catch my breath.” He exhaled softly, as if confessing a truth too dangerous to hold inside any longer. “You wear your confidence like a second skin, like it’s as natural as breathing.” His gaze dropped for a moment down to your lips, then snapped back, sharp and consuming.

“And you think… you think I don’t notice?”

You face in a different direction, overwhelmed by the intensity burning in his gaze. But he leaned closer— just enough so that his breath warmed your cheek, sending a shiver down your spine. “You think I don’t notice the way your skirts sway when you walk, just enough to unbalance me. The stockings that catch the light, like they were made to break me. The way you move, commanding every eye without even trying.” His thumb traced a slow, deliberate path along your knuckles— tender and sure.

“You undo me.” he whispered, voice thick with something almost vulnerable. You tried again to pull your hand free, desperation flickering in your movements, but his fingers tightened around yours, firm, steady, and grounding. “With every step you take, every glance you try to hide, and every breath you draw like it’s meant for someone else. You think you slip by unnoticed—” He swallowed hard, eyes locking with yours, raw and unguarded.

“But you don’t.” His voice was a breath, a confession hanging in the space between you.

“You make a liar of everything I thought I knew about myself.”

You stand there, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it, breath catching and unsteady. The room feels impossibly small now, like the space between you has been carved down to this one fragile moment.

His eyes flicker down, tracing the curve of your lips, hesitant but drawn.

The air thickens between you.

“Would you allow me to kiss you?” he breathes, barely more than a question, but charged with everything he’s held back until now.

Your eyes flicker downward for a brief moment, then back up, meeting him again.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, you give the faintest nod, a silent surrender that speaks volumes.

His fingers tighten around yours with a gentle yet possessive grip, grounding you. With his other hand, he reaches up, fingers brushing along your cheek before cradling your jaw with careful reverence, thumb tracing small circles that send a shiver through you. The warmth of his touch contrasts with the cool air around you, anchoring you to the moment.

Then, with deliberate, breathtaking slowness, he leans in. His lips hover just over yours for a heartbeat longer. It was soft, tentative, and reverent— before they finally meet yours in a brush of warmth and promise. The kiss is gentle but shattering, breaking down every wall you built, every doubt you held, leaving only the raw, undeniable truth between you both.

Then, his hand tightens on your jaw, tilting your face just so, as if commanding you to surrender, to feel everything he’s held inside. The intensity builds gradually, like a rising tide, each breath mingling, each movement deliberate and fierce.

Your heart hammers, your breath hitches, and his touch sends a shiver that steals what little air you have left. It’s a kiss that is deep, urgent, impossible to ignore, like he’s pouring every ounce of longing, frustration, and desire into this one perfect moment.

“Damian—” you gasp, barely able to get the word out as your breath catches in your throat. You try to pull away, desperate for air, but he’s faster, more urgent.

His hand slips from your fingers and moves with a firm, confident grip to your waist. Before you can steady yourself, he shifts you effortlessly, pressing you back against the desk that a few pens slip from his desk, laying on important papers that Damian didn’t care about at this moment. The sudden motion makes your knees wobble, a rush of dizziness swirling through you, but there’s no room for doubt or hesitation in this moment— only the overwhelming euphoria of his lips claiming yours again.

Your back arches slightly against the cool surface of the desk, every nerve igniting with electricity. Each breath is stolen and returned, shared between you as his kiss deepens, becoming more urgent, more intense. The world tilts and spins around you, overwhelmed by the raw heat of his touch.

His hands move with purpose, sliding up from your waist to hold you closer, anchoring you as if you might float away. Your fingers tangle in the soft strands of his hair, pulling him nearer, matching the hunger in his kiss.

You don’t remember the exact moment the kiss ended, only that when it did, you were left utterly breathless.

Your chest heaved, every inhale shallow and desperate, and you were certain you looked wild, your lips flushed and trembling from the way he kept chasing for them.

But Damian— he looked even more undone.

Damian looked worse off than you. His usual composed mask was shattered, replaced by a raw, almost vulnerable expression. His dark eyes were half-lidded, glazed with an unspoken hunger and something softer, maybe wonder, and maybe relief. His breathing was heavy, each breath a sharp intake that seemed to shake his entire frame.

Your lipstick was smeared across his mouth, a vivid stain that made his usual cold demeanor melt away. A few strands of his hair hung over his forehead, disheveled and rebellious, like the moment had stolen every last piece of control from him.

His fingers traced a slow line down your arm, thumb brushing lightly.

“I was beginning to think your spite would never stop pretending you didn’t want this.”

You met his gaze, fierce and honest.

“Maybe I was just waiting for you to admit it first, Mr. Wayne.”

Your tone was teasing, light, deliberately provoking. And it worked. His brows pulled together immediately, a sharp, irritated frown that would’ve been funny if your heart wasn’t pounding.

“Do not say that.”

The words weren’t raised, but they carried heat.

They carried want.

“Then what do you prefer?”

You tilted your head, pretending innocence, even though you both knew exactly what you were doing.

His glare deepened, steady and pointed, the kind meant to pin you in place. Not angry— not even close. Just frustrated that you were still playing when he was already past pretending.

He held your gaze for a long, heavy moment, eyes dark with meaning.

And in that silence, it was so clear:

He wanted to hear his name from your mouth.

Not the title.

Not the formality.

Him.

Only him.

He leaned in again, voice just above a whisper.

“You know patience was never my strong suit.”

“I know,” you mumbled, your thumb smudging the lipstick smear a little further with a small smile.

“You look good in this color, Damian.”

His eyes flickered over your face, lingering on your mouth, then dropping briefly to your hand still resting against his jaw.

Your name left his lips like a warning and a plea all at once.

“Do not say things like that unless you intend to finish what you started.”

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a/n: how we feel about this banger, my phone could barely handle 18k words ngl 🥹 but this was so fun to make, it was genuinely 4-5 days straight writing this out because I had so much ideas ! And miniskirt was the inspiration to write it out! And the BANTER?? I just knew I wanted A LOT OF BANTER in this oneshot, you guys have to let me know your favorite part, because I LOVE LOVEEEE the part/line when they started going back and forth with lies about each other at the company party!!!

[o-rion-sta-r]

I LOVE THISSSS SO MUCH

Also I fear this is also the only way I would ever like someone out of pure spite 😭

[lecmonica]

I’m a mess😭

[o-rion-sta-r]

Yuki

[cazzadores]

so sad the 2025 season never happened. anyway see you next year

[o-rion-sta-r]

Charles we can be world champion

[ef-1]

Oscar Piastri overtakes the championship leader Lando Norris on the first lap

[venusbrunette]

Puke bucket is so real I have one next to me too and a super calming drink aswell

I will probably pace back and forth the whole race

Trying to convince myself that even if this isn’t oscars time his time will come🥲

I’m drinking Chamomile tea😭😭

[o-rion-sta-r]

Same😭😭

Doing breathing exercises as well