🇧🇪 16.07.2026 | F1 Grand Prix of Belgium: Media Day
SPA, BELGIUM - JULY 16: Oscar Piastri of Australia and McLaren arrives in the Paddock during previews ahead of the F1 Grand Prix of Belgium at Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps on July 16, 2026 in Spa, Belgium. (Photo by Andy Hone/LAT Images)
Summary: You see Steve Harrington as the conceited golden boy everyone knows him to be, but when you are forced to tutor him, you see a different side of him and start to soften towards him, so much so that you fall for him. But when he has a perfect girlfriend he loves, and friends that see you as a joke, you know that you don’t stand a chance.
Content: fluff, angst, slow burn, s1 Steve so he’s a bit of an asshole, mentions of shitty dads, a few uses of y/n, opposites attract, popular boy x nerdy tutor girl (I’m such a sucker for this trope I had to do it), the timeline for s1 in this fic is a bit inaccurate but let’s go along with it for the plot please. Lmk if I missed any! (Pictures are not intended to reflect the reader)
Word count: 14.4k words
From the moment one of your classmates had asked you to tutor them in your freshman year, you quickly learned that you loved tutoring people.
Perhaps it was because you had always been a helper, and it felt good knowing that people were comfortable enough to come up to you and ask for such help.
But what you really loved about it was the outcome.
When the person you helped came to you afterwards and excitedly told you how they had aced their test, or how they had gotten a good mark on their assignment, it filled you with a quiet sense of pride. Not exactly for yourself, but for them. For their success, for their improvement. And because you had done that, you had helped them get to that success.
So naturally, you signed up to become an official tutor at the Hawkins High School Tutoring Centre.
It became apart of your routine. Staying after school to tutor someone, or having to come to their house to do so. Either way, you never really minded. All that really mattered was that you helped them not to dread class so much anymore, to help them to not have to scratch their head while looking at the work because they just didn't get it.
So of course, now in your sophomore year, you didn't mind when the coordinator of the centre informed you that a new person had been added to your roster. However, you didn't know who this person was because the arrangement had been last minute since the person's original tutor had been unable to do so, so he wasn't officially on your schedule yet. All that you knew was that he was a guy in the year above who had apparently been holding off getting tutored for a long time. This made you assume this guy was going to be a bit hard to work with, but you were always able to manage.
It had been thirty minutes since school ended when you sat in the library, waiting for this person to show up with your stationery already set out on the table. This person was already late, and should have already been at the table with you fifteen minutes ago.
You were thinking about the meatloaf you were going to have for dinner tonight when the doors of the library swung open, abruptly cutting off your thoughts and startling you. You looked up as the librarian glared at the culprit at the door, pressing a pointy finger to her lips.
And the culprit was the last person you expected to walk into a library of all places.
Steve Harrington.
As in Steve "The Hair" Harrington, also known as King Steve.
The kind of person who threw a raging party every Saturday, the kind of person who misbehaved in class because they knew there would be no real consequences, and the kind of person who would only ever be at school after hours for basketball practice.
So why the hell was Steve Harrington in the library of Hawkins High after school hours?
And why was he looking straight at you?
He didn't look happy by any means. He was obviously annoyed by whatever was plaguing him, and you grew nervous as he approached you while still wearing his irritated expression.
He came to a stop in front of your table, and you swallowed anxiously under his intimidating stare, starting to fiddle with the ends of your sleeves as a nervous habit.
"Are you Y/N L/N?" He asked flatly.
You blinked. "Yes. Can I help you?"
"You're supposed to apparently, you're my... tutor," said Steve, his face scrunching up as if the word physically hurt him.
Somehow, you had known from the second he had walked in with that look on his face, yet your stomach still dropped with dread when he said it.
You were happy to tutor anyone, but anyone didn't include Steve Harrington. It was something you had never worried about, because how were you supposed to assume that one day you would have to tutor King Steve out of all people?
You schooled your expression to the best of your abilities, and you recollected yourself as you nodded. "I see. Well... sit down, and we can get started."
You tried to say it kindly, but you immediately regretted doing so when he mumbled something grumpily under his breath as he reluctantly sat on the same table on you, pointedly choosing the seat furthest from you. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, and you had a feeling that was an urge you would need to resist often.
You cursed the coordinator of the centre for setting up this arrangement. Clearly, this person didn't know anything about how you and Steve couldn't be any more different, because you truly were polar opposites.
While he played beer pong at house parties, you were studying. While he goofed off in class, you paid attention and completed all of your work. While he was at basketball practice, you were tutoring. While he always had a rowdy table at lunch, you had a quiet and calm one.
There was a spectrum, and you both sat at the opposite ends of it.
You just hoped you could swiftly help Steve pass a test so that it would be over as soon as possible.
***
After just one week, you could tell you were going to be tortured with tutoring Steve Harrington for a while.
To put it nicely, he... lacked concentration, and perhaps lacked a lot more. You really didn't think he was stupid, he just couldn't focus on what he needed to.
Only after two sessions, you had noticed that while you talked, he simply didn't listen and clearly didn't even try to. He always had a faraway look in his eyes, like he was thinking about the party he was throwing that weekend, or what he was having for dinner. Sometimes he was clearly present in the moment, he just still chose not to take in a single word of yours. One time, he started to balance a pencil on his nose while you were explaining the math equation he needed to solve, and it had taken him ten minutes to realise you had stopped talking.
He was already by far the most difficult person you had tutored, and so far, you were lost on how to get through to him.
You didn't even know how or why he was in the tutoring program. He had made it clear since day one that he didn't want to be tutored by you, and he hadn't once shown an ounce of effort in any of your sessions. Maybe he had gotten pressured by his parents, that wasn't an uncommon reason behind kids coming to the tutoring centre. But then you had heard rumours that his parents was always out of town and that's why he was always able to throw parties, so if they were never there, why would they pressure him to do such things?
You didn't know, and you didn't really want to. You had no interest in Steve Harrington's life, no matter how handsome or charming he was. He wasn't all that interesting.
Nevertheless, you were still being forced into his life one way or another, so much so that you ended up with plans to go to his house on Sunday.
It had been during the usual tutoring session tucked away in the corner of the library, you overviewing your notes for your own work while he was supposed to be reading the textbook laid out in front of him. Of course, he was instead staring out of the window longingly, like he wished to be outdoors instead of stuck inside with you.
"Do we always have to do this in the library?" He asked suddenly, breaking the silence.
You looked up, frowning. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, is it necessary to be in the library for all of this stuff?" He rephrased.
"Well... yeah. A library is the best place to study and get work done," you said, confused on why this wasn't obvious to him.
"Yeah, but... someone could walk in," he said quietly.
Oh, so that's what it was about. He didn't want someone to walk in and see him actually studying, something that was considered weird and nerdy for people like him. Or more specifically, he didn't want to be seen with you.
You sighed, and propped your chin on the palm of your hand. "Then where do you suggest we go if not a library?"
"I don't know, just like... not at school," said Steve, avoiding your gaze.
"Well, you could come to my house or I could come to yours. I've done that with other people when they weren't able to study at school either," you said.
He blinked. "You want me to come to your house?"
"Yeah, so I can tutor you. If that doesn't work, then we can go the public library or-"
"No, just..." he trailed off, seeming to consider it before sighing, running a hand through his hair that you couldn't help but look at. "My parents are out of town this weekend. You can come over on Sunday if you really want."
You were secretly glad he suggested his house. You didn't want Steve coming over and judging your house that was very much not a mansion like his probably was.
"Sounds like a plan," you said dryly. "What time do you want me to come over?"
"I don't know like... two o'clock?" Said Steve.
"Works for me," you said unenthusiastically, and he seemed just as eager as you were as he ripped some paper from his notebook and wrote his address on it, giving it to you.
"Don't take this the wrong way but can you please not tell anyone about this?" Steve asked.
You didn't resist this time, and let yourself freely roll your eyes. "Don't worry, I don't want anyone knowing about this either Harrington."
His eyes flashed with surprise, and you tried not to feel too satisfied as you had clearly startled him with that.
The rest of the week passed quicker than you would've liked it to, and before you knew it, you were climbing onto your bicycle with your bag on your back and his address in your hand. It was a longer ride than you had anticipated, and you soon realised why your houses were so far away from each others as you entered his neighbourhood, which was lined with rich houses and fancy cars in driveways, a stark contrast to your neighbourhood that was filled with actual life instead of excessively big, soulless properties.
You finally pulled up to Steve's house, and suddenly the nerves inside you increased tenfold. You certainly didn't want to be alone with Steve Harrington in his house that was go-to place for high school parties you were never invited to. But you were a tutor, this was your job, so you had to pull through. You were determined to get Steve to at least pass one of his subjects.
You took a deep breath before you approached the house and knocked on the door. You stood there for a few minutes with no answer, so you knocked again, and only a minute after that, the door swung open.
Steve looked like he had just rolled out of bed with rumpled clothes and hair that was tousled, out of its usual polished state, a sight that felt a bit shocking to see as he was well known for his perfect hair.
He blinked as if he was surprised to see you, and then he said, "I forgot you were coming."
Despite your nerves, you were able to remain cool and unbothered on the outside as you shot him a deadpanned look, sarcastically replying, "flattering."
He sighed. "I didn't mean it like that, I just- sorry, I know you've come all this way, but I can't do the whole tutoring thing today. I've got a killer headache, so I'm in not in a good state to study."
You actually did believe that he had a headache, but you had a feeling he was leaving out some details.
"Are you hungover?"
A pause.
"No," Steve scoffed.
But his hesitation had already answered your question.
"Have you made a hangover smoothie?"
He frowned. "Hangover smoothie?"
"You don't do that sort of stuff? My sister always did when she was in high school," you said. "Do you have a blender?"
"I... don't think so?"
"God, for someone who always goes to parties, you don't seem well equipped for your hangovers," you said quietly, but he heard it all the same, and he looked at you incredulously.
"I can't study," Steve repeated firmly, probably a way of trying to get you to leave.
But you only tilted your head. "I think you can."
"What?"
"Just drink lots of water, and we can get started," you said with a sweet smile.
"This is ridiculous, you can't-"
"But I can, because I'm your tutor, and you can be as difficult as you want, but I'm not giving up on you. So, are you going to let me in, or should I tutor you at school this week?" You asked.
Steve stared at you in bewilderment, like he couldn't even fathom the fact that someone was saying no to him, that someone was going against what he wanted.
He seemed to realise that you weren't going away anytime soon, so he widened the door, and you smiled with satisfaction as you stepped into the threshold, shoulder brushing against his as you walked further into his house.
Your confidence diminished as you followed Steve into his fancy kitchen, awkwardly standing in silence while he had a water in a glass that had probably been expensive, like most items likely were in the house by how everything looked, but you tried not to pay too much attention to it all.
He then led upstairs to his bedroom, and you tried not to show your surprise at the size of it, at the king-sized bed in the middle of the room, the shiny basketball trophies that lined the shelves, and the ensuite connected to the room.
It reminded you of how much of a typical jock he was, and how you were supposed to tutor this certain jock.
"Get started with it then," said Steve unenthusiastically, flopping onto his bed. When he noticed you weren't moving, he said, "you can sit down, y'know."
You cleared your throat awkwardly before sitting on the edge of his bed that you noticed immediately was very soft. Still, you didn't let yourself get too comfortable as you shifted your bag to your lap, undoing the zip and starting to unload your stuff.
Soon enough, there were books and pens scattered on the bed, both of you sitting opposite each other. He at least had a notebook opened in front of him with pen in his hand, but that was where it ended, while you explained the key points of the Civil Rights Movement for his history class.
"Are you hungry?" He interrupted you to ask. "I am."
You gave him a confused look. "Um... I guess I could eat, why?"
"I'll go get a snack!" He said eagerly, jumping up from the bed, "do you like potato chips?"
"Yeah...?"
"Great, I'll be back," said Steve, bounding out of the room, leaving you confused by his sudden hospitality.
When he was gone for longer than necessary just to get chips, you realised he was just making an excuse to not do his work, and it made your irritation grow. You needed to come up with a new strategy to get the information for the work through his head.
He eventually came back with a bag of chips that he sat between you so that you could share, but he still ate most of them as you focused on trying to make him learn. It became even more annoying to do so when he kept crinkling the bag obnoxiously and chewing excessively, all while sat in a stupid position on his side while leaning on his elbow.
And then you got an idea.
Just as he reached out for more chips, you snatched the bag out of his reach and placed it next to you.
Steve looked at you, clearly affronted. "You didn't have to take the whole thing if you wanted some."
"I made some flash cards for you," you said, ignoring what he said.
"Oh, great," he said sarcastically.
You shot him a look as you reached into your bag to pull out the pile of flashcards stuck together with a paper clip.
"Here's how we'll do this. For every answer you get right, you get a chip," you told him. "If you get it wrong, well, you just won't get anything."
He narrowed his eyes. "That's just stupid. I could easily get those back."
"Okay, then go ahead."
He held your challenging gaze before moving abruptly to try and startle you, reaching for the bag. But you were faster, taking the bag before he could touch it and placing it on your other side.
His mouth parted. "That was good luck."
"Just answer the flash cards Harrington, and you can get as many as you want," you said. "Only if you get them right though."
Steve groaned, running his hands over his face before he said, "fine, then shoot."
You smiled, pleased, and read out the first flash card. "What does the atomic number of an atom tell you?"
Steve was silent for a moment. "Uh, say that again?"
You repeated it, then he narrowed his eyes at you suspiciously.
"I thought we were doing history," he said accusingly.
"We were, but now we're doing science. I guess I didn't think you'd realise since you don't listen to anything I say," you said coolly.
Steve raised his eyebrows, and got off his elbows, sitting up. "Alright, so we're not holding back today."
"Why would I? I'm serious about tutoring you, Steve," you said while looking into his eyes, saying his first name for the first time without realising it. A smirk then tugged at his lips, and he subtly grew more confident.
"Atomic number... um... it tells you how heavy the atom is, or something?" He guessed.
"Incorrect," you said flatly, "but at least you tried. The atomic number of an atom tells you how many protons there are in the nucleus."
Steve frowned. "What does that even mean?"
"The nucleus of an atom is the centre of the atom, and it consists of the protons and neutrons," you explained, and at his lost expression, you added, "I can draw you a diagram-"
"No, just... next question," said Steve with a slight grimace.
You obliged, and went to the next card. "How many electrons are found in the first, second and third shells of an atom?"
"Jesus Christ," Steve murmured, rubbing his temple.
Feeling a stab of sympathy for him, you said softly, "want a hint?"
"Obviously."
"There are two found in the first shell, and the second and third are the same," you told him. "Well, it depends on which rule you're using, but we'll just use one for this one."
"I don't know, okay?" Steve snapped, still rubbing his temple. "We both know I don't know shit."
You deflated at his outburst, and you bit your lip, reading over the flash cards.
"Let's try this one, it's easy," you said gently. "What is the central part of an atom?"
Steve shot you a glare. "I don't-"
"I just said it," you told him encouragingly, "when I was explaining the answer to the first question. Think back on what I said."
Steve furrowed his eyebrows, "I..."
"I offered to draw a diagram of it."
You waited patiently as Steve went into deep thought, and then he blurted out, "the nucleus!"
You grinned. "Yes! That's right?"
Steve's eyes widened. "Really?"
"Really! Good job, Harrington, I knew you had it in you," you said happily.
"Thanks. Now, can I have my chips back?”
"Oh, right," you handed the packet back to Steve, and he took it back eagerly, digging into the bag enthusiastically. You snorted, and he sent you a sharp look with no real bite.
"You haven't had any yet, have some," Steve offered, holding it out.
"I'm fine, thank you," you said politely.
"You said you could eat, so eat," Steve insisted, and you let out a little laugh before giving in and taking one.
"You know, it's not that you don't know shit, it's that you don't pay attention," you said. "If you just simply did that, you would know much more."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Tell me more about it later," said Steve, bored by school talk. "What's your favourite chip flavour?"
To your own surprise, you went along with the change of topic. "Salt and vinegar."
His face scrunched up in disgust. "Are you serious?"
"What's wrong with salt and vinegar?" You said defensively.
"Everything. It makes my tongue feel weird, and I hate the smell," said Steve. "It's disgusting."
"No it's not! What's your favourite then if you're such an expert?" You inquired.
"Chicken's good."
It was your turn to grimace. "Yeah, you're the last person who should be judging my favourite flavour."
Steve's jaw dropped. "You don't like chicken?"
"It's got a weird smell to it," you said.
"Salt and vinegar is the one with a weird smell!" Steve said furiously, and instead of snapping back at him, you couldn't help but burst into laughter.
Surprise flickered across his face at your laughter, before he was unable to stop himself from laughing with you. It felt so out of the ordinary to be genuinely laughing with Steve Harrington on a Sunday, a moment that you felt like you shouldn't have belonged in.
And when the ring of the telephone on his bedside table cut through the sound of your combined laughter, the moment vanished, and you no longer belonged.
"I'll get that," said Steve, sobering and jumping off the bed to reach the phone, taking it off the stand and holding it to his ear.
The awkwardness crept back into you as you sat in silence, trying to mind your own business as you looked down at the books set out in front of you. Still, you couldn't help but pay attention to Steve's conversation.
"Oh, hey Nance!" He said eagerly, and you blinked at the change in his voice. "Mhm... yeah, of course, I would love to. How could I ever say no?" He laughed then, and you could hear the muffled voice on the other end. "Yeah, I'll be there in fifteen minutes. See you then."
You were picking at the skin on your fingers by the time he put the phone back down on the stand, and you reluctantly looked up as he turned to you.
"Hey, so uh-"
"You have plans with your girlfriend?" You said it before he could, raising your eyebrows.
"Well... yeah," said Steve sheepishly. "So unfortunately, we're going to have to cut this short."
"I don't think you find that unfortunate," you said knowingly, getting off the bed and starting to gather your stuff.
"Yeah, I don't," he admitted shamelessly. "No one does homework on a Sunday anyway."
"People with good grades do," you said pointedly, and Steve's eyebrows furrowed at the jab. Yes, it was a little harsh, but you had realised by now that you needed to be harsh if you wanted to get your point across. You straightened up, looking him in the eyes. "Harrington, you can't cut a tutoring session short just because your girlfriend wants to hang out with you."
Annoyance spread across his face. "Why not?"
"Because that's not how it works," you said snappishly, getting irritated with his obliviousness. "We were finally getting somewhere, and then you just ditched it with no second thought. You signed up for this, so you need to pull your head out of your ass and go through with it."
Steve scowled. "For the record, I didn't sign up for this, my dad did, so you should know I'm not doing this willingly. Even if I was, I'm not going to ditch my girlfriend to be tutored by another girl in my own house."
"Doesn't she know you're getting tutored?"
"No, no one does!" He blurted out, and you blinked. "The whole thing's pointless. Seriously, you really don't need to do this. You know my girlfriend is really smart? She can just tutor me instead, and she's happy to do so."
"Maybe you should've told your dad that before he signed you up," you said coldly.
"You don't think I- you know what, it's none of your business. You should just give it up, because you should know by now that this isn't going anywhere," said Steve heatedly, and you clenched your fists, biting your tongue so that you wouldn't say something you'd regret.
You packed the rest of your stuff and zipped your bag with an angry sigh. You hoisted your bag onto your back and went for the door, desperate to get out of the house.
But then you paused by the door, gripping the doorframe tightly as you looked at Steve who was glaring at the ground.
"You don't understand that I'm not giving up, Harrington. This might be an arrangement neither of us like, but I'm going to help you no matter what, because that's what I do. You shouldn't doubt yourself so much," your voice became quieter the more you spoke, suddenly feeling embarrassed.
You turned before you could see him look at you, and you hastily left the house.
***
The next tutoring session in the library was awkward and mostly silent. You had tried to explain the work to him for the first fifteen minutes, but when you realised he was never going to listen, you stopped talking and looked at your notes instead. You gave him a textbook that you told him to read even as that was something the both of you knew he wasn't going to do. You spent the whole session trying to think of what to do about him, how you could get him to just listen to you.
It was at the end when he broke the silence.
"About the other day..." he started, and you looked at him too quickly, with too much hope. "I just... you know who my girlfriend is, right?"
Oh, so it was just about his girlfriend instead of an apology. You didn't know why you were expecting more.
But of course you knew his girlfriend. Nancy Wheeler, a pretty, smart girl who nearly beat your top grade in the class, and sometimes did when you lagged behind on work due to tutoring. She was quiet but kind, and never did a thing wrong it seemed. You weren't friends with her, but you liked her with the exception of the times she got a higher mark than you, and jealousy would flare up inside you without being able to help it.
You didn't know how someone like her was able to put up with Steve.
"Yeah. She's really nice," you replied.
Steve smiled, a soft look in his eyes you had never seen before. "Yeah, I know."
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes.
"I just want to ask you to not tell her about this... whole tutoring thing. Or anyone, for that matter. I don't want her to know because it's a bad look for me to be spending so much time with another girl," he explained.
"But I'm just tutoring you," you said with confusion.
"Yeah, but still," Steve shrugged.
You didn't hold back from rolling your eyes this time.
"And I don't want anyone knowing I'm getting tutored either. They might think I'm a nerd," said Steve, and then gave you an apologetic look. "No offence."
"None taken," you said sarcastically.
"Anyway, is that all okay?" He asked.
You sighed. "Yes, it is. I haven't told anyone anyway, and I don't plan to. My goal is just to get you to pass one test, and then you can be free."
"One test?" He repeated.
"Yes."
"It doesn't have to be an A or anything?"
"No, just a pass, even if barely," you said.
Steve nodded like he was accepting a challenge, leaning back in his seat. "Deal."
You hated how a small smile twitched at your lips. "Deal."
That next Sunday, Steve came over to your house instead. Leading up to it, you had been a nervous wreck.
People came over to your house all the time for tutoring, it had become normal for you, and you never minded it. But it was different with Steve, because he was different from all of the other people you had tutored. You had seen his big house, you knew he was rich just by looking into his driveway, so he was more likely to judge.
It wasn't that you were poor. You and your family were comfortable, but not rich, and you had a feeling Steve had only ever been around rich. You were the type of person who still only had a bike because you were saving up for a car, while he was the type to have his car bought for him.
You also just had wildly different interests, so yeah, you were pretty fucking scared.
You sat in your kitchen while your mum moved around you, biting your nails while you waited for Steve to come. You had deep cleaned your bedroom, and cleaned other parts of the house just to be safe.
You hated how much Steve Harrington was stressing you out.
"I think your new student is here," your mum said, looking through the window.
You jumped up at once, and joined her by the window, spotting Steve's burgundy BMW parked outside of your house.
Your mum raised her eyebrows. "He must be borrowing his dad's car.”
"No, that's his car," you said weakly.
She blinked. "Oh, wow. Okay."
You watched Steve get out of the car, subconsciously observing the navy jacket he was wearing over a polo shirt, along with his famous jeans that always fit him just right.
You blinked, startled by your own thoughts, and distracted yourself by heading for the door to greet Steve.
"Don't be weird!" You called out to your mum.
"I'm never weird!" She called back. That was a lie.
You opened the front door before Steve even reached it, and you internally winced at your eagerness.
He seemed to notice it by the slight raise of his eyebrows, but thankfully, he didn't say anything.
"Hey," he said casually as he approached you.
"Hi," you said blandly.
A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and you were about to ask him what was funny until he spoke. "You know, you always speak in this tone."
You frowned. "Tone? What tone?"
"Like, this flat tone, and you're blunt too," he explained. At your skeptical look, he rushed to say, "not in a bad way, it doesn't have to be bad. Except for when you're like, insulting me."
"I don't insult you."
"You literally did this time last week."
"Just because someone's saying the truth, doesn't mean it's an insult Harrington," you said sweetly.
He clicked and pointed at you. "See? That's it, right there!"
"That wasn't an insult."
"No, but it was blunt."
You rolled your eyes, albeit a smile tugged at your lips against your will.
"Just come in, we've got work to do," you said, widening the door and stepping aside for him to come through.
"Yes ma'am," said Steve, stepping into the threshold, and you failed to keep your smile from widening.
Your smile dropped when you were reminded of your fears as you noticed him looking around your home, and you started to pick at your fingers.
"My bedroom's just upstairs," you said quietly, about to lead him to your room until your mum appeared with a wide smile.
"Hello! You must be Steve!" Your mum greeted brightly. She introduced herself by her first name, and you wanted to sink into a hole.
"Nice to meet you," said Steve politely, seeming taken aback from your mum's energy. But there was nothing judgemental on his face, just... surprise.
"I don't know how long you plan to stay over for, but no matter the time, if you want a drink or some food, feel free to come down and ask! Or just get some yourself, she can show you," your mum said kindly, referring to you. "If she lets you out of the room, that is..."
"Mum," you warned.
"I'm just playing around honey! She's just a strict tutor, she's determined," your mum told Steve.
"He knows, mum. I've been tutoring him for a few weeks," you said with annoyance. At least, you had been trying to. "We're going up to my room now."
"Okay. Good luck, Steve!" Your mum said playfully to Steve, and you groaned as you urged him along while he laughed, seeming heavily amused by your mum.
"I'm sorry," you said once you were out of earshot. "I told her not to be weird, and I guess she heard a completely different thing."
"She's not weird," Steve smiled. "She's... really nice."
He wore a strange expression when he said it, one you couldn't read, so you just looked away and dismissed it.
You swallowed nervously as you entered your room, Steve stepping in behind you, and you rushed over to set up the stationery on the floor, as if starting as soon as possible would give him less time to look at your room.
You called him down to sit, and your face felt hot as he sat down without saying anything, glancing at your posters with an unreadable expression.
Your focus was on English today where Steve had to write an essay. You didn't think it was particularly hard, but that was always different for Steve. So you went into it thinking that he would be ignorant to it as always, that he would just get distracted by something stupid again.
But he proved you wrong.
Because when you looked at him, his eyes were already on you, and they weren't glazed over with the other thoughts he usually had running through his mind. He seemed... focused, and it startled you. Especially so when he asked a question about the topic.
So you let him write the introduction of the essay himself, sitting in silence as he wrote. Both of you had your backs pressed up against your bed, the supplies laid out in front of you while you sat a respectful distance from each other.
You tried to mind your own business, but then you couldn't help but stare at him while he wrote something that you'd probably have to give some constructive criticism on. Either way, it felt oddly personal to see him like that. King Steve sitting in your bedroom, writing an essay after apparently listening to the tips and information you gave.
You noticed how his eyes slightly narrowed while he wrote, his tongue sticking out slightly while he concentrated. The small vulnerability was definitely strange to witness, but... nice to see.
You snapped out of your daze, and looked away from him.
You spent the next whole hour working on the essay. There were many scrunched up balls of papers by the end of the hour, all that had come from a frustrated Steve every time he made a mistake. You had to gently remind him that it wasn't his final copy, that these were only his drafts.
He ended up with an introduction he was somewhat satisfied with, and a written starting sentence for the next paragraph.
You never thought you'd say it, but you were actually proud of him. Proud of him for finally putting in the effort, for swallowing his pride and taking your advice.
Your mum came at the perfect time with a plate of chocolate chip cookies just as you had decided to give Steve a break. They were leftovers from the batch she had made only a few days ago, and while Steve had been politely thankful, you could see the delight in his eyes.
After your mum left, he took his first bite of the cookie, and stopped masking his joy.
"I love your mum," he said blissfully, throwing his head back as he savoured the cookie.
"Don't go throwing that sentence around please," you said with a small grimace.
"But I do! I swear, these are heavenly," he said solemnly, holding up the cookie like it was a trophy. "This is exactly what I needed after the worst hour of my life."
You snorted. "Uh oh, Steve Harrington's actually done schoolwork and now he's dying."
"I am," he said seriously, and you laughed, making him grin.
You fell into a relaxed silence as you grabbed a cookie for yourself, and it felt strange to feel so comfortable around Steve, to just eat cookies with him in silence like you were friends who did this all the time.
After a few minutes, Steve interrupted the silence as he nodded towards something on the wall, asking, "do you have siblings?"
You followed his gaze to the photos of you and your family hung up on your wall, one of which included a younger you surrounded by older kids that were in fact your siblings.
"Yeah, quite a few actually," you answered. "But they're all either moved out or at college right now, so I'm basically an only child at the moment."
"So... you're the youngest?" Steve inquired, and you weren't expecting the genuine curiosity in his voice.
"That I am," you said with a bashful smile.
Steve hummed as he stared thoughtfully at the picture of you and your siblings.
"I've always wondered what it would be like to have siblings," Steve said like it had been a thought in his head more than something he'd meant to say out loud, and that seemed to be the case by the way his face fell after he realised what he had said.
But you didn't pay any mind to it, continuing the conversation normally, "it's loud when the house is full. It can also be really annoying when I want some quiet privacy, because that always get disrupted. Well, I guess I get time to myself all the time now, but that's going to change when they come back for the holidays."
You hadn't meant to ramble, and heat rushed to your cheeks once you realised, but Steve
showed anything but judgement. If anything, he seemed invested in your words, a faraway look in his eyes like he was imagining the scene for himself.
"Sounds nice," he said so quietly you almost didn't catch it, and you decided not to let him know that you had heard it, because you somehow knew those words had only been for himself. He cleared his throat, seeming to recollect himself as his voice returned to its usual confident, slightly cocky state. "So, do you plan to go to college like them? Your siblings?"
"Yeah, I'm actually really excited to. It'll be nice to get out of Hawkins," you said with a smile, "what about you?"
Steve shrugged. "I guess. My dad wants me to. But anyway, I probably can't get in with the way I'm going," he gestured to his incomplete essay.
"How many times do I have to tell you that you really do have it in you, Harrington? And either way, it's up to you whether you want to go to college or not. Don't let your dad decide for you," you said lightly, popping a small piece of a cookie into your mouth.
Steve blinked, and something vulnerable flickered in his expression for a few seconds before it smoothed over, his walls coming back up.
He seemed to be in a rush to lighten the unspoken weight that now hung in the air, so in his haste, he grabbed another cookie and took a reckless bite of it, spilling crumbs onto your carpeted floor.
"Stop it, you're getting crumbs on my carpet!" You complained, grimacing as you picked the crumbs out of your carpet and sprinkled them back onto the plate.
When Steve let out a laugh, your expression soured and you decided to take a different approach, gathering more crumbs in between your fingers before throwing them at him.
He let out a sound of disbelief as he held his hand up to shield himself, and he narrowed his eyes at you before he picked some of the crumbs out himself and threw them at you.
"You jerk!" You laughed, swatting his arm before the two of you fought over the last few pieces of crumbs in the floor to toss at each other.
You both ended up in a fit of laughter that made your stomachs hurt from the sheer absurdity of it, and that was what you counted as the first successful tutoring session.
***
The tutoring sessions with Steve changed after that day. Instead of it being something in your schedule you dreaded, it became something you actually looked forward to, because the times with Steve became enjoyable.
You both came to an agreement of doing tutoring twice a week, since you had other people to tutor and he had basketball practice. Wednesdays at his house, Sundays at yours.
You grew to favour Wednesdays and Sundays.
What it was, was that he was finally listening to you, and he was finally getting schoolwork done. There were many things about the work from each subject that you always had to explain to him multiple times so that he would understand, but you never lost your patience. He seemed surprised by this every time, looking at you like he was waiting for you to get angry after sheepishly asking for another explanation.
But you never did. You never saw any reason to.
It was not only that he was finally getting assignments done, but there had also been a shift in the dynamic between you. At the beginning, it had all been awkward silences and irritated glares, until you started to talk instead of letting the silences settle, until you laughed instead of throwing annoyed words and looks at each other, and the glares became playful instead of real. It began to feel less like a chore, and more like a fun hangout.
You considered Steve Harrington as a friend now, which felt ridiculous while simultaneously feeling right, because why wouldn't he be your friend? Sure, he didn't acknowledge you at school, and sometimes he talked about his girlfriend too much when he should've been studying, but he was kind. He was extremely nice to your parents, he complimented your home in a way that you knew he meant it, and he was always offering you food and drinks whenever you went to his house, or bringing them over whenever he came to yours.
You had even grown to like him so much that you started making hangover smoothies for him every Sunday when he came to your house, because he was pretty much always hungover on Sundays. You told yourself that you did it because you wanted him feeling well enough to be tutored, but deep down, you knew it was more than that.
Sure, he had his flaws, but Steve wasn't nearly as bad as you had initially thought him to be. Because you had seen a different side of him, a softer and more vulnerable side he never showed in public, in front of his popular friends and the girls that fluttered their eyelashes at him despite knowing he was taken. You wondered if he even showed that side to Nancy Wheeler.
It had especially shone through on one Wednesday when he came to your house instead of his. He had called you immediately after school to beg you to not come to his house, to have him come to yours instead just for that week. He hadn't told you why, but you had said yes anyway, because all you needed to hear was the urgency in his voice to know that it was important.
You hadn't asked when he arrived, even when he looked down more than usual. You still didn't ask when he wasn't nearly as talkative as he usually was, almost silent the whole time as you talked him through the history paper he had to write.
You were forced to finally do something about it when you noticed him doing nothing after you left him to do it on his own, his eyes glued to the paper with a distant look in his eyes, mindlessly tapping his pencil on his knee. It was easy to see as you were working in your living room, sat at either ends of the couch. You didn't want to push him as he clearly wasn't in a good mood, but unfortunately, giving him a push was what you were there to do.
"Steve," you said softly, bringing him back to the moment and capturing his attention. "Are you struggling to start the next sentence?"
He blinked. "Huh?”
"On the paper," you said, nodding towards it.
"Oh," he said, looking at it like that was the first time he had noticed it there. "Um... no. Just thinking."
"You've been thinking for a long time," you pointed out gently, and you swallowed when he fixed his hard gaze on you. "I just- if you need me to go through it again, you know not to be afraid to ask me-"
"For god's sake, I already know I'm stupid so can you just leave it alone for a second?" Steve snapped, and you jerked back a little, taken by surprise. "I don't need you talking to me like I'm some slow kid."
"I wasn't-"
"You were. You always do!" Steve said out of frustration, running a hand through his hair.
You stared at him for a moment, processing his words before you leaned back into your spot on the couch, accepting defeat.
"Work at your own pace then, Steve," you said flatly, not bothering to hide your annoyance as you shifted your body away from him, focusing on your own notes.
You didn't look at him for a few minutes, but the tension in the air was palpable as you felt Steve's gaze burn holes into you. He said your name after at least ten minutes had passed, and you looked at him to find his guilty expression.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, looking at the ground. "You're not doing anything wrong, I'm just an asshole. I don't even know why I'm acting like one when I literally wanted to come here."
You frowned. "What do you mean?"
"The last place I wanted to be at was my house tonight, and for some reason, your place was the first thing that came to mind for an alternative," Steve admitted softly, and your heart skipped a beat. "I was so relieved when you said yes to me coming here instead."
The admission slammed into your chest, and it made your breath catch. Your house had been the first place he had thought of for an escape? Not Tommy Hagan's house? Not even Nancy Wheeler's?
Steve blinked as if snapping out of it, and frantically said, "sorry, that was a weird thing to say. I don't know why I- just forget that ever came out of my mouth."
"Don't be sorry. I think it's nice," you said softly, turning your body back to him as he looked at you curiously, "that you thought of my house as a better place to be. I didn't realise you liked it that much."
"How could I not? It's the place that holds the outcomes of your mum's glorious baking," Steve joked, and you laughed quietly, shaking your head at him. Steve smiled, but his face quickly sobered as he looked at you questioningly. "By the way, you haven't asked me anything."
"About what?"
"About what happened at my house, why I prefer to be here," said Steve bluntly.
You shrugged. "Not my business, is it? It's up to you if we talk about it."
Steve seemed taken aback by that, and you didn't know why he did. Was he used to people prying in his personal business that clearly upset him?
"But... don't you want to know?" Steve pushed.
"I guess I'm a bit curious, but I'm not going to force you to say anything," you said as if it were obvious.
Steve opened his mouth just to close it again, and narrowed his eyes. "You're weird."
You arched an eyebrow. "Or I'm just not nosy."
"Or that," Steve agreed in defeat, and you huffed out a laugh. You didn't expect anything more from him, but when he started talking again in a weaker tone, you listened. "My dad's just an asshole, and... is it really bad to say that I prefer my parents being away on a work trip to them being home?"
You didn't respond momentarily, staring ahead thoughtfully before you softly spoke. "I think you're allowed to feel however you want to, and you shouldn't be so quick to invalidate yourself."
You looked at Steve to find him staring at his lap with his eyebrows knitted together into a small frown, picking at his fingernails as he went into deep thought, probably taking in your words.
Neither of you mentioned it again after that. His asshole of a dad and his unstable home, that was. Every time his parents were home on a Wednesday, you always changed the plans around for him to come to your place instead. You never made a big deal out of it, never talked about the reason why, because you never felt it was necessary to make Steve explain himself more than he had to. It was something Steve appreciated more than you could realise.
It was a Friday night when your parents were in need of some last minute groceries. Your dad had been about to go get them himself before you had offered to get them instead. Your parents had both just come home from a whole day of working, and it had worn them down enough to the point you could see the exhaustion on their faces, so you had been generous enough to take a small weight off their shoulders. They had been hesitant to let you with the recent disappearance of a young boy named Will Byers, but they had been too tired to argue with you, so they let you go with minimal argument.
You weren't old enough to drive on your own yet, so you took your bicycle as you always did with a flashlight. The grocery store wasn't far away anyway.
You quickly popped in and out, getting what you needed with the cash your parents had given you. You took your bicycle out of park and struggled to juggle the full grocery bag in your hands while trying to get onto your bike safely, only having the fluorescent lights of the store behind you to help.
You heard a car pulling up to the curb in front of you, and didn't look up as you thought nothing of it, thinking it was just someone else coming to the grocery store until they suddenly honked. You jumped in surprise, almost dropping the bags as you looked up.
The headlights of the car blinded your vision for a moment, and you blinked rapidly as you squinted to see who was sitting in the drivers seat of the car. When you realised who it was, bewilderment washed over you.
The window rolled down, and Steve tilted his head to meet your gaze from the drivers seat. "What are you doing?"
You blinked, and shot him a look of disbelief. "What am I doing? What are you doing, honking at me like some idiot?"
"That's not very nice."
"Am I usually nice, Harrington?"
Steve snorted. "No. But seriously, what are you doing?”
"What does it look like? You do know what groceries are, right?" You asked sassily.
"I know that! But why are you... you're trying to get onto that bike while you're holding a bag that looks very full."
"Yes?" You said, confused on why he was pointing out the obvious.
Steve returned your confused look. "Didn't you bring your car?"
You gave him a deadpanned expression. "I don't have a car."
Steve didn't react for a moment as he comprehended what you had just said, and then his eyes widened. "You- you don't have a car?"
You looked at him with irritation. Of course a rich boy like him couldn't believe such a thing. "No, because not all of us are rich like you, Harrington."
Steve blinked, eyes flitting from you to your bicycle as he slowly seemed to understand. "Right... but you couldn't even bring your parents' car?"
"I can't drive yet. I'm a year younger than you, remember?"
"Then why-"
"Can you stop interrogating me and just get to the point of why you're here right now? Or have you just come to make fun of me for not having fancy transportation like you?" You snapped more harshly than you meant it, and a tense silence followed your outburst, making embarrassment flood through you.
"I didn't come to make fun of you," said Steve quietly. "I was going to ask if you wanted a ride back home."
Your face changed, not expecting that. "Oh."
"Yeah, um... well, do you? Want that ride?" Steve asked.
"Is it still up for grabs after I just bit your head off?" You said sheepishly.
Steve let out a laugh, and answered your question wordlessly as he got out his side of the car and walked around the BMW to approach you. He stopped in front of you, looking into your eyes for a second before he took your bike out of your hands.
"You're not about to throw my precious bike to the side of the road, right?" You asked, half joking.
He snorted. "No, I'm putting it in the trunk. You can get in the passenger seat, I’ll be there in a second, I just gotta put the seats down first."
You were about to speak up to say that he didn't have to go through so much trouble and that you could really just pedal your way home, but he was too swift in his movements as he opened the car door, leaning in to adjust the backseats of his car.
You tentatively got into the passenger seat, balancing the grocery bag in your lap. You glanced at Steve through the rearview mirror, and felt a weird fluttery sensation in your chest.
You stared ahead with a warm face as you listened to Steve’s movement before you could hear the sounds of him handling your bike. You looked over your shoulder this time, and watched the way he put in extra effort to make sure your bike was in a safe position before he closed the trunk. You turned back to the front, the fluttering in your chest intensifying as your cheeks started to burn. God, why were your cheeks burning?
You didn't move as Steve got back into the car and started up the engine again. After a moment of silence, he said, "you can put your seatbelt on, y'know."
"Right! Sorry," you said, your cheeks burning even hotter as you scrambled to put your seatbelt on.
Steve pulled out of park after putting his own seatbelt on, and you deliberately kept your gaze on the window while keeping a tight grip on the bag in your lap.
"You also don't have to keep that bag on your lap. You can put it on the ground," Steve added.
You might as well have been on fire at that point. You carefully placed the bag on the ground, avoiding his gaze. "Sorry, it's just... a nice car. Don't want to ruin it."
"Groceries won't ruin the car," Steve chuckled, and you smiled sheepishly. In your defence, it was a really nice car. "So, why were you on your own? Getting groceries, I know, but your parents didn't want to come?" Steve asked, genuinely curious.
"They were going to get groceries, but I decided to do it to let them rest. They're tired from working all week, so I just wanted to give them a little break," you explained bashfully.
Steve hummed. "That's really nice of you."
"Unheard of, right?" You joked.
"Not really," said Steve so quietly you were sure you imagined it, glancing at him to find that infuriatingly unreadable expression on his face again. "Still dangerous to be going out by yourself at night, though. Especially since that kid's just gone missing."
You did a double take, unsure if you had heard him right the first time. His tone was casual as he said it, but his jaw was tight. He surely didn't care, did he?
"Well, that kid was eleven, and I'm sixteen. I'm capable," you replied.
"Sixteen's not that much older."
"Oh come on, don't act all high and mighty just because you're a year older."
"I'm not. I'm just saying you need to be more careful because I- you don't want something bad to happen you," his voice grew quieter with each word, barely inaudible at the end of his sentence, but you were still able to catch what he said.
You shot him a confused look. He was acting weird tonight, you thought. There was that softer side of him showing that he never displayed in public, but it wasn't that. There was something about his energy that lacked its usual spirit, something dejected. Had it been his parents again, you wondered? You certainly weren't going to ask, though.
The rest of the drive to your home was silent and quick. The grocery store was only a short way from your house anyway.
When you arrived, Steve got out of the car with you to take your bike out of the trunk, being kind enough to park your bike where you directed him as you held the grocery bag.
"Thank you, Steve. For the ride and doing... all of this. You really didn't have to," you said sincerely as he leaned on his car.
Steve smiled weakly. "No worries. Couldn't have just left you there, could I?"
"You could've," you said calmly.
"I'm not that bad, L/N," said Steve teasingly, and you chuckled.
"Goodnight, Steve," you said softly, sending him a small smile.
He mirrored your smile, saying goodnight to you back with your name. You turned on your heel, starting the walk to your house as your heart raced in your warm chest.
When Steve called out your name, you turned around too quickly, making it seem as though you had been waiting for him to call you back. Perhaps you had been.
Steve scratched his neck, seeming nervous as he hesitated. "Um, sorry to be a bother but can I just ask for some advice?"
"Yeah, of course," you said, walking back over to him.
"Since you're a girl and all," said Steve quickly. "It's about Nancy."
You froze.
Oh. You forgot about Nancy.
Your chest twisted suddenly, nearly winding you and making you stumble, but you kept your composure and faced him with your chin up.
"Yeah, what's up?" You said airily.
"She's not happy with me right now. I invited her and her friend over to a party at my house, and she stayed over without her friend and now she hasn't seen her since, and she's really worried," Steve explained. "And I guess I was just more concerned about getting in trouble than her friend, and she got pissed off at me for it and... I don't know, I just don't know how to make it up to her."
You frowned. "Wait, her friend? Like, Barb?"
"Yeah, her. You haven't seen her around, have you?"
"No, not since Tuesday," you said.
"Well shit, that's the night she went missing..." said Steve, and your eyebrows drew together with concern. Just like Nancy, you weren't friends with Barb, but you had always thought she was nice. "Anyway, Nance isn't talking to me so I thought that you, a girl, would know how to fix it."
"Right," you said uncomfortably. "Why don't you ask your friend Carol? She's a girl."
"Yeah, but she's too... I just think you're someone who gives better advice," said Steve honestly.
You didn't know how to take that, and you hated how a smile twitched against your lips.
"Well, it seems simple. You just go up to her, apologise, and help her look for Barb. Or just be there for her. She's obviously distraught if her best friend is nowhere to be seen," you told him.
Steve nodded along, listening intently. "Yeah, okay... thanks."
You smiled weakly, "no problem."
Steve sighed. "I just... I really like her, and I don't want to mess it up, y'know?"
Your chest twisted even further, and you bit your lip, looking away from him.
"Yeah, that's understandable. Well, I hope it works out between you, but I have to go to bed now. My parents will get worried," you said briskly, already starting to talk away.
"Yeah, okay. Goodnight," he said.
"Goodnight," you said quietly over your shoulder, and basically sped to your house, not looking behind you as you went back inside the safety of your home where he couldn't reach you.
That was the night you realised you had developed feelings for Steve Harrington.
But it didn't matter, because his heart only belonged to Nancy Wheeler, and you didn't stand a chance.
***
You were zoned out as you absentmindedly stored some of your books into your locker, your mind in a different place to your physical body.
Annoyingly enough, all it ever seemed your mind could stay on these days was the thought of Steve.
You knew it had been a bad idea to tutor him from the very start for many reasons, and now your worst fear had actually happened. Just like every other girl at Hawkins High, you had developed a schoolgirl crush on Steve Harrington, and he plagued your mind completely without permission.
It had been two weeks since you came to your realisation, and every tutoring session with Steve since then had been torture. It didn't help when he was his usual sweet self, bringing your favourite snacks when he came to your house, telling you how one of the posters in your bedroom looked cool, getting along with your parents, and listening to you with that concentrated look he had that was frustratingly handsome.
And it certainly wasn't helping that he now insisted on giving you a ride home every time you went to his house. He had asked you about your method of transportation to his house since he found out you weren't able to drive, and he seemed to take it personally when you told you just took your bike every time. Sometimes, you even got into small arguments about it, because you didn't like making him go through the effort of putting your bicycle into his car every time, but it made you learn that Steve didn't take no for an answer when to came to those sort of things.
Every ride home made your heart beat a little faster for him, and your feelings grew stronger with each time you both talked nonstop for the whole ride. It wasn't fair that he was able to make you feel such a way.
You used to judge those kind of girls before, the ones who batted their lashes at him in an attempt to get his attention, the ones who stared longingly at him in the hallways. Now you were one of them, and you felt so pathetic. You wanted to defend yourself by acknowledging that you had actually spent quality time with him and had gotten to know him as more than just a popular jock, that you had seen what was under the mask he always hid behind at school.
But did it even matter when he had never once remotely showed interest in you? When you technically weren't even friends, just acquaintances? You were his tutor for goodness' sake, of course you weren't supposed to feel this way. You had never even come close to feeling the same about anyone else you had tutored.
Of course Steve had been the one to capture your heart out of all of it. Him and his stupid soft smile that almost seemed reserved for you, him and his stupid jokes that made you genuinely laugh, and him and his stupid kindness in giving you a ride back to your house that night, putting your bike in his car without you having to ask him to do so, the implications of him caring about you when he expressed a concern for your safety.
All before he had asked you for advice on how to make it up to his girlfriend.
Even if you could've, you wouldn't. You certainly weren't the type to barge into a relationship, a very happy one at that.
You were snapped out of your daze when you heard someone call your name, and you perked up, looking into the direction of the voice.
A boy named Tyler came up to you, a student in your year that you tutored for maths and history. He had an excited expression on his face as he approached you with a piece of paper in his hand.
"Hi, Tyler," you greeted with a warm smile. "What's up?"
He grinned at you. "I have news. Good news."
"What is it?"
He held the piece of paper up to your face, showing you the contents. All you had to do was look at the B circled on it to know what it was.
"I got a B on my maths test!" He told you happily.
"That's amazing!" You said with a wide smile, pride blooming in your chest upon seeing the joy in his eyes. "I told you you had it!"
"I couldn't have done it without you," he said. "Seriously, thank you so much. You saved me."
You laughed sheepishly. "I'm just glad it worked out for you."
"I mean it, you're the best! I hope you're getting good credit for all of this tutoring you do," said Tyler earnestly. "You deserve it."
You smiled. "Thanks."
"I'll see you around. Hopefully I'll ace my history test next!" He said hopefully as he walked off, and you gave him a thumbs up before he fully turned away.
You turned back to your locker with a smile, your chest filled with warmth. That was why all those hours of tutoring was always worth it at the end of the day. The extra credit was a bonus, but it was helping others that really mattered for you.
You jumped at the sudden bang on the locker next to yours, followed by a familiar voice saying, "who was that?"
You turned your head in surprise, and your face morphed into an expression of disbelief as you saw him.
Because here Steve was, his body completely facing you while it leaned against the locker next to yours, his arms crossed and his eyes focused on you while everyone moved around you, all easily able to see the interaction between you two. The interaction between the most popular guy in school and some quiet girl who tutored people.
It was the first time Steve had ever even looked at you in the school hallways, let alone talked to you, so it took you a moment to respond to his question as you processed your current situation.
And god, you hated how your chest started feeling warm in a different way when you looked at him.
"Um- uh- just a guy I tutor," you said bashfully.
"What were you talking about? He seemed very happy about something," Steve asked, and you quietly grew confused at his curiosity.
"He got a good grade on his test. He came to me because I helped him study, and he really thought he wasn't going to do a good job, but I told him he would, and I was right," you said with a proud smile.
Steve narrowed his eyes at you, his expression unreadable. "Hm, interesting. You seem to like him."
You blinked. "Um... yeah, he's a nice guy."
"So, do you have a thing for him?" Steve said suddenly with a smirk.
Your face dropped. "What?"
"What? It's just a question. You can tell me, I promise it'll stay between us. If it helps, it seems like he might like you too," Steve lowered his voice and leaned in a little, causing heat to rush to your cheeks.
You tried to hide your flustered state by rolling your eyes and slamming your locker shut. "No, Steve. I don't have a thing for him."
"But wouldn't he be your type? Like, smart guys?"
You looked at him incredulously. "No offence to him, but he's not exactly a smart guy if he needs tutoring. God, Steve, just because I get along with him, doesn't mean I like him. I'm his tutor, and that's it."
His infuriating smirk didn't falter, his eyes shining with amusement as he said, "if you say so."
You sighed while rolling your eyes again. "You're so annoying."
"Your eyeballs will get stuck in the back of your head if you keep rolling them."
"Then stop doing things that make me roll my eyes, idiot."
Steve opened his mouth to continue the banter both of you would never admit you thoroughly enjoyed, but the next words never got to leave his mouth as you were suddenly approached by two certain people, one of which threw an arm around Steve.
"Couldn't find you for a second there Harrington, you disappeared on us," said Tommy Hagan, while Carol Perkins stood beside him, chewing gum obnoxiously while assessing you with her eyes.
Then, a smirk spread on her lips, her voice laced with amusement as she asked, "who's your friend, Steve?"
Tommy looked at you like he hadn't noticed you were there, and immediately started sniggering even though you hadn't done anything.
Steve's face fell, something more guarded taking over his expression at the presence of Tommy and Carol while panic flickered faintly in his eyes, and you noticed it. Meanwhile, your stomach churned uncomfortably as Tommy and Carol stared at you like you were some form of entertainment.
When Steve didn't answer Carol, you took it into your own hands and hesitantly said your name. She snorted, arching an eyebrow at you.
"I wasn't asking you," she said.
"Well you were looking at me when you said it, so maybe you should've been clearer about who you were talking to," you shot back coldly, and Steve's eyes widened while Tommy whistled.
Carol's face hardened, chewing her gum more aggressively.
"Sassy, aren't you? Honestly Steve, since when did we start stooping so low for new friends? We shouldn't be welcoming this kind of crowd," she said, looking at Steve with a scoff.
"We're not," said Steve quickly, and you frowned. "She's not my friend. She's just..."
He trailed off, catching your sharp gaze. He held it for a few moments before looking away, looking at his actual friends, "she’s a stranger to me."
Your heart dropped.
A stranger.
Not a friend, not even an acquaintance, just a stranger. That's all you were.
“Then why are you even talking to her?” Carol snorted.
“Because, um… she dropped something and I was just giving it back to her was all,” said Steve hastily, talking about you like you weren’t even there.
Carol raised her eyebrows, unconvinced, and god, you wanted nothing more than to just shove her face into the locker like she deserved.
"As fun as this is, I'm hungry man, let's go eat!" Said Tommy, slapping Steve's back before letting go of him. He briefly glanced at you, his voice mocking as he said, "see you later... uh, whatever your name is."
Carol giggled, "yeah, see you sweetheart."
Tommy burst into another fit of sniggers, and your eyes caught it immediately as Steve let out a laugh, albeit it sounded a little more uncertain than the others.
But you were probably just imagining that just to make yourself feel better, because when the three of them walked away, Steve didn't look back at you once.
Your cheeks burned as he left you standing there, feeling like an idiot who had just been picked apart by a group of people who deemed themselves superior to you just because you weren't popular.
As if that hadn't already ruined your day, as if Steve hadn't already made your heart hurt enough, something happened at the end of your science class.
The class was pleasantly rowdy as everyone either did their written science work or talked with their friends about their plans for the weekend. You were one of the people doing their work, and was the first to walk up to the teacher to hand in your completed work.
"Well done, Y/N. I look forward to grading this, you never fail to impress me," your science teacher said, and you smiled sheepishly, thanking her quietly. "So, how's that tutoring of yours going?"
"Really good," you said, hating how Steve crossed your mind.
"I'm sure it is, I've even seen the evidence of it. You know, I never thought I'd see the day where Steve Harrington would be able to understand anything in my class, but proving by his recent results on his last test, it seems as though I have made it to that day," she told you with a smile.
You stilled. "What do you mean?"
She tilted her head at you. "Hasn't he told you? He passed his science test the other day. I even almost gave him a B."
You narrowed your eyes, "the other day? I- did you give him these results?"
"Yes. I know he tried to hide it, but I could see how happy he was."
Your blood started to pump in your ears, the realisation slowly dawning on you as you comprehended what she was saying.
"I even heard he got a good grade on his English assignment too. I don't know how you've done it, but you've worked wonders on him," she said. "Good job."
You didn't say anything for a moment before collecting yourself enough to say quietly, "yeah, that's good."
You went back to your seat after that, the noise around you fading to the background as the gears turned in your head.
He had been passing tests and getting good grades on assignments, and hadn't told you? He had been keeping it from you?
Your jaw tightened, and you clenched your fists, something hot stirring in your stomach.
You were going to kill him.
***
You thought it had been apart of your dream at first, then you thought it was just some animals playing around outside. But when the persistent tapping kept on going every time you thought it would stop, you finally woke up, and investigated.
When you saw nothing was happening to your window, you went over to it anyway, looking outside to see the source of the noise.
It was much worse than an animal. It was Steve throwing rocks at your parents' window, the morning sun shining down on him and highlighting the small cuts on his face along with the purple bruise on his left cheek.
You gasped softly upon seeing his beat-up face, concern flooding you against your will as you worried about who did something like that to him. You stared at him in disbelief before rushing to put your dressing gown and slippers on, tidying your hair as best as you could before hastily making your way out of the house, not even bothering to be quiet since Steve was being noisy enough anyway.
You walked around your house to meet Steve now crouched, gathering more rocks to throw. You stood there for a moment, gazing at him with folded arms while he didn't notice you, lost in his own world. You reminded yourself that you needed to be hostile, that he still hadn't given you an apology for what he did a few days ago.
When he rose to his feet, you finally spoke up.
"Trying to wake my parents up?" You asked, and he jumped, whirling around to you with wide eyes. He blinked at your words, looking back to your parents' window as you clarified, "that's their room, genius. I know you like my mum's food, but you surely can't be that desperate."
Embarrassment flickered across his face at your words, and he looked back to you with shame. "Shit. Sorry."
You shrugged. "That'll depend on how grumpy they are this morning."
A short silence followed your words, and Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair, and you watched him closely, eyes lingering on his bruises. The injuries looked fresh, and it made you wonder why he was here instead of resting at home.
"Are you okay?" You asked gently before you could stop yourself.
Steve looked at you in surprise. "Huh?"
"Your... face," you said, gesturing to your own. "Seems like you're hurt. Are you alright?"
"Oh, I'm fine, but that doesn't matter," he said quickly, seeming ashamed of whatever it was. "What matters is what I came here to do, which is to say sorry for the other day."
You raised your eyebrows. "What did you do the other day?"
"You know, when we were talking and Tommy and Carol came over," said Steve, confused on why you were asking about the obvious until he realised you weren't playing dumb, you just wanted him to admit what he did wrong. "And then they were being assholes and I didn't do anything about it."
"Is that it?"
Steve's eyebrows knitted together as he seemed to search his mind for anything else. "I think so?"
You hummed quietly, keeping your face blank as you looked him over. You quickly noticed how something about him was off — not just the bruises and cuts on his face, but the way he held himself, the defeated look in his eyes that wasn't there before. You couldn't put your finger on it, but something in the air around Steve had shifted, and it made your curiosity grow stronger about whatever the hell had happened in the past few days that caused that and the bruises.
Steve sighed, his head hanging low as he said, "look, I know I messed up. I know that wasn't right of me and it wasn't fair to you, and you had to defend yourself which you shouldn't have had to because I shouldn't have let them treat you like that in the first place. If it's any help, it didn't feel good during that moment."
You scoffed. "It didn't feel good for me either."
The guilt in Steve's eyes strengthened, and he looked at you sorrowfully. "I'm really sorry. You didn't deserve that, after everything you've done for me-"
"Actually, it's okay Steve. We're not friends anyway, you don't owe me anything," you snapped.
Steve's face fell slightly like you had struck him. "That was stupid of me to say. I was trying to get them to back off of you, you know? They wouldn't have taken it well if I said yes, they would've been even worse."
"That's such a lame excuse. They were going to make fun of me no matter what you said, so you're just telling yourself that to feel better," you said sourly. "You're just like... I don't know, ashamed of me or something?"
Steve shook his head. "I'm not-"
"Then what do you call it? You're only nice to me when we're alone, and you're embarrassed to be seen with me in public. That's why you didn't want me to tutor you in the library. You literally said it yourself, you didn't want anyone to walk in and see," you poured out what had been pent up inside you through this whole ordeal. "You never acknowledged me in public until that moment for some reason, and even then, you said I was just a stranger."
"I know, I know, it was shitty of me. I shouldn't have- I'm really sorry," said Steve, and the worst part about it was how sincere he sounded, how real the apology seemed to be.
But you knew it would go back to normal after this, and with the last few days having given you room to think about it, you knew you couldn't go for any longer. Not with your feelings for him growing stronger everyday.
"I don't think this arrangement is necessary anymore," you said with a tight throat, avoiding his gaze as you said it. But even in your peripheral vision, you could see how his face dropped.
"What? But I still need to be tutored! I- I still need your help," said Steve frantically.
"There are other tutors at school, you can just go to them if you really need help," you said. "Also, didn't you say you could get your girlfriend to tutor you? She'll be happy to help."
Steve's expression shifted into something more hurt as he looked at his feet. "I'm not sure that's so true anymore. I'm not her favourite person right now."
Your chest tightened, and you finally looked at him, reading his crestfallen expression. Was that the reason why he looked like that? Because him and Nancy were arguing? You had a nagging feeling that there was much more to it, but you weren't going to push. You were too mad at him to do so anyway.
"Even then, I'm not the only tutor in the world. Besides, from what I've heard, you'll be just fine without tutoring anyway," you said bitterly.
Confused spread across Steve's features. "From what you've heard?"
"Yes. I'm not sure why I had to hear it from someone else that you had literally passed your science test, and got a good grade on your English assignment."
Steve's eyes widened slightly. "You- who told you that?"
"The science teacher."
"Why would she even tell you that? Oh my god..." Steve murmured, pressing his hands to his face.
"That doesn't matter, Steve. What matters is that for some reason you decided to hide the fact that you were improving," you scolded. "You neglected to tell your literal tutor that you had passed in two subjects!"
"I... forgot," said Steve unconvincingly.
You snorted humourlessly. "I don't think you did, and I don't even want to ask why you didn't tell me because you'll probably just give me another stupid excuse."
You were mainly pissed off at Steve for the way he had treated you in front of Tommy and Carol the other day, that was what drove the wedge between you two in the first place, but him not telling you about his good results had been the final straw. Because those had been moments he was meant to share with you, because you had been the one to help him. He was supposed to approach with you excitement like Tyler had done, and he was supposed to brag about his results to you with a wide smile while you were silently proud of him.
You had been eager for that moment between you and Steve, but because of some reason that was unknown to you, he hadn't told you, and had robbed you of that moment.
So yeah, you were very pissed.
"So you're ditching me because I didn't tell you about two decent grades I got?" Said Steve, and you couldn't help but notice the hurt that seeped through his voice. You hated how it sparked guilt in you.
Yet, you stood your ground. "I told you that all you needed to do was pass one test, and you could be free of me. Did you just forget that?"
Steve's Adam's apple bobbed, his jaw tight. "No."
"Then why didn't you just tell me? I know you hate being tutored, so why did you drag it out?" You asked heatedly, your pent up frustration spilling out. You stared at him expectantly, impatiently waiting for his answer.
But he only stared back at you, his mouth opening uselessly with nothing coming out, his eyes holding a desperate look that tugged at your chest, that almost made you give in. But you fought back against it, and scoffed at his silence.
"There's no reason to keep doing this, Steve," you said, your voice weaker.
"But I still need help with my other subjects," said Steve quietly.
"You know how to study now, and you can help yourself. I've given you a little push, so now you can be independent," you reasoned. "And look at the bright side, you'll have free time on Wednesdays and Sundays now."
"But I..." he trailed off, and your heart skipped a beat as you thought he was finally about to speak, finally about to admit something.
But he chose not to say it, and continued with his silence.
You gazed at his face, taking in each detail of his features, memorising it for when you would think about him at night, when you wouldn't see him anymore. The softness of his dark hazel eyes, the moles scattered on his face, and his stupid perfect hair that you longed to feel with your own fingers.
"It really was nice tutoring you Steve, but I've done my job now," you said softly, sending him your first smile of the day, and your last for a while.
He looked at you with sadness, something close to devastation, but not quite there. Because maybe Steve Harrington was fond of you in the way he was fond of your mother's cookies, but he nowhere near cared about you in the way he cared about Nancy Wheeler.
And that's why you turned your back to him, walking inside your house without looking back at him, even when you heard the small, desperate "please," leave his lips.
You and Ominis decide your firstborn’s name – you want a unique, wizard name, Ominis wants an unremarkable Muggle name. Scheming and shenanigans ensue as you try to convince each other.
Tags: humour/ romance, husband!Ominis, Dadinis, Dominis, domestic scenes, rivals-to-lovers-to-rivals-to-lovers-to..., bickering, married couple trying to outwit each other, kissing, betrayal and manipulation (the fun kind), fortune-telling, garden parties, both plain and insane baby names, roasting the HP cast, realistic depictions of pregnancy, non-explicit descriptions of birth, non-explicit smut.
A/N: Reader is technically Gibby from ACVAS, but she is unnamed in the fic so you can imagine whoever you want. Please note the content warnings, and enjoy. <3
AO3 | Wattpad
"Wizard."
"Muggle."
"Wizard."
"Muggle."
"Wizard."
"Muggle."
He can hear your cheeks puff.
"It makes absolutely no sense to me, honey, that you wouldn't want our wizard child to have a wizard name."
Ominis reclines on the sofa, massaging his head. To say he's thrilled to be expecting is an understatement – it's taken years to get pregnant, and too many nights of tears and solidarity and pushing on despite the emotional toll – but this is the one conversation he's been fearing as a result. He knew you'd object to the idea of giving the baby something simple and unremarkable. Something opposite to his own. You're so wild that your taste reflects it.
"I don't oppose wizard names," he corrects calmly. "I oppose ridiculous wizard names. We should name our son something that would fit well in the Muggle world."
"We're a wizarding family! He should have a good wizard's name. We could call him Ominis. Mini for short!"
"Do you know how many people misspell my name on a regular basis? Your own family did when we first met."
"They'd misspell Ominous too," you note, and flop down on the armchair opposite him. "It's wizarding tradition, isn't it, to name your children after someone you know?"
"We're not naming him after any of my family."
"No," you agree quickly. "But I think Ominis the Second would be so cute!"
He sighs. "I'm actually Ominis the Fourth, darling."
"... Really?"
"Some great-times-three granduncle, and before him great-times-five grandfather—" He waves. "I absolutely veto my name, regardless of number."
You huff. "Fine. Then what about my family? We could name him after one of my brothers?"
"How will you choose which one? And more importantly, how big do you wish to puff their egos?"
"Fair point."
"And we're certainly not naming him after any of our friends." The gloating Sebastian would do if they named the child after him, let alone any of your annoying companions – Leander or Garreth, for example – would be utterly insufferable. "If we name him after someone we know, he must be an exemplary person, and I cannot fathom a single someone who is worthy of that accolade."
"That's okay." Something rustles – he realises you've conjured a book. "I had a feeling we wouldn't agree, so I bought this in Diagon Alley last week."
He freezes. "Merlin help me if that's the Book of Wizard—"
"— Baby Names by Sudo Nym, yes."
That book is possibly the worst thing to ever happen to the wizarding world, published centuries ago, giving the pure-bloods ideas that it was acceptable to name their children after Greek myths or animals or letters strung together, like Apollonia or Peregrine or Marvolo.
"I thought we could go through it and find one we like."
Well, you've certainly come prepared – but he's done his research too. He waves his wand, and a sheaf of papers fall into his hands.
"What's that?" you ask sharply.
"The recent census," he says coolly, delighting in your tone, "for the most popular Muggle names."
There's certainly crossover, of course, he's not stupid – neither are you. But wizard names always have a certain eccentricity to them that Muggle names lack, and to call your child a wizard's name, especially one from that infernal book, is a blatant signal to the world about their heritage and their ancestry, and an invitation for difficulty in later life.
"Let's see." He glides his finger over the top of the list. "The first is John."
"Bleh! That's so unexciting! So plain! Whereas, the first name here is Aberforth."
"Absolutely not."
"Then how about Albus?"
"I presume you want our son to attend Muggle school before Hogwarts?"
"Of course!"
"Then you are asking for him to be bullied."
You groan – he takes advantage of the gap and skims down the list. "Here's a nice one. Harry."
You bark a laugh. "If Albus is asking to be bullied, then Harry is asking to be forgotten."
"Would a common name be so bad?"
"It's just boring, Ominis," you insist. "We're the most un-boring people on the planet. We can't give him a boring name. Oh! What about... Altair?"
"No stars. That's a Black family tradition."
"Corvus?"
"A favourite of the Lestranges."
"Ronald?"
"Sounds like an awful Weasley name. And yes," he adds quickly, "I know it's a Muggle name, too."
You rattle more off, a litany of first names, and Ominis loathes each of them for one reason or another – the name is attached to some nasty historical figure, or someone you both know, or it sounds clumsy with your surname.
"Ugh, you're not liking any of them!" The book whumpfs when you shut it. "Your turn, then, go on."
He smiles, certain he'll find something you like.
"George."
"I know about five."
"Ben?"
"Too short."
"Benjamin?"
"Too long."
"Herbert?"
"Do I really need to say anything?"
He goes down the list with increasing impatience, shocked when you reject even the most inoffensive names. It's too dull, or you know someone already with it, or it's so common your son will be the tenth in his year group and lack his own identity.
Frustrated, Ominis lets the paper fall limp. "So we want a name more wizard than Muggle but more Muggle than wizard."
"Precisely."
He might as well ask Father Christmas to be real. "Darling, I really do think it best we name him something appropriate to the world we live in now. We can't guarantee our son will be magical. What if he's a Squib? We ought to choose something we won't have to explain to every Muggle we meet."
"It's no one's business how we decide a name," you scoff. "We could name our child Marzipan and be plum dandy."
"... I can't tell if that's a serious suggestion."
"Who is the one carrying the child for nine months?"
"I am eternally grateful for that, but," he presses, "that doesn't mean I don't get a say."
"I'll allow you maybe a quarter of a say."
"I should think half is standard."
"Might be willing to bargain to a third."
"Darling."
"If you won't change your mind," you say suddenly, "then I'll just have to convince you."
"Or I convince you."
"Won't happen."
He grins suddenly. "Is that a challenge?"
You get to your feet and saunter over, leaning over him in the chair. Your low voice makes his spine trill.
"Not a challenge, honey," you whisper. "A promise."
As your belly begins to grow, you and Ominis continue back-and-forth daily on the issue. You suggest a name he hates, he suggests a name you loathe, on and on it goes. Something fun you've taken to doing over your relationship is leaving notes everywhere, written in braille for him to find, love notes, like I love you, or have a good day, but more recently they have become I LOVE the name Triton and Doesn't Athos sound brilliant?
After the third week, it becomes quite clear that you were right: you will be difficult to convince.
But difficult is not impossible.
One evening, after he's back from work and the confectionery is closed, you're squished comfortably next to him on the sofa, knitting a blanket – light blue wool, for the baby – and he's reading a novel, distracted by your chatter and the clack clack clack of your needles.
"— found some more I like from the book," you're saying. "What about Ocean?"
"Oh yes, that's delightful. Shall we name our next child Sea or River?"
"Harhar. How about Roe?"
"Delicious on buttered toast."
"Cosmo?"
"For a child or a cat?"
You snort. "You're being awfully reticent about suggesting names to me tonight."
He keeps his book open. "I have a secret weapon."
"Oh?" You laugh. "I'm sure you do, dear."
He doesn't respond, soaking in the pleasure of flippant dismissal as it slowly curdles to apprehension.
And when the doorbell rings, not five minutes later, he shuts his book and smiles.
"Better answer, my lovely wife."
When you hurry downstairs, he stands and heads to the fireplace and taps his wand twice upon it. The room shifts to cull the wizard whimsy, floating books and candles settling on the surface, bookshelves sinking back into the wall, photos going still, the gramophone silencing. Just as he hears footsteps coming back, he summons a walking stick, and tucks his wand into the shaft.
"Ominis, hello!"
Gratefully he accepts the hug from his sister-in-law, your brother's wife – very much a Muggle. "So lovely to have you, Matilda. Thank you for coming."
"I do so love seeing you both. You, young lady, ought to invite me more often!" Matilda extracts herself to scold you, then hovers near the door. "Shall I make tea?"
You start, "No, Matilda—"
"Nonsense, I'll make it. When Ominis sent word about how hard a time you were having, I knew I had to come. I completely understand how taxing it is being with child. So is deciding a name! Sit down, I insist."
She heads to the kitchen, humming.
"You, husband," you say through gritted teeth, "are a very conniving man."
He relaxes into his armchair. "I don't know what you mean, my darling."
"You know exactly what I mean."
"I'm afraid any accusations will have to wait until after our guest leaves. I wouldn't worry about exposing our magical secret with that book, by the way. I've hidden that waste of trees in the other living room."
You're all cross and huffy by the time Matilda returns with a tray, passing out teacups and pouring to everyone's exact specifications. She worries over Ominis, placing his cup within arm's reach with the handle facing his way. Ominis has never had the heart to tell her he can do this all perfectly fine himself. Let her fuss over the blind man, especially now if it will win him sympathy points.
"A name must be chosen with great care," she rattles on, settled into the armchair opposite. "I would always find a handful that you like to start, and then look into the variations. Then you'll need approval from the church. You know, it took us three months to settle with James for our boy. Sometimes you just won't know until they're here. Now." Her bag rustles. "I brought some baby name books – they're a bit weathered, but they'll do in a pinch. Name trends don't change that quickly, after all..."
By the time Matilda has forced you to scour all three books, picking out the most Muggle names possible to consider – Charles and Samuel and Walter – the sun has long since dipped below the horizon, you are weary with resignation and he is utterly triumphant. Matilda makes you keep a list of the ones you like and promises to be over again to narrow it down, although he suspects you've just noted random ones down to keep her off your back.
When she finally goes, the both of you waving at the front door as she boards a carriage, you pinch his free arm.
"I'll get you back for this."
"Will you?"
"It takes two to play games, Ominis."
"This is a hill I'm willing to die on." He leans over, maintaining an impeccable smile. "So if this is a game we're playing... your move."
"Can I speak to you quickly, Gaunt?"
Ominis rolls his lips – not for the wrong surname, which no matter how much he insists isn't his anymore everyone still uses, but for the resigned disdain of his boss, Adalbert Pimlico. He follows the man into his office, thoughtful. Adalbert. Such a pompous wizard's name.
The office is musky with cigar smoke. Ominis resists the urge to wince as he sits in the lone armchair in front of the massive oak desk, cluttered with parchments. On the outside the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is a well-oiled machine, highly efficient and shrouded in a little mystery, but his initial expectations were quickly doused once he realised how the whole place was strung together with nothing but determination and shoelace. As competent as Aurors are at the physicality of their jobs, they're awful at administration and organisation. Pimlico's office is the perfect representation of that.
His chair makes that squelching noise of leather when he sinks onto it. "I won't say this isn't an awkward conversation to have, Gaunt, but I'm legally required to address it."
Ominis purses his lips. Something to do with his blindness, perhaps? Or his family?
"What is it, sir?"
"I've heard... rumour..." he lets out a sigh, "that you are being a neglectful husband."
Very rarely is Ominis rendered speechless – this is one of those moments.
"I— beg your pardon, sir?"
"There's been... an informal complaint that you have been negligent of your family," Pimlico says practically through grounded teeth. "I know you do a lot of late nights. Are you... having any issues at home? With your wife?"
What in Merlin's name...? "No, sir. None that I am aware of."
Except for the baby names, of course.
Pimlico's beard crackles as he scratches it. "I'm afraid I've heard there have been disagreements."
"Disagreements?"
"Small ones, but significant?"
His heart blunders for a moment.
No. No, it cannot be about the baby names. You wouldn't have involved his work.
Would you?
"I believe this informal complaint has severely exaggerated things," he levels, trying to rein the sudden indignation that bubbles beneath his collarbone. "May I ask who lodged it, sir?"
"I'm not at liberty to disclose that. I can only say that it comes from a place of great care for your well-being." He leans back, the chair groans. "You're a good man, Gaunt, and you work hard, but maybe ease up a bit, spend time with the wife, you know? Wouldn't be where I am without mine. I heard you have a baby on the way, too. Congratulations. Adalbert's not a bad name, if you're looking for suggestions."
Ominis' teeth grind.
Oh, you did.
"Thank you, sir. I will certainly consider it."
When he Apparates home that evening, he immediately drops his bag and coat and marches upstairs into the kitchen. You're at the counter, humming as you stir a pot of soup.
You perk when he steps inside. "Hello, honey! How was your day?"
But he seizes your hands and pins you to the wall. You let out a squeak, releasing the wooden spoon.
"O-Ominis?"
Keeping you tightly clutched in his grasp, he closes the space between you, so he can feel your bump against his torso, and brushes his nose against yours.
"You got me in trouble at work."
There's a pause.
Then your lips curl into a wicked smile.
"I don't know what you mean, my darling."
Conniving little witch. "You think I don't know that complaint was from you?"
"Complaint is such a strong word," you say, sweet voice laced with poison. "I just happened to pop around Margaret Pimlico's for tea yesterday, and maybe we talked about how hard it is to be pregnant, and maybe I mentioned how you wouldn't let me choose a wizard name for our wizard son. Whether she shared that with her husband, well... that's her business."
He laughs suddenly, which makes you go rigid.
"You think you've won, do you? One little chinwag with my boss' wife and you've defeated me?"
"Well, you wouldn't want to be a neglectful husband, would you?"
Oh, you are pressing all his buttons tonight. If he weren't so determined to change your mind he'd find it irresistibly attractive. Instead he splays your arms further apart, drags his thumbs down to the pulse at your wrists.
"You will choose a Muggle name," he murmurs into your ear. "I will make sure of it."
"You can try, Ominis, but you won't convince me."
"Don't start a battle you cannot win."
"I don't start battles," you whisper, fierce. "I start wars."
He chuckles, presses his lips to the shell of your ear. The way you shudder against him is divine.
"Then I hope you're ready for the artillery, my love, because I do not intend to hold back."
The kiss starts long and slow.
Pressed to the bed, his hands go to your hair, pulling you closer, gripping as you moan into his mouth. His tongue swirls along the seam, and when you part for him he takes his time to explore you, devour you – hundreds of times he has done this and yet there is always more he discovers. Every night you make him weak with the taste of you, as sweet and enticing as you have been since the moment you married.
You break off for air, panting beneath him. "We really should sleep. You have an early start tomorrow."
In an effort to stave off any illicit rumours of your marriage, Ominis has started going in earlier so he can come home earlier. Inconvenient, yes, but you've kicked a ball rolling down the hill that he can't quite stop.
"I should," he mumbles, lips trailing to your jaw. "But I won't."
He takes his wand from the bedside table, and nudging your wrists above your head, places a gentle kiss on your nose before he says, "Incarcerous."
The ropes bind your wrists to the headboard. You let out a gasp as he smirks.
"O-Ominis," you stammer, "I-I'm pregnant."
"As I am well aware."
He leaves his wand aside and dives down on you. Your nightgown is gossamer thin, leaving little to the imagination. As his lips leave marks down your neck, his fingers trickle down your body until he hooks beneath the skirt, and draws it up the smooth incline of your thighs.
"But—" You audibly tremble when his fingers caress gently along your inner thigh, as they trace closer and closer to the area between your legs. "W-We can't do anything while I'm pregnant."
So endearingly naïve. He takes your nightgown between his teeth to hike it up, his hands teasingly close now, whispers away from where you want them the most.
"My darling," he breathes, "do you think your body stops working when you are with child?"
"... Yes?"
He chuckles, presses a kiss to the gentle swell of your belly. Still adorably naïve. Drawing the touch lower, he breathes in close enough to smell your excitement, to feel it budding on your most intimate place. Gently he swirls over your heat, thrilled at your sudden gasp, and slips a finger inside. You whimper, clenching around him.
"O-Ominis—"
Your voice strangles as he pleasures you, slowly, lovingly.
"What do you think now?" he whispers. "Has your body stopped working?"
"N-No."
"Does it feel good?"
"Y-Yes."
Gratified, he slides another finger inside, eliciting another moan from you, and with that same, slow, agonising rhythm, soon your body starts to tense. He can feel you approaching your climax, and he pauses.
"Hnn—" You manage a small whimper. "Please."
"Please, what?"
"P-Please f-finish me."
He smiles, kisses the flesh at your thigh.
Then abruptly pulls his fingers out and stands back up, licking them clean and fixing the cuffs on his shirt sleeves.
"It was so very thoughtful of you to give me Dracula to read. I'm quite enjoying the Muggle interpretation of vampires."
"W-What?" The protesting noise you make mollifies a deep part of him. "Ominis—"
He swings around and finds the book left on the bedside table before sinking into the armchair. "I'm in the middle of the chapter, and I do so loathe being left on tenterhooks."
"That's great," you growl, "now come over here and finish me off!"
"Did you know it's an epistolary novel? That means it's written in letters."
"At least untie me so I can do it myself!"
He slides out his bookmark and traces the words to find his place. "There are some excellent Muggle names in this one too. Jonathan, Abraham... Quincey is quite sweet."
"Ominis Aloysius!" you all but scream. "You put that book down and come back here this instant!"
He rests the book on his open palm and lets a conceited smile devour him.
"I will happily pleasure you for the rest of the night, my wonderful wife," he says, "if you agree to give our son a Muggle name."
It's the perfect set-up. Short of starving you, there's nothing your body craves more than intimacy, love and sex. To deprive you of the pinnacle now will make you wild with frustration and prone to irrational decisions.
Such as caving to a Muggle name.
You hesitate – by Merlin, he feels it, teetering over a cliff edge, and he's one second away from lapping up the victory.
But then your voice comes out as vicious as a storm.
"No."
"No?"
"Wizard name," you growl. "Not Muggle name."
The plan has failed, but that's fine. He has all night to try again.
"Ah, then I'm sorry, my darling, it seems at this moment I'm feeling particularly... mmm, neglectful." He raises his wand before you can yell. "Silencio."
You instantly quiet, and he settles into the armchair to read, delighting in the way you kick the bed in frustration.
Retaliation will be fierce and swift, no doubt... but for now he will bask in this significant, and delicious, win.
"Yes... hmm... he's very healthy so far. How have you been feeling recently, madam?"
Healer Jules withdraws his wand from your belly, allowing you to fully jig on the hospital bed with excitement. "Good! Just excited!"
"And you, sir?" he enquires after Ominis, voice soothing as it has been every appointment over the pregnancy. "Your welfare is as important."
Ominis smiles earnestly. "I am cautiously excited."
"Your baby is very healthy so far, but we will continue to check up on him, given your... ah, family history." Inbreeding, he means. Ominis resists a wince. "Have you chosen a name yet? Or narrowed it down to a few?"
The temperature seems to rise. He was expecting this question eventually – but this early into the examinations?
"Not yet," you say pleasantly. "I have a few ideas, but I have yet to convince my husband."
"And the same in reverse," Ominis says, just as pleasantly.
"Well, don't fret," says Jules, "there's plenty of time. I know of some who didn't name their child for days after the birth."
At the rate you were going, you wouldn't manage to pick a name ever.
"Surprise!"
Ominis almost – almost – shrieks. It's rare when people catch him off-guard, given his senses are so attuned to the world, but Apparating straight from work, he wasn't consciously worrying about intruders or a home invasion. Voices and footsteps suddenly overwhelm him, hands clasp his back.
"Congrats on nearly being a father!" Garreth Weasley – Garreth Weasley? – chimes. "Now, I'm just saying, Garreth is a fantastic name. I'll accept it without the second r too."
"What?"
"If you choose Mahendra," says Mahrendra Pehlwaan cheerfully, "I can guarantee you probably won't meet another. Well, unless you go to India."
"Flattered," says a third voice, which he quickly recognises as Imelda Reyes. "But you'll probably have to change it to Imeldus unless you want him to get laughed at in the playground."
More voices inject into the air. Sebastian and Missy, Adelaide Oakes and Evangeline Bardsley and Arthur Plummly, Natsai Onai and Cressida Blume. Even Leander bloody Prewett is here. All of them seem to have a strong agenda.
Ominis flings out his hands. "What the hell are you all doing in my house?"
Silence. Sebastian laughs.
"Oh, the wifey didn't tell you?" There is far too much smugness that radiates from his best friend's tone. "It's a naming party! She told us you were thinking of naming your son after a wizarding friend, so we've all come prepared to tell you why you should name your child after us."
Oh, you little... "Where is she?" he demands at once.
The door opens. With perfect timing, you enter the room.
"Oh, good, you're here! Now we can really start!"
He swings to face you, teeth clenched. "You—"
"It's so nice to have a reunion with everyone after so long, don't you think?" you sing-song, and he can detect the utter feast you're deriving from his expression. "I think we should hear our friends out. Some of them have Apparated such a long way away..."
He blows steam from his nose.
"Yes," he grouses. "Fine."
You both plonk down on the sofa as each participant gives a short speech as to why their name is best. He can tell some have made zero effort – Cressida doesn't even try, knowing her name can't really be turned into a male version – whereas some (cough, Mahendra) bring whole presentations with them, complete with notecards. Forced to sit there next to you, preening, he can't even pretend to entertain the ideas thrown at him.
When it's Sebastian's turn, he stands up, but doesn't bother walking to the centre of the room.
"You should name your child after me," he says, "because I will be the godfather."
Then he sits down.
"... Is that it?" Ominis asks.
"Yep."
"That's not a good enough reason."
"It's the only one you need."
"In fact, that's a terrible reason."
"Yeah," Leander scoffs. "I mean, who'd want two Sebastians running around?"
"Coming from you, Prewett?" Sebastian says moodily.
"Leander is a great name! It means lion! You can't get more majestic!"
"Wait your turn!"
"Your turn's over!"
"I think," you say, cutting both the men off, "that both names are lovely, and we will consider them. Won't we, Ominis?"
"No," says Ominis, dragging a hand down his face.
By the time everyone leaves, it's four hours later and dark outside, and, funnily enough, he's no closer to choosing a name, even after his friends said their pieces, even after they tried to peddle their obscure middle names too. He lies spread-eagle on the sofa as you flick your wand, gathering the crumb-laden plates into neat stacks.
"I thought we established early on," he says, as you clean, "that we wouldn't name our son after anyone we know?"
"Oh, we did."
"Then why did you have this naming party?"
You giggle. "To annoy you, of course."
"Petty." He comes over, taking your chin and pressing a gentle kiss to your nose. "Is that really the best you can do?"
"After getting your work involved and now our friends? What else do you want me to do?" Your voice falters when he smiles. "What else have you got planned?"
He smiles.
The entrance to the tarot parlour appears to be suitably... mystical.
Ominis yokes his disinterest as he almost drags you, arm-in-arm, through the front door behind your two excited Muggle friends. For reasons he cannot discern beyond simple atmosphere, the curtains to Madam Sybillus' Fortune House are drawn closed, plunging the group into a low-ceilinged reception thick with heat from the fireplace, a degree too hot to comfortably adjust from the balmy weather outside. It smells of smoke and incense, so strongly Ominis has to squeeze your arm to adjust, and a bell tinkles upon the door's shutting, announcing their arrival.
"Welcome to the start of your future," comes the luxuriously trill of the house assistant.
You give his arm a squeeze and whisper, "Oh, boy, here we go."
It's a true perplexity to him how much interest Muggle women take in divining the future. For wizards and seers, it's a genuine way to predict what is to come. For Muggles, however, it's simply a fun parlour game, a way to ascribe particular happenstances to choices made outside of one's control.
"Have you booked... an appointment?" asks the assistant, fluttering her fingers outwards.
"Yes," says Lizzie, who although the calmest of the three of you cannot seem to contain her excitement. "Half eleven, under Farmer?"
"Gertrude Farmer," says Gertrude, vibrating with nerves. "Should be for the four o' us?"
"Ah, yes, I see, with the great mother of divination herself," says the assistant. "She awaits you in her parlour down the hallway. Please, go ahead."
The magical nature of your backgrounds has meant neither of you have partaken in Muggle fortune-telling before. This unwitting hole in your life experience, of course, rocked Gertrude to her core so thoroughly that she rang her local parlour to make an appointment at once, a girl's outing with one morose husband. A week later, here you are.
"Putting it on, much?" you murmur to Ominis as they head down the corridor, out of Gertrude and Lizzie's earshot. "Bet you a Galleon she'll make a vague prediction that can be applied to anyone."
"I'm not prepared to make a bet I know I'll lose," he murmurs, smirking. "Do try to enjoy it, darling. It's meant to be for fun."
"Fun? It's a scam! All stuff and nonsense!" you mutter. "I don't know why Gerty and Lizzie believe in any of it!"
The parlour itself is so oppressively enclosed Ominis feels it like fingers on his back. There are no windows and the walls are layered with yet more curtain. A large round table, draped in velvet, fills most of the room, with Madam Sybillus herself seated at the perceived head. She stands gracefully to welcome you inside.
"Please, remove your coats and bags, and make yourselves comfortable." Her voice is the musical lilt of an eastern European accent, although Ominis cannot distinguish which. "We will begin the reading at your leisure."
You sit down, obviously dubious about the whole thing. As Gertrude and Lizzie giggling profusely, you squeeze his hand, and the fortune-teller calls for quiet.
"Mrs Farmer," she says to Gertrude, "perhaps you would like to go first?"
"Yeah, aw'right!" chimes Gertrude.
"The rest of you, close your eyes. Let your energy fuse with Mrs Farmer's as the crystal ball divines her future."
You grunt but oblige; Ominis closes his eyes too. Gertrude touches the crystal ball with her nails, and Sybillus' bangles jingle.
"Hmm... yes... I see... goodness..."
Gertrude is suddenly nervous. "Goodness? What d'you mean?"
"I see... children in your future."
"Children!" she gasps. "Yes! Jacob and I will have a family!"
You snort. "Of course you will. You've been married for two years!"
"And I'm sensing..." Sybillus exhales noisily, "riches... you will have a plentiful crop this year. The weather will work in your favour."
"How did you know I was from a farming family?"
"I wonder," you scoff, "was it maybe that your married name is Farmer?"
Gertrude slaps your arm – you yelp. "Stop being a bleedin' spoilsport!"
Sybillus laughs genially. "Please, let the young lady voice her opinions. You do not believe in the magic of fortune-telling, madam?"
You blurt a laugh, still squeezing Ominis' arm. "Magic, you say?"
"Choice, fate. No matter your perception, it is all the magic of life."
"Do you actually see things in your crystal ball?"
"I do not see," she says, "I feel."
"Riiiiiight." You give Ominis' arm a firm tug. "Forgive me if I'm much more of a practical, what can I do with my own two hands, sort of lady."
"I can see that. You and your husband went through many trials to be together, did you not?"
You go rigid. "What? Er, I mean, maybe."
Lizzie gasps. "You saw that in your crystal ball?"
"I felt it. Mmmm, yes." Her bangles clink again. "You worked so hard to be together, through heartbreak, grief... death. I believe you have many more trials ahead. You are expecting your first child. Your... son."
"Anyone could've told you that," you say, but your voice is straining now. "My belly's the size of a watermelon."
Ominis rolls his lips.
"You have hopes for your child... a loving, tender family, yes... raised in two worlds as one... you wish... for him to be... a Hufflepuff."
Your grip on him slackens. "What?"
"Is that true?" Lizzie asks you.
"What the hell is a Hufflepuff?" Gertrude mutters.
You shake Ominis' arm desperately. "Did you say anything?" you hiss.
"Not at all."
"Then how— how does she know?"
"That's not all!" Sybillus gasps. "Your son... yes, I see great things from him... great things for... Frederick... perhaps Ernest, indeed!"
"Frederick?" you bleat. "Ernest?"
"Oh, that's wonderful!" Lizzie cries. "You'll choose a name!"
"Or... hmm... I'm also sensing a potential... Harold... or Leslie!"
"N-No!"
Gertrude gives a great, belly-aching laugh. "Finally! After months of you two going on and on about it! And those names ain't half-bad either."
"You must've said something!" you demand Ominis. "I-I know you did! About the baby names!"
He sighs. "I haven't spoken a word, darling. I didn't even know what this fortune-telling was until a week ago." At least, not the Muggle kind. "Perhaps there is truth to what's been said?"
"B-But—" You pout. "But it's not real! You know that! Those can't be the names..."
By the end of the session, Lizzie has also been promised that good karma will be coming her way after she volunteered at the Royal Free Hospital last week. When Lizzie confirms she was there, you're jarred into complete, mouth-ajar silence. The candles go out, and Sybillus stands to wish you farewell, and you and your friends hurry to collect your things.
"Not you, sir." Sybillus crooks her finger at Ominis. "I'm afraid the reading was not settled properly by your party."
Ominis makes a show of grumbling. "Go on, I'll catch up."
You hesitate, but head back to the reception with your friends.
When you're gone, he finally relaxes, digging into his jacket to produce a pouch, swollen with coin.
"You played your part excellently, thank you. The second half, as promised."
"It freaked her out real good, that did," Sybillus cackles – her accent is gone. "She a big sceptic, then? Most women her age get into right tizzies when their fortunes are accurately predicted."
"A very large sceptic. I appreciate that you memorised the notes I gave you."
"What a well-paying client wants me to tell, I tell, even if it don't make no sense. What's with the baby names, anyway?"
He grins. You'll figure out his scheme eventually, but for now he's enjoying the fun whilst it lasts.
"Just a little joke with my wife."
This time, when the kisses start at nightfall, Ominis doesn't relax into them. He seizes up with immediate knowing.
Still, he's happy to play along for now. Happy to enjoy the physical affection, if naught else. He tips your chin higher as your mouth moves against his, shy at first, then eager and playfully nipping at his lip. He accepts the tongue, languid and sweeping, with a flutter of desire he keeps thoroughly caged.
"Ominis," you mumble, yanking his collar down for better access.
He smiles into your kisses. "You're very needy tonight, wife."
No doubt you won't let him tie you up, lest you end up being torturously edged for the whole night again. Still, he cottons on to your dastardly plot when you fall to your knees and hurriedly go to unfasten the laces of his breeches.
He puts a hand on yours. "Darling?"
"Yes, honey?" you say, all innocent.
"Do you really think I don't know what you're doing?"
"What? Just because I'm pregnant means I can't give you a good time?"
"I didn't say that. I do know, however, that you have an ulterior motive in that clever head of yours."
"No motive!" you declare. "I just want to please you."
"Oh, I'm sure you do."
He lays back to the bed anyway, deciding to indulge you. This might be fun. Unlike how he was with you, you have no intention of going slowly, yanking his breeches and drawers away until his intimate area is all on show. Your touch makes his blood boil, but he refuses to succumb to the pleasure – because the moment he does, you'll pounce. And not in the way he wants.
You try your hardest, he'll admit. You know exactly what he likes, where to caress your thumb, when to speed up and slow down. You know his body as well as he does. Desire flowers deep in his navel, but he quashes it like crushing parchment in his fist.
"You know," he says nonchalantly, "you forgot to tie my hands."
"Don't need to."
"No?"
"I only want to please you tonight."
"So far I'm not convinced."
Your lips find him next – he lets out a groan as you slide him into your mouth, bobbing him in and out, eking out his pleasure, faster and faster. He grits his teeth, and a laugh bubbles hysterically from his lips.
"Oh, and now you're going to deny me the pinnacle. How original."
Slowly you pull him out. "I'm really trying to make you feel good!"
"It's adorable that you think you can use my own tricks against me. Is this really revenge for last time? You'll have to do better. It doesn't work if I expect it."
You're silent for a long time.
"What, no witty retort or battle cry? Or are you just annoyed I wasn't fooled for a single moment?"
The sigh that escapes you weighs heavy, like looming rain clouds, and when you stand and drift over to the bed edge, Ominis feels his heartstrings twang.
No, this is all an act. You are infuriatingly cute when you want to be, and it's a terrible trait of yours he's never been able to resist. Do not yield. His body disobeys, and he finds himself sitting up to listen to you speak.
"No, you're right... I was going to try and do the same thing you did to me, but... I just can't."
"Because you were caught," he says, raising his chin.
"Because I don't have it in me to play cruel tricks," you mumble.
Damn it. Another twang, this one stronger, making him want to pull you in for a hug. Ominis has always been protective of you, possessed with the natural inclination to keep you happy and safe. Perhaps it's in his nature, perhaps it's simply you, or perhaps it's everything you have been through together to get here, build this slice of peace in a desolate world. He physically feels his resolve crumbling, this petty rivalry between you over the last few months dissolving into a ghost of what it once was.
"I love you, darling," he says, and he caves, pulling you close, letting you tangle your fingers in his back. "That will never change, no matter what we name our child."
"I know."
"I didn't mean to insult you, I'm sorry. Have I taken our game too far?"
You sniffle. Merlin, tears? Now he feels really guilty.
"I just love you a lot, honey," you whisper into his chest. "I want our son to have the best name possible."
"He will."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
He feels something slide up his chest, and he moves to palm it – parchment. Briefly his fingers skim the top. Endymion. Drago. Magnus.
"Then here's a list of my favourites," you say brightly, all trace of sadness gone. "You pick one and let me know, okay?"
"Wait, what?"
You slide out of his embrace and skip out of the bedroom, humming.
You had him. Oh, you really had him.
"I'll get you back for this, darling!" he yells.
"No you won't!" you sing delightedly.
No, he won't.
Not yet, at least.
"You still haven't chosen a bloody name?"
One mild day in the buds of spring, when you're at an appointment with Healer Jules and he's covering the shift at the shop, Sebastian leans against the counter, sucking a lollipop and flicking through the Book of Wizard Names by Sudo Nym. Apparently he's grown a beard now. You say it looks distinguished; Ominis suspects it looks scruffy.
"No." He slams the till drawer shut with frustration. "She still refuses to acquiesce."
"You two have been at this for months now. Even I'm bored of it."
"Yes, well, we're stubborn."
"Brick walls are stubborn. You two are obstinate." The book shuts. "Can't you just name him Sebastian and be done with it? It's a good name to cover both wizard and Muggle ground."
"No." Ominis massages his face. "Did you know her compromise suggestions were place names? She argued Hangleton might appeal because it's a Muggle town and I was born there. Hangleton! And then she had the gall to suggest foreign places, too. She liked Florence."
"Florence? For a boy?" Sebastian laughs. "I guess you should be grateful she didn't suggest Hogsmeade."
God help him if you do. "I'm at my wit's end. Can you talk to her? Or can Missy?"
"Nice try, but that's all on you." He sighs, runs a hand down that distinguished-scruffy beard. "Here's an idea: you try convincing her the normal way, by explaining why the names you want are better than Endymion, Drago, Magnus and bloody Hangleton."
Should he even need to explain the absolute obvious? His chosen trio, William, Edward and Michael, are classic, understated and inoffensive. They blend seamlessly into both Muggle and wizard society. They don't raise eyebrows. Most importantly they don't make people choke back their laughter. Is it wrong to wish normality for his son? Ominis doesn't think it is. The more he blends in with his peers, the better.
But that's exactly what you don't like. You don't want anything absurd, granted, but there's an inherent magnificence to your chosen trio of names that he thinks will stick out far too much. You want him to have that wizard uniqueness that Ominis, a bearer of one such unique name, despises to the fiery pits of the earth.
It's an impasse. A stalemate. An unstoppable force meeting an immoveable object. And it will keep going until one of you stands down.
But Ominis refuses to give in.
"Whatever." Sebastian stretches, yawns, and takes a long slurp of his lollipop. "I hope you chose before the damn party, though."
Yes, the last hurrah before you're officially parents. It'll be a nice spring get-together with all your friends and family – Muggles and wizards alike. He was hoping to announce that you'd made a decision by then, but with the party days away, that goal seems impossible.
Unless someone yields... to public pressure.
"Oh no," says Sebastian, reading the calculation on Ominis' face. "What the hell are you planning now?"
A smile grows on his face.
It's harder than Ominis thought it would be to host a garden party. Especially when half the party are wizards.
The back garden is modest, only about ten metres long and as wide as the house. Varnished wood runs the perimeter in a rigid oblong, interrupted only by a gate at the back, which connects to a delivery road. A pavestone path lines the fence on the right, and the rest is simple lawn, freshly mowed for the occasion. A fair few people have come along to celebrate, and Ominis has had to discreetly clone more garden chairs to accommodate.
It's quite a strange sensation, to have the two communities come together, the merging of magical and Muggle. The last time he felt this jarred was his wedding. He's told his magical friends and colleagues to behave, and they know the laws, of course, but he's still wary Pimlico will forget that Auror is called the police here, or that Garreth will spike the Pimms with gigglewater.
You waddle outside, holding a tray of empty glasses with one hand and cradling your belly with the other. Ominis hurries to take it from you, lays it on the outdoor table.
"Don't strain yourself, darling."
"Am not," you say, but you wince. "Baby's just being wriggly."
"Takes after his mother," he says fondly.
He fetches you a chair and you sink gratefully into it. Less than a month until the due date, and now mostly you complain about your aching back and breasts, and swollen, sore feet. He's taken on a significant portion of the housework to assuage the physical load on your shoulders, even though you claim it's easy enough to wave your wand. He must ensure there is nothing for you to stress about; it is his sworn duty.
Your parents come over. Since their second grandchild's announcement, they've been fussing over you and your health, and Ominis too, offering to cook him things or take extra shifts at the confectionery. He politely rejects them all, although he can't begin to express how grateful he is to have family who truly cares. After all these years, the feeling is still novel and beautiful.
"Cake's ready," says your mother, with a strange pitch to her voice. "Ominis, sweetheart, have you sat down once since the guests arrived? Even hosts must rest."
"I'm about to fry another batch of pork sausages," he says, waving their concern away. "Leander and Jacob keep inhaling them all."
Your father coughs gruffly and lowers his voice. "You can't have your... magic thingamajig do that?"
"It doesn't work like that, Papa," you say, exasperated.
"Truly, it's good to keep busy," Ominis says. "I'm fine, I promise. And thank you both for the cake."
Your father makes another gruff noise and looks away. Your mother touches his shoulder with affection – but her lips curl. She sounds like you when she's hiding a secret. "You're welcome, son. I've brought it down to the stockroom for easy access. Do you need us to do anything else?"
"Only one thing – what time is it?"
"Ah..." Your father pulls out his pocket watch. "Just gone two."
He smiles. Plenty of time.
The party continues in full swing. Many bring presents, although unnecessary, for the baby, books and toys and clothes. Ominis stores them in the house to unwrap later. Sebastian starts a round of croquet, a snug corkscrew of hoops within the limited space; Missy gets competitive against him, along with another one of your friends, Jane, and Nell from the local church. He tops up the sausages as you mingle and let people touch your bump. A surge of affection runs through him when he hears you laugh. It's been difficult, but still you embrace every moment with incandescent joy and gratefulness.
At about half-past, he finds you and peels you free from your host duties, finding a moment to share a brief kiss in the stockroom.
"What's this for?" you ask.
He hums idly, slides his hand between yours and squeezes. "Simply appreciation for you. Shall we bring the cake out?"
"So early?" you say. "If you really want to do it now."
"Why wouldn't I want to do it now?"
You don't answer. You only beckon him to the shelf, where you parents have left the cake ready to go.
Except – it's not one cake. It's three.
Strange. What on earth would you need three cakes for? You have a sweet tooth, yes, but this is excessive. You stifle a giggle, deep in your throat, and suspicion laps across his contentment as a wave rinses the beach.
"Something the matter?" you ask – again, that twinkle.
It triggers more doubt. Three. It's not just a cute, satisfying number. Three has meaning.
"What have you done?"
You sing-song, "Nothing!" and fit the cakes onto the trolley. "Help me take this outside."
Arm woven with yours, he wheels the trolley out to the garden. As the guests make a hole, delighted noises cut deeper into him, as loud as a chorus of warning bells. Wordlessly he helps you to table all three cakes.
They are not plainly decorated, like you said they would be.
"These cakes," you announce, "are named after three of the names Ominis and I are deciding upon!"
A stone drops into his gullet.
You didn't. You wouldn't.
"The Endymion cake," you gesture to the first "is a delicious blueberry and lemon."
He goes rigid. You have.
"The Drago cake is chocolate," you say about the second, "and this last cake, the Magnus, is Victoria sponge. Don't worry, you won't forget which one is which, because I've iced the names on the top."
The guests clap and clamour around, arming themselves with plates and forks. In the midst of it all, Ominis stands utterly still, reeling in the total loss of the moment – the loss of words, the loss of momentum, the loss of the fight, practically smoke in his fingers. You have announced your three names in such a public way, that for him to deny them now would be social catastrophe.
You truly are conniving, truly are clever. It's irresistibly hot, albeit infuriating, how you have bested him.
His grip on the walking stick tenses. You giggle and yammer to the guests, but he can feel your eyes on him, triumphant and smug with the victory.
But it will be short-lived.
You meander your way towards him at the buffet table, plate in hand, slices from all three cakes piled on top.
"Would you like some cake, husband?"
"I shan't partake, wife," he says coolly. "However," he leans down, just for you, "if you're not careful I might like to ravish you instead."
You shudder, and it's delicious. "For winning?"
"For coming so close to outwitting me. It's very attractive, I'll admit."
"Oh, Ominis," you pet his arm, "you can't even hope to beat this."
"My sweet," he responds, "I don't need to hope. I know."
"Look!" calls Gertrude, in sudden shock and awe. "What's that in the sky?"
She points, and as the party follows her gaze, Ominis instead pours himself a large glass of Pimms. Perfectly timed, as he is wont to be. Drawn towards them on a generous breeze, the great amorphous shapes floating from the north become an enormous hot-air balloon – three enormous hot-air balloons, dyed a rich blue like upside-down teardrops, with his chosen names, William, Edward and Michael, sewn in bold letters vertically down each parachute.
As realisation of the balloons' purpose sweeps the party, cheers erupt from the guests. Your Muggle friends clap, your wizard friends raise wine glasses and toast. In that moment he wishes he could see, if only to steep in the delicious shock-horror that has unhinged your jaw.
"You—" You swing to face him, positively puffed up. "You—!"
Ominis smiles and sips his Pimms.
"Me."
You tense up, like you're about to scream, but instead you pull his collar down.
"You copied my idea."
"I had no notion what you were doing. Perhaps you copied me."
"I didn't know you were doing that either!" You scowl. "You're lucky you're hot when you're being evil."
"Should I take this as acquiescence?"
You kiss his nose quickly, and smile.
"No."
Blast. How could that not have worked? His idea is bold, dramatic, inviting in its grandiosity. Your idea is quaint in comparison!
But his mistake comes through him in a cold prickle. If the cakes have names and the balloons have names, and both were displayed practically at the same time, then all the guests are going to think the spectacle planned. Worse, they're going to think it a game. He scolds himself. Foolish Ominis. If only he'd known of your attempted sabotage before he brought the cakes out. If only he'd listened to his instincts beforehand!
He makes another round of polite chatter, listening to the guests obliviously speculate on which of the six will be chosen. He can barely focus on anything else that's said. After everything, all the work he's done, all the favours he called in and the money he paid in such a short amount of time – and still you have not been swayed.
And after all the work you put in, too, neither has he.
You remain as you are, as he does. An impasse. A stalemate. An unstoppable force and an immoveable object.
Sebastian is right. You are both so stubborn.
And if that was his last try to change your mind, what is he supposed to do now?
Ominis' son arrives early.
Neither of you are expecting it. Both of you are tired, you from a particularly hard day running the shop, him from a particularly hard day running Auror errands, so you're settled into the sofa with your embroidery as Ominis tidies the house. Your due date is in a week – far enough away that it looms, but not with immediate panic.
Suddenly you go rigid and sit up.
"Oops."
"Hmm?" he asks idly. "Something the matter?"
"I think I've just had a little tinkle," you say sheepishly. "Bit embarrassing, but don't worry, I'll clean it up."
Ominis faces to you at once.
"Darling," he says, "have you been feeling incremental pains in your belly?"
"Well, yes, but I think it's just that stew we ate. I told you the meat was off."
Merlin's beard. "You didn't pee. That's your water breaking."
"My— ohhhh." You laugh suddenly. "Well, thank goodness for that! Here I thought I wet myself!"
He doesn't even have the time to facepalm. He's grabbing his emergency away bag, ramming some shoes onto your feet, and Apparating you to St Mungos. All thoughts about baby names and underhand attempts to change your mind evaporate when you go into the labour ward, whimpering about how much more frequent and painful the contractions have become.
"Would you like to stay with your wife during labour?" asks Healer Jules. "I understand if not. It can be quite stressful."
"Of course I will," Ominis says, offended at the very notion.
It takes some time until your body is fully ready, but before long Jules and the other healers start the birthing process, encouraging you to push in time with your contractions. He squeezes your hand all throughout. Eventually they feed some potion down your throat to dowse the pain, but it also makes you a little delirious. At one point you seize his shirt and yank him inches from your face.
"You will never put that thing of yours inside me ever again!"
"Y-Yes dear," he says, nonplussed.
Even with the potion, you shriek and scream and cry, sounding like you're been in the worst pain you've ever experienced, worse than Crucio, worse than the curse. It makes him feel guilty and helpless, but he knows all he can really do to help is be there.
"I-I can't... I can't do it..."
"Yes you can, darling. You're doing really well. Keep pushing."
He thinks of the many nights you tried to get pregnant, the many days spent in disappointment when your monthly bleeds came. He thinks about the minor spats over baby names and what colour to paint the room and which house you think he'll be in at Hogwarts. He thinks of the small joys, assembling the crib, completing the knitted blanket, the excitement, the anticipation of becoming a family of three. All of it strengthens Ominis at your bedside, all of it gives him hope as you continue to push.
And soon, before he realises it, a baby cries.
It's the most wonderful sound in the world.
"Congratulations," says Jules. "A beautiful baby boy."
Jules cleans him up and swaddles him in cloth, then hands him to you. Ominis can't quite manage to catch his breath, nor tame his racing heart. You're parents now. He's a father.
"Do you want to hold him, Ominis?" you ask.
His hands tremble when he accepts the child – his child – into his arms. You adjust the hold so the baby is comfortable, mewling and squirming and a bundle of warmth. Carefully he reaches around to feel his little face, the tiny nose and cute lips and the very wet tuft of hair sprouting on the centre of his smooth head.
"Hello, little one," he says, grinning so widely it hurts. "I'm your papa."
"He looks just like you."
"Really?" Ominis almost laughs. "He sounds just like you."
You laugh – and it's up there with the most beautiful sounds. He can't describe how deep the gratitude goes for you, for carrying and birthing the child. Despite everything you've gone through, all the disagreements and the pain and the loss, he knows you'll both be okay.
"You may still experience some contractions before the placenta comes out," Jules says softly, after cutting the cord. "But I will give you five minutes."
The healers leave you in peace, and Ominis knows. It really is time now.
Time to choose a name.
In the silence, he thumbs the baby's little hand, relishing the smoothness of his skin and trying to think of a name he likes that suits. William, Edward, Michael... Every choice runs through his head, but now that his son is here, in physical being... none of them are perfect.
"I don't think he looks like an Endymion," you mumble quietly. "Or a Drago, or a Magnus ..."
They seem too grand, too garish, for the boy, but loath as he is to admit, his choices are too plain for his son too. Ominis tickles his stomach, delighting when the baby wiggles.
"Nor any of mine," he admits. "That leaves us rather without a name though."
"Yeah..." The baby gurgles. "Let me?"
He passes his son back to you. "After all that, and we still can't decide."
"Gosh, we should be able to just pick one, don't you think? There are billions of names... surely there must be one we both like."
When Jules returns, you are sitting in a scrunched sort of silence, as if every word that wants to be spoken feels crumpled and unworthy of the occasion, of the decision.
"If it's all right," he says calmly, "I'd like to run a few routine checks to ensure the baby's health."
You nod, passing the boy over. His eyes are squeezed shut, yet the corner of his lips twitch as Jules beams over him.
"This might tickle, little one," he coos, wiggling his wand over the child's belly. Mumbling spells too long and complicated for Ominis to understand, the boy instantly relaxes, as if that soothing voice is a balm for agitation. After a moment, Jules passes him back to you. "Preliminary checks seem good, I can detect no issues. He's a very healthy boy."
Something shifts deep in Ominis' chest. It feels as though lightning has struck.
"Thank you," he croaks.
"It's my pleasure," Jules assures. "Is everything all right?"
"Could we—?" You seem to compose yourself. "Please can we have a little more time alone?"
"Of course."
Jules exits again, leaving you both on a precipice that pulls taut as thread.
Ominis is the first to fall.
"Jules is a nice name."
"I was thinking that too," you murmur. "It's not too Muggle."
"Nor too wizard."
"Not very common."
"Sounds nice."
"Named after someone exemplary we know."
"But very pronounceable."
"Ominis." You laugh suddenly. "Did we just agree on a name?"
He reaches out both hands – the first, touching yours, the second, a finger, being grasped gently by his new-born son, Jules.
"I... think we did."
Fin.
Please like, comment, and/or reblog if you enjoyed <3
description: ln4 is betrayed by his golf hating girlfriend
warnings: none!
daisy speaks: quick one today! i very much relate to this, i will golf for no man. inspired by tiktoks of girls chasing their boyfriends with golf carts 😊
🇦🇹 27.06.2026 | F1 Grand Prix of Austria: Practice 3
Spielberg, Austria. 27th June, 2026. Oscar Piastri (AUS) McLaren F1 Team with Zak Brown (USA) McLaren F1 Team Executive Director. 27.06.2026. Formula 1 World Championship, Rd 8, Austrian Grand Prix, Spielberg, Austria, Qualifying Day. Photo credit should read: XPB/Alamy Live News.
Warnings: smut, heavy smuttt, language, use of sex toys, piv sex, unprotected sex (use contraceptives, kids!!), fingering, oral (f receiving), use of restraints as sex toys, handcuffing, MUNCH LEWIS HELL YEA. Comment if I missed something. Pictures from pinterest.
Words: 3.9k
A/N: Guess who's horny—WHO SAID THAT? I have no explanation for this one, I just think he'd be into this, but that's my opinion. 😣
Hehe after posting two fluff fics imma hit you with a smut cuz im a good person like that 🤭
#IWroteThisInsteadOfSleeping
Come request something if you want :)
— requests are open!
episode one
lewis hamilton
— handcuffs
"Are you sure?"
Lewis's voice drops to that register—the one that vibrates somewhere low in your sternum, warm and careful, like he's handling something precious and fragile even though you're both fully clothed, standing in the middle of your bedroom with afternoon light slanting through the blinds in dusty gold bars. He's asked you months ago, maybe even a year ago now, floating the idea over takeout containers and bad television, and you'd shaken your head then, feeling the heat crawl up your neck, muttering something about not being ready, about needing time.
He'd simply kissed your temple, gathered the empty boxes, said, "There's no rush, baby. We only do what we're both comfortable with." Like it was nothing. Like your boundaries were a gift he was happy to receive rather than a barrier he was eager to tear down.
But now—now something has shifted. Maybe it was the way he looked at you this morning over coffee, eyes soft and knowing. Maybe it was the weight of the week pressing down on you, the desperate need to let go, to be held, to trust someone enough to render you completely helpless. Whatever it was, you found yourself standing in front of him with your heart hammering against your ribs like a bird trying to escape.
You nod. Your throat feels tight, cotton-dry.
"Baby," he says, stepping closer. His hands find your waist, thumbs tracing the curve of your hip bones through your t-shirt. "You gotta use words, okay? I need you to say it properly."
The request hangs in the air between you, charged and humming. You swallow, feel the click in your throat, the rush of blood in your ears. "Yes," you finally manage, and the word comes out breathless, trembling, embarrassingly eager. "I wanna try it. Please."
Something dark and pleased flickers across his face—there and gone, replaced by that devastating tenderness he reserves only for you. "Okay," he murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. "Okay, my love."
You expect him to guide you toward the bed immediately, to cuff your wrists to the headboard in that cliché, movie-way you've seen a hundred times. Instead, he steps back, disappears into the closet for a moment, and returns with something glinting in his palm. Two somethings.
Two handcuffs.
You frown, confusion momentarily piercing the haze of arousal that's been building since you first broached the subject. Two? The math doesn't immediately compute in your lust-fogged brain—two wrists, yes, but two complete sets? But then he's moving toward you with that predatory grace he sometimes gets, the one that makes your knees weak, and rational thought evaporates like steam.
"Trust me?" he asks, already reaching for your left hand.
"Always," you whisper, and you mean it.
He takes your wrist—his fingers warm and steady, feeling your pulse hammering there against his thumb—and snaps the first cuff around it. The metal is cool, heavier than you expected, sending a shiver up your arm that has nothing to do with temperature. Then, instead of raising your arm, he bends, guides your hand down, down, until your fingertips brush your own ankle. The second cuff closes around it with a decisive click that echoes in the quiet room.
Oh.
Oh.
The realization blooms slowly and hot in your chest as he moves to your right side, repeating the process with methodical care—wrist to ankle, wrist to ankle—until you're standing there, naked now (when did that happen? Did he undress you or did you undress yourself? you can't remember, can't think), completely exposed and folded open in a way that makes your face burn. Your arms are stretched down along your body, restrained at four points, leaving you spread and vulnerable and unable to close yourself off even if you wanted to.
The position forces your shoulders back, your chest forward, every part of you on display.
"Comfortable?" Lewis asks, and his voice has gone rough, but his eyes are checking you—scanning your face for any sign of distress, any hesitation. "You okay?"
You test the restraints, feeling the unforgiving metal against your skin, the slight give of the chain links, the way the position limits your movement to small, helpless shifts. "Yes," you say, and then, because he deserves the truth, "Yes and yes."
Your breathing has gone heavy, slow and deliberate, each inhale pushing your chest out further, each exhale trembling through your parted lips. You lick them, suddenly conscious of how dry your mouth has become, how every nerve ending feels electrified, hyper-aware.
"Safe word is red," he reminds you, cupping your face in his hands, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. His eyes search yours with fierce intensity. "You say red, everything stops. No questions asked. No disappointment. Just stop, and we cuddle, and we talk. Okay, baby?"
You nod, then remember he needs words. "Okay," you say, and your voice sounds foreign to you—thinner, higher, wrapped in anticipation. "Red. I understand."
And you do. You think about all those scenes in books, in movies, where the safe word seemed almost theatrical, a performance of danger rather than a genuine tool for care. You'd thought it might feel silly, embarrassing, breaking the spell with clinical precision. But now, suspended in this moment with him, you understand with sudden clarity: this is love made visible. This is someone caring enough to build you a door before locking you in the room.
Lewis doesn't rush. He stands there, studying you like you're art, like you're something holy, and the weight of his gaze is almost physical, raising goosebumps across your bare skin. He leans in, finally, and kisses you—and it's different from their usual kisses, hungrier, messier, like he's been starving for this specific taste of you and only just received permission to feast.
His mouth opens over yours, hot and demanding, and you feel the wetness at the corner of your lips—his or yours, you can't tell, don't care—saliva and desire mixing into something primal. When he pulls back, just an inch, you chase him instinctively, leaning forward, but he presses a hand gently against your sternum and pushes you back.
The restraint hits you then, fully, for the first time. You can't reach him. Your hands are trapped at your ankles, useless, and the frustration of it—the sheer helplessness—sends a bolt of arousal so sharp through your core that you gasp aloud. You want to touch him, to grab his hair, to pull him back to you, and the fact that you can't, that you're completely at his mercy, makes you wetter than you've ever been.
"Pathetic," you mutter, but you're smiling, and he laughs—that warm, rich sound that fills the room.
"Impatient," he corrects, and drops to his knees.
Your breath catches as he presses his mouth to your sternum, your ribs, the soft curve of your belly. His lips are soft, reverent, tracing patterns over your skin like he's writing prayers there. He nips at your hip bone, soothes the spot with his tongue, and you feel yourself growing impossibly wetter, impossibly needier, your body responding to his touch with embarrassing enthusiasm.
"So pretty," he murmurs against your inner thigh, his breath hot and damp. "So good for me."
You whine, high and desperate, when he bypasses where you need him most, kissing instead the crease of your thigh, the sensitive skin just out of reach. "Lewis, please—"
"Patience," he says again, but there's a tremor in his voice now, betraying his own restraint. "Let me enjoy you, baby. I've been thinking about this for months."
His mouth finally finds your center, and your head falls back with a cry that you don't bother trying to muffle. He licks a long, slow stripe through your folds, groaning against you like you're the best thing he's ever tasted, like he's been dying of thirst and you've finally offered him water. The sound vibrates through you, adding another layer of sensation to the already overwhelming mix.
He settles in, finding a rhythm that makes your vision blur at the edges—broad, flat strokes of his tongue interspersed with pointed, teasing flicks against your clit. When he pushes his tongue inside you, fucking you with it in slow, deliberate thrusts, your knees buckle, and only the restraints keep you upright. You would have collapsed without them, you realize dimly, floating in the haze of pleasure.
Then his fingers join the dance—one first, sliding in easily, curling to find that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. Then two, stretching you, filling you, pumping in time with his tongue. The dual sensation is maddening, too much and not enough, building you toward a precipice you can see but can't quite reach.
"Fuck," you gasp, your hips trying to buck against the restraints, limited to small, frustrated rolls. "Fuck, Lewis—I'm gonna come. Please, baby, please—"
He pulls back just enough to look up at you, his chin shiny with your arousal, his eyes blown wide and dark. "I know," he says, his voice gravel-rough. "Come on, baby. Don't be shy. I want to feel it. I want to taste it."
He seals his mouth back over you, fingers curling, pressing, and you're gone—shattering apart with a cry that sounds like his name and a prayer and a curse all mixed together. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, starting where his mouth works you and radiating outward until even your fingertips are buzzing with it. Your pussy clenches around his fingers, pulsing with aftershocks that make you twitch and gasp, your whole body singing with the electricity of release. He gentles his touch, lapping at you with soft, soothing strokes, drawing out every last tremor until you're whimpering from oversensitivity, your hips trying to squirm away even as your heart begs him to stay.
"Beautiful," he murmurs against your thigh, pressing kisses there, his breath hot and heavy. "So fucking beautiful when you let go like that."
You blink up at the ceiling, chest heaving, feeling like you've been unmade and rebuilt from the inside out. The metal cuffs clink softly as you shift, a reminder of your position—open, vulnerable, his—and another shiver runs through you, not from cold but from the lingering power of your submission.
Lewis rises slowly, his hands tracing up your legs, your hips, your waist, relearning your topography with reverent palms. He stops when he reaches your face, cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing over your kiss-swollen lower lip. You can smell yourself on him—earthy and intimate—and it sends a fresh spike of desire through your spent body.
"Need to be inside you," he says, and the raw need in his voice makes your toes curl. "Can you take more, baby? Or do you need a minute?"
"Please," you whisper, because it's the only word your brain can form, the only prayer you know. "Please, Lewis… let me touch you."
He smiles, that devastating, crooked smile that first made you fall in love with him in a coffee shop three years ago, when he spilled his latte trying to compliment your book choice. "No can do," he says, but his voice is gentle, almost apologetic. "Not yet. You look too good like this—ruined and waiting just for me."
He steps back, and the loss of his heat makes you whimper, but then he's pulling his shirt over his head (when had he kept that on? you wonder deliriously), revealing the lean muscles of his chest, the constellation of tattoos across his shoulders that you love to map with your tongue. He unbuttons his jeans with quick, efficient movements, shoving them down along with his boxers, and you watch, hungry, as he kicks them aside, standing before you in nothing but the afternoon light.
He's hard, you notice with a pulse of satisfaction—achingly hard, his cock flushed dark and curving toward his belly, a bead of moisture already gathering at the tip. For you. Because of you. The thought sends a fresh wave of arousal pooling low in your abdomen, despite the orgasm he's already wrung from you.
He moves back into your space, crowding you with his warmth, his height. He leans in to kiss you, and this kiss is different—messier, more desperate, flavored with your own arousal and his mounting need. His tongue sweeps through your mouth, claiming, tasting, while his hands roam your body with increasing urgency.
While you're still dizzy from the kiss, lost in the slide of his mouth against yours, he reaches between your legs, aligns himself with your entrance, and pushes inside in one smooth, relentless thrust.
The stretch burns so perfectly you see stars. You cry out against his mouth, your body arching as much as the restraints allow, feeling every inch of him filling you, completing you. He doesn't start slow—he can't, you realize, feeling the tremor in his arms, the ragged edge of his control—and instead sets a hard, driving rhythm that makes the bed frame creak in protest.
The air in the room shifts, becomes thick and humid, scented with sweat and sex and the particular musk of skin against skin. The sound of him filling you, the wet slap of his hips meeting your thighs, the broken, breathless noises he's making in your ear—it all combines into a symphony of filthy intimacy that makes your head spin.
"Fuck," he grunts against your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. "You feel—fuck, baby, you're so tight, so wet. Taking me so well."
You try to close your legs, an instinctive response to the overwhelming sensation building again in your core, but the cuffs prevent it, holding you open for his relentless pace. He notices your attempt, notices the way you strain against the metal, and he pulls back just enough to look down at where you're joined, watching himself disappear inside you with a gaze so intense it feels like a physical touch.
"Don't hide," he commands softly, his hands moving to your knees, pressing them wider. "Let me see you. Let me feel you."
"'M gonna come again," you murmur against his neck, your voice breaking on a moan as he hits that perfect spot inside you, the one that makes your vision white out. "Shit, baby, I'm gonna—"
"Hold it," he says, his voice strained, his hips stuttering just slightly. "Wait for me, baby. Just a little longer. Can you do that? Can you be good for me?"
You swear you could cry. The pressure is exquisite torture, building and building, your body wound tight as a spring. You want to touch him, want to dig your nails into his back and anchor yourself to something solid, but your hands are still trapped, still useless, and the frustration mixes with the pleasure until you're trembling, teetering on the edge of something cataclysmic.
And then—then you feel his fingers at your left wrist, fumbling with the cuff. The metal releases with a click, and then your right wrist is free too, and he's still moving inside you, hasn't stopped thrusting for a second, but now your arms are loose and your hands are flying to his shoulders, his back, clutching at him with desperate strength.
"Touch me," he groans, his rhythm faltering, becoming erratic, chasing his own release. "Scratch me, baby. Mark me. I want to feel you for days."
You don't need to be told twice. Your nails rake down his back, hard enough to leave red trails, hard enough to make him shout and thrust deeper, harder. You wrap your legs around his waist—the cuffs at your ankles falling away with another two quick clicks, when did he grab those?—and you pull him into you, meeting him stroke for stroke.
"That's it," he gasps, his forehead dropping to yours, his eyes squeezed shut in concentration. "Come with me, baby. Come now—"
You shatter.
Your second orgasm hits like a freight train, rolling through you in endless waves, your pussy clamping down on him in rhythmic pulses that milk him desperately. You cry out his name, bury your face in his neck, bite down on his shoulder as you ride it out, your whole body convulsing with the force of it.
He follows you over the edge with a shout that sounds like your name torn in half, his hips snapping forward once, twice, three more times as he spills inside you, hot and thick and claiming. You feel every twitch, every pulse, holding him through it with your arms and legs wrapped tight around him, keeping him close, keeping him yours.
When you both finally still, the room is filled with nothing but the sound of ragged breathing, of two hearts hammering against each other. He stays inside you for a long moment, his face buried in your hair, his hands stroking up and down your sides with trembling gentleness.
"That was—" you start, but your voice cracks, ruined.
He pulls out slowly, carefully, and you whimper at the sudden emptiness, at the loss of him. He guides you down onto the bed, following you, gathering you into his arms with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. You curl into him, your face pressed against his sternum, listening to his heartbeat slow from its frantic gallop to a steady, satisfied thump.
"That was fun," you say finally, your voice muffled against his skin. You giggle, suddenly giddy, drunk on endorphins and intimacy. "That was really, really fun."
He laughs, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. "Yeah?" He tilts your chin up, looks at you with those eyes that see everything, that hold your whole world. "You okay? Really okay?"
You nod, pressing a kiss to his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. "Mhm. Better than okay." You pause, then add, testing, "Might have to do it again sometime."
His eyes light up, that wicked glint returning, mixing with something softer, something that looks a lot like forever. "Oh, sweetheart," he murmurs, his hand tracing lazy circles on your hip. "You don't even know what's coming for you. I've got ideas. So many ideas."
You raise an eyebrow, intrigued despite your exhaustion. "Ideas?"
"But only when you're ready. Only ever when you're ready."
You smile against his mouth, feeling safe, feeling seen, feeling loved in every molecule of your being. "Guess we'll see," you whisper.
"Yeah," he agrees, pulling you closer, tangling your legs together. "We will."
And as you drift off to sleep in his arms, marked by him in ways that will last for days, you think that maybe—just maybe—you're ready for whatever beautiful, boundless thing comes next.
i hope you know me sane is literally so good!! you’re so right unbelievably talented at world building! i’m immediately immersed!!!
would love to see more ollie stuff hehehe
♡˖ I KNEW IT, I KNEW YOU
Summary: What are the chances that the same guy seated next to you years ago in the same cinema is, again, seated next to you? Probably low, but never zero.
Pairing: ollie bearman x reader
Warning/s: fluff, ollie being a cutie, ollie getting emotional/crying to a scene, language, organic encounter meet cute typa shit. INACCURATE TIMELINE (aged up cuz ts4 was out back in 2019, ollie was 14). Pictures from pinterest.
Words: 4k
A/N: I just watched Toy Story 5 in the cinema AND MY GOD IT WAS SO GOOD I CRIED I SOBBED YALL SHOULD WATCH. It inspired me to write this cutesy oneshot, because I thought — must be nice to have someone next to you, watching in the cinema (i was all alone, there was no one seated next to me 😔)
++++ this lovely person wanted more ollie stuff, so here I am at your service 🙂↕️ also thank you for all the feedbacks, i really really really appreciate them. 💋
Come drop some requests if you want to :)
— requests are open!
You were supposed to watch Toy Story 4 together. It was meant to be a nostalgic pilgrimage, a shared nod to the childhood you had all left behind. But now, the space around you felt entirely too vast. You pocketed your phone with a small, practicing sigh. It’s fine, you told yourself, stepping into the queue for the ticket tearer. You couldn't be the one to throw a tantrum over an empty seat.
There is a distinct, heavy sort of quiet that settles in when plans dissolve at the very last minute. It isn’t just the sudden emptiness of the evening; it’s the abrupt deflation of expectation, the quiet snapping of a thread you had been holding onto all week. You stood in the brightly lit lobby of the cinema, the ambient noise of popping corn and rushing families washing over you in waves, looking down at your phone. A flurry of group chat notifications stared back up at you—variations of “so sorry, something came up!” and “can’t make it tonight, guys, duty calls!” text bubbles stacked like a wall blocking you out.
Yet, as you walked down the dimly lit slope of the theater and navigated the row to your designated spot, the maturity you had forced upon yourself began to curdle, just a little.
The theater was buzzing, a warm hive of collective anticipation. As you settled into your seat, you couldn't help but look around. To your left, a mother was gently wiping a smudge of chocolate off her son's cheek while the boy gripped a Buzz Lightyear toy with white knuckles. A few rows down, a couple was sharing a bucket of popcorn, their heads tilted together, whispering secrets into the dark as they laughed softly. It was an environment built entirely on shared joy, which only made your singular presence feel loud.
A quiet bitterness began to creep into the edges of your thoughts, sharp and uninvited. That could be you, a cynical, nasty little voice whispered in the back of your mind. If you gave anyone a chance instead of hiding behind the safety of your own routine.
The thought left a sour taste in your mouth, instantly shifting your bitterness into a profound, heavy sadness. You leaned back against the plush fabric of the seat, staring up at the giant screen where trivia questions were flashing by. You weren't supposed to be thinking like this. You were here to watch a movie about toys, a film engineered to make people feel happy, light, and full of pure, uncomplicated joy.
As the lights finally began to dim, cascading the room into a deep, velvety darkness, the remaining stragglers scrambled to find their places. It was a completely full house. Every single silhouette against the glow of the screen was paired up, packed tightly together—except for the very edge of your row. You were in the second-to-last seat, and the corner spot right next to you remained glaringly, beautifully empty. For a fleeting second, you considered moving over, giving yourself the luxury of the corner armrest, but the previews were already rolling, the loud thunder of the sound system shaking the floorboards.
Then, the heavy doors at the back of the auditorium creaked open, throwing a brief, diagonal shaft of yellow light across the room.
“Sorry! Sorry, excuse me!” a voice suddenly called out. It was a young voice, entirely too loud for the hushed environment, cracking slightly under the pressure of intense panic.
“Shh!” a disgruntled voice hissed from the row directly behind you.
“Apologies… ever so sorry,” the voice scrambled, dropping into a frantic, hurried whisper that carried an unmistakable, polite British lilt.
“Man, get out of the way!” someone muttered as a tall silhouette tripped blindly over a pair of extended legs.
“Excuse me, I am so sorry, deeply sorry!” the guy gasped again, his silhouette weaving through the darkness like a ship lost at sea. He was moving entirely too fast for a room with zero visibility.
Before you could even register his proximity, a heavy, solid shoe came down with full force right on top of your sneaker.
“Ow!” you gasped, the sharp, throbbing pinch of pain drawing an involuntary breath from your lungs as you instinctively pulled your foot back.
The silhouette froze mid-stride, nearly toppling over into your lap before catching himself against the back of the seat in front of you. “Oh god, I’m really, truly sorry,” he whispered frantically. The screen changed to a bright, colorful animation, casting a sudden flash of blue light over him. You couldn't see his face perfectly, but you caught the wide, horrified look in his eyes, his messy dark curls bouncing as he scrambled into the empty corner seat next to you, looking like a boy who had just broken a priceless vase.
“Are you hurt? Blimey, I’m stupid, of course you are,” he scolded himself, his voice dropping into a rapid-fire, agonized whisper as he hunched over in his seat. He looked thoroughly mortified, his hands shifting restlessly. “Did I scrape you? Did I break anything? I think I have a couple of plaster bandaids in my pocket—I’m really so sorry—”
“I’m okay, really. Just breathe, calm down, it’s completely fine,” you whispered back, holding up a hand to stem the tide of his panic.
“Are you absolutely sure?” he pressed, leaning in slightly, his brow furrowed with genuine, wide-eyed anxiety.
“Shhhhhh!” the designated theater hall-monitor from the row behind blew another loud whistle of air.
The guy let out a tiny, high-pitched meep of pure embarrassment, instantly swallowing the rest of his words. He shrank back into the corner of his chair, pulling his shoulders in as if trying to merge with the fabric and become entirely invisible.
Cute, you thought automatically, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips despite the lingering ache in your toes. Then, you mentally shook yourself. No, absolutely not. Stop it. You don’t even know him. You turned your eyes firmly back to the screen as the familiar, comforting opening chords of the movie filled the room.
For the next few minutes, you lost yourself in the story. The initial loneliness that had weighed down your chest slowly evaporated, replaced by the colorful, high-stakes world of Forky, Bo Peep, and the antique shop. But as the narrative deepened, shifting from lighthearted comedy into something far more poignant about purpose, growing up, and letting go, a strange sound began to drift over from your left.
It was a soft, ragged intake of breath. A sniffle.
You didn't look at first, choosing to give the stranger his privacy. But then came a very distinct, hitched sob, carefully muffled behind a closed fist. You turned your head just a fraction, peeking through the darkness. The bright, warm glow of the screen illuminated the side of his face. The boy who had violently trampled your foot minutes prior was now staring at the screen with absolute, unblinking devotion. As Bo Peep and Woody shared a quiet, deeply emotional reunion on screen, a single, glistening tear escaped his eye, tracing a slow path down his cheek.
As if sensing your gaze, his head snapped toward you. Panic flashed across his features again. He quickly dragged the back of his hand across his cheek, cleared his throat with a loud, aggressive cough, and immediately sat up straight, crossing his arms over his chest in the most masculine, unaffected posture he could muster.
“It’s really quite cold in here,” he whispered into the dark, his voice a little raspy as he stared dead ahead, trying desperately to sound nonchalant. “My eyes… they get incredibly irritated by the air conditioning. Natural reaction, really.”
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing out loud. “Right. The theater allergies. Highly selective,” you whispered back softly.
He gave a stiff, formal nod, clearly satisfied that he had successfully defended his dignity.
Except, the movie didn't stop being emotional. By the time the climax arrived, and Woody stood at the back of the carnival truck, looking between the lifelong loyalty of Buzz and the new, free life with Bo Peep, the quiet composure next to you completely shattered. The sniffling returned, heavier this time, followed by the undeniable sound of someone trying—and failing—to quietly swallow their tears.
You looked over again. He was entirely gone, his head tilted down, his hand covering his eyes as the emotional weight of a cowboy doll’s existential crisis completely undid him.
Without a word, you reached into your bag. Your fingers brushed past your phone, your keys, and landed on a small, unopened pocket-pack of tissues—the very last one you had. You pulled it out, extended your hand across the shared armrest, and lightly nudged his elbow with the plastic packaging.
He blinked, looking down at your hand through a pair of remarkably watery, long-lashed eyes. A flush of deep crimson was creeping up his neck, visible even in the dim light. He looked utterly humiliated, but the sheer volume of his tears left him with very little leverage.
“Thank you,” he mumbled, his British accent thick with emotion as he accepted the pack. He pulled out a tissue and gingerly dabbed at his eyes, trying to maintain some semblance of grace.
As the final frame faded to black and the bright, uplifting credit music began to roll, the heavy silence of the theater broke into a collective rustle of people gathering their belongings. The boy next to you let out a long, shaky breath, balling up the damp tissue in his fist.
“It’s just… it’s so beautiful, isn't it?” he asked, turning his face fully toward you. He looked entirely earnest, his heart completely on his sleeve, seemingly unbothered now by the fact that he was a grown man who had just wept at an animated children's movie. “The ending. He stayed. I just… I didn't expect him to stay.”
“Yeah,” you said, your voice softening as you offered him a gentle, reassuring nod. “It was a really good ending.”
You grabbed your bag from the floor and stood up, smoothing down your clothes. The house lights were slowly fluctuating, transitioning from the dark amber into the bright, stark white of the daytime reality. “Well, crying man,” you said, a playful, teasing smirk breaking across your face as you looked down at him. “I should probably go. But you might want to wipe that stray tear off your chin before you face the public.”
His eyes widened slightly, his hand flying up to his chin to catch the exact drop you were talking about.
As the overhead lights flared to full brightness, the darkness that had shielded you both vanished. For a split second, your eyes locked. You saw him clearly now—sharp jawline, wide, expressive dark eyes still slightly rimmed with red, and a messy mop of curls that made him look incredibly endearing. He, too, was staring up at you, his hand frozen on his chin, his gaze dropping to your face as if he were suddenly seeing you for the first time.
You gave him one last amused smile, turned on your heel, and joined the steady stream of people shuffling down the steps toward the exit.
Behind you, Oliver Bearman sat perfectly still in the corner seat, his fingers loosely holding a crumpled tissue, his eyes entirely glued to your retreating figure until you disappeared into the bright, crowded foyer.
By the time you got home, the loneliness of the evening had completely transformed into a lighthearted, funny memory. The frustration with your cousins felt distant, replaced by the sheer comedy of the boy next to you. Standing in your bedroom, you looked in your gallery for a quick photo of the screen you had taken before the lights went down—a slightly blurry shot of Woody and Bo Peep—and uploaded it to your Instagram story.
You typed out a caption, smiling as you did: “AMAZING. Also, this guy sitting next to me started crying like a baby when Woody decided to stay with Bo. I had to give him my very last pack of tissues. 😂😭”
Across town, inside a quiet car, Oliver was staring at his own phone screen, his face still bearing the faint, dry tracks of his cinematic undoing. With a sheepish, self-deprecating smile, he posted a selfie directly to his own story. He looked thoroughly exhausted, his eyes slightly puffy, holding up a peace sign inside the dimly lit vehicle.
His caption read: “toy story 4 is so good, absolutely cried my eyes out. This kind woman next to me gave me a pack of tissues, I couldn’t be more embarrassed 😭🙏🏻 standard theater allergies mate.”
Exactly twenty minutes later, your phone began to vibrate violently on your nightstand. The screen lit up with your friend’s contact photo, the ringing sharp and demanding.
You picked it up, sliding it to your ear. “Hello?”
“BITCH,” your friend’s voice exploded through the speaker, entirely skipping any form of greeting. The volume was so loud you had to pull the phone a few inches away from your ear. “YOU SAT NEXT TO OLIVER BEARMAN AND YOU DIDN'T EVEN KNOW? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?”
You blinked, completely bewildered, walking over to sit on the edge of your bed. “Who the fuck is Oliver Bearman?”
A heavy, horrified silence filled the line, followed by what sounded like a frustrated groan. “Who is—are you living under a rock? He’s the British driver! He’s literally a rising star, won a few karting championships, and is moving up the ranks like crazy, everyone is talking about him! He literally just posted a story about a girl giving him tissues, and I know those are your exact bedazzled pack of tissues in the corner of his photo! How do you not know who he is?”
You pulled the phone down, looking at the blank screen for a moment, a sudden image of wide, watery dark eyes and a frantic, polite British accent flashing vividly in your mind. “Are you hurt? Blimey, I’m stupid…”
A small, genuine laugh bubbled up from your chest as you brought the phone back to your ear. “I don't know anything about karting, you know that. To me, he was just a guy with terrible dark-theater coordination who really, really cares about plastic cowboys.”
“You are hopeless,” your friend groaned, though there was an underlying chuckle in their voice. “Absolute historical fumble.”
After you hung up, you stared at your ceiling for a long time, the quiet rhythm of the night settling back into your room. You didn't search his name, and you didn't try to hunt down his profile.
You pulled your blanket up to your chin, closed your eyes, and smiled, thinking that you’d probably never see him again.
Wrong!
Time has a strange, quiet way of reshaping the landscape of your life without you even noticing the bricks shifting.
A few years pass, and suddenly the chaotic, noisy weekends of your youth are traded for the sterile, rhythmic hum of university life.
The group chat with your cousins, once a bustling hub of impulsive plans and shared inside jokes, has slowed down to a muted, polite exchange of birthday wishes and mutually exhausted complaints about upcoming exams, thesis deadlines, and conflicting lecture schedules. Everyone is simply too busy, scattered across different campuses and drowning in the heavy, unglamorous transition into real adulthood.
So, when the long-awaited announcement of Toy Story 5 finally translated into a tangible premiere date, you didn't even bother waiting for a cancellation. You bought a single ticket, knowing that some traditions are too deeply woven into the fabric of your childhood to be sacrificed to the god of busy schedules.
You needed to watch it, if only to anchor yourself back to the girl who used to sit on a living room carpet with her cousins, believing that plastic space rangers could fly.
Walking into the very same cinema felt like stepping through a tear in the fabric of time. The air still smelled of sweet, burnt sugar and artificial butter, and the dim, amber lighting of the auditorium offered the exact same comforting embrace it always had.
You navigated the familiar steps and slipped into your row, settling back into your seat with a bag of popcorn resting on your lap. The room was just as packed as it had been years ago—a sea of children clutching new toys, tired parents, and nostalgic young adults seeking a temporary escape from their responsibilities. And, just like before, the corner seat immediately to your left remained stubbornly, conspicuously empty as the lights began their slow, rhythmic descent into darkness.
You looked at the empty cushion, a small, involuntary smile tugging at the corner of your mouth as a sudden, vivid memory flashed through your mind—the frantic British lilt, the heavy shoe crushing your toes, and the sheer, unadulterated heartbreak of a boy weeping over a cowboy doll.
You had learned who he was, of course. Your friend had spent the better part of a week flooding your phone with racing statistics, paddock photos, and news articles about the rising star, Oliver Bearman. You had watched his career skyrocket from afar, occasionally seeing his face on sports news, looking sharp and collected in a racing suit.
But to you, he had always remained frozen in your memory as the charmingly clumsy stranger who couldn't handle theater air conditioning.
The loud, bass-heavy rumble of the opening previews shook the theater floor, drawing you out of your thoughts. You adjusted your posture, fully prepared to enjoy the movie in your own solitary bubble, when a tall silhouette suddenly darkened the edge of your row.
There was no shouting this time, no frantic tripping over stray legs or breathless apologies whispered to disgruntled patrons. The figure moved with a quiet, grounded confidence, slipping into the empty corner seat just as the iconic, cloud-filled blue sky of the movie’s opening sequence illuminated the room.
You didn't mean to look, but the sheer gravity of a strange, lingering deja vu pulled your eyes outward. The bright, flickering light of the screen washed over the stranger’s face, and your breath caught slightly in your throat. The sharp jawline was more defined now, the shoulders broader beneath a simple dark hoodie, but the unruly, untamable mop of brown curls was completely unmistakable. It was him.
As if sensing the sudden weight of your gaze, Oliver turned his head. His dark eyes met yours, blinking once, then twice, as his brain scrambled to process the impossible geometry of the universe putting you back in the exact same coordinate. For a second, he just stared, his lips parting in a quiet, breathless exhale. The composure he had cultivated over years of racing at two hundred miles an hour seemed to completely evaporate, replaced by the wide-eyed, stunned vulnerability of the boy from years ago.
Before the silence could stretch into something awkward, Oliver leaned across the shared armrest, a soft, self-deprecating smile breaking across his face. “I promise,” he whispered, his voice a little deeper now but carrying that same polite, familiar warmth, “my feet are firmly planted on my own side of the row tonight. Your sneakers are entirely safe.”
A quiet, genuine laugh bubbled up from your chest, the lingering tension of a stressful university week completely melting away. “Good to know,” you whispered back, leaning slightly closer so the surrounding families wouldn't shush you. “I see you managed to navigate the stairs in the dark this time. Progress looks good on you.”
“I’ve been practicing,” he murmured, his eyes sparkling with a playful, triumphant sort of heat. He looked down at the armrest between you, then back up to your face, his smile softening into something incredibly gentle. “To be completely honest, I’ve spent the last few years regretting that I let you walk away so easily last time. I felt like a massive idiot for weeks.”
“You were a bit distracted by your theater allergies, if I remember correctly,” you teased softly, nodding toward the screen where the movie was fully underway.
Oliver let out a low, breathless chuckle, shaking his head as a faint flush colored his cheeks. "Right. The highly selective allergies. A medical marvel, really.” He shifted in his seat, turning his body slightly toward you rather than the screen, his posture completely discarding the screen previews. This time, he wasn't fumbling, and he wasn't going to let the credits dictate the end of the story. “I’m Oliver, by the way. Properly, this time.”
“I know,” you smiled, offering your own name in return. “My friend made sure I was thoroughly educated after the tissue incident.”
“And yet, you didn't slide into my DMs to mock my tears,” he countered smoothly, a boyish, teasing glint in his eyes.
“I didn't want to bruise the ego of a rising star,” you retorted, turning your eyes back to the screen as the movie transitioned into a deeply heartwarming scene, though your heart was currently beating a steady, rapid rhythm against your ribs.
For the next two hours, the cinema felt smaller, warmer, and infinitely less lonely than it had when you first walked in. You watched the movie together, a shared experience that felt remarkably natural, as if the gap of the intervening years had been nothing more than a commercial break. When the inevitable emotional climax of the film arrived, you quietly unzipped your bag, pulled out a brand-new, unopened pack of pocket tissues, and laid them gently on the armrest between you without saying a word.
Oliver looked down at the tissues, then up at you, a soft, incredibly sweet smile breaking across his face. He didn't try to deny it this time, nor did he make up any excuses about the air conditioning. He simply reached out, his fingers briefly brushing against yours as he took the pack. “A preemptive strike,” he whispered, his voice thick with a genuine, soft warmth. “You’re far too good to me.”
When the final credits began to roll and the house lights slowly fluctuated back to life, flooding the auditorium with a bright, crisp glow, neither of you stood up. The crowds around you began to shuffle out, grabbing empty popcorn buckets and coats, but Oliver remained anchored in his seat, his eyes entirely fixed on your face. The stark, bright light revealed every detail—the faint, lingering crinkles of laughter around his eyes, the absolute sincerity in his gaze, and the fact that he hadn't used a single tissue this time, entirely content to just sit in the comfort of your presence.
“So,” Oliver said softly, breaking the ambient noise of the exiting crowd as he slid his phone out of his pocket, holding it out toward you with a steady, unblinking confidence. “I’ve spent the last few years being completely hopeless at missed connections. I’d really like to not fumble this twice. Can I take you out for a coffee? Or a proper dinner? Somewhere where we can actually talk without a designated hall-monitor shushing us from behind.”
You looked at the phone, then up at the boy who had once been a fleeting, poetic anomaly in your life, now standing right in front of you as a beautifully real, down-to-earth certainty. The loneliness of the past few years, the weight of university deadlines, and the quiet bitterness of growing apart from old routines faded into total insignificance.
“Only if you promise not to cry into your espresso,” you teased, a bright, radiant smile breaking across your face as you took the phone from his hand to type in your number.
Oliver let out a bright, melodic laugh, his eyes locking onto yours with a private, fiercely protective warmth that felt like coming home.
“No promises,” he murmured softly, his thumb lightly brushing against your knuckles as you handed the phone back. “But I can guarantee I’ll always keep a pack of tissues in my pocket from now on. Just in case.”
Warnings: fluff, mundane things, language, more fluff, endearments, fluff fluff fluff. LEO MENTIONED!! hella cheesy and sentimental. suggestive (Charles and oscar) IF U SQUINT ENUFF. Pictures from Pinterest
Words: 7.4k
A/N: no, i did not nclude the other drivers, not because I hate/dont like them, but because I'm not knowledgeable enough of them. + idk if anyone had done this before, but oh well 🤷🏻♀️. Also, this is my first time making something like this, what would you call this kind of fic? Imagine? One shot? Preferences? But one thing for sure that it took me a long ass time to finish it.
— requests are open!
ooi. lewis hamilton
— unraveling his braids
The only sound filling the quiet spaces of the living room was the soft, ambient hum of your laptop, drifting through a playlist of low-fidelity tracks that felt more like a heartbeat than music.
You were melting into the cushions of the couch, while Lewis sat on the floor right in front of you. His back was settled firmly against your shins, your legs bracketing the broad, familiar frame of his upper body. It was a position you both knew by heart—the universal signal that the two-week mark had arrived, and his scalp was finally ready to be released from the tension of his cornrows.
"I look forward to these days," Lewis murmured, tilting his head back against your knees to look up at you upside down.
"Getting your braids undone?" You laughed softly, your fingers already finding their rhythm at the crown of his head. "We do this every fortnight, baby. You’d think the novelty would have worn off by now."
You leaned down, pressing a light, lingering kiss to his forehead. Lewis let out a long, slow sigh, his shoulders visibly dropping an inch as his eyes fluttered shut.
"It’s not about the novelty," he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, gravelly register he only used when he was completely relaxed. "It’s just... it’s become our routine. I love it. I love you."
"So cheesy," you chuckled, though your chest tightened with a sudden, overwhelming warmth. "But I love it too. And I love you more."
"Debatable," he muttered, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
Maybe you two were growing older, or maybe the fast-paced, loud chaos of his world just made these quiet, domestic anchors feel incredibly sacred. It’s the mundane things—the unglamorous, repetitive bits of love—that wind up building the safest spaces.
Your fingers worked with practiced, gentle skill. You used the tail of a comb to meticulously loosen the tightly woven patterns, mindful of the sensitive skin near his nape.
"Ouch—okay, gentle, tiger," Lewis winced slightly as you hit a particularly stubborn knot near the back. "I need that hair for the weekend."
"Oh, stop being a baby," you teased, lightly tapping his shoulder. "If you didn't leave the product in it for so long, it wouldn't be a bird's nest at the roots."
"It's a very expensive bird's nest," he shot back, his shoulders shaking with a silent laugh.
"Well, the expensive bird's nest is currently shedding all over my sweatpants," you retorted, though your hands never stopped their soothing, rhythmic motion.
As the braids unraveled, his hair began to puff out in tight, crimped waves, full of texture and volume. You ran your fingers through the newly freed sections, massaged his scalp with the pads of your fingers, and watched the tension leave his face entirely.
Lewis let his head fall completely back against your lap, staring up at the ceiling with a look of pure, unadulterated peace. The world outside could wait; right here, in the quiet swell of the music and the soft tangle of his hair, everything was exactly as it was meant to be.
oii. carlos sainz jr.
— cooking
The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of Carlos’s knife against the wooden cutting board was the heartbeat of the kitchen. In the background, a pot of water sent up a lazy, rolling simmer, a low hum that softened the quiet evening. You stood at the stove, gently turning over ingredients in a pan that filled the room with a rich, savory aroma—something that smelled so good it felt almost too perfect for a Tuesday night.
You shifted your weight, balancing like a flamingo with your left hand braced against the cool marble counter and one foot tucked against your opposite calf.
Suddenly, the rhythmic chopping stopped.
The abrupt silence made you glance over. Carlos was leaning against the counter, the knife resting idle beside a pile of perfectly diced onions. He was just looking at you. His eyes, warm and dark, held a distinct, soft sparkle of pure adoration.
"What?" you asked, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Can you pass me the salt?" You pointed with your wooden spoon toward the shaker sitting just behind him.
He reached back, grabbed it, and handed it over without once breaking eye contact. He just kept standing there, a soft smile playing on his face.
"Carlos," you said, shaking your head.
"Hm?" he hummed, the sound low in his chest.
"You're staring," you raised your eyebrows, tapping the spoon against the edge of the pan. "Do you need something? Am I burning it?"
"Nothing. No, it smells perfect," his smile widened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "I... you look really good cooking."
You glanced down at yourself, let out a soft laugh, and gestured to your outfit. "Carlos, I'm wearing oversized gym shorts and a t-shirt that has a literal bleach stain on the hem. Mi cariño, what exactly is special about this?"
"I don't know," he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, grounded register he only used when it was just the two of you. "You're standing in my kitchen, making dinner. I love it."
He closed the distance between you, his footsteps quiet on the tiled floor. Stepping up behind you, he wrapped his arms securely around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest. He smelled like garlic, clean laundry, and the faint, woody scent of his cologne.
"We do this almost every day now," you murmured, leaning back into his solid warmth but keeping an eye on the pan.
"And I love it every single day."
"Don't you ever get bored of it, though?" you asked. You tilted your head sideways, lifting your chin to look up at his jawline. "The routine of it all?"
"Do you?" he countered softly.
Before you could answer, he pressed a tender, lingering kiss into the crown of your head, then rested his chin right there, using you as his personal headrest.
"No," you admitted, your heart doing a familiar, happy flip. "I love cooking with you."
"And I love watching you do it," Carlos said, his arms tightening just a fraction around you, anchoring you both in the quiet, domestic safety of the room. "I love you."
"I love you more," you said, turning off the burner. "Now move your chin, giant, or we're going to be eating burnt garlic.”
iii. max verstappen
— grocery shopping
The fluorescent lights of the grocery store hummed a quiet, sterile tune, casting a bright glare over the polished linoleum floors.
Logically, you and Max didn't need to be here.
Max had a team of people who could orchestrate a full pantry restock with a single text message, but you had insisted. To you, love wasn’t just built in the quiet corners of his Monaco apartment or amidst the deafening roar of the paddock; it was built here, arguing over breakfast brands in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon. It was the only place where no one expected him to be a champion—just a guy holding a wire shopping cart.
Max had whined about it the whole way down, of course, offering a theatrical sigh as he grabbed a cart. But you knew him. You saw the way his shoulders dropped the moment you walked through the sliding glass doors, the way he subtly shielded you from the occasional wandering glance of a stranger. He loved the mundane reality of it just as much as you did.
Right now, you were anchored in the frozen aisle, standing before a wall of glass freezers lined with a colorful mosaic of frozen comfort food. You pulled open the heavy door, a rush of artificial winter spilling out against your skin. You reached in and grabbed a bag of dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets, a box of breakfast sausages, and a sleeve of frozen hash browns, stacking them neatly in your arms.
"We don't need all of that, schat," Max said from behind the cart, his hands loosely gripping the handlebar. He looked entirely out of place among the frozen peas and waffles, yet completely at home next to you.
"I don't need it, but you do," you countered, sliding the freezer door shut with your elbow before drifting toward the next section. "Have you seen the inside of your fridge lately? Because I have. It looks like a vending machine sponsored exclusively by Red Bull. It’s becoming hazardous to your health. What would your trainer say?"
Max let out a heavy, long-suffering sigh, rolling the cart a few inches closer to follow your steps. "And you think processed food is a health cure?"
"Don't complain," you smiled, opening another freezer door and unceremoniously tossing a pack of premium hot dogs into the cart. They landed with a dull thud right on top of the hash browns. "I know for a fact you eat these when you think I'm not looking."
Max opened his mouth to defend his honor, but the faint twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed him. He let out a soft huff, a quiet surrender. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. They're efficient."
You let out a laugh—hearty, light, and completely unbothered by the chilly air of the aisle. It was a sound that seemed to cut right through his usual guarded exterior, and you watched the remaining tension leave his jaw. He melted, his expression softening into that private, boyish warmth he only ever showed you.
"You're very lucky I love you," he murmured, shaking his head as he nudged the cart forward, his eyes locked onto yours.
"I should hope so," you teased, turning around to face him fully, a playful glint in your eyes. "You did just asked me to marry you a few weeks ago. It would be a bit awkward if you changed your mind over frozen sausages."
Max rolled his eyes—a dramatic, harmless gesture—but the sudden, bright flash of the silver band on your finger caught the grocery store light, making him smile anyway.
"I love you," you added softly, your tone shifting from teasing to something deeply tender as you reached out to lightly tap the tip of his nose.
"I know," he said, catching your hand for just a brief second, his thumb brushing over your knuckles before letting go so you could keep scanning the shelves. He followed a step behind you, content to be the keeper of the cart, navigating the small, ordinary aisles of a life you were building together, one grocery trip at a time.
oiv. charles leclerc
— bathing leo
The quiet luxury of the bedroom was suddenly pierced by a very distinct, very un-luxurious aroma.
“Baby, you smell bad!” you dramatically exclaimed, extending your arms to lift Leo into the air before his fluffy, four-legged self could collapse onto your clean duvet. The little dog blinked innocently down at you, completely oblivious to the fact that he currently smelled like a walking diaper disaster. “Oh, sweetie, what did you roll in?”
“What? I literally just showered!” Charles’s voice echoed from the hallway, dripping with wounded pride.
You heard the distinct rustle of a wrapper—he was undoubtedly in the kitchen, hunting down his afternoon chocolate stash. A moment later, he walked into the bedroom, his brows furrowed in deep offense, a half-eaten bar of chocolate in hand.
“Not you,” you laughed, shifting the furry culprit so he was propped against your hip. “It’s Leo. I think he desperately needs a bath.”
Charles took one step closer, caught a whiff of the air, and visibly winced. “Ah. Mon dieu. Shit, I forgot to book his appointment at the groomer’s, didn't I?” He immediately fished his phone out of his pocket, his thumbs flying across the screen. “I’ll call them now. They can take him, surely.”
“Nah, don't bother,” you said, cooing softly at Leo, who was trying to lick your chin. “It’s already late, Charles. The vet and the groomers are probably closed by now anyway. It's totally fine, I can just wash him here.”
Charles paused, looking up from his phone with a frown. “Bébé, you don't need to do that. It’s a mess. He’s a nightmare when he’s wet.”
“C’mon, it’s just a little water,” you insisted, giving him a reassuring smile.
After a few more rounds of gentle arguing, Charles finally succumbed to your stubbornness. You marched into the master bathroom, armed with a tiny plastic basin you had painstakingly excavated from the depths of Charles’s hallway closet—a chaotic storage space filled with old racing trophies, random charging cables, and far too many unnecessary gadgets.
You set the basin in the center of the spacious shower, adjusted the water temperature until it was perfectly lukewarm, and gently lowered Leo into it. The moment the detachable shower head clicked on, the little dog froze, looking at you with the ultimate betrayal written all over his face.
Unbeknownst to you, Charles hadn't gone back to his chocolate. He was leaning casually against the marble doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, quietly watching the scene unfold.
He had seen you wash Leo once before, months ago, after a chaotic, muddy run through the park when the groomers were fully booked. Seeing you do it again now—completely unbothered by the impending mess, your sleeves rolled up, talking to the dog in that soft, ridiculous voice you only used at home—made something shift in his chest.
A heavy, sweet wave of adoration hit him so fast it almost made his knees weak. The fast-paced, loud, adrenaline-fueled chaos of his racing world completely faded into the background. This was the real stuff. It was so incredibly mundane, yet so profoundly grounding.
“Okay, buddy, just a little soap,” you murmured, massaging the puppy shampoo into his fur until he looked like a tiny, pathetic polar bear.
Suddenly, Leo tensed.
“No, no, Leo, don’t you dare—”
Before you could finish the sentence, the dog executed a violent, full-body shake. A torrential downpour of soapy water spray erupted across the bathroom, covering the glass mirrors, the tiled walls, and most notably, the entire front of your shirt.
“Non!” you gasped, throwing your hands up too late.
From the doorway, Charles let out a bright, melodic laugh that echoed off the tiles.
“You’re going to need a shower of your own after this,” he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he walked over to hand you a dry towel.
You wiped a stray bubble off your cheek, shaking your head as you shot him a playful smirk. “Shame. You’ve already showered and changed.”
Charles stepped into the shower enclosure, completely unbothered by the wet floor. He wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, pressing his chest against your damp back, ignoring the fact that your shirt was soaked. He tilted his head down, burying his face into the crook of your neck.
“I will gladly take another shower just so I can join you,” he murmured against your skin, his voice dropping into a quiet, serious register that made your heart skip. “I love you like that. Mess and all.”
“Mhm? Is that an offer, Leclerc?” you chuckled, turning your head slightly to catch his lips.
“Always,” he whispered, smiling into the kiss while Leo whimpered below you, demanding to finally be dried off.
oov. george russell
— folding laundry
The low, rhythmic chime of the dryer signaled the end of its cycle, leaving a heavy, comforting silence in its wake. It was a Monday morning, the kind where the world outside felt entirely distant. Inside, the bedroom smelled deeply of lavender detergent and warm fabric.
You pulled the massive, plastic basket into the center of the room, tipping it over until a mountain of fresh laundry tumbled out onto the carpet—a warm, chaotic heap of cotton, linen, and soft knits.
George was sitting on the edge of the mattress, scrolling idly through his phone. He wasn't busy, a rare occurrence in his tightly scheduled life, so when he saw you drop down onto your knees to tackle the pile, he quietly slipped his phone into his pocket and slid down onto the floor beside you.
He had never really given much thought to the anatomy of a household chore. To him, laundry was a functional necessity, a task usually relegated to the background of his hyper-focused world. But as he sat there, picking up a rogue pair of socks, a sudden, heavy wave of warmth caught him entirely off guard.
There was a strange, poetic architecture to the scene. You were already in your element, efficiently turning a chaotic jumble of fabrics into neat, sharp-edged squares. You reached into the pile and pulled out one of his oversized, faded team t-shirts. Instead of folding it, you set it aside in a distinct, isolated pile on your left.
“George,” you called out softly, breaking his trance. He had been staring at your hands. “Can you hand me the other basket for the whites?”
He shook himself out of his daze, immediately reaching for the plastic handle. “Here. Actually, let me take over. I'll do them.”
You shook your head, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips as you took the basket. “No way. We can do it equally. Team effort, Russell.”
“I am highly efficient at folding,” he pointed out, his tone shifting into that signature, slightly posh, competitive register. “My straight lines are unmatched.”
“We’ll see about that,” you teased, tossing a crumpled pair of his sweatpants into his lap. “Prove it.”
For the next ten minutes, the bedroom was filled with the soft, rhythmic sounds of domesticity—the crisp snap of fabric being shaken out, the smooth slide of hands smoothing out wrinkles against the carpet, and the quiet sliding of the dresser drawers.
George watched you out of the corner of his eye. You were completely unbothered, sitting cross-legged in a pair of soft shorts and a sweatshirt that you had undoubtedly stolen from his closet six months ago. As you leaned forward to organize his sweater drawer, sliding his knits by color, the domestic safety of the moment hit him again, sharper this time.
“You look incredibly pretty,” he blurted out. The words left his mouth entirely without his permission, completely bypassing his usual analytical filter.
You paused, a half-folded polo shirt suspended in your hands. You turned your head, looking at him with an amused, raised eyebrow.
“Thank you. You’re not bad yourself,” you teased, nudging his knee with your foot. When his expression remained intensely earnest, your smile softened. “I’m kidding, handsome. What’s with the random compliment?”
“Nothing,” George said, his voice dropping into a quieter, more grounded register. He rested his forearms on his knees, a pair of folded boxer shorts still held loosely in his hand. “You just look really... homey. Sitting there, folding my clothes and arranging them like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I don't know. It caught me by surprise.”
You chuckled, a warm, hearty sound that echoed softly against the wooden furniture. You set the polo shirt into the drawer, smoothing the collar down. “So, seeing me handle your laundry is highly romantic to you, is it? Good to know my domestic skills are so deeply appreciated.”
“Extremely,” he insisted, a boyish, un-studied smile breaking across his face. The rigid, professional posture he held at the racetrack was completely gone, replaced by a soft, relaxed slouch that he only ever used when it was just the two of you. “It’s very special.”
“Very special, huh?” You smiled, turning back to the mountain of clothes. You reached for the isolated pile on your left—the one containing his oversized t-shirt—and moved it a few inches further away from his reach.
George’s eyes tracked the movement. He frowned slightly, his analytical brain immediately spotting the anomaly. “Wait a minute. Why is that shirt going over there? That’s my favorite grey one.”
“It was your favorite grey one,” you corrected smoothly, not even looking up as you picked up a pair of socks. “It is now my official bedtime shirt for the week. The fabric has reached peak softness.”
“That is blatant structural theft,” George laughed, reaching across the pile to try and reclaim it. “I’m helping you fold, and you’re actively robbing my wardrobe in broad daylight.”
“It’s the tax for my labor,” you shot back, slapping his hand away playfully. “Consider it a rental fee.”
He let out a soft huff, surrendering immediately as he sat back on his heels. He didn't care about the shirt; in fact, there was a ridiculous sense of pride that came with seeing you swim in his clothes. He watched you tuck the stolen prize safely away.
“I love you so much,” he murmured, the teasing tone evaporating into something profoundly tender. His eyes were locked onto yours, completely steady.
You paused, holding a pair of rolled-up socks, matching his gaze. The playful air between you softened into something quiet and sacred.
“I love you so much more,” you challenged softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Statistically impossible,” George replied, a faint, adoring smirk returning to his lips as he reached into the basket for the very last piece of clothing. “But I’ll let you believe it for now.”
ovi. lando norris
— eating breakfast
The rhythmic click-clack of a computer keyboard and the neon glow of dual monitors used to be Lando’s entire definition of a late night—and conversely, the reason his mornings barely existed. Before you, breakfast wasn't a meal; it was a conceptual myth. He woke up far too late for his manager’s liking and well past his trainer’s patience, usually rolled out of bed with dry eyes from staring at his PC until 4:00 AM, playing whatever game Max Fewtrell had dragged him into.
Now, he was sitting fully conscious at a solid oak dining table he couldn’t actually remember ever using for its intended purpose, eating actual food with you.
He had woken up early—not because of a screaming phone alarm or a demanding schedule, but because the warm, buttery aroma of toast and brewing tea had drifted into the bedroom and gently nudged him awake. Bleary-eyed and pulling a hoodie over his head, he had padded down the hallway to find you in his kitchen. You were completely barefoot on the cool tiles, wearing nothing but one of his oversized team shirts that swallowed your frame and pooled halfway down your thighs.
Watching you stand there, completely at ease in his space, a sudden, quiet epiphany had struck him right in the chest: You needed to live here. It wasn't just about the luxury of a home-cooked meal; it was the realization that he wanted you anchored in his life on this exact level. He wanted the ordinary, unglamorous, beautiful routine of sharing an apartment with you, talking about absolutely nothing and everything all at once while navigating the quiet corners of a normal day.
“You're up early,” you said, turning around with a wooden spatula in hand and offering him a soft, sleepy smile. “Did the kitchen noises wake you? I'm sorry.”
“Don't apologize,” Lando murmured, his voice incredibly groggy, deep with sleep as he pulled out a chair and slumped into it. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to blink away the haze. “Smells amazing, honestly.”
“Thank you,” you said, a happy little lilt in your voice as you plated up the eggs. “Tea?”
Lando blinked. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he’d willingly consumed tea in the morning. Usually, his breakfast consisted of a cold, neon-green liquid from a can that probably defied several health codes.
“Yes, please,” he smiled, the sleepiness in his eyes melting into pure warmth as he looked at you. “Thank you.”
“Anytime, baby,” you replied smoothly, pouring the hot water into a mug.
That first morning had been the catalyst. After that, Lando made sure you were in his Monaco apartment every single chance he got, counting down the days between race weekends just to get back to this specific quietness.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the apartment began to shift. The welcome mat by the front door, which had spent years greeting only one pair of muddy sneakers, now held a second, much smaller pair of slides. The ceramic cup in the bathroom that used to hold just his lonely electric toothbrush was now tangled up with yours. Even the refrigerator, which had previously looked like a commercial storage unit sponsored exclusively by energy drinks, was suddenly stocked with actual, perishable groceries, vegetables, and milk that hadn't expired three months ago.
He loved every single bit of it. For a guy whose life moved at two hundred miles an hour surrounded by screaming engines and constant public scrutiny, this quiet, ordinary domesticity was the ultimate luxury. He trusted you completely, and the changes you brought into his world didn't feel like a compromise—they felt like coming home.
Lando watched you set the steaming mug of tea in front of him, followed by a plate of perfectly done eggs and toast. He reached out, his fingers catching your wrist gently before you could pull away, tugging you just enough so you’d lean down. He pressed a warm, lingering kiss to your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin.
“What’s this for?” you asked, a playful smile tucking at the corners of your lips.
“Just making sure you’re real,” Lando teased, his voice finally losing its morning gravel. He picked up his fork but kept his eyes locked on yours. “And to make sure you aren't going to charge me a service fee for the tea.”
“Oh, the tea is free,” you chuckled, reaching over to ruffle his messy, uncombed curls. “But if you stay up until 4:00 AM on the simulator again tonight, I’m locking you out of the kitchen tomorrow.”
Lando let out a bright, boyish laugh, pulling you a little closer by the waist of his oversized shirt. “Deal. But only if I get a bite of your toast right now.”
vii. oscar piastri
— watering plants and flowers
Oscar’s apartment used to look less like a home and more like a high-end corporate waiting room. It was a study in aggressive minimalism—stark grey lines, industrial concrete, and furniture that seemed designed more for architectural symmetry than actual human bodies. He had never taken the time to decorate it; he simply didn't possess the domestic bandwidth. Even his sister, Hattie, had once staged a minor intervention, pacing through his living room and threatening to forcibly mail him a colorful rug because the sheer, unyielding bleakness of the space was "painful to look at." Oscar had just shrugged, entirely content with his empty shelves.
Then, came you.
You arrived with a quiet, stubborn mission fueled by soil, greenery, and an abundance of fresh flowers. Before you officially moved in, you began staging a slow, hostile takeover of his minimalist haven, one small pot at a time. Every time you visited, you’d slip a new plant onto a bare surface—resilient, low-maintenance varieties that could survive on nothing but pure spite, clean water, and the faint glow of the LED strip lights beneath his kitchen cabinets.
When the day finally came for you to officially unpack your bags, you brought out the big guns.
Suddenly, the cold corners of the living room were anchored by massive, leafy Monsteras that stretched toward the ceiling. The concrete balcony became a cascading waterfall of hanging pothos, their vines dancing in the Monaco breeze. Delicate orchids appeared on the dining table and the sleek marble coffee table, their structured blooms mirroring his love for precision, while a vase of vibrant tulips sat permanently on your bedside table, catching the morning sun.
But the undisputed crown jewel of the entire collection sat squarely on his bedside table: a small, dark ceramic pot holding a single, meticulously nurtured hibiscus plant. It was the moving-in gift you had ceremoniously handed him, and despite Oscar’s usual hands-off approach to nature, he took agonizingly great care of it. He checked the soil moisture with the gravity of a race engineer analyzing telemetry data. He loved it fiercely.
Lately, Oscar’s absolute favorite thing to do when the racing world paused was simply to sit and watch you tend to your kingdom. There was something profoundly hypnotic about the way you moved from room to room with your small, copper watering can. The fast-paced, high-adrenaline chaos of the paddock—the screaming engines, the media scrums, the constant pressure—all of it completely evaporated against the quiet, rhythmic sound of water hitting soil. It made him feel entirely grounded. He had lived in this apartment for a long time, but it wasn't until he watched you meticulously wipe dust off a broad green leaf that he realized he was finally home.
He had never imagined that something so intensely mundane could become the anchor of his entire week.
“Did you water Mrs. Hibby?” your voice drifted in from the balcony, light and slightly muffled by the glass door.
Mrs. Hibby was, of course, the bedside hibiscus. You had christened the plant on day one, a naming convention that Oscar had initially resisted with a look of pure, deadpan horror. He had complained that calling a flower 'Mrs. Hibby' made him feel like he was trying to get it with an elderly schoolteacher, but like the rest of the greenery, the name had stubbornly grown on him.
“Already did, baby,” Oscar called back, his deep, relaxed Australian drawl cutting through the quiet apartment. He was stretched out on the couch, his long legs draped over the armrest, his eyes tracking you as you stepped inside.
“And did she get any sun—” you started, tilting your head as you nudged a stray strand of hair away from your forehead with the back of your hand.
“Yep,” he cut in smoothly, a faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Gave her twenty minutes of direct morning light right by the window, checked the drainage, and gave her a polite nod of encouragement. She’s thriving.”
You let out a soft, melodic chuckle, stepping closer to the couch and setting the copper watering can down on the floor. “A polite nod? Wow. You’re really leaning into the plant-dad persona, Piastri.”
“I have a reputation to uphold,” he murmured, reaching out and catching your wrist as you stepped past him. With a gentle, effortless tug, he pulled you down onto the couch, adjusting his position until you were tucked securely against his chest, your back resting against his ribs.
He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the sweet, fresh scent of your shampoo mixed with the earthy fragrance of wet soil.
“You know,” you said softly, your fingers tracing the edge of his forearm where it rested against your stomach, “Hattie called me yesterday. She wanted to know if the apartment still looked like an underground bunker.”
Oscar let out a quiet huff of a laugh, his chest vibrating against your back. “And what did you tell her?”
“I told her it’s a jungle now. I told her her brother spends his mornings talking to a tropical flower.”
“I don’t talk to her,” Oscar corrected defensively, though the crinkles at the corners of his eyes betrayed his smile. “We just have a mutual understanding. She stays alive, and I don’t get yelled at by you.”
“Mhm. Sound strategy,” you teased, turning your head slightly so you could look up at his sharp jawline.
Oscar shifted, his gaze dropping to meet yours. The playful sarcasm in his dark eyes softened, melting into that private, fiercely protective warmth he only ever reserved for the quiet spaces inside these four walls. He leaned down, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your lips—soft and unhurried.
“Thank you,” he whispered against your mouth, his arms tightening just a fraction around you, anchoring you both in the warm, sunlit safety of the room.
“For what?” you asked, your voice barely a breath.
“For bringing some color in here,” Oscar murmured, his eyes scanning the vibrant room before settling back onto your face. “For making it real.”
viii. oliver bearman
— reading
Reading had never been high on Oliver Bearman’s list of priorities. In fact, it usually ranked somewhere between sitting through data telemetry meetings and watching paint dry. If things got boring, his immediate reflex was to look for a steering wheel, a simulator, or at the very least, a video game controller. Pages of dense, unmoving text just couldn't compete with a life lived at two hundred miles an hour.
But then, the universe decided to shift gears during the British Grand Prix at Silverstone.
The Haas garage was its usual symphony of controlled chaos—air guns whining, mechanics shouting over the roar of engines, and engineers staring intensely at banks of monitors. Yet, tucked away in the furthest, quietest corner of the garage, sat an entirely unfamiliar face. You were completely oblivious to the high-stakes madness around you, your knees tucked up to your chest, your nose buried so deeply in a paperback book that the rest of the world might as well not have existed.
As it turned out, your mum was one of the senior trackside engineers, and you had tagged along to visit her at work. Ollie had spotted you the second he walked into the garage, and for a moment, his racing brain completely locked up. You looked so entirely peaceful amidst the roaring machinery. When you finally left later that afternoon, you accidentally dropped your bookmark—a simple, slightly frayed piece of cardstock covered in little painted wildflowers.
Instead of doing the sensible thing and just handing it to your mum to give back to you, Ollie had been stubbornly persistent. He tracked your mum down under the guise of "just being a helpful, polite guy," asking around for your contact information or if you'd be coming back the next day. Your mum, utterly charmed by his polite, boyish demeanor, assumed he was just being an extraordinarily friendly driver welcoming a colleague's family. She had absolutely no idea that Ollie had been completely captivated from the exact moment his eyes landed on you.
It took a year of slow-burning text messages, shared book recommendations that Ollie secretly struggled through just to have something to talk to you about, and a patient, quiet courtship. He waited for you to see him as more than just her mum's polite young driver. He waited until you finally loved him back.
Now, a year into being yours, the fast-paced world of his felt miles away from the quiet sanctuary of his apartment. The rain was drumming a soft, rhythmic beat against the windowpanes, matching the low hum of the city outside, but inside, everything was warm.
You were both squeezed onto his too-small couch, tangled together in a messy, comfortable heap. You were lying on your side, the heavy hardcover book propped up in your hands, while Ollie was molded perfectly against your back. His long arm was draped heavily over your waist, anchoring you to him, his thumb drawing slow, absentminded circles against the bare skin exposed by the hem of your sweatshirt. His chin was resting right on top of your head, his dark curls mingling with yours, his eyes tracking the lines of text simultaneously with yours. He was supposed to be reading along, but his focus kept fracturing, slipping from the printed words to the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest, to the soothing cadence of your voice vibrating against his torso.
“You’re not even processing what we’re reading, are you?” you accused him softly, pausing mid-sentence. You tilted your head back slightly, looking up at him with a knowing, playful smirk.
Caught red-handed, Ollie didn't even try to deny it. A sheepish, boyish smile spread across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. You were right, of course. The last three paragraphs had been a total blur of syllables that meant absolutely nothing to him. But he couldn't bring himself to care. The sound of your voice reading aloud was a melody he never wanted to turn off; it was a gentle, grounding anchor that could effortlessly send him straight to cloud nine after a grueling week on the track.
“I love your voice,” he reacted, his voice dropping into a calm, quiet register that felt almost foreign compared to his usual upbeat, energetic tone. It was a soft, vulnerable admission, heavy with the comfort of being entirely at ease.
“Just my voice?” you teased, a soft chuckle bubbling up from your chest as you nudged his arm with your elbow.
Ollie’s smile softened, turning into something profoundly tender. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer against him, solid and real. He leaned down, pressing a lingering, warm kiss into the crown of your head, letting his lips rest there for a quiet beat before he spoke.
“I love you. You know that.”
The tease melted away from your expression, replaced by a warm, private sweetness that only ever bloomed when it was just the two of you in the quiet spaces of his home. You rested your hand over his where it lay on your stomach, your fingers interlacing with his.
“I know,” you murmured softly, turning your head just enough to catch the edge of his jawline with a tender smile. “I love you, too, Mr. Bearman.”
ix. andrea kimi antonelli
— cleaning
Cleaning from top to bottom was a sacred, albeit exhausting, monthly ritual inside the sun-warmed walls of the apartment you shared with Kimi in San Marino. It was a chore born out of necessity, but over time, it had evolved into something entirely yours—a rhythm of spray bottles, damp rags, and bare feet sliding across freshly scrubbed tiles.
You and Kimi had known each other since the diaper days, a lifelong bond forged by fate and the fact that your parents were practically attached at the hip. For a long time, you were just an inseparable duo, the best friends who shared secrets and scrapes. But somewhere between the clumsy growing pains of adolescence and the quiet realization of adulthood, the lines had shifted. The comfortable gravity of friendship deepened, pulling you both into something profoundly romantic, soft, and lovely.
Growing up, whenever your families would escape to the coast to the summer home your parents had built together, the chore assignments were always entirely predictable. You and Kimi were invariably banished to the living room and hallways, tasked with scrubbing every baseboard until it gleamed, while the adults held court in the kitchen, seasoning the grill, and prepping the pool and hot tub. Back then, the coast trips were heralded by the sounds of the two of you aggressively whining, dragging your feet, and turning a simple dusting session into a dramatic, coordinated protest.
But now? Now, you were doing it entirely willingly. There was no parental oversight, no grumbling over unfair divisions of labor. You had chosen a life of independent together-ness, and taking care of these few square meters of the world felt less like work and more like a quiet celebration of the home you were building.
The deep, melancholic swell of Hozier was blasting from the Bluetooth speakers, a familiar fixture from your personal playlist that Kimi had grown to secretly love, even if he pretended to only tolerate it. You were currently armed with a microfiber cloth, aggressively wiping down the surface of the coffee table, while Kimi was leaning on the handle of the mop, supposedly tackling the hallway but mostly just watching you move.
The transition from cleaning to chaos happened entirely without warning. As the melody shifted into a slow, sweeping rhythm, Kimi dropped the mop against the wall with a hollow clack. He sauntered over, his heavy socks sliding effortlessly across the slick floor, and caught you by the waist before you could finish polishing the wooden surface.
"Oh, so we're abandoning our responsibilities now?" you teased, though you didn't pull away as he tucked your hand into his.
"Just taking a mandated union break," Kimi murmured, a soft smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
He didn't wait for your approval. With a sudden, playful burst of energy, he pulled you into his chest, counting a completely fabricated rhythm under his breath as he began to lead you in a clumsy, slow dance. The space between the sofa and the television became your ballroom. Kimi guided you with a theatrical flourish, his hand firm on your back as he twirled you around, the fabric of your oversized t-shirt swirling around your thighs. You were laughing now, the breathless, genuine kind of giggle that always bubbled up whenever he let his guarded, quiet demeanor slip into something entirely silly.
Emboldened by his own rhythm, Kimi grinned, his eyes sparkling with a sudden, competitive spark. "Hold on," he warned.
"Kimi, wait—"
Before you could brace yourself, he attempted a dramatic, sweeping dip. The execution, however, lacked structural integrity. His sock lost its grip on the freshly polished tile, his knees buckled slightly under the sudden shift in weight, and instead of a breathtaking, cinematic swoop, the two of you went down in a tangled, undignified heap. The living room rug cushioned the blow, but the sheer gravity of the failure had you gasping for air from laughter.
"Absolutely terrible," you gasped, resting your forearm over your eyes as you lay flat on your back, your shoulders shaking. "I am deeply offended. You cannot dip me to save your life."
"I absolutely can!" Kimi retorted defensively, sitting up and brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. He looked entirely unbothered by his bruised ego, a boyish, stubborn grin spreading across his face. "That was a practice run. The floor is a hazard zone."
To prove his point, he scrambled back to his feet, stretching a hand down to you. You took it, letting him hoist you back up into his space. Your feet had barely found their footing before he pulled you flush against him again.
"Watch and learn," he whispered.
This time, his footing was secure. With a deliberate, smooth sweep of his leg, he leaned you back over his arm. It was a perfect, steady dip—the kind that suspended you in mid-air, your heart doing a familiar, dizzying flip as you looked up at him. Your hair brushed the floor, but you felt entirely weightless, anchored completely by the solid, unwavering grip of his arm around your waist.
"See? I told you I could," he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, private register reserved only for the space between the two of you.
Before you could offer a witty comeback, Kimi leaned down, and his lips found yours. Your arms instinctively found their way around his neck, fingers tangling into the short hairs at the nape of his neck to pull him closer. The playful energy of the living room instantly softened, melting into something deeply romantic and tender. The music continued to hum in the background, a beautiful soundtrack to a completely ordinary afternoon, but right there, suspended in his arms on a half-cleaned floor, everything felt perfectly, beautifully still.
you thought andrea kimi antonelli was just your childhood classmate. then he became a formula 1 driver. then he became technically family. then he started looking at you like that.
genre: rom-com, soft romance, teenage feelings, emotional support boyfriend (in training).
warnings: kimi antonelli being a cocky menace, idiots in love behavior, hands appreciation (sorry not sorry), terrible and mildly suggestive jokes, mutual pining, fluff levels may be dangerous, one (1) very smitten driver, one (1) girl trying to survive it, poor attempt at italian.
word count: 9.7k
a/n: guys, oh my god, this took me such a long time to finish! i’ve done my best to proofread it, but there might still be some pacing, structural, or grammatical hiccups. i apologize in advance if anything slipped through! this is my first long-form story, and i really hope you love it as much as i do.
The story of every legend begins… simply.
First, you are born. Then you grow. Then you live through childhood. It would be possible to quote Batman and say, “you either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain,” but this isn’t that kind of story.
No. These are different kinds of legends.
Take Lewis Hamilton as an example: born in Stevenage, a small town north of London, England. He spent part of his childhood with his mother, and it wasn’t until he was ten that he chose to live with his father to focus on racing. At five, with a remote-controlled car, he was already making a name for himself, and at six, with a small used kart, he kept chasing it.
Years later, after countless hardships and difficulties, a legend emerged. Seven-time world champion, three teams in Formula 1, he now stands among the most remembered and respected names in motorsport history, not only for his skill, but for what he represents.
And it isn’t just him: Senna, Prost, Schumacher, Vettel, and so many others who shaped the sport into what it is today are remembered as symbols of determination, greatness, and pride for their fans and their nations.
For years and years, that was all Kimi Antonelli ever talked about.
You were never close to him, even though you studied at the same school. In fact, the only thing you truly shared was a photo from a recital you both took part in at five years old — the one where you thought it was perfectly appropriate to kiss his cheek and cause a chorus of “awww” around you.
But proximity was never the point.
You didn’t have to be part of his inner circle to know that Kimi Antonelli was in love with motorsport. Anyone who cared to listen had heard him say he would become a legend one day — just like those drivers.
For that reason, during the second-to-last year of high school, you weren’t surprised at all when he told the entire class he was going to Formula 1 the following year.
Kimi had already climbed the other steps. He had already been champion in lower categories more than once. There had been tributes to him on ordinary school days — celebrations of his talent and the pride he brought to both the school and to Italy. But Formula 1… Formula 1 was different.
It was big.
A step closer to the dream he had chased for so long: becoming one of the best.
And at that age, he was already considered a rising promise in the racing world. The golden boy. The next prodigy. It wasn’t just Formula 1, that alone would have been enough, but for Kimi Antonelli?
Kimi Antonelli would begin his first Formula 1 season driving for the Mercedes AMG PETRONAS F1 Team, personally chosen to take the seat of none other than sir Lewis Hamilton himself, a fact that earned him his own Netflix documentary.
So many good things followed that, if the announcements hadn’t been officially published, you wouldn’t have believed them.
Oh — and you had the biggest crush on him.
Having a crush on Kimi Antonelli was hardly absurd. In fact, at school it was the most normal thing in the world. After all, he wasn’t just famous, well-managed, and surprisingly intelligent, he was also kind to everyone and very, very cute. And, perhaps, just perhaps, you had occasionally caught yourself daydreaming about rebellious wavy hair that only behaved under a cap and an easy smile that gave his face that boyish look.
And his hands.
In a completely appropriate way, of course.
But that had only become a thing during the final year, when one of your best friends shoved her phone in your face to show you the photoshoot he had done with George Russell. The focus was very specific: Kimi putting on his helmet, his hands fully on display. You had never noticed them before. Naturally, you were completely normal about it.
Totally normal. Completely normal. Nothing unusual whatsoever. Just a normal boy with long fingers and prominent veins and…
Yeah. Right. Sure.
Now school was over. All of that (cute boys, inappropriate hands, endless books about subjects you never quite mastered) had been left behind. A great relief, if anyone asked you — and yet, now that it was over, you missed it too. Years and years with the same classmates, hearing updates to the same stories, walking through the same hallways had quietly created a sense of attachment.
You hadn’t really wanted it to end.
And some people might have wondered whether that feeling could, at some level, be related to a certain prodigy driver who, by a twist of fate, had studied alongside you since early childhood, but… life is strange. And it does even stranger things, because after everything — after the whole year had passed and Kimi Antonelli had traveled the world and become a rookie with two podiums in his debut season, making history — he ended up spending Christmas in your living room.
Because your sister had done you a great favor: she had said yes to becoming an Antonelli.
It was there, on December twenty-fifth, two thousand and twenty-five, that you discovered your sister was engaged — not to Kimi Antonelli, thankfully, but to one of his older cousins.
You didn’t even know she was dating anyone! That’s what happens when your sister decides to move to another country and forgets to tell you about her dramatic new relationship.
Anyway, you were happy for her all the same. And it happened. So… somewhere between plates that were never empty, constant hugs, and elegant clothes, Kimi Antonelli had his first proper interaction with you.
You stood near the Christmas tree, finishing adjusting the bow on the head of one of your younger cousins, who refused to stay still for more than a second. She kept talking nonstop about how badly she wanted to open the presents, and you had to keep reminding her that it wasn’t time yet.
With an exaggerated pout, she ran off, leaving you behind with a fond laugh lingering on your lips.
Beside you, however, with steps far too deliberate to pass as casual, Kimi Antonelli approached.
“I didn’t know your sister was dating my cousin,” he said, taking a relaxed sip of his drink.
He was talking. To you. As if that made perfect sense. And, well… technically, it did. Aside from a couple of his cousins, you were the only person there who was actually his age.
You smoothed a hand down the skirt of your red dress. Blink. Blink. Blink. An attempt at normalcy. You had to make a double effort not to stare at the ring resting on his index finger like a complete weirdo.
“O-Oh! Yeah. Yes. Well,” you said, a little awkwardly, your gaze drifting toward the couple. They looked comfortable, happy. Your expression softened. “I didn’t know either. But I think they really like each other. From what I can tell.”
What a stupid answer. My God. You sounded like you had never learned how to speak. Kimi didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps he was just too polite to comment on your painfully obvious lack of composure.
“Yeah. I can see that too,” he agreed, his eyes following yours in the same direction. It didn’t last long, though. His attention returned to you. “We studied together.”
Yes, Kimi. We did. I know that. I know that very well.
You nodded, because words suddenly felt unreliable.
“That’s cool. And now we’re family,” he said, sounding so casual about it that it bordered on absurd.
It wasn’t normal. It was the complete opposite of normal. You hadn’t thought about it that way before, but… thinking about it now, he was kind of right.
You were going to faint right there.
Except you didn’t. You did something far more human — far more reasonable and, honestly, surprising: you smiled like a perfectly normal person.
“That’s crazy, right? It’s nice,” you replied.
You were actually quite proud of yourself.
He laughed softly and pointed toward the table with his thumb.
“Should we get dessert before it’s all gone? Maggie was planning to finish everything.”
You, who had fully expected the conversation to end after the first sentence, laughed quietly and followed him to get dessert, still not entirely convinced this was actually happening.
It had been a nice night — you had to admit that. Your sister announced her engagement, your nonna made your favorite dessert, your mother somehow won at karaoke, and two families met for the very first time. And you, somewhat shyly, allowed yourself to laugh until your stomach hurt at the silly things Kimi Antonelli kept saying, as if he were just a boy like any other.
When it came time to open the presents, the festive Christmas evening slowly drew to a close. It ended with him unwrapping the gift his mother had chosen for him — a plush version of himself dressed in his Mercedes race suit — which he immediately declared, laughing, “this one’s going into the collection,” before she handed him the actual present.
Nice. Very nice, actually. Something interesting to tell your friends, something that would absolutely blow their minds. You would see Kimi again at the wedding and… that would be it. A very interesting story to tell. Maybe you’d run into each other at another family event or a school reunion — both unlikely, considering his packed Formula 1 schedule — and life would simply move on from there. You were already happy with the night you’d had.
But the next day, he texted you.
“Okay, I have thoughts about your farm take.”
And the day after, he texted again.
“My mum says you’re exactly like your sister. I don’t agree with her, but that’s not a bad thing. Hear me out…”
And the next day. And the one after that. Always something new. Always a conversation that somehow wandered into unbelievable directions, music tastes, colors, dinosaurs, terrible internet jokes, about how much he knew about Formula 1 or motorsport in general, and that topic could go on forever. You had never imagined Kimi could talk that much.
The messages became so constant they turned into… normal. So normal that you forgot to ask how he had gotten your number, considering you had never given it to him.
Everything had gone completely off script, assuming there had ever been a script to begin with. So far removed from anything you had imagined that, on a random day in the middle of January, you somehow found yourself at his family’s house.
Because he wanted to show you his new helmet. The one he would wear for the entire racing season.
He had actually come back to town just for that.
Ah! You said house? No, no, no. Bedroom. You ended up in his bedroom.
“Wait here, I’ll grab it!” he said, already heading toward the closet.
And you waited, sitting on the bed.
During the three minutes Kimi took to grab the helmet and bring it back to you, you had enough time to look around and understand a little more about him. First, you needed to calm your racing heartbeat and the slight tremor in your hands. Then you noticed all the motorsport posters — and basketball?! — on his walls. There were some books too. Everything was organized in a way that suggested no one really lived there for long.
You knew Kimi didn’t actually live there anymore — he had his own apartment now, or so your sister had said. Somewhere else.
Kimi came back carrying the helmet inside a black case, holding it carefully with both hands. You had never seen a Formula 1 helmet in person before, so you hadn’t realized it was that big.
“Are you ready? I haven’t opened it yet. I don’t even know how it turned out,” he said, placing it on the bed as you stood up.
He hadn’t seen it yet? You frowned.
“Okay… show me,” you said, stepping closer. “I’ve never actually seen one before. It's my first time.”
“Hm, is it?” he asked, looking at you thoughtfully. “Alright. I’ll be gentle. No need to worry. It doesn’t hurt.”
Wait.
You blinked.
Was he saying what you thought he was saying?
The corner of his mouth twitched, like he was barely holding back a laugh, and you immediately covered your face with both hands.
“Oh my God,” you groaned. “You are such a boy. Just open it already!”
And Kimi was laughing. Really laughing. Until he wasn’t anymore, and all that remained was a cheeky grin. He walked back to the bed and unzipped the helmet case.
“You got all flustered. The way your neck turns red when you’re embarrassed is really cute,” he said casually, taking the helmet out of its cover.
Your heart skipped a beat. Your brain didn’t quite manage to process his words, looping instead on a single thought — compliment, compliment, compliment. Much to Kimi’s obvious delight, you turned even redder. Your hands suddenly unsure of where to exist, and for one terrifying second, you forgot entirely how conversations were supposed to work.
Apparently, this was going to be a recurring problem.
You went quiet, didn’t answer, and honestly wouldn’t have been able to. If Kimi noticed, if he had been expecting a response, he didn’t show it. In fact, he picked up the helmet to examine it, now genuinely focused on the object. He turned it from side to side, running his hand along the inside to test the padding before lifting it over his head to look inside it.
“What do you think?” he asked, holding it out to you.
Stepping closer, you took the helmet carefully into your hands. The first thing you noticed was the weight of it. Heavier than you had expected, solid in a way that immediately made you adjust your grip.
You glanced up at Kimi instinctively, as if searching for confirmation that this was normal. Your eyes landed on his neck. Very… different… from a normal neck.
Right.
Neck training.
Mandatory.
Just a neck. But bigger. Nothing unusual.
That long voice message he had once sent you about G-forces. You knew about it, of course.
You swallowed and forced your attention back to the colors, and there were many. A very colorful helmet. Very Kimi.
“Doesn’t this one have stars?” you asked.
He tilted his head to the side.
“Stars?”
“Yeah, stars. Like those on last year’s helmet.”
Kimi raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. You looked up at him, confused.
“You know what my helmet looked like last year?”
Oh. Oops. You had just revealed that you knew an extremely niche detail about an object he used exclusively for work. Haha. So funny. You were very tempted to put the helmet you were holding straight onto your own head and disappear inside it forever, but you didn’t get the chance, because Kimi gently took it from your hands.
“You’re going to help me put it on,” he said.
Wait, what? A sudden flutter settled in your stomach.
“You don’t know how to put it on by yourself?” you asked, instinctively hiding your hands behind your back.
Kimi shrugged and pushed his hair back from his forehead with his free hand.
“I don’t have a balaclava. It’s harder,” he said, as if that explained everything, which it absolutely didn’t. His eyes drifted back to yours, like he couldn’t quite understand what was holding you back.
He adjusted his grip on the helmet and waited.
“Hm… you’re not coming over here?”
“Over there?” you repeated, still rooted to the spot.
Kimi tilted his head, a hint of amusement tugging at his mouth.
“Unless you have magical powers I don’t know about, I think you’ll need to stand a little closer if you’re going to help me adjust the helmet.”
“Right. Okay. I’m coming over,” you said.
“Okay.”
You took a step toward him. Kimi wiggled both eyebrows, a mischievous smile spreading across his lips. You rolled your eyes, glanced away, and threatened to take a step back. He clicked his tongue.
“The three longest steps I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Your arms stayed relaxed at your sides as you looked back at him.
“Could you put the helmet on so I can adjust it, please? You’re talking too much.”
Kimi let out a quiet laugh but lifted the helmet anyway, lowering it carefully over his head before looking back at you through the visor opening.
“You’re very bossy.”
You stepped closer, raising your hands hesitantly toward the sides of the helmet.
“I thought you wanted me to adjust your helmet.”
He tilted his head slightly so you could reach better, but instead of answering right away, his gaze lingered on your face, far too amused for someone supposedly focused on racing equipment.
“Oh, no,” he said softly, his voice muffled behind the helmet. “I just wanted you closer.”
Fuck.
Once again, there were no words in the world that could fully describe what had just happened. You were starting to lose all dignity at an alarming rate. You blinked once, twice, your gaze slipping away from his, even knowing Kimi was still watching you, dropping instead to focus on fastening the helmet strap beneath his chin. Without the balaclava, your fingers brushed softly against his skin.
When that happened, Kimi closed his eyes.
“Done?” he asked, voice low.
“Yes,” you agreed, taking a step back.
Kimi lifted a hand to close the visor and tilted his head slightly, testing the fit. Then he took a step back and turned toward you. Even with his eyes hidden behind the dark visor, you had the distinct feeling he was looking right at you.
“Is it good?”
At one moment, your eyes were on the helmet. You really wanted to say it was beautiful, that you loved it — the colors were vivid and cool. But your eyes had a habit of betraying you, and now they drifted slightly downward… his neck again… his shoulders… the movement of his arm as he lifted his hand to test the tightness of the strap. And his hands themselves. You’d already mentioned the hands, hadn’t you? The rings around his fingers and… well. Yes.
You cleared your throat.
“It looks good,” you managed, swallowing right after.
For one brief moment longer, the two of you stayed like that: the helmet visor lowered, Kimi standing still, and you not quite sure what to do with your own hands. The silence stretched just a little too long, your heartbeat suddenly loud in your ears. You tucked your hair behind your ear, glancing around the room as if searching for something to anchor yourself to — and your bag on the bed became the perfect excuse. You stepped toward it, grateful for the movement. When you looked back at Kimi, he was finishing taking off the helmet, unsuccessfully trying to fix his hair with one hand while holding it with the other.
“Are you leaving already?” he asked, setting the helmet carefully inside its case as he spoke.
“Yeah, I… have to help my mum with a few things.” You shifted the strap of your bag on your shoulder. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t entirely the truth either.
Kimi watched you, his gaze steady enough to make you suddenly aware of yourself. You straightened your posture without meaning to. His hair was a mess, his face slightly flushed from the helmet.
“I’m traveling tonight,” he said suddenly, glancing down as he adjusted the zipper of the case before looking back at you.
“I thought you were staying there until testing started,” you replied, fingers absently brushing the pendant at your neck.
“I was. I am.” He hesitated, one hand resting on top of the helmet case. “But I wanted to come here to see the helmet at home.” A small pause followed as his thumb traced the edge of the case. “I chose the details, so it felt fair that the first time I put it on would be somewhere important.”
For someone who had worn special helmets so many times before, he seemed to consider this new one something particularly meaningful. You still hadn’t decided why that was.
Your gazes met again, and you became fully aware of the soft shiver that ran down your spine. At last, Kimi let the helmet rest and stepped away from it, moving closer to you.
“I guess this is a goodbye, then. For now.” He said, cutting through the growing tension that had nearly become tangible. But there was something hopeful in the way he looked at you. “I’ll be back soon and, well, you can watch me through the pre-season testing cameras if you want.”
A little breathless, you nodded, and a second later remembered to smile.
“Yeah, okay. I will.” you replied, trying to match his enthusiasm.
Kimi let out a laugh, light and melodic, and then did something you would have never, not in a million years, imagined would ever happen to you: he lifted his arms, closed the distance between you, and pulled you into a tight hug, as if you were close friends who had known each other for years and not… Andrea Kimi Antonelli and, well, you.
Your face had never felt so warm before, so close to being mistaken for a fever. When you hugged him back, uncertain, trembling, hesitant, he destroyed whatever remained of your sanity:
“Thanks for coming. I’ll text you when I land.” as if it were unthinkable that you wouldn’t be informed of his safe arrival in another country.
You weren’t entirely sure how you made it to the front door. All you knew was that your heart was beating so loudly it could probably have been heard from the other side of the city.
That night, while Kimi was crossing continents, you stayed home, reading a book in bed, trying to decide whether you should ask your mum to take you to a doctor just to make sure you weren’t experiencing some kind of delusion or if you should look for someone specialized in the supernatural to confirm you hadn’t accidentally slipped into a parallel reality.
You knew there were plenty of movies like that.
There was that one… 16 Wishes, right? The one with Debby Ryan, where her character receives a box of candles on her sixteenth birthday that grant the wishes she had written in a letter as a child. Maybe that was what had happened to you, just by accident.
You set the book aside and threw yourself onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. For a long moment, you simply lay there, stretched out and thoughtful, thinking that after spending so long liking a boy from afar, hearing him say sweet things to you should have felt like a dream coming true. Especially when the boy in question was him.
So why couldn’t you fully sink into the idea that someone like Kimi Antonelli was deliberately flirting with you because something about you had caught his attention?
The thought made you laugh.
You knew the kind of girls he was surrounded by. Not at school, outside of it. The kind of girls he had access to, the kind of girls other drivers dated. Beautiful women, models, actresses, famous singers. They all wanted to be with guys like them. So it was better to be realistic, because if Kimi Antonelli hadn’t been within the realm of possibility back when he was just a little boy dreaming of becoming a kart driver, how could he possibly be now?
But all of that, that entire spiral of thoughts, was a cliché too. Everything about this whole story felt impossibly unreal anyway.
You let out a childish little whine, pretending to cry as you rolled onto your stomach, burying your face in the pillow.
You remembered his scent.
That scent. God.
At the time, everything had felt so overwhelming that you hadn’t stopped to notice it properly, but your brain had kept it anyway. Even through the frenzy, you could still remember the smell of his cologne: something so unmistakably Kimi that you couldn’t even begin to describe its notes.
Oh, no. I just wanted you closer. Handsome, smug bastard. Pulling off something that smooth without a hint of shame. And you fell for it. Of course you did. Honestly, you’d fall for it again and again and again. He should stop saying things like that. Stop doing things like that.
But really, the most pathetic part of this entire situation was you treating it as if it meant more than it did. Honestly, what an exaggeration. Kimi flirted as naturally as he breathed, and now, as he had already made clear at Christmas, you were family.
Except he still hadn’t seen the finished helmet and had flown all the way there to see it with you. In a place that mattered.
And he hadn’t even needed to be there. It was the middle of his work week. Kimi had made the trip just to spend a single day in his hometown to see the helmet somewhere important, when he could, and probably should, have seen it with his teammate and the staff who would actually help him put it on properly, balaclava and all.
You switched off the bedside lamp and slipped beneath the covers as if you were trying to escape your own thoughts. It felt dangerous. Like a ritual, you whispered, stop thinking, stop thinking, stop thinking, and finally closed your eyes.
Falling asleep that night wasn’t difficult. What was difficult was stopping your brain from deciding to dream about WAGs and magazine covers where you were holding hands with your handsome driver boyfriend.
You liked the dream, of course. You would never admit that out loud.
Kimi really did send a message saying everything was fine. Except he was late. He texted two hours after landing and apologized for it.
Apologized. Right.
He said his mum had been worried sick and that he’d had to send her a photo with his engineer just to prove he was alive. Oh, yes he’d been late texting her too. Which, in all the unnecessary explanations he insisted on giving, basically meant he had texted you right after replying to his own mother.
You knew how much Kimi adored her.
You were trying not to let that go to your head.
The following days passed silently. You didn’t hear from Kimi as often because he had a lot to do: interviews, team videos to film, birthdays coming up that required him to record something thoughtful, photoshoots, and pre-season preparations in general. And you were busy in your own way too. University was coming up. You had to study twice as hard if you wanted to get into that specific one you had dreamed about since you were very young.
But he still showed up.
Kimi was there — in the messages you read a little too late because of the time difference, in the photos of odd little things he found around the paddock, in the selfies he sent covered in silly filters. And you sent things back too.
The bubble grew so comfortable that, before you realized it, you had settled into it.
With time, he became just… Kimi. Even from the other side of the world. Even knowing he was there, racing in one of the most expensive sports on the planet.
He called you two weeks later.
You were still asleep when you heard your phone ringing. Annoyed, you reached out to grab it and bring it closer to your face to see who could possibly be calling. And then you saw his name on the screen. You almost declined it. If it had been anyone else, you probably would have.
But you answered.
It was a video call. Kimi appeared in all his effortlessly beautiful glory, Mercedes cap on and that constant smile that seemed permanently etched onto his face. You, however, had your camera turned off — and he noticed immediately.
“Ehi, buongiorno! What is happening? Where are you? Why is the camera off?”
You let out an irritated groan.
“I don’t want to talk.”
“My God, your voice… I woke you up?” Kimi asked, his voice softening instantly.
“What do you think?” you muttered.
Kimi let out a laugh and glanced upward, away from the camera, answering someone nearby. It didn’t take more than two seconds before his attention returned to you.
“Okay, doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’m about to get in the car for testing, and if I don’t see your face now, I’ll have very bad luck and the car will crash. The fans will know it was your fault.”
“They will? You’re going to tell them?” you asked.
He looked momentarily surprised by your answer. A good kind of surprised.
“You get quite mouthy when the camera’s off, don’t you?” he said, amused. “Let’s see if that attitude survives once I actually see your face. Come on.”
You rubbed your face and sat up in bed, yawning audibly. It took you a moment to fully wake up, running a hand through your hair until it looked at least somewhat presentable.
“You’re very annoying,” you said. A lie, of course.
He dragged his tongue slowly across his lips and nodded in approval. With a long sigh, you finally switched the camera on.
“There she is.” he said, his face lighting up at the sight of you. “I really did wake you up, look at you. Che carina.”
Your face turned red, and you buried it against the pillow beside you. Kimi burst out laughing. He was clearly having far too much fun with your reactions.
“Stop,” you said.
“Stop what?”
“That.”
“I’m literally walking toward the Mercedes motorhome. I can’t stop.”
“Very funny. You know exactly what you’re doing.”
You looked back at his face, brushing the strands of hair away from your eyes only to be met with his smile again. You were starting to suspect this call didn’t actually have any real reason to be happening.
Your stomach flipped.
“Is Kimi talking to someone?” you heard a strong British accent ask from somewhere behind him — somewhere you couldn’t see.
He shot a quick glance toward the voice, but before he could stop whoever it was from approaching, an arm wrapped around Kimi’s shoulders and George Russell’s face suddenly appeared on screen, curious and openly amused.
“Oh! It’s a girl!” he announced. Not to the camera, but to the nearby team members. Then he turned back to Kimi, who quickly lowered the phone, leaving you staring at nothing but a section of his T-shirt. “Your girlfriend?”
“Mate, give me a second. We’ll talk later,” Kimi replied, his tone noticeably different from the confident one you were used to hearing.
He sounded… shy.
“Aaaah, so it is your girlfriend,” George teased.
“She’s not my girlfriend…” Kimi said, uncertainty slipping into his voice.
“Yet,” the voice called from farther away, as if George had already walked off.
The tips of your ears burned red when Kimi lifted the phone back toward his face. And it wasn’t just your ears that were red: Andrea Kimi Antonelli’s entire face was flushed too.
He cleared his throat.
“Sorry about him.”
“Oh, it’s okay.”
“He’s an idiot.”
You laughed.
“He seems nice, though.”
Kimi smiled.
“He is. He just likes to mess with people.”
Your laughter faded into a small smile, almost matching his. Then Kimi glanced away from the phone, finally coming to a stop, clicking his tongue softly.
“I should go. Duty calls.” His attention drifted back to the screen. “Are you going back to sleep?”
You shrugged, letting out a fake sigh of annoyance.
“I don’t know. Someone kind of ruined my peaceful morning.”
“Ah, mi dispiace.” He didn’t sound sorry at all.
“Bye, Kimi,” you said, biting your lower lip to hold back your smile.
He looked at the screen for a second longer.
“Bye, carina,” Kimi said, then ended the call, leaving you with every butterfly in the world fluttering in your stomach.
Five minutes later, he sent another message:
Ah! I forgot to tell you. You and your sister need to stop by my mum’s house later to sort something out for the wedding. I told her I was going to call you, and she asked me to let you know.
You smiled to yourself in your room, your phone resting on your chest, because he had actually had a perfectly legitimate reason to call you and had simply forgotten.
Cute. Cute. Cute. Cute. Ugh, cute.
Somehow, in a way completely beyond your understanding, Kimi had managed to get time off from pre-season testing with only two weeks left before the first Grand Prix of the year just to attend his cousin’s wedding.
Before, you hadn’t realized what that truly meant. Now you did. For a Formula 1 driver, days reserved for family were almost a luxury, yet Kimi talked about it as if it had taken no effort at all to convince the people in the garage — as if being there had always been the obvious choice.
It was incredible.
You didn’t saw him when he arrived, even though you knew exactly when it happened because he had told you. You knew he was having a serious problem with his tie and that “you would be a great help in solving this situation, but he wasn’t going to force anything because you were busy being the bride’s sister” — his words. You knew when he made it to the reception, and just how handsome he looked, because he sent you a photo that nearly made you lose track of all your responsibilities that afternoon.
Only fifteen minutes before leaving the room where your sister was finishing getting ready for the best day of her life did you finally feel panic threaten to swallow you whole.
You stopped. Just… stopped. Your breathing came out uneven, your body refusing to respond the way it should. The anxiety was strong enough to make your stomach ache.
Through the mirror, your sister noticed you. She was already ready — spectacular, so beautiful you wouldn’t even know where to begin describing her — and definitely the person who actually had every reason to be nervous. And she was. Still, the moment she saw the slight tremor in your body, she stood up to help you.
“What is it, shorty?” she asked, cupping your face gently between her perfectly done hands.
Your eyes refocused and met hers.
“I think he’s waiting for me downstairs,” you admitted, biting the inside of your cheek.
The smile she gave you was so sweet it nearly gave you a sugar rush. Her laugh was just as soft, like she couldn’t quite believe that was your problem.
“You’re more nervous than I am, you know that? And it’s my wedding.” She sighed, her fingers brushing affectionately along the side of your face before settling on your shoulders. “Go talk to him before the ceremony starts. Kimi’s just a silly boy. I’ve seen him throw socks at the man I’m about to marry, a grown adult. They’re all ridiculous. Don’t let yourself be intimidated by those idiots.”
You let out a nervous laugh and lifted your hand to touch hers. The smile lingered as you thought about what your sister had said, turning her words over in your mind. Slowly, the smile faded, a small crease forming between your brows as you clearly drifted into thought. The sudden change made your sister’s expression shift into concern.
“What if he hugs me?” you asked, almost in a frightened whisper, as if that alone were something dangerous, something forbidden.
Her expression dropped instantly before she rolled her eyes. The hands resting on your shoulders turned purposeful as she spun you around and started pushing you toward the door. You let out a startled, “Wait! Hey!” but she had already grabbed the handle and pulled it open.
“You’re going to do me a favor and go talk to that boy right now! I need my own panic moment in peace. Go!”
Before you could protest, the door closed in front you with a soft click.
“She’s quite intense, isn’t she?” he said from behind, his voice lightly amused, a hint of laughter tucked into the words.
Oh, no. No. No. Oh my God, no.
You froze, still standing there with your back turned to Kimi.
“How much… um, how much of that conversation did you hear?” you asked, your fists clenched at your sides.
Footsteps. Getting closer. Oh no.
“That last part. The one suggesting there’s a boy you didn’t want to talk to… was that me?”
His voice was so close now. You could feel his presence behind you.
“No. It wasn’t you,” you answered quietly.
“Oh. So there’s another guy I should be worried about, then.”
“No! I mean… no…” You hurried to correct yourself, words tangling together. “It was you. Just… not like that.”
You didn’t see it, but the corner of his mouth curved into an amused smile.
Kimi took another step closer. Close enough now that you could feel the warmth of him at your back. Close enough that your heart felt one beat away from escaping your chest altogether.
“How was it, then?” he asked, more quietly.
You swallowed hard but didn’t answer. Kimi bit his lower lip, thoughtful for a moment, as if weighing a decision, and then he made up his mind. He placed his hands gently at your waist, and you felt electricity rush from your head all the way down to your feet.
“Can I turn you around?” he asked softly. “I want to see you. Your dress.”
You let out a shaky breath, worrying the skin of your upper lip between your teeth before finally nodding.
His fingers tightened slightly at your waist, and you instinctively closed your eyes. Slowly, carefully, Kimi turned you until you were facing him.
Your eyes stayed shut.
He laughed, a boyish sound, tipping his head back for a second in disbelief.
“You’re really not going to look at me?”
“No…”
“That hurts my feelings,” he said lightly. “Do you think I’m ugly?”
“No! No—”
A strand of hair had fallen across your face; he reached up and gently brushed it away from your eyes, his fingers lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.
“Then open your eyes,” he murmured. “Look at me.”
Slowly, you did.
Your knees nearly gave out.
Oh my God, he was beautiful. Truly, unfairly beautiful. His smile, his eyes, the softness of his cheeks. Those stupid eyebrows lifting again just to tease you.
You dropped your gaze almost immediately, but his hand moved to your chin, guiding your face back up until your eyes met his again.
“You’re torturing me,” you whispered.
“Oh, so you do think I’m ugly,” he said, the smile never leaving his face.
“Shut up.”
He laughed softly.
Then silence fell, charged, impossibly fragile as the two of you simply looked at each other.
His gaze flickered briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes.
“I could kiss you right now,” he said quietly.
Your eyes widened.
A beat passed.
“But I won’t.”
You weren’t sure whether you felt relieved or completely, hopelessly doomed — and he noticed.
His hand slipped away from your waist only to find yours instead, his fingers threading gently through yours.
“At some point tonight,” he said, “I’m going to kiss you. And it’ll be a surprise. You won’t see it coming.”
Still holding your hand, he stepped back slightly. His gaze traveled slowly from your head to your feet, and suddenly you became painfully aware of everything: the way you were standing, your dress, your hands, your breathing.
But he looked… awestruck.
Kimi drew in a deep breath and let out a quiet hiss.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s unfair.”
Then he tugged you gently toward the exit.
The wedding was ruined.
Not properly, of course. Everything unfolded exactly as it should: your sister was still the most beautiful woman in the room, and you cried appropriately (excessively, actually) when she finally walked down the aisle. The groom looked at her as if she were the only woman in the universe, exactly as he should, and the ceremony was beautiful.
While you stood at the front, Kimi was beside you, both of you witnessing one of the most important moments in their lives. He looked genuinely moved, repeatedly lifting a finger to his eyes to brush away falling tears, far more discreetly than you.
When it was over, your sister raised the bouquet for photos and was quickly pulled into a kiss that bordered on excessive. Everyone applauded, celebrated, and embraced one another — perfection. It was the most beautiful wedding you had ever attended.
And it would have remained perfect, just as it had been planned from the very beginning, if not for one small interruption: the memory of Kimi’s voice. At some point tonight I’m going to kiss you. And it’ll be a surprise. You won’t see it coming. The words lingered over every quiet moment, impossible to ignore — and having him standing right beside you did nothing to calm the feeling.
Before the two of you walked down to join the reception, you lifted your eyes only to find his already fixed on you. Warmth rushed to your cheeks. He smiled soft, knowing and headed downstairs ahead of you.
The dance began, and you stood beside a pillar with a stolen little dessert in hand, watching the newlyweds spin across the dance floor. Your sister looked so genuinely happy that you couldn’t help the soft smile resting on your face, your head tilted slightly to the side as you watched her.
She deserved to be loved like that — completely, devotedly, breathtakingly. Nothing could have made you happier than seeing her that way.
The music drifted softly through the room, warm and golden, wrapping itself around laughter, clinking glasses, and conversations that overlapped into a comfortable blur. For a moment, you allowed yourself to simply exist there — unnoticed, safe behind the pillar, watching love unfold from a distance.
You took another bite of the dessert, barely tasting it.
At some point tonight.
You exhaled slowly through your nose, eyes still fixed on your sister as she laughed mid-spin, her dress catching the light with every turn.
Focus. This isn’t about you. This is her day.
You cleared your throat, as if that alone could convince you that you were fully present, appreciating what you were supposed to be appreciating: the beautiful solemnity of witnessing a love so strong it had to be made official, announced to the world.
You liked weddings. A lot. You wanted to get married someday too. You just didn’t know when that would happen, obviously — especially considering you didn’t even have a boyfriend who could… you know… propose… or—
Your train of thought derailed completely.
Because somehow, your traitorous brain teamed up with your equally traitorous eyes, and together they landed on Kimi across the reception, laughing with his cousins on the other side of the room.
Kimi stood in the middle of a conversation he seemed deeply invested in. There were animated hand gestures, frequent nodding, a lot of “yeah, yeah, yeah” slipping into the discussion. You could tell he genuinely liked the people around him.
None of that stopped you from noticing other things.
His tie was slightly crooked, apparently still losing its battle. The subtle tension along his jaw whenever he clearly wanted to say something but was politely waiting for the other person to finish. And his eyes.
Which shifted focus the very next second.
Toward you.
When your gazes met, his expression changed instantly — as if he had been waiting for you to notice him. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Not teasing.
Not smug.
Just… fond.
Your stomach flipped so suddenly you nearly dropped the dessert in your hand. When you lifted your eyes to find him again, Kimi was no longer there.
Oh, no. Oh, no. No.
Your gaze swept across the room, searching instinctively, as if spotting him first might somehow prepare you for whatever he was about to do. Without thinking, you set your plate onto a passing waiter’s tray and turned quickly to keep looking.
Thud.
Your hands collided with something solid — a firm wall of very well-trained muscle belonging unmistakably to driver number twelve. Perfect timing. Almost suspiciously perfect.
Your shoulders pulled inward as you instinctively stepped back, just one step.
But Kimi’s hand closed gently around your elbow before you could go any farther.
“I want to show you something,” he said simply.
“You do? What is it?” you asked, still trying to steady your breathing.
“The maze out back. The garden.”
You blinked. “You want to take me to the maze? Just you and me?”
He laughed softly, like the answer was obvious.
“That’s the idea.”
Oh, no.
You drew in a slow breath, suddenly very aware of how close he was standing.
“You look scared,” he observed, amusement slipping gently into his voice.
“Me? Scared?” you said, a little too loudly. “No. Uh-uh. We should absolutely go to this… this… maze. Just you and me.”
He narrowed his eyes, clearly seconds away from laughing, his teeth catching his lower lip as he tried, and failed, to look serious.
Smug idiot.
Then he took your hand.
Smug. Idiot.
“You’re shaking a little,” he said, tilting his head, thumb brushing lightly over your fingers. “Cold?”
Smug. Idiot. He knew exactly what it was.
“Mm-hmm,” you murmured, barely parting your lips. Words were failing you at the moment.
Oh, God. He was leading you through the crowd, past people giving you that look — the unmistakable one that said they knew exactly what was going on and were fully rooting for it.
“Give me a minute,” he said casually. “I’ll warm you up. We just need somewhere a bit more private.”
Excuse me?! Your grip tightened around his hand, and Kimi laughed immediately.
“Wow, that came out terrible,” he said. “I meant my suit jacket. I’m lending it to you. I swear I’m normal.”
You took a deep breath. A very deep breath. This was actually happening. Andrea Kimi Antonelli was leading you by the hand toward the maze, his intentions suspiciously ambiguous, while your heart felt so tightly squeezed it almost hurt.
You hadn’t known it was possible to be this nervous.
As you passed beneath the archway, your eyes followed the leaves overhead. You had walked through there earlier in the day with your sister, seen the place in daylight — but it felt completely different now. Not just because of the lighting, breathtaking under the night sky, or the stone sculptures that gave everything a faintly mystical atmosphere, but because of the situation. Because of what the moment meant.
Kimi guided you toward the bench. Before either of you sat down, he loosened his tie, slipping it off without looking at you — his gaze fixed on the entrance as if making sure no one would interrupt. Then he turned back to you, tucking the fabric neatly into his pocket.
He smiled.
You blinked.
Oh.
Suddenly, you remembered school. Every time you had sighed when he walked past you in the hallway. All those chaotic mornings when he entered the classroom with his friends — loud, unmistakably boys, always seconds away from announcing something ridiculous.
The corners of your notebooks with his name written at the top. The silly games you and your friends used to play — who are you going to be happy with forever? — and every time it landed on Andrea Kimi Antonelli, you clapped like it was the revelation of the year.
You used to watch him from afar. The boy on the rise. So untouchable. So handsome. So… so many things.
You swallowed hard.
Kimi noticed.
“Hey. What is it?” he asked gently, draping his suit jacket around your shoulders.
His scent was everywhere now, and you needed an extra second just to steady yourself through it. God, you liked that smell.
“I… was thinking,” you admitted.
“Oh no,” Kimi said playfully.
You laughed, and a half-smile tugged at his mouth in response.
Then you looked up at him again. He waited patiently, giving you his full attention, ready to hear whatever you were about to say.
“I’m scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of getting my heart really, really broken.”
“Fair,” he said softly.
You hesitated, gathering courage you weren’t entirely sure you possessed.
“Because I’ve liked you for… for a very long time,” you said, your voice coming out small and fragile. “And if what we’re doing here is just… just this… you need to tell me.”
Your breathing felt uneven. Saying those words had taken everything out of you, and Kimi seemed to understand that. He watched you carefully, like someone choosing his next words with care.
“I don’t want it to be just this,” he said softly. “Really… I don’t.” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “I like you. A lot. I thought maybe I was being obvious, but… maybe not enough. And maybe I arrived a little late compared to you, but… I cannot stop thinking about it.”
His hand lifted, gently catching a single strand of your hair between his fingers, absentmindedly playing with it.
“But?” you asked, already bracing yourself.
Kimi shook his head.
“No but,” he said quietly. “It’s simple for me. I like what we have. I don’t want it to end. I don’t think I could just… go back to before.”
You swallowed.
“But you’ve seen my routine. You know being a driver comes with… things. And being the… girlfriend…” He cleared his throat, suddenly shy. “The girlfriend of a driver, she has to deal with… Well, it comes with things.”
You nodded and stepped closer, closing the distance between you.
“I think… we could try,” you said softly. “Not everything right now. But we can start.”
You looked up at him.
“Okay?”
Kimi lifted his gaze to meet yours. He didn’t answer, but his eyes moved slowly across your face, as if mapping every detail. You didn’t interrupt him — you simply watched, feeling the anxiety begin to creep back in.
And then his lips were on yours.
Just like that. Sudden.
You didn’t even register the moment Kimi leaned in to kiss you.
It didn’t last long. He pulled back just enough to look at you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Okay,” he finally murmured. “I told you I’d catch you by surprise.”
You laughed. Silly boy. The warmth of his lips still lingered against yours.
He lifted his hands, gently cradling your face just to look at you again — that soft, boyish smile you’d already learned you were helpless against. And then… he wiggled both eyebrows.
“Stop doing that,” you said, sticking your tongue out at him as if your heart wasn’t currently dancing wildly inside your chest.
He rolled his eyes playfully and pulled you closer by your cheeks.
This time, when his lips met yours, his arms slipped around your waist, drawing you in — and you finally… gave in.
Your eyes closed.
So did his.
Your hand found the back of his shirt before you even realized it, fingers curling into the fabric as if you needed something solid to hold onto. He pulled you closer in response, arms tightening around you as the kiss deepened, gently guiding your head to tilt toward his.
Would it be cliché to say it felt like fireworks were going off above you?
“Do you hear that?” he murmured against your lips.
You opened your eyes — only to gasp softly when you saw fireworks bursting across the sky overhead, actual fireworks, bright and undeniable, not just something your overwhelmed heart had invented.
“Oh my God. I thought that was just in my head,” you admitted without thinking.
Kimi pulled a smug little pout.
“Am I really that good at kissing?”
You rolled your eyes, ready with a comeback, but he kissed you again between a laugh before you could say a word. A warm, tender kiss — full of affection and the quiet promise of a happily-ever-after that had once felt unreal in childhood but somehow now belonged to you.
Andrea Kimi Antonelli might one day be remembered as one of Formula One’s next great legends. But there, on an ordinary night wrapped inside an extraordinary day, he was just your boy.
MELBOURNE, MEDIA DAY (Australian GP) — 2026.
No one knew you were there yet. Not even him.
All you knew was that the past few days had been chaotic — managing to secure paddock access much later than you should have, with tickets nearly sold out, scrambling to find a hotel and a last-minute flight, and still having to adjust to the completely unhinged time zone of that country.
It was a lot.
Even so, on the morning of media day, you had already landed — and after only a few hours of sleep, you were in an Uber on your way to the circuit, your anxiety growing with every turn the car made.
You kept wondering what Kimi would say. Would he be surprised? Would he be annoyed? How were you even supposed to introduce yourself? Were you his friend? Someone he knew? Or… could you actually say what you really were?
Had anyone in the garage even heard about you yet?
You had absolutely no idea.
When you stepped out of the car and thanked the driver goodbye, your stomach very nearly filed an official complaint.
You knew he was in the cafeteria having lunch, and you also knew you’d have to get past security to reach the Mercedes facilities. That part scared you too, because if you weren’t welcomed there, a very real possibility, your entire surprise plan would fall apart on the spot.
Still, you made it through the turnstiles with your paddock pass and suddenly… you were there.
There was so much to take in. So many colors, so much movement: drivers walking past toward their motorhomes dressed in their team merch, others stopped for interviews, surrounded by journalists carefully kept at a distance by security. The place buzzed with energy, crowded and alive in a way that made everything feel bigger than you had imagined.
For a few seconds, you fidgeted with the strap of your bag, turning slowly in place as you looked around, completely lost. There were no signs pointing toward the cafeteria or the Mercedes area, but you figured you’d just keep searching.
That was the problem with doing things without a plan.
A security guard approached, clearly noticing your confusion, stopping at a polite distance.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
You blinked, startled, then quickly held up your access pass.
“I’m looking for the Mercedes facilities. I…” you said, glancing around uncertainly. “I’m… acquainted with Kimi Antonelli.”
Ah, yes. Very convincing. Excellent delivery. Truly flawless.
Of course, he looked at you suspiciously, one eyebrow lifting. Maybe you should show him the photos on your phone? Would he even believe them? With AI these days, you doubted it.
“Yeah, alright. Sure. This way,” he said, already gesturing for you to follow him in the opposite direction.
“Hey! I am telling the truth!” you protested, hurrying after him.
He didn’t even spare you another glance, simply continuing forward while making sure you stayed close behind him.
For nearly an hour, they left you waiting in the public paddock courtyard — without your phone, without your bag, completely alone while they carried out the standard security check. Apparently, showing up at the paddock with a specific driver’s name on your lips qualified as a crime of the highest order and had to be handled with maximum seriousness.
On one hand, you were oddly relieved it meant Kimi was safe. On the other, it was incredibly frustrating to stand there unable to send him even a single message to explain the mess you had somehow gotten yourself into. At last, you were pulled out of your momentary trance when you felt a light poke just behind your ear.
“I think you let them take this,” a familiar voice said right behind you, your bag swinging lightly in his hand.
With an enormous, inevitable smile, you jumped up from the bench and threw yourself into his arms. Kimi let out a warm, surprised laugh as he hugged you back, dropping your bag onto the table beside him.
“What are you doing here?!” he asked, pulling back just enough to cup your face in his hands, as if he needed to make sure you were actually real.
But you didn’t say anything. You were too busy looking down at him — at the team kit, at the sight of him standing there in his Mercedes colors, dizzy from that unmistakable scent you were no longer satisfied experiencing only through the sweatshirt you had stolen from him.
You hugged him again, hiding your face in the curve of his neck.
“You’re so handsome. This feels like a dream,” you murmured, and he laughed softly once more.
Kimi gently ran a hand through your hair, resting his head lightly against yours.
“I wanted to surprise you,” you admitted, “but security didn’t believe me. Not even when I answered your favorite sock color.”
“That’s a very strange question. What kind of interrogation was that?” he said, amused.
You laughed and pressed a quick kiss to his chin.
“Thank you for coming to get me.”
He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before pulling back, lacing your fingers together and picking up your bag so he could carry it himself, slinging it over his shoulder.
“Always.”
“Now let’s get you somewhere actually decent. It’s ridiculously hot out here.” He glanced at you, already guiding you forward. “And after media day, I’m having a word with that security guy. Nobody leaves my girlfriend waiting.”
Girlfriend.
Okay.
Hehe.
You hid your smile behind your free hand and let him lead you wherever he wanted to go.
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