in which he fucks you in his cockpit after everyone has left !
taglist (tw) : smut, cramped space, unprotected sex, p in v, no mentions of y/n
a.n. i feel like i wrote this so badly…
the quiet of the silverstone paddock felt different at this hour. the usual cacophony of engines and crowds had melted away, leaving behind a gentle hum of generators and the soft rustle of wind through team awnings. kimi’s hand was warm in yours, his grip firm as he navigated the labyrinth of temporary buildings and hauling equipment with an easy familiarity. he didn't speak, just threw a quick, mischievous glance over his shoulder every now and then, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile that made your stomach clench. the air smelled of damp tarmac and expensive machinery.
he stopped before a nondescript door, a simple keypad glowing faintly in the twilight. "you trust me?" he whispered, the words a puff of warm air against your ear. he didn't wait for an answer, just tapped in a code with practiced speed. a soft click, and the door swung inward, revealing the sterile, cold heart of the mercedes garage. it was a cathedral to speed, everything meticulously clean and organized, bathed in the stark, unforgiving light of overhead fluorescents. and there it was, parked in its designated bay like a sleeping predator: the w17.
it was more beautiful up close than you could have imagined. a sleek, silver-and-teal arrowhead of carbon fiber and complex engineering. kimi let go of your hand and ran a proprietary hand along the shark-fin engine cover, a gesture so intimate, so full of reverence, it felt like you were intruding on a private moment between lovers. "she's perfect, isn't she?" he murmured, more to himself than to you. "every single piece… it's all got a purpose."
you watched him, the way the light caught the sharp line of his jaw, the focused intensity in his eyes as he inspected a detail on the front wing. it was the same look he got when he was talking about a tricky corner, a complete and total absorption that was utterly captivating. he turned, catching you staring, and that smirk was back, softer this time. "wanna get closer?"
before you could answer, he was unfastening the halo, the intricate safety device, with a deft twist of a lever. he gestured towards the cockpit. "go on. get in."
it was a tight squeeze. you swung a leg over the high sidepod, feeling the cool, smooth surface of the carbon fiber against your jeans, and then you were in, nestled into the deep, narrow seat. it was a world of its own, a cocoon of buttons, switches, and screens. the smell was intoxicating – a heady mix of high-octane fuel, hot metal, and the faint, clean scent of kimi's cologne that seemed to cling to everything. you could feel the residual warmth from the engine still radiating from the chassis. your hands rested on the steering wheel, your fingers accidentally brushing over the paddle shifters. it felt powerful, like holding the heart of a dragon.
kimi didn't get in properly. he just leaned over the side, one arm braced on the cockpit's edge, caging you in. the sudden proximity sent a jolt through you. he was so close you could see the faint stubble on his chin, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead. he reached past you, his arm brushing against your chest as he pointed to a dial on the complex dashboard. "this one… this controls the brake bias. you feel the difference, even a tiny change, especially through copse."
his voice was a low murmur, vibrating through the confined space. you weren't really listening to what he was saying about brake bias, too aware of the heat of his body so close to yours, the way his thumb was stroking a slow, idle circle on the shell of the cockpit, just inches from your shoulder. your eyes met, and the air crackled. the technical tour was over. something else had taken its place.
"comfy?" he asked, though it wasn't really a question. his gaze dropped from your eyes to your lips.
you swallowed, nodding. "it's… a lot."
"yeah?" he leaned in closer, the space between your faces shrinking to nothing. "but you're making it fit." his breath was hot on your mouth, and then he was kissing you. it wasn't gentle. it was a hungry, desperate kiss that tasted of mint and something uniquely kimi. one of his hands came up to cup the back of your neck, holding you in place as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours. the steering wheel dug into your back, a collection of switches and buttons pressing into your skin, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. all that mattered was the taste of him, the feeling of his solid body leaning over you, the sheer, intoxicating wrongness of it all.
his other hand, the one that had been resting on the edge of the cockpit, moved down, sliding over your thigh. the friction of the denim against your skin was electric. he squeezed, his grip strong and sure, and then his fingers were tracing the seam of your jeans, higher and higher, until he was pressing against the heat of your core through the fabric. a soft gasp escaped your lips, swallowed by his kiss.
"shhh," he murmured against your mouth, a command and a promise. "we have to be quiet."
his deft fingers made quick work of the button and zipper on your jeans. he tugged them down just enough, the cool night air hitting your heated skin. you felt exposed, vulnerable, perched in the multi-million dollar machine, but the risk only fueled the fire licking at your insides. kimi's fingers slipped beneath the lace of your underwear, finding you slick and ready. he circled your clit once, twice, a slow, maddening tease that had you arching your back, pushing your hips against his hand.
"so eager," he chuckled, a low, dark sound. "did the thought of being in my car do this to you? or was it the thought of me fucking you in it?"
you couldn't form words, just a choked moan as he slid one long finger inside you. it was a tight fit, him leaning over you, you crammed into the seat, but it was perfect. the angle was awkward, desperate, a frantic tangle of limbs and desire. he worked another finger in, scissoring them, stretching you, preparing you. the heel of his palm ground against your clit with every movement, sending sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine. you clutched at his shoulders, your nails digging into the fabric of his team shirt.
"need you," you managed to gasp out, your voice ragged.
he pulled his fingers away, leaving you feeling achingly empty, and you watched, dazed, as he fumbled with his own jeans, pushing them down just enough to free himself. he was hard and heavy in his own grip, and the sight made your mouth water. he spat into his palm, giving himself a few quick strokes, and then he was guiding himself to your entrance.
he didn't push in right away. he just teased you, rubbing the head of his cock against your folds, coating himself in your wetness. "look at me," he commanded. your eyes, which had drifted shut, fluttered open. his gaze was dark, intense, burning with a need that mirrored your own. "i want to see your face when i fuck you in this car."
and then he was pushing inside. it was a slow, delicious burn. he stretched you inch by inch, filling you completely until he was seated to the hilt. you let out a long, shaky breath, your body adjusting to the intrusion. he stilled for a moment, giving you a chance to get used to the feeling of being so impossibly full, of being connected to him in the most primal way, right there in the cockpit of his race car.
"fuck," he breathed, his forehead resting against yours. "you feel so good. so tight."
he started to move then, a slow, shallow rocking of his hips that had you seeing stars. the confined space made every movement feel more intense. the gear shift dug into your thigh, a sharp, grounding point of contact amidst the overwhelming pleasure. he found a rhythm, a deep, punishing pace that had the chassis groaning softly. the sounds were obscene – the wet slap of skin on skin, your ragged breaths, kimi's low grunts of exertion, all echoing in the small, enclosed space.
"touch yourself," he ordered, his voice strained. "i want to feel you come on my cock."
you didn't hesitate. one of your hands snaked down between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit. you rubbed in tight, fast circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. the pressure built, a tight coil in your belly, wound tighter and tighter with every snap of his hips. kimi's thrusts became erratic, his control starting to fray. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath fanning across your skin.
"come for me," he growled against your ear. "come on, baby. let me feel it."
that was all it took. the coil in your belly snapped, and you came with a silent scream, your body arching off the seat, your walls clamping down around him. your vision went white, a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure washing over you, leaving you breathless and boneless. kimi followed you over the edge a few thrusts later, his body stiffening as he spilled inside you with a choked groan. he collapsed against you, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure.
for a long moment, you just laid there, tangled together in the cockpit of the w15, the only sounds your combined, ragged breathing and the gentle hum of the garage. the post-coital haze was heavy, a warm blanket that settled over you both. kimi lifted his head, his hair a mess, his eyes soft.
"well," he said, a slow, satisfied grin spreading across his face. "that's one way to break in the new seat."
he helped you out of the car, your legs feeling like jelly. you leaned against him as you tried to pull your jeans back on, your fingers clumsy and uncooperative. kimi watched you, his gaze dark and possessive. he reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "you okay?"
you nodded, a dopey smile on your face. "more than okay."
he chuckled, pulling you into a lazy, lingering kiss. "good." he glanced around the garage, a flicker of reality dawning in his eyes. "we should probably get out of here before someone finds us."
the walk back through the quiet paddock was different this time. the air was charged with a new energy, a shared secret that hung between you, unspoken but palpable. kimi's arm was wrapped around your waist, holding you close. when you finally reached the relative safety of the motorhome, he pushed you up against the door, capturing your lips in another searing kiss.
"i don't think i'll ever be able to look at that car the same way again," he murmured against your lips.
summary: just life when you're a pro tennis player and your fuckbuddy is a formula 1 driver
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pairing: lando x afab reader (F/M) - Pro Tennis Player Reader - friends with benefits dynamics
tw: smut !!
word count: around 8k ( open for a possible part two)
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“Again! You’re too slow on the second ball! Focus on your recovery.”
You cursed under your breath but obeyed, bouncing lightly on the balls of your feet, racquet ready.
You were definitely out of breath. You couldn’t afford it, but you were.
This wasn’t the moment to take shortcuts. For the first time in your professional tennis career, you were heading into a tournament as a top 10 seed: your name printed higher on the draw sheet than ever before, suddenly burdened with expectation and pressure. Everyone would be watching to see if you could back it up. If your ranking was proof of something permanent, or just a lucky run.
Being the underdog had its freedom, yes: you could swing freely, surprise people. But now, eyes followed you everywhere. Every practice was dissected, every result compared against expectation.
“Alright, let’s close on serves. Get your rhythm right before we wrap.”
You nodded, dragging yourself back onto the baseline. The basket of balls had been rolled closer, each yellow sphere practically daring you to prove you belonged inside that top 10. You bounced the first ball deliberately, keeping the toss steady, elbow tucked close to your rib cage.
The first serve came out crisp: flat, down the T, a clean ace if it had been match play.
Just like that.
“Again. Rely on muscle memory.”
You wiped your palm against your skirt and bounced another ball, preparing for a wide slice.
And that’s when you heard it. A ripple of laughter, deeper voices drifting over from the far side of the club.
You tried not to look, you really did. But instinct tugged your eyes across the complex.
And there he was.
Lando Norris, unmistakable even at a distance, was strolling toward the padel enclosure with three friends in tow. With that relaxed bounce, cap flipped backwards, sunglasses hooked to his t-shirt, the casual arrogance of a man who never had to fight to be noticed.
You smirked. Of course he was here.
“Oh, great,” you muttered to yourself, getting ready for another serve.
Monaco had a way of making collisions feel inevitable, as if the city itself were a carefully designed maze where the same people were always meant to cross paths again, no matter how carefully they tried to avoid it.
You could pretend coincidence for a while, but eventually the word lost its meaning. Especially when it came to Lando.
That was how it had started. Once. Just once, you’d told yourself afterward, standing barefoot in a hotel room that still smelled faintly of champagne and sex, watching dawn creep over the port.
It had been after his Monaco win.
You’d both escaped early from a sponsor event, traded a look that said should we? and why not?, and somehow ended up making out behind a closed door before either of you had the sense to overthink it.
You remembered thinking, even then, that it had been absurdly easy. Too easy, maybe. No awkward explanations, no pretence. You both knew. Your bodies were your livelihoods, tuned and punished in equal measure, and there was something almost comforting about being with someone who treated that as a given instead of a novelty.
It should have ended there. A single, private night filed away under things that happen when there’s too much free champagne available.
Except it didn’t.
Because a few weeks later there you were again, standing at yet another sponsor party. Different city but same kind of music and same polite conversations looping endlessly around.
You hadn’t planned it. You never did. It just… happened. Again. A shared look. A joke whispered too close to be entirely innocent. An excuse about early mornings and long days that everyone accepted without question. Another hotel hallway, another door clicking shut behind you. The second time had felt less reckless and somehow more dangerous for it, because you both knew exactly what you were choosing.
Then there had been Barcelona…or rather, Madrid first. You’d been there for a tournament, exhausted in the particular way that only came from grinding through long matches under a merciless sun, your body sore and your head buzzing with half-finished points that could’ve been played better. His message had popped up late one evening, after you were already out of the competition.
Why don’t you come to Barcelona for a few days?
It was absurd, really: detouring to another city in the middle of a tournament swing just because a Formula 1 driver suggested it.
And yet, by the time you closed your suitcase two days later, you were shaking your head at yourself, lips quirking with a smile you couldn’t quite suppress.
The sex was too good for that, so disarmingly right it had rewired your sense of risk. Every time you were together, it was as if he read you before you spoke; he knew when to push, how to push, how to make you go crazy and when to let you rest, taking you slow and unhurrily.
It left you wrecked in the best possible way, overstimulated and breathless, wondering how something could feel so mutual it almost felt choreographed, as if your bodies had agreed on this long before you did.
You snapped back to reality, tossing the ball again. It wasn’t the right moment to think about you two naked under satin sheets, when your coach was two meter away waiting for you to deliver some serves.
But well, your rhythm was already broken, the ball drifting too far forward. You chased it, making contact awkwardly, sending it into the net.
Horrible.
You blew out a breath, adjusted your visor, and tried again. Toss, too high this time, your wrist snapping late. The serve flew long, clipping the back fence.
Terrible.
“Are you kidding me?” your coach exploded, stepping forward, hands on hips. “What the hell is that? Focus! You don’t get to spray serves like a junior. Eyes on the ball!”
From across the way, a burst of laughter broke out, the kind of easy, careless noise that cut sharper because you knew exactly who it belonged to. You didn’t dare look, but you could hear it: Lando and his mates, already on the padel court, joking, messing around with their warm-up swings. The timing of it stung, like the sound was aimed at you, even if it wasn’t.
You bounced the ball once, twice, forcing yourself to tune it out.
Split step. Relax your hand. You visualized the motion, smooth and fluid, the ball toss rising just above eye level, the racquet drop falling into the slot behind your back. Legs drove upward, shoulder uncoiling like a spring, contact crisp, strings cutting clean through.
Thwack.
The ball ripped down the T, grazing the inside of the line. An ace.
Fucking finally.
“Yes,” your coach snapped, approving. “Thank you. Again.”
You wiped the back of your wrist across your forehead, blocking out the stray noise. Ball in hand, bounce-bounce, toss. You found the rhythm again. Wide slice, dragging the returner off the court. Then a heavy kicker, arcing up, exploding off the box with vicious spin. One after another, hammering the service box until the echo of contact and the spray of clay drowned everything else out.
By the time the basket was empty, your shirt clung to your back, and your shoulder ached.
You drained the last of your water and slung your racquet bag over your shoulder, body still humming from the repetition. Your coach gave you a final nod.
“Good work today! Same focus tomorrow, yeah?”
“Yep, got it,” you said, voice hoarse but steady.
As you started toward the exit gate, the scrape of clay under your shoes mixing with the faint pop of padel balls being struck in the court opposite, something yellow rolled lazily across the gravel and bumped to a stop near your feet.
“Hey!” a voice called. “Sorry—could you grab that for us?”
You glanced down. A padel ball. Smaller, lighter than your own, sitting just beside the bench. With a small sigh, you bent, scooping it up.
When you straightened, three pairs of eyes were on you.
Lando leaned against the mesh fence, padel racquet dangling loosely from his hand, grin tugging wide at the corner of his mouth. His cap was still backwards, curls sticking out underneath, eyes alight with the same energy that had broken your rhythm earlier.
Outside of your secret bubble, you were friends. Kinda. In public, at least.
It helped that, in truth, you didn’t really know each other. No shared childhood memories, no deep conversations about fears and future plans, no emotional dialogues. What you shared lived firmly in the present, contained to specific places and moments, and that made it easier to keep everything else clean.
And somehow, it worked. No rumors followed you down red carpets. No whispers curled through paddocks or press rooms. No speculative headlines pairing your names together with a question mark and a winking tone.
And that was good.
Cause you’re primary ultimate focus was tennis. And becoming the N°1 in the WTA ranking.
And his primary ultimate focus was Formula One.
What you had wasn’t a distraction; it was just a way to cope with that demanding mechanism that revolved around being an international professional athlete.
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. You played with the ball in your hands and walked toward the padel courts, visor shading your eyes.
“You know,” you started, leaning casually against the fence, “I’m a little disappointed.”
“Why’s that?” His tone was already cocky, already playing the game.
“Because I thought you were brave enough to step onto a real court. Clay, baseline, the whole thing. But no, here you are, hiding in the kiddie pool.” You gestured at the padel court, your voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Padel, Lando? Really?”
His friends burst out laughing, which only made his smirk widen. He pushed his cap back with one hand.
“Padel takes skill,” he shot back.
“Sure,” you said sweetly. “Hand-eye coordination, I’ll give you that”
“Ouch.” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock injury. “And here I was about to invite you to play.”
“Don’t,” you deadpanned. “I don’t humiliate people for free.”
That got another round of laughter as he shook his head. His eyes stayed locked on you, that mischievous glint unmistakable.
“Oh come on, are you sure you don’t want to play with us?” Lando pressed, tilting his head, that grin curling wider. He twirled the padel racquet in his hand like it was an extension of himself, casually confident, deliberately careless. “Could be fun. I’ll even go easy on you.”
You snorted, crossing your arms loosely over your chest, weight leaning into one hip. “Tempting, but no, thank you.”
His brows shot up, mock-offended, but you continued. “I just had a three-hour training block, and unless one of you plans to sub out, you’re already all set, see? I’d hate to ruin the symmetry.”
That earned a round of chuckles from his friends, who were already shifting back into their positions on the padel court. But Lando stayed put by the fence, attention anchored on you like you were the only person who mattered in that moment.
“You’re scared,” he said finally, voice light but edged with challenge.
You raised an eyebrow. “Scared?”
“Mhm.” He nodded as if it were a fact, lips quirking. “Big star, plays in front of thousands of people, wins tournaments, but one tiny padel match? Too much.”
You laughed under your breath, shaking your head, though your pulse skipped traitorously at the way he said it. His eyes never wavered, warm and sharp all at once, tugging at you with a pull you pretended not to feel.
“I play tennis, not padel, so keep telling yourself that,” you murmured, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
You shifted your weight, already angling toward the exit, but not without one last jab. “Anyway, good luck with the kiddie pool. I’ve actually got places to be.”
You lifted a hand in a casual wave, already walking away. His friends shouted a quick goodbye, the sound of their laughter and playful trash talk already filling the court again. But you didn’t have to look back to know he was still watching you.
“See you around, then!” Lando’s voice carried easily, pitched just loud enough to make sure it hooked you.
You felt it.
The weight of his gaze, tracking every step, burning hotter than the late-morning sun on your skin. It was that same unshakable awareness that had ruined your serve earlier, like a string pulled taut between you, invisible but undeniable. You’d gotten used to walking away just before it snapped.
And yet, as you slipped through the gates, you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing back once, visor shadowing your eyes.
Sure enough, Lando was still by the fence, racquet hanging loosely from his hand, eyes locked on you like he wasn’t even trying to hide it. When your gazes met, his smirk returned, small and sharp, as if he already knew you’d look back.
By the time you showered, toweled off and pulled on fresh clothes, you’d convinced yourself you were back on solid ground. Calm. Neutral. Ready to move on with your day.
And then your phone buzzed against the bench.
Lando: Dinner. My place tonight?
Five minutes. Almost on the dot.
There was something almost impressive about his timing, as if he’d waited just long enough to seem casual without risking that window where overthinking crept in. You stared at the screen, lips pressing together, a breath slipping out through your nose that was halfway to a laugh.
You already knew what it entailed. Of course you did.
With the only difference that it has never been at his place. Or yours.
Always neutral territory.
But you told yourself it didn’t mean anything. Right? That it was just logistics, convenience, Monaco being Monaco. It was better than bookig another hotel room last minute. Still, you found yourself checking the door to make sure the locker room was empty, as if privacy suddenly mattered more than it had a minute ago.
You typed back before you could talk yourself out of it.
Send the address.
Setting the phone down, face-up this time, you watched the screen fade to black like a decision locking itself in place.
Then, you finished getting ready, smoothing your hair, swapping your trainers for sandals, catching your own reflection in the mirror and tilting your head like you were appraising someone else entirely. You looked fine. Normal. Unbothered. And if there was a flicker of anticipation behind your eyes, it was subtle enough to deny.
The sports club was quieter when you left, the afternoon heat mellowing into something warmer and heavier, and you walked past the courts without looking toward the padel enclosure, refusing to check whether he was still there, because that felt like tempting fate.
Once at home getting ready took longer than it should have, not because you didn’t know what to wear but because you kept circling the decision like it mattered more than it did.
This wasn’t a date. You knew that, and you reminded yourself of that firmly while choosing something simple, comfortable, the kind of outfit that didn’t try too hard and that it was probably gonna be left on the floor for hte majority of the night.
By the time you left your apartment, the sky had shifted into early evening, Monaco bathed in that golden, cinematic light that made everything look more romantic than it had any right to be. You slid into your car and let the engine hum to life, fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel as you pulled onto the road, the route to his place familiar enough to feel automatic.
You hadn’t even made it halfway there when your car’s dashboard lit up with an incoming call.
Your manager’s name.
You sighed, long and slow, the sound filling the space of the car as you considered, briefly, letting it ring out. Then you answered, because yeah, you had to.
The conversation unfolded predictably at first, the polite check-in, the acknowledgement of your recent results, words carefully chosen to sound supportive without being reassuring. You kept your eyes on the road, nodding along even though they couldn’t see you, offering the right responses at the right moments, your tone professional and controlled.
But then the shift came, subtle enough that you almost missed it until it was already there.
Expectations. Targets. The importance of momentum.
“You know, they think it’s time to take some big concrete results home this year!”
Your manager spoke about your main sponsor in the careful language of someone delivering news they knew would land heavily, explaining how pleased they were with your consistency, how impressed they’d been by your rise, before gently steering the conversation toward what came next. Concrete results. A definitive statement. A win in a big tournament.
Or what?
They would drop you? Your manager didn’t say it clearly, but it didn’t take a genius to understand that the intensions weren’t far from there.
You tightened your grip on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening just slightly as you navigated a curve you could drive blindfolded. You let them talk, absorbing the words without interrupting, because interrupting wouldn’t change anything. There was no point protesting.
You’d been close, they acknowledged that. Painfully close. Finals that slipped through your fingers, semifinals that turned on a single point, a single misjudged shot. Enough to prove you belonged, apparently, but not enough to satisfy people who liked their success neat and definitive. But close, apparently, was no longer enough.
And now this pressure was all going to be transfered towards your next tournament, in a few weeks.
You ended the call with the same practiced calm you always did, your voice steady, agreeable, professional, even as your fingers lingered on the steering wheel a second longer than necessary.
You told yourself, firmly, that you were not bringing this with you. Not tonight. Tonight was not for spiraling, not for replaying lost points or imagining headlines that didn’t exist yet. Tonight was supposed to be easy. Light. That was what whatever passed between you and Lando existed precisely.
So you did what you’d always done best.
You compartmentalized.
One moment you were replaying your manager’s careful phrasing “concrete results”, “big tournaments coming up” and the next you were standing still, keys dangling loosely from your fingers, the world narrowing to a single door in front of you.
And before you couldn even overthink it, that door opened.
Lando stood there barefoot, sleeves of his t-shirt pushed up his forearms, hair still damp like he’d showered recently and not bothered to fully dry it.
“There you are,” he said, voice warm, casual, like this was the most natural thing in the world.
“Hi,” you replied, the word slipping out softer than you intended, followed by a small smile you hadn’t consciously decided to offer.
He stepped aside without ceremony, one hand gesturing you in. “Come in.”
His apartment was very him. Polished but a little messy. Minimalist but with a touch of extravagant that made it interesting.
And helmets. Helmets everywhere. Perfectly integrated in the forniture, visibe but not too cocky to scream egocentric. Not begged to be noticed.
“Want a drink?” he asked, already moving toward the kitchen. “Water, wine, anything?”
“Yeah, water’s perfect, thank you,” you replied, your smile widening just a fraction as you peeled off your coat and draped it over the back of a barstool at his open-plan kitchen island.
He nodded, already padding toward the fridge in those bare feet that slapped lightly against the polished hardwood floors, pulling out a chilled bottle and twisting the cap off with a practiced flick before handing it over
“How was training?”
“Brutal, as usual, but good” You took a long sip, the icy water sliding down your throat like a brief reprieve, and leaned against the island. “Until someone invaded the padel court and started firing balls into mine. Really disruptive “
His mouth curved instantly. “Oh? Did we distract you?”
You lifted a brow, playing along. “Not even close.”
“Really,” he said, stepping closer, invading your space with deliberate ease. “Because I could’ve sworn I felt you staring at us.”
“I was judging your awful technique,” you replied, tilting your head.
“Mmh,” he hummed, clearly unconvinced, gaze dropping briefly to your lips. “Lucky for you, I have other talents.”
You didn’t get the chance to respond.
He kissed you then, sudden but unhurried, the kind of kiss that felt inevitable rather than impulsive.
Your bag slipped from your shoulder, hitting the floor with a dull thud that neither of you acknowledged. His hand cradled your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone with firm possession while his other slid to the small of your back, pulling your hips flush against him, and for a moment, instinct took over and you kissed him back.
Your lips parting eagerly under his, tongue tangling with his in a slick, heated dance, your fingers digging into the warm skin of his waist where his t-shirt had ridden up, nails scraping lightly over the ridges of muscle there as you pressed back, chasing that electric pull.
But only for a moment.
Because somewhere between his lips moving against yours and the familiar press of his body close to yours, your thoughts slipped sideways.
Concrete results.
Your mouth responded automatically, but there was a half-second lag between action and intention, a fraction too slow to go unnoticed.
He felt it. Of course.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “Hey,” he said quietly. “You okay?” Breaths mingling in ragged puffs as his thumb traced your lower lip, swollen from his kisses
You smiled before you thought about it, a natural reflex to mask the noise inside your head. “Yeah. Just a little tired.”
It was convincing. Or so you tried to be.
You kissed him again before he could press further and he groaned into your mouth as his hands roamed with purpose now, gripping your ass to hoist you up onto the island edge, your legs parting instinctively to hook around his waist.
It was so easy for you to pull him between your thighs cause he’d easily fit there like he was made for it.
You stumbled towards the bedroom then, clothes peeled off frantically until you tumbled in underwear onto the mattress together in a heated sprawl, him hovering over you, familiar in the way things become when repetition dulls the novelty but sharpens the intimacy.
And yet.
Even there, with his weight grounding you and his hands warm and sure, your mind drifted. Again.
With his lips still on yours and his hands grabbing your skin, you involuntarily started thinking about tournaments you hadn’t won yet, about points lost by margins so thin they still haunted you, about the particular cruelty of being praised for consistency and for your “almost made it”.
Lando shifted slightly, sensing it again, pulling back just enough to look at you properly this time. His brow creased, just a little. “What’s wrong?” he said, not accusatory, just observant, his thumb absently stroking the inside of your knee.
“Nothing, I promise” You brushed it off instinctively, tugging his mouth back toward yours with a deliberate grind of your hips that was more meant to distract him rather than anything else.
But he felt it again, of course he did.
And this time, with a low, reluctant groan, he pulled away completely sitting back on his heels, looking at you with an expression that wiped the teasing from his face entirely.
“Hey,” he said quietly, steady but firm now. “Don’t do that, what’s going on?”
You blinked, breath still uneven, heart doing that annoying thing where it sped up for the wrong reason.
For a moment, you considered pushing back anyway, throwing out another easy excuse, another half-truth wrapped in a smile, because that was easier than admitting that your head felt like it was full of noise you couldn’t turn down.
But the effort of pretending suddenly felt exhausting, like trying to keep your balance on a point you already knew you’d lost.
You let out a slow breath, one hand coming up to rub your forehead as you looked away. “I’m sorry,” you said finally, voice softer, stripped of its practiced polish. “I’m just… I’m not really in the mood right now.”
The surprise flickered across his face immediately, brief but unmistakable, like he hadn’t expected that ending to the sentence, not from you, not tonight. Then it faded, replaced by something gentler, more careful, as he nodded once.
“Hey,” he said again, quieter this time. “That’s okay.”
He shifted without hesitation, rolling onto his side beside you, propping himself up on one elbow to face you, not pushing, not asking anything else, just there.
You stayed quiet for a few seconds longer than was strictly comfortable, the ceiling still holding your attention as if the answer might be written somewhere between the shadows and the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Then, without looking at him, the words slipped out.
“How do you do it?”
He shifted slightly beside you, confusion crossing his face as he turned his head to look at you properly. “Do what?”
You swallowed, fingers worrying at the edge of the pillowcase. “Cope,” you said, still staring upward. “With the pressure… and everyone’s expectations.”
That earned you a longer pause. You could almost hear the mental recalibration happening in his brain.
“I… don’t understand,” he said slowly. “Where is this coming from?”
You huffed out a quiet, humorless breath, finally turning your head toward him. His expression wasn’t teasing now, wasn’t amused or flirtatious, just attentive in a way that made you suddenly feel very exposed.
“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, before he could say anything else. “I know this is not really our thing. Talking about this stuff, I mean.” You gave a small shrug, as if that could minimize it. “But I guess I just—” You stopped, searching for the right words, then abandoned the effort. “I just need to get it out of my system.”
You hesitated for half a second, then went for honesty instead of polish. “I think my main sponsor is going to drop me if I don’t win my next tournament.”
The shift in him was immediate. His posture straightened, the easy looseness gone, replaced by something sharper, more focused. “What?” he said. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” you replied, the frustration creeping in despite yourself. “My manager called me while I was driving here. Apparently I’m not delivering ‘concrete results.’” You made air quotes without smiling. “Their words, not mine.”
He frowned, clearly processing. “That doesn’t make sense,” he said. “You’re top ten.”
You let out a short laugh, one that sounded a little too brittle to be funny. “Yeah. But I haven’t won a Slam. Or a Masters thousand. And they want that.” You turned onto your side to face him fully now, the words spilling faster. “Finals don’t count. Semis don’t count. ‘Almost’ doesn’t count.”
For a moment, he just looked at you, eyes steady, expression unreadable in that way of his when he was actually thinking instead of performing ease. “That’s insane,” he said finally. “You know that, right?”
“Tell that to the people signing the checks,” you replied quietly.
He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face before dropping it back onto the mattress between you. “Okay,” he said, slower now, choosing his words. “First of all, I think it’s different for everyone…”
You watched him as he spoke, the way his gaze drifted briefly to the far wall, like he was checking in with his own thoughts before letting them out. “But for me,” he continued, “I kind of had to learn early on to focus only on what I can actually control. Training. Preparation. What I do in the car. The decisions I make lap by lap.” He shrugged lightly, a familiar gesture. “Everything else? The noise, the opinions, the expectations… most of the time that’s not really up to me.”
You hummed quietly, encouraging him to go on.
“There are weekends where I do everything right,” he added, glancing back at you, “and it still doesn’t work out. And there are weekends where things click in ways I couldn’t have planned if I tried.” His mouth curved in a small, wry smile. “At some point, you’re just left trusting the process. Trusting that if you keep doing the work, it’ll come.”
You studied the line of his jaw, the calm certainty in his voice, and felt some of the tightness in your chest ease, just a fraction. “So you don’t think about what people expect from you?”
“Oh, I think about it,” he said with a quiet laugh. “I just try not to let it drive the car. Because that’s when it gets messy.” He paused, then added more seriously, “People’s expectations are their problem. Not yours.”
He paused. Eyes locked in yours.
“Do you think you’re doing a good job?”
The question caught you off guard, not because it was complicated, but because no one ever seemed to ask it like that, stripped of context, rankings, expectations, future projections.
“Yeah,” you said simply. “I do.”
His expression softened, the tension in his shoulders easing as if he’d been waiting for that confirmation more than you had. “Good,” he said. “That’s what matters”
You lay back against the pillow, eyes closing briefly as you breathed in. “I just hate that sometimes,” you admitted, voice quieter now, “no matter how hard I work, my dreams still depend on someone else. On sponsors, contracts, decisions I don’t get to make.”
He nodded slowly, letting out.a small laugh “Yeah,” he said. “Tell me about it” He shifted closer, shoulder brushing yours. “But I still think… at the end of the day, we’re more in charge of our destiny than it feels like.”
“You really think so?”
“Yeah,” he said, meeting your gaze. “Because when it finally happens, when you win that tournament, it won’t be just luck. It’ll be because you were ready when the moment showed up.”
You smiled then, small but genuine, and for the first time that night, it reached your eyes.
He was right.
You turned your head toward him, meaning to say something light or teasing to balance the weight of the moment, but the words never quite made it past your lips.
He was already watching you. His expression was soft, open in a way that felt almost intimate given how carefully you both usually avoided that territory, and for a second it struck you how rare it was to be looked at like that without expectation attached.
You lifted your hand and let your fingers settle against his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly along his jaw. He leaned into the touch without thinking, eyes flicking down to your mouth and then back up again, as if he were taking his cue from you.
That was what you’d needed, you realized then. Not urgency. Not distraction. Not even sex, though it had crossed your mind more than once tonight.
What you’d needed were those few words, spoken without judgment or pressure, grounding you back into yourself when your thoughts had been threatening to scatter in every direction at once. They had soothed something inside you in a way you hadn’t expected, in a way you hadn’t known to ask for.
So you didn’t answer him.
You closed the distance instead, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that was slower and softer than before. This time it wasn’t about proving anything or trying to lose yourself in sensation. His hand came up to rest at your waist, warm and steady, and you felt him relax beneath your touch, meeting you there without question.
And finally, your mind was quiet.
The kiss shifted almost without you noticing, the softness giving way to something warmer, more insistent, as if the relief you’d been holding back finally found somewhere to go. His hand slid more securely at your waist, fingers pressing in just enough to anchor you there, and you felt the familiar spark catch, the kind that always lived just under the surface between you, waiting for the slightest excuse.
For a moment, you were only aware of the heat of him, the quiet sounds between breaths, the way his thumb traced an unconscious arc against your side.
And then he pulled back.
Not abruptly, not coldly, just enough to look at you properly again, his forehead resting briefly against yours.
“Hey,” he murmured. “You know we don’t have to do anything, right?” His eyes searched your face, not suspicious, just careful. “We can just… have dinner and Chill. Watch something stupid. Whatever you want.”
You smiled at that, softer than before but steadier, and lifted your hand to his jaw again, grounding yourself in the feel of him. “I know,” you said quietly. “But I’m good. Really.” You met his gaze, letting him see it. “Head’s clear now. I promise.”
He studied you for a beat longer, then nodded, the tension easing from his shoulders as a small smile tugged at his mouth. “You sure?”
You didn’t give him time to overthink it, didn’t waste a second on words. You leaned in again, sealing his mouth with a brief, teasing kiss; tongue flicking once against his before you pulled away, letting your lips trail lower in a scorching path along the column of his throat, sucking lightly at the pulse hammering there. “Yeah, positive.”
And with that, your hand dipped boldly between your bodies, fingers slipping past the elastic waistband of his boxers to wrap around his cock; thick and velvet-hard, already leaking steadily from the tip as you gave him a firm, twisting stroke from root to crown, thumb smearing the pre-cum in a slick glide that had his hips jerking up into your grip
Lando half-moaned, half-laughed, the sound rumbling deep and breathless from his chest, a choked “Fuck—wow, my words did really inspire you, yeah?” spilling out in that cheeky British drawl, even as his free hand fisted the sheets, abs clenching under your other palm where it splayed across his stomach.
You laughed low against his skin, the vibration drawing another shudder from him. “They definetely did,” you murmured, nipping the hinge of his jaw, your grip slick and unrelenting to really show him you were okay, more than okay, finally here in the filthy rhythm of it.
You and Lando lay tangled on your sides, face to face in the rumpled sheets; breaths syncing in hot, ragged bursts as your fist pumped his cock with slick, twisting strokes that had him thrusting lazily into your grip.
His hand tightened at the nape of your neck, holding you there while his other arm hooked under your thigh, hoisting your leg up high over his hip in one fluid, possessive yank, before he slotted his thick thigh between yours; the coarse hair and muscle grinding right up against your soaked folds with delicious pressure that made you whine into his kiss.
You got so utterly lost in it then, the world narrowing to the fllawless heat of his mouth devouring yours, tongues sliding sloppy and deep, teeth clashing, your hips rocking instinctively to hump his thigh, dragging your swollen clit over the rigid flex of it with every needy grind that smeared fresh arousal down his skin.
His free hand roamed everywhere: palming the heavy swell of your tits through your bra, rough fingers pinching and rolling your nipples into stiff peaks that throbbed under the lace before hooking into the straps and yanking them down roughly.
The clasp snapped open with a quick twist at your back and he shoved the fabric aside to expose your bare breasts, kneading the soft flesh with greedy squeezes that had milked moans from your throat.
You were so consumed by the blaze of his touch that your hand faltered on his cock, strokes slowing to a distracted squeeze before falling away entirely, forgotten in the haze.
But he didn’t mind, not one fucking bit, didn’t even break rhythm, just growled low into your mouth before abandoning your lips to latch onto the frantic pulse at your neck, sucking hard enough to bruise as his teeth scraped the tender skin.
With a shift of his hips, he rolled fully on top of you, pinning you beneath his weight in the best way: his cock trapped heavy and leaking between your bellies, twitching against your skin as his fingers quickly hooked into your panties, ripping them down your thighs in a frantic tear that left you fully bare and exposed, the ruined lace dangling from one ankle like a trophy before he kicked it off entirely.
“Fuck,” he rasped between kisses, lips dragging wet and stinging along your collarbone, nipping the swell of your breast before soothing with a broad lick, his hand now free to roam your naked curves, “It was fucking hot to see you train today,” he confessed.
“… was so hard not to follow you into the locker room and fuck you right there.”
Breathless, ragged laugh punched out of you at his confession, “What stopped you then?” you gasped out, nails digging into the bunched muscles of his shoulders as he continued to lavish your breasts with bruising kisses and rough, possessive squeezes.
At that, Lando pulled back just enough to look down at you, a wicked grin spreading across his flushed face. He let out a low, throaty chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest where it pressed against yours. “Why?” he teased, “Would’ve you liked it? Would’ve liked the risk?” His thumb stroked the sharp bone of your hip, his gaze locking onto yours with playful intensity. “Hearing every footstep outside the door, knowing anyone could walk in and see me buried balls-deep in you?”
Oh, he was playing dirty.
He didn’t give you a chance to answer, didn’t wait for the breathy yes already forming on your swollen lips.
With a growl that was half-laugh, half-pure hunger, he lowered himself between your legs in one fluid, predatory slide, his broad shoulders pushing your thighs apart until you were spread wide open for him.
One hand remained latched possessively on your breast, kneading the soft flesh and pinching your nipple into a stiff, aching peak; the other hand released your hip to hook under your knee, spreading you even wider before his fingers laced tightly with yours, palm pressing your joined hands into the mattress.
And then he devoured you.
His mouth crashed onto your pussy with no preamble, no gentle exploration. His tongue speared deep inside you in one long, filthy lick from your soaked entrance all the way up to your throbbing clit, lapping up the gush of your arousal with a groan that vibrated against your most sensitive flesh.
“Fuck, your taste…” He ate you out like a man possessed: tongue fucking you in deep, rhythmic plunges before flattening to swirl broad, relentless circles around your clit, sucking the swollen bud into his mouth.
You cursed and moaned, a litany of broken fucks and oh gods spilling from your lips as your mind fractured, splintering far away from all the worries and the sponsor anxieties that had shadowed you when you first walked into his apartment.
Now there was only this: the searing heat of his mouth devouring your cunt, the rough, possessive grip of his hand still kneading your breast, the slick, filthy sounds of his tongue fucking deep into your dripping core before swirling with relentless precision over your swollen clit.
You were left fighting to control your breathing, to not explode too soon, but it’s a losing battle; every time he sucked your clit into the wet heat of his mouth, sent another violent tremor through your limbs, coiling the pleasure tighter and tighter in your belly until it’s a white-hot knot begging for release.
“Lan, I’m so close…” you barely whispered but then, when you came, it crashed over you with shocking force, your back arching off the bed as your pussy convulsed around his tongue, gushing fresh wetness that he drank down with greedy.
And through it all, you couldn’t stop smiling, a breathless, dazed grin spreading across your face even as tears pricked the corners of your eyes… because that’s exactly what this is about, isn’t it?
This raw, uncomplicated hunger, this mutual understanding that stripped away everything else until it was just two bodies chasing the same fire. It was why you kept seeing each other, why you kept crashing into his orbit: for moments like this, where the world narrowed to sweat and skin and shared, shuddering release.
And with him, it was something else. Better and more intense than anything.
You stay like that for a few seconds, panting and smiling dopily at each other in the aftermath: him kneeling back on his heels between your splayed legs, his mouth and chin glistening with your spend, a smug, boyish grin lighting up his flushed face; you lying sprawled and boneless on the rumpled sheets, chest heaving as the last tremors subside.
And after a few moments, without a word, you just lazily rolled over onto your stomach, ass lifting in a deliberate, inviting arch as you buried your face in the pillows with a contented sigh, presenting yourself to him fully.
Lando let out a low, delighted laugh “Oh, just like that?” he teased.
His hands came down on your ass immediately, palms smoothing over the curves with a possessive squeeze before one lifted and came down in a sharp, playful smack that echoed in the quiet room.
"No 'please,' no 'fuck me, Lando'—just ass up, ready to go? Wonderful" he murmured against your shoulder blade, nipping the skin there before lining himself up at your entrance, the broad head nudging against your sensitive, swollen folds. "Now let's see if I can fuck all those other thoughts right out of you for good, yeah?”
Summary: Lando Norris was thirteen when she used to help him with his homework. Y/N was just three years older, but back then it felt like a lifetime. She was untouchable, his parents’ favorite, the girl who always left before he could find the courage to say more than “thanks.”
What he never told anyone, not even her, was that he had the softest, childlike crush on her. The kind that never really went away.
When she came back into his life, he’s 25. She's 28. They are both adults. The age gap doesn’t seem so impossible anymore, but nothing is simple. Especially not when his older brother is suddenly in the picture too.
Genre : angst and fluff
World count : 8,4k
Series Masterlist
Author note : First part of this new series, hope you will like it :) This one is for forgetting the result of the Las Vegas race and the disqualifying of both papaya cars...
Age 13 & 16 :
Lando was sulking at his kitchen table, his arms were folded over his chest, chin tucked into his hoodie, eyes fixed on the math workbook in front of him like it had personally offended him. The numbers swam. The pencil felt heavy. His trophy from the weekend still sat on the sideboard behind him, gleaming in the late afternoon light.
He’d rather be with that than with fractions.
Lando had won the world championship in karting and still couldn’t sit still for ten seconds.
He bounced his leg under the kitchen table hard enough to make the pencil vibrate. The workbook in front of him lay open on a page of fractions he’d already decided he hated, numbers blurring together into one long, smug line.
“Lando, stop kicking,” Cisca, his mom, said from the stove, not even turning around. “You’re shaking the whole table.”
“I’m not,” he muttered automatically, even as he dragged his heel back under his chair.
“You are,” she replied. “And we’ve been over this page three times.”
“I don’t get it,” he snapped, quieter than he wanted. “It’s stupid.”
She sighed, tired in a way he recognised lately. “The fractions aren’t stupid. You’re tired. You’ve had a long week. We’ll wait for Y/N and then try again, okay?”
His chest pulled tight.
He pretended to flick dust from the corner of his worksheet. “She’s really coming?”
“Yes, she’s really coming.” Now she did turn around, wiping her hands on a towel. “She finished her own classes and said she’d be here by four.”
“It’s already four,” he pointed out.
“It’s three fifty-eight.”
“Same thing.”
She gave him a look that said don’t start and he dropped his eyes back to the page.
In his head, he tried to remember the last time he’d seen Y/N properly.
She used to live a few houses down. Used to babysit his younger sisters sometimes. Once or twice, she’d been the one to walk him home when he was younger and scraped his knee or had to leave the park early. He remembered her voice more than anything, teasing but not mean, soft when he cried, never talking to him like he was five.
Then everything had gotten busier.
Karting, flights, races, tutoring that didn’t stick, online classes he ignored. His parents had started snapping at each other more, his sisters get older, Oliver gone most of the time. The house felt full and crowded and somehow still like no one had time to sit at the table with him and make the numbers make sense.
So they’d called her.
The doorbell rang and Lando’s leg stopped bouncing on its own.
“I’ll get it,” Cisca said, smoothing her hair as she left the kitchen.
He heard the door open. Voices in the hallway.
“Hi, Mrs Norris.”
Her voice was the same. Older, maybe, but the same.
“Y/N! Come in, darling. Shoes off, you know the rules.”
There was a small laugh. “Wouldn’t dare break them.”
Lando stared so hard at his workbook his eyes hurt.
He heard footsteps, then she appeared in the doorway.
The first thing he noticed was that she looked… taller. It confused him for a second. Her school blazer hung open over her shirt, her tie was already loosened like she’d yanked it down the second she left the building. Her bag strap dug into her shoulder, heavy with books. Her hair was pulled back, but pieces had escaped to frame her face. There was blue ink smudged along the side of her hand.
She smiled when she saw him, easy and bright.
“Hey Lando,” she said.
His cheeks burned. “Hi.”
Cisca clapped her hands lightly. “Thank you for coming, really. He’s been… a handful.”
“I’m not,” Lando muttered.
“You are,” she and his mum said at the same time, and to his horror, Y/N grinned.
“It’s fine,” she replied. “I’ve survived worse. Year elevens are feral.”
She walked over and dropped her bag on the chair beside him, not across from him like a teacher would. Already different.
“Okay,” she said, sliding into the seat and pulling his workbook closer. “What are we looking at?”
“Fractions,” his mum said dramatically, like she was announcing a villain. “He hates them.”
“Hate is a strong word,” Y/N said.
“I hate them,” Lando confirmed.
She snorted. “Alright then. Challenge accepted.”
Cisca placed a plate of biscuits on the table. “I’ll leave you to it. Lando, be nice. Y/N, if he gives you trouble, you have my permission to throw a biscuit at him.”
“Got it,” Y/N said, saluting.
When his mum left, the kitchen went quieter. Lando stared at the underlines in his workbook, feeling suddenly very aware of his own breathing.
“So,” Y/N said, leaning on her elbows. “How much do you actually understand here, and how much are you pretending not to?”
He blinked. “I’m not pretending.”
“Okay,” she said easily. “Then show me where it stops making sense. I’m not gonna tell your mum if it’s everything.”
No one had said that to him before. Every other adult had a tone: disappointed, impatient, too bright. Y/N just sounded like… someone older talking to someone slightly younger. Not a small child. Not a problem.
He pointed at the middle of the page, heat creeping up his neck. “Here. When they start doing… that thing. With… the lines. And the numbers change.”
“The thing with the lines. Very technical,” she said, mouth twitching. “Alright. So you get this part?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes.”
“What do you get about it?”
He hesitated. “You, like… make the bottom numbers match?”
“There we go,” she said. “See? Not hopeless.”
He blinked again.
She pulled his workbook toward her and tore a sheet of paper from her own notebook, rewriting the first problem in bigger, clearer numbers.
“These books suck,” she said. “Everything’s tiny. No one’s brain wants to look at that after a race weekend.”
“Everyone says I’m just lazy,” he muttered.
“Well, everyone’s wrong,” she said simply. “You’re tired. And you’ve got a lot going on. So we make it easier to look at first, yeah?”
He nodded before he could stop himself.
They went through the question slowly. She didn’t rush him. Every time he answered, she let him finish instead of finishing the sentence for him. When he got something wrong, she didn’t sigh or tell him to “focus”; she just circled it and said, “Okay, cool, now tell me what you were thinking here.”
Sometimes she swore under her breath at the layout of the book. It made him snort, then pretend he hadn’t.
He caught himself watching the way she chewed the inside of her cheek when she was concentrating. The way her handwriting slanted slightly up at the end of words. The pen twirling between her fingers when she waited for him to answer.
It wasn’t like the boys at karting talked about girls. They talked about engines, about corners, about who’d crashed in the dumbest way that weekend. Girls were just… there. Sisters, cousins, people in the background.
Y/N didn’t feel like that.
By the time Cisca peeked back in, they were both hunched over the workbook, Y/N drawing little kart track diagrams in the margins to explain common denominators.
“So this is your lap,” she was saying. “And this is the other guy’s lap. You wanna be on the same bit of track to compare times, yeah? So you line them up. That’s all you’re doing with the fractions.”
“Ohhh,” Lando muttered, the penny finally dropping. “Why didn’t they just say that?”
Cisca’s eyes widened a little. “You’re still working? I thought he’d have given up by now.”
Y/N leaned back, stretching her arms above her head. “He’s killing it. We’re making peace with the fractions.”
Cisca smiled, a little surprised. “Well… that’s more than we got out of you yesterday.”
Lando shrugged, suddenly shy under both their gazes. “It’s… not that bad.”
“High praise,” Y/N said, grinning.
They wrapped up not long after. Y/N closed his workbook with a little thump and pushed it toward him. “You did good, Norris.”
He picked at the edge of the cover. “It’s just maths.”
“It’s also focus,” she said. “You were here the whole time. That’s harder.”
He didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything. His chest felt weird again. Tight but not in a bad way.
Y/N slung her bag over her shoulder. “Alright, I’ve gotta go finish my own homework before my mum hunts me down. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” he repeated.
She looked at Cisca. “Same time okay with you?”
“Yes, please,” Cisca said immediately. “If you’re sure you don’t mind. We can pay a bit more if...”
“It’s fine,” Y/N cut in. “I like it. He’s… fun.”
Lando’s ears burned.
She turned back to him. “You okay with another round tomorrow? Or have I traumatised you too much already?”
He shook his head. “No, it’s… it’s fine. You can… come back. If you want.”
“I will then,” she said simply. “See you, champ.”
He watched her leave. Listened to the door click shut. The house seemed quieter, but not as heavy as usual. The numbers on the page didn’t look like a foreign language anymore, just a language he hadn’t fully learned yet.
Cisca started stacking plates in the sink. “So? What did you think?”
He pretended to shrug, heart beating a little faster. “She’s… okay.”
“Just okay?” his mum asked, amused.
He hesitated. “She… doesn’t talk to me like I’m stupid.”
Something in her face softened. “You’re not stupid.”
“I know,” he said quickly, because he did know… mostly. “She just… she’s different. She’s… cool.”
Cisca dried her hands. “Well, if it works, it works. We’ll see how long we can keep this going. She has her own exams, you know.”
Lando nodded, trying not to look as disappointed as he felt at the idea of that ending.
He looked at the workbook again. At the neat numbers, the stupid track drawings in the margins.
“Can we do maths again tomorrow?” he asked suddenly.
His mum paused. “Maths?”
“Yeah.” He tried to sound casual. “If she’s coming anyway, we should do more. Before I forget.”
Cisca actually laughed. “Who are you and what have you done with my son?”
He rolled his eyes and reached for his pencil, but inside, something uncurled slightly.
He was still too young to care about girls the way Oliver did. He didn’t have posters of anyone on his wall except drivers and cars. But he knew he liked the way Y/N talked to him. The way she made his brain feel less wrong. The way the afternoon didn’t drag when she was there.
He didn’t have a word for it yet.
He just knew that for the first time, he was actually looking forward to a maths lesson.
Age 15 & 18 :
Sunday night smelled like takeout and rain.
The race was still in his bones, engine noise echoing in his ears, phantom vibration buzzing under his skin, but the house was quiet in that post-weekend way. His suit was dumped somewhere in his room, his bag half-unpacked. His trophy for P2 sat on the sideboard next to the old karting ones, a newer, sleeker shape.
Lando sat at the dining table in a hoodie and joggers, knees bouncing, staring at the laptop screen that refused to make sense.
Physics worksheet. Email from his online tutor. A list of assignments he was technically meant to finish before next Friday, which was hilarious considering he’d be on a plane by Wednesday and hadn’t even unpacked from this trip yet.
He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.
“Don’t you dare fall asleep,” his mum warned from the kitchen. “She’s coming straight from school as it is.”
“I’m not sleeping,” he muttered.
“You look like you’re sleeping.”
“I’m reading,” he said, squinting harder at the screen. The words still blurred.
He wasn’t sure this counted as reading.
He heard the front door open. Voices. The familiar shuffle of shoes.
“Hi, Mrs Norris. Sorry, bus was a nightmare.”
His chest did that stupid little pull it always did now.
“In the dining room,” Cisca called.
Y/N appeared in the doorway a second later, hair damp from the drizzle outside, blazer unbuttoned, tie hanging loose around her neck. Her school bag looked even heavier than usual, a tube for drawings slung over her shoulder, sketchbook tucked under one arm.
“Wow,” she said, dropping her bag on a chair. “Look at Mr F3, pretending he does homework.”
He tried not to smile. Failed. “I do do homework.”
“Sure you do,” she said, shrugging off her blazer. “Between flights and podiums and photoshoots.”
He looked away quickly so she wouldn’t see the way his ears went hot when she said it like that. Mr F3. Like it meant something.
“Hi,” he said, because his brain suddenly couldn’t come up with anything else.
“Hi,” she echoed, smiling, and that stupid little pull in his chest got worse.
She rolled her sleeves up to her elbows, revealing ink-smudged wrists and a thin bracelet he’d never seen before. He caught himself staring at it, wondering who’d given it to her, and snapped his gaze back to the laptop.
“So,” she said, dropping into the chair beside him, not across from him. Always beside. “What’s on the menu? Physics? English? Existential dread?”
“Physics,” he muttered. “And… the last one.”
She snorted. “Relatable.”
His mum drifted in with a mug of tea and a plate of leftover noodles. “Here,” she said, setting them down. “Food. Tea. Y/N, you’re an angel. If he were in normal school, I think they’d have expelled him by now.”
“I’m very charming,” Lando protested, even as he dug his fork into the noodles.
She laughed, and the sound nudged something warm under his ribs.
It was… weird.
Now she was eighteen, in her last year of highschool, buried in university applications and portfolios. He was fifteen, in F3, his life a blur of flights and simulators and interviews and tutors he never saw twice.
They still ended up here, though. Sunday nights in his dining room, bleary from travel and school, trying to cram a week’s worth of schoolwork into a couple of hours before the next race swallowed him again.
She leaned in, shoulder brushing his as she pointed at the diagram on the screen. “So. You’ve got your angle, your initial velocity. What do you do first?”
He tried to focus on the problem. Really, he did. Not on how close she was. Not on the faint smell of her shampoo, something citrusy and clean. Not on the way her hair had slipped from its ponytail and a strand was resting against his arm.
“Um,” he said intelligently. “You… split it? Into… up and sideways?”
“Components, yeah,” she said. “See? Your brain is intact.”
He worked through the question, mumbling the steps. She didn’t interrupt. Just waited. When he messed up, she didn’t sigh, just nudged him back.
“Check your units,” she said at one point, tapping the screen.
“What?” he asked, blinking.
“You switched from metres per second to kilometres per hour halfway through,” she said.
He groaned. “Stupid.”
“Not stupid,” she corrected, voice firm. “Just tired. You’ve been going since, what, six this morning?”
“Five,” he corrected. “Call time.”
“Exactly,” she said. “Meanwhile, I’ve been staring at my personal statement for so long I’m starting to hate the word ‘architecture.’ We’re allowed to mess up units.”
He snorted. “You’d still get it right.”
“You’re annoying,” she said, poking his arm. “How many times do I have to tell you, you’re not dumb. You just learn fast, and school likes slow.”
He ducked his head, fighting a smile he didn’t want her to see. It felt… too vulnerable.
Something had shifted in the last year.
He’d noticed it first when she’d come over one evening in a dress instead of her usual hoodie and jeans, some school thing she was going to later. His brain had short-circuited so hard he’d forgotten the difference between sine and cosine for a full ten minutes.
Then he’d started noticing everything. The way she tugged at the cuffs of her sleeves when she was nervous. The soft crease that appeared between her brows when she talked about her future like she didn’t quite believe she’d get there. The way her laugh sounded different when it was for him versus when it was for his sisters or his mum.
He’d catch himself staring, eyes lingering a little too long on the curve of her smile, the slope of her neck, the ink stains on her fingers. His gaze clung, heavy, and he’d have to yank it back.
He hated it. And he loved it. And he hated that he loved it.
Because she still treated him like a kid.
“Your hair’s getting long,” she said idly now, mid-question, reaching over to ruffle his curls without warning.
He jolted. “Oi.”
“What?” she asked, amused. “It suits you. You look less like a baby bird.”
“I was never a baby bird.”
“You kind of were,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Big eyes. Messy hair. Constantly falling over.”
“I fall over in a race car,” he said. “It’s different.”
“Sure, sure.” She ruffled again, gentler. “You’re cute, deal with it.”
He swatted her hand away, but his heart was pounding embarrassingly hard.
Cute.
He didn’t want to be cute.
He wanted… he didn’t even know. Something that didn’t make her voice tilt like she was talking about a puppy.
He dragged his attention back to the laptop. “So if it lands after three seconds, then the height is…”
They worked through another set. Time blurred. The clock crept past ten, then ten thirty. The house got quieter. His sisters disappeared upstairs, his mum’s footsteps faded, even Oliver’s music turned down.
He forced his eyes back to the notebook, but her laugh slid under his skin, warm and familiar.
Halfway through the session, her phone buzzed, she ignored it at first, but it kept going.
“Someone’s desperate,” Lando said, trying to sound like he didn’t care.
She huffed and checked it. The corner of her mouth twitched.
“Who is it?” he asked, casual. Too casual.
“Just… Tom,” she said.
“Tom who?” he pressed.
“Boy from school,” she replied. “We’re, uh, going to prom together. Maybe. I don’t know.”
Something sharp and stupid flared in his chest.
“Oh.” He tried to make his voice flat. “Cool.”
“He’s not that cool,” she said quickly. “He just… keeps asking what colour my dress is gonna be so he can match his tie. Which is… sweet? Maybe? I don’t know. Feels weird.”
Lando picked at a crumb on the table. “You’re going with him, though?”
She shrugged, cheeks pink. “I guess. It’s just prom. Not that deep.”
It felt deep. He didn’t know why. He’d never been to a prom. He didn’t even go to normal school anymore. But the idea of her dressed up, dancing with some guy called Tom who got to be there just because he sat in the same classroom as her every day...He shoved that thought away.
“You’d look nice,” he muttered.
She looked up. “What?”
“In… whatever dress,” he said, ears burning. “You’d look nice.”
Her face softened. “That’s sweet, Lando.”
He pretended to be fascinated by his pencil.
“Anyway,” she said, clearing her throat. “Enough about my weird almost-prom. Back to you. Racing going okay?”
He shrugged, grateful for the subject change. “Yeah. I mean. I won last weekend.”
“I saw,” she said. “Your mum sent me the livestream link. You were amazing.”
He tried not to glow under the praise. “I had a good kart.”
“You had good lines,” she corrected. “You always see where to go before everyone else does.”
They ended up on the floor in the living room, sitcom reruns playing in the background while she scribbled building facades in the margin of her notebook and he half-watched, half-listened as she talked about cities she wanted to visit.
“Barcelona,” she said dreamily. “The architecture there… Gaudí… it’s like the whole place is a sketchbook that came to life.”
“You should go,” he said.
“Maybe one day,” she replied. “If I get into the uni I want.”
“You will,” he said, too certain.
She raised an eyebrow. “How do you know?”
“You just… will,” he said, shrugging. “You always see the whole picture. Not just what something is. What it could be.”
She stared at him for a second, something unreadable in her eyes.
Then she smiled, soft. “Thanks.”
He pretended it didn’t make his heart sprint faster than it did on the longest straights.
That night, when she left, he walked her to the door without being asked.
“You’ll… come next week?” he asked, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.
“If you still wants me,” she teased.
“I do,” he blurted, then immediately looked away. “I mean. For… homework. And stuff.”
She bit back a grin. “I’ll be here. Don’t worry.”
He watched her walk down the path, backpack bouncing against her hip, phone lighting up in her hand.
He tried not to think about Tom. And prom. And ties matching dresses.
He didn’t have a name for the twisting feeling in his chest yet.
He only knew that when she was here, everything made more sense.
And when she was gone, it didn’t.
Age 18 & 21 :
By eighteen, Lando had everything he’d ever said he wanted.
Almost.
The email from McLaren was still open on his laptop, the orange logo staring back at him like it knew how badly his hands were shaking.
We’re delighted to confirm your position as reserve driver…
He didn’t read the rest again. He’d already memorised it. The words blurred now, not from speed but from the thousandth reread.
Reserve driver.
McLaren.
He was in.
“Lando!” his mum called from downstairs. “Have you told your grandparents yet?”
“In a minute!” he shouted back, though his voice cracked halfway through.
His phone buzzed non-stop: team notifications, mentions, texts from drivers, emojis from friends, a voice note from Max that just sounded like screaming. He ignored most of it, thumb hovering over one chat that had been dead for months.
Y/N.
Their last messages were buried under everyone else’s. A reaction to a race result. A “Proud of you, kid” she’d sent after he’d won a race. A picture she’d sent once of a building model she’d made, asking, Does this look stupid or kind of cool? and he’d replied Very cool. Obviously.
Nothing recent.
He locked his phone and shut the laptop, heart pounding. He should go downstairs. Celebrate. Be the son his parents had pushed and sacrificed for, the success story everyone kept saying he was.
Instead he sat on the edge of his bed for a second, breathing.
Reserve driver. Probably F1 next year. Full-time racing driver. No more online school, no more tutors, no more “balancing.”
No more excuses.
No more homework.
No more Y/N.
The thought dropped into his chest like a stone.
They’d already drifted. It hadn’t been sudden; it was worse than that. Slow. Gradual. She’d moved to London for uni, just like she’d said she would. First year had been chaos for her: new city, studio projects, late nights. His racing calendar had swallowed him whole with F3, then more testing, more travel, more everything.
Sunday lessons had become Sunday calls. Then Sunday texts. Then just… sometimes. When they both remembered. When one of them wasn’t exhausted or in another time zone.
He’d told himself it was normal. People grow up. Lives split off, like branching lines on a track map.
Still, every now and then in hotel rooms at midnight, in long flights staring at nothing, he’d think of her. Of the way she’d scribbled formulas next to little racetrack doodles. Of her laugh echoing off his kitchen walls. Of her hand in his hair, messing it up like he was something small and breakable.
He still heard her voice in his head sometimes. You’re not dumb. School just likes slow.
She was twenty-one. At uni. In London. Designing impossible buildings and going out with friends and doing all the grown-up city things he only saw on Instagram.
It was stupid, to miss something that never really existed. But it still hurt.
His eighteenth birthday crept up on him in a blur of simulator sessions and press things and people asking if he felt different yet.
He didn’t.
He felt… tired. Busy. Like his whole life was about to turn up a notch and no one had given him the manual.
“Big eighteen,” Oliver said, clapping him on the back one night. “We doing anything? Or are you going to celebrate with a protein shake and an early night?”
“Funny,” Lando said. “I was thinking house party.”
Oliver blinked. “Here?”
“Yeah. Mum and Dad said they’d go to some friends’ place,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Like, give us the house for the night. As long as we don’t burn it down.”
Oliver’s grin turned feral. “My little brother, throwing a proper party. I’m so proud.”
“Don’t be weird about it.”
“I’m going to be very weird about it.”
Somewhere in the middle of planning: group chats exploding, someone making a playlist, people talking about turning the living room into a dance floor and the garden into a smoking area, someone mentioned alcohol.
“Obviously we’ll have drinks,” one of his mates said. “You’re eighteen, mate. Legal now. It’s basically mandatory.”
He pretended not to hesitate.
They got beer. Some cheap vodka. Someone’s older brother promised to bring something stronger. Girls from his old school were added to the invite list, people who’d never really talked to him before he started showing up on TV, now suddenly sliding into his DMs with, Heard you’re doing F1 stuff, that’s sick.
It made his stomach twist, but he didn’t stop it.
Being a racing driver helped with girls, apparently. Even if the confidence part of his brain hadn’t quite caught up.
Late one night, while Oliver argued with someone about playlists over the phone, Lando lay on his bed, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the search bar.
He typed her name.
It popped up after three letters.
Her profile picture was different now. Not the one he remembered from before. This one was at night, fairy lights blurred in the background, her in a black dress, shoulder bare, eyes crinkled mid-laugh, mouth open like someone had just said the funniest thing.
Still, his thumb hovered over the message button for a long time.
He could not message her. That was an option. Let the memory sit where it was: old notebooks, pizza cut into squares, Sunday nights that had faded into something hazy and warm.
Or he could.
He opened the chat before he could talk himself out of it.
Hey Y/N :)
Long time no see like properly. Hope London hasn’t eaten you alive.
It’s my 18th next Saturday & I’m doing a thing at my parents’ place – just some friends & stuff. Would be cool if you came by, if you’re around.
Also I, uh, became reserve driver for McLaren so… yeah. That’s a thing.
Hope you’re good
He hit send before he could change his mind.
Immediately, he wanted to throw his phone out the window.
He set it face down on his chest and tried to think about literally anything else. Tyre compounds. Setup changes. Snake. The ceiling.
The buzz came sooner than he expected.
He snatched the phone up so fast he nearly dropped it.
Y/N: Landoooo no way 🧡 that’s amazing, congrats!! Proud of you doesn’t even cover it
His lungs started working again.
Another bubble appeared.
Y/N: 18 already wtf, you were like 13 yesterday. Time is fake
He rolled his eyes, grinning despite himself.
Y/N: I’m probably going to be in London that weekend, deadlines are murdering me slowly BUT if I can escape for a bit I’ll swing by, okay? No promises, I suck.
If I don’t make it, happy early birthday you menace 🎂 and congrats again on McLaren. You’re smashing it.
He read the message three times. Four.
Probably busy. No promises.
He typed back:
All good, I get it. Uni stuff sounds brutal. Would be cool to see you though :)
He hovered over send, then tapped it. This time, no reply came back straight away.
The next day, his chat with her had slid down the list again, buried under planning and memes and someone sending a screenshot of a truly horrifying amount of alcohol.
The night of his birthday party, the house looked almost unrecognisable.
Furniture pushed back. Fairy lights strung along curtain rails. A Bluetooth speaker that definitely wasn’t theirs thumping bass through the walls. The kitchen counters lined with bottles and mixers, red cups stacked next to the sink.
“Remember,” his mum said, giving him The Look before leaving. “No broken bones. No broken furniture. No calls from the neighbours.”
“We trust you,” his dad added. “Sort of.”
“Thanks,” Lando said dryly.
“Happy birthday, baby,” Cisca said, pulling him into a quick hug. “We’re proud of you.”
“Thanks, Mum.”
“And if you’re sick, aim for the toilet,” she whispered.
“Mum.”
Then they were gone, the car pulling out of the driveway, leaving him standing in his own house that suddenly didn’t feel like his.
“THIS IS GONNA BE SICK,” one of his mates yelled, barging past him with a bag of ice.
It started slow. A few people trickled in, mates from karting, neighbours, Oliver’s friends. Someone started the playlist. Someone else started pouring. The house filled with voices and music and the sweet-sour smell of fruity alcohol.
Some he recognised from old school days, others from friends-of-friends.
“Happy birthday, Norris,” one of the girls that he barely knows said, fingers curling around his wrist for a second. “Heard you’re big time now.”
He laughed it off, ducking his head. “Something like that.”
He tried to be present. To enjoy it. To be the version of himself everyone expected, fun, cocky, the kid living his dream.
But every time the front door opened, his head snapped toward it.
It was never her.
He told himself she wouldn’t come before midnight. She’d have stuff to finish. Uni deadlines. Night buses. London things.
He checked his phone secretly in the kitchen every half hour. No new messages from her.
At some point, someone shoved a drink into his hand and pushed him toward the living room.
“You gotta do a speech!” a mate shouted.
“I really don’t,” Lando said.
He ended up on the coffee table anyway, Oliver hyping him up in the background, everyone cheering when he muttered something about being grateful and not remembering any of this tomorrow.
He laughed. Played along. Took stupid photos. Let people sling arms around his shoulders and yell happy birthday in his ear.
There was a girl who stuck close, a blonde from his old school. She laughed at his jokes and asked him about racing and touched his arm a lot. Eventually they ended up in the hallway, half-shouting over the music.
“It’s so cool what you do,” she said, eyes bright. “You’re like, actually famous now.”
“Not really,” he said, scratching the back of his neck.
“Come on,” she said, stepping closer. “McLaren? That’s huge.”
He smiled, but it felt thin. “Yeah. It’s… good.”
She tilted her head. “You okay? You seem… I don’t know. Distracted.”
He glanced toward the door without meaning to.
“Just tired,” he lied. “Long week.”
“If you want to, like, sneak off for a bit,” she said, lowering her voice. “We can… you know. Get somewher more quiet.”
He blinked at her.
She was pretty. Nice. His age. Interested.
A few years ago, he’d have combusted on the spot at the idea. Maybe he still would, another day.
But right now, his brain just… stalled.
He pulled a smile. “Maybe later. Need to make sure no one burns the place down first.”
She laughed, flicking his arm. “You’re such kid.”
She drifted back toward the crowd, and he let her go.
Time blurred. Midnight ticked past. People sang an uncoordinated version of “Happy Birthday.” Someone smeared cake on his face. Someone else filmed it. He played beer pong and lost disastrously. He drank more than he meant to and less than everyone expected.
Every time the door opened, he still looked.
Every time, his chest fell a little more.
By two in the morning, some people had gone, taxis called, lifts arranged. Others were half-asleep on couches or in corners, music turned down to appease the neighbours. Oliver was arguing gently with someone about not throwing up in the kitchen sink.
Lando slipped out the back door into the garden.
The cold hit him immediately, sharp against his overheated skin. He sucked in a breath and sat down on the back step, hoodie pulled over his head.
The faint thump of music carried through the walls. Someone laughed. A door banged. The world felt fuzzy at the edges.
He unlocked his phone.
No new messages from her.
She was probably out somewhere in London. Or asleep, exhausted from work. Or curled up on some couch with friends, or with her boyfriend, because of course she had one by now, some tall art guy who knew about buildings and wine and didn’t have to fly to different countries every week.
He was just… him.
Still the kid she’d once walked home with a scraped knee. The one who’d cried over maths and followed her around the house. The one she’d ruffled and called cute.
Eighteen was technically an adult on paper. But for her?
He doubted it meant much.
He tipped his head back against the door, closing his eyes.
He’d done it. The thing they’d talked about in half-finished sentences over worksheets and pizza squares. McLaren. Reserve driver. F1 within reach.
He should’ve been thinking about that. About the cars and the tracks and the fact that his life was about to become something even crazier than it already was.
Instead, all he could think about was a girl three years older who hadn’t been in his kitchen in years, who’d maybe thought about coming tonight and then… didn’t.
The back door creaked behind him.
“You hiding out here?” Oliver’s voice asked.
Lando cracked an eye open. “Just… getting air.”
Oliver dropped down onto the step beside him with a soft grunt. “Good party.”
“Yeah.”
“You okay?” his brother asked after a beat.
“Fine.”
“You sure? You’ve got your moody face on.”
“This is just my face,” Lando muttered.
Oliver snorted. “Right.”
They sat in silence for a minute, breath fogging in the cold.
“You did it, you know,” Oliver said eventually.
“Yeah,” Lando said quietly.
“You don’t sound very excited.”
“I am,” he insisted. It was true. Somewhere under everything, the excitement hummed, constant and bright. “Just… tired.”
Oliver hummed.
Lando didn’t mention her. Or the way his brain kept replaying old scenes like someone stuck on a highlight reel.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew how this looked.
A boy on the edge of the thing he’d always wanted. Clinging to a crush on someone who’d already run ahead into a different life.
He hadn’t seen her in person in… what, a year?
He’d thought, stupidly, that tonight might reset something. That her walking into his house again, him eighteen now, might shift the way she saw him, even a little.
It hadn’t happened.
He locked his phone and shoved it into his pocket.
“Come back in when you’re done brooding,” Oliver said, standing. “Before you freeze to death and Mum blames me.”
Lando huffed. “I’m not brooding.”
“You’re absolutely brooding.” Oliver ruffled his hair on the way back inside. “Happy birthday, idiot.”
The door clicked shut.
Lando sat there a moment longer, the cold seeping through his jeans, stars faint behind the thin layer of clouds.
Then he pulled in a breath, pushed the thoughts down where he kept old race results and half-forgotten lap times, and stood.
Inside, the music picked up again.
He squared his shoulders, plastered on the easy grin he’d been practising for cameras, and went back into the party.
He had his dream lined up in front of him.
That would have to be enough.
25 & 28 :
Lando had always imagined what it’d be like to see Y/N again.
Not in a dreamy, still-a-kid kind of way, but in that vague, persistent daydream he got sometimes when he couldn’t sleep. The Y/N he remembered was warm, familiar. Always a little ahead of him. Always looking back to make sure he kept up.
But he hadn’t expected this.
Y/N was standing in the hallway, chatting with his mum like no time had passed, like she wasn’t the exact ghost he kept trying to outgrow.
Her hair was longer now, falling in soft waves over her shoulders. Her smile, still bright, still her, came easier somehow. Like she didn’t second-guess it as much anymore. The confidence in her posture, in her laugh, it was new. Or maybe he just hadn’t noticed before.
“Lando,” his mum called, “look who showed up.”
Y/N turned.
He froze.
“…Hi,” she said, a little too quiet.
“Hey,” he replied, voice lower now. Scratchier. A little hoarse.
She blinked. He had a beard now.
Not a full one, just enough to notice. His jaw was sharper. His curls longer. He looked older, yes. But also more tired, somehow. Like he’d lived a whole life she hadn’t seen.
“Really?” she asked, half-teasing. “I feel like I look exactly the same.”
“Nah,” he said. “You’re… brighter or something.”
She glanced at his mum, who had tactfully stepped away, then back at him. “So. F1 driver now, huh?”
He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Yeah.”
“Kind of a big deal.”
He met her gaze for a second before looking away. “Yeah it is.”
She studied him. The rings under his eyes. The slight edge to his voice. The way he stood like he was never quite still. Like he didn’t know how to be anymore.
She nodded, eyes flicking to the watch on his wrist, the way his phone buzzed constantly in his back pocket. “You’re not the kid who used to cry whenever you didn’t figure out your math exercises anymore.”
“Thank God,” he muttered.
She laughed softly. “You really did hate those exercises.”
He grinned, and for a second, just a second, he looked like the boy she remembered. The one who sat on the floor with her eating pizza and asking if she’d still come around when he got older.
He gestured toward the kitchen. “Want tea? Or something stronger?”
“Tea’s fine.”
He didn’t protest.
In the kitchen, he moved with practiced ease. Everything about him was smoother now, like he knew people were always watching. Like he’d gotten used to being looked at.
She leaned against the counter. “Your mum says you’ve been home less and less.”
“Racing schedule’s brutal,” he said, not looking at her.
“And the afterparties?”
He gave her a look. “What, you keeping tabs?”
She shrugged. “Just heard things.”
“Figures.”
She sipped her tea, watching him. “This… this isn’t how I pictured you’d turn out.”
He raised an eyebrow. “How did you picture it?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know. Quieter. More… focused. Not clubbing at 4am.”
He smirked again, but this one didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Guess I’m not who you expect huh?”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
“You’ve really made it tough,” she said softly. “You did it.”
He nodded once, lips pressed into a line.
“I’m proud of you, you know,” she added. “Even if you’re a little messier than I imagined.”
That made him laugh. A real one this time.
“You’re still designing buildings?” he asked, shifting the subject like he needed to breathe again.
She smiled. “Yeah. I'm working for a firm in London now. It’s good and it pays well.”
“Knew you’d be good at that.”
She glanced at him. “How?”
“You always saw the whole picture. Not just what something was, but what it could be.”
Her breath caught, just a little.
He looked away again, almost shy. “Anyway. Just thought I’d say it.”
She nodded, eyes gentle. “Thanks.”
She didn’t say more, and neither did he.
But when he walked her to her car an hour later, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders curled slightly inward, he looked at her like maybe, just maybe, he’d finally caught up enough to be seen.
Days later his mum mentioned Y/N’s name, casually, saying she will come by for dinner tonight.
“She said yes?” Lando asked, trying not to sound like he cared too much.
Cisca smiled over the stove. “Of course. She always loved us.”
Oliver, his older brother, seated lazily at the bar with a glass of wine. “Who are we talking about?”
Lando stiffened.
“Remember the girl who used to babysit Lando?” Flo chimed in, flipping through her phone.
“She didn’t babysit me, she helps me with homework.” Lando muttered.
“Yes, she did,” Cisca Jr. said bluntly. “You used to cry when she left.”
“Traitor,” Lando shot back.
Oliver leaned forward, more interested now. “Wait...her? She’s coming for dinner?”
His mum nodded. “She’s back in town for a bit. Thought it’d be nice.”
Oliver smirked. “Isn’t she, like, my age?”
“She is,” Cisca said, far too casually. “Three years older than Lando. Just like you.”
By the time the doorbell rang, he didn’t move at first, just listened.
He heard her laugh as she came in. Hugged Flo like a little sister she hadn’t seen in ages. Kissed Cisca on the cheek, hugged Adam with a warmth that reminding him of old time, where she used to pass all evenings taking care of him and when he used to pretend, he didn’t look up to her.
“Hey,” she said, soft and sure when she turns to him.
He looked up and everything in his chest knotted a little tighter.
She was radiant. Not in some overdone, movie-style way. Just… her. Smiling, eyes kind, coat slightly windswept from the evening air. Still the same in all the ways that mattered.
He barely got out a “Hey” before Oliver was already moving.
“Look who finally made it,” Oliver said, stepping in like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life.
Y/N smiled at him. “Oliver! God, it’s been...what, years?”
He leaned in for a hug. “Far too long.”
Lando watched, silent and tense, as Oliver’s hand slid to the small of her back, just a little too low. Guiding her inside like she didn’t already know where the dining room was. Took her coat without asking. Took the bottle of wine she brought. Even pulled out her chair like she needed help sitting down.
It made Lando want to scream.
Dinner was torture.
It started fine. Y/N caught up with his sisters, laughed at Flo’s latest dating disaster, asked about Cisca Jr.’s internship. Adam beamed as he served the roast, proud of himself like always.
But the shift came, subtle and slow, when his mum started her little... hints.
“So, remind me,” Cisca said sweetly, “you’re still in London, yes?”
Y/N nodded. “Yeah. Been there two years now. Working with a firm in Shoreditch.”
“Funny,” she replied, slicing into her roast. “That’s not far from where Oliver lives.”
Oliver looked up, pretending it was the first time he’d heard about it. “It’s really not.”
Y/N glanced over. “Oh, really?”
Lando stared at his plate, jaw clenched tight.
“And you’re single now?” Cisca continued, far too pleased with herself.
Y/N smiled politely. “I am.”
“Well, what a coincidence,” Cisca said, like this was a sitcom. “So is Oliver.”
Y/N laughed. “Cisca…”
“I’m just saying,” she added lightly. “You’re both in the same city. Same age. Seems like fate, doesn’t it?”
Lando wanted to disappear.
And Oliver, of course, leaned right in. Asked Y/N about her firm, her office, her commute. Gave her his favorite spots in Shoreditch. Complimented her dress like it was normal.
And she laughed.
She laughed.
And what burned worse than Oliver’s smug charm or the way his hand brushed her arm every time he joked, was the way Y/N looked at him.
Like Oliver mattered.
Lando sat through all of it. Barely spoke. Pushed his food around, forced polite smiles, watched her through the glow of candlelight and felt something ancient and aching claw up his throat.
Because Oliver didn’t know her.
He didn’t know that she hated horror movies but still watched them if someone else wanted to. That she pulled at loose threads on the couch when she was nervous. That she always cut her pizza into squares instead of triangles because she said it felt “less chaotic.”
Oliver didn’t know any of that.
But it didn’t seem to matter.
Because she was smiling. Engaged. Open. And it was so easy for Oliver to slide into the space Lando had never let himself touch.
When dinner ended and everyone filtered into the living room for dessert and tea, Oliver gestured to the seat beside him.
And she took it.
Lando sat across the room, hands gripping the armrest, jaw tight.
He didn’t say much after that, just watched. Watched Oliver lean closer when Y/N spoke. Watched her lean back. Watched everything unfold in slow motion.
And when she finally stood to leave, hugging everyone again, thanking Adam for the food and Cisca for the invite, Lando stood last.
Half-hoping.
Maybe she’d look at him too, not like a little boy anymore but as maybe more.
But her smile was kind. Familiar. Polite.
Not the kind he wanted.
“Bye, Lando,” she said gently. “Good seeing you again.”
He nodded. Couldn’t quite get the words out.
As the door shut behind her, Oliver strolled into the kitchen, humming under his breath. “She’s really nice. Smart. Pretty. Even more than I remembered.”
Lando felt the words land like punches.
Cisca clutched her chest like she’d won a lottery ticket. “Oh, I love her. I always have. I told you, didn’t I, Adam? I always said she was like a daughter already.”
Adam just smiled, nodding at his wife words.
“She was such a part of this house,” Cisca went on, hands waving with joy. “Can you imagine if she ended up with Oliver? It would be perfect. Like fate. Like the universe fixed it all for us.”
“She’ll be around more too,” Cisca continue, suddenly turning to him. “Isn’t that nice, Lando? You always liked her, didn’t you? Used to follow her around like a little shadow when you were small. So cute.”
Lando said nothing.
Oliver laughed, eyes glinting. “Now she could be your sister-in-law. Funny, yeah?”
It wasn’t.
It wasn’t funny at all.
Lando forced a smile, one he’d mastered for press conferences and fake interviews, one that never reached his eyes.
His chest was tight. Hot. He could hear the sound of your laugh in his head, the way she had laughed at Oliver’s jokes that night. The way she leaned toward him. Let him touch her arm. Looked at him like he belonged in her world.
He hated it, he hated every second.
He pushed back his chair slowly. “I need air.”
“Lando,” his mum said, halfway rising. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” he lied. “Just… tired.”
He stepped outside onto the porch, the night colder than expected. The air sharp against his face. He gripped the railing, breathing like he’d just come out of a spin on track.
From inside, he could still hear them. Laughter. His mum telling Oliver how it would be so lovely if she came for Christmas. How natural the two looked together.
His stomach twisted.
He always knew she was out of reach. He’d accepted that. Told himself he was just a kid, just a footnote in her life. But hearing his brother, Oliver, say her name like that, hearing his mum call it fate…
It made everything inside him crack open.
Because he didn’t want her to be a memory.
He didn’t want her to be someone else’s.
He stayed out there a while, jaw tight, heart louder than the wind.
Wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now.
i’m thinking cockwarming with Lando, like a family movie night where he just has reader sitting in his lap cover on as he whispers sweet nothings in her ear, while he thrusts so slightly when she started to get comfortable, he would play with her clit when she actually somehow managed to pay attention to the movie, warning his big, red cock in her cunt all the movie long, and in the credits, he gives a dumb excuse to take her to the room and fuck her as he wants to.
this sent my head spinning, anon i like your thinking. a lot. please enjoy my angel babies <3
You wanted to swat his hand away but you couldn't help yourself, instinctively leaning back into his chest as he slowly dragged circles against your sensitive nub, careful to not emit any sounds from your mouth as you pushed your head back against his shoulder.
But he'd prop you back up, using his free hand to hold your chin so it would look as if you were watching the movie just like everyone else and not stuffed with your boyfriend's cock whilst his fingers played with you. And my god it was the hardest thing to do; the delicious stretch of your walls around him making you want to claw his back and have him move inside of you. But you knew it'd be game-over if you made so much as a squeak so you stayed impossibly silent, full to the brim of your boyfriend as you let out a shaky breath.
"Be a good girl and stop moving." He'd whisper to softly against your shoulder, peppering clothes kisses to the curve as you let your eyelids drop. The head of his cock nudged that sweet spot inside of you, the feeling of him balls deep inside of you whilst people were around sending shivers running up and down your spine. And he could sense the way you were feeling, the tears brimming in your eyes because my god you just wanted him to destroy you but he couldn't.
So he'd fasten his fingers that were slipped down the waistband of your bottoms, the insides of your cheeks bitten raw at the ever-building knot that was balling in the pit of your stomach with every delicious circle of his forefinger against your clit. And your attention was snapping from thought to thought as you needily searched for something to concentrate on out of fear of making a noise, or worse - cumming.
As soon as the movie finished he'd remove his fingers, bringing them hastily to his lips as he'd suckle on them for a second or so before helping you off his lap. And all it took was a breathy moan and a disguised cough before you were left feeling completely empty, the blankets hiding your little game wrapped tightly around your lower half as you smiled awkwardly at your guests as they'd all start to stand and stretch, slowly milling out of your shared apartment.
There would still be one or two people left giggling in the kitchen as you'd finally have the chance to wrap your fingers around Lando's wrist, practically dragging him to the bedroom. Desperate to have him inside of you properly. Absolutely, disgustingly desperate.
And the first rock of his hips would draw the shakiest whimper from your throat, hands fisting the bedsheets beneath you as he'd coo from above, "Finally getting what you wanted, hm?"
His pace would be relentless, one hand pressed to the side of your head whilst the other would snake between your sweaty bodies and play coyly with your clit. And the room would be silent apart from the slapping of bare skin, your pussy clenched dangerously around his length as he'd threaten to slip from you completely before you locked your ankles round his back.
Because there was no way he was waiting to make you cum, his cock slick with your excitement as he whined impatiently at the feeling of you so snug and tight around him. His fingers becoming rhythmless as you teetered on the edge of an orgasm, finally, your whines and cries growing louder with every thrust. And truthfully you didn't care if there was anyone still left, forced to listen to you mercilessly fuck, because you were finally getting what you wanted.
Lando's thrusts would grow sloppy, his head cradled in the crook of your neck as he whimpered at how good you felt and how tight you were, all praises going straight to your cunt as your vision turned a blinding white. The orgasm would rattle through you, leaking through every vein as your toes curled and your back arched from the bed; Lando trying his hardest to hold on and help you through it but failing miserably, his own mouth hung open as he'd twitch once, twice, inside of you before cumming. Hard.
oscar inspires one last yn song a year after their breakup.
★ᝰ pairing: oscar piastri x fem!singer!reader
★ᝰ warning(s): exes-to-lovers!au; swearing, stantwt + ig stans shenanigans, shippers, public speculations/gossip, parasocial relationships at work; hints of eloping
★ᝰ note: the song discussed throughout is akmu’s happening :] it’s also solely responsible for how this came to be, ngl. i recommend listening, esp w english subs/trans on! also, believe it or not, i have no idea where the ‘-to-lovers’ came from; this was only supposed to be an exes!au, lmao.
★ᝰ disclaimer: pictures used are from pinterest. all credits belong to their rightful owners. yn faceclaim is lily zneimer <3
masterlist
ynln ✓
liked by joshu_acoustic, logansargeant, and others
ynln is friday okay?
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username YN YOU’RE ALIVEEE
laufey ynnnn ♥︎ by author
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ynln laufeyyyy 🥺♥︎
username you remembered your pw after a year 😭
vernonline can’t. does tonight work? ♥︎ by author
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ynln my manager says no
username QUEEN YOURE BACK!!!!
username do i need tissues for this??
username grid + wags in the likes 👀
username yn was around them for years, what did you expect
username everyone except the one that matters 💔
username WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN LOCA
ynln making new friends, mostly 🙂↕️
username YN I MISSED YOU
username is this an apology for disappearing?
zendaya friday’s more than okay 😎 ♥︎ by author
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ynln that’s a date, then 😎
username gurl is this on purpose—
username ROIGHT??? THE DATE
kikagomes love you 🧡 ♥︎ by author
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username omg omg KIKAAAA
username nice to know you guys are still friends 🥺
ynln ilyyy kiks ♥︎
username DROUGHT IS OVER HALLELUJAH
username torn between wanting to hear your new song now && being afraid to hear it
formulaupdates
liked by username, username, and others
formulaupdates oscar piastri posts about ex yn ln’s new song 3 minutes after it dropped on streaming platforms (first slide is from yn’s story, second slide is from oscar’s)
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username MY PARENTS
username my last oscaryn meal 💔
username don’t give me hope like this
username is oscar aware this isn’t how exes work?
username is oscar aware they’re exes now?
username MY HEART
username guys, hear me out: what if they’ve gotten back tgt?
username tinfoil hat moment
username fair, but we know how private they are, so 🤷♀️
username considering how quick osc is to post abt her new song (not even waiting until he finishes the entire thing) . . . i believe it tbh
username does oscar realize the song’s about him 😭
username it’s not abt him
username it literally is LMAO
username believe what you want, but yn used that bg pic on purpose — orange + road combo is literally pointing to osc
username yes is the only answer
username the way he still promotes her song like he always had as if they hadn’t broken up 💔
username I RISE FROM THE DEAD THANK YOU
username THERES STILL HOPE
username i wish my brain worked like all of y’all bc mine just went straight to connecting the sunset to their relationship ending 😭😭
username MY OTP 😭😭😭
username i need them back together PLEASE
username SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UPPP
username hold up they still haven’t refollowed eo so how did oscar know abt yn’s new song? 🤨
username my best bet would be through their common friends
username either that or osc has a secret acc where he still follows yn
username i vote for the second one ngl
username OSCARYN NATION RISEEE
username is this gonna be the last oscaryn anthem ever 💔
formulaupdates
liked by username, username, and others
formulaupdates singer yn ln, oscar piastri’s former girlfriend of six years, has been spotted at the paddock ahead of the grand prix
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username YN AT THE PADDOCK???
username first oscar being suspiciously too smiley in that interview earlier, and now yn’s at the paddock? 🤨 i think something’s happening
username DONT JOKE WITH ME LAD
username AYO??? NO WAY
username are they back together?
username for my mental health, i hope the answer’s yes 😭🙏
username she looks happy 🥺
username DID OSCAR INVITE HER OMG OMG
username so is no one going to point out the mclaren jacket on her arm
username 🙏🙏 YN FOR GRID WALK 🙏🙏
username yn’s so pretty!! her sunglasses 🤌🏽🤌🏽
username WAR IS OVERRRR
username thank fuck the worst year of my life is finally over HALLELUJAH
username did she arrive with oscar?
username she arrived with alex’s gf lily!
username MY SHIP IS BACK????
username guys . . . i think yn’s there for someone else
username does osc know she’s there 👀
username OSCARYN IS BACK I FUCKING WON
username not to be a conspiracy theorist but what if they never actually broke up
username you haven’t heard yn’s new song && it shows
username you haven’t heard yn’s songs that aren’t abt oscar && it shows 💀 not all of her songs are based on her own experiences
username im claiming an oscar win idc idc
username i didn’t think i’d see another day of yn at the paddock :’)
username yea . . . i can’t be normal abt this. i’m sorry. literally vibrating rn
username ARE THERE ANY PICTURES OF HER AND OSC
username RIGHT?? WHERE ARE THEY I NEED TJEM
formulaupdates
liked by username, username, and others
formulaupdates oscar piastri seemingly confirms his relationship with yn ln on his radio
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username STOP EVERYTHING
username the way i scrambled to find my phone when this appeared on the telly
username YESSSSS
username WE CHEERED
username bro literally said getting yn >>> celebrating his win
username oscaryn IS really back 😭😭
username i’m on the FLOOR
username mate wasted no time, i respect
username see i wouldn’t be confused rn if sky just put ‘singer’ under yn’s name bc now things aren’t adding up
username they didn’t actually break up bet
username how are you explaining the one year silence + all the typical post-breakup stuff they did then 🤨
username pr stunt ez
username for what?
username FOR WHAAAT
username not me celebrating like i’m part of oscaryn 😭😭
username THIS IS FOR ME
username MY CROPS ARE THRIVING
username he 😭 knew 😭 where 😭 yn 😭 was 😭
username IM SONBING
username i need to be a fly on the wall so bad
username putting different lives by yn ln on repeat rn to celebrate
username i’m framing this idc idc
username WELCOME BACK OSCAR ‘SIMP’ ‘DOWN BAD’ PIASTRI I MISSED YOU
formulaupdates
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formulaupdates singer yn ln congratulates oscar piastri on her instagram story
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username DOUBLE CONFIRMATION
username JUST THE WAY I LIKE IT YESH
username she’s back on posting his race posters again 😭🧡
username okay, okay. phew. when she didn’t show up on the podium ceremony crowd, i thought we were just oscaryn-baited. thank heavens, we actually weren’t
username yea same, yn prolly didn’t want to take the attention away from him
username i used to pray for times like this
username WE OFFICIALLY SURVIVED THROUGH THE OSCARYN DROUGHT
username the lack of heart(s) concerns me . . . it feels cold, somehow
username oscar won? no, no, *i* won
username OSCARYNNN
username MY SHAYLAS
username is it just me or is something really off? the vibe is kinda not giving
username i may or may not have sold my soul for this but it’s def worth it
username THEYRE BACK TOGETHER??!!!!
username can’t wait to witness my sister flip when she finds out. she’s an oscaryn endgame believer
username guys . . . yn deleted—
username NOOOOO i just went to yn’s ig story to see it for myself && this isn’t there anymore 💔💔
username are they actually back tgt or are we just living through their confusingly blurry post-breakup boundaries 😭
username did they just take oscaryn away from me again 😭😭
oscarpiastri ✓
liked by arthur_leclerc, lando, and others
oscarpiastri happ(y) en(d)ing
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username you wouldn’t believe the sigh of relief i just let out
arthur_leclerc for something you’ve been thinking about for years, i didn’t expect to get an invite 30 minutes before the ceremony started
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logansargeant ^ y’all are lucky i was in the area
username IJBOL not arthur and logan exposing them— 😭😭
username i’ve never been so confused and happy at the same time
username OH MY STARS YOU GOT MARRIED
username THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE
fernandoalo_oficial it was my pleasure to officiate your union. congratulations!
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username OAUSE WDYM FERNANDO OFFICIATED
username YOU’RE ORDAINED??? SINCE WHEN??? TF
username i think my brain stopped working bc WHAT
lando happy for you both but can you redo the wedding when we go back to monaco
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username ??? i need context so bad
georgerussell63 i second. we need better pictures!
alex_albon i third! it wasn’t fair fernando and carlos were the only ones who look decent!
charles_leclerc congratulations, oscar and yn! leo had fun being your flower boy
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pierregasly simba as well! he felt pretty with the flowers (kika took a bunch of pictures)
username STOPPP LEO AND SIMBA WERE FLOWER BOYS 🥺
lewishamilton congratulations, you two! tell yn if she still needs someone to walk her down for your next wedding, she knows where to find me 🥂
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ynln can i also contract roscoe to be our ring bearer next time 🥺🙏
username OH MY HEAVENS YN I SEE YOUR VISION
username I AM ALIVE
username THIS IS PERFECT
lilymhe look at our masterpiece 🥰 @/kikagomes @/alexandrasaintmleux @/iamrebeccad
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iamrebeccad i am literally going to add this to my portfolio
alexandrasaintmleux we did so well under pressure 🥳🎊
kikagomes everything’s a masterpiece when yn’s the muse 😘
estebanocon thank you for the invite, oscar and yn! congratulations!
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username oscar is that a happening reference 👀 ♥︎ by author
username i’m still not sure how we ended up here, but AAAAAA CONGRATULATIONS 🤩🤩
hattiepiastri now hold up @/maepiastrii @/ediepiastri @/nicolepiastri are you guys seeing this
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maxverstappen1 it was a long time coming. congratulations!
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carlossainz55 beautiful wedding. congratulations!
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yukitsunoda0511 congratulations, oscar and yn!!! 🤩🕺
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username FINALLYYYYY
username i love this development omg
hulkhulkenberg here’s to the new chapter of your lives! congratulations, you two!!
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username MY PARENTS ARE MARRIED
username NO TAKE BACKS THIS TIME ISTG
ynln my happy ending 🧡 ♥︎ by author
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oscarpiastri always 🧡
oscarpiastri i’m still keeping “happening” in my playlist, though
ynln posted on their story!
★ᝰ me, while writing: wow. the netizens have no idea about the amount of angst behind the scenes during the grand prix day. lmao, good for them.
★ᝰ in all seriousness, i hope y’all had fun reading this as much as i did writing it ♡
The hum of the sim rig has become part of the soundtrack of your nights.
Fans whirring, pedals clicking, the occasional muttered curse in a very tired British accent. You’ve gotten used to falling asleep to it on some nights, because this is Lando’s version of “just one more episode” , just one more stint, just one more lap, just one more run.
Tonight, though, the bed feels too empty.
You roll over and blink at the glowing red numbers on your bedside clock. 1:37 a.m.
You groan softly into the pillow. “He said he’d be an hour…”
You’re wrapped up in the duvet, warm and cozy, but it doesn’t feel right without a certain long-limbed, eternally-wiggly idiot sprawled beside you, stealing your pillow and half the blanket.
You stare at the empty side of the bed for a few seconds, then sigh.
“Okay,” you mumble to yourself, voice thick with sleep. “We’re doing this.”
You drag the duvet with you as you climb out of bed, wrapping it around your shoulders like a cape. The floor feels cold against your feet as you shuffle through the hallway, the soft glow of LED lights guiding you toward the sim room.
You can already hear him before you see him.
“Come on, come on, come on,” Lando mutters, his voice low and focused. “Don’t bottle this lap… that’s it… nice and easy…”
You reach the half-open door and lean your head against the frame for a second, watching him.
He’s fully locked in: hands on the wheel, feet working the pedals, eyes glued to the monitor. The neon strips around the rig bathe him in blue and purple. He’s got his headset on, curls messy, jaw tense. He bites his bottom lip as he takes a corner.
Even from here, you can see the concentration in his eyes.
You also see the empty mug on the desk and the can of energy drink beside it.
You sigh again, softer this time. “Idiot,” you whisper fondly.
He doesn’t notice you at first. So you shuffle closer, the duvet dragging behind you like a giant, fluffy tail.
You come to a stop right next to the rig and just stand there for a moment, wrapped up like a grumpy burrito, watching the little car on his screen.
Lando senses movement and, without looking, says, “I’ll be done in a bit, love, promise.”
“You said that an hour ago,” you mumble.
He glances sideways, then properly does a double take when he sees you, all sleepy and bundled up.
“Oh my god,” he laughs. “You look like a little blanket ghost.”
“I’m a tired blanket ghost,” you correct him, pouting. “And my boyfriend abandoned me.”
He presses his lips together, holding in a smile. “Abandoned is a strong word.”
“You’re in here driving fake cars while I’m in there freezing and lonely,” you point out. “Feels like abandonment.”
He snorts. “You stole all the duvets, how are you freezing?”
“I’m emotionally freezing.”
Lando actually pauses for half a second, the car slowing slightly. “Emotionally freezing?”
“Yes,” you insist. “It’s a medical condition. The only cure is boyfriend cuddles.”
He laughs properly at that, eyes darting between you and the screen. “You’re so dramatic.”
“You love it.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
You shift your weight from one foot to the other, suddenly feeling a little shy despite the banter. You tug the edge of the duvet up over your mouth and say, more softly:
“Lando… baby, please come back to bed. I’m missing you.”
This time, he really pauses.
The car on the screen goes slightly wide into the next corner; he has to correct it with a sharp turn of the wheel. “Shit,”
But he manages to keep it on track and lets out a breath.
He glances at you again, and the look on your face must do something to him, because his whole expression melts.
“Aww, come here,” he says, voice warm and teasing. “Don’t stand over there pouting at me.”
“I’m not pouting,” you lie.
“You’re absolutely pouting,” he says. “Your bottom lip is doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The ‘I miss you, you stupid little sim goblin’ thing.”
You try not to smile, but fail. “That’s exactly what I was thinking, actually.”
“Thought so.”
You move closer, until you can rest your hip lightly against the side of the rig. He reaches out one hand without looking, fingers searching for you. You slip your hand into his, the warmth of his palm making you realize just how cold your fingers are.
He squeezes gently. “You’re freezing.”
“Told you,” you say. “Emotional and physical now.”
He groans. “You’re too cute for this.”
“Then come to bed.”
“I’m on a really good run,” he protests, but there’s no real fight in it, just that stubborn, playful tone you know so well. “I just need to finish this stint and,”
“Lando,” you cut in quietly.
He glances at you again. Your eyes are a little glassy with sleep, your cheeks flushed, hair messy from the pillow, the duvet swallowing your entire body.
There’s a long pause.
“…Okay, that’s rude,” he says finally. “You can’t look that cute at one in the morning, that should be illegal.”
“Is that a yes?” you ask hopefully.
He winces slightly, looking between the screen and you. “Give me… five minutes?”
You sigh dramatically and let your body go limp, leaning your full weight onto the side of the rig.
He yelps. “Oi, don’t break it!”
“Then come to bed.”
“You’re actually blackmailing me with my own sim rig.”
You make a small, exaggerated sniffle. “I just wanted to cuddle… but I guess I’ll go back alone…”
You turn, starting to shuffle away, duvet dragging behind you like the world’s saddest ghost.
You only make it two steps before you hear the click of the pause button.
“Right, that’s it,” Lando says, ripping his headset off. “Okay, I’m done. I’m retiring. I’m never sim racing again, you win.”
You stop and peek over your shoulder, trying not to grin too hard. “Really?”
He’s already climbing out of the rig, groaning as he straightens his back. “Yes, really. My girlfriend is wandering the house like a blanket goblin at 1:40 in the morning because she misses me. I think that outranks ‘one more stint.’”
You turn fully to face him as he walks over, hair a mess, cheeks a little flushed, socks sliding slightly on the floor.
When he reaches you, he immediately wraps his arms around your bundled-up form, pulling you into his chest.
You melt.
“Hi,” you mumble into his t-shirt.
“Hi,” he echoes, hugging you tighter. “You’re so warm.”
“You’re so cold,” you counter, shivering a little at his touch. “How are your hands like ice?”
“Because I’ve been sweaty and stressed,” he says, wiggling his fingers against your sides. “Also, you took all the blankets, remember?”
You squeak and squirm. “Stop, I’m fragile right now.”
“You look it,” he teases gently. “You look half asleep.”
“I am half asleep,” you say, leaning fully into him. “The half that’s awake is just here to collect my Lando and go back to bed.”
“Oooh, ‘my Lando,’” he repeats, smiling into your hair. “Say that again.”
“No.”
“Rude.”
You pull back slightly to look up at him, eyes soft. “Baby?”
“Yeah?”
“Come back to bed with me.”
There’s something about the way you say it,soft, a little whiny, eyes big and tired,that knocks the last bit of resistance out of him.
He sighs dramatically. “Fine. But if my lap time is ruined when I come back tomorrow, I’m blaming you.”
“You can blame me all you want,” you say. “As long as you’re warm when we cuddle.”
He grins. “Deal.”
He flicks off the main power to the rig, the room dimming as the lights on the wheel and screens go dark. He grabs your hand with one of his and the duvet with the other, tucking it more securely around your shoulders.
“Come on, blanket goblin,” he says softly. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
You shuffle back through the hallway together, your steps slow and a little tangled because neither of you wants to let go of the other’s hand.
“Were you really missing me that much?” he asks quietly after a moment.
You nod against his shoulder. “Mhm. Bed feels wrong without you.”
His chest rises and falls with a soft laugh. “Same. I just thought you were asleep already.”
“I was,” you admit. “Then I rolled over and you weren’t there. And the pillow smelled like you but it wasn’t actually you, so…”
“So you came hunting for me,” he finishes, sounding almost pleased with himself.
“Yes. Like a very tired, very under-cuddled predator.”
He snorts. “Terrifying.”
You reach the bedroom and climb back onto the mattress, pulling the duvet around you. Lando closes the door gently, then pulls his t-shirt over his head and throws it onto a chair before sliding in beside you with a sigh.
The bed dips under his weight, and suddenly everything feels… right again.
He immediately pulls you into his chest, one arm looping around your waist, the other sliding under your pillow so he can tug you closer.
You bury your face against his bare chest, inhaling his scent,soap, sweat, and something that’s just him.
“Better?” he murmurs, voice low and rough with tiredness now that the adrenaline is fading.
“Much,” you whisper. “You’re warm now.”
“I told you,” he mumbles. “I warm up faster with you.”
You smile against his skin. “You’re such a flirt.”
“Only for you.” He pauses. “Okay, and sometimes for my Twitch chat. But mostly for you.”
You pinch his side lightly. “Rude.”
He laughs quietly, then after a beat, says more seriously, “I really am sorry I stayed on that long, you know.”
You shrug, fingers tracing random shapes across his chest. “I get it. It’s your thing.”
“Yeah, but…” He hesitates, then tilts your chin up so you’re looking at him. His eyes are soft now, the intense sim-racer focus replaced by something much warmer. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m choosing the sim over you.”
“You’re not,” you say immediately. “I know you’re not. You just get caught up in it.”
He sighs. “I do. It’s like my brain forgets time is real.”
“I know,” you say again, gently. “That’s why I came to get you.”
“And pout,” he adds.
“And pout,” you agree. “I’m very talented at that.”
He smiles. “Yeah, you are.” He presses his lips to your forehead. “But if you ever feel like this again, just come in and tell me, okay? Don’t sit there thinking you’re bothering me.”
“I did tell you,” you remind him. “I literally stood in the doorway and said, ‘Lando, baby please come back to bed, I’m missing you.’ That was my big romantic declaration.”
He bites back a laugh. “Yeah, that sort of knocked a few tenths off my lap time.”
“Good.”
He shakes his head fondly. “You’re dangerous.”
You smirk sleepily. “You love it.”
“I do,” he says simply.
You tuck yourself even closer, leg hooking around his. “Next time, I’m just unplugging the sim.”
He gasps. “That’s illegal.”
“I’ll do it anyway.”
“You’re a menace.”
“Your menace,” you correct him.
He goes quiet for a beat, then hugs you tighter. “Yeah,” he whispers. “My menace.”
You feel sleep start to tug at you again, your eyelids growing heavy, your body relaxing completely now that he’s here.
“Hey, love?” he murmurs after a moment.
“Mhm?” you hum, eyes already half-closed.
“Thanks for coming to get me,” he says softly. “I don’t always realize how long I’ve been in there until you show up looking like… that.”
“Like what?” you murmur.
“Like a sleepy little blanket monster who loves me,” he says, voice dripping with fondness.
You smile, eyes closed now. “I do love you.”
“I know,” he replies, kissing the tip of your nose. “I love you too.”
You drift closer and closer to sleep, the last thing you feel being his fingers rubbing soothing circles into your back and his breathing deepening beside you.
As the room quiets and the last of the sim’s hum fades from your memory, one simple thought curls up warm in your chest:
He can race all he wants.
At the end of the night, he always comes back to you.
LOVER, YOU SHOULD'VE COME OVER. (part 1)
— CHARLES LECLERC X EX GF!READER
"it's never over."
part 2
SYN: you've convinced yourself you've moved on. the second charles leclerc dedicates his home race win to you, it all goes crashing down again.
CONTENT: angst angst angst, fem!reader, drunk confessions, kissing, no there's not a happy ending </3
WC: 2.4k
RADIO CHECK: small oneshot! ib the song by jeff buckley. can be read as a standalone but if you want a happy ending there's a part 2! enjoy <3
THE ARCHIVE
The final sound of an engine comes exactly an hour and half after the lights go out.
You’re sitting in your apartment, curled up on your expensive, cashmere couch, staring at a black TV screen and trying not to look out the window. You know if you cave, you’ll see exactly twenty Formula 1 cars slow around the famous Monaco hairpin. You know if you focus too hard, you’ll see exactly which one belongs to him.
Charles Leclerc.
Your ex of three and a half years, currently racing in what he believed was the most important Grand Prix of the year, and for the first time in years, you aren’t there.
You aren’t standing in Ferrari’s garage, you aren’t waiting in the paddock to comfort him from shitty race results. Instead, you’re sitting in your apartment, staring aimlessly at nothing like you have been for two hours straight.
Your living room is completely silent. You feel the heavy absence that settles over it. The absence of him. There’s still polaroids on the shelf beside the TV, there’s a Ferrari bullet-point pen that cost a stupid amount of money sitting on the coffee table. You haven’t touched anything that belongs to him—you haven’t been able to. You see traces of him everywhere, like the dent in the wall he’d made when you’d both come home too drunk one night and the leftover snacks in your pantry.
For ten months, you’ve lived in an apartment that might as well belong to him. You knew you should’ve moved ages ago, out of this apartment that wasn’t ever solely yours, out of this town, out of this country. But you hadn’t. So here you were.
The roar of the crowds outside are deafening, the kind of screaming that can only mean one thing.
He’s about to win it.
You know if you turn on the TV, every single channel will be broadcasting it. His face, his voice on the radio, that familiar red that you’d grown to hate. You can already hear the chants of his name outside, the anticipation of the long-awaited home race win he’d chased every year you were together.
Your fingers are itching for the TV remote, your gaze is drifting to the window outside.
“Charles Leclerc wins the Monaco Grand Prix!”
You cave.
The screen flickers back at you, painstakingly clear as his car crosses the checkered flag. The screams from the crowd fill your head, the sound of victory, of relief, all mixed into one.
You hate how your heart stops when his voice comes on. You hate how you can pinpoint every single emotion running through him by his tone—how you know he’s been crying since he’d started his final lap.
You hate how you aren’t there.
The TV is playing his interview when you force yourself off the couch and into the kitchen.
“I want to thank everyone—everyone who supported me. My friends, my team, my family especially. My…”
He pauses then. You hear him pause, but keep your back turned, grabbing the nearest bottle of wine and a glass.
“I can’t—I won’t say names,” your fingers tremble as you listen. “I’m not too sure if she… they’re watching. I hope they are. But I want to dedicate this not just to myself, but to them. For supporting me through it all. Thank you.”
You don’t realize you’re completely frozen on the spot, or that your fingers are clenched so tight they leave indents on your palm. All you can think about is him. Charles Leclerc. And how he’s just dedicated the biggest win of his career to you.
The crowd is still roaring outside. The broadcast moves on, and you realise this moment isn’t devastating to anyone else other than you. He’s celebrating. Everyone's celebrating.
You leave the glass on the kitchen counter, only grabbing the bottle of wine instead. When you sit back down on the couch, taking the first sip, you tell yourself you don’t care.
It doesn’t work. It never has.
The first knock comes at exactly one in the morning.
The bottle of wine is finished, though clutched against you like a lifeline. The TV is still playing, always flicking back to replay his victory every half an hour. You aren’t sure why you haven’t turned it off yet, but the distance between the remote and your hand is too far for you to be bothered with.
The second knock makes you glance over, makes your heart sink with an unmistakable kind of knowing.
“Baby,” you hear, and immediately, you feel the world starting to crash down around you. Charles’s voice is muffled, but clearer than ever. You hear the the slight rasp in his voice, the edges of alcohol that haven’t worn off yet.
He’s drunk. But so are you.
You don’t register standing up, or even walking to the door. The only thing that snaps you back is the cold handle, and the equally as cold bottle in your other hand.
“Baby please,” he says, and you hear him lean himself against the door, like he’s trying to steady himself. “Open the door.”
“Go home, Charles,” you say, though your fingers are still clenched around the door handle.
There’s silence for a few seconds, as if he’s processing the sound of your voice.
“I am home.”
The click of the door unlocking resounds in your ears, and when the door swings open, you immediately want to close it again. He’s standing there, shirt unbuttoned at the top, his hair messy from champagne and his eyes still partially glowing with the light of winning. He doesn’t look shocked at the sight of you, like he knew you’d give in—that you always do.
You hate the fact that he looks like he belongs, like he never even left in the first place.
“Charles,” you say, because you don’t know what else to.
He’s staring at you, every inch of your face like he’s trying to relearn it.
“I left early.”
“What?”
“I left the celebrations early.”
He shifts on the spot, almost stumbles, before catching himself.
“I left because I needed to see you.”
“Charles,” you repeat, and he steps closer. “I—”
“I dedicated my win to you. My home race. I didn’t even know if you were watching—I didn’t know you still lived here.”
He’s standing right on the threshold of the door now, right between you and the rest of the world.
“I won it,” he says, voice dropping almost to a whisper. “I won Monaco. The race I’ve dreamed of since I was a kid, and all I’m thinking about it you.”
You should be shutting the door on him, blocking him out before you let him back in again. He’s close enough you can smell his familiar cologne, the one that you’d only just managed to get rid of. He’s close enough you can reach over and touch him, run your fingers through his hair like you used to, let him kiss you and apologize over and over again.
“What am I supposed to…” your fingers clench around the bottle, and you take a step back. “You can’t just show up here—you can’t just do this, Charles.”
“Do what?” he answers. “Tell you the truth? I can’t tell you how much I miss you and how much I need you back? I can’t tell you that I still love you—”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Of course I mean that,” his voice grows slightly louder, frustration and want mixing into one. “On my last lap, all I could think was is she watching? And when I won it, the first thing I did was fucking dedicate the win to you.”
You see it then. The pure, raw emotion that shows on his face up close. You wonder if he’s been drinking not out of celebration, but to drown out the thought of you. You aren’t sure which you’d prefer.
“You weren’t there,” he says, voice cracking at the end like it hurts him to say it. “I couldn’t run to you—I couldn’t stare at you from the podium. I looked at every grandstand, every crowd that screamed my name, and you weren’t there—”
“You shouldn’t need me there anymore.”
“And yet I do,” he moves closer, the door shutting closed behind him. “I need you so bad it hurts. I can’t focus on anything else, I crashed the first time I got back on track after we broke up. Free practice in Brazil, turn 1.”
You knew that. You’d switched off the TV as soon as he’d come on the radio and confirmed he was okay, and hadn’t watched a race since. Until today.
“Every podium I get, I want to run to you,” he says. “Every shitty result, I still want to run to you. I couldn’t care less about anyone else—fuck, I would’ve ignored the whole team today if you were there. I am ignoring the team by being here, and you’re telling me that I don’t mean a word I’m saying?”
The words hit hard. Harder than they should, with ten months apart. Your mind struggles to form a sentence, and when he moves closer, you can’t bring yourself to step away again.
“You look fine whenever I see you,” you manage to say, voice strained. “Like nothing ever changed.”
“You know better than that.”
“Do I?” you answer, and his jaw clenches. “Why are you here now? Why are you showing up after almost a year, drunk and telling me how much you miss me right when I’ve moved on?”
“You haven’t moved on,” his gaze flickers to the TV, still on, sitting there like proof, then it settles back on you. “You wouldn’t have let me in otherwise. You wouldn’t be drinking.”
The empty bottle in your hand suddenly feels like a joke. He was right. Of course he was fucking right. Since when has Charles Leclerc ever been wrong?
“Go home, Charles,” you say, voice dropping in volume. “This isn’t—you’re not supposed to even be here. Go back and celebrate with people you actually love.”
“I love you.”
“Stop it.”
“I love you so much. I always have and I always will—baby, please.”
“I can’t do this with you any—”
“Then force me out. Force me out of your life and I swear I’ll stay out,” he says, and your throat is closing up at the words. “I promise. I’ll pretend like I’m moving on. I’ll pretend I don’t think about you every second of my life. I’ll do it if that’s what you want me to.”
You stare at him. You stare at the face you’d loved for years, the face you’d memorized through late nights and early mornings in bed. You stare at his eyes, red rimmed, desperate. Your heart is screaming at you now, to reach forward and kiss him, to take him back like nothing ever went wrong.
“I can’t be who you need me to,” you find yourself saying instead, and it comes out like a whisper. “I can’t come second. I can’t sit there and wait my whole life knowing I’ll never compare.”
“I’ll—”
“You can’t hold onto me and racing at the same time. Don’t you remember how bad it was before? How late you stayed up at night obsessing over lap times and how early you left solely to train? I can’t do that—I can’t live like that.”
He blinks, slowly, standing straighter even slower.
“I’ll never come first,” you say, and when he reaches for you, hands sliding around your waist and pulling you close, you don't pull away. “You know that.”
“Do I?” he says, repeating your own words from earlier. He leans closer, gaze flickering to your lips. “Do I know that?”
Your heart is pounding in your ears. The space between you two is so easily closable, lessening with every word.
“You should,” is all you say, eyes starting to shut on instinct.
You don’t know when the gap closes completely. You feel his lips on yours—soft, familiar. The bottle of wine in your hand drops, shatters, and neither of you address it. Your hands are already moving to his hair, fingers tangling in it like second nature.
“Charles,” you say somewhere between everything. It doesn’t come out like the beginning of something this time. It comes out final. He presses you closer, grip tightening around your waist. The kiss deepens, building with ten months worth of frustration, and you swear tears are starting to fall down your face. “Charles.”
Just like that, he pulls away. His grip is still firm on you, and he’s panting, gaze locked on your lips.
“I’m not letting you choose me over racing.”
He freezes completely.
There’s a faint, dull ringing in your ears when his hands drop from your skin, taking all the familiar warmth away. It isn’t hurt that flashes across his face, but realisation. He stumbles again when he takes a step back, still drunk and not quite there yet, but he’s there enough to know what the sentence means.
“Okay,” he says, quiet, and the single word makes you want to rip your hair out. “I’m…I—”
He stops himself, and doesn’t start again until he’s at the door.
You’re still standing in the entryway, shattered glass on the floor, the kiss lingering on your lips.
“Charles,” you say, for what feels like the millionth time.
“Don’t say you’re sorry,” he says before you can. “Don’t apologize.”
He brings a hand up, wipes at his lips slightly, runs his hand through his hair and reaches for the door handle.
“I’m sorry,” you say anyway. “I’m so sorry.”
The door opens, and he’s right on the threshold of it when he glances back at you.
“I don’t regret it,” he says, and you’re not sure if he means coming here tonight, dedicating his home race win to you, or your relationship as a whole. “Any of it. All of it.”
You don’t answer. You watch him hesitate, watch him stare at you like he’s scared of forgetting.
The door slamming shut echoes throughout the entirety of the apartment. The TV is still playing in the background. His voice comes through the speakers, his car crosses the checkered flag, and the reporter says his name like a miracle, a blessing, and a curse all in one.
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.
