Scarlet

f1 AL41 | MV3 requests are open! // currently working on f1 arvid lindblad fic

[scarletonthegrid]

Summer between races: chapter 1

Summary: Arvid turns nineteen surrounded by the people he’s always called home. Between birthday candles, warm summer nights, and a family photo, nothing seems out of the ordinary.

Until it does.

arvid lindblad x fem!reader warnings: slow burn, friends to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, angst, jealousy, family vacations, (smut later on) MDNI 18+

The Lindblads’ house in Portugal never changed.

Not really.

The white walls had been repainted over the years, the garden had grown fuller with olive trees and bright pink bougainvillea climbing the stone walls, and someone had finally replaced the old wooden table on the terrace after Arvid had accidentally broken one of its legs trying to climb onto it when he was thirteen.

But it still smelled like salt from the ocean.

Still echoed with laughter before anyone had even arrived.

Still felt like summer.

You’d spent enough holidays here to know every corner of the house better than your own.

Which was why no one questioned it when you walked through the front door without knocking.

“She’s here!” one of Arvid’s younger cousins shouted from somewhere upstairs.

His mum looked up from arranging flowers on the dining table and smiled the second she saw you.

“There you are.”

You crossed the room to hug her tightly.

-“I wouldn’t miss his birthday.”

“I know.”

She squeezed your shoulder affectionately.

“He keeps pretending he doesn’t care, but he’s been asking what time you’d get here since breakfast.”

-“He has not.”

You laughed.

“He absolutely has.”

Before you could answer, someone wrapped an arm around your shoulders from behind.

“Talking about me already?”

You didn’t even have to turn around.

-“Nineteen years old and you’re still eavesdropping.”

“You came all the way to Portugal just to insult me?”

-“I flew here because your mum invited me.”

You finally looked at him.

-“…The insulting you is just a bonus.”

Arvid rolled his eyes, though the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him immediately.

“You’ve gotten meaner.”

-“I’ve gotten older.”

“By twelve months.”

-“Which is why you should respect your elders.”

“Oh, here we go.”

You reached into your bag.

-“For the birthday boy.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“You actually got me something?”

-“I know. Shocking.”

He accepted the small wrapped box, turning it over in his hands.

-“You can open it later.”

“You don’t trust me?”

-“I know you.”

He laughed quietly.

“Fair.”

His fingers brushed yours as he tucked the present under his arm.

Neither of you moved away first.

“Arvid!” his father called from the garden. “Come help me with the lights.”

He sighed dramatically.

“Duty calls.”

-“Go be useful.”

“You know,” he said, walking backwards toward the terrace doors, “you’re incredibly bossy.”

-“And yet you always listen.”

He pointed a finger at you.

“Don’t get used to it.”

-“You’ve been listening to me for almost fifteen years.”

“…Unfortunately.”

-“Happy birthday.”

His expression softened almost imperceptibly.

“Thanks.”

For a heartbeat, it was just the two of you.

Then one of his cousins ran straight between you carrying a football, nearly knocking Arvid sideways.

The moment disappeared as quickly as it’d come.

—

By sunset, the garden looked like something out of a postcard.

Long strings of warm fairy lights stretched between olive trees.

Candles flickered inside little glass lanterns.

The dining table was covered with grilled fish, roasted vegetables, fresh bread, bowls of salad, and more desserts than any family could realistically finish.

Music drifted softly through hidden speakers while conversations overlapped in three different languages.

You found your seat without asking.

It had always been beside Arvid.

No one had assigned them years ago.

It had simply… become yours.

“So,” his uncle announced, raising his glass. “To our birthday boy.”

“Nineteen,” someone added.

-“You’re getting old.”

Arvid groaned.

“I’m literally nineteen.”

-“Exactly.”

Everyone laughed.

Glasses clinked together.

You reached for yours at the exact same moment Arvid reached for the bread basket.

Your hands bumped.

“Sorry” you said, sightly flushed

“You first.”

-“No, you.”

“You sure?”

You nodded.

-“Always.”

He smiled before taking the basket.

Later, halfway through dinner, his mum asked you about university.

His aunt wanted to hear about your latest trip.

His cousins argued over football across the table.

The conversations flowed naturally.

But every few minutes—

You looked up.

He was already looking.

It wasn’t intentional.

It never was.

Across the table, someone would tell a joke.

Your eyes searched for his before you laughed.

When his father started teasing him about his driving, he looked at you first, already knowing you’d be trying not to smile.

He shook his head.

Don’t.

You laughed anyway.

“Traitor,” he mouthed.

You shrugged innocently. His grandmother noticed.

She always noticed.

She leaned slightly toward his mother.

“They’re looking at each other again.”

His mother smiled into her wine.

“They always do.”

“They have since they were children.”

His grandmother hummed knowingly.

“They’re hopeless.”

—

Dinner stretched long into the evening.

Plates were cleared away.

Someone brought out cake.

The family sang loudly and terribly, completely off-key.

Arvid buried his face in his hands.

“I don’t know these people.”

-“They’re literally your family,” you laughed.

“Unfortunately.”

He blew out the candles in one breath while everyone applauded.

Then came presents.

Then coffee.

Then another bottle of wine.

The adults stayed talking around the table while the younger cousins disappeared into the house to play video games.

The night settled warmly around everyone.

You slipped away quietly, not because you were bored, just because you knew exactly where he’d be.

-“Rio,” you called softly.

A golden retriever came bounding around the side of the house so fast his paws slipped on the stone path.

-“There you are!”

He crashed into you with enough force to nearly knock you over.

-“Oh, hello to you too.”

You crouched immediately, laughing as he shoved his head beneath your hands.

-“I missed you.”

His tail wagged so violently his whole body moved with it.

-“You’ve gotten so big.”

Rio answered by dropping a well-chewed tennis ball into your lap.

-“You want to play?”

Another bark.

-“I’ll take that as a yes.”

You threw the ball across the garden.

He sprinted after it.

“You spoil him.”

You didn’t need to turn around.

-“I do not.”

Arvid leaned against one of the olive trees, hands tucked into the pockets of his linen trousers.

Moonlight caught the edge of his smile.

“He waits for you every time you come here.”

-“He likes everyone.”

“He doesn’t.”

Rio ignored the tennis ball entirely, running straight back to you instead.

You laughed as he rested his head against your knees.

“See?”

Arvid folded his arms.

“Case in point.”

You looked up.

He was already looking at you. The fairy lights reflected softly in his eyes.

Neither of you said anything.

You simply smiled.

And somehow, that had always been enough.

Rio had long since given up on the tennis ball, deciding your lap was far more interesting, while conversations drifted lazily across the garden behind you.

The night had settled completely now.

The fairy lights cast warm pools of light over the stone patio, and somewhere inside the house someone had turned the music up just enough for it to spill through the open windows.

“Arvid!”

His cousin’s voice broke the silence.

“We’re taking a picture!”

He sighed dramatically.

“Do we have to?”

“Yes.”

“I already know what I look like.”

His aunt laughed.

“And we want to remember your birthday.”

“I’ll still be nineteen tomorrow.”

-“You complain too much,” you teased, nudging his shoulder.

“You started it.”

-“I always do.”

He shook his head with a smile.

“You really do.”

—

Within minutes, everyone had gathered near the olive trees.

His grandmother sat in the middle.

The younger cousins argued over who got to hold Rio.

His parents stood behind them while someone balanced a camera on a tripod across the garden.

“Okay!” his uncle called. “Birthday boy in the middle.”

Arvid obeyed with an exaggerated sigh.

You stayed near the back, figuring there wasn’t much room left.

-“There,” you said. “Perfect.”

His mum frowned.

“What are you doing all the way over there?”

-“I’m fine here.”

“Nonsense.”

She waved you over as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Come stand next to Arvid.”

-“Oh.”

You glanced at him. He simply shrugged.

“Come here.”

So you did.

You slipped into the empty space beside him.

The photographer looked over the camera.

“A little closer.”

You took half a step.

“Closer.”

You laughed.

-“We’re already touching shoulders.”

“Exactly.”

Without thinking, Arvid rested a hand lightly against your waist, guiding you the last few centimeters toward him.

It was absentminded. Comfortable.

The sort of movement neither of you questioned anymore.

“There we go!” the photographer grinned.

“Smile!”

The flash went off.

Then another.

“And one more!”

By the third picture, everyone was laughing because Rio had escaped the cousins and was trying to jump into frame.

The camera clicked one last time.

“Done!”

The family immediately scattered.

His grandmother headed back toward the table.

The adults reached for another bottle of wine.

The cousins chased Rio across the lawn.

You started to step away—Only to realize Arvid’s hand was still resting against your waist.

Your breath caught.

He looked down at the exact same moment.

-“Oh.”

He pulled his hand back almost instantly.

“Sorry.”

-“It’s okay.”

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you quite knew why the air suddenly felt different.

Then his cousin walked past with a grin that was far too knowing.

“You know the picture’s over, right?”

Your face warmed immediately.

Arvid rolled his eyes.

“Shut up.”

“I’m just saying.”

“You say too much.”

His cousin only laughed as he disappeared back toward the table.

You looked anywhere but at Arvid.

“So…”

-“I think Rio wants his ball back.”

“Right.”

You bent down a little too quickly to pick it up.

He rubbed the back of his neck.

Neither of you mentioned it again.

—

The evening stretched on. People drifted into little groups around the garden. Someone put together a playlist.

His dad and uncles started another conversation about motorsport.

The younger kids disappeared inside to find dessert.

You excused yourself to grab a bottle of water from the kitchen.

-“I’ll be back,” you told Arvid.

He barely looked away from the conversation he was pretending to listen to.

“Okay.”

It wasn’t unusual, you came and went all the time.

You always came back.

A few minutes passed. Then ten

Without thinking, his eyes lifted toward the house. No sign of you.

He looked toward the terrace, still nothing.

“You alright?” his dad asked.

“Hm?”

“You keep looking around.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m just…” He frowned slightly.

“…looking for her.”

His dad smiled into his drink but said nothing.

Arvid stood. “I’ll be right back.”

He wandered toward the front of the house. The warm laughter from the garden faded behind him.

As he rounded the corner, he heard your voice.

You were standing by the front gate beneath one of the lanterns, talking to one of his family’s guests—a guy around your age who’d arrived with family friends earlier that evening.

The conversation looked easy. Comfortable.

You laughed at something he said.

The guy smiled back.

After a moment, he checked the time.

“I should probably head home.”

-“It was nice meeting you.”

“You too.”

He leaned in, giving you a quick kiss on the cheek before stepping back.

You smiled.

-“Drive safely.”

“I will.”

Arvid stayed where he was. Hidden just enough that neither of you noticed him.

It was nothing.

A polite goodbye, perfectly normal.

So why did something tighten in his chest?

He’d seen you talk to people a thousand times and he’d never cared before.

The guy climbed into his car and drove away.

You turned toward the house again. Before you reached the steps, Rio came bounding around the corner.

Without hesitation, he ran straight past Arvid and straight to you.

You laughed as the dog nearly knocked you over.

-“There you are.”

Arvid watched from the shadows for another second.

For the first time in years…

He wondered what it would feel like if, one day, you stopped coming back to him first.

[scarletonthegrid]

Summer between races : the series

Summary: You’d known Arvid Lindblad for so long that no one could remember where he ended and you began.

Best friends since childhood, summers spent in Portugal, race weekends across Europe, birthdays celebrated together, and a lifetime of inside jokes that no one else understood.

To everyone around you, it was obvious. To the two of you, there had never been a reason to question it.

Until one summer, somewhere between nineteen and twenty, lingering glances started lasting a little too long, silence became heavier than words, and the line between friendship and something else blurred in ways neither of you knew how to face.

Some stories don’t begin with strangers falling in love.

Some begin with two people who never realized they already had.

arvid lindblad x fem!reader warnings: slow burn, friends to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, angst, jealousy, family vacations,(smut later on) MDNI 18+

masterlist

chapter 1: coming soon

!disclaimer: i'm new into writing and english its not my first language so i apologize if i make any mistakes 🫶🏻

[scarletonthegrid]

HI!!!! Please tell me you haven’t dropped ‘A Marriage Brewed in Secrets’?! It’s so good and you’re such an amazing writer!!! There’s also not a lot of House of Guinness fics out there and this is one of my favourites 🥺

Hey everyone💕

Sorry for being inactive the past couple of months. It’s been a rough time and uni work + exams completely took over. I really appreciate all the support and patience more than I can say. I’m hoping to get back on track by the end of this month or sometime in February, and I can’t wait to be active again, and of course there would be updates on all of my fics!!

Thank you for sticking around🫂

[boyleblr]

HOUSE OF GUINNESS (2025-) dir. Tom Shankland

[scarletonthegrid]

thinking of starting a ST series but i’m torn between billy steve or eddie 😩

help me out!

billy

steve

eddie

Voting ended onDec 11, 2025

(gifs from pinterest)

[scarletonthegrid]

Hoy hace 1 años que llegué a Tumblr. 🥳

[scarletonthegrid]

sorry for not posting in so long been really sick lately but i promise i’ll be back !🫂🩷

[scarletonthegrid]

I just started A Marriage Brewed in secrets and it’s AMAZING! The yearning, the looks, the drama!!!

Thank you so so much 🥹🥹❤️ hope i can post the next part soon!! sorry for being so busy lately 🫶🏻

[scarletonthegrid]

chapter 3 of ash and iron it’s out!!

gif by @boyleblr

[scarletonthegrid]

Ash and Iron: chapter 3

gif by @boyleblr

Summary: While Belfast burns outside a moment of danger happens and suddenly you’re pressed together in the rain, his hand on your wrist, his breath on your lips and shared unspoken feeling.

brendan hughes x fem reader warnings: slowburn and political unrest (violence mentioned)

Morning pulled itself into the room reluctantly, like it feared disturbing the fragile thing left in the quiet. Rain dusted the window in soft, uneven patterns. Belfast sounded half-awake beyond the thin walls—bins dragged, dogs barking, the distant thump of boots on wet pavement.

You were warm.

That was the first thing you noticed.

The second was the weight across your waist.

The slow rise and fall of breath behind you.

And the unmistakable presence of the man you had spent the last month arguing with.

Brendan Hughes was still asleep at your back.

Your body went rigid, a thousand thoughts colliding in your head. You barely dared breathe.

His arm was draped around you—heavy, protective, undeniably intimate in a way neither of you had ever allowed yourselves. Your shirt had ridden up in the night, and his hand rested against the bare skin at your hip, warm and callused.

Heat shot up your spine.

You tried to shift slowly, but his arm tightened unconsciously, pulling you a little closer. His nose brushed the back of your shoulder. His breath was warm, steady, human.

There was nothing political about this moment.

Nothing strategic.

Just two exhausted souls sharing warmth in a world that rarely offered it.

You let yourself breathe.

It was the inhale that woke him.

His whole body tensed behind you—every muscle tightening like wire pulled taut. His hand instantly withdrew, leaving your skin cold in its absence. He sat up fast, posture snapping straight, as if ashamed to have been caught vulnerable.

You rolled onto your back and found him rubbing a hand over his face, his hair mussed, eyes heavy with sleep. Even disoriented, even tired, he carried himself like every second mattered.

As if tenderness was a luxury he had no right to.

You sat up, leaning on your elbows.

“Well,” you said softly, “that was cozy.”

He groaned into his hands.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Relax,” you interrupted. “It’s not like you proposed.”

He shot you a look over his shoulder. Something tight. Something half-amused, half-mortified.

He stood, clearing his throat, straightening his coat like it could fix the closeness he’d accidentally shown. You hid your smile badly.

The rain had softened to mist by the time you stepped outside. Brendan walked with his hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders stiff, his moustache twitching whenever he caught you looking at him.

You didn’t say anything.

He didn’t either.

But the air between you was different—charged, cautious, threaded with the memory of warmth neither of you meant to share.

Halfway down the Falls, he finally spoke.

“You handled yourself well yesterday.”

You blinked.

He didn’t compliment easily.

“God, Brendan. Twice in two days? You’re spoiling me.”

He ignored the jab.

“You kept your head. Not everyone does.”

There was a weight behind the words. You understood what he was really saying: I was watching. I noticed.

But before another word could pass between you, the tranquility shattered.

A shout from up the road.

Boots. Running.

A burst of panic humming through the street like electricity.

Brendan grabbed your arm instinctively.

“Move.”

You followed without hesitation.

Around the corner, a patrol had stopped a boy—young, terrified, no older than sixteen. His schoolbag had been dumped on the ground, contents spilled into the gutter. A soldier’s hand pressed into the boy’s chest, holding him back.

Your heart hammered.

You shouldn’t intervene.

You knew that.

But the boy was trembling.

And Brendan saw the look on your face.

“Don’t,” he warned in a whisper.

You didn’t listen.

You stepped forward.

That was when the soldier swung his arm out, shoving you back before Brendan could react. Your foot slipped on the wet pavement—you went down hard against the kerb, pain slicing across your forearm as it scraped the ground.

Brendan snapped.

Not aggressively—not stupidly—but with a flash of fury so sharp it cut through the rain.

He hauled you up, placing himself between you and the soldier with quiet, iron control.

“She slipped,” he said, voice low, steady, dangerous in its restraint. “Watch where you’re swinging.”

The soldier stared at him, hand twitching at his rifle—but Brendan didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t give him anything to escalate.

Finally, the patrol moved on, dragging the boy with them.

You exhaled shakily.

Brendan turned instantly, grabbing your injured arm. His hands were careful but firm, eyes scanning the cut.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

You scoffed.

“I’ve had worse.”

“That not what I asked.”

His voice—low, rough—pulled your gaze back to him.

Rain clung to his hair.

A drop slid down his cheek.

He didn’t notice; he was too focused on you.

You swallowed.

“I’m fine.”

He shook his head.

“Don’t lie to me.”

You didn’t have time to answer.

He lifted your wrist gently, inspecting the scrape. His fingers brushed a tender spot and you hissed.

His jaw clenched.

“We’re getting that cleaned.”

“It’s nothing—”

“It’s not nothing.”

Something cracked in his voice.

You stared at him.

This wasn’t anger.

This was fear. Quiet, buried, unwilling to be admitted.

Fear of losing someone else.

Fear of watching another body fall in a place where too many had already fallen.

Your breath softened.

“Brendan,” you whispered, “I’m alright.”

He looked up.

And suddenly the world narrowed—rain hushed, street blurred, sound dissolved.

It was just his face inches from yours.

His eyes locked on yours.

His hand still wrapped around your arm like he was afraid to let go.

You felt his breath brush your lips.

He stepped closer.

Slowly.

As if pulled by something outside his control.

His eyes flicked to your mouth.

Just once.

Just enough.

And you knew—if you leaned forward—if you moved even a hair—

He would kiss you.

His forehead almost touched yours.

His breath came shallow.

Your pulse thundered.

His nose brushed the side of yours.

Your lips parted—barely—just enough for hope to slip through.

Then—He stopped.

Pulled back like he’d been burned.

Eyes hardening.

Chest rising with a breath he didn’t want you to see shake.

“We need to get you home,” he rasped.

You stood frozen, the ghost of the almost-kiss burning between you.

He released your arm.

The absence ached.

The rest of the walk was silent.

At your door, he paused—hands in his pockets, shoulders stiff—but his eyes softened in a way you’d never seen.

“Don’t scare me like that again,” he said quietly.

You stared at him.

“You weren’t scared.”

He held your gaze.

“I was.”

Your breath caught.

He stepped back before you could respond, turning sharply, walking down the street like he needed distance before he did something he couldn’t take back.

You watched him go.

And despite the pain in your arm, despite the rain soaking your clothes, despite everything—

You touched your fingertips to your lips.

Because if fate hadn’t interfered—

If a moment hadn’t snapped—

He would’ve kissed you.

And God help you both…

you wanted him to.

[scarletonthegrid]

sort of thinking about ash and iron all the time btw !!

this makes me so happy !! i’m really enjoying writing it hope i can post more chapters soon💚

[scarletonthegrid]

“tell me to stop” “it matters too much” AAHHH

🤭🤭🤭

[scarletonthegrid]

i am absolutely in love with your writing!!!!! just finished ash and iron & strings and sparks and i feel so emotionally moved and i just had to tell you how i love the tender and caring portrayal of these characters - aaaaa absolutely beautiful, looking forward to reading the rest and sending you gentleness and love <3

this means so so much to me🥹🥹 this is so sweet ❤️ thank you very much for the kind words i’m hoping i’ll be less busy this week and can post more chapters for all of you to enjoy!!🫂

[scarletonthegrid]

chapter 3 of Strings and Sparks it’s up!! sorry for taking this long it has been busy days 🫶🏻

gif by @bisexualdaviddonnelly

[scarletonthegrid]

Strings and Sparks: chapter 3

Summary: A drive to the coast turns into something softer than either of you expected. Between salt air and laughter, David lets a little too much slip — and suddenly, the space between a casual date and something more feels dangerously thin.

david donnelly x fem reader warnings: slowburn(for now),fluff, both reader and david are 18y, political unrest.

The drive out feels like holding your breath for miles.

The windows fog, the heater clicks, and the tape in the dash warps in the middle of a Cranberries chorus — but neither of you cares enough to stop it.

You watch soggy hedgerows blur past, each village smaller than the last, each road narrower.

David drums his fingers on the steering wheel, though the rhythm doesn’t match the music.

His knee bounces sometimes.

Yours does too.

No one speaks for half the journey — not because it’s awkward, but because it feels like anything louder than breathing might break whatever this is.

Finally he nods toward the sea ahead, steel-blue and endless.

“There she is.”

You don’t answer. You just look.

The chip shop is barely a shack — just a counter, one flickering bulb, and a gull perched like it owns the place.

He orders for both of you without asking.

You pretend not to notice that he remembered how you like your chips salted.

You sit on a cold stone wall overlooking the harbour.

The boats knock gently in the tide.

Salt stings the wind; it carries someone’s radio from down the pier — Oasis, Slide Away, tinny through the stormy air.

David hands you a cone of steaming chips.

“Hot enough to melt your tongue off. Careful.”

You blow on one, burning your lip anyway.

His laugh is soft, almost boyish, almost secret.

“Tragic,” he murmurs, nudging your shoulder. “Gone too soon.”

You roll your eyes, but you smile. You can’t not.

For a while it’s quiet — not heavy, just peaceful.

“Feels like you can breathe out here,” he says eventually, voice low.

“Town’s so loud and it’s not even the noise — it’s the… eyes.”

You know exactly what he means.

The villages, the whispers, the soldiers at the corner shop pretending they’re invisible but standing with guns that say otherwise.

“Out here,” he continues, “nobody’s watching. You just… exist.”

You look at him then — really look.

He isn’t flirting.

He isn’t performing.

He’s just a boy with wind in his hair and something heavy in his chest he doesn’t know how to carry.

You say it before thinking:

“You’re different here.”

He glances at you, surprised.

The breeze tugs his fringe and he doesn’t move to fix it.

“So are you,” he says quietly.

“You don’t shrink as much.”

The words hit harder than they should.

You stare at the sea so he won’t see what he does to you.

After food, he suggests walking the little path down to the rocks.

The tide murmurs at your feet.

Wind paints colour into your cheeks; the late afternoon light breaks through cloud in soft gold strips.

He skips a stone. It immediately sinks.

“Right, don’t laugh.”

“I didn’t say anything yet.”

“You were thinking it.”

You grin.

You are both warmer now, freer.

A moment later, he tries again — nearly perfect this time, three skips.

He turns triumphantly toward you, eyes bright.

Your laugh escapes before you can catch it — real, full, unguarded.

His face changes when he hears it.

Like the sound surprised him.

Like maybe it did something to him.

“There she is,” he murmurs.

You feel it everywhere.

It happens quietly.

Not dramatic.

Not planned.

Not fueled by anything but that impossible stillness that sometimes happens when two people stop pretending they aren’t staring.

You’re both standing there, the wind in your coat, his sleeve brushing yours lightly, just lightly, and then—He looks at you.

Really looks.

Slow. Careful.

As if giving you a chance to move, to pull away, to say no.

You don’t.

He lifts a hand — hesitant — touches the back of your hair like it might disappear if he’s too certain about it.

And then he leans in.

The kiss is soft.

Just lips, and breath, and the faint taste of salt and vinegar crisps.

It lasts a second, maybe two.

You feel it long after he pulls back.

His forehead lingers near yours — not touching, but close enough the world narrows to one shared breath.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, but his voice breaks on it.

He doesn’t sound like he wants to be brave anymore.

He sounds afraid of your answer.

Your heart trips.

“…I don’t want to,” you breathe.

Which is the truth — and the problem.

A gull cries overhead, startling you both back into the present.

The spell breaks — gently, not cruelly — like a wave retreating back into the sea.

You step back, brushing your sleeve where his hand had been, even though you can still feel the warmth there.

Neither of you speaks at first. The air tastes of salt and rain and something unspoken.

David’s eyes flicker to the horizon. “Sorry,” he says softly, though it doesn’t sound like regret. More like disbelief. “Didn’t mean to—”

You shake your head before he can finish. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He laughs under his breath, eyes lowering. “Feels like I might’ve.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy — it’s careful. Like you’re both afraid to move too fast and break it again.

You reach for one of the chips still left in the cone, cold now, mostly forgotten. “Guess we should probably head back before it rains again.”

He nods, glancing toward the car, then back at you. “Right.”

You both start walking, slow at first. Then, after a few steps, he speaks again — lighter, steadier this time.

“Next time, I’ll bring proper food. None of this chip-shop nonsense.”

You try to hide your smile. “Next time?”

He shrugs, pretending at nonchalance but failing completely. “What, you think I’m letting you win the skipping contest with one stone?”

You roll your eyes. “You’ll have to prove you can do better first.”

He grins. “I plan to.”

The words hang between you — quiet, full of promise neither of you dares name.

By the time you reach the car, the sky has split into soft pinks and golds.

The rain never comes back.

You both linger by the car longer than you should. The light is fading fast; the whole coast has turned the colour of old film. You can smell salt on your hands and something like rain on the air.

David leans against the driver’s door, staring at the horizon instead of at you.

“When I was a kid,” he says quietly, “I used to come out here when things got loud at home. It’s the only place that still feels like it’s got space to think.”

You nod. “It’s… peaceful.”

He glances over, one corner of his mouth twitching. “It was. Then you showed up and ruined it.”

You laugh, but he doesn’t join in right away. His expression softens.

“I’m joking,” he adds, voice lower now. “It’s better with you here. I just… didn’t expect that.”

You look at him, and he’s already watching you—open, unguarded in a way you’ve never seen.

He shakes his head once, almost to himself.

“You’ve got this way about you,” he says. “When you play. When you talk. It’s like—”

He stops, sighs. “Forget it. Doesn’t matter.”

You say it before you think about it. “Tell me.”

He gives a small, crooked smile. “It matters too much. That’s the problem.”

Something passes between you then—quiet and impossible to name.

He clears his throat, looks back toward the road. “Come on. We should head back before it gets dark.”

You watch him circle around to the driver’s side, every movement careful, like he’s afraid of saying too much again.

When the car starts, the radio catches halfway through a song—The Cranberries, Dreams.

Neither of you reaches to turn it off.

He doesn’t reach for your hand, and you don’t offer it — but your shoulders almost touch, and somehow, that’s enough.

When he drops you off, he waits until you’re at the door before calling out:

“Same time tomorrow?”

You turn, smiling in spite of yourself.

“Maybe.”

He laughs and the sound fades down the street until all that’s left is the sea in your ears.

You lean against the door for a moment, eyes closed, trying to memorize the feeling before real life catches up again.

[scarletonthegrid]

i NEED part 3 ash & iron !!!! one bed trope got me 😛

i’m so so happy for all the amazing feedback i’m getting !! so excited to write more i hope i can post chapter 3 soon 🫶🏻

[scarletonthegrid]

chapter 2 of ash and iron it’s up!!

gif by @boyleblr