hi i really love all ur works, ur so talented🩷 i have a request for a driver that has like a secret family with a wife and kids and one day it leaks and the grid didnt know and reacts:) could be any driver you choose🩷
leaked — aa23
slight smau/blurbs
alex albon x !wife reader
alex and yn have been married for four years and have been together for over 10. they have managed to keep their relationship almost invisible from the public — the fact that they were married and had one kid and another on the way was known to no one. except close family. until one day, everyone suddenly knew.
fc : no official face claim — tumblr ladies and lily:)
(a/n) : love love love you 💕 thank you for all the kind words.
—
yn.private
liked by alexalbon, yourbff, yoursister & 25 others.
yn.private : i like this little life ☀️💐
—
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alexalbon : oh my beautiful beautiful wife— how I love you 🤍
liked by yn.private
↳ yn.private : my adorable loving husband. i love you moreeeee
liked by alexalbon
↳ alexalbon : on my way home with your favorite pastry’s!
liked by yn.private
↳ yn.private : get me pregnant again.
liked by alexalbon
↳ alexalbon : I can’t get you pregnant while you already are, my love.
↳ yn.private : I will have a whole army of albon babies if you continue to treat me this well
liked by alexalbon
yourbff : can’t wait for baby albon #2 !! 🫶🏻🫶🏻
liked by yn.private and alexalbon
↳ yn.private : ready to be an auntie from the beginning again??
↳ yourbff : fully prepared to take night shift when alex is away🫡
liked by yn.private and alexalbon
↳ yn.private : love youuuuuu! you da bestttt
yoursister : something about you this pregnancy…you are just so shiny and pretty. I never looked like that pregnant. I was swollen and ugly.
liked by yn.private and alexalbon
↳ yn.private : nooooo you looked gorg but thank u lovie
—
The house is quiet. Miraculously quiet.
Which, as any parent of a three-year-old knows, means one of two things—either a disaster is brewing… or the toddler is asleep. Thankfully, today it’s the latter. Our little hurricane wore herself out playing race cars with her dad in the living room and is now starfished across her bed, one hand still clinging to her favorite stuffed tiger. I sink back against the pillows, hand resting gently over my small bump, which isn’t huge but definitely feels like it should be—especially with how demanding this baby has been when it comes to cravings.
“Banoffee croissants,” I mutter to myself, the words like a whispered prayer to no one. “God, I’d sell my soul for one. Or three.”
I hadn’t mentioned it out loud to Alex. I didn’t need to. After nearly ten years together, he’s attuned to my moods and cravings like some kind of pastry-whisperer. That man could probably sense a food mood swing from a continent away. As if summoned, the bedroom door creaks open and Alex appears, balancing a bakery box in one hand and a steaming mug in the other. He’s barefoot, hair still damp from his shower, wearing a hoodie I’m ninety percent sure I stole from him at one point. His smile is the first thing I see.
“I knew it,” I grin, sitting up straighter. “You read my mind again, didn’t you?”
He crosses the room and leans down to press a soft kiss to my forehead. “I heard you muttering about croissants in your sleep this morning. Banoffee, specifically. You know I can’t ignore a prophetic food dream.”
“You’re a hero,” I tell him seriously.
“A hero who drove twenty minutes to that little bakery that you like,” he says, settling onto the bed beside me and opening the box with a flourish. “And begged the lady behind the counter for the last three.”
My eyes widen. “You got the last three?!”
“I showed her a picture of you and that precious bump,” he says proudly, nodding at my stomach. “Didn’t even charge me for the third one. Said you deserved it.”
“You do realize I love you more every day, right?”
He smirks. “Because of the croissants or in general?”
I lean over, resting my head against his chest as I reach into the box. “Both. But mostly the croissants.”
He wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me close, pressing his lips to the top of my head while I take my first bite. It’s perfect. Warm, flaky, banana-y with just the right amount of toffee. A stupid little tear pricks at the corner of my eye because… hormones, probably. And love. Definitely love.
“This is nice,” I whisper after a few minutes of quiet chewing and cuddling.
“Mhm.”
“The baby’s happy.”
“I can tell,” he laughs softly. “Kicking already?”
“Not yet. Just… smug. Like, very pleased with our croissant situation.”
Alex turns slightly so he can rest his hand over my stomach. “Well, little one, just wait until I get my hands on those lemon raspberry tarts next week. You’ll think you were born into royalty.”
I sigh, the kind of full body, heavy limbed sigh that only comes when you’re well fed, loved, and cradled in your favorite person’s arms. The kind of moment you wish you could bottle up and keep forever.
Alex brushes a crumb off my chin and shifts so he can lie down beside me properly, still keeping one hand on my stomach like it grounds him. His thumb strokes back and forth absently, almost like he’s trying to communicate through touch.
“You’ve been so calm with this one,” he murmurs. “Last time you were googling every strange feeling and crying over that one Pampers ad with the twin babies in slow motion.”
I groan. “Don’t remind me. I still can’t hear that music without tearing up. But yeah… it’s different this time. I know what’s coming. The good, the hard, the sleep deprivation…”
He laughs under his breath. “The explosive diaper at 3 a.m.?”
“Exactly. And yet…” I look down at his hand, resting over where our baby is quietly growing. “I’m not scared this time. I just feel… lucky.”
He kisses the side of my head, lingering there. “We are lucky.”
“We’re also outnumbered now,” I tease. “Two kids to two of us. If we go for a third, we’ll officially be out of our depth.”
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. “You say that like I’m not already out of my depth. I still triple-check the car seat buckles and google toddler coughs at midnight.”
I snort. “And I love that about you.”
He grins, but then his face softens. There’s a flicker of something tender behind his eyes, the kind of emotion that doesn’t always need words, but he gives me some anyway.
“I keep thinking about when I met you,” he says quietly. “How I never imagined we’d have this. A house with tiny shoes by the front door. Crumbs in our bed. Little voice yelling at me when I walk through the door. And now… another one.”
There’s a lump in my throat now. Hormones again. Or maybe just Alex being his gentle, golden-hearted self.
“I still can’t believe we’ve kept it a secret,” I whisper. “Not even the grid knows.”
He chuckles. “That’s the real miracle. We told your mum and somehow it didn’t make it to Twitter.”
“Will we ever tell them?” I ask, smiling softly.
“We’ll tell them soon,” he says, leaning over to kiss my cheek. “But I like this. Just us. Our little secret.”
I nod and nestle closer, both of us wrapped in quiet joy. My fingers drift to the edge of his hoodie sleeve, tracing the seam absently.
“Have you thought of names yet?” I ask after a long pause.
He hums. “One or two.”
“Anything outrageous?”
“Nothing that would embarrass them on the first day of school, I promise.”
“You always say that, and then suggest things like ‘Sebastian’ because of Vettel.”
“Okay, Sebastian is a strong name.”
I roll my eyes affectionately, then close mine, resting fully against his chest.
“Let’s just keep this a little longer,” I whisper. “Before the world knows. Before the noise.”
He squeezes me just a little tighter.
“Always,” he says.
—
It starts with a text.
I’m stealing your child tomorrow. You two are going on a date. No excuses.
At first, I laugh. Out loud, full-bellied, startled laughter that makes Alex peek into the kitchen with a raised brow and a half-peeled orange in his hand.
“My sister,” I say, waving my phone in the air. “She’s planning a kidnapping.”
Alex grins and tosses a segment of orange into his mouth. “Tell her to wear black and bring snacks. Little one only accepts bribery in the form of animal crackers now.”
But then I read it again—You two are going on a date. No excuses.
And something quiet settles in me. Something that sounds like we could use this. Because it’s been a while.
Life with a toddler is love and chaos. It’s syrup-sticky fingers, and toy cars in the laundry, and late-night cuddles with a warm, sleepy body wedged between us. It’s beautiful, messy, loud. But it’s also… full. Full in a way that leaves very little room for us. So I text back—
Deal. But don’t let him convince you to stay up past bedtime again. You’re still recovering from the last sleepover.
I am a stronger woman now. He will not break me.
—
The next evening, after our daughter has been dramatically whisked away with promises of pancakes and cartoons, the house is still. The air feels different. Lighter. Quiet in the way we forgot we used to know.
I step out of the bedroom, smoothing my dress—a soft, silky navy one I haven’t worn in years, paired with a necklace Alex gave me on our first anniversary.
He’s in the living room waiting for me, buttoning the cuffs of his white shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to make my stomach flutter. He looks up—and then he stops.
“Wow,” he breathes. “You… wow.”
I laugh, but it’s a soft one. “I was going for ‘my husband falls hopelessly in love with me all over again.’”
He crosses the room in two strides and pulls me close, fingers grazing my jaw as he smiles that smile—the one that still makes my heart flip, ten years later.
“Mission accomplished,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against mine.
We don’t go anywhere fancy. Just a cozy little Italian restaurant we used to love before the world got busy. We sit in the corner, hands tangled across the table, laughing about things we forgot we missed. We order pasta we can’t pronounce and drink sparkling water because neither of us wants to drink wine if the other can’t.
At one point, someone passes with a baby in a carrier strapped to his chest, and I see Alex glance at it with a quiet little smile.
“You miss her already, don’t you?” I ask, grinning.
“I do,” he admits. “But I also really missed this.”
He reaches for my hand and rubs small circles into my palm.
“You and me. Talking without background noise. You looking like this,” he nods to my dress. “You glowing.”
“I think that’s the pregnancy hormones.”
“No,” he says softly. “It’s love. It’s us.”
—
The door closes behind us with a soft click, the echo of the outside world fading away as we step into the familiar stillness of our home. Alex doesn’t speak right away. He shrugs off his coat, eyes on me the whole time, like he’s not quite ready to let the night end. Neither am I.
“You want tea?” he asks quietly, his voice low and warm.
I shake my head, slipping my hand into his. “No. Just you.”
His smile is small but deep, the kind that crinkles at the corners and makes something inside me melt. We don’t even bother turning on the main lights—just the little lamp by the stairs, the one that glows golden and soft, like the house knows it’s supposed to feel sacred tonight.
We move together upstairs, slow and easy, like muscle memory. My heels are long abandoned, his hand steady on the small of my back as we climb. Our bedroom is just as we left it this morning: cozy, a little messy, with one of our daughter’s tiny stuffed bunnies curled into the corner of our bed, its ear half hanging off the side.
Alex picks it up and grins. “She really snuck this in here again.”
“She said BunBun gets lonely without us,” I murmur, pulling my dress over my head and swapping it for one of his worn t-shirts. “Apparently, he likes to sleep in our bed on Fridays.”
“She’s a menace,” he chuckles, tugging on his own t-shirt and sweatpants before joining me on the bed. “A tiny, brilliant menace.”
I crawl into bed beside him and immediately find my place—curled into his side, head on his chest, his arm draped around me. His hand slips under the hem of my shirt and rests gently on the slight swell of my belly. It’s not much yet, but enough that he always finds it. Like it’s a lighthouse.
“She’s going to be a good big sister,” he says softly, rubbing his thumb in slow circles. “I can already picture it.”
“She’s going to want to hold the baby every second of the day,” I murmur sleepily. “And throw a tea party five minutes after we get home from the hospital.”
“She’s going to try to feed the baby imaginary cake,” he says with a grin. “And name it after a Disney princess.”
“We could do worse than a Princess Albon.”
He snorts, kisses the top of my head, and whispers, “She’s going to love this baby so much.”
“So are we.”
There’s a long, quiet pause—his heart steady under my cheek, our breathing slow and synced. The kind of stillness that only comes after years of chaos and noise and unconditional love.
He presses a kiss into my hair. “I still fall in love with you every day.”
I lift my head just enough to look at him. “Even when I cry over pasta commercials and ask you to drive across the city for strawberry shortcake?”
“Especially then.”
—
It’s barely 8 a.m. when I hear the car pull into the driveway. A second later, the front door bangs open and a familiar voice shrieks with glee—
“Mummy! Daddy! I’m hoooome!”
Alex groans beside me, half-asleep, face mashed into the pillow. “Did she say that like she just returned from war?”
I’m already sitting up, heart full and wide awake. “Apparently the sleepover at my sister’s was a battlefield.”
We barely make it to the hallway before a blur of pink pajamas and tangled curls comes flying toward us. I squat down just in time to catch her as she hurls herself into my arms, her little hands clutching at my neck like she hadn’t seen me in months instead of just one night.
“I missed you soooooo much,” she breathes, dramatic as ever.
Alex crouches down beside us, gently brushing her curls back. “What about me? You didn’t miss Daddy?”
She turns to him with an incredulous expression. “Daddy. I cried for you when I brushed my teeth. Auntie said I was overreacting.”
Alex pretends to wipe a tear. “My brave little soldier.”
She shifts between us, arms flung around both our necks like she never wants to let go. “I brought you something,” she whispers suddenly, pulling away and digging into her backpack.
She proudly presents us with a slightly soggy drawing, made with markers and questionable glitter glue. “It’s you, and me, and the baby.”
She continues cheerfully, “I told BunBun about the baby but no one else, because you said it’s a secret secret.”
I feel my heart swell and laugh at the same time. “That’s right, baby. You’re a very good secret keeper.”
“But can I tell George? He’s so nice. He gave me a biscuit that one time.”
Alex lifts her into his arms with a grin. “Maybe not just yet. Not even for biscuits.”
We head into the kitchen—Alex with her balanced on one hip, me trailing behind as she chatters away about pancakes, her dream last night, and how she definitely wants the baby to be a girl “because I already have a brother and it’s BunBun.”
I’m pouring juice when she wraps her arms around my waist and nuzzles into my bump like she does when she’s feeling cuddly.
“Hi baby,” she whispers. “I’m back. Don’t grow up without me, okay?”
I glance over at Alex, who’s watching with a look on his face I’ll never get tired of—the kind of love that makes your knees go weak, even after ten years. He catches my eye and mouths, “We really made her.”
I mouth back, “We really did.”
And in that tiny kitchen, with glitter glue drying on the table and a bunny plush dropped by the fridge, our daughter launches into a song she’s half-making up about “mummy and the belly and pancakes for all,” and Alex starts flipping chocolate chip pancakes like it’s the most normal morning in the world. And honestly? It kind of is.
—
f1gossipgirls
5,007,231 likes.
f1gossipgirls : F1’S BEST-KEPT SECRET: ALEX ALBON IS MARRIED… WITH A CHILD AND ANOTHER ON THE WAY?! In a shocking twist no one saw coming, it looks like one of Formula 1’s most beloved drivers, Alex Albon, has been living a very private double life—and doing a stellar job keeping it hidden. Sources close to the paddock have confirmed that Albon has been secretly married for four years to longtime partner YN, and the couple share a three-year-old daughter. Oh—and she’s currently pregnant with their second child.
—
view 977,051 other comments.
username00 : WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT. MARRIED??? WITH A WHOLE TODDLER??? AND ANOTHER BABY ON THE WAY??? I NEED TO LAY DOWN.
username0 : someone said he had “girl dad energy” and I GUESS THEY WERE RIGHT ALL ALONG
username1 : so you’re telling me… the entire grid has been hanging out with alex like “haha you single bro?” while he’s got a toddler asking for fruit snacks at home???
username5 : I want the drive to survive footage of the moment lando finds out pls i am BEGGING
username7 : me rereading the article for the 6th time like it’ll suddenly make sense 😭
username10 : wait so you are telling me that GEORGE didn't even know????? wild.
username11 : im in tears. they are so cute. im so happy for him.
—
I find him in the kitchen. Not like making breakfast or getting coffee in the kitchen. I mean pacing. Wildly. Shirtless, in yesterday’s sweatpants, hair sticking up like he fought a wind tunnel, phone in hand, and muttering a very intense monologue that includes the words “breach of privacy,” “defamation,” and “I’ll sue them into the earth.”
I lean against the doorway, arms crossed over my bump, and raise an eyebrow.
“Good morning to you too.”
Alex whirls around like I’ve just caught him committing treason. “They know. YN—they know. Someone leaked it. Everything. The marriage. Our daughter. You being pregnant. It’s all online.”
“I saw,” I say casually, walking past him to the sink and pouring a glass of water.
He stares at me, dumbfounded. “You’re calm?”
I take a sip of water and nod. “Yeah.”
He looks like I just told him I joined a cult. “How are you calm? Our entire life just got blasted across the internet! People are reposting pictures of our daughter. Someone screenshotted her drawing of the baby, YN. They found my Spotify family plan name. They’re making fan edits of our wedding and we didn’t even post about our wedding!”
I walk over, place my hands on his chest, and push gently until he finally sits down at the kitchen table. “Breathe.”
He exhales shakily, bracing his elbows on his knees, running both hands through his hair like he’s trying to scrub the stress away.
“I wanted to protect you,” he says quietly. “You and her. Both of them. I liked that no one could touch this… this little world we built. I liked that it was just ours.”
I kneel beside his chair, resting my chin on his thigh, looking up at him. “You did protect us, Alex. For ten years, you kept all of this sacred. You gave us the kind of peace most people in your position would kill for.”
He looks down at me, eyes glassy now. “But it’s not sacred anymore.”
I reach up, placing his hand on my bump, right where the baby always kicks around this time of morning.
“Maybe not in the same way,” I say. “But it’s still ours. They might know about us now, but they’ll never have us. Not the way we do. Not the way she does.”
His hand spreads over my stomach, thumb moving absently. “She’s gonna see stuff. People are already making assumptions. About you. About us.”
“I know.” I nod. “And we’ll explain it to her when she’s older. We’ll remind her that love isn’t something you owe the public. That just because the world thinks it has a right to your life, doesn’t mean it gets to take it.”
Alex closes his eyes. “I should’ve done more. Locked it down tighter. I should’ve seen this coming.”
I stand slowly, cupping his face between my palms. “Alex, listen to me. You’ve done everything right. You’re the most devoted dad. The kindest husband. You’ve protected us so well, sometimes too well.”
He gives a weak laugh at that. “Guilty.”
I press my forehead to his. “You didn’t fail us. You love us. That’s never been a secret—not really. Anyone who’s ever seen you hold her hand or kiss my head when you think no one’s looking could’ve figured it out. We were just waiting for the world to catch up.”
There’s silence for a long moment. Then, a small voice echoes from the hallway.
“Daddy?” she calls sleepily. “Why are you yelling about the earth?”
Alex laughs then. Really laughs. Pulls me into his arms and hides his face in my shoulder, like I’m the only steady thing in the universe.
“I’m okay now,” he whispers. “You’re right. You always are.”
I smile and kiss his temple. “That’s on being married for four years.”
We walk down the hall together to scoop her up, her curls tangled and her stuffed bunny dragging behind her like a sleepy soldier. She’s still half-asleep when she cuddles into Alex’s chest, eyes blinking slowly.
“Did the internet find out about the baby?” she mumbles.
Alex and I look at each other over her head and burst into quiet, stunned laughter.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, baby. They did.”
She sighs dramatically. “Ugh. I told BunBun to be discreet.”
And with that, our little family shuffles back into the kitchen. Chaos looming outside our doors, sure. But inside? Still sacred. Still ours.
—
The paddock is buzzing. Phones are out. Eyes are glued to screens and then not-so-subtly glued to us. Someone definitely elbowed their friend and mouthed “that’s her.” I think one engineer actually dropped a coffee.
Alex squeezes my hand, the only sign that he’s mildly freaking out. Otherwise, we’re strolling through the paddock like we didn’t just break the internet 36 hours ago. We are the eye of the storm. Or, at least we were—until George Russell appears out of nowhere like a man possessed.
“Are you—” he starts, gesturing wildly. “Did you—? That’s you?!”
Alex tries. He really tries. “Good morning, George.”
But George is on a different wavelength entirely. “Good morning?!” he hisses, grabbing Alex’s arm and yanking him and, by extension, me off to the side behind a hospitality truck. “You’ve had a wife for four years? A child? A whole damn family tree and didn’t tell us?!”
I blink. “Hi, George. Nice to see you too.”
He just looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You were pregnant when we went karting two months ago?!”
I shrug. “Just a little.”
“You didn’t even flinch when I offered you a beer!”
“I lied and said I was detoxing from kombucha. You nodded like you understood.”
George looks like he might pass out.
“You were at my housewarming, Alex!” he says, jabbing a finger toward my husband like it’s a crime. “And you brought a bottle of wine and a plant and not once mentioned the whole toddler waiting at home situation?! You left early and said it was because you were ‘tired’!”
Alex winces. “Well. I was. She had croup that week. I hadn’t slept in four days.”
George throws his hands in the air. “Unbelievable. And the pregnancy?! Again?! You just—snuck in another child while the rest of us were arguing over dumb shit?!”
He turns to me. “And you! You're the internet’s favorite mystery woman now, you know that? I saw a TikTok this morning with compilation footage of you in the background of races like it was some kind of conspiracy theory."
I snort. “Honestly, that’s flattering.”
Alex leans against the wall, rubbing the back of his neck. “George. I didn’t mean to lie. We just… wanted something that was only ours for a while. And then it turned into years, and then we had her, and we just… never found the right time.”
George goes quiet. Finally, he says, “You didn’t even tell me. I’m your friend, Alex.”
I put a hand on George’s arm. “You are. And it was never about not trusting anyone. It was about keeping something sacred, just for us.”
His mouth twists. “So that’s why you disappeared after qualifying in Hungary last year.”
Alex nods. “Yeah. I was rushing to FaceTime her before bedtime.”
George’s expression softens like he didn’t want it to. “That’s… okay, that’s actually kind of cute.”
“It was her birthday,” Alex adds. “She turned three and made a crown out of toilet paper. Demanded I wear one too.”
“I’m gonna cry,” George mutters. “I’m so mad at you, but also that’s adorable.”
Then, with a deep breath, he throws his arms out. “Bring it in. Both of you. I need a hug from this secret little Hallmark movie marriage of yours.”
Alex and I laugh, stepping into the very dramatic, very George Russell group hug. It’s tight and awkward and somehow perfect.
“I’m still mad, by the way,” George says into Alex’s shoulder. “But also… I can’t wait to meet her.”
“You will,” I promise.
“And the baby?” he asks, eyes wide.
Alex sighs. “Eventually.”
George blinks. “Do I get to be an uncle?”
Alex smirks. “You just might.”
And for the first time all weekend, it feels okay. It feels like the beginning of something new—still ours, but shared now, with the people who matter. And as George walks away mumbling about “plot twists” and “how he’s never trusting anyone quiet ever again,” I thread my fingers through Alex’s and smile.
“Not bad for our first day as the grid’s new power couple.”
He groans. “Don’t say that.”
I just grin. “Too late. You married a woman of chaos.”
—
third person pov
“Okay,” Lando says, dropping into the seat next to Alex with the force of someone who’s about to cause problems on purpose. “You know what? No. No. What the actual—”
Alex sighs. “Hi, Lando.”
“Don’t ‘hi, Lando’ me like I didn’t just find out through a fan cam that you are MARRIED,” Lando exclaims, voice already way too loud for the small briefing room. “MARRIED, Alexander! To YN. A whole wife. For FOUR YEARS.”
Alex looks straight ahead like maybe if he ignores it, it’ll stop. It does not.
“And then,” Lando continues, now counting off on his fingers, “you’ve got a toddler? A human child? A three-year-old who, by the way, has your ears, I saw the picture, don’t deny it—AND! You’re about to have another?! YOU HAVE A WHOLE NEW BABY ON THE WAY?!”
George leans forward, clearly enjoying this too much. “You should’ve seen him when he found the Reddit thread. Looked like he got hit by a truck.”
“I thought we were friends!” Lando yells. “You’ve heard me cry over situationships and you were out here picking names for your second baby?!”
Alex finally turns to him. “It’s not like that—”
“Then what is it like, huh?” Lando cuts in, pointing a dramatic finger at him. “Because to me, it feels like betrayal."
George snorts into his water bottle.
Alex lets out a long sigh and rubs his temples. “We just… kept it private. It was never about lying. It was about having something just ours.”
Lando opens his mouth, probably to yell some more — but then stops. Tilts his head. And suddenly gets very quiet.
“I get it,” he says softly.
Alex blinks. “You do?”
Lando nods, voice less chaotic now. “Yeah. I mean, if I had what you two have? I wouldn’t want to share it either.”
There’s a long beat of silence.
“…Still mad though,” Lando adds, crossing his arms. “Because now I have so many questions and no one will tell me anything.”
Alex looks over warily. “Like what?”
Lando leans forward immediately, like a kid at story time. “What’s her name? What does she call you? How did you propose? Does she have your laugh? Do you do the voice when you read bedtime stories? Did you cry when she was born? What does YN crave when she’s pregnant? Do you own a minivan?!”
Alex just stares at him.
“Tell me,” Lando whispers urgently. “Tell me everything.”
And that’s how Alex ends up sitting in the corner of the briefing room, surrounded by the other drivers, answering rapid-fire questions while Lando wipes his eyes every ten minutes and mutters “I’m not crying, I’m just emotionally invested.”
Eventually, Lando stands, looks Alex dead in the eye, and says-
“If you don’t let me meet your daughter before the next race, I will stage a coup.”
—
Carlos corners Alex at the coffee machine like a man on a mission.
“Hermano,” he says, low and intense. “I need you to look me in the eye and tell me there is not a literal baby registry under your government name.”
Alex, holding his coffee cup like a shield, sighs. “Hi, Carlos.”
“No. No ‘hi.’ You have a child. A daughter. A small human who has your eyes and your smile and a Williams onesie, and you said nothing to me. Your teammate.”
“It wasn’t personal—”
Carlos raises a hand. “You were on FaceTime with your wife during our debrief in Canada and told me it was your cousin’s cat’s birthday.”
“…I panicked.”
“AND THE SECOND BABY?”
“I panicked again!”
Before Alex can defend himself further, Charles appears at his side, arms crossed, jaw clenched. “I thought we were brothers.”
Alex groans. “Oh no.”
Charles shakes his head. “We shared a massage room in Monaco. You let me cry about my breakup. You handed me tissues. You patted my hair. And you said nothing about having a wife and child at home?!”
Carlos leans in, whispering conspiratorially, “I checked his hand this morning. No tan line. The man took off his ring during race weekends.”
Alex throws up his hands. “It’s silicone! I take it off for comfort!”
At that moment, Oscar slides in like a silent assassin. “So, when you left early in Abu Dhabi last year… that was for swimming lessons?”
“Yes.”
“And in Miami, when you skipped dinner?”
“Parent-teacher conference.”
Oscar blinks. “You’re terrifying.”
Then comes Lewis, smooth and quiet but with a knowing grin, already holding his second coffee of the morning.
“I’m honestly impressed,” he says, smiling as Alex looks like he’s about to combust. “A decade together, a whole daughter, and not even a whisper got out? That’s commitment. I respect it.”
Alex exhales in relief. “Thank you.”
“But also,” Lewis continues, sipping his drink, “I’m offended. Because you knew I’d be the best godfather option and you robbed me of my chance.”
Alex almost chokes. “We haven’t picked—”
“I’m already ordering custom baby Nikes. This isn’t a conversation.”
The rest of the drivers nod like this is fair and legally binding. Then Charles suddenly pauses and squints. “Wait. That one time at the track—YN was wearing a Williams cap. Was that your daughter she was holding?”
Alex winces. “Yes.”
Carlos gasps. “I said she looked like you and you said, and I quote, ‘we all look the same in hats.’”
Alex rubs his face. “I can’t keep doing this.”
Lando yells from across the room, “I TOLD YOU ALL. I KNEW.”
Everyone turns toward him.
“No you didn’t,” Oscar says.
“I DID. I FELT THE VIBES.”
George walks in holding his iPad like he’s delivering breaking news. “Group chat name has officially been changed to Albon’s Secret Family Club. I’m also starting a spreadsheet of baby shower gift ideas. She’s three, but I have so much to make up for.”
Alex puts his head down on the table. Charles pats him on the back. “You did this to yourself.”
Carlos grins. “But I forgive you. Because now I get to meet your daughter.”
Oscar nods. “Same. And the next time you disappear after quali, I expect a full report on how bedtime went.”
Lewis smiles. “And tell YN we said congratulations.”
Alex looks around, red-faced and overwhelmed… but smiling now too.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Okay. You can all meet her.”
Cheers erupt. And just like that, the secret’s out. But somehow, it feels less like a loss of privacy… and more like an expansion of family.
—
your pov
The second we step out of the car and into the paddock, our daughter tight in my arms and clinging to her stuffed bunny, I feel it. Not the stares — those are expected. Not the whispers or the way every camera in the vicinity subtly pans our way. But the warmth. Like the whole place exhaled one giant breath and made space for us. For her.
Alex is walking beside me, one hand steady on my back, his other adjusting the oversized paddock pass around our daughter’s neck. It practically reaches her knees.
She tugs her headphones down for a second and whispers, “Is Uncle Lando really gonna give me stickers?”
I laugh softly. “I think he bought a book of them, sweet pea.”
“Oh,” she says thoughtfully, “then I’m ready.”
We round the corner near the garage just as the drivers begin filtering in from media. The second Lando sees us, he lets out a loud, “OH MY GOD, IT’S HER!” and bolts across the concrete.
She ducks shyly into my shoulder, giggling, and Alex just smiles like he’s never loved anything more in his life.
Lando drops to his knees in front of her like he’s proposing. “Hi. Hello. I’m your uncle. I have stickers, a juice box, and very mixed feelings about your father’s deception.”
She blinks. “What’s ‘deception’?”
Alex chimes in dryly. “It’s when Uncle Lando doesn’t let Daddy win at video games.”
“Ohhh,” she says, nodding solemnly, as if she understands the betrayal.
Lando beams, already peeling sparkly stickers off a roll. “You’re my favorite person.”
Just behind him, Carlos, Charles, and George appear, all equally stunned and quietly emotional.
Carlos puts a hand over his heart. “She’s real.”
“She’s so small,” George whispers, tearing up immediately. “I don’t know what I expected but it wasn’t this much cuteness in one unit.”
Charles crouches down gently, holding out a hand. “Bonjour, petite princesse. Je suis Charles.”
Our daughter glances at me and I nod, so she reaches out and high-fives him — very serious, very precise.
Charles makes the most dramatic gasp. “Elle m’aime. I’m done. I’m finished. She can have my car. Take it. It’s hers.”
“She can’t drive,” Alex points out, laughing.
“She can learn,” Charles says, wiping fake tears.
Carlos leans in closer. “Does she like fruit snacks?”
“She likes grape fruit snacks,” I say.
He pulls a pack from his jacket like he’s been preparing for this day his entire life. “I’m your favorite now, sí?”
She takes the snack and gives him a small, approving nod. “Sí.”
Carlos clutches his chest.
By the time Oscar and Lewis arrive, she’s sitting on a stack of spare tires, swinging her legs and sharing stickers with George, who is lying on the ground letting her decorate his face.
Oscar’s jaw drops. “She’s already more popular than me.”
Lewis just smiles warmly. “It’s because she has her mother’s presence.”
Alex glances at me, hand sliding into mine. “She has your everything.”
Lewis kneels in front of her. “You must be very brave coming into the paddock. Would you like to see the garage?”
Her eyes widen, then she looks up at me for confirmation.
I nod. “Go with Daddy and Uncle Lewis, baby. I’ll be right here.”
She clutches her bunny and hops off the tire stack, sliding her hand into Alex’s. “Can Bunny wear the headphones too?”
“We’ll get him his own pair,” Alex promises.
As they walk off, the little pack of drivers falling into step around them like a security detail, I feel something soft settle in my chest. She’s not a secret anymore. She’s here. Loved. Seen. Safe. And as Lewis leans down to adjust her little headphones, and George keeps proudly wearing a glitter sticker heart on his forehead, and Charles dramatically fans her with his Ferrari cap, I realize— She doesn’t just have this world now. She owns it. And we do, too.
—
I never thought I’d be here. Not just here in the paddock, not just here with Alex — but here, in an open-top classic car, crawling down the track in front of thousands of fans… with our three-year-old daughter sitting between us, waving like she’s the president of the FIA. She’s in a tiny Williams race suit they gifted her this morning — complete with her name stitched in pink thread over the heart. Her headphones are practically swallowing her whole head, and her bunny, as usual, is in her lap. She has no idea she’s the reason the internet is losing its collective mind. She’s just thrilled to have a flag to wave.
“She’s loving this,” I say quietly to Alex, watching her wave with both arms like she’s done this a thousand times before.
Alex chuckles under his breath, eyes on her like he still can’t believe she’s real. “She’s a natural. She belongs here.”
“You mean with you?” I tease.
“I mean with us,” he says simply. “You belong here too.”
I lean into him just a little, letting myself enjoy it. The sun’s warm. The crowd’s louder than usual — but I know now that a lot of that noise is for her. For us. And for once, it doesn’t scare me.
Alex reaches across her to squeeze my hand. “You okay?”
I nod. “More than okay.”
Behind us, I hear someone yell.
“LOOK AT HER!” George is standing in the next car over, clutching his chest like he’s having a religious experience. “She’s waving like she’s running for office. I’d vote for her.”
“She’s got my vote,” Lando shouts.
“She can have my car,” Charles adds, jogging up beside us, offering her a fresh can of juice like it's tribute to a princess. “Tell your papa to retire. We’ve got this handled.”
“She can’t reach the pedals,” I laugh.
“She’ll grow,” Charles insists. “I’ll wait.”
Carlos pulls up in his own car just ahead, twisting around so he’s facing us backwards. “Does she want another flag? I’ve got three.”
Our daughter gasps and takes it immediately. “Thank you, Mr. Carlos!”
“Mr. Carlos.” he clutches his chest dramatically, like he’s been knighted.
“Do I even exist anymore?” Alex jokes.
I just laugh and shake my head. “You had your moment. She’s the main character now.”
She leans her cheek against Alex’s shoulder, smiling up at both of us like this is all perfectly normal — like she’s meant to be on a Formula 1 parade route with twenty world-class drivers treating her like royalty.
“Wave one more time, baby,” I say gently.
She pops up to her knees between us, raises her flag in one hand and her bunny in the other, and gives the biggest wave yet. The crowd erupts.
“Someone threw glitter,” Alex murmurs, completely stunned.
“I think she’s bigger than you now,” I say.
He glances at me. “She always was.”
And maybe she’ll never understand this moment — the cameras, the noise, the drivers who love her like their own — but I will. We will. Because this isn’t just her first driver parade. It’s the first time we stopped hiding and started living. Together. Out loud. As a family.
—
alexalbon
liked by yn_albon, lando, georgerussell63 & 14,090,002 others.
alexalbon : well...secret is out. i have the most gorgeous wife in the world and the sweetest little girl who is about to have a baby sister:)
closest to heaven (i'll ever be) ⸻ alex albon x reader.
“it would be unconscionably rude to abandon one's family at the dinner table simply because one's sisters have decided to narrate their entire correspondence in excruciating detail—”
“excruciating!” you exclaim, and you let your eyebrows rise, let a hint of teasing creep into your voice. “how flattering, my lord. i had no idea my letters were such a trial to endure.”
“that is not what i—” he starts, and then he sees your expression and stops, “you are enjoying this.”
“oh, immensely.” you confirm, and you do not bother to hide your smile.
or, the bridgerton au.
word count. 23k
featuring. bridgerton au, the albon family (+ pets), so much yearning, [serena van der woodsen voice] i have to go, surprise logan sargeant cameo, period-accurate views on marriage and courtship, sliiiight nsfw, the sluttiest thing a man can do is have an ethical dilemma over his lust for you.
author's note. i alway say my fics are a behemoth, but this is an entirely different thing. yes, the small gap between employments is the sole reason why i have written over 20,000 words in a fury. i have a long background in writing historical fiction, and it's always my favorite genres to write, so i often wonder why it took me this long to write a historical au. nevertheless, this is a labor of love and also all the tropes of historical rom-coms i have always loved— yearning, horniness, it's got it all !! this is dedicated to kae, eve, a, lily, (@tsunodaradio @spiderbeam @hello-car-fandom + @piastriprincess) and everyone on this account who has ever stuck with me through literally my months of inactivity. will this be a one-off fic? maybe. i have a few more historical aus in mind but that will have to wait. i also forgot until halfway through that there is a youngest brother. please pretend he is just at eton. happy belated birthday, alex albon !! made this 23k words specifically for you. title is from iris by the goo goo dolls.
the band. what is a bridgerton au without an accompanying playlist⸻ entirely curated by me because i have had an obsession with string covers of modern music for forever.
the carriage rattles over cobblestones slick with morning rain, and you press your gloved fingers to the window, watching london unfurl before you.
you had been gone eleven years. eleven years of rolling hills and silence, of your grandfather's library and the slow turn of seasons measured only by which flowers bloomed in the gardens, by which birds returned to nest in the trees outside your bedroom window.
and now you are here.
you smooth your thumb over the letter in your lap, the paper worn soft at the creases from how many times you have folded and unfolded it, traced the elegant loops of lady albon's handwriting. my dearest girl, she had written, it is time you came home.
home. as though you still have one. as though the townhouse where you spent the first twelve years of your life has not been shuttered and sold, as though your mother's name is not still whispered in drawing rooms with that particular tone of half-scandal and half-pity that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin.
but lady albon had written, and lady albon had insisted, and when the dowager viscountess of a family as old and respectable as the albons insists that you will stay with them for the season, that you will have your debut under her sponsorship, that she will not hear a single word of refusal… well. you have learned, over the years, that there are some forces of nature one simply does not argue with.
the carriage turns onto a familiar street. familiar, though you have not seen it in over a decade, familiar because you have dreamed of it, because the memory of these townhouses with their white facades and wrought-iron railings has lived behind your eyelids every night since you were torn away. your heart begins to pound so violently you fear the driver must hear it, fear that the whole of london must hear it, this traitorous organ announcing your return with all the subtlety of a herald's trumpet.
there. the albon residence. fourth house from the corner, distinguished by the climbing roses that lady albon has always insisted upon keeping despite the gardener's yearly protestations that the london air is too foul for such delicate blooms. the roses are in full flower now, a riot of pink and cream spilling over the iron fence, and the sight of them makes your eyes sting.
you are not going to cry. you are three-and-twenty years old, a woman grown, and you are not going to cry over roses.
the carriage slows. stops.
and then—
the blue door flies open before your footman has even lowered the steps, and there is a sound like a small stampede, a blur of muslin and ribbons and flying hair, and you hear your name— your christian name, propriety be damned— shrieked across the morning air in three voices at once.
“you're here!”
you barely have time to gather your skirts before the carriage door is wrenched open and there is zoe, zoe who was eleven years old and missing her two front teeth when you left, zoe who is now a woman grown with her dark hair pinned up in a style that is only slightly askew from her sprint down the front steps. she is reaching for you, laughing and crying all at once, and behind her alicia is bouncing on her heels with an expression of barely contained joy, and behind her is chloe— chloe, who was five years old and still in the nursery when you were sent away, who you know only from letters and the miniature portrait zoe sent you three years ago.
“let her breathe, zoe,” alicia says, though she is already shouldering past her sister to grasp your hands the moment your feet touch the pavement, squeezing so tightly you fear for your circulation. “oh, look at you, look at you— you're so tall—”
“i am precisely the same height i was in my last letter,” you manage, “i believe i even specified—”
“letters are not the same,” chloe interrupts, but then zoe pulls you into an embrace so fierce it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs, and you feel chloe's hand on your arm, and alicia is pressed against your side, and you are surrounded, you are held, and oh, oh, you had forgotten what this feels like, to be wanted somewhere, to have people who are so fiercely glad you exist.
“mama is going to be furious that we did not wait for you in the drawing room like civilized ladies,” zoe says into your shoulder, not sounding the least bit concerned about her mother's fury. “but i told her— i said, mama, i have not seen her in eleven years, i am not going to stand about making small talk when she is right there—”
“you wretched thing!” alicia’s voice overlaps her sister’s, finally pulling back to look at you properly. her eyes are bright, her cheeks flushed, and she looks so much like the girl you remember, “making us wait so long, do you have any idea how many letters i had mama write to your grandfather? the man is utterly impossible, i cannot believe he kept you from us for so many years—“
“it was not entirely his fault,” you begin, but alicia waves a dismissive hand.
“i don't care whose fault it was. you're here now, that's all that matters.”
“oh, well,” you say, “in that case, i don't know what all the fuss is about.”
zoe laughs, the sound bright and startling and exactly the same as you remember, and she links her arm through yours, steering you toward the house as though you might try to escape.
“come,” she says, “come inside, mama has had cook prepare all your favorites— do you still like lemon biscuits? i told her you did but it has been so long and people's tastes change, apparently, though i cannot imagine giving up lemon biscuits personally—”
“i still like lemon biscuits,” you confirm, and you let yourself be pulled up the steps, alicia on your other side, chloe trailing behind.
the townhouse is exactly as you remember and not at all the same— the wallpaper in the entrance hall is new, a soft green that catches the light, and there are fresh flowers on the side table, and the smell of beeswax and lavender wraps around you like an embrace. you stand there for a moment, breathing it in.
“we put you in the room next to mine,” zoe is saying, already halfway up the stairs, “and chloe is across the hall, and alicia is— well, alicia is in the attic, practically—”
“i am not in the attic,” alicia protests, “i am on the third floor, which is perfectly respectable—”
“mama says she will see you for tea once you've freshened up,” chloe adds.
you smile at her, and you hope it does not look as tremulous as it feels. “i look forward to it,” you say, and you mean every word of it.
the room they have given you is lovely, pale blue walls and white linens and a window that overlooks the garden, and there is a pitcher of fresh water on the washstand and a small vase of forget-me-nots on the bedside table.
the maid lady albon has assigned to you— a cheerful, round-faced girl named martha who chatters amiably as she unpacks your trunks— helps you change out of your traveling clothes and into something more suitable for tea. the gown is one of your better ones, a soft blue muslin that your grandfather's housekeeper had insisted you commission before your departure, and you smooth your hands over the fabric as martha arranges your hair, twisting it into something more fashionable than the simple knot you had worn for the journey.
“there now,” martha says, with evident satisfaction, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “right pretty, you are. the young ladies will be so pleased.”
you manage a smile, though your stomach is tight with nerves that have nothing to do with your appearance.
the thing you have not allowed yourself to dwell upon, the thing you have carefully not mentioned in any of your letters, is that the albons have had their own share of scandal in the years since your departure.
you learned of it through zoe's correspondence, though she had been characteristically circumspect in her telling. something regarding money, she had written, something regarding mama and an investment that went rather badly wrong. you know how these things are. papa has retreated to the countryside to manage his health, and alex has taken over the estate matters. we are quite alright, truly. please do not worry.
do not worry, she had said, as though you could do anything else.
the details had come to you in fragments over the following months, both from gossip and from the girls’ letters. the albons, it had seemed, had come across certain financial decisions… investments that had seemed sound at the time but had ultimately proven disastrous. the loss had not been ruinous, not quite, but it had been significant enough to cause a stir among the ton, significant enough that lord albon had retreated to their northern estate in what everyone understood to be shame, unable to bear the whispers and the knowing looks.
he had passed there, three years later, without ever returning to london.
and lady albon, beautiful, gracious lady albon, who had welcomed you into her home when your own mother was too busy with her affairs to notice you existed, had been left to raise her children alone, her reputation tarnished, her husband gone, her eldest son forced to shoulder the burden of the estate at an age when he should have been enjoying his youth.
perhaps that is why she wrote to you. perhaps that is why she has opened her home to you now, when so many others would have turned you away. she understands, in a way that few others can, what it means to be marked by scandal.
you descend the stairs with your heart in your throat, following the sound of the girls’ laughter to the parlour, and when you step through the doorway, lady albon looks up from her seat with a smile that makes your eyes sting all over again.
“my dear girl,” she says, setting aside her embroidery and rising to take your hands in hers, and her grip is firm and warm and exactly as you remember, the hands of a woman who has weathered storms and come out the other side still standing. “let me look at you. oh, let me look at you. you have your mother's eyes— did you know that? i always told her so, though she never believed me—”
“lady albon—” you begin, but she cuts you off with a sound of pure exasperation.
“it is minky to you,” she says, squeezing your hands once before releasing them, “as it has always been, as it will always be, at least in the privacy of our own home. i did not help your mother plan her wedding and hold you as an infant and watch you grow into this remarkable young woman only to have you lady albon me in my own parlour. sit, sit—zoe, stop hovering and pour the tea—”
you sit, because there is nothing else to do when minky albon gives an order, and zoe rolls her eyes, but does as her mother says anyway.
“you look well,” minky muses, “the country air has agreed with you. though i suspect you are glad to be away from it, yes?”
“i am glad to be here,” you say, and you mean it so fiercely the words come out rough-edged. “i cannot thank you enough— the invitation, the sponsorship, all of it—”
minky waves a hand, “nonsense. you are practically family, and it is high time you were given the season you deserve. besides—” and here her eyes glint with something that might be mischief, “— i have three daughters to marry off, and i find the prospect far less tedious with the addition of a fourth.”
“mama,” zoe protests, but she is grinning as she passes you a cup of tea, “you make it sound as though we are horses at auction.”
“the marriage mart is hardly more dignified,” alicia observes, “but at least we are not expected to trot.”
“give it time,” chloe murmurs, and you nearly choke on your tea.
“you are not even out yet, young lady, so i will thank you to keep your cynicism to yourself.” minky turns back to you, and her expression softens. “now. we must discuss the practicalities. the season is already underway, but we have managed to secure you a presentation— lady norris has been kind enough to host a ball tomorrow evening, and the queen herself will be in attendance. it is not a formal drawing room presentation, but it will serve well enough to introduce you to society properly.”
“the norris ball!” alicia exclaims, “oh, it will be such fun— their eldest, oliver, is terribly serious and thinks himself very important because he is heir to an duchy—”
"he is heir to an duchy,” zoe points out.
“—yes, but he does not have to be so boring about it,” alicia continues, undeterred. "and their second son, lando, is an absolute menace. charming, of course, devastatingly so, but absolutely impossible! he flirts with everyone— everyone!— and never seems to mean a word of it, and he and alex are thick as thieves, which means we are constantly subjected to his presence at family dinners, and—”
“he is one of alex's closest friends,” zoe clarifies, noting your confusion. “they met at eton, i believe. lando is... well. you shall see for yourself tomorrow.”
“oh, speaking of alex!” alicia exclaims, sitting up so suddenly that her tea sloshes dangerously in its cup. “is he not due back from the mercer estate tomorrow? i thought he was meant to arrive just in time for the ball.”
“you will finally meet him,” chloe notes, watching you those wide eyes. “is that not strange? that you have known us so long and never met our brother?”
“i have thought of it,” you admit, because there is no point in pretending otherwise. “he was always— elsewhere. school, i believe. so i have not had the pleasure.”
the pleasure. as though you have not spent years constructing an image of him in your mind from the fragments the girls have shared. as though you did not, as a child of eleven, develop a most embarrassing fascination with the portrait of the young heir that hung in the upstairs hallway, a boy of fifteen in that painting, a slight smile on his lips despite the solemness of the painting. as though you did not write his name in the margins of your journal, once, twice, a hundred times, before tearing out the pages in a fit of mortified practicality.
it had seemed so silly, even then. a childhood infatuation with a boy you had never met, constructed entirely from a painted image and the adoring words of his sisters. you had been eleven years old and desperately lonely, and he had been the romantic hero of every novel you had ever read, distant and mysterious and perfect in the way that only imaginary figures can be.
“he is very good at being elsewhere,” alicia says, “but he is also very good at being present, when he chooses to be. you will like him, i think. everyone does.”
“alicia is biased,” chloe says, “because alex taught her to ride and let her borrow his books and generally spoiled her terribly when we were small—”
“as opposed to you, who he also taught to ride and let borrow his books and generally spoiled terribly?”
“i am not biased,” alicia protests, with tremendous dignity. “i am simply stating facts. alex is— alex. you will see.”
“tomorrow, then,” you say, and from the opposite sofa, zoe grins at you, bright and knowing.
“tomorrow,” she agrees. “and oh, it is going to be wonderful.”
the norris estate blazes with light, every window glowing gold against the darkening sky, and you can hear the music spilling out onto the gravel drive before the carriage has even come to a full stop. by the time you actually do step out of the carriage, your heart is already beating too fast, fluttering against your ribs like a caged bird, and you press your gloved hand flat against your stomach as though you might physically still the tremor of your nerves.
“breathe!” alicia whispers, leaning close enough that her breath tickles your ear. “you look positively green, and green does not complement that gown at all.”
"i am not green," you whisper back, though you cannot say with any certainty that this is true. "i am merely... contemplative."
“she is terrified,” zoe observes from your other side, though not unkindly. “which is perfectly reasonable. alicia was sick in the garden before her first ball. twice.”
”that was the oysters!” alicia protests.
“it was nerves. the oysters were merely… contributory.”
lady albon, resplendent in deep blue silk, fixes all three of you with a look that somehow manages to convey both fondness and warning. “if the three of you are quite finished,” she says, “we do have a queen to greet and a young lady to present. compose yourselves.”
chloe had been left at home, of course, protesting loudly that it was entirely unfair that she should miss your debut when she had been waiting to meet you for practically her whole life. but she was not yet out, and rules were rules, no matter how one might rail against them. you had promised to tell her everything, every last detail, and she had made you swear on your own dowry (which, admittedly, is not much) that you would not leave out a single dance or gown or whispered gossip.
the ballroom, when you finally enter, is a whirlwind of bodies and candlelight and colour: ladies in silks of every shade imaginable, gentlemen in dark coats and crisp cravats, the glitter of jewels at throats and wrists and ears. the queen herself is holding court at the far end of the room, surrounded by a small constellation of ladies-in-waiting, and even from this distance you can see the knowing tilt of her chin, the way the crowd constantly fixes their eyes on her, despite their total unsublety.
your presentation passes in a blur of curtsies and murmured pleasantries, the queen's sharp eyes assessing you for one endless moment before she nods, and you are released, dismissed, folded into the swirl of the evening like a single drop of water into an ocean. you remember very little of what was said. you think you did not embarrass yourself. that will have to be enough.
“well done,” lady albon says quietly, her hand briefly warm on your elbow. “now, enjoy yourself. that is an order.”
and then she is swept away into conversation with a group of ladies her own age, and you are left with zoe and alicia, who immediately steer you toward a relatively quiet corner where you can observe the proceedings without being directly in the fray.
“right,” zoe starts, “allow me to bring you up to speed on the season's developments, as you have missed the first three weeks and quite a lot has happened.”
“is this strictly necessary?” you ask, but you are smiling, still.
“absolutely essential,” alicia confirms.
“very well.” you acquiesce, moving to lean against the wall, “tell me everything.”
zoe takes a breath. "lord acosta’s daughter— you remember the acostas, yes? the house with the pretty garden? well, she has set her cap for the lord hamilton’s eldest ward, which is ambitious to say the least, given that he has shown absolutely no interest in anyone this season and seems to actively flee whenever a young lady approaches him with that particular gleam in her eye."
“the gleam of matrimonial intent!” alicia supplies with glee.
“precisely! meanwhile, the beaumont twins have both decided they are in love with the same gentleman— a mister chen, who is very handsome, very wealthy, very oblivious— and their mother is at her absolute wit's end trying to keep them from coming to blows over who saw him first.”
“this is absurd!” you exclaim, but you are laughing, your eyes following theirs, “are there no straightforward attachments this season? no simple, uncomplicated courtships?”
zoe and alicia exchange a look.
“no!” they say in unison, and zoe adds, “where would be the entertainment in that?”
the music shifts, the first dance of the evening beginning to form, and you watch as couples take their places on the floor. zoe is claimed almost immediately by a gentleman you do not recognize, and alicia is not far behind, swept onto the floor by a friend of the family whose name you have already forgotten.
and you— well, you remain where you are, pressed against the wall, watching.
it is not unexpected. you are new, unknown, the subject of whispers that have followed you since you walked through the door— that is the one, is it not? her mother's daughter, back from wherever they sent her, the albons have taken her in, how very charitable of them. the ton has a long memory, and your family's scandal is not so old that it has been forgotten. perhaps you will be asked to dance later, once curiosity overcomes caution. perhaps you will not. you have prepared yourself for this possibility, have armored yourself with low expectations.
and yet… it still stings, watching your friends laugh and turn in the arms of partners who sought them out, while you stand alone with your punch and your carefully neutral expression.
you let your gaze drift across the room, cataloging faces, looking for… something, though you are not certain what. a friendly countenance, perhaps. someone who might be willing to speak with you, to break the strange isolation that has settled around you.
and then you see him.
he is standing near one of the tall windows, half-turned away from the room as though he would rather be looking at the gardens than the glittering crowd.he is tall, dark-haired, and handsome, incredibly so, with a face that seems made for smiling even though he is not smiling now. his coat is well-cut and clearly expensive, his cravat tied with a kind of careless precision that suggests either great skill or a very good valet, and he is—
he is looking at you.
your breath catches.
he looks away immediately, almost guiltily, fixing his gaze on some point in the middle distance, but you saw. you saw him watching you across the crowded room, saw the flicker of something in his expression before he schooled it into neutrality, and the thing is—
the thing is you know him.
not personally, no. you have never been in the same room with him before this very moment, but, you know the set of his shoulders from years of studying a portrait that hung in the albons' drawing room, know the shape of his jaw from the miniature zoe sent you three christmases ago.
lord alexander albon.
a silly childhood crush, you had called it then, and you had told yourself you had outgrown it, had left it behind with all the other childish things you had been forced to abandon when your world collapsed. you are a woman now, not a girl, and you do not form attachments to men you have never met based on portraits and secondhand stories and a few kind words in fading ink.
and yet.
and yet.
he glances at you again, quick and furtive, and this time when your eyes meet he does not look away immediately— he holds your gaze for one endless, breathless moment, and you see colour rise in his cheeks, see the way his throat moves as he swallows, and something reckless seizes hold of you, something that feels like the girl you used to be.
you set down your glass of punch, smooth your skirts, swallow the heavy feeling in your throat, and you walk across the ballroom floor toward him, weaving through the crowd with a confidence you believe is entirely fabricated, your heart pounding so loudly you are certain the entire room must be able to hear it.
he watches you approach. he does not flee, though he looks for a moment as though he is considering it, his hand tightening briefly on the glass he is holding before he seems to consciously relax his grip. up close he is even more handsome than he was at a distance, and you notice that there is a warmth to him, a softness around his eyes that the portrait never captured, and when you stop before him you can see the rapid pulse at the base of his throat, can see the way his lips part slightly as though he means to speak and then thinks better of it.
“lord albon.” you say, giving a brief curtsy, “i believe we have never been formally introduced, though i feel i know you quite well through your sisters' correspondence. i am—”
“i know who you are,” he interrupts, and then immediately looks mortified, colour flooding his face all the way to the tips of his ears. “that is— i meant— my sisters have spoken of you. frequently. at length. i feel as though i have known you for—” he stops, takes a breath, visibly collects himself. “forgive me. it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. a genuine pleasure. i have heard— that is to say—”
he is flustered. this man, who for all intents and purposes is a viscount, this figure who has loomed so large in your imagination for so long, is flustered, and he is standing before you blushing and stammering like a schoolboy. you are incredibly endeared.
“your sisters told me you would be here tonight,” you say, taking pity on him, offering him an easier thread to grasp, “they were beginning to wonder if you had forgotten the way to london.”
he laughs, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. “the tenants' drainage issues were rather more complicated than anticipated,” he admits, “though i confess the journey back was… motivated.” he seems to realize what he has said and immediately looks as though he wishes the floor would swallow him whole. “by the season. by the start of the season. my sisters— they would not have forgiven me if i missed—”
the orchestra begins a new piece. around you, couples are pairing off again, moving toward the dance floor, and you watch his gaze flicker to the swirl of silk and candlelight before returning to your face, and you see the question there, the hesitation, the way he opens his mouth and then closes it again as though he cannot find the words.
eleven years, you think. eleven years of waiting, of wondering, of holding the idea of him like a pressed flower between the pages of your heart.
“lord albon,” you say, and you smile, “are you going to ask me to dance?”
his eyes widen. the flush on his cheeks deepens impossibly further. “i was working up to it,” he admits, “i have been working up to it for—” he stops, shakes his head, and when he meets your eyes again there is a steadiness there that was not present before, “would you do me the honor of this dance, my lady?”
he extends his hand, and you take it. his hand is warm through the thin fabric of your gloves, warm and solid and real, and you let him lead you onto the floor with your heart hammering against your ribs like it is trying to escape the confines of your chest.
the other dancers are a mere blur around you, a swirl of colour and movement at the edges of your vision, all because you find you cannot look away from his face, at he way his eyes keep darting to yours and then away again.
“you are very quiet,” you observe, after a full eight bars of the dance have passed in silence. “your sisters led me to believe you were rather more talkative.”
he huffs a laugh, soft and surprised, and some of the tension in his shoulders eases. “my sisters,” he says, “have a great deal to answer for. i dread to think what else they have told you.”
"only good things," you assure him,and you cannot help the smile that curves your lips, “well… mostly good things. your sisters are... very thorough in their correspondence.”
something sparks in his eyes, and the tension in his shoulders eases slightly. “they are, aren't they? i shudder to think what they have told you about me. all lies, i assure you.”
“all of it?”
“well.” his mouth twitches, “perhaps not all. but certainly the most embarrassing parts.”
you laugh, “ah, so all of them, then.”
he chuckles, shakes his head, “you are not so inclined towards wit in your letters.”
you raise a brow, “you have read my letters? to your sisters?”
the question slips out before you can stop it, and you watch the colour rise in his cheeks again, that telltale flush that seems to give away every thought in his head.
“not— not all of them,” he says, and he sounds almost defensive now, “only… sometimes they would read passages aloud. at dinner. and i could not exactly leave—”
“of course not,” you nod, fighting to keep your expression serious. “that would be rude.”
“exactly. it would be unconscionably rude to abandon one's family at the dinner table simply because one's sisters have decided to narrate their entire correspondence in excruciating detail—”
“excruciating!” you exclaim, and you let your eyebrows rise, let a hint of teasing creep into your voice. “how flattering, my lord. i had no idea my letters were such a trial to endure.”
“that is not what i—” he starts, and then he sees your expression and stops, “you are enjoying this.”
“oh, immensely.” you confirm, and you do not bother to hide your smile. “you turn the most remarkable shade of red when you are embarrassed, did you know that? it is quite fetching.”
“i–” he begins, but then the music ends. around you, couples are separating, bowing and curtsying, drifting apart to find new partners or refreshments or the relative safety of the room's edges. you should step back. you should curtsy and thank him for the dance and allow him to return you to his sisters like a proper gentleman escorting a proper lady.
you do not move, and neither does he.
“lord albon,” you say, and your voice comes out softer than you intend to, “i find i am rather glad we have finally met.”
“as am i, my lady,” he says, eyes still trained on yours as he bends down to press a kiss to your gloved hand, “as am i.”
the days that follow the norris ball pass in a blur of morning calls and afternoon teas and evening entertainments, a whirlwind of social obligations that leaves you breathless and exhausted and strangely, achingly alive in a way you had forgotten you could feel.
you attend musicales where young ladies of varying talent perform for politely captive audiences, promenades through hyde park where the ton parades itself in all its finery and pretends not to notice who is walking with whom. you smile until your cheeks ache. you make conversation until your voice grows hoarse. you dance with gentlemen whose names you forget almost as soon as they release your hand.
you tell yourself that this is what you came here for, that this is the purpose of the season, this is your one chance to secure a future that does not involve returning to your grandfather's estate, or becoming a governess to a pack of what you assume would be spoiled brats, waiting for the lessons to end so they may cajole around in the sun.
one fact remains, though: alexander albon makes himself scarce.
you see him at breakfast, sometimes, already halfway through his coffee and the morning papers when you come down, and he will look up and nod politely and inquire after your sleep with the distant courtesy of a man addressing a houseguest he barely knows.
you see him in the hallways, passing like ships in the night, and he will murmur good afternoon or pardon me and continue on his way without breaking stride. you see him leaving for the gentlemen’s club or arriving home from some business meeting or another, always in motion, always just out of reach, and you tell yourself it does not matter, you tell yourself you are being foolish, you tell yourself that one dance does not make a courtship and one conversation does not make a connection and you have no claim on his time or his attention or the warmth that had flickered in his eyes when he held you in his arms and told you he was glad to have met you.
very well then. you cannot simply sit around and wait for a man to notice you, no matter how long your infatuation for him might have been. there is a deadline for you, a ticking clock in the back of your head, and you cannot afford to wait. that is the truth of it.
you will just have to be practical.
it is a quiet tuesday afternoon, which should be noted as a rare occasion, given the revolving wheel of suitors and callers that seemingly appear at the albons’ front door, and you are in the parlour with zoe and alicia and chloe, all four of you crammed onto one settee in a way that is entirely improper and entirely comfortable, passing the latest society papers back and forth and reading the most ridiculous passages aloud in increasingly dramatic voices.
“the society papers report that a certain young baron was seen leaving the beaumont residence at an hour most unbecoming of a gentleman caller,” zoe reads from over your shoulder, as you are holding the papers at the moment, her voice dripping with affected scandal, “one can only speculate as to the nature of his business, though this author suspects it had rather more to do with matters of the heart than matters of finance.”
“the beaumont residence!” alicia gasps, her eyes going wide. “that is where the twins live. clara and catherine! the ones fighting over mister chen.”
“do you think he has made his choice?” chloe asks, leaning forward, trying to get a glimpse of the papers.
“if he has any sense, he will flee the country,” you say, and the girls dissolve into giggles, a bright cascade of sound that fills the parlour like sunshine.
then, the laughter cuts abruptly, and you turn to see lord albon standing in the doorway, frozen mid-step as though he had not expected to find the parlour occupied.
“alex,” zoe says, her voice bright with false innocence, “how lovely of you to join us. we were just catching up on the latest gossip.”
he clears his throat. shifts his weight. he does not quite meet your eyes. “so i’ve heard,” he says, voice careful, “i did not mean to interrupt.”
“you are not interrupting,” alicia says sweetly, “we were merely reading the society papers. nothing of consequence.”
“nothing of consequence.” he repeats. “i was not aware that the gossip column qualified as essential reading.”
“it is entertaining reading,” zoe corrects. “there is a difference.”
“is there?” he asks, moving into the room properly now, crossing to the settee opposite yours his eyes flicker to you, once, quickly, and then away again, fixing on some point on the far wall as though it contains information of vital importance.
you lower the paper just enough to peer over its edge, meeting his gaze, “surely,” you say, and you let your voice curl around the words like silk, “it is not a sin to indulge in the society papers, my lord?”
his cheeks flood with colour, and his mouth opens and closes twice before any sound emerges, and when it does it is not words so much as a strangled sort of noise that might be protest or might be surrender or might be something else entirely.
“i— that is not— i did not say it was a sin,” he manages, and his voice has gone slightly higher than usual, slightly breathless. “i merely— i only meant—”
"he is flustered!" chloe exclaims, “look, his ears have gone red!”
“they have not!” he protests.
“they absolutely have,” alicia confirms, grinning. “they always do when he is flustered. it is one of his tells.”
“i do not have tells—”
“you have many tells,” zoe shrugs, “you are, in fact, the least subtle person in this family, which is saying something given that chloe once tried to hide a squirrel in her wardrobe for three weeks.”
“the squirrel was very quiet!” chloe protests.
“the squirrel ate mother's favorite gloves!”
“that was never proven—”
“i believe we were discussing lord albon's tells,” you interrupt, grinning at him with a glint of mischief in your eyes, “please, do continue. i find myself fascinated.”
alexander drops his head into his hands in a gesture of defeat. “you are all impossible,” he says, but there is no heat in it, no real frustration, only warmth, only the exasperated affection of a man who loves his family even when they are determined to torment him, “every last one of you.”
“and yet you keep us!” zoe says, reaching across the space between the settees to pat his knee in a gesture that is more mocking than comforting.
“i keep you,” he agrees, raising his head to meet her eyes, “because i have no choice in the matter. you are, unfortunately, blood relations.”
“and her?” alicia asks, nodding toward you with a sly expression that makes your cheeks warm. “she is not a blood relation. will you keep her too?”
the parlour goes quiet.
“i—” he starts, and then stops, and then looks at his sisters with an expression of profound betrayal. “you are all impossible!”
“you already said that,” chloe points out.
“it bears repeating.”
“but you did not answer the question,” zoe presses, and she is relentless, she has always been relentless, and you want to kiss her and strangle her in equal measure, “will you keep her? we have already decided that we shall, so really it is only a matter of whether you are in agreement—”
“zoe.”
“what? it is a simple question—”
“nothing about this is simple,” he says, and his voice is quieter now, more serious, and when he looks at you again there is something in his expression that makes you acutely aware of every breath you take and every beat of your heart.
“we like her,” alicia adds softly, and the teasing has gone out of her voice, “we have always liked her, alex. and she is here now, finally, after all these years. does that not count for something?”
he does not answer, at least not with words, but his eyes stay on yours.
“i should—” he clears his throat, rises from the settee with a jerky, graceless motion, “i have business to attend to. if you will excuse me.”
and then he is gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click, and you are left staring at the space where he was with your heart pounding and your mind racing and the echo of his almost-answer ringing in your ears.
one of the things you have come to learn about the albons, in the weeks since your arrival, is that they are not so much a family who keeps pets as they are a family who has been slowly, persistently taken over by animals.
it had started with frooky, or so zoe had explained during your first bewildering morning when you had come down to breakfast and found a large, frowning cat sitting in the center of the dining table like a furry centerpiece, calmly grooming himself while the family ate around him as though this were perfectly normal behavior.
“once you have one cat,” alicia had said, “you somehow end up with eleven. it is simply the way of things.”
"eleven?" you had repeated, certain you had misheard.
“eleven,” chloe had confirmed, ticking them off on her fingers. "frooky, moomoo, hippo, gigi, blue bear, stan, horsey…” and then she had continued to list them off, all with endearingly ridiculous names.
there are also, you have since learned, a dog and two ponies at the family's countryside estate, a fact that chloe had shared with tremendous enthusiasm and alex had confirmed with the weary resignation of a man who has accepted his fate.
you have met most of the cats by now, though you confess you cannot always tell them apart, and you know there are several grey ones who blur together in your memory, but you have grown fond of them regardless, these soft warm bodies that appear on your bed at night and wind around your ankles at meals and generally make themselves at home in every corner of your borrowed life here in london.
this afternoon, you are in the library.
it is a rare moment of solitude; zoe and alicia have gone calling with their mother, and chloe is practicing her pianoforte under the supervision of her governess. you had intended to spend the time reading, had been eyeing the albons' collection for days, and when you had finally found yourself alone you had made your way here with something approaching reverence.
the library is beautiful, all dark wood and tall windows, and the shelves stretch floor to ceiling, stuffed with volumes in no apparent order: philosophical treatises shelved beside gothic novels, scientific journals mixed in with poetry collections, everything jumbled together in a way that suggests the albons read widely and eclectically and do not much care for organization.
the book you want is on the top shelf. of course it is.
you eye the ladder that leans against the far wall, consider fetching it, and then decide that the step stool tucked into the corner will suffice. after all, the book is not that high, and you are not that short, and surely you can manage without going to the trouble of maneuvering a full ladder across the room.
this, as it turns out, is a miscalculation.
you position the step stool beneath the relevant section of shelving, gather your skirts in one hand to keep them from tangling around your feet, and ascend the two steps with what you feel is a feat of admirable grace. the book, a collection of essays on natural philosophy that you have been longing to read since you spotted it three days ago, is just within reach, your fingertips brushing the spine, and you stretch up onto your toes to get a better grip—
—and something moves in the shadows of the upper shelf.
you have approximately half a second to register a pair of gleaming eyes and a flash of grey fur before the cat launches itself directly at your face.
what follows is not, strictly speaking, dignified.
there is a yowl— from the cat or from you, you genuinely cannot say— and a flailing of limbs, and a desperate grab for the shelf that only succeeds in dislodging approximately a dozen books from their places. the step stool tips, and your balance abandons you entirely. and then you are falling, books raining down around you as you you hit the floor with a thump that knocks the breath from your lungs and sends a sharp bolt of pain through your hip and elbow.
for a moment you simply lie there, stunned, staring up at the ceiling while dust swirls in the afternoon light and somewhere above you a cat makes a sound of profound indignation, as though you are the one who has behaved unreasonably.
“what in god’s name—!”
the voice comes from the doorway, and you turn your head to see alexander albon standing frozen at the threshold with an expression of pure horror on his face, his eyes darting from you to the scattered books to the step stool lying on its side.
“‘m fine,” you say, which is perhaps optimistic given that you have not yet attempted to move, but it seems like the right thing to say, “i'm— there was a cat—”
he is across the room before you finish the sentence, dropping to his knees beside you with a complete disregard for his trousers, his hands hovering over you as though he wants to touch but is not certain he is allowed.
“are you hurt?” he demands, “can you move? should i send for a doctor? what happened—”
“a cat,” you repeat, and despite everything, despite the ache in your hip and the embarrassment burning in your cheeks and the fact that you are lying on the floor of his library surrounded by fallen books like some sort of disaster, you find yourself laughing, “a cat jumped at me. from the shelf. i think— i think it might have been moomoo—”
you both look toward the window at the same moment.
moomoo is sitting on the windowsill, one leg extended toward the ceiling as he attends to his… personal grooming with the focused dedication of a creature who has never done anything wrong in his entire life.
“moomoo,” alexander says, and there is a wealth of exasperation in that single word, a lifetime of similar incidents condensed into two syllables, “of course it was moomoo.”
“he came out of nowhere,” you say, and you are still laughing, you cannot seem to stop, the absurdity of the situation finally catching up with you, “i was just— i wanted a book—”
“let me help you up,” he says, and before you can protest his hand is closing around yours, warm even through both your gloves, and his other hand is at your elbow, steadying you as you struggle into a sitting position, “slowly, now. does anything feel broken? sprained?”
you take a moment to assess, wiggling your fingers and toes, rotating your wrists and ankles. everything seems to be in working order, though you suspect you will have some spectacular bruises by dinner, “i am intact,” you report, “merely… dented.”
“dented,” he echoes, and when you look at him his lips are twitching, almost into a smile, “that is one word for it.”
“i prefer to maintain my dignity wherever possible,” you say, with as much primness as you can muster, “even in circumstances that actively conspire against me.”
“here,” he says, reaching a hand out, “let me—”
you take his hand, let him pull you upright. when you stand, you are unsteady for a moment, and he reaches out, places a hand on your waist to balance you. for a moment you are standing very close to him, close enough to see the individual threads of his cravat, close enough to see the way his throat moves when he swallows, the way his eyes flicker down to your mouth and then away again. the hand on your waist sears through like a burn.
“the books,” you say, stepping away from him, from his grasp, because you have to say something, because the silence is becoming unbearable. “we should— i should—”
“yes,” he agrees, and his voice sounds strange, rougher than usual, “yes, we should—”
you both bend down at the same moment, and your fingers close around the spine of a fallen volume at the exact instant his do.
you freeze. he freezes. and then you are both crouched on the library floor with your hands overlapping on a copy of the mysteries of udolpho, your gloved fingers tangled together, your faces inches apart.
“oh,” you breathe.
his eyes meet yours. hold. and you see something flicker behind them, before a shutter seems to fall, some invisible wall slamming into place between one heartbeat and the next.
he pulls his hand back as though burned.
“forgive me,” he says, and his voice has gone strange again, “i should not have— that was—”
“lord albon,” you start, but he is already rising to his feet, already stepping back, already putting distance between you. “lord albon,” you try again, “please, if i have done something to offend—”
“you have done nothing,” he says, though you do not feel any sort of reassurance, “you have been— you are—”
he stops. shakes his head.
“i should go,” he says, more definitively now, “i have— there is business i must attend to. please excuse me.”
“my lord—”
but he is already gone, the library door closing behind him with a soft click that sounds, in the silence that follows, very much like a period at the end of a sentence.
you stand there for a long moment, and you try very hard not to feel as though something precious has just slipped through your fingers.
from the windowsill, moomoo yawns elaborately and resettles himself in his sunbeam.
the day after next dawns bright and clear, and lady albon declares at breakfast that the entire family will be taking a turn about hyde park after luncheon, no exceptions, no excuses, and she does not want to hear a single word of protest from anyone at this table.
she is looking very pointedly at her son when she says this.
alexander, to his credit, does not protest. he merely inclines his head in acknowledgment and returns his attention to his coffee with the studied nonchalance of a man who is very carefully not looking at anyone else at the table, and you tell yourself that the twist in your chest is indigestion, nothing more.
the walk itself is pleasant enough. the weather holds, though it is a bit crowded; it is easy to disappear with the amount of people, easier to slide beneath the rush of the crowd.
lady albon leads the brigade, with zoe and alicia are linked in arms, chattering, while you and chloe enjoy companiable silence behind them. alexander is a half-step behind with his hands clasped behind his back and his gaze fixed on some middle distance that seems to exist only for him.
you steal glances at him when you think he is not looking, cataloging the line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders, the way the sunlight catches in his dark hair. he is beautiful in a way that feels almost unfair, and you wish that beauty were enough. that wanting were enough. that you could simply reach out and touch him without the whole complicated machinery of society grinding into motion around you.
but you cannot. and so you walk, and you do not touch, and you try to content yourself with proximity.
ahead of you, zoe lets out a small shriek of delight.
“lottie!” she calls, dropping alicia's arm and gathering her skirts to hurry toward a cluster of young ladies near the serpentine. “charlotte liao, is that you? i did not know you were back from bath—”
and then all three albon sisters are gone, swept up in the unexpected reunion, and you are left standing on the path with alexander, watching them embrace and exclaim and generally behave as though they have not seen each other in years rather than weeks.
“are you not going to join them?” alexander asks, after a moment.
“no,” you say, curtly, “i think not.”
“may i ask why?”
“i am wrought with scandal enough,” you say simply. “miss liao’s family is well-respected, well-connected. the last thing she needs is to be seen associating with the daughter of—” you stop, swallow. “well. you know what they say about my mother.”
he is quiet for a long moment. when you glance at him, his expression is unreadable.
“the ton has a long memory,” he says finally, “they remember what they wish to remember, and they forget what is convenient to forget.”
“your family's troubles seem to have faded more quickly than mine,” you observe, and there is no accusation in it, only a simple statement of fact, “your sisters are received everywhere. your mother is welcomed in the finest drawing rooms. your own prospects are—”
“my own prospects are complicated,” he interrupts, not unkindly, “our debts are paid, yes, and the worst of the whispers have died down, but the ton does not truly forget. they simply… wait.” his mouth twists into something that is not quite a smile. “the albons have survived, but survival is not the same as acceptance. my sisters will make good matches because they are charming and beautiful and will not carry the albon name in marriage, and my mother has worked tirelessly to repair our reputation, but there will always be those who remember.”
“at least they whisper quietly,” you say, and you cannot quite keep the bitterness from your voice, “my family's scandal is still spoken of openly. my mother's choices, my father's—” you break off, shaking your head, “it does not matter. i did not come to london expecting to be embraced by society. i came because your mother was kind enough to offer me a chance, and i intend to make the most of it, whatever that looks like.”
“and what does that look like?” he asks. “to you?”
you consider the question. it is not one you have allowed yourself to examine too closely, the boundaries of your expectations.
“a respectable match,” you say eventually, "a home of my own. children, perhaps. a life that is… quiet. stable, at least. free from the constant reminder of where i came from and what my parents did.” you pause, and then, “i do not expect love. i am not foolish enough to hope for it. but i would like… contentment. someone who does not flinch when they hear my family name.”
he is quiet for so long that you begin to think he will not respond at all. when you look at him, his jaw is tight, his hands still clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the distant figures of his sisters.
“that seems a modest ambition,” he says finally, and his voice is strange, as though something is caught in his throat, “for someone who deserves so much more.”
you have to look away for a moment to collect yourself, to press down the sudden surge of emotion that threatens to spill over. “perhaps,” you say, when you trust your voice again, “but i have learned that deserving and receiving are rarely the same thing. i will take what i can get and be grateful for it.”
“you should not have to—” he starts, and then stops, shaking his head sharply. “forgive me. it is not my place.”
“no,” you agree softly, “it is not.”
“my sisters are returning,” he says, and his voice is neutral again, “we should continue our walk.”
you nod, because there is nothing else to do, and when zoe bounds up to take your arm and demand to know what you and alexander have been discussing in such serious tones, you smile and tell her nothing of consequence, nothing at all.
but later that night, lying in your bed with frooky curled warm and heavy on your feet, you stare at the ceiling and think about the look on his face when he said you deserve so much more, and you allow yourself, just for a moment, just in the privacy of your own mind, to imagine a world in which deserving and receiving might, somehow, impossibly, be the same.
and then you close your eyes and put the thought away, fold it up small and tuck it into the same corner of your heart where you keep all the other things you cannot have, and you tell yourself that friendship is enough. that if alexander albon cannot be a suitor, then you will be content with him as a friend. that wanting more is foolish and futile and will only lead to heartbreak.
you tell yourself many things.
you believe almost none of them.
“you are going to fall.”
alex's voice drifts up from somewhere below you, tinged with concern and what might be amusement. you do not look down—you are balanced on a narrow ledge of the garden wall, reaching for a climbing rose that has wound itself around the upper branches of a nearby trellis, and looking down seems like a poor strategic choice.
“i am not going to fall,” you say, with more confidence than you feel. “i have excellent balance.”
“you have reckless balance. there is a difference.”
“the rose is right there. if i can just—” you stretch further, fingertips brushing the stem, and feel the ledge shift slightly beneath your feet.
“for god's sake—”
and then his hands are at your waist, steadying you, warm and solid through the thin fabric of your dress, and you are suddenly very aware of how close he is standing, how easily he could pull you down from this ridiculous perch, how your heart has begun to beat in an entirely undignified rhythm.
“i had it under control,” you say, slightly breathless.
“you were about to plummet into the rose bushes.” his voice is dry, but his hands remain at your waist, and he has not stepped back. “which would have been difficult to explain to my mother. sorry, lady albon, your houseguest has impaled herself on your prize-winning floribundas.”
“it would have made for excellent gossip, at least.”
“a small comfort when you are being extracted from shrubbery by the gardening staff.” he pauses. “why, exactly, are you attempting to scale the garden wall?”
you point to the rose, a perfect bloom, deep crimson, just out of reach. “for chloe. she mentioned at breakfast that red roses are her favorite, and i noticed this one blooming earlier. i thought—” you shrug, suddenly self-conscious, “i thought it might make her smile. she has been melancholy lately. missing her friend who left for the country.”
his hands tighten almost imperceptibly at your waist.
“you noticed that,” he says quietly, “that she has been melancholy.”
“it is not difficult to notice, when you pay attention,” you risk a glance down at him and find his expression soft, almost wondering, “she tries to hide it, but she has not been herself. i know what it is like to miss someone. to feel left behind.”
for a moment he simply looks at you, and there is something in his eyes that makes your breath catch, something that looks almost like recognition, like seeing.
“come down,” he says finally, finally withdrawing his hands from your waist, “i will get the rose for you.”
“you?”
“i am taller. and i am significantly less likely to end up impaled on shrubbery.” he holds out his hand, waiting. “trust me?”
you look at his outstretched palm, at the steady certainty in his eyes, and you make a decision.
“yes,” you say, and you let him help you down.
he retrieves the rose with considerably more grace than you would have managed— a simple reach, a careful twist to avoid the thorns, and then the bloom is in his hand, perfect and unblemished.
“for you,” he says, presenting it with a small bow, “to give to chloe.”
“thank you,” you take it carefully, mindful of the thorns, “though you have now robbed me of my dramatic garden-scaling narrative. i was planning to tell her i risked life and limb.”
“you can still tell her that. i will corroborate your story.” his eyes crinkle, “i will even add embellishments. a treacherous wind. a near-death experience. perhaps a small fire.”
“a fire seems excessive!” you exclaim, but when you turn to look at him, he is holding back a laugh.
he falls into step beside you as you make your way back toward the house, and the silence between you is comfortable in a way that surprises you. “you are good with them, you know. my sisters. they adore you.”
“they are easy to adore in return.”
“they are terrors,” he corrects, but there is nothing but fondness in his voice, “well-meaning terrors, but terrors nonetheless. the fact that you have survived all these weeks in their company without fleeing speaks highly of your fortitude.”
“i have practice with terrors, you do not know what horrors i’ve endured in the countryside.”
“horrors!”
“oh, yes,” you respond, nodding solemnly, though you cannot hide the smile on your face, “the ghosts, the phantoms—”
“you have too much fun jesting at my expense—” he cuts himself off, almost saying your name, but he clears his throat, corrects himself, “my lady.”
you glance at him, “well, i do not jest entirely. you could say there were other horrors— i mean, it was always lonely, and the draft always did cause a chill, even in the summer months. and my grandfather— oh, when he gets in a mood, he could have such a temper! not that— i mean, he is kind, on most days.”
“he sounds… complicated.”
“he was. is.” you consider how much to share, “he took me in when no one else would. raised me, after everything that happened with my parents. i know he loves me, in his way. but it is a—” you search for the word, “—a distant love. the kind that provides shelter and education and expects gratitude in return. not the kind that—”
you stop, embarrassed by how much you have revealed.
“not the kind that your sisters have,” you finish quietly. “the easy kind. the kind that asks for nothing.”
he is silent for a long moment. when he speaks, his voice is careful.
"my father's love was not the easy kind either," he says. “before the scandal, i thought it was… i thought we were close. but when things fell apart, i realized that what i had mistaken for closeness was actually—” he pauses, “—transaction. he loved me as long as i reflected well on him. as long as i was the son he wanted, rather than the son i was.”
you look at him, and you see something you had not noticed before: a sadness beneath the composure, a loneliness that mirrors your own.
“what kind of son were you?” you ask softly, “the son you were, rather than the one he wanted?”
“i do not know.” he sounds almost surprised by his own answer, “i never had the chance to find out. by the time i was old enough to question it, he was gone. and then i had to become… this. the responsible one. the reliable one.”
“that sounds exhausting.”
“it is.” he laughs, a little ruefully, “but it is also necessary. someone has to do it. and i am the eldest. it falls to me.”
“just because something falls to you does not mean you have to carry it alone.”
he stops walking. turns to look at you.
“no one has ever said that to me before,"”he says quietly, “that i do not have to carry it alone.”
“then the people around you have not been paying attention,” you hold his gaze, refusing to look away, “you are not atlas, albon. the world will not collapse if you set down your burden for a moment. and even atlas… even he had help, in the end. hercules held the sky for him, if only for a little while.”
“are you offering to be my hercules?”
“i am offering to be your friend,” you say. “if you will have me.”
the smile that spreads across his face is slow and wondering, like sunrise creeping over the horizon. “yes,” he says. “i think i would like that very much.”
mr. logan sargeant arrives in your life on a wednesday, during a musicale at the bearman residence that you had been dreading for the better part of a week.
you notice him first because he is standing alone near the refreshment table with the particular expression of a man who has found himself at a party where he knows absolutely no one and is beginning to question every decision that led him to this moment. it is an expression you recognize intimately, having worn it yourself at nearly every social function since your arrival in london, and perhaps that is why you find yourself watching him instead of the young lady currently murdering a sonata at the pianoforte.
he is handsome, clean-cut, fair-haired and blue-eyed, with the kind of face that looks like it smiles easily and often. his coat is well-tailored but not egregious, and there is something about the way he holds himself that seems fundamentally different from the english gentlemen around him, though you cannot quite put your finger on what.
“that,” zoe whispers, leaning close enough that her breath tickles your ear, “is mr. logan sargeant. from the americas.”
she says the words the americas the way one might say the moon, with a mixture of fascination and disbelief, as though she cannot quite credit that such a place exists, let alone that someone from there might find themselves standing in lady bearman’s drawing room looking lost and slightly overwhelmed.
“from the americas?” you repeat, keeping your voice equally low, “what on earth is he doing here?”
“inheriting a barony, apparently,” alicia murmurs from your other side. “it is the most delicious scandal. well, not scandal, precisely, more of a curiosity. he is some sort of distant cousin to the late baron of westbrook, and when the old man died without a direct heir, the title passed to mister sargeant's branch of the family. he arrived in england three months ago to claim the estate and has been trying to establish himself in society ever since.”
“with limited success,” zoe adds, “the ton does not quite know what to make of him. he is a baron now, technically, which means he should be of similar rank to half the men in this room, but he is also american, which means—”
“which means they will never let him forget it,” you finish, understanding settling over you like a familiar weight, “he is an outsider. no matter how legitimate his claim, he will always be the american who stumbled into a title he was never meant to have.”
the sonata ends, thankfully, and the room breaks into polite applause that is perhaps more enthusiastic than the performance warranted, and in the general shuffle that follows you lose sight of mr. sargeant among the crowd. you think nothing more of it until later, when you are standing near the window trying to catch a breath of fresh air and a voice at your side says:
“forgive me– i do not mean to intrude, but you looked as though you might be as desperate to escape as i am, and i thought perhaps we could be desperate together.”
you turn to find mister sargeant standing beside you, his expression apologetic, but also hopeful.
“that is a rather forward introduction.” you observe, but you are smiling despite yourself.
“i apologize,” he says, and he does sound genuinely contrite. “i am still learning the rules here. in america, if you see someone who looks like they might be a kindred spirit, you simply walk up and say hello. i am beginning to understand that things are more complicated in england.”
“everything is more complicated in england,” you agree, nodding, “it is something of a national pastime.”
there is no calculation in him, you realize. no careful assessment of your worth and standing, no subtle cataloging of your family connections and marital prospects. he is simply a man at a party, talking to a woman he hoped might be friendly, and the straightforwardness of it is so refreshing you almost do not know how to respond.
“logan sargeant,” he says, offering a small bow. “baron of westbrook, apparently, though i confess the title still sounds strange when applied to myself. and you are—?”
you give him your name, and you watch his face carefully for the flicker of recognition, the slight tightening around the eyes that usually accompanies the realization of exactly whose daughter you are. but there is nothing, only polite interest and that open, easy smile.
“a pleasure to meet you,” he says, and he sounds as though he means it.
mr. sargeant calls on you the following afternoon.
and the afternoon after that.
and the afternoon after that, until lady albon begins setting an extra place at tea as a matter of course and the servants stop announcing him because everyone already knows who is at the door.
“he likes you,” zoe declares one evening, sprawled across your bed while you attempt to decide between two dinner gowns for the russell ball. “he really likes you. he looks at you like you hung the moon and he cannot quite believe his good fortune in being allowed to stand beneath it.”
“he looks at me like i am the only person in the room who does not make him feel like a complete outsider,” you correct, holding the blue silk up against yourself and frowning at your reflection. “which is not the same thing.”
“it is adjacent to the same thing,” alicia argues from her position by the window. “proximity to the same thing. close enough that the distinction hardly matters.”
“the distinction always matters.”
“does it?” chloe asks, “he makes you laugh. he treats you kindly. he does not care about your family's scandal because he does not know about your family's scandal, and by the time someone bothers to tell him, he will already have formed his own opinion of your character. is that not valuable?”
“it is—” you start, and then stop, because you do not know how to finish the sentence. it is valuable. it is more than i expected. it is not what i want.
but what you want is standing on the other side of a door he refuses to open, and you have spent enough years of your life wanting impossible things. perhaps it is time to accept what is actually being offered.
“mama thinks he would be a good match,” zoe says, more gently now, moving to stand beside you, holding the red dress against your shoulders, “she mentioned it to me this morning. she said that mr. sargeant is new to the ton, which means he needs a wife who understands how society works, how to navigate the complexities of the peerage. and you—”
“and i need a husband who will not hold my family's disgrace against me.” you finish flatly. “yes, i understand the logic.”
“it is not only logic,” alicia protests. “he genuinely seems to enjoy your company. and you seem to enjoy his. would it be so terrible, to build a life with someone who makes you smile?”
no, you think. it would not be terrible. it would be safe, and comfortable, and probably even happy, in its way. it would just not be—
you cut the thought off before it can complete itself.
“the blue,” you say instead, turning back to the mirror. “i will wear the blue.”
you do not mean to discuss mr. sargeant with lord albon. it simply… happens.
you are in the drawing room, reviewing the invitations that have arrived for the coming week, and he is there as well, reading a book though you have not seen him turn a page in the better part of an hour. the fire crackles in the grate. outside, rain streaks the windows in long grey trails. and somehow, in the quiet domesticity of the moment, you find yourself saying:
“your mother believes mister sargeant intends to make an offer.”
the book in alexander's hands goes very still.
“does she…” he says, and his voice is carefully neutral, so carefully neutral that it circles back around to being obvious.
“she thinks it would be a good match,” you continue, watching his profile, trying to read something, anything, in the set of his jaw, the terse line of his shoulders, “he needs someone who understands english society. i need someone who—”
“who what?” alexander interrupts, and there is an edge to his voice now, “who does not know your history? who can be kept ignorant of the truth until it is too late for him to extricate himself?”
the words land like a slap, and you feel the colour drain from your face. “that is unfair,” you say quietly, “and you are being unkind.”
“you are right,” he says. “forgive me, i should not have said that.”
“no,” you agree, your lips pursing into a thin line, “you should not have.”
“mr. sargeant seems a decent man,” he says finally, and each word sounds as though it is being dragged out of him by force, “i am sure he would make you—” he stops, swallows. “i am sure you would be—”
“happy?” you supply, when he does not continue.
“content. i am sure you would be content.”
content. there is that word again, the ceiling of your ambitions, the highest rung of the ladder you are permitted to climb. you remember saying it yourself, that day in the park. i do not expect love. i would settle for contentment. but hearing it from his mouth, in that hollow voice, with that bleak expression… it sounds different. it sounds like a door closing.
“my lord—” you start, but he is already rising to his feet, already setting aside his unread book, already retreating with that familiar efficiency that you have come to recognize as his primary defense mechanism.
“forgive me. i had forgotten i was to meet mr. russell— george— at the gentleman’s club today,” he says, and he does not meet your eyes. “please excuse me.”
and then he is gone, and you are left alone with the fire and the rain and the growing certainty that something is very, very wrong, something you cannot name and he will not explain and neither of you seems capable of addressing directly.
it is raining again.
london, you have come to understand, exists in a perpetual state of dampness, the sky a low grey ceiling that presses down upon the city like a hand, the cobblestones eternally slick, the air carrying that particular smell of wet stone and coal smoke and something green struggling to grow beneath it all. you have been here long enough now that the rain no longer surprises you, no longer sends you rushing for shelter with the desperate urgency of your first weeks. you have learned to move through it, around it, to accept it as simply another facet of this strange new, temporary life.
this afternoon, the rain has driven everyone indoors, and you have retreated to the small conservatory at the back of the house, a glass-walled room filled with potted ferns and trailing ivy and the particular humid warmth of growing things. it is your favorite space in the albon residence, this little pocket of green amid the grey, and you come here often when you need to think, need to breathe, need to remember that there are living things in the world that do not care about scandal or propriety or the elaborate machinery of the marriage mart.
you are repotting a small orchid, one of of the lady albon’s, slightly neglected, its roots outgrowing their current home, when you hear the door open behind you. you do not turn around.
“i did not realize anyone was in here.” alexander says, and there is a hesitation in his voice, a question beneath the statement: should i leave? do you want me to go?
"”he rain.” you say, by way of explanation, still focused on the orchid, “i find it peaceful, watching it from in here. like being inside a terrarium.”
“a terrarium,” he echoes, and you hear him move further into the room, hear the soft click of the door closing behind him, “i had not thought of it that way.”
“your mother's orchid needed repotting,” you add, “i hope she does not mind. i found it looking rather sad on the windowsill in the morning room, and i thought—”
“she will not mind,” he says. “she will be pleased, actually. she loves that orchid but can never remember to care for it properly. she calls it her 'beautiful failure.'”
“that seems an unkind thing to call a living creature.”
“she means it affectionately. or so she claims.”
you smile despite yourself, and you hear him move close enough now that you can see him from the corner of your eye, leaning against one of the plant stands with his arms crossed over his chest. he is in shirtsleeves, you notice, his coat and waistcoat abandoned somewhere, and the informality of it sends a small shock through your system.
“you are good at that,” he observes, watching your hands work the soil, “the plants. you have a gentle touch.”
“my grandfather's estate had extensive gardens,” you find yourself saying, “i spent a great deal of time in them, growing up. it was—” you pause, considering how much to share, “it was the only place that felt truly mine. the house belonged to my grandfather, and the library belonged to my tutors, and even my own room felt borrowed somehow. but the gardens did not care who my parents were or what they had done. they only cared whether i watered them and gave them enough light.”
“that sounds lonely,” he says quietly.
“it was,” you admit. “but it was also peaceful. i knew what the plants needed from me, and i could provide it, and in return they grew and bloomed and asked nothing more.” you lift one shoulder in a small shrug. “there is something to be said for relationships with clear expectations.”
“i am sorry,” he says, “that you had to learn that lesson so young.”
“we all learn our lessons,” you reply softly, “some of us simply learn them earlier than others.”
you return your attention to the orchid, tamping down the fresh soil around its roots, and for a few minutes there is only the sound of the rain against the glass and the quiet rhythm of your work.
“there,” you say finally, stepping back to survey your work, “she should be much happier now. another few weeks and she may even bloom.”
you reach for the small watering can you had set aside earlier, but your hands are covered in soil, dark earth caught beneath your fingernails and smudged across your palms, and you make a small sound of frustration.
“here,” alex says, and he is beside you suddenly, and he is offering you a handkerchief, plain white cotton, slightly rumpled.
“thank you.” you murmur, and you reach for it without thinking, and your fingers brush against his.
the touch is electric.
you feel it everywhere, sparking up your arm, blooming in your chest. his hand is warm, so warm, and you realize with a start that neither of you are wearing gloves, that this is skin against skin, your soil-stained fingers pressed against his bare palm, and the intimacy of it makes your breath hitch.
you look up. find his eyes already on you.
he is frozen, still as a statue, his lips slightly parted and his pupils blown wide, and you can see the pulse jumping at the base of his throat, can see the way his chest rises and falls with quickened breath. the handkerchief is caught between you, forgotten, and neither of you moves to complete the exchange.
“i—” you start, but you do not know how to finish the sentence, do not know what words could possibly be adequate for this moment.
his thumb moves. just slightly. A barely-there brush against the inside of your wrist, tracing the delicate skin where your pulse beats rapid and frantic, and the sensation is so overwhelming that you actually gasp, a small, soft sound that seems to echo in the humid air of the conservatory.
“forgive me,” he breathes, and his voice is a wreck, raw, barely above a whisper. “i should not— we should not—”
but he does not pull away. and neither do you. you stand there, and you think: this is madness. this is impossible. this is everything i have been trying so hard not to want.
and then a door slams somewhere in the house. voices echo down the corridor, the general commotion of the albon sisters returning from wherever they had been. the spell shatters like glass, reality rushing back in to fill the space between you, and you jerk backward so quickly you nearly knock the freshly potted orchid from its stand.
“i should—” your voice comes out strangled, “i need to— the soil, i should wash—”
“yes,” alex says, and he sounds as shattered as you feel, his hand still extended as though he has forgotten how to lower it. “yes, of course, you should—”
“excuse me,” you manage, and you do not wait for a response, do not look back, simply flee (because there is no other word for it) out of the conservatory and up the stairs and into your room, where you close the door behind you and press your back against it and try very, very hard to remember how to breathe.
your hand is shaking.
you lift it, examine it in the grey afternoon light, the soil still caught beneath your nails, the faint redness where his skin touched yours. you can still feel the ghost of that touch, the warmth of it lingering.
we should not, he had said.
but he had not said i do not want to.
and therein, you think, lies all the difference.
the hamilton ball is a crush.
this is, you have learned, considered a compliment. a crush means the event is successful, well-attended, the sort of gathering that people will speak of for weeks afterward with tones of satisfaction or envy depending on whether they managed to secure an invitation.
you have been at the ball for perhaps an hour, navigating the crowd with zoe and alicia as your guides, making polite conversation with mamas and debutantes, carefully avoiding any corner of the room where alexander might be standing, when mr. sargeant appears at your elbow.
“you look,” he says, and then stops, “forgive me. i had a compliment prepared, something properly poetic, and it has completely fled my mind now that i am actually standing in front of you.”
“that might be the nicest compliment i have ever received,” you tell him honestly, “far better than poetry.”
“then i shall endeavor to remain tongue-tied in your presence,” he says, “may i have the honor of this dance?”
you should hesitate, consider. you should think about what it means, to dance with a man who has been calling on you daily, whose intentions have been made increasingly clear, whose proposal you can feel approaching like a storm on the horizon.
but the music is swelling and his hand is extended and somewhere across the room you can feel alexander's eyes on you like a physical weight, and so you say yes.
you say yes, and you let him lead you onto the floor, and you dance.
and then the dance ends. you curtsy. he bows. and then he looks at you with those clear blue eyes and says: “i know it is forward, and i know it is perhaps more than i should ask, but would you do me the honor of a second dance?”
a second dance?
in the language of the ton, a second dance is not quite a proposal, but close. a second dance says i am serious about you. a second dance says i want everyone in this room to know that my intentions are honorable.
you should refuse. you should demur, claim fatigue, suggest that he partner someone else lest the gossips begin to talk.
“yes,” you say instead, offering your wrist, as he signs your dance card, “i would be honored.”
and so you dance again.
when it ends, he escorts you from the floor with visible reluctance, fetches you a glass of lemonade, and excuses himself to pay his respects to some acquaintance or another with the promise that he will find you again before the evening is out.
you watch him go, and you think: he is going to propose. soon. perhaps even tonight. you do not know how to feel about that.
“that was quite a display.”
the voice comes from behind you, and you do not need to turn around to know who it belongs to.
"lord albon," you say. "i did not see you there."
“evidently not.” alexander says, moving to stand beside you. his jaw is set, his shoulders rigid, and when you glance at him his eyes are fixed on the point in the crowd where mister sargeant has disappeared. “you seemed rather… occupied.”
“i was dancing,” you retort, “that is generally the purpose of a ball.”
“twice.”
very well, then.
“yes,” you agree, because there is no point in pretending otherwise. “twice.”
he is silent for a long moment. when he speaks again, his voice has lost some of its edge, replaced by something that sounds almost like defeat.
“the next dance is a waltz,” he starts, “would you—” he stops, swallows, forces himself to continue. “would you do me the honor?”
you should refuse, should claim that three dances in a row would be too much, claim anything that would allow you to escape this impossible situation without making it worse.
but it seems you have never been good at refusing alexander albon anything.
“yes,” you say softly, “i would.”
the waltz is nothing like your first dance with him, all those weeks ago at the norris ball— this dance is something else entirely, his hand pressing warm and firm against your waist, your bodies closer than they should be, closer than propriety allows.
he does not speak. neither do you. there are no words that would be adequate for this moment, no conversation that could possibly address the tangled mess of wanting and denial and impossible longing that stretches between you like a living thing. so you simply move, let him guide you through the steps, let yourself exist in this single stolen moment where you can pretend that wanting is enough.
his thumb traces a small circle against the curve of your waist, and you feel your breath catch, feel the colour rise in your cheeks.
and then the dance ends, and the world rushes back in, and you are left standing in the middle of the hamiltons’ ballroom with your heart pounding and your hands trembling and the absolute certainty that you are in far, far deeper than you ever intended to be.
mr. sargeant calls the next afternoon.
you know, from the moment you see his face, what he has come to say.
the drawing room feels smaller than usual when he enters, as though the walls have contracted to accommodate the magnitude of what is about to happen. lady albon is seated in her usual chair, her embroidery abandoned in her lap, and the girls are arrayed around the room in various attitudes of forced casualness— zoe by the window, alicia on the settee, chloe curled in the armchair with a book she is very obviously not reading.
alexander is standing by the fireplace.
you do not look at him. you cannot look at him. if you look at him you will lose your nerve entirely, and you cannot afford to lose your nerve right now.
“lady albon,” mr. sargeant says, and his voice is steady despite the slight tremor in his hands, “ladies. lord albon.” he pauses, takes a breath, visibly steels himself, “i wonder if i might have a moment alone with—” he gestures toward you.
the room goes very still.
“of course,” lady albon says, after a moment, “girls, i believe you were planning to review the menus for the house party. alexander, perhaps you could—”
“yes,” alex says, and his voice sounds hollow, scraped clean of emotion, “yes, of course.”
he does not look at you as he leaves.
you do not watch him go.
and then the door closes, and you are alone with mr. sargeant (although lady albon stands as chaperone), and the weight of what is about to happen comes crashing down on you.
“mr. sargeant—”
“logan.” he corrects gently. “please. i think we have moved past formality, you and i.”
you swallow. you nod. “logan.”
“i am asking you to marry me,” logan says, and his voice is steady, certain, the voice of a man who has rehearsed these words a hundred times and means every one of them. “i know i am not what you expected— an american, an outsider, a man still learning what it means to bear a title he never asked for. but i have heard the whispers about your family, and i find that i do not care. i care about you. your kindness, the way you make me feel like i might actually belong in this impossible, impossible country.”
here is everything you should want. and yet…
“mr. sa— logan.” you say, and your voice catches on his name, “i am— i am honored, truly. more than i can say. but i—” you stop, take a breath, try to find words that will not wound him. you glance at lady albon, who has a wary expression on her face, “might i have a few days to consider? this is a significant decision, and i want to be certain that my answer is the right one. for both of us.”
“of course,” he says, “of course you should take time. i would not want you to feel rushed, or pressured. this should be your choice, freely made.”
“thank you for understanding,” you whisper.
“might i ask—” he hesitates, then presses on. “might i ask when i might expect an answer? only so i know whether to hope or—” he attempts a smile, though it does not quite reach his eyes, “or begin preparing my heart for disappointment.”
“the albon ball,” you say. "at mercer hall, in a fortnight. i will give you my answer then.”
his face brightens, “the albon ball,” he repeats, “that is— yes. that is perfect. i will be there. i will be waiting.”
“logan—”
"until mercer hall, then," he says.
"until mercer hall," you agree.
and when you are alone in the drawing room with nothing but your thoughts and the crackle of the fire, you sink onto the settee and press your palms against your eyes and try very, very hard not to think about the other man who left this room without looking at you.
the man whose face you cannot seem to stop seeing, no matter how tightly you close your eyes.
the man who has given you no promises, no declarations, no reason to hope, and yet somehow manages to make every other option feel like settling.
the albon ball, you think.
you have a fortnight to decide the rest of your life.
the first few days in mercer hall pass in a blur of activity.
the ball is to be the event of the season, or so the albon girls have declared. every room in the house is being aired and polished, furniture rearranged, flowers ordered from farther out into the countryside, menus planned and replanned until cook threatens to quit in protest. the girls throw themselves into the preparations with enthusiasm, debating colour schemes and seating arrangements and whether the musicians should be placed in the gallery or the alcove, and you try to help where you can, but—
but they do not necessarily need you. not really. you are a guest here, not a daughter of the house, and there are limits to how much you can contribute to an event that is not yours to host.
so you find yourself with time on your hands, long stretches of afternoon where lady albon and the girls are occupied, and you are left to wander the grounds alone, exploring the gardens and the folly and the library that is indeed three times the size of the one in london.
you are not, strictly speaking, alone.
alexander is everywhere.
or perhaps it only feels that way, perhaps you have simply become so attuned to his presence that you notice him the way sailors notice the north star.
he is in the library when you go to select a book, standing by the window with the light catching in his hair. he is in the garden when you walk the paths, picking rose petals with the focused attention of a man who needs something to do with his hands.
he is at breakfast before you come down and at dinner when you retire, and every time your eyes meet across the table something electric passes between you.
you try to avoid him. you truly do.
but mercer hall is not london, and there are only so many rooms in even a house this size, and somehow you keep finding yourselves in the same spaces at the same times, drawn together by some gravity you cannot name and cannot resist.
you are not prepared for the strawberries.
it is an ordinary tuesday morning, the breakfast room flooded with pale sunlight, the sideboard laden with the usual offerings of eggs and toast and fresh fruit from the hothouse. the girls are bickering amiably about something inconsequential, lady albon is reviewing correspondence, and you are attempting to eat your breakfast like a civilized person.
and then alexander reaches for the bowl of strawberries.
it should not be remarkable. it is not remarkable— just a man selecting fruit from a dish, an action performed by thousands of people every morning across england without incident or comment.
but you watch him lift a strawberry to his lips, and you forget how to breathe.
his fingers are long and elegant, dusted with fine dark hair at the knuckles, and they cradle the fruit with a carefulness that seems almost reverent. he bites into it, and juice glistens on his lower lip, red and obscene against the soft pink of his mouth.
lick it, you think wildly. please, god, lick it—
his tongue darts out to catch the droplet.
you make a sound. a small, strangled noise that you disguise hastily as a cough, reaching for your tea with hands that tremble slightly.
“are you quite all right?” zoe asks, concerned, “you have gone rather flushed.”
“i’m fine!” you manage to choke out, “just… swallowed wrong.”
alexander looks up at you across the table, and for a moment your eyes meet. his expression is innocent, but there is something in the depths of his gaze that makes heat pool low in your belly, something that suggests he knows exactly what effect he is having on you.
he cannot possibly know, you tell yourself. you are being ridiculous. he is simply eating breakfast.
he selects another strawberry. brings it to his lips. bites.
you watch the movement of his jaw as he chews, the way his throat works when he swallows. you watch his tongue sweep across his lower lip, collecting the last traces of sweetness. you watch his fingers— oh god, those long, capable fingers— reach for another piece of fruit, and you imagine them touching other things. touching you.
“the strawberries are excellent this morning,” he says, and his voice is perfectly conversational, perfectly innocent, “would you like one?”
he holds one out toward you across the table.
your hand moves before your brain can intervene, reaching out to accept his offering. your fingers brush against his as you take the fruit (and it is the briefest contact, barely a whisper of skin against skin) but the sensation shoots through you like lightning, making your breath catch audibly.
“thank you,” you manage.
“of course,” his voice is mild, but his eyes are intent on your face, “what are friends for?”
you bite into the strawberry. the sweetness bursts across your tongue, and you are acutely aware of his gaze on your mouth, tracking the movement of your lips, watching you the same way you were watching him moments ago.
friends, you remind yourself desperately. we are friends. this is normal. this is fine.
the strawberry tastes like sin itself.
you find him in the library at midnight.
you had not been able to sleep, and you had crept downstairs in search of a book, something dull enough to bore you into unconsciousness. you had not expected to find the library already occupied, a single lamp burning low in the corner and alexander sprawled in one of the leather armchairs with a glass of something amber in his hand and a look of exhaustion on his face.
“oh,” you say, freezing in the doorway. “i did not realize— i can go—”
“stay.” the word is soft, almost slurred with tiredness, “please. i could use the company.”
you hesitate. it is improper, being alone with him at this hour, in this setting. if anyone found you, the gossip would be catastrophic. but he looks so tired. and there is something in his voice… a loneliness that calls to your own.
“one hour,” you say, moving into the room, “and if anyone asks, i was never here.”
“agreed.” he gestures to the chair across from him. "would you like a drink? the brandy is mediocre, but it does the job."
“i should not.”
“neither should i. and yet—” he raises his glass in a small salute. “desperate times.”
you settle into the offered chair, tucking your feet beneath you, “what has driven you to desperate measures at midnight?”
“estate business. tenant disputes. a letter from my father's former solicitor informing me that there may be additional debts we were not previously aware of,” he takes a long sip of his brandy. “the usual.”
“that sounds overwhelming.”
“it is. but i am learning to manage it,” he sets down his glass, runs a hand through his hair, already disheveled, as though he has been doing this repeatedly, “the worst part is not the problems themselves. it is the constant… aloneness of it. knowing that every decision rests on my shoulders, that there is no one i can turn to for advice or reassurance or even just—” he stops, shakes his head. “forgive me. i should not burden you with this.”
"you are not burdening me." you lean forward slightly. "i asked. i wanted to know."
"why?"
"because i care about you." the words slip out before you can stop them, more honest than you intended. "because you are my friend, and friends do not let friends drink mediocre brandy alone at midnight."
he stares at you for a long moment. then, slowly, a smile spreads across his face—small and tired but genuine.
“friends,” he repeats softly, “yes. i suppose we are.”
“you say that as though it surprises you.”
"it does, a little. i do not—" he pauses, considering. "i do not have many friends. well, i have george and lando, but they are the second sons, they do not… understand. the loneliness of it all. but friends— genuine friends, who understand who i am, who just… know—” he shakes his head. “those are rare.”
“that seems very lonely.”
“it is.” he says it simply, without self-pity. “but i am used to it. i have been alone for a long time, in one way or another.”
“you have your sisters, and luca.”
“i do. and i love them fiercely, desperately. but they are also—” he searches for the word. “—my responsibility. i cannot burden them with my worries. they have already carried enough because of our parents’ choices. i will not add to that weight.”
“so you carry it alone instead.”
“someone has to.”
“that is the second time you have said that. and i am going to tell you again—” you hold his gaze steadily, “—that it is not true. you do not have to carry everything alone. that is not strength, lord albon. that is just stubbornness.”
he laughs, surprised. “did you just call me stubborn?”
“if the shoe fits.”
“it fits,” he admits, “rather well, actually.” he is quiet for a moment, swirling the remaining brandy in his glass, “can i tell you something? something i have never told anyone?”
“of course.”
“sometimes—” he pauses, swallows. “sometimes i am so tired of being the responsible one that i fantasize about simply… walking away. leaving everything behind. getting on a ship and sailing somewhere no one knows my name or my family's history or expects anything of me." another pause. “is that terrible?”
“no,” you say softly. “that is human.”
“it feels like failure, even thinking it.”
“it is not failure to want a different life than the one you were given. it is not failure to feel tired, or overwhelmed, or desperate for something more,” you lean forward, willing him to understand. “my lord, you have spent years holding everything together for other people. you are allowed to want something for yourself.”
"and what would that be?" he asks, and there is something raw in his voice now, something unguarded. “what am i allowed to want?”
you think about the question. really think about it.
“i do not know,” you admit. “but i think—” you pause, choosing your words carefully. “i think you are allowed to want to be seen. not as the heir, or the caretaker, or the man holding everything together. just as yourself. whoever that is.”
he sets down his glass. looks at you with an expression you cannot quite read.
“you see me,” he says quietly. "you are the only person who has ever—” he stops, shakes his head. “i do not know how you do it. how you look at me and see past all the– the duty, the weight of expectation. but you do. you see me. and i—” he stops again. swallows hard. “i do not know how to thank you for that,” he finishes, barely above a whisper.
“you do not have to thank me,” your voice is gentle, “you just have to let me keep doing it.”
the silence between you is different now, and it feels a little like understanding. you should leave. you know you should leave. but you cannot seem to make yourself move.
“tell me something,” he says suddenly, “something about you. something no one else knows.”
you consider. there are so many things you keep hidden: fears and hopes and secret shames that you have never shared with anyone. but here, in the dim light of the library, with this man who has just shown you his own hidden places, it feels safe to offer one of your own. “i am afraid,” you say slowly, “that i am fundamentally unlovable.”
his breath catches.
“not in a dramatic way,” you continue quickly. “not in a– a tragic heroine sort of way. but i think—” you pause, forcing yourself to continue, “i think that everyone who has ever been supposed to love me has found me… lacking, somehow. my parents left me. my grandfather tolerates me. and i have spent so long being the girl with the scandal, the girl who is not quite acceptable, the girl who must be grateful for whatever scraps of affection are thrown her way—” your voice breaks slightly, “i do not know how to believe that anyone could love me for myself. without reservation. without condition.”
“that is—” he stops, shakes his head. “that is the saddest thing i have ever heard.”
“it is not sad. it is just,” you huff, “true.”
“it is not true.” his voice is fierce, suddenly. “it is a lie you have been told so many times you have started to believe it. but it is not true.”
“how would you know?”
“because i see you,” he says simply, “and what i see is not unlovable. what i see is brave and kind and funny and stubborn and so desperately deserving of love that it makes my chest hurt to think you have never had it.”
you stare at him. the tears are pricking at your eyes now, hot and unwelcome.
“i– my lord—”
“i am not saying this to– to make a declaration, or to complicate things,” he says quickly. “i am just saying. you asked what i see, when i look past the armor. and i am telling you. i see someone extraordinary. someone who has survived things that would have broken most people, and come out the other side still capable of kindness, still capable of hope.” he holds your gaze. “you are not unlovable. you never were.”
the tears spill over. you cannot stop them. “i should go,” you manage, rising from your chair, “it is late, and i—”
"of course." he rises too, concern flickering across his face. “i did not mean to upset you—”
“you did not upset me.” you wipe at your cheeks, embarrassed, “you just.. well, no one has ever said anything like that to me before. and i do not know how to—”
“you do not have to do anything.” his voice is gentle, “just… remember it. when the voices in your head tell you otherwise. remember that someone sees you. someone thinks you are extraordinary.”
you nod, not trusting yourself to speak.
and when you slip out of the library and make your way back to your room, you carry his words with you like a chant— brave and kind and funny and stubborn and so desperately deserving of love— and for the first time in longer than you can remember, you allow yourself to wonder if they might be true.
it comes to a head the night before the ball.
the whitmores, a family of considerable wealth and considerably less pedigree with a girl around the same age as alicia, had extended an invitation to dinner that the lady albon could not politely refuse. the girls had been delighted, eager for any distraction from the endless preparations that had consumed the household for weeks, and even chloe had been permitted to attend under the watchful eye of her governess, a rare treat that had sent her into raptures of excitement about gowns and hairstyles and whether she might be allowed to stay for the dancing.
you had begged off.
the headache you claimed was not entirely fabricated; your temples had been throbbing for days, a dull persistent ache that you suspected had less to do with physical ailment and more to do with the impossible choice that loomed before you like a cliff edge. tomorrow night, logan sargeant would be waiting for your answer. tomorrow night, you would have to say yes or no, would have to commit yourself to a path that would determine the entire shape of your future.
and you still did not know what to say.
so when zoe had come to your room to help you dress, you had pressed a hand to your forehead and claimed a headache, and she had tutted sympathetically and promised to make your excuses, and you had watched from your window as the carriage pulled away.
the house is quiet now. emptied of its usual chaos, its constant motion.
you cannot bear it any longer.
you rise from your bed, pull a wrapper over your nightgown, and make your way through the darkened corridors toward minky’s chambers. you need to speak with her, need her counsel, her wisdom, her practical perspective on the choice before you. she has been where you are, after all. she married for position and security and built a life from those foundations, and if anyone can tell you whether such a life can also contain happiness, it is her.
you do not realize your mistake until you have already knocked on the door.
the door you knock upon is not the lady albon’s. standing before you, is alexander.
in a robe. and, from what you can tell, very little else.
his hair is damp and disheveled as though he has recently bathed, and you can see the hollow of his throat where the robe gapes open at the chest, the shadow of collarbone, of the old scar there he had said he had gotten on an incident with george on horseback, the suggestion of skin that you have never seen and should not be seeing now.
you make a sound. you are not certain what sound, though you assume it is something between a gasp and a squeak, something deeply undignified that you will be embarrassed about later when you have the capacity for embarrassment, which you currently do not because all of your faculties have been consumed by the sight of alexander albon in a state of undress that you should absolutely not be witnessing.
“i—” you manage, “this is not— i thought this was—”
“my mother's room is two doors down,” he says, and his voice is strangled, “on the other side of the corridor.”
“i was looking for her,” you say lamely, “i needed—” you shake your head, trying to force your thoughts into some semblance of order. “forgive me. i will go—”
“she is not here.”
you pause, halfway through the motion of retreat. “what?”
"my mother. she had decided last minute on chaperoning the girls at the whitmore dinner. she left with them several hours ago."
the implication settles over you slowly. “so there is no one,” you say carefully. “in the house. except—”
“except the servants,” he confirms. “who have retired for the evening. and you. and me.”
you should leave. every instinct you possess, every lesson you have ever been taught about propriety and self-preservation and the dangers that lurk in dark rooms with handsome men, is screaming at you to shut the door in his face and return to your room and pretend this never happened.
you do not leave.
"i could not sleep," you hear yourself say instead, and the words feel distant, as though someone else is speaking them. "i have been— there is something i must decide. tomorrow. and i cannot seem to—"
“sargeant,” alex says, and it is not a question.
you swallow. “he is expecting an answer at the ball. i told him i would give him one.”
“and what answer will you give?”
“yes.” you say, not quite believing yourself, and you watch his expression shatter, “i am going to tell him yes.”
“he is a good man,” you continue, more so trying to convince yourself than anything else, “he will be kind to me. he will give me a home, a life free from—” your voice catches, “free from all of this. the wanting. the not having. the endless, unbearable hoping for something that will never—”
“don’t.” he says.
“don’t what?” you ask, and your own voice sounds foreign to you, thin and trembling.
“don’t marry him,” alexander takes another step toward you, close enough now that you can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath the silk, close enough that you can smell him, clean soap and something else, something that makes your head spin, or maybe it’s just him, “do not— you cannot—”
“give me a reason,” you say, and it comes out like like a desperate plea, like the last throw of a gambler who has already lost everything. “give me one reason why i should not accept the only man who has offered me a future. give me anything, my lord, because i am so tired of—”
“because i am in love with you.”
you stare at him. he stares back. somewhere outside an owl calls into the darkness, and the world narrows down to just this: this hallway, this moment, this man standing before you with his heart laid bare and his eyes reflecting the flames.
“what?” you whisper.
“i love you.” he says it again, stronger this time, as though now that the dam has broken he cannot stop the flood, “i have loved you since— god, i do not even know when it started. since that first dance, perhaps. since you looked at me across that ballroom and asked me if i was going to ask you to dance. since every moment after, every conversation, every accidental touch that was not accidental at all—”
“you have been avoiding me,” you say, and your voice is shaking, “you have been— you left, every time we were alone, you—”
“because i am a coward.” he laughs, but it holds no humor, “because i was afraid that if i stayed, i would do exactly this. i would tell you the truth and ruin everything— your prospects, your reputation, any chance you have at the respectable life you deserve—”
you do not know who moves first.
perhaps it is him, closing the final distance, his hands coming up to cradle your face with a desperation that steals your breath.
perhaps it is you, surging forward to meet him, your fingers fisting in the silk of his robe as though you might drown if you let go.
perhaps you both move at once, drawn together by the same irresistible gravity that has been pulling at you since that first dance, that first touch, that first moment when you looked across a crowded ballroom and saw him looking back.
it does not matter.
what matters is that his mouth finds yours, and the world ends.
the kiss is not gentle.
it is hungry and urgent and consuming, his mouth slanting over yours with a ferocity that steals your breath and replaces it with fire. he tastes like want, his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that makes your knees buckle, and when you make a sound— some desperate whimpering noise that you would be mortified by if you had any capacity left for mortification— he swallows it down and gives you back a groan that vibrates through your entire body.
his hands are everywhere. in your hair, scattering pins across the carpet. at your waist, pulling you against him so tightly you can feel every line of his body through the thin silk of his robe. sliding down to grip your hips, your thighs, lifting you as though you weigh nothing at all.
you wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, clinging to him as he walks you further into the hallway, your back hitting the narrow console table that stands against the wall between two portraits of disapproving ancestors. the wood is cold through your wrapper, a sharp contrast to the heat of him pressed against your front, and when he steps between your thighs and pins you there with his body you hear yourself moan, loud and shameless in the empty corridor.
this is not the alexander you thought you knew. the flustered, awkward, blushing man who could barely meet your eyes across the breakfast table has vanished entirely, replaced by someone confident and utterly without hesitation. he kisses you like he is trying to memorize the taste of you, his teeth catching your lower lip, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth, his breath coming in harsh pants against your skin when he breaks away to trail his lips down your throat.
“alex,” you gasp, and his hips jerk against yours at the sound of his name, a reflexive motion that drags a groan from both of you.
“say it again,” he murmurs against the pulse point beneath your jaw, “god, please, say it again—”
“alex—”
his hand finds the hem of your nightgown. slides beneath it. the touch of his palm against your bare calf makes you shudder, makes your fingers clench in the fabric of his robe, makes you forget every reason why this is madness and remember only the wanting, the endless desperate wanting that has been building in you for months.
his hand drifts higher. past your knee, along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and you feel him hesitate there, feel the tremor in his fingers, the sudden tension in his body. he is waiting, you realize. he is waiting for you to stop him, to come to your senses.
you reach down and find his hand where it rests against your thigh.
and you guide it higher.
his breath catches. his forehead drops to rest against yours, his eyes squeezing shut, and when you shift your hips to press yourself more firmly into his touch, arch forward against his fingers, he makes a sound that is as desperate as a sob, the same time another moan is drawn out from your lips.
“please,” you whimper, and you do not entirely know what you are asking for, only that you need more, need him, need this moment to never end—
the front door opens.
voices flood the entrance hall below, the general commotion of arrival and the removal of wraps and the exchange of evening pleasantries. they are back. they are back early, hours before they should be, and you are sitting on a table in the hallway with alexander's hand under your nightgown and his mouth on your throat and absolutely no way to explain any of this.
alex pulls away from you like he has been burned.
he staggers back, nearly tripping over his own feet, and when you see his face in the dim light of the wall sconces his expression is absolutely horrified.
“forgive me,” he says, and his voice is wrecked, shattered into pieces. “god, forgive me, i should not have— i am a gentleman, i should never have—”
“alex—” you start, sliding off the table on legs that shake so badly you have to grip the edge of it for support.
“this was unconscionable!” he is backing away from you, one hand raised as though to ward you off, his robe askew and his hair wild and his chest heaving with uneven breaths. “you are a guest in my home. under my family's protection. and i— i took advantage—”
“you did not take advantage of anything!” you say fiercely, taking a step toward him. “alex, i wanted—”
“it does not matter what you wanted.” his voice cracks on the words. “it matters what i should have done. what i failed to do. a gentleman does not—” he stops, shakes his head violently. “i am sorry. i am so sorry. this was— there is no excuse. none.”
“will you stop apologizing and listen to me—”
“i cannot.” he has reached his door now, his hand fumbling for the handle behind him. “i cannot— if i stay here, if i listen to you, i will—” another violent shake of his head. “i am sorry. forgive me. please, just forgive me.”
“alex.”
"goodnight," he says with finality, and the door closes between you.
the ballroom is magnificent.
the albons have outdone themselves. the room glows with the light of a thousand candles, flowers cascading from every surface, their perfume mixing with the scent of champagne and celebration. the orchestra plays from the gallery above. by all intents and purposes, it is a crush of a ball.
you stand at the edge of it all and feel nothing.
or perhaps you feel too much. so much so that it has circled back around to numbness. you smile when you are supposed to smile, you make conversation when conversation is required. and—
and you watch alexander across the room, handsome in dark evening clothes, his expression carefully pleasant and his posture carefully relaxed, and you note the way his eyes slide past you without ever quite landing, the way he angles his body away whenever you draw near, the way he has constructed a fortress of social obligation around himself that you could not breach even if you tried.
you do not try.
logan sargeant arrives halfway through the evening, his face bright with anticipation, his eyes finding you across the crowd, eager and hopeful. he makes his way toward where you and lady albon are standing, weaving through the press of bodies, and when he reaches your side his smile is so hopeful, so earnest, so completely unaware of what you are about to do to him that you have to look away.
“lady albon,” he says, his voice carefully steady. “might i request a private audience? i believe there is a sitting room nearby—”
“of course.” lady albon nods, her expression composed, eyes knowing, “this way, mr. sargeant.”
the sitting room is small and quiet, the noise of the ball muffled by thick walls and closed doors. lady albon positions herself near the window, and logan stands before you with his hands clasped behind his back and his jaw set and his eyes still, somehow, full of hope.
“i promised you an answer,” you say, because someone has to speak first, because the silence is unbearable.
“you did.” he swallows. “and i promised i would accept it, whatever it was. i meant that. i still mean it.”
you look at him, look at this good man, this kind man, this man who has offered you everything you once thought you wanted, and you feel your heart break for him, for the hope you are about to crush, for the future you might have had if you were capable of wanting what was wise instead of what was impossible.
“i cannot marry you,” you say.
the entire room stills.
logan does not move. does not speak. simply stands there, absorbing the blow, and you watch the hope drain from his eyes, watch it replaced by confusion, by hurt, by the desperate grasping of a man trying to understand where he went wrong.
“may i ask why?” his voice shakes, “if there is something i have done, something i have failed to do—”
“you have done nothing wrong!” the words come out thick, clogged with the tears you are fighting to hold back, “you have been— god, you have been perfect. kind and patient and everything i should want. but i—” your voice breaks, “i cannot give you what you deserve. i cannot give you a wife whose heart is wholly yours. and you deserve that, logan. you deserve someone who loves you, not someone who is settling for safety because she is too afraid to—” you stop. you cannot finish that sentence. you cannot admit, even now, even to him, what you are too afraid to reach for.
“there is someone else.” he says quietly, and it is not a question.
you do not answer. you do not need to.
“i see.” he is silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on some point past your shoulder. then he takes a breath, squares his shoulders, “then i hope he knows how fortunate he is. and i hope” his voice wavers, “i hope he deserves you. because you deserve the world, and i would hate to think you gave up something good for someone who cannot see that.”
“logan— mr. sargeant—”
“no, please.” he holds up a hand, “do not apologize. you have done nothing wrong. you were honest with me, and that is— that is all i could ask.” he bows, “i wish you every happiness. truly.”
he leaves.
the door closes behind him, and you stand in the silence of the sitting room with your hands shaking and your eyes burning and the weight of what you have done pressing down on your chest like it’s a physical thing.
“my dear,” lady says softly, crossing to your side, “are you—”
“i need a moment,” you manage. “please. i just need— i need air, i need to—”
you do not wait for her response. you turn and flee out of the sitting room and down the corridor, away from the light and noise of the ballroom, toward the quiet darkness of the residential wing where you might find a moment's peace to fall apart.
you make it perhaps twenty steps before you collide with someone.
the impact sends you stumbling backward, and hands come up to catch your arms, to steady you, and you look up into alexander's face and feel something inside you simply snap.
“let go of me!” you say, and your voice comes out sharp.
“are you—” he starts, and then his eyes find the tears tracking down your cheeks and his expression shifts, “what happened? what is wrong?”
“what is wrong?” you repeat, incredulous, and the laugh that escapes you is jagged and bitter. “what is wrong? you are asking me what is wrong? you?”
“i do not understand—”
“i just refused the only man who was willing to marry me!” you spit, wrenching your arms from his grip, “i just destroyed my only prospect, my only chance at a respectable future, because i was foolish enough to think—” you stop, shake your head violently. “and you dare ask me what is wrong?”
understanding dawns in his eyes, “sargeant. you told him no.”
“yes, i told him no!” your voice is rising, you cannot seem to control it, “i told him no because of you, because you kissed me and told me you loved me and then you left, you apologized and retreated and today you could not even look at me—”
“was trying to give you space,” he reasons, “i was trying to make it easier for you to—”
“to what? to accept another man's proposal with the taste of you still on my lips?” the tears are falling freely now, hot and angry on your cheeks, “you are a coward, alexander albon. you tell me you love me and then you run away. you kiss me like i am the only thing that matters and then you apologize for it like it was a mistake, like i was a mistake—”
“you were never a mistake,” he says fiercely, “never, not for a single moment—”
“then why?” you demand, “why do you not want to marry me? if you love me as you claim, if i am not a mistake, then why—”
“because i have never intended to marry!” the words seem to tear themselves from his throat against his will, “i cannot marry, do you not understand? there is too much scandal attached to my name, and even if the whispers have quieted, even if the debts have been paid, there is still too much— i am the heir to a family in disgrace, and anyone i marry will inherit that disgrace alongside me. i could not ask that of anyone. i will not ask it of you.”
you stare at him.
“scandal.” you repeat flatly. “you will not marry me because of scandal?”
“it is not that simple—”
“i have scandal too!” the words explode from you, “does that not register to you? my mother ran off with my father's business partner and left me to bear the weight of her shame. i do not– i do not even know where my father is, or if he is even alive! i was sent away at twelve years old, hidden in the countryside like something shameful, and i have spent the last eleven years being whispered about and pitied and judge, and you stand there and tell me that your scandal is too great to overcome?”
"it is different—”
“it is not different!” you are shouting now, you cannot stop yourself, “it is exactly the same. we are both carrying weights we did not choose, both paying for sins we did not commit, and the only difference is that i was willing to take a chance on something more and you are too frightened to even try.”
he flinches as though you have struck him.
“you are a coward," you say, quieter now, the anger draining out of you and leaving only exhaustion in its wake, “a coward, alexander albon. and i was a fool to think you might be brave enough to—”
you stop. shake your head. there is nothing left to say.
“please,” he says, and he reaches for you, his hand hovering near your face like he wants to wipe away your tears, “please, just let me—”
you pull away before he can touch you.
“goodnight, lord albon,” you say, and your voice sounds dead, hollow, “i hope you find peace with your choices. i am sure i will eventually find peace with mine.”
you leave him standing in the corridor and you do not look back.
you wake the next morning with a fever.
at first you think it is simply the aftermath of too much crying, too little sleep, the accumulated stress of the season finally taking its toll. but when you try to rise from your bed your head spins violently, and when zoe comes to check on you she takes one look at your face and immediately calls for the physician.
what follows is a blur of cold compresses and bitter tonics and the concerned faces of the albon sisters swimming in and out of focus above you. you are vaguely aware of hushed conversations happening just outside your door (“she is very ill, the fever will not break, we must send for—”) but you cannot summon the energy to care. the fever wraps around you like a shroud, hot and suffocating, and you drift in and out of consciousness without any clear sense of how much time is passing.
the albon sisters take turns sitting with you, reading to you, pressing a wet rag to your forehead to alleviate the spinning in your head.
they know, you realize dimly. they know about the proposal, about your refusal. they do not know the whole truth, but they know enough. they know that their brother has done something, or failed to do something, and they know that you are paying the price.
they do not speak of it directly. but you hear it in the careful way they avoid mentioning alexander's name, in the pointed silences that fall whenever he is discussed, in the way zoe's jaw tightens and alicia's eyes go hard and even sweet chloe develops a furrow between her brows that speaks to anger suppressed for the sake of your recovery.
days pass. perhaps a week. perhaps more. time loses meaning when you are trapped in the fog of fever, and you stop trying to track it.
when you finally emerge, pale and shaky and thin in a way that makes the girls cluck with concern, the season is about to end.
the families are beginning to retreat from london, or the early ones at least, those who have already done what they were supposed to do, returning to their country estates or departing for the continent, and the social whirl that consumed your life for the past months is winding down to a quiet close. you have missed balls and dinners and the final flurries of matchmaking, have been absent for the announcements of engagements and the whispered gossip about who succeeded and who failed in the great marriage mart of the season.
you have failed. this is clear without anyone needing to say it.
one season. that was all you had. one chance to secure your future, to find a husband who would give you stability and respectability and a life beyond the confines of your grandfather's countryside estate or a governess position. and you squandered it. refused the one man who offered, and for what? for a declaration of love that came with no proposal attached. for a kiss in a hallway that ended in apology and retreat. for a man who could not even bring himself to fight for you.
the girls are gentle with you, in those final days at mercer hall. they do not press you to talk about what happened, do not ask questions you have no answers for. they simply are present and warm in their support, and you love them for it even as you hate yourself for becoming a burden on their family.
“what will you do?” zoe asks quietly, the night before you are all to depart for london, “after the season ends. where will you go?”
the question you have been dreading.
“my grandfather's estate, i suppose,” you say, and your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears, “for a time. but i cannot stay there forever. i will need to find a position. a governess, perhaps, for some merchant family who does not care about my family's scandal so long as i can teach their children french and etiquette.”
zoe's face crumples. “no,” she says fiercely, “no, you cannot— there must be another way, there must be something—”
“there is nothing.” you take her hand, squeeze it gently, “oh, my darling girl, i had my chance. i made my choice. now i must live with the consequences.”
“the consequences of my brother being a fool—”
“the consequences of my own heart being foolish,” you correct, “i do not blame him, alexander. not entirely. he told me the truth about himself, and i chose to hope for something different. that is not his fault. it is simply—” you pause, searching for the word, “it is simply tragedy.”
zoe pulls you into an embrace so tight it borders on painful, and you let her hold you, let yourself be held, and you try not to think about how few of these moments you have left.
the return to london is subdued.
the carriage ride passes in near-silence, the girls too aware of your fragile state to fill the hours with their usual chatter. you watch the countryside roll past the window, the green fields giving way to the grey sprawl of the city, and you think about endings. about doors closing. about the person you were when you arrived in london all those weeks ago, full of tentative hope and desperate longing, and the person you have become in the aftermath of everything that followed.
you are stronger, perhaps. harder. less willing to believe in fairy tales and happy endings.
you are not sure this is an improvement.
the townhouse feels different now. smaller, somehow, as though it has contracted during your absence to accommodate the diminished scope of your future. you go through the motions of settling back in, unpacking your things, resuming the rhythms of daily life, but everything feels muted, faded.
and you avoid alexander.
this is easier than you expected, because he seems to be avoiding you too. you catch glimpses of him sometimes, a figure disappearing around a corner, a voice in the next room that falls silent when you approach, but you do not seek him out, and he does not seek you. the vast machinery of the albon household continues to turn, and you and he are parallel lines, careful to never collide.
the girls notice. of course they notice. but they do not comment, perhaps sensing that whatever fragile peace you have constructed would shatter at the first pointed question.
the season ends. the announcements are made. and you begin, quietly, to prepare for the life that awaits you— the letters to governesses' agencies, the inquiries about positions, the slow dimming of every dream you once allowed yourself to hold.
this is how it ends, you think.
not with love, but with the memory of love. fading, like everything else, into the grey.
the morning light filters through the glass walls of the conservatory in pale golden streams, catching the dust that drift lazily through the humid air, and you pause in the doorway to breathe it in, the green smell of growing things, the warmth that wraps around you like an embrace, the stillness of it all.
you had not expected to find anyone here.
you had not expected to find him.
alexander stands with his back to you, a watering can in hand, his attention fixed on the orchid that sits on the small table by the window— your orchid, the one you rescued from neglect all those weeks ago, the one whose roots you carefully untangled and repotted and coaxed back toward health. he is pouring water into the pot with a steadiness that might be admirable if it were not so thoroughly, catastrophically wrong.
“stop,” you say, before you can think better of it, “stop, you are drowning it.”
he startles badly enough that water sloshes over the rim of the watering can, and when he turns to face you his expression cycles rapidly through surprise, guilt, and something that looks almost like relief.
“i did not hear you come in,” he says.
“the orchid.” you move into the room despite yourself, despite the voice in your head screaming at you to leave, “you are overwatering it. orchids do not like wet feet. you need to let the soil dry out completely between waterings, or the roots will rot.”
he looks down at the pot, at the water pooling on the surface, and his expression shifts to something almost comically dismayed. “i did not– i was trying to—” he stops, sets down the watering can with exaggerated care, “my mother asked me to tend to the plants while she was out. i thought i was helping.”
“you thought wrong.” you cross to the orchid, assess the damage. it is not too bad, the soil is waterlogged but not yet sour, and if you tip the pot to let the excess drain the roots should survive. “here. tip it gently and let the water run out. then do not touch it again for at least a week.”
he does as instructed, his movements careful, almost reverent, and you watch his hands— those hands that have touched you, held you, mapped the geography of your skin in the darkness of a hallway— and you force yourself to feel nothing.
you have become very good at feeling nothing.
“there,” you say, when the last of the excess water has drained, “it should survive, as long as no one attempts to water it again for at least a week. possibly two.”
“i will inform the household staff,” he says, “perhaps post a sign. do not water the orchid upon pain of death.”
“that seems excessive.”
“you just called me a plant murderer. i feel the punishment should fit the crime.”
something flickers at the corner of your mouth, and it is not quite a smile, but close. you suppress it ruthlessly.
“i should go,” you say, straightening, “i have letters to write.”
“letters?”
“to the governesses' agency,” you say it matter-of-factly, “they have requested references and a list of my accomplishments. apparently there is a merchant family in bristol looking for someone to teach their daughters. the pay is reasonable and the position comes with room and board.”
the silence that follows is so complete you can hear the faint drip of water from the orchid's saucer, the distant tick of a clock somewhere in the house, the soft rustle of leaves in the artificial breeze created by the warmth of the glass walls.
“a governess.” alexander says finally.
“it is respectable work.” you keep your tone light, “and i am not without qualifications. my french is excellent, my italian passable, and i can play the pianoforte well enough to teach the basics. it is not what i imagined for myself, perhaps, but—” you shrug, “one must be practical. the season is ending, and i have no other prospects.”
“because of me.”
“because of circumstances.” you meet his eyes, finally, and you are proud of how steady your gaze remains, “i made my choices, alexander. i do not regret them. i only—” you pause, “i am ready to move forward. that is all. i have made my peace with what happened, and now i would like to begin whatever comes next.”
“and what comes next is… bristol? teaching merchant's daughters to play mozart on the pianoforte?”
“if they will have me. there are other positions, if that one does not work out. i am told there is always demand for governesses with good references.” you smile, and it feels almost natural, “your mother has agreed to write me a letter. she has been very kind throughout all of this. your whole family has been kind.”
“kind.” he repeats.
“yes. kind. generous. more than i had any right to expect, given—” you gesture vaguely, encompassing the conservatory, the house, everything that has passed between you, “given everything.”
another silence. longer this time, weighted with something you cannot name.
“i should go,” you say again, and you turn toward the door.
“wait.” his hand catches your elbow. you go still. “please,” he says, and his voice has changed, become something raw and urgent, “please, just… give me a moment. there is something i need to say, and i have been trying to find the words for days, and if you leave now i am afraid i will never—”
he stops. swallows. his hand falls away from your arm, and when you turn to face him he looks—
he looks wrecked.
there is no other word for it. the careful composure he has worn like armor since mercer hall has cracked, fallen away, leaving something exposed and vulnerable underneath. his eyes are bright, and his hands are trembling slightly at his sides, and he looks at you like you are something irreplaceable, something he is terrified of losing.
“i have been a coward,” he says quietly. “you told me so, the night of the ball, and you were right. i have been a coward my entire life, hiding behind duty and responsibility and the convenient excuse of my family's scandal to avoid ever taking a real risk, ever reaching for something i truly wanted.”
“alexander—”
“let me finish. please.” he pleads, takes a breath, steadies himself, “my father was a coward too. that is the thing i never told you, the thing i have never told anyone. he ran. when things became difficult, when the consequences of bad choices started closing in, he ran to the country and left my mother to face the creditors, the whispers he told himself he was protecting us by staying away, but he was only protecting himself. from shame. from failure. from having to look at the wreckage he had created.”
his voice cracks slightly on the last words, and you see him struggle to compose himself before continuing: “i swore i would never be like him. i swore i would be better, that i would stronger, more reliable, the kind of man who faces his problems instead of fleeing from them. and for years i thought i had succeeded. i managed the estates. i paid the debts. i held our family together through sheer force of will. but then you arrived, and i realized—”
he stops. laughs, a small broken sound, “i realized i had only been brave about things that did not truly matter to me. the estates, the debts, our reputation, those were problems to be solved, challenges to be overcome. i could be strong about them because losing them would not have destroyed me. but you—” his eyes find yours, “the thought of loving you and losing you. the thought of reaching for happiness and watching it slip through my fingers. that terrified me in a way nothing else ever has.”
“so you pushed me away,” you say softly.
“so i pushed you away.” he nods, a jerky motion, “i told myself i was protecting you. from the scandal, from being dragged down into the mess of my life. but i was only protecting myself. from the possibility of not being enough. from the certainty that i would eventually disappoint you, fail you, become the thing you regretted instead of the thing you chose.”
“alex—”
“i watched you dance with sargeant,” he continues, “at the balls. i watched him hold you, look at you, offer you everything i was too frightened to offer myself. and i told myself it was for the best. i told myself you would be happier with him, that he could give you the uncomplicated life you deserved,” his jaw tightens, “and then you refused him. you refused him, and i knew— i knew— it was because of me. because i had made you hope for something i was too cowardly to give.”
“i refused him because i did not love him,” you say quietly, “that is not your fault. that is simply—”
“it is my fault,” he interrupts fiercely, “because if i had been braver, if i had spoken sooner, you would not have had to choose between a man you did not love and a future alone. you would have had a third option.”
“and now?” you ask, “what are you offering now, alex? because i have spent weeks thinking about this. about you, about us, about what might have been, and i cannot do it anymore! i cannot keep hoping for something that you are too afraid to give me!”
“i know,” he moves toward you, “i know, and i am sorry. i am so sorry for every moment of confusion and pain i have caused you. but i am here now, and i am trying to tell you—” he stops, close enough to touch but not touching, “i am trying to tell you that i do not want to be afraid anymore.”
your heart is beating so hard you can feel it in your throat. “what does that mean?”
“it means—” he takes a breath “it means that i have spent the last week thinking about my life without you in it. about watching you leave for bristol, knowing that i let you go because i was too frightened to ask you to stay. about growing old in this house, surrounded by my family's ghosts, always wondering what might have been if i had just been brave enough—”
his voice breaks. he closes his eyes for a moment, composing himself, and when he opens them again they are bright with unshed tears.
“i cannot do it,” he says simply, “i cannot let you go. i have tried to talk myself into it, tried to convince myself that it would be better for you, easier for you, that i would only drag you down— but i cannot. because being without you these past days has been—” he shakes his head. “it has been like living in a world without color. like breathing air that does not quite fill my lungs. like being only half alive and not understanding why until i remember that you are not there.”
"alex—"
“i believe i am my best self when i am with you.” the words come out in a rush, tumbling over each other, “my truest self. the person i always hoped i might become but never quite managed to be on my own. you make me want to be better, to be braver, kinder, more open. you make me want to stop hiding behind walls and actually live. and i know i have given you no reason to believe me, i know i have done everything wrong, but if you could just— if you could give me one more chance—”
“what are you saying?” you whisper, and your voice trembles despite your best efforts. “alex, what does this mean?”
he holds your gaze for a long moment. and then, slowly, deliberately, he sinks to one knee. the breath leaves your body in a rush.
“i am asking you to marry me,” he says, and his voice is steady now, clear and certain, “i do not have a ring— i should have a ring, i know that, this should be done properly with flowers and moonlight and all the romantic trappings, but i cannot wait another moment, i cannot let you walk out that door thinking that you are destined for bristol and merchant's daughters when you could be… when you should be—”
he stops. takes a breath. “i am asking you to be my wife,” he says simply. “i am going down on one knee, in this ridiculous conservatory, surrounded by plants i nearly murdered, and i am asking you properly. because i love you. because i have loved you since the first moment i saw you across that ballroom. because i do not want to be afraid anymore, and being with you makes me feel like i might finally be brave enough to reach for what i want.”
the tears are streaming down your face. you cannot seem to stop them. “this is absurd,” you manage, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “you are absurd. this entire situation is—”
“absurd, yes,” he agrees, and there is a hint of his old humor in his voice, that dry self-deprecating wit that you have come to love. “also terrifying. also the most important thing i have ever done.” he reaches up, takes your hand in his, and his fingers are trembling slightly but his grip is sure, “say yes. please. say yes and let me spend the rest of my life trying to deserve you.”
you look down at him, at this man who has caused you so much pain and so much joy, who has pushed you away and pulled you close, who has been the source of your greatest hope and your deepest despair. you look at his face, open and vulnerable and desperately, achingly hopeful, and you think about all the reasons you should refuse. the scandal, the uncertainty, the months of heartache that led to this moment…
… and then you think about the alternative. bristol. merchants’ daughters. a life of quiet respectability, safe and stable and utterly devoid of this— this feeling that burns in your chest whenever he is near, this sense that you are finally, finally exactly where you are meant to be.
“yes,” you say, and your voice breaks on the word, “yes, you impossible, infuriating, wonderful man. yes, i will marry you.”
the smile that breaks across his face is like sunrise, it bright and warm and so full of joy that it takes your breath away. he rises in a single fluid motion, pulling you into his arms, and when his mouth finds yours it is not like the desperate, hungry kisses of before. it is soft and tender, the kiss of a man who finally has everything he wants and cannot quite believe his good fortune.
“i love you,” he murmurs against your lips. “i have loved you for so long, and i was too afraid to say it, and i am so sorry.”
“say it again,” you demand, pulling back just far enough to see his face, “say it again, and keep saying it, until i believe you mean it.”
“i love you,” he says obediently. “i love you, i love you, i love you—”
and he keeps saying it, between kisses and laughter and the joyful tears that neither of you can seem to stop shedding, until the words blur together and lose their meaning and become simply a sound, a vibration, a truth that hums beneath your skin like music.
in the corner, the orchid stands silent witness to it all— still damp, still slightly waterlogged, but alive. surviving. reaching toward the light.
summary: on a warm afternoon, sheltered from the cold, with jazz playing in the background, you and Alex bake biscuits before tiredness takes hold of your boyfriend.
tws: fluff, long-term relationship.
That afternoon, the house was lit with soft lighting, the fireplace was lit, leaving a smell of wood throughout the living room, and the heating was on because behind the fogged-up windows it was raining and snowing at the same time. A Chet Baker record was playing in the background, and you and your boyfriend were both wearing Christmas jumpers in the kitchen.
‘Wait, wash your hands first,’ you said when you saw Alex going straight for the flour jar. He obeyed without question, washing his hands while you dried yours and picked up the recipe book. That afternoon, you were going to make butter cookies. ‘280 grams,’ you read, Alex nodded and, before measuring out how many grams you needed for the recipe, he took you by the waist and lifted you onto the counter, sitting you down. ‘Yes, chef,’ replied the Thai man as he began to pour the flour into a bowl while measuring it.
‘On point, what else?’ ‘120 grams of butter, wait-’ you reread the book carefully, because you had said the order backwards after being distracted by Alex's action. ‘No! Before the flour, mix the butter with the sugar.’ Alex couldn't help but laugh and add, ‘But the butter is rock hard from the fridge.’ ‘Well, put it in the microwave, stupid,’ you said, nodding towards the appliance. He listened and put the butter in for a few seconds. ‘Don't call me stupid’ he said threateningly, putting his hands on either side of your legs. ‘Stupid,’ you replied, looking at him with a playful smile, and before the microwave beeped, Alex started tickling your belly, making you squirm with laughter until you lay down on the cold countertop and kicked him in the stomach to get him to move away, choking with laughter. He couldn't help but laugh when he saw how happy you were. ‘Stop, stop, Alex!’ you said between laughs, and when the microwave finally beeped, he moved away from you so he could finally handle the butter and mix it with the sugar.
You sat back down and, chuckling softly, continued reading your book. ‘Concentrate,’ said Alex, who, although his back was turned to you as he mixed the ingredients, turned his head to see you still smiling. ‘Okay, you have to sift the flour before mixing it with the butter and sugar,’ you informed him, putting the book aside and simply watching your boyfriend cook.
You were quiet for easily twenty minutes, watching him mix while he hummed songs and paid attention to how the cookie dough was turning out. Once the mixture was ready, he began to flatten the dough until it was completely smooth.
‘Where's my favourite baker? Do you want to make shapes with the dough?’ Alex said with a smile, looking at you. Still silent and smiling, you got up from the counter to stand next to him and take pieces of dough to shape them into hearts. ‘That's so basic!’ Alex complained, laughing. ‘All this work for you to make hearts,’ he continued, shaking his head. You took your butter heart and placed it on your chest, looking at him. ‘But it's the love I feel for you.’ Alex didn't say anything to the comment, because sometimes actions speak louder than words, so he simply hugged you from the side and left a kiss on your lips, caressing your back, although, to tell the truth, that phrase was the cringiest and clingiest thing you said all year. ‘But if you don't like hearts, let's do something more fun,’ you said, leaving the heart on the oven tray and changing its shape back to a circle. ‘A panda,’ said Alex, without looking at you, already making one before you could refuse.
You smiled when you saw how quickly a circle had turned into a circle with two round ears. You rested your head on the boy's shoulder and drew another panda, which you placed next to the first one when you finished. ‘Look at them, they're boyfriend and girlfriend,’ said Alex, looking at the pandas and then at you, turning towards you to take you by the waist and cover your lips with soft, slow kisses. In response to the kisses, you stroked his hair, running your fingers through his locks and ending up with your hands on his cheeks, using your thumbs to caress him. His grip on your waist was firm until he changed it to a hug, which, when he pulled away from your lips, continued, resting your head on his warm chest.
After shaping cookies between affectionate kisses, you baked them, so you lay down on the sofa, watching anything on Netflix, waiting for Alex to come, but you couldn't stop getting up and going to check on the cookies. Otherwise, all his effort would be for nothing. ‘Alex, relax, they have seven minutes left, I set the timer,’ you said, looking up at the kitchen, where Alex was sitting in front of the oven, on the floor, about to fall asleep from the heat coming off the oven.
You were left speechless with surprise and how sweet he looked sleeping in the warmth, so what better way to spend those seven minutes than to grab the woollen blanket and go over there. You sat down next to him, wrapped the blanket around both of you, and with you by his side, he took your arm, hugging it and resting his head on your shoulder, taking a little nap that now lasted six minutes.
alex albon x !chronically fatigued reader (blurbs/drabbles)
you have always been good at pretending you’re fine — a skill that used to make you feel strong. but lately, “fine” has become a little harder to reach. the fatigue comes and goes like waves, and some days, you can’t quite tell if you’re treading water or just floating.
still, alex never lets you drift too far. he is there before you can even ask, soft-voiced and steady-handed, always knowing what you need before you find the words. with him, even the hardest days feel a little easier to bear — like maybe being cared for could be its own kind of strength.
(day 8 of chef’s tea party series!) (wc ; 5,786) (chronic fatigue syndrome - a biological illness that affects many body parts. It causes severe fatigue not improved by rest, problems thinking and sleeping, dizziness, pain, and many other symptoms.)
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You’d been tired before — everyone gets tired — but this was different. It wasn’t the kind of tired that a nap could fix, or that a good night’s sleep could chase away. This was the kind of exhaustion that seeped into your bones, a constant heaviness that made even the simplest things feel impossible.
You’d brush it off at first. Blame it on work, stress, maybe a cold that wouldn’t go away. But when the ache lingered and the fatigue grew worse, when you found yourself sitting on the edge of the bed every morning wondering how you were going to make it through another day — that’s when Alex started to worry.
He never said it out loud at first. He just started showing up. He’d drive you to your blood tests, carry your bag through hospital corridors, make jokes about how he should get a “frequent visitor” punch card for all the waiting rooms you’d sat in together. And even though you’d insisted he didn’t have to come, he’d just grin, that soft, lopsided smile that made you melt every time, and say, “I’m not letting you go through this on your own, love. You’d do the same for me.”
The day of your final appointment, the one where you’d finally get answers, you remember waking up to the sound of rain and the smell of coffee. Alex was already in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, two mugs waiting beside the toaster.
He looked up when you shuffled in, hair messy, eyes still heavy with worry.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” he said softly. “You feeling okay?”
You shrugged, too anxious to answer. He didn’t push — just came over, kissed your forehead, and handed you a piece of toast like it was a peace offering. He always knew when words would only make things harder.
The drive to the clinic was quiet. His hand found yours at a stoplight, thumb tracing gentle circles over your skin. It was such a small gesture, but it anchored you — reminded you that you weren’t alone in this, even if your mind tried to convince you otherwise.
When the doctor finally said the words chronic fatigue syndrome, it felt like the room tilted. You’d known something was wrong, but hearing it out loud made it real. There was a relief in having a name for it, yes, but there was fear too — fear of what it meant for your future, for the life you’d imagined.
Your throat tightened. You nodded through the explanations and treatment plans, but everything blurred together. You only really came back to yourself when Alex’s hand squeezed yours, grounding you again.
He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t try to fix it — he just stayed beside you, quiet and steady, letting you process it all in your own time.
When you finally left the office, you sat together in the car in silence for a long time. The world outside kept moving — cars passing, rain tapping against the windshield — but it felt like the two of you were in your own small, fragile bubble.
You stared down at your hands. “I don’t know what to do now,” you whispered, voice shaking.
Alex reached over and brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch impossibly gentle.
“You don’t have to know,” he murmured. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”
You looked up at him then — his eyes soft, full of a quiet kind of strength — and the lump in your throat broke. He pulled you into him without hesitation, holding you as you cried, one hand in your hair, the other rubbing slow circles on your back.
When you apologized for crying, for being “too much,” he shook his head immediately.
“Hey,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re not too much. You’re just… human. And I love you — all of you, even the parts that hurt.”
The rest of the day, he made sure there wasn’t a single moment where you had to carry the weight alone. He stopped by your favorite bakery on the way home, insisting you deserved a “post-diagnosis pastry.” He queued up your comfort show and tucked you into the couch, pulling the blanket over both of you. And when you started to drift off, head against his chest, he kissed your temple and said softly, “We’ll take it one day at a time, okay? That’s all we have to do.”
And maybe you believed him. Because even though you didn’t know what the future would look like, you knew one thing for sure — whatever it was, Alex would be right there beside you. Always.
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The day it all caught up with you started like any other — coffee that didn’t do enough, a commute that felt longer than usual, and a to-do list that seemed to multiply every time you looked away.
You’d been running on fumes for weeks. Between work deadlines and finishing your last semester of school, you’d ignored the warning signs your body kept trying to send. The headaches. The dizziness. The exhaustion that clung to you no matter how long you slept.
You told yourself it was just stress. That once you finished this project, or this class, or this week, things would get better.
But that morning, standing in the middle of a marketing meeting under the harsh fluorescent lights, everything started to blur. Your vision swam, the voices around you became muffled, and suddenly it felt like your body was made of sand — too heavy to hold up, too fragile to keep standing.
Someone called your name. You blinked, tried to steady yourself on the edge of the table, but your knees buckled.
The next thing you knew, you were sitting in a chair, your coworker Emily kneeling beside you, pressing a cool bottle of water into your shaking hands.
“Hey, hey, don’t move, okay? You’re really pale,” she said, worry flooding her voice. “I’m calling Alex.”
You tried to protest, reaching weakly for her phone. “No, don’t — he’s probably training or something. I’m fine, I just need—”
“You nearly fainted,” she cut in. “You’re not fine.”
By the time Alex arrived — twenty minutes later, breathless, wearing his Williams hoodie and worry etched into every line of his face — you’d managed to convince yourself that it was all a misunderstanding. Just low blood sugar. Maybe dehydration. Something simple.
“Hey, love,” he said softly as soon as he saw you, kneeling down in front of your chair like you were made of glass. “You okay?”
You tried to smile. “I’m fine, really. You didn’t have to come all the way here.”
He frowned, eyes scanning your face, the slump in your shoulders, the faint tremor in your hands. “Yeah, and yet here I am,” he said gently. “Let’s get you home, yeah?”
You wanted to argue — to tell him you had emails to send, that there was a presentation next week you couldn’t fall behind on — but your body betrayed you the moment you stood up. The room tilted again, and Alex’s arm was instantly around your waist, steadying you.
“That’s it,” he murmured, already guiding you toward the door. “Home. Now.”
You didn’t fight him this time.
The drive was quiet. He kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting over yours, thumb moving in slow, soothing strokes. Every few minutes, he’d glance over to check that your eyes were still open.
When you finally made it back to your apartment, he helped you out of your shoes, guided you to the couch, and disappeared for a moment — returning with a glass of water and one of his oversized hoodies.
You changed into it without protest, too tired to pretend anymore. He sat beside you, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
“You’ve been pushing too hard,” he said softly. “I can see it.”
You sighed, staring down at your hands. “I can’t just stop, Alex. I’m almost done with school, and work’s already short-staffed. I just have to make it through the next few months.”
He tilted his head, studying you like he was trying to figure out the best way to reach you. “Or,” he said carefully, “you could take a step back before you burn yourself out completely.”
You frowned. “You mean quit?”
“Not quit,” he said, shaking his head. “Just… take some time. Go part-time, or take a break until you finish school. Focus on you for a bit.”
You laughed softly, but it came out strained. “Alex, I can’t just sit around at home while you’re working so hard—”
“Why not?” he interrupted gently.
“Because it’ll look like I’m mooching off you,” you said, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “I don’t want to be that person, Alex. I don’t want you to feel like you have to take care of me because I’m—”
“Stop.” His voice was soft, but it carried enough weight to make you look up. His eyes met yours, steady and sure. “You’re not mooching. You’re recovering. There’s a difference.”
He reached for your hand again, holding it between both of his.
“I make more than enough to take care of both of us, okay? And even if I didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
You blinked back the tears that threatened to spill over. “I just… I don’t want to be a burden.”
“Hey.” He squeezed your hand. “You could never be a burden. You’re the person I love. Taking care of you isn’t something I have to do — it’s something I want to do.”
You didn’t have the energy to argue after that. Not when he looked at you like that — like there was nothing in the world more important than making sure you were okay.
“Come on,” he murmured after a moment, standing up and holding out his hand. “Bedtime. Doctor Albon’s orders.”
You managed a weak laugh as he guided you to the bedroom. He helped you change into your comfiest pajamas pants, tucked you under the blanket, and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
“Stay put,” he said softly before disappearing for a few minutes. When he returned, he was carrying a tray — crackers, one of your favorite teas, and a heating pad. “Dinner of champions,” he teased gently, setting it beside you.
You smiled, tired but touched. “You really didn’t have to do all this.”
He climbed into bed beside you, careful not to jostle you. “Yeah, well,” he said, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close, “you said that about the doctors, too. And we both know how that turned out.”
You let out a quiet laugh against his chest, the sound muffled by the fabric of his hoodie. His hand moved up and down your back in slow, comforting motions.
“Rest, angel,” he murmured. “Everything else can wait.”
And as you drifted off, the exhaustion finally giving way to something softer, you realized he was right. Everything else could wait — because with Alex beside you, you finally felt safe enough to stop fighting your body for a while.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
The rain had been falling since dawn, soft and steady against the glass walls of your apartment. Monaco looked blurred from where you lay on the couch — gray clouds hanging low over the harbor, streets slick and glistening.
You hadn’t left bed that morning. The fatigue had crept up slowly the day before and decided to stay, turning your limbs heavy and your thoughts sluggish. Even sitting up for breakfast had felt like too much effort. Alex had noticed right away — he always did.
He came padding into the living room in one of his old hoodies, hair still damp from his shower, holding a mug of tea in one hand.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” he said gently, crouching beside the couch. “How’s the energy level today?”
You gave him a small, tired smile. “Running on fumes.”
He brushed his thumb across your cheek. “Then today’s an official recovery day. No laptop, no guilt, no doing anything that doesn’t make you feel better.”
You started to protest, but he was already heading toward the bathroom. A few minutes later, you heard the sound of water running.
“Alex…” you called weakly.
He reappeared in the doorway, smiling softly. “Bath. Bubbles. Candle. Your favorite playlist. You’re getting the full spa treatment.”
You laughed under your breath. “You really don’t have to do all that.”
“I know,” he said simply, “but I want to.”
So you let him. The bathroom smelled faintly of lavender and vanilla by the time he helped you in. The water was warm, steam curling up around you, and Alex sat nearby on the tiled floor, rolling up his sleeves as he handed you a soft sponge. He didn’t hover or rush you — just stayed close enough that you felt safe, his voice quiet as he told you about a silly thing one of his engineers had said at the factory that week.
When you finished, he wrapped you in a fluffy towel and helped you to the bedroom. The rain outside had picked up, tapping gently on the balcony doors. He sat you on the edge of the bed, plugged in your hair dryer, and began working through your hair with patient hands. You watched him in the mirror — his brow furrowed in concentration, his touch impossibly gentle.
He caught your gaze and smiled. “What?”
“You look like you’ve done this before,” you teased.
“Many sisters,” he said, laughing softly. “I’m basically a professional.”
When your hair was dry, he surprised you again — pulling out a small bottle of nail polish from your nightstand.
“Figured we could match,” he said with a grin, showing his own fingers already painted in the same soft blue.
You couldn’t help but laugh. “You painted yours?”
“Of course. Equal pampering rights.”
He sat cross-legged on the bed, carefully painting each of your nails with the kind of focus he usually saved for race starts. The sight made your chest ache — in the best way.
Later, he rubbed lotion into your hands and shoulders, the slow, rhythmic motion of his thumbs easing away the tension that had built up over weeks of strain. Every time you tried to thank him, he shushed you gently. “Just relax,” he whispered. “Let me take care of you today.”
The rest of the afternoon drifted by in soft colors — the rain, the smell of candles, the quiet hum of your favorite playlist. You dozed off with your head on his chest, and when you woke up, he was still there, tracing idle circles on your arm and watching the light fade from the window.
By evening, you felt lighter. Not perfect, not cured — but better. The ache in your muscles had eased, and the fog in your mind had thinned. You rolled over to face him, your eyes glassy with emotion.
“Thank you,” you whispered. “For all of this. For… everything.”
He smiled, thumb brushing beneath your eye where a tear had gathered. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do,” you said, voice breaking slightly. “You make the hard days feel softer. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’d do exactly what you always do — you’d keep going. I just get to be the lucky one who walks beside you.”
You exhaled shakily, curling closer to him until your head rested against his heartbeat. The rain still whispered outside, steady and soft, like a lullaby.
Alex tightened his arm around you and murmured, “See? Told you we’d make today better.”
You smiled against his chest, the last of your worry melting away. With him, it always was.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
The morning of qualifying felt almost normal again — the kind of day you used to take for granted. The sky above the circuit was a sharp, brilliant blue, and the hum of the paddock buzzed with its usual weekend energy.
You’d been doing better lately. The new medication was finally starting to work — steadying your energy, softening the edges of the exhaustion that had held you hostage for months. Alex had been hesitant to bring up the idea of you traveling again, but when you mentioned wanting to come to this race, the way his whole face lit up had made it impossible to say no.
“You sure you’re up for it?” he’d asked that morning, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear as you stood in front of the mirror.
You’d smiled. “I feel good today. I want to be there.”
He’d kissed your temple, soft and lingering. “Then that’s exactly where you’ll be.”
Now, standing beside him in the paddock before qualifying, you could almost forget the rough days entirely. The air smelled faintly of burnt rubber and espresso, mechanics hurried past with tires and radios, and Alex looked completely at home — laughing with one of his engineers, his race suit half-zipped as the team made final preparations.
You were leaning against the barrier outside hospitality, chatting with Kika and Rebecca, when the first flicker of dizziness hit.
It came on suddenly — not the full, crashing wave of a bad flare-up, but enough to make the world sway a little beneath your feet. Your heartbeat picked up, your breathing shallow. You tried to steady yourself, pressing a hand against the cool metal railing.
Kika noticed first. “Hey,” she said softly, touching your arm. “You okay?”
You nodded quickly, forcing a smile. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just stood up too fast, maybe.”
But Alexandra, standing just behind you, frowned. “Sit down for a bit, amour. It’s really hot out here.”
Before you could argue, Rebecca was already flagging down one of the Red Bull hospitality staff for a bottle of water, and Flavy appeared like she’d materialized from thin air, her expression all calm efficiency.
“Come,” she said in her soft accent, guiding you toward the shaded seating area beside the garage. “We’ll get you out of the sun.”
You let them lead you, grateful even as you tried to insist you were okay.
The paddock could be chaotic during qualifying — photographers, camera crews, fans. But somehow, the girls managed to create a little bubble of peace around you. Kika positioned herself near the opening of the seating area, casually blocking the view from one of the camera angles. Rebecca handed you the cold water and crouched beside your chair, her expression gentle but firm.
“Drink, please,” she said with that big-sister tone that made it impossible to disobey.
Alexandra sat on the arm of your chair, resting a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “Alex is still in the garage,” she said quietly. “I’ll let him know you’re okay after qualifying, but for now, just focus on breathing, okay?”
You nodded, the tightness in your chest starting to ease. Flavy fanned you and smiled. “See? Team effort. We’re good at this.”
The comment made you laugh softly, even as you blinked back a few overwhelmed tears. “You guys are ridiculous. I’m gonna cry.”
“Ridiculously good at taking care of you,” Kika chimed in, grinning.
They stayed like that with you through the entire session — chatting quietly to distract you, keeping the mood light. Alexandra told a story about Charles accidentally shrinking one of her sweaters in the wash, which sent Rebecca into a fit of laughter. Flavy handed out mints “for the placebo effect,” and Kika kept updating you on Alex’s lap times, pretending she was his race engineer.
By the time qualifying ended, the dizziness had eased. You could feel your strength slowly returning, the fog lifting a little. When the girls finally relaxed and looked at you, you could see the relief in their eyes too.
Alex found you not long after — flushed from adrenaline, hair sticking up in every direction, a huge smile on his face. He’d qualified well, but his expression shifted the second he saw you sitting with a blanket over your legs.
“What happened?” he asked immediately, crouching down beside you.
“Nothing bad,” Kika said quickly, smiling at him. “Just a little flare. We took care of it.”
Alex looked at you then, eyes softening. “You okay, love?”
You nodded. “I’m okay now. Promise.”
He brushed a thumb over your cheek, his other hand settling on your knee. “You sure you shouldn’t head back to the hotel?”
“I want to stay,” you said quietly. “I feel better now. The girls were amazing.”
He glanced at them, a small, grateful smile tugging at his lips. “You four are actual angels.”
Rebecca grinned. “We know.”
Alex chuckled, leaning forward to kiss your forehead before standing again. “Alright, but we’re taking it slow tonight. No after-qualifying dinner, okay?”
You rolled your eyes affectionately. “You say that like I was planning to go clubbing.”
He laughed, shaking his head as he ruffled your hair. “Just checking.”
Later that evening, back at the hotel, you curled up against him in bed while the rain started again outside — a soft, familiar sound against the windows.
“You were right,” you murmured, your voice sleepy. “About letting people help.”
He kissed the top of your head. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know.”
You smiled, half-dreaming already. “I think I finally get that.”
As you drifted off, surrounded by love — his, theirs, the quiet strength that came from not having to hide anymore — you realized that even on the hard days, you’d never been more held.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
You hadn’t planned on doing much for your anniversary this year. Between your classes, traveling with Alex, and the constant effort it took to manage your symptoms, the idea of a big night out felt like more pressure than celebration. Still, part of you felt guilty — seven years together deserved something more than takeout and an early bedtime.
Alex, though, seemed perfectly at ease with your lack of plans. He hadn’t pushed or hinted at anything; he’d just said, “We’ll do whatever feels good for you, love. That’s the whole point.”
So when you came home that Friday evening, worn out from your last lecture of the week, you didn’t expect much beyond a quiet night in. You kicked off your shoes at the door, tossed your bag on the counter — and then froze.
The living room was unrecognizable.
Blankets had been draped from the backs of chairs and the couch, forming a sprawling fort that reached almost to the television. Fairy lights lined the walls, casting a soft golden glow that made everything feel warm and dreamlike. There were pillows everywhere — big ones, small ones, the ones you always stole from his side of the bed — piled into a nest in the middle of the floor.
And there, half-hidden under the fort’s blanket entrance, was Alex.
He was wearing one of his old hoodies and a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Welcome to the Albon Anniversary Hideout,” he announced, holding out a hand to help you crawl inside. “Admission fee: one hug.”
You laughed, already smiling as you dropped to your knees. “You did all this?”
“Maybe,” he said, pretending to consider. “I might’ve had some help from a very small, very mischievous cat, but yes — guilty as charged.”
Inside, the fort was even cozier. The fairy lights twinkled overhead, and the smell of your favorite food drifted from the coffee table — a perfect, slightly chaotic spread of Thai takeout, fries, sushi, and your favorite sparkling drink.
Your chest tightened, a rush of affection bubbling up that you could barely put into words. “Alex… this is perfect.”
He shrugged, but there was pride in his smile. “I figured the last thing you needed right now was a fancy dinner or more noise. This way, we can eat, watch something, and not move for hours.”
You grinned. “You really know the way to my heart.”
“I’ve had seven years of practice,” he said softly, tugging you closer until you were tucked against his side.
The two of you ate inside the fort, cross-legged on the floor, trading bites and laughing at how ungraceful you both were. At one point, you dropped a piece of sushi on one of the blankets and tried to grab a napkin before it stained, but Alex just shook his head, grinning.
“It’s fine,” he said, nudging your shoulder. “Adds character.’”
When the food was gone, he reached for the remote. “Okay, so, this next part might make you emotional,” he warned, pretending to look serious.
You tilted your head. “Why?”
He pressed play, and the opening credits of The Grand Budapest Hotel began to roll — the first movie you’d ever watched together back when you were still awkwardly getting to know each other.
You gasped. “No way.”
“Oh, yes way,” he said, smirking. “I even remembered your favorite part is the pastel bakery scene, so I ordered those little strawberry cakes from that place you like.”
You blinked, speechless for a moment. “You’re unbelievable.”
He smiled, leaning closer. “You mean unbelievably in love with you?”
You groaned. “You had to ruin it with the cheesiness.”
“Sorry, it’s my brand,” he said, kissing your temple.
Halfway through the movie, you found yourself curled against him, your head resting on his chest. His fingers traced lazy shapes along your lower back, his heartbeat slow and steady under your ear. The lights outside the fort flickered softly with each movement of the breeze.
“This is my favorite anniversary,” you murmured sleepily.
“Yeah?”
You nodded. “It’s quiet. And warm. And you.”
He kissed the top of your head. “That’s the goal, love. I just wanted you to have a night where you didn’t have to think about anything. No school, no deadlines, no trying to act like you’re okay when you’re not. Just this.”
You tilted your chin up to look at him. “You’re too good to me.”
He smiled, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “No such thing.”
The movie ended sometime after midnight, but neither of you moved. The rain had started again — gentle and steady — and it mixed with the faint hum of the city outside. You lay tangled together under the blankets, the warmth of his arm around your waist keeping you anchored.
“Happy seven years,” you whispered, tracing the fabric of his hoodie.
He looked down at you, eyes soft. “Happy seven years, love. I’d do all of it again — every part.”
You smiled, your chest aching with something that felt bigger than words. “Even the bad days?”
“Especially the bad days,” he said without hesitation. “Because they brought us here.”
You leaned up to kiss him — slow and lingering, the kind that felt like a promise instead of a moment.
When you finally pulled back, you laughed quietly. “I think the fort’s my new favorite place.”
“Good,” he murmured, tucking you closer. “Because I’m never taking it down.”
He didn’t, not for days — because somehow, inside that little fort of blankets and fairy lights, the world finally felt light enough for you both to just breathe.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
The months that followed were quiet in the best way. For the first time in what felt like forever, life began to settle into something steady — something peaceful. The constant weight you’d carried for years, that exhausting heaviness that used to follow you everywhere, had started to lift. The new medication combination was working. Therapy was helping. You were finally starting to feel like yourself again — not just surviving, but living.
Alex had been there every step of the way, of course. Every doctor’s appointment, every long night of journaling or overthinking, every small victory that might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone else — he celebrated it. The first time you got through a week without a major flare, he brought home cupcakes. When you mentioned feeling like your energy was coming back, he booked a weekend getaway to the coast, saying you deserved to see the sunrise without worrying about how you’d feel that day.
Now, standing in your cap and gown, surrounded by your classmates, your chest ached with pride. The university courtyard buzzed with laughter and applause, the sound of hundreds of students tossing their caps into the air echoing like confetti in sound form.
But all you could focus on was Alex — standing near the front row of the crowd, hands cupped around his mouth as he shouted your name. He was clapping so hard his palms were probably red, smiling wide enough that it hurt to look at him without tearing up.
When your name was called, you stepped forward to receive your diploma, the world slowing around you. You’d dreamed of this day for so long — and there it was. You were here. You’d made it.
Alex met you outside after the ceremony, weaving through families and graduates until he found you. Before you could even say a word, he pulled you into his arms, spinning you once in a circle.
“I am so, so proud of you,” he said against your hair, his voice thick with emotion.
You laughed through tears. “You helped me get here.”
He shook his head. “No, love. You did this. You fought for this. You didn’t give up, even when it felt impossible. I just held the flashlight while you found your way.”
You smiled up at him, eyes shining. “You’re such a sap.”
“And you love it,” he teased, kissing your forehead.
Later that evening, when the noise and congratulations had faded, Alex insisted on taking you out to celebrate — just the two of you. He wouldn’t tell you where you were going, only that you should wear something nice and comfortable.
When you finally arrived, it took your breath away.
He’d rented out the small rooftop terrace of a quiet restaurant overlooking the Monaco harbor — your favorite view in the world. The space was softly lit by string lights and candles, the golden glow reflecting off the calm water below. A small table was set with white linen, wine glasses, and a vase of your favorite flowers. The sound of gentle waves carried through the air, mingling with faint music playing from a speaker hidden somewhere nearby.
You turned to him, your heart swelling. “You did all this?”
He grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I had a little help from the staff. But yeah… I wanted something private. Just us. Somewhere quiet where you could breathe.”
You laughed softly, taking his hand. “Alex, it’s perfect.”
Dinner was slow and easy, the kind where conversation melted effortlessly into laughter and silence felt just as comfortable. You talked about everything and nothing — about your favorite memories from university, about the trips you wanted to take now that you finally had time, about the simple joy of finally feeling okay.
At one point, you looked at him across the candlelit table and said, almost in disbelief, “I forgot what this felt like — to just… be happy.”
He smiled, eyes soft and warm. “That’s all I ever wanted for you, love. Not to fix everything, not to make you perfect — just to see you happy.”
You blinked back tears. “You really have no idea what you mean to me.”
He reached across the table, taking your hand in his. “I think I do.”
The night was winding down when your phone buzzed on the table beside your plate. You almost ignored it — you didn’t want to break the moment — but when you glanced at the screen, your heart skipped.
It was an international number. One you recognized.
You frowned, answering quickly. “Hello?”
A cheerful voice came through the line. “Hi, is this YN? I’m calling from Williams Racing — we wanted to discuss your recent application for the head of marketing position.”
Your breath caught. Alex’s head snapped up, watching you carefully as your eyes widened.
“Yes, this is her,” you managed, trying to keep your voice steady.
The woman on the other end continued, “We were very impressed by your portfolio and your interview a few weeks ago. After a lot of consideration, we’d love to officially offer you the position — starting next month, if you’re still interested.”
For a moment, you couldn’t speak. You mouthed wordlessly to Alex, who was already grinning like he knew what was happening.
“Are you still there?” the woman asked gently.
You laughed, breathless. “Yes! Yes, I’m here — I would love to accept. Thank you so much.”
They went over a few quick details before ending the call, and when you hung up, your hands were shaking.
Alex didn’t even let you put the phone down before pulling you into his arms, spinning you around just like he had that morning. “You got it?!”
You nodded, laughing through tears. “I got it! I’m the new head of marketing for Williams!”
He set you down, cupping your face in both hands, his grin unstoppable. “You’re incredible, you know that? My girl — graduating and landing her dream job in the same day? You’re unstoppable.”
You laughed again, overwhelmed by how full your heart felt. “It doesn’t feel real.”
“It’s real,” he said softly, brushing a tear from your cheek. “And you deserve every second of it.”
You leaned in, kissing him under the warm glow of the lights — slow and certain and full of every unspoken word you didn’t need to say.
When you finally pulled away, you whispered, “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
He shook his head, smiling. “You would’ve done it anyway. But I’m really glad I got to watch.”
Later, you danced barefoot on the terrace, the city lights glimmering in the distance and the soft hum of the ocean below. Alex twirled you once before pulling you against his chest, his chin resting on top of your head.
“This feels like the start of something new,” you murmured.
“It is,” he said quietly. “The start of everything you’ve been working for. And I’ll be right here — cheering you on, just like today.”
You looked up at him, your heart full to the brim. “Seven years,” you said softly.
He smiled, leaning down until your noses brushed. “And a lifetime more.”
The rest of the night unfolded like a dream — laughter, kisses, promises whispered into the dark. When you finally walked home hand in hand, your diploma in one arm and his jacket around your shoulders, you realized something that made your chest ache in the best way:
You’d spent years fighting to feel normal again. But with Alex, “normal” had turned into something extraordinary. And for the first time, the future didn’t feel heavy — it felt wide open.
Hi how are you feeling poly queen??? So i have a pretty weird request but just hear me out jenson button x reader x george, charles, max or alex (or any driver you think it could work tbh) So reader and this other driver have been dating for years and they both have a huge crush on jenson so they tend to flirt with him all the time and it’s quite funny to see for the others drivers bc they’re super obvious. Anyway in the end the three of them end up together and the fans kinda freak out bc they’re iconic but also can’t believe how the driver and reader bagged jenson by being silly and flirty all the time. Bonus points if reader is the sister of a driver from the same generation as jenson and has no idea her sister is flirting with him.
Obviously you don’t have to write it if you’re not confortable but i thought it was funny 😂
Love u 🫶🏻
the jenson button effect — jb22 + aa23
smau + blurbs
jenson button x !driver vettel reader x alex albon
being sebastian vettel’s little sister came with pressure — but you handled it. fast, fearless, and already a fan favorite. dating alex albon? just a bonus. the two of you were chaotic, competitive, and head over heels.
but then there was jenson button.
it started as a bit — harmless flirting with a world champion. until he flirted back. now, somehow, it’s not just a joke anymore. it becomes real. and very, very public. fans are losing it. the grid is confused. seb is… coping.
and you? you’re in a throuple with your boyfriend and your shared crush. life comes at you fast — but apparently, love does too.
fc : lissie mackintosh, lily muni he and abbi pulling
(a/n) : i JUMPED on this request bc i've been dying to write about alex again and ive always been a whore for jenson. like GOD DAMN. and sorry for the inactivity the last few days- my doctor advised to stop taking my bc and let my period happen and it has been absolute HELL for me. but hope that you all are well and that you enjoy this!! love youuu
danica slander will be included ur welcome
—
f1gossipgirls
liked by lando and 1,800,700 others.
f1gossipgirls : Quali day chaos? 👀 YN Vettel and Alex Albon spotted arriving together — all smiles and matching helmets in hand — while both Sebastian Vettel and Jenson Button are in the paddock today. Fans already bracing themselves for another round of their iconic “flirt with Jenson on live TV” game. Will today be the day they finally take it too far? 👀
—
view 185,300 other comments.
lando : if they get him before i do i’m starting beef
liked by f1gossipgirls
↳ username005 : LANDO AJSJSJSJ
username000 : can’t lie if my bf was hot AND willing to co flirt with jenson button? i’d marry him on the spot
username17 : seb is 100% in the garage praying no one flirts with his sister on national television again 😭
username55 : “they’re just friends” then explain why alex looks at jenson like that 😭😭
username75 : i want whatever spell they’re casting on that old man.
↳ yn_vettel : he isn’t old. he is beekeeping age.
liked by f1gossipgirls and alex_albon
↳ f1gossipgirls : yn💀💀
username001 : if there is not an alex, yn, jenson interview this weekend i will RIOT. give me what i want pls
—
The Alpine garage was buzzing, as usual, with engineers murmuring over tire strategy and last minute tweaks. You were leaning over your steering wheel, going through radio checks, when you heard two familiar voices approaching.
“Is it too late to trade her out?” Sebastian’s voice, dry as ever.
You grinned before even turning around. “If you want Alpine to win, I suggest I stay,” you called back, standing up just as your brother came into view — dressed casually, arms crossed, the proud big brother aura dialed up to eleven.
Behind him was Jenson, looking annoyingly perfect in a crisp white button down and that smug, sunshine smile that always made your brain short circuit for just a second too long.
“Hope we’re not throwing off your focus,” Jenson said, walking over. “Seb insisted we stop by, but I told him you’re probably too busy winning to entertain old men like us.”
You laughed as you stood. “Old men don’t usually look that smug,” you teased, giving him a quick hug. It was soft, familiar — but there was an unmistakable spark under it, the kind of chemistry you and Alex had been very bad at hiding whenever Jenson was around.
Sebastian eyed the hug, then you. “Still not sure I approve of him hanging around,” he muttered. “He’s far too charming.”
Before you could respond, Pierre strolled past, towel slung over his shoulder and a bottle of water in hand. He paused just long enough to glance at Jenson, then at you.
“Ah,” he said with a knowing smirk. “Two retired world champions here to wish YN luck? Must be serious.”
You raised an eyebrow. “It’s called support, Pierre.”
“Mhm. Support. Is that what we’re calling it now?” His grin widened. “Should I warn Alex, or is he in on the plan?”
Seb groaned. “You see what I mean? This is exactly why I didn’t want her hanging around you people.”
Jenson chuckled, unbothered. “I can’t help it if I’m popular with the next generation.”
“Keep talking like that and you’ll need a helmet,” Sebastian warned, but even he couldn’t hide the soft look in his eyes when he turned back to you.
You just shook your head, cheeks warm, heart full. Because despite the teasing and the tension, it meant the world having your brother here — and maybe, just maybe, having Jenson standing beside him too.
—
The sun was still blazing over the paddock as the top qualifiers made their way through the media pen. Reporters buzzed like flies, camera lenses tracking every exhausted smile and sweat slicked brow. You had just finished spraying water down the back of your neck when you heard your name.
“YN Vettel, P3 today for Alpine — a phenomenal lap at the end of Q3. We’re here with you, Alex Albon in P5, and—” the interviewer turned, clearly trying not to grin— “the ever observant Jenson Button. Quite the lineup.”
You grinned as you stepped into frame, Alex following close behind, towel slung around his shoulders and looking way too relaxed.
Jenson, already holding the mic, smiled as you both approached. “This feels unfair. I’m outnumbered.”
Alex smirked, leaning in just enough to bump your shoulder. “You love it.”
“Do I?” Jenson teased, eyes flicking briefly toward you — and for a second, it felt like the cameras vanished.
You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Come on, Jenson. You’ve been interviewing us all season. Surely by now you know we’re harmless.”
He arched a brow. “You flirted with me mid interview in Barcelona.”
“And you blushed and stuttered,” Alex added helpfully, already grinning.
Jenson cleared his throat, very professionally. “Moving on.”
The other reporter laughed nervously off camera, clearly enjoying every second of this. “Alright, alright. YN — first, congratulations on P3. That final sector was incredible. Talk us through it.”
You nodded, shifting into a more serious tone — but only just. “Honestly, I knew I had time to gain in Sector 3, and the car felt really planted today. I pushed a little more than I should’ve, but I could hear Seb in my head going ‘commit or box,’ so I just sent it.”
Alex chimed in. “She was glowing in the garage. Literally glowing. I think Jenson might’ve clapped.”
“I did clap,” Jenson admitted, deadpan. “Quietly. To myself.”
You looked at him, smirking. “Touched, truly.”
“P5 for you, Alex,” Jenson said quickly, trying to steer the interview back on track. “Great result for Williams — you looked really hooked up in Q2 especially.”
Alex nodded. “Yeah, I’m happy with the lap. I probably could’ve squeezed another tenth, but thinking about YN distracted me. So.”
You snorted. “That’s on you, not me.”
Jenson blinked. “Are you two always like this?”
“Only when you’re around,” you both said in unison.
The cameraman audibly laughed behind the lens.
Just then, Lando walked by, sweaty, hair a mess, clearly having just wrapped his own interview. He slowed as he passed the group, gave all three of you a once over, and sighed loudly.
“Oh god. They’ve got Jenson again.”
You turned to him, beaming. “Do you want to join?”
Lando didn’t break stride. “No thanks, I’d rather not third wheel a live throuple audition.”
“Rude,” Alex called after him.
Jenson, surprisingly, looked… flustered. He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “For the record, I’m just trying to do my job.”
You leaned in slightly. “And you’re doing it so well.”
The interviewer had completely given up on keeping the conversation on track. “Right. Well, we’ll let you all get back to debriefs, but congrats again — and maybe next time we’ll see the two of you on a podium?”
Alex winked and grabbed your hand. “Don’t tempt us.”
Jenson muttered under his breath. “They’re going to be the death of me.”
You winked at him. “But what a way to go.”
—
The champagne was still drying on your race suit as you walked through the paddock — hair damp, cheeks flushed, hands still shaking from the adrenaline of your first P1 of the season. You couldn’t stop smiling.
Alex had been the first to hug you when you jumped out of the car, lifting you off your feet like you weighed nothing. He was soaked in sweat, but neither of you cared. P1 and P3 for the two of you? This wasn’t just a podium — it was a moment.
And then, as if the universe knew exactly what it was doing, you spotted him. Jenson.
Standing at the edge of the media pen, mic in hand, white shirt unbuttoned just enough to show a sliver of sun kissed skin, and a grin that was already forming the moment your eyes met his.
“Here she is,” he said, stepping forward as the crew waved you toward him. “The woman of the hour.”
You gave him a breathless laugh, still buzzing. “If you start the interview with ‘how does it feel,’ I swear I’m walking away.”
He chuckled, and god, it did something dangerous to your chest.
“Alright then,” Jenson said, shifting his weight, eyes gleaming. “Let’s try something new. YN Vettel — first place, flawless drive, your boyfriend in P3, your brother somewhere in the paddock losing his mind — how in the world are you still standing?”
You shook your head, half in disbelief. “I don’t know. Honestly, I’ve been dreaming about this day since I was like… eleven. It always felt like it would happen eventually, but now that it has, I just—” You stopped yourself, overwhelmed for a moment. “I feel like I’m going to cry or explode. Possibly both.”
Jenson’s voice softened. “You’ve earned it. Every bit of it.”
And for a second, it wasn’t an interview. It was him and you, sharing something unspoken.
Then Alex appeared behind you, practically skipping into frame. “Did she cry yet?” he asked, already grinning.
“No,” you groaned, rolling your eyes as he slung an arm over your shoulder. “But you’re about to make me.”
Alex beamed. “Perfect. That’s my job.”
Jenson laughed, mic moving to him. “P3 for you today, Alex — a huge result for Williams. Big points on the board. How’s the energy after that?”
“I’m riding high,” Alex said. “But mostly because I knew if I wasn’t on the podium with her, she’d never let me hear the end of it.”
“She’s already lording it over you, isn’t she?” Jenson teased.
Alex leaned in like he was whispering a secret. “You should’ve heard her on the cooldown lap. Called herself ‘the fastest on the grid.’ I think she’s getting cocky.”
You elbowed him, laughing. “You love it.”
“I do,” he said easily. “But if the cockiness persists, we might need to take you down a peg.”
Jenson looked between the two of you — soaked in champagne, adrenaline, and something softer. There was a fondness in his eyes that went deeper than usual. And when his gaze lingered on you, just a beat too long, you felt it like a pulse under your skin.
The interviewer from the side cleared her throat, gesturing to wrap. But Jenson hesitated.
“One last question,” he said, eyes still on you. “What would you say to the little girl who watched her brother win world titles and wondered if she’d ever get a moment like this?”
You froze. It hit you right in the chest.
You blinked quickly, smiled — small and real. “I’d say… hold on. Your time’s coming. And when it does, don’t be afraid to enjoy the hell out of it.”
Jenson nodded, just once. “That’s beautiful.”
Alex gave your shoulder a squeeze, his voice lower now. “You okay?”
You nodded, exhaling. “Yeah. I’m really good.”
Jenson stepped back, giving the mic to the crew, but before he walked off, he leaned in and said softly, just for you. “You were magic today.”
Your heart flipped. You didn’t reply. Just smiled — all warmth and adrenaline and affection you weren’t quite ready to name. But you knew. He did too. And maybe the whole world watching had started to suspect… that something was happening here. Something real.
—
yn_vettel
liked by alex_albon, lando, jensonbutton and 5,400,054 others.
yn_vettel : weekend dumpppppppp
tagged : alex_albon and carmenmmundt
—
view 275,000 other comments.
lando : we didn't need the meme. we know you're into him
↳ alex_albon : HEY. be nice. she made that meme.
↳ yn_vettel : artistic expression 💅 purrrrr
↳ jensonbutton : should i be flattered?
↳ pierregasly : flattered? mate you’re being hunted
↳ lando : blink twice if you need help
↳ alex_albon : HE IS FINE. he called us endearing last week.
↳ jensonbutton : i did. and i meant it. still do.
↳ charles_leclerc : i support whatever this is, but i fear for seb
↳ sebastianvettel : do not drag me into this.
↳ yn_vettel : too late old man
↳ sebastianvettel : last i checked...he is older than me and much older than you
↳ yn_vettel : yeah but he is like dilf status
↳ sebastianvettel : i am logging off for life.
carmenmmundt : love you beautiful and congrats on the win!!
liked by yn_vettel
↳ yn_vettel : love you forever! ty carms
pierregasly : caption should’ve been “me, my man, and the man we’re trying to steal”
↳ yn_vettel : GOODNIGHT PIERRE. GO TO BED
↳ alex_albon : wait wait let him cook. im stealing that
alpinef1team : our race winner!! 🩷💙
liked by yn_vettel
alex_albon : room service burgers after a podium 11/10
liked by yn_vettel
↳ yn_vettel : even better when the front desk has your card so you paid for everything i ordered
liked by alex_albon
—
skysportsf1
(this pic of albono 🫦) (srry)
liked by lando, pierregasly and 3,740,007 others.
skysportsf1 : What happens when you put a world champion, his biggest fans, and one very fast kart track together? 👀🏁
We sent YN Vettel, Alex Albon, and Jenson Button out for a little “friendly” competition — and let’s just say, it got a little competitive, a lot chaotic… and maybe even a bit flirty. 😅 Video out now on our YouTube!
—
view 75,000 other comments.
username000 : this is NOT journalism. this is matchmaking and i support it
username7 : jenson was trying so hard to be professional and then yn winked at him and he spun out 😭😭😭
lando : if i flirt with jenson will i get invited next time??
↳ jensonbutton : try me
↳ lando : OH
↳ lando : the jenson button effect is real.
username77 : can someone check on seb. he’s probably stress-building a bee sanctuary right now
username15 : alex and yn when jenson takes the lead: 😍
alex and yn when each other takes the lead: 😈
jenson the whole time: 😳
pierregasly : me pretending i’m not watching this for the sexual tension
↳ yukitsunoda0511 : NO SPOILERS!! im only 5 mins in
olliebearman : can we get an edit of all three of them just giggling and making accidental heart eyes??? for scientific reasons
↳ yn_vettel : its your bedtime rookie (someone pls do it)
—
“Just a lighthearted karting video,” the Sky Sports producer said.
“Casual, friendly, no one trying too hard,” the cameraman added.
You and Alex exchanged one look. You were already zipping up your suit, helmet tucked under your arm, while Alex leaned against the pit wall in his signature half zipped chaos. Jenson Button, calm and dangerously charming in a branded polo and race boots he probably hadn’t worn in five years, watched the two of you with the calm patience of a man who had absolutely no idea what he was about to walk into. Or maybe he did — and that’s why he smiled like that.
“We’re going to be so well behaved,” you said, batting your lashes.
“Model citizens,” Alex added.
Jenson raised a brow. “Is that before or after you run each other off the track?”
“Before,” you and Alex replied in sync.
The producer sighed. Jenson took the mic. “We’re here at the track today with YN Vettel and Alex Albon—two incredibly fast, slightly chaotic, definitely competitive Formula One drivers. We’re going to settle the age-old question, who’s the best behind the wheel when the car has no downforce, no radio, and no team principal yelling at them?”
You cut in, smiling sweetly. “Spoiler alert… it’s not you.”
Alex gasped. “Have some respect. He’s a world champion.”
You shrugged. “So’s my brother.”
Jenson looked at you with a half smirk. “Is that why you keep flirting with me? To complete the set?”
Alex doubled over. “OH MY GOD.”
You bit your lip. “If you’re scared, just say that.”
The producer, somewhere in the background, whispered, “We’ll never be able to air this.”
They gave you all a rolling start, pretending like it would be calm. You all pretended right back. First lap was smooth. Waving at the camera, laughing, easy.
Second lap, you dove down the inside of Alex in Turn 3, yelled “BYE!” through your helmet mic, and took the lead. He chased you for two corners before Jenson casually passed you both with textbook precision and a wave that made your blood boil in the flirtiest way possible.
“Oh, he’s gonna be insufferable,” you muttered.
“You say that like he isn’t already,” Alex replied, laughing.
Two laps later, you and Alex nearly collided going side by side through a hairpin. Jenson watched it unfold from ahead and muttered, “Children,” like a dad watching his toddlers fight over an iPad.
You pulled into the pits for a water break and immediately shoved your helmet off.
“That was a dangerous overtake,” Jenson said as you yanked your hair out of your bun.
You smirked. “You liked it.”
He blinked. “I—well, it was… bold.”
Alex walked up behind you, also helmetless, dripping sweat. “She drives like she flirts. No mercy.”
“Is that a compliment?” you asked.
“Yes,” both Jenson and Alex said in unison.
The producer audibly choked.
One lap. No rules. Winner picks dinner.
You, Alex, and Jenson lined up side by side, all grinning like devils.
This time it was war.
Alex tried to divebomb you into Turn 1, but you held him off and ran wide. Jenson squeezed between both of you. All three of you nearly spun. You took the lead in the final sector, Jenson right on your tail, and crossed the line with your fist in the air.
Alex came third, laughing so hard he could barely see. Jenson pulled up beside you and took off his helmet, hair a mess, cheeks flushed.
“You cheated,” he said breathlessly.
“I flirted,” you corrected.
“Same thing,” he muttered, grinning.
Back in casual clothes, still sweating and laughing, the three of you stood in front of the camera as Jenson tried to read the outro off the prompter.
“Well, that was karting with—honestly, I don’t know what just happened. I’ve been emotionally bullied and overtaken repeatedly.”
“Sounds like love,” Alex said.
You shrugged. “We warned you.”
Jenson looked at you, then Alex, then straight into the camera. “This was supposed to be a friendly video. Instead, I’m now in therapy.”
“Group therapy,” you added, slipping your hand into Alex’s.
Alex nodded. “He’ll learn to like it.”
—
The sun was low now, casting golden light across the track as crew members packed up gear and cables. The shoot was technically over — mics off, cameras down, producer exhaling into his headset like he’d just survived a hostage situation.
You were sitting on the edge of the pit wall, still in your race suit but with the top half tied around your waist, hair messy and damp from your helmet. Alex stood beside you, sipping a water bottle and trying to catch his breath. You could still feel the ache in your cheeks from laughing too much.
Jenson approached, casually — too casually, for someone who just spent the last hour pretending not to be flustered every time you or Alex so much as looked at him.
“I think I’m traumatized,” he said, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking between the two of you.
Alex grinned. “You loved it.”
“I did,” he admitted. “In a very ‘what have I gotten myself into’ kind of way.”
You tilted your head. “Regret joining us?”
Jenson laughed, shaking his head. “Not even a little. In fact…” He paused, just long enough to make your heart skip. “I was thinking—since YN technically won—and Alex didn't flip me off too many times… maybe the three of us should do dinner?”
You blinked. Alex did too.
“Oh,” you said finally, the smallest smile curling at your lips. “You’re asking us out?”
Jenson shrugged, still smiling, but there was a glint in his eyes now — the kind that made it clear he’d been thinking about this all day. “You’re both very hard to say no to.”
Alex glanced at you. “Well. She did win. Guess that makes her in charge.”
You pretended to think. “Hmm. Okay. But I get to pick the place. And we’re getting dessert first.”
Jenson laughed. “Deal.”
Alex bumped your shoulder. “Make him pay.”
You smirked at Jenson. “You’re paying.”
He held up his hands. “I wouldn’t dare argue with the reigning karting champion.”
And just like that, the tension that had danced around the three of you all day finally settled into something warm and comfortable. The flirting wasn’t just a joke anymore. Not just a game.
You hopped down from the pit wall, grabbing your water bottle and walking between them with the cocky little grin that had wrecked Jenson back on lap three.
“Come on, gentlemen,” you said over your shoulder. “I’m starving. And I earned it.”
Alex followed with a laugh. Jenson, after a brief moment of stunned silence, did too. And the camera crew, still quietly packing up, caught the three of you walking off together — laughing, bickering, undeniably something.
—
The hostess led the three of you through the dimly lit restaurant with all the grace of someone who had definitely clocked the trio immediately. You, Alex, and Jenson—still slightly sun-kissed from the day on track, still dressed just nice enough to make people wonder, “Is this… a thing?”
You were wearing a black dress that walked the line between elegant and unhinged, Alex in a linen button-down he probably borrowed from George, and Jenson in the most offensively perfect navy suit with his top two buttons undone like a threat.
The second you sat down, Alex leaned across the table, stage whispering, “This is absolutely a date.”
“I’m not arguing,” you replied, flicking your menu open.
Jenson cleared his throat. “It’s just dinner.”
You raised a brow. “At a place with mood lighting and a violinist.”
“There’s literally a candle,” Alex added, pointing.
Jenson glanced at the flickering tea light in the center of the table and muttered, “They seated us in the romance zone, didn’t they?”
“Oh, 100%,” you and Alex said in sync.
The waitress appeared with menus and a very knowing smile. “Can I start you with drinks?”
“Red,” you said immediately. “Something that tastes expensive.”
“I’ll have what she’s having,” Jenson added.
“Same,” Alex said. “We’ll let the dangerous woman choose everything.”
You smiled, tilting your head sweetly. “You finally get it.”
—
Alex was halfway through a story about Carlos crashing a scooter in the middle of Milan when you caught Jenson watching you over the rim of his glass.
Not in a creepy way. In a softly overwhelmed, I might actually be in trouble kind of way.
You raised an eyebrow.
“What?” you asked.
He blinked, clearly caught. “Nothing. You’re just—different off-track.”
Alex snorted. “No, she’s not. She just hides the chaos better in a helmet.”
You nudged Alex under the table. “You’re supposed to make me sound mysterious.”
“I’ve known you too long to lie that well.”
Jenson laughed, loosening the collar of his shirt just slightly. “You’re both special…slightly dangerous for me.”
“Flattered,” you said. “Terrified?”
“Little bit,” he admitted, sipping his wine.
—
You were telling a story about nearly taking out Alex during karting when the waitress returned with dessert menus. She set them down and said, “You three are adorable, by the way.”
You froze. Alex choked on his water.
Jenson blinked. “Pardon?”
She smiled innocently. “Just saying. Very cute energy. Enjoy your night!” and then vanished like a ghost.
You looked at Alex, then Jenson. “We just got externally soft launched.”
Alex whispered, “The prophecy is fulfilling itself.”
Jenson put his head in his hands. “I’m never going to hear the end of this.”
“Oh, absolutely not,” you said. “Also, I’m ordering three desserts. One for each of us. No arguing.”
Alex raised a glass. “To throuple core.”
“To Jenson surviving this,” you added.
Jenson groaned, but he was smiling — pink-cheeked and glowing in the candlelight like he was absolutely okay with this chaos happening to him.
And when the desserts came — tiramisu, crème brûlée, and some ridiculous molten lava cake — you all leaned in with spoons and giggles and bites stolen from each other’s plates like it had been this way forever.
Somewhere across the room, someone definitely took a photo.
You didn’t care.
After you all finished, Alex offered to call the car. Jenson politely declined.
You? You just walked in the middle — hands brushing against both of theirs, warm from wine and laughter and whatever this was becoming.
“You know,” Jenson said as you stepped out into the night air, “I still don’t quite know what this is.”
You turned to him, grinning.
“It’s dinner,” you said, “and maybe the start of something really fun.”
Alex nodded. “And if it gets messy?”
You smirked. “Then we’ll just race again. Winner makes the rules.”
Jenson laughed. And he didn’t say it out loud, but god help him — he hoped you won.
—
You wake up to the sound of Alex snoring lightly, his cheek smooshed against the pillow and his hair sticking up. The curtains are still mostly drawn, only the softest morning light leaking in, and everything is quiet — the kind of stillness that only exists in hotel rooms after a late night filled with too much wine, too many inside jokes, and far too much flirting.
You roll over, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as your body protests any movement at all. You’re still in last night’s clothes, sort of. Alex is curled up next to you, shirtless, one arm thrown across your waist like he’d decided, mid dream, that you were his human sized body pillow.
“Al,” you murmur, poking his side. “Alex. Wake up. We need coffee and possibly medical attention.”
He groans. “No. I’m in mourning.”
You blink at him. “For what?”
“My dignity,” he says dramatically, eyes still closed. “I let Jenson Button flirt with you the entire night and I thanked him for the wine. I think I might be in love with both of you.”
You snort, flopping back down. “At least he paid.”
There’s a knock at the hotel room door. You both freeze.
Alex lifts his head just enough to glance toward it. “Room service?”
You shake your head. “Didn’t order anything.”
The knocking comes again — louder this time.
“Ugh,” you grumble, dragging yourself out of bed and padding toward the door in one of Alex’s oversized shirts. You crack it open carefully, squinting against the hallway light— And freeze.
There’s a massive, borderline obnoxious, flower arrangement on a rolling cart outside your door. Roses, peonies, hydrangeas, and at least three types of orchids are practically bursting out of a crystal vase that looks more expensive than your entire wardrobe.
You blink. “Uh… Alex?”
“Is it the apocalypse?” he calls from the bed.
“It might be,” you say. “Come here.”
He drags himself to the door, shirtless and barefoot, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. When he sees the bouquet, he stops in his tracks.
“Jesus,” he says. “Did someone die? Are we dead?”
You lean forward and spot the small white envelope tucked into the middle of the chaos of petals. It’s addressed to both of you — in annoyingly perfect handwriting. You open it.
To my two favorite co-stars,
Thank you for making yesterday one of the most fun days I’ve had in years. You’re both ridiculously talented, wildly attractive, and maybe a little bit dangerous together — and I’m starting to think that’s my favorite combination.
Let’s do it again sometime. Dinner round two? My treat again. Just name the city.
Yours (regrettably not literally),
JB x
Alex reads over your shoulder and makes a wounded noise. “Yours, regrettably not literally? He’s trying to steal both of us.”
You grin. “Can you blame him?”
Alex plucks one of the peonies out of the bouquet and tucks it behind your ear. “I would be mad,” he says, pulling you in by the waist, “but you looked too good last night. I’d flirt with you both too.”
You rest your forehead against his chest, laughing softly. “Should we respond?”
“Definitely,” Alex says. “Let’s send him back a bottle of wine and a cheeky note.”
You hum. “Dangerous combination?”
He kisses the top of your head. “The most.”
And as you both stand there in the doorway — half-asleep, barefoot, in each other’s arms and surrounded by an absurd amount of flowers — you realize you’re not quite sure what you and Alex are now. But whatever it is… Jenson clearly approves. And honestly, that’s probably all the confirmation you need.
—
yn_vettel
liked by alex_albon, jensonbutton, lando and 7,000,000 others.
yn_vettel : enjoying this little break:) gonna turn my phone off and let the internet scramble
tagged : alex_albon, sebastianvettel and jensonbutton
—
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—
ynvettelmywifey
liked by lando and 1,803,005 others.
ynvettelmywifey : i have compiled a definitive list of moments where yn, alex, and jenson are clearly in love with each other. this is a cry for help. also, you’re welcome.
A) that one interview where alex and yn are being asked questions and everything’s normal… until jenson appears and suddenly yn starts YAPPING at light speed, stutters mid-sentence, turns bright red, and then hands the mic to alex like “you talk.” cutest. thing. ever. i scream into my pillow every time.
B) the williams event that lives rent free in my brain. alex is looking at jenson like he hung the damn moon, and then there’s that tiny clip on the williams youtube channel where jenson and alex are casually talking about yn and seb, and it literally sounds like a love letter. “she’s just got something special” OKAY I’M CRYING.
C) this godforsaken photo. they got CAUGHT staring at jenson. multiple times. MULTIPLE. the way alex is mid swoon and yn is biting her lip??? hello????
D) 2024 monaco gp. yn’s weekend was ROUGH, she looked exhausted, but then she finds out jenson’s doing post-race interviews and this girl LIT UP like a christmas tree. the clip of her face when she hears? life-changing. her whole body language changes. i rest my case.
E) THE CUT ALPINE VIDEO. alpine we will never forgive you for not airing this. yn vettel + jenson button = no thoughts, only heart eyes. she’s sitting across from him one-on-one, giggling like a schoolgirl. her whole soul is blushing. put the eyes away girl you’re in public!
F) the jenson + alex interview where they CANNOT stop flirting. like full-blown british charm olympics. then the interviewer brings up yn and they IMMEDIATELY go soft. jenson’s like “she’s incredible, isn’t she?” and alex goes “she’s the best part of my day, every day.”
BE SERIOUS.
conclusion: they are all in love. we are all witnessing it. i am feral.
—
Jenson doesn’t tell either of you where he’s taking you.
All he says is
Dress warm, no heels, and meet me on the South Bank at 7. Trust me.
Alex raises an eyebrow when you read him the text aloud. “Is he taking us hiking through central London?”
You laugh. “If he is, I’m making him carry me.”
You meet him by the river, not far from the London Eye. The city lights glow behind him, reflecting on the water, and he’s waiting with three takeaway coffees and a smile that makes your chest ache.
Alex spots him first. “God, he’s annoying.”
“Why?” you ask, turning to him.
“Because he’s stupidly hot and thoughtful.”
You don’t disagree. Jenson greets you both with hugs — tighter than the first time, familiar now — and hands over the drinks. “Thought we’d try something different. I figured dinner was too predictable.”
You glance around. “So what’s the plan?”
“Night walk through the city,” he says simply. “Then I want to take you somewhere.”
The walk is slow, easy, full of quiet laughter and shared stories. Jenson is in the middle, and he somehow manages to link arms with both of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. At one point, he leans in and says something under his breath that makes Alex laugh so hard he nearly drops his coffee.
You don’t even ask. You’re too busy trying not to stare at the way Jenson’s hand brushes yours every few seconds. On purpose. Definitely on purpose.
The night is cool and clear. It feels unreal.
Eventually, you reach a narrow footpath along the river, slightly hidden. Jenson glances around like he’s making sure no one is watching, then gestures for you both to follow.
You exchange a glance with Alex.
“You sure he’s not luring us to our deaths?” you whisper.
“If he is, I’ll die happily,” Alex replies, fixing his hair.
The footpath leads to a private dock. There’s a small vintage boat waiting — low lights strung around the edges, champagne already on ice. It’s not flashy. It’s intentional.
Alex stares. “What the hell.”
You blink. “Jenson—”
“I didn’t want a restaurant,” he says quietly. “I wanted a memory.”
And then he climbs in like this is something he does every day.
You and Alex follow.
Once you’re drifting gently down the river, everything softens. The city hums in the background, but in your little boat, the world feels quiet. Peaceful. Golden.
Jenson sits opposite you and Alex, one knee drawn up, his hand resting near yours. You all sip champagne and talk about ridiculous things — the worst fan gifts you’ve ever received, weird media day stories, the time Alex locked himself in a catering fridge because he thought it was a door to the bathroom in hospitality.
At some point, Jenson asks softly, “When was the last time either of you did something just for yourselves?”
The question hangs in the air for a moment too long.
Alex looks down. “I don’t even know.”
You just exhale.
Jenson’s expression softens. “You give everything to your careers. To other people. I think maybe… someone should give a little back.”
He doesn’t say it to win points. He says it like a promise. Like he already means it.
As the boat turns back toward the dock, Jenson finally shifts. Leans forward. Looks between you and Alex with something deliberate in his gaze.
“I need to say something,” he begins, voice low. “And if I don’t say it now, I’ll keep dancing around it until one of you punches me.”
You and Alex both straighten, your hearts synced in quiet anticipation.
“I like you,” Jenson says. “Both of you. A lot more than I expected to. And I know this is… unconventional, maybe a little crazy, but—” he hesitates, then smiles, “—so are we.”
Your breath catches.
Alex clears his throat. “Jenson…”
“I know I’m older,” Jenson continues, “and you two already have this unshakable bond, but I feel something when I’m with you. Something real. And I think we could make this work, if we wanted to. If we tried.”
Silence. Not awkward. Just full.
Then Alex speaks, softly. “What exactly are you asking?”
Jenson leans forward, brushing his fingers over yours — then Alex’s.
“I’m asking if you’d let me be part of this. If we could try — not just dinner dates and stolen glances — but a real chance. The three of us. Together.”
You don’t answer right away. You just reach across the space between you and take his hand. Alex does the same. Jenson smiles. And under the London night sky, champagne still half-finished and hearts racing, something quiet and sacred forms between you.
—
several weeks later...some domestic moments bc im a whore for soft.
The kettle’s whistling.
Alex is sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter, eating strawberries straight from the container. You’re curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies, half-asleep, watching some terrible DIY show on mute. And Jenson — infuriatingly alert for someone who definitely got the least sleep — is making tea like he’s been doing it his whole life.
“Al,” you call softly.
He doesn’t look up. “Yeah?”
“Did you put the clean sheets in the dryer?”
“No,” he says, mouth full. “But I told Jenson to.”
You both turn to Jenson.
He raises an eyebrow without turning around. “You did. And I said no. And then you said ‘Fair.’”
Alex hums. “That does sound like me.”
You smile behind your mug. These are the kinds of things that would’ve felt like fights in a different context. But here, in this house, with these two, it’s… playful. It’s normal. It’s real.
Jenson brings over two mugs and sets them down in front of you and Alex, then stands there expectantly, hands on his hips. “I made the tea. I demand praise.”
“You’re a hero,” you say. “A domestic god.”
“A working class icon,” Alex adds, deadpan.
Jenson leans over and kisses the top of your head, then Alex’s temple, then sits down at the table with a sigh. “We’re doing it, you know.”
Alex looks over at him. “Doing what?”
“This,” Jenson says, gesturing vaguely. “All of it. Waking up together. Bickering over laundry. Remembering how you both take your tea.” He smiles a little. “Being a proper thing.”
You glance at Alex. He meets your eyes and shrugs like yeah, it’s weird for me too. But then he grins and hops off the counter, padding barefoot across the kitchen to Jenson, leaning down and kissing him on the cheek. You follow — mostly because you’re cold and they’re both warm and you have zero shame anymore.
Alex slides into Jenson’s lap. You drape yourself across both of them. Somehow it works.
“I keep thinking someone’s going to barge in and tell us this isn’t allowed,” you mumble into Jenson’s chest.
He brushes a hand down your spine. “No one gets to decide that but us.”
Alex hums. “I mean, maybe your PR person. But other than that…”
You all laugh.
Then Jenson’s voice softens. “Is it too fast?” he asks. “Us. This.”
You look at Alex. He looks at you. It’s unspoken, but easy.
“No,” you say in sync.
“Scary,” Alex adds. “But not too fast.”
“Terrifying,” you agree. “But not wrong.”
Jenson leans his head back against the chair, arms wrapped around both of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Good,” he says softly. “Because I’ve never wanted anything more domestic in my life.”
Alex smiles and steals your tea. And somehow, without any big declarations or timelines or expectations, you realize that this isn’t just a fling or an experiment. It’s something soft and strange and safe. It’s home.
—
The air is quiet. Outside the window, you can hear the wind brushing through the trees. The kind of silence that invites the truth. Jenson’s lying on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, his other hand linked with yours. Alex is curled up behind you, chin tucked into your shoulder, his thumb tracing lazy patterns over your hip. You’ve been still for a while — not speaking, just breathing together — until the words slip out.
“We have to tell Seb.”
Alex’s hand pauses.
Jenson turns his head toward you. “You’ve been thinking about it all night, haven’t you?”
You nod slowly. “He’s going to find out anyway. He always does.”
There’s a beat of silence before Alex says, quietly, “He’s going to kill me.”
“He’s going to kill me first,” Jenson murmurs. “I’m the old one.”
You let out a small, tired laugh, burying your face into the pillow. “He’s going to kill both of you. And then he’s going to ground me.”
Alex leans up on one elbow. “Okay but like… genuinely, is there a non lethal way to do this? Because I love you. And I also enjoy living.”
You roll onto your back, eyes to the ceiling. “He’s my brother. He’s always looked out for me. Every race, every bad day, every broken heart. He was the first person I called when I got my F1 seat. The first person who hugged me when I cried after my first DNF. I’m his little sister, and now I’m—”
You gesture vaguely between the three of you.
Alex speaks gently. “Now you’re happy. And that should matter to him.”
“It will matter to him,” Jenson adds. “He loves you too much for it not to.”
You press your lips together, eyes stinging just a little. “He’s going to be disappointed.”
Jenson shakes his head, sitting up slightly. “No. Protective, sure. Overwhelmed? Probably. But disappointed? No. Not when he sees this for what it really is.”
Alex pulls you back against him. “We’ll tell him the truth. All of it. That this wasn’t planned, it wasn’t casual. It just happened. And we didn’t expect to fall into something this… solid.”
“Real,” Jenson echoes. “It’s real.”
You close your eyes. “He’s going to ask if this is serious.”
Alex kisses the back of your shoulder. “And we’ll say yes.”
“He’ll say he wants to talk to both of us privately,” Jenson mutters. “In German. While sharpening tools.”
You laugh, wet and soft. “He’ll forgive you eventually.”
“He always does,” Alex murmurs, lips near your jaw. “Because he knows I love you.”
Jenson strokes your arm with the back of his hand. “And because he knows I’d never let you fall if I wasn’t ready to catch you.”
The room quiets again. You feel Alex’s heartbeat against your back. Jenson’s warmth at your side. Maybe your brother will yell. Maybe he’ll go quiet in that Seb way that says he’s thinking ten things at once. Maybe he’ll tell you he’s worried. Maybe he won’t understand right away. But one thing is certain. You’ll tell him together. And that, at least, makes it a little less scary.
—
The air smells like fresh coffee and pine. You’re sitting at the kitchen table, your knee bouncing under the wood. Across from you, Alex is trying to look casual, picking at a croissant. He hasn’t made eye contact in ten minutes. Jenson is standing by the window with a mug in his hands, pretending to be interested in the view. You’ve never seen a man that composed look this tense. Then the back door opens. Seb walks in, wearing a fleece and old sweatpants, hair a little messy, smile soft as ever. He’s holding a basket of eggs and humming something under his breath.
“Morning,” he says, placing the basket on the counter. “Hope you two didn’t let YN bully you into that oat milk nonsense.”
“Rude,” you mutter.
He grins and pours himself a cup of coffee before glancing between the three of you. Then he pauses. His eyes narrow — not unkind, but sharp. A Vettel level scan. He sets his mug down.
“What happened?”
Jenson clears his throat. “Nothing. We just—”
“You’re all acting like someone died,” Seb says. “Is this about your Alpine contract? Because I told you that team—”
“No,” you cut in gently. “It’s not about racing.”
Seb frowns. You take a breath. “Can you sit down for a second?”
He does, immediately. The room shifts. Serious now. Jenson joins you at the table. Alex stays frozen for a second, then finally pulls his chair closer. His knee knocks yours. You reach for both their hands beneath the table. Seb watches all of it. Then you speak, slowly.
“I need to tell you something. It’s… not bad, I promise. But it’s important.”
Seb nods once, waiting. You glance at Alex. At Jenson. Then back to your brother.
“I’m seeing someone. Two someones, actually.”
Seb’s brow furrows. His mouth opens, but you keep going.
“I didn’t plan it. None of us did. But… I fell for them. Both of them. And they fell for me. And… somewhere along the way, they fell for each other too.”
Alex shifts slightly. Jenson’s hand tightens in yours. Seb doesn’t speak.
You keep going, voice quieter now. “We didn’t want to hide it from you. But we also didn’t want to make it a thing before it was real. It’s real now.”
Silence. Seb leans back in his chair. Runs a hand through his hair. Looks at you, then at Jenson. Then Alex.
“You’re serious?” he finally asks, voice steady.
You nod. “Very.”
He looks between them again. Then, calmly. “How long?”
Jenson answers, gentle. “A few months. It started light, but… it grew.”
Seb looks at Alex. “You love her?”
“More than anything,” Alex says without hesitation.
He turns to Jenson. “And you?”
“I’d never be here if I didn’t,” Jenson says. “I know what this looks like. I know how it might feel to watch someone you’ve protected your whole life take a risk. But I’d never let her fall. Neither of us would.”
Seb breathes in deep through his nose. He rubs his palm over his jaw, thinking. You wait. And wait. Then he finally looks at you — his little sister — eyes softer than they’ve been since he walked in.
“Are you happy?”
You nod. “Really happy.”
Another pause. Then he exhales and leans forward, elbows on the table.
“I’m going to be honest,” he says slowly. “My brain is still trying to compute it. But… you look happy. And I trust you. I trust you to know what’s right for you.”
Your eyes sting.
He looks at Alex and Jenson. “And I trust you two to not screw it up. Because if you do…” He gives them a very classic Vettel look. “I will find you. And I will not be charming.”
Alex swallows. “Understood.”
Jenson nods. “Fully.”
Then Seb pushes back from the table and opens his arms. You’re up before he finishes the gesture. You hug him tight, burying your face into his shoulder. He holds you the way he always has — like you’re still seven years old and too curious for your own good.
“I just want you to be safe,” he murmurs. “And loved. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.”
“I am,” you whisper. “I really, really am.”
—
The energy is buzzing. Engines still cooling, fans still screaming, champagne still dripping off a few podiums in the background. Jenson is seated at the Sky Sports desk in front of the paddock, his tie askew and hair a little windswept from running between interviews.
He’s halfway through a post race debrief with Danica Patrick, Naomi Schiff, and a rotating third pundit who may or may not be sweating because he just got spritzed with sparkling wine.
“Now, let’s talk about Alpine,” Danica says into the mic, flipping to the graphic. “Specifically, Vettel.”
Jenson shifts in his seat, already knowing where this is going.
“I’m going to be honest,” Danica continues, tone sharp. “She’s been off this weekend. Slower pace, messy defending, and she nearly took out both McLarens in turn three. I know she’s popular, but we need to be realistic—”
“She still finished P5,” Jenson cuts in, voice steady but steely.
Danica raises an eyebrow. “And?”
“And,” Jenson says, smiling tightly, “P5 in that Alpine today was a miracle. She was managing engine temperatures, floor damage, and had the slowest pit stop of the race. And she still overtook three cars in the final five laps. That’s not luck. That’s talent.”
Naomi watches him like she knows exactly what’s happening.
Danica doesn’t back down. “Sure, but we can’t pretend she hasn’t been erratic lately. The mistakes, the inconsistency—”
“She’s had one DNF all season,” Jenson says, sharper now. “Her consistency rating is better than Russell’s. And I’ve been in that paddock. I’ve seen the data. I’ve seen the way her team leans on her. They’d collapse without her.”
Danica shrugs. “I just think she gets a little too much credit, honestly.”
Jenson’s jaw flexes.
“Danica,” he says, calm and cutting, “you’re entitled to your opinion. But if you’re going to try and discredit one of the most intelligent, talented drivers on the grid because she had one imperfect race in an otherwise stellar season, then you’re not being analytical. You’re being unfair.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence on the desk.
The third pundit tries to hide behind his notes. Naomi casually sips her water, not even trying to hold in her smirk.
Danica opens her mouth to respond— And then it happens. Off camera, someone walks past with a purpose.
You.
Still in your race suit, fireproofs pulled to your waist, sunglasses perched on your head, ponytail a little messy from the helmet. You pause just behind Jenson, lean down, press a kiss to his cheek — no, his mouth, unapologetically, possessively — and murmur loud enough for the mic to catch it.
“Thanks, babe.”
And then you walk off. No fanfare. No second glance. Just a soft smile and a wink at Naomi as you disappear down the paddock corridor. Naomi loses it.
Danica blinks. “Wait—what?”
Jenson, still blushing, coughs and adjusts his earpiece like it might save him from the moment that just went very live on international broadcast. The poor camera guy zooms out to try and find you, but it’s too late.
Twitter , Instagram, TikTok — everywhere — is in flames within minutes. And so is the rest of the grid.
Oscar nearly spits out his water. “Did she just kiss Jenson Button?”
Charles gasps dramatically. “Did he blush?”
Lando arches his eyebrow. “Wait. Wait wait wait. Does that mean…”
Kimi shouts. “They’re a throuple???”
Lando looks as if something just clicked in his brain. “OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. I KNEW SOMETHING WAS OFF IN THAT SKY SPORTS VIDEO THEY DID TOGETHER.”
Ollie Bearman, silently Googling age gaps. “Okay but like… I need to sit down.”
Oscar again, dazed. “She didn’t even look back. Icon behavior.”
–
Jenson finally clears his throat on live TV.
“Well,” he says, attempting casual, “I guess that answers a few questions.”
Naomi bursts into laughter. Danica just blinks.
The broadcast cuts to a highlight reel, but it’s too late. The grid knows. The media knows. The fans definitely know. And the three of you? Well. You’re just getting started.
—
yn_vettel
liked by sebastianvettel, jensonbutton, alex_albon and 11,008,003 others.
yn_vettel : i guess the only way to get danica patrick to stfu is to hard launch your throuple on live tv. love both my boys so so much 😍😍😍😍
tagged : jensonbutton and alex_albon
—
view 753,000 other comments.
naomischiff : the way i knew but still screamed when it happened. queen behavior.
liked by yn_vettel
lando : i need someone to explain this like i’m five. (also congrats ily)
liked by yn_vettel and alex_albon
↳ yn_vettel : u r 5 wdym
olliebearman : so do we address it normally or do we throw a parade???
liked by yn_vettel and alex_albon
sebastianvettel : i need a nap.
liked by yn_vettel and alex_albon
danielricciardo : am i allowed to be in love with all three of you or is that too much
liked by yn_vettel, alex_albon and jensonbutton
estebanocon : everyone say thank you to danica for being a bitch so we can have this throuple
liked by yn_vettel, alex_albon and jensonbutton
jensonbutton : thank you for choosing violence on live television, darling. it was hot.
liked by yn_vettel and alex_albon
alex_albon : i was going to do a cute little soft launch but sure babe steal the spotlight with a live kiss and national chaos, that’s fine
i'm requesting another one!! an alex x reader x lily, reader being logan sargeant's sister and a uni professor (or normal teacher, whichever you prefer), and where logan makes her go to a gp and there she meets alex and lily!!
thank yoouu so much for being the best writer, love youu 🤍🫶
A for Effort — aa23 + lily muni he
smau + written blurbs
alex albon x !sargeant teacher reader x lily muni he
logan had been pestering you for months to finally come watch him race in person. as far as you were concerned, formula 1 was his chaotic world, and you were perfectly content in yours—early mornings, lesson plans, glue-stained desks, and the laughter of twenty second-graders. but when he sent you a ticket with a simple “no excuses” text, you sighed, packed a bag, and promised yourself you’d survive a weekend in the paddock.
you expected noise, cameras, and more adrenaline than you were used to. what you didn’t expect was to meet alex albon and lily muni he—two people who made the whirlwind of f1 feel strangely like home.
fc : jade distinguin
(a/n) : after the heavy max fic earlier, i feel like we all need something light and fluffy! hope you enjoy and i love you so so so so much!!!🤍🩵💗💖🌟💓🫶🏻☁️
—
yn_sargeant
liked by logansargeant, oscarpiastri, alex_albon and 455,000 others.
yn_sargeant : it is officially summer break for me which means i miss my kids and logan is forcing me to go to a race 🙃⭐️
tagged : logansargeant
—
view 35,400 other comments.
username00 : do your kids get excited when logan comes to visit???
liked by yn_sargeant
↳ yn_sargeant : yes! however he did get humbled one time. one of my boys asked if he could bring oscar next time 😇 gave me a good laugh
liked by oscarpiastri and logansargeant
↳ oscarpiastri : kid has good taste. can’t blame him
liked by yn_sargeant and logansargeant
↳ logansargeant : yes but he also said he liked my helmet more than oscars so
liked by yn_sargeant and oscarpiastri
lilyzneimer : so excited to see you again my love! 💓💗
liked by yn_sargeant
↳ yn_sargeant : my girl🥹 it’s been way too long!
liked by lilyzneimer
logansargeant : forcing you? like it’s not my home race and only an hour from you. don’t you want to support your favorite brother?
liked by yn_sargeant
↳ yn_sargeant : i fear my favorite brother is @/daltonsargeant
liked by daltonsargeant and logansargeant
↳ logansargeant : ok gonna go cry now. williams already makes me miserable enough and now my own SISTER
liked by yn_sargeant and alex_albon
↳ yn_sargeant : okay sir pls tone down the dramatics. im still coming
liked by logansargeant
↳ logansargeant : YAY I WIN
liked by yn_sargeant
↳ daltonsargeant : youngest child syndrome 🥱
liked by yn_sargeant and logansargeant
lilymhe : the flower paintings are so cute! 🥹 so excited to finally meet you:)
liked by yn_sargeant
↳ yn_sargeant : omg fangirling rn! but i can’t wait🫶🏻😭
liked by lilymhe
williamsracing : miss frizzle would 100% approve 👩🏫✨
liked by yn_sargeant
lando : logan’s sister >>>>>> logan sorry i don’t make the rules
liked by yn_sargeant
↳ logansargeant : oscar >>>>>>> lando
liked by lando and yn_sargeant
↳ yn_sargeant : ooooo the girls are fighting ☕️
liked by lando and logansargeant
alex_albon : definitely would’ve paid more attention in school if my teacher was as cool as you🙃
liked by yn_sargeant, lilymhe and georgerussell63
↳ georgerussell63 : smooth
↳ logansargeant : pls don’t. she needs humbled
—
Your classroom smelled faintly of dry erase markers, crayons, and the faintest whiff of tempera paint that seemed permanently embedded in the walls. You were hunched over a cabinet, sorting construction paper by color and trying not to think about how much you’d miss the chaos of your second graders over the summer. The room was quieter than you were used to—no laughter, no chatter, no little hands tugging at your sleeve. Just the soft squeak of your shoes against the linoleum and the sound of tape being ripped as you pulled down the last of the bulletin board decorations.
“Wow,” Logan’s voice drawled from the doorway. “You weren’t kidding when you said teachers are like interior designers.”
You glanced up from the stack of glittery cardstock and rolled your eyes. “Are you here to help, or just to make fun of me?”
“Both,” he grinned, strolling inside with his hands stuffed in his pockets. He looked ridiculously out of place among the tiny chairs and bright posters—like a giant in a dollhouse.
“You can start by taking down those posters.” You gestured toward the wall. “Or maybe stack the chairs.”
Logan picked up one of the pint-sized chairs, turned it around, and raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling me you lift like twenty of these a day? Respect, sis.”
“Logan.”
“Fine, fine,” he laughed, finally setting to work stacking chairs. Though it quickly became clear his definition of “work” mostly involved making towers and pretending to balance them like pit stops.
After a few minutes, he leaned against one of the desks, watching you peel laminated cut-outs of planets from the wall. “So… Miami GP. You’re coming.”
You snorted. “That’s what this is about? You bribed me with manual labor so I’d say yes?”
“Not bribing. Strategically persuading.” His grin widened. “You’ve never seen me race in person. Ever. Do you know how depressing that is?”
“I watch on TV.”
“Not the same. Come on, it’s Miami. Sunshine, good food, fun people… me.” He gestured dramatically to himself.
You shook your head, fighting a smile. “Logan, I’m a teacher. My idea of a vacation is sleeping until nine and reading a book in silence.”
“And yet,” he pressed, “you now have a whole summer break. No lesson plans, no early mornings, no sticky hands trying to steal your snacks. You’re free. And you’re coming to see your brother race.”
You set the stack of cut-outs down and gave him a long, exasperated look. “You’re really not going to give this up, are you?”
“Nope. Not until you say yes.”
There was something about his hopeful expression that tugged at your heart. Logan could be a menace, but underneath all the bravado, he really did just want his sister there.
“Fine,” you sighed dramatically, shoving a box of markers into his arms. “But only because you’re guilt-tripping me.”
“Yes!” He pumped a fist in the air, nearly dropping the markers. “You’re going to love it, I promise. Best summer kickoff ever.”
You shook your head as he beamed, already planning out the weekend in his mind. And as much as you pretended to be annoyed, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of excitement yourself.
—
f1gossipgirls
507,000 likes.
f1gossipgirls : new face alert 👀 logan sargeant’s sister was spotted in the miami paddock this weekend — not only supporting her brother but also hanging out with the grid’s wag squad. spotted chatting with alexandra saint mleux, rebecca donaldson, lily zneimer and lily muni he. is she just passing through for one gp, or are we looking at the newest member of the f1 inner circle? 👀✨
—
The Miami heat clung to you the second you stepped out of the car. You tugged lightly on the strap of your sundress, adjusting it as you followed Logan through the bustling paddock entrance. Cameras flashed, fans shouted his name, and all around you was the whirl of F1’s circus: team colors, crew members, and VIPs rushing from one spot to another.
“Don’t look so nervous,” Logan teased, throwing a glance over his shoulder. “It’s just racing cars and a lot of people pretending to be cooler than they are.”
You laughed, trying to shake off the nerves. “This is insane, Lo. It’s like another planet.”
“Welcome to my planet.” He slung an arm around your shoulder for a second before steering you toward the Williams garage. “You’ll get used to it. Everyone’s super chill. Plus, I promised you’d meet some nice people, remember?”
The garage was buzzing with activity—engineers checking equipment, mechanics chatting in quick bursts of shorthand you didn’t understand. You were about to ask Logan where to stand so you weren’t in the way when two figures stepped into view.
“Hey, there you are,” Alex Albon greeted, his easy smile lighting up the room. He was tall, relaxed in his Williams gear, and—though you didn’t notice it—his eyes lingered on you just a second longer than was polite.
Logan brightened. “Alex! This is my sister, YN.”
You offered a small wave, suddenly aware of how out of place you felt. “Hi. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Nice to finally meet you,” Alex said warmly, his grin softening. “We’ve heard plenty about you.”
“Don’t believe half of it,” You cut in quickly.
Before Logan could respond, a graceful voice joined in. “So this is the sister we’ve been hearing about.”
You turned to see Lily Muni He approaching, chic yet effortlessly approachable. She was stunning in a way that should have been intimidating, but her kind smile immediately eased you.
“I’m Lily,” she said, offering her hand. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
You shook her hand, your smile genuine. “Nice to meet you too. I love your dress, by the way.”
Lily’s eyes lit up, and she glanced at Alex briefly, like she couldn’t help sharing the moment with him. “Thank you! And your sundress is adorable. Logan didn’t tell us his sister had such good style.”
“She’s a teacher,” Logan piped up, ever the proud little brother. “She spends most of her time covered in glue and paint stains, so don’t let her fool you.”
Alex chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s probably harder than what we do. Teaching little kids? I’d last about five minutes.”
“You’d be surprised,” you said, laughing. “They can be a handful, but they’re also hilarious. Keeps me busy.”
“Bet they love you,” Alex replied casually, though the sincerity in his tone made your cheeks warm.
Beside him, Lily tilted her head, studying you with quiet curiosity. She found herself liking how calm you seemed despite the chaos around you—the groundedness of someone who didn’t care about cameras or headlines. It was… refreshing.
Logan, oblivious to the glances passing between you and his teammates, started tugging you toward the pit wall. “Come on, I’ll show you the car.”
Alex and Lily fell into step behind you. They shared the faintest smile between them, a silent acknowledgment that they both felt it—that little spark of interest they’d never admit out loud. Not yet.
For now, they were content just to walk beside you, asking about your students, laughing at Logan’s stories, and maybe, just maybe, letting themselves wonder what it would be like to have you around more often.
—
The hospitality unit was cooler than outside, a welcome relief from the Miami heat. You slipped inside with a fresh iced coffee clutched in your hand, scanning the tables until you spotted a familiar face waving you over.
“YN!” Lily Zneimer called brightly, standing to pull you into a hug. She had been dating Oscar long enough that you’d seen her plenty through Logan, and she’d quickly become the closest thing you had to a paddock best friend.
“You look way too put together for this weather,” you said as you sat down.
She grinned, adjusting her sunglasses on top of her head. “I’ve learned how to sweat in style. You, on the other hand…” She gestured at your hair, which was already frizzing from the humidity, and you both burst into laughter.
The two of you fell easily into conversation, catching up about your classrooms versus her studies, Oscar’s determination versus Logan’s nerves. You felt yourself relax in a way you hadn’t since arriving—less like “Logan’s sister” and more like just you.
Then Lily leaned forward, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Sooo…” she started slowly, twirling her straw around her drink. “How are you finding your first proper paddock weekend? Anything—or anyone—catch your eye?”
You frowned suspiciously. “Why do you sound like that?”
“Like what?” she asked innocently, but she was already smirking.
You narrowed your eyes. “Logan put you up to this, didn’t he?”
“Not this time.” She leaned back in her chair, casual as ever. “But I did happen to notice how cozy you looked chatting with Alex and Lily yesterday.”
Your face heated instantly. “Cozy? We were just talking! They were being nice.”
Lily raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. Alex doesn’t exactly laugh that hard at everyone’s stories. And Lily? She kept staring at your dress like she wanted to ask where you bought it—or just take it off you herself.”
“Lily!” You buried your face in your hands, half laughing, half mortified.
“What? I’m just pointing out the obvious,” she teased, her grin widening. “They like you. And you like them back a little, don’t you?”
“I just met them,” you protested weakly, though even to your own ears it sounded unconvincing.
“Exactly.” Lily sipped her drink triumphantly. “And yet here we are, with you blushing like a teenager. Don’t worry, I won’t tell Logan.”
You groaned, reaching over to swat her arm. “You are evil.”
“Evil, maybe. But I know chemistry when I see it.” She winked. “Just… keep an open mind, okay? The paddock has its perks.”
Despite yourself, you smiled, sipping your coffee to hide it. Maybe she was right. Maybe there was something there—something you hadn’t expected but couldn’t deny.
And if the way Alex’s smile lingered in your memory or the warmth of Lily’s hand on your arm yesterday meant anything… well, perhaps Lily Zneimer wasn’t just teasing after all.
—
The garage was a whirlwind of movement—mechanics double-checking tools, engineers huddled over monitors, team members darting back and forth with practiced urgency. You hovered near the entrance, trying not to get in the way, but Logan spotted you almost immediately.
“Hey,” he said, pulling off his cap and walking over with that familiar pre-race focus written across his face. “You actually came back for the race.”
You smiled, standing on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Of course I did. Good luck, Lo. Drive safe, okay?”
His lips twitched into a grin. “Safe doesn’t exactly win races, but I’ll do my best.”
You swatted at his arm, earning a laugh before he jogged back toward his car.
Before you could turn to leave, another figure approached. Alex was already suited up, helmet tucked under one arm, but he paused when he saw you.
“First race in person, right?” he asked, his smile softer than usual.
You nodded. “Yeah. I think I’ve aged ten years just watching all the prep.”
Alex chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t worry, it gets less overwhelming once the lights go out. Or maybe more, depending on how invested you are.” He hesitated a beat, then added, “Thanks for being here—for Logan. He really wanted you to see this.”
Your chest warmed at the sincerity in his tone. “Of course. And… good luck to you too. I know you’ll do great.”
Something flickered in his eyes, quick and unguarded, before his usual smile returned. “Appreciate that. I’ll try not to make it too boring for you.”
You laughed, watching as he jogged off to join Logan.
A gentle hand touched your arm, and you turned to find Lily Muni He at your side, her own smile calm and reassuring. “Want to sit with me? It’s usually easier to watch with someone who can explain what’s going on.”
You exhaled in relief. “Please. I was worried I’d be completely lost.”
Together, you made your way to the grandstand area set aside for guests. Lily guided you to a pair of seats with a perfect view of the grid, her hand occasionally brushing yours in the crush of people.
As the formation lap began, you found yourself sneaking glances at her. She was effortlessly elegant, hair glossy in the sunlight, sunglasses perched on her nose. But what struck you most wasn’t her beauty—it was how at ease she made you feel in the middle of all this chaos.
“They’ll go quiet for a moment,” Lily murmured as the lights on the grid appeared. “And then it’s like a thunderclap.”
You nodded, heart pounding as the lights blinked out and twenty cars roared forward at once. The sound was deafening, the energy electric.
“Oh my god,” you gasped, clutching Lily’s arm without thinking. “That’s insane.”
She laughed, the sound warm against your ear even through the roar. “I know. It never gets old.”
You left your hand where it was, and she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she leaned a little closer as the laps ticked by, pointing out strategies, explaining pit stops, and even making you laugh when she mimicked the commentators.
Halfway through the race, she handed you a pair of headphones. “Here. It’s easier to focus with these.”
You slid them on, touched by the gesture, and gave her a grateful smile. She returned it with one that made your stomach flutter—soft, knowing, like she was just as aware of the closeness building between you.
By the time the checkered flag waved, you realized you hadn’t just watched your first Grand Prix—you’d also found something completely unexpected. Sitting shoulder to shoulder with Lily, sharing laughs and glances that lingered just a little too long, the world of F1 didn’t feel so intimidating anymore.
—
The paddock had quieted after the race, the roar of engines replaced by the hum of team radios and the occasional cheer from fans lingering around the circuit. You were still sitting in the hospitality area with Lily, sipping on a bottle of water and letting the adrenaline slowly drain from your body.
“Wow,” you breathed, leaning back in your chair. “That was… absolutely insane. I don’t know if my heart can handle another race this intense.”
Lily laughed softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You survived your first GP, though, and you did great. You didn’t flinch once.”
Before you could reply, Alex appeared, helmet tucked under one arm, and a grin spreading across his face. “There she is,” he said, gesturing toward you. “So, what do you think? Worth all the chaos?”
You laughed, glancing between him and Lily. “Honestly? Yeah. It was amazing. But I think I need something calmer after this… maybe sand and waves instead of engines and tires?”
Lily’s eyes lit up. She exchanged a glance with Alex, and he raised an eyebrow as if silently asking her what she had in mind.
“Well…” Lily began, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “We were actually thinking of heading to the beach tomorrow. It’s quiet, sunny, and—” she looked at you pointedly “—perfect for someone who survived their first GP.”
Your heart skipped a beat. “You… want me to come?”
“Absolutely,” Alex said, his grin widening. “We could use a little break from the paddock, and it’d be fun to show you a more… relaxed side of Florida.”
You laughed, feeling warmth rush through your chest at the invitation. “I mean… that sounds perfect. I’d love to.”
Lily reached over, lightly brushing her hand against yours as if sealing the plan without even thinking about it. “Great. It’ll be nice to just hang out. No cameras, no chaos, just… sand, sun, and maybe a few ice creams.”
As the three of you walked out of the hospitality unit toward the parking area, the sunlight bouncing off the pavement, you felt a strange mix of excitement and comfort. Between Alex’s easy charm, Lily’s warmth, and the unexpected connection forming between you, this weekend—meant to be just about watching Logan—was already turning into something far more memorable.
And you couldn’t wait for tomorrow.
—
The sun was warm against your skin as you stepped out onto the soft white sand, a gentle breeze carrying the smell of salt and sunscreen. Alex and Lily were already there, towels laid out and an umbrella catching just enough shade to keep it bearable, both of them smiling like they’d been waiting for you all along.
“Good morning, N!” Lily called, waving energetically. “Coffee survived the trip here, or do we need to make a pit stop first?”
“Coffee survived,” you said with a laugh, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Though I’m not sure I survived the paddock yesterday.”
Alex grinned, tossing a frisbee between his hands. “Don’t worry, today’s a lot more chill. No engines, no deadlines, just sand and sun. And maybe some competitive beach volleyball, if you’re feeling brave.”
“I think I’ll stick to collecting seashells and making sandcastles,” you replied, eyeing the shoreline with a smile. “Though I may regret that when you start winning at volleyball.”
Lily laughed softly, linking her arm through yours as you all walked toward the water. “You know, it’s kind of nice seeing you relaxed. You were… adorable yesterday. Totally focused, hanging on every detail, but still laughing at the right moments. It suits you.”
You felt your cheeks heat up, but the warmth wasn’t unpleasant. “Thanks… I think. I had a good teacher yesterday,” you teased, nudging her gently.
“Just good? I think ‘incredible’ might be more accurate,” she countered with a grin, and you caught a flash of something shy and soft in her eyes.
Alex crouched near the water, letting the waves lap at his feet. “I told you, YN,” he said, looking up at you, “This is easy mode. Now we just see who can jump the highest over waves.”
You laughed, stepping into the water slowly, feeling the cool waves wash over your toes. Lily followed, matching your pace, and Alex splashed a little water toward both of you, grinning mischievously.
“Hey!” you exclaimed, jumping back and shaking water from your hair. Lily doubled over laughing, and Alex took a moment to just watch the two of you, that easy smile on his face that made your heart do a little flip.
Eventually, you all settled back on the towels, sandy and sun-kissed, sharing snacks and joking about the race from yesterday. Lily leaned against you, whispering small observations about Alex you hadn’t noticed—the way he’d adjust his cap when he was nervous, the tiny grin that only came out when he was teasing someone he liked.
“You two make a cute pair,” she murmured, nudging your shoulder gently. “I see why Logan talks about you all the time.”
You laughed, though your chest tightened a little at the words. “I… don’t know about that. I just… enjoy hanging out.”
Lily’s hand brushed against yours again, deliberate this time, and she caught your gaze with a soft smile. “Me too,” she said simply.
Alex came over then, carrying two cold drinks. “Here, thought you might like this,” he said, handing one to you. His fingers brushed yours as he did, and you felt that flutter again—the one that reminded you he’d been paying attention since yesterday, just as Lily had.
You clinked your bottles together with them. “To surviving the paddock and not drowning in the ocean,” you joked.
“To surviving… and maybe discovering some new adventures,” Alex added, eyes twinkling as he looked between you and Lily.
Lily laughed, nudging him playfully. “Cheesy, but I like it.”
The rest of the afternoon melted into sun, laughter, splashing, and quiet moments just sitting together. You built sandcastles, competed in a very loose volleyball game (mostly Alex dramatically failing while Lily and you dominated), and even collected shells for souvenirs.
By the time the sun started to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in pinks and golds, you realized that this weekend—meant to be a simple visit to watch your brother race—had become something entirely unexpected.
Something… soft, happy, and completely yours.
And as you sat between Lily and Alex, feeling the warmth of the sun and their presence on either side, you couldn’t help but smile. Maybe this was just the beginning.
—
After a long day of sun, waves, and sandy laughter, the three of you left the beach reluctantly, towels slung over shoulders and sand sticking stubbornly to sunscreen-slicked skin. Alex had insisted on driving, and Lily was humming softly in the passenger seat as you traced the route to a small seaside restaurant he’d scoped out.
“This place has the best seafood in the area,” Alex promised, glancing at you in the rearview mirror. “And no one knows about it yet—quiet, relaxed, perfect for… well, us.”
You laughed, settling into the seat with a contented sigh. “Us, huh? I feel very official now.”
Lily nudged your shoulder gently. “You’re officially part of our adventure, at least for tonight.”
When you arrived, the restaurant was cozy and warm, wooden beams overhead, fairy lights strung along the windows, and the soft murmur of other diners around you. They led you to a table tucked in the corner, just enough privacy for casual conversation without being isolated.
As the menus were handed out, Lily leaned over and whispered, “You were adorable today. The way you got competitive in volleyball—I’ve never seen Alex so dramatically lose before.”
Alex shot her a playful glare, but it only made you laugh. “Hey! I had nothing to do with that.”
“Sure, sure,” Lily teased. “I think it’s your charm… he just can’t compete with it.”
Alex’s lips twitched in a grin, clearly amused and slightly embarrassed by the gentle ribbing. “Alright, alright, maybe I let you two win. But don’t tell anyone.”
Dinner flowed with ease. Conversation bounced between stories of teaching, racing mishaps, and inside jokes that had already formed over the day. You noticed the little ways Alex and Lily interacted—how they glanced at each other when you laughed, the way Lily occasionally brushed your hand as she passed you a dish, or how Alex kept leaning in just slightly when explaining something about the race.
At one point, Lily reached across the table, lightly tugging a strand of hair behind your ear. “You really fit in here, you know,” she said softly. “Like you’re supposed to be part of this chaos with us, even though you’re from a completely different world.”
Your chest warmed, and you swallowed the lump of surprise in your throat. “Thanks… that means a lot.”
Alex, noticing the soft exchange, slid his hand close to yours on the table, letting fingertips graze yours. “And we like having you around. It’s… nice. Calming, somehow.”
You smiled, squeezing his hand lightly before pulling it back in playful embarrassment. “You two are ridiculous,” you murmured, though your heart felt like it was about to burst.
Lily laughed quietly, reaching out to tap your shoulder. “We’re ridiculous together,” she said, eyes sparkling. “And we like it that way.”
By the end of the meal, the three of you were laughing at shared jokes, Alex and Lily still subtly vying for your attention without making it awkward. Walking back to the car under the glow of streetlights, you felt a sense of belonging that surprised you—a warmth in your chest that went beyond just friendship.
And as Alex held the car door open for you and Lily nudged your side with a grin, you realized that this weekend, intended just to watch Logan race, had become something entirely different. Something sweet, messy, and full of possibility.
Something that felt like the very beginning of… maybe everything.
—
yn_sargeant
liked by lilymhe, alex_albon, lilyzneimer and 575,000 others.
yn_sargeant : okay fine…maybe i like f1 now.
tagged : logansargeant, lilymhe and alex_albon
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alex_albon : look at that diva with the pigeon 👀
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lilymhe : the best weekend ever 🤍🫶🏻 forming our book club as we speak
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yn_sargeant : im bringing you into read with the kids !!!!
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logansargeant : you’re such a fan. stop photographing me while i sleep.
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yn_sargeant : but i sent it to mom
logansargeant : …fine.
lilyzneimer : lovely seeing you beautiful! glad to see you had fun ;)💗
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oscarpiastri : do you like f1 or just like certain people?
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yn_sargeant : ignoring you:)
—
You were curled up on your couch, half buried under a blanket, bouncing back and forth between reading and trying to lesson plan for the year ahead. The hum of the ceiling fan and the soft glow of the lamp made the apartment feel cozy, safe… and quiet in a way you hadn’t realized you craved after Miami.
Your phone buzzed on the coffee table, and you picked it up without thinking. The screen lit up with Lily M and a small grin spread across your face before you even answered.
“Hey,” you said, trying to sound casual though your heart was already doing little flips.
“YN!” Lily’s voice was bright, excited, impossible to resist. “We’re on our way to pick you up!”
You blinked. “Wait… what?”
Alex’s voice came faintly in the background. “We’re going to my tournament,” Lily said, laughing at your stunned silence. “Well, my next tournament. You have to come. Alex insisted, but… I really want you there too.”
You swallowed hard, feeling your stomach flutter. Thoughts of Miami, of the beach, of their smiles, their touches, all came rushing back. You hadn’t stopped thinking about either of them. Not for a single day.
“I… I don’t know,” you murmured, though your heart had already made the decision before your brain caught up. “I mean… sure. Yeah. I’ll be ready.”
Alex’s laughter rang softly in the background. “Great. You’ll have a fun road trip, promise.”
“Fun? YN, it’s going to be amazing,” Lily said, her voice softening. “We want you there. And… I mean it—just us, the car, the music, a little bit of chaos, a little bit of fun. You can’t say no to that.”
You laughed, finally letting yourself relax. “You’re right. How could I possibly say no?”
“Perfect!” Lily cheered. “Ten minutes—we’re literally outside. Come grab your bag, and don’t forget sunscreen.”
Your chest felt light, almost like it was floating. The truth was, you’d been waiting for a reason to see them again, to spend more time with both of them, to figure out what this little triangle of feelings could even mean.
Grabbing your bag, you jogged to the door, and as you slid into the passenger seat, Lily handed you a pair of sunglasses with a grin, while Alex gave you a sideways smirk that made your stomach flutter all over again.
“Ready for an adventure?” Alex asked, starting the engine.
“Always,” you said, leaning back and smiling, feeling the pull of excitement—and maybe something more—build as the car pulled out of your driveway.
—
The car hummed along the highway, sunlight streaming through the windows, casting golden patterns on the dashboard. You leaned back in the passenger seat, sunglasses perched on your nose, watching the palm trees blur past. Alex drove with his usual calm focus, while Lily sat behind you, her knees tucked into the seat, one hand resting lightly on the center console.
“So,” Lily started, voice teasing, “you really can’t stop thinking about us, can you?”
You choked on your water bottle, nearly spitting it out. “What? No! I—what are you talking about?”
Alex glanced at you from the rearview mirror, smirking. “Oh, come on, YN. Don’t play innocent.”
“I… I didn’t say anything!” you protested, though your cheeks were betraying you, flushing pink.
Lily laughed, leaning forward to poke your shoulder gently. “Relax. We’re just teasing. But you did have that little glow the whole weekend… and we noticed.”
You groaned, covering your face with your hand. “I can’t believe you’re doing this already.”
Alex chuckled softly, keeping his eyes on the road but glancing at you now and then. “It’s only fair. We have been thinking about us nonstop too.”
You peeked at him through your fingers, trying to hide your grin. “Maybe a little,” you admitted, voice small.
Lily’s laugh was warm and contagious. “See? That’s what I’m talking about. We’re all thinking about each other, and now we get a whole road trip to figure it out.”
“Figure it out?” you echoed, heart fluttering.
“Exactly,” Alex said smoothly. “Lots of time together, music, snacks… endless teasing. And maybe, if you’re lucky, a little bit of chaos along the way.”
You glanced between the two of them, your chest tightening in the best possible way. “Chaos sounds… perfect, actually.”
For the next hour, the car was filled with playful banter. Alex hummed along to the music, occasionally teasing you about your playlist choices. Lily kept elbowing you gently whenever Alex said something cheeky, and you found yourself laughing more than you had in weeks.
At one point, Lily reached forward from the back seat and tugged a small bag of snacks toward you. “Here, just in case Alex tries to steal your chips.”
“And if I do, it’s fair game,” Alex countered, holding up his hands in mock surrender but with a mischievous glint in his eye.
You shook your head, laughing. “I don’t even know how I ended up with you two.”
Lily leaned back, a soft smile on her lips. “You’re stuck with us now. Might as well enjoy it.”
The sun started to dip lower in the sky as you approached Lily’s tournament location. The golden hour painted everything in warm light, and for a moment, the three of you fell into a comfortable silence, just enjoying the rhythm of the road, the faint scent of salt in the air, and the feeling of being somewhere in between adventure and home.
Alex broke the silence first. “You know, this is my favorite part of trips like this.”
“Which part?” you asked, glancing at him.
“Watching you slowly realize that you actually like spending time with us,” he said smoothly, a small teasing smile tugging at his lips.
You groaned, hitting the back of his seat lightly. “Stop being smug!”
Lily laughed again, reaching out to squeeze your hand across the gap between the seats. “He’s right, though,” she said softly. “I like having you here. It just… feels right.”
Your chest warmed, and you couldn’t help the small smile that spread across your face. “Yeah… me too.”
As the car pulled into the driveway near the golf course, you realized that this weekend wasn’t just about tournaments or races anymore. It was about them—Alex, Lily, and maybe even the space between all three of you. And as you climbed out of the car, brushing sand-like bits of energy off your sleeves and feeling the buzz of anticipation in the air, you couldn’t wait to see what came next. Because with them, everything felt like an adventure waiting to happen.
—
The day had been long but perfect. Lily’s tournament had gone brilliantly, and by evening, the three of you were heading to a quiet seaside restaurant, the golden sunset spilling across the horizon. The warmth of the day lingered in your chest as you followed Alex and Lily inside, feeling the soft glow of anticipation building.
They led you to a cozy corner table, fairy lights twinkling overhead, soft music drifting through the space. You laughed easily at a story Lily recounted about a hilarious mishap on the course, while Alex sat beside her, one hand resting casually over hers. They shared glances that made your stomach twist in a way that was both dizzying and comforting.
Then, midway through your meal, Lily’s hand brushed lightly against yours. You looked up, startled, only to see Alex’s warm gaze meeting yours from across the table. He gave a small, encouraging smile.
“YN,” Lily began, her voice soft, steady. “Alex and I… we wanted to tell you something. Together.”
Your heart skipped, and you leaned in, sensing the gravity in her tone.
Alex nodded, squeezing her hand gently. “We’ve been talking about this for a while now, and we realized—we want to be honest with you. We both care about you. A lot. And it’s not just that—we like you. In a way that… well, we couldn’t ignore anymore.”
You blinked, overwhelmed, your chest tightening. “You… both like me?”
“Yes,” Lily said softly, her thumb tracing small, comforting circles on the back of your hand. “We do. And we wanted to tell you together because… we’re together. And we like you. And we hope… maybe you like us too.”
Alex leaned forward slightly, his voice low and earnest. “We care about each other, yes, but we care about you too. Being around you feels… right. We can’t keep pretending otherwise.”
Tears pricked at your eyes, and you laughed softly through the emotion, shaking your head. “I… I’ve been thinking about both of you nonstop. I just didn’t know how to say it… or if I even could.”
Lily smiled gently, squeezing your hand again. “You don’t have to say anything complicated. We just wanted you to know. We want to see if this… if we can be all three of us together. If you want that too.”
You took a deep breath, your heart swelling in your chest. “Yes. I want that. I want… us. All of us. Together.”
Alex grinned, a mixture of relief and joy lighting up his face, while Lily’s eyes shone with warmth and love. They each leaned toward you, holding your hands from either side, and you felt a perfect balance—the gentle, steady warmth of both of them surrounding you.
“Together, then,” Alex whispered, his thumb brushing over yours.
“Yes,” Lily added, her voice soft, almost a purr. “Together.”
The rest of the evening passed in a blissful haze—laughter, light touches, quiet confessions, and stolen smiles across the table. By the time you stepped outside onto the moonlit sand, the world felt wide and infinite, yet contained in this small bubble of warmth and love.
Alex draped an arm over your shoulder, pulling you close, while Lily rested her head lightly against your other side. You leaned into both of them, your heart full and racing.
Together. Completely. And finally, perfectly.
—
Light filtered through the curtains, warm and golden, and the soft sound of waves rolling in from the nearby beach blended with quiet laughter. You stirred, blinking awake, and felt an unfamiliar but wonderful weight on either side of you.
Slowly, your eyes adjusted, and you realized you weren’t alone. Lily’s head rested gently on your shoulder, and Alex was stretched out on the other side, one arm draped across your waist. You froze for a moment, heart thudding—because, yes, you had fallen asleep between them, and yes, it was as perfect as it felt.
“Morning,” Lily murmured, voice soft, brushing a kiss against your temple.
You grinned sleepily. “Morning… wow. This is… really cozy.”
Alex shifted slightly, still half-asleep, but a lazy grin spread across his face. “Morning, loves Hope you slept well.”
“Like a rock,” you admitted, your voice still husky from sleep. “How about you two?”
Lily chuckled, stretching lightly. “Better than ever.”
Alex’s grin widened. “Well… we have a little surprise for you. But first—breakfast. And coffee. Lots of coffee.”
You laughed, already intrigued despite barely being fully awake. After a quick shower and some much-needed coffee, the three of you gathered in the living room, still brushing off sand from the previous day. Alex handed you an envelope, and Lily nudged you gently.
“What’s this?” you asked, fingers brushing over the smooth paper.
“Open it,” Alex said with a mischievous glint in his eye. “We promise you’re going to like it.”
Inside was a your own paddock pass and a small note in both their handwriting: “Pack your bags. You’re coming to Alex’s next race—and yes, you get to surprise Logan.”
Your jaw dropped. “Wait… seriously? I get to—”
“—watch a race live, sneak into the paddock, and see Logan freak out when he sees you? Yep,” Lily finished, grinning. “We couldn’t resist. You’ve been cooped up with lesson planning for next year and you deserve to enjoy your summer. It’s time for some action.”
“Oh my god…” you whispered, laughing and shaking your head. “I can’t say no to that. This is… amazing.”
Alex leaned closer, eyes twinkling. “We knew you wouldn’t. And don’t worry—we’ll handle all the logistics. You just need to look adorable and pretend to be surprised when Logan sees you.”
Lily leaned in as well, wrapping an arm around your waist. “We’re going to have so much fun. Just us three, again. You ready for another adventure?”
Your chest felt impossibly full, and you laughed, a happy, giddy sound. “I’ve been ready since Miami. Let’s do this.”
The three of you laughed together, a tangled heap of excitement and affection, already buzzing with the thrill of what was to come. The morning sun shone through the windows, illuminating the three of you, and for the first time in a long time, you felt completely, perfectly, and joyfully at home.
Adventure was calling, and this time, it had a little more speed, a little more chaos, and a whole lot of love.
—
The morning of the race arrived with a low hum of excitement. You were bundled up in a light jacket, hair tied back casually, sunglasses perched on your nose, and a grin plastered across your face. Alex and Lily flanked you as you approached the paddock, the energy buzzing around the teams, engineers, and drivers infectious.
“You ready?” Alex asked, elbow brushing lightly against yours.
“Absolutely,” you said, heart thudding in anticipation. “I can’t wait to see Logan’s reaction.”
Lily laughed softly, looping her arm through yours. “Me neither. He’s going to freak out.”
You shared a glance, smiling at the thought of seeing your brother’s face light up—or freeze—in disbelief.
As you stepped through the entrance, the sound of engines, chatter, and the unmistakable roar of the paddock hit you all at once. Logan’s team was already busy making final preparations, but he was nowhere in sight at first. You could feel your stomach flip—half nerves, half excitement.
Then he appeared, clipboard in hand, focused but oblivious to the fact that you were mere steps away.
Logan froze mid-step, eyes snapping up—and then widening. “Wait… what—how—”
You grinned, holding out your arms. “Surprise!”
His jaw dropped, and he practically sprinted over, scooping you into a hug so tight you thought he might lift you off your feet. “You’re here?!” he exclaimed, spinning you slightly in his arms. “I… I can’t believe this! What are you doing here?!”
“You’ll have to ask Alex and Lily about that,” you teased, pointing behind you.
Both of them stepped forward, hands linked subtly, grinning like the secret was theirs. “We brought her,” Alex said, voice teasing but soft. “Figured it was time you got a real shock.”
Logan blinked, still holding you, before letting out a laugh that made your heart swell. “You guys are ridiculous.”
Lily wrapped an arm around your waist, leaning in close. “Maybe a little. But isn’t this fun?”
The morning passed in a blur of excitement. You watched Logan prepare, shared snacks with Alex and Lily in between pit visits, and snuck glances at each other that made your chest flutter. Every time Alex’s hand brushed yours, or Lily’s fingers found yours in passing, you felt that familiar warmth coil in your stomach.
Finally, before the race began, you all settled in a quiet corner of the hospitality suite. You leaned back between them, their arms draped around you, and sighed happily.
“I can’t believe this,” you murmured. “I never thought I’d be here… watching Logan race, and… you two with me.”
Alex leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “We wanted you here. With us. Always.”
Lily rested her head on your shoulder, fingers entwining with yours. “We’re all a little chaotic together, but… perfect in our own way.”
By the end of the day, after waves of excitement had died down, the three of you walked along the pit lane, hands linked, smiles lingering.
“Best weekend ever?” Lily asked, voice soft.
“Without a doubt,” you said, leaning into both of them.
Alex squeezed your hand. “And just the beginning,” he added, and Lily nodded in agreement.
You laughed, letting yourself bask in the glow of love, adventure, and chaos—the perfect combination. With Alex on one side, Lily on the other, and your heart somewhere wonderfully in the middle, you knew this was exactly where you were meant to be. Together.
—
yn_sargeant
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yn_sargeant : sad to see such a fun summer go but so happy to have my classroom full again<3
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Summer had ended too quickly, and now the room needed to feel welcoming and bright for your students. You’d been dreading the task alone—but thankfully, Alex and Lily had insisted on helping.
“You really have a lot of decorations,” Alex said, ducking under a string of colorful paper lanterns. He gave you a playful grin. “I feel like I should get a hard hat.”
Lily laughed, balancing a small stack of books in one arm while attempting to hang a garland with the other. “I told him that, yes, it would be dangerous, but he insisted on coming anyway. And look at us—you’re going to have the cutest classroom in the school.”
You leaned against your desk, a soft smile spreading across your face. “I… I don’t know what I’d do without you two. This makes it so much more fun.”
Alex crouched to tape a poster to the wall, carefully smoothing out the wrinkles. “I mean, who could resist helping their favorite teacher?” he teased, glancing up at you.
You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed. “Favorite teacher, huh?”
“Definitely,” Lily chimed in from across the room, holding a jar of glitter pens. She winked at you, and your stomach did a little flip. “And you’re going to make us look bad if we don’t pull our weight.”
For the next hour, the three of you moved around the classroom in a comfortable chaos. Alex climbed onto a chair to hang a bulletin board display while Lily helped him balance, occasionally nudging him playfully whenever he got too serious about perfectly aligning a border. You laughed as they argued over who had the better eye for color, finally deciding to combine their efforts and call it “collaborative genius.”
“Honestly,” Alex said, dusting off his hands and sitting on the edge of a table, “I think we’ve outdone ourselves. This is basically Pinterest-level.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you said, shaking your head fondly. But your voice was soft, warm, because watching them care about this—about you, about your students—it made your heart swell.
Lily knelt beside you to help arrange a row of tiny plant pots on the windowsill. “These little guys will be here to greet the kids when they come in,” she said, smiling. “And maybe remind them that learning can be fun… kind of like you do.”
You swallowed hard, a lump of emotion rising in your throat. “You guys… you’re too good to me,” you murmured.
Alex leaned over, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, thumb grazing your cheek. “Nope. Just… exactly how it should be,” he said quietly, the teasing lilt in his voice gone for a moment.
Lily rested her hand over yours, warm and steady. “We love seeing you happy, YN. Seeing you do what you love, smiling… it makes us happy too.”
Your chest tightened in a way that was both tender and thrilling. “I… I love having you here. Both of you. It’s… perfect.”
They exchanged a glance, soft smiles on their faces, before Alex spoke again. “Then I think we should celebrate finishing the masterpiece,” he said, gesturing around the room.
Lily giggled, grabbing a roll of confetti and shaking a little into the air. “Celebrate with confetti! Teacher-approved, of course.”
You laughed as the colorful pieces floated down, the three of you dancing around, catching stray bits, and collapsing into fits of giggles. For a moment, everything outside the classroom—the stress, the deadlines, the noise of the world—fell away.
You sat on a little stool, Alex on the floor beside you, Lily leaning against your desk, and let the warmth of them settle around you like a soft blanket. Their hands found yours naturally, squeezing gently, thumbs brushing in silent reassurance.
“I think… this is my favorite classroom yet,” you murmured, heart full.
“It’s definitely the cutest,” Alex said, voice soft, leaning in close so your shoulders touched.
“And we’re in it, so naturally it’s the best,” Lily added, nuzzling the side of your neck lightly.
You closed your eyes, exhaling, letting the moment stretch and linger. There was laughter, warmth, and soft touches—but more than that, there was a quiet certainty that this little trio of yours—Alex, Lily, and you—was exactly where you belonged.
And as the sun climbed higher, spilling golden light across the walls, you realized that no matter how many students came and went, no matter how many assignments piled up, this—this laughter, this love, this chaotic, tender, beautiful bubble—would always be yours.
—
The morning sunlight spilled across your classroom, warm and golden, as the chatter of your students filled the room. Today was special—you had a guest. One of your favorite people, someone the kids had heard you mention but never met, was coming in to read a story.
“Class,” you began, smiling as you tried to contain your excitement, “today we have a very special visitor. Can anyone guess who it might be?”
A few hands shot up immediately. “Miss YN’s friend!” one little voice chirped. “No, Logan!” another shouted, and then, from the back, someone whispered, “Alex?”
You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Close! It’s Miss Lily!”
The door opened, and there she was—Lily, dressed casually but effortlessly bright, a big tote of books slung over one shoulder. The kids gasped, eyes wide, and a few rushed to greet her at the door.
“Hi, everyone!” Lily said cheerfully, kneeling to their level. “I hear I have the best class in the world here today!”
Your heart melted as you watched the kids’ faces light up, and you couldn’t help but glance at her yourself. There was something so gentle and warm about the way she moved, the way she smiled at them, that it made your chest tighten in the happiest way possible.
“Come on, everyone,” you said, guiding them to the reading corner. “Lily’s going to read us a story today, so let’s settle in.”
Lily spread a blanket on the floor and gestured for the kids to gather around. She picked a book from her tote, holding it up for them to see. “This one’s a favorite of mine. I hope you’ll love it too,” she said, voice soft but animated.
The moment she began reading, the classroom transformed. Her voice was soothing yet lively, full of inflections that made every character come to life. You watched as the kids leaned forward, eyes wide, occasionally giggling or gasping at the story.
And then, as she read, she would glance up at you, eyes sparkling with mischief and warmth, and your heart skipped a beat. One particularly dramatic pause in the story made her look at you and you couldn’t help but grin.
After the story, the kids clapped enthusiastically, rushing over to ask questions. Lily knelt with them, answering with patience and laughter, and you realized how natural she was with them. How much she genuinely cared.
“You were amazing!” one little girl exclaimed, tugging at Lily’s sleeve. “Can you come back tomorrow?”
Lily laughed softly, hugging her. “I think we might need a break first, but maybe soon, okay?”
Once the kids were settled again, you pulled Lily aside, whispering, “You have no idea how happy this makes me. Seeing you with them—it’s perfect.”
She smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, and leaned in to press a quick kiss to your cheek. “I had fun. And… I love seeing you happy with your kids.”
Alex, who had stopped by briefly to peek in (and had been hovering quietly at the back), raised an eyebrow playfully. “Okay, I see it now. You two are adorable. I think even the kids shipped it.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Stop teasing!”
But deep down, as you watched Lily laugh with the children, Alex watching fondly from the side, your heart swelled. This—this warm, chaotic, gentle, happy chaos—was yours. And you couldn’t wait to see where it went next. Because with them, every day, even a simple reading session, felt like home.
—
The kids buzzed with energy, tiny paintbrushes in hand and paper plates of colorful paints spread across the tables. Today was a very special day: they were going to paint miniature racing helmets, inspired by all the F1 drivers they’d been learning about.
You were crouched beside a little boy meticulously painting stripes on his helmet when a knock sounded at the door.
“Class, we have some very special visitors today,” you announced with a grin. The kids’ heads popped up instantly, eyes wide with curiosity.
Before anyone could guess, Logan stepped in first, grinning ear to ear, followed by Alex and then Oscar, who gave a small wave.
The room erupted. “Whoa! It’s them!” shouted one little girl, waving her paintbrush wildly.
One tiny voice piped up, pointing at Oscar. “Where were you last time?!”
You laughed softly, watching as Logan chuckled. “Apparently, we weren’t allowed last time,” he said, ruffling the kid’s hair. “But I think we’re making up for it today, right, Oscar?”
Oscar knelt down to the child’s level, giving a small, warm smile. “Absolutely. Can’t let you paint helmets without me.”
The kids cheered, and Alex followed, crouching by a table where a group of girls were trying to mix every color together. “Careful with that green—it’s very… special,” he teased, grinning as they giggled.
You wandered between tables, helping hands, when your gaze caught Lily, who had taken a small palette and was helping a tiny boy mix the perfect shade of blue. She looked up at you and winked, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. Your chest fluttered, heart warming at the sight of her soft focus and the gentle way she engaged with the kids.
Logan and Oscar moved among the tables, showing the children how to paint stripes and numbers, teasing them lightly when paint got a little too messy. Alex stayed close to you, helping hands where needed, but also sneaking glances at Lily that made your heart squeeze.
“Miss YN!” one small voice shouted, holding up a helmet painted with rainbow swirls. “Look! I made it like that one!”
You crouched beside them, smiling. “It’s amazing! You’ve got to show Lily and Alex—they’re going to love it.”
Lily bent down immediately, her eyes lighting up. “Wow! That’s incredible! You’re a natural artist.” She ruffled the child’s hair affectionately.
You glanced over at Alex, who gave a thumbs up and whispered softly, “You’re doing a great job keeping them entertained.”
The three of you watched, hearts swelling, as the kids painted with laughter echoing around the room. Logan, Oscar, and Alex traded playful jabs about whose helmet design was better, while Lily whispered funny comments to you about how one little boy tried to paint Alex's face.
By the end of the session, the classroom was a vibrant mess of color, little helmets drying along the windowsills. The kids proudly displayed their creations, and the three drivers knelt down to admire each one, pointing out the clever details.
“I think these could rival the real designs,” Oscar said, laughing.
“Absolutely,” Logan agreed, ruffling the hair of a boy holding a purple-and-green masterpiece.
Alex leaned close to you, hand brushing yours as he whispered, “This… this is perfect. You, the kids, them. Everything.”
You laughed softly, squeezing his hand. “It really is.”
Lily sidled up beside you, linking her arm with yours. “And we’re not done yet. Next week, maybe tiny trophies for everyone?”
Your heart melted at the thought, surrounded by laughter, paint-smeared hands, and the warmth of Alex, Lily, and the drivers. In that moment, everything felt safe, full, and perfectly chaotic—your little world, bright and beautiful, filled with people you loved.
—
The classroom was quiet now, the hum of the air conditioning blending with the soft scratching of pencils on paper. Your students had gone home for the day, leaving behind stacks of essays and assignments that needed grading. Normally, this would be a task you tackled alone, but today… Alex and Lily were insistent on helping.
“Come on, YN,” Alex said, dropping onto the chair across from you, arms crossed with mock seriousness. “You can’t possibly grade all of these on your own. It’s unfair to your brilliant brain.”
Lily perched on the edge of your desk, balancing a coffee cup in one hand and a notebook in the other. “Yeah, you’ve been working non-stop. Let us help. I promise we’ll make it fun.”
You raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Fun? Grading papers isn’t exactly… thrilling.”
Alex smirked. “Challenge accepted.”
For the next hour, the three of you got to work. Alex tackled the math assignments, quietly muttering jokes under his breath that made you stifle giggles as he scribbled little stars and smiley faces in the margins. Lily handled the reading responses, her delicate handwriting neat as she added encouraging notes for the kids.
“You know,” Lily said softly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “your students are lucky to have you. You make learning… feel like magic.”
You felt a warmth bloom in your chest, glancing at her with a small, happy smile. “Thanks, Lily. I think having you and Alex here makes it even better. Somehow less… lonely.”
Alex leaned closer, resting his chin on his hand. “See? We’re already improving productivity just by being here. And honestly, I enjoy being in your little world like this.”
You laughed softly, shaking your head as you scribbled a note on one of the papers. “I think you’re both just here to flirt with me while I work.”
“Guilty,” Alex admitted with a grin, leaning a little closer, his shoulder brushing yours.
“And maybe secretly learn how to be amazing teachers,” Lily added with a wink. She leaned in too, so her knee touched yours beneath the table.
Despite the light teasing, the atmosphere was warm and calm. Between laughter, playful nudges, and quiet encouragement, the grading session became something you never expected: cozy, intimate, and full of love.
At one point, you all paused to brainstorm lesson plans for the next week. Alex suggested a science experiment involving mini rocket launches—clearly inspired by F1—while Lily came up with a creative reading project involving storyboarding. You scribbled notes, feeling that familiar flutter in your chest as they bounced ideas off each other, but always made sure to include you, making you feel valued, included, and cherished.
By the end of the afternoon, the assignments were graded, the lesson plans set, and the classroom transformed from a place of work into a small bubble of laughter, shared ideas, and soft touches. Alex draped an arm over your chair, while Lily rested her hand over yours, thumbs brushing.
“I think we make a pretty good team,” Lily said softly, looking up at you with a warm smile.
Alex nodded, leaning closer so his lips brushed your temple. “Best team ever.”
You laughed softly, leaning back in your chair, heart full. “You two make even grading fun.”
“And helping you is our favorite part,” Alex said, voice low and earnest.
“And maybe learning a little from the best teacher in the world,” Lily added, squeezing your hand.
You let out a happy sigh, closing your eyes for a moment, letting yourself soak in the warmth of them, of this moment, of everything that had led you here. Between them, your life felt brighter, softer, and more full than you could have ever imagined. Because love didn’t have to be loud or dramatic. Sometimes, it was simple: grading papers, planning lessons, sharing small touches and quiet laughter. And with Alex and Lily beside you, it felt like the most perfect kind of happiness.
—
alex_albon
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alex_albon : lily and i fell in love with a teacher and now our afternoons consist of story times and paint stains...but we wouldn't trade it for anything. love you both so much <3
tagged : yn_sargeant
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bonus scene! horsey on the loose!
The classroom was buzzing with energy as your students worked on their art projects, crayons and paint scattered across the tables. You were crouched beside a little girl, helping her with a tricky cutout, when the door swung open.
“YN! Guess who’s here?” Alex’s voice called out, full of mischief.
Before you could answer, the familiar carrier appeared in his hands. “Horsey!” you exclaimed, grinning. "You brought him?"
“Yes, STAN is here." Alex said, holding the carrier triumphantly. “And yes, he’s coming in. You kids are going to love him… mostly.”
"Alex his name is not Sta-"
The kids erupted with excitement. “A cat! A cat!” one shouted, hopping in place. “Horsey!” another yelled, pointing at the carrier eagerly.
You opened the carrier, letting Horsey emerge. The fluffy brown-and-white cat stretched dramatically, then bolted straight for the closest table, swatting at the paints and pencils like he owned the place.
“Horsey, no!” you called, trying to sound stern but failing as a giggle escaped you. The kids laughed too, watching the chaos unfold with wide eyes.
Horsey leapt onto a desk, batting at a paintbrush, then darted under a chair where two kids were trying to quietly sketch. “Careful!” one whispered, stifling a laugh as Horsey’s tail swished dangerously close to their paper.
Alex leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, clearly enjoying the chaos. “See? He’s a handful… but adorable. Just like me.”
“Mostly adorable,” you added, ducking as Horsey decided the stack of colored construction paper looked like a new playground. “Kids, make sure he doesn’t knock over your supplies!”
Lily crouched beside the art table, helping a little boy mix the perfect shade of blue. “He’s like a little furry tornado,” she whispered, laughing softly.
Horsey, clearly unbothered by all the attention, pounced on a pile of markers, sending them rolling across the floor. The kids squealed in delight, chasing after him while you and Lily tried to catch him.
“Maybe we should’ve labeled this as a ‘Horsey-proofing the classroom’ lesson,” Alex joked, ducking as Horsey launched himself onto the windowsill.
Finally, after a few minutes of playful chaos, you managed to corral Horsey onto a cozy beanbag in the corner. He immediately curled up, tail flicking lazily as the kids gathered around to pet him.
“See?” Alex said, nudging your shoulder. “Controlled chaos. He loves you, they love him… and it’s a learning experience.”
You laughed, brushing your hands off. “Yeah… I guess having Horsey around makes everything more… fun.”
Lily leaned in, smiling, as one of the kids placed a tiny painted paw print on a sheet of paper for Horsey. “He’s definitely part of the class now.”
Horsey purred loudly, kneading the paper with his paws as if to approve, and you felt your chest warm. Between the laughter, the playful chaos, and the soft fur in your lap, this—Alex, Lily, Horsey, and your little students—was exactly the kind of chaos you loved.
okay… here me out… alex albon and summer fling!reader. don’t tell me you don’t see him as someone who has summer flings during his summer trips.
out of his summer flings, this one’s too memorable to forget. reader just made him laugh the most, their humor point just clicked. but, reader also ground him. to the point, he finally remembers what’s life is like outside racing. like he finally found something worth keeping off track.
would he man up and ask reader for the real thing? could be, but you could imagine he stutter because he’s too nervous. this one’s too cute in my imagination and probably could make you giggle as you write them, babylove.
hehe, that’s it for today’s plot! 💙
after summer ends — aa23
smau + written blurbs
alex albon x !model reader
it was supposed to be just a summer thing.
a few sun drenched weeks, nothing serious — just laughter that echoed across beaches, sneaky photos on private stories, and shared glances that meant more than either of you would admit. he was the f1 driver with sand in his hair and mischief in his smile. you were the model who knew better than to fall for someone who wouldn’t stay.
but then he laughed — really laughed — and suddenly, it felt different. softer. real. like maybe the world didn’t have to spin so fast all the time.
you weren’t looking for love.
he didn’t think he had time for it.
but some people… you just don’t forget.
even after summer ends.
fc : tyla
(a/n) : hi baby!!!! i loved this plot so so much and im currently working on a few others of yours. hope you love:))) i had so much fun writing, love you!!!
—
yourusername
liked by alexandrasaintmleux, franciscagomes and 1,840,000 others.
yourusername : never want to leave ☀️👙⛱️🌊🌺
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franciscagomes : screaming, crying, throwing up at how hot you are. respectfully.
liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername : miss you so much😭😭😭
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↳ franciscagomes : miss you more angel!
liked by yourusername
↳ username000 : potential new wag??? kika AND alexandra in the likes
↳ username77 : i don’t think so. her and kika have done quite a few campaigns together and her and alex met at a rhode thing. i think they are just all besties
yourbff : who’s the mysterious photographer in slide 6 babyyyy 👀 share w the class!
liked by yourusername, franciscagomes and alexandrasaintmleux
↳ yourusername : im not one to kiss and tell pooks 🤭🥰
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↳ yourbff : im calling you and you better have ANSWERS
alexandrasaintmleux : okay miss postcard come thru!!! also i want that pink bikini immediately
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↳ yourusername : i have an extra one that is exactly like that!!! it’s yours the next time i see your beautiful face 💓
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↳ alexandrasaintmleux : you are the sweetest🤧🤧 hope to see you soon!!
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↳ username57 : yn is such a girls girl!! love her
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elbaoward : okay beach goddess! serve!! but also who’s the man with the camera. tell us now or we riot 🫵
liked by yourusername, yourbff and alexandrasaintmleux
↳ yourusername : MY ELBAAAAA<3 i miss you
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↳ elbaoward : i miss you dearly but DO NOT try to distract me
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↳ yourusername : just a little friend i met on the way🤭
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↳ elbaoward : i do not buy the term ‘friend’ but okay miss girl
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username37 : the soft launch is so loud omg. we’re not blind, babes 😭
username15 : this whole post is giving i’m in love and glowing ??? SHARING IS CARING
—
You weren’t even supposed to be at the beach that day. The shoot had wrapped early, the designer happy with what you’d given, and your friends had all opted for a rooftop bar across town. But the weather was too good to waste. So you slipped on your favorite oversized linen shirt, grabbed your book, and wandered down the stone path that led from your villa to the quieter side of the cove.
The beach was practically empty — just soft waves, warm sand, and the occasional breeze that toyed with your hair. You dropped your things, kicked off your sandals, and started walking along the water’s edge, letting the ocean kiss your ankles. That’s when you saw him. Or rather, heard him.
A sharp burst of laughter cut through the quiet — warm and loud, the kind that made you turn your head instantly. He was crouched beside a tiny cat, feeding it something from a little paper bag, smiling so hard his nose scrunched. You almost looked away. But then he looked up. Right at you. You both froze for a second. Then he grinned.
“Sorry,” he said, holding up the bag. “I think I just made a friend.”
You smiled, wandering a little closer. “You’re bribing it with food. That’s cheating.”
“Maybe,” he said, glancing down at the kitten now pawing at his knee. “But it’s working.”
You stepped closer, just close enough to see him properly now. Tall. Tan. Hair slightly windblown. Kind eyes. Familiar eyes, actually. Wait a second—
“You’re—”
“—Please don’t say my name out loud,” he said quickly, standing and brushing sand off his shorts. “I’m trying to fly under the radar today.”
Your brows raised. “On a public beach? With a wild animal and a paper bag full of bribes?”
He laughed again — that same big, bright laugh that made your chest feel fizzy. “Yeah. I didn’t say it was a good plan.”
You stuck your hand out. “I’m YN.”
He shook it. “Alex.”
“I know,” you said, a little teasingly.
He rubbed the back of his neck, slightly embarrassed. “Yeah, figured.”
The moment settled into something easy after that. You both sat on the sand, the cat curled up between you like it was supervising your first meeting. You talked — about everything and nothing. How good the mangoes were on this island. How you both hated sand in your shoes. How he didn’t know how to relax, and how you hadn’t in years either.
“You ever just… forget how to be a person when you’re not working?” he asked at one point, lying back in the sand, arms behind his head.
You looked at him, squinting against the sun. “All the time.”
He turned his head toward you, smiling like it was the first time he’d felt understood in weeks. “You’re easy to talk to.”
“So are you,” you said quietly, and for a moment, the waves felt quieter — like even the ocean was listening.
And when you both left the beach hours later, walking up the path barefoot with the cat still trailing behind, you realized something strange: It didn’t feel like you had just met. It felt like the start of something — slow, golden, soft. Something that might stay with you… even after the sunburn faded.
—
It starts with a text the day after.
alex :
sunset’s supposed to be insane tonight. want to see it together? i’ll trade you dinner for your favorite spot.
You smile at your phone, still in your towel, hair damp from a post-beach shower. You pause for exactly thirty seconds — not to play it cool, but because your heart is beating a little too fast. You type back:
deal. but if you hate my favorite spot, you’re not allowed to tell me until tomorrow.
The restaurant is tucked into the side of a cliff, one of those places with no sign, no tourists, and only six tables — all of them facing the sea.
Alex gets there before you, already seated on the outdoor terrace with two glasses of something citrusy and cold. His skin is sun-kissed, hair still a bit messy, white shirt rolled at the sleeves like he’s trying to look casual, but not too casual. When he sees you walking up the stone steps in your linen dress, his face lights up — so soft, so effortless, so obviously not hiding it.
“You clean up well,” he says, standing as you approach.
You raise a brow. “That implies I was dirty earlier.”
He laughs, that same nose-wrinkling, head-thrown-back laugh that hasn’t stopped making your stomach flip since you first heard it.
Dinner is simple — grilled fish, fresh vegetables, soft bread that you both tear and eat with your hands, laughing when it gets on your cheeks. Conversation flows even easier than the wine.
He tells you about growing up between cultures, how he never really felt like he belonged in just one place.
You tell him about the pressure to always be beautiful, always be on, how quiet moments like this feel rare and precious.
At one point, the sky turns gold. You both stop mid-sentence to stare at it.
“Wow,” he murmurs.
But he’s not looking at the view. He’s looking at you.
After dessert — something flaky and sweet that you fed him off your fork just to see him blush — you take a walk down the narrow path that wraps around the edge of the cliff. The stars are just beginning to appear, glittering above the water.
You walk in comfortable silence until he suddenly stops.
“Can I tell you something?” he asks, almost shyly.
You nod. “Of course.”
“I haven’t thought about racing all day.” He glances at you. “That never happens.”
Your heart skips a beat. “Is that… good?”
“It’s weird,” he says honestly. “But good. You make it easy to forget the noise.”
You smile, stepping closer. “Well, you make it easy to forget that people are always watching.”
And then, so naturally it almost surprises you, you reach for his hand. His fingers wrap around yours like they’ve done it a hundred times before.
You stand there for a long time — your fingers laced, the sea whispering below you, his thumb brushing softly over your knuckles. Neither of you says it out loud. But you both feel it.
—
You’re still in your robe, damp from your morning swim, when the knock comes at the door. It’s gentle — not hurried, not loud — but it still startles you. Mostly because no one ever knocks here. The villa’s tucked so far away from everything that even the delivery drivers leave things at the gate.
You pad across the stone floor barefoot, pulling the door open without thinking. And there he is. Alex.
Wearing a faded t-shirt, shorts, sunglasses pushed back in his hair, and holding two smoothies.
“Morning,” he says with that soft, half sleepy smile you’re already growing addicted to.
You blink at him. “Did I forget we made plans?”
“Nope,” he grins. “But I made some for us anyway.”
You raise a brow, leaning on the doorframe, amused. “Is this your way of telling me to get dressed?”
He hands you one of the smoothies. “Only if you want to spend the day with me.”
You take it, fingers brushing his. “Where are you taking me, Albon?”
“It’s a surprise,” he says, eyes twinkling. “But I promise you’ll like it. There’s good food, a view, and something I’ve been wanting to show you.”
By 9:30, you’re dressed in a breezy sundress and your favorite sandals, sitting in the passenger seat of a Jeep as it winds through the hills.
Alex is driving — one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly on your knee like it belongs there. The wind whips through your hair, and the sun paints everything gold. Music plays low from the speakers — something soft and summery. It feels like a movie, and if you’re honest, it’s been feeling like that since the moment you met him.
“Is this kidnapping?” you joke, watching the road twist through wildflower-covered cliffs. “Because it’s weirdly well organized.”
“I’d be an excellent kidnapper,” he says, glancing over at you. “Very polite. Great playlist. Smoothies included.”
You laugh, and he grins like he’s proud of himself for getting that sound out of you.
Eventually, the road disappears into a hidden grove and he parks. You hike a short trail — and when you reach the end, your breath catches.
It’s a hidden beach. Tiny. Empty. Surrounded by rock walls and trees. There’s a little setup waiting: a woven blanket, an umbrella, a small basket filled with fruits, cheeses, and cold drinks.
You turn to him, wide eyed. “You planned all this?”
He scratches the back of his neck, a little shy now. “I asked the villa staff if there were any quiet spots on the island… they helped me set it up.”
“Alex…”
He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “I figured it’s your favorite kind of morning. Coffee. Swimming. Zero people.”
You don’t say anything. You just wrap your arms around him and press your face to his shoulder.
He hugs you back tightly, his lips brushing the top of your head. “Is that a yes to swimming?”
You laugh into his shirt. “That’s a yes to everything.”
The rest of the morning unfolds like a dream.
You swim. You sunbathe. You eat the strawberries he feeds you, one by one, grinning like a dork. He tries to teach you to skip stones — you fail miserably, so he keeps skipping them in the shapes of letters instead, claiming he’s spelling your name.
Later, you both lie back on the blanket, quiet and warm, fingers intertwined between you.
“You know,” he says softly, eyes on the sky, “this whole thing was supposed to be a break. A reset. Time off.”
You glance at him. “And?”
He turns to look at you fully now, his gaze honest and open in a way that makes your heart ache a little.
“And then I met you. And now it just… doesn’t feel like a break anymore. It feels like something I want to keep.”
You swallow, the breeze catching your hair. “Me too.”
He reaches over and tucks a strand behind your ear, thumb brushing your cheek. “I’m really glad you were at that beach.”
“I’m really glad you bribed that cat,” you whisper back.
You both laugh quietly, but it fades into something soft and still. His hand slips back into yours, and you lie there like that — skin warm, hearts full, ocean humming in the background.
No cameras. No noise. Just the two of you, and something new blooming gently between your fingers. Something worth keeping.
—
alex_albon
liked by lando, georgerussell63, carlossainz55 and 1,134,000 others.
alex_albon : great start to the break so far, onto the next destination ✈️
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georgerussell63 : is this a love letter or a thirst trap? pls explain
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↳ carmenmmundt : we would both like to know 🤨
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↳ alex_albon : what can I say? I am not one to kiss and tell…
↳ georgerussell63 : alexander call me right this second. im not about to play with you
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carlossainz55 : alright lover boy we SEE you
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lando : the summer alex albon fell in love
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oscarpiastri : please explain the hand holding in the last picture
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username000 : okay but the thirst traps are just a distraction from the fact that HE’S IN LOVE AND THINKS WE WON’T NOTICE 😭
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↳ georgerussell63 : agreed
↳ alex_albon : george…
username15 : sir. you’re glowing. you’re not slick.
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username7 : that’s yn’s hand in slide 6. i know that bracelet. we’ve seen it before. don’t test us, alex.
—
You can already feel it — that slow, creeping sadness that starts to settle in once you realize a perfect moment is running out of time. It’s your last day on the island.
The villa is quieter today. Everything feels a little slower. The sun still shines, the breeze still hums, but there’s a stillness in the air that wasn’t there before. Like the island knows you’re leaving.
Alex hasn’t said much about it. He’s been soft all day — gentle smiles, lingering touches, quiet glances that feel like they’re holding something back.
Now you’re sitting with him on the beach, the same one where you first met, watching the sky blush gold and pink as the sun begins to dip below the horizon. You’re tucked into his side, your legs stretched out in front of you, his arm looped loosely around your waist, fingers trailing along the hem of your dress.
He exhales slowly, like he’s been building up to something.
“So,” he says, voice low, barely above the sound of the waves. “You flying out tomorrow morning?”
You nod, not looking away from the water. “Yeah. Early.”
He’s quiet for a moment. You feel him shift slightly, and then his voice again — quieter this time.
“Come with me.”
You blink, turning to face him. “What?”
He meets your eyes. His are soft and a little nervous, but sure.
“My next stop — just a few more days. Nothing fancy. Just… more of this. You and me.” He rubs the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly. “I kind of got used to having you around.”
You stare at him for a beat, your heart fluttering like it knows something your brain hasn’t caught up with yet.
“Alex…”
He rushes to explain, suddenly talking too fast. “I know you’ve got stuff, and you don’t have to say yes. I just— I realized I don’t really want to do the next bit alone. It’s weird, but—being with you made everything feel lighter. And quieter. And good.”
You raise an eyebrow, biting back a grin. “Are you saying you’d be emotionally devastated if I left you here to suffer in your luxury travel plans alone?”
He groans, leaning back in the sand with a hand over his face. “Please don’t bully me. I’m trying to be vulnerable.”
You laugh, reaching over to pull his hand away. “You’re very cute when you’re vulnerable, actually.”
He pouts. “You’re deflecting.”
You lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek, just shy of his lips. “I’d love to come with you.”
He blinks. “Wait, really?”
“I’ve got nothing lined up for a few more days,” you say casually, though your heart is doing cartwheels. “And the idea of letting this end right now? Kinda awful.”
A grin spreads across his face — that boyish, bright smile that gets you every time.
“You’re serious?”
You nod. “I’m not ready for this to be over yet.”
He pulls you in without another word, kissing you like the sunset is only happening for the two of you — like the moment might stretch on forever if he holds you just a little tighter. And when he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours.
“I promise the next place has decent coffee,” he murmurs.
“And cats?”
“Probably.”
You smile against his lips. “Then I’m in.”
You spend the rest of the night wrapped in each other — laughing over dinner, stealing kisses between packing, and falling asleep tangled up on the couch because neither of you could bring yourselves to say goodnight just yet.
And as your flight confirmation lands in your inbox, Alex’s hand finds yours under the blanket.
You squeeze it gently. Whatever this is — it’s just getting started.
—
The air in Thailand is different. Heavier. Warmer. More alive.
From the moment you step off the plane, it wraps around you like a second skin — thick with the scent of jasmine, street food, and something sweet you can’t quite name.
Alex is beside you, sunglasses perched on his head, his hand grazing yours every few steps as you make your way through the narrow streets near your hotel. You’ve dropped your bags, changed into something lighter, and now you’re just… wandering.
You don’t need a plan here. There’s color everywhere. Lanterns strung overhead like stars, golden temples glowing in the late afternoon sun, food stalls with sizzling skewers and bowls of steaming noodles. Every corner feels like a photograph waiting to happen — and yet, neither of you reach for your phones. Not yet.
You’re too wrapped up in the moment. Alex buys you mango sticky rice from a vendor, insists on carrying your water bottle even though you tell him you’ve got it, and points out every stray cat with an excited, “look, another one!” like you’re on some kind of feline safari.
At one point, you pause in front of a small shrine surrounded by candles and flowers. The air is quiet there. Sacred. You don’t say anything, but you feel his hand slip into yours — gentle, easy, like it’s second nature now. You squeeze once. He squeezes back.
Later, the two of you take a long-tail boat just as the sun begins to set.
The water is calm, painted in ripples of orange and lavender. You sit side by side, shoes off, legs stretched out in front of you, the boat rocking gently beneath you as the sky begins to darken.
Alex leans back, arms behind his head, eyes on the horizon. “This feels fake,” he says softly. “Like we’re living someone else’s life.”
You hum in agreement. “Yeah. It’s… too good.”
He turns his head toward you. “Is it weird that I don’t want it to end?”
Your heart trips.
“No,” you say quietly. “It’s not weird.”
He studies your face for a moment — really looks at you, like he’s memorizing every detail. “I didn’t think I’d feel like this.”
“Like what?”
He hesitates, then lets out a soft laugh, almost like he’s admitting something to himself for the first time. “Like I want more.”
Your breath catches in your throat, but you don’t look away. “More of this?”
“More you.” His voice is almost a whisper now. “This was supposed to be fun. Light. A break from everything. But then I met you, and now I’m…” He trails off, looking out at the water.
“Scared?” you offer, smiling gently.
He nods, then turns back to you. “Yeah. But also not. You make it feel safe.”
You don’t speak for a moment. You just reach for his hand again and hold it between both of yours.
“I’m glad you asked me to come,” you say. “Even if it’s messing with our original plan of no feelings.”
He grins. “That plan was doomed the second you made me laugh on that beach.”
You laugh too — full and unguarded, the kind of sound that makes his entire face soften. As the sun sinks lower and the lights of the city begin to twinkle in the distance, he shifts closer. Presses a soft kiss to your temple.
Then your cheek. Then, finally, your lips.
It’s slower than the other kisses. Like he’s savoring it. Like he knows this moment means more.
And when you finally pull back, you both stay quiet, leaning into each other as the boat drifts through the warm, glowing night.
Neither of you says it yet. But the words hang in the air between you anyway.
—
The air is still thick with the scent of lemongrass and coconut as you both walk back, barefoot, shoes in hand, the humid breeze soft against your skin.
Alex laughs at something you said, head tilted back, hair still damp from your earlier night swim. The moonlight hits him just right, and for a second, you forget how to breathe.
You’re not supposed to fall this hard. You’re supposed to be good at goodbyes. But there’s something about the way he looks at you — like he’s searching for constellations in your eyes — that makes every practiced defense start to crack.
Back at the villa, everything is quiet. The ceiling fan spins lazily above the bed. The sliding doors are open, letting in the sounds of crickets and the occasional soft crash of a wave somewhere nearby.
You both collapse onto the bed still in your beach clothes. Your legs are tangled together, his arm draped over your stomach like it belongs there, and for once — you’re not thinking about what happens when the trip ends.
He’s tracing soft circles on your side with his fingers, eyes on the ceiling.
Then, out of nowhere, he says, “I was trying to think of a word for this.”
You turn your head. “For what?”
“This,” he says, nodding between the two of you. “Us. Whatever this is.”
You don’t answer right away. You don’t know how to.
So he keeps talking, like he’s trying to work through it aloud. “It doesn’t feel casual. It hasn’t for a while. But it also doesn’t feel… scary. Not the way it should, if I were about to fall for someone.”
You blink. “If?”
He smiles faintly. “Okay. When.”
The room is quiet except for the fan and the distant hum of the ocean. You can feel the words forming on the tip of your tongue, threatening to spill out. I think I’m falling for you. I don’t want to leave you. I think I already love you.
But then Alex leans forward and kisses your forehead — so slow, so tender it almost breaks you — and whispers, “Don’t say anything. Not yet.”
You look up at him.
“Why not?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.
He swallows. “Because if you say it… I’ll never be able to pretend I don’t feel it too.”
You stare at him for a long moment. Then nod, once. You understand. You feel it, too.
So instead, you settle deeper into the bed, his arm still around you, and rest your hand over his chest — right where his heart is racing under your palm. It’s not a confession. Not tonight. But it’s something.
And maybe… for now, that’s enough.
—
alex_albon
liked by lando, georgerussell63, williamsracing and 1,400,000 others.
alex_albon : 🌴🌊🫏🩵
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danielricciardo : i know im retired now but i still like to be included in secrets.
liked by alex_albon
↳ alex_albon : don’t feel bad, george doesn’t even know.
liked by danielricciardo
↳ georgerussell63 : thx for rubbing it in my face again 🙄
lando : just tell us already bro. we’re not dumb.
liked by alex_albon
carlossainz55 : great pics! now blink twice if you’re in love.
liked by alex_albon
williamsracing : happy summer break alex! do we spy a soft launch???🕵🏼♀️💙
liked by alex_albon
georgerussell63 : i will say it once more. explain yourself mr. albon
liked by alex_albon
↳ georgerussell63 : ALEXXXXXX
—
You should’ve known something was up the second Alex knocked on the villa door that evening in a button up shirt. Not a t-shirt. Not a tank top. Not one of those pastel Hawaiian ones he wore half ironically all summer. A real, crisp, navy blue button-up — sleeves slightly rolled, top two buttons undone, collar barely tamed by the humid breeze. He looked… nervous. And unfairly handsome.
“Wow,” you said, a little breathless when you opened the door. “You look nice.”
He grinned, scratching the back of his neck. “Figured I should, you know… try. It’s kind of a special night.”
That made your stomach flip. He wouldn’t say why. He drove you down winding coastal roads in that same little Jeep you’d been riding around in all summer — your knees bumping every time the road curved, his hand resting naturally on the gear shift… and sometimes yours. He wouldn’t tell you where you were going, just glanced over occasionally with that dimpled smirk that made your heart skip.
Eventually, he pulled into a quiet driveway that led to a candlelit terrace overlooking the water. There were only a few tables, strung lights overhead, waves crashing gently in the background. It looked like something out of a dream.
“Alex…” you whispered, stunned. “This is beautiful.”
“Yeah, well…” He offered his hand to help you out of the car. “You deserve it.”
The dinner itself was perfect. Soft music in the background, plates of shared dishes you couldn’t pronounce but adored, his thigh pressed against yours under the table like it belonged there. You’d never seen him this still. This focused. He kept looking at you like he was trying to memorize the moment.
But somewhere between dessert and the last sip of wine, you noticed his leg start to bounce. His fingers toyed with his napkin. And when you reached out and touched his hand lightly, he froze.
“Alex?”
He swallowed hard. “Okay. Okay. I’ve, um…” He let out a breathy laugh and ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve been trying to say this all night and I’m… failing. Miserably.”
You tilted your head, lips tugging into a gentle smile. “Say what?”
“I don’t—” He glanced down, then back at you, cheeks tinted pink. “I don’t want this to end. I mean—us. This. The summer. I know it’s been short and spontaneous and mostly just us being idiots on islands, but…” He laughed nervously, fingers lacing with yours across the table. “But I think I’d regret it forever if I just let you go without saying something.”
Your breath caught. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, eyes soft and scared and entirely sincere.
“You make everything feel easier,” he continued, voice barely above a whisper now. “You make me laugh, like really laugh. And you keep me grounded, even when I’m running a thousand miles an hour in my head. Being with you… I finally remembered what it feels like to slow down. And I don’t— I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you.”
Your heart was pounding, lips parted in surprise, but before you could respond, he kept going.
“I’m probably butchering this. I know I’m supposed to be smoother. Or… I don’t know, more charming or whatever,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “But I just— I really, really like you. And I want to keep this going. Past the summer. If you want to, too.”
You didn’t even realize your eyes were glassy until he reached up and brushed a thumb gently under one.
“I was kind of hoping you’d say that,” you said softly, your voice full of warmth and quiet awe. “Because I really, really like you too, Albono.”
He groaned. “You had to ruin the moment with the nickname, didn’t you?”
You laughed, leaning across the table to kiss him. “Of course I did. You’re stuck with me now.”
“Good,” he said against your lips, grinning like a man completely and totally gone for you. “Because I don’t want to be anywhere else.”
—
several weeks later…
f1gossipgirls
liked by lando and 775,000 others.
f1gossipgirls : supermodel yn ln was seen in the paddock on both qualifying and race day this weekend — looking stunning as ever. she was spotted in the williams garage, chatting with a few familiar faces (alex, we’re looking at you 👀), and even stopped to take pictures with fans!
—
You knew it the second you stepped foot into the paddock—this was his world. The noise, the bustle, the hum of engines and controlled chaos. The smell of tire rubber and something vaguely metallic in the air. It was a different pace entirely from the lazy island mornings and soft, sandy nights you’d shared over the summer. And yet somehow… it didn’t feel unfamiliar.
Because you weren’t here for Formula 1. You were here for Alex.
He didn’t know you were coming. You’d worked it out with his team and his PR girl (who might be your new best friend now), and slipped in quietly with a guest pass, sunglasses perched on your nose and an oversized bucket hat low over your face.
And you’d waited. Patiently—if a bit nervously—until he walked into the hospitality area, half-focused on his phone, tapping through messages as his engineering team trailed behind him.
Then he looked up. And stopped walking.
“YN?” he blinked, stunned, like his brain was buffering. Then again, he always looked at you like he was seeing the sun and couldn’t quite believe it let him get this close.
You lifted your sunglasses just to smile. “Hey, racer boy.”
He moved faster than you expected—smiling wide, practically sprinting the last few steps before pulling you into a hug so tight, it lifted your feet slightly off the floor.
“I thought you were back in LA,” he mumbled against your hair. “I thought—wait—what? How did you—?”
You laughed into his shoulder. “Surprise. I missed you.”
He pulled back just slightly, holding you by the waist, still looking at you like you might disappear. “You—you came all this way just to—?”
“See you,” you finished, eyes soft.
Alex’s cheeks flushed, and he ran a hand through his hair in that tell tale way that meant he was flustered. “God, you’re gonna kill me. I’m already too attached.”
Before you could say anything, someone cleared their throat nearby.
“Well, well, well,” Carlos Sainz grinned, appearing behind Alex with the most smug expression on his face. “Look who it is. The mysterious girlfriend.”
“Hi!” you smiled, sticking out your hand. “Nice to meet you—I’ve heard a lot.”
“Oh, I bet you have.” He shook your hand warmly, then looked at Alex. “So this is why you’ve been walking around all day with hearts in your eyes.”
Alex groaned under his breath. “Carlos.”
“I thought you were just sleep deprived,” Carlos teased, ignoring him. “But no—turns out it’s just love.”
You blinked in amusement. Alex, however, had gone a shade of red that could rival a Ferrari.
“She’s not—” he started, then trailed off as Carlos raised a knowing brow. Alex sighed. “Can you… not?”
Carlos laughed and patted him on the shoulder. “Relax, lover boy. I like her. She’s cool. You chose well.”
You leaned into Alex slightly, teasing, “See? I got Carlos’ approval. That’s a pretty big deal, isn’t it?”
Alex looked down at you with a crooked smile, eyes soft despite the lingering pink on his cheeks. “Yeah… it really is.”
Carlos threw a wink your way. “I’ll leave you two alone. But if I hear you’re making out behind the garage, I will rat you out to the entire grid.”
As he walked off, you and Alex both burst out laughing.
“I cannot believe your teammate just called you out like that,” you said between giggles.
Alex shook his head, still grinning as he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you closer. “Yeah, well. He’s not wrong.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
He looked at you, all sunshine and nerves and affection. “I’ve missed you every single day.”
Your heart fluttered.
“You have me now,” you whispered.
And in that moment, with the chaos of the paddock fading into background noise and the weight of your bodies leaned close together, it felt like no one else in the world mattered. Not even Carlos and his teasing.
—
You should have known your presence wouldn’t stay a secret for long. Alex might have been the most private person in the paddock when he wanted to be, but Formula 1 drivers? They were the biggest gossips on the planet.
You were sipping a cold drink in the hospitality lounge, scrolling through your phone and minding your own business, when you suddenly heard it—
“Oi!”
Before you could even look up, two very familiar British voices echoed across the room in perfect harmony—
“Is that her?!”
You turned just in time to see Lando Norris and George Russell power walking toward you like a couple of reality show contestants who had just sniffed out drama.
“Oh god,” you muttered under your breath, grinning despite yourself.
Lando pointed at you as he approached, his curls bouncing under his cap. “I knew the rumors were true!”
George followed right behind him, looking just as smug. “I told him you wouldn’t miss the race. No one believes me when I say I have a sixth sense for romance.”
“Romance?” you laughed, standing to greet them. “What on earth are you two talking about?”
“You and Alex, obviously,” George said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Alex hasn’t stopped smiling since the break,” Lando added, crossing his arms dramatically. “He literally hummed during the parade yesterday. Hummed.”
“That’s not normal,” George agreed.
You raised a brow. “So, what, you two just decided to stalk me in hospitality?”
“We heard whispers,” Lando said with a faux-conspiratorial look. “And maybe saw a blurry photo on someone’s story. Possibly Carlos’ shoulder in frame, possibly your hair. Hard to say.”
“Ah-ha!” George snapped his fingers. “I told you that post looked suspicious.”
Just then, right on cue, Carlos appeared around the corner, running toward the three of you with wide eyes and an expression of pure panic.
“I promise I didn’t tell them!” he shouted from a few meters away, slightly out of breath. “They saw something on Instagram—I swear on my mother!”
You burst out laughing as Carlos skidded to a stop beside you, looking wildly betrayed by the universe.
“They cornered me in the drivers’ room,” he explained, pointing dramatically at George and Lando. “I didn’t even stand a chance.”
George clapped him on the back. “You crack under pressure. Noted.”
Lando squinted at you, narrowing his eyes playfully. “So. Are you going to tell us how it happened or do we have to waterboard Carlos?”
“I’d like to keep my secrets and my life, thank you,” Carlos deadpanned.
You laughed, hands up in surrender. “There’s not much to tell! We met on holiday. Hung out. Ate good food. I liked his face. He liked mine. The rest is history.”
“She liked his face,” Lando mocked, looking scandalized. “What a love story.”
Just then, the group’s energy shifted ever so slightly. Alex was approaching from the other side of the room, a little confused and a lot curious.
The second his eyes found yours, though, the tension in his shoulders disappeared. He smiled softly, casually jogging over and sliding an arm around your waist.
“What’s going on here?” he asked, eyeing his friends warily.
Carlos immediately pointed. “I didn’t say anything.”
George ignored him entirely. “Mate, you didn’t tell us your girlfriend was going to be in the paddock.”
Alex blinked. “She’s not—” He paused. Looked at you. Then cleared his throat. “We didn’t really label—uh—anything yet.”
You smiled at him. “Not yet.”
Lando clutched his heart dramatically. “Oh my god, that was actually cute.”
Carlos groaned. “Can you all stop before I vomit in my helmet?”
George nodded toward Alex. “You’ve got it bad, man.”
Alex rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. Instead, he looked down at you with a grin that made your knees a little weak and said, “Can’t help it.”
“Alright, lovebirds,” Lando said, already backing away. “We’ll let you be. But just know we’re watching. And we will ask questions.”
Carlos followed after them, muttering, “I need new friends.”
You were left in the middle of the lounge with Alex, who just shook his head and laughed. “That was… intense.”
“Are they always like that?” you asked.
“Worse,” he said, gently squeezing your waist. “But you handled it perfectly.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Do I get a prize?”
He leaned down slightly, his voice lower, softer. “Come find me after.”
Your heart skipped. Maybe this world of engines and egos wasn’t so overwhelming after all. Not when he was in it—when he looked at you like this.
—
The race had been chaos in all the best ways. Williams had nailed the strategy. The pit stop had been flawless. And Alex—god, Alex had driven. Every lap, every overtake, every second defending his position, he’d looked like the sharpest version of himself. Calm. Focused. Brilliant.
You’d watched it all from the garage—fists clenched, heart in your throat, surrounded by engineers who had quickly learned that your nervous pacing didn’t stop until the final lap ended. When he crossed the line in P5, the entire garage erupted around you. Cheering. Hugs. High-fives.
But none of it registered until his voice crackled through the team radio.
“P5?! Let’s goooo! That one’s for you, guys. Thanks for the hard work.”
And then—after a short pause—
“…and for you too, YN.”
Your mouth dropped open. Someone behind you laughed. Someone else gasped.
“Oh, he’s down bad,” one of the race engineers muttered with a grin.
You were still laughing, still trying to wrap your head around it, when the team was suddenly ushered out toward parc fermé. The paddock was swarming—media, photographers, fans pressed up against barriers. The noise was deafening.
And then you saw him.
Helmet off. Suit unzipped halfway. Still buzzing from the race. His hair was messy. His eyes found yours like a magnet.
He didn’t hesitate.
He ducked out of the media crowd, weaving through people, ignoring a PR rep trying to hand him a water bottle—and made a beeline straight for you.
“Alex—”
You didn’t even get to finish your sentence. He grabbed your waist and pulled you to him like it was the only thing that made sense in the world. His hands were firm on your sides. His forehead bumped yours. He was still slightly out of breath.
“I’m sorry,” he said, smiling so big you could barely look at him without melting. “I couldn’t wait.”
And then he kissed you. Right there in the middle of the paddock. Cameras flashing. Media watching. Lando yelling something unintelligible in the background.
But none of it mattered. Because his lips were soft and warm and smiling against yours, and you were holding onto him like maybe—just maybe—this was more than just a summer thing.
When he finally pulled away, the grin was still there.
You blinked, stunned, breathless. “What was that?”
“A hard launch,” he said simply.
You couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh yeah?”
“Well, I did come P5,” he teased. “Seemed like a good day for it.”
You looped your arms around his neck, still dazed, still glowing. “Alex…”
He tilted his head. “Too much?”
“Not even close,” you whispered, pressing your forehead back to his.
Around you, flashes kept going off. Journalists were whispering. Someone was recording a TikTok already. But Alex didn’t care. He just leaned in again and kissed you once more—softer this time, slower. Like you were everything good about his world right now. And maybe… you were.
—
alex_albon
liked by yourusername, lando, georgerussell63 and 2,357,000 others.
alex_albon : in love w the most beautiful girl in the world <3333
tagged : yourusername
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lando : he was giggling while typing this. i know it.
liked by alex_albon and yourusername
williamsracing : we’ve been WAITING 😭😭 congrats to our favorite couple 🩵
liked by alex_albon and yourusername
f1 : suddenly we’re all invested in alex albon’s love life
liked by alex_albon and yourusername
carmenmmundt : i’m not crying you’re crying 😭 she’s perfect and i love her too!!!
liked by alex_albon and yourusername
logansargeant : bro. bro. you actually did it 😭😭
liked by alex_albon and yourusername
carlossainz55 : i knew. and i’m STILL screaming.
liked alex_albon and yourusername
georgerussell63 : even though i was not aware until yesterday, i approve✅
Hi!!! I adore your poly works so much so i was wondering if you could do a russell x reader x albon smau fic. But HEAR ME OUT george and reader have been dating for years (ever since he was in williams) and obvs are super close with alex to the point the three of them often playfully flirt and stuff, so everyone suspects something’s going on. And alex is obviously in love with both of them but reader and george think he’s just joking around until one day they realize alex loves them and they kinda love him too. So anyway they end up happily dating and everyone in the paddock is relieved lol.
about time — gr63 + aa23
smau + blurbs
george russell x !nurse norris reader x alex albon
yn and george have rarely existed as just a duo—because wherever they go, alex is never far behind. their so called third wheel, their partner in crime, their constant. what alex has kept hidden for years, though, are the deep feelings he harbors for both of them. he has convinced himself it’s better that way—safer to stay quiet, to play the role of the best friend, the flirty buffer. what he doesn’t know is that yn and george feel the same. and what none of them realize… is that everyone else already knows.
fc : jazmynmakenna on ig and used some pics of carms and lily
(a/n) : tyyyy for the love! such a cute idea <3
—
yn_norris
liked by georgerussell63, alexalbon, lando & 5,002,007 others.
yn_norris : photo dump from an overworked, underpaid and tired nurse. (ft the necessary alex pic bc if i post a dump without him everyone assumes we had a friendship break up)
tagged : alexalbon and georgerussell63
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alexalbon : i’m flattered to be included but i’d like to campaign for more than one photo next time. i’m the fan favorite.
liked by yn_norris and georgerussell63
↳ yn_norris : i can make a whole account dedicated to you with how many pictures are in my alex folder
liked by alexalbon
↳ alexalbon : honestly that account might be more popular than your own
liked by yn_norris
↳ yn_norris : sassy king apocalypse has taken over the paddock. first, george, then lando and now you. sigh.
liked by georgerussell63, alexalbon and lando
↳ georgerussell63 : i prefer the term witty
liked by yn_norris, alexalbon and lando
username00 : yn can both of your boyfriends fight?? i want you
liked by yn_norris
↳ yn_norris : george may be all posh and brit but he is ready to swing at anytime
liked by georgerussell63 and alexalbon
↳ yn_norris : and alex, my sweet little cinnamon bun, will quite literally not even kill a spider bc “it has a family too”
liked by georgerussell63 and alexalbon
↳ alexalbon : @/username00 i may not fight but i will send someone to your location that can.
liked by georgerussell63 and yn_norris
↳ username1 : the way she didn’t deny Alex was her boyfriend??? and instead called him a little cinnamon bun
lando : stop posting your aesthetic cute pictures from work. show the real you. like the gremlin I saw at the nurses station at 3 am when I brought you coffee. cheeto fingers, eye bags and all.
liked by yn_norris
↳ georgerussell63 : ive seen that 3am gremlin. id still risk it all. even with the cheeto dust
liked by yn_norris
↳ lando : you need help
↳ alexalbon : the cutest gremlin ive ever seen
liked by yn_norris
↳ lando : and you need even more help.
username0 : ynnnnnn. fave 2019 rookie??? (yes I am asking you to pick between your brother and both of your men)
liked by yn_norris
↳ yn_norris : legally i am required to say lando.
liked by georgerussell63, alexalbon and lando
↳ lando : damn right. i’ve got baby photos and blackmail material. tread carefully.
↳ yn_norris : but emotionally? alex. physically? george.
liked by alexalbon
↳ georgerussell63 : I won a category but I still feel like I lost
liked by yn_norris
↳ yn_norris : you won where it counts, baby. don’t be greedy.
liked by georgerussell63
↳ lando : BARF. just say you love me the most and move on.
liked by yn_norris
franciscagomes : omg. cough. im sick. i need this smokin hot nurse to come take care of me rn😷🤭
liked by yn_norris
↳ yn_norris : omw! got something that’ll fix you right up bae 😈
liked by franciscagomes
↳ pierregasly : HEY. you alr have two boyfriends. take your advice and don’t be greedy, norris.
↳ yn_norris : mind your business baldpine #1
liked by lando
—
your pov
The fluorescent lights above me flickered one too many times as I signed out for the night. My back ached, my scrubs were wrinkled, and I was 97% sure there was dry formula in my hair. Twelve hours, four codes, and one toddler with a death grip on my ponytail later—I was done.
The sliding doors whooshed open and cold night air wrapped around me like a sigh. I blinked up at the parking lot, expecting the usual quiet walk to my car and maybe crying to a podcast on the way home.
But instead, parked in front of the hospital like they owned the place, were my boys.
George was leaning against the passenger side of Alex’s car, arms crossed and hair tousled like he’d been running his hands through it for the last ten minutes. Alex was in the driver’s seat, scrolling through something on his phone with the windows down and music playing softly—my playlist.
“Hi!” George called when he spotted me, that big, exhausted grin of his lighting up his face. “We come bearing gifts.”
I didn’t even have the energy to be dramatic about it. I just dropped my bag to the ground and walked straight into George’s arms.
“I hate everyone except you two,” I mumbled into his chest.
“We know,” he laughed, kissing the top of my head. “That’s why we came prepared.”
Alex popped the trunk and hopped out. “Ta-da,” he said, gesturing like a magician.
Inside were— my favorite snacks including the weird gummy worms only one petrol station sells, an iced coffee from that place across town, a cozy hoodie I’d stolen from George and they’d returned freshly washed, and a heated blanket plugged into the car. There was even a tiny bottle of micellar water and cotton pads.
“I don’t deserve you,” I whispered.
George grabbed my bag. Alex opened the car door for me. And without even asking, they handed me the coffee, tucked me into the blanket, and turned on the seat heater.
“You saved lives today,” Alex said, buckling me in. “We’re just here to make sure you’re taking care of yourself.”
George climbed into the backseat beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “Rest now, nurse. You’re off duty.”
I didn’t say anything—I just reached for both their hands. And for the first time that day, I breathed. The coffee cup was half-empty in my hand, my head resting on George’s shoulder, his thumb gently tracing circles over the back of my hand. Alex was humming along to the music—quiet, low, and warm—and I only caught snippets of their conversation as the car rolled through the near-empty streets.
At some point, my eyes fluttered shut. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but exhaustion settled into my bones like sand and the rhythm of their voices was just too soothing. The next thing I registered was the car slowing to a stop and the faint click of a seatbelt unbuckling. I think I mumbled something. Or tried to.
“Shh,” Alex whispered, brushing a strand of hair away from my face. “You’re okay, love. Go back to sleep.”
Then I felt it—his arms slipping beneath me, lifting me like I weighed nothing. The scent of his hoodie, the soft rumble of his voice close to my ear. George’s footsteps behind us. A door opening. Warmth. Home. I stirred slightly as he carried me up the stairs, but Alex just held me tighter.
“You guys didn’t have to come,” I slurred, barely audible.
George was ahead of us, flipping on the bedroom light, already pulling the covers back. “Shut up and let us love you,” he said with a sleepy smile.
Alex laid me down gently, brushing a kiss over my forehead before sitting on the edge of the bed to untie my shoes. George helped me out of my hoodie and pulled the blankets up around me with such tenderness I nearly cried.
“Come here,” I mumbled, blindly reaching for them.
They didn’t need asking twice. George slid in on my left, Alex on my right, both of them instantly folding around me like I was the center of the universe. My head rested on George’s chest, one hand tangled in Alex’s shirt. I felt safe. Held. Home.
“I’ve got early rounds tomorrow,” I murmured.
“We’ll set an alarm,” George whispered, already half-asleep.
“I’ll make you breakfast,” Alex added, rubbing my back in slow, lazy strokes.
I smiled, finally letting the last of the tension leave my body. Surrounded by the two people I loved most in the world, I fell asleep again—warm, safe, and exactly where I belonged.
—
lando’s pov
It wasn’t that unusual not to hear from YN right after a shift—sometimes she passed out for hours, sometimes she called me mid-breakfast while still wearing her scrubs and eating cereal out of a measuring cup. But tonight… something felt off. I waited. And waited. No texts. No memes. No updates. Nothing.So naturally, I panicked like any good brother would. I used the spare key she pretends she doesn’t know I have.
Her apartment was dark and quiet, which would normally be comforting, except every light in the hallway was off and I could hear soft music playing from her bedroom. I dropped the takeout I brought for her on the kitchen counter, tiptoed toward the door, and slowly pushed it open—And froze.
There, tangled in her sheets, were both George and Alex. George was sitting up against the headboard, shirtless, with YN tucked into his side. Alex was lying on her other side, awake and half-asleep, scrolling on his phone like this was completely normal.
Which, apparently, it was. They both looked up at me. Paused. I stared. Blinked. Held up a hand.
“Before I start yelling… is she alive?”
George gave me a sleepy smile. “Sleeping like a log.”
Alex waved, entirely too casual. “She fell asleep in the car. Long shift. We brought her back. I carried her in.”
I stared harder. “Why are you here?”
“I live ten minutes away and she fell asleep on me,” Alex said, shrugging. “And drooled on me. So it felt serious.”
“I’m going to kill you both,” I muttered.
Then YN stirred a little in her sleep, nuzzling closer to George, one of her hands fisting the fabric of Alex’s shirt like she was anchoring herself to him. And the worst part? They both melted. Alex immediately adjusted the blanket over her shoulder. George smoothed her hair back like it was instinct.
“Okay, never mind. I’m not gonna kill you,” I said, voice flat. “I’m gonna throw up.”
Alex gave me a look. “You brought food?”
I turned on my heel. “I’m leaving. This is cursed.”
George called after me, barely containing his laughter. “We’ll tell her you came for a visit, yeah?”
“Shut up!” I yelled from the hallway. “And I want the Tupperware back!”
—
your pov
The first thing I felt was warmth. Not just from the blankets cocooned around me, or the sun peeking through the curtains, but from the steady rise and fall of George’s chest beneath my cheek. His arm was draped around my waist like a seatbelt, keeping me tucked against him, his breath slow and even against my hair. For a second, I let myself stay there—limbs tangled, heart full, sleep still clinging to the edges of my mind. Then the scent hit me. Coffee. Toast. Something vaguely maple-y. Something… Alex. I smiled before my eyes even opened fully.
George stirred behind me, shifting just enough to press a kiss to my shoulder. “Mmm. Morning, baby.”
“Morning,” I mumbled, voice still scratchy. “Alex is cooking.”
There was a pause. Then George snorted, pulling me closer again. “God help us.”
I giggled into his chest, burying my face against his skin. “He’s gotten better.”
“He literally burned oatmeal.”
“I like my oatmeal crispy,” I murmured, and he groaned.
“You’re just biased because he worships you.”
From the kitchen, we could hear Alex singing softly under his breath. I recognized the song—it was the one I always played when I was making breakfast for them. My heart tugged a little at the sound. Everything about this moment felt so us.
George yawned. “We can go help him in a minute.”
“I’m comfy.”
“I’m not moving.”
“I might love you.”
He kissed my hair. “Might?”
Another clatter from the kitchen. A muffled “I’m fine!” from Alex.
I smiled again. “Okay, do you want him to burn the place down?”
George groaned, finally stretching. “Fine. But only because I think he’s trying to make the fancy eggs you like and I don’t trust him with a whisk.”
He rolled out of bed with all the grace of a sleepy golden retriever and offered me his hand. I took it, still wrapped in blankets, and shuffled behind him like a burrito.
We walked into the kitchen to find Alex—shirt rumpled, hair a mess—very proudly plating something that resembled food.
“I made breakfast!” he announced, holding up a pan with far too much confidence.
“You made smoke,” George replied, rubbing at his eyes.
“I made love in breakfast form,” Alex argued.
I leaned into the doorframe and smiled so wide my cheeks hurt. “You guys are idiots.”
Alex turned and grinned at me. “But we’re your idiots.”
God help me—I really was in love with both of them.
—
I was halfway through my very questionably cooked eggs, still wearing George’s t-shirt and wrapped in the blanket I’d dragged from the bed, when I realized both of them were staring at me. Too intently.
“What?” I asked through a mouthful. “Do I have egg on my face?”
“No,” George said slowly, smiling like he was up to something.
Alex was practically vibrating with excitement. “You know how you thought you had a shift today?”
I froze. “Yeah…”
George reached behind him and grabbed my phone, placing it on the table like it was a trap. “Check your schedule.”
I raised an eyebrow, swiped it open, and blinked.
[Schedule updated – you are no longer working today.]
“What. Did. You. Do.”
Alex gasped. “Excuse you. We did something wonderful.”
George took my plate before I could throw it. “We may or may not have called in a favor with the scheduling supervisor. Something about ‘nurse burnout statistics.’”
I stared at them.
“You manipulated hospital management?”
George shrugged. “You work so hard, love. You never take a real break. You needed one.”
“And we figured,” Alex added, holding up a duffel bag triumphantly, “why waste a perfectly good day off when we can turn it into an adventure?”
I blinked, still processing.
“We have a full itinerary,” George said proudly. “Spa appointment at noon, your favorite bakery at 1:30, then we’re going to the zoo, then driving out of the city for a little bit.”
Alex wiggled his brows. “Picnic included. And a disposable camera. And George packed the card game you always cheat at.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried not to cry into the blanket.
“You canceled my shift and planned a perfect day because…?”
“Because we love you, dummy,” Alex said, stepping forward to kiss my forehead.
“Because you take care of everyone else all the time,” George added, arms wrapping around my waist from behind. “Now it’s our turn.”
I just stood there, overwhelmed, two sets of arms wrapped around me, my face squished between kisses and soft fabric.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Let me go shower and find something cute to wear.”
Alex lit up. “Matching outfits???”
“Let’s not push it,” I muttered, hiding a smile as I slipped out of their arms.
Still—the warmth stayed. A day off. My boys. A field of sunflowers. I couldn’t have dreamed up anything better.
—
I’ve never been so clean and so judged at the same time. George was wearing a robe like it was custom-tailored to his soul—relaxed, smug, prince energy radiating off him like mist from the eucalyptus steam room. Alex, on the other hand, had immediately broken every spa rule known to man. He wore the complimentary slippers with socks, brought in his own music, and accidentally drank my infused water because “it tastes better than the one they gave him.”
“You’re impossible,” I said as he handed me back my empty lemon-cucumber glass.
“You love me,” he shot back, laying across the lounge chair next to mine like a sleepy golden retriever.
George leaned over from his own chair and brushed a kiss to my temple. “To be fair, yours had more cucumbers than his did.”
“Traitor.”
George smiled. “You’re glowing. I’d do anything to see you this relaxed.”
I sank deeper into the plush chair, wrapped in my robe, skin still warm from the facial I just got, and sighed. “Okay, maybe I’m not mad about this surprise.”
“Maybe?” Alex gasped dramatically. “Ma’am, you moaned during your massage.”
“I did not—”
“You definitely did,” George nodded. “I was on the next table. Thought I’d have to ask them to stop before it became inappropriate.”
“I hate both of you.”
“Lies,” they said in unison, and I couldn’t help it—I burst out laughing.
Alex shifted closer and gently placed a hand over mine, a rare moment of calm settling in. “You really needed this, YN.”
George’s thumb ran along my wrist. “You give so much. You forget to keep anything for yourself.”
I blinked.
“I’m okay, you know?” I whispered. “Just tired.”
“And we’re here,” George said softly. “Always.”
“We’re gonna spoil the hell out of you today,” Alex added, grinning. “And then maybe make George pay for dinner later. Princesses shouldn’t have to open her wallet.”
I laughed again and squeezed both their hands.
There was something so safe in the way they looked at me—in the way they’d planned all this just to see me breathe. For once, I wasn’t rushing. I wasn’t on edge or bracing for a night shift or another exhausting day. I was just… here. Loved. At peace.
“Okay,” I said, straightening up with mock determination. “What’s next? Body wrap? More lemon water? Can someone fan me like a Roman empress?”
Alex was already reaching for the complimentary spa fan. “Your wish, my queen.”
George rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. And so was I.
—
The spa glow hadn’t even worn off yet by the time we pulled up to my favorite little corner bakery—the one with the pastel pink awning, the windows always fogged from fresh bread, and the dangerously addictive almond croissants.
Alex practically fell out of the car when he spotted the sign. “This is the one, right? The croissants that made you cry that one time?”
“Stop bringing that up,” I groaned.
George looked at me in the rearview mirror with the same smug grin he always wore when he was about to say something unserious. “I’ve never seen a pastry make someone so emotional.”
“That’s because you’ve never had one warmed up with the honey drizzle,” I mumbled, grabbing my bag and sliding out of the car. “Life-changing.”
Alex gasped. “You didn’t tell me there was a drizzle.”
Inside, it smelled like sugar and cinnamon and heaven itself. The display case was full of the usual suspects—flaky croissants, jam-filled danishes, tiny cakes decorated like art. There was an elderly French woman working behind the counter, and the moment she saw me, her face lit up.
“Ah! La petite infirmière!” she said cheerfully.
“I come here on my breaks sometimes,” I explained as she greeted me with a warm smile. “And maybe… after night shifts. And sometimes before them.”
“She knows your order by heart,” Alex whispered, eyes wide. “You’re a legend.”
George leaned in. “She also called you her favorite. I’m a little offended.”
Ten minutes later, we walked out with a box stacked full of pastries, coffee orders in hand, and Alex already halfway through his second croissant.
“Okay, but this is ridiculous,” he said through a mouthful. “There’s almond paste. There’s honey. There’s flake. I would die for this.”
“You said that about my pancakes last week,” George muttered.
“Yeah, well, this is sexier.”
I laughed, leaning into George’s side as we walked. “He’s not wrong.”
George huffed dramatically, stealing a sip of my coffee. “Unbelievable. I take you to a spa, plan a whole day, and you betray me for a baked good.”
“You’ll live.”
Alex nudged George from the other side. “Don’t worry, Georgie. You’re my favorite man. The croissant’s my favorite object. Very different categories.”
“You two are so stupid,” I said, grinning like an idiot as we reached the car again. “But like. The cute kind of stupid.”
They both smiled at me then—this warm, knowing, love-drunk kind of look that made me want to pause time.
“I really don’t deserve either of you,” I said softly, not even meaning to say it out loud.
George pulled me into a hug, holding me against him. “You deserve the world.”
“And a third croissant,” Alex added, already holding it out for me like an offering.
God help me—I think I loved them more than I loved that pastry. And that was saying something.
—
I don’t know whose idea it was to go to the zoo—probably Alex’s, considering the way he literally sprinted toward the penguin enclosure like it was a life or death mission.
“THEY’RE WEARING TUXEDOS,” he yelled, pointing through the glass. “LOOK AT THEM. DAPPER LITTLE MEN.”
George and I stood behind him, coffees in hand, trying not to laugh.
“He’s been like this since the flamingos,” George whispered to me. “He thinks they’re judging him.”
“They are judging him,” I said, sipping my drink. “They saw his sock-and-sandal combo and had thoughts.”
George leaned over and kissed the side of my head. “You look happy.”
“I am happy,” I admitted quietly. “You two are insane, but you’re my kind of insane.”
Alex finally turned around, eyes wide behind his sunglasses. “Guys. I need a penguin. For my apartment.”
“No,” George and I said at the same time.
“But what if we built a little arctic section in the bathtub—”
“Absolutely not,” I cut in. “You almost flooded the kitchen trying to recreate Finding Nemo last month. Remember?”
Alex pouted but took my hand as we walked to the next exhibit. He held it casually, like he always had—but something in me shifted when George reached out and linked his fingers with mine on the other side. Like… I was surrounded. Anchored. Loved. The three of us squeezed together in front of the red panda habitat, leaning on the railing, giggling at the way one of them tried to climb the fence and immediately fell asleep mid-effort.
“It’s giving YN post-night shift,” Alex said solemnly.
“It’s giving you after two mimosas,” George replied.
They bickered. I leaned my head on George’s shoulder. Alex looped his arm around my back. We stood like that for a long moment—quiet, warm, weirdly soft in the middle of a zoo full of screaming children and overpriced hot dogs.
“Okay, serious question,” I said. “If we were zoo animals, what would we be?”
George hummed. “You’d be a koala. Cute, sleepy, deceptively mean when provoked.”
I nodded. “That’s fair.”
Alex grinned. “George is a flamingo.”
George turned to him, affronted. “Excuse me?”
“Tall. Pink. A little awkward but elegant when he tries.”
George opened his mouth. Closed it. “Okay. Not… the worst comparison.”
I tilted my head at Alex. “And you?”
“Golden retriever that got into the lemur enclosure.”
We laughed so hard we nearly doubled over. The sun was starting to dip by the time we reached the exit, arms linked, bellies full of zoo snacks and heads full of ridiculous animal facts. Alex was still insisting we could totally adopt a capybara. George glanced over at me while Alex argued with a souvenir stand employee about whether or not the penguin plushies were “accurate to scale.”
“You’re glowing again,” he murmured.
“Must be the zoo energy,” I whispered back. “Or maybe just the fact that I’m with the two best boys in the world.”
George smiled so softly it made my heart ache. Alex returned, holding three matching penguin keychains.
“For the polycule,” he said with a wink.
I didn’t correct him.
—
The drive out of the city was full of bad singing, shared snacks, and the kind of laughter that made your cheeks hurt. By the time we pulled into the clearing—golden fields stretching into forever, sunflowers towering in gentle rows—I couldn’t even remember what stress felt like. It was quiet. Warm. The kind of place that smelled like wildflowers and safety.
“This is so unfair,” I whispered as I stepped out of the car, sunlight immediately spilling across my skin. “You two are trying to make me cry.”
George gave me a small smile, arms crossed, leaning against the car door like a smug Pinterest boyfriend. “We’re succeeding.”
Alex popped the trunk with a flourish. “We brought everything. Blanket, food, Polaroid, a Bluetooth speaker, and George’s deeply questionable taste in picnic wine.”
“It’s French,” George muttered, already spreading the blanket out in the soft grass.
“It’s gross,” Alex replied.
“Both of you shut up and feed me,” I said, flopping onto the blanket and pulling off my shoes with a groan. “I’m the exhausted nurse princess today. I get fed grapes and kissed every ten minutes.”
Alex plopped down beside me and held out a strawberry. “Your wish, my love.”
George sat on my other side and kissed my cheek. “Only ten minutes?”
I didn’t even bother hiding my grin as I leaned against George, resting my legs across Alex’s lap. They unpacked everything while I just… existed. Sun warming my face. Birds chirping somewhere in the trees. Their soft voices filling the silence.
They made me a little plate. Fed me things I didn’t ask for. Wiped the honey off my chin. Snapped Polaroids when I wasn’t looking.
“You know this feels fake, right?” I mumbled eventually, eyes half-lidded behind my sunglasses. “Like I’m dreaming.”
George rested his chin on my shoulder. “It’s very real.”
Alex tossed a grape into his own mouth and missed. “And very underappreciated. I did all the logistics.”
“You picked the playlist,” George said.
“Exactly.”
I laughed, rolling onto my side so I could look at both of them. “Thank you. For all of this.”
Alex shrugged like it was no big deal. ”It’s nice to remind you that you’re allowed to be taken care of too.”
At some point, I curled up with my head in George’s lap, Alex tracing soft patterns along my ankle. We watched the clouds drift lazily by. Took turns naming them. George said one looked like a giraffe; Alex said it looked like Esteban in a hat.
“I could stay here forever,” I whispered.
Neither of them said anything. They didn’t have to. Alex gently brushed a strand of hair from my face, and George leaned down to kiss my temple. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was exactly where I was meant to be.
—
The apartment was quiet. Not silent exactly—just quiet in that strange way it always was after Alex left. Like the energy had shifted. Like something warm had been packed up and carried out with him. George was curled up on the couch, hoodie sleeves pushed over his knuckles, eyes following the end credits of a movie neither of us had really paid attention to. I sat cross-legged on the other end, wearing one of his sweatshirts and sipping lukewarm tea, my brain loud despite the calm.
“I miss him,” I said quietly, without meaning to.
George looked over at me. Not surprised. Just… waiting.
“I mean,” I started again, voice barely above a whisper, “he left twenty minutes ago. That’s ridiculous.”
George didn’t tease me. He just gave me that soft little smile that always made me feel seen. “It’s not ridiculous.”
I set my tea down and tucked my legs under myself, heart in my throat. “Do you ever feel like… we’ve just kind of been pretending we don’t know?”
George blinked slowly, brows furrowed. “Know what?”
I met his eyes. My hands were shaking.
“That we love him.”
The air shifted. George didn’t move for a long moment. He just stared at me like he was re-learning the shape of me, the sound of my voice, the weight of the truth between us.
Then, so quietly I almost missed it, he said, “Yeah.”
I let out a shaky breath. “Yeah?”
He nodded, eyes still fixed on me. “Yeah. I think… I’ve been in love with him for longer than I knew what to call it. And I’ve been scared that saying it out loud would break this… us.”
“It won’t,” I said immediately, because it couldn’t. “It won’t, George.”
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. “He’s you, in a different shape. He’s home. Just like you are.”
I felt my eyes well up and didn’t bother hiding it. “I thought I was crazy for feeling it. For wanting… more. Wanting the two of you, together.”
George got up and crossed the room, sinking to the floor in front of me. He rested his head in my lap, eyes closed, and reached for my hand.
“You’re not crazy,” he murmured. “You’re just brave.”
I kissed the top of his head, held him there like maybe that would keep everything from slipping.
“I don’t know what happens next,” I whispered.
George looked up at me, and for the first time all day, he looked a little less tired.
“We tell him,” he said. “We tell him everything.”
I nodded, a tear slipping down my cheek.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Let’s tell him.”
—
alex’s pov
I shouldn’t have left. I told them I was tired, which wasn’t a lie—but it wasn’t the reason either. I left because if I stayed a second longer, I was going to say something I couldn’t take back. Something real. Something like, I’m in love with both of you and I don’t know how to stop. The apartment feels cold. Quiet. Too still without YN’s soft laughter echoing down the hallway or George’s voice calling me an idiot when I steal the last pastry. I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling like it holds answers, arms crossed over my chest like they’re supposed to keep me from unraveling. I can still see them. YN, eyes sleepy and smile soft, curled into George’s side while her fingers found mine under the blanket like it was the most natural thing in the world. George, reaching over her to fix my collar like he always does, like it means nothing.
But it does. God, it does. Every touch, every shared look, every morning coffee and middle-of-the-night text—it all means something. To me, at least. I roll over, bury my face in the pillow, and groan. I feel like I’m going to explode under the weight of everything I’ve never said. I’m in love with her. I’m in love with him. There. I said it—finally let it out like it might make the ache easier. It doesn’t.
I’ve been in love with them for longer than I want to admit. At first, it was just YN—her laugh, her mind, the way she always noticed when I was having a bad day without me saying a word. Then it was George, slowly and all at once—his dry humor, his ridiculous patience, the way he always let me in even when he didn’t say much. They’re together. They have each other. And I’ve always been… the extra. The best friend. The third wheel with the jokes and the camera and the conveniently empty passenger seat. And I thought that would be enough. That maybe just being near them would be okay. But it’s not.
Because every time YN falls asleep on my shoulder and George hands me something and his fingers linger on mine for a few seconds more than necessary, it feels like they see me. Like I belong with them. And that’s the part I can’t stop thinking about. What if I do? What if they felt it too? I let out a shaky breath and cover my face with my hands.
No. That’s dangerous thinking. That’s hope. And hope is a terrible thing when you’re the one standing outside the door, watching the light through the window, pretending you don’t wish it was your home too. I turn off the lamp and lie there in the dark, pretending sleep will come. Pretending I can keep pretending.
—
your pov
I couldn’t sleep. George was out cold beside me, one arm slung across my waist like it belonged there—and it did. But my thoughts were too loud, too insistent. It was still warm from the sun we’d soaked in earlier. My skin still smelled like strawberries and sunscreen and Alex’s cologne from when he hugged me goodbye. I’d watched him walk down the hallway with that quiet smile he wore when he was hiding how tired he was. How sad he was. I could feel the space he left behind like a ghost.
I shifted gently, brushing George’s hair back and whispering, “Babe… wake up.”
He blinked slowly, confused, warm. “You okay?”
I nodded. “We have to go.”
He sat up a little, still sleepy. “Go where?”
I looked at him, really looked at him, and he understood before I had to say it.
“To him,” I whispered. “We have to go to him.”
George smiled, soft and sad and full of something like relief. “Yeah. We do.”
We didn’t text or call. We just showed up. Alex opened the door in an oversized hoodie and pajama pants, hair sticking up on one side, eyes puffy like he hadn’t slept much either. He looked at the two of us standing there and immediately tried to smile, to laugh it off.
“What?” he said, voice hoarse. “You miss me already?”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I walked in, and George followed, closing the door behind us like he was afraid we’d lose the courage if we waited another second.
Alex turned to face us, confused now. “What’s going on?”
And then I said it.
“I love you.”
His face shifted, just slightly. Eyes darting between us, trying to read whether it was a joke, a trap, a bit. His hands curled into the sleeves of his hoodie.
“YN—”
“I love you, Alex. Not just as my best friend. Not just because you’re funny or good or always there. I’m in love with you. I have been. For so long it’s not even something I can explain anymore. It’s just part of me.”
I took a shaky breath, and George stepped forward beside me, his hand grazing mine.
“And I love you too,” George said, steady as ever. “I was afraid to say it out loud. Afraid it would change things. But it already has, hasn’t it?”
Alex didn’t say anything. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. His eyes were glassy.
I reached for him, fingers brushing his sleeve. “We didn’t know how to tell you. We didn’t even know what we were feeling, for a long time. But you’ve always been the third piece of us, Alex. Not a third wheel. A third piece. And I think we’ve both known that for a while.”
Still nothing. So I kept talking, voice shaking now. “Every time you leave, the apartment feels wrong. Every time you smile at me or tease George, it feels like home. I miss you when you’re in the same room but not touching me. I love you and I’m scared and I don’t want to do any of this without you.”
He let out a sharp breath like he’d been holding it since we walked in.
“You’re serious,” he said finally, voice cracking. “You’re both… serious?”
George smiled, that little crooked grin he only ever gave when he was feeling vulnerable. “I’d ask if you want to join our weird little couple, but I think we already claimed you. We just forgot to tell you.”
That broke him. Alex laughed and cried at the same time, and I swear my heart cracked open watching it. I stepped into him, wrapping my arms around his waist, and he collapsed into me like he’d been waiting his whole life to be held like that. George hugged us both from behind, his arms strong and steady, and for a second none of us said anything. We just breathed. We just were.
“I thought I was imagining it,” Alex whispered against my hair. “All the time. I thought I was the joke.”
I pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You were never the joke. You were always the answer.”
George kissed the back of his shoulder, murmuring, “Took us long enough, huh?”
Alex looked between us, eyes still wet, but smiling now—really smiling.
“You guys are so dumb,” he said, laughing through his tears. “I love you both. So much it’s stupid.”
“I know,” I said, smiling back. “But now you don’t have to pretend anymore.”
We stayed wrapped up in each other in the middle of his living room, swaying like the world had stopped spinning, like everything finally made sense. And for the first time in a long, long time, I wasn’t tired anymore. I was home.
—
yn_norris
liked by lando, georgerussell63, alex_albon and 7,901,555 others.
yn_norris : day w my boyssss
tagged : alex_albon and georgerussell63
—
view 555,090 other comments.
lando : oh this is why you couldn’t answer your phone?
liked by yn_norris
↳ yn_norris : no its just bc i don’t like u
username00 : the way yn and alex look at each other good lord. just fucking kiss already.
liked by yn_norris, georgerussell63 and alex_albon
↳ lando : no pls do not do that.
liked by yn_norris
charles_leclerc : did yn hit the curb today??
liked by georgerussell63, alex_albon and lando
↳ georgerussell63 : surprisingly no
↳ yn_norris : lechair if i were you id watch your mouth. remember that time you couldn’t fit the car in the spot so we had to switch and i had to park your car??? yeah i do.
liked by charles_leclerc, georgerussell63, alex_albon and lando
↳ charles_leclerc : stop the cap
↳ yn_norris : charles you are more known in monaco for not being able to park than your actual driving career.
liked by lando, arthur_leclerc, georgerussell63 and alex_albon
georgerussell63 : can’t wait for all these pictures of me to be posted on pinterest under ‘boyfriend material’
liked by yn_norris and alex_albon
↳ yn_norris : what can i say? i love to feed the girlies.
alex_albon : i argued with the souvenir shop attendant for 45 minutes over the stuffies not being true to size
liked by yn_norris and georgerussell63
↳ yn_norris : babe i don’t rlly think anyone needs a 400 pound stuffed gorilla in their home.
↳ alex_albon : we do!!!!!
liked by yn_norris and georgerussell63
↳ username00 : BABE????
↳ lando : yeah^^^ what she said.
—
f1gossipgirls
liked by charles_leclerc, lando and 2,090,004 others.
f1gossipgirls : 3 recent moments that prove Alex Albon and YN Norris are absolutely in love—and that he’s very much involved in the long term relationship between her and George Russell. Listen, we’ve all joked about the YN–George–Alex dynamic being more than just close friends… but at this point, the receipts are stacking. Here are just a few moments that have the internet collectively screaming. 1. At the last race weekend, YN and Alex were spotted walking together through the paddock—nothing new. But what was new? The way she looked at him like he hung the damn stars. She was also seen multiple times with her hand wrapped around his or holding onto his arm like it was second nature. 2. In a recent behind-the-scenes Williams video, there’s a blink and you’ll miss it shot of Alex looking at YN with literal heart eyes. We’re talking soft, lovestruck, completely gone. Like sir, blink twice if you’re in love with your best friends. 3. Ahead of the next Grand Prix, the two were seen at the airport where Alex was pulling YN along on her suitcase—yes, like a scene out of a romcom—while she rested her head on his hand. He looked like he won the lottery. And honestly? So did she. Whatever’s going on here… we support it fully. Let us know your thoughts. Are they all in love? Is Alex part of the softest throuple in F1 history? Is this the plot of a fanfic come to life? Because either way, we are so here for it. 🫶
—
view 275,090 other comments.
username00 : girl we been knew. its just the three of them that don’t know.
username0 : charles and lando in the likes i can’t.
username1 : alex pulling yn on her suitcase while george is probably two feet away filming it and giggling??? i need a minute
username5 : remember when people thought alex was third wheeling? turns out we were just watching a love story unfold
username7 : the way alex looks at yn like she’s made of sunlight and the way george looks at both of them like they hung the moon… i’m SOBBING
username10 : i’m not even asking them to confirm it. just keep posting the domestic bliss. i’m FED
username11 : imagine being yn and waking up between george russell and alex albon. i’d simply never recover.
—
Alex was tracing lazy shapes into the back of my hand. George had one arm slung around my shoulders, fingers absentmindedly twisting the ends of my hair. We’d been sitting like this for ages—content, quiet, safe. And yet, I could feel the unspoken thoughts hanging in the air like dust in the sunlight.
“I’ve been thinking…” I started softly, breaking the silence. Both boys turned toward me immediately, eyes kind. “I know we’ve been keeping this—us—private. And it’s been really nice, just having it to ourselves. But… part of me wants people to know.”
Alex blinked slowly, then smiled, just barely. “You mean, like… going public?”
George leaned in closer, nuzzling into my shoulder. “You’re ready for that?” he murmured.
I nodded. “I think so. I mean, it’s not like we owe anyone an explanation, but… I also don’t want to hide something that makes me this happy. You guys—” I laughed a little, nerves bubbling up. “You’re both the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And it feels like we’re pretending when we’re out there.”
George pressed a kiss to my temple. “I feel the same,” he said, voice gentle. “I’ve been thinking about it too. But I didn’t want to pressure either of you. Especially you, Alex.”
Alex looked between us, eyes a little wide, a little watery. “I—yeah. I think I’ve always been scared, honestly. Of how people would see me. Us. But then I watch you two with me—how kind you are, how normal this feels—and I stop being afraid for a while.”
I leaned over and took his hand, threading my fingers through his. “You don’t have to be scared,” I whispered. “You never have to be scared with us.”
George nodded. “We’re in this together. Fully. If people talk, they talk. But we know the truth. We love each other. That’s all that matters.”
Alex’s shoulders dropped like he’d been holding his breath for days.
“Okay,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Then let’s do it. Let’s show them what love looks like.”
I laughed, heart full to the brim. “God, they’re going to lose their minds.”
“Oh, they are,” George smirked. “But we’ve already won.”
Alex leaned forward and kissed my cheek, then George’s. “So… who’s writing the caption?”
—
alex_albon
liked by yn_norris, georgerussell63, lando & 9,005,004 others.
alex_albon : group project but i actually want to do the work. love you both ❤️
tagged : yn_norris and georgerussell63
—
view 534,003 other comments.
yn_norris : you’re the only group member i trust with the google doc. love you more than life.
liked by alex_albon and georgerussell63
↳ georgerussell63 : what about me??
↳ yn_norris : you’re more of an excel spreadsheet guy
liked by georgerussell63 and alex_albon
↳ username00 : omg i love them so much. they are such fucking nerds. SEDATE ME.
liked by yn_norris
charles_leclerc : FUCKING FINALLY. im definitely not crying
liked by yn_norris, alex_albon and georgerussell63
↳ alexandrasaintmleux : he is def crying. congrats guys❤️
liked by yn_norris, alex_albon and georgerussell63
↳ charles_leclerc : not crying. just got a spec of dust in my eye.
liked by yn_norris, alex_albon and georgerussell63
lando : i knew this was coming yet it still just makes my stomach churn
liked by yn_norris, alex_albon and georgerussell63
↳ alex_albon : hiiiii brother in law
liked by yn_norris and georgerussell63
↳ lando : nope. uh uh. absolutely not. having george was already bad enough.
liked by yn_norris, georgerussell63 and alex_albon
↳ georgerussell63 : oh you know you love me hush.
carlossainz55 : as a hardcore galex shipper and yn lover— this brings tears to my eyes. YAY
liked by yn_norris, georgerussell63 and alex_albon
↳ carlossainz55 : but break her heart and i break you both in half
liked by yn_norris
↳ username1 : carlos does not play about the norris’. iktr mama
liked by yn_norris and lando
—
It was a perfect morning. Alex was still, arm lazily draped across my waist. George was scrolling through his phone with that little sleepy smile he always got when reading sweet comments, and I was somewhere in the middle of the world—blissfully cocooned in sheets, coffee on the bedside table, surrounded by the two loves of my life. And then the knocking started. Knocking that quickly escalated into pounding. And yelling.
“OPEN THE DAMN DOOR. I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE.”
I blinked. “Is that…?”
Alex groaned and yanked the blanket over his face. “God, please let it be fire alarm drills and not Lando Norris with a knife.”
George sighed. “It is definitely Lando.”
George got up reluctantly, muttering something about regretting knowing Lando. He barely had time to unlock the door before it slammed open and my brother stormed in. Behind him? Charles, Carlos, Pierre, and Esteban—each looking like this was a full-on intervention.
Lando immediately shouted, “YOU.”
He pointed at Alex like he was about to be tried in court.
“You hard-launched. You emotionally traumatized Twitter and ME. And you didn’t even warn anyone?!”
Alex, peeking out from under the covers, managed a sheepish, “Surprise?”
Charles flopped into the armchair like he’d just run a race. “I knew it. I’ve been saying it for MONTHS. The hand-holding. The months of soft launching and I was laughed at.”
Carlos was pacing. I swear to God, pacing.
“Do you know how many Notes app entries I have? I had a theory chart. A timeline. Receipts. I was INVESTED.”
“Wait,” I sat up. “You had a timeline?”
Carlos showed me. It was color-coded. I honestly didn’t know whether to be flattered or alarmed. Pierre, casually raiding our minibar, popped open a tiny bottle of champagne like this was some kind of victory. “About time, poly trio. Santé.”
Lando whirled on me.
“And YOU! My SISTER. You didn’t think to tell me that you were out here in love with two drivers? Under my nose?!”
I shrugged, attempting innocence. “You’re dramatic. You’d have live-tweeted it.”
“I WOULDN’T HAVE—” he paused. “Okay, fair.”
Charles, still draped across the chair, nodded. “He does have a very specific meltdown tone.”
George returned to the bed and wrapped an arm around my shoulders, watching the chaos with mild amusement. “You guys act like we planned this.”
Esteban handed George a croissant. “Didn’t you though? With, like… all the longing stares and Alex sleeping over constantly?”
Alex sat up, rubbing his face. “For the record, I didn’t sleep over constantly.”
Lando shook his head, “Bro. You were wearing George’s shirt at breakfast in Barcelona.”
And then Carlos chimed in, “And YN’s fuzzy socks. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
Pierre returned with snacks. “So… are we getting a couple name now? Throuple? Triad? Love triangle but healthy edition?”
George sighed, “Please. No.”
Charles chimed in, “I vote ‘Algeoyn.’”
Alex mutters, “You just made us sound like a dinosaur.”
Then there was a blessed moment of peace… until Lando sat down heavily, frowning at me.
“I’m not mad. I’m not. I just…” He paused dramatically and looked into my eyes.
“If either of them hurts you, I will crash a scooter into both of them and it will not be an accident.”
“You crashed last week because you were texting.”
“UNRELATED.”
Everyone was laughing at that point—Carlos already halfway through a bag of chips, George was showing Esteban pictures from the Zoo trip, Charles and Lando had snatched Carlos’ phone to examine the timeline he made. Alex leaned into me, whispering, “This is kind of perfect, isn’t it?”
I looked around the room—at my brother trying to act tough, at my boys watching me like I was the only thing in the world, and at our chaotic paddock family crashing our soft Sunday.
