summary: recovering from kryptonite poisoning back home in Kansas leaves your relationship with Clark a bit confused. you’ve always been his rock- his best friend. but now, back on the farm, maybe there was always something more
pairing: clark kent x female reader
word count: 2.5k
warnings: spoilers!!! don’t read if you don’t wanna be spoiled you’ve been warned! just a lil hurt/comfort fluffy fic, friends confessing feelings type shit, reader calls clark ‘starboy’. um reader makes the first real move cause Clark is a bashful lil gentleman and too nervous
a/n: guyssss i’ve been gone for a while i’m sorry. i’m in the home stretch with my master’s thesis. but i just saw Superman and i’m a mess so here you go! it's my first time writing for the character so I'm still getting a feel. it's short and quick but i hope you enjoy!
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Your hands gripped the rough blue fabric of his suit as firmly as you could manage. Fingers trembled as you struggled to pull him up from the seat in the craft. His body slumped into the cushions, refusing to budge as you shook him gently.
“Clark, hey, wake up.” You tried your best to keep a steady and confident tone, but your voice betrayed you, “Let’s go, hun. We’re here.”
His eyes fluttered open slowly and glanced around, somewhat confused by his surroundings. The daze left when he looked up to be met with your bold eyes. Your hand softly combed through his ink hair, resting at the crook of his neck.
“Hey…” he said, his words slurred and dreary. You looped your arm under his and around his back, tugging as he slowly pushed himself from the seat.
The thud of his boots filled the craft, bouncing off the walls as they revealed the limp and stutter of his steps. His weight was all-consuming, with Clark leaning heavier into your side than he wished to admit. With each laboured breath, each wince and grip from his hand on your hip, your heart clenched. It was too close of a call, too lucky were you that you had pulled him out from the portal. What if you were a second later? What if the kryptonite had finished the job? What if you never saw him again?
You reached the ladder down from the craft. Slowly, you helped him down each step; his normal speed and agility were wiped away as he teetered down the stairs, balancing into your side. The sound of feet crunching thick, tall grass filled your ears. Looking up, an older couple stood at the foot of the ladder. Soft eyes, worn but kind faces, calloused yet gentle hands—the Kents.
The man you assumed to be John rushed up the steps as you reached the bottom. His large hands and strong arms opened to take some of Clark’s weight off you. Martha stood aside, watching with worry creased into her forehead and the wrinkles around her eyes
“He needs to rest, he’ll be okay,” you said as the four of you slowly made your way inside.
“Thank God,” Martha said, clutching a small gold cross strung from her neck.
“i.. c’n walk…” Clark, the ever self-dependent and strong man, tried his best to shake off the help. His feet attempted to carry his weight. But a small dent in the ground had other plans. His foot caught, causing him to stumble and slip from your grasp.
“Woah, hey!” You slid to his front before he could fall from John’s hold and hit the ground. You gently pushed him back up, your hand tenderly brushing a curl from his forehead. “Don’t scare me like that, starboy.”
Even in his delirious and weakened state, Clark couldn’t help the smile that stretched across his face. That damn smile, the one that had somehow found a way to make your knees buckle. You miss the glance exchanged between his parents.
Once inside, you awkwardly laid him into his bed. The kiddish sheets contrasted with the vibrant blue and red fabrics of his suit. The worn blue headboard popped against the stained wood panels lining the walls. His large frame spilled over the small twin bed, and you found yourself wondering how the Kents ever kept up with his growth as a child.
His hair was slick with sweat, and he was exhausted from the strain of reaching the farmhouse. John’s hand rested on Clark's forehead as he eased him into the pillows. Clark’s mumbling filled the room as he tried to relax, the comfort of his parents overwhelming him.
“ma… they sent me here t’ kill p-people,” his words were broken as he stammered. The sound of Martha gently shushing him sang through the room.
You stood back, giving the family space. You didn’t want to intrude, he was their son after all; you were just his friend. If that was all you were, then why was your heart still pounding?
Your eyes roamed over the room, taking in the intimate setting you never thought you’d see. Clark was so private with his parents, so protective. No matter how close you were, that side of him always felt closed off to anyone else. Anything to assure their safety.
The room was scattered with toys, which you guessed were from his early years, just the few that a teenage Clark might have found too much fondness for to toss. Posters from bands you had always given him grief over, old sports trophies, blankets you guessed Martha had made him over the years; it was a room that showed a remarkably humble and mundane childhood that shaped him into the man he was.
Clark’s mumbling called your attention back over to the bed. His words were slightly panicked and rushed, and his half-lidded eyes began to dart around the room.
“where’s…. where’s y-y/n? y/n…” his hand weakly stretched over the sheets as if trying to feel for you.
“She’s right here, sweetheart,” Martha said. Her kind eyes glanced over to you, giving you a welcoming yet sad smile that beckoned you over. His fragile hand took yours and placed it along Clark’s arm, moving from her spot beside the bed to let you sit.
Now at his side, your hand gently stroked his arm and shoulder, working your way up to the silky curls at the nape of his neck; the ones that he couldn’t smooth out no matter how hard he tried. No matter how much comfort you took in having him there, you couldn’t quite push down the bile rising in your throat at the feeling of his dark raised veins along his neck, the painful reminder of how close he was to leaving you.
“I’m here,” you said softly, as if it was just for him. It was.
That damn smile was back, slightly lopsided and shaky from exhaustion, but just as striking as ever.
“mmm… good,” he said as his eyes finally slipped closed.
You sat there for a good while, your hands gently resting at his side, keeping an eye on him as if you were his sole protector while he was gone to the world. You’d never seen him so small, so vulnerable- as small as a 6’4” alien could be.
John’s hand stayed resting at Clark’s head, pushing back his sweat-soaked curls as he tried to relax from the ordeal.
“Don’t let him fool you, he’s just a softy. Especially when it comes to Clark,” Martha said, patting your back as she walked over to her husband. Her eyes watched intently as your hands continued to tremble around Clark’s, unable to let go. She smirked before ushering John out of the room. You heard the faint mumblings of he’ll be okay, he’s got her as they left.
You couldn’t find it in yourself to leave his side, not after he was almost lost to you forever. An hour or so passed before sleep finally overtook you as well. The peaceful look on Clark's face was the last thing you saw before drifting off, your head resting on his side as your arm stretched across him.
-
A continuous, soft tapping against your thighs stirred you awake. The bright Kansas sun spilled in through the blinds and danced across the room. The angle was different than when you dozed off. Rather than lying perched beside the bed, you found yourself staring up at the ceiling with sheets surrounding you. Clark.
Of course, he moved you to his bed.
The thumping continued, and you finally looked down, taking in the sight of Krypto lying cozy across your body, his face mere inches from yours. The tapping of his wagging tail made you giggle as you slipped from the handknit blanket Clark had wrapped you in to scratch behind his ears.
“Good boy,” you said.
The old door creaked on its hinges as you slipped out of the room and down the hall. Your feet padded softly across the tile til you reached the kitchen. Martha stood at the stove, gently pouring a cup of coffee and spreading a thick red jam across two biscuits. You tried to be quiet, wishing not to disturb her morning.
“Morning, dear,” she said before turning to you. You wondered if Clark’s enhanced hearing was something he just learned from his parents because you swore she had it too.
“Morning, Martha,” you said.
“Oh, dear, call me Ma,” you smiled at her words and nodded, walking over as she handed you a cup of coffee. The warm mug filled your hands, and for the first time, they weren’t trembling anymore.
“Thank you for letting me stay the night,” you said.
“Don’t even mention it!” she said before returning a jug of milk to the fridge. While you took a sip from your mug, she stepped over and placed a hand once again on your back. “Thank you for bringing him back to us safely.”
Before you could respond, she nodded her head in the direction of the window out the kitchen door.
“He’s out front,” she said. You gave her a thankful smile before resting your drink on the counter and slipping out the door.
The fabric of your skirt swirled around your legs, long blades of grass pricked at your calves as you waded through the field to reach him. Clark leaned against the rickety wooden fence, watching horses prance and whinny. Your hand gingerly patted the soft snout of one of the horses standing along the fence before you found your way to his spot.
You stood beside him, a comfortable silence falling between you. The sound of the horses filled the air, harmonizing with the low buzz of the bees. You could help but notice the worn flannel stretched over Clark’s arms and back, how the faded jeans he wore had heel bites that revealed the dark brown of his leather boots. It always seemed to slip your mind that he was a country boy through and through, except for those times when his Kansas accent would slip out, it always seemed to happen when you took the last dumpling at dinner.
“You really gave me the bed?” you asked, watching the horses trot around the pen.
“What kind of man would I be if I let you sleep on the floor?” he said.
“The kind who needed rest ‘cause he was poisoned…” You said with a giggle, but he knew you were serious. He simply shrugged, a casual smile on his lips.
He moved to stand closer to you, leaning forward on the fence and finally looking over at you. His hands wrung as he looked you over. For a moment, you thought maybe he was nervous, like you made him anxious.
You leaned on the wood with him, your shoulder nudging slightly into his. Your hands hesitated before a gust of courage helped you take his and stop his fidgeting. A placid sigh slipped from his lips as that damn smile came back.
“You scared me, starboy,” you said.
A blush burst across his face. Once, that always seemed to appear at the sound of that nickname. Perhaps yesterday he was too out of it, but today that blush was back in full swing.
He stepped closer to you, leaving little distance between your bodies. His hands gingerly played with yours, turning it over softly and tracing the lines on your palm.
“...I know, I could tell,” he said.
Oh.
Your free hand moved delicately to the soft flesh at the crook of his neck. Slowly, your fingers traced along the thick veins under his skin. The dark, bluish black hue they were only a few hours before had subsided, leaving them to blend in with the flushed pink hues of his skin. You could feel the flutter in his heartbeat and the way his breathing stuttered at your hands. Neither of you said a word; he just let you feel what you needed, letting you reassure yourself that he was there. That he was okay and wasn’t planning on leaving you.
“Clark…” you said, looking down to avoid his gaze.
His hand slid up to your chin, guiding your eyes back to his with a kind smile. A low hey slipped from his lips before his head ducked closer to your height.
“I wanna say something, something that feels crazy… and if it is, tell me… cause I’ve been feeling this for a while now…. and-and if it’s crazy just-” you stopped his rambling.
“Say it,” you said.
He bit his lip, and you tenderly pulled it from his teeth. The blush on his cheeks grew stronger as he let out a thankful huff and tilted his head. He had a bad habit of subconscious lip biting, one that often resulted in a gash along his lower lip from his strength. You tried your best as often as you could to stop the habit, to keep him from harming himself in any way.
“Something feels different with us. You’re my best friend, my favorite person, and… lately I’ve been feeling things I shouldn’t feel. Things a friend shouldn’t feel and I…” your eyes widened as he spoke, his words stammering as her nerves took over. He spoke with a speed that revealed his nervousness, one that was uniquely Clark. “It’s not fair to you, me wanting more, feeling more. But I do. I think I love you, y/n.”
He didn’t break your gaze, but that didn’t hide the fear of rejection that was clear on his face. It was obvious; despite lying helpless in a pocket dimension with kryptonite just a day ago, despite being weakened and exhausted in his childhood bed the night before, he had never felt more vulnerable or exposed than this moment.
You were quiet, probably for too long. He finally broke eye contact, ducking his head away. Your hand caught his face gently, brushing along the soft stubble that grew along his sharp jaw.
Before he could speak again, you were leaning in. Your lips pressed against his. He moved in tandem with you, his arms wrapping around your waist as he held you close. It was soft and intimate; you had imagined kissing Clark so many times, but you never could’ve predicted just how blissful it would feel.
His grip on you tightened as he leaned further in. Somewhere in the moment, you felt your feet lift from the ground. Your arms wrapped firmly around his neck as you deepened the kiss, nipping softly at his lower lip.
When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead to yours. His arms held you safe and secure to his chest as the two of you hovered over the fence. Your hands slipped to card through his curls.
“I love you, Clark,” you said. He sighed with relief, giggling tenderly as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “Promise me you’re not going anywhere?”
“I promise, sweetheart,” he said. You leaned further into his arms, finally relaxing in his presence. He was here, he was safe, and he was yours.
“Now, could you please put us down, starboy?”
---
this was quick and cute but I hope y'all enjoyed ;)
SUMMARY: You’re the calm in the storm, the voice in his ear. But when the line between professional and personal starts to blur, neither of you can ignore what’s been quietly building across seasons.
PAIRING: lando norris x raceengineer!reader
AUSTRALIAN GRAND PRIX, 2025
“Radio check.”
Your voice was crisp, professional, cool in a way that took years to perfect. Calm under pressure, unmoved by chaos. The exact kind of presence Lando needed. Always.
“Copy,” came the familiar British accent, tinged with a smile. “Loud and clear. You miss me or something?”
You didn’t reply at first, fingers flying over telemetry readouts, scanning systems as his McLaren glided out of the garage.
“I miss a clean lap,” you said eventually, deadpan. “Focus up.”
Lando’s laugh crackled through your headset. “Ouch. Savage today.”
You bit back a smirk. You were always like this with him, just sharp enough to keep him honest, just soft enough to keep him from burning out. He didn’t know it, but you'd practiced that balance long before you ever touched his car. Long before you'd become the engineer in his ear and the presence in his periphery he couldn’t quite shake.
This wasn’t your first season with him. You knew the way he worked, his tells, his spikes in data when he got frustrated, the almost imperceptible changes in his tone when the nerves kicked in. You were good at reading him.
Too good, sometimes.
“Turn 9’s going to be sketchy on the first few laps,” you reminded him as he lit up the sector. “Wind’s shifted since FP3.”
“Copy. I’ll keep it tidy.”
He always did when you told him to.
As the session went on, your voice was steady in his ear. Lap after lap, instruction after instruction. Your hands moved instinctively over your keyboard, but your mind stayed on his voice—how it faltered for just a millisecond when he clipped the apex too tightly, how it softened when he thanked you for a well-timed adjustment.
“Box now,” you said finally, watching the data stream flatten. “Good session. That's P1.”
Lando rolled into the garage, visor up. His hair was a mess, sweat streaking down his neck. He looked over to the pit wall, right at you. He always did.
“Thanks, L/N,” he said into the mic. Then, quieter, “You’re way too good at reading my mind. Kind of scary.”
You smiled without looking up. “It’s my job, Norris.”
But you knew it was more than that now.
BAHRAIN GRAND PRIX, 2025
You found him exactly where you expected, sat on the low wall just outside the hospitality area, half out of his race suit, twisting a bottle of water in his hands like it held answers.
It was late. The paddock was thinning out. But you always lingered, checking systems, writing notes, trying not to admit that maybe you just didn’t want to go home yet.
“You waiting for the sky to fall or something?” you asked, stepping up beside him.
Lando looked up, startled, but only for a second. Then he relaxed like he always did around you. Like his whole body sighed.
“Nah. Just thinking.”
You raised a brow. “Dangerous.”
He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You ever think about how weird this is?” he said, gesturing around vaguely, to the paddock, the quiet hum of generators, the distant sound of tools being packed away.
“This,” you echoed. “As in…Formula 1?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Like, we live for milliseconds. We chase perfection we never actually reach. All while pretending it doesn’t mess with our heads.”
You were quiet for a moment. Then: “It’s only weird if you think you’re doing it alone.”
Lando glanced over, eyes unreadable in the low light. “You mean I’m not?”
You looked down at your own hands. “Not if I’m doing my job right.”
He scoffed under his breath. “You do your job too well.”
You risked a glance at him. “That a complaint?”
“No,” he said, too quickly. Then, softer: “Not even close.”
There it was again, that edge. That low hum of something else between you, like radio static just before the connection deepens.
“I watched your onboard,” you said, breaking the silence. “Turn 12 was smoother than we expected. You kept the rear steady.”
“That was you,” he murmured, not looking at you. “You’re the reason I can push like that. You always catch the wind before it catches me.”
That line hung between you longer than it should have. He didn’t need to say things like that. He never used to.
You stood up slowly. “Get some sleep, Norris.”
He looked up at you, hesitant. “You gonna be around in the morning?”
You blinked. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
He hesitated like he wanted to say something else—like there was something more honest sitting on the edge of his tongue. But he nodded instead. “Right. Yeah. Just checking.”
SILVERSTONE GRAND PRIX, 2022
They hadn’t expected you to stay.
Not when the old engineer left mid-season. Not when the politics around the team were messy. Not when everyone thought you’d be temporary, a stand-in, a name on the headset until they found someone more “experienced.”
But you didn’t leave.
You stayed. You studied. You watched hours of data, memorised Lando’s patterns, anticipated his corners before he even turned them. He had a way of driving that wasn’t neat, it was instinctive. Raw, sometimes messy. A little too fast, a little too wild. But it was brilliant. And it was him.
You’d seen it even then.
The first time you ever stood on the pit wall with his race in your hands, he’d been wary.
“Do you even know how I drive?” he asked, pulling on his gloves, half a smirk on his lips but not in his eyes.
You’d clipped your headset on without looking at him. “Better than you do.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Confident.”
You finally looked at him then. “No. I’m right.”
And during that first race together, when the call was tight, when the others boxed too early or too late, he’d hesitated on the radio for a second. You could hear it in his breathing. Waiting for a voice he trusted. But that voice was gone.
So yours came through, steady.
“Stay out. Give it one more. Then box.”
A pause.
Then: “Copy.”
He came in one lap later. Pitted like it was clockwork. Finished P2 in chaos. His best result of the season.
Afterwards, in the debrief room, sweaty, half-stripped out of his gear, he looked at you across the table and said just one thing:
“Don’t go anywhere.”
You hadn’t.
MIAMI GRAND PRIX, 2025
You were leaning over your laptop in the garage, the paddock buzzing with the leftover heat of the day. The crew was slowly packing up around you. You barely noticed Lando walk in until he dropped a half-empty Red Bull beside your laptop.
“Still working?” he asked, voice low and casual like it hadn’t been months of you two walking this wire.
“Still driving?” you shot back, without looking.
He let out a huff of laughter and perched on the edge of the workbench beside you, dangerously close. “You never answered my question.”
You looked up. “What question?”
“That day,” he said. “First race. When I asked if you knew how I drove.”
Your eyes narrowed. “I said I knew better than you.”
“Yeah,” he said, voice soft. “But how?”
You paused.
There were a million ways to answer that. You could’ve said it was data. That you studied him. That it was just your job. But none of that was really true.
So you said the truth.
“Because you drive like you’re afraid of slowing down. Like if you breathe for even a second, everything will catch up to you.”
He blinked, startled. “That’s…”
“True,” you said, eyes locked on his. “And it’s okay. I’m not trying to change that. I’m just…here to keep you steady when you do.”
The silence stretched again. The tension was too heavy now, pressing against your ribs.
“Do you ever think about how different this would be if I hadn’t taken the job?” you asked.
“All the time,” Lando said immediately.
You swallowed. “And?”
“And I hate the thought,” he said.
You stared at him.
He looked away first.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he mumbled. “FP3. Bright and early.”
And just like that, he left. Again. Always leaving just enough unsaid to keep you thinking about it all night.
MONACO GRAND PRIX, FP1, 2025
Saturday was warm. Sticky. The kind of heat that clung to your skin, made tempers sharp and engines meaner.
You were already sweating through your team polo, focused on the laptop balanced on your arm, when someone new stepped into the garage. Another engineer, not from your side of the paddock. From Red Bull, judging by the patch on his polo.
“Hey,” he said smoothly, smiling in that way you didn’t trust. “You’re Norris’s engineer, right?”
You gave a noncommittal hum, eyes still scanning the data.
“Didn’t think McLaren would give such a key role to someone that looks like they belong on the cover of Vogue.”
You blinked.
And finally looked up.
“I didn’t think Red Bull hired engineers who used pickup lines from 2014.”
A short, awkward beat of silence. Then his smile twitched, faltering just enough for you to enjoy it.
You turned away, already done with him, when another voice cut through, low and unmistakably pointed.
“She’s a little busy.”
Lando.
Standing a few feet away, arms crossed over his fire suit, brows raised like he wasn’t even trying to hide it. And oh, that expression—cool and unreadable, but with the tight edge of someone who had just enough of your attention going elsewhere.
The Red Bull guy shrugged. “Relax, mate. Just talking.”
Lando didn’t smile. “Looks like she wasn’t.”
The other guy gave a little snort and walked off with the kind of energy only losers had. You sighed.
“Subtle,” you muttered.
“I am subtle,” Lando replied, stepping closer. “When I want to be.”
You looked up at him, the corner of your mouth twitching despite yourself. “Jealousy isn’t a good look on you.”
“I wasn’t jealous.”
“You were definitely jealous.”
He gave you a long look. Then, annoyingly quiet, he said:
“I just don’t like when people talk to you like that. You’ve earned more than some half-assed compliment from a guy who doesn’t even know which way to read sector data.”
Your heart did something weird at that.
“Okay,” you said, a little hoarsely. “I’ll give you that.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t break the stare.
“You looked like you were gonna say something else,” you said softly.
“I was,” he admitted. “Still might.”
Before you could respond, the headset in your hand crackled to life with your name, calling you back to the wall.
You both hesitated.
Then you stepped back first.
“Later,” you said.
Lando nodded, slow. “Yeah. Later.”
But when he walked away, you saw it in his shoulders, he wanted to say it now.
MONACO GRAND PRIX, RACE, 2025
The air felt different in Monaco. Charged. Like something electric was building just beneath your skin.
Pole position.
Lando Norris.
Your strategy. Your calls. Your voice in his ear.
You had one job: bring him home first. And for once, the stars felt aligned.
Lap 0 – Formation Lap
The comms crackled to life as you settled into your headset, voice steady. “Radio check.”
“Copy. Loud and clear. Nervous?” Lando’s voice came back, casual but with that telltale lilt of mischief.
“Not when you’re in P1,” you replied smoothly, already eyeing the telemetry.
“God, you sound confident,” he chuckled. “Makes me feel like I’ve already won.”
A grin tugged at your lips. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, golden boy. Lights out in thirty.”
And just like that, the stage was set.
Lights out.
Lando’s launch was flawless, clean off the line, no hint of wheelspin. He hugged the inside into Sainte Devote, brushing the barrier with such precision it made your chest tighten. But he held it. Controlled. Calm. Already beginning to stretch the gap as the field tucked in behind him.
“Good start. Clear by 0.6. Just settle,” you said, voice even despite the adrenaline humming through you.
“Copy. Feels good,” Lando replied, and there was something else layered in his tone—relaxed, warm, almost smug. “You sound tense. You sure I’m the one doing the driving?”
You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the small smile pulling at your lips. “Focus, Norris.”
“Always do. Especially when you’re in my ear.”
Lap 14 – Tyres going
Monaco was unforgiving, and the graining was setting in quicker than expected.
Lando’s voice came through, calm but concerned. “Rears are going. Struggling in 5 and 10.”
You responded without hesitation, “Copy. Switch to strategy mode 4. Hold on, we’re adjusting the plan.”
With Ferrari threatening the undercut, you made the call early. “Box this lap. Box, box.”
He dived into the pits with precision. The stop was flawless, 2.4 seconds flat. Lando emerged P4, tangled in traffic, but the road ahead was clear.
“You’ll cycle back to the front. Trust me,” you said, steady confidence in your voice.
A quiet reply came, “Always do.”
Lap 25 – The fight back
The gap was razor-thin, every heartbeat syncing with the flashing telemetry on your screen. You managed his deltas, navigating him smoothly through the pack, eyes sharp and steady.
“Oscar pits. You're close to P2. Purple last sector,” you informed him, voice crisp with purpose.
Lando’s reply came quick, a grin audible even over the radio: “That’s what I like to hear.”
Lap 39 – Second stop looming
“Tyres dropping off again. Gap to P3 is 2.7. We’re on plan B,” you radioed, steady and clear.
“We go long first, then softs to close. Trust the call.”
Lando gritted his teeth. “I do. Just make sure I’m not boxed in when I come back out.”
“Already working on it,” you replied, eyes flicking between the gaps on track and the pit wall.
“There’s traffic ahead, but I’m timing the pit window to give you the cleanest run possible. Stay sharp.”
He was quiet for a moment, then finally said, “Alright, let’s get this done.”
Lap 50 – Box two
The race-deciding stop.
“Box now. Push in. Hit your marks,” you commanded, voice sharp and focused.
“Boxing,” Lando confirmed.
The crew was flawless, 2.2 seconds flat.
He rejoined just ahead of Leclerc. You finally let out the breath you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding.
“You’re net P1. Push to build the gap. Twenty-eight laps to bring it home.”
Lando’s voice came back, panting but determined. “Copy. Tell me when I can breathe again.”
You replied quietly, almost a whisper, “When I say so.”
“Head down,” you urged calmly. “You’ve done this lap a hundred times. Keep your lines clean. The car’s still responding.”
There was a pause, then, “Can’t feel my hands.”
You smiled, though he couldn’t see it. “I’ll be your hands, then. Brake deeper into Turn 10, and open DRS if traffic allows. You’ve got this.”
Lap 78 – Final lap
“Last lap, Lando. This is history. Monaco is yours,” you said, voice steady but filled with meaning.
“How’s my delta?” he asked, always chasing the numbers.
“Doesn’t matter. No one’s touching you now.”
There was a pause, then his voice softened, almost vulnerable. “Y/N?”
You swallowed, your whole body freezing for a moment. “Yeah?”
“You made me believe I could do this.”
You smiled, heart tight. “You just needed someone to remind you.”
He chuckled quietly, the warmth in his tone unmistakable. “You do that. Every race. Every lap.”
You let the words hang between you. “Then let this one be for you.”
Chequered flag.
Lando Norris — P1. Monaco Grand Prix Winner.
The crowd erupted—papaya flags waving wildly, mechanics shouting, and the crew spilling over the barriers in celebration. But through it all, Lando’s voice came through breathless, focused on just one thing.
“Where are you?”
“I’m coming to you,” you replied, already moving toward the trackside.
“You better be the first person I see when I get out.”
Softly, you promised, “Always.”
Parc fermé
The crowd noise faded behind the barriers, the post-race lights casting long shadows over the slick tarmac.
Lando peeled off his helmet, sweat dampening his hair, eyes scanning the crowd until they found you.
He walked over without a word.
You held his gaze, steady and calm.
He gave a tired, satisfied smile, a quiet nod.
“You nailed that last lap,” you said, voice low but certain.
He exhaled slowly, relief and exhaustion tangled in the same breath.
“Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without you.”
You let the words hang without a response.
His hand brushed yours briefly as he reached out for the visor you held.
Neither of you moved to pull away.
Around you, the world buzzed, cameras flashing, voices rising, but this moment was quiet, private.
No promises. No confessions.
Just the weight of everything you’d been through, held in a glance.
CANADIAN GRAND PRIX, 2025
The weekend hadn’t started well. The car felt sluggish, grip was off, and the team was working tirelessly to find pace. Lando was fighting tooth and nail just to stay in the top ten.
Race day — battling back.
Lap after lap, he hunted down every tenth, tires worn and the track baking under the scorching heat. On lap 63, with only seven laps to go, Lando held P5. Right ahead, Oscar was putting up a fierce defense.
“Lando, gap to Oscar is 0.3 seconds. DRS available in two corners. Patience,” you advised calmly.
“I’m with him. This is the move,” came his urgent reply.
They charged into Turn 10, a tight left-hander. Lando pulled to the inside, inching closer.
“Hold your line. Don’t force it,” you warned.
But adrenaline took over. The front wing clipped Oscar’s rear tire, metal scraped, the cars tangled. Lando’s car spun wildly, slamming into the barriers.
“Lando, are you okay?” Your voice was calm but steady, trying to keep him focused.
A pause. Then, “I’m fine…just a rough hit. Car’s done.”
You exhaled quietly, relief tempered by frustration. “Help’s on the way. You gave it everything.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Thanks for having my back.”
CANADIAN GRAND PRIX, AFTERMATH, 2025
The garage buzzed with frantic energy, mechanics rushing, radios crackling, voices overlapping in a cacophony that somehow faded into the background the second you saw him.
Lando peeled off his helmet, sweat slicking his dark hair, eyes wide and heavy with frustration. His breaths were uneven, a mixture of adrenaline and disappointment.
You didn’t say anything. You just stepped forward, closing the distance between you two.
His gaze flickered to you, searching, and when your hand reached out, trembling slightly but steady, he didn’t pull away. Instead, his own hands found your waist, pulling you in.
The hug was tight, grounding. Not the kind of hug that says everything is okay, but the kind that says you’re not alone.
You felt the tension in his body, the way his muscles were stiff, the way his hands gripped almost desperately.
You rested your head against his shoulder, letting your fingers thread through his hair.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of your breaths mingling.
You didn’t need to speak. The crash, the frustration, the exhaustion, it all passed between you in silence.
You tightened your arms around him, offering what words could not: a quiet promise that you were still here, steady, unshaken.
Slowly, Lando’s grip softened. His breathing evened out. You felt his cheek press gently against your temple.
It wasn’t about fixing what had happened. It wasn’t about promises of a better race next time.
It was about this moment. The moment that reminded both of you that no matter how harsh the track, no matter how brutal the season, there was still something unbreakable between you.
And in that embrace, everything else, the crash, the disappointment, the weight of the race, faded away.
SILVERSTONE GRAND PRIX, 2025
race start
The clouds hung heavy over Silverstone, casting a dull grey wash across the grandstands as a relentless drizzle soaked the track. The rain wasn’t heavy, but steady enough to test every driver’s skill and nerve. The surface gleamed slick under the fading daylight, demanding absolute precision with every turn, every brake.
Lando sat on the grid in P3, fingers tightening around the steering wheel as he focused on the task ahead. His headset crackled softly in his ear.
“Traction control active,” you reminded him, voice calm but urgent. “Verstappen and Piastri are pulling ahead, but stay within your rhythm. Tyres need to come up gently, don’t push too hard too soon.”
There was a brief pause before Lando replied, calm but focused. “Copy. Grip is low, visibility worse.”
The lights went out, and the pack surged forward like a living storm. The spray from the cars ahead blurred the track, turning the asphalt into a mirror that played tricks on the eyes. Max and Oscar shot into the lead, carving out a gap with aggressive precision. But Lando, undeterred, kept his focus razor-sharp, threading through the wet chaos with clinical precision, inching his way forward, wheel by wheel.
lap 15 - safety car
The rain billowed aggressively around the track, the cars sliding haphazardly through the corners, tires slick with spray. The marshals quickly signaled, and the safety car was deployed, bunching the field and erasing every hard-earned gap.
“Safety car out,” you announced, voice steady but charged with opportunity. “This is our moment. Pit this lap for fresh inters.”
Lando’s response was calm and focused. “Box this lap. Let’s keep it tight.”
The pit crew moved with practiced precision, each member executing their role flawlessly. Tires were stripped off and replaced in a blur, the air thick with tension and urgency. Lando peeled out of the pit lane with fresh rubber gripping the damp asphalt, tyres warming quickly as he prepared for the sprint ahead.
lap 20
The rain showed no mercy, falling steadily, turning the track into a slippery gauntlet. Each corner was a test of skill and nerve, the spray from rival cars making visibility a challenge. Lando fought tirelessly to close the gap ahead, threading expertly between competitors, holding onto every ounce of traction.
“Gap to P2 is 2.4. Keep managing tyre temps,” you cautioned. “Don’t force it.”
Lando gritted his teeth, determination cutting through the static. “Copy. Verstappen's pushing hard.”
lap 25
Hadjar spun out, hitting the back of Antonelli's car in the process. The race compressed once more, with the pack tightening for another tense restart.
“Oscar has been handed a 10-second penalty for erratic braking,” you informed Lando quietly but with intent. “We can use this.”
“Good,” he replied softly, eyes sharp behind his visor.
lap 45
“You’re pitting next lap for soft tyres,” you instructed. “This is the final push.”
Lando’s voice was steady, resolve clear. “Box this lap. Let’s make it count.”
The stop was flawless, executed with flawless timing and precision. Lando rejoined the track P1, the gap already six seconds ahead once Oscar served his penalty. The finish line was in sight, and the battle was far from over.
lap 52
“You’ve got a six-second lead. Smooth and steady,” you reminded him, your voice calm and measured despite the pressure.
“Copy,” Lando replied quietly, his focus absolute.
The rain finally eased, leaving the track glistening under the fading light. With flawless control, Lando navigated each corner with precision, every movement deliberate and confident. As the checkered flag waved, the roar of the crowd erupted around the circuit, victory was his.
end of race
“Silverstone winner, Lando Norris. You owned it,” you said, your voice warm and proud over the radio.
There was a brief pause before Lando’s reply came, voice thick with something new, emotion and a rare tenderness. “Thanks to you, baby. Couldn’t have done it without you.”
The word hit you like a spark, he’d never called you that before. It wasn’t just radio chatter anymore, it was something deeper, a private moment breaking through the static. A quiet admission that, after all the battles and late nights, you were more than just his engineer, you were the one who had stood by him through it all.
He pulled into parc fermé, the McLaren crew sprinting toward the barriers, climbing them with tears in their eyes and fists in the air.
He sat motionless in the cockpit for a second longer than usual, breathing hard, eyes wide, just taking it in.
Then he pulled off his wheel, climbed out of the car, and Silverstone erupted.
Lando threw his arms up to the sky, face breaking into the kind of smile that only comes once in a lifetime. The British flag was already being waved near the fence, the grandstands a sea of orange, neon green and Union Jacks.
He was immediately swallowed by his team.
Helmet still on, he was pulled into tight embraces, high fives raining down, hands clapping his back.
Then he spotted them, his parents, waiting just past the sea of McLaren uniforms.
He pushed through, hugged his mum first, tight and fierce, then his dad, who held him with both pride and a hand that didn’t quite stop shaking.
He finally pulled his helmet off.
Hair matted, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.
Then he saw you.
You were standing back with the engineers and crew, part of the crowd, but not just part of the crowd.
And without thinking, without hesitation, Lando ran.
Straight for you.
No waving, no slow walk, no clever grin.
Just full-speed, heart-in-throat sprint.
And before you could react, his arms were around you, his hands in your hair, and his mouth was on yours, a kiss that was deep and urgent and messy with joy. It was wild. Like he'd been waiting years for it.
The garage around you lost its mind.
You barely had time to breathe before he pulled back, forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathless and laughing, caught in the disbelief of it all.
He grinned, eyes glinting with tears. “You kept me calm. You always do.”
You ran your hands down his shoulders, still trembling from the adrenaline.
“You actually did it,” you whispered, smiling so wide it hurt. “You won Silverstone.”
He shook his head, laughing.
“We won Silverstone, baby.”
You were still laughing, half from shock, half from joy, when Lando pressed his forehead to yours again, tighter this time, as if he needed to feel you just to believe it was real.
His hands cradled either side of your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks, his chest heaving against yours.
“You won Silverstone,” you whispered again, your smile trembling now. “Lando, you won your home race.”
His eyes searched yours, wide and still glittering like he couldn’t quite believe it either. “I keep thinking I’m going to wake up in the car on lap fifty.”
You shook your head, tugging him impossibly closer, like you could anchor him here in reality. “This is real.”
“I just...” He broke off, emotion tightening his throat. “I wanted this for so long. And then it was raining and Oscar was gone and then you...” He stopped again, smiling even as tears threatened. “You kept me in it.”
You didn’t reply right away. You just reached up and brushed your fingers through his damp hair, your own throat too full to speak.
“I’ve always had you,” he said softly. “But this…this is what I’ve been waiting for.”
Your breath hitched.
And then he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, like the noise around you had disappeared, like there was no one else in the world. Just his hands on your hips, your mouth on his, the pounding of your hearts in sync.
When you finally pulled apart, your lips were kiss-bitten, your forehead still pressed to his.
“You’re unbelievable,” you whispered.
He smiled, a little crooked now, his eyes crinkling. “And you’re stuck with me.”
You laughed again, chest shaking against his.
And he kissed your cheek, then your jaw, then just held you there, in the middle of Silverstone, in front of the world, in front of the team, with his arms around you like he’d never let go.
Because after everything, the near-misses, the heartbreak, the endless long nights and impossible strategies and calls made under pressure, this was the finish line he didn’t even know he needed.
You.
The hotel room was quiet, tucked away from the screaming fans and champagne-slicked paddock.
The door clicked shut behind you both.
No words at first. Just soft movements, shoes kicked off, jackets dropped, the hum of the minibar fridge in the background. Lando set the trophy down on the table by the window. It gleamed under the lamplight, but he didn’t even look at it.
He was watching you.
You moved to sit at the edge of the bed, hands resting in your lap, still in your team gear, hair messy from the rain and the celebration. You hadn’t even had time to change.
“You’re quiet,” you said gently.
He stayed by the door for a second, hands on his hips, like if he stopped moving, it would all catch up to him.
Then: “It still doesn’t feel real.”
You looked up, eyes soft. “It is.”
He crossed the room in a few quiet steps and sank to his knees in front of you, resting his hands on your thighs. You brushed your fingers through his curls, damp and soft, and he leaned into the touch like he needed it more than air.
“You know,” he murmured, “I’ve imagined winning this race a hundred times. But not like that. Not with you in the garage, calling it lap by lap. Not with your voice in my ear, telling me to breathe. Not...”
He stopped, head dropping forward, resting on your knee.
You curled your fingers under his chin, guiding him to look up.
“Not with me?” you asked, smiling softly.
He gave a breathless laugh. “No. Not like this. Not like…you being it. The reason I stayed calm. The reason I believed I could.”
You leaned down until your foreheads touched, just like earlier, but now the air between you was still, no crowds, no rain, no radios.
“I always believed you could,” you whispered.
He closed his eyes. “You were the only one I needed to hear it from.”
And then he stood, pulling you up with him, hands finding your waist as you moved together with that same quiet ease you’d built over seasons and seasons of near misses.
He kissed you again, slow this time, like the adrenaline had drained from both your bodies and left only this soft ache behind. His hands cradled your jaw, your thumbs brushed over his ribs. Everything between you was unspoken, but known.
“You’re mine now, right?” he asked against your lips.
You smiled, pulling him closer by his shirt.
“I’ve always been.”
He kissed you like he had something to prove, like all the laps, all the podiums, all the interviews didn’t matter as much as this.
As you.
It started messy, too much emotion, too little breath, his lips crashing into yours with the kind of force that said thank god and finally all at once. His hands cupped your jaw, holding you like you might vanish if he let go.
You gasped softly against him, fingers curling into the front of his fireproof undershirt. He tasted like champagne and sweat and something sweet, something that was just Lando.
He kissed you again, firmer this time, like he was afraid you hadn’t felt the first one properly. Like he needed to make sure you understood everything he didn’t know how to say yet.
Your back hit the hotel wall with a soft thud, and he barely paused, pressing into you like he wanted to carve this memory into the skin of your spine.
He smiled against your mouth when you tugged his curls, a soft laugh huffing out through his nose. “You’re gonna ruin me,” he whispered, barely pulling back.
You blinked at him, dazed. “You just won Silverstone and I’m the one ruining you?”
His grin turned into a breathless kiss, lips softer now, slower, more deliberate. His hand trailed from your jaw to your waist, pulling you closer, and your bodies just… slotted together like they’d always known how.
You couldn’t stop kissing him. Over and over, quick ones, slow ones, kisses that turned into smiles and forehead presses and the kind that were barely even lips, just breath and skin and something holy between you.
Lando kissed you like he was making up for every single time he hadn’t. Every weekend he’d stood just close enough, every time his hand brushed yours in the garage, every glance across the paddock that lingered too long.
He was making up for all of it, with his mouth, with his hands, with the way he moved like he couldn’t get close enough.
You felt it in the press of his body, in the way he kissed you like it was the only language he had left. No more jokes, no more banter, just this. Just him and you and the skin between your mouths, the tension you’d both carried all season finally snapping and pouring out in heat and breath and touch.
“God,” he breathed, voice low and ragged as he pulled back to look at you, pupils blown, cheeks flushed. “You feel like...fuck. I don’t even have words.”
You smiled, breathless, tugging him back down by the collar. “Then stop talking.”
And he did.
He kissed you again, slower now but somehow deeper, like he wanted to crawl inside your chest and live there. His tongue slid against yours, patient and confident, and you whimpered quietly into his mouth, fingers digging into the muscles of his back.
You rolled together, bodies tangling, mouths still locked like neither of you could bear to be apart for even a second.
Every time you tried to come up for air, he kissed you again.
And again.
And again.
Hot and open-mouthed and full of the kind of ache that came from holding back for too long.
His hands moved over you like he was learning you, memorising the map of your skin with reverence and hunger, like you were sacred, like every inch of you was victory.
When he kissed your throat, your collarbone, your chest, it wasn’t rushed or showy. It was desperate and slow and intentional, like he was worshipping you in real time.
And when you finally pulled him fully to you, no barriers, no walls, no hesitation, he kissed you again, forehead to yours, noses brushing, like he needed that connection to ground him.
Later
The sheets had fallen low around your waists, still rumpled and warm. The hotel room was quiet now, all the city noise outside muted by heavy curtains and soft lighting.
Lando laid half on top of you, one arm draped across your stomach, his cheek resting against your chest. His fingers traced lazy shapes on your skin, no real pattern, just touch for the sake of it. For closeness.
His breathing was slow now. Deep. Safe.
You ran your hand through his curls, your nails grazing lightly over his scalp the way you knew soothed him. Every few seconds, he hummed, a little sound of contentment, like he was still half-drunk off the moment.
“Still here?” you whispered, not wanting to break the stillness but needing to hear him.
He nodded, just a little, lips brushing your skin.
“Barely.”
You smiled softly. “Gone already?”
“No,” he said. “Just…so full. Of you. Of all of it. Like I don’t have space for anything else.”
Your throat tightened.
He shifted a little, propping his chin on your chest so he could look at you, eyes sleepy, but still full of something deeper. Something quiet and endless.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
You nodded. “You?”
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Just didn’t think it’d feel like this.”
“Like what?”
He reached up, brushed his thumb gently over your bottom lip. “Like I’ve been holding my breath for months, and you’re the first one who let me exhale.”
You let out a tiny, shaky laugh. “You’re getting sappy, Norris.”
He grinned. “Don’t act like you don’t love it.”
You buried your face in the crook of his neck. “Maybe a little.”
He pulled you closer under the sheets, settling you against him like he wanted to hold you through the night and every one after it.
“I think I could stay here forever,” he murmured. “With you. In this exact spot. Just like this.”
“You’ll get stiff in the morning.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Worth it.”
You kissed his jaw, soft and lingering.
Neither of you said anything else for a while.
The win, the world, the cameras, it could all wait.
Right now, there was just warmth, skin, steady breath, and the softness of being known, truly, fully, completely.
Back with another one! Yay!! I'm having Formula One withdrawals and it's only been one week! Hope you enjoy! As always, let me know if you have any requests and thank you for your support!!
an: i have this delusion that i could 100% change his bad habits because i work as a personal assistant and have experience in childcare. so enjoy this. also if you struggle with mental health, always know im here to talk <3
summary: lando norris, f1 golden boy who hasn’t slept properly in months and lives off protein bars gets assigned a carer by max who reminds him to eat, sleep, and maybe feel something other than anger or guilt. she brings flowers into his sterile flat and hides his gym clothes so he’ll actually rest and he lets her. and somewhere between her gummy vitamins and his races, he realises he doesn’t just need her, he wants her too.
wc: 10k
“ABSOLUTLEY NOT.”
Lando stood in the middle of his sparsely furnished flat, arms folded, jaw tight. The overhead light flickered once, as if in protest too. Max, seated on the battered grey sofa with a cup of tea he’d made himself, simply raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve not eaten today, have you?”
“I had a protein bar.”
“That doesn’t count, mate.”
Lando’s eyes flicked to the side. He knew Max was right. The protein bar had been from the stash he kept in his gym bag, a dry, tasteless thing that barely passed as food. Still, admitting that would mean giving ground, and he wasn’t in the mood.
“I don’t need a bloody babysitter,” he muttered, tugging at the hem of his hoodie. “I’m not eighty-five.”
Max sighed, setting down his tea with the sort of calm that only long-suffering best mates could master. “She’s not a babysitter. She’s… a carer. Technically.”
“Oh, brilliant. Even worse.”
The silence that settled wasn’t comfortable. Outside, the steady hum of Monaco traffic drifted through the slightly ajar window. Somewhere below, someone shouted about bin day. Lando raked a hand through his curly brown hair and paced towards the kitchen. Max didn’t need to follow him to know what he’d find.
The fridge opened with a creak. Lando grimaced. A carton of milk two weeks out of date. Half a wilted bag of spinach. One lonely caprisun.
“See?” Max called from the living room. “You need someone to help.”
Lando shut the fridge, harder than he needed to. “I’m not broken.”
“I didn’t say you were. But you’re not exactly in one piece either.”
That one landed. He leaned against the counter, exhaling slowly. His eyes were tired, darker than usual, with the tell-tale puffiness that came from pushing through sleepless nights. After a bad race, it was always the same: the silence, the self-punishment, the long hours in the gym until his arms shook, or the empty buzz of late-night gaming until sunrise blurred into morning.
Lando wasn’t cruel, not to others. But he was brutal to himself.
Max stepped into the kitchen, soft-footed. He opened the cupboard, plucked a cereal bar, and tossed it to Lando. “Just give her a week. One week. If it’s hell, I’ll back off. You can go back to forgetting to eat and dying slowly. Deal?”
Lando caught the bar, didn’t unwrap it. He stared at it like it might explode. After a long moment, he gave a non-committal grunt.
“Fine,” he said at last, eyes flicking up. “But just a week.”
The doorbell rang at exactly ten o'clock.
Lando was on the sofa, one leg slung over the other, arms crossed, face unreadable. He hadn't shaved that morning. Or the one before, probably. Max, already halfway to the door, shot him a look.
“Try to smile, yeah?” he muttered.
Lando didn't answer. Max opened the door.
“Hiya,” came a warm, bright voice. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure which buzzer it was. I guessed.”
“You guessed right.” Max smiled, stepping aside. “Come in.”
She stepped over the threshold with a kind of lightness Lando noticed but didn’t comment on. Trainers, jeans, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. She didn’t look like a carer, whatever that meant. But then again, what did he expect? A clipboard and scrubs?
Her eyes flicked to him on the sofa and lit up with a friendly smile.
“You must be Lando.”
“I must be,” he said, dryly.
Max shot him a warning look. She didn’t seem fazed, though. Just walked in like it wasn’t a battlefield.
“I’m here for the trial week,” she said cheerfully, pulling out a small notebook. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to take over your life. Just nudge it in a slightly healthier direction.”
Lando snorted. “Great. Can’t wait to be nudged.”
Max coughed to hide a laugh.
She sat on the armchair across from him, perching rather than settling, like she didn’t want to assume too much. Lando appreciated that. A bit.
“So,” she said, flipping open the notebook. “What’s your usual routine, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Train. Race. Gym. Repeat.”
“And food?”
He shrugged. “When I remember.”
“Sleep?”
Another shrug. “When I can.”
She smiled, scribbling something down. “Right. Noted.”
Lando tilted his head. “You’re very… upbeat.”
“Would you rather I was miserable?”
“No, just…” He waved a vague hand. “You’re in a flat with a stranger who clearly doesn’t want you here. I’d be a bit put off.”
“Well,” she said, closing the notebook, “I’m not easily put off. And you don’t scare me.”
That surprised a breath of laughter out of him, more exhale than anything, but it was the closest he’d come to smiling in days. Max looked between them, pleased.
“She’s good,” he said to Lando. “Give her a day. You’ll be grateful by tonight.”
Lando leaned his head back on the sofa, eyes half-closing. “We’ll see.”
She stood up. “I’ll pop to the shop, then. I’m sure the fridge is crying for help.”
Max dug into his pocket, handed her twenty euros. “Get whatever you think he won’t argue about eating.”
“Right,” she grinned. “Crisps and biscuits, got it.”
She left with a wink. Lando opened one eye, watching her go. Max gave him a look that was both smug and fond.
“You like her.”
Lando didn’t reply.
But he didn’t protest, either.
He didn’t last long after Max left.
He didn’t announce it, didn’t say goodbye, just grabbed his keys, mumbled something about “needing air” and left her alone in the flat. It wasn’t meant to be rude, not really. He just didn’t know what to do with her being there, so full of smiles and softness and trying. It made his skin itch in a way he couldn’t explain.
So, he went to the gym. Again. Even though his arms still ached from last night. Even though he’d barely slept. He didn’t care. Pushing himself until the edges blurred was easier than sitting in silence with a stranger who was supposed to fix what he wouldn’t admit was broken.
He stayed out longer than he planned. Took the long way home. Wandered a bit, hoodie pulled up, sunglasses on despite the fading light. He even stopped off at the corner shop and bought a bottle of water he didn’t want, just to delay the inevitable.
But eventually, the sun started dipping below the Monegasque skyline, and he had no more excuses.
When he opened the door, he paused.
The flat looked different.
Not massively, not like she’d moved furniture or painted walls, but nicer. The blinds had been tugged all the way open, letting the warm orange light of evening spill in. The windows had been cracked open too, letting out the stuffy, lived-in gym-sweat air he’d become nose-blind to. On the kitchen counter sat a small bunch of flowers in an old pint glass, cheap daffodils, probably from the shop down the road, bright yellow and unapologetically cheerful.
And she was cooking.
He blinked.
She hadn’t heard him come in. She had music playing quietly from her phone and she was humming under her breath as she stirred something on the hob. She’d tied her hair up, sleeves rolled, apron on that definitely wasn’t his.
He hovered at the doorway like a ghost.
“I won’t eat fish,” he said, voice flat.
She jumped slightly, then turned to him with a grin, unbothered. “Good thing I’m not making fish then.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“I know,” she added, casually flipping something in the pan. “And you don’t like raw tomatoes. Or coconut. Or mushrooms unless they’re chopped so small you can’t see them. I did my homework.”
He folded his arms, suspicious despite himself. “Homework?”
“Max told me what he could, and the rest I found in old interviews. You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”
He had no idea what to do with that. “Right.”
She nodded towards the side counter. “There are some vitamins over there if you fancy. They’re the gummy ones, so they’re fun to eat.”
Lando turned his head slightly. Sure enough, there was a bottle of multivitamin gummies sitting next to a clean glass of water. He squinted at it like it might bite.
“You think that’s going to fix me?”
“Nope,” she said, flipping off the hob and plating something. “But you’ll taste strawberry and get a vitamin boost, and that’s two good things. Two’s better than none.”
He watched her carry the plate to the table, proper food, he realised. Real stuff. A bit of grilled chicken, roasted potatoes, some sort of green that didn’t look like it came from a packet. She’d even set out cutlery.
“I didn’t ask for this,” he muttered, but his voice had less edge than before.
“No, but your fridge did. Loudly.” She smiled. “Sit down, Lando.”
It was the first time she’d said his name. It startled him, how easily it came out of her mouth, no weight, no judgement, just lightness.
He didn’t move right away. But the flat smelled warm for the first time in… he didn’t know how long. It smelled like food, and flowers, and something gentle he couldn’t place.
Eventually, he sat.
And he took the bloody vitamin.
He started eating without saying much, though to be fair, the food shut him up quickly. It was annoyingly good. Not fancy, not trying too hard, just cooked well. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was until the first bite, and now his fork barely paused between mouthfuls.
While he ate, she moved around the kitchen, wiping down surfaces that were already pretty clean, rinsing the chopping board, putting away the little packet of daffodils that had come with the flowers. She was humming again, soft and almost tuneless, like it was more for her than anything else.
He watched her from the corner of his eye.
After a few minutes, he frowned.
“What about you?” he said, voice low. “Are you not going to eat?”
She looked up from where she was drying a mug. “I eat after work.”
He stopped chewing. “That’s weird.”
She laughed, not offended. “Not really. I’m used to it. I don’t like eating in other people’s homes unless I’m invited to.”
“Well… I’m inviting you now.”
Her eyes softened a little. “Thanks. But I’m alright, honestly.”
He stabbed a bit of potato. “Can you at least sit? You’re making me feel like I’m in a restaurant.”
That seemed to surprise her. She blinked, then nodded, pulling out the chair opposite him.
“You’re on edge,” she said gently, not like she was accusing him, just stating it.
He didn’t deny it.
She leaned back in the chair, folding her hands on the table, not trying to fill the silence with too much. Just being there. He hated how much of a relief that was.
After a beat, she tilted her head. “So… do you actually enjoy racing? Or is it just something you’re brilliant at?”
He looked up, fork halfway to his mouth.
“No one’s ever asked it like that before.”
She smiled. “Well, everyone knows you’re brilliant at it. But enjoying it that’s something else.”
He chewed, swallowed, shrugged. “I used to. When I was a kid. I’d sit in front of the telly with my dad and pretend I could hear the engines. I used to think the drivers were invincible.”
Her smile didn’t fade, but it did soften into something more thoughtful. “And now?”
“Now I know they’re not,” he said simply. “Now I know I’m not.”
She didn’t say anything to that. Didn’t rush to fix it or tell him he was, in fact, invincible. Just let it sit there.
He liked that more than he expected.
“You know,” she said after a quiet moment, “I watched last year's Brazil race before I came. The one where it rained.”
Lando rolled his eyes. “That bloody race.”
He didn't think of it fondly, until she spoke again.
“You made that turn like it was nothing. Everyone else looked like they were wrestling their cars, and you just… glided.”
He looked at her properly for the first time that evening. “You watched it for research?”
She nodded. “Had to see what I was dealing with.”
He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re very strange.”
“Thank you,” she grinned. “I take that as a compliment.”
He picked up the glass of water next to his empty plate, holding it in both hands. He didn’t know how to name the feeling in his chest, tight and loose at once. Like something had shifted half a centimetre to the right.
He didn’t say thank you.
But he didn’t ask her to leave, either.
The flat had gone quiet again and before he knew it, he’d finished his food and she’d taken the plate.
Lando sat there a while after she’d gone to tidy up again, not quite ready to move. His limbs were warm and heavy with food, his stomach full for the first time in, God, he couldn’t remember. The corner of his eye still caught the flash of yellow from the daffodils. Even the clutter on the coffee table had been gently rearranged, like someone had lived here instead of just existed in it.
He stood eventually, dragging a hand through his hair.
He didn’t say goodnight. But as he passed her, kneeling to organise something ridiculous like the cereal cupboard, he gave her a small nod.
“Night,” she said softly, like she knew he wouldn’t say it first.
By the time he got to his room, he felt it creeping in, the kind of sleep that didn’t come with punishment. Not exhaustion, not collapse. Just rest.
He changed half-heartedly, dropped into bed without bothering to pull the duvet straight.
And for the first time in what felt like months, he didn’t lie there for hours staring at the ceiling.
He didn’t toss or turn or drag himself back up to check his phone, or throw on joggers and go for another run he didn’t need.
He just closed his eyes.
And slept.
Deep. Still. Undisturbed.
He was that comfortable with his sleep he hadn’t even heard her leave.
The trial week came and went, and with that came his little scheduled meeting with Max.
“So,” Max said, leaning back in the café chair, hands wrapped around his coffee. “How’s life with Mary Poppins?”
Lando rolled his eyes, sipping slowly from a mug of hot chocolate that was somehow still hot.
“She doesn’t float in with a brolly, if that’s what you mean.”
“But she’s working, isn’t she?”
Lando didn’t answer straight away. He watched a dog trot past outside the window, nose down, tail wagging. The streets of Monte Carlo were busy with the usual Sunday bustle, people with tote bags full of veg, couples bickering gently over directions, someone playing guitar near the kerb.
He shrugged. “It’s less shit.”
Max smirked. “That’s the highest praise I’ve ever heard you give anyone.”
Lando looked down into his tea. “She’s just easy to be around. Doesn’t treat me like I’m a problem. Or fragile. She just makes dinner and talks about stupid things and leaves vitamins on the counter like it’s no big deal.”
“And you like that?”
“I don’t not like it.”
Max grinned. “So you’re keeping her?”
Lando huffed. “She’s not a goldfish.”
“You know what I mean.”
He didn’t answer at first, and Max let him have the space. There was something behind Lando’s eyes, quieter than before, but still guarded. Except now, the edges weren’t quite so sharp. He looked a little less hollowed out. A little more present.
Lando stirred the drink absently, then said, “I think she’s staying another week.”
Max didn’t say I told you so, but he smiled like he’d already said it a hundred times.
Over the next week, a rhythm began to form.
It wasn’t a schedule, exactly, Lando hated those, but there were now patterns. Gentle ones. He’d wake up to the faint clatter of pans and the smell of food. She never made him breakfast outright, but there was always a plate of something on the side, covered with a tea towel, like it had just happened to be left there.
He’d find his gym gear washed and folded in the same place on the sofa each morning. Not spoken about, just done. Vitamins still by the sink. Her music always low. The flowers in the pint glass had been swapped out for fresh tulips.
He didn’t say thank you. But he noticed.
And he started sleeping better.
Not every night, but more than before. Enough that the dark under his eyes wasn’t as heavy. Enough that the fridge had actual food in it now, and it wasn’t all hers.
By Monday night, she was packing up her bag to go home like usual when he spoke up.
“I leave for Barcelona tomorrow.”
She looked up, bright as ever. “Yup, I know. Made you an airport snack.”
She reached into the fridge and pulled out a tupperware container, sliding it across the counter towards him. The lid was already labelled in biro, ‘Do not open until bored at terminal gate’.
He raised an eyebrow. “You know I fly private, right? They’ve got catering.”
She didn’t miss a beat. “And what are the odds you didn’t reply to the email asking about your dietary preferences?”
He paused.
She grinned.
“Thought so. It’s just a wrap and some fruit. No tomatoes, no weird mayo, no drama.”
He huffed, but he didn’t push it. He picked it up and tucked it under one arm.
“Oh, and,” she added, wiping her hands on a tea towel, “I put a few things on your bed. Clothes you might consider packing. You don’t have to. Just thought I’d save you standing in your pants tomorrow morning wondering what the weather in Barcelona will be, and yes I know you like to dress warm.”
He let out a proper laugh, low and unexpected.
“You’ve done two of my most hated tasks in one night,” he said, eyes warm for a moment. “That’s impressive.”
She shrugged, light as always. “It’s what I’m here for.”
He stood in the doorway, still holding the tupperware, gaze lingering on her longer than he meant to. She didn’t make anything of it, just smiled and went back to packing her bag.
Race weekends were always a blur.
Even after years of doing it, Lando never really adjusted. The heat, the noise, the cameras, the pressure. Spain in May was dry and heavy, the kind of heat that sat on your shoulders and made your helmet feel three sizes too small. Qualifying had been a disaster, traffic, a lock-up, something just off with the rear grip. He was starting further back than he liked. Further back than the car deserved.
He hadn’t spoken to anyone on the cool-down lap.
His engineer had been cautious over the radio, Max had texted a brief ‘rough one. you’ll fix it.’ and that was about it. Lando stayed in his suit too long, helmet off but gloves still on, sitting at the back of the garage with his jaw clenched and a bottle of water sweating in his hand.
Later, after media duties and a cold shower and a half-hearted poke at some pasta, he was lying on the hotel bed, one leg still on the floor, staring at the ceiling when his phone buzzed.
He glanced at it out of habit.
It was a photo.
She was in a little French bar somewhere, low lights, strings of flags, telly mounted high on the wall with the F1 coverage paused mid-graphic. He recognised his own face in the corner, frozen mid-interview. She was holding up a pint of something cloudy, face half in frame, smiling like she’d just bumped into an old mate. A bowl of crisps sat in front of her.
The caption followed a second later:
That quali looked tough. Make sure to have enough electrolytes or a banana.
Lando stared at it for longer than he meant to. Something tugged at the corner of his mouth.
She hadn’t asked how he was.
Hadn’t said you’ll get them tomorrow or you’re still the best or any of the usual platitudes.
Just, looked tough, take care of yourself.
Simple. Uncomplicated.
He let out a small breath of something that might have been a laugh. His thumb hovered over the screen for a second, then tapped out a reply.
They only gave us oranges.
A few seconds passed.
That’s alright. Oranges are just citrusy bananas in disguise.
He shook his head, grinning now, properly.
There was still noise in his chest, frustration, the echo of tyres locking up, but it didn’t feel quite so loud anymore.
And for the first time after a bad Saturday, Lando didn’t feel like running from it.
The flight back to Monaco was uneventful. He slept for half of it, sprawled inelegantly in the reclined seat, his cap pulled low and earphones in with no music playing. His body was tired in that hollow, post-race way, blood still buzzing faintly, muscles tight, but his brain was quieter than usual.
P2 wasn’t bad. Not a win, but solid points. Still, it ate at him.
He arrived home just after midnight. The flat was dark, blinds drawn, the sea outside nothing but soft black noise.
Lando dumped his bag by the door and kicked off his shoes. It should have felt like relief, home, bed, no media duties, but it didn’t. It felt still.
He flicked on the light in the kitchen, expecting nothing.
Instead, there it was on the counter.
A piece of white printer paper, creased slightly down the middle, folded like a school certificate. Hand-drawn, with glitter gel pen of all things.
P2 – WELL DONE, CHAMPION
Underneath, in all-caps block letters, it read:
REDEEM THIS FOR 1 (ONE) FAVOURITE CHOCOLATE BAR, TO BE EATEN IMMEDIATELY.
And there it was. His favourite. Not the obvious one either, the one he used to buy from the corner shop when he was fifteen and couldn’t afford imported Swiss stuff with his pocket money. He hadn’t had one in years.
He picked it up, staring at it like it might disappear.
Beside the certificate was a folded note, written in her loopy handwriting:
I figured you’d want some space after the weekend, so I’m giving you the night off from me.
BUT. Your favourite meal is in the fridge. I expect to see the container empty when I’m back at 7am. I will be checking the bins. I’ve taken the power cable for your PC and hidden your gym clothes, so don’t bother looking. Please sleep. Properly. You’ve earned it x
He read it twice, then once more for good measure.
There was no teasing smile in the room, no hum of music or smell of herbs in the air, but her presence was there, in every corner. Quietly looking after him without needing him to admit he needed it.
He opened the fridge. The meal was there, labelled, still warm enough to be reheated. He didn’t even question how she knew it was his favourite. He just took it out, turned on the oven, and sat at the counter with the chocolate bar already half-eaten.
The flat was silent.
Normally he hated the silence. It stretched and scratched at him until he had to fill it. TV, weights, anything. But tonight it was different.
Tonight, the silence felt... safe. Like something was waiting just out of frame.
And though he’d never say it aloud, not even to himself—
He missed her. Slightly.
Just enough that 7am didn’t feel all that far away.
The first light slipped through the half-open blinds, soft and pale against the dark wood floor.
Lando was already up.
He didn’t mean to be. He’d woken sometime in the small hours, restless, but then the smell of coffee brewing pulled him from the blur of sleep. He found himself in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, the warmth of the oven still humming softly nearby.
The meal was gone. The container clean.
He smiled a little to himself, small victory, at least.
The kettle clicked off, and she appeared in the doorway, hair tied back loosely, eyes bright but gentle.
“Morning,” she said quietly, like she was trying not to wake the flat.
He met her gaze, caught in the calm.
“Morning.”
She reached for the coffee pot and topped up his mug, then poured one for herself.
They stood there for a beat, just the two of them and the quiet hum of the morning.
“Did you sleep?” she asked.
Lando shrugged, but there was something different in his tone. “More than I usually do.”
“That’s good.”
He nodded, watching her move around the kitchen with that effortless ease, putting the chocolate wrapper in the bin, tidying the dishes.
He felt it again. That small, stubborn flicker of something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel before: contentment.
She looked over her shoulder, catching his eye.
“Race weekend’s done,” she said softly. “You’re home now.”
He gave her a crooked smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes just yet, but was close.
“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”
She blew on her coffee, then glanced over at him with a curious tilt of her head.
“So what do you usually do on days like this? After a race?”
Lando paused, mug halfway to his lips.
“Usually?” he said. “Try not to think.”
She gave a small nod, like she understood exactly what he meant.
“Right,” she said lightly. “So why don’t we go to the beach?”
He blinked. “The beach?”
“Yeah. You know, sand, sea, a bit of fresh air. It’s 27 degrees, the water will be decent. You’ve done all the not thinking bit, now you can do the part where you feel like a person again.”
Lando looked at her like she’d just suggested skydiving. In the rain. Naked.
She met his stare head-on, the corners of her mouth twitching into a smile.
“I’m not saying we have to go swimming,” she added. “Just sit. Maybe with a drink. Or ice cream. I’ll bring snacks if that helps.”
He huffed a small laugh. “You’re relentless.”
“I prefer the term optimistic.”
He glanced out the window. The sun was already climbing, a shimmer of gold across the buildings. Monaco in May didn’t waste time. It was exactly the kind of day he’d usually spend in a dark gym or glued to his screen with a headset on.
And yet.
“Okay,” he said at last, surprising even himself. “Yeah. Sure. Why not.”
Her smile lit up, bright and immediate. “Brilliant.”
He turned to head for his room. “I’ll grab my stuff.”
“I’ll meet you back here in thirty,” she said, already halfway out the door. “Just need to pop home, get a few bits.”
He nodded. “Alright.”
And then she was gone, the flat felt quieter without her, but not in the lonely way. More like a held breath, waiting.
Lando glanced around, bemused at himself.
The beach. On a Monday.
He shook his head and muttered under his breath, “What am I doing?”
But he was already reaching for his sunglasses.
When she came back, the sun was even higher in the sky and so was something in Lando’s chest. He’d opened all the windows while she was gone, and the breeze drifting through the flat was warm and salt-tinged.
He heard the door go and turned, halfway through stuffing a towel into a backpack.
She stepped into the kitchen in a light summer dress, sunglasses perched on her head, a bag slung over her shoulder. It was nothing dramatic, just something simple and floral, but it suited her. She looked soft, golden in the sunlight, like she belonged exactly in that moment.
Lando’s brain hiccuped. He didn’t say anything but he looked, really looked, and quietly thought to himself.
God, she’s pretty.
She caught his gaze, raised a brow. “What?”
He blinked. “Nothing.”
He slung the bag over his shoulder and nodded towards the door. “We’ve got to go somewhere that’s not Monaco, though.”
She tilted her head. “Why?”
He scratched the back of his neck. “People’ll see. Paparazzi, fans, someone’ll clock it. Me. Us”
Her smile curled. “Us?”
“I just mean—” he started, but she was already grinning wider.
“I know what you meant, so where then?”
“We’ll have to drive into France,” he said, completely serious.
She laughed.
He looked at her. “What?”
“Nothing, sorry,” she said, still smiling. “Just the way you said it like it was just us popping down to the shops.”
He gave her a look, lips twitching. “It sort of is.”
She shrugged, following him down into the garage. “Alright then, France it is.”
The garage was cool and dim after the heat of the morning. Rows of sleek cars sat like sleeping beasts under soft overhead lights. She slowed as they walked, eyes wide.
“Bloody hell,” she murmured. “Is this all you?”
He chuckled, unlocking one of the quieter looking models. “Some are mine. Some are team perks. Some are just there.”
She ran a hand along the bonnet, clearly impressed. “Not bad for a day at the beach.”
They set off, the coast unfurling beside them like a painting. The drive was easy, winding roads and open skies, her hair dancing in the breeze as music played low from the speakers. She sang along quietly to bits she knew. He didn’t join in, but he listened.
And he smiled.
The beach was quieter than expected, a little cove tucked away from the road, shaded by cliffs and speckled with driftwood. They laid their things on the warm sand, and she kicked off her sandals with a sigh.
Lando was laying out the towles when she pulled her dress over her head in one swift motion, revealing a bikini underneath.
He didn’t stare, or at least he told himself he didn’t.
But he did definitely notice.
Something in his stomach dipped for a second, caught between admiration and the very sudden awareness of who he was and who she was.
She stretched like she’d been waiting all day to do it, hair tied up now, skin kissed golden by the sun.
Lando barely had time to take off his own shirt before she looked over her shoulder, grinning wickedly.
“Race you!”
And before he could respond, she was already sprinting towards the sea, feet kicking up soft clouds of sand.
He blinked, startled, then swore under his breath, grinning.
“You little—”
He chased after her, heart thudding, not from the sun. Something lighter than adrenaline, freer than pressure. The breeze bit at his skin, the salt stung his eyes, and the sound of her laugh carried over the waves.
And for the first time in a long time, he felt light.
The sea was warmer than he expected, cool at first touch, then refreshing against his sun-warmed skin.
She was already thigh deep when he caught up, turning to glance over her shoulder with a grin that said you’re too slow.
Lando launched at her.
She yelped, laughing as he caught her around the waist and they both stumbled deeper into the water, waves breaking around them.
“Alright! Alright! Truce!” she shouted, breathless.
But he didn’t let go, just held her steady against the current for a second too long. She looked up at him, cheeks pink from the sun and smiling so wide it almost knocked the breath out of him.
Then, without warning, she dunked him.
His head went under with a surprised splash and he surfaced with a splutter, hair slicked to his forehead and eyes narrowed.
“Oh, you’re done for,” he said, grinning through the water dripping from his lashes.
They splashed and shoved and laughed like children, the kind of silly, harmless chaos that left his chest aching, but not in the bad way.
Eventually, soaked and smiling, they drifted into a quiet stretch of the cove, water up to their waists, the sun casting long golden streaks across the surface.
They talked a bit, nothing too heavy. Favourite ice creams. Embarrassing childhood stories. He learnt she hated the sound of polystyrene, and she learnt he once fell asleep in a bin lorry by mistake during a school trip (real story from me lol).
Time stretched in that slow, delicious way that only seemed to happen when he was with her.
The rest of the day passed in sun-drowsy contentment.
They dried off on the towels, eating snacks and reading bits from a tatty magazine she’d brought on how to impress your manager. She dozed for a while with her arm flopped across her eyes. He sat beside her, knees pulled up, watching the tide roll in and out, trying not to overthink how much peace he felt in that exact moment.
Later, on the drive back, they stopped for ice cream from a stand near the harbour. She ordered something fruity. He got mint choc chip, mostly so she’d stop teasing him for being too grown up and choosing something like coffee.
By the time they were halfway home, the sun had dipped below the hills and she was fast asleep in the passenger seat, head turned gently towards him, mouth parted slightly.
Lando glanced at her, then back at the road. His grip on the wheel softened.
When they got back to the flat, he didn’t wake her.
Instead, he slipped out of the driver’s seat, came round, and unbuckled her gently. She stirred slightly as he lifted her into his arms, warm and still faintly smelling of suncream.
Her head dropped to his shoulder. He didn't say a word, he didn't even breathe.
The lift ride up was quiet. His flat even quieter.
He nudged the door open, padded through the hall, and carried her straight into his bedroom. The sheets were still crisp from the morning, untouched.
He laid her down carefully, brushed a bit of hair from her face. She sighed softly, turning into the pillow like she belonged there.
Lando lingered for a moment.
Then he backed out, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.
He crashed on the sofa, limbs heavy but heart oddly light. His damp curly hair pressed against the cushion, and for once, the silence didn’t bother him.
He could still hear her laugh echoing in the waves.
The following morning she woke with a start.
It took her a second to realise where she was, the unfamiliar softness of the duvet, the crisp linen, the faint scent of him on the pillow. Definitely not her flat. And definitely his bed.
“Shit.”
She sat up quickly, heart thudding, scanning the room for her jacket or bag or anything that proved that she hopefully hasn’t slept with him.
The flat was quiet except for the faint sound of something clattering in the kitchen. Not exactly a disaster, but not quite peace either.
She pulled a random hoodie over her head, ran a hand through her tangled hair, and padded out into the main room, bracing herself.
He was in the kitchen. Barefoot, curls a mess, concentration furrowed into his brow as he flipped a pancake that looked… questionably thick.
The pan hissed. The pancake landed mostly where it should’ve.
She crossed her arms, trying not to laugh. “Are you… cooking?”
Lando turned, startled. His cheeks were flushed, not from embarrassment, more from the warmth of the kitchen and the fact he hadn’t expected her to be awake.
“Sort of,” he muttered, glancing down at the half-stack on the plate. “They’re edible. Just about.”
She looked at him, messy-haired, in an old hoodie, trying to figure out if the one in the pan was burnt or just dark golden.
She couldn't help it. She smiled.
“I’m meant to be the one looking after you,” she said, shaking her head.
He rolled his eyes but there was no bite to it. “You fell asleep. I wasn’t going to wake you just to supervise me making average pancakes.”
“Below average.”
“They’re fine,” he defended, lifting one with the spatula. It folded in half on itself. “Okay, they’re character-building.”
She stepped closer, nudging him with her shoulder. “Look at that. First meal you’ve cooked yourself in how long?”
Lando scoffed, but the back of his neck went pink. “Dunno. Ages.”
She tilted her head, eyes soft with something he couldn’t name. “Domesticity looks good on you.”
He froze for a second but he felt the words settle somewhere in his chest.
Domesticity.
Her, here. His hoodie. Pancakes. Morning light.
He looked at her, really looked, and for once didn’t feel the urge to run from the quiet.
Instead, he flipped the final pancake with a slightly smug smirk. “Told you I didn’t need a carer.”
She raised an eyebrow. “One half-decent breakfast doesn’t mean you’re cured, sweetheart.”
He smiled despite himself. Sweetheart.
And just like that, he knew the rest of his day was going to be warm.
She grabbed a plate and scooped a pancake onto it, then passed it over with a cheeky grin.
“Here, try not to burn it.”
Lando took it, biting into the warm, slightly uneven stack. It wasn’t bad. Actually, it was pretty good. The kind of good that made you forget about the mess of your last few days.
He looked up at her, a slow smile tugging at his lips.
“Not bad for a carer’s breakfast, huh?”
She laughed, sitting down at the small kitchen table. “I might have to upgrade you to sous chef.”
He shook his head, but the smile stayed. “You sure you want to get stuck with a bloke who can barely boil water without a minor disaster?”
She reached across the table, nudging his hand lightly.
“I think I can manage.”
There was a pause, comfortable and easy. The sunlight caught her eyes, making them shine in a way that made Lando’s chest tighten just a little.
“So…” she said softly, “how are you, really?”
Lando swallowed, the question catching him off guard. Usually, he brushed it off or changed the subject.
But today, he let it hang in the air.
“I’m… better than I was,” he admitted, voice low. “Being with you, well, it’s different. Less noise upstairs.”
She smiled gently, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the table.
“That’s good,” she said quietly. “You deserve that.”
He met her gaze, a flicker of something like hope stirring beneath the usual mess.
Maybe this was the start of something, not just a routine or a distraction, but something real.
He didn’t know what it was yet.
But for the first time in a long time, he felt like he wanted to find out.
A few days passed in the way only good days do, quietly, comfortably, and all at once.
They fell back into their routine with ease. She was there every morning, bright and soft and organised, keeping him on track without ever making it feel like a chore. Meals appeared when he forgot he was hungry. She swapped out the expired yoghurt in the fridge without saying a word. She scribbled reminders onto post-it notes and stuck them in ridiculous places. On his phone, the bathroom mirror, his steering wheel.
And somehow, despite everything, he was sleeping again for more than 4 hours.
The flat no longer felt too quiet.
He met Max at their usual café down in the port the morning before he flew out to Austria.
Lando slumped into the chair opposite him, hoodie pulled up, sunglasses on despite the overcast sky.
Max gave him a look. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know. You dress like a celebrity in hiding but show up to the same café every time.”
Lando smirked, pulling down his glasses. “Creature of habit.”
Max took a sip of his coffee, eyeing him properly now. “You look better.”
Lando blinked. “What d’you mean?”
“I mean, you’re not half-dead,” Max said bluntly. “You’ve got colour in your face. You’ve shaved. I don’t see a Monster can fused to your hand.”
Lando huffed a laugh. “Thanks, mate. Proper confidence boost, that.”
Max grinned. “So she’s working, then.”
Lando paused. Thought about the pancakes. The post-its. The quiet sound of her humming in the kitchen. The way she made the flat feel like something more than just a place he slept in between breakdowns.
“She is,” he said, nodding. “More than I thought, actually.”
Max raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “Told you. She’s got that stubborn kind of sunshine thing going on.”
Lando looked out at the boats bobbing gently on the water. “It’s weird. I don’t feel like she’s fixing me. It’s just… I want to keep up. For once.”
Max leaned back in his chair, smiling like he already knew.
“You’ve got someone in your corner now,” he said. “And you like it.”
Lando didn’t answer straight away.
But he didn’t deny it either.
Austria should’ve felt like business as usual.
The team was buzzing, the garage busy, the hotel sleek and sterile in that forgettable sort of way. He’d done this so many times he could go through the motions with his eyes shut, briefings, media, gym, sleep. Repeat.
But something was different this time.
His room was too quiet. His meals, though catered, tasted like cardboard. He’d forgotten to bring his vitamins, and the note she’d once stuck to the inside of his wash bag, remember to be a person, not just a machine, was no longer there.
He missed her. Not just her reminders and routines, but her. The way she’d talk at him while he made coffee, narrating her morning like it was the most important story on earth. The way she hummed while folding laundry. The way she looked at him, not like he was a driver, or a mess, but just… him.
The ache surprised him.
By Saturday night, he was holed up in his hotel room, lights dimmed, race prep done. But instead of watching footage or scrolling, he stared at his phone.
Then, almost on a whim, he opened their chat.
Would you ever come to a race?
Three dots appeared almost instantly. Then disappeared. Then came back.
That’s quite a question. Is this your subtle way of inviting me to Austria?
He smiled. Tapped back.
Austria’s a bit mad. But Silverstone’s next. Thought you might like it. Home race and all that.
The typing bubble came and went again. Then,
We can talk about it when you’re home.
And there it was, that word.
Home.
He stared at the screen longer than he meant to.
It did something to him. Knocked something loose. Not because she’d said it. But because she meant it. Like his flat wasn’t just a stopgap anymore. Like him being away wasn’t permanent.
They’d talk when he was home.
He stared at her last message a moment longer, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
I’d like you to be there when I get back Sunday night. If you’re free, I mean.
He regretted sending it immediately. Read it back twice. It looked desperate. Or worse, uncertain.
But a reply came a few minutes later.
I’ll be there.
That was it. Simple. Certain.
He smiled. Couldn’t help it.
And for the first time on a race weekend, he couldn’t wait for it to be over, not for the result, but because it meant he’d get to see her again.
Sunday night came fast.
The flight was smooth, the car from the airport quick, but Lando felt that weird tug of nerves all over again as the lift doors slid open to his flat. His bag thumped against his leg. The hallway smelt faintly of fresh linen and vanilla.
She was there.
He could feel it even before he saw her.
When he stepped inside, the lights were low, and something warm flickered in the corner of the living room, a couple of candles, set along the windowsill. The blinds were open, showing off the Monaco skyline in soft golden hues.
She looked up from the sofa, dressed in cosy joggers and a big jumper, her hair tied up, a bowl of popcorn balanced in her lap.
“There you are,” she said, smiling like he hadn’t just spent three days thinking about her.
Lando stepped in, shrugging off his jacket, suddenly very aware of the domesticity he'd walked into. A blanket was draped across the back of the sofa. Two mugs sat on the coffee table, one clearly his, already filled with hot chocolate.
“I wasn’t sure what kind of mood you’d be in,” she said, shifting slightly to make room, “so I picked three films. Comfort, distraction, or dramatic sobbing, dealer’s choice.”
He didn’t speak right away. Just looked around at the quiet little world she’d built for him in his absence.
His shoulders dropped.
“This is nice,” he said, finally. “Really nice.”
She grinned. “Well, I figured if I’m going to keep pretending to be your carer, I might as well offer full post-race recovery packages.”
He laughed, genuinely, the kind that shook a bit of the tension from his chest.
She patted the seat next to her. “Come on then. Sit down before your hot chocolate gets cold.”
And he did, just like that. Kicked off his shoes, slouched onto the sofa, and let his body fold into the warmth of it all. Her shoulder brushed his as she pressed play, and he didn’t move away.
He hadn’t realised how much he needed this.
Not just the quiet, but her quiet.
And as the film played and her head gently tipped onto his arm, Lando let himself enjoy it, just for a while.
Home.
It really did feel like that now.
The following morning he woke with a crick in his neck and the faint scent of her still clinging to the blanket draped over his chest.
The telly had switched itself off at some point in the night. His hot chocolate was long cold. And she was gone, left sometime after the credits had rolled, quietly, without waking him.
But the flat didn’t feel empty.
It felt like she’d just stepped out.
He pulled the blanket closer, burying his face in it for a second longer than necessary. Lavender and laundry powder. Familiar. Her.
Later that morning, she came by as usual, letting herself in with a chirpy “Morning!” and two coffees in hand.
He was already up for once, hair still rumpled from sleep, hoodie creased.
“Sleep on the sofa?” she asked, amused.
“Mm.” He took the coffee gratefully. “Didn’t make it very far after you left. Blanket was too warm.”
She gave him a knowing look but didn’t tease.
They settled at the kitchen table, a shared croissant between them, her notebook open to a new page.
“So,” she said, flicking the cap off her pen, “Silverstone. Talk to me.”
Lando took a slow sip of his coffee. “I meant what I said. I want you there.”
She glanced up, smile tucked in the corner of her mouth. “I know. I just didn’t want to assume.”
“You never do,” he said, honest and quick, before he even realised it.
That earned him a small look, soft, appreciative.
“So,” he continued, shifting slightly in his seat, “you’ve got two options. I can get you a pass for the paddock, proper team kit, blend in, pretend you belong.”
She raised a brow, amused. “Pretend?”
He smirked. “You’re bossy enough, you’d fit right in.”
She grinned. “Flattering.”
“Or,” he went on, “you can watch from the grandstands. Might be a bit calmer, but I’ll know you’re there either way.”
She looked at him properly now, pen stilled in her fingers. “And you want me there even if it’s chaos?”
He shrugged, suddenly a bit shy. “I don’t know. Just when you’re around, it feels like less of a mess.”
That quiet settled in again. Not awkward. Just true.
She nodded, scribbling something in her notebook. “Alright. I’ll come. You’ll have to get me a kit that doesn’t drown me, though. I’m not showing up looking like I borrowed it off a rugby player.”
Lando laughed. “Deal.”
And as she tucked her notebook away and moved to put the kettle on, he watched her like he was seeing the start of something he hadn’t quite had the words for yet.
But he knew this much.
He didn’t just want her there.
He needed her there.
They flew out on the Thursday morning.
Private jet, naturally, something Lando barely registered anymore, part of the machine that came with the job. But watching her take it all in was another story entirely.
“Wait,” she whispered as they pulled up onto the tarmac. “This is yours?”
He shrugged, smirking. “Well, not mine mine. But yeah. Team flight.”
She stared up at the sleek plane like it had dropped out of a film set. “Right. Okay. No big deal. Totally normal. Not freaking out.”
Lando chuckled as he grabbed her bag from the boot. “You’re allowed to be impressed, y’know. You don’t have to be cool all the time.”
“I am cool,” she insisted, following him up the steps with wide eyes. “Just also wildly unprepared for this level of luxury.”
Inside, she settled into one of the leather seats like she was afraid she’d break it, eyes darting around at the polished surfaces and perfectly folded blankets.
He sat opposite her, grinning like a fool.
“You alright there?”
She looked at him over the rim of her paper cup. “Lando, they offered me a mimosa and I said no because I panicked. I’m not alright.”
He burst out laughing, tipping his head back. “You’ll get used to it.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
By the time they reached Silverstone, her nerves had settled into excitement.
The team garage was already buzzing, and when she stepped out in the McLaren kit he’d had waiting for her, a proper fit, not some oversized leftover, Lando had to look away for a moment just to get himself together.
She fit in effortlessly.
Wearing the colours, she didn’t look like someone tagging along. She looked like she belonged.
And it was oddly comforting, more than he’d expected.
She was laughing with one of the engineers before he’d even finished debrief. Swapping notes with his physio. Keeping a watchful eye on the water bottle in his hand like it was her full-time job.
And for once, when he walked through the paddock, he didn’t feel like he was floating above it all.
He felt anchored.
Between sessions, she found him sat outside the motorhome, cap pulled low, headphones around his neck.
She passed him a banana and a look. “Don’t roll your eyes. You skipped breakfast.”
Lando took it, peeling it slowly. “You just like bossing me around.”
“Absolutely,” she said brightly. “Now eat it, number four.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You calling me by my driver number now?”
She grinned. “Only if it motivates you.”
And as she sat beside him, cross-legged and chatting like they were just two mates at a park somewhere, Lando realised this didn’t feel like chaos.
It felt… right.
Later that day, the two of them found themselves in the motorhome again, half-drawn blinds, casting warm strips of light across the small lounge space. Lando had pulled off his boots and fireproofs, now in team joggers and a loose t-shirt, legs stretched across the sofa while she sat on the carpet in front of him, back resting against the edge of the seat, her hair still slightly windswept from being trackside.
His hand dangled loosely near her shoulder. Not touching. But close.
She was humming, some random tune from the playlist she’d put on while he cooled down, and carefully peeling the corner of a protein bar wrapper for him.
“Do you know you hum constantly?” he said, watching her with that quiet, lopsided sort of amusement.
She glanced up. “Do I?”
“Yeah. Like, properly. All the time.”
“Well, maybe you’re just always around now.”
He smiled, then laughed softly when she tossed the protein bar at him without looking.
They fell into that easy silence again, the kind that didn’t need filling. She reached up to tug a hairband from her wrist, redoing her ponytail absentmindedly. His gaze lingered.
“You alright?” she asked, craning her neck slightly to look at him.
He nodded. “Yeah. You just make all this feel
less mental.”
That earned her softest smile, the kind she didn’t even have to think about. “That’s the job, isn’t it?”
He didn’t say anything, just looked at her like he wanted to say more but couldn’t figure out how.
Then the door creaked open and Oscar stepped in with a knock-knock gesture and a raised brow. “Sorry, didn’t realise this was occupied.”
Lando blinked, quickly sitting up, hand retreating behind his head like he hadn’t been close to her at all. She turned slightly, offering Oscar a warm, unapologetic smile.
“Hi,” she said, chipper as ever. “Nice to meet you, I’m Lando’s carer.”
Oscar grinned, clearly amused. “Oh yeah?”
Lando shrugged, slumping back into the sofa like it was no big deal. “Yeah. She cares so I don’t have to.”
Oscar snorted. “Nice work if you can get it.”
She laughed, then added, “To be fair, he’s more work than a pensioner with a sugar addiction, so I earn every bit of it.”
Oscar shot Lando a mock-sympathetic look. “She’s got you nailed, mate.”
Lando just shook his head, lips tugging into the smallest of smiles as Oscar backed out of the room with a wink and a wave.
Once the door shut again, she turned and looked up at him from the floor.
“Too much?” she teased.
He leaned forward, still smiling. “Not at all.”
And for the rest of the hour, with her back pressed to his knee and the quiet buzzing of the paddock beyond the walls, everything felt settled.
Like maybe this was becoming the new normal.
Race day came with its usual noise and nerves. The low thrum of engines in the distance, the hiss of tyres on tarmac, the sting of adrenaline thick in the air.
Silverstone buzzed with the kind of energy only a home race could bring.
And Lando had never driven better.
Every lap was clean, calculated, ruthless. No mistakes. No self-doubt. Just grit and instinct and a car that, for once, felt like an extension of himself.
When he crossed the finish line in P1, the roar from the grandstands felt deafening. Team radio crackled with cheers, engineers shouting down his ear, someone nearly in tears.
He barely heard it.
All he could think, where is she?
Pulling into parc fermé, he yanked off his helmet and looked around like a man on a mission.
“Where is she?” he asked one of the mechanics, already half out of the car.
The guy blinked. “Who?”
“Uh” He gestured vaguely. “My uh carer, she’s in the team kit, she was in the garage earlier. Has anyone seen her?”
Shrugs. Shaking heads. No one knew.
His jaw tensed, nerves he hadn’t felt all race prickling in now like static. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. All of this meant less if she wasn’t here to see it.
Still, he went through the motions: hugs with the crew, the sweaty TV pen interviews, the slow walk down the corridor lined with monitors and back-slaps. The moment was his, but it felt a bit empty.
Then he stepped onto the podium.
The crowd was thunderous. British flags everywhere, people chanting his name, flashes going off like strobes.
And there, down below, tucked between a few McLaren pit crew, cap pulled low and grinning up at him like he’d just done the impossible, there she was.
Her face lit up when he spotted her, and the tension in his chest just dropped.
He grinned, grabbed the champagne bottle, and with precision honed from years of celebration, arced the spray right in her direction.
She squealed, laughing, trying to duck behind someone’s shoulder but getting caught in it anyway.
He laughed too, and when the moment calmed, he looked down again and caught her eyes.
She mouthed something at him, something small, like ‘well done’, and he mouthed back.
Go back to the motorhome.
She gave a little salute, still smiling, and disappeared into the crowd.
And suddenly, the day felt complete.
The moment the press duties were done, Lando didn’t waste a second.
Still damp from champagne, hair sticking to his forehead, race suit tied at the waist, he all but jogged back through the paddock. Past cameras, past well-wishers, barely nodding as people tried to offer congratulations.
He needed to see her.
The motorhome was quiet when he pushed open the door, the rest of the team still caught up in the chaos outside. But she was there, sat on the sofa, McLaren cap now off, holding a bottle of water and staring out the window like she was waiting for him too.
“Hey—” she started, but didn’t finish.
Because he was already across the room, already scooping her up into a hug that nearly knocked the breath out of both of them. She gave a soft little laugh of surprise, arms winding round his neck as he held her like he’d just won her.
Which, in a way, he had.
“You were incredible,” she said against his shoulder.
“I didn’t care about the win,” he murmured, voice muffled in her hair. “Not until I saw you.”
She pulled back slightly to look at him, eyebrows drawing in. “Lando…”
“No, I mean it,” he said, heart racing now for entirely different reasons. “When I crossed the line, I should’ve felt everything. But I couldn’t think about anything except the fact that you weren’t there. Not at first. It felt, empty.”
Her expression softened, smile faltering at the edges.
“That’s the adrenaline talking,” she said gently, fingers brushing the back of his neck. “You’re on a high, people say all sorts when their heart’s going.”
“No,” he said firmly, eyes locked on hers. “I know it’s not.”
She stilled.
Lando took a breath. “My heart’s been on fire before, after wins, crashes, everything in between. But it’s never felt as empty as it does when you’re not near me. I didn’t know it at first, I didn’t have the words for it, but I do now.”
She blinked up at him, wide-eyed.
“I don’t just want you here when I’m falling apart,” he said quietly. “I want you here when I’m winning. When I’m okay. When I’m tired. When I’m not.”
Silence fell like a held breath.
And then she smiled, soft, shaken, and real. The kind that said she’d been waiting to hear those words without even realising it.
“I was always going to stay,” she whispered.
He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes fluttering shut. “Good.”
They stood like that for a moment, bodies close, breath mingling, the silence between them full of everything that had been left unsaid for too long.
She tilted her chin ever so slightly, and his nose brushed against hers. Neither of them moved beyond that, like they were afraid to disturb something fragile.
Then she whispered, “You smell like champagne.”
He gave a quiet laugh, barely more than a breath. “You smell like bananas and home.”
She smiled at that, small and warm and a little bit shy.
And then, like gravity had finally caught up with them, he leant in.
Their lips met softly, tentative at first, the kind of kiss you give when you’ve been thinking about it for far too long and you want to get it right. It wasn’t hurried, or heavy, or anything like what the world outside might’ve expected from a Formula One driver fresh off a win.
It was slow. Careful. His way of saying he didn’t want this to be over too soon.
Her hands curled into the fabric of his t-shirt, and he held her like she might disappear if he let go. When they parted, barely an inch between them, neither moved away.
She blinked up at him, dazed in the gentlest way.
“That wasn’t adrenaline,” she said quietly, as if to confirm it for herself.
“No,” he murmured, thumb brushing her cheek. “That was me. Just me.”
Her nose scrunched in that familiar way, eyes glinting with something fond. “Good.”
He smiled again, this time slower, fuller. And in the soft hush of the motorhome, with the noise of Silverstone still echoing somewhere in the background, Lando finally felt what peace might look like.
not a lot (just forever) · childhood bestfriend!reader, romance. smau.
they should call you sugar · fluff, romance. 0.9k.
𝐋𝐍𝟒, LANDO NORRIS.
𝐂𝐒𝟓𝟓, CARLOS SAINZ.
one way mirror · spider-man!carlos x wife!reader. romance. 7.5k.
just to know you’re alive · ex-girlfriend!reader, angst, hurt/comfort. 2.1k.
change me at all costs 🩵 · girlfriend!reader, romance. 2.8k.
come find me 🩵 · childhood best friend!reader, angst with a happy ending. 4.4k.
𝐀𝐀𝟐𝟑, ALEX ALBON.
love you like i mean it · childhood best friend!reader, romance, angst. 10.2k.
to be honest · girlfriend!reader, fluff. 1.4k.
something to you · fluff, romance. 0.9k.
𝐆𝐑𝟔𝟑, GEORGE RUSSELL.
the one to beat · journalist!reader, romance. 2.7k.
not what it looks like · girlfriend!reader, fluff. 0.6k.
| WORK FOR DRIVERS I DON'T REGULARLY WRITE FOR.
𝐂𝐋𝟏𝟔, CHARLES LECLERC.
fortune favors the feline 🩵 · girlfriend!reader, romance. 4.1k.
not worth the mention · ex-girlfriend!reader. 2k.
wonderstruck · singer!reader, romance. 4.1k.
𝐃𝐑𝟑, DANIEL RICCIARDO.
it’s kind of a funny story · girlfriend!reader, romance. 2.8k.
house handy · girlfriend!reader, romance. 1.6k.
loml (loss of my life) · drive to survive producer!reader, romance. 1.3k + smau.
𝐋𝐇𝟒𝟒, LEWIS HAMILTON.
a good run · ex-girlfriend!reader, angst. smau.
𝐙𝐆𝟐𝟒, ZHOU GUANYU.
boy of the summer · childhood friend!reader, romance. 3.5k.
just call me yours · childhood crush!reader, romance. 3.2k.
request guidelines ⛐
i primarily write driver x female!reader fic. my work does not represent the drivers i write for in any way, shape, or form.
ⓘ WHAT REQUESTS ARE OKAY?
🟢 fluff, romance, angst, crack/humor. established relationships, platonic/friendly relationships, poly relationships. a range of au's i.e. bf!f1, brother!f1, husband!f1, non-driver au's (e.g. uni, other professions, etc). reqs based on media (i.e. movies, series, songs), tropes, or prompts.
🟡 smut/suggestive content, cheating/infidelity, emotional hurt/comfort, themes of grief. content for team principals/drivers not indicated above.
🔴 age gaps, character death, emotional manipulation, gender swap, sa/sh/ed, terminal illnesses, yandere. romantic content for any drivers below 20 y/o.
📟 BOX, BOX! · MAKE THAT REQUEST! CURRENTLY: CLOSED
summary: Spencer thought he was in a long-term relationship— turns out, he forgot to tell her.
warnings: none, babe. this is pure fluff <3
“Come on, man,” Derek said, arms folded as he stared Spencer down across the break room table. “You can’t just read a thousand relationship books and think that’s the same as the real thing.”
Spencer looked up from the folder in his lap, utterly unbothered. “Thirty-nine books. And they’re peer-reviewed studies. It’s not about anecdotes, it’s about data.”
Penelope leaned over her coffee, eyes sparkling. “Oh boy. He’s going full empirical. This should be good.”
“It’s not that I think I understand relationships,” Spencer continued, adjusting his glasses. “It’s just that I recognize functional dynamics when I see them. And I happen to know what one looks like.”
Derek snorted. “Yeah? Like what, The Notebook?”
“No,” Spencer said. “Like me and Y/N.”
There was a beat of silence.
Y/N, seated two chairs down with a half-drunk coffee in her hand, turned very slowly. “I’m sorry, what now?”
Spencer blinked at her like she’d asked if water was wet. “What?”
“What do you mean ‘you and me’?”
He frowned, confused. “I mean us. Our dynamic. It’s a prime example of a healthy relationship.”
Garcia dropped her muffin.
Derek leaned in like he was about to watch a car crash in slow motion. “Go on.”
Spencer tilted his head at Y/N. “You seriously didn’t know?”
She blinked. “Know what exactly?”
“That we’re in a relationship. Or— at least something adjacent to one. I assumed we were both aware of that.”
Y/N stared at him.
Spencer, sensing the disbelief, leaned back in his chair and began to list things off like he was briefing a case. “We text every night before bed. You bring me coffee the way I like it— three sugars, not stirred— almost every day, without asking. I’ve picked you up from the airport twice. You’ve stayed over at my apartment more than once, and you steal my hoodies.”
“That’s just…” She trailed off, looking helplessly at Garcia, who was frozen mid-bite.
Spencer wasn’t done.
“We hold hands when we walk across busy streets. You braid my hair when I’m stressed. I read you poetry once and you cried, which I took as a positive emotional response and not distress.”
Y/N slowly set her coffee down. “Okay.”
“I’ve memorized your Chipotle order,” Spencer added, like that sealed it.
“Okay.”
Spencer leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “We literally hold hands all the time.”
“…Okay, yeah, I see where I went wrong.”
Derek lost it.
Garcia was fanning herself with a napkin, whispering “my stars” under her breath.
Y/N looked like she was debating the moral and logistical weight of throwing herself into the nearest garbage can.
Spencer, meanwhile, just looked vaguely betrayed. “How did you not know?”
She gave him a look. “Because you never said it out loud?”
“I thought it was implied!”
Derek clapped once, loud. “Oh, I live for this.”
Garcia blinked. “Cool, so I’ve been third-wheeling a relationship that wasn’t even technically happening. Love that for me.”
Y/N turned back to Spencer, who was still trying to solve the mystery of how she missed this.
“Are you mad?” she asked.
“No,” he said, after a beat. “Just… surprised. I really thought we were on the same page.”
“Well.” She exhaled, slow and a little amused. “We are now.”
Spencer tilted his head. “Does this mean we’re officially dating?”
Y/N shrugged. “Statistically speaking?”
That got the smallest smile out of him.
“I’ll take it,” he said.
a/n: first spencer fic can i get a whoop whoop (i hope this is good, oh god)
you're chosen to host the BAU's annual christmas party at your apartment, where spencer's books line your shelves and his sweaters are tangled in your laundry. the days leading up to the party are a blur of stuffing his things into every drawer and cupboard you can find. it’s your mess. your life together. and it’s everything.
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)
genre: fluff
content: domestic! and also a christmas party! less on the party and more on how spencer and bau!reader suck at lying though; which make for some humorous moments.
word count: 3.8k
note: i wrote this awhile back and felt like posting it too. honestly a tad bit dramatised for comedy's sake but whatever i love domesticity and nervous!spencer. and it was fun writing them flounder about.
a line: For the first time, the thought of being home doesn’t feel like a concession; it feels like choosing happiness.
joy does not arrive with a fanfare
on a red carpet strewn
with the flowers of a perfect life
joy sneaks in
as you pour a cup of coffee
- donna ashworth
It starts innocuously enough—a draw from Hotch's coffee mug, a simple slip of paper pulled out in front of the team, the scrawl of your name on it in black pen, and the pause before your name is announced in his unmistakably measured tone. “Looks like you’re hosting the Christmas party this year.”
Derek grins. “Oh, this is gonna be good,” he drawls, shooting you a look that’s practically dripping with amusement.
You feel all the eyes on you, and the weight of it sinks into your chest. Your first instinct is to swallow it down, play it cool, try not to look at Spencer. Hosting a party means opening up your space— the space that’s been shared with Spencer for the last six months. Your apartment, which has slowly morphed into a mix of the two of you, a messy blend of both your lives—where his books spill off your shelves and his sweaters are tangled in your laundry, where his favourite mug has a place in your cupboard.
Derek leans back in his chair, arms crossed, smirking. “Better start tidying up, huh?” You laugh it off, aiming for nonchalance but his teasing lands squarely in your chest. Your heart does that familiar flip when your gaze slips, unbidden, to Spencer who to your dismay, is standing there with his eyes ever so slightly widened like a deer caught in the headlights. You can feel the team’s teasing smiles from every corner of the room, their unspoken questions hanging in the air. But beneath their teasing, there’s an edge. Suspicion. They’ve been suspecting for weeks, piecing together the small clues you’ve been desperately trying to keep under wraps.
And why wouldn’t they? The truth is, you’ve been dodging their invites lately, throwing out flimsy excuses about “errands” or “early mornings” that didn’t quite stick. At first, it was the occasional “I’ve got other plans”, but it became more frequent, more noticeable until even Derek had started to raise an eyebrow. He’d started poking at the seams of your alibis weeks ago, slouching against your desk with an eyebrow arched in pure disbelief. “C’mon, pretty girl,” he’d said. “What gives? You’ve gone full hermit mode on us.” You’d brushed it off, offering up a half-hearted excuse about how you’ll definitely join them next week, but Derek didn’t look convinced. And neither did the rest of the team. They weren’t blind, and it was becoming increasingly obvious that there was something—or rather someone you weren’t telling them about.
Then there was Garcia, sidling up to you with that twinkle in her eye that only ever meant trouble. “Spill,” she demanded, hands on her hips. “Who is he? And when do I get to give him the Penelope Garcia Official Seal of Approval™?” You had laughed, and tried to deflect with a vague answer about how busy things had been. “Whoever he is, he better be worth it, because you”—she jabs a finger at you with exaggerated flair—“never skip a night out. Ever. We’re talking borderline-unbreakable attendance!”
You bite back a smile, your mind flickering to those wild nights—sweaty dance floors, drinks flowing, laughter that echoed until dawn. It’s still a little surreal to think you’ve turned into one of those girls—the kind who would happily trade a night out with friends for a quiet evening in with their boyfriend. That was never your style. It was always a point of contention with past boyfriends. They always wanted more of your time, wanted more of your presence, but the idea of slowing down for someone else always felt like a compromise.
But somehow, with Spencer, it doesn’t quite feel like you're giving up anything at all. The simple, quiet moments with him have a gravity you never expected. Cooking dinner together while music hums softly in the background, curling up on the couch with a movie you’ve both seen a dozen times, or just sitting in comfortable silence as he reads and you scroll through your phone. The domesticity, the softness, the ease of it all—it feels complete. With Spencer, those quiet evenings aren’t boring. They’re grounding. For the first time, the thought of being home doesn’t feel like a concession; it feels like choosing happiness.
Honestly, you don’t really know how the team hasn’t put two and two together yet. Maybe it’s because you and Spencer had always been close—it was easy for them to chalk it up to that. Since you’d joined a year ago, it just felt natural to click with him, the two of you always slipping into the same rhythm. You were closest in age, after all, and the team had seen you trading inside jokes over takeout on stakeouts, hunched over books in the quiet moments after cases. In their eyes, it was harmless, a friendship born of long hours and shared exhaustion—Not that that came without teasing.
The question was always there, floating just beneath the surface of their casual remarks. Words unspoken, a line uncrossed. That is, until a tense night in Texas where you had gotten far too close to an unsub. The team had gotten to you in time of course, they always do. But that didn't help shake off the lingering memories of the encounter as you stared out the window of the jet. It was so simple—a quiet look, his hand slipping into yours, his thumb gently tracing over your trembling fingers as you looked out the window trying to dispel the the thoughts of whatever had happened just hours ago—and suddenly, it was like every wall you’d both put up had just vanished. His touch held a weight that words couldn’t carry, and in that touch, something between you shifted, settling into a place neither of you had been willing to acknowledge before. Looking back, maybe you’d both felt it coming long before, but neither of you had dared to say it out loud.
You and Spencer had made the decision together—keep things quiet a little while longer. It wasn’t the right time. Not yet. You wanted to savour the privacy of your stolen moments: his hand brushing yours during late-night coffee runs, your head resting on his shoulder as you both tried to survive the tail-end of a grueling case. It was fragile, precious. You could already hear the laughter, the surprise, the “We knew it!” and the endless questions about how long it had been going on, how you kept it from them, how you didn’t tell them sooner. And you could already feel the weight of that—how you’d both be under a microscope in a way you just weren’t ready for. You liked the privacy, the simple, quiet moments that only the two of you shared. It was yours, together, something no one else needed to know about just yet.
The days leading up to the party are a blur of frantic cleaning, shoving Spencer’s belongings into anywhere they can fit. “Emily’s a hawk with this stuff,” Spencer mutters, half-buried in a pile of mismatched socks and paperbacks. It had started with a few quick attempts at tidying up, but soon it turned into a frenzy of stuffing things—his things—into every drawer and cupboard you can find trying to make your place look like you’re just you.
You hold up a pair of slippers with a dubious look. “Do these scream, ‘man secretly living here’?” You hesitate, then stuff them into your wardrobe anyway. “Hotch will see the shoes. He’s thorough.” At one point, Spencer just starts throwing random clothes into a duffel bag with a kind of desperate determination, muttering something about how “Derek knows way too much about my wardrobe”. Despite the chaos, there’s laughter—giddy, shared moments, like when Spencer hisses in horror at your attempt to cram his gift—an English copy of War and Peace—under the coffee table. “That’s sacrilege,” he whispers furiously, clutching the book to his chest as if shielding it from harm. You have to bite back a grin.
There’s a particular moment though, when you’re crouched beside the couch again, frantically trying to shove a few stray novels underneath the coffee table hoping they’ll blend in with the meticulously arranged stack of Architectural Digest magazines you’d placed there purely for ‘decorative purposes’. Spencer suddenly peeks out from the bedroom, his eyes wide with alarm, his expression a mix of disbelief and panic. “Hey, can you, uh, maybe not put those under the coffee table?” he whispers urgently.
You pause, halfway through your task, and blink up at him. “Why?”
“It’s just—” He looks around frantically as though an ominous presence has settled around you. “They will know. They’ll know,” he repeats, shaking his head, the weight of some unspeakable doom settling over him. It’s all you can do not to burst out laughing. You try to keep the situation light, but then you see the look in Spencer’s eyes. This is serious business.
And you nearly lose it, stifling a laugh so hard it hurts. The sheer absurdity of the situation. Yet, beneath the humour, there’s something grounding about it—in the middle of the chaos, the intimacy of it all hits you harder than you expected. This isn’t just a mess; it’s your mess. Your life together. And it’s everything.
By the time the day comes and the team arrives, the apartment looks borderline staged. You feel a little more prepared—almost confident even. You breathe a little easier, relieved that all the obvious signs have been concealed. You act casual, ushering them in with drinks and snacks, but the sharp-eyed profilers in the room are already picking up on things you’ve missed. Rossi’s gaze flickers to the second set of keys on the hook. JJ raises an eyebrow at the coffee machine by your counter. You don't drink coffee. And Derek? He’s grinning like the cat that caught the canary, leaning against the wall and watching it all unfold.
“Nice place,” he says smoothly, his tone loaded. Rossi’s eyes fall on the meticulously organized bookshelf, your heart stutters. “War and Peace,” he says, picking up the hefty copy with a raised brow. “Yours?”
You freeze, your stomach sinking, silently cursing yourself for giving in to Spencer’s insistence that it was too precious to be shoved under the dusty coffee table. It had seemed fine at the time, but you should’ve known better.
“Yes,” you say too quickly. “Mine. I’m really, uh, passionate about Tolstoy.”
Derek raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Since when?
You flounder, trying to remember any of Spencer’s ramblings about the book that you may or may not tune out at times. Your mind races as you remember brief mentions about symbolism and war and societal constraints. “Since, um…well, you know, Tolstoy is…deep. About…symbolism. And…life.”
Spencer, bless him, is standing behind them in your kitchen, making desperate hand signals to help you out. He subtly taps his chest, mouthing “individualism,” then points at his head, clearly trying to convey something intellectual that’s just not coming through. His hands flutter around like he’s illustrating the grandness of Russian literature, and you do your best to follow his cues. You latch onto it like a life raft. “Individualism and thinking about—uh—society!” You nod vigorously, wishing you could disappear into the floor. Emily eyes you, smiling a little too knowingly. Spencer, meanwhile, is practically acting out War and Peace like a mime in the background, pretending to hold a musket, then making exaggerated ‘thinking’ gestures, trying to help you navigate this act.
“I just love Tolstoy’s exploration of, uh, individual identity within societal constraints…” you manage, brows furrowing as if trying to convince even yourself of the words spilling out. Rossi’s brow lifts, skepticism dancing in his eyes, but he says nothing, clearly amused as he watches you scramble, letting you dig yourself a little deeper. He’s David Rossi for a reason—The man’s silence is practically weaponized, making you ramble on and on, as if you’ll somehow stumble your way into a believable explanation. You’re nervous-rambling now and you can feel yourself grasping at threads, scrambling to remember something—anything—that sounds remotely convincing. You start stumbling over a vaguely remembered plot point and that’s when Spencer starts making his way towards you from the kitchen, grimacing as you butcher the story. He walks toward you almost as if to steady you, a silent plea for you to stop digging yourself a bigger hole than you already have. “Yeah, well… it’s, uh, definitely a classic,” he says, stepping in.
Spencer subtly coughs behind his hand, catching Derek’s attention for just a second—enough to let you scramble for closing line. But the team’s smirks only grow. “Well,” Emily says with a laugh, “if you’re such a big fan of this Tolstoy guy, why don't you tell us your favorite passage hm?” You try not to cast a desperate look Spencer’s way. Spencer opens his mouth like he’s about to cut in, but Derek catches his attention with a look that says, Don’t even think about it, Spence.
Their eyes dart between the two of you, waiting for something. You can feel the tension building. Spencer stands there looking on, probably trying to telepathically send you the correct Tolstoy quote—or any Tolstoy quote at this point, but you’re lost in a sea of flailing words and desperate thoughts.
“Uh, no, actually, I don’t have a favorite passage,” you finally stammer. “It’s just, you know, the themes are really profound.”
Emily crosses her arms and gives you a once-over, clearly reveling in whatever spectacle just unfolded. “Uh-huh.” You roll your eyes, but before you can fire back, Rossi smoothly redirects the group’s attention to the kitchen, likely throwing you a lifeline to salvage what little dignity remains. You and Spencer exchange glances, his lips quirking in the faintest hint of a smile. It’s a private little conspiracy you two have shared for half a year, but now, as the night wears on, it’s starting to feel like the universe has other plans.
It doesn’t help that your team is sharp—they catch everything, a roomful of profilers who thrive on details, and tonight, every small habit, every casual touch seems magnified. Garcia narrows her eyes when she spots Spencer absentmindedly reaching to fix the crooked frame on the shelf. “You know where that goes, huh, Boy Wonder?” she teases, winking, and Spencer mumbles something about “aesthetic consistency,” looking thoroughly flustered.
You try to brush it off, laughing along with her, but then there’s Hotch, eyeing the stack of board games in the corner, the ones you both picked out last month on a whim. “Didn’t know you were into game nights,” he comments. “Oh, yeah. Huge fan of… Scrabble,” you say, your voice a little too high, trying not to look at Spencer, who’s doing everything he can to stifle a laugh.
You can practically hear the thoughts running through his head, probably remembering the night you’d blown up at him after he beat you four times in a row with a ridiculously pretentious winning word—quixotic, no less. You’d been so mad, you’d tossed your tiles and stormed off like a petulant child. Now, judging from the way he's trying to hide his grin, the twitch at the corner of his lips, it's clear he hasn’t forgotten the fiery aftermath either. You roll your eyes, fighting back a smile.
Your life with him has become this strange, endearing mix of shared routines and accidental collections. Where he’s meticulous, you’re spontaneous, always flying by the seat of your pants and, at times, leaving him with a resigned sigh when you’ve left your keys in places you never should. It’s a quiet chaos, but it works. And now, as you stumble through the evening, every little piece of your life— your lives are flashing under the team’s increasingly suspicious gaze.
JJ picks up a scarf lying casually on the floor, half-tucked beneath one of your jackets. She holds it up with a curious look. “Hey, Spence, this yours?” Spencer’s heart skips a beat, and he quickly tries to school his expression, but the wide-eyed panic is hard to hide. He looks at the scarf as if it’s just been resurrected from the depths of his lost belongings. “Oh thanks!” he says, dramatically, “I’ve been looking everywhere for that!” He reaches for the scarf with an eagerness that betrays his attempt at nonchalance, fumbling with it awkwardly. “I thought I’d lost it,” he adds, his words tumbling out in an over-explained rush as his fingers fuss with the fabric.
JJ doesn't buy it. Not for a second. “Funny, I thought you brought it with you today,” she says, a knowing smirk creeping onto her face. “Since, you know, it’s right here by the door.”
Spencer freezes again, scrambling for a response. “Right... yeah, that—that makes sense. Of course.” He forces out a laugh, the sound more nervous than casual, and wraps the scarf around his neck with an exaggerated flourish. “Good to have it back,” he adds weakly, trying and failing to look composed.
JJ just shakes her head, her grin widening. “Sure, Spence. Whatever you say.” She watches him for a moment longer, clearly amused by the whole thing, before finally turning away, letting him stew in his overdramatic act. As soon as she’s out of earshot, Spencer breathes a sigh of relief, but his cheeks are still tinged with pink, and he can’t help but glance nervously over at you hoping you’re doing a better job than him at keeping this increasingly bad act up.
By the time Garcia corners Spencer in the kitchen, her grin is practically predatory. “You guys are terrible at this, you know.” Spencer looks all too comfortable setting dishes away for someone who has only ever been to your place 'once or twice'. Spencer sighs, defeated, but there’s a soft smile tugging at his lips as he watches you across the room. “Yeah,” he says, more to himself than to her. “We are.” Spencer, at least, seems resigned, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he watches you across the room, fumbling as you desperately try (and fail) to explain away a forgotten pair of mismatched socks by the door—somehow "yours" now, despite them clearly being too big.
You can feel your cheeks burning as the night progresses, their eyes catching every little detail—his fingers brushing against yours when he hands you a drink, the way you absentmindedly drape your arm behind him on the couch as the night winds down after one too many said drinks. The team exchanges knowing glances, soft chuckles bubbling up around you as they take in every stray look and subtle movement between the two of you.
As you say your goodbyes and thank yous, it’s clear you’ve been thoroughly caught. Emily snickers, shaking her head as she slips on her coat. “You two are adorable,” she murmurs, grinning without trying to hide it. You clear your throat feigning innocence, trying to look casual. She turns back with a sly smirk, her voice laced with amusement. “So Spence," she asks, challenging, "You staying the night?”
The room falls silent. They all know. You both know they know. Spencer, ever the professional, tries to brush it off. “I’ll help clean up,” he says nonchalantly, but the team is already rolling their eyes, clearly seeing right through the act. They’ve been in this business long enough to recognize the signs.
You try to come up with something clever but Spencer knows it’s game over. He steps in beside you and there’s that look on his face, that soft, earnest expression he gets when he’s about to confess something—whether it’s a fact about astrophysics or a half-hidden truth he’s been holding close. “Alright, alright” he says, glancing at you for reassurance. “You got us.”
Spencer slips his hand into yours, his fingers warm and steady, grounding you in this moment. A round of knowing laughter echoes through the room, with Derek clapping Spencer on the back, Garcia gasping dramatically, and Rossi chuckling, muttering something along the lines of “about time”.
Spencer squeezes your hand. You squeeze back.
The team leaves you with a final round of cheers and teasing winks, and as the door clicks shut, you turn to Spencer, his smile mirroring your own. You hear the unmistakable whoops and cheers from outside. A laugh bubbles up inside you.
Once the house quiets and the last footsteps fade away, Spencer pulls you into his arms. The soft glow of the christmas lights he'd helped you put up yesterday creates a warm halo around him as he looks down at you, that adoring smile still tugging at his lips. “Guess the secret’s out,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly across your cheek.
You shake your head, a little amused at how badly you’d tried to cover up something everyone already knew. “We really are terrible at this,” you admit.
“Well,” he replies in a low voice, “it could’ve gone worse.”
You laugh, resting your head against his chest. “Think they bought it, even for a moment?”
“Not a chance sweetheart,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “But it was fun watching you try.”
You lean into him, the warmth of his touch, his presence grounding you in a way you never expected but now can't imagine living without. You look around the room, taking in the space you’ve shared together. Sure, most of his belongings are still hidden away, tucked somewhat haphazardly in the cupboards or behind closed doors, but there are traces of him everywhere. It’s in the small things—the little hints of Spencer imprinted into the fabric of your life.
There are hints of Spencer in the kitchen sink, the one he fixed when it started leaking a few months ago. You had been ready to call a plumber, but Spencer had insisted he could handle it. He always does.
There are hints of Spencer in how you've stopped arranging your plates a certain way just for aesthetics because he'd proven how much more convenient it was to stack them according to how often you used them.
There are hints of Spencer in the stain on the couch from pasta night three weeks ago, a mishap that still makes you both laugh whenever you catch sight of it.
There are things only the two of you can understand. A code only the two of you can decipher. Small, unnoticed details that no one else can see—No matter how observant they are, no matter how well they think they can read you.
And so maybe it's okay that the secret you’ve shared for months now belongs to the people who matter most. Because as you think of these little hints of Spencer—the way he’s subtly woven himself into your life and you into his—you realize that some things do get to stay your own little secret after all. And in that, there’s something beautiful, something that’s just yours.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading!
feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!
in which your cat has taken liking to your friend with benefits, and you begin to battle with the consequential feelings.
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader
genre: fluff (18+ for suggestive content)
tags: established friends with benefits. reader has a cat. your cat likes him more than you :( avoidant!reader for like a teensie second. it's okay happy ending. the happiest possible ending actually. fade to black.
word count: 1.9k
a/n: sometimes the most beautiful poetry can be about simple things. like a cat. :) im a dog person. idk why i wrote this.
Seventeen times.
That is how many times Spencer Reid had found residence at your apartment in the past month alone, taking up the space on the other side of your bed. Thirteen of those times he had stayed the night. Six of those times, he had come for sex. The other eleven? He had come because you needed a friend.
Or, rather, your cat did.
You had discovered you weren't any more complex than your average man, at the end of the day. Human beings are at their core created to love and be loved, and by extension, to want and be wanted. You wanted Spencer, and you were wanted by Spencer. For both your friendship, and the intimacy your relationship provided.
But you did not love him, and he did not love you.
Cat's are anything but fickle creatures. A lot of your best friendships were centred around whether or not your cat developed a liking to the person or not. Oftentimes, your fleeting relationships came down to the odd sixth sense the animal had for disliking the worst people. That, and your one night stands were never a crowd favourite within the walls of your apartment. And yet; Spencer Reid.
He was nothing short of charming. In a sort of dorky way, yes. But whatever socially romantic skills he lacked, he most certainly made up for by giving you the best of just about everything in bed. A small part of you wants to claim it's human instinct to know how to worship the person meant for you, but the logical reason is probably his eidetic memory knowing exactly what he's doing after a singular trial run. Entertaining the thought of being his soulmate was not a wise choice.
He most certainly was your cat's, though. The Ragdoll always jumping down to greet him the second he stepped foot in your apartment, usually resulting in the break of a kiss and a five minute intermission before the two of you could do anything.
At first, it was an inconvenience. Your cat had never taken such a liking to a person you'd brought home before, and it was jarring to watch a man you were partially trying to undress, stop everything to pet your cat. Now, it is simply endearing. You've stopped trying to steal Spencer's attention before the cat does, and you've come to the conclusion that Spencer's priority list will always be the feline, then you.
Today was, seemingly, no different. Despite the dull ache between your legs and the fact that this visit had started as something as obscene as Spencer calling from his work bathroom to ask if he could come over after for he was, and you quote, in dire need to touch you (among many other things), whatever those needs were, were put on hold.
You smile regardless, leaning against the edge of your couch as he crouches down to meet Po — yes, like the panda — his hand immediately reaching out for the cat to run his head along.
Spencer's head lifts to look at you. "Morgan thinks Po isn't a real cat, and we've just got a name for your—um—" his brain catches up to his mouth mid sentence, and he's stammering his way to silence.
"Please tell me you defended my cat's honour," you retort.
"I did! I even showed him the photo I took of him while you were in the shower last week. He thinks it's a different person's cat."
You shake your head in disapproval. "Unbelievable. Your coworker thinks we've named my pussy."
"That's just Morgan."
"I wish Po could speak English. Then he could hear this nonsense, and stop loving you more than me," you grumble, and Spencer's lips twitch up into a smile, as he situates himself on the floor, the cat climbing into his lap.
"Actually, he technically can. Cat's can understand up to thirty-five words in whatever language you train them in. Also, when they meow, they begin trying to mimic the sound of certain human words. It's their vocal tract that prevents them from literally speaking English," he explains.
But, you're too invested in the way his long fingers are delicately running through the cat's hair, to both respond, and really pay any attention at all.
You had had fleeting thoughts about real feelings for Spencer two months ago. Brushing them off as loneliness and your need to satiate the hopeless romantic within you, you'd forgotten about it up until this recent week.
He'd been over every single day, sometimes for sex, oftentimes for a movie and dinner (which was usually a bowl of pasta you had overestimated while cooking). And every single time, you'd developed an overwhelming anxious pit in your stomach when watching him interact with Po, your heart fluttering the entire time, mind running rampant on domestic thoughts you should be squashing.
Should be, but weren't.
You'd tried to put it down to the motherly instinct you had over the animal. Seeing somebody else treat him with as much love and care as you did was endearing — it wasn't a Spencer Reid specific trait. Yet, here you were.
"I feel like the benefits of this relationship have changed," you say, seating yourself in front of Spencer on the floor, Po lifting his head to look at the person behind the sudden movement, before he let it rest back on Spencer's thigh.
"To what?"
"My cat," you huff, and Spencer laughs.
"He is my favourite benefit thus far," he muses.
"The feeling is definitely mutual," you nod your head to Po, whose eyes were now shut, seemingly quite comfortable disregarding all your personal plans and taking Spencer's attention.
"Animals don't usually like me," he comments. "I don't know why Po is different."
Oh, you had a few ideas why.
"Maybe he's exercising the keep your enemies closer life motto," you offer, and Spencer's eyebrows shoot up in faux offence.
"This is unadulterated love," he protests. "He does not think of me as an enemy."
"That's what he wants you to believe," you hum, pushing yourself up on your legs. "Well, since plans have been rudely interrupted, do you want some dinner?"
"Sure," he answers, though his attention is back on Po. Clearly so, for he says, "I'll get to our original plans after we eat, don't worry," almost absentmindedly.
It's the kind of thing that makes you forget you're in the room with the dictionary definition of a nerd. You know it's only because sometimes he says what he is thinking without thinking. It doesn't do anything to help the ongoing internal battle about your feelings for him.
Or maybe he does know exactly what he's doing.
"You should get a cat," you say, heading into your kitchen to find something for the two of you to eat. "You seem to like them enough."
"Why? I have yours."
"I'm not going to be around forever," you reply, unthinking. "I mean, one day we're gonna have to end this because the other has found someone they want to be with. Properly. It wouldn't be fair to keep a friendship."
He falls silent, and when you lift your head, you see he's staring at you with an almost confused frown on his face, which triggers your own confusion to appear. His scratching of Po's head has been interrupted, and you're starting to question what was wrong about what you had said.
Sure, you're pretty sure you have feelings for him, but as far as you knew, they were one sided. Right?
"I didn't—I thought—" he cuts himself off, takes a deep breath, then continues. "I thought that had changed this past month."
"What do you mean?"
"I just—I've been here for things other than sex a lot. I thought you knew I liked you, and you were subtly trying to tell me you liked me too. I'm starting to sense I misread that."
For a profiler, he was incredibly awful at reading you.
"Yeah..." You slowly nod your head, but it's the deepening of his frown that has you rushing to add, "I mean, I—I do. Like you. I'm kind of embarrassed that was obvious. But I didn't think you liked me outside of having sex with me. I wasn't trying to communicate my feelings. I was trying to hide them."
"Oh," he falls silent again. "So the times I’ve been here in the past month weren’t makeshift dates?"
"They weren't intended that way..." you trail off. "Did you see them as dates?"
"Kind of, I guess," he's back to running his fingers through Po's fur, just to keep his anxious hands busy. "They don't have to be, if you don't want them to. I just thought this feeling was mutual and we were... I guess, dating."
"The feeling is mutual," you quickly correct him. "I know that now. I didn't think we were dating because I didn't think you liked me back. Changing our relationship kind of needs to be a conversation."
"Right," he breathes out, an awkward smile painting his lips. "Is this the conversation, then?"
"I guess?"
"So now we're dating."
"If that's what you want," you nod, head feeling a little fuzzy.
"Is it what you want?" he presses. Always the gentleman.
"Maybe," you muse, leaning forwards against the kitchen countertop.
He's watching you, and for a second you let the silence fall over you, fearful that you've just discouraged him enough to ruin things between you. He carefully takes Po off his lap, the cat running into your room the second his paws hit the hardwood floor, and he's standing up to move over to you.
"I don't like maybe," he frowns. "Yes or no?"
You blink, realising he was evidently too anxious of your genuine response to have any recognition to your poor attempt of a joke.
"Yes, Spencer. That's what I want," you're breathless as you speak, and you're thankful for the relieved smile that stretches across his lips.
"That's what I want too," he answers.
"Yeah, I figured." Your second attempt at a tease lands, and he huffs a small laugh, which warms your heart. "Do you still want dinner?"
He had somehow gotten closer to you throughout the awkward enough conversation, and he was sliding his arms around your waist. Something he had done many times before, yes, and yet this time it was feeling much more intimate, and your heart was thrumming against your chest a little harder than usual.
"Maybe it can wait?" he offers, ducking his head down, lips ghosting over your own. "I don't have a bothersome cat keeping me preoccupied from you, now."
Despite yourself, you poke a finger into his chest and say, "Don't insult Po."
"I'm not. Just merely stating an obvious fact."
"I'll call him back in here to preoccupy me."
"He has selective hearing. And he likes me more than you."
Your lips drop into a frown, lower lip jutting out, and Spencer is quick to try and kiss it off within seconds of noticing it.
"I'm sorry. That was mean. I promise he doesn't like me
more than you," he says, though his voice is too amused to be entirely sincere.
"That was mean," you agree with a firm nod. "You're very mean to me, Spencer Reid."
"I know, I'm awful. Can I make it up to you, sweet girl?"
Well, when he asks you like that.
"Mm..." you hesitate, but he's already guiding you around, walking you backwards, through your apartment and towards your bedroom. "Yeah, I guess so."
Hands that were around your waist hike your shirt up, his lips still kissing against your skin despite the intense multitasking he was forcing upon the two of you.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x gn!reader
Category: FLUFF
Summary: You trip and bruise your knees, but Spencer is there to kiss everything better
Content: 1k words, established relationship, Crime and Punishment spoilers??? fluff galore
A/N: INCREDIBLY self indulgent—this is a real life story, except I didn't have a Spencer Reid to help me out. My knees are still bruised. It hurts to walk. Dedicated to @darkmatilda because she's a fellow Rodya girlie and she said something that made me laugh so I put it in the fic. Cute lil fluff before I go MIA <3
“It's your fault.”
“Mine? How on earth are your bruised knees my fault?”
“I was reading your book when I tripped.”
He laughs, cradling your legs on his lap as he holds the ice packs to your aching knees, “Sounds like you shouldn't have been reading while walking then, angel.”
“But it was beginning to get interesting!”
“Then it's Dostoevsky's fault for writing something so intriguing.”
“Don't pin this on that dead man, Spencer,” you narrow your eyes, attempting to glare, but it all comes across adorable. You squirm a little, as if that would help with your accusations and make him take you seriously, “You gave me the book.”
“Not with the intention to hurt you!” He's smiling as he holds your legs and stills your movements. Ever patient. Ever warm. You’d melt if you weren’t in so much pain right now and lavish him with kisses. Thank you, you’d murmur. Unfortunately, your tumble has put you in a petty mood. But that’s okay, he knows how to handle that too.
“Are you sure? Because you know it would have hurt me one way or another,” you pout, crossing your arms over your chest, “Not physically like this, but I've heard you talk about it like it’s the height of literature so I know it would be—”
“I’m of the opinion that it is the height of literature, angel.”
“— it would be—” you press on, shooting an annoyed look his way, “—an emotional rollercoaster. It would have hurt my feelings. Just wasn't expecting it to give me bruised knees and a twisted ankle on top of the emotional damage.”
He has to hand it to you sometimes, you can be so dedicated to your petulance around him. Only around him. With everyone else, you’re so dependable and calm, but those walls collapse around his company, sweetening into something so charmingly vulnerable, so he nurtures the petulant pouting all the same. Coaxes it from the cracks of your typically put together demeanor with his own teasing words.
“Yeah, that was quite a fall,” he grins, softly, to cushion the playful sharpness of your complaints, “You almost became Rodya's third victim, huh?”
“Are you joking?” you wave at the ice packs balanced on your knees, sputtering in indignation, “I’m going to be immobile for the rest of the day and you're joking?”
“Indeed I am. It is well known that humor, more than anything else in the human make-up, can afford an aloofness and an ability to rise above any situation, even if only for a few seconds.”
Your jaw drops, “I can't believe you're quoting Frankl at me. I'm sitting in excruciating pain, and you're making a joke and giving me a lecture. Low blow, baby, even for you.”
“I know, I know, angel, I'm sorry.” he murmurs, soothing over the wrinkles he’d deliberately caused. Grinning because he loves this. Loves you. Oh, he loves you so much, “No more European writers. I'll get you all the ice cream and chocolate you need, and then we'll stay inside all day to cuddle, how's that sound?”
“But I want to know what happens to Raskolnikov.”
He laughs, “All right, then I'll throw in a couple of chapters of Crime and Punishment.”
“While we cuddle?”
“Mhm.”
“You'll read for me?” the loveliest eyes peek up at him from beneath fluttering lashes. You know you don’t need to do that, he wouldn’t say no to you, but it’s part of the fun.
“Yes, angel.” He'll read for you anytime, helping you feel better is just an extra incentive. “Chocolates and cuddles and a good book.”
“That's it? Aren't you forgetting something? What happened to that eidetic memory?”
He frowns, wondering what else it is he forgot in his arsenal of things to help you feel better. He wonders if this is just banter, worries that he did actually forget something important.
“You have to kiss them better, genius.”
Ah. Both. How could he be so foolish? His face breaks into a smile. Without breaking eye contact, he sets aside the ice packs, and bends your legs up at an angle so he could have an easier time reaching it. Careful, always so careful but especially now from your bruises. Beneath all teasing, he knows you’re in genuine pain.
Slowly, achingly sweet, he brushes his lips over the bruised knee, the barest caress, warm lips against chilled skin. You suppress a shudder. He moves his lips up to your thigh delicately, teasingly. It's gone before the gasp leaves your lips, though that one brief second sends goosebumps crawling up your skin.
He moves to your other knee, touching his lips to the rapidly blooming purples on your skin, before finally pulling away.
“Better?”
“Much,” you nod, scooting over the couch to get closer to him. His body adjusts around yours in the cramped space, joints and angles poking into your soft, curling limbs. Tangled mess, but you love it all the same. You find yourself somehow nestled between his thighs, your head tucked beneath his chin. He holds the book with one hand, while the other is cupped at your knee, balancing the ice pack and drawing mindless circles over your skin.
“What chapter shall I read?”
“Part one, chapter six. But Spence?”
“Yes, angel?”
“You owe me more kisses.”
Not that you need to ask, but okay. His lips land on your temple automatically, “Always a pleasure.” he mumbles, breathing in the familiar, soothing scent of your hair, “But may I know why?”
“You said I’d be Rodya's third victim,” you reply, remembering the details of the book and what he’d said earlier, “He was only planning to kill that old lady so… he kills more?”
There’s a pause, before he laughs, “That's a spoiler.”
“Book's been out for centuries,” you roll your eyes, “And yes, that's a spoiler, but one that you unintentionally gave me!”
“I'm sorry,” he laughs, putting down the book to cup your chin. Turning your face to him, he regards you with large brown eyes that seem to dance with love, “I guess you're right, I do owe you more kisses.” he says, before finally kissing your lips.
late night working on a case, the hotel fire alarms on your floor won’t stop going off. what choice do you have other than to crawl to a pining spencer reid’s room to try and get some rest?
warnings: one slightly ? suggestive comment if you squint, mutual pining, not proof read. build up/background of a bubbly!reader i’ve been meaning to write about <3 v short n sweet fluffy!!!
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“hey,” you whisper when spencer opens the door, pillow crammed under your arm. your sweats are rumpled, long shirt almost hitting your knees under an equally oversized academy shirt, hair mussed and eyes sleepy.
the sight makes his chest burn and his knuckles grip tight against the doorframe.
“hi?” spencer manages to respond, voice confused but still stepping to the side to let you inside automatically.
you shuffle by, pink fuzzy socks peeking over the tops of your dress shoes. it’s ridiculous, the sight of the fluff spilling over the edges of your mary jane’s (unbuckled), made even moreso by how cute he finds it.
“sorry, i know it’s early. the fire alarm on my building won’t turn off, it’s been almost 45 minutes.” you turn once you hit the small kitchenette in his hotel room and awkwardly clutch your pillow to your chest.
after a moment of squinting, eyes unaccustomed to the dim of the room and contactless, spencer realizes that you’re not holding a hotel pillow. rather, it’s covered in little pink daisies and looks far more comfortable than the rocks on his bed.
“i was wondering if i could take the chair in your room?” you ask, continuing despite how spencer’s mind is now racing with thoughts of your pink daisy sheets that he was aware of before tonight (this morning?) but wasn’t expecting to be reminded of when his mind is still hazy enough to crave the warmth of your body next to his.
“you—yeah.” spencer shakes his head in one, fast motion, rapidly switching to nodding when he realizes that could be misread as a no to your question. it makes him dizzy but wakes him up just enough to dig himself out of dreams. when he opened the door, there was a moment where his heart thudded in his chest, sure you were coming here to climb in his bed for other reasons.
not that you ever had before or that he thought you were the type to, of course not that—never that. it was just that his mind was stuck in a molasses of sleep that so frequently rewarded him of dreams where scenarios like that happen. or, even better, dreams where you two simply sit next to each other, your stocking-ed leg pressed against his pants, knocking together, hands intertwined, a warm glow emanating from somewhere for you to read to him by.
those dreams were the worst, just real enough that he could feel the love emanating from your breath, know that you want him close too, only to be yanked away with the spasms of beeps from his phone serving as his alarm.
“yes, of course you can stay here,” spencer finally says after his tragedy of a nod, moving past you and into the bed area of the room to yank the pillow he was using from the bed, “but you take the bed, i can take the chair.”
“no, spence, it’s like 3 in the morning and you’ll get a headache. i intruded on you, i’ll take the chair.”
spencer is shaking his head no before you finish, turning to stare at you. subconsciously, you mimic how he holds his pillow under his left arm and spencer makes a note to research if it’s actually true that attraction causes people to mimic each other.
and, fuck, this is why he had to put distance between you two because his brain can’t just be normal about things. you’re an affectionate person, spilling over with hugs and hands on arms and kisses on cheeks and he can’t help but analyze everything for a sign that it might be more.
“no, really, i’ll take the chair.”
you laugh at him, shaking your head and making your way closer. “let’s just share,” you suggest, tossing your pillow onto the side of the bed not made messy by spencer and rubbing your eyes with two closed fists, digging in deep. “i’m exhausted and we have to get back to it tomorrow. i’m not winning this fight and i can’t have my best brainiac impeded by a headache tomorrow.”
“no, it’s really—“
“spencer.” your eyes are earnest when you look at him, wide and tired and so so hypnotic. he can’t say no, not when you’re blinking up at him, only lit by the obnoxious street lights filtering in through the cheap hotel curtains, in your pajamas, taking in a tired, tiny voice.
“yeah, okay,” he says, forfeiting the back and forth and allowing himself to give in, just for tonight.
you yawn in response, hand coming up to cover your triumphant smile. you look exhausted, climbing into bed and shoving your feet under the sheets with much more aggression than necessary.
spencer climbs in after you, stretching his legs out and flexing his arm so his shoulder pops with a loud click. it’s a testament to how close you are to sleep that you don’t wince and tell him he shouldn’t do that—you always get onto him for it.
“hey,” spencer says after a moment, mind slowing but still moving fast enough to keep him on the cusp of sleep.
you makes a small sound, high pitched, as you roll over and press your forehead to his bicep. “what?” you say, voice half asleep, half complaint.
“is that my academy sweater? i’ve been looking for it everywhere.”
“mm,” you hum, head moving up and down against his arm. “you left it at my place. i like wearing it—miss you less when i do.” your voice is trailing off, spencer’s heart is pounding, and he nearly misses the soft sigh you let out before tacking on, “makes m’feel like yours.”
it could mean a million different things, spencer tells himself as he listens to your breath deepen and slow, but he lets himself imagine it means exactly what he wants it to as his eyes settle closed.
Summary: You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you.
Word Count: 13.6k
Warnings: Bucky is a fuckboy (but he’s still a sweetheart); lots of talk about unrequited love (but is it?); mentions of sex; crying; lots of desperation; longing; heavy confessions; feels; happy ending
Author’s Note: This is written for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge of @elixirfromthestars ♡ I had this kind of idea for a while but when I read those lyrics it somehow immediately came back to my mind and I needed to make something out of it. This is kind of inspired by your Boulevard Confessions because I loved it so much! And damn, I've already written so much about roommate!Bucky but I can’t help myself lol, I love him. Also, this got a little long, I'm sorry. Still, I hope you enjoy! ♡
Hold My Hand "Pull me close, wrap me in your aching arms. I see that you're hurtin', why'd you take so long to tell me you need me? I see that you're bleeding, you don't need to show me again. But if you decide to, I'll ride in this life with you. I won't let go 'til the end." — Lady Gaga
Masterlist
You hear the giggling before anything else.
It’s always the giggling.
And, as always, it grates on your nerves.
It carves through the air, seeps into the walls, into the floorboards, into you. It tears its way inside and scrapes its manicured nails along the rawest and most sensitive parts of you, only to bury itself deep, where you can’t simply dig it out.
Then comes the keys.
The light, metallic jingle, so careless in its melody, but so troubling in its meaning.
Then the lock turning, the click soft and yet so irrefutable.
Then the door opening.
More giggles.
His breathy chuckles.
Then the door closing.
Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.
You press the pillow harder against your ears, as if you could suffocate the sound before it reaches you, as if you could bury yourself deep enough under the covers to escape what you already know is coming. But you can’t. You never can.
Your brain usually does you the favors of drowning out the parts in the hallway, knowing it will probably make your heart stop in an instant. Today, it doesn’t do you any favors and you close your eyes, accepting the sting behind them.
And then, his bedroom door.
And if all that wasn’t torture enough, it was only the easy part.
Because now is when it really starts. It’s when your throat closes up, the breath in your lungs turns heavy, thick, impossible. Because no matter how many times this has happened, no matter how many times you laid here in your bed, still, so still, waiting for the agony to stop, pretending it doesn’t happen - it never stops hurting. It never stops breaking your heart - or whatever’s left of it.
At first, there is silence. The small period where you almost dare to believe, to hope.
But then comes the moaning.
High-pitched and breathy, hinting at a pleasure that strikes you with a hammer.
Someone else. Always someone else. Someone who is not you, someone who never had to try, someone who will never know what it means to ache for him like you do.
Then, quieter, but just as devastating, Bucky’s voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take.
And that’s what breaks you most. That’s what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. It’s the inescapable proof that he has something to give - something deep, something intimate - and he is giving it away. Over and over again, but never to you.
You close your eyes, as always. It doesn’t help, as always. The sounds don’t stop anyway. The images come anyway - the touches you have imagined, the way his hands would feel against your skin, the way his mouth would shape your name if you were the one beneath him. The way he might look at you, if only he could see.
But right now, you are just the ghost in the next room, curled in on yourself, ears filled with the sound of someone else living the life you always wanted.
And in the morning, or right after, when the door will open again, when the giggling will turn to goodbyes, you will still be here, where you always are. Where you always will be. Waiting. Wanting. Breaking. Wishing you could turn it off, this feeling. This unendurable and never-ending heartbreak.
And that finally makes the tears flow.
They well up before they spill over, down the slope of your cheek, gathering in the hollow beneath your nose before falling onto the pillow and wetting it like a pool.
You squeeze your eyes shut, so tightly it should hurt, so tightly it should make them stop. But they come anyway. They come despite the barricade of your willpower, despite the way your body coils tighter in on itself. They come despite the desperate war you wage against them.
They come because you have lost. Because it’s too much.
The moaning doesn’t stop, and it’s too much. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s too much. It’s the third night in a row, and it’s too much.
Bucky’s hushed voice shatters something inside of you, you didn’t know was left intact a few seconds ago.
Your breath turns sticky, only half of it making its way up your throat. The other half stays attached to the walls of your throat like honey gone rancid. It refuses to leave completely, snagging and trapping you in the awful space between breathing and choking.
Maybe if it stopped altogether, it would be easier. Maybe suffocating would be gentler than this slow and unsparing death of heartbreak.
Your hands are shaking. You bury your face into the pillow, willing it to just take you as a whole and never let you leave again. The fabric muffles the shuddering sobs, but it cannot do anything for the way your body trembles. But you know that the sounds of pleasure in the other room will tune out the sounds of your cries. The pillow is being clutched so tightly, you might tear the fabric. But it’s your heart that’s being torn into so many pieces. So what is a pillow compared to the ruin of your heart? It’s nothing.
You are alone in your grief.
The moans stop for a second - abrupt, cut off mid-breath.
Bucky’s voice comes. He says something but you don’t catch his words.
However, you do catch the displeased groan of his girl for the night. Drawn-out and petulant. Annoyed.
Bucky speaks again. Firmer, this time. Again, it’s too quiet to catch it.
And then you hear your name. It’s muffled still, but you would hear your name coming from his lips always and forever. You know the exact cadence of it shaping his mouth.
Everything in you halts. Your breaths are suspended somewhere in your throat, caught between shock and devastation.
The girl scoffs. It’s a snappy sound. Almost whiny. You would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t so troubled.
The moaning resumes. But it is quieter this time. Controlled almost. A courtesy. A mercy. But not for you. Not in the way you wish.
And it makes you know.
He asked her to keep it down. For you. He must have told her he has a roommate - you - and that they need to be mindful, that you might be trying to sleep.
Somehow, in all the infinite ways he could have cared for you, this is the one he chose. Not to love you, not to want you, but to make sure his flings don’t disrupt your sleep. As if that’s the worst of it. As if the noise is what truly keeps you up at night, and not the agonizing truth of it all.
Harshly, your teeth sink into your lip, fighting to stifle the sob that trembles on the edge of you. But again, you are losing.
Because hearing your name in the middle of something so intimate, spoken in the same breath of his pleasure, is pure anguish.
Because your name should not exist there. Not like this. Not casually sneaking into a mind occupied with pleasuring someone else.
If he were to say your name in a moment like this, it should be a soft whisper against your skin, entangled in sheets, buried in kisses that steal the air from your lungs. It should be something private, something sacred.
Not an idle afterthought. A consideration. A passing thought before he loses himself in someone else’s body. You have never heard him say any girl’s name before when sleeping with them, but hell you also don’t try to listen too closely.
You won’t talk about this. You never talk about this. When the morning comes and you meet Bucky in the kitchen for breakfast, you will not mention it. Just like you never mention the other nights. Just like you never dwell on the soft apologies he offers when they got too loud. And just like always, you will brush it off, force a brittle smile, and tell him that it’s fine.
It’s not. It never has been. And you don’t think you ever manage to make it sound like you mean it. But you are gone before Bucky can push or apologize again. Or see how deep the knife has gone.
Because he might be careful to be quiet. But he will never be careful enough to stop breaking your heart.
So what is the point?
You don’t want to do another morning like this.
You can’t do another morning like this.
Not three times in a row.
Not when the night has already taken your soul and what was precious of it, barely sewn together by the time the sun fights its way through the window.
Not when you know how it will play out. Like it has the day before. And the day before that.
The door to his room will creak open, the girl already gone. You will hear the shuffle of his bare feet against the floor, the sigh as he stretches, and the yawn that usually makes it past his lips. He never tries to stifle it.
And then, him standing there and watching you.
Disheveled. Bed hair sticking up in a mess. You never let your mind wander to how her fingers might have something to do with that. His shirt would loosely hang over his frame, probably thrown on in a hurry, collar askew, revealing a sliver of skin you shouldn’t be looking at.
That lazy and slightly flustered smile. Sleep still in the corners of his eyes, his lips, his voice, when he greets you with a scratchy morning.
Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t shatter you into a thousand unfixable pieces last night. And the night before that. And now this night.
You will do your best to greet him back without sounding pained. Focusing on making coffee. The way the steam normally curls into the air, the warmth of the mug in your hands. You will have to focus on it as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.
And despite knowing you shouldn’t - despite hating yourself for it - you will slide a cup toward him. As you always do.
His smile would shift. Settling into something fond, something warm, something that digs its claws into your ribs and refuses to let go.
Because that’s usually the worst part. He’s always so sweet with you. Thoughtful, affectionate in ways that don’t count. In the ways that make you feel like maybe if you just hold on a little longer, if you wait just a little more, he might start feeling what you do.
But you are certain, he won’t.
Because for him, everything seems fine. For him, this will be just another morning. Another easy, comfortable start to the day. With his eyes on you and sipping his coffee, exhaling like he is finally at peace, and leaning against the counter with a lightness that always has your stomach all up in shambles.
He always makes it seem so normal. Starting conversation with you, talking to you as if nothing has changed. Like you didn’t spend the night curled in on yourself, swallowing down sobs so thick they feel like razor blades. Like you didn’t spend the night choking on the sound of him with her.
He never mentions them. Never says any of the girl’s names, not that you even know what they are. He never makes plans to see them again. Just another faceless but very loud girl. One to be forgotten.
But tomorrow night, there will be another.
Tomorrow night will be the same.
And in the morning nothing will have happened.
Only him standing there with his sleep-mussed hair and that sweet, easy smile, drinking the coffee you should have stopped making for him a long, long time ago.
You rise out of bed, not even aware of it. The cold air nips at your tear-streaked cheeks, your sheets thrown back in a mass of tangled fabric still warm from the ball your body was curled in, breaking in silence. The pillow is still wet.
Your hands move on their own, tugging on slacks, yanking a hoodie over your head as though the fabric could hide you, save you from the devastation caving a hole into your chest.
You fumble for your phone before throwing open your bedroom door.
The moans are louder again. Yanking at your resolve and laughing at the way your tears keep coming.
Your feet move faster. You don’t actually run, but it feels like running. Like fleeing. Escaping a burning building before it collapses. The living room comes into view and it’s like a cruel trick, like the universe is taunting you, because all you see are phantoms.
The coffee machine on the counter. How many times have you two stood there, still tousled with sleep, you making coffee for the both of you because Bucky burns everything. How many times did he lean on the counter, watching you with that stupid little half-smirk, pretending to judge your process but always humming in satisfaction when he took the first sip.
The bookshelf in the corner - the one you swore you could build on your own. And you tried, you really did, but the second the screwdriver slipped and you gasped out loud, Bucky was there immediately. Hands on yours, worry furrowing his brows, grumbling about your stubbornness and continuing to grumble when he passive-aggressively built it himself.
You sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him, pretending to be annoyed but secretly savoring the way he kept glancing at you, again and again, to make sure you were okay and giving you instructions as to how it’s done but throwing you a glare when you insisted on trying again.
The carpet. The same one you both collapsed onto after a night out with your friends, too tipsy to move, giggling like teenagers as you pointed at the ceiling, pretending to find constellations in the uneven paint. He named one after you. You named one after him. You fell asleep there, side by side, and when you woke up he was so close. So close.
The couch. The one he practically melted into last week when he had a fever, whining dramatically until you caved and brought him soup. He kept pulling you back when you tried to leave, pouting like a child, demanding your attention because I’m sick, doll. Can’t ignore me when I’m sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didn’t have the heart to move.
And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesn’t mean anything. Like none of it ever meant anything.
Your breath is uneven, your hands shaking as you grab your shoes. The laces blur, your vision fogs, but you can’t stop.
You throw open the door to your shared apartment, barely thinking, barely breathing, only moving. It swings back into the frame with a sharp sound echoing through the hallway, louder than you had intended. But it doesn’t matter now. Because you are sure that Bucky doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t notice. He is otherwise occupied and you are utterly drained of thinking about with what.
The air outside the apartment feels different. Lighter and cooler, but it doesn’t bring relief. It’s thin and hard to pull into your lungs properly.
Natasha’s place isn’t far. Fifteen minutes on foot. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like something to grasp on.
No more moans. Lost to silence, left in a place that feels little like home right now. Still, they resonate in your skull, haunting reminders of that pain you can’t dismiss, that hurt that hangs off you like a heavy burden.
You slow your steps on the staircase and inhale deeply. It trembles on its way out.
You hate how fragile you feel. How breakable. Hate how much this affects you. How much he affects you.
But you keep walking.
Just yesterday, you talked to Natasha and she offered you to stay with her for the night, looking at you all sharp and knowing, but in her own way sympathetic. You declined. Because you thought you’d be fine. Well, you were wrong.
It’s past midnight now, completely dark, but you don’t care.
You know, Natasha will let you in. And that will have to be enough for tonight.
The city is alive even at this hour. Neon lights glow in the distance, their reflection shimmering in rain-slicked puddles that dot the cracked pavement. Somewhere across the street, there is a group of people laughing, and disappearing around a corner. A car flies past, with headlights unlocking long shadows lengthening down the sidewalk.
You focus on those things. On the shoes thumping against the pavement. The way the crisp air is somehow refreshing as it weaves through the fabric of your hoodie and stings slightly at the tear-streaked skin of your cheeks, keeping you awake and propelling you forward. Not that you need any more motivation to leave.
You wind your arms around yourself like a shield, like a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart completely.
You don’t look back.
Somewhere above you, there is a creak of a window opening.
It makes you freeze for a small second, before tightening your arms around yourself and picking up your pace.
Your stomach spins violently because fuck, you know that sound. You know the groan of that window when it moves, just a little off its hinges, just enough to make a noise you’ve heard a hundred times before. Because it’s the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut.
“Y/n?”
You close your eyes.
“Y/n!”
Your name spills from his lips, laced with confusion, infused with something that makes your fingers clench around your arms.
You could ignore him. You should ignore him. Just keep walking, keep moving, pretend you didn’t hear.
But you can’t. You never can.
With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.
Bucky is leaning over the frame, his torso reaching out the window, bare from the shoulders down. He is bathed in the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights.
His hair is messed up, brown tendrils all sticking in different directions. His brows are knitted in confusion. His lips in a frown so full of worry. And it’s just too much.
Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.
Your chest stutters, lurches, and swirls itself into a dozen moving shapes that hurt more than they should. Because he stands there shirtless. Shirtless. And you know why.
You swallow back your hurt, but it stays stuck in your throat and crawls right up again to make you taste it on your tongue.
You force your gaze away from staring at the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his throat, the soft lines of his skin, the hard lines of his muscles that she had her hands on just minutes ago.
“Where are you going?”
The tone highlights his concern, thick with the kind of worry that would have meant everything if it weren’t coming from him like this, not now. His voice is rough, remnants of the time already spent with that girl, but all you can hear is that damn worry in it.
As if you owe him an answer. As if he isn’t the reason your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and left to rot.
You draw in half a breath and look away - down the street, down at your shoes, the bricks of your building. Anywhere that isn’t him.
“To Nat’s.”
It’s clipped and short. You don’t want to explain, don’t want to talk, don’t want to stand here in the night air beneath the window of the apartment you share with him like some pathetic wreck while he worries about you.
“Nat’s?” You can hear the bewilderment in his voice, the way he is trying to piece it together, the way his brain is already working overtime, scrambling to make sense of this - and you can practically feel the moment he decides he won’t let it go.
“Somethin’ happen?” His voice just won’t stop to be so perplexed, so concerned. It is softer now, but you only glance up at him briefly before averting your eyes again.
Because damn Bucky, yes, something happened. Everything happened. Every night that he brings someone home, every touch that belongs to someone else, every soft moan that isn’t meant for you.
All these moments, all these memories, every feeling left unsaid that swivels and stings and grows into what it is now - a storm inside your rib cage, a hurricane of almosts and never wills and why does it have to be like this?
But of course, you can’t say that. You won’t say that.
So you just shake your head, tighten your arms around yourself, and take a step back.
“Go back to bed, Bucky.”
Because you can’t do this right now. You won’t do this right now.
Not when you are already about to break.
“I- What?”
His voice is a little raspy, puzzled, and under any other circumstance, it might have been endearing. On a normal day, if this were some cozy Sunday morning and not the breaking stretch of midnight, you might have smiled at the sight of him like this - hair in a wild mess, eyes a little heavy from the day, bare shoulders shifting in the glow of the streets.
But this is not a Sunday morning. And nothing about this feels good or cozy or right.
You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.
“You-” he starts again, brow furrowing deeper, but before he can get another word out, hands appear - slim fingers wrapping around the thick of his bicep, tugging, pulling, trying to drag him back inside.
Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.
She’s alone with him up there, in the space that you have spent so much time making into something warm, something filled with comfort. A space where you feel home. With him. And yet, it’s that random girl in there, laying in his bed, under his covers, in his scent, in him.
“Bucky, come on.” Her voice is thin and peevish, thick with impatience. And exhaustion you believe she has no right to feel when you are the one who has spent the time suffocating under her presence.
But Bucky doesn’t move.
His hand only grips onto the windowsill tighter, muscles in his arm locking.
And his eyes stay fixed on you.
Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.
And it makes your hands clammy.
The way he looks at you like he is reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something that eludes him no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.
He huffs out a breath that just borders on frustration when her fingers won’t stop pulling at him.
“Hold on, doll-” he calls out to you and unwinds her hands from his arm, barely sparing her a glance as he leans out the window again. There is a little something in his tone when he speaks to you again. Something like exasperation. But it’s not meant for you. “What’re you doin’ at Nat’s? Tell her it’s the middle of the goddamn night. Why would she let you walk over to her? She knows it’s not safe.”
You shake your head, already half turning away again. You just cannot do this right now.
“It’s fine. Just go back to bed, Bucky.”
“Y/n - hey. What’s wrong? What’s this about?” There it is. That softness in his voice. That concern. And it hurts. Because he doesn’t get it.
“Go. Back. To bed,” you repeat, sharper now, gritting it out between clenched teeth.
But Bucky has always been stubborn. And so infuriating. It’s like he doesn’t hear you at all.
“C’mon doll, did something happen? Talk to me,” he urges, voice gentle but he doesn’t seem to like the way you look as if you would bolt around the corner any second. His tone is coaxing in a way that makes you ache because this is what he does. This is what he has always done - pulling you in, making you feel safe, making you feel cared for, making you feel like you matter. Like he means it.
And it’s cruel. So cruel.
Because you are in love with him.
And he is standing in that window, bare-chested and rumpled from a night with another woman, while you are in slacks and a simple hoodie beneath him with your heart cracked wide open, bleeding into the pavement.
“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bucky,” you snip, voice losing patience. But you are so tired.
Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustration growing, seeping into his voice. “You’re killin’ me here, sweetheart. Just tell me what’s goin’ on. It’s cold out, doll. You’re not even wearin’ a jacket.”
You swallow down a choked breath.
Because this is making things so much worse.
That he cares. That he is looking at you like this, like you matter, like you are his.
Like you are something he wants to figure out. And he wants to take his time with. Like he wants to fix you.
But you are not broken. You are just in love.
“Bucky,” that girl calls out again, dragging his name out, voice honey-thick and pettish. “Come on babe, let it go. Just-” She tugs at his arm again, nails skimming along his forearm. “Come back to bed.”
But he doesn’t move.
Doesn’t even glance at her.
His mouth twitches, jaw ticking as he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking her off with a firm roll of his shoulder. “Would you quit it for a sec?” His voice is edged now, tinged with a kind of terse impatience he seldom ever lets out. “Jesus, m’tryin to talk here.”
The girl huffs, clearly displeased, but Bucky doesn’t spare her another second.
But the one second he threw his head around at her was your chance. Your feet move before you can think, before you can talk yourself into staying, because if you do, if you let him pull you in, let yourself hope-
“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”
His voice is frantic, stammering over its own syllables and filled with too many things your mind is too jumbled to focus on.
But it makes you stop your body in the midst of a step. And you grind down on your teeth against the frustration burning inside you.
You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.
But Bucky is leaning even further out now, his knuckles bracing against the sill, the night air tousling his hair, eyes wide and concerned, searching. One of his arms is reaching out, down to you as if he could touch you like this.
“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”
You whip halfway back to him, brows snapping together, heart slamming against your ribs.
“No, you-”
He’s already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “I’m coming down,” he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument.
Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. “Bucky-” you try again. But he has already made up his mind.
“Wait there, alright?” His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. “Doll. Promise me you’ll wait.”
Something in his tone, the look he is giving you, like he’s begging, almost a sweet-talking declaration. It’s catching your breath somewhere in your throat.
You could run.
You should.
You should turn right back around, disappear into the night, and leave him standing there, shirtless and confused and worried.
But you hold his gaze for just one long and heavy beat, then exhale shakily, shoulders dropping slightly.
“Okay,” you say weakly.
Bucky nods determined and taps his fingers against the windowsill, before rushing away, leaving the window wide open.
And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.
Hating yourself for hoping.
Technically, you could just leave.
Take a different route to Nat’s apartment, slip into the dark veins of the city where his voice wouldn’t reach, and let him walk out onto an empty sidewalk with his hair still tousled from another woman’s fingers and the taste of someone else’s lips still lingering on his own.
You could make him feel just a fraction of what you feel, with something hollow pressing up against his ribs when he finds nothing but cold pavement where you used to stand.
But you don’t.
You know you won’t.
Because it wouldn’t just frustrate him. It would hurt him.
And that’s the one thing you could never bring yourself to do.
Not Bucky.
Never Bucky.
You know him. The way he chews at the inside of his cheek when he’s trying not to say something reckless. The way his brows pull just a little too tight when he’s agitated but trying to play it off like he is fine. The way he folds his arms over his chest, not because he’s closed off, but because he needs something to hold onto.
You know exactly how he would react if he stepped out here and you weren’t there.
How the slight crease between his brows would deepen. How his fingers would twitch, opening and closing, like he’d missed his chance to catch you. How his lips would open and he would stare helplessly around and call your name.
And god, as much as this pain is devouring you from the inside out, pushing its way into the light but leaving you sitting in the dark, as much as your heart feels like being torn apart with unsaid words and unmet confessions - you cannot stand the thought of hurting him.
So you stay.
With feet planted on the concrete, fists clenched so hard, that your fingers start to cramp. You lift your trembling hands to your aching cheeks to hastily scrub away the fresh wave of tears surging forth downwards, willing your body to erase any evidence of your devastation.
But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.
You believe your cheeks are red from the effort of wiping so much, eyes swollen and puffy, your body trying to rebel against all of your commands.
Inhaling shakily, you force the breath down, down, down where you can pretend it doesn’t hurt so much. You angle your face slightly away from the building, hoping the dim spill of moonlight won’t betray your inner struggles.
Because the moment Bucky steps out that door, it will be the same as always.
He’ll look at you like you are his best friend. Like you are his safe place. Like you are the person he can always count on.
And you will look at him like you aren’t falling apart.
Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.
Like you aren’t drowning in a love that will never be returned.
The door swings open with a force that startles you, the sound of it hitting the frame a little too sharp against the night.
Bucky storms out onto the sidewalk like he’s got something urgent to say, like the world might stop spinning if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause. Just moves straight to you, his steps quick, closing the space before you can change your mind about standing here. He has a crumpled shirt thrown on and it hangs a little off. But it makes you want to run so hard.
His fingers wrap around your arms, not hard, not forceful but firm.
Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.
His breath is coming fast, chest rising and falling, like he ran down the staircase to get here as fast as possible.
His eyes are so deep, deep and blue, roaming your face with so much intensity, searching and scanning and pausing.
Shadows cast over his sharp cheekbones at the way his brows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted.
“What’s going on, doll? You been cryin’?” His voice comes out rough and he talks fast. Urgent, breaths spilling over themselves as he rushed through the words, almost tripping on them in his desperation to get them out. “Why’ve you been crying? What happened?”
His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.
You open your mouth, close it again. Your throat is dry from the sobs you tried to silence earlier. You shake your head, a knee-jerk reaction.
“I was just going to Nat’s, Bucky. Nothing happened.”
It’s a weak excuse, said in a weak voice.
And you hate how it makes Bucky’s expression shift. That tiny wounded something that crosses his features, something that shouldn’t be there, because you did wait for him, you didn’t leave, but it’s still not enough. You lied to him. And he knows it. And he’s hurt. And you hate yourself.
He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.
“No,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, voice so low. “That ain’t nothin’, doll. C’mon. You’re runnin’ off in the middle of the night, how could this be nothing?”
You look away. Because if you keep looking at him, him with his concern and confusion and hurt all interflowing in the pool of those blue eyes, you won’t be able to hold yourself together much longer.
You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.
The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.
Bucky leans in, just a little. His grip on your arms tightens, but it’s not harsh. Only insistent. Desperate for you to give him something here.
“Somethin’ up with Natasha?” His voice is gentle, like he knows this has nothing to do with her, but he has to ask anyway to go through all the possible options of what might be going on.
“No,” you croak, barely managing the word.
He softens at the sound of it, but that frown doesn’t ease.
“What’re you doing then, huh? Why’re you running off like that? S’ not safe, you know that.” His voice is soft. Almost like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. But the concern is wrapping around every word. “What’s got you so upset, sweetheart? Talk to me, yeah? Please?”
His voice takes on a desperate intensity. Like he’s begging you to just let him in. To make him understand.
You bite down hard on your bottom lip, willing it not to tremble, willing your face not to crumble right in front of him, but the air is too thick for your airway, making it harder and harder to breathe.
And Bucky is looking at you, like you are breaking his goddamn heart. Like you took a shot straight for it.
He is so full of worry, it looks painful, the crease of his brow always there when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s feeling too hard. His lips are still parted, like he wants to beg for an explanation, for some string of words that will make this all click into place and turn this into something fixable.
Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.
But this might be the only thing he can’t fix.
His hands on you are a contrast to the way you feel as if you’re falling apart. You hate how much you just want to collapse into it, to let yourself lean into him, let him hold you up. Because he would. You know he would. He would pull you in without hesitation, wrap his arms around you like he has done so many times before.
But you don’t want him to hold you. Don’t want him to hold you like a friend.
You want him to hold you like he means it. Like you mean something more than the sum of all the nights you spent choking on your own silence, swallowing words you could never say.
So all you can do is stay frozen, bones locked, eyes burning, heart splitting itself open in the middle of the street where he doesn’t even know he’s killing you.
“I-”
You try. You really try.
But then the door swings open again. And the sound of it alone is enough to send a bolt of ice down your spine.
Because this time it’s her walking out.
She steps out onto the sidewalk like she has every right to be a part of this moment.
Like she hasn’t spent the first part of the night in Bucky’s bed. Like she hasn’t been touched by him, kissed by him, fucked by him, wanted by him in a way that you have only ever ached for.
Like she hasn’t taken something that was never hers to have.
But it’s not yours either.
She looks so composed, too. More put together than you would have imagined. Her hair smoothed, clothes adjusted, skin glowing in a way that tells you she wasn’t just sleeping up there - she was living in something you’ve been dying for. She probably took a moment in your bathroom to check herself, to fix her lipstick, maybe even to admire herself in the mirror while you were downstairs, breaking apart.
She had the time for that.
Meanwhile, you can barely stand.
Your body is alive with magnitudes of unspoken things, suffocating. You feel like you’ve been sanded down, like a piece of wood, leaving nothing but the ache and longing and all the words you can’t say. This destruction is slow and ruthless, it doesn’t come with an explosion, but rather a slow erasure.
Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.
Like you were never meant to be here in the first place.
And Bucky is still looking at you.
Not at her.
You.
And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it should mean something.
But it just puts more pressure on the knife that is already turning around in your flesh.
The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.
“Bucky,” she drawls, almost lazy, like she’s bored with this already. “Are you coming back up, or…?”
Your stomach lurches.
You feel exposed, scraped raw, like you’ve been trampled over, flattened by something massive, left behind for everyone else to step around.
Bucky lets out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw works under pressure. And then, he huffs. Annoyed. Like she’s interrupting something important.
“Go home,” he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it.
“Seriously?” she scoffs, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick between the two of you.
Bucky exhales another breath and drops one of his arms from you to scrub it over his face, pushing through his hair. He turns toward her just a little, stance rigid.
“Yeah, seriously,” he mutters, already turning back to you. “I’ll call you a cab if you need-”
“God, you’re such a dick,” she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “Unbelievable.”
And then she’s gone.
But so are you.
You don’t even think about it. You just move.
Your arm slips from Bucky’s loosened grip, your body already shifting, already turning, already pulling you down the sidewalk, away from him, away from this.
It’s pathetic. You know this. But you have to get away.
Your vision is a blur, the streetlights smearing into a soft, hazy glow against the wetness welling in your eyes, and no matter how much you try to breathe through it, it’s too much. Simply too much.
You’re hurting. And you need to go. Now.
But Bucky doesn’t let you.
“Woah, whoah, hey!” His voice is quick, rushed, and then he is moving, closing the space between you. And this time, he cuts you off completely, stepping right into your path, right in front of you, blocking the way like a wall. He’s so broad in front of you, and so fucking present, making it impossible to escape.
You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.
His eyes flick over you so quickly, so intensely, scanning for something he doesn’t understand but is so desperate to find.
“Alright,” he exhales, low and careful, holding his arms out as if ready to stop you again if you make a run for it.
“You want me to put you in chains to keep you still?”It’s a weak and failed attempt at humor.
And it’s not funny. Not even close.
His voice is too thin, too strained, and there is something in his eyes, something tight and aching, that makes it clear he is not even trying all that hard to make his joke work.
You don’t smile. Don’t look at him. Arms still around yourself.
Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows, as he shifts his weight, as he lets out another slow and deliberate breath. He moves so slow. As if any tiny movement of him would make you walk away from him.
“What’s going on with you, mhm?” His voice is so soft. So concerned. Brooklyn warmth and worry combined with something gentler than you can handle right now.
“What’s this - this fight-or-flight thing you got goin’ on?” he continues, tilting his head just slightly, watching you too closely, reading too much. “You’re rushing off like the damn place is on fire. The hell is that about, doll?” Still so soft. So cautious.
His eyes are on you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s trying to solve you, like if he just looks long enough, he’ll figure it out.
But if he really understood, if he really found out, everything between you would change.
And you can’t handle that. You can’t handle anything at the moment.
“Just drop it, Bucky, alright?” It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Harsher. A little spit of venom that you hate yourself for the second it hits the air. He doesn’t deserve your attitude. But you can’t hold it back.
You see the way it lands. The way his brows pull in tighter, the way his lips press together, the way his chest rises and falls so measured. But it’s all not out of irritation. He just tries to figure out where that came from. What is happening. What has you react the way you do.
His voice is even and calm. But oh so careful. “I don’t think I will, doll.”
You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.
Your throat tightens so fast, you have to swallow hard against it, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek as you blink up at the sky like maybe that keeps the tears from spilling over.
And Bucky watches all of that.
His expression stays soft, but his eyes are burning with something deep, something real, something that makes you feel like you might actually drown if you keep looking at them for too long.
“Y/n,” he almost whispers, and it sounds so pained. “Why are you crying, sweetheart.” He’s so gentle, so tender, so fucking careful like he’s afraid that if he pushes too hard, you’ll just break.
You shake your head, arms around yourself tightening. “I’m fine.”
Bucky makes a quiet noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, something deep and disbelieving.
“See, that’s bullshit.”
You’re about to turn again, but he anticipates and gets hold of your arms.
“Look,” he sighs, heedfully taking off a hand of you to rub it down his face. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine. You wanna bite my head off cause I’m askin’? Fine. But don’t stand here and tell me you’re okay. Because I’ve got eyes, doll, and I can see that you’re not.”
You want him to stop.
You want him to turn around.
You want him to leave you here to fall apart in peace.
But he won’t.
And you don’t know what to do with that.
And you break.
No matter how hard you bite your lip, it doesn’t matter.
The tears slip and streak down your face before there is anything you can do. A sob follows. You can’t choke it down. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, and your face tilts towards the ground as you bring trembling hands up to wipe at your cheeks, in a futile and desperate attempt to regain composure. It’s useless.
You feel so pathetic.
Embarrassed. Ashamed that you ran off like this. That you’re standing here, crying in the middle of the night, on a sidewalk with no explanation, making a fool of yourself in front of him.
And the second your face crumbles, his does, too.
The second your breath hitches, he is moving.
Strong arms envelope you, winding tight, pulling you straight into his chest like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Not for a single second.
You let him.
Because it’s either this, or you’ll collapse down onto the asphalt.
His grip is firm, grounding, warm in a way that makes you ache even more. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucking you against him, and you feel the press of his lips there, gentle, but somehow rough.
Like your pain is his own.
“It’s okay. Shh… it’s okay,” he breathes, pained and low, the words pressed into your hair, into your skin. Making space between your ribs. “Oh, doll.” He presses you tighter to him. His hand brushes over your hair. “It’s okay.”
There is something so deep and aching in the way he talks to you, like the sound of his own voice hurts him. Like you hurt him.
His other hand moves over your back, soothingly, trying to give you some strength.
“I gotcha,” he breathes. “M’here, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.”
It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.
And it makes you cry harder.
Because it’s so soft. Gentle. Because it falls from his lips like something that’s always been there, something that’s always belonged to you.
Except it hasn’t.
It doesn’t.
Not in the way you want.
You don’t know what he calls those girls he takes home. If they get to hear him say it. Girls who have felt his hands in places you never will. Girls who have heard his voice rasp against their skin in the dark.
But you are not one of those girls.
You never will be.
And you know you will never be able to untangle that damaging wrench in your stomach.
So hearing him call you that. Baby. Like it means something. Like it’s yours. Like it hasn’t been whispered in the dim glow of your apartment, murmured against someone else’s lips, someone else’s skin, just someone else just hours ago.
It’s too hard. too cruel.
You wish it didn’t matter. You wish it didn’t rip through you the way it does, splitting you down the center, carving you open.
But it does.
Because even if it doesn’t belong to you, you still want it.
So you cry harder.
Sobs wrack through you, your chest hitching with the force of them, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, clumping it in your fists.
Bucky feels it and he hears it and he grips you tighter, pulls you closer.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, voice just above a whisper, more desperate now. Like he’s drowning in your hurt right along with you.
“Sweetheart,” he tries again, voice strained, thick. His lips are in your hair. “Please talk to me. Make me understand, baby, please! Tell me what’s wrong.”
But you can’t.
Because what the hell would you even say?
That you’re in love with him?
That you’ve been in love with him?
That seeing him with her - hearing the sounds that bleed through the walls, the ones you’ll never be able to unhear - feels like being skinned alive?
That you want him in a way you shouldn’t?
That you want him in a way he will never want you back?
You won’t.
So instead, you just press yourself harder into his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, letting him hold you like you are something precious. Like you are his. Even if you are not.
“Help me understand here, baby. Please,” he repeats with a voice so soft, that makes him seem afraid you might break apart completely if he speaks any louder.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re already in pieces at his feet, shattered beyond repair, and he just hasn’t realized it yet.
He lets you cry when you don’t answer, hand stroking up and down your back, the other soothing over your head. He whispers into your hair, words you can’t even process, just the deep cadence of him, the low rasp of his voice against your temple.
His lips move to your forehead, brushing over it. His breath is warm against your skin. You don’t have it in you to pull away, but you wish you would.
Because none of this makes it any easier.
Because his hands feel too good, too steady, too right - and it’s a lie.
Because it’s him.
And that means it hurts.
You wish he would just go and let you have your pathetic heartbreak alone.
But Bucky Barnes has never been the kind of a guy to leave things unsolved.
He pulls back just slightly after a while, just enough to get a better look at you, and when you try to duck your head, to keep him from seeing too much, he doesn’t let you.
Strong, warm fingers cradle your face, thumbs brushing over the damp skin of your cheeks, tilting your head up and forcing your gaze to his.
He looks wrecked.
His brows are drawn, lips parted, chest rising and falling unevenly. His hands tremble just a little against your skin, but his grip stays firm. Solid.
“Don’t look away, doll. Eyes on me, yeah?”
You swallow hard, jaw tight. “You just ruined your good night,” you say, the words falling out bitter, self-deprecating, stiff with something that tastes like resentment but feels like heartbreak.
Bucky’s frown deepens, his lips pressing together, eyes scanning over your face like he’s searching for something, anything that’ll make this make sense.
“The hell I did,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Confused you even brought this up. “I don’t give a shit about her. Don’t even know her name, if I’m bein’ honest.” He lets out a huffed laugh.
But you don’t.
Because somehow this makes it worse.
And you hate it.
You hate that some part of you wanted her to mean something.
Because if she meant something, if she was special, then at least this ache in your chest would have a name. A reason. A shape you could hold in trembling hands and squeeze so hard that it stops hurting at one point.
Then, at least, you could maybe finally accept that there is no hope. No reason to hold on to those feelings.
But Bucky just shrugs.
It meant nothing. It never meant anything. Not with them.
Not with the girls that come and go, the ones who pass through his nights in the same easy way the hours do - fleeting, ephemeral, touched, and forgotten.
Not with anyone. Not even with you.
You have spent so long feeling this, holding onto it, trying to keep it hidden beneath layers of friendship and longing and careful restraint. You have spent so long pretending that it is fine, that it doesn’t matter, that you can live like this - on the sidelines, just the girl in the other room, in the shadows, in the spaces between what you want and what you’re allowed to have.
And he stands here and looks you in the eyes, telling you that it is nothing. That she is nothing. That they - all of them before her, and all of them after her - are nothing.
You can barely breathe past it.
You don’t say anything.
And Bucky freezes.
His hands, where they cup your face, stop their soft, absentminded strokes. His thumbs, which had been tracing reassuring circles along your cheekbones halt. His breath catches and his eyes shift.
There is something uncertain in there.
And then, his lips part. His brows go up ever so slightly. His pupils flare.
Something settles over his expression that you don’t recognize.
Like a switch has been flipped.
Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.
Like suddenly he is seeing something in your eyes, something like an answer, something that has been there all along.
His fingers tighten, anchoring himself. Making it seem that if he lets go, if he moves even a fraction, something will break. In him, or you, you’re not sure.
He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. But he needs to see you better. Just enough to search your face for something he needs to know. His gaze locks onto yours and holds you there, testing something, making sure.
His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.
“Is that what this is about?”
It’s quiet, the way he says it. Like he’s afraid of it. Like he’s careful with it. There is disbelief on his face. Astonishment.
You shake your head too fast, too sharp, like if you deny it hard enough, it’ll erase the way he’s looking at you right now. That it’ll undo the meaning of his words and the way they sit between you. Something fragile on the verge of breaking.
“No,” you say, but it barely comes out, barely sounds convincing. Your voice is hoarse, scraped raw form holding back everything you don’t want to say. Your lungs refuse to work in sync with the rest of you. You swallow, eyes darting away, grasping for something to latch onto.
But Bucky doesn’t let you.
“Doll…” It comes like a sigh. Weightless and soft. His hands don’t drop from your face, don’t loosen, don’t give you the space you’re so desperately trying to carve out between you. If anything, his grip grows more robust. Just enough to keep you there.
“Hey. Look at me.” His tone is low, carrying the kind of warmth you’d usually like to lean into, but now all you want is to get away from it. You don’t want to meet those stormy blues.
Bucky’s thumbs are sweeping, so feather-light, over the curve of your jaw, smoothing along the damp trail of your tears, and his voice dips even lower. Softer. He is so close.
“C’mon, sweetheart. Give me somethin’ here.”
It’s not fair that he gets to call you all those sweet names like he means them. Like you mean something. Like it’s not the same word he probably called her and all those others who got to have him, even if only for a night.
“I don’t-” you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Bucky’s gaze shadows.
“Don’t what?” he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you aren’t. His fingers slightly move against your cheeks, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.
You shake your head again, your hands wrapping around his wrists - not to push him away exactly, but to have something to hold onto. You have no idea what to say.
“It’s- It’s not-” Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything you’ve never let yourself say.
But Bucky just watches you, unreadable things swirling in those impossibly blue eyes. Wary things. Still so damn careful.
He exhales and his hands slide down, skimming the column of your throat, settling against the curve of your neck like he’s grounding you. Holding you both together.
“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.
It’s not teasing. It’s not playful. It’s not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.
It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.
“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”
And that’s what has another tear slip over your lashes.
Because you’re breaking his heart?
What does that even mean?
You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you it’s his heart that hurts?
“Please,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. “Just tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.”
His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.
“I can’t-” Your voice cracks, but you don’t look away this time. His hands won’t let you. He won’t let you.
His eyes are pleading.
“Can’t what, sweetheart?” he urges, dipping closer, voice just a rasp of sound between you. His thumbs wipe away the new tears and he winces while doing it as if it actually causes him pain that they fell.
The streetlight flickers above. It casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. His fingers flex against your face.
“Is it-” he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. “Is it those girls?”
A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.
You can’t answer. You only shake your head, not in denial, not in confirmation, but in something else, something tired and so fucking done with feeling like this.
You try to pull back, try to slip free from the heat of his palms, try to turn away. Another tear drops onto the back of his hand.
Your reaction must be answer enough.
Bucky’s head, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s whole body - everything is moving so much, keeping you from slipping away, reaching for you, not letting you go.
A breath. A pause. Like his brain needs an extra moment to process what this all could mean. His breath catches in his throat and you can feel the exact moment he gets it.
The exact moment he realizes.
“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t stop trying.
You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.
“Shit, doll, I-” His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.
You don’t stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You can’t talk. You can’t stop crying. You can’t look at him.
But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he won’t let you go.
“No, no, don’t - please, Y/n, don’t.” He runs through his words, frantically getting them out, frantically trying to make you look at him.
He reaches your face again and holds on like it’s important. Your tears won’t stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he won’t let you leave.
Bucky panics.
His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.
“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration.
Not at you.
At himself.
“Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”
It comes out hoarse, scraped down to nothing but feeling. Each word drags from his throat like sandpaper against silence. Coarse and raspy.
And then he’s shaking his head, hands sliding to your shoulders, his hold firm, his eyes darting over your face like he is trying to memorize it, searching for the right words in the curve of your lips, the glisten of your tears, the way your breathing is a single shuddering mess.
“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”
He seems to hold back a scream.
Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, angry at himself, wanting to go back and rewrite everything, tear out every page where he made you feel like you were anything but his.
You wish you could believe it.
“Bucky-” you croak out.
“No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.”
“Like what?” Your voice is whisper-thin.
His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears.
“Like it’s over.”
Your throat closes around your next breath, never making it reach your lungs.
Because what is he saying? Nothing ever had the chance to be anything.
“I didn’t know, doll,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didn’t think you’d-”
He cuts himself off, voice choking.
His hands drop suddenly, like he doesn’t even deserve to hold you anymore. Like the guilt is weighing them down.
And then, unsure and hesitantly, he lifts one of them again and pauses before cupping your face, waiting for something - permission, maybe, or just a sign that you won’t pull away this time.
When you don’t, when you just keep standing there, frozen and broken and bewildered, he lets his palm settle warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing so lightly it sends a shiver down your back.
“Tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,” he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. “Tell me what to do, baby. Anything. I’d do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,” he chokes out.
Cars roll past you. There are voices in the distance. A neon sign flickers. But none of it touches this.
This thing between you.
Bucky’s hand shakes against your cheek. His breath stirs against your skin so ragged and he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, his body curling toward you like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, just needing to be close.
“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”
Never have you seen Bucky like this. He keeps things easy, keeps things light, and shrugs off pain like it never quite reaches him. But it does now.
It consumes him.
His fingers curl at the back of your neck, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against you. And when you continue standing there, breath shaky, tears still trembling in your lashes, his whole body sags.
His chest heaves with a breath so deep it sounds like it’s costing him something.
“I never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.”
His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough you’ll feel how much he means them.
And you do. You just don’t know what the hell is going on.
He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours.
Bucky is crying.
It breaks you. You don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go.
You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.
But Bucky’s whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.
And maybe that should give you some kind of satisfaction, a tiny sense of justice for the nights you spent lying awake, wondering if you meant anything to him while he had his hands on someone else.
But it doesn’t.
Because the way he is looking at you, when he cracks his eyes open again, when he meets your gaze with so much open ache, makes your chest hurt. It makes something inside of you quake.
“Bucky,” you start, but your own voice is so small, so lost. You shake your head, scanning his face, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that refuses to fit. How the tables have turned. You just can’t seem to find the irony in it. “What are you even - I don’t - I don’t I understand.”
His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get.
“I love you.”
Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.
He says it like it’s the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isn’t.
Because if it was then why has he spent all those nights with those seemingly meaningless girls. Why has he let you ache for him while he touched someone else.
“I love you,” he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.
But you don’t know how to.
Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesn’t know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before it’s too late, but your heart doesn’t listen.
Bucky’s hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.
You don’t and he steps closer again.
His whole body thrums as if he is scared to touch you but more scared not to. He looks at you with those red-rimmed and puffy eyes, so tremendously bare, holding onto your own eyes like he is drowning and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.
“Say something, doll,” he pleads, his voice so unsteady, that it guts you.
But what could you say?
Because love is not supposed to feel like this, to hurt like this. It isn’t supposed to feel like your heart has been split open and stitched back together all in the same breath.
But looking at him and at the way his eyes are just as pleading as his words, at the way he is breaking right in front of you - it makes you wonder if maybe it was hurting him all along, too.
“You-” you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesn’t seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you don’t know if you can take. “But that-” Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
Bucky exhales, long and slow and then he drops his head. Shoulders slumping, spine curling, like something inside of him, has just given out.
Guilt.
It sits heavy in his frame, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands jerk like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldn’t.
“Yeah,” he mutters, a humorless little laugh escaping, barely more than a breath. He drags a hand down his face, through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly at his side. His voice is lower when he speaks again, raspier, weighed down by something that feels an awful lot like regret. “I know.”
You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you weren’t ready for, something you tried to bury, and now you need to understand.
And Bucky must feel that. Because after a beat, after a deep, shuddering breath, he looks at you again.
“I didn’t think I could have you,” he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. “Didn’t think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.”
Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. “Bucky-”
“You’re my best friend,” he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he can’t help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. “I didn’t wanna mess that up, y’know? Didn’t wanna lose you over somethin’ I couldn’t control.”
Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.
“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?”
Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.
Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. “I tried,” he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. “Tried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-” He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. “It didn’t work. Nothin’ worked. Didn’t even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.”
It hurts.
It hurts in a way you don’t know how to hold. Don’t know how to carry.
You thought, for so long, that the way you love him, ache for him, is a one-sided agony.
But he is confessing to you, eyes red and weary, voice splintering, telling you that he’s been afraid to speak it aloud too.
That he loves you, that he tried to kill it, that he thought losing himself in someone else would somehow erase you from his mind.
Bucky’s words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.
It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close?
But he still touched them.
Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night.
While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends don’t ache like this.
And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too.
But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear.
He tried to fuck it away.
And now he looks at you like you are the only thing that has ever mattered, like the ground beneath his feet, is unsteady, like he is afraid you are going to bolt at any second.
You feel like the ground beneath your feet shits a fraction of an inch, not enough to send you falling, but enough to make you question if you were ever standing solid in the first place.
“But, doll, it-” he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. “It never meant anything. Swear to god, none of ‘em ever meant something to me.” His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. “They weren’t you. Couldn’t be you. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because you’re supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didn’t matter. Nothin’ worked.”
He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.
“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”
Your breath stalls.
Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”
He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesn’t stop hurting.
Even if you know it might not be fair.
But the thought of him with them, the thought of his hands gripping someone else’s skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone else’s throat - it makes you sick.
And he sees it.
You try to blink back another wave of tears.
His hands are on your face again, thumbs swiping furiously at your damp cheeks like he can rub the hurt away.
“Please tell me I didn’t ruin this.” His voice cracks through the words, the panic breaking through. Your silence seems to suffocate him, squeezing his ribs until there is no space left for air.
“I’m so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.” His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. “Tell me I can fix this. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. Anything.”
You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You don’t know if there is anything to fix, if there was ever anything there, to begin with, but he is looking at you like there was. Like there is. Like it is still hanging in the air between you, waiting to be caught, waiting to be named.
And you want to catch it. To press it to your heart and cherish it.
But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open.
The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine.
The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings.
But worst of all is that you can’t even blame him.
Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered?
You had no claim on him.
But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldn’t, that he’s standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.
You don’t know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If he’ll stick with you.
“No more girls.” The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.
“Never,” he breathes immediately, shaking his head as if to get rid of his own images, gripping you tighter, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks, his eyes burning through yours. “No more, baby. No one else. Not ever.”
Your breath catches, body sways.
There is a burn behind your ribs, not quite pain, but not far from it. It is something that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Too quick. Too uneven.
“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”
Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.
“I got a lot to make up for.” His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. “I know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And that’s on me.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, because it’s too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when you’ve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.
“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”
You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming.
“I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”
You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.
“I’ve been waitin’ for this, hopin’ for this - Christ, I don’t even know how long.”
Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you weren’t alone in this. Maybe never have been.
“And now that it’s happenin’ - now that I have you, even if I don’t deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,” he says, voice filled with something gravelly, rough like something barely holding together.
His fingers slide over your jaw, tracing along the column of your throat, memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.
“And I hate-” his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. “I hate that it’s happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didn’t see this sooner.”
“Bucky-”
He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.
“Please I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.”
You nod.
He closes his eyes again for a moment like he wants to go back and shake his past self by the shoulders, tell him to wake the hell up and stop hurting the one girl he ever cared about.
He continues, voice hoarse. “I would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.”
Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body can’t decide whether to brace itself for collapse.
You’ve spent so long breaking for him, wanting him in ways he never seemed to want you back. But now he is pouring his heart out and asking for something he already has but isn’t sure he is worthy of.
“You don’t gotta say anythin’ right now, doll,” Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. “I know I shoulda told you sooner.” He grimaces, disgusted with himself. “I shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckin’ stupid. So fuckin’ blind.”
You don’t even notice you started leaning further into him.
Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.
“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. “But I swear to God, I will.”
You don’t weigh the hurt against the want, don’t let the war in your head talk you out of your next move.
Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him.
And for a split second, Bucky freezes.
Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you.
But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs.
One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d get to have.
And he is so warm. So solid. His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first - savoring you, afraid to go too fast, to push too much. But when you let out a little sigh and your fingers tighten, Bucky melts, pressing in closer, enveloping you in his arms in a way that has you feeling he tries to make sure you never go anywhere else again.
He breathes you in like you are something holy, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. He is not forceful. He takes what he can get and he cherishes it. Like he said, he wants to take his time with you. It makes you fall in love with him even more.
It’s like he can’t believe you are even letting him have this. But he kisses you with a hope and a determination that this will not be the only time he gets to have this.
And when you pull back again, he rests his forehead against yours once more. You feel the way his chest rises and falls against your own, the way his breath shakes, the way his grip does not loosen at all.
“Jesus, doll,” he rasps, panting. “You tryna kill me?”
And the way he says it, the way he looks at you, so full of longing and desire and relief makes you realize that maybe he’s been suffering just as much as you have.
“I want you. It’s as simple as that. I’ve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I can’t. You hear me? I’m done. I’m not giving up. A life without you is not enough.”
Omg I love the vibes of your holiday sleepover! Can I request “person a's future isn't right if person b isn't right next to them. bonus points if it's something especially insane like person a and b live together and have a family.” from the not quite lovers prompts list?? (fem!reader please <3)
𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 — 𝐄.𝐁𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐋𝐄𝐘
person a's future isn't right if person b isn't right next to them. bonus points if it's something especially insane like person a and b live together and have a family.
𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 !!
evan buckley x single mom!reader | 1.4k | fluff | masterlist.
a/n — thank you !! i hope you enjoy 🤭
When you offered Buck your spare room in lieu of his rent struggles, you weren’t sure what you were expecting.
Your son choosing him over you after a nightmare was not it.
“Buck?” your voice was a low whisper as you padded down the hall in your worn socks, stopping just outside the cracked door to your son’s room. The faint glow of a nightlight spilled into the hallway, casting soft shadows.
Inside, you could hear Buck’s low, soothing voice. “It’s okay, bud,” he murmured, a smile audible in his tone. “Monsters don’t stand a chance when I’m around,”
You leaned against the wall, heart squeezing as you peeked through the gap. There was Buck, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside your son’s bed. His broad shoulders filled the small space, and his hands made dramatic gestures as he spun some ridiculous story about how he once scared a ghost away with his “super-cool” ninja moves.
Your son sniffled, half-hiding under the covers, but his giggle broke through the remnants of his tears. “You’re so brave,” he said in a tone full of awe, the kind only a five-year-old could muster.
You couldn’t decide if you were more amused or annoyed. This wasn’t the first time your son had bypassed you entirely to seek out Buck for comfort. In the six months since Buck had moved in, your house had gone from feeling like a quiet, single-parent household to something… different. Cozier. Fuller.
Maybe too full.
“Don’t tell mom I woke up,” Your son whispered loudly, not exactly grasping the ‘secretive’ part of his secret.
Buck grinned, his dimple flashing in the soft light. “Too late for that, buddy.” He glanced up at you, his expression shifting slightly, softer. “We were just handling a little monster trouble.”
“I see that.” You crossed your arms, though there wasn’t any real sternness behind the gesture. “Buck, you don’t have to handle every monster in the house,”
Buck shrugged, unbothered. “I’m basically an expert at this point.”
Your son giggled again, pulling the blanket up to his chin with a determined nod. “He is, Mom,”
You sighed, the faintest smile tugging at your lips. “Alright, monster slayer. Bedtime for real this time.”
Buck stood, ruffling your son’s hair before following you out into the hall. Once the door clicked shut behind him, he turned to you, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his sweatpants. “He’s got a wild imagination. Just needed a little reassurance,”
“I know,” you said quietly, meeting his gaze. “Thanks for… well, everything.”
“It’s no problem,” he said, his voice equally soft. But something lingered in his expression—a flicker of something you couldn’t quite name before he smiled again, easy and unbothered. “Goodnight,”
“Goodnight, Buck.”
—
The thing about Buck was that he fit into your life far too easily.
At first, you’d chalked it up to circumstance. Buck was your friend—had been for years—and when he mentioned he was struggling to make rent, you’d offered up your spare room without much thought.
It wasn’t charity, you told yourself. It was practical. You had a room, he needed one, and honestly, the idea of having another adult around the house to help with the little things was appealing.
What you hadn’t counted on was how seamlessly Buck would slide into your routines. Within weeks, he wasn’t just helping with the dishes or grabbing groceries on his way home. He was fixing your son’s bike, helping with spelling homework, and somehow—somehow—becoming your son’s favorite person in the house.
It wasn’t just your son, though. Buck had a way of making everyone feel like they were the center of the world. He listened when you vented about work, teased you just enough to pull you out of your funks, and made the house feel a little less lonely.
It terrified you.
You’d been so careful since your ex had left. Careful not to let anyone get too close, not to let yourself rely on someone else again. But Buck had waltzed into your life with his ridiculous laugh and his warm eyes, and he was chipping away at walls you’d worked so hard to build.
You told yourself it was temporary. Buck was just a friend, just your roommate. Eventually, he’d get back on his feet and move on.
But the thought of Buck leaving made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t want to examine too closely.
—
It all came to a head one snowy December evening.
You’d planned a quiet holiday—just you, your son, and Buck, who had casually mentioned that he didn’t have family to spend Christmas with. You’d baked cookies together, decorated the tree, and even endured Buck’s terrible attempt at singing Christmas carols.
Now, the three of you were sprawled out on the couch, a cheesy holiday movie playing in the background. Your son was curled up between you and Buck, his head resting on Buck’s arm as he slowly dozed off.
You should’ve felt content. Instead, you felt like you were teetering on the edge of something big and terrifying.
Buck shifted slightly, glancing down at your son with a fond smile. “He’s out,” he murmured.
“Yeah,” You stared at your son’s peaceful face, your heart aching with love and something else. “He adores you, you know,”
Buck’s smile faltered for just a second before he looked at you. “He’s a great kid. Easy to adore,”
You hesitated, your fingers tightening slightly around the blanket draped over your lap. “It’s not just him,” you said quietly.
Buck’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “You make things… easier. Better. For both of us. I don’t know how we’re supposed to go back to normal when you’re not here anymore,”
For a moment, Buck just stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then he shifted, gently lifting your son and carrying him down the hall to his room. You stayed frozen on the couch, your heart pounding.
When Buck returned, he didn’t sit back down. Instead, he stood in front of you, his hands on his hips and his jaw tight. “You think I’d just leave?”
“I don’t know,” you admitted. “Wouldn’t you?”
“No,” he said firmly. “Not unless you told me to.”
Your breath hitched. “Buck…”
He sat down beside you, closer this time, his knees brushing against yours. “I don’t know how to say this without making things weird,” he said, his voice low. “But I don’t think I can picture my future without you and your kid in it. You’re… home to me. Both of you.”
Your throat felt tight. “You mean that?”
“Yeah.” His gaze was steady, unflinching. “I know it’s crazy. I know we’re just roommates or whatever, but… it doesn’t feel like just that to me.”
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, and you hated how vulnerable you felt. But Buck didn’t look away. He didn’t run.
Instead, he reached out, his hand brushing against yours. “If you want me to go, I’ll go,” he said softly. “But if you’ll let me stay… I’m all in. For both of you.”
You stared at him, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. Slowly, you turned your hand over, your fingers curling around his.
“Stay,” you whispered.
Buck’s smile was soft, his eyes shining. “Okay.”
And just like that, your future finally felt right.
being an x reader writer and trying to be inclusive of all readers makes me overthink so much like should i write about you having smth with milk in it? no no what if the reader is lactose-intolerant. about the reader being the big spoon? noo what if they wanna be cuddled like a little spoon. about fingers through your hair? noooo what if the person reading it is bald
PAIRING: evan buckley x fem!reader
WARNINGS: no use of y/n
GENRE: fluff, meet cute
SONG INSPIRATION: tadow by masego
WORD COUNT: 938
navigation | ask | evan buckley masterlist
you were new to the 118.
from the moment you stepped into the station, they had welcomed you with open arms. chimney took you under his wing, showing you the ropes with his humour that helped keep the nerves at bay.
hen had this way of grounding you, offering advice that made you feel like you weren’t just learning the job, but learning to trust yourself.
sure, you’d had a couple of minor slip-ups during your first rescues. nothing too dangerous, but enough to sting your pride. you’d quickly learned from your mistakes, and the team had noticed. they always made it clear you weren’t alone, encouraging you as you found your footing.
as your first month passed, you began to feel like you were truly part of the family. but there was one name that kept coming up, like a shadow you couldn’t quite pin down, evan buckley.
whether it was on the ride back to the station or during meals around the table, his name was always on someone’s lips.
“remember when buck–”
“oh my god, and then buck said–”
“i still can’t believe buck actually–”
from the stories, he sounded like their long lost annoying younger brother, ruthlessly teased but fiercely loved. he was the kind of person who could drive them up the wall one minute and have them laughing until they cried the next.
with each story, you found yourself forming a mental image of him. this larger-than-life, chaotic force of nature who somehow managed to be their glue. without even meeting him, you felt like you already knew him.
and then, one day, you did.
you were cleaning and restocking one of the ambulances, focused on the methodical rhythm of your work. the sound of cheers outside pulled your attention, distant at first but growing louder, accompanied by bursts of laughter.
curiosity got the better of you. you closed the ambulance doors with a firm slam and started toward the commotion, your steps quickening with each cheer.
as you rounded the corner, you stopped in your tracks. the entire team had gathered in a loose circle, their voices raised in excitement, their faces lit up with the kind of joy reserved for reunions.
in the middle of it all stood a mountain of a man.
chim was the first to spot you lingering at the back of the group. “hey!” he called out, his grin widening as he reached for you, tugging you forward. “c’mon, don’t be shy! you’ve got to meet him!”
you stumbled slightly as you were pulled to the front, your breath hitching the moment your eyes landed on him.
he was everything the stories hadn’t prepared you for.
tall and broad shouldered, his uniform stretched taut over muscles that seemed almost unfairly large. his hair was slightly tousled, the golden strands catching the sunlight, but it was his smile that truly knocked the air out of your lungs. warm and open, it softened his chiselled features and sent a rush of heat straight up your neck.
then his eyes met yours.
blue. so blue they seemed to pull you in, almost as if the world had narrowed to just the two of you in that moment.
chim’s voice broke through your daze. “and this,” he said with a teasing grin, gesturing toward you, “is your new replacement!”
you rolled your eyes playfully, trying to ignore the way your heart raced as buck’s gaze lingered on you.
“replacement, huh?” buck chuckled, “i’ve heard i left them in good hands.”
he extended a hand toward you, and for a split second, you just stared at it, your brain short circuiting. then, as if on autopilot, you took it.
the moment his hand closed around yours, you felt it. a warmth spread through you, starting at your palm and radiating outward. his hand was large and strong, but his grip was gentle, as though he didn’t wanna hurt you.
“yeah…” you managed, your voice softer than you intended. “you could say that.”
You give him your name, his lips curve into a gentle smile. He nods, his eyes never leaving yours. "pretty."
your hand stayed in his for a beat too long, neither of you seeming eager to let go. his thumb brushed against your skin, an unconscious movement that sent shivers down your spine.
the world around you blurred. all you could see was him. the way his uniform hugged his frame, the way the corners of his mouth quirked up as he smiled at you, the way his eyes softened.
then, as if realising himself, buck gave your hand one final squeeze before letting go, his own hesitation mirrored in the slight reluctance of your fingers.
the moment broke before you could process what had just happened, someone called his name from across the station, and he was ushered away, leaving with the crowd and disappearing through one of the doors. his laughter echoed faintly as he went, but not before his eyes flicked back to you, lingering for a moment longer than they should have.
you turned quickly, your face burning. you took a step back and mouthed silently to yourself, “oh. my. god.”
“catch your breath yet?” bobby’s voice startled you, low and amused.
your head snapped toward him, but the knowing look in his eyes said it all. he’d seen the whole thing.
you tried to play it cool, clearing your throat and turning back to the ambulance as if you had work to do. but your heart was still racing, your hand tingling from where his touch had lingered.
little did you know, buck was feeling the same thing, standing in the middle of his family with his thoughts entirely consumed by you.
The last thing you expected to show up on your doorstep was a vault dweller, a actual person from a place safe from this shit hole. Or at least one that survived. A girl with a pretty face and gentle personality had begged for help while a shot wound in her suit was getting darker with blood. Of course, you could refuse such a scene of cruelty. There was a minute of silence as you fought with yourself on whether or not to save her— Lucy noticed.
“I’m glad you decided to save me,” Lucy mumbled against your skin. her forehead leaned against yours.
“I have a soft spot for pretty girls.” You lean in for a small kiss on her lips.
Two months since you save the vault dweller. You’ve been shot at, stabbed, and hunted all for her. All for the girl you met recently. But her smile drives you each morning.
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