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𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐄𝐃𝐄𝐒 𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐀𝐒𝐓 ࿐ 20 ▸ Writer ▸ | GR63 | CL16 | KA12 | #freepalestine

[sphoria-63]

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➥ Hi. My name is Sofea— pronounce as Sophia. (She/her) INTJ | This account is mainly about F1.

➥ I am currently studying in college so I might not update often or regularly. ( I’m an electronics major in college, so writing isn’t exactly my field—but I’m doing my best to be creative and have fun with it )

➥ I only write oneshots and short stories here. Novels will be on my AO3

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- Requests are gladly opened and appreciated

⚠️ I do not accept requests about underage smut, Non consensual sexual intimacy, hate of bigotry ( racism, homophobia, transphobia and other forms of hate), Graphic self-harm or suicide without care, pedophilia, Plagiarism or “copying” other fics.

Smut requests that I won't be taking includes : Nonconsensual acts, underage content, extreme gore or violence, bestiality, incest, highly triggering fetishes, sexual content that promotes self harm or suicide.

My main focus is writing fics with a female reader, though I’m open to writing F1 ships as well

𝙈𝘼𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏 𝙒𝙄𝙇𝙇 𝘽𝙀 𝙐𝙋𝘿𝘼𝙏𝙀𝘿 HERE

my f1 masterlist, my GR63 AO3 FIC, support my AO3 acc

じゃあね..!

[sphoria-63]

I promise I’m not quitting tumblr LOL, im just busy writing my landoscar fanfic on AO3 🤩😅

[sphoria-63]

Before It’s Sold ( CL16 )

Summary : Charles, a realtor and you, his former rival reunite when he’s assigned to sell your childhood home. What begins as a tense, nostalgic chore slowly rekindles the feelings you once almost confessed. When the sale ends, both of you are left wondering if some things are meant to end—or begin again.

➢ Realtor! Charles Leclerc x Fem reader ( no use of y/n)

➢ Word count : 7.2k words

➢ A/N : I can’t update as often as before since I’ve been dealing with a bit of writer’s block, but don’t worry — I’m still writing, just at a slower pace.

MY MASTERLIST

      You were just minding your own business in your apartment — slouched on the couch, the hum of the ceiling fan filling the silence. Your phone screen glowed in the dim light, thumb mindlessly scrolling through the endless parade of updates. Engagement photos. New jobs. Someone you used to sit next to in class now opening a café in another city.

     You didn't exactly envy them — not in the bitter sense — but something about seeing everyone moving forward made your chest feel heavier than you cared to admit. You told yourself it was fine, that not everyone had to have their life mapped out yet. Still, that small ache of inertia lingered as you scrolled, watching other people's progress like you were behind a glass wall.

     Then your phone buzzed. The screen lit up with your mother's name. You didn't even need to answer to know what this was about — she'd been bringing it up for weeks now. You exhaled, sinking deeper into the couch before finally pressing the green button. "Hey, Mom," you said, trying to sound casual.

"Hey, have you found the realtor to sell our house yet?"

     There it was. The question. The one you'd been dodging, delaying, pretending didn't exist. You rubbed your temple, trying to buy a few seconds. "Not yet, Mom. You know I've been busy."

     That was a lie — a big, unapologetic one. You hadn't been busy. You could've looked up a dozen realtors by now if you'd wanted to. But every time you even thought about it, your stomach twisted.

     The idea of letting go of that house — the house you grew up in, the one with the peeling blue paint and the creaky front steps — felt wrong. Like cutting off a piece of yourself. You told yourself you'd deal with it later. You always did.

"Right... right... it's okay, though. Your father already found one."

     That sentence hit you harder than you expected. You sat up, straightening instinctively as if bracing for impact. "What?" you asked, a little too sharply. You could hear her voice soft but almost casual, as if she didn't realize what that meant to you.

"Yeah. We found out the son of your father's friend is a realtor. He offered to handle everything for us."

     "Oh..." you said, though it came out more like an exhale than an actual word. You stared at the wall for a moment, your thoughts tangling faster than you could sort them.

So that was it, then.

     They'd actually gone ahead. The house — wasn't your childhood house anymore, not really. You had told yourself this day would come, but deep down, you'd always believed you could stall it forever, that time would somehow freeze between those walls where your childhood still lived.

     But it wasn't frozen. It was being listed. And suddenly, the apartment around you felt smaller, colder — as if a chapter of your life had just been quietly closed without your permission.

"Do you mind giving us a hand, honey? The realtor will come by tomorrow to see the house."

Her voice was gentle — too gentle — like she knew how much you didn't want to hear that. You shut your eyes for a moment, pressing your fingers against your temple as if that could ease the dull ache building there. "Yeah... sure, Mom," you murmured, because what else could you say? The fight had already been lost the moment you picked up the phone.

When the call ended, the silence felt louder than before. You lowered the phone onto the coffee table and leaned back, your body sinking into the worn-out sofa cushions. Then, slowly, you let yourself fall sideways until you were sprawled out completely — limbs heavy, mind heavier. You stared up at the ceiling, watching the slow turn of the fan blades as your thoughts spun just as restlessly.

Tomorrow.

You hadn't stepped foot in that house for months — and now you'd have to walk through it pretending it didn't matter. Pretending the cracks on the kitchen tiles and the old scribbles on your bedroom wall weren't pieces of your own history being handed over to strangers

You exhaled, long and weary, the kind of sigh that came from somewhere deeper than frustration. It wasn't just a house. It was your childhood, your family dinners, the smell of your mother's cooking, the sound of your father's radio on lazy Sunday mornings.

You turned your phone over to face down, as if that could silence the thoughts too. But even with your eyes closed, you couldn't stop picturing it — the house standing quietly at the end of the old street, waiting to be sold.

You parked your car near the driveway, the familiar sight of your childhood home tugging at something deep in your chest. The grass was a little overgrown, the paint on the gate a little chipped, but it still looked the same — like time had only brushed past it, not dared to stay. You exhaled slowly, gripping the steering wheel, trying to steady the emotions swirling inside you. That's when you noticed it: an unfamiliar red Ferrari parked near the curb.

You frowned. A Ferrari? You muttered under your breath. What kind of realtor drove something like that? It felt out of place — arrogant, almost, sitting there gleaming like it owned the whole neighborhood. Typical show-off move, you thought bitterly, even though you didn't know who it belonged to yet.

You rested your forehead against the steering wheel for a moment, letting out a slow, tired sigh. You weren't ready for this — not for walking into the house, not for pretending this didn't hurt, and certainly not for meeting some smooth-talking realtor whose job was to sell your memories to strangers. A small, rebellious part of you even considered convincing him that the house wasn't worth selling, that it had too many "issues" to be profitable. But you caught yourself. That was childish, and you knew it. You had to be an adult about this. Responsible. Detached.

With that lie to yourself, you opened the car door and stepped out. Your legs felt heavier than usual as you walked toward the front door, each step dragging with the weight of nostalgia and reluctant duty.

"Yeah, my daughter will be here soon," you heard your father's voice from inside, muffled through the half-open door.

Then, a moment later — "Oh! There she is."

You froze for a second, straightening your posture before stepping inside. The familiar scent of the house hit you instantly — a mix of old wood, detergent, and faint traces of your mother's cooking that had somehow soaked into the walls over the years.

You moved toward the dining room, following the sound of voices. That's when you saw him — a tall figure standing with his back to you, hands casually in his pockets, talking to your father with a tone that was just a little too confident. You couldn't see his face at first, but there was something familiar about his posture.

And then he turned.

The moment your eyes met, recognition hit like a slap. That smile — sharp, smug, effortlessly irritating — could belong to no one else.

Charles.

You felt your stomach drop. Your childhood enemy, if that word wasn't too dramatic — though honestly, it fit. You'd known him since grade school, back when he used to live just a few blocks away. You could still remember the exact pitch of his laughter when he sped past you on his stupid bike, spraying water from the puddles just to ruin your morning. You'd glare, he'd grin, and somehow that became your daily routine.

By middle school, he'd turned the teasing into a full-blown art form — racing you to school, calling you snail, acting like you were in some kind of eternal competition he never announced but always played. In high school, it escalated. He told his friends about how you used to cry when you tripped during Sports Day in fifth grade — conveniently forgetting he was the one who caused it. You got your revenge, though. You still remembered the satisfying hiss when you stabbed your scissors into his bicycle tire one afternoon.

He never caught you. Or maybe he did — but he never said a word. Just showed up the next day with that same smug grin, like he knew, and that silence made it worse.

And now here he was, standing in your house, all grown up and dressed like success, that same irritating glint in his eyes.

Of course, your parents had no idea. To them, Charles had always been the polite boy next door — charming, respectful, the kind who said "Good morning, sir" and "How have you been, ma'am?" while secretly plotting your misery the moment their backs were turned.

You forced a thin smile, though your jaw felt tight.

"Charles," you said flatly. "Of course it's you."

He tilted his head, grin widening like he'd been waiting years for this moment.

"Long time no see," he said. "Didn't think I'd be the one helping you say goodbye to your house."

You didn't even have the energy to snap back at him. The moment those familiar words left his mouth, you felt something inside you tighten, but you didn't bite — not this time. You just walked past him, pulled out the empty chair at the dining table, and sat down with a quiet thud. The room still smelled faintly of lemon polish and dust — like your mother had tried her best to make the place look "presentable" for the realtor.

Your father, oblivious to the silent tension that had just dropped between you and Charles, smiled politely before excusing himself. "I'll let you two handle the details," he said. "You know more about these things than I do anyway."

He wasn't wrong. You did.

You worked as a financial analyst for a property development firm — ironic, really. You'd spent years crunching numbers, running feasibility studies, and telling people which assets were worth keeping or selling. You were good at it, detached, logical — exactly the kind of person who should've been able to treat this house like just another property on a spreadsheet.

But now, sitting here, facing him in this house, your professionalism felt like a paper-thin disguise over a mess of emotions.

Charles leaned back casually in his chair, studying you with that same infuriatingly amused look. "By that face," he said, his tone light but sharp enough to sting, "I'm guessing you didn't really wanna let go of this place, huh?"

You looked up at him, eyes narrowing. "Can you not?" you muttered, voice flat but heavy with restraint.

He chuckled — a low, careless sound that made your skin crawl. "Not only are you getting angrier," he said, smirking, "but you're getting boring too."

You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself not to roll your eyes. "Shut up, Charles. You took this offer because you wanted to mess with me. I know it."

His grin widened, lazy and deliberate, like he'd just been waiting for you to say that. "Ah," he said, tapping his pen against the table. "Someone thinks she's the main character. I respect that."

He leaned back further, crossing one leg over the other — completely at ease, as if this was all just a game to him. And maybe, to Charles, it was. He'd always known how to find that one loose thread in your composure and tug on it until you started to unravel.

Charles straightened slightly, his voice shifting — not entirely serious, but at least pretending to be professional now.

"So," he began, flipping open a sleek black folder that probably cost more than your monthly groceries. "Your parents told me the property's about thirty years old? Structure looks good for its age — honestly, your dad kept it in better shape than most I've seen."

You nodded stiffly. "He's meticulous about maintenance. Redid the roof a few years ago, replaced the windows. The plumbing's fine too."

Charles scribbled something down in his notes, the faint scratch of his pen echoing in the quiet room. "That'll help with the value. I'm thinking we highlight the original features — it's got that warm, nostalgic look people love. Especially the living room with the bay window."

You followed his gaze toward the living room archway, your eyes catching on the old curtain rods, the faint marks on the wall where family photos used to hang. "Yeah," you said softly. "It's... classic."

"Classic," he repeated, and you could hear the faintest smirk in his voice, like the word amused him. "That's one way to put it." He tapped his pen once more, then closed the folder, leaning his elbows on the table. "You know," he said lightly, "it's funny sitting here again. I used to sneak into this house all the time."

You shot him a look, unimpressed. "What?"

He grinned. "Yeah. For your mom's pies."

You blinked, thrown off for a moment. "You what?"

"She used to bake those little blueberry ones, remember? I'd show up pretending to borrow a book from your dad or return something from school, and five minutes later I'd have a plate of pie in front of me." He chuckled, the sound low and annoyingly fond. "Your mom always said, 'You're such a polite boy, Charles. You could teach my daughter a thing or two about manners."

You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. "Oh my god. She did not say that."

"She did," he said, laughing now. "Every time. And you'd glare at me from the stairs like I'd stolen something."

"I wanted to," you muttered. "You ate the last piece every single time."

"Hey," he said, raising his hands in mock defense, "first come, first served. Besides, you were too busy sulking in your room."

You shot him a glare, but it didn't land as sharply as you meant it to. Maybe because, despite yourself, a faint, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of your lips. The memory wasn't all bad — just... frustratingly vivid. Like the house itself was pulling you both back into an old rhythm you hadn't realized you still remembered.

Charles noticed it, of course. He always did. His grin softened just slightly, the teasing in his eyes dimming to something almost nostalgic. "Guess some things never change," he said quietly.

You cleared your throat, breaking whatever momentary warmth had crept into the air. "Anyway," you said, straightening in your seat, "we're not here to talk about pie theft."

Charles smirked but let it go, opening his folder again. "Right. Back to business."

He began outlining his plan with that irritating mix of confidence and charm — talking about curb appeal, potential buyers, photography angles. He spoke like someone who knew exactly how to sell nostalgia: not as memories, but as lifestyle aesthetics.

"If we list this properly," he said, gesturing toward the window, "we can lean into the family-home angle. The street's quiet, the layout's open. Buyers love that. We could even stage it — make it feel lived-in, but not too lived-in."

You nodded, half listening, half fighting the knot forming in your chest. "My parents want to keep the furniture as is for now," you said. "They think it'll make it easier for potential buyers to imagine... continuity."

Charles raised a brow. "Continuity. That's a fancy word for sentimental attachment, isn't it?"

You shot him a look. "You're talking to someone who writes real estate valuation reports for a living. I can handle the terminology."

That caught his attention. "Ah, that's right," he said, leaning forward slightly. "You're in finance now, right? What was it again — investment analysis?"

"Financial analyst," you corrected, a bit too quickly. "I handle property portfolios. Forecast returns, optimize holdings. You know — boring numbers stuff."

"Boring, huh?" he said with a grin. "Explains the permanent frown."

You ignored that. "Anyway, I'll need to review your draft listing before you submit it. My parents trust you, but I'd rather make sure everything's handled properly."

His grin didn't fade. "So you do trust me. Professionally, at least."

"Don't push it, Charles."

That earned you a quiet chuckle. For a moment, he said nothing, just looked around the room — at the old wooden shelves, the framed cross-stitch your mom made years ago, the faint sun stains on the curtains. "It's a nice house," he said finally, and this time, there wasn't any teasing in his tone. "I'll do my best to make sure it ends up with someone who actually deserves it."

You hesitated — not sure how to respond to that — before your father returned, saving you from having to.

After a few more minutes of polite talk and document scanning, Charles gathered his things. "I'll come back tomorrow," he said, glancing your way. "Once you're done with work. We'll do a full walk-through, just the two of us. Get the details right."

You frowned, crossing your arms. "Tomorrow? You're not wasting any time, are you?"

"Business moves fast," he said simply, his voice light again. "Besides, I'd rather get it done before you come up with a plan to scare me off."

You gave him a thin smile. "You think I'd do that?"

He leaned closer just enough for his voice to drop — that familiar spark of mischief flickering in his eyes. "I know you'd do that."

And with that, he left — the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air long after the sound of his footsteps faded.

You stood there for a moment in the empty dining room, your heart caught between exhaustion and something else you didn't want to name. Tomorrow, you'd have to walk through every corner of your childhood home with him — alone.

And you weren't sure which part of that scared you more.

"And this is the kitchen."

Your voice came out steadier than you felt as you gestured toward the space. The late afternoon sun filtered in through the window, catching the specks of dust in the air and giving everything a soft, golden glow. The old countertop gleamed faintly — your mother must've wiped it down earlier. Even after all these years, she kept it spotless, like she couldn't bear the thought of letting the house look unloved.

Charles followed a few steps behind, his hands tucked casually into his pockets, the sound of his shoes muted against the tiled floor. You could feel his presence at your back — quiet but somehow there, like gravity. He wasn't saying anything, just taking it all in, his gaze scanning the cupboards, the framed recipes your mom had taped near the fridge, the worn edges of the cutting board that had seen decades of dinners.

You stopped near the countertop, your hand brushing against it without thinking. The surface was cool, familiar. And then the memories came — sharp and vivid. You and your mother standing side by side, laughing as flour dusted the air. Your father sneaking in to taste the frosting before it set. And Charles, grinning mischievously as he "helped," which usually meant stealing berries or poking at the dough until you chased him out of the room.

He used to fit here too — as much a fixture in those moments as the oven or the smell of cinnamon. Back then, he was just the annoying boy in the neighborhood who somehow always ended up in your house when something fun was happening.

You froze, the ghost of those afternoons flickering behind your eyes.

"You okay?"

His voice was softer this time — not teasing, not smug. Just... careful. It caught you off guard. You turned slightly to look at him, and for a second, the sunlight caught the edges of his face — the same eyes, same faint smirk lines, but quieter than you remembered.

"Yeah..." You forced a breath out and looked away quickly. "Yeah, I'm fine."

There was a beat of silence. You could tell he didn't entirely believe you, but he didn't push.

"Let's go upstairs," you said, cutting the moment before it could turn into something you didn't want to unpack.

Charles nodded once, his expression unreadable again, and followed as you made your way to the staircase. The old steps creaked under your weight, the same sound they'd always made. Each creak felt like an echo from another time — one you weren't sure you were ready to revisit, especially not with him right behind you.

You pushed open the door to your old room, the hinges giving a familiar soft groan — that same sound you used to complain about every night when it creaked open by itself from the wind. The room smelled faintly of dust and something nostalgic — old paper, maybe, or the ghost of your favorite vanilla candle long burned out. The curtains still hung the same way, the corners of the posters curling slightly from age.

"This was your room, right?" Charles asked behind you, his tone light but quieter than usual, as though even he knew this space deserved a bit of reverence.

"Yeah," you said softly, stepping inside. The air felt heavy, like the room had been waiting all this time for you to come back. You walked over to your old desk — the one covered in tiny pen marks and faint scratches — and ran your fingers along the edge. "I used to spend half my life here."

He chuckled faintly. "You mean when you weren't plotting new ways to get me in trouble."

That earned him a glance over your shoulder. "You deserved most of them," you shot back.

The teasing was familiar, easy — too easy, maybe. It loosened something in the air, just enough to let your guard slip. You turned your eyes back toward the desk, and before you could stop it, another memory flooded in — clearer than the rest.

Senior year. The two of you sitting at this very desk, textbooks and papers spread across the surface. You'd been assigned as partners for your final history project — a cruel twist of fate you'd complained about for days. But it hadn't turned out the way you expected.

You remembered how, for once, Charles wasn't trying to get under your skin. He'd shown up on time, actually read the material, and stayed late to help you format the presentation slides. Somewhere between the late-night brainstorming sessions, coffee-fueled laughter, and your endless bickering over whose handwriting was worse, things had shifted — just slightly, but enough to notice.

There was one night in particular — the one that came back now in painfully vivid detail. You'd been arguing over which quote to include, voices overlapping until both of you started laughing instead. He'd leaned in, still grinning, to read something off your notes, and you'd looked up at the same time. The space between you had felt impossibly small.

You'd seen that familiar mischief in his eyes, but something else too — something that made your pulse trip. Neither of you had said a word. You'd both just... stopped.

And for a moment, his face had been so close that all it would've taken was one breath — one reckless inch forward — and you would've kissed him.

But then your mother had knocked on the door, and just like that, the moment shattered. You'd both jumped apart, mumbling excuses and pretending nothing had happened. You never talked about it afterward. You pretended it meant nothing. But sometimes, late at night, you wondered if he remembered it the same way.

Now, standing here in that same room years later, you felt the weight of it press against your chest. You could sense him behind you, quiet, maybe thinking of it too.

"You really kept everything the same," Charles said finally, his voice breaking the silence. "Even the desk."

You didn't turn around. "Yeah," you said. "Guess some things don't change."

But your heart knew better — everything had changed. Especially the way you used to look at him.

You turned, meaning to walk toward the closet — but he was closer than you thought. When you moved, his hand brushed yours, light but deliberate enough to make you freeze.

It wasn't just nostalgia anymore. It was the quiet pull of something unfinished.

He searched your face, and for a split second, it felt exactly like senior year all over again — that same suspended moment, the same pulse of silence where either of you could've leaned in and no one would've stopped you.

But you did.

You stepped back, forcing a faint smile. "We should, um... move on to the main room. Before it gets too dark."

Charles blinked, as if coming back to himself. Then he nodded once, shoving his hands back into his pockets. "Yeah. Sure."

When both of you finally stepped out to the porch, the air felt cooler, carrying the faint scent of wet grass and old wood. The house stood behind you like a quiet witness, its windows glowing faintly under the dimming sky. You could almost hear the echoes of laughter that once filled it — the sharp sound of your mother's voice calling for dinner, your father's music spilling from the living room, and a younger version of you running barefoot across the porch steps. Now, all of that was slipping into memory.

"Well," Charles said at last, his voice breaking the quiet. He let out a soft chuckle, but there was no mischief in it this time — just warmth and a trace of something thoughtful. "That was... surprisingly nostalgic."

You glanced at him, seeing how his expression had shifted. No smirk, no challenge. Just the same boy who used to eat dinner here as if he belonged. "Yeah," you murmured. The word came out softer than you intended. "It was."

He looked away for a moment, toward the street, his silhouette outlined by the fading light. "I guess I'll see you this weekend — to settle the price and all."

You nodded, trying to sound unaffected, though your chest tightened. Settle the price. It sounded so cold, so transactional. As if you could really put a number on every memory carved into these walls. You tried to remind yourself that this was just a house, just bricks and wood — but the lie felt heavier the longer you stood there. "Right," you said quietly. "This weekend."

You managed a small smile as you turned away. "Bye, Charles."

He returned it, faintly. "Yeah. Bye."

You started walking toward your car, willing your thoughts to stop wandering — to stop remembering how familiar his voice used to sound calling your name, how easy it had been to laugh with him back then. You didn't want to give those ghosts any more room to breathe. But then, before you could take another step, a gentle hand stopped you by the shoulder.

"Hey," he said. The word came out low, hesitant. You turned to find him closer than you expected, his expression uncertain for once. "How about dinner? My treat."

You blinked at him, caught between surprise and something else — the same strange pull that had almost made you close that distance between you years ago. "Hm?" you managed.

"I'm serious," he said, that easy grin slipping back into place, but softer now. "You've had a long day. So have I."

You hesitated, your brain arguing while your heart already knew the answer. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was nostalgia. Or maybe, for once, you just didn't want to go home to silence.

"Well..." you said, feeling your lips curve before you could stop them. "Yeah, sure. I'm quite famished."

His grin widened — not smug, not playful — just genuine. And for the first time that day, the air between you felt less heavy.

"It must be hard for you to let go of that house, huh?"

Charles's voice broke the quiet rhythm of clinking cutlery and low restaurant chatter. The question landed so suddenly you almost choked on your pasta. You coughed, grabbed the napkin, and glared at him — partly because you were embarrassed, but mostly because he had the nerve to just say it.

He raised his hands in mock defense, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Hey, your face speaks a lot. Don't blame me."

You huffed, stabbing your pasta harder than necessary. "You're one to talk. I'm not a heartless monster like you."

He leaned back in his chair, brows raised. "Heartless monster? That's a new one. What do you mean by that?"

You looked up at him, your tone sharper than you intended. "You shared a lot of memories there, too. You out of all people decided to accept the offer."

Charles let out a low chuckle — the kind that used to get under your skin because it meant he was about to dodge a real answer. He took a slow sip of his drink before replying.

"I'm a professional, sweetheart."

That word — sweetheart — made you roll your eyes so hard it almost hurt. "You're impossible."

"Maybe," he said lightly, but then his expression softened, just a little. He set his glass down and folded his arms on the table, eyes meeting yours with a steadiness that wasn't there before.

"Look," he started, tone quieter now, "you're not wrong. That house... yeah, it meant something. To both of us. But you can't keep living in a place just because it holds the version of you that used to be happy there. People change. Places do, too."

You stayed quiet, tracing the rim of your plate with your fork.

Charles went on, his voice steady — thoughtful in a way that made you almost forget he was the same boy who used to drive you mad. "Sometimes holding on just makes the good memories hurt more. You think you're preserving them, but really you're just keeping yourself stuck. Letting go doesn't mean forgetting. It just means you stop fighting time."

You didn't say anything for a moment. The restaurant's hum faded into the background, replaced by the slow thud of your heartbeat. You weren't sure if you wanted to thank him or throw your napkin at him.

Finally, you sighed and leaned back. "Since when did you get so philosophical?"

He smiled faintly. "Since I started selling memories for a living."

That made you laugh — small, reluctant, but real.

And for the first time all evening, it didn't feel like you were sitting across from your childhood enemy.

Today was the day. The day the house — your house — would no longer just be yours.

You'd been trying not to think about it all morning, scrolling aimlessly through your phone, pretending you weren't watching the clock. But as the minutes passed, dread settled deeper in your stomach. The showing was scheduled for the afternoon. Charles had texted earlier, reminding you in his usual brisk tone that as the official owner, your presence was "required." You could almost hear his voice through the screen — professional, calm, completely unaware that every word of that message twisted a knife somewhere under your ribs.

Your parents were busy unpacking at the new place. Of course they were. It made sense. Still, you couldn't help feeling like they'd handed the emotional burden to you — to stand there, smile, and watch strangers decide if your memories were worth buying.

The drive there felt shorter than usual. Too short. When you pulled up near the driveway, you noticed a few cars already parked outside. Charles stood by the front porch, hands tucked in his pockets, posture relaxed as he talked to a middle-aged couple. The ease in his voice — that confident realtor charm — was something you hadn't seen in him back when you were kids. It made you pause for a moment. He looked different now. Not just older, but grounded. Like the boy who used to pick fights with you had grown into someone who knew how to own a room.

You inhaled deeply, fixing your jacket before stepping out of the car. The crisp air hit your skin, and instantly, all three of them turned to you.

For a brief second, the world went quiet — the kind of silence that amplifies your heartbeat. You forced a polite smile even though your throat felt tight. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Wilson," you greeted, extending your hand toward the buyer.

The woman smiled warmly. "Ah, you must be the owner's daughter. Lovely home you have here."

You managed a small nod, though the words you have stung more than you expected. Had, you wanted to correct her.

Charles clapped his hands lightly, breaking the moment. "Great. Now that all of us are here," he said smoothly, that easy professionalism returning to his tone, "we'll get started."

You took one last glance at the house before following them in — the familiar doorway, the creak of the wooden floor, the faint smell of old paint and sunlight. Each step felt like a goodbye you weren't ready to say.

Inside, everything felt too bright. The curtains were drawn open, letting the afternoon sun flood the living room — a realtor's trick to make the space seem warmer, livelier. But all it did was illuminate the ghosts.

Mrs. Wilson and her husband strolled ahead, admiring the details like they were inspecting a painting. "It's such a charming layout," she said, running her hand along the mantelpiece. "You can tell it's been well-loved."

You forced yourself to smile, keeping a polite distance behind them. Well-loved. You wanted to laugh at how sterile that sounded. Love wasn't clean or polished. Love was the scuffed floor under the sofa, the scratch marks on the door from when you got your first puppy, the corner of the wall your father patched badly after bumping the furniture one too many times.

Charles walked a few steps ahead, his tone smooth and professional as he explained the renovations your parents had made over the years. His voice carried easily through the hall — confident, practiced, almost detached. You envied that detachment. You wished you could sound like that when you thought about this place.

"—and this is the dining area," Charles said, pausing for the couple to take it in. "It still gets great light in the mornings."

You lingered near the doorway, eyes falling on the small crack near the wall corner. Your father never fixed it — he always said it gave the house 'character.' You'd rolled your eyes back then. Now, you couldn't even look at it without feeling something heavy catch in your throat.

Charles must've noticed your silence because he glanced over his shoulder briefly. His expression softened for a fraction of a second — not pity, but understanding. He didn't say anything, just held your gaze long enough for you to know he'd seen right through you.

The buyers followed him upstairs next, admiring the way he framed every feature of the home with professional polish. "You really know your stuff, Mr. Leclerc," Mr. Wilson said appreciatively.

Charles gave that faint, polite smile of his. "Just doing my job."

When they reached your old room, you froze at the threshold. The walls were bare now, the faded outlines of old posters still faintly visible. You could almost see your younger self sprawled on the bed with homework scattered everywhere — the music too loud, the window cracked open to let in summer air. And Charles — showing up to work on that stupid school project, teasing you until you threw a pillow at his head.

You realized then how cruel nostalgia could be — it didn't just remind you of what you'd lost. It reminded you of how much you still wanted to keep.

Mrs. Wilson turned to you with a smile. "You must have a lot of memories here."

You returned her smile, though it felt like it took effort. "Yeah," you said quietly. "A lifetime's worth."

When the buyers moved on, Charles lingered for a moment, his gaze following them out before turning back to you. "You doing okay?" he asked under his breath.

You swallowed, giving him the kind of half-shrug that didn't fool anyone. "I'm fine."

He nodded once, though the crease between his brows said he didn't quite believe you. Still, he let it go, giving you space to breathe — something you didn't realize you needed until that moment.

Once the Wilsons' car disappeared down the street, the silence that followed was heavy enough to make your ears ring.

You stood near the window, watching the faint trail of dust their tires left behind. It felt wrong — like you'd just watched a stranger walk away with the last page of your story. The house was still, too still, the way it only gets when it knows it's being left behind.

Charles shut his folder and slipped it under his arm. "They seemed interested," he said, tone quiet now — not the smooth, confident one he used for clients. "I'll follow up with them later."

You nodded absently, your arms folded. "That's good."

But it didn't sound good. It sounded final.

Charles hesitated a few steps behind you, studying your reflection in the window. "You okay?"

You gave a small, humorless laugh. "You keep asking me that."

"Because you keep lying," he said gently.

That shut you up. You turned to him, trying to think of something clever to say, but your throat tightened instead. The sunlight slanted across the room, falling between you — the same room where you used to fight, where you used to laugh, where everything between you had once felt endless and impossible at the same time.

"I don't even know what to feel," you said finally. "It's just a house, but..."

"But it's not," Charles finished for you.

You nodded. "No. It's not."

There was a long pause. The kind that felt almost sacred — like you both knew there were things better left unspoken, yet somehow it was the silence itself asking to be broken.

You glanced around the room once more. Every corner was filled with echoes — your father's voice calling from the kitchen, your mother's laughter from upstairs, and somewhere mixed among them, his — teasing you, challenging you, making you feel alive and furious in equal measure.

Your voice came out soft when you spoke again. "You know what's funny?"

"What?" he asked, his tone low.

"This was the house I almost fell in love with you in."

Charles froze, his expression unreadable for a second — the mask slipping just enough for you to see the flicker of something underneath.

You gave a small, wistful smile, more to yourself than to him. "It was senior year. We were doing that stupid history project in my room. I remember thinking — just for a second — that maybe you weren't as unbearable as I thought."

A soft laugh escaped you, though it caught a little in your throat. "And then you made some dumb joke about my handwriting, and the feeling passed."

Charles let out a quiet exhale that was almost a laugh, almost a sigh. "Yeah... I remember that."

You looked at him, really looked at him — the years between then and now folding in on themselves. "I guess it's fitting," you said quietly. "That I get to say goodbye to both of you in the same place."

He stepped closer, not touching, but near enough that you could feel his presence like static in the air. "If it means anything," he said softly, "I think part of me stayed here, too."

Your chest ached in that small, complicated way — the kind that wasn't pain exactly, but a kind of knowing. "Maybe that's why I could never really move on."

The silence stretched again, gentler this time. Outside, the wind brushed through the trees, and the evening light softened everything it touched.

You smiled faintly, blinking away the sting behind your eyes. "You should go, Charles. You've got clients to follow up with."

He nodded, but didn't move right away. "Yeah," he said finally. "I'll see you around."

And when he left, closing the door behind him, the house didn't feel quite so empty — just quieter, like it was finally at peace.

You stood there a moment longer, breathing it in, before whispering into the stillness:

"Goodbye."

The sale went through faster than you expected. Within a week, the papers were signed, and the house—the one that had witnessed your laughter, your arguments, and every in-between—no longer belonged to your family. You told yourself it was fine. It had to be.

You came one last time to gather what was left in the attic: a box of photographs, a chipped mug, and a single curtain your mother swore she'd replace but never did. But truthfully, it wasn't the things you came back for. It was the air—the quiet that still remembered your footsteps.

When you stepped out onto the porch, Charles was there, leaning against his car with his sleeves rolled up, his tie loose, and that familiar unbothered look that always seemed to calm and irritate you at the same time.

He glanced up, smiling faintly. "So, it's official. The house has new owners."

You nodded, closing the door behind you for what felt like the last time. "Yeah. I guess this is it."

The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was careful. Like neither of you wanted to break whatever invisible thread was still there.

Charles exhaled softly, looking toward the house. "You know... I thought this would just be another sale. But it's not."

You turned to him, tilting your head. "Regretting it?"

He gave a small, humorless laugh. "Maybe a little. I didn't expect it to get to me. Didn't expect you to get to me again, either." Charles's eyes softened, and for once, he didn't try to hide it behind a smirk. "I've been thinking about how you almost fell in love with me," he said quietly. "About whether that feeling could ever come back."

You breathed out a shaky laugh. "You and your questions."

He smiled faintly. "You never liked easy answers anyway."

The late sun bathed the porch in gold. The air between you shifted, tender and familiar. He reached out—hesitant at first—then brushed his thumb lightly against your hand.

"Come on," he murmured. "Let's grab a coffee. For old time's sake."

You looked down at his hand, then back at him. "You sure it's not just another one of your professional courtesies, Mr. Realtor?"

He grinned. "Only if you promise not to sue me for emotional damages."

You rolled your eyes, but your lips curved despite yourself. "You never change."

"Maybe that's a good thing," he said softly. "Or maybe I just needed the right reason to."

You didn't answer. You just let him hold the door open for you, the warmth of his hand brushing yours again—a touch that lingered a little too long to be accidental.

And as the two of you walked away from the house, the wind carried the faint scent of old wood and memories—sweet, distant, and not entirely gone.

[sphoria-63]

GUYS PLEASE DONT HATE MEEEEE FOR MY RECENT OSCAR’s ONESHOTTT

I PROMISE ILL REDEEM MYSELF 😭😭

unless..

[sphoria-63]

Until You Forget (OP81)

Summary : She begins losing her memory to a rare illness, her boyfriend Oscar clings to their love as everything familiar slips away. Forced to let her go back to her parents for her own safety, he learns that love can survive even when memory cannot.

➢ Oscar Piastri x Fem reader/oc (uses of she)

➢ Word Count : 4k words

➢ Warnings : Angst, memory loss, emotional distress / grief ( while the story doesn’t depict physical harm or medical procedures in detail, it portrays the emotional toll of illness and separation with realism that may be heavy for sensitive readers. )

➢ A/N : Hello I'm back!! sighh exam was tiring asf. Enjoy this angsty oneshot of Oscar and a mysterious female.. idk why I decided to use she lmk if it's not suit to your comfort.

Also, before anyone ask, this story is an open ending story so theres no part 2

MY MASTERLIST

     Morning sunlight spilled through the kitchen window, pale and gentle, touching the edges of the table where Oscar sat with his book. The smell of coffee drifted through the air, mixed with the faint hum of her voice. She moved around the kitchen with that familiar rhythm he loved — slippers brushing the tile, kettle clinking softly as she filled it.

     For a moment, it was the same as it had been for years: peaceful, ordinary, theirs.

Until the kettle began to scream.

     She frowned at it, startled, as if it had turned on by itself. "Oh—" She laughed a little too quickly and reached to turn it off, shaking her head. "I swear I just filled it."

     Oscar looked up from the book. "You did, about ten minutes ago," he said gently, rising to help. "You were making fog for the morning news again."

     Her laugh came out small and embarrassed. "Was I? I must've been distracted."

He handed her the mug, pretending nothing was strange, pretending this was just another morning where she forgot small things — like where she'd put her reading glasses or whether she'd watered the basil. But as she stirred the sugar into her coffee, he noticed her hand pause mid-air, the spoon hovering for a long, uncertain second. Then she blinked and kept stirring.

Oscar smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

     They ate breakfast by the window, the sound of sparrows filling the quiet. She talked about wanting to visit the coast again, said she missed the sea breeze. He told her they could, maybe next weekend. She smiled and nodded, but her gaze had already drifted somewhere far beyond the window.

He wondered what she was seeing.

     That evening, after dinner, she took the photo album from the shelf. She did that often now — as if trying to make up for the things her mind had begun to lose. The lamplight turned everything golden as she sat cross-legged on the couch, flipping through the pages. Oscar joined her, close enough that their shoulders touched.

"Who's this?" she asked, pointing to a photograph of them by the sea.

     Oscar's stomach tightened, but he forced a smile. "That's us. Cape Lorne, remember? You insisted on chasing the waves even though the water was freezing."

     She squinted at the picture. "Really? That doesn't sound like me."

"It was. You said the sea was too beautiful to be afraid of."

She chuckled faintly. "That sounds more like me."

     They turned the pages together. Some faces made her smile. Others only puzzled her. When they reached a photo of a much younger Oscar — his hair still dark, his grin unguarded — she laughed. "You were handsome," she said.

"Were?"

     "Are," she corrected quickly, touching his cheek with her thumb. But her gaze didn't linger. It moved back to the photograph, as though she were studying a stranger who looked almost like the man sitting beside her.

     He wanted to ask if she knew who that stranger was. He didn't.

     Instead, he said, "You used to tell me that was the happiest week of your life."

She tilted her head. "Did I?"

"Yes."

She smiled. "Then it must have been true."

     Later, when she went to bed, Oscar lingered in the living room. The photo album lay open on the coffee table, the lamplight pooling over their younger faces. He traced the edge of one picture with his finger — the two of them in front of a small café, both laughing, both alive with something effortless and bright.

He closed the album gently.

     From the bedroom, she called his name — the soft, uncertain tone of someone trying to make sure she remembered it right.

He went to her, heart sinking and soaring all at once. "I'm here," he said, standing in the doorway.

She smiled in relief. "I thought I heard you leave."

"I wouldn't," he whispered.

She nodded, already half asleep. "Good. I don't like it when you're gone."

     He turned off the lamp and sat beside her until her breathing evened out. Then, quietly, he looked at her — the woman he loved, the woman whose memories were slipping like sand through her fingers.

     The waiting room smelled faintly of lemon sanitizer and panic. She sat beside Oscar, legs bouncing, eyes darting to the clock every few seconds. Her hair was tied messily, a strand slipping loose every time she exhaled. She kept twisting the engagement ring around her finger — a nervous habit she'd picked up in the last few weeks.

     The doctor spoke in a low, practiced voice. The words came out clinical, detached — neurodegenerative, rare onset, memory impairment, progressive.

     Oscar blinked, trying to make sense of the syllables. They didn't belong in their world. Their world had concerts and grocery lists and lazy Sundays — not medical charts and prognosis curves.

    She stared straight ahead, jaw clenched, trying to look braver than she felt. "You're saying I'm... forgetting things because of an illness?"

"Yes," the doctor said gently. "It's called early-onset—"

She cut him off. "You mean dementia."

The word dropped like a stone between them.

Oscar's throat tightened. "But she's still young."

The doctor sighed, professional sympathy in his eyes. "It's rare, but it happens."

     She let out a small laugh — brittle, not funny at all. "That's insane," she said. "People my age forget where they parked their cars, not... who they are."

The doctor didn't correct her. That was worse.

     When they left the office, she walked ahead of him, fast, like she could outrun the diagnosis. Outside, the sunlight looked cruelly ordinary.

"Hey," Oscar said softly, catching up. "We'll figure this out."

     She looked at him — eyes glassy, expression unreadable. "You can't fix a brain, Oscar." Then, after a pause, quieter: "You should go before it gets bad."

He grabbed her hand. "Don't even joke about that."

"I'm not joking," she whispered. "You don't deserve to be someone's ghost."

He didn't answer. He just held her hand tighter, until she stopped shaking.

The first signs were small.

She'd leave the stove on. Forget what day it was. Ask if he'd already told her something.

     At first, they laughed about it — blamed caffeine or stress or "the goldfish brain." But laughter turned brittle over time.

     One morning, she stood in the kitchen staring at her phone. "My mom called," she said. "I think. I can't remember if I answered."

Oscar took the phone gently. "It's okay. You probably did."

"Probably isn't enough," she muttered, frustrated. "I don't want to guess my own life."

So she started writing notes. Tiny yellow reminders stuck to every surface:

keys by the door, don't forget lunch in the fridge

Oscar — boyfriend, not brother

     That last one broke him. He laughed when she showed it to him — because she was laughing too — but he laughed too long, too hard, until she stopped smiling.

They tried to make normal days out of broken ones.

Movie nights. Long walks. Their shared playlist playing softly in the background while they cooked together.

But even the familiar was starting to betray her.

     One night, halfway through a film she loved, she turned to him and asked, "Who's this character again?"

He smiled. "The main one."

"Oh." She frowned. "Did I pick this movie?"

"You always pick this movie."

She stared at the screen, then at him. "Weird. I thought I'd remember that."

     Oscar tried to ignore the fear crawling under his ribs. He couldn't let her see it. Instead, he joked: "Good news, you'll get to fall in love with all your favorite stories again."

She laughed. "Yeah. Rewatching my own life."

     But later that night, she asked him quietly, "What if one day I forget you, too?"

He hesitated, then said, "Then I'll remind you."

She nodded, eyes damp but steady. "Promise?"

"Promise."

She smiled, small and tired. "That's a lot of remembering for one person."

     A few weeks later, she began recording herself.

He found her sitting on the bed with her phone, voice trembling but calm.

"Hi. I'm leaving this for myself — or for him — just in case. My name's—" She paused, frowning. "My name's..." She exhaled. "God, I can't believe I have to think about that."

Oscar stepped into the room quietly.

She looked up, eyes wet. "I forgot my own name for a second," she said. "It's like it slipped between my fingers."

He sat beside her, pulling her into his arms. "It's okay. You remembered it now."

She pressed her face into his chest. "Yeah, but what about next time?"

     That night, he listened to the recording after she fell asleep. The audio was short, shaky.

"If I forget, tell me I was happy once. Tell me I loved you."

He saved it on his phone and didn't tell her he'd heard it.

The notes multiplied.

By winter, their apartment looked like a museum of reminders — yellow paper on the fridge, the mirror, the walls.

She called it "my memory wallpaper." He called it "proof you still care."

But some days she didn't recognize her own handwriting.

"Who wrote this?" she'd ask.

"You did," he'd say softly.

"Oh," she'd whisper, as if that were news.

     They went out less. She said the world moved too fast, that people's faces blurred together. Once, at the grocery store, she grabbed his arm, panicked. "I thought I lost you."

"I was just in the next aisle," he said.

"I know, but for a second you were gone."

He looked at her — really looked — and realized it wasn't about him disappearing. It was about her.

     Some nights, she'd sit on the balcony, legs tucked under her, staring at the city lights.

He'd join her, two mugs of tea between them.

"Do you ever wonder," she said once, "what it feels like to disappear while everyone's still watching?"

Oscar's throat tightened. "You're not disappearing."

She smiled sadly. "I am. Just slowly enough for it to hurt."

He reached for her hand. "Then I'll hold on slower."

     She turned to him, tears catching the reflection of streetlights. "You're going to break your heart trying to save me."

"Then I'll break it carefully," he whispered.

     The next morning, he found her notebook open on the table. On one page, in shaky handwriting, she'd written:

If I forget, play me the song from our first night. The one with the piano. Maybe my heart will remember even if my head doesn't.

He smiled through the ache and wrote beneath it:

I'll play it every night.

     The days began to lose their shape. They blurred, melted, like ink running in the rain. Oscar tried to keep things steady — to make routines, to fill their home with small comforts: her favorite tea in the blue mug, the morning playlist, their shared walks to the bakery two blocks away. But every small act became a test, every moment another chance to see what the illness had taken from her.

     Some mornings, she woke before him and hummed softly as she cooked eggs, barefoot in the kitchen. He would watch from the doorway, his chest swelling with quiet gratitude.

     It was easy to pretend that everything was fine then, that the world had not begun unraveling. But sometimes, halfway through breakfast, she'd pause, fork in hand, staring down at her plate as if it were written in a language she couldn't read.

"What's wrong?" he'd ask softly.

She'd blink, confused. "Did I already eat?"

     The first time it happened, Oscar laughed it off — just a slip. But when it happened again, and again, the laughter turned brittle.

     Her doctor called it "progression." As if it were something forward-moving, something clinical, instead of a slow theft of everything that made her who she was. The diagnosis had come months earlier, but they'd been in denial then — two people clinging to youth, to the illusion of invincibility.

     She was too young, too bright, too her to fade like this. Yet here they were, in their late twenties, counting symptoms instead of dreams.

     At night, Oscar read to her. The same books she loved, the ones with messy margins and underlined lines. Sometimes she'd rest her head on his shoulder, and he could almost pretend she remembered every word.

     But when he stopped reading one night and asked if she wanted to continue tomorrow, she looked at him — puzzled, distant — and said, "Who are you again?"

     It was a moment that tore through him silently. She said it like a child, without cruelty, without fear. Just a question. And he had no answer that could undo it.

     After that night, Oscar began keeping a journal — a record of who they were, what they'd been. He wrote everything: the first time they met in the rain outside a train station, the time she laughed so hard she spilled coffee on his shirt, the day they moved into their first apartment and danced to no music.

     He filled pages with her quirks, her words, her favorite colors. It was desperate work — as if by writing fast enough, he could stop time.

     But she forgot more. Days slipped from her. People became strangers. Even mirrors confused her. Sometimes she'd stare at her reflection and whisper, "She looks tired," as if speaking about someone else entirely.

     And Oscar, though breaking inside, learned to smile through it. "She's beautiful," he would answer.

     One afternoon, he found her standing in front of the balcony, fingers brushing over the flowers she used to tend with such care. The sunlight caught in her hair, and for a second she looked so much like the woman he fell in love with that his throat closed up.

"These are lovely," she said softly. "Did you plant them them?"

He hesitated. "We did. Together."

    She smiled faintly, but her eyes stayed lost on the petals. "Then you must love her very much," she murmured.

    He froze. She didn't realize she was her. Didn't remember that these flowers were hers — that they'd chosen them together, that she'd once told him tulips reminded her of hope.

"I do," he said finally, voice breaking. "I love her very much."

    She looked at him then, puzzled by the emotion in his voice, and gently reached up to brush his cheek. "You're kind," she whispered, like she was comforting a stranger.

     The hardest part wasn't the forgetting itself. It was how beautifully she forgot.

With innocence.

Without bitterness.

     Each memory she lost made her gentler, softer — like a page fading under sunlight. She didn't rage against the dying light; she smiled through it, content in her small, vanishing world.

    Oscar, on the other hand, carried all the remembering alone. He carried her laughter, her scent, the stories she no longer knew. And the weight of it all began to crush him.

One evening, as she slept beside him, he whispered into the quiet:

"If one day you wake up and I'm gone from your mind, I hope I still exist somewhere — in the way you laugh, in the way you love what's left of the world."

     But she didn't hear. And the silence that followed felt like a kind of answer.

The first real loss came quietly. She forgot where she lived.

     Oscar found her sitting on the curb outside their apartment building, barefoot, trembling slightly, a paper bag of groceries overturned beside her. The milk had leaked across the pavement. Her eyes darted from window to window, lost. When he knelt in front of her, she flinched.

"Hey," he said softly, "it's me."

     She stared for a moment, then blinked hard — like her mind was trying to place him, like his face was a word on the tip of her tongue.

"I... I couldn't find home," she whispered. "I thought it was down the other street."

"It's okay," he murmured, wrapping his jacket around her shoulders. "You're home now."

     But he could feel it — something irreversible had shifted. That night, she didn't sleep. She sat by the window, watching the city lights as if trying to memorize them before they too disappeared.

     The doctor used soft words: "severe cognitive decline," "safety risks," "support options."

But none of them meant what Oscar heard: She's slipping faster.

     He tried to fight it, clinging to every tiny spark that still felt like her — the way she hummed under her breath, the faint smile when he brushed her hair, the rare moments of lucidity when she'd touch his arm and say, "Oscar."

     The first time she said his name after weeks of forgetting, he nearly broke down.

"You remembered," he whispered.

She smiled faintly. "It just... felt right."

     He laughed through tears. But deep down, he knew it wasn't memory — it was muscle, soul, instinct. Her heart remembered him even when her mind couldn't.

     As the illness advanced, she began drifting through time. One day she'd think it was her teenage years, asking about school. The next, she'd think her parents were still alive. She'd call him "Dad" once, and he didn't correct her — he just held her hand and played along, because the truth felt too cruel.

      Then came the day she forgot language. Sentences broke apart into fragments. Sometimes, all she could manage were sounds — soft, childlike syllables that meant nothing but somehow conveyed everything. When she looked at him, though, there was always a flicker of trust in her eyes, like some small part of her still believed he was safety.

      Oscar tried to hold the world together. He wrote notes for her — taped them around the house:

This is your home.

The bathroom is on the left.

You are loved.

One morning, he found her tearing the notes down.

"I don't want to forget," she said softly, voice shaking. "But I don't want to be reminded either."

It shattered him.

     He began taking her to the park near the lake — their old spot. The one where they'd once planned their future, talked about traveling, kids, a small house by the sea. Now, they just sat in silence, the breeze filling the spaces where their dreams used to be.

Sometimes, she'd look at the water and smile.

"It's pretty here," she'd say.

"It is," he'd answer. "You said it was your favorite place."

"I did?" she asked, curious.

"You did."

     Then she'd nod, content with that, and lean against him. And in those quiet moments, it didn't matter if she didn't remember — because he remembered enough for both of them.

Her parents arrived one morning, faces tight with a mix of love and exhaustion. The decision had been made — gently, reasonably, by people who didn't want to sound cruel even when they had to be. She couldn't live alone anymore. She needed supervision, structure, safety.

Oscar stood in the hallway as they spoke to him, his hands jammed in his pockets, nodding like he understood. But he didn't.

Because "safety" sounded a lot like goodbye.

When she came out of her room, she was holding a small suitcase. Her fingers trembled around the handle. She looked young — too young to be saying goodbye to the life she'd built.

"Am I going somewhere?" she asked softly.

Her mother smiled through tears. "You'll stay with us for a while, sweetheart. Just until you feel better."

She nodded, confused but trusting. Then she turned to Oscar. "Will you come too?"

He swallowed. "I'll visit," he said. "All the time."

Her face softened with a faint, almost childlike relief. "Okay," she whispered.

But they both knew it wasn't okay. It wasn't even close.

The apartment felt unrecognizable after she left. Too big, too quiet. Her shoes still by the door, her mug still in the sink. Oscar couldn't bring himself to move anything. Every object in that space felt like it remembered her better than she remembered herself.

He started driving to her parents' house every weekend. Sometimes she was lucid — she'd greet him with a shy smile, call him by name, ask him to bring her favorite pastry next time. Those days felt like sunlight.

Other days, she didn't know him at all. She'd open the door, eyes cautious, polite. "Are you one of my brother's friends?" she'd ask, and he'd force a small smile.

"Something like that."

They'd sit on the porch while her parents watched from the kitchen. He'd tell her stories — half true, half made up — about "a girl who used to paint stars on her ceiling," or "a boy who always forgot to water his plants."

Sometimes she laughed. Sometimes she drifted mid-sentence, staring into a place he couldn't reach.

It became harder to tell if he was helping her remember, or just reminding himself she was still here.

Months passed. The space between them grew like an echo that wouldn't fade. Her parents stopped calling him for updates — not out of cruelty, but because what was there to say?

The illness wasn't slowing down. And he wasn't her person anymore.

One afternoon, her father met him at the door, kind but firm. "She's having a harder time these days," he said quietly. "Sometimes she gets agitated when she sees new faces. It might be better to give her space."

Oscar just nodded, numb. He understood, but understanding didn't make it hurt less.

Before leaving, he peeked through the open doorway one last time. She was sitting on the couch, painting something with shaky hands — pale colors, soft brushstrokes, her lips pursed in quiet concentration.

When she lifted the canvas to the light, he saw it was a tulip. Crooked, unsteady — but unmistakably hers.

He smiled through the ache in his chest. She didn't remember him.

But somehow, she remembered that.

After that day, he stopped visiting. Not out of choice, but mercy. For her, and maybe for himself. He went back to the apartment they once shared. He packed her things slowly, one box at a time.

The journals, the half-used paint tubes, the sweater she always stole from him. When he opened one of her sketchbooks, he found something she must've drawn in an earlier stage of her illness — a portrait of him, rough but full of feeling.

At the bottom, in shaky handwriting, she'd written: I don't want to forget your face.

Time didn't heal. It just dulled.

Some nights he drove past her street but never stopped. Sometimes he saw her parents in the grocery store — tired, kind smiles — and they always said the same thing:

"She's calm. She's... peaceful."

That word — peaceful — used to feel like comfort. Now it just sounded like distance.

But he learned to live with it. Slowly, gently. He went back to work. Met friends again. He laughed, sometimes, and it didn't feel wrong. Yet every now and then, something would trigger her ghost — the smell of paint thinner, a certain song on the radio, a tulip blooming in spring — and it would all come back.

And he'd realize: forgetting isn't the opposite of love. It's just love's cruelest test.

One day, her mother sent him a message. Just a photo — no words.

It was her, sitting in the garden, surrounded by tulips. Her hair was longer, her smile smaller, but she looked... at peace.

He stared at the photo for a long time. Then he smiled.

Because even if she didn't know him anymore, even if his name meant nothing — he could see it. Somewhere in her, there was still a trace of what they'd built.

Something warm. Something kind.

Something that love had left behind.

Oscar wrote her a letter that night — not to send, but to say goodbye in the only way he knew how:

You once told me that love is what stays when everything else fades. I didn't understand then. But I do now. Because even though you've forgotten, I haven't. And somehow, that's enough for me.

If you ever see a tulip and feel something — even if you don't know why — I hope it's me. I hope it's us.

He folded the letter and tucked it into the last sketchbook she ever drew in. Then he turned off the lights, sat in the quiet, and let himself remember — for both of them.

[sajafamily05]

🌸 From One Mother’s Heart – Please Read 🌸

My name is Saja. I’m a wife, a mother, and a woman who once believed her story would be simple. I thought my days would be filled with watching my daughter grow — from her first smile to her first steps — surrounded by the small joys of everyday life.

But life had other plans.

War has returned to our home. Again. And once again, we find ourselves living under skies that never seem to rest.

There was a moment — a fragile, breathless moment — when the bombs paused and the world seemed to remember us. It gave us hope. We thought maybe, just maybe, we could start to rebuild. But now, we are back in the dark — hiding, holding on, praying.

I’m writing this not as someone seeking pity, but as a mother who has no other choice but to speak.

Imagine holding your baby in the middle of the night, not because she cried, but because the world outside roared too loud for either of you to sleep. Imagine whispering bedtime stories not to lull her into dreams, but to keep the fear from settling into her tiny bones.

This is my life.

This is my daughter’s life.

And even now — especially now — I believe in softness. I believe in kindness. Because when everything else is taken from you, hope becomes the most valuable thing you have.

Why I’m Reaching Out Our home has been damaged. Our lives changed. But through it all, my daughter wakes up every morning with a smile. She reaches for me with trust, with love, with faith that I will keep her safe.

That’s why I keep going.

I’ve launched a campaign to ask for help — not because it’s easy, but because silence is no longer an option. I am asking for support not just for me, but for my baby, and for the quiet strength of so many mothers like me who are fighting, every single day, to hold their families together.

How You Can Help: 🤍 Help us restore parts of our home so we can live with dignity 🤍 Support women and mothers in Gaza with access to care and resources 🤍 Keep the light of hope alive for a generation born in the shadows of war

💛 If you can, please support our journey here:

Help Saja Rebuild a Life After Everything Fell Apart

My name is Saja. I am a mother, a wife, and just one of many women in Gaza trying to hold on — to hope, to my family, and to a life that no

If you can’t give, please consider sharing. Your voice might be the reason someone else hears ours.

From My Heart to Yours Maybe our lives are worlds apart. Maybe you’ve never lived through war. But if you’ve ever held a child and wished the world could be better for them — then you understand more than you know.

I don’t want my daughter to grow up thinking the world turned away.

Please, if you’ve read this far — thank you. Thank you for seeing us. Thank you for caring. We are still here. Still hoping. Still holding on to every kind act like it’s a lifeline.

With love and endless gratitude

[fadel-danii]

This is what David Adler just posted today on X.

I fear this will be the final letter that I write to you from the Global Sumud Flotilla - now just 120 NM from the shores of Gaza. -Last night, several Israeli naval ships menaced our convoy. They attacked our vessels, intimidated our crew, and disabled our communications.

We recognize these tactics from previous flotilla missions. We know that they are the precursor to what we have long feared: illegal Israeli abduction in international waters. As I write this, we are preparing ourselves for such an imminent attack. We know the procedures. We know the protocols. When they board our boats, we will not resist. We are ready. From our cell phones and our CCTVs, we will do our best to document everything. We will transmit it to the world. And we will rely on you to spread the word about this criminal attack.

(I am very happy to stand with the Palestinians and I hope that everyone will stand with the Palestinians and help them in any way.)

[sphoria-63]

I’ve been pretty inactive these past few days since it’s my study week and finals are coming up next week. I’ll be back to writing once semester break starts!

[sphoria-63]

The Last Spot (GR63)

Summary : You never expected your job to turn into a daily sparring match with George Russell, but somehow it did—half rivalry, half banter, all undercut with something you can’t quite name. Between stolen moments in the chaos of your favourite parking spot and the stubborn games you both refuse to quit, the line between teasing and something more starts to blur.

➣ George Russell x Fem reader (no use of y/n)

➣ Word count : 7.1k

➣ A/N : I'm writing this after finishing my turn for my project presentation HAHAHA. I also planned to write a short story with OC Characters, what do u think?

MY MASTERLIST

The parking lot was never much to look at. The asphalt was cracked in spiderweb patterns, as if the earth had grown tired of supporting all the cars that weighed it down. Faded white lines tried to maintain order but were losing the battle to time and weather.

In the rainy season, puddles gathered like shallow lakes, and in the dry heat, dust settled in every crevice. Most people chose their spots at random every morning, drifting between whatever was available, but not you. You had a claim—not legal, not official, but a claim nonetheless. Third row, fifth space from the left, beneath the weary shade of a spindly tree. It wasn't glamorous, but it was yours.

The spot had history. You'd parked there through  late nights and early mornings, in the monsoon when you sprinted inside under your umbrella, and in blistering sunshine when you left the windows cracked open just to avoid suffocating.

The tree had once dropped a branch on your hood and left a dent that insurance refused to cover. You forgave it anyway. This was your territory. Everyone in the office knew.

Which was why, on that particular Tuesday morning, your foot slammed on the brake as if you'd seen a ghost. Because someone—some stranger—was in your spot.

Not just any stranger.

A sleek black Mercedes sat gleaming in the sunlight, parked with a confidence that suggested it didn't worry about petty things like citations or tow warnings. The car looked less like it had been driven and more like it had rolled directly off the showroom floor that morning—paint shining, chrome sharp enough to blind, tires slick with polish.

Even the air around it seemed cleaner, as if dust refused to risk dulling its finish.

But the car wasn't what made your hands lock around the steering wheel. It was the man leaning against the driver's side door, one ankle crossed over the other, attention half-buried in his phone. He didn't just look like he belonged there—he looked like he belonged everywhere.

George.

Not "George the Janitor," not "George with the nerdy comments." George Russell. Formula One's golden boy, poster child of speed and precision, the man whose face you'd seen on billboards, screens, and headlines whether you'd wanted to or not.

He had the kind of public life that was inescapable; tuxedos on magazine covers, helmets in victory photos, smug little smiles that sponsors seemed to eat up. And now, absurdly, impossibly—he was standing in your parking spot, scrolling his phone like the lot, the building, the city, maybe even the whole damn world, already belonged to him.

Your boss's words flickered at the back of your mind, uncomfortably sharp.

"He'll be dropping by this week," he had said casually yesterday afternoon, as if announcing a plumber's visit. "Might use our office for a bit, some personal business. Just...don't be surprised if you see him around."

You hadn't asked who he was. You'd been buried in deadlines, nodding absently, assuming some client, some consultant, some random high-profile visitor you'd never interact with. Now, with your bumper inches from a car worth more than your salary times five, you understood exactly who he was.

And apparently, fate had decided your first meeting wouldn't be in the safety of your boss's office, but right here, in the middle of the battlefield you'd defended with passive-aggressive ferocity for weeks.

He looked up then, sensing the weight of your stare. His eyes met yours through the windshield, cool and steady, like he'd known all along this was how it would happen. And for the first time in a very long time, you weren't sure whether to put your car in park—or reverse and run.

You parked two rows away, killing the engine harder than necessary, and sat for a moment just staring at him. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe he didn't know. But deep in your chest you already felt it: the primal flare of possessiveness. This was your space, and he had no right.

By the time you got out of your car, George had looked up. Even behind dark sunglasses, you could feel the weight of his attention sweep over you. He smiled—a small, amused tilt of his lips, like someone who'd just stumbled onto a private joke.

     "Excuse me," you said, pointing accusingly at the asphalt. "You're in my spot."

     He looked up slowly, like a cat disturbed from its nap. His smile tilted in amusement. "Good morning to you, too."

     "I'm serious." You jabbed your finger at the faded line beneath his car. "This is my spot."

     "Is it?" He pulled his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, revealing eyes that were as sharp and blue as the racing suits you'd seen him in on TV. "Because unless I'm missing something, I don't see your name painted on it."

     Your jaw tightened. "Everyone knows it's mine. I've parked here for years."

      "Then maybe everyone should've told me." He folded his arms, leaning back against the hood as if he intended to stay there all day. "Look, it's shady, close to the entrance, good visibility—what can I say? I've got an eye for the best line."

"Best line?" You scoffed. "This isn't a racetrack, it's a parking lot."

     He chuckled, low and maddeningly smooth. "Still all about strategy."

     You stared at him, incredulous. Of all the places for him to wedge himself into your life, it had to be here, in the one corner of the world you thought was safe from celebrity nonsense. "Don't you have a valet? Or a private garage? Or a... helipad?"

     George shrugged. "I like this spot." That made him grin, a flash of white teeth against sun-kissed skin. "Tell you what—next time, get here earlier. Problem solved."

     The infuriating part was how calm he was, how clearly entertained he seemed by your outrage. You opened your mouth, then shut it again, because nothing you could say would puncture that smug smile. Instead you spun on your heel and stalked away, muttering about arrogant rich men and their terrible taste in real estate.

     The next morning, you woke earlier than usual, sheer determination pushing you out the door. You skipped your coffee run, chewed a stale granola bar instead, and drove with one mission in mind: reclaim what was yours.

But when you turned into the lot, your heart sank.

     The Mercedes was already there. Parked perfectly within the lines, gleaming smugly under the morning light. But George himself was nowhere to be seen.

      You parked nearby, fuming, and as you walked past his car, you noticed a rectangle of paper tucked beneath his windshield wiper.

      Curiosity prickled. Against your better judgment, you plucked it free and read the neat, slanted handwriting:

Pole position goes to me. Better luck tomorrow.

     Your mouth dropped open. He had left you a note. On his windshield. Like he knew you'd storm past, like he'd staged this entire thing just to needle you.

      You crumpled the note into your pocket, cheeks hot, and muttered, "Unbelievable."

     By Thursday, you tried to convince yourself it was a fluke, that maybe he'd get bored and move on. But when you turned into the lot, déjà vu hit like a punch. The Mercedes sat there again, immaculate, perfectly angled in your space.

      This time, two notes fluttered in the breeze beneath his wipers. You yanked the first free:

Track limits exceeded. Five-second penalty.

Your scowl deepened. The second note was even worse:

A champion always defends their territory.

      You could almost hear his voice in those words, amused and cocky. You shoved the papers into your bag and marched inside, telling yourself you were not going to play his game.

      But by Friday, it was impossible to deny. It was a game. His game—and somehow, yours too.

Another note appeared, crisp and mocking:

Unsportsmanlike conduct. Black flag.

Then another the following week:

Oversteer detected. Recommend adjustments.

And another:

Pit stop needed: you look exhausted.

     That last one made you laugh, loud and unguarded, before you caught yourself. You glanced around to make sure no one had noticed, then quickly folded the note and slid it into your bag with the others. You told yourself you'd throw them away later, but you didn't. You couldn't. They were ridiculous, childish, infuriating—and addictive.

     Every morning, as you rounded the corner into the lot, your pulse picked up with a strange anticipation. Would he be there in person this time, leaning against his car with that unbearable grin? Or would it just be the Mercedes, silent and smug, with another neatly folded note waiting for you to find?

You hated that you looked forward to finding out.

     By the third week, the notes weren't enough anymore.

     You'd gotten used to peeling his smug little messages from his windshield—phrases that sounded like racing commentary but felt aimed directly at you, every word dripping with taunt and tease.

     At first you saved them only to remind yourself how much he annoyed you, but somehow they ended up tucked neatly in your desk drawer at work. You weren't sure when they'd gone from "evidence of his crimes" to something closer to a secret collection.

But the morning battles were starting to feel like more than paper games.

     On the next Monday, you arrived determined to beat him, only to find the space blocked off with two bright orange traffic cones. Not standard cones either—these were stamped with the logo of one of his sponsors. You gawked at them in disbelief, then spotted the folded note taped to one:

Practice session in progress. Please observe track limits.

     Your laugh was sharp and disbelieving. He'd actually staged the parking lot like it was a circuit. Rolling your eyes, you got out, dragged both cones aside, and parked anyway. But you left the note behind, pinned beneath your windshield wiper like a trophy.

      The next day, he struck again. When you arrived, the space was empty—for a moment you thought you'd won—until you saw the chalk outline scrawled across the asphalt. A white rectangle drawn neatly inside the faded lines, with the words George's Pit Box scribbled in bold letters across the top.

He wasn't even there. Just the outline, waiting for you like graffiti.

     You muttered curses under your breath, parked two spaces over, and spent the entire walk to the building rehearsing the scathing speech you'd give him the next time you saw his smug face.

That time came sooner than expected.

     By the Wednesday of the third week, when you swung into the lot, George was already there, perched casually on the hood of his Mercedes. He had no sunglasses this time, just tousled hair and that infuriating smile like he'd been expecting you all along.

"Morning," he drawled, lifting a coffee cup in lazy salute.

     "Morning?" you repeated, throwing your hands up. "Are you serious? Cones? Chalk outlines? What's next, a pit crew to wave me away with flags?"

"Not a bad idea," he mused. "I'll see what I can do."

      You glared at him, heart hammering faster than you wanted to admit. "Why are you even doing this? You could park anywhere. You probably have ten garages. Why here?"

     He tilted his head, studying you like you were a puzzle. "Why not here?"

"Because it's my spot."

"Exactly." His grin widened. "That's why it's fun."

     You opened your mouth, then shut it again, because what could you possibly say to that? He was toying with you, and worse, he knew you'd keep playing.

     "You're irresistible ," you muttered, brushing past him toward the building. But as you walked away, you swore you heard him chuckle under his breath, and it left a heat in your chest you couldn't quite name.

Thursday morning was your turn.

     You arrived before dawn, when the lot was still shrouded in the grey light of morning. You parked triumphantly in your spot, pulled a sheet of paper from your bag, and scribbled a message in bold black marker before taping it to your windshield:

Reserved for actual hard-working people. Celebrity drivers can find valet service elsewhere.

     When you returned in the evening, the note was gone. But on Friday, George was back, his Mercedes shining in your space, and a fresh sheet of paper waited under his wiper:

Correction: reserved for people who can parallel park without crying.

     You gasped out a laugh despite yourself, looking around quickly to make sure no one had seen. He was infuriating. He was relentless. And—if you were being honest—he was funny.

     One rainy morning, you arrived to find him already there, standing under an umbrella beside his car. The storm had left the lot slick and shining, puddles scattered like landmines. You hesitated at the edge of your row, wondering if you should just park elsewhere and avoid him, but something about the sight of him waiting made your feet move forward.

"You're early," you said, tugging your jacket tighter against the rain.

     "So are you." His grin was crooked, boyish, softened by the drizzle beading on his hair. "Getting competitive, are we?"

You rolled your eyes. "Don't flatter yourself."

     But the corner of your mouth betrayed you, twitching upward.

     For the first time, he didn't gloat. He just smiled back, quiet and easy, and for a moment the storm around you seemed to fade.

      It happened on a Friday, the kind of Friday where everything already felt like too much. You'd overslept, spilled coffee down your shirt, and barely made it to the lot with five minutes to spare before you'd be late. And then, as if the universe wanted to mock you before you reached room, your car gave a sickening wheeze in the highway . You tried again. The engine coughed once, shuddered, and fell silent.

     You sat there gripping the steering wheel, forehead resting against the leather, breathing in the faint smell of burnt oil. Of course this would happen. You were debating whether to slam your head against the horn out of sheer frustration when a knock on the window startled you.

     George stopped his car at the side, leaning down just enough to peer inside, a faintly smug expression plastered on his annoyingly handsome face. He gestured for you to roll the window down.

     "Need a push?" he asked when you complied, his voice amused but not unkind. "Or should I call my pit crew?"

     "Don't you dare," you groaned, covering your eyes with one hand. "I'll never live that down."

     "Relax," he said, straightening up. "I won't tell anyone. Scout's honor." He circled to the front of your car, lifted the hood with an ease that suggested he'd done this before, and peered inside. "Although," he admitted after a beat, "I'm very good at driving cars, not fixing them."

     You leaned out your window. "So you're saying all that money and not a clue what to do with a dead battery?"

     He smirked, unbothered. "I could probably change a tire. Beyond that... you'll have to settle for me looking useful while you call a tow truck."

     Despite yourself, you laughed. He stayed there with you, leaning against the side of your car like it was the most natural thing in the world.

     When the tow finally came, he lingered still, insisting on waiting until you were sorted. It wasn't something he had to do. It wasn't part of the game. And for a moment, you didn't quite know what to make of it.

     The tow truck driver strapped your poor car onto the flatbed with the efficiency of someone who'd done this a thousand times. You stood off to the side, arms crossed, rain still damp in your hair from earlier and a sinking sense of defeat in your stomach.

     It wasn't just the inconvenience of losing your car; it was the humiliation of George, of all people, standing nearby with his arms casually folded, watching it happen like some smug witness to your downfall.

     When the driver finally waved you over to sign the papers, George stepped closer. "Where's home?" he asked, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

     "You can't exactly Uber from here. And I'm not letting you walk." His tone was matter-of-fact, the kind of confidence that didn't leave much room for argument. He gestured with his keys, already moving toward his car. "Come on. I'll drive you."

      The idea of being trapped in a car with him—the same man you'd spent weeks trading petty windshield notes with—was absurd. And yet, when you glanced at the retreating taillights of the tow truck and the empty space where your car had been, you realized you didn't have many other options. With a sigh that was meant to sound annoyed, you followed.

     His car was pristine inside, of course. Sleek leather, faintly smelling of cologne, with little hints of luxury you'd only ever glimpsed in magazines. Sliding into the passenger seat felt almost surreal, like stepping into a different world entirely.

     You tugged the seatbelt across your chest, trying not to stare at the way he adjusted the mirrors with casual precision.

"You don't have to—" you started.

"I know," he cut in smoothly, glancing over with that faint smirk. "I want to."

      The engine purred to life beneath your feet, quieter than you expected, controlled power wrapped in elegance. For a man who made his living taking corners at terrifying speeds, George drove the streets with almost exaggerated patience, one hand resting lightly on the wheel. You found yourself studying the lines of his profile, the way his focus softened outside the track, how he seemed strangely normal.

      The silence stretched for a moment before he broke it. "So," he said lightly, "do I get to know why you're so determined to fight me over that spot every morning?"

       You shot him a look. "Do I get to know why a millionaire F1 driver refuses to use valet?"

     His laugh was soft, genuine, slipping between you like a secret. "Touché." He tapped the wheel thoughtfully. "Maybe I just like having something ordinary. Something not staged, not planned. Just... you and me bickering over a rectangle of asphalt."

     You turned your gaze toward the window, hoping he wouldn't notice the warmth crawling up your neck. Because the truth was, you felt the same. And maybe, sitting there in his too-perfect car with the city rolling by, you realized that the war you'd been fighting wasn't really about a parking spot anymore.

     George pulled smoothly up to the curb outside your building, easing the car into park with the same fluid motion he did everything.

     For a moment, you just sat there, the quiet hum of the engine filling the silence. It felt oddly reluctant, as though the moment shouldn't end yet.

     "Thanks," you said finally, unbuckling your seatbelt. Your voice sounded too small in the polished interior.

     He glanced over at you, one hand still resting casually on the wheel. "Anytime." There was no tease in his tone this time, no sly smile or smirk. Just a simple sincerity that caught you off guard.

     You stepped out, the night air cooler than you expected, brushing damp against your skin. He stayed in the car, window rolled down, watching as you slung your bag over your shoulder and made your way to the door.

     You told yourself it was normal courtesy, that he was just waiting to see you safely inside. And yet... you could feel his gaze on you, steady and unhurried, like he wasn't ready to leave either.

     At the door, you hesitated. The keys were already in your hand, but something made you glance back. He was still there, resting his arm along the window frame, the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth like he'd been caught in a thought.

"What?" you asked, voice carrying softly across the quiet street.

     His smile deepened, subtle but warm. "Nothing. Just... you're different when you're not glaring at me over a parking space."

     You snorted, but the sound came out too soft, too fond. "Don't get used to it."

     "Too late," he said simply. Then, with a little tap to the wheel, he added, "Goodnight," before easing the car back into motion, taillights glowing red as they disappeared down the street.

      You stood there for a long moment, keys slack in your hand, the warmth of his words lingering heavier than they should have.

      The next day was heavy with humidity, the kind that clung to your skin and promised a storm. By the time you left the building, the sky had cracked open, unleashing a torrent that blurred the edges of everything into silver. The parking lot shimmered with puddles, each step out of the doorway met with a roar of rain so thick it was like a curtain you couldn't see through.

     You hovered just inside the entryway, clutching your bag to your chest, glaring out at the storm as if sheer willpower might make it stop. You hadn't brought an umbrella. Of course you hadn't—your morning had been rushed again, distracted by thoughts you wouldn't admit even to yourself.

     Now you were stranded, the downpour hammering the pavement like it meant to keep you there all night.

"Forgot yours too?"

     The voice made you jump, though you knew it instantly. George slipped in beside you, shaking droplets from his hair, his jacket plastered damp against his shoulders. His grin was lopsided, boyish despite the water dripping off his jaw. He looked—annoyingly—like someone caught in an advert for cologne, the kind that made everything, even getting drenched, look glamorous.

     You folded your arms. "I wasn't planning on the sky declaring war."

     "Rookie mistake," he teased, echoing his words from yesterday, and then he leaned against the wall with casual ease, watching the sheets of rain. "We could wait it out."

     You tilted your head, squinting through the downpour. "And how long do you think that'll take?"

     He glanced at you sidelong, a spark of challenge in his eyes. "Or... we could run for it."

     You laughed, short and incredulous. "Through that? You'd drown."

     "Not if I'm faster than the rain." His grin widened, infuriatingly sure of himself. "Come on, it'll be fun."

      Something in his tone tugged at you, the way he said it like he wasn't just talking about running. Against your better judgment, you found yourself nodding. "Fine. But if I slip and break my neck, I'm haunting you."

"You'd make a very charming ghost," he said lightly, already holding the door for you.

      And then you were both out in it—sprinting across the lot, splashing through ankle-deep puddles, the storm drenching you in seconds. Your bag thudded against your side, your shoes squeaked with every step, and yet you couldn't stop laughing, the sound breaking free without your permission.

     He laughed too, loud and unguarded, glancing at you as if this—this chaos, this shared absurdity—was worth more than any victory on a track.

     By the time you ducked under the overhang near the cars, you were breathless, hair plastered to your cheeks, clothes sticking in uncomfortable places. You pressed your back to the wall, trying to catch your breath. George leaned beside you, water dripping from his hair, his shoulders shaking faintly with residual laughter.

     "Worth it," he said simply, voice low and certain, as if the storm had washed away every layer of his usual bravado.

And for once, you didn't argue.

     You only stood there with him, listening to the rain hammer the world into silence, the two of you caught in a moment that felt suspended outside of time.

      The morning after the storm, you half expected another sarcastic note plastered to George's windshield—something about how you'd almost drowned or how your running form needed improvement. You were braced for it, rehearsing comebacks in your head as you crossed the lot.

     But when you reached your pigeon hole at lunchtime, you stopped short. There was a folded square of paper.

You pulled it free, scanning the handwriting that had become so familiar:

"Truce? Meet me at the café across the street. My treat."

     You stared at it for longer than you cared to admit, the word truce looking strange in his handwriting, softer than his usual taunts. For a moment you debated crumpling it, pretending you hadn't seen it, clinging to the ritual of battle. But curiosity tugged at you, stronger than pride. By the time you found yourself pushing open the café door, you knew you'd already lost this round.

George was easy to spot, tucked in a corner booth, long legs stretched out comfortably as though he owned the place. A coffee already sat in front of him, and across the table was a second cup, steam curling into the air. He looked up as you approached, a faint smile breaking across his face.

"Didn't think you'd come," he said, voice low but carrying just enough smugness to keep you on familiar ground.

You slid into the seat opposite, deliberately casual. "I almost didn't. But free coffee is free coffee."

He chuckled, nudging the cup toward you. "Figured I owed you. After all, you did brave a hurricane on my ridiculous suggestion."

You wrapped your hands around the cup, letting the warmth soak into your chilled fingers. The café was cozy, rain still tapping faintly against the windows, and for once there was no rush, no car engines humming in the background, no scramble for territory. Just the two of you, tucked into a pocket of stillness.

"So," you said after a sip, "is this where you confess that you've secretly been enjoying all this?"

His eyes gleamed, amused but steady. "Confess? That makes it sound like a crime."

"You know what I mean."

He leaned back, studying you with a calm that made you shift in your seat. "Maybe I like starting my mornings with a fight I can't win."

You snorted, heat creeping up your neck despite yourself. "Can't win? Please. You've stolen that spot more times than I can count."

"Maybe," he said, shrugging one shoulder. "But it's not about winning, is it?"

The words hung there, heavier than they should have, settling between you with the weight of something unspoken. You broke eye contact first, focusing instead on the swirl of steam rising from your coffee. Still, you couldn't quite shake the warmth threading through you, stronger than the drink in your hands.

For once, neither of you needed to fill the silence. It was enough just to sit there, across from each other, sharing something that wasn't quite rivalry anymore.

The truce didn't erase the rivalry. You still left notes, he still claimed the spot when he could, but something subtle had shifted. The barbs weren't sharpened knives anymore — they were inside jokes, carved into paper and windshield wipers.

And then came the days when the rivalry wasn't even the point.

You found yourselves in the same café more often, not always by design. Sometimes you'd see him already there looking at some sort of papers, hair mussed, pen tapping against his notebook, and he'd gesture to the chair opposite him without a word. Sometimes you'd arrive first, and he'd show up minutes later, sliding into the seat across from you as if it had been waiting for him.

One evening, the rain came down heavy again. You were packing up to leave the office when George appeared at the doorway, car keys in hand.

"You're not seriously walking home in this, are you?"

You arched an eyebrow. "What's it to you?"

"Get in the car," he said simply, holding the door open.

The ride was quiet, but not awkward. The wipers kept time against the silence, the faint hum of the engine filling the spaces where banter used to be. At a red light, he glanced over. "You always hum when you're thinking."

You blinked. "I do not."

"You do," he said, grinning, eyes flicking back to the road. "Been hearing it for weeks."

That was the first time you realized: he'd been paying attention. Not just to the notes, not just to the battles for asphalt — but to you.

The realization sank in slowly, like water finding cracks in stone. It didn't hit you in some cinematic moment of clarity, no lightning strike or swelling music. It was quieter, trickier, a steady reshaping of your days until you barely recognized your own routines.

You used to glance at the lot in the mornings with the sharp-eyed defensiveness of a soldier scanning enemy lines. But lately, your first thought wasn't Is my spot taken? It was "Is he here?"

You scanned for the gleam of his Mercedes before you even turned in. You noticed how the sun caught the edges of its polished paint, how it looked like it belonged in a different world than your battered sedan — and how you didn't care, not anymore.

The notes on your desk and windshield had stopped being jokes weeks ago. You told yourself you kept them for the humor, for the ridiculousness of your back-and-forth. But on bad days, when your inbox felt like a collapsing avalanche and the clock seemed stuck at noon, you'd find your fingers brushing over one of his folded scraps, rereading some dumb jab about "civilized rules of warfare" or his messy attempt at drawing a crown to mark his "victory." And somehow, that was enough to get you through.

You caught yourself watching him in meetings too, though you never admitted it out loud. George never looked like he belonged in your office's gray-carpeted, coffee-stained world. He carried too much ease, too much polish, even when he wasn't trying. But then his gaze would cut across the table — swift, deliberate, like a secret meant only for you — and your pulse would skip, tightening your chest in a way no rival ever could.

And when you saw him laughing with someone else — a fellow team member, maybe, or one of the assistants who lingered too long in his orbit — you felt it, a tug sharp enough to leave you restless. You didn't want to name it. Didn't want to admit that it had stopped being a game long ago. This wasn't about parking anymore. And the thought of that — of wanting something so dangerous, so fleeting — terrified you more than losing the spot ever had.

Which was why, when he stopped you outside the lot one evening, you froze.

He looked different in the fading light, not just the usual clean-cut edges and precise posture but softer, more human. His hands were shoved into his pockets, shoulders drawn tight in a way that made your breath catch. George Russell wasn't supposed to look nervous. But right then, he did.

"You're going to say no if I don't ask now," he said quietly, his voice steady despite the tension in his jaw. "And I can't leave without asking."

You blinked. "Leave?"

He nodded once. "A few more days. Then I'm back to Monaco." The word landed like a weight between you, heavier than you'd prepared for. He took a breath, met your eyes, and held them like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. "So... have dinner with me. Just once. No parking spots, no notes. Just... us."

The world seemed to tilt, narrowing to just him, just the way the light caught the edges of his face, just the quiet thrum of fear and hope tangled in your chest. For a moment, you couldn't breathe, couldn't move. Because this wasn't a game anymore. It was a beginning—or an ending.

And either way, you weren't sure your heart was ready.

The restaurant wasn't the kind of place you expected him to choose. No velvet curtains or champagne towers, no glittering chandeliers announcing wealth. It was tucked into a quiet side street, lit with warm amber bulbs strung overhead and the faint murmur of jazz from an old speaker in the corner. The tables were close enough to feel cozy, but not cramped, each one dressed with nothing more than a flickering candle and a little glass vase of wildflowers.

You let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. Somehow, you'd imagined cameras waiting by the door, flashbulbs ready, menus lined with prices that would make your bank account weep. But here—it felt almost...normal.

George caught the look on your face as he pulled out your chair. "Not what you expected?"

You arched a brow, trying to cover your relief with teasing. "No gold-leaf steaks? No seven-course tasting menus?"

He gave a low laugh as he sat across from you. "I get enough of that circus. Thought you'd prefer somewhere we can actually talk."

You studied him across the candlelight, surprised at how easily he said it. Talk. As though that was the point of all this. As though this wasn't just a fleeting distraction before he disappeared back into a world you couldn't follow.

Menus opened, orders placed, the quiet hum of the place wrapped around you. It wasn't silence—never silence with him. He leaned in when he spoke, not loud, but close enough that it felt conspiratorial, like the two of you were sharing something no one else could. He teased you about how seriously you'd guarded the parking spot.

You countered with the number of ridiculous doodles you still had tucked away in your drawer. He admitted, with that maddening little half-smile, that he'd practiced folding paper airplanes just to deliver one of his notes.

And somewhere between the bread basket and the first glass of wine, the banter softened.

He asked about your work, not idly, but with a genuine curiosity that disarmed you. He listened—really listened—as you explained the grind, the constant tug-of-war between deadlines and ambition. His questions weren't filler; they cut sharp, thoughtful, drawing out truths you hadn't realized you wanted to share.

In return, he spoke about the road—not in glossy magazine terms, but raw and unvarnished. The exhaustion of back-to-back flights, the pressure that clung to every performance, the constant noise of people wanting a piece of him. "It's funny," he said at one point, swirling his glass absentmindedly, "you'd think the track is the loudest place in the world. But the quiet afterwards...that's worse."

Something in your chest tugged at that. You weren't supposed to understand, not really. But you did. The way silence could press in, heavy with all the things unsaid.

By the time the main course arrived, the world outside the little glow of your table felt distant, irrelevant. It was just him and you, laughter spilling too easily, stories overlapping, smiles that lingered a beat too long.

And beneath it all, a question you didn't dare voice: what happens when this night ends?

The plates had been cleared, the last of the wine low in your glasses, and still neither of you made a move to leave. The candle burned down to a stub between you, its little flame bending and bowing every time the door opened to the street outside.

George leaned back in his chair, arms folded loosely, studying you with an intensity that made you shift in your seat. Not the look of a man calculating a race or a win, but of someone memorizing. You fiddled with the stem of your glass, uncomfortable under the weight of it.

"What?" you asked finally, trying for lightness.

He didn't smile. Not at first. "I'm trying to figure out when this stopped being about the parking spot."

Your breath caught. He'd said it so plainly, like it wasn't the thing you'd been avoiding naming for weeks.

You laughed weakly, eyes dropping to your hands. "Maybe when you started folding origami with your insults?"

That earned a smile, quick and crooked. But then he sobered again, tilting his head slightly as though he could see through every defense you'd ever built. "For me, it was earlier. I don't know the exact day, but... I remember sitting in my car, waiting, just to see your reaction when you found another note. That's when I knew I wasn't playing fair anymore."

You swallowed hard, throat suddenly tight. "And you kept parking there because—what? You liked annoying me?"

"Yes," he said, but then he leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping softer. "And no. At first, it was just fun, a game. But then it became the only part of my day that didn't feel...scripted. No cameras, no handlers, no one telling me how to smile. Just you. Just your glare, your notes, your stubborn little victories. It made me feel—" He broke off, searching for the right word. "Human, I guess."

The honesty in his voice left you unmoored. You weren't supposed to matter like that. He wasn't supposed to matter like this. And yet, here you were.

You took a breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "I thought I hated it at first. You stealing my spot, getting under my skin. But then... I caught myself looking for your car. Even when you weren't there. I'd get to work and it felt wrong if you hadn't left something ridiculous on my windshield. And when you did..." You gave a small, helpless shrug. "My day felt lighter."

The silence that followed was thick, not uncomfortable but weighted, like the air itself recognized what you'd just admitted.

His eyes softened. "So it wasn't just me."

You shook your head. "No. Not just you."

He exhaled slowly, as if the admission had been a risk he wasn't sure would pay off. Then he leaned closer, close enough that the table between you felt suddenly too narrow. "I'm leaving in a few days," he said quietly. The words landed like stones in your chest. "I can't change that. But I couldn't leave without telling you that this—" he gestured lightly between you "—has been the best part of my time here."

Your heart hammered so loudly you were certain he could hear it.

And for the first time since this strange, absurd rivalry began, you realized how terrifying it felt to want someone who was already halfway gone.

The ride back was quiet at first, but not in a bad way. The hum of George's Mercedes filled the silence, a low, steady sound that matched the faint drizzle still slicking the streets. The city outside was muted—streetlights blurring against wet pavement, headlights of passing cars smeared into streaks of white and gold.

You sat angled slightly toward the window, watching the rain glide across the glass, though your thoughts were anything but calm. Dinner replayed itself in snippets: the warmth of candlelight, the way George's laugh seemed to settle in your bones, the confession that had tumbled out of you when you weren't expecting it.

Every time the memory surfaced, heat crept up your neck.

George drove like he did everything else—smooth, controlled, like the road bent to his will. Yet there was something softer about him now. He wasn't the man fighting for tenths of a second, wasn't the name on billboards. He was the man who had left notes on your windshield, who had sat across from you with quiet vulnerability, who was glancing at you every so often like he wanted to memorize the way you looked sitting there in the passenger seat.

"You're quiet," he said finally, breaking the spell of the wipers against glass.

You swallowed, still facing the window. "So are you."

"I'm driving," he said, though his voice held a smile. Then, after a pause: "Are you regretting it?"

That pulled your gaze back to him. His eyes stayed on the road, but you caught the tension in his jaw, the careful way his hands tightened on the wheel. For a man who seemed so untouchable in every other part of his life, it was startling to see the nerves laid bare.

"No," you said, soft but certain. "Not for a second."

His shoulders loosened a little, the smallest exhale escaping him. "Good. Because I'd hate to think this was one-sided."

Your heart kicked at your ribs. The car turned onto your street too soon, the world narrowing to the familiar row of houses, the warm glow of your porch light. You weren't ready for the night to end, but endings didn't wait for readiness.

George pulled up in front of your place and shifted the car into park. Neither of you moved. The engine ticked softly as it cooled, the rain whispering against the windshield.

"This is the part where I'm supposed to say goodnight," he murmured, finally turning to face you. His expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between restraint and want.

Your throat tightened. "Supposed to," you echoed.

He laughed under his breath, then leaned an elbow against the steering wheel, tilting his body a little closer. "You have no idea how badly I don't want to."

You could feel the space between you shrink, magnetic and inevitable. The air was charged with everything unsaid—the rivalry that had started as nothing, the slow unraveling into something that mattered far too much, the truth that he was leaving soon and this moment might have to last longer than it should.

When he kissed you, it wasn't rushed. It was deliberate, the kind of kiss that unfolded slowly, with the weight of all the times you hadn't let yourself touch him before. His hand came up to your cheek, warm and steady, while yours found the front of his jacket, gripping lightly as though to anchor yourself.

The world outside ceased to exist. No rain, no ticking engine, no looming goodbye. Just the press of his mouth against yours, the quiet catch of his breath when you kissed him back, the way every piece of you seemed to realign under his touch.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing a little unevenly. His voice was a whisper. "Now I really don't want to go."

You smiled, shaky but real. "Then don't. Just... stay here a little longer."

And he did. The car idled at the curb, the two of you suspended in that fragile, perfect bubble of almost-goodbye that felt like the beginning of something bigger instead.

[dreamerafterdark]

I feel like I'm intruding...

[sphoria-63]

The Lost and Found Heart (CS55)

Summary : A single trip to the supermarket spirals into chaos when old rivalries collide with urgent stakes, forcing two people with a complicated history to rely on each other in unexpected ways. What begins as a moment of panic becomes a test of trust, resilience, and the uneasy shift between past grudges and present realities.

➣ Carlos Sains x Single Mother! Fem reader ( no use of y/n)

➣ Word count : 4.4k

➣ A/N : Well I think now is the right time to post since Carlos just got his first podium for Williams today! 😆

MY MASTERLIST

The fluorescent lights always made you feel like you were standing in an interrogation room. Too bright, too sharp, too exposing. You steered the cart past the endless rows of cereal boxes, one hand gripping the handle, the other reaching for your daughter's tiny fingers curled around the edge.

Or at least—you thought she was still there.

"Ellie?" you said, glancing down.

The side of the cart was empty. No messy pigtails. No tiny sneakers with the light-up soles. Just a scuff of shoe rubber on the linoleum.

Your pulse spiked.

"Ellie!"

You abandoned the cart, pushing past a man with a basket full of instant noodles, ignoring the annoyed glance he shot your way. The aisle stretched long and crowded, bodies moving in every direction, shoppers weaving between shelves like schools of fish. You caught a glimpse of a child's head darting past the frozen food section—blond, not hers.

You had looked away for one second. Just one. To compare the prices between two brands of peanut butter. One second, and your daughter had vanished.

You called her name again, louder this time. "Ellie!"

Heads turned. A woman pushing a stroller frowned, then went back to digging for coupons. The cashier at the express lane craned his neck before resuming the beep-beep of the scanner. The whole supermarket kept moving, humming with chatter and squeaky wheels, while your world had ground to a halt.

Your chest tightened. Where do I go first? The toy aisle. The candy racks. The bathrooms. She could be anywhere. She could be—

No. Don't think it.

You forced your legs to move, darting down one aisle, then another, your voice shaking now. "Ellie!" A toddler in a shopping cart laughed at you, thinking you were playing some kind of game.

It wasn't a game. It was the kind of nightmare you woke up sweating from, except you were awake, and the nightmare was still going. Your breath grew shallow. Panic clawed up your throat. In your head, every terrifying possibility bloomed in fast succession: someone could have lured her away, she could be lost and crying somewhere, she could be—

"Hey."

The voice cut through your spiral, low and firm, like a hand grabbing your wrist before you fell.

You turned, heart still hammering, and froze.

Carlos.

For a split second, your brain scrambled to make sense of it. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that same infuriatingly steady gaze you remembered from high school, only softened by faint lines at the corners of his eyes. He looked like he had stepped out of a memory you never thought you'd revisit—and here he was, standing between the canned goods and the pasta, holding a shopping basket like he belonged in your present.

Of all people.

"Need a hand?" he asked.

The words landed heavier than they should have. Because yes, you needed a hand. You needed ten hands. But the last person you wanted to admit that to was Carlos Sainz—your rival, your shadow, the boy who used to charm all the people in high school to get things in his wah, the one who had always found the chance to throw a sarcasm to you, the one whose smirk had fueled every late-night study session of your teenage years.

You must have looked stricken, because his brow furrowed. "You okay?"

"My daughter," you said, your voice coming out raw. "She's gone—she was just here—"

Something in his expression shifted. The basket in his hand hit the floor with a soft thud.

"Where did you last see her?" he asked, sharp, focused.

You blinked. He wasn't mocking you, wasn't smirking. He looked—concerned. Urgent. Like he'd just stepped into the panic with you.

Your throat worked, but no sound came out. For the first time in years, you had no quick retort, no defense. Just a mother in a supermarket, trying not to fall apart, and Carlos, of all people, standing there ready to catch the pieces.

Your mouth felt dry. The supermarket air-conditioning blew cold across your arms, but your skin was hot, prickling with panic.

"She was—she was holding onto the cart." You gestured wildly at the abandoned groceries, your voice cracking. "And then I looked away, and—"

Carlos didn't waste a second. "Which direction?"

"I don't know. I—"

"Okay. We'll split the aisles. You take left, I'll take right. We'll cover more ground that way."

He said it with a command in his tone, like he had some kind of authority here. And the worst part? Your panic-addled brain wanted to listen.

But another part of you bristled. The part that remembered sitting in AP Literature, watching Carlos raise his hand half a second before you did, stealing your answer about The Great Gatsby. The part that remembered how he'd smiled at you when he was announced the prom king, a smile that wasn't cruel exactly, but wasn't kind either. Just... triumphant.

And now here he was, telling you what to do.

"I don't need your help," you snapped, more harshly than you meant to. "I can handle this."

Carlos didn't flinch. He just crossed his arms, eyes steady on you. "Your kid's missing in a supermarket full of strangers. You can keep wasting time arguing with me, or you can let me help. Your call."

Your pulse thudded in your ears. Damn him. Damn him for being right.

You didn't answer. Instead, you spun toward the next aisle, calling, "Ellie!" Your voice cracked again, thinner this time. The panic was gnawing at you, threatening to drag you under.

Carlos kept pace with you. "How old is she?"

"Five."

"Height?"

"About this tall." You gestured mid-thigh.

"Hair?"

"Brown. Pigtails. Pink shoes with sparkles."

He nodded once, his jaw set. "Got it."

You almost hated how steady he looked. Like this was just another problem to solve, another test to pass. That same calm that had always made teachers fawn over him and made you want to scream. You ducked into the produce section, weaving between shoppers debating apples and oranges. No Ellie. No pink shoes.

"She likes dolls," you said suddenly, your voice tumbling out as if confessing. "If she saw one, she might've—"

"Toy aisle," Carlos finished. "Come on."

The two of you half-ran past a woman juggling a toddler and a bag of frozen peas. She shot you both a dirty look, but you didn't care. Your heart was still a drumline, relentless, drowning out everything else.

As you rounded the corner toward the toy aisle, you risked a glance at him. His expression was tight, focused. Nothing smug, nothing condescending. Just a man searching for a missing child.

It was disorienting. This wasn't the Carlos you remembered—the boy who lived to needle you, who thrived on competition. This was someone older, sharper. Someone who had stepped into your nightmare without hesitation.

You wanted to thank him. The words nearly rose to your lips, but they caught there, sticky with old pride.

Instead, you said, "Why are you even here? Shopping for another teacher's favourite trophy?" It came out harsher than you intended. Old habits. Old armor.

To your surprise, Carlos huffed a laugh. "Yeah, sure. I thought maybe the canned goods section would be handing out great marks." He shook his head, eyes scanning the shelves. "I live nearby. Monday's my grocery day. That's all."

You blinked. Somehow, the idea of Carlos doing something as ordinary as buying cereal and dish soap felt... strange. Like finding out a comic book villain also had to pay electricity bills.

"Ellie!" you called again, louder this time. Your throat was starting to ache.

No answer.

Carlos's gaze flicked to you. "We'll find her," he said quietly. His voice was so certain it almost made you believe it.

Almost.

But deep down, in that tight knot of fear inside you, a thought twisted: if there was anyone who would refuse to give up until he won—even against the odds—it was Carlos.

And right now, maybe that was exactly what you needed.

The toy aisle was a riot of color—plastic packaging, dolls grinning through clear windows, action figures dangling from hooks. Children tugged at their parents' sleeves, squealing over stuffed animals and miniature race cars.

But not Ellie.

Your eyes darted over every small head of hair, every pink sneaker, every flash of color that might belong to her. Nothing.

Carlos scanned the shelves too, his eyes sharp. "Not here."

The panic surged again, hot in your throat. "She could be anywhere. Someone could've—"

"Don't," Carlos cut in, his voice firm but not unkind. "We're not going there. She's here. We just haven't seen her yet."

You wanted to scream at him. How could he sound so certain? But your chest heaved too hard, your breath coming in ragged bursts. You dug your nails into your palms, grounding yourself.

Carlos's gaze softened for a fraction of a second. "Breathe. In. Out. Do it with me."

You glared at him, but your body betrayed you—you inhaled when he did, exhaled when he did, until your pulse stopped sprinting and settled into a shaky jog.

You hated that it helped.

"Okay," he said when your shoulders lowered. "Let's think. What's she like?"

"She's curious. Brave. Too brave." Your voice broke. "She thinks the world is safe. I try to tell her to stay close, but she—" You cut yourself off, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you.

Carlos nodded slowly. "So she's an explorer. That helps."

His calmness infuriated you almost as much as it steadied you. He'd always been like this—methodical, precise, confident. Back then it had felt like arrogance, the smugness of someone who knew he'd come out on top. Now, in the fluorescent supermarket aisles, it felt like something else. Competence.

You hated that too.

"Fine," you said tightly. "Where do explorers go?"

"Everywhere," he admitted. "So we split the store. You take produce to bakery. I'll cover frozen foods to pharmacy. Meet back in the middle."

You hesitated. The thought of searching alone clawed at you, but pride was a stubborn thing. "Okay."

You turned down the next aisle, calling Ellie's name, peering under racks of cereal boxes and between carts. Each time you didn't see her felt like another failure. Another mark against you as a mother.

And under it all, an older, pettier voice whispered: Carlos probably thinks you're failing, too. He probably sees you breaking down and feels the same smug satisfaction he always did when you stumbled in high school.

You clenched your jaw, refusing to believe it.

Still, his voice from the next aisle carried over, low and steady: "Ellie! Ellie, can you hear me?"

There was no smugness there. Just urgency.

Half an hour blurred past in fragments. A glimpse of a pink hoodie that wasn't hers. A stranger's child with braids. A false alarm near the bakery when someone shouted another name.

When you circled back toward the middle, Carlos was already there, pacing. His dark hair was damp with sweat, his shirt sticking to his back. He wasn't calm anymore—his jaw was tight, his eyes scanning like searchlights.

"Nothing?" he asked.

You shook your head, biting your lip until you tasted blood.

For a long second, the two of you just stood there in the chaos, your panic pressing against his silence.

Then he said quietly, "I remember this."

You blinked. "What?"

"In high school." His eyes flicked to yours. "The way you used to look when you thought you'd blown it. Like the world was going to end if you didn't win."

Anger flared. "This isn't about winning, Carlos. This is my daughter."

"I know," he said softly. "That's why I'm here."

The words disarmed you. You looked away, heat creeping up your neck.

"Why are you really helping me?" you asked, the question spilling out before you could stop it. "You don't owe me anything."

Carlos's gaze didn't waver. "Because it's a child. Because you look like you're about to fall apart. And because..." He paused, his jaw working. "Maybe I never hated you as much as you thought."

Your breath caught.

That couldn't be true. Not after years of hates, sniping, late-night study sessions fueled by spite. Not after the way his smirk had haunted you whenever you stumbled.

But the look in his eyes—earnest, steady—wasn't the look of someone lying.

Before you could answer, an announcement crackled over the loudspeaker:

"Attention, shoppers. We have a young child waiting at the customer service desk near the front entrance. If you are missing your child, please come to the desk."

Your heart leapt into your throat.

"Ellie," you whispered.

Carlos was already moving, his hand brushing your elbow as he guided you toward the front.

You half-sprinted, weaving between carts, ignoring protests when you bumped someone's shoulder. The store blurred past—frozen pizzas, stacked sodas, the scent of roasted chicken from the deli—until you reached the front desk.

A boy stood there, holding a balloon the clerk had given him. Not Ellie.

The balloon popped in your chest like a cruel joke.

Your knees almost buckled.

Carlos caught your arm before you fell. His hand was warm, steady. "Not her. But we keep going. She's here. Don't give up now."

His words were iron, holding you upright when your bones felt like glass.

And for the first time since this nightmare began, you realized—you weren't alone in it.

The supermarket seemed louder now, every sound magnified. The squeak of wheels. The chatter of shoppers. The harsh beep of scanners. Each noise grated, as if mocking the hollow space where Ellie's laughter should have been.

Your legs carried you toward the back of the store, though you barely registered where you were going. All you could hear was your own pulse, pounding like a drum.

"She's been gone too long," you muttered. "Way too long."

Carlos stayed beside you, matching your stride. "She's still here."

"You don't know that!" The words burst out sharper than you intended. "She could've walked out. She could've—"

He stopped dead, forcing you to halt too. His eyes locked on yours, steady and unyielding. "Don't do that. Not yet." You wanted to shove him away, scream at him, anything to release the terror coiled in your chest. But the weight in his gaze held you still.

"She's here," he said again, quieter this time. "And until we know otherwise, we act like that's true."

Your throat closed. You wanted to believe him so badly it hurt.

A loudspeaker announcement buzzed overhead: "Would the parent of a lost child please report to the toy section?"

Your stomach dropped.

You ran. The world narrowed to fluorescent lights streaking above, polished tiles flashing underfoot, Carlos's footsteps pounding behind you.

The toy aisle came into view again. A cluster of shoppers gathered around the endcap, blocking your sight. You pushed through, heart in your throat.

And then you saw—

A little girl in pigtails. Pink sneakers. Your lungs seized with relief. "Ellie!"

But when she turned, her face was wrong. Not your daughter. Someone else's.

The ground tilted.

You staggered back, pressing a hand to your chest. The edges of your vision blurred, spots of light dancing. Air wouldn't come, not enough, never enough.

Carlos was suddenly in front of you, his hand closing gently but firmly around your arm. "Hey. Look at me."

You shook your head, gasping. "I—I can't—"

"Yes, you can." His voice was low, calm, but threaded with urgency. Tears burned your eyes. Your breaths came shallow, ragged, but he didn't let go. His thumb pressed against the inside of your wrist, grounding you.

"In," he said, drawing air into his chest. You tried. Failed. Tried again.

"Out," he said, exhaling slow. You mimicked him, shaky at first, then steadier.

You hated that it worked. You hated how warm his hand felt, how steady his presence was, how much you needed him right now.

When your breathing finally evened, you sagged against the shelf of board games. The panic receded like a tide, leaving exhaustion in its wake.

Carlos didn't let go until your hands stopped trembling. Then, slowly, he released you.

"Better?" he asked.

You nodded, unable to meet his eyes. The embarrassment was almost worse than the fear. You didn't break down. Not in front of people. Not in front of him.

"You're stronger than this," he said softly. "I remember."

That startled you into meeting his gaze. "What?"

"In school. You never quit. Not once. Even when you hated me, you wouldn't let me win without a fight." A faint smile ghosted across his lips. "That's still in you. Use it."

You swallowed hard, caught between shame and gratitude. The years hadn't dulled him—if anything, they'd sharpened him. But the edge wasn't turned against you anymore.

"I hate that you're right," you muttered.

Carlos's smile widened just a fraction. "Some things never change."

Something in your chest loosened, just slightly. Enough for you to straighten your spine, swipe your tears, and whisper, "Okay. Let's keep going."

"Good." His tone shifted back to brisk, businesslike. "We'll try the quieter aisles. Books, magazines, seasonal displays. Places she might wander if she wanted space."

You nodded, drawing a shaky breath. For the first time since this nightmare began, the panic wasn't controlling you.

Carlos's hand brushed your elbow as he guided you forward—not possessive, just steady. The contact lingered, warming your skin.

And despite yourself, you realized you were leaning into it.

And then, through the chaos, you heard it.

"Mommy?"

You froze. The voice was small, shaky, but unmistakable. "Ellie?" You spun toward the sound, heart in your mouth.

She stood at the end of the frozen foods aisle, clutching her stuffed bunny to her chest, eyes wide and wet. Relief hit you so hard your knees nearly buckled.

"Ellie!" You ran, dropped to your knees, and wrapped her tight against you, breathing her in like air after drowning. "Oh my baby, my baby—"

Her little arms locked around your neck. "I couldn't find you," she sobbed.

"I was right here. I'll always be right here," you whispered, kissing the top of her head again and again, tears burning your eyes.

A shadow fell over you, and you looked up. Carlos was there, breathless but smiling in sheer relief.

"Told you," he said softly. "Kids don't vanish."

You pulled Ellie back just enough so she could see him. "Mr. Carlos helped us," you murmured.

Ellie sniffled, peeking at him through damp lashes. "Thank you," she whispered, shy.

Carlos crouched down, eye level with her. "You scared the daylights out of your mom, kiddo," he said gently. "Next time, you stick close, yeah? Supermarkets are for sprinkles, not hide-and-seek."

Ellie gave a tiny nod, burying her face back in your shoulder.

For a moment, the three of you stayed there in the fluorescent glow, carts squeaking around you, the world carrying on as if your entire universe hadn't just cracked open and stitched itself back together.

Finally, Carlos rose and extended a hand to help you up. You hesitated—because taking it meant acknowledging something you weren't sure you were ready to name—but your hand slipped into his anyway. His grip was strong, warm, steady.

You didn't let go of Ellie's hand for the rest of the checkout. If she so much as blinked, you noticed. She clutched her bunny and your sleeve all at once, her little face pale from the scare.

Carlos stayed close behind, steering the abandoned cart back to you when you almost left it, gently reminding you to breathe when your chest threatened to lock up.

By the time you stepped outside, the air felt thinner, easier to swallow. The worst was over. Ellie tugged on your hand, her voice small.

"Can we... still get ice cream, Mommy?"

You almost laughed at the absurdity of it — but the request felt like exactly what you all needed. A reset. A soft landing after the fall.

"Yeah, sweetheart," you said, brushing hair from her damp cheeks. "We can get ice cream."

Carlos tilted his head toward the street. "I know a place. Two blocks over. Best sprinkles in town."

Ellie perked up, and even though part of you wanted to retreat straight home and lock the doors forever, the look on her face — and the steady presence at your side — made you nod.

"Alright," you said quietly. "Lead the way."

The ice cream shop was one of those cheerful little places with pastel walls and too many neon signs, the kind of place Ellie adored. She ran inside ahead of you, her pigtails bouncing, already pressed against the glass case of flavors by the time you and Carlos stepped through the door.

"Strawberry with rainbow sprinkles!" she announced to the teenager behind the counter as if she owned the place.

You laughed, shaking your head. "Guess we're not looking at the menu, then."

Carlos chuckled too, low in his chest, and stepped up to order. "One scoop of black coffee, cone. And make hers a sprinkle mountain," he added, jerking his thumb toward Ellie.

The girl behind the counter giggled as she handed over the towering cones, and the three of you found a booth near the window. Ellie swung her legs beneath the table, happily humming between bites.

For a while, the shop was filled only with the sound of her chatter and the clink of spoons against bowls. You felt yourself finally starting to relax. Until Carlos glanced at you, hesitated, then asked quietly, "So... what happened with you and..?"

You blinked, caught off guard. "You mean me and—"

"Yeah." He didn't finish the name. He didn't have to.

Your hand tightened around your spoon. For a second, you thought about brushing it off with a joke, like you would've back in high school when letting Carlos see any weakness felt unthinkable. But there was no teasing glint in his eyes now, only a careful patience.

You exhaled, looking down at your melting scoop of chocolate. "He wasn't built for this," you said finally. "For us. He loved the idea of a family, but the reality... it was too much. Responsibility doesn't come with an off switch."

Carlos's brow furrowed, but he didn't interrupt.

"He wanted freedom more than he wanted me. More than he wanted her." You tilted your head toward Ellie, who was now absorbed in the serious work of keeping her cone from dripping down her hand.

Silence settled between you, heavier than you expected. But it wasn't uncomfortable—it was the kind of silence that gave space, that let words breathe instead of smothering them.

Ellie suddenly leaned over, grinning with pink ice cream on her lips. "Mommy, try mine!" She shoved the cone dangerously close to your face.

You laughed, took a small bite, and made an exaggerated "mmm" sound until she squealed in delight. When you looked up again, Carlos was watching you with an expression you didn't recognize. Not pity. Something softer. Something warmer.

For the first time, you realized how strange it felt, sitting across from him without the barbs and the competition of your teenage years. Stranger still was the thought that maybe—just maybe—you didn't mind it.

Ellie was halfway through her cone, face sticky with sprinkles, when she suddenly turned to Carlos.

"Do you have kids?" she asked, her voice as casual as if she'd asked whether he liked sprinkles or not.

You nearly choked on your spoonful of ice cream. "Ellie—"

Carlos looked surprised, but not uncomfortable. He leaned his elbows on the table, meeting her wide-eyed stare. "Nope. No kids."

Ellie licked at her cone thoughtfully, as if processing this. "You should. You're funny."

Heat crawled up your neck. "Ellie."

But Carlos only chuckled. "Well, thank you. That's a big compliment coming from you."

Ellie grinned. "You could play hide-and-seek with me. You're tall, so you'd be easy to find."

The corners of his mouth twitched. "That doesn't sound very fair."

"Life isn't fair," she replied matter-of-factly, and he laughed, genuinely laughed. The sound caught you off guard.

You busied yourself wiping Ellie's hands with a napkin, pretending you weren't watching the way Carlos softened under her attention. Pretending you didn't notice how natural it looked, the three of you at this table like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

For a moment, you let yourself breathe in the possibility — and that was terrifying in its own way.

The apartment was quiet again, Ellie tucked safely into bed with her stuffed bunny pressed against her chest. You kissed her forehead, whispered a promise you hoped she'd never need tested again — I'll always find you.

In the living room, you sank onto the couch, finally letting your body feel the exhaustion that panic had burned through earlier. The house felt too big and too empty, the way it always did after Ellie fell asleep.

Your phone buzzed on the coffee table. You reached for it, expecting a reminder email or a random notification.

It was a text. From an unsaved number, though you didn't need to ask who it was.

Just making sure you two made it home safe.

You stared at the screen longer than necessary, thumb hovering over the keyboard. A dozen replies spun through your mind — something sarcastic, something casual, something you wouldn't regret later. Instead, you typed the simplest truth:

We're home. Thanks, Carlos. ;)

The three little dots appeared almost immediately, then vanished. You set the phone down, but your chest was still tight, your heart restless. Because for the first time in years, you weren't sure if Carlos was the same rival you remembered... or something else entirely.

And that thought lingered long after the house fell quiet.

[chilling-seavey]

I’ve been seeing someone on here giving sex advice to anons—which is nice to create a safe space to do that!—however, I’ve been seeing they are encouraging the use of household items as sex toys.

Do not do this.

Do not use household items as sex toys.

This is so incredibly unsafe for many reasons. Please save up for a real, safe, genuine sex toy if possible. So that you will not risk harm to yourself or your body. Sex toys are specifically made with body-safe materials for this very reason and created of shapes and sizes that will not do harm to your pelvic floor or vaginal walls or anything else you use them for.

If you must use household items, if you (for some reason) have absolutely no other choice, please make sure they are cleaned with body safe soap first and put a condom overtop to prevent risk. Do not use items that can break (glass etc) or have a chance of physically injuring you in other ways (splintered wood etc). And, for god sake, don’t use communal items you share with others. That’s disgusting and downright rude.

I didn’t want to directly get involved and make this person feel targeted or anything but I’ve seen it more than once and it’s really rubbed me the wrong way. If these anons don’t know any better and listen to this advice and hurt themselves… I just couldn’t ignore it. 🤍

[zerozerozio]

bring back tumblr ask culture let me. bother you with questions and statements

[boimann]

reblog to let people know it's ok to bother you with questions and statements

[sphoria-63]

The Misdelivery Chaos 18+ (CL16)

Summary : A witty and rebellious young noble chafes against the rigid expectations of high society, seeking freedom from the endless formalities and pretenses around him. In a playful act of mischief, he finds a way to express his true self, sparking unexpected connections with those who secretly share his sentiments.

➢ Noble!Dom! Charles Leclerc x Noble!Sub! Fem reader (no use of y/n)

➢ Word count : 14.1k

➣ Warnings : 18, Explicit sexual scenes, including penetration, oral sex, fingering, cumplay, squirting, sexual roleplay involving verbal teasing, playful humiliation, flirtatious banter, unprotected sex, switch! characters (?), strong sexual language, including coarse or explicit terms.

A/N : More Charles oneshot. I promise I'll publish the other drivers oneshot soon. Also this is so long pls dont get bored HAHA im trying to keep it as entertaining as it could be.

MY MASTERLIST

Charles never quite understood why his family insisted on dragging him to balls, dinners, and musical recitals when they knew very well what would happen: he would sulk in the corner, refuse to dance, refuse to converse, and then, when the servants weren't looking, quietly slip out a side door before the soup was even served.

The problem, as he saw it, wasn't that he disliked people. He liked people just fine—especially the amusing, clever ones who weren't stuffed into starched collars, forced to compliment chandeliers, and expected to argue about crop yields with glassy smiles. What he hated was the performance. The endless parade of nobles in lace and jewels, all saying the same things in slightly different words, as if their titles would collapse if they dared to speak honestly.

So it became his reputation: the boring son of a powerful house. Not boring because he had no spirit, but boring because he refused to play along. His brothers played the charming heirs  and Charles—well—Charles wandered off.

Tonight had been no different. His family had staged yet another dinner, with guests so important his mother nearly sprained her spine from bowing. Charles attended just long enough to kiss his mother's hand, pretend to greet a cousin, and then mutter something about needing fresh air.

No one even tried to stop him anymore.

He found himself in his chambers, slumped on a chair with his boots still on, staring at the crackling fireplace. A bottle of wine—already half-drained—sat within reach. He tipped it, letting the crimson liquid splash lazily into a goblet, and muttered aloud, "If I have to hear one more speech about dowries, I'll set the drapes alight."

The idea made him grin. But then the grin faded. He wanted to do something. Anything.

His eyes wandered to the writing desk shoved in the corner of his room. It was the kind of desk that hadn't been used in years, stacked with unopened invitations, half-written apologies to hosts he'd offended by not attending their events, and a thick layer of dust. Still, the quills were there. The parchment. The wax seals with his family crest.

Slowly, Charles rose. He dragged the chair over, brushed the dust aside, and sat down.

What began as a joke in his head spilled onto the page.

"To whoever finds this wretched thing, I offer my condolences. You are likely trapped, at this very moment, in some ballroom that reeks of perfume and false laughter. Perhaps someone is asking you about the weather. Perhaps someone else is boasting about their new hunting dogs. If you feel an urge to fling yourself out of the nearest window, do not resist it. I shall not blame you."

Charles chuckled under his breath. His hand moved more quickly now, scrawling lines with the gleeful spite of a man who had finally found an outlet.

"Do you know what I'd give to see one of these dinners collapse into chaos? To watch the ladies hurl their fans at one another like daggers, or the men wrestle each other into the soup tureen? Tell me, stranger, if you feel the same: do you ever want to scream, just to see if anyone notices?"

He leaned back, lips quirking. The words were not poetry, but they had teeth. They amused him. And that was more than anything else had done in weeks.

When he finished, he folded the parchment neatly, sealed it shut—not with his family crest, but with a plain lump of wax melted from a candle—and stared at the envelope.

The question was, what now?

He could toss it into the fire and call it an amusing way to pass half an hour.

Or...

Charles's grin sharpened.

"Why not?" he said aloud.

An hour later, he was striding through town under the cover of night, hood pulled low over his face. The post office was half-asleep, only a single clerk yawning behind the counter.

Charles didn't approach; instead, he sauntered casually by, as if he had every right to be loitering at this hour, and with a flick of his wrist dropped the sealed envelope into the outgoing pile.

The clerk blinked at the sudden addition but shrugged and went back to his ledger.

Charles stuffed his hands in his pockets, whistling as he left.

There. Someone would open it. Someone would read it. Maybe they'd laugh, maybe they'd be scandalized, maybe they'd spit out their tea. He didn't care.

All he knew was that for the first time in ages, he felt alive. Mischief, it seemed, suited him far better than dancing.

And perhaps, if he wasn't careful, this little game might just become a habit.

The first of the strange letters arrived on a Tuesday morning, tucked between the usual stack of bills, formal invitations, and tedious notices from the town council. You hadn't thought much of it at first. Its wax seal was plain, unmarked—no family crest, no elaborate ribbon, no ostentatious display of heritage, which was unusual. Nobles loved nothing more than ensuring their insignias were seen and admired, as though a coat of arms could disguise dull wit.

You broke it open with mild curiosity, expecting some provincial shopkeeper's plea for patronage or a neighbor's complaint about horses trampling gardens.

You blinked. Then read it again. And again.

By the third time, your lips had curled into a smile you couldn't quite suppress.

It wasn't the words themselves—they were absurd, reckless, a bit scathing—but the tone of them. Whoever had written this had managed to capture, in half a page, what you'd privately thought for years but had never dared say aloud.

You turned the parchment over, searching for a name. There was none.

You laughed. An unladylike, startled laugh that startled even your maid, Marie, who had just entered carrying a tray of tea.

"Something amusing, my lady?" she asked, raising her brows.

"Just unexpected," you murmured, folding the letter quickly before she could peek. It felt oddly personal, as though the words were meant for you alone, though reason insisted that couldn't be true.

Marie leaned closer, far too curious for her own good. "A love letter?"

"Hardly," you scoffed, though warmth rose in your cheeks at the very suggestion. "The opposite of love. Whoever wrote this despises everything we're supposed to adore."

Marie tilted her head, lips twitching. "Sounds like a dangerous man. You should burn it."

Instead, you tucked it into the drawer of your vanity, beneath a tangle of ribbons and hairpins. "Or perhaps I'll keep it."

"Keep it?" Marie's tone was incredulous.

"As a novelty." You forced nonchalance, though already you knew you'd read it again tonight, perhaps twice, just to hear the mocking voice in your head.

Marie narrowed her eyes at you, suspicious. "Novelty, indeed."

Still, you tucked the letter away instead of tossing it aside. The other correspondence—the thick cream envelopes embossed with gold lettering, the perfumed invitations to tedious luncheons—you left to pile on the desk, forgotten. But this one you slipped into your vanity drawer, hidden beneath ribbons and hairpins.

That night, you read it again before bed. The handwriting was neat, slanted but deliberate, like someone who had been taught to write properly and yet refused to make it graceful. The voice—whoever he was—was mischievous, playful, and just a little dangerous.

The next morning, another letter arrived.

"This morning I was paraded before a countess who insisted on asking my opinion about lace. Lace! As if my thoughts on frills might alter the destiny of the kingdom. I gave her my most serious expression and told her that lace was the very fabric of civilization. She swooned.

What a world we live in, where an honest answer would have had me exiled but a nonsense one makes me clever.

Stranger, I ask you: do you play along? Or do you ever feel the itch to tip the chessboard over entirely, scatter the pieces, and watch everyone scramble to pick them up again?"

They weren't addressed to you by name. In fact, they weren't addressed at all. Just folded, sealed, and somehow slipped into your delivery like a secret only the post itself conspired to keep.

Each one painted a sharper portrait of the writer. He was clever, restless, utterly disdainful of noble conventions—and yet, beneath the mocking, there was a pulse of loneliness you couldn't ignore. He wanted chaos, yes, but he also wanted someone who would understand. Someone who might laugh instead of gasping in horror.

You began to anticipate them. Your mornings, once dreary with endless calls from society ladies and stern reminders from your governess, now sparked with the thrill of wondering: would there be another? What would he write this time?

You told yourself it was harmless. A diversion. A bit of fun. You weren't naive enough to think that anonymous letters were safe—whoever he was, he was bold, and boldness often spelled trouble—but you couldn't deny the way your heart beat faster whenever you saw that plain seal tucked among the clutter.

Another letter arrived the next day :

"Confession: I don't know why I keep writing these. Habit, perhaps. Or desperation. Or because, when I picture someone on the other side of this page, I imagine a mind sharper than the blades on a duelist's sword.

Whoever you are, you make me braver than I ought to be. I imagine you reading this and laughing—and for once, I don't feel quite so alone in this parade of masks and manners.

So laugh, stranger. Mock me if you wish. But keep reading."

And though you didn't yet know his name, or his face, or why he had chosen you, you knew one thing with certainty: he is mischievous

The next morning, you woke with a peculiar flutter in your chest. It was ridiculous, you told yourself, to expect another. The first letter had been a fluke, some mischief that by now had surely burned itself out.

And yet, when Marie came bustling in with the post balanced on her tray, you sat up a little straighter.

"There's a plain one again," she said lightly, sliding the unmarked envelope on top. "No crest. No perfume. Nothing at all."

Your fingers snatched it before you could stop yourself.

Marie smirked. "So it is a love letter."

"Absolutely not," you said, too quickly. "It's—"

But the seal was already broken, and the words inside pulled you in.

"I wonder if you survived. If the chandeliers fell, or if the soup boiled over, or if you dared scream as I suggested. If you did, I salute you. If you did not—well, then I pity your restraint. The world applauds quiet obedience, but secretly it craves spectacle. Tell me, stranger: would you rather be admired for grace, or remembered for chaos?"

You let out a laugh—startled, unladylike.

Marie nearly dropped the tray. "What on earth—?"

"Nothing," you said quickly, folding the page. But your lips wouldn't stop curving, betraying you.

Marie leaned against the post, arms crossed. "You smile like that, and tell me it's nothing?"

"It's nothing dangerous," you insisted. "Merely... amusing."

She eyed you skeptically, but said no more.

Another letter came folded in the same unmarked way as the others, though by now you had learned to recognize the slant of that anonymous hand. Marie was the one to bring it in, setting it atop the stack of bills with an exaggerated sigh.

"Another mystery, my lady," she said, pursing her lips as she eyed the seal. "The postman must think you very fascinating these days."

You snatched it up before she could look too closely. "Don't be absurd. It's nothing."

"Nothing doesn't make you smile like that," Marie said, tilting her head.

You rolled your eyes, but the truth was your heart had already quickened. The plain seal, the weight of the parchment — it was exactly what you had been waiting for.

Once Marie left, you unfolded it quickly.

"Stranger, I have discovered a delightful new game. It involves counting how many times in an evening someone says the word charming without meaning it. The current record is sixteen — and I assure you, not a single one of the gentlemen in question was remotely so.

Tell me, do you endure this tedium too? Do you smile until your cheeks ache? Or do you sit in corners like I do, inventing ways you might set the punch bowl aflame without anyone noticing?

Yours in boredom,

A fellow prisoner

You laughed so suddenly you nearly spilled your tea. "Sixteen," you whispered. "Of course it's sixteen."

That night, you read it again in bed, biting back a grin until your maid rolled her eyes.

"Who is he?" Marie asked as she brushed out your hair.

"I don't know what you mean."

Marie arched a brow. "I've seen corpses with less blush than you have right now."

"Out," you ordered, tossing a pillow at her. But when you were alone, you pressed the letter to your lips and whispered, "Who are you?"

The letter was worse — or better, depending on how you saw it.

"Stranger, I had a thought tonight while the violins wailed through another interminable sonata. If I shouted across the room — if I told one scandalous truth out loud — would anyone hear me? Would they pretend they hadn't?

Or would one person laugh?

I find myself wondering if you would."

This time you did not laugh. Your fingers lingered on the page long after you'd finished reading, your pulse loud in your ears. It felt too pointed. Too direct.

Could it be coincidence? Perhaps he sent these to everyone, a careless prank to startle half the town. But no. The voice in the letters had begun to sound familiar in its strangeness, as though he were speaking to you alone.

That night you could not sleep. You turned over in bed, the words haunting you. Would you laugh?

By midnight , you had decided.

You would find out.

The streets were quiet when you slipped out, cloak drawn tight around your shoulders. Marie would scold you half to death if she knew, but you had timed it well — just after supper, when the noble quarter was dozing and the post office lamps still burned faintly.

You pressed yourself against the shadows as you neared the squat little building. The clerk was still inside, half-asleep at his desk, scratching something into his ledger. For a moment you wondered if this was foolish — if you'd be caught, if you'd ruin everything.

Then you saw him.

A tall figure in a hood, striding casually up to the desk as though he had every right to be there. He held a bundle of folded letters in his hand. With a flick of his wrist, he dropped them onto the outgoing pile, so swiftly the clerk barely looked up.

But you noticed. You noticed everything — the careless tilt of his shoulders, the quick grin he gave himself as though pleased with the mischief. And when he passed close enough to the lantern light, you saw the face beneath the hood.

Lord Charles.

The son of the Monégasque house. The one whispered about as the boring lord, the quiet one, the disappointment at every ball.

Except now, you saw him smile like a devil.

Your breath caught. Of all people, it was him.

You pressed yourself back into the shadows, watching as he tipped his head, whistling softly, and disappeared into the night.

The letters had a face now. A name. A heartbeat.

And you weren't sure whether you wanted to laugh or let him burn.

You hardly remembered the walk home. The image of Charles — hood pulled low, grin sharp as a blade — clung to you like perfume. The quiet, sullen noble your parents always dismissed at parties... he was the one who had been filling your mornings with laughter?

By the time you reached your chambers, your pulse hadn't calmed. You shut the door, leaned against it, and let out a laugh you couldn't contain.

"Lord Charles," you whispered, savoring the name like a secret. "Of course it's you."

Marie poked her head in. "You're in an awfully fine mood for someone who just went to bed half an hour ago."

"Leave me," you said, flapping a hand at her.

She narrowed her eyes. "You're hiding something."

"Obviously," you shot back with a grin. "That's half the fun."

Before she could press further, you shut her out  and dragged the writing desk closer to the lamp. The parchment gleamed pale in the light, waiting.

If Charles wanted mischief, you would give him mischief.

You dipped your quill, and for a long moment, simply stared at the page. Your first instinct was to scold him — for the reckless game, for slipping letters into noble houses like bombs waiting to detonate. But then you remembered the sly curve of his mouth, the spark in his eyes, and your irritation dissolved into something warmer.

So you began.

Your Letter One

"To the so-called prisoner,

I believe I am in possession of your escape notes. Imagine my surprise when I opened a plain-sealed letter and found not bills, not invitations, but a confession of boredom so dramatic I feared the writer might expire mid-sentence.

You ought to know — I laughed. Not politely, not demurely, but out loud. So congratulations, stranger. You've accomplished what even the finest orchestra cannot.

But I must ask: why waste your wit in anonymity? Why not scream your scandalous truths across the ballroom as you so long to do? Or are you braver on paper than you are in person?

Yours,

A reader who is not nearly as dull as you presume"

You blew gently across the ink, grinning as it dried. There. Let him stew in that.

The next morning, you tucked it into the post pile yourself, heart racing as the clerk glanced at you curiously. "Just correspondence," you said airily, and swept out before he could ask.

Charles's POV

When the letter arrived, Charles nearly tossed it aside with the rest. He had grown accustomed to seeing his own handwriting staring back at him once the envelopes came through the system — little ghosts of his boredom scattered across the town.

But this one was different. The seal was plain, as his were, yet the hand inside was not his own.

He read it once. Then twice. By the third time, his ears had gone hot.

Someone had written back.

And not just anyone. Someone clever. Someone  who laughed at his words — really laughed — and dared to call him a coward to his face without even knowing it was him.

"Not nearly as dull," he murmured, eyes scanning the lines again.

For the first time in years, Charles felt cornered — and thrilled.

He leaned back in his chair, letter dangling from his fingers, and laughed. A full, unguarded laugh that startled his valet at the door.

"Are you quite well, my lord?" the man asked.

"Better than well," Charles said, his grin sharp as he folded the letter. "Much, much better."

You sat at your desk long past midnight, quill poised above the paper. For nights you'd reread his words, the daring, scandalous sentences that slipped beneath your skin and refused to leave. Now that you knew who the "phantom writer" was—Charles, the ever-vanishing son of a noble house—you couldn't resist.

You wrote slowly at first, nib of ink scratching.

"To the mischief-maker who thinks himself clever:

You're not half as invisible as you believe. Consider this a warning—or perhaps, an invitation."

You paused, lips curling despite yourself. Your maid would call it dangerous. Your parents would call it disgraceful. But the thought of Charles, smirking in the shadows as he read this, thrilled you.

The letter grew sharper, teasing.

"If you mean to mock this world, you'll need someone better to spar with. I accept the challenge. But beware—your little rebellion may no longer be yours alone."

When you sealed it, your heart drummed faster than propriety would allow.

At dawn, you slipped into the streets cloaked in your hood, your carriage waiting at the corner. With a furtive glance, you approached the post office, tucking the letter into the slot.

For a moment, you stood there—breath misting in the morning chill—imagining him collecting it. Imagining the flicker of surprise on his arrogant face when he realized his words had been answered.

For the first time, you weren't just the reader.

You were the player.

You stole into the quiet streets, shadows clinging to your skirts. At the post office, the single candlelight flickered against the glass. You slid the letter through the slot, fingers brushing the cool iron, and lingered only a heartbeat before retreating.

Your chest heaved with something between terror and delight. For the first time, you had crossed the line—from silent witness to willing conspirator.

And Charles, whether he liked it or not, now had a partner in his game.

Letter I — Charles to You

To the lady who dares to reply,

I confess, you've startled me. I had begun to think my words drifted into a void, read only by moths and dust. But you — you noticed my ink stains. Bold eyes, sharp tongue.

So, tell me: are you here to scold me, or to tempt me further?

Either way, I am listening.

— A Gentleman Who Should Know Better

Letter II — You to Charles

To the Gentleman with a careless hand,

Tempt you? Hardly. You sound far too confident already. I write only because your words amused me — a rare thing, these days.

Still, I find myself wondering: if you despise the noble world so much, why not escape it altogether? Or are you too entangled in its silks and wines to ever live without them?

— A Lady Who Sees Through You

Charles read this one three times, a grin tugging his lips wider with every pass. He could feel her—your—voice already in his head, teasing, challenging, tugging him forward.

Letter III — Charles to You

To the Lady Who Sees Through Me,

If I escaped entirely, what mischief would I cause? Whose patience would I test? And besides, would you really prefer I left you to the dull safety of silence?

Admit it — you'd miss my letters.

— The Gentleman Who Knows Better Than to Stop

Letter IV — You to Charles

To the Gentleman who flatters himself,

Perhaps I would miss them.

But if you truly wish to keep my attention, you'll need to do better than ink-stained ramblings and cheap provocations.

I am not so easily won.

— The Lady Who Waits to Be Impressed

And so it began.

With each exchange, the paper carried more than words. Your laughter folded in the margins, his smirk pressed into the ink. What started as playful jabs slipped toward confessions and secret longings neither dared to name alou

Letter V — Charles to You

To the Lady Who Waits to Be Impressed,

You wound me. Do you think me incapable of rising to the challenge?

I could tell you the exact shade of laughter you have — sharp at first, then soft, like the last bubbles of champagne in a forgotten glass. I could sketch the way you must tilt your head when amused, as though granting the world a very small, very private indulgence.

But perhaps I imagine too much. Perhaps I risk sounding like a man who watches shadows for a glimpse of you. Would that frighten you? Or thrill you?

— The Gentleman Who Finds Amusement in You Alone

Letter VI — You to Charles

To the Gentleman of Unruly Imagination,

How very dramatic. To think you can describe my laughter without ever having heard it. Suppose it's hideous — braying, shrill, the sort that frightens children and terrifies horses. What then?

And as for shadows: if I were to learn you watch mine too closely, I would... perhaps step a little slower. Just to see if you trip over your own intrigue. But let me ask you something in turn: are you always this restless, or do I simply bring it out in you?

— The Lady Who Enjoys Tempting Fate

Charles read this one twice, then dropped it on his desk and cursed softly into his hand. You were clever. Worse — you were clever about him.

Letter VII — Charles to You

To the Lady Who Enjoys Tempting Fate,

Restless, yes. But you? You are a provocation I hadn't counted on. My family calls me impatient, reckless — but never ensnared. And now I find myself rereading your words at night, and in the mornings, and once again after I ought to be asleep.

If I am restless, it is because you keep me so.

Tell me — does the thought please you?

— The Gentleman Who Sleeps Poorly Because of You

Letter VIII — You to Charles

To the Gentleman Who Sleeps Poorly,

Oh, it pleases me greatly.

But you must be careful. When a lady discovers she has such power, she tends to test its limits.

Suppose I told you I dreamed last night of an anonymous figure standing far too close — a breath at my ear, words far too scandalous to put in ink. Suppose I woke with my cheeks hot.

Would you admit you dreamed the same?

— The Lady Who Might Be More Reckless Than You

And just like that, the letters had stopped being diversions. They had become confessions disguised as games, flirtations tucked safely behind wax seals.

The ballroom glittered like a jewel box cracked open. Chandeliers blazed, violins shrieked their endless waltz, silk skirts whispered across the marble. Everyone sparkled, everyone smiled, everyone played their part. Everyone except Charles.

He had been forced into attendance — again. Dragged from his chambers with a fresh coat, his cravat tied too tightly, his mother's steely warning in his ears. Stay visible, Charles. Do not embarrass us. For once in your life, try to act like a Leclerc of Monaco.

And yet, within minutes, he had drifted to the  corner like smoke curling away from a flame. A glass of champagne dangled lazily from his fingers, his back slouched against the gilded wall. He let his gaze wander over the crowd, cataloguing the ridiculousness of it all: powdered faces, forced laughter, men comparing horses as though mares could buy them glory.

"Another night in paradise," Charles muttered to himself, taking a long swallow.

He thought he was alone. He preferred it that way.

Which was why he blinked when a woman approached, weaving past a pair of gossiping duchesses, her steps too steady, her eyes far too clear to be here only for the music.

You.

He didn't know it yet — not really. To him, you were just another noble lady, perhaps bored, perhaps lost, perhaps foolish enough to try speaking to the Leclerc ghost sulking in the corner.

Still, he straightened slightly, summoning that sly grin he kept for moments like this. "You must be very desperate to abandon the dance floor for this corner," he drawled, tilting his glass toward the swirling crowd. "What did you do, trample your partner's toes? Or did the endless talk of weather finally drive you mad?"

It was meant to dismiss you, to make you fluster and retreat. He was good at that. He liked being left alone.

Because now, it wasn't just mischief.

It was a duel.

He let his eyes sweep over you, deliberately slow, deliberately careless, then tipped his head back as though the sight of you barely warranted his attention.

"Or perhaps you're one of those ladies who simply prefers lurking in corners," he went on, swirling his champagne. "The mysterious type. You stand there, eyes wide, lips pursed, and let the suitors come chasing after you. A clever trick. Saves you the trouble of smiling at half the room."

He smirked, sipping again, his voice silk and mockery. "Tell me—what will it be, hm? Do you want me to look properly enchanted, or should I pretend not to notice you at all?"

His tone was that of a man who had already won the game, a man too accustomed to ladies giggling, blushing, and scurrying back to safety. He expected the same of you.

And that was when you smiled, leaned just a little closer, and said, quite casually:

"If you feel an urge to fling yourself out of the nearest window, do not resist it. I shall not blame you."

The champagne nearly slipped from his fingers. For a flicker of a second, the smirk cracked. His eyes snapped to yours, sharper now, as if re-seeing you entirely.

"What did you just say?" he asked, tone deceptively light.

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. "Oh, nothing. Just a phrase I happened to stumble across recently."

His jaw tightened. He laughed, but it was hollow, forced. "Strange phrase to repeat at a ball, don't you think?"

"Strange letters to send at all," you countered softly, the corners of your mouth tugging upward.

There it was—the tell. The faintest twitch of his lips, the way his hand stilled on the glass. He tried for nonchalance, but his silence betrayed him.

You leaned in just enough for your voice to curl between you, intimate, private. "You hide well, Lord Charles. But not nearly well enough."

His name on your tongue was a blow. His mask faltered. He turned away abruptly, tossing back the last of his drink as if drowning the moment. Then, with a low scoff, he muttered, "Enjoy your evening, my lady," and pushed off the wall, slipping into the crowd without another glance.

But the damage was done.

His pulse was erratic. His ears burned. You knew.

And for the first time since he had begun his little game, Charles Leclerc of Monaco was not in control.

Charles found the next glass of champagne before the first had even settled in his blood. He smiled easily, greeted a passing Viscount with a quick quip, even bowed gallantly to a young Duchess whose laugh rang far too shrill.

To anyone watching, he was himself again: composed, charming, unbothered.

But the laughter lingered too long on his lips. His gaze flicked—once, twice—searching the ballroom for a flash of your gown, the tilt of your head. He caught himself and forced his attention elsewhere, leaning lazily against the marble column as though the world itself amused him.

"Lord Charles," a Baron drawled, clasping his shoulder. "You look as if you've stolen the night itself."

Charles's grin sharpened, rehearsed. "Stolen? No, no. Merely borrowing until dawn."

The group chuckled, pleased. They didn't notice the way his hand tightened just a hair around his glass, or how his eyes darkened each time he thought he glimpsed you in the crowd.

He was shrugging it off—or so he told himself. Another jest, another toast, another slow turn on the dance floor with a partner whose name he did not even catch.

But beneath the mask, the words gnawed.

You hide well, Charles. But not nearly well enough.

And though he smiled, and though he laughed, Charles Leclerc knew the game had shifted.

The night air was cooler than the ballroom, crisp with the scent of roses from the manicured gardens. The carriages lined the gravel drive in neat rows, liveried footmen waiting with lanterns, their flames bending in the breeze.

You descended the marble steps, your cloak gathered close, the faintest smile still tugging at your lips from your earlier exchange. The evening had given you exactly what you wanted: proof.

Your carriage door was opened, the lantern inside glowing warm. You lifted your skirts, one foot poised to step up—

"Wait."

The voice was low, urgent, strained in a way that no one else would notice but you.

Charles.

He strode down the steps with none of the lazy composure he'd worn in the ballroom, his coat tails snapping with the briskness of his pace. A few heads turned, whispers fluttering, but he didn't care. His gaze was fixed on you.

Before you could settle into the carriage, he  slipped inside after you, the door shutting with a decisive thud. The space shrank immediately, the air heavy with the mingled scents of parchment and champagne.

He leaned forward, one arm braced on the wall beside you, his voice low and tight. "You don't know what you think you know."

You arched a brow, feigning innocence. "Oh? Then why chase me into my carriage, Lord Leclerc?"

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Because whatever you think you've discovered—it cannot leave your lips. Do you understand?"

Your smile sharpened, equal parts mockery and challenge. "So you admit there's something to spill."

His eyes darkened, frustration laced with something more volatile. "Careful, my lady."

"And if I am not?" you murmured, leaning back against the velvet seat, daring him closer.

The silence stretched taut, pulsing with unsaid threats and promises.

The carriage jolted as it pulled forward, lantern light flickering across Charles' face. His arm stayed braced beside you, caging you in, his expression a storm barely contained.

"You think this is amusing," he said, voice low, almost a growl.

"Of course I do." You tilted your head, deliberately calm. "You parade yourself as the Leclerc heir who hates his duties, and then—what? Scribble secrets to strangers like some bored schoolboy? It's rather charming."

"Charming?" His mouth twisted. "It's dangerous."

"Then you should have chosen your audience more wisely." Your gaze held his, steady, needling. "What if I read them aloud at supper tomorrow? I imagine the duchesses would choke on their pudding."

He shifted closer, the air between you thinning. "You wouldn't dare."

"Wouldn't I?" Your smile curved, wicked. "One word, Charles. One phrase. And the careful mask you wear—" You brushed a finger lightly along the edge of his cravat, watching him tense. "—crumbles."

His hand shot out, catching your wrist—not harsh, but firm. "You like to play with fire," he said, though his voice was rougher now, betraying the heat curling beneath his restraint.

"And you," you whispered, leaning closer until your lips nearly grazed his ear, "like being caught."

His laugh was short, almost incredulous, as though he couldn't believe you'd cornered him so neatly. "You're insufferable."

"And you're predictable."

His eyes burned as they met yours again, no mask this time—just the raw frustration of a man undone. The silence stretched, thick with something neither of you wanted to name, until he finally exhaled, leaning back just enough to release your wrist.

But not before his thumb dragged slowly over your pulse, as though testing how fast it beat.

"You will not tell anyone," he murmured. It wasn't a question.

"And if I do?"

His smirk returned then, sharp and dangerous, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Then I suppose I'll have to find a way to silence you."

Your answering laugh was soft, taunting. "Careful, My Lord. That sounds like an invitation."

The carriage rattled on, carrying you both deeper  into the game neither seemed willing—or able—to stop playing.

The carriage rocked along the cobbled street, lanterns swaying overhead. Neither of you spoke at first, though the silence was heavy, weighted with the threat of words unsaid. His hand still hovered near yours, as though he hadn't decided whether to let go or claim.

"You'll have to do better than threats," you said lightly, breaking the quiet. "If you really want me silent."

His head snapped toward you, that sharp Leclerc smirk tugging at his lips again. "You want better?"

Before you could retort, he leaned in.

The kiss was not gentle. His mouth pressed to yours with the urgency of a man cornered, the champagne on his tongue mixing with the taste of recklessness. One hand braced against the carriage wall, the other finding your jaw, tilting your face to his with infuriating precision—as though even in surrender, Charles needed control.

Your laugh broke against his lips, muffled, teasing. "So this is your strategy? Kiss me into secrecy?"

"Seems to be working," he murmured against your mouth, and kissed you again, deeper this time.

The carriage jolted; you stumbled into him, your palm flattening against his chest. His heart thundered beneath your touch, and you felt his body tighten, his arm curling around your waist to pull you fully against him.

"You're bolder in letters," you whispered when you broke apart for breath.

He smirked, forehead pressed to yours. "Give me time. I've been bored for years—I intend to catch up."

His lips found your neck then, tracing the curve beneath your ear, the scrape of his teeth sharp enough to draw a gasp. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, daring. He groaned softly at the pull, and the sound thrilled through you.

His hand slipped lower along your spine, then flattened at your hip, anchoring you against him as if he'd finally given up pretending at restraint. "You drive me mad," he muttered, biting lightly at your throat.

"And you," you gasped, tugging his head back up to crash your mouths together again, "are not nearly as boring as you pretend."

The carriage swayed violently as the horses turned, throwing you both into the corner seat. His laugh was breathless, his hair mussed from your fingers, his cravat pulled half-loose.

"God, you're trouble," Charles whispered, staring at you as though daring himself to stop—and failing spectacularly.

"Then stop chasing me," you challenged, your lips brushing his again.

But he didn't stop.

He kissed you harder.

Charles didn't loosen his hold. One hand framed your face, fingers brushing your cheek, thumb stroking lightly along your jaw. The other had slipped around your waist, pressing you flush against him, bridging the small gap that had kept tension taut all evening.

His lips moved over yours with increasing urgency, tracing, biting lightly, pulling your gasp between kisses. Your hands roamed freely, sliding beneath the silk of his coat, tugging at the lapel, testing the warmth of his chest, feeling the subtle muscles flex beneath your touch.

"My Lord" you breathed, your voice low, teasing, and utterly unguarded. "You're impossible."

"You are far too tempting to resist."

His hands roamed lower, fingers brushing over the curve of your hips, daring, precise. You pressed back instinctively, letting him feel the heat that had built over weeks of letters, teasing glances, and unspoken knowing.

He groaned softly into your mouth, breaking only to nuzzle your neck, leaving a trail of kisses along your jaw, your throat, teasing, claiming. You tilted your head, giving him better access, fingers threading into his hair, tugging him closer as if to tether him to you completely.

"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" you whispered, lips brushing his ear.

"Perfectly," he answered, his lips brushing your collarbone, hands sliding beneath your skirts just enough to ignite shivers, "and if you weren't so daring, I'd have stopped long ago."

But he didn't stop. You didn't want him to.

  His fingers traced along sensitive skin, playful and insistent, teasing without yielding, while your own hands explored freely, tugging at shirt buttons, brushing the warm skin at the nape of his neck.

"Letters are safe," he rasped, biting gently at your shoulder, "but this... this is dangerous."

"Then let's be dangerous," you breathed, pressing fully against him, lips claiming his once more.

The horses clattered along the cobblestones, the night air whipping past, but all they noticed was each other—two souls drawn together by ink, mischief, and unspoken promises, finally, finally free of the masks.

And in the cramped warmth of the carriage, amidst the sway and shadow, neither of you wanted the night—or each other—to end.

Eventually, the fevered pace of kisses and touches slowed, leaving both of you panting, flushed, hearts hammering in the small space. Charles leaned back against the seat, one arm draped over the backrest, the other still brushing lightly along your waist, as if claiming a lingering connection.

You smoothed your skirts, still brushing against him despite yourself, a mischievous gleam in your eyes. "I must say, Lord Leclerc, I didn't expect you to be so bold outside of ink and paper."

He smirked, that practiced Leclerc grin now tinged with genuine amusement. "And here I thought my letters hinted at it sufficiently. Perhaps I underestimated your curiosity."

"Or your arrogance," you teased, leaning just enough to bump your shoulder against his. "One might think the dangerous noble of Monaco could resist temptation."

He chuckled, dark and low, sliding a hand over yours where it rested on the seat. "Temptation finds me whether I resist or not. And you my lady, you make it far too easy."

You laughed softly, tilting your head to brush a stray curl from your face. "Easy? You're the one who chased me down. Don't blame me for accepting the invitation."

His eyes sparkled, both amused and exasperated. "Fair enough. But consider this a warning. One more letter, one more daring move, and you might find the next adventure less... contained."

You leaned back, meeting his gaze evenly. "I look forward to seeing how dangerous you can really be, Lord Charles."

He shook his head, smiling, though the tension in his shoulders hadn't completely eased. "Madness, my lady. Absolute madness."

The carriage slowed at your home, the lanterns casting warm light over the polished steps. Neither of you moved immediately; the moment stretched, both savoring the proximity, the unspoken thrill that hung between you.

Finally, Charles gave a mock bow, brushing the back of his hand across his lips. "Until next time, My Lady."

"And next time," you replied, voice playful, "I might not be so forgiving."

The carriage door opened, and you stepped out, the night air crisp and grounding, leaving him watching until you disappeared inside. The letters, the teasing, the stolen kisses—everything had changed.

And for the first time, both of you knew the game was no longer just about words on paper.

The next morning, your fingers itched for parchment. The letters had begun as a game, a playful exchange of wit and rebellion—but last night had shifted something deeper, something warmer, coiling in your chest like fire.

You dipped your quill in ink, thinking carefully. Not words of decorum or polite commentary, but a message laced with teasing, audacity, and a hint of temptation.

Lord Charles, you began, I trust the evening found you as restless as it did to me? I must confess, the carriage was hardly sufficient for my... curiosity. If one were so inclined, one might consider finding a more private venue for further mischief.

You paused, letting your pen hover. Enough suggestion to ignite, but nothing explicit—just enough to make him imagine possibilities. You signed it, folded it carefully, sealed it, and sent it on its way.

By mid-afternoon, the reply arrived, equally bold:

My Lady,

Your letter arrived with the subtlety of a cannon, and yet I cannot claim to be displeased. A private venue, you say? How intriguing. Rest assured, should your curiosity remain, I am not a man easily deterred by walls, locks, or... convention.

The thrill of it made your cheeks flush. His words were a spark, and your mind wandered to places you hadn't allowed yourself before.

Lord Charles,

I find my thoughts quite... occupied tonight. Perhaps too occupied to attend to proper duties. If mischief calls, you know where to find me.

When his reply came, it was a whisper on the page, a promise barely contained:

My Lady,

You do not understand the danger you tempt me with. But if mischief calls, I am more than willing to answer... provided you are certain of your intentions.

A slow, wicked smile curved your lips. You folded the note, knowing he would read it and feel the stir you already sensed in your own chest. Your heart raced, not from fear, but from anticipation.

The game of letters had deepened. What had begun as clever teasing had blossomed into something entirely more intimate, more daring—and neither of you could resist it.

Dinner was unbearable. Your father droned on about trade routes, your mother preened at compliments over the menu, and the Leclercs of Monaco—polished, proper, shining in their reputation—played their parts flawlessly.

All except Charles.

From your seat across the table, you felt his gaze flick toward you more than once. The faintest curve of his lips when you pretended not to notice. A quirk of his brow when the conversation turned absurd. And then, when the servants refilled glasses and your mother laughed too loudly, you caught it: a whisper from his side of the table, pitched so only you would hear.

"Do you ever think of escape, my lady?"

Your fork stilled. Slowly, you looked up. He wasn't looking at you now, not openly—he sipped his wine, appearing bored as ever. But the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

Your pulse quickened. Escape. Yes.

When dessert was served, you excused yourself  with a polite smile, murmuring something about needing air. As you rose, you felt him rise too. No one paid him any mind—Charles had long ago earned the family reputation of being restless, unmanageable.

You led the way, up the familiar stairwell, heart hammering with every step. By the time you reached your chamber, you could already hear his footsteps following, unhurried but certain.

You closed the door behind you. He was there a moment later, slipping in with a grin that was all wickedness and triumph.

"So," he drawled, letting his eyes sweep the room, lingering on you, "we've finally found a private venue. Better than the carriage , don't you think?"

You arched a brow, refusing to let him see how your pulse raced. "Careful, Charles. You're in my territory now."

He stepped closer, the smirk softening into something darker, hungrier. "Then I suppose," he murmured, "I'll let you set the rules." And immediately the space between you shrank. Charles' gaze roamed over you, sharp and assessing, lips quirking into that maddening, infuriating smirk.

"You've been teasing me for weeks," he murmured, voice low, roughened by desire. "Letters, looks... glances across rooms. And now you bring me here?"

You stepped closer, heart hammering, brushing a hand lightly along his chest. "And if I did?"

He chuckled, a short, dark sound that vibrated through the quiet room. "Then I suppose I'm... obliged to respond."

And respond he did. His lips found yours in an urgent kiss, one hand sliding to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. The other tangled in your hair, tilting your head, claiming your mouth with a confidence that stole your breath.

You gasped into the kiss, fingers brushing beneath the fabric of his coat, testing the warmth of his skin. His lips moved with precision, teasing, biting lightly, trailing down your jaw and along your neck, leaving marks that made you shiver.

"You're impossible," you murmured against his mouth, teasing, tugging his head closer.

"You," he rasped back, "are absolute madness."

His hands roamed lower, tracing along your waist, brushing over the sensitive skin at your hips, pressing you against him with a calculated, maddening pressure. The heat between you built, every touch, every brush of lips, stoking the fire until it became almost unbearable.

You leaned into him, teasing, tugging at his cravat, brushing fingertips over his chest. He groaned softly, lips finding yours again, mouth devouring yours with a hunger that made the air between you electric.

His fingers teased along the edge of your skirts, brushing, tracing, igniting every nerve, while your hands explored freely, tangling in his hair, testing his restraint.

"I can't stop," he murmured, half-groan, half-laugh, the tension in his jaw palpable.

"Neither can I," you admitted, pressing closer, your lips brushing his jaw, then neck, then back to his mouth in a frantic, delicious rhythm.

Charles's fingers hovered near the hem of your blouse, teasing without committing, and you caught him smirking at your reactions. He knows exactly what he's doing, you thought, your pulse quickening with both anticipation and amusement.

"You're enjoying this far too much," you teased, tugging gently at the edge of his cuff.

"Am I?" he countered, eyes glinting mischievously. "I could say the same about you."

The air between you seemed to hum, charged with a playful electricity. Every small movement—your hand brushing his chest, his fingers grazing your waist—felt magnified, teasing, and somehow absurdly intimate. You laughed softly when he leaned close enough that your noses almost touched, the proximity making your heartbeat stutter.

"My Lord," you whispered, half-laughing, half-serious, "if you keep doing that, we'll never get to the end of the dinner."

"Who said I wanted dinner?" he murmured, his lips brushing a fraction too close to yours, enough to make you inhale sharply. "I think I prefer dessert first."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't stop the warmth blooming across your cheeks. Every glance, every brush of skin, every little playful jibe kept your chest tight with anticipation—and for some reason, it was hilarious.

You stepped back slightly, pretending to compose yourself, but he followed with an exaggerated, theatrical sigh. "Oh, please. You know you love this game as much as I do."

"Maybe," you admitted, "but only because you're terrible at it."

"Terrible? Me?" His hands rested just above your hips now, weight shifting closer in mock offense. "I am devastatingly charming, thank you very much."

You laughed, shoving him lightly, and he caught your hands mid-motion, spinning you into a playful twirl. The room erupted in laughter, your hearts hammering, the tension between teasing and desire swirling like a mischievous storm. And yet, in that moment, all the world outside your small, intimate bubble faded—leaving just the two of you, breathless, smiling, and dangerously close.

"I said dessert first," he whispered again, lips twitching near yours, almost tasting the reaction flickering across your face. His other hand slid slightly lower, grazing the curve of your back with an almost lazy familiarity, as if he'd memorized every inch of you just to toy with it.

You could feel the weight of him pressing closer, the subtle brush of his thigh against yours, testing, teasing, daring you to respond.

You wanted to step back, wanted to keep the teasing safe and silly—but every nerve screamed against it. A shiver slid down your spine, hot and demanding, betraying your composure.

The laughter from before now felt distant, replaced by a quiet, intense heat pulsing between you. Charles's eyes caught yours, sharp, knowing, and there was no hiding—both of you knew this game had escalated beyond jokes.

His lips hovered so close it was almost cruel, almost unbearable. The room smelled faintly of him, of something magnetic and dangerous, and you realized your own breath had quickened, shallow and uneven.

You could feel the tension curling around you both like smoke, thick and delicious, and every instinct told you this could be the start of something neither of you would want to pause. Charles's smirk deepened, almost predatory now, and his lips ghosted lower along the curve of your jaw, dragging slow, teasing kisses down your neck.

Your breath hitched, small shivers chasing across your skin as he leaned closer, letting his hands wander with deliberate intent—one tracing your hip, the other grazing the small of your back, pulling you impossibly closer. "God, you taste so good already," he murmured, voice low and rough, brushing your earlobe with his tongue as if to punctuate the words. Your knees threatened to buckle at the intimacy, every nerve alive, every shiver drawn out by the friction of his body pressing into yours.

He tilted you slightly, just enough that his lips hovered over the sensitive spot beneath your ear, flicking teasingly, barely grazing, making a low growl rumble in his chest. The soft brush of his lips against your skin, the deliberate trailing of his tongue, made your chest tighten and your fingers claw lightly at his shoulders.

His hand slipped lower, tracing the curve of your hip with a possessive, teasing pressure, while his mouth continued its slow, deliberate exploration. "I could stay here all night," he whispered, teeth grazing lightly, "making you shiver, making you melt..." His words, husky and thick, dripped with intent, and the warmth of his breath against your neck made your mind spin dangerously.

You could feel the tension building, the delicious ache of anticipation curling through your body as his lips and hands moved in perfect synchrony, teasing, coaxing, testing every reaction. Every brush, every whisper, every deliberate pause pushed you closer to the edge before you even realized how much you wanted more.

Charles's lips drifted lower, grazing the sensitive hollow just above your hipbone, his warm breath fanning over your skin. His hands gripped your thighs lightly, tilting you just enough that his mouth hovered at the edge of you, teasing, exploring, making every nerve in your body flare.

A soft gasp slipped from you as he traced a slow line with his tongue along the outer curve, barely brushing against you, testing, tasting, sending shivers crawling up your spine. "Fuck you're already so wet," he murmured, low and rough, the words vibrating against your skin as he finally pressed his lips more fully, sucking and teasing with deliberate slowness.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer even as your hips jerked involuntarily, meeting his mouth. Every flick of his tongue, made heat pool deep inside, a delicious burn that coiled through your belly and thighs.

He hummed softly against you, a deep, satisfied sound that made you arch instinctively, pressing further into him, craving more of that intimate, urgent attention.

His fingers traced lightly along your inner thigh, brushing teasingly closer to where you throbbed, just barely grazing, coaxing you higher and higher, every flick of his tongue matched by the pressure of his hands. "You taste so damn good," he groaned, letting his lips linger, suck, and explore, making every nerve in your body scream with want.

Your breath came in sharp, shallow bursts, hips tilting, chest rising and falling, caught in the exquisite torment of his deliberate, skilled teasing.

"I could stay here all night just tasting you."

You arched an eyebrow, trying to sound scolding, but failing miserably. "Oh really? And here I thought you were just... bad at keeping your hands to yourself."

"Bad? Me?" His lips traced a slow line down your side, teasing. "I'm a professional in, uh, very specific arts."

You shivered involuntarily at the words, hips tilting slightly. "Professional, huh? Is that what they call licking someone half to death now?"

He chuckled against your skin, teeth grazing lightly, sending sparks through you. "Half to death? Oh, I like your sense of humor. But I think we both know I plan to leave you fully alive. Shivering, moaning, begging for more—that's my style."

"Style?" You laughed breathlessly, fingers tangling in his hair. "Careful. With talk like that, you might just get away with it."

His tongue flicked over your sensitive skin, slow, teasing. "Oh, I plan to get away with it." He dipped lower, teasing you mercilessly. "See? Already wet, already trembling... you're making it too easy."

You gasped, pressing closer, teasing back. "Making it too easy? You're the one with your face buried in my—" You cut off, biting your lip as he pressed closer.

"Burying my face is exactly what I want to do," he murmured, groaning against you. "And don't think I won't savor every second. You taste— fuck... incredible."

"Is that your professional way of saying I should apologize for being this irresistible?"

"No apologies necessary," he said, voice husky, playful. "But moans? Those are required. Can't break my professional code, you know."

Your laughter turned into sharp, breathless gasps as he alternated teasing flicks and deeper, urgent suckling. "Lord! Stop talking, just—just do it!"

He smirked against you, muffled by your skin. "Oh, I am doing it. Every word I said is part of the experience. Enjoying it makes it all the sweeter, doesn't it?"

"Yes! Yes, fuck..." Your fingers dug into his hair as your body arched, responding to every teasing flick, every deliberate suck.

"See?" he groaned, voice vibrating against your skin. "That's exactly why I'm the best at what I do. Can't resist me, can you?"

You laughed, breathless and trembling. "Maybe... maybe I can't. But I'm definitely going to try."

Charles's lips pressed along the curve of your hip, teasing, hovering just above your most sensitive spot. "You're shaking already," he murmured, voice low, rough, deliberate.

You gasped, tilting your hips toward him despite yourself. "I—"

"Mmm?" he hummed, teasing but insistent, letting his tongue flick over you in slow, deliberate strokes. "Talk to me. Tell me what I'm doing to you."

You swallowed, shivering, words catching in your throat. "You—you're... making me so wet..."

He groaned softly, deep and satisfied, letting his lips and tongue explore every inch. "So perfect," he murmured, slipping a hand between your thighs to guide, to hold you in place.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, urging him closer. "Don't stop... please..."

"Stop?" His voice was playful, but there was hunger in it. "I could never stop. Not when you feel like this—so soft, so ready, so... mine."

He dipped lower, lips and tongue pressing insistently, sucking and teasing with deliberate rhythm. Your back arched, hips pressing into him, moans spilling out uncontrollably. "My Lord!  fuck—right there..."

He hummed against you, vibrating through the sensitive heat of your body, fingers kneading, teasing, drawing you higher with every flick of his tongue. "That's it, exactly like that."

Your breaths came in sharp, broken gasps, body trembling as every stroke and press brought you closer to the edge. "I—God... I can't—"

"Yes," he growled, relentless, possessive, "you can't. Not when I'm like this, tasting you, hearing you, making you lose yourself..."

Every nerve was alive, every gasp and moan feeding his hunger as he drew you tighter and higher, your body coiling toward the delicious, inevitable release he was orchestrating with expert, unrelenting attention.

Then he drew back with a smirk.

"On your kness"

Your chest heaved as breathing seemed so hard after the things he did to you. You said nothing but obeyed to his words. He took of his pants and let his hard cock sprung free without any hesitation as if he had done this a lot before.

You knelt before him, lips brushing over the head, tongue flicking lightly, testing, tasting. Peter leaned back, one hand lazily resting behind him, the other drumming teasingly on his thigh. A smirk played across his lips, dark and self-satisfied.

"You know," he drawled, voice low, teasing, "I could just sit here and make you beg, but you seem eager enough already."

You hummed against him, flicking your tongue over a sensitive spot, and he tilted his head, letting out a slow, deliberate groan that wasn't desperation—it was indulgence. "Mmm, not bad," he said, smug. "Careful though, I might start thinking you like being under me."

You tugged slightly, letting your lips close around him, and he let out a soft laugh, almost amused. "That's it? Just that? You're trying too hard, love. I like a little more confidence."

Your fingers traced his hips, holding him steady as you took more, and he hummed, leaning back with a grin, eyes half-lidded. "See? That's better. Now, show me you can handle me. Don't let me get bored." You flicked and swirled with deliberate rhythm, lips moving in time with the teasing pressure of your fingers, and he let out a low, satisfied hum. "Ah, there it is. Don't stop," he murmured, voice teasing, dominant, full of amusement.

You glanced up, meeting his eyes, and he smirked, dark and knowing. "Oh, I see that look. Don't think I haven't caught it—you're enjoying this as much as I am. Admit it."

"Maybe," you whispered, feeling the heat coil low, "but I'm in control too, remember?"

"Control?" He chuckled, fingers tightening slightly on your hair, playful but firm. "Sweetheart, I think we both know I'm the one deciding how far this goes. You're just along for the ride."

Every flick of your tongue drew a slow, deliberate groan from him, satisfied, smug, and full of self-assurance. He leaned back, pressing himself into your attention without needing to beg, every reaction calculated, teasing, enjoying the power you were giving him without realizing just how much.

Charles shifted slightly, letting a slow, deliberate hum vibrate through him as your lips moved along him. He leaned back, one hand tangling in your hair—not to pull, but to guide, a firm, possessive weight that reminded you who was in charge.

His hand brushed over the side of your face, thumb ghosting across your lips as if marking territory, a playful warning. "Taste me, but don't get distracted. I like watching you focus."

You leaned into him, lips and tongue moving in time with your hand, and he let out a long, low groan, smug satisfaction radiating off him. "God, you feel good. I could make you stay here all night, amusing me."

Every reaction, every subtle moan you let slip, seemed to feed him, and he pressed himself slightly deeper into your mouth, leaning back with the perfect mixture of control and indulgence.

Charles's smirk never wavered as he leaned back against the edge of the bed, one eyebrow raised in that infuriatingly charming way he always did. "You really think you're ready for this?" he teased, voice low, confident, dangerous. "Because I might just make you work for it."

You rolled your eyes, though your cheeks burned. "Oh please," you shot back, trying to sound scolding, though your fingers itched to tease him.

His hand slid lower, brushing your hip, teasing the curve of your thigh. You swallowed, hips shifting unconsciously toward him, and he caught the motion with a slow, deliberate grin. "Careful, keep moving like that and I might have to... correct you."

Before you could respond, he slipped a finger inside, slow, teasing, just enough to make you gasp and clutch at his shoulders. "See? Not so patient when you're giving me that," he murmured, voice rough, smug.

You gasped, back arching slightly, and he chuckled, pressing a second finger in with calculated, teasing precision, curling inside you while keeping his grin, keeping the control, keeping it playful. "God, you feel amazing," he murmured, brushing a hand down your thigh, tilting your hips toward him. "I could keep teasing you like this forever, and honestly, I'm tempted."

You bit your lip, half-laughing, half-moaning. "Forever, huh? Sounds exhausting... for you."

"Exhausting?" He smirked, voice low and dangerous. "Not even close. You? That's another story." He brushed a thumb over your clit, sending a sharp gasp tumbling from your lips.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, eyes locking on his, breath hitching, heart hammering with excitement, anticipation, and that deliciously playful tension.

A slow, deliberate curl of his fingers pressed inside you, teasing, brushing, curling with calculated precision. "My Lord !" you gasped, half-scolded, half-shivering.

He pressed a fourth finger inside, curling and teasing, watching every subtle reaction—every sharp intake of breath, every shiver—as though memorizing it for later.

You tried to let out another playful comments , but the subtle press of his thumb over your clit made your voice falter into a strangled laugh and sharp gasp. "Lord Charles ! You're... impossible!"

He chuckled, the sound low and dangerous, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek with a teasingly gentle touch, lips curling near your ear. "Impossible? Perhaps... or perhaps mischief suits me"

With a deliberate shift, he aligned himself, pressing against you with a teasing weight, still sliding his fingers in and out, drawing moans that were half-laughter, half-pleasure. "Ready to see how a little noble stubbornness fares against pure mischief?" he murmured, eyes glittering, lips teasing the hollow of your neck.

You swallowed, pulse hammering, cheeks warm, breath hitching, caught between indignation, desire, and the irresistible draw of his sly dominance. "I suppose I must find out."

Charles's grin deepened, triumphant, as he pressed forward, sliding in with deliberate slowness, letting the tension stretch, every motion a teasing, playful assertion of control that left no doubt who truly held the power in the room.

He pressed in slowly, letting the initial stretch linger, giving you just enough time to adjust while his fingers continued their steady rhythm inside you. A low, amused hum escaped him, vibrating through the small of your back. "Ah— there," he murmured, voice rough and teasing. "That's perfect. You feel exquisite."

You gasped, hips shifting slightly against him, trying to find a rhythm while his smug grin kept you tense and eager. "Exquisite?" you breathed, half-laughing, half-moaning.

"Mmm," he said, pressing a little deeper, letting his hands roam just enough to claim, but never overwhelm. Every stroke measured, teasing, coaxing you to respond. You arched, pressed closer, biting your lip to keep from crying out, and he caught the motion with a sly, satisfied smile. "See? You can't resist me even when you try"

You let out a short laugh, breath hitching. "You're insufferable."

"Am I?" His grin widened, leaning forward so his lips brushed your ear, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "Or am I just irresistible?"

The teasing brushed of lips, the slow, deliberate thrust from him, the weight of his body pressing into yours—it all coiled together into a delicious tension that had you on edge, your thoughts a mix of sharp laughter, heat, and shivering anticipation.

"You're really testing me," you breathed, tugging slightly at his arm.

"And you?" he countered, voice low, playful, dangerous. "Are you going to surrender gracefully or make me work for every gasp?"

You arched instinctively, letting out a small moan, and his hils responde,  pressing just right, coaxing your body to obey, teasing, holding, and pushing closer to that delicious edge.

Charles's grinned, smug and unyielding, as he felt your body tighten around his fingers, every shiver, every arch feeding his control. "There it is..." he murmured, voice low, velvet and dangerous. "Right where I want you."

You gasped, fingers digging into his arms, hips pressing involuntarily, breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. His hips moved with precise, relentless rhythm, coaxing you higher and higher.

"You're mine," he interrupted, low and teasing, lips brushing your ear. "Every gasp, every shiver... it's all mine. And I don't plan to let go until I see every bit of it."

A strangled laugh, a soft cry, escaped you as the coil inside you tightened unbearably. "I—oh God—!"

He hummed against you, pressing closer, thumb circling your clit just right, holding, teasing, pushing you beyond the edge of control. "Shhh... let go. Let me see you fall apart," he murmured, voice husky, smug satisfaction lacing every word.

Your body convulsed around him, shivers racing from core to spine as a sharp, desperate moan tore from your lips. "Ahhh—fuck—yes!" The world narrowed to the exquisite friction, the weight of him, the skill of his movement , the heat pooling and overflowing.

Chatles groaned, deep and satisfied, smug as ever, holding you through every pulse, every tremor, letting you ride the wave fully. "That's it... perfect," he whispered, voice low, lingering as your breaths rattled in your chest, trembling and spent, heat still radiating from every inch of your body.

Even as you collapsed back against the mattress , he hovered, smirk still in place, fingers tracing your curves possessively, lips brushing teasingly against your temple. "See?" he murmured, half-laughing, half-growl. "Mischief pays off, doesn't it?"

You let out a shaky laugh, chest rising and falling. "Infuriating... but yes."

The tension between desire and dominance, pleasure and teasing, hung thick in the air, both of you still riding the echoes of that climax, eyes locked, heat simmering, and the mischievous spark between you unextinguished.

Charles's hips pressed against your hand, tense,  deliberate, every movement slow but hungry. He groaned low, leaning close so his lips brushed your ear. "Tell me," he murmured, voice thick and mischievous, "where do you want me?"

You swallowed, cheeks burning, pulse racing. "I don't know," you admitted breathlessly, fingers tightening on his hips.

He smirked, teeth grazing your earlobe, letting the tip of his tongue flick against your skin. "Don't know, huh? Such a tease." His hand slid along your waist possessively, thumb brushing lightly over your stomach. "Well, maybe I'll just... let you decide at the last second."

Your back arched involuntarily as his movements grew faster, deliberate, pressing you into the bed. "Lord— oh God..."

"Ah, that's it," he growled, eyes dark with mischief. "All these little sounds.."

With a final, deliberate thrust, he tensed, groaning your name, and released fully—warm and urgent—spilling across the curve of your stomach. You gasped, shivering at the heat, a mixture of laughter and breathless moans escaping your lips.

Charles leaned back slightly, smirk still in place, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek. "Delicious," he murmured, voice low, playful, satisfied.

You laughed softly, chest rising and falling, heat still pooling low. "Infuriating... impossible... but..." Your hand stroked his side, teasingly, and he caught your gaze, eyes glinting with amusement. "...worth it."

"You're not done yet, are you?" he murmured, voice low, teasing, confident. Before you could answer, his hands were under your thighs, lifting you with a smooth, practiced ease until you straddled him, your hips hovering just above his.

"Lord Charles ! You—" you gasped, half-laughing, half-breathless, as he adjusted his grip, holding you perfectly in place.

He chuckled, fingers pressing lightly against your hips to guide you. "Shhh... just ride me. Let's see how much control you have."

You rolled your hips tentatively, testing, and he let out a low, approving groan. "Mmm... just like that. God, you feel incredible," he murmured, eyes locked on yours, grin wicked, smug, teasing. "I hope you realize exactly how much power you think you have right now."

"You're insufferable," you breathed, letting your body respond instinctively, hips rolling in slow, deliberate circles. "I—oh, fuck—how am I supposed to resist you?"

"You aren't resisting," he countered, thumb brushing the sensitive skin of your side as he tugged slightly, keeping you perfectly aligned. "You're giving in, aren't you? Every movement, every gasp..." His lips curved in a satisfied, teasing smile. "Admit it—you love this almost as much as I do."

You gasped, rolling faster now, leaning forward, hands pressing into his chest. "Maybe... maybe I do. God, you're impossible."

His hands stayed firm on your hips as you settled over him, the heat and tension between you amplified by the memory of all those letters—the whispered promises, teasing words, the fantasies you'd both crafted in ink and paper, now coming alive.

"So this is what all the letters were leading to," he murmured, voice low, teasing, eyes glinting with amusement. "All this... finally, in person."

You bit your lip, leaning forward slightly, pressing against him, every nerve alive. "I—God... I never imagined it would feel like this," you admitted, cheeks flushed, pulse racing.

He chuckled, pressing a thumb lightly over your side, guiding, steadying. "Oh, I imagined it," he said, smug, teasing.

You rolled your hips slowly, letting yourself savor the friction, the intimacy, the culmination of weeks of secret yearning, the thrill of recognition layered over desire. "You really planned all this, didn't you?"

"Every word," he murmured, voice rough, pleased, watching your reactions, every gasp, every subtle arch feeding his smug delight.

Your laughter was breathless, half moan, half disbelief. "I—oh, I can't believe... it's you."

"Of course ," he whispered, eyes dark, smug, playful, pressing just enough into you to keep every nerve singing. "And now you get to pay for every word you ever wrote me... in the best way possible."

Every low murmur carried the weight of the letters, the anonymity, the anticipation finally realized. The thrill wasn't just in the physical—it was the culmination of a game played with words, now embodied in every press, every brush, every glance.

He chuckled, pressing a finger lightly against your side, tilting your hips just enough to draw a sharper gasp. "You've been imagining this too, haven't you?" His thumbs traced slow, teasing circles over your hips.

Your movements became faster, hips rolling in response to the subtle guidance of his hands, every flick of his thumbs, every touch sending sparks through you. "I–I can't... it feels—"

"Yes," he murmured, voice low, teasing, smug, "I know exactly how it feels. Every gasp, every arch, all mine to savor." His grin widened, leaning forward slightly, letting his lips brush your temple as you shivered.

Your breaths came in sharp, broken bursts, laughter and moans tangled together as the tension coiled unbearably. "I—oh... I'm—"

"Let go," he growled, pressing just enough into your hips to guide you over the edge, thumbs and fingers holding every pulse, every shiver, coaxing you higher.

A sharp cry tore from your lips as your body convulsed around him, heat and release spilling in waves. Every tremor was a mixture of pleasure and the thrill of recognition.

Charles's smug, satisfied hum vibrated through you as your body rode the tremors, and when the last pulse ebbed, he held you close, fingers brushing possessively along your waist.  "Just as I imagined... even better."

You let out a shaky laugh, chest heaving, heat still pooling low.

His hips tensed beneath you, the coil of his body tight, ready to tip over the edge. "I'm close," he murmured, low and rough, and you felt the deliberate pause as he started to lift slightly, ready to pull out.

"Wait," you gasped, fingers clutching his shoulders, chest pressing down against him.

He froze mid-movement, looking down at you with an arched brow, a questioning, almost amused glint in his eyes. "What—?"

You swallowed, heat pooling low, cheeks flushed, and pressed lightly into him. "Don't... don't move," you whispered, voice shaking but insistent. "I want it... here."

Charles's smirk faltered for the barest moment, just enough to catch your gaze, slow, deliberate. "Here?" he asked, voice thick with both desire and caution, hands still at your hips. "You realize... that's dangerous?"

"I know," you breathed, pressing closer, letting your body mold against him. "I don't care. I want to feel you, all of you."

He chuckled softly, low and rumbling, hand brushing along your side as if weighing your resolve. "You're insane," he murmured, eyes glittering with mischief. "But... so stubborn, so deliciously defiant."

You let out a shaky laugh, rolling your hips just slightly, teasing him further. "I've waited... I want it now. I don't care about anything else."

His smirk returned, dark, dominant, full of indulgent amusement. "Oh... you really do know how to make me want everything, don't you?" His fingers pressed firmly into your hips, holding you still as he leaned closer, letting you feel every tremor of his body beneath you. A low, satisfied groan rumbled from him as he let the tension break, releasing fully inside you, slow, deliberate, pressing into you as if claiming every inch of you. You held yourself tight around him, breathless, cheeks flushed, letting the warmth and motion coil between you both.

Charles leaned back slightly, still grinning, eyes hooded with smug satisfaction. "You—you're reckless," he murmured, voice low, playful, indulgent. "But damn irresistible."

You laughed softly, trembling, chest heaving, but heat and desire still radiating off you, melting every trace of restraint. Charles's body shivered, pulse hammering, as the tension broke fully. He groaned low, pressing close, fingers still gripping your hips possessively, and you felt the heat of him spilling just beyond you, over your lower stomach.

"Mm careful," he murmured, voice thick, smug, teasing, leaning down so his lips brushed your shoulder. "Almost... lost control there."

You shivered, pressing into him, hand brushing lightly along the warm slick on your skin. "Feels different," you murmured, half-laughing, half-breathless, fingers tracing the curve of his release with deliberate curiosity.

He let out a low, approving hum, eyes dark and hooded with pleasure. "I see you... exploring already. Naughty," he said, smirk curling, leaning closer, one hand ghosting over your back, pressing you flush against him. "You want to play with it?"

You pressed your palm gently, letting it spread, teasing, heat and slick mixing with your touch. "I want to feel it," you admitted, breath hitching, eyes locked on his.

Charles chuckled, amused, letting you take your time, "So curious," he murmured, lips brushing your neck, teeth grazing lightly. "I like that. Very bold of you."

Your fingers traced, pressed, rolled along the warmth of him, and he groaned, hips lifting slightly in response, the tiniest tilt just enough to let more trickle along your skin. "Mm..that's it," he murmured, voice husky, teasing. "Every little touch makes me want you even more."

You shivered under his gaze, tracing the slick across your lower stomach, letting him watch as you explored, every movement playful yet intimate. "You're impossible," you whispered, lips barely brushing his shoulder, chest rising and falling fast.

Charles pulled back slightly, letting you feel the full weight of him leaving your heat, and his dark eyes immediately caught the glistening trail escaping you. A slow, wicked smirk curved his lips.

"Well, well," he murmured, voice low and teasing, leaning back to watch you, "look at that all for me, and still so eager to feel me inside."

You flushed, hips instinctively pressing down as if to claim him again, fingers brushing over the warmth. "My Lord—stop teasing..."

"Oh, no," he said, voice thick with amusement, eyes glittering with mischief. "I think this deserves a little attention." He reached forward, finger tracing along the slick dripping from you, letting it slide slowly down your thigh. "See? You're still mine, even after I pulled out."

You gasped, a mix of laughter and heat pooling low, pressing back against him slightly. "You're ridiculous ," you breathed, chest heaving, fingers clutching at his wrists to steady yourself.

He chuckled, leaning closer, letting his lips brush your temple. "Ridiculous ?" he murmured, teasing, smug. "Maybe. But look at you—so flushed, so wet, so eager. And all for me."

Your hips rolled subtly, pressing down just enough to feel the slick warm against your skin, and he hummed, voice low and approving. "Mmm... seeing you like this... it's driving me crazy."

He traced a finger along the trail again, gliding slowly, teasing, and you shivered, letting out a soft moan.

He pressed a hand to your hip to hold you still, letting his fingers linger over your heat, teasing, guiding, reminding you of the power he still held even outside of you.

Every glance, every teasing brush, every low, amused murmur wrapped you in a delicious tension, playful and intimate, the memory of the letters, the thrill of their first encounter, and the warmth between you both threading through every movement.

    Charles leaned closer, smirk curling, eyes dark and mischievous, watching your chest rise and fall as your fingers lingered along the warmth of his earlier release. "You look so tempting," he murmured, voice low, deliberate. "So wet... all for me."

      Before you could react, his hand slid between your thighs, fingers pressing lightly against your slick, teasing, testing. "Mmm you're soaked," he whispered, curling a finger just slightly inside, tracing along your most sensitive spot. "God... I could do this forever."

     You gasped, hips instinctively pressing down, shivering. "Lord—oh... that feels—"

     He chuckled, voice low and amused, pressing two fingers in, moving with deliberate, teasing precision. "Not too fast," he murmured, thumb brushing over your clit lightly. "I want to savor every part of you..."

     Your back arched, fingers clutching at his wrist, breath hitching, moans breaking from your lips in short, ragged bursts. "Oh God, yes... just like that..."

      "Good girl," he murmured, smirk curling, pressing deeper, curling and teasing inside you while his thumb stroked you in time with every subtle movement. "Look at you... trembling... so responsive. Makes me want to take everything from you."

      You shivered violently, hips pressing down, hands clutching the sheets, chest rising and falling in ragged gasps. "I'm—"

      He hummed approvingly, fingers moving with perfect rhythm, curling and pressing, teasing, never slowing, every stroke coaxing you higher. "Yes, just like that... let it build. let it go... all for me..."

     A sudden, sharp cry escaped your lips as the tension snapped, warmth spilling hot and uncontrolled, squirting around his fingers. Your body convulsed against him, shivering, moaning, every nerve alight, every gasp filling the room with delicious chaos.

    Charles leaned closer, lips brushing your temple, smirk still in place, eyes dark with satisfaction and amusement. "Perfect," he murmured, fingers lingering inside you, letting you ride the tremors. "So fucking responsive. That's all for me.

Charles smirk deepened, wicked and deliberate, as he withdrew his fingers slowly, letting you catch your breath while the slick and warmth still clung to you. "Mm still trembling," he murmured, voice low, teasing, dark. "You look incredible. So eager, so responsive... it's almost unfair."

You gasped, chest heaving, pressing slightly into him despite the aftershocks of pleasure. "Lord Charles— stop... or I'll—"

"Or you'll what?" he countered, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest. "You're still dripping for me, still flushed... don't tell me you're done already." His fingers traced lightly along your inner thigh, teasing the trail of your release, letting you shiver under the touch.

You shivered violently, pressing your hips down slightly, fingers brushing his forearms.

He let one finger press lightly against your clit again, teasing just enough to make your thighs quiver. He leaned closer, lips brushing your temple, teeth grazing lightly, warm breath fanning across your skin. "Should we... change things up?" he murmured, dark and playful. "Maybe a new angle see what else I can make you feel."

Your chest rose and fell fast, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, caught between exhaustion and lingering desire. "You really are mischievous ," you murmured, half-laughing, half-breathless.

He chuckled, hand brushing possessively along your waist, thumb grazing over your stomach. "And you are hopelessly curious," he whispered, voice husky, smug, leaning back slightly to watch you, letting you feel every pulse of him as he guided the next wave of play. "But I like that... very much."

Charles straightened slowly, smirk still in place, fingers brushing briefly over your hip as he adjusted his shirt . The lingering heat between you seemed to cling to the room, the aftermath of your shared intensity still thick in the air.

"Going already?" you asked, voice soft, still breathless, cheeks flushed as you leaned back on the cushions, trying to gather some composure.

      He chuckled, slipping on his jacket with deliberate ease, eyes glinting with that infuriating mix of smugness and charm. "I have to... obligations, responsibilities," he murmured, voice low, teasing. "A gentleman can't linger forever—even after delightful encounters."

     You tilted your head, curiosity flickering through your lingering desire. "And... what happens after this?" you asked, voice hesitant but hungry for an answer, fingers brushing idly over the sheets where he'd touched you.

     Charles paused in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame, smirk widening. "After this..." he said, voice thick with amusement, a slow hum of satisfaction vibrating in his chest, "I imagine a lot of thinking about what just happened. About... you"

     You bit your lip, cheeks warming, leaning forward slightly. "And... do you imagine me too?"

       "Always," he murmured, stepping closer just enough that you could feel his presence before he fully pulled back. "Every letter, every word... finally realized. And yet" His grin deepened, wicked, teasing. "There's so much more we could explore. This was only... a beginning."

[sphoria-63]

The Flame That Burned Alone (CL16)

Summary : You and Charles are swept into joy and hope with the news of expecting a child, only for tragedy to strike and change everything. As grief and guilt pull you apart, distance and silence grow between you, testing your bond. Amid heartbreak and misunderstanding, you both must navigate loss and rediscover the fragile connection that keeps your love alive.

➢ Husband!Charles Leclerc x Wife!Fem reader (no use of y/n)

➢ Word count : 10.8k

➢ Warnings : Miscarriage, relationship conflict, idea of divorce, grieving, depression, anxiety, trust issues.

➢ A/N : This is long and very very sad. Also this was heavily inspired by the kdrama Queen of Tears 🤭

MY MASTERLIST

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Charles had never grown used to the sight of you in his home. Some mornings he woke with the faint terror that it was all a dream, that he would roll over to find the sheets cold and empty, the echo of your laugh just another trick of his restless imagination. But then he'd catch the quiet rise and fall of your shoulders, your hair spilling across the pillow, and the fear dissolved into something heavier, richer—a gratitude that almost hurt.

     You made coffee with a kind of ritualistic clumsiness, always too much sugar, sometimes forgetting to switch the kettle on before walking away. He pretended to be exasperated, but he loved it. Loved the way you wrinkled your nose when he caught your mistake, loved the sound of your muttered apologies, loved that his mornings were no longer a blur of phone calls and rushing meetings.

"Don't stare," you said once, cheeks tinted as you set the mug in front of him.

      Charles only smiled. He couldn't help staring. Marriage had not dulled the spark—it had sharpened it, like the world had been too dim before you stepped into it.

     Work still called, of course. His phone buzzed often, urgent requests and meetings piling in. Sometimes he let it ring until the screen dimmed. Sometimes he answered, watching the way your shoulders stiffened when works crept into the fragile bubble you'd built together. He told himself he'd learn to balance it better. He told himself nothing could erode what you and he had now.

      In the evenings, you sometimes brought your laptop to the dining table, papers spread like a barricade between the two of you. Charles watched from across the room, jacket shrugged off, wine glass untouched. You worked with a kind of feverish focus, biting your lip, shoulders tight as though the world might collapse if you stopped typing.

"You could leave it for tomorrow," he'd suggest gently.

      "I'll be quick," you'd reply without looking up. And sometimes you were. Sometimes "quick" stretched until midnight, your head finally bowing onto your folded arms while the screen glowed accusingly.

     Charles never scolded. Instead, he'd lift you into his arms, carry you to bed, and tuck you beneath the sheets. You always stirred enough to murmur his name, half-conscious, and he would press his lips to your hair, pretending that this too was part of the honeymoon, that devotion could be measured in the weight of your sleeping body against his chest.

     But in quieter moments—when your laptop chimed again, when his own phone rattled with messages from the team—Charles felt a faint unease slip into the edges of his happiness. Work had a way of stealing hours, of thinning joy until it was fragile. He swore to himself he'd protect this fragile glow between you, no matter what the world demanded.

      Sundays were his favorite. The city outside could roar all it wanted, but inside the apartment there was only you and the smell of something burning in the pan. Charles stood in the doorway of the kitchen, arms folded, trying not to smile too much as you waved the spatula at the smoke detector.

"It's fine," you said, though the eggs looked far from fine.

"Are they supposed to be that shade of brown?" he teased.

You turned, spatula poised like a weapon. "Eat it and say thank you."

       And he did—every charred bite. Because it wasn't about the food. It was about your laughter filling the kitchen, about the ridiculous little dance you did when you finally managed to silence the beeping detector. He filed every detail away, convinced he'd never run out of room for these small, ordinary joys.

     Nights had their own rituals. Sometimes it was movies, your head tucked under his chin. Sometimes it was long walks when the streets were almost empty, your hand warm in his. Sometimes it was silence, but the good kind—the kind that didn't need filling. Charles would watch the way your eyes softened when you were tired, the way you curled into his side, and he'd think: this is home. Not the penthouse, not the estate, not the empire he'd inherited. You.

     And yet, even in these quiet moments, he noticed the signs. The way you still checked your emails after midnight. The stack of files that followed you into the bedroom. The frown that pinched your brow when you thought he wasn't looking. Charles told himself it was nothing, just the remnants of habit, the drive that had always made you extraordinary. Still, a small voice whispered that happiness this fragile needed guarding.

     One night, after you'd finally drifted off, he lay awake beside you. Your hand rested against his chest, your breath even and steady. He stared at the ceiling, phone buzzing on the nightstand, and thought of everything waiting for him at his workplace.Meetings, interviews, demands. He silenced the phone with a swipe, choosing instead to listen to the rhythm of your breathing.

"This," he whispered to the dark, "is what matters."

    You shifted in your sleep, curling closer, and he closed his eyes with the faintest ache in his chest—an ache he couldn't name yet, but one that warned him that love, as bright as it burned, was never safe from the wind.

      Charles came home later than expected, his steps heavy, his shirt clinging faintly with the day's sweat. He dropped his keys onto the counter, expecting to be met with the stillness of the apartment. Instead, he saw you waiting by the door, posture too rigid, fingers locked together like you were holding yourself in place.

      "You're back," you said softly, your voice steady on the surface but carrying a tremor beneath it.

      Charles froze, his pulse spiking in a way that had nothing to do with racing. He set his bag aside carefully, as though any sudden movement might shatter the moment. "Something's happened," he said, sharper than he meant.

      "Not bad things," you rushed to assure him, though your hands stayed knotted, twisting against each other. "Just... can we sit first?"

      He nodded, following you to the couch. The silence stretched, not uncomfortable but unbearably heavy, like the breath held just before lights went out on a grid. You kept glancing at him, then down at your lap, then back at him, as if looking for the courage to say the words out loud.

Finally, you did. "I'm pregnant."

      Charles blinked. The world, which usually moved too fast for him to catch every detail, seemed to stop completely. Pregnant. The word rang in his head, too big, too overwhelming.

His mouth went dry. "Really?"

       You nodded, eyes flickering with hesitation. "The test was positive. I double-checked. I just... I couldn't keep it from you."

       For a moment he couldn't move. He thought of nothing and everything at once—small shoes by the door, your laugh mixing with a child's, a hand reaching for him when he walked through the tunnel after a race. And then suddenly he couldn't stay still, couldn't keep distance between you. He pulled you into his arms, clutching you with the intensity of someone afraid to let go.

     You breathed against his shoulder, and he buried his face in your hair, kissing your temple with a reverence he'd never known he was capable of. "A baby," he whispered hoarsely, as if speaking it aloud might make it real. "Our baby."

       The words broke something open in him. Joy, disbelief, a trembling kind of awe. And yet—threading through it was fear. He pressed his palm to your stomach, and the weight of the gesture nearly undid him. He thought of every risk he carried each time he got in the car. Every moment he wasn't here. Every way this could all slip through his fingers.

      You leaned back enough to study his face. "You're happy, right?"

      He realized he hadn't answered. His throat worked, but no sound came at first. He cupped your hands tightly in his, grounding himself. "Happy doesn't even begin," he said finally, the words breaking rough. "I've never wanted anything more. I just..." He stopped, shaking his head, trying to find steadiness. "I'll protect you. Both of you. I promise."

       Your lips curved into a fragile smile, eyes glistening, and you rested your forehead against his.

      Charles held you there, heart pounding. For once, nothing about this moment was about winning or losing. It was about the fragile, terrifying, beautiful thing you'd just handed him. And the promise he wasn't sure he was strong enough to keep, but would spend the rest of his life trying.

     The living room felt different now, like the air itself had shifted. You hadn't moved far—just curled into the corner of the couch, knees tucked up, your hand resting unconsciously against your stomach. Charles sat opposite you, elbows on his knees, staring at you as if memorizing the moment.

     It was him who broke the silence, voice low and almost hesitant. "Do you think... they'll look like you?"

     You laughed softly, the sound shaky but bright. "What, you don't want a mini-you running around?"

      He tilted his head, a grin tugging at his lips despite the weight still in his chest. "I wouldn't survive it. Imagine two of me in one house. You'd throw us both out after a week."

     That made you laugh harder, the tension in your shoulders easing. You hugged a pillow to your chest and said, "Maybe they'll get your eyes. That soft green—sometimes they look like summer, sometimes like storms."

     Charles blinked, momentarily disarmed. Compliments from you always caught him off guard, like he didn't deserve them. He rubbed at the back of his neck and muttered, "Then they'll definitely get your smile. Otherwise it's unfair to the world."

      Your lips parted slightly, the softness in your eyes undoing him. For a few breaths, he just let himself sink into the image—your smile, theirs, a blur of mornings filled with small footsteps.

He cleared his throat. "And... if it's a boy?"

     You shrugged, thoughtful. "Then he'll be wild. Just like you. Running everywhere, climbing everything. I'll never get a moment's peace."

      "Hey," Charles protested, though his grin betrayed him. "I wasn't that bad."

      "You set your neighbor's shed on fire when you were ten," you reminded him, arching a brow.

     "That was an accident," he said quickly, then chuckled, leaning back. "Alright, maybe not. But I'll make sure he's better than me. I'll teach him everything properly."

You tilted your head. "And if it's a girl?"

      His grin faded into something quieter, gentler. "Then I'm ruined. Absolutely ruined." His voice dropped, and he added, "She'll have me wrapped around her finger before she can even walk."

     Your laugh softened into a smile, your eyes shining in the dim light. "She'll be lucky then."

     Charles looked at you for a long time, the future unfolding in his mind—schoolbags by the door, bedtime stories, laughter echoing in the hallway. He'd raced through circuits, lived through split-second chaos, but here, now, he let himself slow down.

     "Boy or girl," he said finally, his voice steady, "they'll be ours. And that's enough."

     You reached across the couch, fingers brushing his, and he caught your hand, pressing it to his lips. For the first time all night, the fear receded, leaving only the fragile, glowing hope between you

     The weeks that followed blurred into routines of soft joy. Charles found himself checking the calendar between races, not for circuits or flights, but for appointments. Every time you looked tired, his stomach clenched; every time you smiled faintly at your reflection in the mirror, it unclenched again. He had never lived so much in the small details.

    But work never let you go. Even as Charles begged you to slow down, you clung to your laptop, papers scattered across the dining table long after midnight. "Just one more report," you'd murmur, waving off his concern. "I'm fine."

     He hated those words. Fine. He saw the shadows under your eyes, the way you pressed your palm absently to your stomach whenever fatigue pulled at you. He tried coaxing you away—cups of tea, stolen kisses, even pulling the power cord once, which only earned him your tired laugh and a playful shove. But still, the work piled, and still, you carried it on your shoulders.

     The night it happened, Charles came home to the glow of your laptop illuminating your face. Papers were everywhere, your jacket still buttoned. He started to scold you gently, but the words never left his mouth, because your expression wasn't tired anymore—it was pained. You clutched your stomach, knuckles white, a soft sound escaping you that froze his blood.

       "Amour?" His voice cracked, all his instincts failing him at once. He was at your side in a heartbeat, pulling the laptop away, steadying your shoulders. You tried to speak, but your breath hitched, sharp and shallow. And then he saw the faint red blooming on your skirt.

The world dropped out from under him.

       "No, no, no," he whispered, already reaching for his phone with one hand while holding you with the other. His body had survived high-speed crashes, but nothing compared to the terror of that moment—your weight trembling in his arms, your nails digging into his shirt, his own voice shaking as he begged you to stay with him.

      Charles had carried you before—after long nights out with friends, when you'd fallen asleep on the couch, when you'd pretended to be too tired to walk to bed. But never like this. Never with your body heavy and trembling in his arms, never with your breath catching in short, uneven gasps that made every step down the apartment hall feel like it might be the last.

      The elevator was too slow, the night air too cold. By the time he flagged down a cab, his hands were slick with sweat, his voice hoarse from repeating the same words in a shaky rhythm: It's okay, I've got you. Stay with me. Just breathe, mon amour.

      The hospital swallowed both of you in white light and noise. Nurses swarmed, questions thrown at him too quickly—weeks pregnant? symptoms? medical history?—but Charles's mind faltered. He stammered out half-answers, clutching your hand even as they wheeled you away. For the first time in his life, speed was the enemy; everything was too fast, too chaotic, and he couldn't catch up.

      A doctor's voice finally cut through. "We'll do everything we can. Please wait outside."

      The doors closed between you. Charles stood frozen for a beat, then pressed both hands to his face. He'd walked into fire before, into walls of smoke and fuel, but nothing terrified him like those sterile doors.

     He paced. He sat. He stood again. Time warped, stretching into something unbearable. Every scream of wheels down the hall, every cry from another patient, twisted in his gut until he thought he'd be sick. His phone buzzed endlessly—team messages, race updates—but he couldn't look. Not when his entire world was on the other side of a door he couldn't open.

      At some point, his legs gave out. He sank into a plastic chair, elbows on his knees, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles burned. Memories came unbidden: your laughter when you teased him about baby names, the way your hand had rested protectively over your stomach just days ago. He'd promised—I'll protect you. Both of you. And now he was here, useless, while you fought alone.

      The doctor returned. One look at his face and Charles's chest caved in.

       "I'm sorry," the man said quietly. "She lost the baby."

       The words hit harder than any crash, sharper than any failure. Lost. As if it had been misplaced, as if it could ever be found again. Charles's mouth opened but no sound came. His vision blurred, his throat burned. He pressed his fist against his lips, trying to swallow the howl threatening to escape.

      When they finally let him see you, you were lying pale against the sheets, your eyes open but distant. You turned toward him, and the devastation in your gaze nearly brought him to his knees.

      He sat beside you slowly, careful not to shake the bed, his hand hovering before finally settling over yours. He wanted to say something—anything. But all that came out was a broken whisper.

"I'm so sorry."

       The words felt hollow, worthless. He hadn't protected you. He hadn'tprotected the life they'd made. And as your silent tears slid down your cheeks,Charles realized he had never felt so powerless in his entire life

The apartment was the same, but nothing felt familiar anymore. The lamp in the corner still glowed the same yellow, the framed photos on the wall still showed the same smiles, but to Charles it all looked foreign, cruel even, as if the place itself mocked what had been lost.

You walked in ahead of him, slow, careful. The nurse's warnings still echoed in his head—plenty of rest, monitor for fever, call if there's heavy bleeding—but they felt absurd in their simplicity. How could rest mend what had shattered?

Charles closed the door behind you, the click sounding far too final. For a moment, he stood there, watching your shoulders, the way you didn't turn back to him. Usually you would wait for him, teasing him for fumbling with the lock, reaching for his hand before you even set your bag down. Now, you crossed the living room silently, sank into the couch, and pulled the blanket around yourself without a word.

He followed slowly, unsure, his steps heavy. He wanted to kneel in front of you, to hold your hands and tell you that you weren't alone—that you'd never be alone—but his body hesitated. Instead, he lowered himself into the armchair across from you, the space between you thick and unbearable.

The silence stretched. Only the hum of the fridge filled it.

Finally, you spoke, your voice thin and brittle. "I should've rested more."

Charles's chest tightened. "Don't—don't say that."

"It's true." Your fingers clenched around the blanket, your gaze fixed on the floor. "If I hadn't worked so late, if I'd been more careful—"

"No," he cut in sharply, too harsh, and you flinched. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to steady himself. "You can't blame yourself. You hear me? This isn't—" His voice cracked, and he bit it back, swallowing the words.

You didn't argue. You didn't agree either. You just pulled the blanket tighter and turned slightly away, as if even looking at him was too much.

Charles sat there, fists pressed against his knees, every instinct screaming to cross the distance. But the weight of his own guilt pinned him down. He should have been there more. He should have made you stop, taken your laptop away, held you closer every night instead of being thousands of miles away. He should have protected you, and he hadn't.

The distance between couch and chair felt like a chasm.

For the first time in months, Charles didn't know how to reach you.

The days blurred. Charles marked them not by dates, but by the quiet ways you moved through them. You still made coffee in the mornings, still left your shoes by the door, still sat at the dining table with your laptop open—but there was no life in the motions. Everything you did felt muted, as though someone had pressed the volume down on you.

He tried, at first, to bridge the silence. When he brewed tea, he set a cup in front of you. You thanked him politely, without looking up, and the steam curled between you until it faded away.

When he cooked dinner, you ate a few bites, said I'm not hungry, and left the rest. He started leaving smaller portions, then none at all.

Nights were worse. You turned into bed before him, curling on your side with your back facing the empty space. Sometimes Charles lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the uneven rhythm of your breath. He wanted to press close, to remind you with his arms that you weren't alone—but every time he shifted, every time he reached out, something in your posture warned him back.

At the same time, his own guilt kept gnawing. He'd find himself staring at his calendar, the races lined up like a gauntlet. He imagined you in this apartment while he was gone—tired, grieving, maybe crying where he couldn't see. The thought made him sick. Yet he couldn't stop; racing was the only thing he knew, the only way he could provide. So he trained harder, pushed longer, until his body ached more than usual. Exhaustion became easier than thinking.

Arguments came in small flashes. One evening, when he urged you to rest instead of working late again, you snapped, "What does it matter now?" He froze, the words lodging like glass in his chest. You immediately looked away, ashamed, but the damage lingered.

Another night, when he came home early from training to cook for you, you muttered that he didn't need to "pretend." He hadn't answered. He'd just scraped the pasta into the sink and gone to shower, letting the steam drown the sting in his eyes.

Neither of you said the words you wanted to—I'm hurting, I'm afraid, I need you. Instead, you circled around each other like ghosts in the same space.

And so, little by little, the apartment grew colder. Not because of the season, but because the warmth you once carried between you had begun to thin, slipping through your fingers like water.

The warmth from earlier had already thinned into something brittle. Charles sat back against the couch, arms folded, his gaze fixed on the coffee table rather than you.

"You always talk like you've already decided everything," he said flatly.

Your eyes flicked to him. "I was just suggesting. That's all."

"Mm." His tone was dry, as if he didn't believe you.

You let out a short breath. "Charles, I'm not trying to control everything. I just... think ahead."

He finally looked at you, his expression unreadable. "And you think I don't?"

You hesitated, then shook your head. "That's not what I meant."

"Right." His reply was clipped, as if the word had an edge to it.

Silence pressed in. You leaned back, crossing your arms too, mirroring him without realizing. Every sentence felt like stepping on glass.

After a long pause, you muttered, "Maybe we should just stop talking for tonight."

Charles gave the faintest nod, not even looking at you. "Probably best."

A quiet stretched between you before he stood up, his footsteps steady, deliberate, heading down the hall. The sound of his door clicking shut felt louder than anything either of you had said.

When you finally slipped into the guest room, the sheets felt colder than they should have. You lay on your side, eyes open in the dark, replaying the sharp edges of his short replies.

The coffee machine hissed, filling the kitchen with the smell of roasted beans. You walked in, and Charles was already there, leaned against the counter, arms folded tight across his chest. His jaw was clenched, eyes fixed on the mug in his hand like it had answers.

"Morning," you said, barely more than a murmur.

"Morning," he echoed, flat, without even glancing at you.

You opened the fridge, took out the milk, the carton thudding a little harder than necessary on the counter. He noticed, but didn't comment.

"Want some toast?" you asked, voice clipped.

"No." One word. Cold.

You nodded, lips pressed thin, and busied yourself with the bread, the butter knife scraping harsh against the surface. The sound filled the space, louder than either of your voices.

Charles sipped his coffee, eyes still down. "I'll be gone most of the day."

"Fine," you said.

He finally looked at you, just for a second. His eyes were tired, unreadable, then he looked away. "Don't wait up."

You set the knife down harder than you meant to, metal clinking against the plate. "I wasn't planning to."

The silence that followed wasn't peaceful; it was sharp enough to cut. He left his half-empty mug on the counter, walked out without another word. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the kitchen cold even with the morning sun spilling in.

The living room lamp cast a pale circle of light across the carpet. You were curled on one end of the sofa with your laptop, typing furiously, while Charles sat on the other end, scrolling his phone but not really seeing the screen.

"Still working?" he asked, tone dry.

"Yes," you said, eyes not leaving the document.

He leaned back, exhaling through his nose. "It's late."

"And?"

"And maybe you shouldn't be running yourself into the ground."

Your fingers paused on the keys. You looked at him at last, your expression unreadable. "I'm fine."

"Clearly," he muttered.

Your jaw tightened. "If you have something to say, Charles, just say it."

He finally set his phone down, eyes meeting yours. "You lost the baby because you kept pushing yourself."

The words landed like a slap. Silence swelled thick between you, your face stiffening even as your throat burned.

When you spoke, it was quiet, cutting. "So now it's my fault?"

"I didn't say that." His voice sharpened, though softer than a shout. "But you don't listen. Not to me. Not to your body. And now—" He broke off, raking a hand through his hair.

You shut the laptop with a snap. "At least I was here. You weren't."

That stopped him cold. His mouth opened, then closed, and you saw the flinch he tried to hide.

"I can't do this right now," he said finally, voice low and hard. He stood, grabbed a pillow from the couch, and walked toward the spare bedroom without looking back.

The sound of the door closing echoed through the apartment. You sat frozen in the silence he left behind, the glow of the lamp suddenly unbearable.

The first night Charles slept in the spare room felt temporary. A bad evening, a line crossed too fast. But the next night he carried his pillow down the hall again without a word, and you didn't stop him.

By the end of the week, it wasn't even an event anymore. He came home late, muttered a few words about dinner, and disappeared behind the room door. You stayed in the master bedroom with the silence, the untouched side of the bed stretching colder each night.

In the mornings, you crossed paths in the kitchen like polite strangers.

"You're out early today," you said once, pouring yourself coffee.

"Meeting," he replied, eyes on his phone.

The rhythm of your days no longer overlapped. He trained, raced, traveled; you worked, came home, fell asleep alone. Even when you were in the same room, the air between you held more weight than words could cut through.

Sometimes, late at night, Charles lingered outside the bedroom door. His hand hovered on the knob, torn between going in and retreating. Every time, he chose retreat.

Dinner became the loudest silence. Plates scraped, forks clinked, but words rarely crossed the table. Once, Charles tried—

"How was work?"

"Fine." You didn't look up.

And that was it. He chewed in silence, staring at the empty chair that used to feel too close, now impossibly far.

On a Sunday morning, he found you on the balcony with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, a mug cooling in your hands. He stepped out, leaned against the railing beside you.

"Did you sleep at all?" he asked.

"Enough."

Your tone made it clear: conversation closed. He stood there a minute longer, then went back inside, the sliding door clicking shut between you.

Nights stretched the longest. You turned off the bedroom light alone. Down the hall, Charles lay awake in the spare room, staring at the ceiling. Some nights he reached for his phone, thumb hovering over your name. But what would he text you, when you were just down the corridor?

Even small things frayed. He left his jacket on the back of a chair, and you moved it wordlessly into the closet. You bought groceries, but only enough for yourself. He caught himself making two coffees out of habit, then poured one down the sink before you saw.

And so it went—two people moving through the same space, yet never touching. Like strangers whose shadows overlapped but never their hands.

The café smelled of roasted beans and sea air drifting in from the harbor. Charles sat with his cap pulled low, staring at the espresso cooling in front of him. Pierre slid into the seat opposite, shaking his head.

"You look like hell," Pierre said, voice half-teasing, half-concerned.

Charles gave a humorless smile. "Thanks."

They sat in silence for a moment before Pierre leaned in, forearms on the table. "Alright. Spill. You don't ask me out here to brood unless it's serious."

Charles hesitated, fingers tapping against the cup. Then he reached into his bag and laid an envelope on the table between them.

Pierre frowned. "What's that?"

"Divorce papers."

The words came out flat, but Charles's throat burned as he said them. Pierre stared at him like he'd spoken another language.

"You're joking."

"I'm not."

Pierre picked up the envelope, turning it over slowly. "Why, Charles?"

Charles finally looked up, eyes glassy but steady. "We don't talk anymore. We don't even share a bed. She blames herself, I blame myself... it's killing us both. And I can't keep dragging her through this."

Pierre's jaw tightened. "So your solution is to walk away? To quit?"

"I'm not quitting," Charles snapped, more harshly than he meant. He lowered his voice again, pained. "I'm giving her a way out. If she wants to leave, she won't have to fight me for it."

Pierre sat back, shaking his head. "And if she doesn't want to leave?"

Charles's lips pressed thin. He glanced at the envelope, then back at Pierre. "Then she'll never see these. I'll burn them, forget them. But if she does..." His voice cracked, and he swallowed. "If she does, I won't stop her."

Pierre didn't speak right away. He just studied him with the quiet weight of someone who understood too much. Finally, he slid the envelope back across the table.

"Charles," he said softly, "you love her. Don't confuse silence with the end."

But Charles only tucked the papers away again, his face unreadable. "Maybe the end's already here."

The apartment was dark when Charles returned, the only light spilling from under your closed bedroom door. He stood in the hallway for a long moment, listening for the faintest sound—your breathing, a shift in the sheets—but nothing reached him.

With a quiet sigh, he crossed into his office. The room smelled faintly of paper and ink, the shelves lined with trophies staring back at him like silent judges. He sat at the desk, pulled the envelope from his bag, and laid it flat on the polished wood.

For a long time he just stared at it. His reflection wavered faintly on the glossy surface, a man split down the middle—husband, racer, coward, protector.

His hand hovered over the drawer. Once it opened, the papers would have a place here, like a shadow tucked into the house they'd built together.

He whispered under his breath, almost to himself. "I don't want this."

And yet, he slid the envelope inside, pressing it down beneath a stack of files. His fingers lingered on the edge, as if hiding them made the decision more real.

From down the hall, a floorboard creaked. He froze, listening, but you didn't come closer.

Charles closed the drawer softly, leaning back in the chair. The office felt colder now, heavier, as though the secret itself had thickened the air.

He rubbed his eyes, muttering to the silence, "God, forgive me."

Then he stood, switched off the lamp, and walked to the spare room without even glancing at your door.

The paddock buzzed with noise—mechanics rushing past, cameras flashing, fans screaming from behind the barriers. Charles walked a step ahead of you, his cap pulled low, sunglasses hiding the exhaustion etched into his face. You followed, your arms crossed loosely, not touching him, not even close.

Pierre caught sight of you both as you entered the hospitality suite. His smile flickered, faltered. Normally, you and Charles moved like one body—laughing, leaning in close, sharing small touches that never went unnoticed. Today, you might as well have been strangers.

"You made it," Pierre said to you, his tone carefully neutral.

You gave him a polite nod, lips curving in something that wasn't quite a smile. "Of course."

Charles's hand brushed the small of your back, the gesture automatic, but you stepped slightly to the side, avoiding it. The movement was small, subtle—but Pierre saw it. So did the PR manager, glancing quickly between you two before redirecting her attention to the schedule in her hands.

Later, in the garage, Charles pulled on his gloves as cameras crowded the entrance. He looked up, searching the crowd until he found you standing by the barrier. For a moment his chest eased—seeing you there, seeing you choose to be here.

But your face was unreadable, your arms folded tight as you watched. No cheering, no soft smile of encouragement. Just silence.

A mechanic leaned over to Pierre. "Something wrong with them?" he muttered under his breath.

Pierre didn't answer. He only watched Charles force a smile for the cameras, then watched it crumble the second the lenses turned away.

On track, Charles drove like a man chasing ghosts. Precision, aggression, but no joy. When he crossed the finish line, the cheers of the crowd barely reached him. He glanced toward the viewing area again, found your eyes—but you didn't move, didn't wave.

The champagne later sprayed across the podium, cold and sticky. Charles raised the bottle, but his gaze never left the place you stood. And when he finally came down, walking past you, all you offered was a soft, "Congratulations," before looking away.

Everyone saw.

Someone called after you, a fellow fan with a puzzled smile: "You're leaving already? He just—"

You didn't stop. Your shoes tapped briskly against the concrete steps, your face a careful mask. If anyone wondered why you weren't staying to bask in his victory, let them. You knew the answer, and Charles would too, when he realized you weren't waiting for him.

The house was dark when you slipped the keycard in. You thought you'd managed to return unnoticed, maybe crawl into bed before he came back. But the faint click of the lock had already stirred him; Charles was sitting on the couch, still in his team jacket, hair damp from a rushed shower.

"You left early." His voice wasn't raised, but the words cut through the silence.

You set your bag down carefully, buying time. "The traffic after the race gets bad. I didn't want to be stuck there."

His eyes narrowed, tired and sharp. "That's the excuse?"

You crossed your arms, refusing to meet his gaze. "What do you want me to say, Charles? That I didn't feel like pretending in front of thousands of people?"

He leaned back, jaw tight, and for a moment it looked like he'd let the silence swallow everything. Then he exhaled slowly, almost bitterly. "They all saw it. They all noticed. And I—" His voice cracked into something quieter. "I noticed most of all."

The distance between you was heavier than the night itself.

You slipped off your shoes without looking at him. "Then maybe they should stop staring."

Charles's laugh was hollow, humorless. "That's all you can say?"

You finally met his eyes, tired and sharp in the dim light. "What do you want me to do, Charles—smile, wave, play the perfect wife for the cameras?"

He stared at you, as if trying to find some trace of warmth in your expression. When he didn't, he scoffed under his breath and pushed himself up from the couch. "Fine."

The word dropped like a stone. He walked toward the bedroom, paused at the doorframe as if he might turn back, then didn't. The door shut with a muted click, leaving you in the living room, the silence splitting the air between you.

The kettle hissed faintly in the kitchen, the smell of coffee drifting through the apartment. You padded in, hair still messy from sleep, and froze when you saw the mug already waiting on the counter. Your favorite one — the chipped rim, the faint stain at the bottom that never quite washed out. Steam curled from it.

Charles didn't look up from where he sat at the table, phone in his hand. "I made it strong. Like you like it." His voice was even, too even.

You wrapped your hands around the mug, the warmth seeping into your fingers. "Thanks." The word came out flat, automatic.

He hummed, a sound so faint you almost missed it, then went back to scrolling through whatever was on his screen. No attempt at a smile, no question of how you'd slept. Just that gesture — the coffee, waiting for you like some silent offering.

The distance between you wasn't loud. It was worse than that. It was quiet, calculated, and the mug in your hands felt heavier than porcelain had any right to be.

You took the first sip, eyes fixed on the counter instead of him. The bitterness coated your tongue, familiar and comforting, but it didn't touch the tightness in your chest.

"You should eat something too," Charles said after a beat, not looking away from his phone. "Toast is on the table."

Your gaze flicked to the plate, two slices waiting, edges already cooling. You hadn't touched his food in days, not really. You pulled the mug closer, ignoring the toast.

"I'm not hungry."

Charles's jaw ticked, a muscle pulling tight near his temple. "You can't keep skipping. It's not good for you—"

"I said I'm fine."

The silence that followed was harsher than any raised voice. He set his phone down, finally looking at you. His eyes searched your face, but you kept your expression neutral, giving him nothing.

In the end, he only nodded once, like conceding some invisible race. "Right. Fine."

You took another sip of coffee, both of you sitting in the same room but further apart than if you'd been in separate countries.

Charles sat alone in his office, the blinds drawn halfway, stripes of late-afternoon light cutting across the desk. The divorce papers lay in front of him, stark against the dark wood, the weight of them far heavier than the thin sheaf of paper should allow. He'd read the same paragraph three times, not because he needed reminding of what it said, but because he couldn't bring himself to sign the last line.

His thumb traced the edge of the folder, a nervous rhythm he didn't recognize in himself. Pierre's voice echoed in his head from weeks before—"Do it clean. Quiet. Don't let her drag through the pain." It had sounded rational then. Humane, even. Now, with the papers staring back at him, the idea of severing you from his life felt like carving out bone from flesh.

The door creaked open, so softly it made him flinch. You stood there in the doorway, holding a folded slip of paper in your hand. For a moment, your eyes brushed the desk—close enough to see the scattered documents, but not long enough to read them. He straightened instinctively, sliding the folder half-closed with the casualness of a man trying too hard to look unbothered.

"Charles," you said, voice measured, neither warm nor cold. "My parents called. They want us to come for dinner tomorrow night."

He blinked, caught off guard by the normalcy of it, the way your words sidestepped the gulf between you. "Dinner?"

You nodded, lips pressed tight. "They insisted. I told them... we'd try."

The silence stretched, and in it, he realized you weren't looking at him—you were looking past him, at the window, at the floor, at anywhere but his face. He wanted to say yes immediately, to pretend everything was fine, but the papers beneath his palm burned like an open secret.

"Of course," he said finally, the words low, carefully even. "We'll go."

You gave a short nod, as though that was all you came for. No smile, no thank you. Just a turn of the handle and the click of the door closing again.

When the room was empty, Charles exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. The folder was still there, half-hidden, waiting. Tomorrow he'd have to sit across from your parents, answer their questions, play the dutiful husband. The thought made his chest tighten—not because of the performance, but because he wasn't sure how many more of these thin facades you both could endure before one of you finally shattered.

Your parents' home smelled of ginger and garlic, warmth seeping from the kitchen as soon as the door opened. They greeted Charles with the same fondness they always had, your mother pulling him into a hug, your father clapping his back as though nothing in the world had shifted.

And Charles—he smiled. He bowed his head respectfully, offered the flowers he'd picked up on the way, said all the right things. To anyone watching, he looked the same as ever: the charming son-in-law, the golden boy who always had time for family despite his impossible schedule.

But you felt the distance in the way his hand brushed yours briefly at the doorway and then never again.

At the table, your mother talked about the garden, your father about the news, laughter spilling into the room with practiced ease. Charles responded when addressed, attentive and polite, his French accent warming his words just enough to win their favor as always. But beneath the table, his foot tapped a restless rhythm, and every now and then, when your parents weren't looking, you caught his jaw tightening.

"Charles," your father said at one point, pouring him another glass. "How's the season going? Still keeping our daughter from worrying too much?"

You froze, chopsticks halfway to your mouth.

Charles hesitated only a fraction of a second, then smiled thinly. "I try," he said, eyes flicking toward you before darting away. "But she worries anyway."

Your mother laughed, light and oblivious. "That's what wives do."

You forced a small smile, chewing quietly, but the words lodged somewhere in your throat. Charles didn't add anything, and the pause stretched just a breath too long before your father changed the subject.

On the surface, it was a perfect dinner. Plates emptied, stories shared, your parents none the wiser. But when it was time to leave, and your mother pressed leftovers into your hands, Charles lingered just out of reach, as though afraid even the briefest touch might give something away.

In the car ride home, the silence between you was deafening. The streetlights flashed across his face as he drove, every flicker illuminating the strain he'd kept hidden all evening. You wanted to say something, anything, but the words tangled. He gripped the wheel tighter, as if the only way forward was to keep driving.

The apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against your ears. Charles had gone to bed early, claiming exhaustion, though you suspected it was just another way of retreating. His door had clicked shut, and the sound had lingered in the hallway longer than it should.

You padded softly across the living room, barefoot, the light from a single lamp guiding you toward his office. There was something you needed—an old notebook you'd left there weeks ago, maybe a receipt you thought had been tucked in his desk. You weren't even sure anymore. All you knew was that the space had been avoided too long, and tonight you felt restless enough to cross that boundary.

The office smelled faintly of cologne and paper, the neat order of Charles's things standing in contrast to the storm inside you. You ran a hand over the shelf, pulling open drawers with quiet care. And then, on the desk, half-buried beneath a stack of folders, you saw it.

A folder, cream-colored, thicker than the rest. You reached for it, meaning only to push it aside, but the corner slipped open. Your name caught your eye first, printed sharply on the header. Your heart stuttered.

You pulled it free, the weight of the paper suddenly too heavy for your hands. The words blurred for a moment, your mind refusing to connect the letters, until they snapped into focus. Petition for divorce.

The silence of the apartment grew unbearable. Your breath hitched, sharp in the stillness. You turned the pages with trembling fingers—Charles's details, your details, the signatures half-filled, his handwriting scrawled at the bottom of one sheet. The sight of it was a punch to the chest.

For a long moment, you just stood there, staring. A chill spread down your spine, colder than anything you'd felt in months of distance. You wanted to believe it was a mistake, some draft left by a lawyer, some cruel coincidence. But the ink was his. The intention was his.

Your knees nearly gave beneath you. You gripped the edge of the desk, the folder slipping from your hands and falling open on the floor. Pages fanned out across the rug, stark white against the dark.

Charles, sleeping just down the hall, unaware.

And you—suddenly hollow, as if every tender memory, every whispered promise, had been yanked from your chest and replaced with nothing but air.

Charles woke before dawn, the apartment still cloaked in darkness. He padded out of the bedroom, expecting the usual clutter—your mug on the counter, your laptop humming faintly on the couch. Instead, the place felt too still.

And then he saw it.

On the dining table, the folder lay open, pages spread like a wound torn wide. The divorce papers. His chest went cold.

He didn't need to check which page you'd stopped on. The faint smudge on the corner, the way the sheets had been turned—he knew. You had seen everything.

His throat tightened, a dry, choking guilt. He remembered the way you'd moved through the apartment yesterday, distracted, quiet, but still there. He remembered the polite smile you'd forced at your parents' dinner. And now—now all he could think of was your eyes landing on those words, your fingers tracing his half-signed name.

He turned in a slow circle, searching the apartment as if you might still be here. The bedroom was empty. The couch, the balcony, the bathroom—empty. Your coat was missing from the rack. Your shoes, gone.

A hollow ache gnawed at his ribs. You hadn't confronted him, hadn't shouted, hadn't cried. You'd simply vanished, leaving the papers as a message clearer than words.

Charles gripped the back of a chair until his knuckles whitened. This was the sign he thought he wanted—the quiet end Pierre had suggested, no messy fights, no dragged-out pain. Yet standing there, with the papers bleeding silence across the table, he felt nothing like relief. Only devastation.

The clock ticked on. Outside, the first light of morning touched the window, cold and pale.

You were gone. And this time, he wasn't sure if he could ever find the way back to you.

Charles drove like a man chasing ghosts. The city blurred past, every streetlight a flash of accusation. He'd called your phone a dozen times—no answer. Checked with Pierre—nothing. Gone through every familiar café, every quiet corner you used to love. Empty.

And then it struck him, sudden and absolute. The only place that made sense. The place where he'd once knelt with shaking hands, a ring box clutched tight, his entire future resting on a single word from you.

The proposal spot.

By the time he reached it, his chest felt crushed by the weight of the wheel. He parked haphazardly, barely bothering to lock the car before sprinting. His footsteps echoed against the stone path, breath harsh in the night air.

And there you were.

Sitting on the bench, shoulders hunched, the city lights painting your face in fractured glows. You looked hollow, as though something essential had been scooped out of you and left behind.

Charles froze, just a few steps away. His throat burned with words he couldn't form, explanations that felt too small for the damage done. The divorce papers were between you now, sharper than any blade.

But he couldn't walk away. Not from you. Not from this.

"Amour..." His voice cracked on the word. He tried again, softer. "Please. Let me explain."

Your head turned slowly, eyes glinting in the dim light. You said nothing, and that silence cut deeper than any accusation.

Charles took a step closer, the night pressing in around him. For once, he had no rehearsed lines, no practiced calm. Just the raw, terrified truth of a man about to lose everything.

Charles stopped short when he saw you on the bench—but before he could say your name, you lifted your head. Your face was streaked, your eyes red, and then the dam broke.

The sound of your sobs hit him harder than any crash he'd ever survived. You stood so suddenly the bench rattled, fists clenched at your sides.

"How could you?" Your voice cracked, high and raw. "How could you write it all out—sign your name—and not even tell me?"

He froze, the words cutting through him. You didn't wait for an answer. Tears spilled down your cheeks in hot, unstoppable streams, every word laced with months of grief and exhaustion.

"I lost our baby, Charles. I blamed myself every second, every night. And while I was tearing myself apart, you were—" You broke off, choking on the word. "You were planning to leave me."

He stepped forward instinctively, hand half-reaching, but you flinched back, shaking your head violently.

"I wasn't enough for you to stay? Not even broken like this?" Your voice rose, desperate and sharp, your body trembling with the force of it. "You said you'd protect me. You swore it. And the first chance you get, you run."

Charles's chest caved at the sight of you unraveling, every tear like a blade against his ribs. He wanted to close the distance, to grab your shoulders, to beg you to see what he hadn't been able to say aloud. But all he could do was stand there, guilt flooding through him, watching as the rage and heartbreak spilled from you in waves.

And then, quieter, your voice shredded and thin: "Was I really that easy to give up on?"

The night swallowed the question, but it kept ringing in his ears, louder than the engines, louder than any crowd.

Charles's throat burned as he finally found his voice. "No," he whispered, shaking his head, tears threatening now at the corners of his eyes. "Never. That's not why I—" He faltered, breath catching. "That's not what those papers meant."

Charles took a cautious step closer, keeping his hands raised slightly, as if to shield himself from the force of your storm. "Listen," he started, voice rough with emotion. "I—those papers... I never wanted them to be for you."

You flinched, body trembling, but didn't stop. "For me?" you spat, tears blinding you. "They were signed, Charles! Your name on that paper! How is that not for me?"

He swallowed hard, chest heaving. "I... I was trying to protect you. I thought—maybe—if things got worse, if we drifted further, you wouldn't have to fight me to leave. I thought I was being merciful, not cruel."

"Merciful?" you screamed, voice breaking into a ragged sob. "You think leaving me alone in this—after everything—we've been through—that's mercy?"

Charles's own eyes stung as he stepped closer, careful not to touch you, terrified of making it worse. "No. I see now. I was a coward. I thought I could control the pain by preparing for the worst. But I forgot... I can't decide your heart, or your choices. That was never mine to decide."

You buried your face in your hands, shaking, sobs wracking your body. He watched every inch of you, every tremor, every flicker of despair, knowing he'd caused it and that no words would erase the hurt.

"I never wanted to hurt you," he said again, voice breaking. "Not ever. And the idea of losing you because of my fear—it's worse than anything I've ever faced on track. I love you, and I was terrified. That's why I kept it a secret. But seeing you like this..." His hands flexed at his sides, trembling. "I can't—I can't let you go because I misjudged myself. Because I let fear make me foolish."

For a moment, the storm in your eyes faltered. You weren't forgiving him yet—not close—but the tremor in your shoulders, the hiccuping sobs, the way your hands twitched from the grip on your face... it told him you were listening.

Charles exhaled shakily. "I'll do anything to fix this. I'll wait, I'll—whatever you need, I'll prove it. But please... don't leave me. Not like this. Not like I already lost everything I care about."

The city lights shimmered across your tear-streaked face. And for the first time since he'd drafted those papers, Charles felt like he might still have a chance—if you let him.

The first tremor came through your shoulders, uncontrollable, as if all the months of grief, anger, and exhaustion were pouring out at once. You dropped to your knees beside the bench, tears spilling freely, snot running unchecked. The roar of the city seemed to fade, leaving only the sound of your ragged breaths and the quiet panic in your chest.

Charles dropped to his knees opposite you, close but careful, hands hovering, trembling. "Shh... it's okay," he whispered, voice breaking. "It's okay. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

You shook your head violently, unable to meet his gaze. "I can't... I can't even look at you!" you cried. "I trusted you! I loved you! And you... you planned this without me! You signed those papers!"

He flinched at the word, feeling every strike as if it had landed on his own skin. "I know. And I... I don't expect you to forgive me right now," he said softly, voice cracking under the weight of his own guilt. "I just... I needed you to know. I never wanted to leave you. Not like that. Not ever."

Your body shook violently, and finally, after a long, impossible moment, you let yourself collapse entirely into his presence—not touching, not leaning, but letting him see all of it: the heartbreak, the fury, the despair.

Charles's hands rested on the ground near yours, his own tears falling, warm and shameful. "I'll do whatever it takes," he said again, voice hoarse. "I'll prove it. I'll—just... don't run from me. Not tonight. Please."

You gasped between sobs, the anger and sorrow mingling into a storm that made it impossible to speak. And yet, even in that silence, even with the distance your emotions had carved, there was a thread connecting you both—a fragile, desperate tether neither of you wanted to break.

Charles stayed there, quietly, letting you unravel fully, knowing that the first step to finding your way back together was simply letting you feel everything you'd been holding in.

your body finally slumped forward slightly, your hands covering your face, shoulders trembling. Charles waited, hesitant, as if making a single wrong move might shatter whatever thread still held between you.

Then, gently, he reached out, letting his hand hover near your back. You flinched at first, but didn't pull away. Slowly, cautiously, he placed his palm against your shoulder, just enough to offer warmth, stability.

"I'm here," he whispered, voice soft, almost breaking. "Lean on me. Please."

You hesitated, every ounce of pride and pain warring inside you, but exhaustion and grief won. With a shuddering sigh, you pressed your forehead against the side of his chest, your hands clutching at the fabric of his jacket. The tears came harder, hot and unrelenting, but now there was something different—a sense of safety in letting go, even if only a little.

Charles's arm wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close without forcing you. His chin rested lightly atop your head, breathing slow and steady. "It's okay," he murmured repeatedly, letting the words soak into you. "You're not alone. Not tonight. Not ever."

The night pressed in around you, cold city lights casting long shadows across the bench, but inside that fragile embrace, the storm of rage and heartbreak softened, if only just enough for the two of you to breathe together again.

Charles stayed still, feeling every tremor of your body against his, vowing silently that he would carry this burden with you, never again letting fear dictate the space between you.

The drive back was quiet, but not the suffocating kind of silence from before. The city lights streaked across your faces through the windshield, but now there was a fragile peace, a rhythm born of shared vulnerability rather than distance. You didn't speak at first, letting your body sink against him in the passenger seat, still shaky but less guarded.

Charles kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly on your knee, careful, tentative—a quiet promise rather than a demand. Every so often, he would squeeze gently, a reminder that he was there, that he wasn't leaving, that he wouldn't let you go this time.

"I..." you began once, voice raw and small, "I don't know if I can forget what I saw."

He didn't flinch. He knew it wasn't about forgetting. "I don't expect you to," he said quietly. "I just want you to trust that I'll do better. That I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

You exhaled shakily, curling a little closer. The car hummed around you, traffic blurring past, but inside that small cocoon, the world had narrowed to two fragile people trying to stitch themselves back together.

They didn't need words for every thought. Charles felt your heartbeat in short, uneven bursts, and let his own slow down, matching it. He wanted every moment like this, quiet and patient, to remind you both that connection was still possible. That love, however battered, could still be rebuilt.

For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to hope—not reckless, not certain—but a steady, cautious hope that they might find their way back to each other, one fragile step at a time.

The apartment was quieter than usual that evening, the kind of quiet that allowed even the smallest sounds to stretch and linger—the click of the kettle, the hum of the fridge, the soft tap of rain against the windows. You were curled up on the couch with a blanket draped over your legs, a book open in your lap but your eyes scanning the room more than the pages.

Charles leaned against the doorway, watching you. He'd spent the week in careful observation, giving space, letting the fractures heal slowly. Tonight, something felt different—a subtle shift in the way you moved, the faint curl of your shoulders as though you were ready to let the day end without shutting him out completely.

He stepped forward, soft, careful. "You okay?"

You glanced up, meeting his gaze for the briefest moment before looking away. "I... I'm fine."

The words were measured, but the tone lacked the usual edge of distance. That was enough for him. He moved closer, settling into the chair across from you. "Dinner's cold," he said softly, nodding toward the plate on the coffee table. "But I didn't touch it. You can eat it whenever you're ready."

You hesitated, then gave a small nod, shifting just a fraction closer to him on the couch. Charles didn't push; he simply observed, letting the silence fill with presence rather than pressure.

Later, as the rain pattered harder against the windows, you finally closed your book and stretched. Charles offered a hand, a tentative gesture, and you took it—not fully, not yet—but enough that your fingers brushed his.

"I missed this," he said quietly, voice barely above the sound of rain. "Just... being near you. Even like this."

You didn't answer immediately. Instead, you leaned a little further into his side, allowing yourself to feel the warmth without words, without judgment. The tension of the past weeks didn't vanish, but it softened, replaced by a fragile trust, a careful closeness.

Charles rested his head just above yours, letting his arm drape over your shoulders. The city outside continued on, oblivious to the tiny, monumental shift happening in this quiet apartment. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he felt hope—not reckless, not loud—but steady, patient, and enough to carry them both forward.

The apartment was still that night, quiet but not heavy. The storm from weeks past had left traces—faint scars of grief, anger, and fear—but they no longer defined the space between you.

You sat curled against Charles on the couch, legs tucked beneath the blanket, a mug of tea warming your hands. He rested an arm over your shoulders, close but not smothering, his head lightly brushing yours. Neither of you spoke for a while; the silence wasn't empty. It was enough. It was home.

"I never realized..." you began softly, voice low, almost afraid to shatter the moment, "...how much I needed this. You. Just you."

Charles's lips pressed against your temple, gentle. "And I," he whispered, "...just need you. No distractions, no fear, no pretenses. Just us. That's all that matters."

You shifted slightly, letting yourself press closer. His warmth seeped into you, steady, grounding, a reminder that despite everything, you weren't alone. That you had him, and he had you.

The city lights flickered through the blinds, casting faint gold and silver stripes across the room. Outside, the world continued—fast, chaotic, indifferent—but inside, there was a quiet certainty. A shared heartbeat. A tether neither would let break again.

Charles rested his cheek lightly on your hair, sighing softly. "We'll figure everything else out," he said. "But tonight... tonight we just stay here. Together."

You nodded against him, letting the last of your tears fall, but now mingled with relief, with something lighter: trust, love, the slow rebuilding of two hearts that had almost been lost.

And in that quiet apartment, with nothing but the hum of life outside and the warmth between you, it was enough. Because for the first time in a long while, you both knew: no matter what came next, you had each other.

The world could wait.

[sphoria-63]

Through The Window 18+ (OP81)

Summary : Oscar and you share a night of intense intimacy, exploring the depth of your connection in both body and heart. The story captures the urgency, tenderness, and emotional closeness between the two of you. Every moment is charged with desire and the unspoken weight of the time you have together.

➢ Dom!Oscar Piastri x Sub!Fem reader (no use of y/n)

➢ Word count : 6.8k

➢ Warnings : 18+, NSFW, oral f&m receiving, strong language, longing, mature relationship,heartbreak/separation.

➢ A/N : I was writing this while losing my sanity with my project coding so forgive me if yall could see some mistakes here

MY MASTERLIST

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The city never really slept, but some hours felt like it was holding its breath. Past midnight, when the traffic thinned and the neon lights hummed softer, you could almost believe the world had shrunk down to a handful of glowing windows and a few restless hearts.

And often, one of those restless hearts was Oscar's.

He was your neighbor. Your across-the-hall constant. And for months, your nights had become the quietly intertwined—cigarettes and laughter on the balcony, whispered stories that seemed too fragile for daylight, shoulders brushing as if by accident.

It had never been labeled. Not friends exactly, not lovers either. Something secret, something yours.

Oscar had a way of existing like gravity—always near, always steady, always pulling you in without trying. He leaned against railings like he owned the skyline, and you'd find yourself matching his rhythm without meaning to. Some nights the two of you said almost nothing at all, just sat there while the city moved beneath you. Other nights, you talked until your throats ached, conversations circling back to regrets, small triumphs, and questions too dangerous to ask anyone else.

You never asked him what it meant. He never asked you either. It was enough, somehow.

When he knocked on your door that evening—two quick taps, his familiar code—it barely startled you. That rhythm had etched itself into your memory over the months, becoming as recognizable as your own heartbeat.

Still, you froze for a second before moving, your bare feet brushing against the cool floor as you crossed the room. Something about Oscar's knock always carried an undertone of expectation, as though he wasn't just asking to come inside your apartment but into whatever mood you happened to be in that night. It felt ordinary, casual, the way he always appeared at the threshold of your evenings, yet there was a hum in your chest as if the air itself was waiting for something you couldn't quite name.

You opened the door and found him standing there in the familiar frame of your hallway light, a figure you'd come to know so well it startled you sometimes, how his presence had become part of your daily rhythm. His posture was relaxed, leaning ever so slightly against the doorframe, one hand buried in his pocket like he had all the time in the world, while the other held a bottle whose amber contents caught the glow of the bulb overhead.

His smile tilted lazy, not the wide grin he sometimes wore when teasing, but softer, gentler, shaded with something you couldn't quite read. There was a weight in his gaze, steady but unspoken, as though he'd carried a secret all the way down the hall and wasn't sure if he should let it spill here, now.

"Thought we could use this," he said finally, lifting the bottle in a half-offer, half-excuse. His voice was low and unhurried, brushing over you the way it always did—like smoke curling against your skin, subtle, lingering, difficult to forget.

You grinned despite the flicker of unease the look in his eyes left behind, stepping back to open the door wider and let him in. "You always come prepared," you teased, trying to mirror the ease he wore so effortlessly. But your smile carried its own edge of truth—Oscar did always come prepared, in ways that went beyond bottles of whiskey or late-night stories.

"Just trying to keep my neighbor happy," he returned lightly as he crossed the threshold, his shoulder brushing yours in the narrow space, the warmth of him brushing against you like a secret only you were allowed to feel.

The tease in his tone made it sound like nothing was changing, like this was just another continuation of all the nights before, another effortless slip into a ritual the two of you had created without ever admitting to it. And for a moment, as the door shut behind him and his footsteps settled into your living room, you let yourself believe it.

The two of you drifted toward the balcony almost instinctively, as though the rest of the apartment were just filler space and the real world began where the glass door slid open to the city. You carried mismatched glasses while he set the bottle down, and the motion was so practiced it almost felt choreographed, like dance steps you'd learned together without ever speaking of them.

Outside, the city stretched beneath you, restless and alive, its veins of traffic pulsing, its neon signs throwing soft glimmers against the concrete towers. The night air pressed cool against your skin, brushing strands of hair across your cheek as you sat, and when you looked over, you found Oscar already leaning back in his chair, head tipped slightly, eyes flicking between you and the glittering streets below.

You poured the amber liquid, watching it swirl into the chipped glasses, catching the faintest reflections of gold and firelight. You slid his glass toward him, and when your fingers brushed against his as he took it, the contact was so brief you might have missed it if your pulse hadn't jumped in quiet betrayal.

You tried to bury the reaction beneath a steady smile, raising your glass into the space between you with forced lightness. "To what?" you asked, your voice curling up into the air, casual enough but carrying a small, deliberate challenge.

Oscar leaned back further into his chair, one eyebrow arching in mock seriousness as he considered. He let the silence stretch for a moment, the city's hum filling the pause, before he tilted his glass toward yours. "To neighbors?" he offered, his tone dry, his lips tugging into a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes.

You laughed, the sound quick and genuine, though you shook your head almost immediately. "Too boring," you countered, letting the word carry more weight than the joke deserved. You didn't want tonight, whatever it was, to be boring.

His mouth twitched, the smirk softening into something else, something quieter. He held your gaze for a heartbeat before finally tilting his glass again. "Alright then," he said, voice dropping just a shade lower, "to secrets."

The clink of glass was soft, delicate, almost reluctant, but the weight of the words hung between you like smoke that refused to disperse. You drank, the whiskey burning its familiar path down your throat, and felt the silence settle heavy again—not empty, not uncomfortable, but alive, charged, thrumming with everything that had been said and all the things neither of you dared yet to speak aloud.

You set your glass down carefully on the little table, letting your fingers linger on the rim a moment longer than necessary. The word secrets echoed in your head, bouncing against the laughter and whispers that had built the strange bond between you and Oscar over these past months.

You glanced at him, wondering if he realized how true that toast was, how many unsaid things already lived between the two of you.

"What's the biggest secret you've kept from me?" you asked suddenly, surprising even yourself. The words slipped out before you could weigh them, carried by the warmth of whiskey and the electricity of his gaze.

Oscar raised his brows, swirling the liquid in his glass. "Biggest?" He leaned back in his chair, studying you like he was measuring how much truth you could handle. "That's dangerous. You sure you want me to answer?"

You smirked, trying to mask the sudden tightness in your chest. "Of course. Unless you're too chicken."

He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "You always go for the throat, don't you?" His eyes flicked to yours, the corners softening. "Alright. Biggest secret... hmm." He pretended to think, dragging out the silence until you leaned forward, impatient. Finally, he said, "Sometimes, I knock on your door just because I want to see if you'll smile at me like that."

You blinked, caught off guard, your own smile faltering as heat spread through you. "That's not a secret," you tried to brush it off, though your voice wavered. "That's just—"

"—pathetic?" Oscar supplied with mock offense, though his grin betrayed him.

"I was going to say predictable," you countered quickly, though your cheeks warmed. "But if you want to call yourself pathetic, I won't argue."

He chuckled, the sound rumbling low in his chest, and leaned forward across the table. "Your turn," he said, resting his forearm beside your glass. His eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that dared you to look away. "Biggest secret you've kept from me."

You looked down at your hands, at the way your fingers tapped against the wood, buying yourself time. There were plenty of secrets—how often you thought of him when he wasn't there, how your heart skipped whenever you heard those two quick taps at your door, how you sometimes stood in the hallway just to catch his voice leaking faintly through the walls.

"I steal your lighter sometimes," you said instead, forcing a smirk.

Oscar's eyes widened, then narrowed playfully. "So that's where they keep disappearing." He reached across the table, tugging at your wrist lightly in mock accusation. "You've been sabotaging me."

You laughed, the sound spilling into the air, your body relaxing under his touch even though it was barely there. "I always give them back," you protested weakly.

"Not before keeping them hostage for a week," he shot back. His fingers released your wrist slowly, deliberately, leaving a warmth where they had pressed. "That's cruel, you know."

You shrugged, hiding the way your pulse betrayed you. "Maybe I like seeing you knock on my door more often, looking for it."

Oscar's smile faltered for just a fraction of a second—enough to let something unguarded slip through before he masked it again with a laugh. He lifted his glass, finishing what remained of his drink, though his eyes never left yours.

The silence that followed wasn't heavy. It was thick, alive, humming with a rhythm you both pretended not to notice. The city sprawled beneath you, glittering and endless, but the balcony felt impossibly small, the air between you two charged like a wire pulled taut.

Oscar poured another round, the bottle tilting with an unsteady grace that suggested he wasn't measuring anymore. The whiskey sloshed into your glass, catching the flicker of a neon sign across the street. He slid it toward you, his fingers brushing yours, deliberate this time.

"You ever think," he said slowly, like he was choosing each word with care, "about how strange this is? You and me. Same building, same floor. We could've just stayed strangers."

You swirled the glass, watching the amber liquid cling to the sides. "But we didn't."

He gave a faint smile, though his eyes stayed sharp on you. "No. We didn't."

There was a pause, the kind that stretched long enough to make your chest feel tight. You sipped your drink to fill it, but the burn did nothing to distract you from the way his gaze lingered.

"What would we have been then?" you asked, your voice softer, almost testing him. "Just... two people passing each other in the hallway?"

Oscar leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his glass hanging loosely from his fingers. "Would've been easier," he murmured, and for a second you weren't sure if it was a confession or a regret.

You felt the words snag inside you. "Do you want easier?"

His eyes flicked to yours quickly, almost defensively, then softened as his mouth curved into something small and sad. "Not tonight."

The way he said it made you set your glass down before your hands betrayed you. You searched his face for a joke, for some hint that he was still playing at secrets and stolen lighters, but what you found instead was heavier.

"What do you mean?" you asked quietly.

Oscar sat back, exhaling through his nose as if bracing himself. "I mean..." He hesitated, his jaw tightening before the words finally broke free. "This is the last time."

Your heart lurched. "Last time?"

He nodded, not looking away, even though the weight of his gaze was almost unbearable. "I'm leaving tomorrow. Flight in the afternoon. Didn't—" he stopped, running a hand through his hair, "—didn't want to tell you before now. Didn't want it to... change things."

You stared at him, your chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. The city noise below seemed to fade, replaced by the roaring in your ears. "So you're just... gone. After tonight."

"Yeah," he said softly. His eyes softened, almost apologetic. "I thought... if this was the last time, I wanted it to feel like all the others. Just us. No heavy goodbyes."

But it didn't feel like the others anymore. It felt fragile, charged, precious in a way that made your throat ache.

You leaned back in your chair, shaking your head slowly, trying to absorb the words. "You're an ass, you know that?"

Oscar tilted his head, half-smiling despite himself. "I do."

The admission broke something loose inside you. You pushed your glass aside and stood abruptly, the chair legs scraping the balcony floor. The air felt too tight around you. Oscar's eyes tracked your movements, cautious but steady.

"You can't just drop that on me," you said, your voice sharp but trembling. "Like it's nothing."

"I never said it was nothing," he replied, standing now too. The space between you seemed to shrink all at once. "That's why I'm here."

The words hung there, raw and unfinished. Your chest burned with everything you wanted to throw back at him, but when you opened your mouth, nothing came. Instead, you found yourself staring at him, at the sharp lines of his face in the glow of the city, at the curve of his lips as he breathed hard through the silence.

And then—without thinking, without deciding—you closed the distance.

Your hands found his shirt first, gripping the fabric as though it might anchor you, and his mouth was on yours almost instantly, urgent, searching, tasting of whiskey and unsaid words. The kiss wasn't gentle; it was fierce, desperate, the kind of kiss that carried both a beginning and an ending in it. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheekbone as if to hold you in place, while his other arm pulled you closer until there was no space left between you.

The city roared on below, lights flickering, horns blaring, but it all blurred into nothing. There was only him—Oscar, here, now, tonight. The last night.

And you kissed him like you could stop time.

The kiss deepened almost instantly, as though both of you had been waiting for permission you didn't know you needed. Oscar tasted of whiskey and the faintest trace of smoke, familiar and dangerous all at once. His hand slid into your hair, tilting your head to claim you more fully, and the rough scrape of his jaw against your skin made your chest ache in ways you hadn't prepared for.

You pulled him closer by the collar of his shirt, the fabric bunching between your fists, desperate to erase the inches that still dared to exist between your bodies. He responded in kind, his arm circling your waist, his grip firm enough to make you stumble into him. The chair behind him knocked against the table, rattling the empty glasses, but neither of you cared.

When you finally broke apart, gasping, your forehead fell against his. His breath was uneven, brushing across your lips as though he couldn't quite step back.

"Should've done that months ago," he murmured, his voice rough, low, wrecked.

You let out a shaky laugh, though it broke at the edges. "Yeah."

The word carried no bite, only the ache of everything lost to hesitation.

Oscar's thumb traced the line of your jaw, tender now, a stark contrast to the urgency of the kiss. His eyes searched yours, not for permission—he already had that—but for something deeper, some reassurance that this moment was real.

You answered by kissing him again, slower this time, lingering, memorizing the warmth of his mouth and the way he exhaled against you as though he'd been holding his breath for months. Your hands slipped up, threading into his hair, pulling him closer still, and his quiet groan vibrated against your lips like a confession.

When you pulled back again, the city was still there—buzzing, alive—but it felt impossibly far away, like you had slipped into a world where only the two of you existed.

"Inside," Oscar whispered, his voice barely audible, more plea than suggestion.

You nodded without hesitation, tugging his hand as you backed toward the sliding door. He followed, his eyes locked on you, his grip tight around your fingers like he was afraid you might disappear before he could reach you again.

The door shut behind you with a soft click, shutting out the noise of the city, leaving only the two of you in the hush of your apartment.

And for the first time in all those secret nights, there were no more barriers, no more unspoken rules, no more pretending this was anything less than what it was: the last night, and your only night, all at once.

Oscar’s palms slid up beneath your shirt, fingers splaying wide as though he wanted to memorize every inch of skin.

You gasped when he pushed the fabric higher, and he murmured against your throat, voice ragged, “God, I’ve thought about this—” His words broke off as you lifted your arms, letting him strip the shirt away. His eyes dragged over you, hungry and reverent all at once. “You’re… fuck, you’re beautiful.”

Heat flushed your cheeks, but you caught his collar, pulling him down until his mouth covered yours again. “Then stop staring,” you whispered against his lips, “and touch me.”

That plea unraveled something in him. His mouth moved lower, pressing to your collarbone, then down to the curve of your breast. When his tongue flicked over your nipple, you let out a choked sound, fisting his hair. “Oscar—” His name cracked on your tongue, breathless and shaky.

He groaned in answer, the sound vibrating against your skin. “Say it again,” he murmured, lips closing around you, “say my name like that.”

You arched into him, thighs tightening around his hips, your voice trembling with equal parts laughter and need. “You’re such a bastard.”

He pulled back just far enough to look at you, his thumb brushing over your nipple while his eyes burned into yours. “Maybe. But I’m your bastard tonight.”

Your laugh stuttered into a moan as his hand trailed lower, over your stomach, stopping just at the waistband of your pants. He didn’t move further, just let his thumb trace idle circles there, his gaze searching yours. “Tell me,” he said, quieter now, “tell me you want me to keep going.”

Your breath shuddered out of you. You caught his wrist, pressing his palm harder against you, where you needed him most. “Do you really need me to say it?”

His jaw clenched, a groan tearing from his throat. “Yes. Because once I start, I’m not fucking stopping.”

Oscar’s words still trembled in the air when you hooked your fingers into his wrist, pressing him harder against your waistband. “Then don’t stop,” you whispered, your voice rough, daring.

Something broke in him. With a muttered curse, he popped the button of your pants and dragged the zipper down in one urgent motion. “Lift,” he ordered, though his voice was low, breathless, like he couldn’t believe he was finally saying it.

You obeyed, hips rising, and he tugged the denim down, peeling it past your thighs until it pooled at your ankles. His eyes flicked over you, lingering on the thin strip of fabric left between you, and his chest rose like he was trying to steady himself.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he murmured, hands sliding up the insides of your bare thighs, thumbs brushing dangerously close to where you throbbed for him.

Your breath caught, a half-laugh, half-plea escaping you. “Pretty sure I do.”

His mouth curved into something like a grin, but it faltered when he bent down, pressing a trail of open-mouthed kisses along your hip, then lower, his nose brushing the edge of your underwear. The softest groan slipped from your lips, and you felt him smile against your skin. “That sound—” he muttered, voice muffled, “I’ll fucking chase that sound all night if you let me.”

You threaded your fingers through his hair, tugging until he looked up at you. His eyes were molten, pupils wide. “Osc,” you whispered, your chest heaving, “take it off. Please.”

He didn’t make you repeat it. His fingers hooked into the waistband, dragging the fabric down slow, like he wanted to memorize every inch revealed. When you were bare before him, he sat back on his heels for a moment, chest rising and falling, gaze drinking you in like he’d been starving. “Christ,” he whispered, shaking his head, “you’re… perfect.”

Your thighs pressed together instinctively under the weight of his stare, but he reached out, gently parting them with his palms. He bent forward, pressing a reverent kiss to your knee, then higher, until his mouth hovered just shy of where you ached most. His eyes flicked up to yours, waiting, even now.

“You still want this?” he asked, voice gravelly, thick with restraint.

Your answer came out ragged, desperate. “I’ve wanted this longer than you know.”

Oscar’s restraint snapped the second your answer left your lips. He lowered himself, his breath hot against the sensitive skin between your thighs, and then his tongue traced a slow, deliberate line over your folds. The shock of it ripped a gasp from your chest, your back arching as your hand fisted in his hair.

“Fuck—Oscar,” you breathed, your voice breaking as he licked you again, firmer this time, his tongue circling your clit with unhurried precision. He groaned at the sound of your moan, the vibration rumbling against you, making your thighs quiver around his shoulders.

He pulled back just long enough to look up at you, lips already glistening, his voice low and ruined. “You taste even better than I imagined.”

Your laugh was shaky, caught between disbelief and need. “You’ve imagined this?”

“Every goddamn night,” he muttered, before diving back in, mouth claiming you. He sucked gently on your clit, and you cried out, the sound raw, startling even yourself. Your hips lifted off the couch, chasing his tongue, but he held you steady, one hand gripping your thigh, the other sliding up your stomach until it cupped your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple.

The dual sensation made your head fall back, a broken whimper spilling from you. “Oscar—please, don’t stop—”

“Not a chance,” he groaned against you, before plunging his tongue deeper, fucking you with slow strokes while his nose nudged your clit. Your body writhed beneath him, every nerve sparking alive, your thighs trembling with the effort of holding on.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan into you, the sound sending another shiver down your spine. He pulled back just long enough to drag two fingers slowly through your slickness, pressing them against your entrance but not pushing in yet. His eyes met yours, dark, burning. “You want more?”

You nodded frantically, breathless. “Yes—God, yes—”

He smirked faintly, then slid his fingers inside you, slow but deep, curling them until your walls clenched around him. Your cry filled the room, desperate and unrestrained. His mouth returned to your clit instantly, working in perfect rhythm with the thrust of his hand, and within moments you were gasping, the heat coiling tight in your stomach, your voice breaking on his name over and over.

Your cries grew higher, sharper, each roll of his tongue and curl of his fingers unraveling you faster than you could brace for. Oscar’s pace was steady but merciless, his mouth sealed over your clit, sucking and flicking until sparks shot up your spine.

“Jesus—Oscar—I can’t—” Your voice cracked, your hips bucking against his mouth as your body begged for release.

He pulled back just far enough to growl, lips and chin slick with you, “Yes, you can. Come for me, baby. I want to feel it.”

The raw command in his voice sent you tumbling. Your thighs clamped around his head as your climax tore through you, your body convulsing with waves of heat and shuddering pleasure. You cried out his name, a broken, desperate sound, your grip in his hair anchoring you as your vision blurred.

He didn’t let go. His tongue kept working your clit through every spasm, his fingers buried deep inside you, curling to drag every last ripple of release from your trembling body. By the time the aftershocks eased, you were shaking, breathless, collapsing back against the couch cushions.

Oscar finally withdrew his fingers, slow and careful, and kissed the inside of your thigh as though he hadn’t just wrecked you completely. Then he lifted his head, his lips swollen, his hair a mess from your grip, and he grinned faintly—wild, wrecked, reverent all at once. “You’re unbelievable.”

You laughed, still shaky, tugging him up until his weight pressed against you, his chest hot and damp with sweat. “So are you,” you whispered, kissing him, tasting yourself on his lips.

He groaned into the kiss, his hand cupping your jaw, his body still hard against your hip. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his voice husky with want. “And that—” he panted, “was just the beginning.”

Oscar was still pressed against you, his forehead resting against yours, when you shifted beneath him, your hand sliding down his chest. He groaned softly as your fingers traced the hard ridges of his abdomen, then hooked into the waistband of his jeans.

“Your turn,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear.

He sucked in a breath, his body tensing as though the words alone nearly undid him. “Careful,” he muttered, half warning, half plea. “You don’t know what you’re starting.”

But you did. You tugged at his jeans, and he pushed up to help, shoving them down along with his boxers in one impatient motion. His cock sprang free, flushed and heavy, the tip already slick. For a moment, you just looked at him, your hand wrapping around the base, marveling at the heat and weight of him in your palm.

“Fuck—” Oscar’s head fell back, eyes squeezing shut as you stroked him once, slow. “Don’t tease me. Please.”

You smiled faintly, then slid down between his thighs, pushing him back against the bed. “Lie back,” you murmured, your voice low, deliberate.

He obeyed instantly, sinking into the mattress , his chest heaving as he watched you. When your lips wrapped around the head of his cock, his entire body jerked, a strangled sound tearing from his throat.

“Jesus Christ—” His hand shot to your hair, fingers threading through but not forcing, just holding. His eyes were locked on you, wide and undone, as you took him deeper, your tongue swirling around the sensitive underside.

You set a rhythm, slow but steady, bobbing your head while your hand worked the base. His breath grew ragged, curses spilling out between groans. “Baby—you feel so good, fuck, your mouth—” His voice broke on a gasp when you hollowed your cheeks, sliding him deeper until he hit the back of your throat.

“Shit—” His grip in your hair tightened, his thighs trembling beneath you. He tried to pull you back, but you pushed forward, taking him deeper again, the wet sounds filling the room. He stared down at you, lips parted, sweat beading at his temple. “You’re gonna fucking ruin me.”

Your mouth worked him in a rhythm that had his whole body tense beneath you, every muscle straining as if he were fighting himself. Oscar’s hand gripped your hair tighter, not to control you but to ground himself, his knuckles white with restraint.

“Baby—fuck—” His voice was ragged, each word broken by a sharp intake of breath. His hips twitched up, betraying the urge to thrust deeper, but he forced himself still, his head dropping back against the couch. “If you keep going like that—”

You hummed around him, the vibration making him curse aloud, his free hand clenching the cushion. His cock throbbed on your tongue, hot and heavy, the taste of him thick on your lips as you stroked the base in time with your mouth.

“God, you’re killing me,” he groaned, his chest heaving, sweat sliding down his collarbone. His gaze dropped back to you, wild and desperate, pupils blown wide. “I’m close—too close.”

You slowed deliberately, pulling back until just the swollen head rested on your tongue. You swirled around it, licking up the slick bead of precum before easing off with a soft kiss to his tip. His groan was guttural, frustrated and awed all at once.

“Don’t—” He grabbed your chin, urging you up, kissing you with a hunger that tasted of desperation. When he finally broke away, his voice was a whisper against your lips, wrecked and pleading. “Not like this. I want to be inside you when I lose it.”

Oscar’s hand trembled against your cheek, his cock heavy and hot where it pressed against your thigh, but he stilled himself long enough to murmur, breathless, “Wait—I need a condom.”

The ache in your body was sharp, desperate, but you nodded quickly. “Top drawer,” you whispered, chest rising and falling beneath him.

He reached, fumbling with the handle, and tore the foil open with his teeth in a rush that made you both laugh shakily. “God, I’m not waiting another second,” he muttered, rolling the condom down over his length with practiced haste. The sight of him, flushed and throbbing, sheathed in latex and ready, made your pulse thunder in your ears.

When he leaned back over you, his lips brushed yours again, softer this time, his breath uneven. “Now,” he whispered. “I need to be inside you.”

He guided himself to your entrance, the blunt head pressing against your slick folds before slowly pushing in. The stretch burned sweetly, your breath catching as he filled you inch by inch.

“Fuck—you’re so tight,” Oscar groaned, his forehead falling against yours as he buried himself deeper, the condom sliding smooth but snug. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

You clung to him, nails dragging down his back, your voice ragged but certain. “No—don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

With a shuddering exhale, he pushed the rest of the way in until his hips pressed flush to yours. Both of you gasped, the sheer intimacy of being joined at last crashing through the urgency, leaving only heat and wonder.

Oscar stayed still for a heartbeat, buried deep inside you, his chest heaving against yours. The weight of him, the fullness, made your body throb with the sharp edge of need. He pressed his mouth to your jaw, whispering raggedly, “You feel like you were made for me.”

“Then move,” you gasped, your nails digging into his back.

He groaned, hips pulling back slowly, the drag of his cock along your walls making you shudder, before he thrust back in. The sound of your bodies meeting filled the room, wet and urgent, each movement deep enough to make your breath break into little cries.

“Fuck—yes—just like that,” you panted, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper still.

His rhythm built, each stroke harder, more certain, his hips snapping into yours with a force that rattled the couch beneath you. Yet even in the urgency, his hand cupped your face, his thumb brushing your cheek as though he couldn’t stop reminding you this wasn’t just hunger, it was him—all of him.

“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice low, wrecked. You forced your eyes open, and the sight of him—sweat-damp hair falling into his face, lips parted, eyes burning—nearly undid you.

Your moans came louder, higher, each thrust driving you closer to the edge. He bent down, kissing you hard, swallowing your cries as he pounded into you. The condom dulled nothing; every thrust still sent sparks tearing through your body, pleasure wound tight and unbearable.

You broke the kiss, gasping against his mouth. “Oscar—I’m so close—”

His pace faltered only to grind deeper, hips rolling in a way that made you see stars. “Then come for me,” he growled, voice broken. “I want to feel you lose it around me.”

Your moans built into desperate cries, your walls tightening around him with every thrust. Oscar’s hips slammed into yours, rougher now, as if he couldn’t bear to wait another second. Your nails raked down his back, leaving trails of heat, and his low groans filled your ears, vibrating through every nerve.

“Fuck—yes, yes! Harder, Oscar!” you gasped, pressing yourself to him, trying to ride each stroke with him.

He didn’t hesitate. Each thrust was deeper, faster, precise, driving you both closer to the edge. His hand threaded through your hair again, holding your head against his chest as he whispered raggedly, “God, you feel so fucking perfect—come for me, baby. Let go.”

The pressure coiled in your stomach, building unbearably, until with a shuddering cry, your body clenched around him. Heat and release flooded through you, hips jerking instinctively as your climax ripped through you, your moans breaking and echoing in the quiet apartment.

Oscar groaned, his body trembling as your walls clutched him tightly, driving him over the edge. His thrusts became erratic, every muscle tensing, until with a guttural roar, he came inside the condom, shuddering violently against you. He collapsed against your chest, forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing heavily, slick with sweat, hearts pounding in sync.

You stayed pressed together, letting the tremors fade, and he whispered, voice hoarse but full of awe, “You… you’re incredible.”

You smiled, breathless, brushing your fingers through his damp hair. “So are you,” you whispered back, kissing the corner of his mouth. For a moment, all that existed was the heat of your bodies, the shared rhythm of your heartbeats, and the quiet aftermath of everything you’d finally allowed yourselves to feel.

Oscar’s body still pressed against yours, the slow rise and fall of his chest warming your own. The condom was discarded, but neither of you moved to clean up immediately. For a few heartbeats, there was only the quiet hum of the city outside, your fingers tangled in his damp hair, tracing patterns on his back.

“You feel… so real,” he murmured, voice rough, nearly inaudible. “I don’t want this to end.”

Your thumb stroked over his jaw, tracing the line that had been pressed to yours so many times tonight. “I know,” you whispered. “Me neither.”

He shifted slightly, pulling you closer so your cheek rested against his collarbone, your hands draped across his chest. “I keep thinking… if I had done this sooner, maybe none of it would have felt so impossible,” he admitted, breath warm against your hair.

You chuckled softly, though it broke at the edges, and he felt it against his skin. “Yeah… idiot,” you murmured, echoing the first teasing words you’d exchanged that night.

Silence settled again, but it wasn’t empty. Your fingers combed through the hair at the nape of his neck, and his hand cupped your side, holding you as if letting go was unthinkable. “Promise me something?” he asked, voice low, hesitant.

“What?” you asked, pressing closer.

“That you’ll remember tonight. That you won’t forget this… us.”

You tightened your arms around him, heart squeezing at the ache in your chest. “I won’t,” you promised. “Never.”

He kissed the top of your head softly, a final, lingering press of lips that carried every confession, every regret, every longing you hadn’t voiced before. And for a few long minutes, you just lay there, tangled together, the city alive beyond the window, knowing it was your last night, yet feeling like for that one night, nothing else existed except the two of you.

The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside. Your bodies still pressed together on the couch, limbs tangled, hearts still hammering from the night. The heat of him against you was almost unbearable, and yet the thought of morning—the thought of him leaving—pressed against your chest like a weight.

Oscar rested his forehead against yours, voice low, almost lost in the quiet. “I don’t want to go,” he admitted, each word trembling, “but I have to. I have to leave in the morning.”

You traced the line of his jaw with your fingers, memorizing the feel of him. “Then stay here tonight,” you whispered. “Stay until then. We still have hours.”

He nodded, exhaling shakily, as though simply agreeing to stay was a monumental effort. “Hours… yeah. Hours with you,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your temple, then down your neck, lingering with a softness that made your chest ache.

You held him close, fingers threading through his hair. “I don’t care about the morning,” you said, voice thick. “I just care about now—tonight.”

His hands roamed your back, caressing, holding, anchoring both of you to the fragile, fleeting moment. “I’ll remember every second,” he said, voice raw, “every kiss, every touch. I’ll carry it with me.”

The night stretched on, slow and heavy with tenderness. You kissed him softly, lingering, whispered confessions mixing with the low moans and sighs of afterglow. For hours, it was just the two of you, pressing warmth into each other, making the world outside irrelevant.

The first pale light of dawn spilled across the apartment, painting everything in soft, fragile shades of gold. You were still wrapped around each other on the couch, bodies tangled in the aftermath of the night, reluctant to separate even as the hours ticked closer to his departure. The quiet was thick, only broken by the occasional creak of the building settling or the hum of the city waking beyond the blinds.

Oscar stirred beside you, stretching just enough to press a lingering kiss to your temple. “Morning already,” he murmured, voice hoarse, like he had just woken from a dream he didn’t want to leave. His hand found yours instinctively, fingers threading together as if holding on could somehow make time stop.

You turned your head to look at him, tracing the line of his jaw in the morning light, hair tousled and damp from sleep. “I wish you didn’t have to go,” you whispered, voice catching in your throat.

He smiled faintly, tired but still soft, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “Me too,” he admitted, his chest rising and falling against yours. “But I can’t stay forever. I… I have to leave.”.

You swallowed, pressing closer to him one last time, memorizing the warmth of his skin against yours. “Then stay as long as you can,” you murmured. “Just a little longer. Until you really have to.”

Oscar nodded, leaning down to kiss your lips again. It was slow, lingering, like a promise, each press of his mouth carrying the weight of everything you couldn’t say aloud. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, eyes heavy but intent. “I’ll remember every second,” he said, voice low. “Every touch, every look. I’ll carry it with me.”

You laughed softly, though it was bittersweet, pressing your nose into the curve of his neck. “You’d better,” you said, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice. “Otherwise, what was the point of all this?”

He chuckled faintly, a broken sound, before leaning in to press a long, slow kiss to your jaw, down your neck, lingering in the places only you could feel. You tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him close, memorizing him in a way that felt desperate and tender all at once.

[sphoria-63]

Party 4 u (KA12)

Summary : you bumped into Kimi again at a reunion you didn’t even want to host. With the music loud, friends around, and him showing up out of nowhere, all the feelings you swore you left behind start creeping back in. It’s chaotic, tempting, and makes you wonder if you ever really got over him.

➢ Ex boyfriend!Kimi Antonelli x Ex girlfriend!Fem reader (no use of y/n)

➢ Word count : 8.5k

➢ Warnings : Mild smut, emotional angst, alcohol use, a hint of cheating, complicated relationship, toxic dynamics, open ending (If you’re not comfortable with messy love stories filled with heartbreak and temptation, please read with care.)

➢ A/N : Enjoy this part 2 of my previous Kimi oneshot since Party 4 u has been in my on repeat playlist nowadays so this is very much inspired by the song. Also I have been feeding daily oneshot to you guys because I have finished most of my assignments before this weekend and currently, writing is my new way to cope w my unmotivated self to continue my final project.

PART 1

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The library was supposed to be a safe place — quiet, still, tucked away from the chaos of the outside world. Golden light slanted in through the tall windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the air, and the faint scent of paper and ink wrapped around you like something comforting. You had spread your books and notes across the table in front of you, losing yourself in formulas and words, pretending that if you focused hard enough, the rest of the world couldn't reach you here. But then you heard it — the low, excited voices from the next table, names and fragments of conversation slipping past the stacks of books between you.

"Kimi Antonelli ," one of your friends whispered, her tone edged with awe. "First podium in Formula 1."

Your pen stopped mid-stroke, the ink pooling into a dark blot on the page as your whole body stiffened. His name felt like a stone tossed into still water, sending ripples across everything you'd worked so hard to keep calm. You didn't move at first, just sat there with your back rigid and your pulse drumming in your ears, listening even though you wished you could block the words out.

Another voice chimed in, brighter, teasing. "He looked so calm up there, didn't he? Like he's been on podiums his whole life."

A soft chorus of laughter followed, but when they realized you weren't laughing too, that the tension in your shoulders was too obvious to ignore, the sound dwindled. The library, once full of a gentle hum of whispers, felt suddenly suffocating in its silence.

You lowered your gaze to the notebook, forcing yourself to breathe evenly, to keep writing, but the words refused to come. Pride curled bitterly against the ache in your chest, and you hated how familiar this feeling was — how even from far away, Kimi could still undo you with nothing but a headline and a name.

Finally, you made yourself look up, plastering on a strained smile that felt more like armor than anything real. "It's fine," you said flatly, your voice softer than you wanted it to be. "Keep talking."

But they didn't. They exchanged glances instead, a silent conversation unfolding between them in the space you refused to fill. One of them leaned closer, her voice careful, almost hesitant, as though she were tiptoeing across glass.

"Actually, we were thinking... summer break is almost here. And we realized we never really had a proper goodbye party after graduation.""

The sudden shift made your stomach twist. You blinked at her, caught between confusion and dread. "A party?"

"Yeah," another friend jumped in quickly, seizing the moment. "Like a reunion, just for our batch. Everyone's going to be back in town anyway, and it's been forever since we've all been together in the same place."

You pressed your lips into a tight line, already feeling the weight of what wasn't being said. A reunion meant everyone. And everyone meant Kimi. The thought of it was enough to make your heart pound uncomfortably against your ribs, but you couldn't give them that satisfaction — couldn't let them see how much the possibility still shook you.

"I don't know..." you murmured, eyes flicking down to your notes again, your fingers toying nervously with the edge of the page. "That sounds like a lot of work."

"It'll be fun," your friend insisted, her grin too wide to be anything but deliberately encouraging. "We'll help with everything — food, decorations, invitations. You've always been the one who pulled things together, you know? The parties, the events... who better than you to host it?"

Another leaned across the table, her smile carrying a teasing edge. "Come on, don't tell me you're scared of a little nostalgia."

The word lodged in your chest like a stone. Scared wasn't the right word, but it was close enough to sting. You snapped your notebook closed with more force than necessary, the sound sharp in the hushed space.

"Drop it," you said, your voice firm, leaving no room for argument.

The group went still. Their playful smiles faltered, replaced by guilt and unease. One of them reached out tentatively, laying her hand over yours, her touch warm and steady. "Hey," she said softly, "we're not trying to upset you. We just thought you deserve this as much as the rest of us. It's not about him. It's about all of us."

Your throat tightened. You forced another smile, brittle at the edges, and shook your head. "Yeah, I know. I just—" You stopped, the words catching somewhere between your chest and your mouth. "It's complicated."

And it was. Kimi wasn't just another memory you could pull out at will and laugh about. He wasn't just a name in a headline or a face on a screen. He was the rose tucked into your bag, the letters folded carefully between the pages of an old notebook, the dances under flickering lights, the last kiss that still lingered on your lips when you least expected it.

Your friend leaned back in her chair, studying you with a gaze that was half gentle, half unyielding. "That's exactly why you should do it," she said finally, her words quiet but steady. "Throw the party. Face it. If he comes, then you'll deal with it. And if not at least you'll know you didn't let the past keep you from celebrating the present."

The words lodged deep, unsettling in their truth. You wanted to argue, to insist that you didn't need to face anything, that you were fine, perfectly fine. But something in you — that restless, unhealed part — stayed silent. And in the silence, you wondered if maybe, just maybe, they were right.

The week leading up to the reunion felt like standing on the edge of a storm you couldn't escape. You told yourself, over and over again, that this was just a party — just a gathering of old friends, nothing more, nothing less. But the truth pulsed beneath every decoration you taped to the wall, every plate you arranged on the long table, every playlist you double-checked until the songs blurred together.

It wasn't just nostalgia. It was dread. It was anticipation. And worst of all, it was the flicker of hope you hated yourself for still feeling.

The decorations had started simple enough — string lights, balloons, streamers. But then one of your friends suggested adding a "theme," and suddenly you found yourself leaning in harder than you should have.

You hung the fairy lights in patterns that reminded you of how he once said he loved how gymnasiums looked during night practices — empty but glowing, like the world belonged to just the two of you. You picked snacks and drinks without thinking, only to realize later they were the exact kind he always used to grab after practice: sour gummies, energy drinks, bowls of salty chips. Even the playlist — full of songs you swore you added for the group — carried echoes of those summer afternoons when you'd share earphones and he'd hum along quietly, half-focused on scribbling in his notebook about racing.

It wasn't until you were balancing a tray of pastries, placing them neatly on the counter, that the weight of it hit you. The table looked like it could've been set up for him. The lights, the food, the music — it was as if every unconscious choice had been tugged by invisible strings leading back to him.

You froze for a moment, staring at the setup, tray still in your hands. The realization left a dull ache in your chest. After everything, after months of silence, after promising yourself you had moved on... you had built a party he would've loved.

"Perfect," one of your friends said cheerfully, slipping past you with a stack of cups. "You've outdone yourself this time."

You forced a smile, but it didn't reach your eyes. "Yeah. Perfect."

The night of the party, the house was alive with light and music. The hum of conversation spilled from the living room to the kitchen, laughter rippling through the air like a song you couldn't quite escape. You were too busy to breathe, darting between trays and counters, adjusting decorations, making sure drinks didn't run out. It was easier this way — to throw yourself into the role of host, to keep your hands busy and your mind distracted.

"Hey," a voice called above the music. One of your guy friends wove his way toward you, smiling easily, glass in hand, tie loose around his neck. "Congratulations, by the way. Heard you got into your dream university."

The words hit you like a spark of warmth in the middle of the chaos. You smiled, genuine this time, and wiped your hands on a napkin before answering. "Thanks. It still feels surreal, honestly."

"You deserve it," he said simply, grin softening into something almost tender. "You've worked harder than anyone I know. We're all proud of you."

Your chest loosened, just a little, at the sincerity in his tone. For a moment, you let yourself feel steady, grounded — as if maybe tonight really could just be about celebrating how far you'd all come. But then the door opened.

The sound barely registered over the music, but when the laughter near the entrance rose in greeting, your eyes flicked up almost instinctively. And there he was.

Kimi.

For a moment, everything stilled. The noise dulled, the air thickened, and all you could see was him stepping into the room, shoulders squared, the same quiet confidence in the way he carried himself. But he wasn't alone. Beside him, a girl moved with an easy smile, her hand brushing against his arm as though she belonged there.

Your throat went dry. The warmth from before vanished in an instant, replaced by a sharp, hollow ache that spread through your chest like fire. You barely heard your friend continue talking. His words blurred into the background, meaningless against the weight of what you were seeing.

You forced a tight smile and cut him off gently. "Excuse me — I should go check on the drinks."

He gave you a puzzled look but nodded, letting you slip away. You pushed through the crowd, your steps quick and shaky, heading straight for the kitchen where the lights were dimmer, the noise muffled. You leaned against the counter, gripping the edge as if it could hold you steady, as if it could stop the ground from tilting beneath your feet.

And then, from the corner of your eye, you saw it. Kimi was standing near the doorway now, surrounded by greetings. Your guy friend, the same one who had just spoken to you, clapped him on the shoulder, laughing.

"Look at you," he teased loudly enough for you to hear. "New girlfriend already?"

Laughter rippled through the group. Kimi only smiled — that small, sheepish smile you knew too well — and shrugged, his eyes flicking down briefly toward the girl at his side.

And just like that, the knife twisted deeper. Because suddenly all the choices you made — the lights, the snacks, the songs — they weren't just yours. They were his too. And now he was here, standing in the middle of it all, as if you had built this night for him and her.

You turned away before you could see more, forcing your hands to move, to pour drinks, to do anything but fall apart.

The living room had shifted into something almost unrecognizable. The lights — strung up by your friends with too much enthusiasm and too little symmetry — bathed the crowd in soft pinks and electric blues. The music had risen in volume, bass shaking the floorboards as bodies moved in rhythm, laughter spilling like champagne. It was the kind of chaos you usually loved — the reckless energy of being young, the way everyone forgot about the world outside these walls.

You tried to let yourself sink into it. Tried to smile when your friends pulled you toward the circle, tried to sway along to the beat even though your feet felt heavy. For a fleeting second, you almost managed it — the music loud enough to drown out your thoughts, the warmth of the crowd pressing close enough to trick you into feeling like you belonged.

But then your gaze drifted.

Kimi was in the center, not by choice, but because that's where people always pulled him. The same way the spotlight had always found him, whether on the track or in a crowded hallway at school. He was laughing — that quiet, sheepish laugh you hadn't heard in so long, the one that made you feel both safe and seen.

Only now, it wasn't yours.

His partner moved with him easily, her hands on his shoulders as the music shifted into something slower. He leaned down to hear her say something over the noise, and she tilted her head back, smiling at him in a way that made your chest collapse. The sight of it — his hands steady on her waist, the ease in the way he held her — tore through you sharper than anything else could have.

Your stomach twisted violently. The drinks you'd forced down earlier churned, heat rising in your throat. You didn't know if it was the alcohol, or the exhaustion from keeping yourself together, or simply the sight of him — of what you had been, of what you had lost. All you knew was that your body couldn't take it anymore.

"I need a minute," you muttered to your friend, shoving past the circle as laughter and cheers swelled around you. You barely noticed your friends calling after you. The walls blurred as you stumbled down the hall, your pulse pounding in your ears, each step heavier than the last until you found yourself shoving into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you.

The sickness hit you before you could breathe, and you dropped to your knees, clutching the toilet as the sound of music and laughter faded into the background.

When it passed, you stayed there, forehead pressed against your arm, trembling, the sound of music muffled through the door. The laughter outside felt like another world — one you couldn't reach, one that didn't belong to you anymore.

Then you felt it. Not a touch, but a shift in the air. The faint creak of the door, the hesitation of someone standing just beyond the threshold. You didn't need to look. You knew.

"Are you okay?"

His voice.

His voice. The one you had sworn you didn't want to hear again, and yet it still had the power to unravel you instantly.

You squeezed your eyes shut, jaw tightening. "Go away, Kimi."

There was silence. You could picture him — one hand probably hovering near the doorframe, his brows furrowed, torn between listening and staying. Then his footsteps shifted, quiet against the tile.

"I can't," he said, softer this time, but steady. "Not when you're like this."

You let out a laugh — sharp, bitter, nothing like the way you used to laugh with him. "Like this? You don't even know me anymore."

"I know enough." His voice didn't rise, but there was a weight to it, a stubbornness you recognized instantly. "I know when you're pretending. And I know this isn't you."

Finally, you looked at him. He was standing just inside the doorway now, the dim hallway light spilling over his shoulders. His eyes were locked on you — not pitying, not judgmental, but full of that same unbearable concern that used to make you feel safe.

"You shouldn't be here," you whispered, your throat tightening around the words. "Go back to her."

His jaw tightened, his hands flexing at his sides. For a moment, he didn't speak. And then he shook his head. "You think I care about her right now?" he asked, and his voice cracked just enough to send a pang through you. "I came because of you. Because I saw you leave, and I couldn't stand not knowing if you were okay."

Your chest ached, your heart thundering against your ribs. You forced a scoff past your lips, though it came out shaky. "You don't get to care now. Not after everything. Not after—"

Your voice broke before you could finish. You turned your face away, covering your mouth with your hand as the tears threatened to spill. The silence that followed was unbearable, thick enough to choke on.

"I never stopped loving you," he said finally, barely more than a whisper. But in the quiet of that bathroom, the words landed like a blow.

The silence stretched until it became unbearable, wrapping around the both of you like a noose. His words echoed in your chest, dragging every hidden scar to the surface. You wanted to laugh, to scream, to collapse into the floor all at once.

"Don't," you said finally, your voice low, raw. "Don't say things like that. Not here. Not now."

Kimi's brows furrowed, his jaw tightening. "Why not? Because it's the truth?"

"No." You pushed yourself up, your back pressed against the cold wall as you stared at him, every muscle in your body trembling. "Because you don't get to say it now. You don't get to stand here, with her outside waiting for you, and act like I still matter."

His chest rose sharply, a flicker of something — guilt, anger, both — passing over his face. "You think she matters like you did? no one else does—" He cut himself off, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "It's not the same."

Your laugh was bitter, jagged, scraping against the walls. "Of course it's not the same. You don't give second chances like that, Kimi. Not after you shut me out, not after you made me feel like I was screaming into a void every time I tried to reach you."

He flinched, just barely, but you caught it. "I was trying," he muttered, his voice strained. "You don't know how much pressure I was under. The races, the expectations—"

c"And what about me?" you snapped, the tears finally spilling, hot against your cheeks. "What about the girl who sat in the bleachers every week, screaming her lungs out for you, waiting for even the smallest piece of you in return? What about me, Kimi?"

His face twisted, and for a moment he looked almost younger, like the boy you first fell in love with — uncertain, desperate, raw. "I thought you understood," he said, his voice breaking. "I thought you knew how much you meant even when I couldn't—"

"I did understand," you cut in sharply, your voice rising over his. "Until it felt like I was the only one fighting for us. Until every time I reached out, you pushed me further away. You made me feel small. Invisible. And I can't—" Your voice cracked again, your hands curling into fists against your knees. "I can't go back to that."

Kimi's breath came fast, his chest rising and falling as if he'd just come off the track. "I never wanted to lose you," he said, softer now, desperation lacing his tone. "I just... I didn't know how to hold everything together. And by the time I realized I was losing you, it was too late."

You shook your head, blinking hard against the blur of tears. "It's still too late."

The words hung heavy in the air, final, unyielding. For a long moment, he didn't move, didn't speak. His hands flexed uselessly at his sides, his lips parted as if he wanted to argue but couldn't find the words.

Finally, you turned your face away, pressing your palms into your eyes as if you could block him out. "Please, Kimi. Just go."

The silence that followed was the worst of all — a silence filled with everything unspoken, everything broken between you. And then, finally, the sound of footsteps retreating, the door clicking shut, leaving you alone with the pounding of your own heart.

The bass of the music slammed into you the second you pushed the bathroom door open. Laughter, shouting, glasses clinking — the party had carried on as if nothing had happened, as if your world hadn't just tilted in that tiny, suffocating room.

The lights felt brighter, harsher, stabbing at your swollen eyes. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the hallway mirror — cheeks blotchy, mascara smudged, lips trembling. With shaky hands, you wiped at your face, trying to erase the evidence, but no amount of fixing could hide the storm in your expression.

When you stepped back into the living room, no one seemed to notice. Everyone was too busy dancing, drinking, flirting. The music swallowed your quiet suffering whole.

And then you saw him.

Kimi was back among them, his arm loosely draped around his partner's waist, a smile on his lips that looked almost convincing. Almost. But you knew better. You saw the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his eyes kept drifting, searching. Searching for you.

You forced yourself to look away, to pretend you didn't feel his gaze burning into your skin. Your friends called you over, pulling you toward the couch, shoving another drink into your hand. You laughed when they laughed, nodded when they teased, but everything came out hollow, mechanical.

Everywhere you looked, reminders of him clung to the night — the songs he used to blast in his car, the snacks he always reached for, the way the decorations had accidentally mirrored his tastes. You'd thought you were just helping set up, but now it was painfully clear: you'd shaped the whole party like it was still his.

And it hit you then, harder than it ever had before: you hadn't really moved on. Not even close.

Your chest tightened, your throat closing in around the words you'd never said, the ones still echoing from the bathroom: It's still too late.

But as the music swelled, as laughter and chatter filled the air around you, you couldn't help glancing back across the room — and sure enough, Kimi's eyes were already on you.

Neither of you looked away.

The house felt different once the crowd began to thin out. The bass still thumped low from the speakers, but the energy had dulled, laughter replaced by tired murmurs, people sprawled on couches with half-empty cups. A few friends were gathering their things, waving goodbyes, leaving behind the faint smell of perfume and alcohol.

You stayed busy, collecting plates, wiping down a sticky counter, anything to avoid looking at him again. But it didn't matter — Kimi lingered like a shadow, every movement of his pulling at your attention whether you wanted it or not.

His partner had already left earlier, mumbling something about an early morning. You watched her go without saying a word, a small part of you relieved and another part hating yourself for it.

It was almost eerie, how quickly the place emptied. Soon it was just you, your closest friends, and him. They were joking, slouched on the floor with bottles in their hands, but someone — you didn't even catch who — suddenly perked up with a spark of mischief.

"Hey, remember what we used to do at these things? High school parties? We should bring it back tonight."

You frowned immediately, a knot forming in your stomach. "Don't tell me you're thinking what I think you're thinking."

The room erupted in laughter and groans of recognition.

"Seven minutes in heaven!" one of your friends announced, pointing a playful finger at you.

You scoffed, shaking your head, heat rising to your cheeks. "Seriously? We're not fifteen anymore. That's so—"

"Childish?" another chimed in, grinning. "Exactly. That's why it's perfect. One last throwback before we're all too old for this."

Everyone cheered in agreement, and you tried to resist, tried to push back, but your protests were drowned out by the buzz of nostalgia and alcohol. Before you could stop it, the names were being scribbled onto slips of paper, tossed into a hat, and the game was alive again.

You sat stiffly, arms folded, heart thundering in your chest as if you already knew what was coming.

And when the hat was shaken and the slips drawn, your worst fear was confirmed.

Your name.

And his.

Kimi.

The room howled with laughter, clapping, whistling. "Fate!" someone yelled, and you swore you could feel the universe itself mocking you.

Your mouth went dry. You wanted to say no, to put your foot down, but the sight of Kimi already standing — steady, calm, unreadable — made the word stick in your throat.

You didn't even realize your friends were already herding you both toward the closet until the wall of their laughter and teasing pushed you forward step by step.

"No, no, no, absolutely not," you blurted, digging your heels into the floor as one of your friends tugged at your wrist. "This is ridiculous. I'm not doing this."

"Oh, come on," someone groaned, slurring slightly with drink. "It's tradition!"

"It's childish," you snapped, trying to wrench your hand free. "We're adults now, not—"

"—not what? Too grown-up to have fun?" another friend teased, nudging you toward the door with a grin that was far too mischievous.

You glanced desperately toward Kimi, hoping he'd put his foot down, but he stood rooted to the spot, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed at the chaos around him. His posture screamed resistance, but he wasn't saying anything either — and somehow that made your chest ache even more.

"This is stupid," he finally muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I'm not—"

"Yes, you are," your guy friend cut in, laughing as he threw an arm around Kimi's shoulder. "Don't act like you're too cool for this. We all did it back then. One last throwback for the batch — you can handle that, right?"

The group cheered again, feeding off the energy, the pressure mounting. Someone was already opening the closet door with a dramatic flourish, like it was some grand stage, the tiny dark space suddenly the center of the universe.

Your pulse hammered.

Your throat was dry.

"This isn't fair," you tried again, voice breaking slightly as you hugged your arms around yourself. "You can't just force us into this."

"You're right," one of the girls sing-songed, already nudging you closer with both hands on your back. "You could refuse. But what's the fun in that?"

Laughter erupted again, and suddenly, it didn't matter what you said — the tide was stronger than both you and him.

"Go on, you two!" someone urged. "It's just seven minutes. Not a lifetime."

You stumbled forward, colliding with Kimi's shoulder, and immediately pulled away, muttering under your breath, "This is so stupid."

"I know," he said lowly, his voice rough, barely audible over the teasing around you. "But they're not going to drop it."

And when you met his eyes — resigned, conflicted, shadowed with something you couldn't name — your resistance faltered. Because maybe he was right. Maybe this was easier than fighting against the weight of all their expectations.

The door loomed closer, a dark mouth waiting to swallow you whole.

"Fine," you muttered finally, throwing your hands up in defeat. "But if this turns into something dramatic, it's on all of you."

Cheers exploded like fireworks. Someone actually clapped. Another shoved Kimi lightly in the back, pushing him toward the closet.

You stumbled after him, heart hammering, and before you could change your mind, the door swung shut.

And then it was just you.

And him.

Darkness pressing in on all sides.

Seven minutes stretching out in front of you like eternity.

The door clicked shut with a finality that sent a chill down your spine, the sound louder than it should have been, sealing you into a world made of shadows and silence. Darkness swallowed everything, leaving you aware of only two things: the muffled bass of the music leaking through the walls and the frantic thrum of your own heartbeat in your ears. It felt too small in there, too close, as if the walls were inching in with every second.

You pressed yourself against the wooden paneling, shoulders stiff, arms wrapped tightly across your chest as though you could shield yourself from the weight of what this was. The space was narrow enough that even with the careful distance you tried to put between you and him, you could still feel him — not in touch, but in presence. His body was a quiet heat in the dark, a steady gravity pulling at you no matter how hard you resisted.

Neither of you spoke at first. The silence grew thick, suffocating, stretched out until it felt like the seconds were deliberately taunting you. You counted in your head — one, two, three — trying to steady yourself, but the minutes dragged, slow and deliberate, each one louder than the last. Even your breathing betrayed you, shallow and uneven, betraying how unsettled you were.

And then his voice broke through, low and rough, carrying more weight than the words themselves. “Congratulations.”

Your chest tightened instantly, your whole body freezing. You blinked into the dark, your throat dry. “What?”

He shifted, the small sound of his shoe scraping against the floor sharp in the stillness. “Your university,” he said, voice steadier now, though there was something careful in it, like he was stepping onto fragile ground. “I heard you got into the one you wanted.”

You swallowed hard, a lump forming that you couldn’t quite push past. Of all the things you thought he might say, that wasn’t it. “Oh… yeah.” The words left you quieter than you intended, almost small. “Thanks.”

The silence threatened to press down on you again, but you forced yourself to lift your chin, even if he couldn’t see it. “And… congrats to you too. On your podium.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your breath and his. Then, unexpectedly, he let out a short laugh — not lighthearted, but something darker, tinged with irony. “Feels weird, doesn’t it? Saying all this here, like this.”

A shaky exhale left your lips, halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “Weird doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

You thought that would be the end of it, that silence would fill the cracks again. But then you felt it — not a touch, but the subtle shift of the air, the faint tilt of space as he leaned closer. It wasn’t much, but in that suffocatingly small closet, it was everything.

Your pulse spiked. You couldn’t bring yourself to look in his direction, even if there was nothing to see. Your voice came out thin, trembling in ways you hated. “Don’t.”

His reply was quiet, almost curious. “Don’t what?”

“This,” you whispered, your words rushed, almost tripping over each other. “Whatever this is. We shouldn’t—”

The thought never finished because his hand brushed against yours. It was tentative, light as a feather, but it was enough. Enough to send a shiver up your arm. Enough to undo the wall you’d built.

“Kimi,” you whispered, his name breaking in your throat. You wanted it to be a warning, but it sounded like a plea.

His answer came without hesitation, softer than you’d ever heard him, but solid in its weight. “I’ve missed you.”

Your breath caught, your heart slamming painfully against your ribs. All your reasons, all your logic, every shard of anger you’d held onto — they scattered in that one moment. Because part of you had missed him too. More than you dared admit.

“Kimi…” You tried again, forcing the words out even as your voice wavered. “You can’t… you’re not supposed to—”

“I don’t care,” he cut in, and there was something raw in the way he said it. Not sharp, not cruel — but stripped bare, unguarded. His hand moved now, no longer tentative, finding your waist, his fingers curling against you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t hold on.

The warmth of his touch burned through the thin fabric of your shirt. You told yourself to pull away, to stop this, but your body betrayed you, leaning into him before you could catch yourself.

“This isn’t a good idea,” you managed, your voice breaking as you spoke the truth neither of you wanted to hear.

“Maybe not,” he murmured, and you could feel his breath brush against your skin, close enough to make your head spin. “But it’s the only thing that feels right.”

And then, before you could say another word, before you could push him back, his lips found yours.

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate. A year of silence, of unspoken words, of longing stuffed down too deep — all of it crashed into you in that kiss. His mouth was warm, insistent, and you clung to him without meaning to, your fists twisting in his shirt like you were drowning.

The taste of him, the pressure of his hands pulling you closer, the heat of his body pressed against yours — it all unraveled you in seconds. The world outside the closet ceased to exist. There was no party, no friends, no summer break. Just you. Just him. Just the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for permission but begged for forgiveness.

And though you knew better, though every thought in your mind screamed this was a mistake, your lips parted for him anyway, answering his desperation with your own.

The kiss deepened faster than you could think. At first, it was hesitation, lips meeting with the weight of years between you, but soon it turned hungry, urgent — as though both of you were afraid the seven minutes would collapse before you had the chance to taste everything you’d lost.

His hands tightened around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left to guard yourself with. You melted against him, your palms finding his chest, clutching at his shirt with the same desperation that clawed at his grip. The faint scent of his cologne, the warmth radiating from his skin, the sound of his ragged breathing — it was overwhelming, too much and not enough all at once.

He tilted his head, kissing you harder, deeper, like he’d been starving for it. Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, your hands sliding up the line of his chest until your fingers found the edge of his collar. You tugged, the buttons straining under your touch as though you could tear them open just to feel more of him.

A low sound escaped him — half groan, half sigh — as his lips left yours only to trail along your jaw, down the slope of your neck. You shuddered, gripping his shirt tighter, feeling the warmth of his breath against your skin. His teeth grazed lightly, not enough to hurt but enough to make your knees weaken.

One of his hands slid up your side, finding the zipper of your dress. You felt the tug, the faint pull of it giving way as his fingers teased at the edge. Your breath hitched, panic and longing warring in equal measure.

“Kimi—” you whispered, your voice trembling, but you didn’t push him away. Your hands betrayed you, slipping lower, fumbling clumsily at the buttons of his shirt until the top two came undone. The barest hint of skin beneath your fingertips made your pulse skyrocket, your head dizzy from the mix of alcohol and adrenaline and him.

He kissed you again, harder this time, his body pressing yours against the wall of the closet. Every inch of him pressed into every inch of you, the heat unbearable and intoxicating. His hand hovered, hesitating at your zipper, as though even in his desperation he knew the line you both were skirting.

“This is…” you gasped between kisses, your lips brushing his, “a bad idea.”

“I know,” he murmured against your mouth, and still, he kissed you again, softer this time but just as desperate. “But I can’t stop.”

Neither could you.

The world outside disappeared. There was no party, no friends laughing in the living room, no ticking clock counting down your seven minutes. There was only the slide of his hands, the press of your fingers against his skin, the intoxicating pull of a kiss that felt like both a mistake and the only truth you’d known in years.

And then, just as his lips returned to yours, just as his hands lingered on the small of your back with the zipper caught between his fingers, a sharp knock rattled the closet door.

“Time’s up!” someone shouted, laughter spilling through the wood. “Don’t make us drag you out!”

You both froze, breathless, chests heaving, foreheads pressed together in the dark. For a moment, neither of you moved — as though the world might forget you were in here if you stayed still enough.

Then, slowly, reluctantly, he let go of your zipper, his hands falling back to his sides. You exhaled shakily, fingers slipping from his half-open shirt, forcing yourself to release him even though your body screamed not to.

The door creaked open, light spilling in, and the world came rushing back.

But you knew nothing would ever feel the same again.

The door creaked open, and the first thing that hit you was the light — bright, almost blinding after the thick dark of the closet. Then came the noise: the roar of laughter, the teasing voices, the clapping as though you’d just given a performance instead of nearly unraveling your entire world.

You stumbled out first, your cheeks burning, your hair mussed in a way that betrayed far too much. Kimi followed, slower, his expression carefully blank, but the undone buttons of his shirt told its own story.

“Look at you two,” someone crowed, raising their drink. “Didn’t waste a single second, huh?”

Your stomach dropped. You forced a tight smile, shaking your head as you brushed past them. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Oh, sure,” another friend teased, their voice dripping with sarcasm. “Seven minutes of pure talking.”

The laughter that followed made your skin crawl. You wanted to disappear, to vanish into the floorboards. The only thing worse than their jokes was the way you could still feel Kimi’s presence behind you — like heat radiating against your back even though he hadn’t touched you since the door opened.

You grabbed a cup from the counter, your hands trembling as you poured yourself water, anything to distract from the way your heart was still racing. Every swallow was sharp, cutting against the lump in your throat.

When you dared to glance up, your eyes caught his across the room. Just a flicker — a second too long — before you looked away, pretending to listen to someone else’s chatter. But it was enough to undo you all over again. His gaze was heavy, unreadable, but it pinned you in place like he could still taste the kiss lingering between you.

Your friends, oblivious or maybe too tipsy to care, had already moved on to another round of teasing someone else. The living room buzzed with energy again, laughter bouncing off the walls, but for you, the noise felt far away, muffled under the weight of what had just happened.

You clutched the cup tighter, willing your breathing to even out. You told yourself it was just a game. Just a kiss. Just seven minutes.

But the truth sat heavy in your chest. It had been more than that. Too much more.

And you knew, from the way Kimi kept glancing your way with that same quiet intensity, that he knew it too.

The night stretched on, but eventually the chaos dulled. The pounding music grew softer as the playlist looped, laughter turned into quieter conversations, and one by one, people stumbled out the door with slurred goodbyes. Empty cups and crumpled napkins littered the tables, the remnants of a party that had burned too bright for too long.

You sat curled up on the couch, a throw blanket draped over your knees, pretending to scroll through your phone. Your friends were still buzzing — a cluster of them chatting by the kitchen, voices blending into a dull hum — but your mind was elsewhere. Your lips still tingled, and every now and then, your hand drifted to your neck, to where Kimi’s breath had ghosted against your skin in the closet.

You told yourself to let it go. To bury it under the noise of the party and the fog of too much punch. But it was impossible when he was still here.

Kimi hadn’t left.

He sat across the room, half-slouched in an armchair, his long legs stretched out, fingers absently tapping against the armrest like he was trying to distract himself. But his eyes — you could feel them. Every time you glanced up, even for a second, he was already watching you. And every time you looked away, your chest grew tighter.

It wasn’t like the easy stares from before, the playful teasing you’d grown used to. This was heavier, quieter, like he was fighting something just as hard as you were.

Someone yawned dramatically from the kitchen, announcing they were calling it a night. That set off a ripple of movement, friends gathering their things, hugging each other goodbye. Within minutes, the house felt emptier, the energy draining until it was just a handful of you left — the ones who always stayed too long, who helped clean up, who lingered because you weren’t ready to say goodnight.

And there he was. Still there.

You bent down to gather discarded cups, forcing your focus on the mess. If you just kept moving, maybe you wouldn’t notice how close he was getting. But then his voice cut through, low and familiar.

“Need help with that?”

You froze, the cup in your hand crumpling slightly from how hard you were gripping it. Slowly, you turned. He was closer now, standing just a step away, his shirt still a little undone, his hair mussed in that careless way that made your chest ache.

“I’ve got it,” you said quickly, too quickly, though your voice lacked conviction.

But Kimi only tilted his head, studying you. “Doesn’t look like it.”

The corner of his mouth twitched — not quite a smile, not quite serious. It was that in-between expression he wore when he was testing you, when he wanted to see if you’d fold.

And God, you were already folding.

Eventually, even the last of your close friends filtered out. The door clicked shut behind them, and the silence that followed was almost deafening. The house felt bigger, emptier — like the walls themselves were holding their breath. You stood in the middle of the living room, arms folded across your chest, staring at the half-eaten snacks and half-empty glasses, anything but him.

But he hadn’t left.

Kimi leaned against the counter in the kitchen, a bottle of beer in one hand, his other resting casually on the edge like he belonged there. His tie had been discarded hours ago, his shirt wrinkled, a few buttons undone enough to expose the curve of his collarbone. He didn’t look like the boy you’d cheered for in the gymnasium anymore. He looked like the man the world was watching now — except his eyes, fixed on you, were the same as they had always been.

“You really did it up,” he said softly, lifting the bottle toward the room around you. “The decorations, the food… all of it. Feels like one of our old parties.”

You swallowed hard, the back of your throat tightening. You wanted to tell him it hadn’t been for him. That it was just a coincidence, that you hadn’t caught yourself hanging streamers in the exact shade he used to say was his favorite, or arranging snacks the way he liked. But the words never left your mouth. Instead, you just shrugged.

“Someone had to do it.”

Kimi chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “Still stubborn, huh?” His gaze dipped briefly to the floor before rising back to you. “I missed that.”

The air shifted, heavier now, thick with things neither of you wanted to name. You pressed your arms tighter against yourself, as if you could keep it all in, as if your body wasn’t betraying you with every rapid beat of your heart.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you muttered, eyes locked on the floor.

“Why not? .” His voice was quiet, but it carried.

When you finally looked up, his expression was unguarded — no smirk, no teasing. Just rawness. His thumb rubbed along the neck of the bottle like he needed something to anchor him.

“You have a girlfriend,” you said, your voice breaking more than you wanted.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “She’s not—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “It’s not what you think. She’s… just someone I met along the way.”

The words hung there, flimsy but dangerous.

And you hated that a part of you wanted to believe them.

He set the bottle down with a soft clink and stepped closer, the sound of his shoes on the floor making your stomach knot. Your instinct told you to back away, to keep distance. But your body stayed rooted, betraying you as it always did with him.

“Tell me you don’t miss me,” he whispered, eyes searching yours. “Tell me, and I’ll walk out that door right now.”

You opened your mouth, ready to say it. To spit out the words that would end this once and for all — that you didn’t miss him, that you were fine, that you’d moved on. But the lie caught in your throat, burning like ash.

Kimi was close now, so close you could feel the heat of him radiating across the inches between you. His cologne clung to the air, that familiar scent that once lived in your hoodie, your pillow, the backseat of his car.

You finally whispered, “Kimi… this isn’t fair.”

His hand rose hesitantly, like he was asking permission before he even touched you. Fingers brushing against your arm, sliding up until they cupped your jaw. His thumb traced along your cheekbone, gentle, reverent. “Nothing about us was ever fair,” he murmured, voice low, the sound of it trembling. “But I can’t pretend I don’t want you.”

Your chest heaved, the war inside you screaming to push him away, to save yourself from the inevitable pain. But then his forehead rested against yours, and all that fight melted into something far weaker: longing.

“I can’t do this,” you whispered, though your hands had already betrayed you, clutching at the fabric of his shirt.

“You can,” he breathed back, and before you could stop him, his lips crushed against yours.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was desperate, years of unsaid words spilling into the way his mouth claimed yours, the way his hands anchored you to him like he’d drown if he let go. You responded in kind, your body moving on instinct, remembering every rhythm, every breathless tilt of his head.

Somehow, you stumbled back until your hips hit the edge of the counter. His hands were everywhere — your waist, your back, your hair. Your own fingers fumbled at his buttons, almost tearing them in your need to feel the heat of his skin beneath.

He groaned into your mouth when your palms slid up his chest, his hand tugging at the zipper of your dress. It was reckless, it was wrong, but every nerve in your body screamed for more.

You pulled away for a moment, lips swollen, breath ragged. “Kimi… we’ll regret this.”

His eyes burned into yours, filled with fire and something softer. “Then let me regret it with you.”

And when his lips found yours again, you stopped resisting.

That night blurred — heat and touch, whispered names, a hunger neither of you had dared admit still lived inside you. You both knew better. You both knew the morning would hurt. But in that moment, none of it mattered.

The first thing you felt wasn’t the sunlight seeping through your curtains — it was warmth. A steady weight against your chest, an arm draped lazily around your waist, the faint rise and fall of someone’s breathing pressed into the back of your neck. For a moment, you didn’t move. You just let yourself exist there, wrapped in Kimi, the way you used to when the world felt smaller and safer.

His skin was warm, his heartbeat steady against your spine. You could almost trick yourself into believing none of the years in between had happened. That you were still teenagers sneaking out after practice, whispering promises under the stars.

But the illusion cracked when your eyes opened, landing on the mess of your dress on the floor, his shirt half-buttoned and discarded over a chair. Reality seeped in like the morning light — sharp, impossible to ignore.

Your chest tightened, and you shifted slightly, careful not to wake him. The tiniest thread of regret wound its way into your stomach, delicate but insistent. Not because it hadn’t felt right — God, last night had felt too right — but because you were terrified of what came next. Of how easily history could repeat itself, how easily the two of you could destroy each other again.

Kimi stirred behind you, his arm pulling you closer instinctively. His lips brushed your shoulder, and when he spoke, his voice was low, still rough with sleep.

“Don’t move,” he murmured. “Just stay like this.”

Your throat ached. “Kimi…”

He propped himself up on one elbow, his hair a mess, eyes heavy but steady on you. “What?”

“This— last night… it shouldn’t have happened,” you whispered, forcing the words past the lump in your throat.

He shook his head, no hesitation, no doubt. “I don’t regret it.” His hand slid down your arm, fingers tracing the curve of your wrist. “Not for a second.”

You turned to face him then, heart pounding, the weight of his certainty pressing hard against your fear. His gaze was steady, unwavering, like he’d already made his choice. Yours, however, felt like a battlefield — the aching want for him tangled up with the terror of losing yourself to him again.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, voice breaking. “Scared we’ll just fall apart like before.”

Kimi leaned closer, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm as it ghosted across your lips. “Then don’t look back,” he whispered. “Just… don’t let go this time.”

You closed your eyes, caught between the comfort of his arms and the echo of every time you’d fallen before. He didn’t see the regret flickering in your chest — small, fragile, but growing.

Because while Kimi could live in the present, you knew the past still lived inside you. And that was something even his arms around you couldn’t silence.