HI I JUST SAW U REBLOGGING ABT RAFE AND I OMG I LOVE YOU 10x MORE BCS OF IT
fic of drew x f1 maybeee👀👀
hi darling, thank you for your request. i'm sorry it took too long, but i was a bit busy i hope you like it <3
Changing seasons | cl16 x latina!reader & drew starkey x latina!reader
Summary: your "perfect" relationship falls apart after a painful truth comes out, and you decide to make a change.
Warning: infidelity, insecure reader, social media hateful comments, comparisons, insecurities, jealousy, intimacy, angst and fluff.
lmk if u want a part 2 of this or just some separate blurbs from this <3
The penthouse is all glass and marble, city lights glittering below like spilled diamonds. The air smells faintly of his cologne and the roses he bought you two days ago, now wilting in their crystal vase. Your suitcases line the hallway like soldiers, your chocolate hair is short now, the mark of a new beginning and the closing of another. You stand in the living room, clutching a glass of water that trembles in your hand. You’re wearing one of his old Ferrari hoodies, which is ironic, cruel, and comforting.
Charles entered from the bedroom, his voice is soft and careful. “Baby… you’re still up. It’s two a.m, get back to bed.”
You spoke without turning, your voice raw. “Don’t call me that, not anymore.”
He stops in the doorway, he’s in sweatpants, hair messy from a sleep he clearly hasn’t gotten. His eyes flick to the suitcases, then to your face and something flickers across his face: guilt, panic, grief.
He gasped. “You... You cut your hair?”
You laughed, bitter, turning to face him. “Yeah, I did. You always said I should “do something different.” “Try short, maybe you’ll look more like the girls in Monaco.” Remember that?” you say ironically.
He stepped closer, hands raised like you’re a spooked animal. “That’s not... I didn’t mean-”
You and Charles have been a couple for almost four years, since 2019 and perhaps for the first two years he was the ideal boyfriend any girl can dream about: attentive, thoughtful, loving, caring and so on... Or perhaps that was always a facade for you and even for the public... But the truth is that he was always critical of your appearance, your hair, your makeup, even your body, which you had struggled to feel comfortable in. Everything you and Charles did together went through a filter of sponsors, designers, PR managers and stuff, like you were an object and not a person.
You spoke again stronger. “You did! You meant every word, every time you looked at me like I was… less. Like my hips were a problem, like my waist wasn’t small enough for your perfect little Instagram grid.” your hands are trembling.
He spoke again, his voice cracking. “I... I was stressed, you know... The season, the pressure-” you stopped him.
You suddenly screamed, glass shattering against the floor. “DON’T YOU DARE BLAME THE DAMN SEASON!” you stopped, shaking and he flinched, you sighed softly. “I found the messages, Charles... A year ago, on your iPad... You know, the one you said was “just for work.” you made a pause. “I decided not to say anything to you so as not to distrust you, but seeing that you kept writing to her, and arriving late most nights is... It's impossible not to think. And the most funny thing is that last weekend you texted her again: “Can’t wait to see you in Monaco, at Jimmy'z 9pm. I'll send you the red dress.” you laughed ironically. “It's so funny, because that night my red dress went missing... You give it to her, like I was something interchangeable, like my stuff was also hers, like I was just… a placeholder in your life.” you choked.
Charles was pale, stepping back. “It wasn’t... It was one time. I was drunk, I-”
“One time? You flew her to Bahrain last year when I was sick and I couldn't travel with you! You had her in the garage, where I used to wait for you with open arms because you said you missed me. Where I smiled for cameras while your team zoomed in on my ass like I was part of a sponsorship deal.” you spit.
Charles spoke again, desperate. “They pushed it! The PR team, they wanted the “Latina girlfriend” angle. The diversity, the-”
You stopped him. “Stop, stop. You really forget that you let them do that! You liked it, you liked the headlines, the attention. “Charles Leclerc’s fiery Latina love.” You liked that I was quiet, that I didn’t fight back when they photoshopped my waist smaller, when they asked if I was “naturally curvy” like it was a disease.” you’re crying now, ugly crying, the kind that makes your chest heave.
He reaches for you, you slapped his hand away.
“Don’t touch me, you don’t get to touch me anymore. Not after you told me, in this apartment, on this couch, that I should “skip dessert” because “Alexandra doesn’t eat carbs.” You were talking about her like she was already living here.” you sniffled. “Like she was already living my life.”
His voice is breaking now. “I was an idiot... I was insecure, okay? And she... She made me feel… I don’t know. Like I was still Charles, not the driver, not the brand. Just-”
You shouted. “And I didn’t? I flew to every single race with you even in the pandemic, I learned French for you, I let your mother call me weird names even when she side-eyed my dresses, I smiled when your fans called me “the diversity hire.” you let them post photos of me in lingerie on your story... your team did that, Charles! Without my consent!”
He sank to his knees. “I know, I know I fucked up, I know I let them turn us into a circus, I should’ve protected you.. I should’ve-”
Your voice's cold now, deadly. “You should’ve loved me, not the idea of me! Not the “exotic girlfriend” for your brand image. Me! The girl who cried in the bathroom at Imola because your manager asked if I was “distracting you with my body.” The girl who stopped eating for three days after you said my thighs looked “heavy” in that dress.”
He’s crying too now, silently. You step over the broken glass, barefoot, not caring.
“I’m leaving tonight. I already changed my number, my accounts are private. I’m going somewhere in where I really hope you’ll never find me again.”
He grabbed your wrist, desperate. “Please no, please... I’ll fix it, I’ll fire the PR team, I’ll stop seeing her, I’ll-” you stopped him.
You're wrenching free. “You can’t fix this, you broke me. You and your team and your perfect new little muse. In case you forgot that you made me hate my body, you made me hate myself.” You walk to the hallway, grab a suitcase.
He followed you, barefoot, bleeding from the glass but not noticing. “You can’t just leave me, amour. We’ve been together for three years. The fans-”
You whirl around, your eyes are blazing. “The fans? THE FANS?! Let me tell you about the fans, Charles. They sent me death threats when I gained five pounds, they edited my face onto porn with ai, they said I was “too brown” for you. And you? You liked their edits, you even reposted the ones where I looked thinner.”
He whispered. “I... I didn’t know-”
“You didn’t want to know, because it was easier... Easier to let me be the villain. The “clingy girlfriend.” The “jealous Latina.” Easier to cheat with someone who fit your aesthetic.” you open the door. The hallway light is harsh, your Uber is waiting. You spoke softly, almost kind. “I loved you. God, I swear I loved you so much it made me stupid. I thought if I just tried harder... if I was thinner, quieter, you’d love me back. But you never saw me, you saw a trope, you saw a mannequin.”
Charles was sobbing now, on his knees in the doorway. “I do love you. I swear-”
“No... You love the idea of forgiving yourself, you love the drama, the redemption arc. But I’m not your plot twist, Charles. I’m not coming back.”
You step into the elevator and he tries to follow so you hold up a hand. “One last thing... Tell Alexandra the red dress looks better on her anyway.”
The doors close. He’s still on his knees, screaming your name, but you don’t look back. The elevator descends and Monaco disappears behind you. Your hair catches the light, it looks sharp, new. You touch it, just once.
Then you delete his number, delete the photos, delete the shared life.
The sun is bleeding orange over the hills, and you’re walking down Sunset Junction with a matcha in one hand and a thrift-store canvas tote in the other. Your hair is still that sharp bob, but platinum now, and now it’s grown out just enough at the roots to show a soft ombre of your natural dark. You’re wearing oversized sunglasses, a vintage slip dress over a white tee, and chunky boots. No logos, no Ferrari red. Just you.
You’ve been in Los Angeles six months now, you got a tiny studio for your art in Echo Park, started posting on a new Instagram in were you just post silly things like sunsets, your foods recipe, polaroids of your friends. No captions about heartbreak, no tags.
Just living life and you feel lighter, you eat dessert without counting, you laugh loud in Spanish with your girlfriends at the coffee shop, you go to therapy on Melrose. You’re not fully healed, but you’re becoming.
You're at a little bar, there's low lights, vinyl spinning The Smiths and a cozy vibe. You’re with your girls, Marissa, a Panamanian makeup artist, and Jade, a Black photographer who shoots for Vogue Mexico. You’re tipsy on rum, laughing so hard you snort.
“¡Para, para! You did not tell the Uber driver “I’m not the girl from the F1 TikToks” in Spanish! No te creo.” Marissa said. (stop, stop. I don't believe you.)
You wiped your tears, giggling. “He kept staring at me! I just panicked! I had to!”
Across the bar, a guy in a faded Clemson hoodie and a buzzcut hair is watching you, not in a creepy way, just… curious. He’s with a couple friends, but his eyes keep drifting towards your little group of friends. You catch him once and he smiled, just a small, shy smile. You look away, you're cheeks are hot.
“Oh god, that boy is really looking at me.” you whispered shyly.
Marissa smiled. “Why don't you say "hello" to him? Who knows... Maybe that will add some spark to your life!” she said smirking and Jade nodded.
You sighed. “No, no... That's too embarrassing.” you giggled. “Besides, you know I don't want a relationship yet, not after... everything I've been through.” you said in a soft whisper.
Jade nodded. “We know that, nena, and we totally understand that... But who knows, maybe it's the push you need to meet other people and forget about Mr. Ads.” she said and you laughed.
After a couple of drinks, you’re at the jukebox, flipping through some vinyls records. You're so caught up in your own world that you don't notice him appear next to you, also looking at some vinyl records.
“You’ve got good taste. Sade over The Cure? That's bold.” he spoke in a soft Carolinian drawl.
You turned and laughed softly. “Diamond Life is such a religion! You can fight me if you think otherwise.”
He laughed, such a rich sound. “I wouldn’t dare.” he made a pause. “I’m Drew, by the way.”
“Y/n.” you smiled kindly at him.
You shake hands, his hand is warm, calloused. You two talked for an hour just about silly stuff like music, movies, about how L.A. drivers are demons, about how he’s here filming something but won’t tell you what.
You don’t ask, you like the mystery. At the end of the night you leave separately.
The next morning your phone buzzes on the nightstand, you groan, your head feels dizzy from the bunch of drinks you had.
“Hey, it’s Drew (The Cure guy). Just checking you got home okay. Also, your laugh is ridiculous. In a good way.”
You stare at the screen and smiled, you type, delete and type again.
“Alive and un-kidnapped. But thanks for checking tho! Also, your hoodie was very 2012. In a good way.”
“Where did you get my number, huh?”
“I asked Jade for your number after you left, I hope I don't sound like a stalker...”
“Can I offer you a coffee run to make it up to me? I know a place that doesn’t put oat milk in everything.”
You giggled at the message and say yes because... why not?
From there, the next three months can be summarized as follows:
Coffee at Courage Bagels: He orders for you in Spanish, with a terrible accent, but he tried.
Hiking Runyon at 6 am: He carries your water when you get tired.
You cook your home comfort food for him: arroz con pollo, plátanos maduros. He eats three plates and groans happily.
Nights on your tiny balcony, his head in your lap, your fingers in his hair. He asks about your past and you tell him pieces. He listens, he doesn’t flinch.
He meets your therapist’s approval, she says: “He looks at you like you’re the answer, not the problem.” and honestly, you needed to hear that.
Drew's apartment is now full with a bunch books everywhere, a record player, a dog named Bean who is a rescue mutt. You’re in his hoodie now and the sleeves swallow your hands. You’re on the couch, his arm around you, watching Before Sunrise for the third time.
“I used to think love had to be loud, you know like... Cameras, captions and proof.” you say quietly.
He kiss your temple. “Love can be quiet too... Like this, like you breathing next to me.”
You giggle. “You make it sound easy.”
He chuckled. “It’s not easy, honey... But you’re worth the work.”
You cry a little and he wipes it away with his thumb.
A week after that you’re loading groceries into your beat-up Honda at the Erewhon parking lot. A girl with a phone films you from afar and you don’t notice it, but the internet does...
“Who is Drew Starkey’s new girlfriend? Former F1 WAG spotted in L.A. with Outer Banks star! here’s the TEA 🍵.”
And there's like old paparazzi photos of you with Charles. Side-by-side with new candids of you and Drew holding hands at the farmer’s market and the comments explode.
“She went from Ferrari to Netflix royalty”
“Charles fumbled a BAD BITCH.”
“Not her bleaching her hair and thriving”
Your phone blows up: Old “friends” from Monaco DM you, reporters email. Charles’ team leaks a statement: “Happy for her new chapter.” and you laughed at it.
You’re stress-cooking muffins and Drew walks in, sees the chaos, wraps his arms around you from behind.
“Hey, baby. Breathe.” he said gently.
You sighed. “They’re digging again, you know... My body, my hair, him... It's like I’m a character in their fanfic.”
He kissed the side of your neck. “Let them dig. They’ll find a girl who left a liar, moved across the world, and built a life anyway, with a very hot boyfriend who’s obsessed with her.”
You laughed through tears. “You’re so annoying.”
He chuckled. “Annoyingly in love with you and I hope you know that.”
He spins you, dips you like you’re in a rom-com, kisses you slow. Bean barks in the background and you laugh into his mouth.
One night you’re sitting on the window sofa, the city is sprawling below. It's been months since you two started dating, and every day feels like the first.
You sighed, holding your glass of wine. “Remember when I told I thought I’d never let anyone touch me again?” you say softly.
He chuckled. “I remember you let me hold your hand on the third date, I almost passed out.”
You giggled. “You’re such a dork.”
You lean into him, the sky is on fire. Your phone is on dnd. For once, the world is quiet.
“I love you... So much it scares me.” you say in a soft whisper.
He smiles. “Good, love should scare you... Because it means it’s real.”
He kisses you like it’s the first time. Like it’s the last time, like it’s every time.
The October chilling air is making all feel so whimsical and cozy, you are at "The Broad Museum" the space is totally transformed: white walls splashed with neon projections, a live string quartet remixing some jazz music, waiters gliding with yuzu margaritas in crystal coupes. The invite said “Art. Beauty. Music.” a collab between Vogue Mexico, Miu Miu, and some crypto-art NFT drop. You’re here because Marissa did the makeup for the campaign and dragged you as her plus-one. You’re wearing a backless emerald silk slip dress that hugs every curve you used to hide. Hair: platinum long hair with fresh dark roots, tucked behind one ear with a gold hoop the size of a bangle.
Drew dropped you off with a kiss on the forehead and a whispered, “Text me if you need an extraction, bonita.” And you’re floating. Champagne buzz, good friends, new music. And then you all are pulled towards the seating charta gilded card table with eight seats. Your name in calligraphy: Y/N [VENEZUELA] and next to you: ALEXANDRA SAINT-MLEUX [MONACO].
Your stomach drops, but your face? It's totally ice.
You slide into your chair like you own the room and she’s already there: dark hair, tanned skin, in a white vintage Alaïa dress that screams “I summer in Capri on a yacht.” She smiles, polite, curious. You smile back, sharper.
“Señorita, your martini old-fashioned.” the waiter said to you and you smiled.
“Gracias, cariño. Y dile al chef que el ceviche está pecando de perfecto.” you spoke in Spanish and the waiter smiled. (thank you, darling. And tell the chef that the ceviche is almost too perfect.)
Alexandra’s head tilts like she’s trying to place you. “Oh my gosh! You’re… Latina too?” she spoke in perfect English with a French lilt.
You nodded. “I'm Venezuelan, born in Caracas. But raised between there and Miami. You?” you spoke, while sipping your drink.
“Oh, I’m Mexican! Well... my mom’s from Guadalajara, I think. But I grew up in Paris, though.” she beams.
You raised an eyebrow. “Guadalajara... Mhm, that's... Cute, i guess.” you made a pause. “You must know everything about your culture then.” you said and Alexandra laughed, nervously.
She giggled. “I’ve been to mexico multiple times! I love Tulum, it's so... magical.”
You cut in, sweet as venom. “Tulum’s not Mexico, querida. It’s just for the Instagram feed.”
The table oooohs at your response and you smile into your glass. You’re typing to Drew in a private chat named “mi gringo <3”
“BABY THIS IS AN EMERGENCY GOSSIP THREAD. DO NOT CALL. READ IN ORDER!! pls <3”
“I’m seated next to her.”
“She just said she’s “Mexican.”
“I’m 2 martinis in and feeling kinda silly.”
“Wait... THE Alexandra? At an art thing?”
“YES. And she’s wearing white after Labor Day like a sociopath.”
“But you're okay, right? Or you need me to pull up in the car like a SWAT team?”
“Yup, I'm okay c: buuuut not yet, keep the engine warm.”
The quartet shifts to a classical music mix. Alexandra leans in, trying to recover.
She spoke up. “So… you live here in L.A. now? I saw the photos with Drew. So cute!”
You tilt your head. “Oh, thank you! He’s… consistent, doesn’t need a PR team to remind him to post me.” you say and her smile freeze, making the Vogue editor chokes on her cocktail.
After that you went to the bathroom and she came in a few minutes after you, you’re both at the sinks. She’s reapplying lip gloss, you’re washing your hands slowly.
“You look… angry.” she spoke, looking at her reflection in the mirror.
You smiled. “I’m Venezuelan, honey... We don’t do “angry", we do justice.”
She cleared her throat. “Charles said you left without-” she stopped and you turned at her, water dripping from your hands.
“Charles lied to you... Like he lied about “just one time", like he lied when he said my body was “too much”. You want the truth? He cried in the hallway when I left, begged. He sent me voicemails.” you say and Alexandra pales, you continued. “But I’m not here for him, I’m here for me. And you? You’re just… collateral.” you dry your hands on a towel and walked out and didn't look back.
The bass is a living thing, thumping through marble floors and crystal chandeliers, shaking the ice in every glass. F1’s in town for the Las Vegas Grand Prix you were invited to the Grand Prix by Red Bull Racing, and Omnia is the after-after-party: drivers, influencers, crypto bros, and one very specific couple who flew in on a private G650 because of course they did.
You’re in the center of the VIP mezzanine, bathed in strobing magenta and your outfit is pure 2000s Paris Hilton fantasy: a baby-pink rhinestone tank top that glitters like a disco ball and stops just under your ribs, showing the soft curve of your waist and the silver belly ring you bought on Melrose “for the memories.” The low-rise black satin skirt sits dangerously low on your hips, held together by two delicate silver chains that sway when you move. Your hair is slicked back with glitter gel, roots dark and proud. Hoops the size of bracelets, clear platform heels that make your legs look endless. You are definitely serving and Drew can’t keep his hands off you, he’s in a black silk button-down, sleeves rolled, top three buttons undone, gold chain catching the light. Every time you dance, he pulls you back against him, palms flat on your bare midriff, whispering filthy-sweet things in your ear in that Carolinian drawl that makes you weak.
He put his lips at your ear, trying to talk over the music. “If you keep moving like that we’re leaving before the champagne’s even popped.”
You laughed, spinning to face him. “Promises, promises, Starkey.”
You kiss him, slow, open-mouthed, tasting the lime from his mojito. You hear someone whistling, but you flip them off without breaking the kiss.
Across the room, into the royal box, Charles and Alexandra are trying. She’s in a silver chainmail mini that screams “I saw this on Pinterest.” He’s in a black suit, no tie, hair artfully messy. They’re posed on a velvet banquette like a Vogue editorial: her legs over his lap, his hand on her thigh, but his eyes keep drifting to the dance floor, to you and you catch it... You always do, so, you smirked, turn your back, grind slower against Drew just to be evil.
At 1:47 am you took a deserved bathroom break, you weave through the crowd, hips swaying to Yeah! by Usher. The line for the ladies’ is a war zone: girls fixing lashes, doing bumps, taking selfies and stuff. You slip into a stall, hike up the skirt, laugh at yourself in the mirror while washing your hands. Your lipstick is still perfect, your makeup look flawless, you’re untouchable tonight. You push open the door and there he is, Charles... Leaning against the wall opposite the bathrooms like he’s been waiting, he's alone and the club security a respectful ten feet back.
The hallway is dim, red emergency lights painting everything bloody and your stomach flips, your knees want to buckle. But your chin lifts on instinct.
You speak up with a steady voice. “Bathroom’s occupied, chéri. You’ll have to hold it.”
Charles stepped forward, hands in pockets. “I just want to talk, just... two minutes.”
You laughed at him sharply. “Seriously Charles? You had years to fucking talk! But you decided to used them to tell me that my ass was “distracting" to you.” you spoke and he flinched.
You step past him, close enough to smell his cologne, the same one that used to cling to your sheets. You keep walking, but he follows.
“Y/n, please...” he says, you stop and turned. The hallway is narrow and the bass from the club is muffled here, like a heartbeat underwater.
You spoke up quiet and deadly. “You don’t get to say my name like that anymore.”
“I... I messed up, okay? I know that... But, I see you looking... happy, glowing and it’s…” his voice cracked.
You interrupted him. “It’s what, Charles? Eating you alive? Good!” you step closer and your platforms make you almost his height. You can see the sweat at his hairline, the way his jaw ticks. “You taught me what love wasn’t. Drew? He teaches me what it is every single day, without a PR schedule.”
Charles reaching out, his fingers brushed your wrist. “I still-” he speak but you yank away like he’s fire.
You hiss. “Touch me again and I’ll scream so loud security drags you out by your million-dollar suit.” His hand drops and his eyes are wet, but you don’t care. “Why you don't go back to your Mexican princess in chainmail? Tell her the red dress still looks better on her. I burned mine a long time ago.” You turn to keep walking but he grabbed your elbow.
He spoke again gentle, desperate. “I loved you, y/n.”
You rip free from his grabbing, your voice is a blade. “You loved the idea of me... The headlines, the girl who smiled when you criticized her body and she wanted to die... Drew? He loves the stretch marks, the loud laugh, he loves the real me.” you stepped back and your chest is heaving. Inside, you’re shaking, you're feeling all the rage, fear, adrenaline inside. But outside, you’re a queen. “You don’t get to miss me, you get to watch me dance with someone who never made me feel small.” you finish telling him and then you walk away.
The music hits you like a wave and you find Drew instantly, he’s at the bar, two shots of tequila waiting. He sees your face and his jaw tightens.
“He talked to you?” he spoke in a low voice. You nodded, grabbed a shot and you downing it. “He tried, but failed anyways.”
Drew’s hand cups your face, thumb stroking your cheek. “Are you okay?” he asked you softly.
You give him a real smile. “I’m perfect. Dance with me, please.”
He pulls you into the crowd, you’re back in his arms, bodies flush, moving like you’re the only two people in the room. You kiss him hard, claiming. The platforms make you tall enough to bite his bottom lip. He groans and you giggle.
He spoke against your mouth. “I swear you’re gonna kill me in that skirt.”
“Mhm, good! You're gonna die happy.”
At 3:00am you two went back to the hotel, you’re barefoot now, platforms kicked off, skirt unzipped but still on. Drew’s shirt is gone. You’re smoking a cigarette passing it back and forth, watching the fountains dance to Viva Las Vegas.
“You were brave as hell back there.” he spoke softly.
You giggled. “I was terrified, but I’m done letting him steal my air.”
He pulls you into his lap, your back to his chest, arms around your waist. “You’re the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, in that outfit and out of it. Always.”
You turned to kiss him slow. “Take me to bed, guapo.” (handsome)
You leave the cigarette burning in the ashtray and walked into the room. The fountains keep dancing and somewhere below, Charles is probably staring at the same lights, alone.
The room is soft with winter light filtering through gauzy curtains. It’s one of those lazy Sundays where neither of you has anywhere to be. Bean is sprawled across the foot of the bed like a furry heating pad and you’re both propped up on pillows, legs tangled under a mountain of blankets. Drew’s reading a script and you’re scrolling through Instagram, pausing on a photo Marissa posted of you two nights ago at a holiday party. You’re in a red satin slip dress, looking so happy, but you also look… soft, a little rounder around the middle than you were in Vegas. You lock the phone, set it face-down on the nightstand, and stare at the ceiling.
You spoke quiet, almost to yourself. “I think I’m gonna start doing those ab vacuum things. Maybe cut carbs for a bit, I’m… getting a little belly.”
Drew’s head snaps up so fast the script slide off his lap. He catches it, sets it aside, and turns fully toward you. His brows are knitted, eyes wide like you just suggested selling Bean on Craigslist.
“Hold up baby... What did you just say?”
You shrugged, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. “It’s not a big deal... I’ve just gained, like, four pounds since Vegas. My jeans are tight, I want to tighten things up.”
He shifts closer, one hand sliding to rest on your hip under the covers. His thumb strokes the curve there, slow and deliberate. “Okay, so, first of all: four pounds is not a crime. Second: can you look at me for a bit?” you turn your head and he’s not smiling, but his eyes are gentle, serious in that way that makes your chest tight. “That “belly” you’re talking about? That’s where your uterus lives, honey. That’s where your ovaries are, that’s the part of you that could one day, if you want, grow an entire human being. That softness? It’s not fat, it’s power! It’s the cushion that protects the most miraculous thing your body can do.”
You open your mouth to protest, because you didn't expect that he would turned it into a full anatomy class, but he keeps going, voice low and steady.
“You know what I see when I look at that part of you? I see the place I rest my head when we watch movies, I see the curve I trace with my thumb when you’re falling asleep, I see the spot that gets warm first when I kiss you good-morning, I see the part of you that moves when you laugh too hard at my stupid dad jokes.” he scoots closer, pulls the blanket down just enough to expose your midriff.
The T-shirt you’re wearing is riding up. He presses his palm flat against your stomach, warm and grounding. “This right here? This is where I felt your heartbeat the first time you let me hold you after a nightmare, this is where I kiss you when you’re stressed and need to remember you’re safe. This is the part of you that expands when you eat your arepas and moan like it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted.” you’re blushing now, eyes stinging. But he doesn’t stop. “You spent years letting someone make you feel like this part of you was a problem... Like it needed to be smaller, flatter, less. But baby, this is the part of you that holds joy, it’s the part that swells when you’re happy, when you’re full, when you’re alive. And I’m not gonna let you starve that out because some jeans don’t fit the way they did in October.” he leans down, presses a soft kiss just above your navel, then another, and another, like he’s sealing each word into your skin. “You want to move your body? Cool. We’ll hike Runyon at sunrise, we’ll dance in the kitchen to Bad Bunny, we’ll do yoga on the balcony. But we’re not doing it to punish this, okay? We’re doing it to celebrate it.”
You swallow hard and your voice comes out small. “I just… don’t want to feel like I’m losing control.”
He lifts his head, meets your eyes. “Control isn’t a dress size, control is choosing to love yourself even when the world tells you not to. Control is letting me cook you pancakes on Sunday and not apologizing for the syrup on your chin.”
He shifts again, pulls you into his lap so you’re straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips. His hands settle on your waist, thumbs brushing the soft skin just under the T-shirt.
“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen at every weight, every mood, every phase. But more than that, you’re the strongest, because you left a whole life behind, you rebuild yourself from ashes. And this.” he presses gently into your stomach. “This is part of the rebuild, not the part to fix.”
You’re crying now, quiet tears that slip down your cheeks and onto his chest. He wipes them away with his thumbs. “I don’t know how to stop hearing his voice in my head.” you whispered.
He smiled. “Then let me be louder.”
He kisses you, slow and deep, until the only voice in your head is his, murmuring you’re perfect, you’re mine, you’re enough against your lips. When you pull back, your foreheads rest together.
“New plan... We’re buying new jeans, tight ones. And then we’re eating the leftover pancakes in the fridge. And if you still want to do ab vacuums tomorrow, we’ll do them together. But not because you need to change, because you want to feel strong.” You laugh through the tears, nodding. “You’re annoyingly good at this.”
He grins. “I’ve had practice, loving you is kind of my full-time job.”
He flops back onto the pillows, pulling you with him so you’re sprawled across his chest. Bean grumbles and rearranges himself, and flops over your legs like a weighted blanket. You stay like that for a long time, his hand resting protectively over the part of you he just claimed as sacred and the winter light shifts across the room.
The space in your studio is your sanctuary: a sun-drenched loft in a converted warehouse, walls splashed with half-finished canvases; bold strokes of crimson and gold, abstracts inspired by Venezuelan sunsets and the quiet chaos of L.A. mornings.
A turntable spins low, Bad Bunny’s “Un Verano Sin Ti” filling the air like a lazy summer haze. You’re at your drafting table, barefoot in overalls splattered with acrylic, hair in a messy claw clip and frizzing at the edges from the humidity. A half-eaten empanada sits forgotten on a plate beside your palette knife, your phone is on dnd, buried under sketches of Drew’s profile and a doodle of Bean chasing fireflies.
You’re in the zone, blending cerulean into a swirl that feels like freedom, when your phone buzzes once, insistent, cutting through the music. You wipe your hands on a rag, fish it out. A text from Marissa, your ride-or-die makeup artist, the one who dragged you to that Broad event and held your hand through the Alexandra fallout.
“Y/N!!!!! Emergency scroll break!!!! You need to see this... But like, breathe first... It’s him.”
Attached to it is a screenshot from instagram, the post is fresh, posted an hour ago, already at 1.2M likes. Your thumb hovers, heart slamming and you tap it on the 3-slide post:
Slide 1: Charles and Alexandra in Monaco harbor at dusk, yacht lights twinkling behind them like forced romance. She’s in a white lace gown from Vera Wang, the caption tags it, billowing sleeves, a sweetheart neckline that screams bridal editorial. The skirt pools around her like spilled milk, and on her left hand, a diamond the size of a small country princess cut, emerald halo, apm Monaco sponsored. Charles is in a tailored linen shirt, unbuttoned just enough to show the Ferrari chain he never took off when you were together. They’re gazing at each other, her hand on his chest, his lips brushing her temple. Leo the dachshund is Photoshopped in at their feet, looking bewildered.
Slide 2: Close-up of the ring, sparkle emoji overload.
Slide 3: “The Proposal” shot, candlelit balcony, red rose petals in a heart, champagne flutes mid-clink. Leo’s collar tag: “Dad wants to marry you!” custom from @petitepawmonaco ad peak.
Your breath catches and you zoomed in on her face, brown waves pinned with pearl combs, that same red lipstick you once borrowed from your hotel room in Bahrain, the one she “forgot” to take back when she was hiding there with him. The gown clings just right, no curves to critique, no you. It hits like a grid penalty because that was your dream...
Almost two years ago, on November 2023, at the Abu Dhabi afterparty. You were in a crimson gown, not sponsored, just rented from a Monaco boutique, Charles whispering promises in your ear about “next season, we make it official baby.” You posed for the cameras, his arm around your waist, dreaming of rings and vows. You were the placeholder fiancée, minus the hardware, the “fiery Latina” to soften his edges before he upgraded to… this. Brown-haired, French, sponsor-friendly girl.
And the timing of the proposal post? Drew’s Deep Cuts announcement dropped three days ago: A24’s golden boy, starring opposite Cailee Spaeny in Sean Durkin’s era-spanning romance, production kicking off February 2026.
Screenshots of the Deadline exclusive still litter your DMs: “Starkey’s star turn: From Outer Banks to indie darling.” Agents buzzing, Sundance whispers. Your boyfriend, ascending. Charles? Scrabbling to stay relevant off-season.
You drop the phone like it burns, sink to the floor, back against the table leg, tears prick in your eyes, hot and unwelcome. And the anger inside you bubbles, sponsored? Really? Your love, reduced to tags and trades. Then grief, sharp as a hairpin: You wanted that. The gown, the petals, the “Mrs.” But not like this, not hollow. Your hands shake again and you grab a sketchpad, scribble furious lines, jagged, black. A dress unraveling into thorns, a ring cracking like cheap quartz.
“Pinche cabrón. You couldn’t even wait for the ink to dry on his headline.” you whispered to the empty room and your phone buzzes again.
“You okay? Call me, or send wine emojis... Or both.”
“It’s fake, all of it. But it hurts anyway.”
Then, on impulse you texted Drew. He’s at a script read-through in Silver Lake, but he always answers.
“Hey, you're free soon? I need your arms.”
“On my way. You need comfy food or tequila?”
“Both... And you, please.”
You curl up, knees to chest, staring at the post again and scrolled through the comments. One from an old Monaco “friend”: “Y/N would’ve rocked that dress better. Curves and all.” then a flashback hits unbidden: That same harbor, three Novembers ago. You in red silk, wind whipping your long curls. Charles pulling you close, cameras flashing. “One day, baby. You’ll be my wife.” You believed him, smiled for the ‘gram. Ignored the whispers about an unknown girl named Alexandra he was visiting a lot in Paris. And now? She’s the one tagged in Vera Wang, you’re the ghost in the grid.
The door buzzer hums and you know it's Drew, he's early like always. You drag yourself up, buzz him in. He’s there in minutes: buzzcut hair damp from the jog over, script tucked under his arm, a paper bag from Courage Bagels swinging from his fist.
He stepped in, reading your face. “Oh, honey…” he dropped the bag, pulled you into his chest. You bury your face in his shirt, it smells like coffee and him, some safe.
You spoke softly. “They’re engaged and it's sponsored... They posted it today. Like clockwork after your news.”
He doesn’t ask who it is, he just holds you tighter, his hand is stroking your back in slow circles.
You spoke again. “It’s stupid, I know it is and I know I shouldn’t care. But I was there, you know? Posing for that exact shot, dreaming it was us.”
Drew guides you to the couch; a thrifted velvet thing you reupholstered in emerald. Sits you down, kneels in front of you and take your hands.
“It’s not stupid, it’s human baby. That was your life, your almost. And seeing it handed to someone else like a script rewrite? Hurts like hell.”
You nodded at his words, tears are spilling now and he wipe them with his thumbs and kisses your knuckles. “Her dress, the ring, the petals. It’s all so… polished. Like their love’s a campaign. Remember how we talked about eloping to Big Sur? No tags, just us and Bean as witness.”
He smiled softly. “Hell yeah. And I can burn the coffee trying to impress you after.”
You laughed, real this time and leaned into him. “The real question is... Why now? Like, three days after the Deep Cuts announcement... Is that a coincidence?”
He shrugged. “Maybe, or maybe he’s scrambling ‘cause he knows he fumbled the real thing. You’re glowing baby, building empires, while he’s still lapping the same track.” he stands, pulls you up, grabs the bag inside of it there's some pastries and coffee in to-go cups. He sets it on the table with your sketches.
“So, we eat and then we burn that post. Metaphorically. Or literally if you want to, like print it and torch it in the alley.”
You sip the coffee, the warmth seeping in. “I thought I was over it, the what-ifs. But seeing her there… I keep thinking, that could’ve been me. Should’ve been?”
Drew slides a plate over, sits close. He puts an arm around your shoulders. “Nah, that wasn’t you, that’s a highlight reel. You? You’re the director’s cut. Messy, real, curves and all. He didn’t see the woman who flies to North Carolina for Christmas with my family, who turns glitter disasters into auntie magic. Who paints like she’s claiming the world back, stroke by stroke.”
You lean your head on his shoulder. “You read the script today? How’d it go?”
Drew kissed your temple. “It was good, but this? This is better. You, raw, me, here. No sponsors needed.”
You set the plate down, turn to him and you kiss him slow, grateful and grounding. He taste like coffee, sweet and home.
You spoke gently. “Can we see that again? I mean, the post. I need to see it without shaking.”
He pulls out his phone, queues it. You watch it together: the carousel of pics and you point out the fakeness, the too-perfect lighting, the tag overload.
“Look at Leo’s face. He knows.”
He chuckled. “He looks like he's a smart dog.”
You blocked the account, finally. And you breathe out the last of it. “I’m okay, a little pissed, but okay.”
He nodded. “Pissed is progress, it means that you’re fighting for your peace.”
The sun dips lower, painting your canvases gold and you pick up your brush, dip it in crimson. “Wanna help? Let’s paint over the ghosts.”
He grins, rolls up his sleeves, dabs yellow on his nose first, clowning. You smear it back, laughing. The studio fills with color: swirls of you-two, no room for Monaco whites.
Hours later, the canvases are drying, pastries crumbs are on the floor. You’re tangled on the couch, his head in your lap, your fingers in his hair.
You sighed softly. “Thank you, for always showing up.”
He smiled, his eyes are closed. “Wouldn’t miss it. You’re my leading lady, end credits and all.”
The studio is bathed in that perfect golden L.A. light that makes every single canvas glow. You’re alone, the windows cracked open to the jacaranda trees dropping purple petals on the sidewalk outside. A new series of paints are drying on the wall: huge abstracts of reds and golds titled “after the fire.” You’re in paint-splattered overalls, barefoot, hair twisted up with a brush, music on low volume, humming while you mix cadmium and burnt sienna.
You glance out the front window to grab more turpentine from the shelf and that's when you freeze. A matte-black Ferrari Roma curbs directly in front of your studio and it doesn't have any California plates, it have a Monaco plate. The driver stumbles out and it's Charles alone, his hair is longer, unwashed, shirt half-tucked and wrinkled, eyes red-rimmed. He sways, catches himself on the car hood, it looks like he's completely drunk, then stares straight at the studio door like he’s been driving with the address burned into his brain somehow.
Your stomach drops to the floor, your hands start shaking so hard that the brush clatters against the palette. The music suddenly feels too loud, the room too bright, the exits too far.
You whispered to yourself panicked. “No… No, no, no, this is imposible.”
You scramble for your phone with paint-slick fingers and you texted Drew.
You:
He’s here at the front of the studio. In a Ferrari, all alone.
I think he’s drunk.. I’m so scared.
Back door NOW!!!
please please please baby
Drew:
I'm on my way honey.
Gimme 4 minutes.
Lock the front door if you can.
I love you baby.
You hit call and shove the phone between your ear and shoulder, and sprint to the front door, but the old lock sticks sometimes and you’re shaking too hard. You hear the handle rattle.
Charles spoke slurred, muffled through the glass. “Y/n… I know you’re in there, I saw the light on.”
You back away, your chest is heaving. The bell jingles and he pushes in, he smells like airport lounge vodka and the same Creed Aventus that used to cling to your pillows. His eyes are glassy, pupils blown, he looks… broken and dangerous.
He spoke again softly, pleading. “Mon amour… I just want to talk. Five minutes.”
Your voice cracked, you're backing toward the worktables. “Get out! You don’t get to be here, you don’t get to call me that.”
He shuts the door behind him, the click sounds like a gunshot. “I made a mistake, okay? The wedding it’s… it’s not… Fuck, I can’t breathe without you. I saw your new paintings online, the red one… that’s us, isn’t it? The fire?” he talks, taking a stumbling step closer.
“Don’t you dare make my art about you! GET OUT!” you shouted.
He keeps coming closer, his hands are reaching. “You still smell the same… Coconut and turpentine, I miss it… I… I miss you in my bed.” he lunges, tries to cup your face. His fingers graze your cheek and every alarm in your body screams, you jerk back so hard you crash into a rolling cart the tubes of paint exploded across the floor like blood.
You screamed, high and raw. “DON’T TOUCH ME! DON’T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME!” your voice cracks on the last word.
You’re crying, shaking, arms wrapped around yourself like armor.
Charles still out, drunk-confused. “Baby, I just… I love you, I never stopped. She’s nothing. The ring, the dress, it’s all nothing. Come home, we’ll fix it. I’ll leave her tomorrow.”
You are now almost hysterical, backing into the supply closet door. “You don’t GET it! You broke me! You made me hate my own body! You cheated, you lied, you let the world tear me apart and you watched it! I have a life! I have someone who loves me, who NEVER made me feel small!”
You’re sobbing so hard you can barely breathe. Your knees buckle, you slide down the door until you’re on the floor, knees to chest, rocking.
Charles' kneeling, reaching again. “Let me hold you. Just once, like before-”
You're screaming until your throat burns. “GET AWAY FROM ME!”
The back door slams open so hard it bounces off the wall and Drew storms in wearing a sweatshirt, basketball shorts, car keys still in hand, Bean barking behind him, eyes wild. He takes in the scene in half a second: you on the floor, Charles looming, paint everywhere.
Drew says with his voice deadly quiet. “Get the fuck away from her.”
Charles turns, swaying. “This is a private-” Charles says slurring the words.
Drew doesn’t speak again, he crosses the room in three strides, grabs Charles by the shirt, and slams him back against the wall so hard a canvas crashes down.
“I said get away from her.” Drew spoke again.
Charles tries to swing, drunk, slow. Drew blocks it easily, shoves him toward the front door.
“You are leaving now. And if you ever come near her again, I will end you.”
He throws Charles out onto the sidewalk. Charles stumbles, catches himself on the Ferrari, looks back once, eyes wet, mouth open like he’s going to say something else. Drew steps forward and Charles scrambles into the car and peels away, tires screeching.
Drew locks the front door, flips the sign to CLOSED, and drops to his knees in front of you. You’re still shaking, arms wrapped around your head.
“Baby, look at me. It’s me, you’re safe.” he spoke softly, a bit urgent.
You launch yourself at him, sobbing into his neck. He catches you, sits right there on the paint-smeared floor, and rocks you like a child.
“He touched me… He tried-” you said choking on tears.
He sighed. “I know, I know. He’s gone. He’s never coming back, I’ve got you.”
He holds you until the shaking stops, until your breathing matches his. Minutes, maybe hours. The sun finishes setting outside, the studio is dark except for the string lights.
He whispered into your hair. “We’re calling the police. Restraining order, tomorrow. And I’m installing a better lock tonight.”
You nod against his chest and you spoke barely audible. “I was so scared I’d frozen again, like in Monaco.”
“You screamed, you fought. You’re the strongest person I know.” he said softly.
He carries you to the couch, wraps you in the blanket you keep there for late nights and gets you water, wipes the paint off your cheek with his sleeve.
“I’m staying right here, all night. And Bean too. Nobody’s getting through me.”
You cling to his hand like a lifeline. “Don’t let go.”
“Never.”
Outside, the jacaranda petals keep falling, soft and purple and harmless. Inside, Drew holds you until the only sound is your breathing finally slowing, his heartbeat under your ear, and the quiet, fierce promise that some fires don’t get to burn twice.
The house smells like fresh eucalyptus from the diffuser and the faint citrus of the candles you lit earlier. The big living-room rug has been rolled up and stored in the hallway; in its place is a massive drop cloth you bought from the art-supply store a thick, cream canvas, taped down at the corners so it won’t slide. Fairy lights are strung low across the ceiling beams, casting a warm, golden haze. Bad Bunny’s DTMF plays softly on the turntable, the bass a gentle heartbeat under everything.
You’re standing in the middle of the room in nothing but one of Drew’s old oversized band tees, faded gray, hem skimming the tops of your thighs. Your hair is loose, in front of you there's six small jars of body-safe, non-toxic body paint in jewel tones: deep emerald, warm terracotta, soft lavender, gold metallic, midnight blue, and a creamy peach that matches the flush already creeping up your neck.
Drew walks in from the kitchen carrying two glasses of chilled rosé. He’s barefoot, in loose gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and nothing else, his hair are still damp from the shower he took after his afternoon gym session. He stops dead when he sees the setup.
“Baby… what is all this?” he says with a slow grin on his face.
You bite your bottom lip, suddenly shy. You twist your fingers in the hem of the tee.
“I had an idea… For tonight… A… painting date, but on us!” you paused. “On the canvas, no clothes, just… us. Fingers, brushes. Whatever feels right… Silly, soft, no rules.”
Your voice gets smaller toward the end, you glance up at him through your lashes, cheeks burning.
You spoke again, but quieter, like a whisper. “I’ve never done anything like this, not with anyone. I always thought it would be… too vulnerable, too much skin, too much me.” you sighed. “But I’ve been feeling… different lately. Like I want to celebrate this body instead of hiding it… And I want to do it with you.”
Drew sets the glasses down on the coffee table without looking away from you. He crosses the room in three slow steps, stops just close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his bare chest.
“You’re asking me to paint on you? To let you paint on me? To make something beautiful together… naked, laughing, messy?” he said with a low voice.
You nod, eyes shining. “Yeah, I mean, I want to feel silly and safe at the same time, I want to see what we look like when we’re not trying to be perfect.”
He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb brushing your cheek.
“Then let’s do it. Right now, right here.”
He kisses you once, slow, deep, grounding, then steps back and pulls the Radiohead tee over your head in one smooth motion. You don’t flinch, you don’t cover yourself, you just stand there, heart hammering, letting him look.
His eyes trace every curve like he’s memorizing a new script: the gentle swell of your belly, the flare of your hips, the way your thighs touch when you shift your weight. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.
“God, you’re stunning.” Drew whispered.
You laugh, nervous and bright, and push at his sweatpants until they pool at his ankles. He kicks them aside, now you’re both bare under the fairy lights, no armor, no pretense.
You sink to your knees on the canvas first and he follows, settling cross-legged in front of you. You reach for the terracotta jar, dip two fingers in, and hesitate.
“Where should I start?” you spoke softly.
“Anywhere you want, anywhere feels good.”
You choose his chest so you draw a slow, looping spiral over his heart, warm brown against his skin. He watches your face the whole time, not the paint in your hands. When you finish the spiral you lean in and blow gently on it to dry it faster, he shivers.
“Your turn.” you say to him.
He picks up the gold metallic and dipped his whole palm and pressed it flat to your lower belly, right over the soft pouch you used to hide leaving a perfect handprint. Then he drags his fingers upward in slow, deliberate strokes, ribbons of gold curling around your breasts, framing them like sunlight.
You gasp at the cool slickness, then you giggle when he accidentally smears some across your collarbone.
“You’re terrible at this.” you laughed.
He grinned. “I’m an actor baby, not a painter. You’re the artist here, teach me.”
And that's what you do. You show him how to blend with the edge of your palm, how to use the small brushes for finer lines. Soon you’re both laughing, really laughing, when he tries to draw a tiny heart on your hip and it ends up looking like a lopsided kidney.
“That’s supposed to be romantic?”
He chuckled. “It’s avant-garde, babe. You know, like an abstract expressionist love.”
You retaliate by painting a constellation of lavender dots across his shoulders, connecting them with thin gold lines like stars. He retaliates by swirling emerald across your thighs in wide, sweeping strokes that make you squirm and giggle.
At one point you’re both on your backs, side by side on the canvas, arms stretched out, fingers still dripping. You turn your head to look at him.
“This feels… ridiculous and perfect.”
He chuckles. “That’s the point, right? No pressure, no performance, just us being messy and real.”
You roll onto your side, prop your head on your hand, studying the paint smears across his torso, gold handprints, terracotta swirls, a lavender streak you dragged down his ribs during a tickle war.
You spoke quietly. “I never got to be silly like this before, not naked, not joyful. It was always… critiqued. Pose this way, suck in, smile smaller. And I thought being seen like this would feel terrifying.” you made a pause. “But with you… it just feels like home.”
Drew reaches over, cups your cheek with a paint-smeared hand. Leaves a soft peach streak across your skin. “You’re allowed to take up space, all of it. Every curve, every laugh, every silly idea. I’m never gonna ask you to be less.”
You lean down and kiss him, slow at first, then deeper, tasting metallic paint and rosé and him. When you pull back you’re both smiling like idiots, foreheads touching.
“We should probably take a picture, before we ruin it completely.” you giggled.
He grabs his phone from the coffee table and you both sit up, careful not to smudge too much, and he holds it high in a selfie mode. You’re both covered in chaotic swirls of color, grinning like children who just discovered finger-painting.
He snaps it, then another with you kissing his cheek, leaving a lavender lip-print. One more with you straddling his lap, arms around his neck, both of you laughing so hard the photo comes out blurry.
“This one’s just for us. No posting, no tags. It's our little secret.”
You nod, heart so full it aches. “Our little secret.”
Later, after you’ve showered together, paint swirling down the drain in rainbow rivers, after you’ve ordered late-night arepas from the place on Sunset that stays open till 2 a.m., after you’ve curled up on the couch in robes and watched the blurry polaroids develop on his phone, you trace one finger over the faint gold streak still clinging to his collarbone.
“Thank you for saying yes, for making it feel safe to be… this.” you whispered.
He kissed your temple. “Thank you for asking me, for trusting me with the silly, soft parts… I love every single one.”
You fall asleep tangled together on the couch, the drop cloth still taped to the floor like a map of your joy, swirls and handprints and messy hearts and all.
Tomorrow you’ll roll it up carefully, keep it in the studio closet like a private gallery piece.
But tonight, it’s enough just to lie here, painted, loved and finally free to take up all the space you want.
Late-summer light pours through the tall industrial windows, turning dust motes into tiny floating embers. The air smells like fresh linseed oil, Marissa's coconut-leave-in conditioner, and the half-eaten box of pandan mochi you ordered for lunch. A portable speaker sits on the windowsill playing Kali Uchis on low, sultry, unhurried.
You’re both cross-legged on the floor near the big worktable, Marissa is touching up her eyeliner with a tiny compact mirror while you’re sorting through a pile of dried brushes, trying, and failing, to look casual.
Your newest painting, the one that now hangs above your bed, is leaning against the opposite wall, still wrapped in brown paper because you haven’t decided whether to varnish it yet. Marissa saw a corner of it in the selfie you sent her last week: you in Drew’s lap on the couch, both of you laughing, fairy lights blurred in the background, and just enough of the canvas visible to make her text back immediately:
“Bitch. What is THAT painting. I need details like… yesterday.”
Now she’s here, and she’s not letting it go. She capped her eyeliner and her eyes are narrowing playfully. “Okay, spill… What's that gold-swirled thing above your bed? The one that looks like someone dipped their hands in honey and dragged them across a sunset?
You sent me one blurry corner and then ghosted my follow-up texts for three days… What is it, Y/N? And why do you keep blushing every time I bring it up?”
You feel the heat crawl up your neck before you can stop it. You busy your hands with a filbert brush, twirling it between your fingers like it might save you.
“It’s… just a painting. You know, abstract, experiment." you're trying to be nonchalant, but you failed.
Marissa snorted, scooting closer on her knee. “Abstract my ass! That’s not “experiment.” That’s intimate, like I can feel the sex radiating off the photo from my phone screen in the group chat. Jade said the same thing. She called it “post-coital impressionism.” So… Talk.”
You drop the brush, it clatters against the floor. You bury your face in your hands for a second, then peek at her through your fingers, your cheeks are on fire.
You sighed. “Okay, fine… It’s… us, like me and Drew. From that night we did the body-paint thing.”
Marissa’s eyes go wide, delighted. She claps once, loud. “LO SABÍA! The handprints! The swirls! Girl, is that a literal gold handprint on your lower belly in the composition? Because if it is I’m recording this conversation.”
You groan, but you’re smiling now, small, embarrassed, happy.
You blushed. “Yes, and lavender constellations on his shoulders! Terracotta spirals over his heart, peach streaks across my collarbone where he kissed me and smeared paint.” you sighed. “And… yeah, there’s this one section near the bottom right, two overlapping silhouettes, tangled together, gold bleeding into emerald, like we melted into each other.”
You trail off a little, your voice softening.
“I didn’t plan to hang it, I just rolled the drop cloth up after we finished and shoved it in the closet like it was evidence. But every time I walked past the closet door I kept thinking about that night… How I wasn’t scared to be naked, how I laughed so hard I snorted paint up my nose, how he looked at me like every smear was a masterpiece.” you giggled. “So last week I stretched a section of the cloth onto a frame, varnished it and hung it above the bed! Now every time I wake up I see it first thing, and I remember I’m allowed to take up space, all of it… Messy, soft, painted and loved.”
Marissa is quiet for once, her usual quick-fire energy has softened into something gentler. She reaches over and squeezes your knee. “That’s not just a painting, babe. That’s a fucking monument to the version of you that finally stopped apologizing for existing.”
You blink fast, eyes stinging. “I still get shy about it. Like… what if someone sees it and knows exactly what it is? What we did? That we were naked and silly and covered in paint and just… happy?”
Marissa grinned. “Then they’ll be jealous. Because most people never get to make something that honest, most people hide the messy, joyful parts. You framed yours and sleep under it every night… That’s power.”
You laughed, wet, surprised, and wiped away some tears under your eyes.
“Drew calls it “our private gallery opening.” He kisses the canvas every morning before he leaves for set, says it’s good luck.”
“Of course he does! That man worships the ground your thick thighs walk on. I’m surprised the painting isn’t framed in solid gold.”
You shove her shoulder lightly, she shoves back. Then you both dissolve into giggles, leaning against each other.
Marissa whistles low. “Girl, that’s not art. That’s proof of life.”
“Yeah. It's proof I’m still here, still soft, still his.”
Marissa stands, wraps her arms around you from behind, chin on your shoulder.
She giggled a little bit. “And you still blushing like a teenager when we talk about it… I love that part most.”
You lean back into her hug, eyes on the wrapped painting. “Yeah, me too.”
Outside, the jacaranda trees are still dropping purple petals onto the sidewalk. Inside, the light keeps shifting across the canvas, making the gold shimmer like it’s breathing.
Some things are meant to stay a little private, even from your best friend. But knowing it’s there, above your bed, waiting for you to come home every night? That’s enough.
AUGUST 12, 2027
one year after the body-paint night…
Your studio has changed, it’s no longer just a workspace; it’s a small gallery now. Three of your large canvases hang on the white brick walls, bold, vibrant abstracts full of gold handprints, terracotta spirals, and soft curves that somehow feel like bodies in motion. A discreet plaque on the biggest one reads “After the fire – Private Collection”.
Your solo show at a respected Culver City gallery opens in three weeks. Galleries in Miami and Mexico City have already reached out, your Instagram is now 4M followers of people who actually care about the art, not the drama.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the wide wooden floor in paint-splattered overalls, one strap falling off your shoulder, hair in a messy dark bun. A half-finished piece rests on the easel in front of you; deep emerald bleeding into warm peach, the suggestion of two bodies wrapped around each other without ever showing skin. It feels like peace.
Your phone buzzes on the floor beside you. The group chat with Marissa and Jade is blowing up.
Marissa:
"Oye, did y’all see the Monaco Gold Couple’s second wedding pics + the baby?"
"They dropped the whole carousel today. Baby in her arms, she’s serving “I had his baby and now I get the fairy tale redo” realness."
Jade:
"Wait WHAT… I thought they got married last year?"
"February 2026 right? The sponsored one with the rented vintage Ferrari?"
Marissa:
"Sí, that one. But apparently that was the “official/private” one for the cameras. Now they did a “private intimate” one in Monaco with only 200 guests. White lace gown again like Hailey Bieber, but this time the caption is: “Second time’s the charm, our little family is complete 💍👶❤️”
"And guess who’s tagged in the florist, the cake, the dress… everything, sponsored af."
You stare at the screenshots they sent. Charles in a white linen suit, smiling that same polished smile, Alexandra glowing in her lace, arms holding their baby. The baby announcement is into the wedding post like it was always part of the brand.
You wait for the familiar stab, jealousy, anger, the old ache… But it doesn’t come.
Instead, you feel… nothing sharp, just a quiet, distant pity mixed with something warmer. Relief.
You type back in the Spanglish you three have perfected over the years.
You:
"Coño… they really went for the full redemption arc. Baby, second wedding, the whole package."
"I remember when he showed up here drunk last year, begging me to “come home.”
"Turns out he was already married since February and she was ALREADY pregnant."
"He was out here harassing me while his wife was growing their child."
"Qué clase de pendejo."
Marissa:
"Exacto! And you were having panic attacks and going back to therapy while he was playing family man in Monaco."
"How do you feel seeing this now, mami?"
You pause, fingers hovering. Then you smile, small, real, unbothered.
You:
"Honestly? I feel free."
"I looked at the photos and the only thing I felt was… glad I’m not her."
"Glad I left when I did, glad I cut my hair, moved here, met Drew, painted my pain into gold, and built a life where I get to be soft and loud and curvy and happy all at once."
"They can have their sponsored fairy tale."
"I have the real one."
Jade:
"That’s my girl."
"Also, send pics of the new painting, the emerald one. I need it for my apartment I will give u 30$ (just kidding)"
Marissa:
"And tell Drew we expect him to propose soon or we’re flying to L.A. to drag him to the altar ourselves!"
You laugh out loud, the sound echoing in the sunny studio.
The front door opens and Drew walks in, still in his Deep Cuts wrap jacket, hair messy from the wind, carrying two iced matchas and a paper bag from your favorite vegan taco truck. Bean trots in behind him, tail wagging.
“Hey, bonita. Brought fuel for the genius at work.” he stops when he sees your face, soft, glowing, peaceful. “You okay? You look… lighter than usual.”
You set the phone down, stand up, and walk straight into his arms. He smells like coffee, cedar, and the faint studio dust he always picks up when he visits, you bury your face in his chest for a second, then pull back just enough to look at him.
“The girls just sent me the Monaco news.
Charles and Alexandra had their second wedding with the baby in all the photos.”
Drew’s jaw tightens for half a second, a protective instinct, then he relaxes when he sees you’re not spiraling. “And?” he asked, expecting a reaction.
You sighed. “And… I’m good, like, really good.” you smiled. “I looked at the pictures and felt nothing but relief that I’m here, with you, painting, laughing, eating tacos at 4 p.m. on a random Tuesday. Building something real instead of something for the ‘gram.”
You take his hand and lead him over to the new painting on the easel.
“This one’s almost done, it’s us again… But softer this time. No more fire, just… light, like the way we feel now.”
Drew studies it for a long moment, thumb brushing your knuckles. “It’s beautiful, you’re beautiful… And I’m so fucking proud of you.”
He sets the coffees and tacos down, pulls you close again, and kisses you, slow, deep, full of everything you’ve built together in the last year: the therapy sessions, the late-night talks, the body-paint nights, the court dates, the gallery openings, the quiet mornings where you wake up naked and unafraid.
When you break the kiss, you rest your forehead against his. “A year ago I was still scared he could show up any day.” you paused. “Now I barely think about him… My career is taking off, yours is exploding, we have a home, a dog, friends who check on me in Spanglish every day.” you smiled shyly. “And I got a man who never once asked me to be smaller.”
Drew smiles and speak again with a low voice. “And I got a woman who finally let herself take up all the space she deserves.”
You kiss him again, softer this time.
“Thank you for staying through all the hard parts, for holding me when I felt small, for celebrating every inch of me when I finally started to love them.”
He kissed your hand. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
You both turn to look at the painting again, emerald and peach and gold, two forms intertwined, soft and strong and completely at peace.
Outside, the jacaranda trees are blooming again, purple petals drifting past the windows like gentle confetti… The past is still out there, living its polished, sponsored life in Monaco.
But here, in this sunlit studio, with paint under your nails and love in your bones, you are finally, completely, joyfully free.
You rest your head on Drew’s shoulder, fingers laced with his, and whisper the words you’ve earned:
The two of you sway gently to the music, the new painting glowing behind you, the future wide open and painted in every color you choose.
