SUMMARY ✰ Danny, ever the flirt, sits beside you ‘just for answers’
CONTAINS ✰ SMAU with written parts, Danny being a flirt, some cheesy lines
FEATURING ✰ Daniel Ricciardo x Reader
A/N ✰ At 1:46 AM on September 23rd, Daniel Ricciardo exited the F1 paddock for the last time as an F1 driver.
Your erudition had proved to be plentiful. In all fairness, it had shown its potential late in life whereupon you had been sought out for your insight based on exterior appearance alone. For the foreign exchange student, one whom many had whispered about in quiet, loquacious, manner had chosen to place himself amongst a brighter crowd. In his efforts of mixing in with intellect, Daniel Ricciardo was found right beside you, sitting shoulder to shoulder with a total stranger.
You were lost in the revery of fanciful literature, enjoying the off-time received after finishing the test ahead of schedule by cracking open a new book, when he leaned over to shamelessly scrutinize the contents of your exam. You eyed him cautiously, remaining equanimous despite the frustrations of a cheater.
He glances up at you and appears almost perplexed at the fact you were already looking at him, as if he expected to go unnoticed with his blatant foolery. The man smiles with boyish charm, showing off his pearly whites in the same way a dog tries to imitate a smile. Cute, but clearly guilty. “Are you as smart as you are beautiful?” He whispers, earning a few turned heads as people look back with scornful expressions, insisting quietly that he shuts his mouth.
“What?” You’re utterly flabbergasted by the sheer gall of this boy. To copy your answers so loudly, and then to make an attempt at flirting. Even more abstruse, you could feel your heart pounding in your chest as if it were working.
Danny gives the book in your hands a quick glance. He shrugs, shoulders rolling in such a nonchalant manner. “Doth your pulchritude insist upon your intellect, fair maiden?”
“No—” You blink in surprise, wholly astounded by the nerve. “I get what you’re asking, I just don’t understand why.”
“I just wanna know if you’re safe to cheat off of.”
“Maybe don’t admit to being a fraud out loud. Makes you seem untrustworthy.” Nonetheless, you slide your test paper towards him, all the answers filled out with total confidence.
He smiles in acknowledgment of your impishness. “You didn’t answer the question.”
You don’t answer him at all. One might, under normal circumstances, appear frustrated for your lack of response. However, Danny figures this is only meant to be a ‘fuck around and find out moment,’ so with your form of assistance, he carries on with filling out his exam.
-♡
campusconfess
liked by your.username and others
campusconfess Flirting with someone for answers? 🤔 New strat unlocked
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georgerussell63 - Just ask me instead of flirting please xx
↳ campusconfess - 😞
username1 - Using seduction to pass a class is rare, but not unheard of…
username2 - Yeah and yk what if he’s gonna butter me up he deserves those answers
username3 - Wow we really have lost all our morals
↳ username4 - You’d do it too for a cute guy
↳ username3 - Depends on HOW cute
↳ username4 - Yet you’d still do it…
username5 - Ay. Respect
-♡
danielricciardo has posted a story!
STORY REPLIES
↳ maxverstappen1 - Ok fess up what’d you do
danielricciardo - I got all the answers right
maxverstappen1 - I don’t believe it
maxverstappen1 - Not for one second
danielricciardo - I cheated off the girl next to me
maxverstappen1 - There it is
↳ hulkhulkenberg - I’ve got my eye on you ricciardo
danielricciardo - I’m a very innocent student professor hulk
↳ lando - Teach me your ways
danielricciardo - It’s a trade secret mate
-♡
campusconfess
liked by oscarpiastri and others
campusconfess Accents. What do we think? Yes or yes
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username6 - Absolutely yes
username7 - Accents are already a yes but an AUSTRALIAN ACCENT? That’s a yes PLEASE
↳ username8 - there needs to be a study done on why they’re so fine
username9 - Oh I’d be weak in the knees like genuinely
username10 - IS THIS ABOUT THE FOREIGN EXCHANGE STUDENT BECAUSE IF SO? I get it. He’s fine shit
-♡
campusconfess
liked by danielricciardo and others
campusconfess Mhmm…
—
georgerussell63 - Wdym “mhmm.”
↳ campusconfess - Uhh it was sarcastic
username11 - Is this the guy??
↳ oscarpiastri - No
↳ lando - 🤦
username12 - No but actually
username13 - I need an aussie boyfriend rn
-♡
Y/N’S MESSAGES ☆ BEST FRIEND
-♡
“Do you flirt with everyone like this?”
Danny seems surprised by your question. It had been the same routine as always, his consistency somewhat superb even with tomfoolery as such. He walked in, sat beside you, pretended like he was going to do his work, and then proceeded to chat your ear off with remark after remark about your indelible beauty. But curiosity gets the best of you, so you shatter the illusion of repetition and step out of line with a simple, straightforward question.
It could be dignified with a simple, straightforward response, but then you’re reminded of who you’re talking to and you know that’s not true. “No,” he responds with an ounce of hesitation. You cock one brow, lips quirking into a knowing smile. “Okay. Okay. I sit next to pretty girls in every class, but you know why? They always have the right answers. You’re all smart. But I only flirt with you,” he raises his brows suggestively.
You roll your eyes, but as you look away your hint of a smile widens with every second. Daniel’s on the edge of his seat, waiting patiently for that fangirlish response he had been used to. Normally you’d smile shyly and look away with every suggestive comment, brushing it off by changing the subject.
“Good,” you reply smoothly, not giving him time to process. “I want you to save it all for me.”
Your heart is pounding.
Danny’s dumbfounded, staring at you with wide eyes and an agape mouth like a deer in headlights. Never before had he been rendered speechless.
You were consistently surprising him.
-♡
campusconfess
liked by danielricciardo and others
campusconfess Jackpot
—
username14 - “Oh no my life is great, what do I do?”
username15 - Men who get flustered when you match their freak >>>
↳ username16 - When you catch them off guard and they get all blushy…
↳ username15 - Claiming this energy
username17 - GIMME DAT
username18 - UGHHH FLIRTY MEN WHO ARE SECRETLY SOFT
username19 - WHERE DO YOU GUYS KEEP FINDING THESE MEN??
-♡
campusconfess
liked by your.username and others
campusconfess 🤐
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username20 - Andy’s coming type of vibe
username21 - This is awkward
username22 - Fancy meeting you here man
your.username - Uh huh 🙄
-♡
danielricciardo
liked by maxverstappen1 and others
danielricciardo Saving it all for you 👀
—
maxverstappen1 - 😂
username23 - Aloha fine shit
your.username - My dinner tonight btw
↳ lando - Literally no food in this slideshow
↳ your.username - I’m not talking about food
↳ danielricciardo - 🫢
-♡
Y/N’S MESSAGES ☆ DANIEL RICCIARDO
-♡
your.username has posted a story!
STORY REPLIES
↳ bestfriend - THIS IS HIM?
bestfriend - He’s ADORABLE
your.username - EXACTLY
↳ danielricciardo - I’m SO cute omg
your.username - It’s true
-♡
your.username
liked by danielricciardo and others
your.username First dates 🦡❤️
tagged danielricciardo
—
bestfriend - Flowers? Already
↳ your.username - IKR I’m in love
danielricciardo - Many more to come ❤️
↳ your.username - Oo la la 😏
maxverstappen1 - Treat him right for me
↳ your.username - I’ll carry the torch dw
your.username - My boyfriend btw so everyone back off
lewis comes home from Zandvoort to find you sick. You both feel awful and comfort eachother. ——— on request
—
You sat reclined in your shared bed with near-empty box of tissues and a too big jumper with a feeling of absolute exhaustion. Your flu began that morning and got progressively worse as the day went on.
‘Love Island’ played quietly in the background as you sniffled loudly but even in your groggy state, you came to realise the time. Zandvoort. Lewis. The race. Pulling up the race on your laptop, you set aside the mountain of tissues, crossed your fingers, and began watching the race in the middle of lap 10.
Lap after lap, your eyes lulled closed. The prescribed medicine you had taken hours ago finally taking effect.
—
Lewis shrugged on his shoulder bag and grabbed his suitcase as he descends the stairs from his jet. Beginning his trek through Heathrow Airport, he was stopped by what seemed like the entire population of Londonfor pictures and autographs. Lewis did not necessarily enjoy the attention, especially after DNFing at Zandvoort; he just wanted a break, but he knew that everyone stopping him was a supporter, and that they deserved a Lewis Hamilton who cared.
Once outside, he stepped into the black SUV waiting for him at the gate, and buckled himself into the large leather seat. Lewis began small talking with his driver as they began the journey back home to you; the love of his life.
—
Unlocking the front door to your London townhouse, Lewis was immediately welcomed with silence. He kicked off his shoes and hung up his coat on the hooks. His shoulders slumped now that he was in the comfort of his own home — he no longer had to pretend to be fine, no one could see him in here except you.
“Smells nice in here!” He yelled out absentmindedly, “Hey, do you want to order something to eat, an early dinner? I’m starving”
Lewis paused, only silence filled the space. “YN?”
He began walking the downstairs rooms; he searched the kitchen, living and dining rooms, and your office. Nothing.
“YN?” he shouted when he began walking up the stairs. His pace quickened until when he heard a faint confused ‘Lewis?’ from the bedroom.
His steps halted. “YN?” he called softer this time as he pushed open the heavy wooden door, “are you okay?”
Lewis was greeted with the image of you laying in bed half covered with tissues and your hair and the sheets in shambles. You sniffled loudly, the (absence of) sound of blocked sinuses filled his ears. You looked up at him with squinted eyes and your eyebrows furrowed.
“How? What?” you asked disorientedly with a raspy voice.
“Hey, you,” he started gently with the same warmness his voice always wore, “how long have you been asleep?”
“Um… since… what,” you paused in thought, still half asleep, “lap 19? 20? I think?”
Lewis hummed in acknowledgement and he frowned, “so you didn’t see the rest of the race?”
“No… sorry… How’d it go, love?”
“Eh, didn’t finish… It’s okay though, I’ll get over it” he shrugged like it was nothing, “you don’t sound too great though”
“You don’t have to be fine, Lewis.” Answering him with complete clarity and firmness now, completely disregarding the second half of his statement.
“Yeah I know,” he finished noncommittally as he settled next to you in the mountain of blankets. Your body immediately conforming to the shape of his; your leg rising and resting atop his thighs, and Lewis’ arm swung around your shoulders and rested next to your head.
—
Over half an hour passed spent in the comfortable silence between you both, until your stomach rumbled loudly.
“Fuck!” Lewis eyes widened as he exclaimed, making you jump, “you haven’t eaten since yesterday!’
“Oh… yeah… I am a bit hungry… starving actually” you said in a barely audible voice — it had completely disappeared on account to your relentless coughing.
“I’ll order something in?” He asked, “Or I could make something?”
You waved him off in a ‘yeah whatever’ way and wiped your nose with your already snot adorned sleeve — an action which made him realise you were wearing his jumper — nevermind, your jumper now.
He stood up and placed your limbs, once on himself, back to your side. He rushed out the room and down the carpeted stairs and into the kitchen. Lewis began to pull all the ingredients from the cabinets, from the fridge, and pulled spices from the drawer and began throwing them into a pot on the stove with the memory of the recipe at the forefront in his mind.
After 20 minutes, in all the kitchen madness, he had whipped up a comforting, flavourful tomato soup, topped up with basil and nostalgia. The aromas spread throughout the townhouse like a warm blanket. This meal was something his mother had made him the countless times when he was ill growing up.
Placing your favourite bowl topped up with soup, along with a glass of ice cold water on a wooden tray, he began his steady ascent up the stairs once again.
Lewis pushed open the door to find you sitting upright surrounded by a wall of pillows and blankets. “I missed so much…” you said in exaggerated despair with the remote hanging loosely in your hand, “how did so much happen while I was asleep?”
He thought you had been talking about the race until his eyes tracked to the screen to see ‘Love Island’ playing. He laughed knowingly and placed the tray over your lap.
“Thank you, Lewis,” you said genuinely with a hoarse voice and a small smile.
Lewis sat back down next to you and wrapped his arm around your shoulder. “It’s my pleasure, my love”
—
talks.
i’m lowkey not very happy with this, but i don’t really know if it’s good or not, so pls lmk!!! whats the saying? youre your own worst critic.
thank you for reading this and giving me so much love on my previous posts!!! i’m working on an oscar fic so that will be out soon, just absolutely busy with everything!!!
lewis hamilton’s girlfriend is feeling insecure in their relationship as people start criticising every little thing she does. he comforts her
youruser posted to their story
replies
lewishamilton ❤️❤️
youruser i love you
user1 this is like the one post she doesn’t have with lewis
user2 golddigger
user3 only dating him for fame
friend1 we look so cute 😋
youruser yes we doooooo 😈
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liked by charles_leclerc, isackhadjar, georgerussel63, and 1m others
lewishamilton Some pictures from this week ❤️
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user4 NO YN??? HAVE WE WONN????
user5 you guys are the reasons celebrities don’t post every aspect of their lives
user6 THIS!!!! you guys are making up assumptions about YN being a gold digger with NO proof whatsoever
user7 alright YN wrap it up
user6 god forbid someone defends a woman being hated on for no reason
liked by youruser
user8 no YN in the likes or comments. i used to pray for times like this 👏
user9 peep roscoe in the middle
roscoelovescoco Me loves mines mum and dad
liked by lewishamilton
user10 after 6 years have they finallllyyyy broken up. god is real 🙏🙏
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Lewis had planned an evening out in Paris, in a cheesily romantic restaurant. The walls adorned with warm wood and roses; the yellow lighting from the ceiling and candles scattered on the tables illuminating your face.
He looked at you with pure adoration, murmuring “I love you”’s in every moment of comfortable silence.
After you ate your meal (and dessert), you paid — despite great protest from Lewis, and walked hand-in-hand around the Parisian streets. The conversation flowed the way it had for years, with him making the stupidest jokes and making you double over in laughter, and you making him flush and stumble over his words when he made eye contact with you.
The pair of you stopped in front in front of a fairy light adorned scenic view.
“Hey, I need to ask you something,” Lewis started earnestly
You hummed with acknowledgement and anticipation
“This has been a long time coming,” he said while looking into your eyes, “I have loved you for years, and I will continue to love you for the rest of my life”
Your eyes started tearing up as he leaned down on one knee and continued, “will you be my best friend for ever and give me the honour of being your husband?”
He pulled out a small blue velvet box, opened it, and revealed a beautifully crafted ring with a simple diamond on top.
“Yes, of course, Lewis,” you cried softly
He stood up, wiped your cheeks, and pulled you into a deep kiss and mumbled an “I love you” against your lips.
“I love you too, dear fiancé”
—
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liked by charles_leclerc, f1, nicorosberg, and 2.3m others
lewishamilton & youruser ready to spend the rest of our lives together ❤️
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comments have been limited
f1 Congratulations Lewis and YN 🥂
liked by lewishamilton and youruser
scuderiaferrari Congratulations 🙌❤️
liked by lewishamilton and youruser
charles_leclerc Me and Alex are so happy for you two ❤️
liked by lewishamilton and youruser
nicorosberg Congrats Lewis, you deserve it mate ❤️
liked by lewishamilton and youruser
mercedesamgf1 Congrats 💙
liked by lewishamilton and youruser
isackhadjar LETS GOOOOO CONGRATS GOATS 🐐🐐💙
liked by lewishamilton and youruser
gabrielbortoleto_ mama y papa 💚
liked by lewishamilton and youruser
roscoelovescoco Mum and Dad is getting marrieds ❤️
Micro youtuber YN soft launches her long term bf and her fans speculate on who it could be until she accidentally reveals it in a video…
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liked by user1, user2, user3, and 12,870 others
youruser i’m baaaaack!! new vlog on yt out now! 💗
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user1 is our girl soft launching????
liked by youruser
user2 is that a man i see? ladies we’ve lost her 😖🤧
friend1 okaaay girl i see u
liked by youruser
youruser 😏
friend2 finallllyyyyy pls hardlaunch bc i don’t think i can keep it a secret anymore😒
liked by youruser
friend3 literally i keep almost telling people LOL
youruser WHAT????? bruh 😐
user3 pls i need more book recs YN
youruser i'll work on it ASAP!!💗
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user4 she is NOT addressing the bf allegations
user5 i want to live like her
user6 were some of these clips in monaco???? my f1 brain is spiralling; my two worlds colliding
user7 she usually records herself but someone else was holding the cam 🫣
user8 i wanna be like you when i grow up 🙏 (i’m older than you)
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You grab your coat from the coat hanger and walk towards the front door Charles is holding open.
“Very gentlemanly Mr. Leclerc.”
“Why thank you mon cher.”
Gliding through the streets of Monaco hand-in-hand with Charles Leclerc, infamous Monegasque Formula 1 driver, was something you had never envisioned for yourself. Your life had changed completely the moment the pair of you locked eyes at the bar; when time stopped, and you were pulled together like magnets. He had ordered you another martini, had eaten your olive (because you don’t like them), and made you snort gin out of your nose with a stupid joke.
Charles was significantly more famous than you, and you didn’t mind. The entire notion of dating a celebrity made you giggle, how was this your life? As a small YouTuber, you had not even considered meeting anyone with his level of fame, especially an athlete. You knew next to nothing about sports, so when you started spouting facts about qualifying for f1 on Saturday, your friends knew something was up. It didn’t take long for you to slowly confess your ‘situationship’ with Charles.
“WTF” “NO FUCKING WAY YN” “who?” your friends had reacted how you had expected them to.
Walking into the patisserie you had become a part of your established routine. Wake up, cuddle for at least 10 minutes, walk to the cafe and buy some pastries, then back to the apartment. Monaco was small enough for this to be known by some locals. Some greeted you with a warmness, and others gave you poorly hidden dirty looks for stealing their prince.
—
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view comments
user9 “oh she’s not at her home library… IS THAT CHARLES LECLERC?”
user10 omg her bf is cuuuttteeee
user11 baby thats charles leclerc
user12 idk why people are going crazy about her bf? hes hot so what?
user12 nvm hes fucking famous; he’s a really successful race car driver wtf
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liked by pierregasly, youruser, carlossainz55, and 916k others
charles_leclerc nothing better than a croissant in the morning… oh wait, there is ❤️
tagged: youruser
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user13 omg charles fully hardlaunching a breathtakingly gorgeous gf??? nooo we’ve lost him 🤧
user1 thats my girl yn!!! ❤️🩹
pierregasly she’s wonderful mate!
liked by charles_leclerc & youruser
user14 omg she was even introduced to his friends 😭 must be serious
user15 she’s not even that pretty
this user was blocked by the author
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liked by pierregasly, charles_leclerc, lilymhe, and 189k others
youruser sharing my love 💗
(i will not use a red heart sorry ferrari)
tagged: charles_leclerc
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view comments
charles_leclerc magnifique mon amour ❤️ (gorgeous my love)
liked by youruser
youruser je vous aime 💗
(i love you)
user3 i’m usually first but charles was here before me 😧 i’ve been replaced
liked by youruser
youruser you’re my og 🤫
carmenmmundt gorgeous girl xx
liked by youruser
lilymhe my wife btw (can’t believe i finally get to comment 😏)
liked by youruser
youruser tell the kids i miss them
charles_leclerc ??????
alex_albon you get used to it, mate 🤷♂️
user17 you’ve gained a new fan
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talk.
helloooo, its zandvoort this weekend and my aussie goat op81 qualified p1 sooooo 🤞 he wins 😝 anyway i think this one is better than the last one i did, and i even added in a small written part, so yeah! hope you enjoyed it cause i enjoy writing them xxx
Reader takes on the role as the second driver for RedBull Racing, replacing the fans’ favourite driver Yuki in the process. Reader navigates the struggles of recieving hate comments from fans.
talks.
lowkey bad — just trying this out!!! used random pics from pinterest for the instagram posts and some of pepe and arvid (for the redbull driver pics)
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liked by youruser, f1, maxverstappen1, and 1.2m others
redbullracing We are proud to announce our newest team member, YN YLN. He is joining us from redbulljuniorteam’s Formula 3 team. YN has had an extraordinary few seasons racing for our junior team, and we are excited to see what he has in store for future racing.
Welcome aboard youruser!
—
view 350,670 comments.
youruser excited for this opportunity!😁
liked by redbullracing
user12 yuki?!?!?!?!?
user50 how do you know they’re not replacing max?
user12 max is their baby they’re not getting rid of him
user16 WTF what happened to yuki?
user19 wait hes 17??? they tryna make a new max lmfaooooo
maxverstappen1 Welcome to the team youruser! 😊
liked by youruser
f1 The youngest driver ever on the grid, how exciting! Congrats youruser!!
liked by youruser, redbullracing, and maxverstappen1
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liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri, yukitsunoda0511, and 493k others
youruser its an honour to be joining the redbull racing f1 team for the remainder of the 2025 season. looking forward to racing alongside some of my heroes 💙 (ft. kiwi on the last slide)
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view 102,400 comments.
redbullracing Looking forward to having you with us YN!
liked by youruser
user1 you got rid of yuki for this kid whose still in school??? bruh he was only in f3 too, like not even f2. obviously not good enough for a top team.
lewishamilton Congrats YN!
youruser yoooo thanks GOAT 🙏
user2 is he still a student?
user3 yeah he goes to my school lol
user2 how tf he doing school and f1? i can’t even get my ass to class😭
liked by youruser
kimi.antonelli say ciao to kiwi from me pls
youruser she said ‘hello kimi’ trust me bro🙏🙏🙏
liked by kimi.antonelli
user5 You’re a terrible driver
redbulljuniorteam Proud of you YNYN!
liked by youruser
user6 bro is living every teenagers dream
liked by youruser
pepemartiofficial LFGG
youruser 🔥🔥🔥
user7 nooo don’t kys you’re so sexy ahaha
liked by youruser
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liked by user1, user18, user12, and 59,870 others
f1gossip With the announcement of YN YLN replacing Yuki Tsunoda as the second RedBull driver, what happens to our fav?
Sources claim that Yuki will remain as the reserve driver for the team, but this is not confirmed.
What are your thoughts on this situation?
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view 4580 comments.
user34 i hope yuki stays on the grid, even if it is as reserve
user51 YN taking over for Yuki is such a snake move ??? making a horrible first impression to f1 fans
user12 bro he doesn’t make redbull’s decisions, you would accept an offer to drive for REDBULL if you got asked too.
user13 ok he’s fine af tho 😍
user13 guys its ok im also 17
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liked by user95, f1, user3, and others
redbullracing Yuki Tsunoda to become our reserve driver for the remainder of the 2025 Formula 1 season.
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talks.
hello!! this is my first thing like i’ve ever posted and i am a bit nervy so pls be nice 😝 anyway i literally didn’t know what i was doing, but if you want to send through some requests or something that i could (try) to do, that would also be cool.
the great yuki tsunoda, who can breeze through a dinner service without breaking a sweat, suddenly looks like he might crumble under the weight of his own feelings.
ꔮ starring: restaurant owner!yuki tsunoda x pastry chef!reader.
ꔮ word count: 18.6k.
ꔮ includes: implied smut/suggestive, romance, friendship. alternate universe: non-f1, alternate universe: restaurant/service industry. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. yearning, friends to lovers, ensemble of driver cameos.
ꔮ commentary box: celebrating turning twenty-something with a monster of a yt22 fic!!! been working on this for what feels like forever. everybody, meet my shaylas 🎂 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
Monday mornings always feel like a personal attack.
Your alarm is cruel enough, but the real betrayal is the way sunlight filters through your blinds as if the world is mocking you. You drag yourself out of bed with all the grace of a zombie extra in a B‑list horror film. Teeth brushed, hair tied back, chef’s whites pressed in theory (in reality, the iron stayed untouched), you go through the motions of a routine that has more to do with muscle memory than enthusiasm.
Coffee comes first. Always coffee.
You sip it like medicine, grimacing at the bitterness but knowing you’d be a public safety hazard without it. Bag slung over your shoulder, sneakers squeaking on the pavement, you head out to Venti Due—the only itameshi restaurant along the West Coast and, conveniently, your place of reluctant employment.
The brick façade of the restaurant looks deceptively cheerful in the morning light. You push the door open and step into the familiar hum of pre‑opening chaos. The servers are already buzzing around, though ‘buzzing’ is generous when it comes to Oscar.
He greets you with his usual sleepy smile, one hand still clutching his phone as if he’s been dragged out of bed five minutes ago. Knowing Oscar, it probably isn’t far from the truth. A uni student pulling part‑time shifts, he’s charming in the way of someone who can’t fully hide his exhaustion but tries anyway.
“Morning,” he mumbles, voice caught somewhere between dreams and reality.
“You’re awake. Miracles do happen,” you shoot back, tossing your bag behind the counter.
Jules pops her head up next, practically materializing from behind a stack of menus. “Don’t jinx him. He’s fragile in the mornings.” Jules, with her eccentric flair and a tendency to turn even simple table setups into performance art, beams at you. She’s already managed to scatter napkins across three different tables in what looks suspiciously like an avant‑garde arrangement. You decide to let her have her moment.
George, the sommelier, is next in line for introductions whether he wants it or not. He shuffles past with a clipboard in hand, brow furrowed in concentration. Frumpy, yes. Well‑meaning, also yes. He greets you with a distracted nod, muttering something about bottle inventories that you’re not entirely sure wasn’t directed at himself. You’ve seen him lose battles with corkscrews more often than you’d care to admit, but his heart’s in the right place.
The bar clinks with the unmistakable rhythm of Lando at work. He’s got that too‑easy grin, the kind that spells trouble before you even reach the counter. “Morning, pastry princess,” he calls, shaking a cocktail shaker despite the hour. You roll your eyes, already bracing yourself. Lando’s in the middle of his Master’s, somehow balancing academia with bartending and an unrelenting commitment to flirting with anything that breathes.
“You’re not supposed to make drinks before noon,” you point out.
“You’re not supposed to look this grumpy before noon, but here we are.” He winks, and you resist the urge to throw a spoon at his head.
The kitchen door swings open and Alex emerges, still tying his apron. Away from kitchen duty, he’s personable and warm, the type of guy who remembers birthdays and always has an extra pen when you’re short. When it’s time to cook, though, the sous chef is Gordon Ramsey reincarnated. “Don’t let him bother you,” Alex says, shooting Lando a look before offering you a smile.
The rhythm of the morning crew is familiar, each cog in the machine spinning in its predictable orbit. You’re halfway to convincing yourself this Monday might pass without incident when the air shifts.
Yuki Tsunoda steps into the room with the kind of presence that demands attention. Not loud, not showy. He’s only sharp, focused, carrying an authority that instantly changes the tempo of the restaurant. He shrugs off his jacket, ties his apron with brisk precision, and surveys the room with an expression that dares anyone to waste his time.
You hate the way your stomach flips. It’s Monday morning. You’re supposed to be miserable. Instead, all you can think is: here we fucking go.
Yuki sets his knife roll on the counter with a soft thud, pulling the ties loose with the focus of someone already two steps ahead of everyone else. You’ve seen him do this a hundred times. Efficient, precise, and more than a little intimidating if you’re new. But you’re not new. You’ve been here since the beginning, which makes you immune to the brunt of his stormy focus. Mostly.
“Morning,” he says finally, not looking up as he inspects a blade for sharpness.
“You mean ‘good morning, how are you, did you sleep well?’” You lean against the prep counter with your arms crossed. “That’s how normal people greet each other.”
He snorts, clearly unimpressed. “If I wanted small talk, I’d ask Jules. Did the flour delivery come in?”
“Wow. Straight to business. My weekend must mean nothing to you.” You slide your phone across the counter so he can see the checklist you’ve already made. “Yes, it came in. Two sacks instead of three. I called the supplier already. They’re sending another one this afternoon.”
Yuki glances at the list, lips twitching in what might almost pass for a smile. “And the pistachios?”
“Safe and sound. Locked away from Lando, in case he gets bored and decides to experiment with nut-based cocktails again.”
“That was one time,” Yuki exhales, lining up his knives like soldiers. He pauses, flicking a look your way. “You remembered to order the hazelnut paste?”
“Do I look like someone who forgets the backbone of her own creations?”
“Sometimes,” he says. But you catch the corner of his mouth fighting upward, and it’s enough to make your pulse skip. This is how it always is. Professional words with just enough bite to keep you on your toes. You can read the rhythm of his moods like sheet music, filling in the gaps with your own easy counterpoint.
“I’ll start on the tarts once the ovens finish preheating,” you say, turning toward your workstation. “If you behave, I might even let you have the first one.”
Yuki shakes his head, feigning exasperation as readjusts his chef’s jacket. “You talk like I can’t just take one.”
“You could,” you concede, glancing at him over your shoulder, “but then you’d miss the fun of me pretending you earned it.”
For a moment, his gaze lingers on you longer than it should, heavy enough that you feel it even without looking directly at him. Then he clears his throat and flips open his notebook. “Inventory meeting in ten. Don’t be late.”
“As if I would ever,” you say, already pulling flour from the storeroom. Your hands move on autopilot, weighing, measuring, prepping for the day ahead. You and Yuki have done this dance so many times, it’s practically second nature. Two halves of the same rhythm, balancing each other without ever needing to speak it out loud.
By midmorning, Venti Due hums like a machine that knows its purpose. Orders aren’t flying in yet, but prep is its own battlefield. Knives chop in rhythm, pans hiss and sputter, and the front-of-house polishes glasses with militant devotion. It’s chaos, but choreographed chaos. You fall into the current without hesitation, sleeves rolled up, fingers dusted in flour before you’ve even noticed.
You catch Oscar fumbling with a tray of wine glasses and Jules swooping in with the dramatics of a knight saving a maiden. George is muttering about pairings to no one in particular, while Lando is teaching himself how to juggle lemons when he thinks no one’s looking. Alex keeps the kitchen calm, redirecting energy like it’s second nature. And Yuki—well, Yuki commands it all with a glance. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t need to. A sharp nod, a clipped word, and everyone falls into line.
You don’t have the luxury of stopping to admire it. The pastries won’t prep themselves, and you’re elbow-deep in dough by the time the clock ticks toward noon. The ovens cycle batches with military precision, trays sliding in and out as you shape and fill with the ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times. Your world shrinks down to sugar, butter, and the hum of timers.
By lunch, Alex slips away first, snagging a plate and scarfing it down with the kind of efficiency only a chef of his calibre can manage. Yuki takes his turn after, pausing just long enough to check on the line before disappearing toward the staff room. You wave him off when he gestures toward you. “I’ll eat after this batch,” you insist, shaping another neat lattice over a tart.
You don’t notice time slipping until the next batch cools and the savory scent of lunch is a faint memory in the air. Wiping your hands on your apron, you finally make your way toward the back, stomach growling in protest. The tray of staff meals is nearly empty, save for a few scraps of bread and what looks suspiciously like the last sad bite of salad. Alex shrugs apologetically from across the room.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you grumble, a little louder than you intend. “I slave away over butter and sugar, and this is the thanks I get?”
Before you can work yourself into a proper tirade, a plate slides into view under your nose. Perfectly portioned, still warm, and suspiciously untouched. You look up to find Yuki standing there, arms crossed, expression caught between exasperation and fondness. “I knew you’d do this,” he says simply, “so I saved one.”
You narrow your eyes, though the twist of relief in your chest betrays you. “What are you, my babysitter now?”
“More like the only one here with common sense,” Yuki replies, pulling out a chair with his foot. “Sit. Eat. Before you faint into a tray of éclairs and make me fire you.”
“I’d haunt this place,” you huff, but you sit anyway. The first bite is a revelation, your stomach sighing in gratitude. You peek up at him through your lashes. “You know, some people might think this is sweet.”
Yuki shrugs, deadpan as ever. “Some people don’t know you well enough.”
It’s meant to be a jab, but the silence that follows is heavier than either of you expect. You break it first with a snort, nudging his hand as you reach for your fork again. “Thanks, chef.”
His mouth twitches, the barest hint of a smile before he turns back toward the kitchen. “Don’t make it a habit.”
The day’s dinner service winds down with the steady rhythm of plates cleared and chairs stacked. The air is thick with the scent of garlic, wine, and the faint sweetness of the last tiramisu you sent out. You wipe down your station, fingers stiff but satisfied, and listen to the restaurant exhale after another day survived.
Yuki gathers the staff near the pass, arms crossed, expression sharp but not unkind. He does this every night. Quick notes, a pulse check on the team, a reminder that tomorrow demands just as much precision as today.
“Service was clean,” he starts, scanning the group. “Oscar, your pacing was better. Jules—don’t rearrange the cutlery mid-shift. It confuses the guests.”
Jules gasps like she’s been personally insulted. “It was art!”
“Save the art for your apartment,” Yuki replies, tone clipped. “George, good pairing tonight. Lando, stop experimenting during service. Alex, solid work on the line.”
The feedback rolls out like clockwork, efficient and even. The crew listens, nods, takes it in. Despite his dry delivery, you can feel it. The respect humming beneath every word, the quiet trust that everyone here leans on. When Yuki speaks, people listen. Not because they’re scared of him, but because he’s earned it.
Finally, his gaze lands on you. “Pastries were consistent,” he says. “Timing was better too. Keep it up.”
There’s nothing in the words themselves, but the weight of his eyes lingers. You offer a small shrug, as if to say, of course they were.
“God, just kiss already,” Lando mutters from the back, which earns him a snort from Jules and a scandalized look from George. Oscar, barely holding back laughter, pretends to check his phone.
Heat prickles your neck, but you roll your eyes and toss your towel at the bar. “Don’t project your tragic love life onto us, Lando.”
“Tragic? Please. I’m thriving.” He sticks out his tongue at you before Yuki clears his throat, sharp enough to cut through the noise.
“Focus,” Yuki says simply. Just like that, the teasing dies down, the crew dispersing with the tired chatter of people who’ve given their all. Bags are slung over shoulders, goodbyes are murmured, and soon the restaurant quiets to its bones.
You linger at your station a moment longer, stacking trays with more care than necessary. Yuki moves past, close enough that his sleeve brushes yours. “Ignore them,” he says softly, not looking at you.
“Who says I care?” you reply, but the laugh in the back of your throat betrays you.
He doesn’t press, doesn’t tease. He only gives the smallest nod before heading toward the office. You’re left with the ghost of his sleeve against yours, wondering why ignoring them feels impossible.
The next week at Venti Due settles into its rhythm: the clang of pans, the rise of voices calling for orders, the sweet hush of pastry cream thickening under your whisk. Between the noise and the chaos, you find yourself drifting. Thinking back to how it all started, how you ended up tethered to this kitchen and, somehow, to Yuki.
Culinary school feels like another lifetime now, all stainless steel counters and the sterile scent of bleach. Yuki had been the one student who managed to make a uniform look like armor, his sharp focus cutting through every room he walked into. You’d first spoken during a class on fundamentals. He’d been hunched over a cutting board, perfecting a julienne that looked like it had been measured with a ruler. You’d leaned closer, deliberately dramatic. “Going for world’s straightest carrot sticks?” you’d teased.
He hadn’t even glanced up. “Some of us care about precision.”
“And some of us care about not boring ourselves to death.” You’d grinned, tossing him a piece of your unevenly chopped onion. “See? Personality.”
He’d finally looked at you then and said, “Your personality smells.”
It was the start of something neither of you had language for yet.
Between classes and late-night study sessions, you carved out a rhythm. Yuki was disciplined to the point of obsession, while you thrived in improvisation, especially once the curriculum turned to pastries. You remember the first time he tried one of your test tarts, biting into it with a seriousness that made your palms sweat. “Not too sweet,” he’d said eventually, and you’d laughed because coming from him, that was the highest form of praise.
One evening, you found him sitting alone in the library, textbooks sprawled around him, a notebook filled with scrawled ideas. “Itameshi,” he’d said before you could even ask. “Japanese-Italian fusion. Not gimmicky, not watered down. Balanced. Something that respects both traditions.”
You’d sat across from him, intrigued despite yourself. “That’s oddly specific.”
He’d leaned back, expression thoughtful. “It’s what I grew up with. Pasta with shoyu, miso in risotto. My mom didn’t think about it as fusion. It was just… dinner. I want to take that and make it into something that belongs on a Michelin menu.”
You’d nodded slowly, tucking that piece of him away. It explained the focus, the drive that sometimes looked like obsession. It wasn’t just food to him. It was identity, stitched together by memory and taste.
“And you?” he’d asked then, catching you off guard. “What do you want?”
“A patisserie,” you’d answered after a moment of hesitation. “Glass display cases, rows of pastries, the smell of butter and sugar hitting people when they walk in. Something that’s mine.”
He’d given you a rare smile then, small but real. “Sounds fitting.”
Graduation came faster than you expected. A blur of exams, sleepless nights, and too much caffeine. The ceremony itself felt like theater, everyone pretending not to care while secretly waiting for their names to be called. Yuki wore the cap and gown like he wore everything else: with a kind of reluctant irritation, as though the whole pageantry offended his sense of efficiency.
It was afterward, when the crowd thinned and the graduates dispersed to dinners and family celebrations, that he cornered you outside the hall. The sky was slipping toward dusk, a warm June evening wrapping the campus in gold. He stood there with his hands shoved into his pockets, expression unreadable, and for a second you thought he was going to comment on how crooked your cap sat.
Instead, he said, “Be my pastry chef.”
Your brows furrowed, wondering if you misheard. “Excuse me?”
“I’m opening a restaurant. Itameshi. You know what I want it to be.” His gaze locked on yours, steady and unflinching. “I want you there. Pastry chef.”
You laughed, nervous but amused. “Yuki, that sounds like a proposal.”
“It is,” he said flatly, his eyes crinkling as he broke out into a proper, toothy grin. “For food. Not marriage.”
“You really know how to sweep someone off their feet.” You had crossed your arms, tilting your head at him. “What makes you think I’ll say yes?”
“Because you already said you want your own place. You won’t waste time at someone else’s restaurant. Not unless it mattered.”
The words hit harder than you expected, like he’d been listening closer than you realized. You rolled your eyes to cover the way your chest tightened. “Fine. But it’s temporary. I’ll help you launch, save up, and then I’m gone. Patisserie, remember?”
He nodded once, solemn, like you’d struck a deal. “Temporary.”
You shook his hand, though it felt oddly ceremonial, and something inside you whispered that this was more binding than either of you admitted aloud.
That was four years ago.
Now, standing in Venti Due’s kitchen with sugar under your nails and the hum of service in the background, you realize the word ‘temporary’ has stretched longer than you ever intended. Every day has carried the same steady gravity of that handshake. An agreement that was never just about work, no matter how hard you both pretended otherwise.
By closing time, the kitchen looks like it survived a small war. Pots stacked high, jam staining your apron, the faint smell of seared fish clinging to your hair. You’re wiping down your station when Yuki approaches, holding out an envelope. “Salary’s in your account,” he says, tone casual. “This is extra. Tips.”
You glance at the wad of cash inside, instantly shoving it back toward him. “No way. I don’t need your charity fund.”
His eyebrow lifts, sharp and unimpressed. “It’s not charity. It’s from the floor. Customers like desserts, apparently. Who knew.”
“Shocking revelation.” You push the envelope across the counter again. “Split it with the servers.”
“They already got their share. This is yours. Take it.” He says it with the stubbornness of someone who will stand here all night until you cave. His arms are crossed now, a silent dare.
You sigh, snatching the envelope before he can start another speech. “Fine. But if I blow it all on overpriced candles, that’s on you.”
“Save it. Or don’t. I don’t care.”
“Thanks,” you add, quieter than intended. He doesn’t reply, only nods and turns back to check on Alex, as if the conversation never happened.
Later that night, your apartment greets you with the quiet hum of the fridge and the faint creak of floorboards. You set the envelope on the counter, then reach for the Mason jars lined up in the cupboard. Their weight is familiar, each one filled with neatly rolled bills. Months, years of tip envelopes, savings, little sacrifices. The ritual of stacking them has always been your silent countdown to freedom. You pour the new bills into the jar marked with a strip of masking tape, the one labeled Someday. It’s already full to the brim, crammed so tightly that the lid barely twists shut.
Here’s the truth: you had enough last year.
Enough for the deposit on that storefront downtown, the one with big windows and a perfect corner for displaying cakes that would stop people in their tracks. Enough to hire staff, to design menus, to finally call something yours.
And yet you’re still here. Still showing up at Venti Due every morning, still brushing sugar from your clothes and trading barbs with Yuki across the kitchen. You tell yourself it’s practical. Safe. Sensible.
When you glance at the jar, heavy with possibility, you know it’s none of those things. You’re still here for one reason only.
The weekend market is already buzzing when you and Yuki arrive, shoulder to shoulder in the lazy late-morning sun. Vendors are hawking their produce with theatrical gusto, baskets of tomatoes and eggplants gleaming under striped awnings. You tug your tote bag higher on your shoulder and try to look like this is just another errand, not some weirdly domestic ritual you’ve fallen into with your best friend-slash-boss. “Which one first?” Yuki asks, scanning the rows of stalls like he’s plotting a battle strategy.
“Whichever one isn’t going to tempt you into buying another box of mushrooms we don’t have fridge space for,” you shoot back.
His mouth curves upward. “That’s very specific. Almost like it already happened.”
“It did. Last month. You held them like a newborn.”
“They were good mushrooms.”
You roll your eyes but follow him anyway, weaving through the crowd. There’s an ease to this—how you match each other’s pace without thinking, how he hands you a sample of melon before even tasting it himself. The vendor grins at the exchange, as though the two of you are some couple straight out of a weekend slice-of-life film. You ignore the implication and bite into the melon, pretending the sweetness on your tongue is the only thing worth noticing. “Thoughts?” Yuki asks, expectant.
“It’s good. Very… melon-y.”
“That’s profound. Truly your culinary school tuition at work.”
You elbow him lightly, earning a laugh that draws a curious glance or two. He doesn’t seem to care, and you pretend not to either. Later, while you’re considering a stack of strawberries, he appears at your side with skewers of yakitori, one already half-gone. He holds out the other without ceremony. “Lunch.”
“You just couldn’t wait?”
“Chef’s privilege.” His voice is light, but his eyes flicker with mischief as you take the skewer from his hand. You mutter a thanks around your first bite, trying not to acknowledge the fact that you’re sharing food in a way that feels intimate.
You keep telling yourself this isn’t a date. You’re here for produce, for scouting local vendors, for the sake of the restaurant. But then Yuki brushes a stray leaf off your shoulder without comment, and you wonder why the lie has to work so hard to convince you.
The market shifts sometime around noon, when the lazy sprawl of vendors and wandering locals turns into a slow-moving human tide. At first you think it’s just you getting bumped one too many times by an elbow or an overenthusiastic shopping bag, but then you notice Yuki’s face. That pinched look he wears when something irritates him but he hasn’t decided if it’s worth a fight. Spoiler: nine times out of ten, it isn’t.
He lingers closer than usual, not that you’re about to complain. His hand hovers once near the small of your back before he thinks better of it, retreating to the safety of his pockets. Instead he becomes a living barrier between you and the chaos of the crowd, always stepping a half second ahead of anyone who might jostle you. He’s subtle about it, or at least he thinks he is. You can read him too well. “You look like you’re about to start body-checking grandmas,” you tease, nudging his arm with your elbow. “Relax, Yuki. I can handle a market crowd.”
“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he says. His eyes dart toward a group squeezing through the aisle, and his jaw ticks. “You’re short, people don’t see you. Easy to get pushed.”
There’s a warmth tucked in that blunt little statement, disguised as irritation. You let it hang in the air, unspoken, savoring it like the last bite of dessert. “Fine,” you grin. “Since you’re obviously seconds away from picking a fight with a produce stand, why don’t we bail? Early dinner?”
He exhales, relief hidden in the smallest curve of his mouth. “My place. Closer than yours. And I don’t want to carry all this stuff any farther.”
You arch a brow at the loaded grocery bags he’s holding in one hand, as if the weight of it is nothing but child’s play. “Uh-huh. Definitely not because you’d rather control the menu.”
You head for his apartment, tucked right next to Venti Due. Convenient for the workaholic. Yuki’s place isn’t new territory. By now, you can navigate it without even thinking. Keys tossed on the counter, shoes kicked by the door, sleeves already rolled to your elbows before Yuki’s even finished locking up. His place is small, but it feels lived-in. Warm. Familiar. The kind of space you drift into without ever needing to ask permission.
You’re already in the kitchen before he joins you, pulling a pan from its usual spot. “You do realize you’ve tricked me into more cooking after a full week of baking, right?” you say, giving him a look over your shoulder.
Yuki shrugs, as if that explains everything. “I’m not tricking. You volunteered. Big difference.”
“Uh-huh.” You set the pan on the stove, nudging him with your elbow when he crowds in beside you. “And what, exactly, did I volunteer for? Being your sous chef?”
He smirks, reaching for the garlic. “More like my commis.”
You make a face. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He tosses you the knife like it’s a challenge. You catch it easily, slicing into the cloves with more precision than he probably expected. He leans just close enough to watch, and you’re tempted to say something biting, but the way he’s looking at you—quietly impressed—makes you bite your tongue.
The rhythm comes easy, though. It always does with him. He stirs while you chop, you season while he tastes. The banter fills the cracks in the silence, steady as muscle memory. “So,” you say, flicking a piece of garlic at him, “what are we calling this masterpiece? Chef’s special?”
“Chef’s survival.”
“Catchy. Michelin will be begging.”
He laughs under his breath, and the sound sticks with you longer than it should. The apartment fills with the smell of browned garlic and olive oil, something simple and grounding. By the time pasta hits the pan, you’re both shoulder to shoulder, stealing tastes straight off each other’s forks. Dinner ends up being just that. Two spoons, one pan, and no patience for plating. Yuki passes you a bite, and you take it without hesitation, like it’s nothing. Like it isn’t something at all.
“You know,” you say around a mouthful, “I think we might actually be good at this whole cooking thing.”
“Finally noticed?” He chuckles, stealing the spoon back. “Took you long enough.”
You roll your eyes, but you can’t quite smother the smile that follows. Sitting at his tiny table, sharing dinner out of the pan, it feels too easy. Too natural. And maybe that’s what makes it dangerous.
The bell above the café door jingles as the three of you step inside, the smell of espresso and roasted beans wrapping around you like a blanket. Jules makes a beeline for the counter, and Lando falls into step beside her, leaving you trailing with the quiet suspicion you’ve just been set up. “So,” Jules says with an innocence that fools no one, “Yuki seemed in a good mood last night. Wonder why.”
Lando, ever the accomplice, smirks. “Probably has something to do with a certain pastry chef who practically lives at his side.”
You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle you don’t sprain something. “Wow. Stellar detective work. Truly groundbreaking analysis.”
Jules grins at you over her shoulder as she orders her usual oat latte. “Come on, you can’t tell me you don’t see it,” she insists. “You two are practically married already.”
You shoot her a look. “If we’re married, then I want half of Venti Due in the divorce.”
Lando nearly chokes on his laugh, stepping up to the counter to order. “That’s the spirit,” he says offhandedly, “but seriously. You should just date him. It’d save us all the suspense.”
You lean against the counter, the perfect picture of unimpressed. “Right. Because what a restaurant really needs is its manager and pastry chef combusting over a messy breakup. Brilliant idea, ten out of ten,” you bite out.
They exchange a look, conspiratorial in its silence, and you know they’re not about to drop it. You sip your coffee when it arrives and decide you’ve had enough. “You know what,” you say, your voice syrupy sweet, “I think you two should date. Jules, Lando—match made in heaven.”
That does it. Lando goes red immediately, fumbling with the sugar packets like they’re suddenly the most fascinating things in the world. Jules sputters mid-sip, coughing into her sleeve, eyes wide with something close to shame. You grin, mischievous, basking in the chaos. “See? Works every time.”
The walk back is blissfully quiet, the two of them still awkwardly avoiding each other’s eyes. You sip your coffee triumphantly, knowing you’ve just secured yourself at least a week’s reprieve from their meddling.
The coffee run conspirators are barely out of earshot when Yuki finds you back at the counter, sleeves rolled up again like the morning never ended. He raises an eyebrow, the kind of silent reprimand you’ve come to know far too well. “You could at least pretend to rest when you leave the building,” he says, not looking at you as he straightens a tray of glasses.
“Rest? Never heard of her,” you reply, grabbing a towel for no reason other than to look busy.
He shakes his head, but the corner of his mouth betrays him. “One day you’ll thank me for trying to keep you alive.”
“Or curse you when I die of boredom,” you shoot back, and he laughs. Soft but warm, the kind that lingers longer than it should.
You let that moment slip past, choosing instead to busy yourself until George’s bark of laughter cuts through the room. He’s standing with Alex by the espresso machine, both of them suspiciously smug. You narrow your eyes just in time to see Alex slip a bill into George’s waiting hand. “Really?” you say, marching over. “Please tell me you’re not gambling on how long it takes for me to sass Yuki back.”
“Not exactly,” George says, unbothered as he tucks the money into his pocket. “But you two make it too easy.”
Alex shrugs, grin breaking across his face. “It’s good money. Don’t take it personally.”
“Don’t take it personally?” you repeat, scandalized. “You’re making a profit off my tragic, very professional, completely platonic working relationship?”
“Professional,” George repeats, and Alex snorts like that word’s the funniest punchline he’s heard all week.
You swivel to the nearest sane person: Oscar, nursing a mug of black coffee. “Tell me you’re not a part of this.”
He shakes his head, calm as ever. “Nope. I don’t bet.”
“Thank you.”
“But,” he adds, “if I had to calculate it, I’d say the odds of you and Yuki ending up together hover around… eighty-one percent? Maybe higher if you count the market trips. Those skew the data.”
You gape at him. “You’re supposed to be my ally.”
“I am,” he says. “I’m just being scientific.”
George and Alex are wheezing now, delighted by your misery. You throw your hands up. “Unbelievable. I’m surrounded by degenerates.”
With that, you storm off, exasperation trailing behind you like the aroma of coffee grounds. Strong, bitter, and impossible to shake. The shift winds down in its usual rhythm, the clang of pots fading into the background as Yuki does his end-of-day ritual. He moves through the kitchen, giving nods, comments, and the occasional dry joke that has everyone smiling despite their exhaustion. There’s something about the way the crew listens when he talks. Not stiff, not fearful, but attentive, like they’d follow him into battle if the battlefield were lined with stovetops and prep counters.
You hang back, waiting for your moment. All day, people have been throwing you into the ring, teasing you about him like it’s a group sport. You’ve deflected, joked, even tried to flip it back on them. Now, you plan to sneak in a jab of your own, something light, something that will finally even the score. When the last of the staff filters out, you sidle closer. “Big day for me,” you say, leaning against the counter. “Apparently I’m starring in a rom-com I didn’t audition for. Thought you’d like to congratulate me on my lead role.”
Yuki huffs a laugh, one hand tucking into the pocket of his apron. “You’re good at improvising. You’ll win Best Actress, no contest.”
You open your mouth to volley back, but then he adds, almost too casually, “Speaking of… I should get going. I have a blind date tonight.”
The words clatter to the floor between you, louder than the pans ever were. Your brain scrambles, reaching for something witty, something sharp. All you manage is a smile that feels too thin around the edges. “Wow,” you say, and your voice sounds a little too bright even to your own ears. “Someone’s adventurous.”
He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “It’s just dinner with a friend of a friend. Who knows, right?”
You nod, even though you want to shake your head until the whole idea falls out of the universe. “Right. Who knows.”
He gives you a small, easy smile before grabbing his things. “Don’t wait up.”
In the next moment, he’s gone—slipping out the back door, leaving you with the hum of the refrigerators and the hollow thump of your own heartbeat. You stay a moment longer than you should, staring at the empty space where he stood, then finally grab your bag and head out into the night.
You make a valiant attempt at salvaging the night, like it isn’t already slightly soured. Distraction is the name of the game: cleaning out the fridge, reorganizing your spice rack (alphabetical, then rearranged back to the order you actually use them in), watching half an episode of some cooking competition before realizing every contestant is making you think of Yuki anyway. You groan, flop dramatically on your couch, and eventually drag yourself to bed.
Your phone buzzes just as you’re about to fall asleep. It’s a text from Yuki. A TikTok link.
It’s a video of a cat swatting flour off a counter while the baker screams in horror. You snort so hard you have to clutch your chest. The fact that he thought of you—your flour-covered apron, your tendency to leave powdered sugar handprints everywhere—hits a little too close.
You reply with: That cat has better technique than you.
He answers quicker than you expect: Bold words from someone who once dropped an entire bag of cocoa powder on the floor.
You grin at your phone in the dark, but your thumbs hesitate before typing. Finally, you cave: So… how was the date?
Three dots appear, vanish, reappear. Then his reply comes, simple. There won’t be a second date.
Your stomach does a traitorous little flip. You squeeze your pillow and type back: Their loss.
His reply is slower this time, but it still arrives. Good night.
You stare at the screen longer than necessary, smiling despite yourself. Then, you type the words you mean and don’t mean all at once: Dream of me, Yukino.
I always do, comes his easy response, and you hold your phone to your chest as you feel the thump, thump, thump of your heart.
Chaos is not new to Venti Due, but today it feels like the world is testing how much caffeine-fueled patience one restaurant can hold. Orders are stacking faster than the ticket machine can spit them out, Alex looks one second away from throwing a pan, and Yuki’s temper is sparking like a gas stove with faulty wiring. You try to keep the rhythm, weaving between stations with that too-bright smile you wear when everything’s going to hell. “Table six says they’ve been waiting thirty minutes,” you announce, voice sugar-sweet, as if sugar could soften the blow.
“Tell them it’ll be thirty-one,” Yuki snaps, slamming a pan onto the burner. The clang echoes through the kitchen, and Alex mutters something sharp under his breath. Yuki hears it, of course. He always does.
“Say that louder, Albon,” Yuki challenges, eyes flicking up like knives. “To my fucking face.”
You slide between them, spatula in hand like it’s a peace offering. “Okay, gladiators, how about no one throws cookware today? Pots are expensive.” Your grin wobbles at the edges, but you keep it in place. Comic relief is your best weapon, even when you’re dying inside.
Alex scoffs, tossing chopped herbs with more force than necessary. “Tell your boyfriend to chill, then.”
Heat climbs up your neck, not just from the stoves. “He’s not my boyfriend. And he is very chill. He’s the definition of chill. Like a freezer.”
Yuki slants you a look that’s anything but chill, though his lips twitch like he almost wants to laugh. Almost. The kitchen keeps roaring, plates keep flying, and you keep tightrope-walking between Alex’s sarcasm and Yuki’s sharpness, pretending your heart isn’t racing for reasons that have nothing to do with service.
Oscar and Jules call in almost at the same time, their voices overlapping through the kitchen phone. You catch fragments—“table six wants their third refill five minutes ago,” “guy at four is snapping his fingers,” “if one more person says ‘extra crispy’ I’ll lose it.” Lovely soundtrack for a Friday night.
Yuki looks like he’s two seconds from ripping the apron off and walking out. His jaw’s set, his shoulders wound tight. You can practically hear the steam whistling from his ears. You know that look. You also know the last thing this kitchen needs is Mount Yuki erupting all over the line.
You step in, hand pressing lightly to the small of his back. A tether, a nudge. “George, pour some free wine, make it look like we’re generous saints,” you start.
Alex picks up what you’re putting down. He’s already yelling for Lando to bring out his shaker like it’s a weapon. “Whip up a couple of your science project cocktails,” Alex hollers. “If the drinks are colorful enough, maybe the customers will forget their existential despair.”
It’s not exactly Michelin-star crisis management, but it works. The edge in the air dulls. You feel Yuki breathe out beside you, his shoulders loosening. His hand finds yours, quick, almost stealthy, a squeeze hidden between moments. By the time anyone looks your way, he’s already back to pretending he’s unflappable, barking new orders like nothing happened.
You, of course, are left with your heart pounding harder than it has any right to during a dinner rush.
The aftermath of the shift looks like war survivors slumped against barstools. George has his head tilted back, eyes closed as if he’s auditioning for a Renaissance painting. Jules is counting tips with the air of someone too tired to do math, mouthing numbers like they might bite her if she miscounts. Alex is sprawled over two chairs, dramatically near death, while Oscar taps away on his phone with the clinical detachment of someone who has already emotionally detached from the evening.
Everyone is waiting for the inevitable. Yuki is still standing, arms crossed, expression unreadable as he surveys the wreckage. Normally this is the part where he dissects every misstep, precision-knife sharp. You brace for it too, already preparing your counterarguments and deflections. Instead, he sighs. “Good work tonight, everyone.”
The silence that follows is so loud it could count as a new kind of noise pollution. Yuki continues, voice softer. “It was rough, but you all handled it. I know I was short-tempered. Alex, I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m sorry.”
Alex blinks as if someone just offered him free real estate. “You’re… apologizing? To me?”
“Don’t make me take it back,” Yuki says flatly, but there’s no heat in it.
A ripple of muffled laughter moves through the room. The tension lightens, shoulders drop. Yuki turns to you. His eyes linger, steady. “And you. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you tonight.”
Cue the chorus of ooooooohs from the peanut gallery. George clutches his chest like he’s about to swoon. Jules mutters, “When’s the wedding?”
You roll your eyes and wave them off, forcing breeziness into your tone. “Don’t be dramatic. Yuki did great tonight.” You look at him deliberately, keeping it light but meaning it more than you should. “Seriously. You kept us all together, chef.”
For a moment, Yuki holds your gaze like he knows exactly what you mean, like he can hear all the words you don’t say. But then he clears his throat, turning back to the group, already moving on. The tips of his ears are a little red.
The spray of the sink is too loud, the plates too slick, and the kitchen too cramped to be having this conversation. Which is exactly why you’re having it now, with Oscar. Poor Oscar, elbows deep in soap suds, eyes wide like he can sense danger coming.
“I swear, he’s impossible,” you grunt, scrubbing at a plate like it personally wronged you. “Everyone else can see it. George, Alex, Jules, even Lando, and he barely notices anything. But Yuki? Nothing. Not even a flicker. How do you miss someone literally spelling it out for you with neon lights?”
Oscar clears his throat. “I don’t think anyone here is using neon lights.”
You flick suds at him. “You know what I mean. He’s oblivious. Painfully oblivious. Like, should I start carrying around a banner? Hire a skywriter?”
Oscar fumbles with a glass, nearly dropping it, and you swoop in to take it before disaster. He looks grateful, then immediately regretful that this means you’re still glaring at him. “You could just tell him?” he offers, voice small, like he knows it’s the worst possible suggestion.
“Brilliant. Revolutionary. Why didn’t I think of that?”
He winces. “Right. Sorry.”
“I’m serious, though,” you sigh. “How do you even tell someone like him? He’s either going to laugh it off or think I’m joking. He never takes me seriously unless I’m yelling about oven temperatures.”
Oscar gives you a long, awkward blink, as if calculating whether it’s safer to keep quiet or offer more useless wisdom. “Maybe… yell about this, then?”
You throw your dish towel at his head. “You’re no help.”
He grins, half apologetic, half relieved you’re teasing again. “Didn’t think I would be.”
The dish pit is still warm with steam when you and Oscar finish the last stack of plates. Your hands smell faintly of lemon soap and regret, though mostly the soap. Oscar is drying the last tray of glasses with all the care of someone performing delicate surgery, which makes it an easy moment for him to look at you sidelong.
When you move to leave, tugging your apron off, Oscar catches you just before the door. His voice is casual, but it lands with a strange weight. “You know, you’re pretty oblivious yourself.”
You turn, brows pulling together. “Oblivious about what?”
He just shrugs, retreating back to stack the glasses. “Figure it out.”
The words scratch at the back of your mind all the way into the night, but they don’t get far. Because as soon as you’re free, your phone buzzes with a message from Yuki: Dinner? My treat.
Oscar’s warning evaporates like steam in the dish pit. You don’t hesitate. Sure.
Yuki is already waiting on the sidewalk when you show up, still in your work clothes and very aware that you smell faintly like fryer oil and espresso. You throw your arms out dramatically, as if you’re presenting evidence at a trial. “I didn’t even have time to freshen up,” you announce. “I’m a walking PSA for why service industry workers need hazard pay.”
Yuki just shrugs, easy grin sliding onto his face. “You always look pretty.”
That’s it. Like it’s nothing. Like he hasn’t just lobbed a grenade straight into your ribcage. You do the only logical thing and roll your eyes, pretending the heat in your cheeks is from the streetlights. “Pretty tragic, maybe,” you mutter, but Yuki’s already walking ahead, hands shoved in his pockets, like he’s perfectly pleased with himself.
The two of you gravitate toward one of the food trucks parked down the block, another one of those rituals you’ve fallen into without ever actually planning it. After nights at Venti Due, when the air inside feels too tight and the noise clings to your skin, you both need the antidote. Greasy paper plates, cheap plastic stools, food that drips down your fingers. It’s become its own tradition, like a sort of rebellion against the polished chaos you both live in during shifts.
You sit side by side on stools that wobble dangerously if you breathe too hard, elbows brushing as you dig into whatever fried concoction you’ve ordered this time. Yuki nudges his shoulder into yours as he chews, expression sly. “This is balance, right? Five-star kitchen by day, suspicious street meat by night.”
You point your fork at him. “Suspicious? Please,” you tease. “This is haute cuisine compared to the stuff I eat when you’re not around.”
He laughs, head tilting back, and the sound pulls something warm through your chest. The street hums around you—passing cars, the hiss of the grill inside the truck, the faint buzz of a neon sign overhead—but it all fades when Yuki looks at you again, still smiling like he knows something you don’t. Or maybe like he does, and he’s waiting for you to catch up.
Tonight, Yuki actually going front-of-house to greet guests himself. No clipped instructions to Jules, no waving you over. He’s personally out there, polite smile and all, which can only mean these guests are the kind of people that matter. You lean toward George, eyes following the scene like it’s prime-time television. “Alright, ten bucks says it’s a Michelin inspector.”
George smirks, polishing a wine glass he has no intention of using. “Fifteen says it’s his secret girlfriend,” he says, and you try to ignore the twang in your chest.
“Twenty says you’re both wrong,” Lando chimes, “and it’s just some old man who taught him how to cook noodles.”
Before George can counter, Yuki turns, spotting you. “Come here,” he calls, casual but with the edge of someone about to put you on the spot.
You shoot George a look that says pay up before heading over. When you get there, you freeze in your tracks. Pierre Gasly and Isack Hadjar. Head chef and sous chef of Alpha Tauri, one of those French bistros that food magazines worship like a minor deity. They’re sitting at one of Venti Due’s cramped tables like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“Uh,” you manage, because your brain is still buffering. “Hi.”
Yuki, apparently thrilled to be the cause of your speech malfunction, gestures between you. “These are my friends. Pierre, Isack. This is—well, this is who keeps this place from falling apart.”
“Flattering,” you exhale, before catching Pierre’s grin. He looks exactly like the kind of guy who would charm his way through both a dinner service and a black-tie gala. Isack, quieter, has the sharp eyes of someone cataloguing everything in the room.
“Ah, so you are the famous right hand,” Pierre says smoothly, his accent making it sound even more like a compliment.
“Famous for what, exactly?” you ask, because sarcasm is easier than admitting your ears are warm.
“Putting up with Yuki,” Isack deadpans, which earns an actual laugh from Yuki and nearly makes you choke.
Isack and Pierre don’t just order like regular customers. They order like men on a mission. No glancing at menus, no awkward pauses. Just a quick exchange in French—one you don’t need to understand to recognize as fluent culinary shorthand—before Pierre rattles off their requests.
It’s not the safe pasta route or a token pizza either. No, these two go straight for desserts, as if they came here with a purpose. Cannoli with a yuzu mascarpone filling. Matcha tiramisu layered with delicate ladyfingers soaked in sake instead of espresso. A chestnut mont blanc with candied ginger woven into its spiral. Even a semifreddo that borrows from kakigōri, shaved ice folded into the cream and studded with shards of caramelized sesame.
You jot it all down, already picturing the chaos this order is about to cause in the kitchen. Dessert-first people are a different breed. When you step back through the kitchen doors, you brace yourself. You pass the ticket along with the kind of caution reserved for live grenades. To your surprise, nobody panics. Lando perks up, muttering something about having wanted an excuse to torch meringue anyway. Alex groans, but you know he’ll secretly enjoy the challenge.
And Yuki. Yuki tries very hard not to look smug as he passes through the kitchen, glancing at the ticket and then at you. His face is the picture of composure, but you know him well enough to see it—the proud little tilt of his chin, the quick dart of his eyes toward you like he’s saying, See? They trust you. They trust us.
You ignore him, or at least you pretend to, focusing instead on plating. The tiramisu layers neatly. The cannoli shells crackle when you pipe in the filling. Each dish hits the pass like punctuation marks in a sentence you didn’t realize you were writing until now.
When you finally carry them out, Isack and Pierre are waiting, watching like hawks. They murmur their approval before forks even touch plates. For a moment, you let yourself enjoy it. Because maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to see why Yuki looks so proud.
After the sweetest hour of their life, the Frenchmen’s plates are cleared and their wine glasses sit half-full. Isack leans back with a satisfied sigh. “We want to compliment the pastry chef,” he declares, pronouncing it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
You glance at Yuki, half-expecting him to wave you off and take the credit himself, but he doesn’t. Instead, he flicks his eyes toward you with the faintest smile, almost as if to say, go on then. You do, your apron still dusted with sugar, sweat threading through the eggshell white of your jacket.
Isack greets you first, his grin boyish and enthusiastic. “Those desserts were brilliant. Clean, balanced, but playful. The panna cotta? It tasted magnifique.”
Pierre nods in agreement, sharper in his delivery but no less genuine. “You’ve got a strong hand. That miso tiramisu was clever without trying too hard. You should be proud.”
You mumble a thank you, cheeks hot, and when the tip comes it’s far too generous to brush off as a gesture of politeness. You try to slide it back discreetly, but Isack just waves you off, already standing to bid Yuki good night.
Pierre lingers a moment longer. He studies you the way chefs do when they’ve spotted talent they don’t want to miss. “Listen,” he says, lowering his voice. “My pastry chef left two weeks ago. I need someone sharp, inventive. Someone like you.”
You gape, caught off guard, but Pierre presses on. “I know you’re loyal to Yuki. But Alpha Tauri pays better, and I can open doors for you. Connections, stages in Paris, maybe more.” He slides a small card across the table, his name embossed, the number beneath it neat and exact. Pierre Gasly, Head Chef of Alpha Tauri. “Think about it.”
With a final nod, he tucks his hands into his coat pockets and heads off to join Isack. The card is still warm in your palm when you head back toward the kitchen, rehearsing excuses you’ll never have to use. Except Yuki’s waiting, leaned against the doorframe like he’s been there the whole time, eyes sharper than usual.
“What did Pierre want?” he asks casually, which is how you know he’s not being casual at all.
You blink too quickly. “Nothing. Just… you know. French people talk a lot.”
Yuki raises a brow. “Talk a lot, or flirt a lot?”
Your laugh comes out too high-pitched, too guilty, and you instantly want to sink into the nearest stockpot. “Don’t be ridiculous. He was just—” You wave a vague hand, failing to find a word less incriminating than ‘offering me a job.’
“So he did try to ask you out.”
The fact that he says it like a joke makes it worse. Your laugh doubles down, nervous and unconvincing. Yuki narrows his eyes, clearly clocking every octave of panic in your voice. He’s not a jealous type, not really, but he’s also not great at hiding it when it slips out. Right now, it’s all over him, disguised poorly as humor.
“Relax,” you say hastily, brushing past him with an overdone roll of your eyes. “No one’s asking me out, okay? You’re imagining things.”
Still, the weight of Pierre’s card in your apron pocket is impossible to ignore. Instead of tossing it in the trash like you should, you slide it deeper, tucking it away where Yuki can’t see.
You’ve known from the start that Pierre’s offer would always be a no.
Not because it isn’t tempting—better pay, prestige, connections most chefs would sell their knives for—but because you already decided your next step wouldn’t be working under someone else’s name. It would be your own place, your own kitchen. The thought is terrifying, but it’s yours. So Pierre’s generous card burns in your pocket, not with possibility, but with a strange sort of ache. The ache isn’t about Alpha Tauri at all. It’s about Venti Due, and how, no matter how many times you swear you’ll eventually move on, you can’t seem to imagine leaving it. Leaving Yuki. That’s the part you don’t say out loud.
You spiral instead, eyes glazed as you plate tiramisu for table six, your thoughts chewing themselves into knots. You barely hear George asking if you’ve gone deaf. You barely register Jules dropping an empty wine glass into the sink. It’s like everything’s muffled, until Yuki’s voice cuts through the fog. “You’re distracted.” He says it like an accusation, sharp enough to slice through your reverie. His brow furrows as he studies you, like you’ve been caught cheating on a test.
You manage a laugh, which comes off as shaky and thin. “Just tired. It’s fine.”
“It doesn’t look fine.” Yuki wipes his hands on a towel, stepping closer, his gaze stubbornly locked on you. He’s trying to read you, as if peeling back layers with his eyes alone.
You shrug, picking up another plate, anything to avoid the weight of his stare. “Really. Nothing’s wrong.”
He doesn’t buy it, not for a second. You can tell by the look on his face. The silence stretches, taut and uncomfortable, until he finally exhales and mutters, “If you say so.”
You keep your eyes on the desserts, but you feel him still there, hovering, unwilling to leave you to whatever storm you’ve walked into. It’s why the sting hits before you even realize what you’ve done. Your hand makes contact with the oven door, and the heat bites instantly. You curse loud enough to make the whole kitchen snap their heads toward you. Yuki is back at your side in seconds, rattling off a string of reprimands in Japanese and English like you’ve personally offended every kitchen safety rule in existence.
“You’re unbelievable,” he says, snatching your wrist up before you can cradle it against your chest. “How many times have I told you to—”
“I know, I know!” you cut him off, wincing as the burn throbs. “I was distracted, okay?”
“Distracted,” he repeats, unimpressed. “You could have lost your hand.”
“Pretty sure I still have it,” you say, trying for humor, though your voice shakes just enough to betray you. The corners of your eyes sting, and you bite down hard on the inside of your cheek.
Yuki catches it immediately. He’s quiet for a beat, just studying your face, before his shoulders drop in a heavy sigh. The lecture dies on his tongue. Without another word, he tugs you toward the back, past the prep stations, and swings open the heavy metal door of the walk-in freezer. The cold rush of air hits you like a wall, prickling your skin, but he’s already pulling you inside.
“Here,” he says simply, guiding your injured hand toward a shelf stacked with frozen containers. He presses the burn gently against the icy surface, holding it there with his own hand covering yours. The temperature bites, but it’s a welcome relief compared to the searing heat from minutes ago.
For a long moment, it’s just the two of you standing in the blue-white hum of the freezer, his fingers brushing against yours as he steadies your hand. His breath fogs in the chill, and you can feel his warmth even in the cold. “You scare me when you do stuff like this,” Yuki admits quietly, his usual sharpness dulled to something softer. You look up at him, ready with another joke to lighten the mood, but the way he’s watching you makes the words stick in your throat.
The freezer hums around you, cold air rolling over your skin as you press your burned hand against the icy metal shelf. Yuki’s brow is furrowed, and though he’s still muttering under his breath about how reckless you are, his eyes keep flicking to your face like he’s waiting for you to break again.
“Seriously, what’s going on with you?” he asks, softer this time. “You’ve been somewhere else all night.”
“Like I said, I’m just tired,” you say with a shake of your head.
“Liar.” He says it plainly, no bite, just fact. He crosses his arms, resting his weight against the shelf stacked with tubs of gelato. “You think I don’t notice when you’re lying? You think I don’t notice anything?”
Your silence only makes him sigh. His shoulders drop, and when he looks at you again, there’s something raw in his expression.
“Don’t go,” he says.
That catches you off guard. “What?”
“Don’t go,” he repeats, firmer now, though his voice trembles at the edges. “Don’t… don’t date Pierre. Don’t move to Alpha Tauri. Don’t leave Venti Due.”
The words stick in your throat. You want to remind him of the truth—that your dream has never been someone else’s kitchen, that it’s always been your own patisserie. That Pierre’s offer doesn’t matter because your loyalty was never up for sale. You open your mouth to say all of it.
But then Yuki takes a step closer. His hands hover like he doesn’t know what to do with them, like touching you will make everything collapse, but his voice breaks when he whispers, “Don’t leave me.”
That’s what undoes you. Because the way he says it, it isn’t about work, or restaurants, or loyalty. It’s about him. About the late nights and food trucks and the way he always looks for you in a crowded kitchen. About every joke and fight and moment that’s been stacking up between you like bricks to a house you didn’t realize you were building.
Before you can get a word out, his resolve cracks completely. Yuki leans in, quick and desperate, and his mouth finds yours in the cold of the freezer, his kiss tasting like salt and nerves. You don’t immediately reciprocate, your brain blanking at the feel of finally getting what you’ve always wanted.
Yuki pulls back just slightly, his forehead brushing yours. His breath ghosts against your lips, uneven, and his eyes flick down to your mouth like he’s caught himself in some kind of crime. For once, he looks nervous—almost shy, like he’s already regretting how impulsive he was. The great Yuki Tsunoda, who can breeze through a dinner service without breaking a sweat, suddenly looks like he might crumble under the weight of his own feelings.
Before he can take it back, before he can wrap his walls back up around himself, you lean in, kissing him harder, catching him before he even thinks of retreat.
He makes a startled sound in the back of his throat, a half-surprised, half-helpless noise, and then he’s melting into you, his shoulders dropping like he’s been holding tension for years. His hands hover awkwardly before finally finding their way to your waist, fingertips pressing lightly as if afraid you might vanish if he holds on too tightly. The kiss stretches, breaks for a breath, then finds its rhythm again.
In between breaths, in between the brush of his lips over yours, he murmurs, voice ragged and unguarded, “I’ve wanted to do this for so long.” The honesty in it hits you harder than the kiss itself.
You laugh against his mouth, playful even as your pulse threatens to sprint out of your chest. “Then you’d better make up for lost time.” Your words spark something in him, teasing a spark into flame.
It’s like lighting a fuse. He kisses you again, firmer this time, urgency curling at the edges, no hesitation left. There’s a shift—something determined, something fierce—like he’s trying to prove he means every word, every unspoken thought he’s ever swallowed around you. His thumb strokes the side of your waist, almost absent, almost reverent, and he leans into you as if he’s finally decided this is real, and he’s not about to waste another second.
The cold air of the freezer doesn’t stand a chance against the heat rising between you. The clink of metal shelves and trill of the fan fade into background noise, unimportant, irrelevant. All you can feel is him, close enough that the world seems narrowed to this exact point in space, this kiss, this gravity. For the first time all night, you’re not thinking about burns, or job offers, or all the ways you keep talking yourself into staying at Venti Due.
Right now, there’s only him, and the terrifying, thrilling realization that everything is about to change.
It’s Monday morning, and the first thing you register is that this isn’t your ceiling. You blink at the unfamiliar cracks, the faint water stain that kind of resembles a turtle, and the sudden realization hits: you’re not at your place. You’re at Yuki’s.
The second thing you register is the solid weight beside you, the rise and fall of his breathing. He’s still asleep, hair mussed, lips parted in the kind of slack, unguarded way that makes you grin like an idiot. The third thing—your feet are freezing, and you know exactly what to do about that. You wiggle closer under the covers and press your icy toes against his shins. Predictably, he jolts, groaning like you’ve just personally betrayed him.
“Why are you like this?” His voice is rough with sleep, muffled into the pillow.
“Because it’s effective,” you reply, unapologetic as you burrow into his warmth. “Human hot water bottle. Don’t complain.”
He cracks one eye open, glaring in the most halfhearted way possible. “You’re evil.”
“And you’re still letting me stay here,” you counter, tracing lazy circles on his chest as if that proves your point. “So, really, who’s the idiot?”
For a second, it seems like he’ll just roll over and go back to sleep. Instead, Yuki shifts, catching you completely off guard as he flips you onto your back with a speed that makes you squeal and laugh all at once.
“Wait—” you start, but he’s already grinning, playful as ever in the low morning light. “You asked for this,” he says simply, and then he disappears beneath the covers.
Your laughter pitches higher, mixing with a breathless kind of disbelief as you grab at the sheets, your toes curling now for a very different reason.
The smell of coffee fills the kitchen before you’ve even pulled yourself together enough to stand. Yuki’s already moving around, grinding beans, flicking the switch, pouring milk. He doesn’t ask how you take yours; he just sets the cup down in front of you the way you like it, like he’s been keeping track all along. You try not to look too pleased about it, but he catches the gleam in your eye anyway.
“Don’t,” he warns, though it’s half-asleep and half-affectionate, the kind of voice that tells you he’s already lost whatever argument you’re about to start.
You sip the coffee, burn your tongue a little, and grin through it. “I should probably swing by my place, grab clothes, you know,” you say instead of teasing him. “Just to avoid looking like a scandal walking into work.”
His frown is subtle but obvious. “Why? You can just wear what you have.”
“Right, because showing up in the same outfit as last night isn’t suspicious at all.” You tap his cup with yours like you’re toasting him for being so ridiculous. “Let me grab something fresh, then I’ll come back. It’s a quick pitstop.”
He sighs like you’ve just told him you’re moving continents. “You can only be ten minutes late. No more than that.”
You lean over and kiss his cheek, lingering just long enough to watch the tips of his ears turn red. “I’ll take that as girlfriend privilege,” you half-joke.
The word hangs in the air, light and heavy all at once. You don’t miss the way his eyes dart to yours, startled before settling into something softer. He tries to hide it by taking a very long sip of his coffee, but you see it. The flush that spreads up his neck, the smile he can’t quite hide.
It might be your new favorite way to start a Monday.
The moment you step into Venti Due, the weight of the kitchen settles on your shoulders the same way it always has. The gleam of pans, the rush of prep, the scent of yeast and sugar all return you to familiar ground. Professional. Focused. The kind of atmosphere where there’s no room for slip-ups, especially not the kind that involves stolen kisses and warm glances across stainless steel counters.
You and Yuki made the unspoken agreement clear last night, punctuated with a nod and the brush of his knuckles against yours before he unlocked his front door. Don’t tell the others yet. Don’t make this into a thing. Keep it quiet.
When you pass him in the kitchen this morning, it’s nothing more than a muttered “Morning” and an acknowledging tilt of his chin. He’s every inch the head chef, doling out orders with clipped precision, demanding sauces be reduced faster, knives sharper, plating tighter. You’re every inch his pastry chef, shoulders squared as you pipe cream with steady hands, pretending your chest isn’t buzzing with the memory of his mouth on yours.
There are the moments in between. The way he adjusts the oven timer behind you when he doesn’t need to, close enough that his hip briefly presses against yours. The way your hand lingers an extra second when you pass him a spoon for tasting. The barely-there smile that flickers across his face before he turns to yell at someone else. No one notices, or maybe they do and they’re too busy to care.
And then there’s the freezer.
You both slip in under the guise of checking stock, of making sure the deliveries match the invoices. Inside, it’s a hush of chilly air and dim light, the hum of machinery wrapping around you like a secret. He presses his forehead to yours, hands skimming your waist.
“Don’t care,” he breathes, lips cold from the air as he kisses you deeply.
By the time you both step back out, it’s like nothing happened. The thread of something softer pulls under every clipped instruction, every quiet acknowledgment. Professional. Focused. But different now. Different in a way you can’t hide from yourself, even if you can from everyone else.
The market looks exactly the same as every Saturday. Stalls lined with crates of tomatoes that still smell of vines, herbs piled high in baskets, the air thick with the mingling scent of bread, flowers, and espresso. But you notice how different it feels with Yuki’s hand looped through yours. It’s casual, almost lazy, the way his thumb rubs the back of your hand as if he’s not even aware he’s doing it. Spoiler: he’s definitely aware.
You pause at the usual olive oil stand, and the vendor offers up tiny wooden spoons dipped in golden green. You lift yours to your lips, and Yuki leans in behind you, bracing his chin against your shoulder so he can taste off the same spoon. “You’re just stealing my sample,” you protest, laughing.
“It tastes better when it’s yours,” he says, lips brushing too close to your skin for you to take it as anything but intentional.
At the cheese stand, he hovers closer than usual, one hand resting at the small of your back as if someone’s about to bump into you every other second. When you roll your eyes at his overprotectiveness, he murmurs, “Crowded. Don’t want to lose you.”
The sourdough stall is the last stop. The vendor, who’s been watching you two banter for years, smiles knowingly. “Finally together, huh? Took you long enough.” Before you can respond, she pushes two warm loaves toward you. “On the house. Congratulations.”
Yuki flushes bright red and mumbles something under his breath in Japanese you can’t quite catch. You thank her quickly, clutching the loaves to your chest, and turn to him with a grin. “Guess it’s obvious.”
He groans, trying to hide his face behind the bread bag. “We should have told her ourselves.”
“Too late. We’ve been exposed.” You lean closer, bumping your shoulder against his. “At least we get free carbs out of it.”
That makes him laugh, finally looking back at you. The sound is delicate, unguarded, and it carries in the crisp morning air. He squeezes your hand, voice quiet but certain. “Worth it.”
You’re mid–bite of a pastry sample when Yuki makes some comment that has you laughing too loud, the kind of sound that makes a few heads turn. He squeezes your hand, and you’re about to shove another piece of croissant in his mouth when you freeze. Because there, weaving between stalls with all the casual energy in the world, are Jules and Oscar.
Panic hits you faster than the sugar rush. You tug Yuki’s sleeve. “Hide.”
“What?”
“Hide!” you hiss, already dragging him behind a stack of crates filled with apples. He nearly trips over your feet but follows, and the two of you crouch down like fugitives in the middle of a farmers’ market.
Yuki whispers, “We look insane.”
“You’d rather they see us holding hands?” You peek through the gaps between crates, spying the two servers.
Jules is animated, talking with her hands, while Oscar listens, amused. You lean closer to Yuki, lowering your voice. “I thought Jules was with Lando.”
Yuki frowns, squinting at them. “Really? I didn’t notice.”
You glance at him, incredulous. “How do you not notice? We literally work with these people every day.”
He shrugs, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I only ever pay attention to your personal life.”
That knocks the air right out of your chest. The worst part? He says it so casually, like it’s not the most devastating thing anyone’s ever whispered to you while hiding behind apples. Heat crawls up your neck and you smack his back lightly, trying to cover it up with indignation. “You can’t just say stuff like that.”
“Why not? It’s true.” He’s smiling, and you’re doomed.
You straighten up, grabbing his wrist and tugging. Thankfully, Oscar and Jules are already off in some far end of the market. “That’s it,” you declare. “We’re going back to your place.”
“Now?” He tries to sound surprised, but the spark in his eyes gives him away.
“Yes, now.” You lace your fingers with his again, quickening your pace as you begin to haul him away from the market. “Before I combust from secondhand sweetness.”
“Pretty sure that’s firsthand sweetness,” Yuki teases, but he doesn’t let go.
By the time you get back to Yuki’s apartment, you’re already on him like you’ve been starved for weeks instead of just hours. Buttons, zippers, the trail of your jacket. It all blurs. You can’t remember who stumbles first against the wall, only that you’re laughing into his mouth while trying not to trip over your own shoes. By the time you reach the couch, you’re both half-breathless and entirely lost to it.
Later, once the world slows down, you’re stretched out on that same couch, cheek pressed into the curve of a pillow. Your body is still buzzing with the kind of lazy satisfaction that makes the ceiling look prettier than usual. Yuki lies below you, close enough that your fingers brush his when you move.
Of course, it’s not new—the wanting him part. You’ve always wanted him. You remember culinary school, how your heart raced when he’d glance over your shoulder to critique your knife cuts, his voice gruff and teasing like he had a personal grudge against julienning carrots. You remember thinking you’d put up with a thousand more lectures just to feel his breath on your neck again. So maybe it isn’t such a mystery why you agreed to Venti Due in the first place. Professional growth, sure, but also the chance to be near him. Maybe you’re only admitting that to yourself now, in the afterglow, when your guard’s too low to bother with excuses.
You tilt your head toward him, breaking the silence with the most important question you can think of. “What’s for dinner?”
He hums like he hasn’t thought about it, though his lips twitch like he’s already amused by your impatience. “Probably just takeout.”
You glare at him, mock-offended. “After all this effort I put in today, that’s the best you can offer me? Takeout?”
Yuki smiles widely, turning toward you with the kind of look that makes your stomach flip all over again. “I’m trying to save my energy for something else.”
Before you can fire back with another quip, he shifts, rolling smoothly on top of you. The weight of him pins you down, and suddenly it’s hard to remember what you’d even asked in the first place.
Business has been busier than usual, and you know exactly why. You’ve been experimenting more, letting yourself be bolder with flavors, textures, and presentations. The display case looks like a technicolor dream: glossy tarts crowned with jewel-bright slices of candied citrus, delicate choux puffs dusted with pistachio crumble, and a mousse cake layered so neatly it looks like it belongs in a glossy food magazine. Customers linger, phones out, photos taken before the first bite, and you can’t deny the thrill that rushes through you every time someone swoons over something you made.
Alex notices too. Of course he does. He watches as another pair of customers leave, practically glowing with satisfaction. “I’ll admit it,” he says, his mouth curved into a knowing grin. “Your desserts have been next-level lately. Whatever you’ve been doing, it’s working.”
You feign innocence, shrugging as you wipe down the counter. “What, am I not allowed to have creative bursts every once in a while?”
Alex narrows his eyes, still smiling. “Sure, sure. But usually those bursts don’t line up with you glowing all week,” he jabs. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
You roll your eyes, but Yuki, standing beside you, is visibly stiffer than usual. He clears his throat, a little too quickly. “She’s just working harder. Nothing weird about that.”
“Right,” Alex drawls, amusement dripping from every syllable. “Totally normal. Just suddenly decided to reinvent the pastry case out of nowhere. No possible explanation besides ‘working harder.’”
You and Yuki exchange a quick glance—yours amused, his panicked—and you can’t help but cover a laugh with your hand. “Maybe inspiration struck,” you say, aiming for breezy.
“Uh-huh,” Alex says, clearly unconvinced but entertained. He points between the two of you as he turns to leave. “Whatever it is, keep it up. But don’t think for a second I’m not onto something.”
Yuki mutters under his breath once Alex is gone, “He’s too nosy.”
You grin, nudging him with your elbow. “Relax. Deny, deny, deny. It’s practically foolproof.”
Yuki shoots you a look that’s half irritation, half affection, and you can’t resist leaning close enough to add, “Besides, if Alex thinks my pastry game is suspiciously good, wait until he tries what I’ve been practicing at your place.”
A couple of days and a dozen more pastries later, the bell over the door jingles and you glance up, already halfway into your automatic “Welcome to Venti Due” when you freeze. Standing in the doorway is Doriane. You know her instantly. The same bright smile, the same blonde hair. Culinary school feels both like yesterday and a lifetime ago, but here she is, bustling toward you as if no time has passed at all.
“Are you kidding me?!” she squeals, throwing her arms around you. You laugh, startled, returning the hug. The sound of her voice alone drags you back to late nights in the pastry kitchen, sharing half-burnt éclairs and bad coffee while cramming for exams.
You pull back, a little breathless. “Dori. What the hell are you doing here?”
She beams. “Scouting. My bakery just hit one year. Can you believe it? One year, and we’re still standing.” She launches into chatter, telling you about her staff, her favorite customers, the early mornings that nearly killed her and the croissants that made it all worth it.
You smile, you nod, you laugh where appropriate. You mean it—you are happy for her. You are. But somewhere under your ribs something twists, sharp and unexpected, like a knife you didn’t realize you’d been carrying. You keep your hands busy twirling your kitchen towel, because if you don’t, you’ll have to look at her and admit to the ache in your chest.
She doesn’t notice, or maybe she does and ignores it. Either way, she hugs you again before she leaves, clutching your arm like she used to. “I’m so glad you’re still you,” she says warmly, then tilts her head. “Though, honestly, I’m surprised you’re still here. I always thought you’d have your own place by now.”
Her words land heavier than they should, sticking to your skin long after she’s gone. You stand there, smile fading slow in the sterile kitchen you’ve overstayed in. For the first time in a long time, you wonder if you’ve been hiding behind the safety of Venti Due, behind the steady hum of it—and maybe even behind Yuki—longer than you realized.
You don’t notice the dip in your mood right away, but Yuki does. He’s running through the day’s feedback, voice steady and precise as always, while you’re staring off at a smudge on the stainless-steel counter like it holds the secrets of the universe. Normally, you’d be volleying back with sarcastic commentary or reminding him he sounds like an overzealous Hell’s Kitchen knockoff. Today, though, your mind is somewhere else, and Yuki’s sharp enough to take note of it.
He doesn’t call you out in front of everyone. He’s too careful for that, too considerate. But when the night winds down, the last tables cleared, and you’re elbow-deep in soapy water, he finally makes his move. You don’t hear him until his arms are wrapping around your waist from behind, his chin settling against your shoulder like it’s been waiting there all day.
“You’re quiet,” he whispers, not an accusation but an observation. The kind that makes your chest feel tight. “What’s wrong?”
You force a small laugh, too brittle to pass as genuine but hopefully enough to slip by. “I think I’m coming down with something,” you fib, eyes still fixed on the plates in front of you.
He hums, the kind of sound that tells you he doesn’t believe you, but he’s not going to push. Instead, he presses a kiss to your bare shoulder, warm and unhurried, a promise tucked into the gesture. “I’ll make you soup.”
The words melt something in you and shatter something else all at once. You nod, letting him believe it, letting him take care of you in the way he knows how. All the while, your heart sinks under the weight of the lie you’ve chosen. The one you’re telling the man you love.
“I want to talk to you about something.”
That’s how Yuki starts, right after you’ve both trudged up the stairs to his apartment. Dinner dishes from your late shift still linger faintly in your clothes, and you brace yourself, heart thudding like he’s about to confirm every fear you’ve been carrying. This is it, you think. He’s caught on. He knows you’ve been off for the past few weeks. Maybe he’s about to call you out for lying, for being distant.
Except then he kicks off his shoes, shrugs out of his jacket, and says it all-too plainly, “I’ve been thinking about expanding Venti Due.”
Your brain short-circuits. “Expanding?”
He nods, totally serious, as if he didn’t just blindside you with a bomb. “Yeah. I’ve been eyeing a property not far from here,” he informs you. “Smaller, more intimate. Different vibe, but still under the name.”
You’re still standing there with your arms crossed, waiting for the trick, waiting for the moment he circles back to the thing that’s been gnawing at you all this time. He doesn’t. He just moves around the apartment like he’s casually announcing he bought a new blender.
“Yuki.” You narrow your eyes. “You can’t just drop the word ‘expansion’ like it’s no big deal. That’s—”
“A big deal,” he finishes for you, smiling faintly. “I know. That’s why I wanted to talk to you first.”
“Me?”
“Of course you.” He says it so easily, so matter-of-fact, it throws you off balance. Then he meets your gaze squarely, no hesitation this time. “Because I want you to be the head chef of the branch.”
You blink at him. Head chef. At a branch of Venti Due. The words taste surreal. “Yuki, I can’t,” you say quickly, as though cutting him off before the idea can breathe.
His brows crease. “Can’t? What do you mean you can’t? You can.”
“No, really—”
“Yes, really.” He walks back to you, already in full persuasive mode, like you’ve thrown down a gauntlet he refuses to leave on the ground. “You’re brilliant. Your desserts bring people through the door. Half the reason Venti Due has a line every Saturday is because of you. Don’t even start pretending otherwise.”
You laugh, though it comes out sharper than you intend. “Flattery noted, but this isn’t about that.”
He gestures with his hands in that animated way he does when he’s mid-rant. “You think I don’t see it? The way you’re always experimenting, always pushing,” he presses. “You’d make a perfect head chef. You’ve been ready for it for a while now.”
You match his steps across the living room. “You’re not listening,” you plead. “It’s not that I don’t think I’m good enough.”
“Then what is it?” He stops pacing and turns to you, frustrated but still trying to soften it with that boyish insistence, with that love for you that you don’t quite feel deserving of at this very moment. “Because from where I stand, the only thing holding you back is you.”
The words sting more than they should, and you feel the knot that’s been lodged in your chest all day finally snap. “What’s holding me back is that this isn’t my dream!” The volume surprises both of you. You’re breathing harder, anger and something raw bleeding through your voice as you go on, “I didn’t bust my ass in culinary school so I could run someone else’s restaurant. I always meant to open my own bakery. Mine, Yuki. Not yours. Not Venti Due. Mine. You’ve known this from the very start.”
You don’t even mean to blurt it out. The words just slip out: “I’ve had the money for over a year.”
Yuki freezes. His head snaps toward you, disbelief flickering across his face. “Over a year?”
“Savings. Investors. The whole thing’s been ready. I could’ve signed a lease last spring if I wanted.”
The air shifts. Yuki’s quiet, too quiet, and when he finally speaks his voice is low, careful, like he’s afraid of stepping on glass. “Then why haven’t you?”
You swallow, throat tight. The truth pulses at the edge of your tongue, desperate and obvious: because of you. Because you’re here, because every morning at Venti Due means seeing him, because the thought of leaving feels like ripping out a piece of yourself. But you don’t say any of that. You can’t. So instead you shrug, trying to pass it off like it’s nothing. “Timing wasn’t right. That’s all.”
Yuki studies you, eyes narrowing, and you can tell he doesn’t buy it. He knows you too well. His lips press into a thin line, and then, almost hesitantly, he admits, “I thought… maybe you’d changed your mind.”
Your chin lifts at that. “Changed my mind?”
His gaze flicks away, somewhere toward the window where the city hums indifferent outside. “About the bakery. About leaving Venti Due. Especially now.” His voice dips softer, a strange mix of vulnerable and tentative, as if he’s not sure he’s allowed to want what he’s hinting at. “Now that we’re… us.”
Because you’re dating. Because you’re together. He’d thought his dreams were suddenly—what? Weightier than yours? Worth bucking for? You reach for your bag without really thinking about it, the weight of Yuki’s words still pressing against your chest. It feels like white-hot humiliation, threading itself with frustration that refuses to dissolve. His apartment, usually warm and safe, suddenly feels stifling, every wall closing in on you.
“Where are you going?” Yuki’s voice is quick, alarmed. You hear the shift of his footsteps, him crossing the room toward you, and you don’t even have to look up to know the crease between his brows has deepened.
“Home,” you say, short, clipped. The bag strap slides over your shoulder, a shield you cling to. You’re not even sure if you mean your apartment or just somewhere that isn’t here.
His hand reaches for your wrist, the way it always does when he wants to tether you to him, but this time you twist free. Your heart stutters at the shock on his face. He wasn’t expecting that. Neither were you.
“Wait,” he tries again, gentler now. “Don’t do this. Don’t just walk out.”
You shake your head. “I’m not doing anything dramatic, Yuki. I just need air.”
“Air here,” he insists, stepping closer, his tone walking that line between pleading and commanding. “Stay. We can—”
But you take a step back, clutching your bag strap tighter, almost like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. “Not right now.” Your voice comes out almost a whisper, but it cuts anyway. His mouth closes on whatever he was about to say.
The silence that follows is thick, the kind that tastes of all the words unsaid. You manage to leave without looking back, even though every part of you wants to.
Venti Due sings with its usual rhythm: pans clinking, knives against boards, the soft hiss of burners catching. You’re in sync with Yuki the way you always are. Plates move from your station to his without a word, garnishes land with exact precision, sauces are poured with timing that borders on instinct. From the outside, it looks flawless.
Inside, though, it’s different. There’s a tightness under your ribs every time his hand brushes too close, a silence that stretches too long when your eyes meet. It isn’t explosive or obvious, but it lingers like smoke, curling in the corners of the kitchen. The others pick up on it.
Jules keeps glancing between the two of you, eyebrows furrowing like she’s trying to do the math. Alex lingers longer at the pass, waiting for a joke or some playful jab that never comes. Even Oscar, who usually minds his own business, looks like he’s about to ask something and then thinks better of it.
It’s Lando who finally cracks. He drapes himself across the counter during a lull, smirking like he’s caught you in something. “What, did you two have a lovers’ quarrel? Or is this just some weird chef telepathy thing I’m not getting?”
Normally, you’d quip back. Yuki would roll his eyes and toss a towel at him. Something light, something that breaks the tension and lets everyone laugh. But not today. You keep plating, hand steady as you drizzle a sauce. Yuki doesn’t even look up from his pan. The silence that follows Lando’s joke is louder than the busiest dinner rush.
Lando’s grin falters. “Right. Cool. Totally normal vibes here.” He clears his throat and slips away, leaving the kitchen to its strange quiet again.
You and Yuki move on, the machine still running, but the heart of it misfiring. Perfect tandem, imperfect everything else. The end of shift debrief runs like clockwork, but without the usual noise of teasing interruptions or side comments. Everyone stands gathered near the pass, waiting through Yuki’s rundown. His tone is even and precise—too precise, the kind of politeness that feels like it’s been scrubbed down with bleach.
“Alex, your timing on the mains was sharp today,” Yuki says. “Keep that consistency.” Alex nods, offering a faint grin that doesn’t quite last before glancing at you, as if to gauge whether you’ll soften the mood with a sarcastic remark. You don’t.
“Lando,” Yuki continues, “good initiative with plating, but watch your portioning. Two grams might not sound like much, but it matters.” Normally, this would be where Lando fires back with a smart remark. Instead, he just mutters, “Got it,” subdued, like the tension is pressing down on him too.
“George, solid work on prep. You were efficient and organized. Keep that up.” George straightens like he’s back in school receiving a gold star, though his eyes flick curiously between you and Yuki, clocking the distance in your voices.
“Oscar,” Yuki says next, “good rhythm with service. Quicker reaction times today.” Oscar nods once, his usual grin absent, like he knows better than to test the air tonight.
Then Yuki looks at Jules. “Jules, strong on salads and support. I noticed you handled the backup on sauces without being asked. Good work.”
Jules, normally bright and easy with her thanks, only gives a polite nod, her smile faltering at the edges when she glances between the two of you. Everyone is too aware of the cracks in the kitchen’s unspoken choreography.
Finally, Yuki closes the clipboard, his voice steady as he says, “That’s all. Good shift, everyone. See you tomorrow.”
No jokes, no lingering chatter. The crew disperses quickly, leaving the silence behind like a dirty pan nobody wants to scrub. The kitchen feels too clean, too quiet. You’re drying your hands on a towel when Yuki clears his throat like he’s announcing himself.
“So,” he says, leaning against the counter like nothing’s wrong, like the air between you isn’t thin enough to snap. “Good service tonight. Your chocolate tart sold out. Again.”
You nod, polite as a stranger. “Yeah. People like chocolate.”
There’s supposed to be a grin, a nudge, a quick-fire joke to bounce back. Instead, his smile dies before it even arrives. He shifts his weight, trying again. “George didn’t burn the sauce today. That’s progress.”
“Miracles happen,” you answer, and it comes out flat.
It feels like watching someone dance with two left feet. Yuki doesn’t give up, but every line he throws lands awkwardly, catching in the silence. The rhythm you always had—the banter, the shared eye rolls—has abandoned you both. Finally, he exhales through his nose, tired. “Do you want to get dinner? There’s that new ramen place down the street. Or anywhere, really. My treat.”
The offer dangles in the air, heavy with hope you can’t touch. You tuck the towel over the sink and shake your head. “Not tonight,” you say simply.
Something flickers in his eyes, but he swallows it down. “Right,” he says, pushing away from the counter. He doesn’t press, doesn’t try to argue. “Get home safe.”
You nod, grab your bag, and head for the door. For the first time in a long time, you leave the restaurant before him. When you glance back once, he’s still standing there, hands braced on the counter, like if he stays behind long enough, the kitchen might tell him where he went wrong.
The awkwardness stretches on for a week. Seven whole days of polite hell, where you and Yuki still move around each other in the kitchen, but the heat is gone. It’s all surface-level courtesy, no lingering glances, no teasing brushes of hands at the prep table. You can feel the staff notice it too. Every sidelong glance, every muted conversation that dies when you enter the room. The silence between you and him is louder than the sizzle of pans.
So when Yuki asks to see you after a shift, your stomach twists into knots. He calls it a ‘meeting,’ the word dropping like a blade between the two of you. You scrub your hands clean at the sink, buying time, bracing yourself for what feels inevitable.
The dining area is empty by the time you join him. The low hum of the refrigerators and the soft clink of cutlery being reset by Jules are the only sounds filling the room. Yuki is sitting at one of the tables, posture perfect, face unreadable. It’s the kind of stillness that makes you want to squirm.
You take the seat across from him, pretending you don’t notice how your pulse has picked up speed. “So,” you say. “Is this where you break up with me in a public setting? Very professional.”
He doesn’t smile. Not even a little moment with a corner of his mouth. His hands are folded on the table, knuckles white from how tightly he’s holding them together. The silence stretches, the air so heavy it feels like it’s pressing down on your chest. You swallow hard, waiting for him to just spit it out already, to confirm the thing you’ve been dreading all week.
Finally, he exhales, slow and deliberate. His eyes lift to meet yours, dark and serious.
“You’re being terminated.”
A beat. He doesn’t laugh. He’s not joking.
“I’m sorry,” you breathe, “but have you lost your fucking mind?”
That’s the first thing out of your mouth, sharp and incredulous, the words ricocheting off the walls like you’ve just lobbed a pan across the kitchen. Your hands are moving as if they have a life of their own, slicing the air, pointing at him, at the table between you, at anything that isn’t his maddeningly calm face. “Completely gone. Checked out. Cooked through. You’ve officially lost it.”
Yuki doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even try to interrupt at first, letting you get halfway through your tirade about betrayal, about how you’ve slaved in this restaurant, about how you’ve been nothing but loyal. How he’s being unfair, bringing your relationship problems into your employment. His silence only fuels you further, until your voice is tripping over itself, sarcasm and hurt bleeding into every syllable.
Finally, he cuts in. “It’s not your skills,” he says firmly, voice slicing clean through your spiral. “This is about retrenchment. The business is cutting costs.”
You freeze, mid-sputter, blinking at him like he’s just spoken in another language. “Cutting costs,” you repeat, pained. “So, I’m… what, garnish? Disposable parsley?”
He exhales slowly, not rising to your barbs, which only makes them sting sharper when they bounce uselessly off him. “There’s separation pay. I’ve already worked out the numbers. You’ll have enough to—”
That’s when it clicks. The cool tone, the carefully chosen words, the way he’s framing it not as a failure but as some kind of opportunity. You hear the subtext so loudly it drowns out everything else. He isn’t firing you because the restaurant is sinking. He’s firing you because he wants you gone.
“You’re trying to get me to leave.” Your voice is almost stunned, but it settles heavier than any of your earlier shouting. “This isn’t retrenchment. This is you pushing me out.”
Yuki meets your gaze, steady, unreadable. You feel the bottom of your chest drop, because you can’t tell if he’s doing this out of love—or out of fear. In the softest voice, he says, “You know that stupid saying… if you love someone, you have to let them go?”
“Wow,” you say slowly, “quoting fridge magnets now? Should I be worried?”
Yuki’s cheeks go pink and his hands start to fidget with each other, unraveling the neat knot he’d tied them into. “I—I didn’t mean… I mean, we haven’t… I know we haven’t said that. Love. I just thought—God, I didn’t mean to assume. I’m not assuming. Forget I said it. Pretend I didn’t say it.” His words spill in a frantic rush now, each one tripping over the next. “I’m not trying to pressure you. I just—”
“Yuki.”
“I just realized I was so stupid, asking you to head the new Venti Due branch when I’ve always known—”
“Yuki.”
“—and I don’t want you to think I hate you or anything, because I don’t, and—”
You’re already climbing across the narrow space of the table before he can finish, balancing on one hand as you reach him. His eyes widen, panic stopping mid-sentence as your mouth presses against his. The table rattles under your knee, a fork clattering to the floor, but you don’t care. He tastes like the peppermint tea he’d been nursing, warm and grounding, and the way his breath catches against you nearly undoes you.
The moment you break for air, his arms are around you, hauling you into his lap. He mumbles against your mouth between kisses, his voice shaky but sure: “Missed you. Missed you so much.”
You don’t feel the pit in your chest, just the weight of him holding you close, as if letting you go had never been an option. You don’t know how long you two are making out—just that you’re still in his lap, his mouth still pressed against yours—when you finally manage to crack a joke against his lips. “What are the ethics here?” you tease. “Making out with my boss. At my place of work. Pretty sure this is an HR violation.”
Yuki’s laugh rumbles low in his chest, and he bites at your lower lip like he’s trying to underline his point. “I won’t be your boss much longer,” he says before kissing you again. His hand has inched up, hovering just above the hem of your shirt, his fingers spreading over the strip of skin there.
You’re caught between wanting to tease him for how cocky that sounded and wanting to let him prove it when the door swings open. “Oh my God!” George’s shriek bounces off the walls, higher than any soprano’s note could dream of reaching.
You both freeze. Yuki’s hand is suspended mid-climb, your lips still parted against his. Slowly, painfully slowly, you and Yuki turn toward the doorway. George is standing there, wide-eyed, like he’s just stumbled into some cursed ancient ruin. “I did not need to see that,” he screeches, his voice pitching higher as he slaps his hands over his eyes. “Ever. Ever!”
You stifle a laugh that bubbles up, half mortification and half delight at how utterly horrified he looks. Yuki, though, is the picture of calm. His arm still securely around your waist, his voice maddeningly casual. “George,” he says, like you’ve been caught discussing inventory instead of each other’s tonsils. “Knock next time.”
George lets out another noise—something between a whine and a yell—before stumbling backward, muttering curses under his breath about bleach for his eyes. The second the door clicks shut again, you collapse against Yuki’s shoulder, laughter spilling out of you in gasps. He grins into your hair, hand finally resting warm against your side.
“Well,” you giggle, still catching your breath. “Guess we’re really terrible at keeping secrets.”
“Mm,” Yuki hums, “I couldn’t keep you a secret if I tried.”
Monday morning pulls you out of bed with more force than your alarm ever could. There’s something about knowing the day won’t end with fluorescent lights and order tickets that makes you stand a little straighter as you dress. By the time you step onto the street, coffee in hand, you already feel the hum of something new, something yours, coursing under your skin.
The storefront waits for you downtown, sunlight spilling across its big windows like a spotlight. The glass gleams, showing off the polished counters and the corner you’ve already claimed. The one perfect for cakes designed to stop people in their tracks. You picture passersby pausing, drawn in by sugar and butter made art, their feet carrying them in almost against their will.
When you push the door open, the smell of yeast and vanilla has already settled in, warm and rich. Chloe is at one counter, already elbow-deep in dough. She glances up at you, grinning with that edge she always has. “Took you long enough,” she sings. “We were about to start without you.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” you shoot back, slipping into your apron with practiced ease.
Across the room, Rafaela raises a brow, steady hands piping buttercream rosettes onto cupcakes lined up in perfect rows. She’s the picture of efficiency, her voice dry but not cold. “Don’t tempt me. Chloe was one second away from eating the leftover pastry cream straight from the bowl.”
“That was quality control,” Chloe protests.
You laugh, and just like that, the morning begins. Easy, familiar, and bright. It feels like the world has rearranged itself around you, and for once, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
Mere minutes after you’ve flipped your sign to Open, the bell above the bakery door rings, crisp and cheerful. You don’t even have to look up to know who it is. Jules always comes in first—like clockwork, like the sun, like the personification of caffeine itself in her oversized sunglasses and slightly chaotic hair. You’re already bagging a pastry before she even says hello.
“Morning,” she yawns. “Tell me you’ve got a raspberry croissant today.”
You glance at her over the pastry bags, lips twitching. “Raspberry croissant? So it was Oscar last night.”
Her sunglasses tip down just enough for you to see her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t deny it. Instead, she puts a hand to her chest with mock dramatics. “I feel so seen. Next you’ll be reading my aura.”
You shrug, sliding the croissant into her bag. “I don’t need your aura. You give yourself away with your pastry order,” you point out. “Chocolate twist? Lando. Raspberry? Oscar. Plain croissant? Alone, tragically.”
“Tragically,” she repeats, sniffing like a Victorian widow, then peeks into the bag like she wasn’t sure you’d actually give her what she asked for. “God, I miss you at Venti Due. That kitchen’s a disaster without you. Yuki pretends he’s fine, but we all know the truth. You abandoned us.”
“Funny, I don’t remember you fake-crying when I’m sliding you free pastries.”
Jules lifts her hand and mimes dabbing away tears, complete with a hiccup of false sobbing. “You don’t understand. The pain of losing my favorite chef and the joy of gaining free carbs—it’s tearing me apart.”
You snort. “You’re so full of it.”
She beams, unbothered. “Absolutely. And you love me for it.” In one swift move, she leans over the counter, kisses you on the cheek, and straightens up. “See you tomorrow, babe.”
The bell rings again as she leaves, and you’re still half-smiling at the empty doorway, the echo of her theatrics setting the tone of your day.
The bell above the door jingles around lunch, and you glance up just in time to see George slipping in with his sunglasses still on, as though the bakery is paparazzi territory. You don’t call him out on it; you’ve learned that George thrives on delivering his own punchline. Sure enough, he drifts to the center of the room, turns a slow circle, and hums.
“Darling, it’s cute,” he says, drawing out the word like it’s a compliment and an insult at once. “But these chairs? Bold choice. Retro or tragic? The line’s very thin.”
You quirk your lip to one side, flour dusted across your cheek like war paint. “Retro, obviously. Are you going to order something, or did you want me to get your input on the wallpaper too?”
“Please. I’d only charge you a small consulting fee,” he huffs. “Friends and family discount.”
By the time you’re sliding him a plate—croissant sandwich, because you know him—he’s already snapping a picture of the pastry case like he’s secretly going to Yelp-review you. When he leaves, you catch Chloe grinning at the jar. A crisp bill, folded neatly, tucked among the coins.
Not long after, Alex wanders in, hands buried in his hoodie pockets, cap pulled low. He pauses just inside the door as though unfamiliar with the place, then meanders toward the counter with the casual air of someone trying not to look like a regular.
“Can I help you, sir?” you ask, playing into the role. “First time here?”
He deadpans back. “Yeah, just passing by. Figured I’d try the… what do you call them… muffins?”
“Wow,” you say. “Bold to insult me to my face before I’ve even taken your money.”
Alex doesn’t crack, though his eyes crinkle with laughter he can’t quite conceal. He takes his muffin to go, but not before dropping a note in the jar on Chloe and Rafaela’s side of the counter. He doesn’t look at you when he does it. They both leave in their own ways—George flamboyant, Alex pretending he’s a stranger—but the jar fills steadily, and your bakers exchange conspiratorial glances every time you turn away. Proof of love, wrapped in regulars and tips and remembered orders.
Your bakery winds down, quiet as it opened. No clattering trays, no chorus of orders being shouted across counters, none of the frenetic heartbeat that defined Venti Due. Just the soft shuffle of parchment, the occasional metallic clink of a tray being stacked away, the murmur of Chloe and Rafaela wiping down surfaces as the golden hour light washes through the front windows. It isn’t adrenaline here. It’s yours.
You lean against the counter, notes in hand, giving them feedback. One of the things you’ve picked up from your time at Veni Due. Chloe listens intently, nodding in all the right places, while Rafaela balances the spray bottle on her palm as she listens to your feedback. Both of them grin at each other whenever you say something particularly earnest, but they still take it to heart. It’s a rhythm, and you like it.
“Honestly, you’re cramping my style,” a voice cuts in from the doorway.
Chloe and Rafaela both swivel toward the sound and then immediately turn back to you with the kind of grins that spell trouble. “Ooooh,” Chloe sing-songs under her breath, and Rafaela raises her brows in mock warning.
“Don’t stay up too late,” Rafaela adds, grabbing her bag and tugging Chloe along toward the back.
You roll your eyes, but they’re already giggling their way out, their laughter lingering long after the bell on the back door jingles shut. Which leaves you with the doorway. And him.
Yuki is standing there like he hasn’t thought this through. Still in his chef’s outfit, hair mussed like he sprinted here. A bouquet of flowers gripped awkwardly in one hand. The sight of him—rumpled, breathless, yet somehow still beaming—is ridiculous enough to make your chest tighten.
You don’t even think about it. You’re already moving, barreling forward like gravity’s got you tethered to him. Yuki steadies you on impact, arms locking around your waist as though he’d been bracing for exactly this, and the sound he makes—half laugh, half groan—is ridiculously fond.
“Are you always going to tease me like this?” he teases, mock suffering painted across his face even as his hands linger at your back. “One day, you’re going to break my ribs. Then what? No more cooking, no more flowers, just hospital food for the both of us.”
“You’d survive,” you say, voice muffled against the warm press of his shoulder, though your grin is sharp enough to betray you.
You lean back just far enough to swipe the bouquet from his hand with practiced ease, turning it in your grip like evidence. The blooms are impossibly fresh, bursting with color, every stem perfectly chosen. “Okay, seriously. Do you have some sixth sense for when your last arrangement dies?” you jab. “Because that’s suspicious. Like, stalker-level suspicious.”
Yuki only shrugs, his eyes lit with something playful. “I take one flower for my office at Venti Due. When it starts to wilt, I know it’s time to bring you new ones.”
He says it like it’s nothing, like it isn’t the most absurdly meticulous, heartbreakingly thoughtful thing anyone has ever admitted. You freeze, bouquet balanced loosely between your palms, suddenly aware that this—this stupid, simple habit—is him in a nutshell. Not grand speeches or flashy declarations. Just steady, impossible attentiveness. The kind of detail only a chef could pull off, as if he’s spent his whole life honing his craft to turn it on you. He notices the smallest things, the almost invisible shifts, the way your world tilts when the petals begin to fall. And he answers it, every single time, with something that says: I see you. I won’t stop seeing you.
It floods you, a strange alchemy of fire and sugar that catches you low in the chest and spreads until you’re nearly dizzy. You’ve tried to outpace this, duck away from it, pretend it won’t undo you. But Yuki’s love, quiet and relentless, doesn’t burn out. It roots itself deeper, until even running feels useless.
The thought barely finishes before you’re kissing him. Not coy, not testing. It’s hungry, reckless, yours. He tastes like the exact thing you’ve been starved for: laughter caught between breaths, a relief so sharp it almost hurts. Your hands fist into his jacket and tug, impatient, demanding.
“Take this off,” you whisper against his mouth, half command, half plea.
His smile slides into the kiss. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hesitate, only tilts closer until his words ghost against your lips, warm and teasing: “Yes, chef.” ⛐
someone to hold me down ¹ ⸻ lando norris x reader .
featuring lando norris , love island au , strangers to friends to lovers , slow burn
tw cheating (in the love island sense) , slight carlos sainz slander for the plot
word count 17.8k (part one)
author’s note yeah once again i have literally no excuse for this one . probably THEEE most self indulgent fic i’ve ever written as i am proudly the world’s biggest love island fan . during my catchup on love island uk this year , i started thinking about this interview and then the idea of lando on love island just burrowed into my brain and refused to leave me alone . this is part one of two and since i've made you all wait so long part two will be coming tomorrow, monday august 25 !! as always let me know what you think , and my 1k celebration is still open , so if you liked this please feel free to send in a request !! title is from came here for love by sigala !
playlist listen to nothing beats a jet2 holiday here !
You’ve officially been a Love Island contestant for about five minutes, and you’re already questioning every life decision that led you here.
You didn’t even sign up for this. No, that was the work of your friends back home, a completely twisted group response to your bad breakup cooked up over one too many mimosas at a brunch you’d missed because you were crying too hard. When they told you they submitted an application for you, you laughed. You had a real job, one that involved spreadsheets and quarterly reports and tasteful business casual sets. You’d spent most of your adult life trying to avoid situations involving tequila-fueled meltdowns and catfights over semi-pro footballers with clockable hair transplants. You didn’t even watch the show.
And yet here you are, standing outside a Mallorcan villa in your nicest bikini with a mic pack strapped to your ass and your heart pounding in your throat.
“Think we’ve still got time to run?” Lily says as the two of you walk up the driveway together. The way she’s widening her eyes makes her look even more like a Disney princess, if that’s possible. You only just met the girl when the two of you stumbled out of matching Jeeps, but something about her sensible wedges and the way she’s clutching her suitcase like a lifeline make you feel a little less out of place. It’s comforting to know there’s a kindred spirit here, assuming neither of you bolt before the producers usher you into the house.
You glance down at your own white-knuckle death grip on your suitcase. “Normally, I’d say we could make it to the gate before security tackles us, but not in these heels.”
She laughs, a bright sound that does absolutely nothing to hide the nerves beneath. “Guess we’re stuck humiliating ourselves in HD.”
“Guess we are,” you reply, smiling. When you walk through the doors, you catch your reflection in the sliding glass, and it looks more like you’re baring your teeth for battle.
The villa stretches out in front of you, an imposing monstrosity of cobbled limestone and manicured gardens. Producers have clearly been studying the Instagrams of people much cooler than you, because everything here looks like it was designed to be photographed for a brand trip. The infinity pool gleams, jewel-like, in the center of the backyard, those stupid expensive flamingo floats that seem to crop up like a rash at every hen party you’ve ever attended bobbing lazily on its surface. Bright magenta and yellow beanbags are dotted strategically over a lawn so green it can only be artificial, leading up to the infamous white marble firepit.
In the distance, the ocean sparkles, Photoshop-perfect. You think absentmindedly that somewhere under all the cheeky neon signage telling you to eat, sleep, crack on, repeat! and the garish fluorescent photo panels the producers have slapdashed together, it's probably a beautiful house.
“Oh my god, the last girls are here!” a high-pitched voice screams from behind you, and without warning you’re swept into a swarm of tanned arms and blinding smiles and a cloud of coconut sunscreen so big it could probably melt the ozone layer all over again.
Names come at you rapid-fire; you’re confident you’ll remember absolutely none of them in ten minutes. There’s Samie, a bubbly blonde primary school teacher who gives you a terrifyingly firm hug. Then George, a financial analyst from Norfolk who seems to have lost his shirt the first second he could. Oscar hangs back from the crowd a bit, flicking his swoopy bangs out of his eyes like he can’t quite decide if he wants to say hello to the two of you, but Gemma, a stunning brunette girl with a full sleeve of tattoos up her arm, bats her lashes and starts chattering away like you’ve known each other for years.
And then there’s the smile.
It’s the kind that stops you in your tracks, bright and boyish, almost too big for the face it comes on. A nice face, objectively — tan, deep dimples, eyes the color of seaglass framed by the kind of lashes that men never appreciate enough to deserve.
“Hey, I’m Lando,” the face says, extending a hand that’s warm when you shake it. You realize it’s not just the smile: there’s something disarming about him, the way he seems genuinely curious about you rather than just sizing you up as a potential couple option.
“Nice to meet you, Lando,” you say, surprised to find you actually mean it. “What do you do?”
“Content creator,” he says cheerfully. “Mostly travel and lifestyle, but y’know, a bit of this, a bit of that. Nothing too serious.”
It feels like the words flip a switch inside you. Of course he is. You can just imagine him in the fluoro room where you’d filmed your intro clips, smiling into the camera with that same ridiculous grin: Hi, I’m Lando, I’m twenty-five, I’m an influencer from Glastonbury. My type is… a girl who doesn’t take things too seriously. I’m looking for… a bit of fun this summer, and we’ll see where things go.
“Sounds fun,” you lie politely. But you’ve dated fun before — fun just broke your heart, actually. Fun is messy, unpredictable, has you riding high until it leaves you when the going gets tough. Fun is not the plan this summer. No matter how nice of a smile it has.
“What about you, then?” he asks, eyes twinkling. If he’s seen your walls go up, he’s not showing it. “Let me guess. Something that requires actual qualifications instead of knowing which ring light angle makes a hotel breakfast look most appetizing?”
You smile despite yourself. “Something like that.”
“Brilliant,” he says, with no trace of irony. “Let me guess. Spreadsheets? Data? Proper grown-up stuff, I reckon.”
“As opposed to your improper not-grown-up stuff?” you ask, the words coming out more teasing than you intended.
He grins. “Exactly. Though I’ll have you know I take my not-taking-things-seriously very seriously indeed.”
He’s charming, you’ll give him that; there’s a kind of effortlessness to his chat that probably works wonders on most girls. But you’re not most girls. Not anymore.
You’re opening your mouth to respond when you hear it — the familiar ding! of the Love Island phones. “I’ve got a text!” Lily cries, pulling out her newly issued villa phone. “Islanders, it’s time for your first coupling ceremony. Please gather around the firepit immediately. Hashtag love at first sight, hashtag crack on,” she reads.
“Here we go,” you mumble under your breath, glancing around nervously at the other islanders. Half of them you haven’t even properly spoken to yet, and ten minutes from now you’ll be coupled up with one of them.
“Well, it was nice to meet you,” Lando says, grin still playing at the corners of his heart-shaped mouth. “May the odds be ever in your favor, and all that.”
“Bit dramatic. This isn’t the Hunger Games,” you reply, even though your heart is thumping heavily in your chest.
He’s already walking away, but he turns, flashing you that devastating smile one more time as he calls over his shoulder. “Isn’t it?”
The firepit looks even more intimidating up close. They’ve arranged you on stone benches that look like they were nicked from the world’s most expensive spa, boys on one side and girls on the other. The host struts in, eerily gorgeous in a shimmery dress that probably costs more than your rent with a smile that manages to be welcoming and predatory all at once. You can’t look too hard at her; you find yourself scanning the shadows, instinctively hunting for the cameras you know are lurking somewhere. From across the fire, Lando waggles his eyebrows at you before jutting his chin at a bush, where you finally catch the sun glinting off a barely visible lens.
“Hello, my beautiful islanders!” the host trills, and you snap back to attention. “Hope you’re all settling in nicely to your new home. But before you get too comfortable, we should tell you we thought we’d shake things up a bit this year.”
Your stomach drops to your ankles. You thought you knew what to expect, but of course there’s a twist. There’s always a bloody twist.
“This year, instead of choosing your own couples, you’ve been matched by our experts based on your applications,” the host continues. “They’ve analyzed your answers, your partner preferences, and your relationship histories to create the perfect matches.” She pauses, clearly relishing the collective anxiety rolling off of the ten of you in waves. “So let’s see who you’ll be sharing a bed with tonight, shall we?”
She pulls out the first card with theatrical flair. “Gemma, your perfect match is… Charles.” One of the guys you didn’t get the chance to speak to steps forward, a tall brunette with the kind of messy hair that tries to look effortless but probably took forty-five minutes and half a tub of pomade to achieve. He murmurs a hello with an accent you can’t quite place and she meets him with a bright smile, looping her arm through his as the host continues.
“Nicole, you’ll be paired with George,” the host says next. A stunning redhead with perfectly contoured cheekbones practically glides across the decking like she’s walking Paris Fashion Week. George lopes towards her, what he lacks in grace made up for in enthusiasm. They shake hands with awkward politeness, standing next to Gemma and Charles.
“Lily, your perfect match is Oscar,” the host reads, and you squeeze your friend’s hand tightly. She shoots you a quick glance, something almost like relief flickering over her face as she walks carefully around the firepit. Oscar gives her a shy smile, and they hug quickly before standing together. Even across the deck, you can see the identical pink creeping up both of their cheeks.
“Samie, you’ll be paired with Lando.” The blonde practically bounds off the bench, beaming at Lando. He smiles back with the same ease you already recognize, and she links her arm through his.
“Which leaves our final couple, you and Carlos,” the host says, smiling kindly at you. When you look across the firepit, the boy you’ll be sharing a bed with for at least the next week is already walking towards you.
You send a mental thank you to your friends, because he’s exactly what you would have imagined if you’d filled out the application yourself — tall, tan, dark hair, big brown eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles warmly at you. “Hello,” he says as he reaches you, and you catch the hint of a Spanish accent that makes the simple greeting sound like poetry.
“Hi,” you manage, suddenly very aware of the camera in the bush and the idea that your first conversation with a cute guy is going to be replayed on national television tomorrow night. He pulls you into a brief, respectful hug, your cheek brushing against his linen button-up.
“Don’t you all look cozy,” the host says, clapping her hands together. “Now, you’ll have some time to get to know each other. But remember, this is Love Island,” she adds, mischievous glint in her eye. “Surprises might be coming sooner than you think.”
She’s gone before you know it, producers trailing out behind her, and the group begins to disperse. “So,” Carlos says, hand resting on your back comfortably as he speaks in a tone low enough that it sounds like it’s saved just for you. “This is a bit odd, yes? I have never had my love life decided by people I have not met.”
You laugh as he leads you over to a daybed. “Definitely weird. Though I have to say, they could have done worse.”
“Could they?” He raises his eyebrows as he sits, something playful in his expression. “You do not even know me yet.”
When he pats the mattress next to him, you sit, legs crossed. “So tell me about yourself. Let’s see how well the relationship experts did.”
He launches into an introduction, leaning forward and talking with the kind of eye contact that makes you a little bit dizzy. He’s an architect from Madrid, living outside of Oxford; he’s athletic, the kind of guy who bikes to work every morning and plays padel matches with his coworkers. He’s smart, close to his family, reliable. You can already tell he’s the kind of man your friends will approve of and your mother would love. You glance away for just a moment, eyes scanning over the lawn. Lily and Oscar are deep in conversation by the pool, and in the kitchen, Lando is trying to teach Samie an elaborate handshake, waving his hands wildly through the air as she giggles.
“Already scoping out the competition?” Carlos says, following your gaze with an amused smile.
“What? No,” you protest, cheeks pink. “Just… people watching. Occupational hazard.”
“What is your occupation, then?” he asks, tilting his head.
“Market analytics,” you explain. “I spend my life figuring out what people want before they want it themselves.”
“Ah,” he nods, leaning back on his elbows. “Useful in here. So you are studying us all like lab rats.”
“Maybe a little,” you grin. You're surprised by how easy it is to talk to him already, the way the conversation flows despite the knowledge that every word is probably being recorded. He asks all the right questions, admires your ambition in a way that feels genuine, doesn't glaze over when you get a bit too passionate about your work. His English is almost perfect, but there's something charming about the way he occasionally pauses to search for the exact right word, the slight Spanish inflection that makes even mundane topics sound more interesting. You barely realize how much time has gone by until the sun starts falling over the infinity pool.
“I hate to say it, but I think the experts might know what they are doing,” Carlos says, brushing his shoulder against yours.
“Don’t jinx it,” you scold, smiling as you say it. “I have to admit, it’s going better than I expected.”
He gasps, putting a hand to his heart. “You wound me.”
“You know what I mean,” you say gently. “It’s mental, isn’t it? To get matched up with a complete stranger on a reality TV show and expect it to work out?” You glance around the villa, cameras winking at you mercilessly from the shadows. “But somehow…”
“Somehow it might work,” Carlos says softly, slipping his hand into yours. His palm is stable, steady, the kind of touch that feels like a promise. It’s all exactly what you wanted.
You think.
About a week into villa life, you begin to understand why people sign up for this.
It’s not just the endless sunshine, or being surrounded by beautiful people 24/7, or the fact that your biggest decision every day is whether to wear the blue bikini or the orange one. There’s a strange instantaneousness to everything that you love. Every moment feels weighty and important. Conversations that would normally take months surface over breakfast, and you find yourself genuinely caring about people you met five minutes ago.
Your relationship with Carlos has been nice. Really nice, actually. He makes you cafe con leche every morning, a tradition you’re starting to enjoy even more than the simple mint tea you used to prefer. He cuddles you at night, holds your hand during dinner. You’re taking things unbearably slow, in Love Island terms — you haven’t even kissed yet, outside of pecks during challenges. But he never pushes you for more than you’re comfortable with; there’s something refreshingly mature about the way he approaches things, like he’s letting you take the lead. It’s still early days, and you’re trying to let yourself trust again after the disaster of your last relationship. Somehow, in the safety of him, you think you might get there.
But it’s the friendships that have surprised you the most.
You knew you and Lily would get along, but she’s become more like a sister over the past week; the two of you had hidden out on the terrace together in the middle of Charles and Gemma’s third screaming match of the week, and spent the evening giggling and trading dry one-liners. The two of you have been attached at the hip ever since — that is, when she’s not wrapped up in Oscar. The two of them are almost sickeningly sweet together, and you can tell that the dreamy look he gets on his face every time she even glances his direction is going to melt her heart before long.
Samie was more of a wild card, but you’ve become fast friends too. She’s got an infectious energy that makes everything fun, even mundane villa chores. But she’s also the one who found you crying in the bathroom during a particularly homesick moment and sat with you for an hour without asking any questions. She has the purest heart, which is why it makes you ache to watch her try to make things work with Lando when it’s not quite clicking.
Which brings you to the biggest surprise — the boy who has turned out to be absolutely nothing like you expected.
“Twenty quid says Charles and George get distracted halfway through and start showing off for G,” Lando says, poking you in the side. You’re both sprawled on one of the daybeds near the pool while the boys line up at the edge for a race. Georgia, the new bombshell in question, is sitting close by, long legs swishing in the water.
“Not taking that bet,” you respond, rolling onto your stomach as you watch Carlos adjust his position, all focused intensity as he prepares to dive. “Those two share one brain cell. And it’s on holiday, too.”
“Somewhere very far away,” he agrees solemnly. “Probably got a budget flight to Koh Samui with its other brain cell lads. Gonna have a proper fiesta, maybe meet a nice nerve ending and have a summer fling…”
You cackle, loud and unfiltered. “Stupid,” you say, wiping a tear from your waterline, and Lando smiles like making you snort with laughter was his entire agenda for the day.
“Ready, set, go!” Georgia calls then, and the boys dive in. Well, Carlos and Charles dive — George plugs his nose and jumps, so he’s already half a lap behind by the time he surfaces.
Carlos starts pulling ahead almost immediately, arms cutting through the water in clean, efficient strokes. “C’mon!” you call, cupping your hands around your mouth as he swims towards your end.
“Showing off for his girl, isn’t he?” Lando says lightly, bumping his shoulder against yours.
“He’s just competitive,” you say, but you can’t keep the smile off your face. “But yeah. Maybe a little.”
“Good for you,” he says, and when you look over his eyes are glued to the race like it’s the Olympics. “Carlos, I mean. He’s good for you.”
Your stomach twists at the flatness of his tone. You’re not sure what to say, how to be grateful for your own connection without feeling like you’re rubbing it in the face of two of your closest friends here. It’s not Lando and Samie’s fault things haven’t clicked between them.
“Thank god I didn’t take the bet,” you say instead, bumping his shoulder back and pointing to the pool. Charles has started showboating, doing a stroke that is definitely not regulation as he passes Georgia.
Lando looks over at you, eyes crinkling at the corners as he tries not to smile, and then like clockwork the two of you dissolve into giggles. “Oh my god. Called it,” he wheezes, watching as Charles realizes he’s fallen behind even George and swiftly tries to course-correct. “What an absolute muppet.”
“Nah, look at Gemma,” you gasp through your giggles, tilting your head across the lawn towards the gym where the brunette is doing an increasingly aggressive set of burpees, pretending not to stare murderously at Charles in plank position. “She’s actually going to kill him.”
Lando grins. “Do you think his murder will make Unseen Bits?” he teases, just as Carlos touches the wall, hauling himself out of the pool. He’s grinning triumphantly, water streaming off his body in rivulets.
“Did you see, cariño?” he calls out, slightly breathless as he jogs over to the two of you. “I won!”
“We saw, champion,” you tease, tossing him the towel he’d left at the bottom of the daybed. “Beating Dumb and Dumber. Very impressive.”
He ignores the towel, picking you up and sweeping you into a damp hug that makes you shriek. “Mi premio,” he says to Lando, grinning smugly.
“Carlos, ew, stop, you’re all wet,” you protest, wriggling in his arms.
“Worth it for the win,” he corrects, kissing you on the temple, and you beam up at him. From the corner of your eye, you see Lando look away.
“Am I interrupting?” a honeyed voice says from behind you, and when Carlos spins around with you still in his arms, Georgia’s standing there, perfectly posed and undeniably gorgeous in a way that makes you acutely aware that this is the third time you’ve worn this bikini already. “Just wanted to pull Lando for a chat.”
Lando flicks a glance from you and Carlos to Georgia. “Yeah, alright,” he says, sitting up straighter. “Shall we?”
She smiles and grabs his arm, pulling him toward the beanbags in the center of the lawn. You realize with a sinking feeling she’s positioning the two of them directly in Samie’s eyeline; you can see your friend frowning all the way from the kitchen.
“Good for Landito,” Carlos mumbles against your neck, but you’re only half-listening, watching as Georgia throws her head back laughing at something Lando’s said. He hasn’t actually made a joke, if the polite and slightly overwhelmed expression on his face is anything to go by.
You hum noncommittally in response, motioning Samie over, and she bolts from the kitchen, ducking into the house and taking the long way around so she doesn’t look too obvious.
Carlos sits the both of you down, finally loosening his grip, and you roll off his lap to face him. “You do not like Georgia,” he observes. Not a question, a fact.
“I don’t not like her,” you lie. You’re not confrontational, and the villa is far too small for outright warfare, but there’s something about Georgia that’s rubbed you the wrong way since the moment she stepped in the villa. You don’t trust someone so calculated, someone who treats people as either obstacles or opportunities. And you definitely don’t like exactly how clear she’s made number one on both those lists.
Carlos raises an eyebrow at you, and you sigh. “Okay, fine. There’s just… something. I don’t know. She’s very strategic.”
“Most people here are.”
“Not like her,” you say, watching Samie emerge from inside just as Georgia leans closer, resting her hand on Lando’s thigh.
To her credit, Samie manages to keep her face from crumpling until she makes it to the daybeds. “You two enjoying the show?” she says as she sits down next to you. Her voice is carefully controlled, but you can see the hurt flashing in her eyes.
“You okay, hun?” you ask softly.
She lets out a hollow laugh. “Brilliant. Just brilliant. Why does Georgia get more than friendly bants out of him? God, what am I doing wrong?”
“I’m going to go,” Carlos whispers, clearly uncomfortable with the girl talk he’s about to be swept into if he stays. He presses a kiss to your cheek as he gets up, wandering over to George and Charles, and Samie sniffles as she watches.
“Aw, Sam,” you sigh, sneaking a look over at the beanbags again. You can see Lando glancing around like he’s trying to see if anyone is watching the conversation, but he’s engaging nevertheless, giving Georgia that easy, charming smile of his. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I keep thinking maybe if I just try harder, or give it more time, something will click,” she says, and there’s an unsteadiness to it that makes your chest ache. “But he treats me exactly like he treats everyone else. Like a mate.”
“He cares about you, hun,” you say gently.
“I know,” she sighs. “I just don’t think it’s the way I want him to.”
You’re about to respond when Georgia squeals from the middle of the lawn. “I’ve got a text! Islanders, it’s time for a challenge that’s all about following your heart. Girls, you’ll be blindfolded. Boys, you’ll enter one by one and kiss the girl you’re most interested in getting to know better. But here’s the twist: we won’t reveal who kissed who. Hashtag love is blind, hashtag secret admirers!” she screams, voice rising to a fever pitch.
The reaction is immediate and completely chaotic: Gemma declaring loudly that she better get a kiss, which you suspect is entirely for Charles’ benefit; Oscar wrapping an arm around Lily and whispering something in her ear that makes her blush; Georgia pulling out a tube of gloss and coating her lips, loudly smacking them together to blot them. From across the lawn, Carlos sends you a wink, and you feel a surge of relief to be with someone so uncomplicated.
“What if no one kisses me?” Samie whispers, face bloodless.
“Then they’re idiots,” you say fiercely, throwing your arm around her shoulders. But your stomach is already twisting again with anxiety for her, because you can see exactly what she's seeing: the way the coupled-up boys are already gravitating toward their partners, the way Georgia is practically radiating confidence, the brutal mathematics of five kisses for six girls.
You think this might be the moment that breaks everything wide open.
The setup is ridiculous and dramatic, which you suppose is sort of the point. They’ve arranged the girls in a circle on the lawn, and the six of you stand at attention as they slip gold headphones over your ears and a ridiculous silk eye mask over your eyes. The world goes dark, and for a moment, all you can hear is the pounding of your own heart. Without your sight, it feels like every other sense is heightened; you can smell Gemma’s coconut sun cream from across the lawn and the faint scent of jasmine from the trees outside. Even with the headphones on, before long, there’s an unmistakable sound of someone settling tentatively in front of you, feet scraping against the grass.
He leans in slowly, hand cupping your face and thumb brushing gently over your cheekbone before soft lips meet yours. It’s a nice kiss, sweet and warm, and you can just hear the small sound he makes as he presses more firmly against your mouth. His other hand rests lightly on your hip until he pulls away, brushing his lips over your forehead before he disappears.
You barely have time to process the kiss before there’s another set of footsteps weaving their way through the circle. You’re expecting them to keep moving, to hurry past you.
You’re not expecting a second kiss.
There’s no hesitation this time. Whoever it is, he’s on you immediately, lips crashing against yours with an urgency that nearly knocks you off your feet. There’s something about the kiss — not just technique, though the guy clearly knows what he’s doing. It’s something deeper, something that sparks through every nerve ending in your body. You find yourself pressing closer, pulling him into you, and the way he sighs and threads his fingers into your hair in response sends heat burning straight through you.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours, just for a moment, and you have to resist the wild urge to pull him back in again, to lose yourself in him. But like a flash, he’s gone, leaving you literally and metaphorically in the dark.
It had to have been Carlos. The passion, the spark — that was him showing you how he really feels, when you’re not holding back from him. The way your body responded to him, the electricity, is exactly how you imagine it feels to kiss the right guy, the magical, elusive one for you. It felt like falling off a cliff and coming home, all at the same time.
You barely register the rest of the boys making their way around the circle. All you can think about is The Kiss.
When you pull off the blindfold, the afternoon sun is blindingly bright. You blink rapidly, letting your eyes adjust as you begin to catch expressions around the lawn. There’s Carlos giving you a soft smile, eyes sparkling. Lily, cheeks pink and looking absolutely radiant. And devastation on Samie’s face as she squeezes your hand like she’s trying to hold herself steady and whispers, “I didn’t get any kisses. Not a single one.”
“What?” you breathe, the words snapping you out of your daze. While you were basking in the magic of that second kiss, your friend was getting systematically passed over by every single boy in the villa.
“It’s fine,” she says quickly, bottom lip trembling. “I just — just need a minute.”
She’s gone before you can stop her, walking towards the villa with her head held high and shoulders shaking.
“Bloody hell, she’s dramatic,” Gemma says, not bothering to lower her voice.
Lily’s by your side before you can say anything in reply. “Don’t. Let’s just go check on her,” she says gently, and you nod.
The two of you find her in the glam room, staring into her vanity mirror and aggressively applying concealer under her eyes. “Sam, we’re so sorry,” you say, sitting next to her and wrapping your arms around her.
Lily sits to the other side, rubbing her back. “Totally,” she agrees.
“It’s fine,” Samie says, voice tight as she drops the Beautyblender. “I mean, it’s not, but it is what it is, right? Can’t force someone to fancy you.”
“It doesn’t mean they don’t fancy you,” Lily says quickly as the other girls start filing in. “Maybe they were being respectful. Or maybe they were nervous, or —”
“Lily,” Samie stops her, gentle and firm, classic kindergarten teacher tone. “You don’t have to make excuses for them. I’m a big girl. I can handle the truth.”
“Well, the truth is that they’re idiots,” you soothe, petting her blonde curls. “All of them.”
“I didn’t get one either, Samie,” Nicole says quietly from the other side of the vanity tables, and the room falls into an uncomfortable silence. You can feel the divide immediately — those who got kisses and those who didn’t, and the guilt of being on the other side of that line.
“Wait,” Georgia says suddenly, mascara wand stopped midair. “If two people didn’t get kissed, then someone got more than one. Who got kissed twice?”
There’s silence, and you can feel the heat creeping steadily up your neck. What would be worse: to tell the girls a truth you know will hurt, or lie right to your friends’ faces?
“I did,” you say finally. The admission hangs heavy in the air, Samie’s shoulders tensing under your touch.
“Lucky girl,” Georgia says, smiling just a little too sweetly. “I’m pretty sure I know who mine was. Very familiar energy, if you know what I mean.”
“Georgia,” Lily says, cutting a glance between Samie and Nicole, who are both studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone.
“What? I’m just saying, it’s nice to be properly appreciated —”
Samie stands, grabbing a towel and storming out of the room. The door slams shut behind her as Nicole lays on the ground, groaning and holding a pillow over her head.
“Awkward,” Georgia sing-songs, finally applying her mascara.
“Oh, bore off, G,” you bite out before you can think better of it, leaving the room to follow your friend.
Dinner is more subdued than usual. You’d finally managed to calm Samie down enough to get her dressed and ready for the evening. She and Nicole both put on brave faces, but there’s something brittle in both their expressions that makes your chest tight. You’d pulled Georgia to apologize for snapping at her, too; she seemed mollified by your groveling, but there’s still a tense veil drawn over all the girls. It’s as if someone’s liable to explode if you put a foot wrong, so you’ve all just decided not to speak much at all. The boys are completely oblivious, of course, making jokes and chattering on about football as if they didn’t turn the villa upside down hours earlier.
As night falls, you’re about to go check on Samie when Carlos’ arm sneaks around your waist. “Can I pull you for a chat?” he teases, pinching your waist. “Just us?”
You smile, relieved. In all the chaos, you’d almost forgotten about the good part of the challenge, the way Carlos had tilted your whole world on its axis with that kiss. “I’d really like that,” you say, leaning into his touch as he leads you over to the firepit.
You sit beside each other, and it’s quiet as you listen to the soft sound of the water lapping against the pool walls. “Quite a day,” he says finally, thumb stroking over your knuckles.
“Definitely,” you sigh, relieved he broke the silence as you rest your head against his shoulder.
“How was the challenge for you?” he asks, and there’s a note of nervousness to his voice that thrills you a little.
“It was alright,” you reply coyly.
“Just alright?” he laughs, wrapping his arm around you. “I was hoping for a better review.”
“It was a nice kiss,” you smile. Understatement of the year. When your mind wasn’t occupied by the drama of the afternoon, you haven’t really stopped thinking about it.
Carlos tilts his head. “Just one kiss?” he says, curiosity in his voice.
“Yup,” you hear yourself say, and you’re immediately confused by your own words. Why did you just lie?
Carlos hums, wrapping his arm around you. “George is not saying who he went for, in the challenge,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially, like it’s all a fun game. “I thought maybe he had kissed you.”
“No, just you,” you repeat, doubling down. Your heart is beating faster now, and not in a good way. “Nothing too dramatic for me. But really nice.”
He smiles, and it’s so genuine and warm that your guilt feels like it doubles in size. “I was thinking, cariño, maybe we could have our own little challenge here,” he says softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and the butterflies erupt in your stomach.
“I think I’d really like that,” you murmur.
“Good,” he whispers, cupping your face in his hands as he leans in. “Because I’ve been wanting to do this since the moment I met you.” He leans in and finally, finally presses his lips to yours, and —
You should be melting into him. You should be burning from the inside out. But as his lips move against yours, sweet and tender, realization crashes over you like you’ve just been launched headfirst into the pool.
This is the first kiss. The perfectly pleasant, entirely forgettable one. Which means the person who set your world on fire wasn’t Carlos at all.
When you break apart, Carlos is already smiling, eyes twinkling as he looks at you. “What’s your review? Better than the challenge?” he asks.
You manage a smile, mind still reeling. “Much better. This was real.”
“Exactly,” he says, pulling you into his side. “No games. Just us.”
You focus on the warmth radiating from his body, trying to process what just happened. It was a lovely kiss, really — genuine and romantic. It wasn’t The Kiss, but that’s okay, isn’t it? Maybe you’re overthinking it. Butterflies die eventually; this is steady, reliable, what you’ve always wanted. And you like Carlos, you really do. He’s kind and handsome and patient, and there’s something there. You know there is.
If you think about that second kiss and who gave it to you all night, nobody needs to know.
When the text comes the next morning declaring a recoupling on the horizon, you’re not shocked. It’s been nearly a week, and there was enough drama stirred up by the challenge for the producers to know they’ll have good material to work with. What’s surprising is that Lando listens to George read out the announcement, and instead of celebrating with the other boys on the lawn, turns on his heel and promptly disappears back into the villa.
You find him on the terrace, remembering something he’d said about how he used to hide out in the treehouse his dad built him when he was a kid and figuring the higher you could go, the better. He’s curled into the corner of the sofa, hands pressed to his face, looking like he hopes the pink and purple throw pillows will swallow him whole.
“Penny for your thoughts?” you say gently.
He looks up at you, and the expression on his face is so pitiful it makes your heart twist. “Think you’re overpricing them.”
You sit, folding your legs beneath you, and go for a teasing tone. “You really are a drama king, aren’t you? Built for reality TV.”
“Oi,” he pouts exaggeratedly, throwing his feet into your lap. “Be nice. I’m emotionally fragile right now.”
You raise an eyebrow when he plays along, a surge of pride rushing through you at managing to make him feel slightly less horrible. “Why are you stressed? It’s boys’ choice. And you’ve got Samie and Georgia both desperate to couple up with you.”
“That’s the problem. I just —” he blows a gust of air out of his cheeks, flopping backwards onto the couch. “I know no matter what I do, I’m going to disappoint someone. And they’re both great girls. I just don’t know what I want.”
“Okay, then what do you not want?” you say, shrugging your shoulders.
He pushes up on his elbows to look at you. “Huh?”
“Market analytics, remember?” you explain. “Sometimes it’s easier to rule out the bad options.” You lean back against the pillows, the afternoon sun warming your skin as the rumblings of a classic Charles and Gemma fight begin below. “For example: I definitely don’t want that,” you say, pointing a finger down through the bougainvilleas on the railing.
Lando snorts. “Don’t think anyone wants that. Even them.”
You smack him lazily on the shoulder. “C’mon,” you say. “Try it.”
“I don’t want to hurt Samie,” he says. “She’s sweet, and a great girl, and she deserves the world.”
“Good. That’s good,” you confirm, as encouraging as you can muster when there’s so obviously a but coming down the highway that’s liable to turn Samie into romantic roadkill. “What else?”
Lando’s quiet for a moment, fidgeting with the throw pillows. “I don’t want to pick someone because it’s safe, or because everyone else thinks I should, or because it’s convenient. That’s not what I’m here for.”
“What do you mean, convenient?”
“You know, the easy choice,” he says, pushing his sunglasses off his face into his unruly curls. His eyes look impossibly green against his tan. “Someone who’s obviously interested. Someone who fits what everyone expects.” He squints, even though the sun is behind him. “Someone who won’t make things complicated.”
“Someone who’s right, not someone who’s easy,” you echo.
He sits up. “Exactly. I dunno. I’m scared I’m just convincing myself into a choice because it’s what I should want. Not what I actually want.”
You’re quiet for a moment, thinking about Carlos and his smile and the way he holds you at night, like he’s afraid to break something so precious. “Sometimes the easy choice and the right choice can be the same thing.”
His eyes don’t leave your face. “What if they’re not? What if you know they’re not?”
There’s something in his voice, vulnerable and almost aching, that makes you hesitate, heart beating hard in your chest. “Then I guess you have to decide what you’re willing to lose.”
“Right,” he says, jaw tightening. “Yeah. Makes sense.”
“Is this about Georgia, specifically?” you ask tentatively. “Because honestly, Lan, if you want my opinion, I think Samie —”
“It’s not —” he interrupts, like he can’t hold the words back, and then catches himself mid-sentence, straightening his spine and smiling too stiffly to be real. “Nah, I think you’re right. Good points, mate.” He slides his sunglasses back on, and you have the strangest feeling that behind the lenses, he’s looking right through you. “I should get ready. Boys have been bugging me to help them with their recoupling speeches.”
You wince. You can picture Charles and George down there, complete messes. You don’t even know who they’re going to pick, and honestly, they probably don’t either. “Yikes,” you say, feeling grateful you have Carlos.
“Yeah,” Lando says, standing before you can say anything else. “Good luck tonight. Not that you need it,” he adds hastily, disappearing through the sliding door.
By the time evening rolls around, there’s a nervous energy humming in the air, and it’s not just you who’s feeling it. Lily curls and recurls a strand of hair, biting her nails even though she has to be the safest girl in the villa. Gemma sprays her perfume over the entire glam room, claiming it’s her emotional armor for the ceremony. You take your time with your makeup, more to have something to do with your hands than anything else.
The air feels heavier than usual around the firepit. You stand between Samie and Lily, squeezing both their hands.
“It’s gonna be okay,” you whisper to Samie.
She smiles ruefully. “Easy for you to say, hun.”
The host’s voice cuts through the air with her trademark mix of warmth and gravity. “Islanders, tonight’s recoupling will be boys’ choice. One by one, you’ll step forward and choose the girl you want to couple up with. The girl not chosen will be dumped from the island immediately.” She smiles at the six of you before turning her attention to the boys. “Oscar, you’re first.”
Oscar stands, clearing his throat. “Right. Uh, I want to couple up with this girl because this whole thing is sort of mental, but she makes it feel like the most normal thing in the world. She’s kind and smart, and it’s only been a week, but being with her feels like I’ve known her forever. I’m excited to spend more time with her. So the girl I’d like to couple up with is Lily,” he finishes with a soft smile, as if anyone is surprised. Lily practically floats over to him, absolutely glowing.
“Carlos, you’re next,” the host says, and he stands. You’re not nervous, really; you know he’s going to pick you.
“I would like to couple up with this girl because she has been lovely to get to know this week,” he says softly. “From the moment she stepped into the villa, she’s been one hundred percent herself, good and bad, whether it’s checking in on people when they’re feeling down, or getting cranky before her coffee in the morning. She’s funny and passionate and real. And stunning, obviously. All the small things add up to a perfect package.”
When he says your name, you walk around the firepit to him, and when you lean up on tiptoe to kiss him, your heart jumps promisingly. The two of you sit, Carlos’ arm resting around your shoulders.
“The speech was good?” he whispers to you as the host starts speaking again, inviting George to stand.
You nod, something warm blooming in your chest. It really was a nice speech — you had no idea he was paying so much attention to the details in here. “Perfect, actually.”
“I’m glad, cariño,” he says, dropping a kiss to your hair and giving Lando a subtle thumbs up.
Halfway through George’s speech, which is (of course) a paragraph longer than everyone else’s, you realize it’s not about Nicole. You actually gasp out loud when Gemma’s name falls from his lips, bracing yourself for a tirade, but she actually looks somewhat pleased as George ducks his head to kiss her cheek.
Charles, on the other hand, is clearly fuming. When he’s called next, he can’t stop cutting glances at George, and his speech is filled with entirely perfunctory statements about how the girl he wants to pick is ‘nice to chat to’ and ‘seems like a good person.’ He picks Nicole, and if nothing else, the two of them are striking together. You’d whisper a joke to Lando about how their hypothetical children would be the world’s first baby supermodels if he didn’t look positively queasy staring across the fire at Samie and Georgia.
“Lando, you’re up,” the host says softly, and you know this is the moment the producers are counting on, the chance for the first real drama of the season.
Lando shifts, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’d like to couple up with this girl because she’s made things feel different since she came in. She’s sharp. Funny. Surprising. And proper fit, too. Someone told me earlier to make the right choice, not the easy one,” he says, voice soft now, and his eyes dart to you for the most infinitesimal, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment. “And I guess this girl is the right choice, right now. So the girl I’d like to couple up with is… G.”
Georgia beams, practically launching herself into his arms, but you’re not really looking. You’re staring at the girl standing alone across the firepit, watching her heart shatter in real time.
“Samie, as you have not been chosen, you are now single and have been dumped from the island,” the host says gently.
The blonde swallows hard, nodding. “Right then. It’s been a lovely week, guys,” she says, a slight wobble to her voice. The next few minutes blur together: there’s tears as she packs her bag, hugs, phone numbers written with eyeliner exchanged on scraps of tissue paper. Samie handles it with grace, emotion kept simmering beneath a placidly beautiful surface.
“I’ll miss you so much, hun,” you sniffle, throwing your arms around her as she finishes zipping her suitcase.
“Love you, babes,” she whispers back, returning the hug. “Don’t let these boys mess you about. Just — follow your heart, ‘kay?”
The other islanders are gathered at the bottom of the stairs when she’s finally ready to go. Samie starts making her way down the line, hugging and chatting with everyone as she tugs her suitcase behind her. You find your way back to Carlos, heart heavy at the thought of losing one of your first friends here.
“She will be okay,” Carlos says, squeezing your shoulder. “She’s a tough girl.”
You watch as Lando hugs her and she whispers something in his ear. His cheeks go slightly pink, eyes wide, and then he nods, ruffling her hair with a sad smile. “Yeah, she is,” you say, though your chest feels tight as you wave her out.
The doors slam shut behind her, and for a moment, even with Carlos’ arm around you, the villa feels just a little bit colder.
You find them lounging on the beanbags, bickering like brothers.
“I’m telling you, mate, you can’t just eat the green ones and leave the rest,” Lando says, chucking a grape at Carlos. It bounces off his chest, skittering across the lawn towards the pool.
“Why not, cabrón? They taste better,” Carlos says, plucking another off the stem and tossing it into his mouth.
The banter is easy, practiced, like they’ve been friends forever instead of three weeks. “Swear you’re spending more time with Carlos than I am, Norris,” you interrupt, flopping onto the beanbag between them. “Do I need to be worried?”
Carlos’ hand finds yours immediately as he laughs, wide and warm. “He has his hands full with Georgia, I think.”
“Ooh. How is that going?” you ask, waggling your eyebrows as Carlos takes another grape and feeds it to you. It’s not like you don’t know — you all share a bedroom and Georgia's a loud kisser. Plus, you spotted the suspicious bruise where his neck meets his jaw as soon as you sat down, but you want to hear it from him.
Lando’s ears go pink. “It’s good,” he says cheerfully. “Nice girl.” He pauses. “Carlos only brought G up so you’d distract us from the actual argument. Which I was winning, by the way. If you only eat the greens, it leaves these half-eaten grape carcasses behind. You’re ruining the aesthetic of the fruit bowl, mate.”
“Spoken like a true influencer,” you say teasingly, and something passes across Lando’s face like an errant cloud in the endless blue sky above.
Carlos squeezes your hand, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Not Landito. You know he does not just run around taking pretty pictures. He has a whole business.”
Lando groans, tipping his head back. The sun floods his face. “Don’t start —”
“It’s true,” Carlos says, looking far too pleased with himself. “Staff, sponsors, contracts. Everything. His job is more complicated than mine.”
You watch Lando, the way he seems to be actively trying to disappear into the beanbag rather than be the center of attention. “Seriously?”
“It’s not that big of a deal,” he mutters.
“Not a big deal?” you echo, laughing in disbelief. “Lando, that’s so impressive. I thought you just, like, messed about in front of a camera.” Something shifts as you study his face, the picture you’d painted in your mind of a charming, polished surface tilting to make room for something messier, deeper, more real.
He gives you a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, most people do.”
“Guess I’ll have to start taking you more seriously, then,” you say, voice low. His eyes flick up to yours, quick and uncertain, cheeks going pink under your gaze.
“Are you actually serious right now?” Gemma’s voice carries through the air, and Lando bumps your shoulder and points across the pool to where she’s standing with her hands on her hips. George is lounging on a daybed with Max, one of the new bombshells, looking entirely unbothered.
“What?” he shrugs. “You asked what I thought about your story. I told you. Would you rather I just nod my head and agree with everything you say?”
Gemma opens her mouth, and you brace for an impact that doesn’t come. Instead, she tilts her head, studying George with sudden interest. “Actually, no.”
“Good,” George says. “That’d be awfully boring.”
She actually laughs, and you watch the way their faces transform with unexpected softness. If you were to guess the story here, it’d be this: local girl meets her match.
“I give them two days before they start trying to drown each other in the pool,” Carlos pronounces.
“Nah,” you and Lando say at the same time, and he gives you a delighted smile before he continues. “They’re sort of weirdly perfect together.” You nod, feeling a strange sort of pleasure in being the only two in the villa tuned to the same frequency, like two stars aligning.
After that, the chat falls into the easy rhythm you’ve developed over the past few weeks; Lando starts talking about a trip to Madrid, and Carlos lights up about his hometown. From there, it’s all how perfect the weather will be, the places he wants to show you, the restaurants he wants to take you to when you visit.
Except somewhere in the conversation, visit becomes… something else entirely.
“My family has a beautiful place in the city,” he says, eyes bright. “There’s such incredible energy in Madrid. You will really love living there.”
You blink hard. “What?”
“Yes,” Carlos says patiently, like he’s speaking to a child who’s not quite catching on. “I am not planning on working for Vowles Designs forever. Someday I will go home. And it is not like you have anything tying you down to London.”
Lando goes very still on the beanbag next to you, watching the two of you with careful eyes. “I —” you start, then stop. Carlos is your type on paper; the kind of guy who makes perfect sense. So why are you hesitating? “I guess we haven’t really talked about what happens after the villa.”
“She is overthinking,” he says to Lando breezily, reaching for your hand. The touch feels safe, comfortable, easy. “Don’t worry, cariño. We’ll figure it out as we go. But Madrid is perfect for us.” Something about his certainty itches, like sand catching under your bikini straps. Does he really think it’ll be that easy for you to leave your world behind, to reshape your life entirely around him?
“I got a text!” Charles yells then, cupping his hands around his mouth, and for the first time the words feel like a relief.
You flip over on the beanbag so you can see him, sipping from your water bottle as he begins to read at the top of his lungs: “Islanders, it’s time to get each other’s pulses racing in tonight’s challenge, Hearts on Fire! Please head to your dressing rooms to choose an outfit to participate in. Hashtag fanny flutters, hashtag heartstopping!”
Selecting outfits is more cutthroat than you’d anticipated; no one’s really taking the time to rifle through the rack that mysteriously materialized in the dressing room sometime in the past half hour, instead just grabbing whatever they can get their acrylics around. You’re nearly the last there, spotting what looks like a French maid outfit and horrifiedly grabbing whatever the other one is before Nicole can. It turns out to be a naughty nurse costume, emphasis on the naughty — it’s barely a scrap of fabric, designed to be unbuttoned halfway down your chest. At least there’s props, a stethoscope and thermometer to hide behind.
“Trade me?” Georgia wheedles Gemma, who’s got a two-piece teal costume thrown over her arm. “I always wanted to be a cheerleader.”
Gemma tilts her head, considering Georgia’s costume, which is definitely meant to be a cat but is really just a skintight black leather bodysuit with a pair of Party City ears and a tail. “Fine,” she shrugs, shoving her pompoms at Georgia. “I’m more of a cat person, anyway.”
Lily’s pulling a comically large pair of wings and a halo out of a bag, as Molly, the other new bombshell, unearths sparkly red horns and a tail from an identical one. “Girl, we’re matching!” she giggles, pointing her pitchfork at Lily.
“Fitting,” Nicole smirks from the other side of the room, clearly aiming for teasing but putting just a little too much bite into it.
“Lily’s an angel?” Georgia laughs, peering over at the costumes. “Oscar’s gonna cream his jeans.”
Lily splutters. “Georgia! Oh my god. That’s not even —”
“Babe, please, it’s a good thing,” she continues matter-of-factly, teasing her hair and puckering her lips in the mirror. “The whole innocent, ‘I look like woodland creatures dress me in the morning’ angle clearly does something for him.”
Lily’s cheeks go red, covering her face with her hands, and you decide to jump in before things get any more ridiculous. “Anyone got any ideas on how to wear this?” you ask, waving the dress through the air. You know Georgia’s a sucker for any opportunity to style someone, and sure enough, it diverts her attention long enough for Lily to tuck the costume out of eyesight and give you a grateful smile.
The producers have decided the boys will go first, which on one hand means more time thinking about all the ways you might embarrass yourself on national television, but on the other hand means you spend less time in the costume, so it’s basically a wash. They promptly whisk you all out to the firepit, which has been completely transformed, red roses covering every available garden surface and cascading down the sides of the benches.
“Stay calm, ladies,” Gemma instructs, but next to her, Georgia’s practically vibrating in her seat.
“Bring out the boys!” she chants, clapping her hands, and honestly, the whole thing is so nervewrackingly ridiculous that you can’t help but join in. She shoots you a surprised look that morphs into a pleased smile as the rest of the girls follow your lead.
Some bass-heavy song starts pouring through the speakers, and Charles trots down the stairs in what looks like a leather skirt and a cape, a plastic sword in hand. You have no idea what he’s supposed to be, but he’s pulling it off. The firelight reflects off his skin, and you suspect the producers have subjected his chest to a fair amount of body oil.
“Are you not entertained?” he calls when he gets to the edge of the deck, and it clicks. Gladiator. “Because I’m ready to enter your arenas.”
You burst out laughing. You’re not sure whether you’re hoping no one else will do an entrance line that cheesy, or everyone will.
Charles makes his way around the circle, moving with the confidence of someone who knows he looks incredible and has lost the ability to feel shame. His routine for you mostly involves moves with the sword and hip thrusting, neither of which set your heart racing too much, but you scream joyfully when he twerks for Molly, grinds against Gemma, and kisses up Nicole’s neck in quick succession.
He bows when he leaves, and Molly fans at herself as you all giggle. The song changes, something with more of a sultry beat, and George jogs across the lawn in a pilot’s outfit, all starched tight white shorts and a short-sleeve button-up.
“Welcome aboard Russell Airways,” he says, grinning at you all. “Please fasten your seatbelts, because you’re about to experience some serious turbulence.” He promptly rips the shirt open, shimmying his long limbs and bare chest towards the six of you. He’s both more nervous and less coordinated than Charles, who is whooping from the balcony; he mostly focuses his attention on Gemma, picking her up as she wraps her legs around his hips. When he kisses her, you all cheer, and it seems to spur him on, pressing her down into the couch. He retreats up to the balcony after that, but not before he places his hat slightly askew on Gemma’s head.
“What a dork,” she mutters, but you’re surprised to see a blush coating her cheeks as she touches the brim gently.
Max comes out next to a rap song you’ve never heard, dressed as a construction worker in a fluoro mesh vest, hard hat, a pair of distressed denim shorts, and work boots. “Get ready girls, I’ve got all the tools to get your hearts racing,” he calls, flexing his biceps. It’s all a little on the nose for a scaffolder, but he just about makes it work.
He basically skips over Molly, since they can’t couple up, but from the moment he reaches Gemma, you can tell he’s bringing it with a higher level of intensity than the two that came before him. He takes her hand, dragging it down his chest, before he leans in and kisses her neck. “Someone’s grafting!” Nicole cheers delightedly, and he clearly takes it as encouragement, lifting her into the air before he sits, reversing their positions. She straddles him, squealing as his hands roam her curves.
He makes his way down the line, approach more raw confidence than finesse. You have to hand it to him for trying with every girl, even if Lily looks like she wants to melt into the floor from the attention after he practically swings her around like a ragdoll. When he gets to you, he makes you hold the prop hammer above your head, swiveling his hips against yours without breaking eye contact. The whole thing is a bit much; you can feel your cheeks burning as you silently thank God that Carlos isn’t watching. When he jogs up the stairs to the balcony, you scan the couches for reactions, and smile when you see Nicole looking genuinely flustered.
The song changes again, some house music track this time, and Oscar makes his way down the stairs in a cowboy costume. “Howdy, ladies,” he says, and you can already see the blush on his cheeks.
“You know what they say: save a horse, ride a cowboy,” you lean over to tease Lily.
“Shut up,” she whispers back, but she’s watching Oscar run across the lawn in his chaps like it’s primetime television.
For someone who is clearly mortified by the entire ordeal and looks like he’d rather die than dance in public, Oscar does a surprisingly okay job. He keeps it respectful, all two-steps and hat tipping, and when he clasps your hand in his and do-si-dos you around the firepit, you sort of just want to give him a hug. He saves Lily for last, and actually attempts some proper moves, scooping her into his arms and spinning her around before dipping her into a kiss.
“So sweet,” Molly coos in a tone just this side of condescending as he leaves. You don’t think Lily notices; she’s watching him go like he just lassoed the moon for her personally.
The music shifts, smooth and sensual, and you already know who’s coming next. This could only be Carlos, and when he appears at the top of the stairs, you know you’re in for it. He’s a firefighter in tight black shorts, red suspenders, and work boots, and even the ridiculous plastic hat can’t make him look anything less than incredible. “Time to turn up the heat,” he calls, and you whoop joyfully in your seat.
He keeps things respectful with the other girls; maybe he can feel your gaze on him, bright and burning against his skin as he moves. He picks Lily up effortlessly, throwing her over his shoulder in a classic fireman’s carry and toting her around the fire. It’s Georgia next, skipping over you; he eases her to her feet and grinds against her briefly. Then he moves to Nicole, giving her a lap dance that has her fanning herself frantically. With Gemma, he goes playful, letting her grab the suspenders as he rolls his hips. By the time he gets to Molly, it’s a slow body roll, her hands sliding down his chest as he moves to the beat. There’s no lingering contact, no kisses — just enough heat to remind everyone he could have them wrapped around his finger if he really wanted.
Finally, he comes back to you, and it feels like the world narrows to just Carlos and the way he’s looking at you, raw with want. “You’re looking a little overheated, cariño,” he smirks, hands finding your waist, pulling you up from the bench and holding you close as he moves against you, slow and deliberate and absolutely filthy.
When he finally kisses you, it’s desperate, aching, your hands tangling in his hair as he presses himself against you. The effect is overwhelming; you’re dazed when he pulls away, a satisfied smirk on his face. The boys on the balcony are whooping so loudly you can barely hear yourself think. You know you’re biased, but you’re not sure how anyone could top that.
Then a Megan Thee Stallion song starts blaring from the speakers, and Lando struts out of the villa in taped-up glasses, a sleeveless button-up shirt with a plaid bowtie, and suspenders holding up the tiniest pair of plaid shorts you’ve ever seen.
“What’s up, ladies,” he grins, adopting a ridiculously dorky lisp, and you can feel the smile spread over your face before you can stop it. “Who wants to see my PHD?”
The boys are already laughing from the balcony, and Lando’s eyes sparkle as he approaches the firepit, the sound seeming to spur him on. He goes for Lily first, ripping the shirt buttons so the linen flutters loose around him and making her touch his abs. When he pretends to adjust his glasses and winks at her dramatically, she lets out a giggle.
You’re next, and Lando pulls a calculator from god knows where, approaching you as he types something with exaggerated concentration. “Check out my latest formula,” he grins, wiggling his eyebrows as he turns the device around so you can read the screen: 80085.
“You are actually twelve years old, oh my god,” you say as he comes closer, placing one hand on your shoulder and the other on your hip, but you’re laughing so hard you can barely get the words out.
He rolls his hips against yours, leaning forward to whisper in your ear: “Having fun yet?”
You’re so close you notice he’s wearing his actual glasses, with costume tape wrapped around the nose bridge, and something about it makes your heart thump in your chest. “Always with you,” you whisper back before you can stop yourself, and the smile he gives you in return is absurdly bright.
The moment is over quickly; he kisses you on the cheek and jumps up, skipping Georgia and moving on to Nicole. He hands her the calculator like it’s a reward before straddling her and grinding against her so exaggeratedly that it has her shrieking with laughter. Gemma’s next, and he keeps leaning into the bit, spinning her up from the bench with a playful tug and then shimmying his body down hers, the bowtie straining around the muscles in his neck. Molly gets a full show of body rolls, and it’s clear that he’s being totally unserious about it, but there’s something about his confidence that makes it all tick.
He finishes by doubling back to Georgia and lifting her effortlessly off the bench as she wraps her legs around his waist. When he kisses her, bouncing her against him with her hands tangling in his hair, you cheer with the others.
“Right, girls, time to return the favor!” Charles yells from the balcony as the boys jump around, high-fiving and chest bumping each other.
Fifteen minutes later, you’re on your way to a panic attack.
Like the boys, you’ll be going out one by one. You’re smack in the middle, which suits you fine. You’re already freaking out — going first or last would up the stakes exponentially in a way you know you definitely can’t handle. You can barely even look at yourself in the mirror; the short white dress hugs every curve dangerously and the red lace push-up bra has your tits sitting somewhere around your collarbone.
Lily goes first. Gemma follows her, wielding her tail like a whip. Then Nicole. You can’t see their performances, but you can hear the cheers, the laughter, all the boyish exuberance from outside as each girl dances, and it makes your palms sweat against the plasticky fabric. How are you going to compare?
“You’re up,” one of the producers says as you hear the music start back up and the moment you’ve been dreading arrives. They practically have to shove you out the door, but as you walk down the stairs on shaking legs, a thought occurs to you: Lando was silly and didn’t pretend to be sexy. He was completely himself, and it completely worked.
You can do that. You think.
You saunter slowly across the lawn, swinging the stethoscope above your head like a lasso. “Hi, boys,” you say, popping the buttons one by one down your chest, and they whistle and howl accordingly, hyping you up. “I hear you’re in need of some medical attention.”
Carlos’ eyes are wide as you reach the firepit, raking over you unabashedly, but you head to the other side of the benches first. You have to make him wait, even if it kills you.
Your decision means George is up first. “The love doctor has arrived,” you grin, wrapping the stethoscope around his neck and planting one foot next to his lap. You wind your hips, using the prop to pull him closer, and he splutters with surprise.
Oscar’s sitting next to him, but that’s a no; it’d be like grinding on your awkward younger cousin. You blow him a kiss as you go by on your way to Max, and he gives you a little salute in return.
You sit on Max’s lap next, his hands encircling your waist as you pull the thermometer out of your bra and place it on his tongue. You wait a moment before taking it out of his mouth, winding your hips as you pretend to read it and affect a gasp. “Oh my god,” you say, small grin on your face as you fan yourself. “It looks like he’s got the hots for me.”
The boys absolutely lose it. Lando lets out a cackle, covering his mouth with his hands, and George literally doubles over, clutching his stomach as you move on to Charles. “What’s my diagnosis, doctor?” he says cheekily, grinning up at you with an eyebrow cocked.
You grin, bracing your knees on either side of his waist, and his breath hitches. “Breathing seems… irregular. I think it might be terminal,” you say, pouting as you roll your hips. You glance over at Carlos; he’s staring, eyes fixed on you, and a current of something electric zips beneath your skin. “But don’t worry, I’m very experienced with bedroom — I mean, bedside manner.”
You kneel in front of Lando next, pulse racing under Carlos’ gaze. Taking the stethoscope from around your neck, you slide it from his heart down his abs to his hips. “Seems like I’m getting your blood pumping,” you grin, crawling up and bouncing your body against his in time with the music. To his credit, he moves his hips in time with you with a smirk on his face, eyes bright. “Or maybe something else pumping.”
The firepit erupts, and you swear you can hear Gemma screaming from the balcony. “Absolutely ridiculous,” Lando says fondly as you straighten up, kissing his cheek.
When you turn to Carlos, his eyes are molten.
“My star patient,” you say, voice low and actually sultry in a way that surprises you as you reach your hand out to him. He immediately tangles his fingers with yours, something possessive and hungry in his touch. You pull him to his feet, and his hands immediately go to your hips, so close to you that you can feel your skin prickle. Once you’ve walked him back to the other side of the firepit, you place a hand on his chest and push, just slightly, and he falls back, hitting the deck and looking up at you as you drop slowly to the ground in front of him.
“I think he looks a little sick,” you say, eyes glittering as you look towards the other boys. “What do you think? It looks like he might need mouth-to-mouth.”
The cheers are deafening as you slide on top of Carlos, straddling his hips. His chest rises and falls rapidly as his hands find your waist, gripping onto you like it’s the only thing keeping him on this planet. “Feeling better yet?” you tease as you lean down, lips just brushing over his.
“Not even close,” he murmurs, pulling you into a searing kiss, hands sliding up your back as you roll your hips against his. When you finally break apart, breathing hard, there’s something wild in his eyes, and you know you’ve put on a good show. You blow him a kiss as you get up, walking slowly across the lawn, and he holds a hand over his heart.
Carlos is still lying on the deck when you emerge onto the balcony, breathless, and the girls pull you into a hug. “You killed it!” Gemma squeals against your hair.
“Oh my god, I think I blacked out for the whole thing,” you giggle, letting the adrenaline of the moment drain out of your body. “How did yours go? Anything exciting?”
“It was kind of fun, actually? George looked absolutely gone for Gemma, as per. Thought he might have a heart attack. And Nicole was proper brilliant,” Lily chimes in.
“You looked quite cozy with Charles there,” the redhead sniffs, ignoring the younger girl’s compliment as she turns her focus on you.
Before you can tell her you’re very happy with Carlos and aren’t going to get your head turned by a guy who hasn’t cleaned his water bottle once in the three weeks you’ve been here, the music starts pounding through the speakers again. Georgia goes cartwheeling across the lawn, straight into a split that has the boys yelling before she even hits the deck. She’s got dancer’s confidence, all hair flips and effortless rhythm as she winds her hips in a way that makes your stomach twist. Molly follows with even more bravado, living up to her costume as she dances for everyone, even Oscar. By the time she makes it to Carlos, dropping her hips to the ground and sending him toppling back against the bench, hands behind his head, you feel ridiculous for ever thinking you could compete. You’ll be lucky if you even raised Carlos’ heart rate the most.
Once Molly’s finished, the producers summon the rest of you down to the firepit again. The air is buzzing with nervous anticipation; you find Carlos at the end of the benches, and the second you sit down his arm slides around your waist, grip tight as he pulls you possessively against his side.
George’s phone buzzes and he pulls it out. “Time for the results. George, your heart rate went highest for Gemma,” he reads off his phone, and you clap, giving Gemma a thumbs up.
“Your heart rate went highest for Lily,” Oscar reads. “No shock there,” he adds with a grin.
Max is next, and since he’s single you find yourself genuinely interested in who it’ll be. “Your heart rate went highest for Georgia,” he states, flicking a sheepish glance at Lando.
“Fair play, mate, she killed that,” Lando replies, a wide, unbothered grin on his face.
“Your heart rate went highest for Molly,” Charles says next, and Nicole goes deadly still. “Well, she was last!” he tries, but she doesn’t look at him, just keeps staring into the fire.
Lando unlocks his phone when it buzzes. “Lando, your heart rate went highest for —” He stops, blinking down at the screen like the words have gone fuzzy. “Uh, you,” he says, the tips of his ears going pink as he looks directly at you.
Carlos’ arm tenses around you, and you laugh, a high-pitched, uneven thing. “Well. Thanks, Lan,” you say, voice hoarse. He just nods in response, rubbing the back of his neck.
It’s back to the beginning, then: Gemma’s heart rate goes highest for George (which he seems immensely pleased by), Lily’s for Oscar, and both Molly and Nicole for Carlos.
“Three out of six?” you whisper to him. “Save some sexiness for the rest of us, yeah?” He grins bashfully, and the tension in your chest loosens.
Georgia goes next, and her heart rate went highest for Charles. Lando keeps a smile on his face, shrugging his shoulders like he couldn’t care less. Then your phone buzzes, and you read out loud: “Your heart rate went the highest for Lando.”
Wait. What the fuck?
By the time the words process in your brain, the firepit has already erupted into chaos. Carlos doesn’t say a word, but the way he pulls his arm away from you feels like a statement in itself. Your cheeks are burning; you can barely stand to look at Lando, but when your eyes flick his way he’s already staring at you, eyes wide.
“Interesting,” Georgia snarls, smile razor-sharp as the rest of the islanders thin out across the lawn, eyes pointed anywhere but the four of you.
You laugh nervously, heart rate higher than it’s been all night. “It’s just a challenge, G.”
“Is it though?” she says, eyes narrowing as her gaze bounces between the two of you.
“C’mon, Georgia,” Lando says, low and soothing. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Right, of course it doesn’t,” she snaps, hand tightening around his arm possessively as she yanks him up. “Because nothing’s ever serious with you.”
You think you’re probably the only one who sees his expression crumple. He barely has time to shoot you an apologetic look before she pulls him away from the firepit, voice going shrill and carrying all the way across the lawn until they enter the villa.
It’s just you and Carlos then, and the ache on his face makes you wonder how such a silly challenge could make everything so complicated. “So,” he says, posture rigid as he sits next to you. “Lando.”
You sigh. “Carlos. You went right before him. My heart rate was probably still going mental from that kiss. And Lando’s my friend, and he made me laugh. That’s it. It was just — weird timing.”
“Timing,” he echoes, voice hollow.
“Exactly,” you say, tugging at his hand; he lets you intertwine your fingers with his, but there’s a vacancy to the act that makes you even more determined to convince him. “The whole thing is stupid anyway. You know there’s nothing between me and Lando. I bet those monitors aren’t even accurate.”
You can see how badly he wants to believe you. But there’s still something stubborn in his expression, a suspicion that makes your chest tight with frustration.
“It’s just a game, Carlos,” you say softly. “I’m with you. One challenge result isn’t going to change that.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, staring into the darkness. The fire casts strange, angular shadows across his face. Then he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I’m being stupid,” he says, resting his head against your shoulder.
“You aren’t,” you reply automatically, even though part of you kind of thinks he is. “I get it. But you don’t need to worry. You know that, right?”
He nods, skin warm against yours, and when he lifts his head to look at you there’s a hint of a smile on his face. “I know.”
“Good,” you say, smiling back. “Now stop being daft about this stupid challenge and kiss me properly.”
He leans in obediently, and you meet him halfway. The kiss is soft, sweet, built to reassure. But even after everything, you can still taste the doubt on his lips.
“We’re good?” you mumble into the kiss.
He pulls away, but not before pressing one more kiss against the corner of your mouth. “We’re good. Bed?”
“You go,” you say, waving your hand. “Just gonna sit for a bit.”
You stay out long enough for the night to stretch, for the fire to turn to embers and die under your gaze. As you make your way back towards the villa, you catch a glimpse of movement in the kitchen. Lando’s standing at the stovetop with his back to you, shoulder tense as he watches the kettle boil.
“Hey,” you whisper as you pad into the kitchen.
He turns, and you’re surprised to see his eyes are rimmed red. “Hey.”
“I’m sorry,” you start hesitantly. “About earlier. I should’ve said something to G, I think. Or to you. The whole heart rate thing was —” you pause, not exactly sure where you’re going. “I feel bad.”
He grabs another mug without asking, placing it next to his on the counter as the kettle begins to whistle. “Nothing to be sorry for. Not your fault the monitors are mental.”
“How are you holding up?” you ask, hopping onto a stool.
He shrugs, turning off the burner and pouring the water with a practiced hand. “G’s furious with me. Says I embarrassed her since my heart rate wasn’t fastest for her.”
Your eyebrows knit together. “But her heart rate went fastest for Charles.”
“Believe me,” he says dryly, sliding one of the mugs across the counter to you, “I pointed that fact out.”
You take a sip, the familiar mint taste soothing over your tongue. “I’m sure that went well,” you say, lips twitching before both of you lapse into exhausted giggles.
“I dunno why she got so upset,” he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s not like those things are actually scientific.”
“That’s what I said to Carlos!” you say, and the way he understands you without explanation makes you feel like you can breathe properly for the first time since the challenge ended. “I mean, it’s so ridiculous. They literally design these challenges to stir up drama. I wouldn’t even be surprised if the results were rigged.”
“You mean reality TV isn’t real?” he says, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Could’ve fooled me.”
You laugh, and it hits then, suddenly and without warning — the terrifying certainty that sitting here in the dark kitchen with him, steam curling off your mugs, is the realest moment you’ve had in weeks.
“Georgia will come around,” you say firmly, shaking off the thought. “She’s going to feel some type of way. The whole challenge is made to mess with people’s heads. But you’re good together.”
“You think?”
“Look, G’s not one of my favorite people here. But you are. And she makes you happy,” you say, shrugging. “Things will get back to normal.”
Something flickers across his face then, but it’s gone too quick for you to analyze it. “What about you and Carlos? You okay?”
You sigh. “Yeah. He was like G, taking the whole thing a bit too serious, but we worked it out. He just needed a little reassurance that it was meaningless, you know?”
“Meaningless,” he repeats cautiously, like he’s testing the word on his tongue. “Yeah. Right. Well, that’s good. Glad things got sorted.”
There’s silence for a moment, light from the neon signs glowing pink against his cheeks. “I’m glad I have you, you know?” you say eventually, almost a little shy, like you’re unlocking some small part of yourself just for him. “It’s just nice to have a friend here. Someone who doesn’t make everything so complicated.”
He watches you over the rim of his mug, eyes crinkling at the edges as he takes a long sip. “Yeah. It is,” he agrees, and the two of you finish your tea in a comfortable, peaceful quiet.
“I should probably go. Carlos is waiting,” you say, getting up to rinse your mug in the sink.
He nods, letting you brush by him as you turn the water on. “Thanks for this,” he says softly.
You look at him, and you can tell he doesn’t just mean for the tea. “‘Course. What are friends for?”
When you slip into bed next to Carlos, he pulls you into him, reassuringly familiar. You turn it over in your head like a mantra: it doesn’t matter what the monitor said. You know where your heart really is.
You just need to keep reminding yourself of that.
It takes you about a half second of consciousness to realize Carlos isn’t where you left him.
Your eyes shoot open, and when the lights flicker on, you sit bolt upright in a cold and empty bed, eyes scanning the room in a mental tally. Six girls. No boys. Your friends forced you to watch enough of the show before you left to know what that means.
Casa Amor has arrived.
There’s a beat of stunned silence, and then everyone starts talking at once — carefree laughter, confused murmurs, groggy protests that it’s too early for this. You push back the covers, adrenaline rising in your chest. Everything is gone. Even Carlos’ name has been scraped off his dresser. You can only hope you’ll be more permanent in his mind for the next four days.
You might be a little bit in shock, because even though you were the first to wake up you’re the last to make it into the dressing room. The girls are already comparing the gifts the boys left behind; Lily’s slipping on Oscar’s leather bracelet with a soft smile on her face and carefully placing a photobooth reel of the two of them into her phone case while Georgia and Gemma shriek with laughter in the corner because apparently, Charles only left Nicole a pair of his boxers with a handwritten note ‘so you remember how fit I am, chérie’.
Neatly folded on your chair is Carlos’ gift: the navy hoodie he always throws on in the mornings, well-worn to the point of softness. It still smells like his cologne, and you smile and hug it to your chest, warm despite the AC blasting through the room. It’s nice. Nothing over-the-top, of course — that’s not Carlos’ style — but it warms your heart to know he was thinking of you, especially after all the tension last week with the heart rate challenge. You’re about to pull it on when your fingers brush unmistakably against a folded piece of paper in the front pocket.
Your heart leaps at the gesture, fingers scrabbling for purchase as you pull the scrap out. But when you unfold it, it’s not Carlos’ neat block handwriting; it’s something messier, rounder letters, script just uneven enough to feel sincere.
i know you hate when people leave without saying goodbye, so… consider this my goodbye 4 now!! don’t spiral too much ya muppet, i’ll keep an eye on carlos for you xx - L
You read it once, twice, a third time, warmth spreading through your chest. Trust Lando to remember an offhand comment you’d made at least a week ago about your mum leaving for business trips without saying goodbye, how you hated waking up to find people you cared about gone.
You fold it up carefully and slide it back into the front pocket, pulling the hoodie over your head. Today, you’re keeping both your gifts close to you.
You don’t even pretend to entertain the new boys, really. Franco tries to flirt with you, but he rolls his R’s the same way Carlos does, and you can’t stomach the conversation without feeling like you’re cheating, trying to replace something you haven’t even lost. Lily makes a half-hearted attempt to get to know one of the others, a gangly curly-haired boy named Ollie who’s awkward in a way that’s almost charming. But her hands keep fidgeting with her new bracelet, and when nighttime rolls around, you’re both on the daybeds, string lights twinkling above you as you curl up in Carlos and Oscar’s hoodies and hope against hope that they’re thinking about you too.
Georgia, on the other hand, is having the time of her life.
She’s flitting between the new boys like it’s the first week all over again. First Yuki the sous chef is making her breakfast, and she’s giggling as he feeds her bites of pancakes on the terrace. Then she’s starting a splash fight with Liam in the pool, shrieking when he dunks her under the surface. All of it irritates you more than it should.
You catch her in the kitchen on day three, when you’re cleaning up from dinner. She flounces in, refilling her water from the spigot as you dry the dishes. “So,” you say as casually as you can, “where’s your head at, with all this?”
“Exactly where it should be,” she grins smugly. “I’m exploring my options, aren’t I?”
“But what about Lando?” you say, stacking plates in one of the cabinets.
“What about him?”
You flinch, turning back around to face her. “He really likes you, you know,” you say carefully. “And you’re going to get him dumped from the villa if you keep cracking on the way you are.”
She blinks at you, hand on hip. “It’s Love Island, babe. It’s not like I’m sending him to the guillotine or something. Honestly, you and Lils act like I’ve murdered someone every time I have a conversation.”
“It’s not about the conversation,” you scowl. “You’re leading someone on, G.”
Her eyes narrow just a little, and for a second, something colder flickers through her usual bubbly persona. “And you’re not?”
You stiffen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She takes a long swig from her water bottle, then flashes you a saccharine smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just don’t get righteous with me, babe. You’re not exactly the picture of honesty, so maybe worry about your own couple before mine.”
Before you can answer — or ask her what the fuck she’s on about, since you’ve been loyally sleeping on the daybeds all week — she turns on her heel and prances off like the conversation never happened.
The words echo in your mind the entire night, long after the lights of the villa go out. You lie awake listening to the buzz of mosquitos and Lily’s snores, crinkling Lando’s note between restless fingers as your hoodie bunches uncomfortably under your cheek, until the morning sun bleeds golden over the island again.
The villa’s strangely tense all day, everyone walking on eggshells like they know the end is coming. When the text comes to gather around the firepit immediately, it’s almost a relief.
Molly goes first, unsurprisingly; she wasn’t coupled with anyone before, so she’s had her pick this week. She goes with Yuki, who’s refreshingly outspoken for a Casa boy, enough that you’d wager he actually likes her and wasn’t just going for the only truly single girl. You give her a thumbs up, sending a silent thank you to the universe that you won’t have to eat any more of Charles’ sludgy overnight oats now that there’s an actual chef in the villa. Max high fives her when he comes back with Camilla, a mild-mannered nurse with the prettiest goddess braids you’ve ever seen; you like her immediately, as soon as she gives Molly a hug like she’s known her for ten years instead of ten seconds.
Nicole’s after her, choosing Franco. Apparently the boxers hadn’t helped her remember Charles much at all. Not that he seems bothered, though — he comes strolling through the door with Chloe, a redhead with chic blunt bangs who looks like her natural habitat is chainsmoking outside a Parisian cafe with a sketchbook. They fit together, you suppose as you clap politely.
Gemma gets a text then, and you’re surprised to see her switch to Liam. He doesn’t seem her type, and you’d thought she and George were pretty solid. When he walks back in with someone on his arm, too, a stunning girl named Meg with glossy curls and legs for days who’s beaming like she just won the whole show, you think you must have misjudged. That is, until George starts staring daggers at Liam’s frosted tips and you clock the way Gemma’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Georgia’s phone buzzes next. She stands up with a slight smirk, clearly reveling in the drama. “I’ve decided to switch,” she announces breezily, and you try to ignore the way your heart drops as she links hands with Jack, the Aussie PE teacher who’d been following her around like a puppy all week.
A moment later, Lando comes bounding in, solo. You can see the familiar bright grin on his face from a mile away, which also means you can see the exact moment it falters when he registers Georgia seated next to someone else, the loss rippling through the air like an aftershock.
“Happy for you,” he says to the two of them, exceedingly polite, and sits down at the edge of the firepit, knee brushing against yours as he stares straight into the flames.
Lily’s next, and you squeeze her hand supportively as she stands up. “I’m staying loyal to Oscar,” she says, twisting his bracelet nervously around her wrist. “Some things are worth waiting for.” The pause feels endless, until Oscar appears alone in the doorway with a bashful smile tugging at his lips. She bursts into tears the second she sees him, and he doesn’t even wait for the producers to text their OK before he sweeps her into a tight hug, both of them clinging to each other like there’s no one else in the villa.
And then it’s just you, standing in front of the firepit with shaking hands and a lump in your throat you can’t seem to shake. “I came here to find something real, and I have,” you say, voice steady even if your heart is anything but. Your fingers toy with the sleeves of his sweatshirt, warm over your cocktail dress. “So I’ve decided to stick with Carlos.”
The wait feels like the longest thirty seconds of your life, until Carlos rounds the corner and even in your panicked state, you can see he’s alone. Relief courses through your body. He stayed loyal. You both —
He turns back, extending his hand. Another figure steps into view beside him, and you discover what it feels like to have your heart break in under a minute.
She’s petite, blonde, brilliant blue eyes, a nervous smile that suggests that she’s overwhelmed by the attention of the moment, uneasy with the way the girls seem shocked and the boys seem entirely unsurprised. Her name is Emma. At least that’s what you think she said. You can’t quite hear her over the ringing in your ears. Your face feels so hot you think you might genuinely overheat. It’s not helped by the fact that you’re still wearing his fucking hoodie.
The moment stretches, warps, splits at the seams. You’re only pulled out of your daze by the familiar, cruel ding! of a text message beside you on the bench. You blink hard, not even remembering when exactly you sat down.
“The two of you are now single and vulnerable,” Lando reads off his phone next to you, and you know exactly what that means. Vacation is over, in the most humiliating way you can possibly imagine.
You take a deep breath, blinking back the tears gathering at your waterline. You can save them until you leave the villa, at least — long enough that Carlos won’t see you cry over him, over everything you thought you had before you let the rug get pulled out from under you yet again.
And then your phone buzzes in your lap.
You unlock it with shaking fingers, eyes scanning over the text. “But now you have a choice,” you read out loud, voice low and overly controlled. “You can either leave the villa immediately, or the two of you can stay in the villa as a new couple.”
You can hear the gasps, the low murmurs around you. But all you see — the first person you look to — is Lando.
“It’s up to you, okay?” he says immediately, voice low, fingertips ghosting at your elbow. The firepit makes his skin glow golden. “Whatever you need. We can go right now.”
Your eyes flick instinctively to Carlos, across the firepit. He’s not looking at you, instead staring at the decking under his feet with the level of intensity you’d imagined he would save for the newest copy of Architectural Digest. Lando catches your chin with his hand, gentle, and when you turn back to him his eyes are soft. “Hey. It’s not about him, yeah? It’s about what you want.”
You shake your head once, almost imperceptible, eyes wide with panic. “I don’t know what I want, Lan.”
The truth is, you never thought you’d be here. You’d been so sure you were coming back to something steady. To something real. To someone who was waiting for you, too. Not to a beautiful blonde ambush and a man who can’t meet your eyes.
“Okay,” Lando says patiently, thumb grazing your jaw like he’s trying his hardest to keep you anchored into the moment, out of your rapidly spiraling thoughts. “Okay. Market analytics, then. What do you not want?”
The question catches you off guard, words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I don’t want to go like this,” you whisper. “I don’t — I dunno, I don’t want him to think he’s won.”
Something flickers across Lando’s face. At first you think it’s anger, a flash of heat across his boyish features at the idea that both of you have been cast aside like nothing, like losers. But when you look closer, it’s something else entirely. Pride, maybe. Or recognition. Like he sees the fight in you because it lives in him too.
And then he smiles.
“Good,” he says, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Because I didn’t really fancy the idea of going home just yet.” His eyes are cold as he stares across the fire. “We’re staying. Think we’ve both got some unfinished business here, don’t we?”
There’s not much anyone can say after that.
The second the ceremony ends, you bolt from the firepit — not knowing quite where you’re going, just trying to make it to the dressing room closets or the shower stalls or anywhere that has four walls and zero cameras so you can let out the tears that have been threatening to fall for the past hour.
You’re only halfway across the lawn when you hear it, that determined tone that you once found endearing and now makes your stomach twist with panic: “Cariño, wait.”
Your body tenses, heart hammering against your ribs as you keep moving. “Please,” Carlos says, and he’s right behind you now. You silently curse the fact that you chose to wear stilettos; if you weren’t sinking into the lawn with every step, maybe you could have avoided this confrontation. “Can we talk?”
You would rather suck on Charles’ musty water bottle straw, actually. “Carlos, I —” you start, but he already has his hand on your elbow, spinning you to face him. He’s giving you the look that used to melt you, head tilted just so, softness in those big brown eyes like he hasn’t just stomped over your heart on national television.
“Just five minutes,” he says, voice low. “Don’t I deserve five minutes?”
You freeze, words cutting through you like a knife. He’s acting like you owe him something, like even after the humiliation ritual you’ve been through tonight, somehow you’re the one being unreasonable. You’d thought you’d gotten used to the weight of a million eyes on you, but you’ve never felt so small as you do right now under his gaze.
“Everything alright here?” Your head snaps to your left to see Lando approaching. His demeanor looks calm, but you catch his eyes scanning over the scene with sharp focus, taking in Carlos’ hand on your arm and your eyes, glassy with unshed tears.
“We’re fine,” Carlos snaps, and you blink in surprise at the shift in his tone — clipped and defensive, nothing like the easy banter you’re used to hearing between them. “Private conversation.”
Lando raises an eyebrow, stepping closer to you, and you pull your arm out of Carlos’ grasp. “Not very private, mate,” he says coolly. “Since you’re doing it in front of the whole villa.”
Your gaze flicks between them, realization dawning. Whatever happened at Casa changed something, their fast friendship curdling into something bitter and unresolved.
“This is between me and her,” Carlos says, hand slicing through the air like he’s swatting away a particularly unpleasant gnat. “It’s not your business, cabrón.”
“Funny thing about that,” Lando replies, positioning himself cleanly between the two of you, close enough that you can feel his presence like a shield. “When the girl I’m coupled up with clearly doesn’t want to talk to you and is trying to get away from you, it becomes my business.”
Carlos’ jaw tightens, hands clenching at his sides. “She’s a big girl. She can speak for herself.”
“I don’t want to talk to you,” you blurt, surprising yourself with how fast the words come out.
He opens his mouth to reply, but Lando pipes up first, voice dangerously calm. “There you go. So here’s what’s going to happen now. You’re going to respect her decision not to have this conversation. And if you can’t do that, if you keep pushing when she’s clearly upset, then she’s going to go inside and us two are going to have a very different talk.” He smiles flatly, something final in it. “Are we clear?”
Carlos stares at the two of you for a long moment, eyes flashing, and you can see the moment he realizes he’s not winning this battle, not if it’s two-on-one. “Fine,” he spits, turning on his heel and marching back towards the firepit, posture rigid with frustration.
The second he stalks away, your lungs start working again, and you let out a shaky exhale. It’s like the whole villa was holding its breath along with you; you can hear the buzz of conversation around you kicking back up, islanders meandering across the grass again like someone hit a restart button on the night. Lando turns to you, all the fight draining from his expression in an instant. “You alright?” he says gently. “Want me to get Lily?”
You nod in response to his first question, even though you’re not sure it’s true. “Just want to go to sleep, honestly,” you manage. You’re not so selfish as to interrupt your friend’s happy reunion, even if your own evening has turned into a complete nightmare.
He glances over towards the rest of the islanders, then back to you. “Go,” he says, voice soft. “I’ll hold everyone off for a bit.”
Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing in the bedroom in your pajamas, staring at the beds like they might gain sentience and rearrange themselves out of pity. The producers, clearly hoping for some drama, have sandwiched the two of you directly between Carlos and Emma on your left and Georgia and Jack on your right.
They’re all smiles as they filter into the room, no regard for the emotional chaos they’re creating as they giggle and flirt in voices that aren’t nearly hushed enough. You, on the other hand, are staring pointedly at the ceiling and calculating the odds of the universe taking mercy on you and striking you down with a lightning bolt.
Lando comes back into the bedroom dead last, hair damp from the shower. You watch as he comes closer, wait for the flicker of pain that crosses his face when he realizes the situation, but it doesn’t come. He just keeps his head down, taking his glasses off and neatly folding them on the nightstand before he clambers in next to you, like a bizarre sort of sleepover.
The lights snap off, and he promptly pulls the duvet up and over both your heads, cocooning the two of you in white cotton as he faces you with a deadpan expression. “Are we in hell right now?”
You exhale, rolling onto your side to face him. “I was thinking the world’s worst middle seat.”
“I’m going to have to full on pterodactyl screech if I hear another bed squeaking noise in surround sound,” he whispers faux-seriously. “Or if Carlos tries out the sexy Spanish whisper again. Like, it’s not that impressive, mate. We all know how to say mi amor.”
You laugh for real this time, sharp and surprised, tension finally loosening in your chest. You can tell he’s just trying to make you feel better, but it works. You think it’s the first time you’ve laughed in days. At least since the boys left for Casa. “Right? Though I think I’d take cheesy Spanish over a loud kisser. I mean, Georgia, babe. Does the whole room need to hear your lips smacking?”
Lando smiles, pleased and a little triumphant. “There she is. Thought I’d lost you for a minute.”
The silence stretches between the two of you for a moment. “D’you know what the worst part is?” you whisper, flopping onto your back. “I actually thought he was coming back for me. Slept on the daybeds the whole week. How pathetic is that?”
“S’not pathetic.” He shakes his head, heart-shaped mouth twisting down at the corners. “I get it. Thought Georgia and I had something, you know?” He laughs, humorless. “It took, what, three days? And she’s recoupled with someone taller, more muscular, less… well, less me, I suppose.”
The defeat in his voice makes something crack white-hot and angry in your chest. “Less of a personality or a working brain, too,” you say, vicious on his behalf, and he musters up a half-laugh. “Lan, you can’t start comparing. You can’t do that to yourself.”
“Bit rich, coming from you,” he sniffs. “Saw you sizing Emma up from the minute she walked in on Carlos’ arm.”
You sigh, because for a guy who’s only known you a month, he’s annoyingly good at reading you. “Touché. I just… I never thought he’d recouple. I thought I knew him, you know?”
Lando’s voice is hard. “Clearly neither of us did.”
You glance over at him. “What do you mean?”
He sighs, tongue poking against the side of his mouth. “After seeing him at Casa, I think you might’ve dodged a bullet.” He pauses, shifts on the mattress like he can’t physically sit with the information he’s holding back. “He kept talking like he could explore and didn’t have to worry, because he knew you’d be waiting. Got in a bit of a row with him about it, actually.”
You picture them on the lawn, the coldness in Carlos’ eyes, the barely concealed disdain on Lando’s face, and the puzzle pieces click into place. He’d stood up for you. Even when he didn’t have to, even when you weren’t there to hear it, even if it meant he’d lose Carlos.
“Thank you,” you whisper, voice choked with emotion. “For everything. Seriously.”
His gaze softens, and he pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around you. Maybe it’s the emotional exhaustion, or the strange intimacy of being the only two people in the world who understand each other’s situation right now, but you can feel yourself relax for the first time in days. “Always,” he says, words muffled against your hair. “What are friends for?”
“I’m glad it’s you,” you mumble. He’s warm and solid and steady beneath you, and despite the heartbreak and the humiliation and the hundreds of cameras probably pointed at you right now, you know you’re safe. “Really. Think I’d be losing it if it were anyone else here right now.”
His arms tighten around you just slightly as your eyes drift shut. “Me too,” he says, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. The last thing you think as you sink into sleep is that neither of you are okay yet, not by a long shot.
can you write anything with lando and streaming and just fluff
streaming જ⁀➴
₊˚⊹♡ ln x reader ᵕ̈
₊˚⊹♡ fluff ᵕ̈
masterlist ☾☼
i'd love your support! https://ko-fi.com/kavi2305
lando was live on twitch.
he was also slouched so far down in his chair you could only see the top half of his face and the headset clinging on for dear life.
"bro," he muttered into the mic, eyebrows furrowed. "this guy is camping. full-on camping. like—set up a tent, made marshmallows, the whole thing."
you, from the couch behind him, snorted into your hoodie sleeve.
he twisted in his chair, pointing a dramatic finger at you. “stop laughing at me.”
“i’m not laughing at you,” you said, “i’m laughing at your tragic inability to survive five minutes in-game.”
lando gasped. the chat exploded. Y/N EXPOSES HIM LIVE??
“betrayal,” he said, pressing a hand to his heart. “from my own household.”
“that’s what you get for screaming when a fake grenade lands near you.”
“that was a real fake grenade, thank you very much.”
you walked up behind him, leaned over, and adjusted his headset slightly, brushing the curls away from his temple. “maybe if you stopped yelling every time someone moved, you’d hear footsteps.”
lando’s voice dropped. softer now, for you and no one else. “maybe if you sat here with me, i’d survive longer.”
you raised a brow. “is that a gamer-boy way of saying you miss me?”
he gave a crooked smile. “might be.”
you slipped into the second chair beside him, pulling your legs up cross-legged. he wordlessly handed you a spare controller—already plugged in, already ready.
"we doing duos?"
"yeah," he said. "and you're carrying."
you scoffed. “we both know i’m the emotional support here.”
lando grinned at the camera. “everyone say hi to the actual mvp.”
chat exploded again. MUM AND DAD ARE STREAMING TOGETHER 😭💙
as the game loaded, he glanced sideways at you—thumbs tapping the controller, tongue poked out slightly in concentration. and for a second, everything else fell away: the noise, the game, even the chat scrolling endlessly with emojis.
it was just you. feet nudging his under the desk, elbow brushing his arm, your laugh spilling into his headphones.
later, when the stream ended and the room dimmed, lando rested his head on your shoulder and whispered, “thanks for saving me back there.”
“in the game?”
“in life, probably.”
you smiled into his curls. “yeah. probably.”
・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・
unfortunately, im done with driver x reader fics now, and will only be focusing on my commissions! you can find the commissions post here!
summary: charles and his girlfriend have been together for ten years, everyone wonders when is he going to propose
folkie radio: hi guysss, this idea was originally posted for alex on patreon buuut i decided to turn it into a charles fic since it's been sooo long since the last time i wrote for him and i missed it. i hope you like it!
MASTERLIST | MY PATREON
liked by charles_leclerc, iamrebeccad and 209,755 others
yourinstagram just like the past nine years and ten months, I'll be cheering for charlie from the garage !! je t'aime plus que tout au monde, mon coeur. Tu es mon bonheur quotidien 🤍 [ i love you more than anything in the world, my heart. you are my daily happiness]
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username1 MY PARENTS
username2 TEN YEAR ANNIVERSARY INCOMING LET'S GO
charles_leclerc Mon amour, you are my strength and motivation. I love you infinitely
└ username1 MARRY HER ALREADY
└ username2 she's really the love of his life
lando get married already you two 😂
carmenmmundt The cutest couple in the paddock! ❤️
username3 NINE YEARS?? charles bestie it's time to propose fr fr
username4 the way he looks at her in the garage >>> everyone place your bets on when he's finally gonna propose
username5 how are they the most stable couple in f1 but still not engaged? charles wyd?
username6 living for how lando pressuring him in the comments lmaooo
username7 CHARLES JUST PUT A RING ON IT
username8 the fact that they've been together since before he even got to f1 🥺 truly growing together
iamrebeccad Cuties !! When's the wedding?
└ username2 becca asking the REAL questions
username9 almost ten years and no ring is crazy
username10 if they don’t get married i don’t think i can believe in love anymore
liked by yourinstagram, lewishamilton and 1,196,535 others
charles_leclerc Unlucky day but I’ve tried it all. Next is Monaco, thank you for all the support ❤️ And special thanks to my rock for the last 9 years @/yourinstagram for constantly reminding me that there's always another race. I love you, mon amour.
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username1 FERRARI YOU WILL PAY FOR YOUR CRIMES
username2 always including yn in his captions 🥺
pierregasly Chin up, champ
username3 we'll always be by your side supporting you no matter what
username4 FORZA CHARLES
username5 u know what would give you good luck? proposing to yn
username6 all these beautiful captions and no ring
scuderiaferrari Forza sempre ❤️
lewishamilton Having a good support system makes all better and you have the best support ever, mate. Next race will be better
username7 charles leclerc if you don't marry that woman istg
username8 yn needs to give him a huge hug from us
username9 STILL MY GOAT
yourinstagram you'll always be my champion 🤍 i love you and i'll always be here for you
username10 he's so lucky to have yn 🥺
liked by username1, username2 and 2,946 others
f1updates Charles talked about future plans regarding marriage during new podcast episode:
"I mean... laughs I don't know, we're just enjoying where we are right now. YN and I are happy, that's what matters."
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username1 CHARLES MARC HERVE PERCEVAL LECLERC ARE YOU KIDDING ME RN?? "i don't know" MY BROTHER IN CHRIST IT'S BEEN 10 YEARS 😭
username2 i know my girl yn is TIRED
username3 remember when he couldn't even admit they were dating for the first 6 months
username4 boy better have a ring hidden somewhere because what do you mean "i don't know"
username5 THIS CANT BEREAL
username6 ten years and no ring is just diabolical
username7 charles really said "commitment? in this economy?" sir it's been a DECADE
username8 he's definitely planning something because ain't no way 😭
username9 man's out here acting like they haven't been together since before half the grid even had their super license
username10 ten years and he still gets flustered talking about their relationship in public, honestly kinda cute tho
username11 the way she just KNOWS he's probably got something planned because ain't no way he's this dense after 10 years
username12 charles really said "marriage? i hardly know her" SIR THAT IS YOUR GIRLFRIEND OF 10 YEARS
liked by charles_leclerc, lilymhe and 198,760 others
yourinstagram P2 at home!!! 🇲🇨 so proud of you my love, you fought so hard today! seeing you on the podium in monaco will never get old ❤️ je suis tellement fière de toi mon amour, tu mérites le monde entier [I'm so proud of you my love, you deserve the whole world]
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username1 THESE CUTIESSS
username2 i love them so bad
charles_leclerc Merci d'être toujours là mon coeur ❤️ Coming home to celebrate with you makes every podium even more special 🤍
[thank you for always being there my heart]
└ yourinstagram I love you for ever !
lewishamilton Great drive today Charles! You two are glowing 🙌
└ username1 even lewis roots for them as he should
username4 the way she still looks at him like a proud girlfriend from his karting days 🥺 charles pls put a ring on it
carmenmmundt Cuties !!!
username5 bro got p2 at his home race with his gf of almost 10 years watching and STILL didn't propose i'm throwing hands
arthur_leclerc The only thing missing from this perfect Monaco weekend was a proposal
└ username1 ARTHUR HAS NO CHILL
└ charles_leclerc ?
└ username2 CHARLES STOP ACTING DENSE
└ yourinstagram arthur you messy minx
username6 not me refreshing their instas every 5 mins hoping to see an engagement announcement 😭
username7 the way every comment is about proposing LMAO we're all thinking it tho
username8 petition for charles to stop being a chicken and propose already, my guy you've been together longer than some marriages
username9 plot twist: he's waiting for a race win to propose 👀
username10 CHARLES JUST PROPOSE FFS
liked by yourinstagram, carlossainz55 and 1,987,937 others
charles_leclerc 10 years with you by my side. From karting to Formula 1, from teenagers to who we are today, you've been my constant. Every victory, every defeat, every moment has been better because I get to share it with you. Joyeux anniversaire mon amour ❤️ Ces dix années ne sont que le début de notre histoire. Tu es l'amour de ma vie, aujourd'hui et pour toujours [happy anniversary my love. these ten years are just the beginning of our story. you are the love of my life, today and forever]
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username1 I JUST SOBBED REALLY LOUDLY
username2 this is absolutely beautiful
leclerc_pascale Beautiful ! Love both of you
yourinstagram je t'aime plus que les mots peuvent l'exprimer ❤️ here's to forever with you my love [I love you more than words can express]
username3 bro wrote a whole love letter but still no ring? 🤔
username4 mans really said "these 10 years are just the beginning" instead of proposing
carlossainz55 You're killing us mate 😭 Beautiful words though!
maxverstappen1 Bro, come on
arthur_leclerc Beautiful words brother, however...
username5 charles writing poetry about their love but refusing to propose is my villain origin story
username6 THE FIRST PHOTO I'M CRYING they literally grew up together 🥺
username7 even max is calling him out i'm deceased 💀 charles the world is waiting!!
username8 10 YEARS AND STILL NO RING?? this man really testing our patience fr
username9 the way he could've made this the perfect proposal post... charles leclerc i'm watching you
username10 taking bets on whether he'll wait for the 15 year anniversary at this point
username11 EVERYONE IS JUST WAITING FOR HIM TO PROPOSE
username12 this man really said "just the beginning" my brother in christ it's been a DECADE
liked by charles_leclerc, kikagomes and 201,875 others
yourinstagram une décennie d'amour, de rires, et de rêves partagés avec toi 🤍 from watching you race in Formula 3 to celebrating podiums in f1, from our tiny first apartment to our home in monaco, from teenagers in love to building our life together. every moment with you has been an adventure. thank you for making these 10 years feel like a fairytale, mon amour. je t'aimerai toujours, mon charles ❤️
[a decade of love, laughter, and shared dreams with you. i will always love you, my charles]
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username1 AWEEE MY HEART
username2 i'm still sobbing
charles_leclerc Ma vie, mon tout ❤️ These 10 years have been the best gift life could give me [my life, my everything]
carmenmmundt The way you two still look at each other like teenagers in love 🥺❤️ Happy anniversary!
pierregasly Charles my friend, this is the perfect moment
username3 that first apartment photo 😭
username4 TEN YEARS OF PURE LOVE AND STILL NO RING?? charles baby what is you doing
lando may this love find me
username5 the way she's been with him through every step of his racing career. ultimate supportive gf
username6 CHARLES JUST PROPOSE
username7 the fact that even pierre is done waiting at this point lmaooo
username8 petition for charles to stop being a coward and propose to this queen already
username9 THE THIRD PHOTO IS LEGENDARY
username10 their love story is literally better than any romance movie and yet MY MAN STILL HASN'T PROPOSED
username11 the way they went from young kids in love to power couple but still look at each other the same way 🥺 charles pls propose we're begging
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yourinstagram has added to their stories
charles_leclerc has added to their stories
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liked by username1, username2 and 13,985 others
c16updates Charles and YN arriving to Lorenzo Leclerc's wedding in Monaco today! YN serving as one of the bridesmaids!
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username1 I LOVE THEM SO MUCH
username2 power couple
username3 not charles watching his brother get married while yn is still waiting for a ring i- 💀
username4 YN YOU BETTER CATCH THAT BOUQUET
username5 seeing yn as a bridesmaid at her bf's BROTHER'S wedding when she should've been a bride years ago... pain.
username6 the second hand embarrassment watching charles dodge marriage questions from relatives all day 🥴
username7 my girl been a bridesmaid at different weddings in the f1 paddock INCLUDING HER BF'S BROTHER now... charles baby what is you doing
username8 the fact that lorenzo met his wife AFTER charles and yn started dating... and got married first... i have no words
username9 yn's fake smile every time someone asks when it's her turn >>>> girl we know you're tired 😭
username10 yn looking absolutely gorgeous as always but imagine her in a WEDDING dress... charles you're fumbling the bag fr fr
username11 the amount of times charles probably heard "you're next!" today... boy you've been next for like 5 years now
username12 someone check on yn cause watching your man at his brother's wedding after 10 years of dating is ROUGH
username13 the way every single guest was probably staring at charles waiting for him to get inspired... we're all tired bestie
liked by yourinstagram, lewishamilton and 1,023,887 others
charles_leclerc Congratulations to my big brother Lorenzo and his beautiful bride Charlotte❤️ What a perfect day celebrating your love. Thank you for showing us all what true love looks like.
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username1 LECLERC SUPREMACY
username2 you next charlie
lorenzotl Merci petit frère! Now it's your turn... 👀 YN's been part of the family for 10 years already anyway
└ username1 DRAGGED HIM FAIR AND SQUARE
└ username2 HEEELP
└ arthur_leclerc Even I might get married before Charles at this rate 💀
└ username3 ARTHUR IS SO SAVAGE AND FOR WHAT
yourinstagram Such a beautiful day ❤️
username4 CHARLES POSTING ABOUT "TRUE LOVE" WHILE YN IS STILL WAITING FOR A RING IS WILD
username5 not arthur dragging him in the comments i'm deceased 💀
username6 the way yn just commented "beautiful day" instead of joining the roast... queen behavior
username7 charles really posted about his brother's wedding like we wouldn't all come for him in the comments
username8 YN watching both of charles' brothers make marriage jokes while she's been waiting a decade: 🧍♀️
username9 everyone in the comments asking "you when??" and charles is probably pretending not to see
username10 lorenzo said "yn's been part of the family for 10 years" EXACTLY SO PUT A RING ON IT
username11 how you gonna post about celebrating true love when you won't propose to YOUR true love?? make it make sense
username12 even his own brothers are tired of waiting omg 😭 charles wake up
username13 CHARLES JUST PUT A RING ON IT FFS
username14 the way yn probably had to dodge "when are you next?" questions all night... girl deserves a medal
username15 charles talking about "true love" my brother in christ YOU'VE HAD TRUE LOVE FOR 10 YEARS NOW PROPOSE
liked by charles_leclerc, lilymhe and 196,589 others
yourinstagram White is always a good idea ✨
📸: @/charles_leclerc
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username1 BEAUTIFULLLL
username2 this is the it girl
carmenmmundt If this isn't a sign I don't know what is
iamrebeccad Looking like a bride already 😍
charles_leclerc La plus belle ❤️
username3 GIRL IS LITERALLY SHOWING HIM WHAT SHE'D LOOK LIKE AS A BRIDE AND HE STILL- 😭
username4 not her having charles take the photo in a WHITE DRESS... the hints are getting less subtle bestie
username5 charles be like "wow my gorgeous girlfriend in white" and not "wow my future wife in white" OPEN YOUR EYES
username6 she's been wearing more and more white lately and this man is still absolutely CLUELESS
username7 CHARLES WAKE TF UP
username8 the way she tagged him as the photographer like YES LOOK AT HER IN WHITE YOU FOOL
username9 this woman could literally wear a wedding dress to dinner and charles would be like "nice outfit babe"
username10 even the other wags are dropping hints in the comments i'm screaming 😭
username11 charles taking pretty pics of her in white instead of proposing to her in white... we're tired
username12 your girl is serving BRIDE and you're serving photographer... charles wake up
username13 THIS IS PAINFUL TO WATCH
liked by username1, username2 and 17,038 others
f1gossip Charles Leclerc gets asked about marriage plans during #F1Premiere red carpet interview 👀
Interviewer: "Your brother just got married, any plans to follow suit soon?"
Charles: "Ah you know, we're very happy as we are right now..."
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username1 NOT YN'S FACE WHEN HE SAID "HAPPY AS WE ARE" PLS 💀 girl was fighting demons on that red carpet
username2 the way she's perfected that smile while dying inside... 10 years of practice will do that to you 😭
username3 charles really said "happy as we are" my brother in christ she is NOT happy as you are
username4 everyone catching yn's eye twitch when he said that... we saw it girl
username5 the way every interviewer asks this now bc they know we're all TIRED of waiting
username6 "happy as we are" translation: i'm terrified of commitment even tho i've been committed for 10 years make it make sense
username7 JUST PUT A FCKING RING ON IT
username8 yn standing there like 🧍♀️ while this man fumbles for the 500th time... somebody save her
username9 charles dodging marriage questions like he dodges podiums this season
username10 not her having to hear this man say they're "happy as they are" for the 74628th time... girl blink twice if you need help
username11 the second hand embarrassment is real... even the interviewer was like bruh 😭
username12 at this point we need ferrari to add "propose to yn" to his contract requirements
username13 the way every driver in the background was just watching this trainwreck...
username14 petition for yn to start answering these questions instead cause we know she'd say what we're all thinking
liked by username1, username2 and 18,099 others
f1paddocktea🚨 SPOTTED: Charles Leclerc and YN in Lake Como, Italy for a romantic getaway during the summer break! Sources say they're staying at the ultra-exclusive Villa d'Este 👀
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username1 NOT LAKE COMO... THE MOST ROMANTIC PLACE IN ITALY... IS THIS FINALLY IT??!!
username2 my man picked the most proposal-worthy spot in europe this better not be another false alarm 😭
username3 IM GOING TO SCREAM
username4 please let this be it because if he takes her to lake como just for a regular vacation i'm throwing hands
username5 CHARLES IF THAT'S NOT A RING IN THERE I STG
username6 the way we're all invested in this proposal like it's our own
username7 manifesting engagement pics with that lake como view
username8 if this man booked villa d'este just to give her another necklace i'm calling max to fight him
username9 yn probably not even getting her hopes up anymore
username10 the girlies in the paddock about to catch a flight to como if he doesn't do it this time
username11 charles taking yn to the most romantic hotel in italy like "yes perfect spot for a casual vacation"
username12 CHARLES. JUST DO IT
username13 everyone refreshing their feeds every 2 seconds waiting for that ring pic
username14 the pressure on this man rn...
username15 JUST PUT A RING ON IT
username16 if he doesn't propose here where literally THOUSANDS of people have gotten engaged... boy needs help
username17 imagine booking the most famous proposal spot in italy and NOT proposing... charles don't you dare
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yourinstagram perfect weekend getaway in lake como with my love ❤️ already missing these views...
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username1 she posted these WITHOUT a ring... CHARLES LECLERC I WILL FIGHT YOU
username2 NOT HIM TAKING HER TO THE MOST ROMANTIC PLACE IN ITALY AND STILL- 💀
username3 the way she probably had her nails done just in case... girl we're so sorry
lilymhe cutiesss 🤍🤍
arthur_leclerc I'm going to slap my brother...
username4 ARTHUR IS SO REAL
username5 lakeside dinners? and NO RING??? charles you're actually insane
username6 she's posting these like a normal vacation because she's used to the disappointment at this point i'm crying
username7 the most proposal-worthy location in europe and he did NOTHING... i've lost all hope
iamrebecca Pretty girl !! I would marry you
lando hey can you put charles on the phone real quick ?? just wanna talk
username8 yn is stronger than the military because how are you still posting cute captions after THIS disappointment
username9 everyone who had "lake como proposal" in their 2025 bingo card: 🤡
username10 the way she's probably immune to romantic locations now... girl's been to venice, paris, amalfi coast, santorini, and now como with NO RING
username11 charles really said "let me take her to the #1 proposal spot in italy... to take photos" BRO WHAT
username12 she's so real for not even hinting at her disappointment in the caption... we know you're tired queen
username13 at this point she could wake up to rose petals and candles and would be like "aw nice decoration" because THE TRAUMA
username14 the fact that they probably walked past 17 proposals during this trip while she's still waiting... prison for charles
charles_leclerc Mon amour ❤️
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liked by charles_leclerc, carmenmmundt and 202,544 others
yourinstagram congratulations marco & sofia! ✨ such a beautiful day celebrating your love! and look what I caught... 😉
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username1 another wedding thats not her own i might cry
username2 CHARLES ARE YOU BLIND
charles_leclerc You looked so happy catching it ❤️
└ lorenzotl Some would say it's a sign... 👀
└ arthur_leclerc big bro you good? need someone to explain what catching the bouquet means?
└ username1 HIS BROTHERS DRAGGING HIM AGAIN AS THEY SHOULD
└ username2 THIS IS EVIL
iamrebeccad The way you DOVE for that bouquet girl 😂 We all saw that determination
lilymhe now we wait... again...
username3 CHARLES REALLY COMMENTED "you looked happy catching it" LIKE IT DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING I'M GONNA LOSE IT
username4 not his own brothers and co worker's girlfriends dragging him in the comments 💀
username5 she caught the bouquet in front of him and this man still acting clueless... i've never seen this level of density
username6 at this point he's just playing dumb i feel for my girl yn
username7 THE WAY SHE LITERALLY HAD TO FIGHT THREE OTHER GIRLS FOR THAT BOUQUET... girl is TRYING
username8 charles watching her catch the bouquet like "wow nice flowers" BRO WAKE UP
username9 even his brothers are tired of waiting omg 😭
username10 yn collecting bouquets like infinity stones at this point but charles still not getting the hint
username11 universe is literally screaming at him
username12 someone needs to explain to charles that catching the bouquet means YOU'RE NEXT
username13 PUT. A FUCKING. RING ON IT
username14 "you looked so happy catching it" YES BECAUSE SHE WANTS TO GET MARRIED YOU FOOL
username15 his brothers in the comments trying to knock some sense into him i'm crying
username16 she's caught more bouquets than charles has won races this season... make it make sense
liked by username1, username2 and 10,985 others
f1gossip deuxmoi via stories, maybe charles will finally put a ring on it 😭
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username1 we've been here 500 times before bestie 😭 remember the van cleef "spotting" last year?
username2 deuxmoi girl we love you but this man has been "spotted" at every jewelry store in monaco since 2019 💀
username3 until i see the ring ON HER FINGER i'm not believing anything anymore
username4 "spending time in engagement ring section" yeah probably buying another necklace 🤡
username5 source: trust me bro
username6 deuxmoi posting this like we haven't had 37 "charles spotted at jewelry store" posts before
username7 wake me up when she's actually wearing the ring because...
username8 he was probably looking for a "happy 11th anniversary" gift knowing him 💀
username9 everyone rushing to yn's instagram to check her hands in latest posts... we're so traumatized
username10 this man could be filling out marriage papers and i still wouldn't believe it until the ceremony's over
username11 the way we all got excited about the cartier spotting in 2023... and 2024... never again
username12 deuxmoi bestie we've been hurt too many times... we're not falling for this again
username13 yn probably seeing this like "ah yes another necklace coming my way"
username14 girl's probably got enough jewelry to open her own store but NO RING
username15 at this point he could be down on one knee and we'd be like "probably tying his shoelace"
liked by yourinstagram, lewishamilton and 1,044,388 others
charles_leclerc Coming home to you is the best part of any race weekend, win or lose. You're my constant in this crazy life and I couldn't imagine doing any of this without you. Mon coeur ❤️
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username1 BABIESSS
username2 these are my parents
yourinstagram Always here for you ❤️ So proud of everything you do x
maxverstappen1 Mate... you know what would make coming home even better? 💍
└ username1 MAX WTFF
└ username2 i love that he can't mind his business
carlossainz55 Amigo... there's a way to make her your permanent "constant" you know... 👀
└ username3 THATS IT DRAG HIM
lewishamilton Beautiful words brother, now put them in some vows 😉
└ username2 THIS IS WAY TOO FUNNY
username4 NOT HIM POSTING ABOUT COMING HOME TO HER WHEN HE WON'T GIVE HER A HOME ADDRESS CHANGE 💀
username5 "my constant in this crazy life" BRO MAKE IT LEGAL THEN
username6 charles writing romantic novels in his captions but can't write proposal speech
username7 this man really said "couldn't imagine doing any of this without you" but won't say "will you marry me"
username8 the drivers in his comments trying to guide this man to a jewelry store
username9 carlos straight up begging his best friend to propose at this point
username10 yn probably reading this like "cool another instagram caption but still no ring"
username11 "coming home to you is the best part" THEN PUT A RING ON IT???
username12 drivers in the comments doing everything except sending him actual ring pics
username13 lewis basically saying "less posting more proposing"
username14 she's been his "constant" for 10 years maybe make her his wife???
username15 the way everyone including his competitors are tired of waiting for this proposal
username16 charles will write poetic captions about their love but won't write marriage vows make it make sense
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liked by maxverstappen1, yourinstagram and 4,085,483 others
charles_leclerc She said yes! ❤️ (After asking me what took me so long 😅) Can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you, my love.
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username1 OH MY FUCKING GODDD
username2 IT HAPPENED
yourinstagram only took 10 years and 16 caught bouquets 😘 je t'aime forever ❤️
lorenzotl FINALLY!!! Welcome officially to the family (though you've been our sister for years anyway) ❤️
arthur_leclerc THE DENSITY IS FINALLY OVER 🎉 So happy for you both!
pierregasly About damn time mate! Kika's already planning the bachelorette party 😂
kikagomes FINALLY WE CAN START WEDDING PLANNING!!! (also yes I'm planning the wildest bachelorette)
lilymhe I'M LITERALLY CRYING!!! The group chat manifesting worked girls 😭❤️
carlossainz55 So happy for you both! (Also I told you that spot would be perfect)
lewishamilton Love wins! Congratulations you beautiful souls ❤️
username3 THE DROUGHT IS OVER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. I REPEAT THIS IS NOT A DRILL
username4 "after asking what took me so long" GIRL SPOKE FOR ALL OF US
username5 SCREAMING, CRYING, THROWING UP IT FINALLY HAPPENED
username6 THE WAY I JUST BROKE THE SOUND BARRIER SCREAMING
username7 carlos helped plan the proposal i'm sobbing this friendship 😭
username8 THE GIRLS ALREADY PLANNING THE BACHELORETTE WE LOVE TO SEE IT
username9 "only took 11 years and 16 caught bouquets" I'M DECEASED 💀
username10 THE WAIT IS OVER. THIS IS THE GREATEST DAY OF MY LIFE
username11 all the drivers commenting like proud parents who watched their dense son finally figure it out 😭
username12 THE ENTIRE F1 COMMUNITY IS CELEBRATING LIKE WE WON A CHAMPIONSHIP
username13 watching this relationship since 2013 i feel like a proud mother 😭
username14 THE WAIT IS OVER. I WAS HERE. WITNESSING HISTORY.
username15 lily confirming the wag group chat manifestation i'm crying 😭
username16 THE LONGEST ENGAGEMENT WATCH IN F1 HISTORY IS FINALLY OVER
liked by charles_leclerc, iamrebeccad and 1,094,738 others
yourinstagram he FINALLY figured out what to do with all those jewelry store visits. from karting girlfriend to fiancée - only took 11 years, 16 bouquets, 43 wedding guest appearances, and approximately 3,947 hints but WE MADE IT 🤍
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username1 I STILL CANT BELIEVE THIS
username2 GIRL YOU DID IT
charles_leclerc To be fair, I was a bit slow on the uptake 😅❤️ Can't wait to marry you mon amour
username3 THE HINT COUNTER IN THE CAPTION 💀 Girl really kept receipts
iamrebeccad Not you counting all the weddings we went to 😭 But we did it bestie!!!
carmenmmundt The group chat can finally rest! So happy for you!!
lorenzotl "3,947 hints" and that's just the ones we counted
arthur_leclerc the most patient woman in motorsport 👏🏼
username4 “approximately 3,947 hints" girl was running STATISTICS
username5 the way she tracked every single wedding they attended together... dedication
username6 "finally figured out what to do with all those jewelry store visits" I'M SCREAMING
username7 charles admitting he was slow on the uptake YEAH WE KNOW 😭
username8 even his brothers confirming the hint count is sending me
username9 SHES GOING TO BE THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BRIDE EVER
username10 she really said "let me present my thesis on how long this took"
username11 THE DETAILED BREAKDOWN OF THE WAITING PERIOD... she's so real for this
username12 this caption is giving "i've been waiting to post this for 11 years"
username13 the most patient woman in F1 finally getting her ring
username14 HE FINALLY PUT A RING ON IT OMFG
username15 she had this caption in her drafts since 2019 i just know it
dededos
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