Exploring Career and Job Opportunities in Davao City Philippines
Davao City, recognized as one of the Philippines' most progressive cities, continues to experience remarkable economic growth, creating a vibrant job market that attracts professionals from across the country. The city's diverse economy offers numerous employment opportunities, from entry-level positions to executive roles, making it an attractive destination for job seekers at all career stages.
The Business Process Outsourcing (BPO) sector stands as one of the largest employers in Davao City, providing thousands of jobs across various specializations. Companies in this sector actively recruit customer service representatives, technical support specialists, and quality assurance analysts, offering competitive salaries and comprehensive benefits packages. The industry's continued expansion has created numerous opportunities for career advancement, with many organizations promoting from within and providing extensive training programs.
Part-time employment opportunities have also flourished in Davao City, catering to students, professionals seeking additional income, and individuals preferring flexible work arrangements. The retail sector, food service industry, and education field offer numerous part-time positions with varying schedules and responsibilities. These roles often provide valuable work experience and can serve as stepping stones to full-time careers.
The Information Technology sector in Davao has seen significant growth, with many companies seeking software developers, web designers, and IT support specialists. This growth has been fueled by the city's improving technological infrastructure and the increasing number of tech-focused businesses establishing operations in the region. Tech professionals can find opportunities in both established companies and startups, with many positions offering competitive compensation and the possibility of remote work arrangements.
Davao's hospitality and tourism industry continues to expand, creating jobs in hotels, restaurants, travel agencies, and tour operations. The sector offers positions ranging from entry-level service roles to management positions, with many employers providing training and development opportunities. The industry's growth has also sparked demand for professionals in events management and tourism marketing.
The education sector presents numerous opportunities for both full-time and part-time employment. Educational institutions regularly seek teachers, tutors, and administrative staff. The rise of online learning has created additional opportunities for English language teachers and academic consultants who can work flexible hours from home or teaching centers.
Job hiring in Davao, the digital economy has opened new avenues for employment. E-commerce specialists, digital content creators, and social media managers are in high demand as businesses increasingly establish their online presence. These positions often offer the flexibility of remote work while providing competitive compensation packages.
Professional development resources are readily available in Davao City, with numerous institutions offering skills training programs and industry certifications. Job seekers can access career counseling services, resume writing assistance, and interview coaching through various employment support organizations. These resources prove invaluable in helping candidates prepare for and secure desired positions.
The financial services sector in Davao has also experienced substantial growth, creating opportunities for banking professionals, insurance specialists, and investment consultants. These positions typically offer attractive compensation packages, including performance bonuses and health benefits, making them highly sought after by experienced professionals.
Davao's agricultural sector continues to evolve, combining traditional farming with modern agribusiness practices. This has created opportunities for agricultural technologists, food processing specialists, and supply chain professionals. The sector offers both technical and management positions, with many companies providing specialized training and development programs.
For those entering Davao's job market, proper preparation is essential. Successful job seekers typically maintain updated resumes, prepare comprehensive portfolios, and stay informed about industry developments. Professional networking, both online and offline, plays a crucial role in discovering opportunities and advancing careers in the city.
The future of Davao's job market looks promising, with emerging industries creating new employment opportunities. The city's commitment to economic development, coupled with its strategic location and robust infrastructure, continues to attract businesses and investors, ensuring a steady stream of job opportunities for qualified candidates.
Whether seeking full-time employment or part-time job in Davao City offers a diverse range of opportunities across multiple industries. Success in this dynamic job market often comes to those who combine proper preparation with continuous skill development and effective networking. As the city continues to grow and evolve, its job market remains a beacon of opportunity for professionals seeking to build meaningful careers in Mindanao's premier business hub.
Possibly more chapters to follow if anyone likes this enough to want more.
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Dr. Brendon Park has well earned the nickname Park the Shark around PTMC. He's no stranger to making the medical staff around him cower in fear and shed a tear or two. However, when his favorite nurse from the ED finds herself crying hidden away in the hallway, Dr. Park takes it upon himself to find the source of her sorrow and fix it for her. Y/N has earned her reputation as the sacrifice sent to go into any exam room anytime Park the Shark comes down to the ED for a consult. She's not thrilled she seems to have earned his respect and she'd less thrilled when she overhears gossip his feeling for her go beyond professional respect. When he comes to her aid it hits her that maybe there's more to Park the Shark than she's previously assumed.
TW: Mentions of an abusive childhood, foster care system, probably behavior HR would shudder at from Park and Reader
=====
The fluorescent lighting was too bright even on this floor of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. The lighting was making the pounding headache developing in the base of her skull all the more apparent.
She cringed knowing that the lighting wasn’t the only thing to blame for the blistering headache; the tears weren’t helping. She swallowed the thick lump in her throat trying her hardest to will the flowing tears to end to no avail.
She pulled her knees tighter against her frame trying to give herself a mental pep talk: “Come on, Y/N this is so stupid. Stop it, stop crying and man up. You’ve been through worse. You’ve had worse said to you. Men have tried harder and failed to hurt you. Stop crying. STOP.”
The mental pep talk did little to soothe her, the words that had been snapped at her playing like a horrible loop in her brain: “Who gave you your nursing license? You call this prepped? Useless, just pathetic. I suggest you find a different path before you really fuck something up around here.”
The words had been so quick and so careless uttered from the lips of the new ortho surgeon who’d been paged down to the ED for a consult. Dr. Baker was a new addition to the orthopedic department; and this was not Y/N’s first interaction with him.
Sure, she’d previously noticed that Dr. Baker could be arrogant in the worst possible way.
She was accustomed to a fair share of narcissism when it came to interacting with the occasional surgeon. They tended to be a smug bunch; it just came with the territory. She’d always thought that it was fair; to be that high and mighty when you were responsible for literally piecing people back together.
The arrogance had gone beyond the usual over inflated ego she had become accustomed to dealing with in her short career thus far.
It had been beyond simple arrogance; it had been cruel.
She had never been spoken to with such heartlessness in her nursing career though she knew she’d not been in the game for that long.
She was the ED’s newest baby nurse…though she had to roll her eyes at the term baby nurse. She was not some young fresh bushy tailed girl right out of nursing school.
She had worked prior to actually deciding to give her education a chance. She had waitressed through most of her late teens and her twenties; scraping by fresh out of the foster care system discarded into the real world at 18 years old with no one to guide her or care. She had scraped and fought and survived for years until she’d finally worked up the nerve to try for something more.
The student loans had not been pretty and she lived on ramen most of the time now trying to pay them off; but she had managed. She had worked her ass off and gotten into a good nursing school program. She’d studied her ass off though the entire process and passed any and all licensing exams. She’d applied for several hospitals and PTMC had been willing to take her on.
She had done so well up until this point. She was a grown woman, not a child. So, why was she weeping like a little girl?
She was not a naive, sensitive little girl. She’d had a life prior to her career. She was almost thirty four for heaven's sake. She was a grown woman; which made her feel all the more ridiculous.
Deep down she knew what had set her off; the words: useless, pathetic.
How many times had she had similar words uttered at her with so little thought when she was far too young to understand that she’d done nothing wrong?
From her mother, to whatever slime of a man her mother had brought home, to so many foster families she’d lost count…she’d had so many horrible words thrown in her direction.
She was no stranger to cruelty. She had always prided herself in being so strong; so willing to take shit and kick it back in whoever was dumb enough to throw it her direction.
She felt far from strong at the moment.
The cruel words hit too close to the bone; and she felt her usual strong will being knocked off center.
Her childhood had been a nightmare; one she had hoped she was getting over or at the very least learning to cope with. It seemed though that wounds she’d carried since she was a little girl were still not quite healed. A single cruel statement had ripped those wounds wide open and now she was here hiding far from the ED hoping to escape the judgmental and concerned gazes of her coworkers.
She took deep shuddering breaths trying so hard to push back the looming sense of failure hanging over her. It hung against her like a thick cloud though; she was unable to see through it as it smothered her.
She stared straight ahead, her gaze at the white wall in front of her blurring with her tears, her back pressed against the wall, the hard tile below her little comfort as she pulled her knees tight against her chest in a defensive stance.
She was almost so lost in misery that she almost didn’t notice the looming shadow beside her and the sound of footsteps approaching her.
His voice sounded out louder than her internal despair. “You’re crying.”
She gazed up at the source of the voice grimacing at the sight of him. Great, just fucking great.
This was the last person she needed to see her crying like a child in some deserted hallway in the hospital basement.
She gazed up at Dr. Brendon Park, her stomach knotting up.
Dr. Park had a reputation; one she’d been warned about the very first time he’d been summoned down to the ED for a consult.
She’d heard the murmured warnings from her fellow nurses, residents, student doctors, and attendees. Park the Shark was not a pleasant individual.
She’d almost cackled at the nickname the first time she’d heard it. She’d almost thought it had to be a joke. It sounded so ridiculous, how could it not be a joke?
The intense man who’d walked into that consult fit the nickname. He was not warm and friendly. He did not bring light and joy to the room. He was a tall hulking man; all muscle and scowl. He did not waste time on meaningless conversation, preferring to get straight to the point. He walked into the room as though he owned the damn place. He was clearly an expert in his field, and he was damn well aware of it. Any resident who was dumb enough to attempt small talk or try to ask what Park deemed as a dumb question was quickly and efficiently told that they were wasting his time.
Park the Shark was cold blooded.
Y/N had stood by stunned as she’d taken in Park the Shark for the first time; tall, broad shouldered, dark hair slicked back with pomade, and deep blue eyes that might be lovely if his gaze wasn’t so calculating.
She had watched Dr. Brendon Park assess that shattered femur during that consult taking note of the intensity of his gaze as he stared at the x-ray and the patient.
He was straight to the point expressing a plan of treatment to a nearby resident who was quite literally staring up at Park wide-eyed.
She could still remember the stone cold expression on Park’s face as he’d stared down at the resident and to Robby the offer that left his lips tinged with sarcasm. “Do you need me to repeat myself?”
The resident had parted their lips looking as though they were considering taking Dr. Park up on the offer for a brief moment only for Robby to speak up, saving the poor idiot from ruin. “Nope, we got it. Thanks, Shark.”
Y/N had felt just as wide-eyed as Shark exited that little exam room, his eyes turning to her for the briefest moment.
Though he’d only gazed at her for a second the moment had felt overwhelming.
She had told herself then that she could continue to scoot through her career never having to interact with Park the Shark as long as she lived.
Life wasn’t that generous though; because it seemed anytime a consult was called for Ortho then either Dr. Garcia or Dr. Park was the chosen surgeon to make their way down to the ED.
Y/N preferred Garcia. At least she seemed…human…she was sarcastic as hell and more than likely to throw out an insult than a thank you, but she didn’t have that same brooding gaze Dr. Park seemed to possess.
It had been Y/N’s own fault really; that Park had even noticed Y/N.
She had a big fat mouth and she’d let it run when Dr. Park had found himself staring down at a horribly fractured arm accessing a split that was not entirely up to par. “Who did this?”
Y/N noticed the uncomfortable shift of gaze in the room Dr. Langdon exchanged a glance with Dr. King, who was staring at Dr. Ogilvie.
Y/N sighed realizing no one in the room was going to man up and spill the beans. Before she could stop it the words left her. “Dr. Ogilvie set it. The splint the paramedics placed became dislodged when we had to sedate the patient after they became combative.”
She ignored the harsh look of betrayal Dr. James Ogilvie sent her direction, her attention more focused on Dr. Park who was now staring at her with that same look of intensity he often wore unchanging on his face. “What is wrong with this splint?”
Dr. Ogilvie was fast to speak his tone defensive his pride far too wounded to keep his lips sealed. “There’s nothing wrong with the splint. The bone is set in a natural position. There’s no deformity in the limb that would suggest that splinting is the wrong choice.”
Y/N’s big mouth once again won out over any sense of self preservation as she spoke up seeing the problem. “It’s too tight…the splint. It’s restricting bloodflow”.
She shifted in place, wanting nothing more than to sink into the cracks in the tiles below her as all eyes in the room turned to her.
She felt herself tense under the gaze of one set of cold blue eyes.
She almost missed the slight upturn of Dr. Park’s lips as he spoke nodding to Dr. Ogilvie. “Nurse, Y/L/N is right. It’s too damn tight. You’re going to give a patient nerve damage with a splint like this.”
Y/N had almost missed the nod that Dr. Park sent her as he’d left the room, the truth hitting her; she’d won the bastard’s respect?
Now it seemed that anytime Dr. Brendon Park had a reason to come up to the ED; he seemed to regard her with an odd sense of respect.
Of course; her damn coworkers had noticed and she was more often than not the sacrificial lamb chosen to go be in the exam room with Park the Shark.
She’d been dumbfounded when Park more often than not threw questions in her direction when he was being critical of something he’d discovered someone had done wrong. She’d not missed the hint of a smirk on his lips when she was able to answer his questions. The approval did not even fade when she admitted that she was unsure of an answer. It seemed Park appreciated someone who admitted when they didn’t know; instead of trying to throw some bullshit his way to appease him.
Y/N was none too thrilled that she had seemingly become Dr. Park’s apparent favorite nurse in the ED. Dana, the charge nurse, had told her to consider it a compliment from her peers; Park was a tough cookie and he was not above telling someone the harsh truth. If he thought she was worth her salt as a nurse; then Dana insisted Y/N should take the compliment.
Nurses Princess and Perlah seemed to have a different take on the strange sense of respect Y/N seemed to earn from Dr. Park.
She’d overheard the whispered gossip Princess forgoing her usual choice in reverting to Tagalog when gossiping with Perlah given Nurse Donnie had joined the conversation. “He’s sweet on her. Park the Shark has a big fat crush. It’s obvious. She’s the only one around here he’s halfway human to. Have you seen the way he looks at her? He wants to eat her up.”
Perlah affirmed the assessment. “He’s been eager to come down for every consult from Ortho lately, it used to be like pulling teeth to get him down here. He’s not suddenly interested in being helpful to the ED. Y/N is what he’s interested in.”
Y/N had backed away from the exam room she’d been ready to enter before she’d overheard the gossiping nurses, her mind spinning.
She had adopted a strict code of denial after overhearing that bit of whispered gossip. There was no way in hell that ominous callous Dr. Park the Shark had any sort of romantic interest in her.
She’d maybe felt uneasy around him after overhearing what seemed to be the opinion of at least two of her fellow nurses.
She had not avoided Dr. Park of course; she was still apparently the chosen offering to the Shark by her coworkers. Still though; she couldn’t shake the thought from the back of her mind…did Park the Shark really suddenly give a damn about coming down to the ED for every consult just because of her?
Y/N stared up at Dr. Park her exhausted brain finally absorbing the observation he’d made about her current emotional state. She dared to respond, the comment meant to be sharp in a weak attempt to protect her shame, but the weepiness to her tone made it seem more pitiful than venomous. “No shit, a whole medical degree just to make that astute observation.”
Dr. Park only raised a brow not shrinking away from the attempts at stinging him so he’d back off.
He took her by shock sitting down beside her on the ground, the sight almost comical with as massive of a build as he had. She’d be lying if she tried to pretend she’d not maybe admired his physique just the slightest. The man hit the gym and he did it regularly from what she could see from the form fitting deep purple scrubs he sported.
He spoke, his gaze still locked on her still all too intense as though she was one of his patients and he was assessing her and forming a treatment plan to put her back together. “Who made you cry? What happened?”
She took a deep shaky breath, everything in her wanting to be scathing and bitchy and scare him off. It would be easy to be rude to him and get him to fuck off and leave her to her misery.
She pushed back the need to attempt to wound him with words a part of her convinced that Dr. Park was well versed in dodging attempts at cruelty. “It’s a long story.”
“I have time.” was the response she received Y/N not helping but to stare at him as though he’d sprouted a second head.
“Dr. Park the Shark has time…are you the same doctor who practically stomps into the ED for a consultation and insists that we get straight to the point because his time is so precious?” She blurted out, Park rolling his eyes at the question.
Her jaw practically dropped by the words that left his lips. “I have time for you.”
She pushed back the strange sense of fluttering warmth that washed over her at the earnest simplicity of the comment. He had time for her…Dr. Park who seemed to act like his time was some gift he was granting the peons around PTMC had time for her?
She sighed, resigning herself to the realization that she would need to trauma dump on the last person she wanted to have a bonding moment with. “I…I’m not usually this…weak. I’ve…uh, growing up was hard. I know that sounds cliche. Everyone claims they had the hardest childhood, but mine was…fucked.”
She held her knees all the tighter against her frame as though it would keep her safe as she recalled her past. “My mother wasn’t…she shouldn't have ever had kids. There was nothing maternal in that woman. My dad was in and out of trouble. Pretty sure he spent most of my childhood locked up. When he was out, he was great. I mean as great as a convicted felon can be at fatherhood. I think he loved me, but he just always screwed it up…living a straight clean life. My mom usually found guys to keep her company while my dad was locked up…and they…they were disgusting, not even worth being called men. I learned to dodge the gaze of men who were way too old to be looking at me the way they did early in my life…The last guy she decided to hook up with, I was barely twelve years old…he introduced her the wonderful world of heroin and a year later my little brother, little sister, and I were in the custody of child protective services. My parents sucked but their parents sucked harder. My dad wasn’t exactly in the position to get custody and no one wanted me, so I went to the system…mom had zero interest in getting me or my siblings back so her parental rights were cut off and I stayed in the system. I was an angry kid…traumatized in more ways than one. No one wants a preteen with issues. I bounced around from foster home to foster home to group home to group home…my sister was about the same. My brother was lucky…he was young and cute and some family snatched him up and adopted him in a closed adoption. I wasn’t lucky…I grew up tough and I learned to take shit that was thrown my way.”
She paused, avoiding his gaze, her childhood not entirely her favorite subject to broach especially with someone who made her as nervous as Park. “I, I thought I was over it…I mean I guess you never get over some things, but I thought I was coping. Then Dr. Baker…just he said some things that just… it cut me open and I felt so small.”
She widened her eyes as Park spoke his voice holding an edge she was not accustomed to…yes, the man always sounded severe. He was no nonsense; direct and cold…but his voice held something that went beyond assertiveness…there was a ferocity there. “Dr. Baker? My Dr. Baker in ortho? What did he do?”
She dared to say the words, her voice trembling. “He said I was pathetic and useless…that I should change careers, implied my nursing license was unearned. I…I tried to tell him that I didn’t even place the IV. I, it was the paramedics that brought her in. I tried to salvage it and start a new one but…”
She didn’t have time to continue as Dr. Park stood up at an alarming speed for someone who was as pure muscle as him. “I’ll take care of it.”
She stared up at him as he strode away his shoulders tense, clearly moving with purpose.
She spoke her voice soft as she snapped out of the shock. “What the hell was that? What do you mean you’ll take care of it?”
She felt her stomach sink a frustrated groan leaving her lips as it hit her.
She’d just given the Shark a whiff of blood and now he was headed for the kill. Fuck her life.
—-------------------------------
She found Dr. Park in a record breaking time, given the man was far taller than her and had a head start on finding Dr. Baker.
She was not quick enough to stop Dr. Baker from meeting his fate though.
She cringed as she approached the floor the ortho department called home and found a clearly pissed off Dr. Park had cornered Dr. Baker in a literal corner.
They were tucked away in the hallway far from prying eyes and ears. Dr. Avery Baker looked horrified and Dr. Brendon Park looked like he was ready to bite.
Dr. Brendon Park was a large man; his gym routine had given him a strong broad shouldered physique. He insisted being strong was favorable in his line of work; standing in the OR for hours literally having to hammer into bones at times to form them back in place.
He was far larger than his opponent. Dr. Baker stared up at the head of the orthopedic department, his eyes wide with fear. “I, I don’t know what you’re talking about?”
“Nurse, Y/N...ED. You had some choice words to say about your opinion of an IV placement. Does that ring a bell?” Park snapped Y/N cringing as she approached the pair.
She parted her lips wanting to plead with Park to let the idiot go. This was a mess. This was such a cliche; big scary Dr. Park coming to defend her honor while she tearfully pleaded with him to stop like he was her pissed off boyfriend beating the tar out of some idiot who’d groped her at a seedy bar.
She bit back any pleas knowing that she could not risk this becoming the clear messy cliche she was picturing in her mind.
Dr. Baker spoke, his eyes growing all the wider. She was almost convinced they might bug out of his head at this rate. “I…the IV was a mess, the veins were all blown out. The thing had to be redone. The patient was struggling and knocked it loose. She’s a nurse in the emergency department, she should be able to start an IV on a distressed patient.”
Dr. Park was fast to reply, nearing closer to the man if that was even possible with how he was towering over him. “She didn’t start the IV. If you’d given her a second to explain she could have told you that the EMT’s started it. She was trying to fix their mistake but you went off on her.”
“I…I didn’t…” Dr. Baker attempted to defend himself Dr. Park not giving him the chance.
Park spoke again, glaring down at the man. “I believe you called her useless and pathetic, implied her license was unearned and she needed to find a new career path. Does any of that sound familiar?”
Dr. Baker parted his lips struggling to form a sentence truly realizing just how deep in the shit he currently was.
Dr. Park spoke again, his voice making it obvious that the next words that left him were not an empty threat. “If you ever think of even glancing her way again or dare to say another word to her, the only useless and pathetic thing around here will be your career path in my ortho department. You step out of line again with her, then I’ll make sure the only cases you’re getting around here are setting casts on kids legs, no operating room time, no glory of learning a thing from me. You’re here because I recruited you to join my department. You are still new enough in your career that you’ve got a thing or two to learn. Trust me I’m the best orthopedic surgeon you’re going to meet, you want to stay on my good side. Are we clear?”
Dr. Baker frantically nodded his head, Dr. Park backed up just enough for the man to scurry off.
Y/N cringed as Dr. Baker gazed in her direction quickly scurrying off in the opposite direction.
She spoke her voice tight as she approached Park. “Why did you do that?”
Dr. Park turned to face her, raising a brow clearly not expecting her to witness his act of taking care of it for her. “Kid is a jerk. There’s a difference between confidence in your craft and dumb arrogance. I gave him a dose of reality.”
“And that reality dose involved threatening him to never even look in my direction or you were going to make his career a living hell? What are you going to do when he goes running off to HR?” Y/N snapped, crossing her arms gritting her jaw the headache she had been fighting off making its presence all too known.
Dr. Park scoffed at the comment fast to reassure her. “He won’t run tattling to HR. He’s eager enough to earn my approval. I smelled it on him the second I recruited him to this department. Kid is barely out of his fourth year of residency.”
She resisted the urge to press her palm to her face wanting to argue that this wasn’t the point.
She parted her lips to point out how idiotic this all was as Dr. Park spoke again, clearing his throat. “He made you cry.”
“You make people cry all the time.” She pointed out rolling her eyes at the comment knowing damn well that Dr. Park was no stranger to making the staff around this hospital get a little teary eyed if he really tore into them.
Park sighed, reaching up to rub the back of his neck almost looking nervous…it wasn’t a look she thought she’d ever see on him. “I don’t make you cry…I’d never make you cry. It’d be like…kicking a kitten or something.”
“A kitten?” She parroted dumbfounded by the statement and the possible meaning behind why it was so important that he not make her cry.
She glanced around the department relieved that it was just the two of them standing here sharing this exchange. The last thing she needed was this entire situation joining the rumor mill.
Dr. Park nodded his head, a hint of a smile crossing his lips. “Yeah, you know, all fluffy and cute. The first day I met you, you were wearing these earrings, plastic daisies and this lilac shirt under your scrubs ... .the head band you were wearing matched the shirt. You were so…cute.”
“Cute?” She blurted out trying to grasp the fact that Dr. Park, who scared the shit out of practically everyone in this building, thought she looked cute and seemed to remember the exact details of what she was wearing the first day he’d met her.
“Yeah, cute…I mean don’t get me wrong. You have a smart mouth and you curse way more than is probably socially appropriate in our profession. So you know…kitten has claws. I like claws.” He admitted the smile only grew all the more leaving her all the more dumbfounded.
He was…flirting? Seriously, he was flirting?
Why did she feel her heart rate pick up at it? Why did the words leave her lips, her tone far more flirty than it had a right to be. “Makes sense…a shark might appreciate claws.”
The smile only grew all the more apparent he taking a deep breath dropping his hand from the back of his neck.
He straightened his face as it seemed he mentally came to a decision. “I have a surgery tonight…should end at eight. Your shift ends at seven. Wait for me outside the ED, near the ambulance bay.”
She raised a brow wanting to respond that she would do no such thing but found herself speechless as he spoke again sounding as though he was directing her on a treatment plan for a patient in the ED. “We’re going to dinner.”
“You’re ordering me to go to dinner with you?” She remarked, causing him to roll his eyes in return.
He spoke clearing his throat realizing he had to try a little harder; drop a bit of the shark persona if he was going to get anywhere. “I’m asking you to dinner. Will you have dinner with me?”
She rolled the request through her mind, the offer taking her by shock. He was asking her to dinner?
He cleared his throat, almost doubting himself for a moment he was quick to speak again. “I’m not pressuring you. I didn’t defend you in hopes of pressuring you into a date. I meant what I said…he made you cry and I don’t like it. I’d do the same if anyone else made you cry. I’d kick my own ass for making you cry. If you aren’t interested, I won’t hold it against you.”
Y/N snapped out of her shock, it hitting her. This was by far the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for her…he’d defended her just because some one made her cry.
Big intimidating Park the Shark who made everyone cower and run for the hills because of how mean he could be didn’t like it when she cried.
She made her choice nodding her head. “I’ll meet you by the ambulance bay. It’s a date.”
“Can’t wait, Kitten.” he remarked, causing her to let out a huff rolling her eyes though the smile that crossed her features was undeniable.
She spoke as she turned to walk away ignoring the racing of her heartbeat and the giddy feeling of butterflies settling in her belly. “I’m looking forward to it, Shark.”
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⟢ Please support me by reposting, liking, following, and commenting on this post. If it doesn't resonate with you, please remember that a birth chart must be read as a whole.
If your natal Saturn aspects your Mercury or sits in the 3rd house, your voice may develop slowly but with depth. Early on, you may doubt your intelligence or take longer to express yourself. Yet over time, your thinking becomes precise and authoritative. You may be suitable for careers such as editor, legal writer, technical communicator, translator, policy drafter, archivist, researcher, or academic roles that reward careful reasoning rather than speed.
If your natal Sun or chart ruler is in the 2nd house, financial stability may take time to build because you learn through experience rather than risk. You tend to grow wealth and confidence gradually, step by step. Quick wins matter less than long-term security. You may excel in careers such as finance, investments, accounting, procurement, entrepreneurship, real estate, or resource management.
If your natal Moon is placed in the 7th house, your emotional well-being is closely tied to the quality of your working relationships. You may need time to understand what kind of team, manager, or partnership truly supports you. Early jobs may feel draining if the environment is cold, competitive, or isolating. Once you find collaborative and respectful spaces, your productivity becomes steady and consistent. You may be suited for careers such as partnership management, customer success, public relations, recruiting, legal assistance, event coordination, as well as social-impact roles like community outreach, advocacy work, nonprofit program coordination, case management, humanitarian organizations, or consultancy positions built around trust, mediation, and supporting others directly.
If your natal Venus is in Capricorn or conjunct Saturn, your career choices are rarely impulsive. You tend to commit only when something feels sustainable. Success often comes later because you refuse shortcuts. You may thrive in careers such as management, corporate strategy, design leadership, architecture, HR, diplomacy, or any role that blends responsibility with long-term vision.
If your natal Jupiter is in Virgo or the 6th house, growth comes through skill-building rather than luck. You improve through practice, certifications, and hands-on learning. Your expertise compounds quietly over time. You may be suitable for careers such as analyst, lab technician, editor, healthcare specialist, auditor, quality control, data specialist, or education support roles.
If your MC ruler is placed in the 4th house, your professional clarity may emerge later because personal foundations come first. Home, emotional security, or family matters may shape your timeline. Once your base is stable, your career accelerates naturally. You may be suited for real estate, psychotherapy, education, hospitality, interior design, remote work, or home-based businesses.
If your chart contains little fire energy, you may not feel constant ambition or urgency like others do. Your drive builds slowly and internally rather than loudly. You work best at your own pace. You may prefer sustainable careers such as research, writing, archiving, design, administration, long-term consulting, or behind-the-scenes roles where depth matters more than visibility.
◈
Remember: if everyone else seems ahead, it doesn’t mean you’re late. You may just be on a slower timeline, but that doesn't mean you're not going to succeed. Ask yourself what "success" really means to you.
one of the things that is really really difficult for me to manage at the moment, like, personally, is the absolutely blinding killing rage that fills me whenever academics get defensive about.
like.
let me start over.
many academics (in this case i am talking about the humanities but this IS also a very real pattern in stem fields, incl. medicine)
are very defensive about their qualifications, (understandable in a society that more or less thinks advanced degrees are some sort of ivory tower nonsense),
and will as a result say that being a professional specialized in their area of study grants them a level of expertise (which is i think not always the case but i am willing to concede this one for the sake of argument)
that is different from laymen. AND
the same academics will then, by corollary to this first point,
dismiss anyone discussing non-academic expertise.
academics will say that there are skills and expertise that are part of the professional training you receive in academic programs (this one is true),
AND they will then imply that the only way to get those skills is through academic training (EXTREMELY UNTRUE).
like god knows that i find pop historians and armchair experts as annoying as the next guy. i too roll my eyes at plenty of people who openly advertise the fact that they do not know shit or fuck about what they are talking about.
but the types of skills that academics claim as professional experience (in particular here i am thinking about things like "evaluating the reliability of sources" and "being able to understand and synthesize information")
are in fact skills that are absolutely essential skills for existing in the world for any number of marginalized people.
in fact, being able to critically evaluate the accuracy of society's bigoted opinion of you, for instance, is for many people a skill which is of such critical important that it may have been the primary skill which has kept them alive.
and while many people, marginalized or not, are nevertheless extremely lacking in these skills,
i would also say: so are many academics.
in general, i think the thing that bothers me about this is the idea that academics who frame themselves as having a particular set of skills tend to present themselves as the only ones who have these skills.
there is a level of professional standardization in the skills which are expected of professional academics, and at least hypothetically those standards should create a certain baseline.
but i also am convinced that academics are fully aware that this baseline does not exist;
i have never been in an academic space where there wasn't at least some whispering about how peers (not necessarily ones inside their particular department or institution) cheated on comps, (or got accused of plagiarism, or or or or or or or).
(or had an advisor try to hamstring their career, or get pushed out for having kids, or only got a job through nepotism, or or or or or--academics are fully aware of the problems with the academy, right up until they apply that to the idea that there are people who are unable to enter academy, or who have been wholly pushed out).
also, academics have read more papers than the average person and as such are fully aware that there is plenty of dogshit published on a regular basis.
like really what it comes down to is: i understand that you have poured years of your life into developing specialized knowledge and developing skills.
are you using that as an excuse not to listen to people who haven't jumped through those hoops,
or are you seeing it as an opportunity to continue to expand your understanding of your specialty--your field---your theoretical frameworks?
like, what is the purpose of this gatekeeping--is it to keep annoying dumbasses (who haven't done the reading but are trying to ask you 101-level questions anyway) out of your office, or might it serve other purposes?
what is your reaction going to be when you're told that someone has significant knowledge and skill without having undergone the same professional training? knowledge and skill that your professional training cannot give you?
why are you treating that like it's about your ego?
What the Border Wouldn’t Let You Carry | Alexia Putellas
Summary: You can't give up everything, even if it's for the one person who means everything.
Word Count: 6.9k
Warnings: no use of Y/N
Masterlist
The lawyers never spoke cruelly.
That might have made it easier.
They were always careful with you, sitting across polished conference tables or appearing inside neat rectangles on Alexia’s laptop. They used patient voices and precise language. They explained each requirement, exception, and unlikely possibility as if they were guiding you through a difficult tactical problem.
No one ever said your work didn’t matter.
They didn’t have to.
The first lawyer came to your apartment in Barcelona on a Tuesday afternoon in March. Alexia had arranged the consultation through her representation before she’d even formally accepted London City’s offer. The woman arrived carrying a leather folder, declined coffee, and spent nearly two hours asking about your education, employment history, income, nationality, professional qualifications, and relationship.
You answered everything.
You’d worked in museum education for almost nine years, the last five at a cultural center in Barcelona. You managed accessibility programs, coordinated school visits, developed exhibitions with local artists, and ran community workshops for children who didn’t always have the money or opportunity to experience art outside their classrooms.
You loved it.
You loved the quiet hour before the doors opened, when the building seemed to hold its breath. You loved watching children approach a painting with suspicion before finding some small detail that belonged only to them. You loved the elderly visitors who came every Thursday and treated the café like their own dining room. You loved the years of relationships you’d built with teachers, artists, families, and community groups.
It was work that had taken time to become good at.
It was work you were proud to do.
The lawyer listened, made notes, and asked if you held any additional qualifications.
You told her about your master’s degree.
She asked if you’d ever worked in university-level research.
You hadn’t.
She asked if your current employer operated in the United Kingdom.
It didn’t.
She asked whether any British organization had offered to sponsor you.
Not yet.
Her pen stopped moving.
Alexia sat beside you on the sofa, one knee pressed against yours. She’d barely spoken during the consultation. Every few minutes, her thumb moved across the inside of your wrist as though she could soothe you without interrupting.
The lawyer closed one document and opened another.
“Your occupation may fall under several classifications depending on the exact responsibilities of a prospective role,” she said. “That gives us some room to explore. The difficulty will be finding an employer licensed and willing to sponsor the position at the required level and salary.”
“But it’s possible,” Alexia said.
The woman looked at her.
There was no recognition on her face, or at least none she allowed to show. Alexia was simply another client sitting in a sunlit apartment, asking for certainty where none existed.
“Possible isn’t the same as probable.”
Alexia’s hand tightened around yours.
“What does probable look like?”
“For you?” The lawyer glanced down at the section of her notes dedicated to Alexia. “Your club will handle your immigration status. Your professional record makes your case relatively straightforward.”
“And for her?”
The woman hesitated for only a second.
“That will be considerably more difficult.”
The late-afternoon light streamed through the balcony doors and stretched across the floor. Outside, Barcelona carried on without you. A motorbike passed below. Someone laughed from another balcony. A dog barked twice before being shushed.
You looked at the mug in your hands.
The coffee had gone cold.
“What if money isn’t an issue?” Alexia asked. “For applications, legal fees, anything necessary.”
“Money can give you excellent representation. It can make the process smoother. It can allow us to investigate every legitimate route.” The lawyer folded her hands over the folder. “It cannot create an eligible route where the requirements aren’t met.”
The answer seemed to offend something fundamental in Alexia.
You felt it in the way her leg became rigid against yours.
Alexia understood the rules. She’d spent her life inside them. Ninety minutes. Eleven players. A rectangular pitch with fixed boundaries. Contracts with clauses that could be negotiated if the right people sat at the right table.
She understood obstacles too. Injury. Rehabilitation. Coaches who underestimated her. Institutions that treated women’s football as a favor rather than a profession.
She had learned that if a door didn’t open, you pushed harder.
This wasn’t a door.
It was a wall built by people who would never know either of you existed.
“So what do we do?” she asked.
“We begin contacting employers. We look carefully at the nature of the roles rather than simply their titles. We explore whether your partner’s experience qualifies as an eligible occupation. We prepare for the possibility that it may take time.”
“How much time?”
“I can’t responsibly promise that.”
Alexia looked toward you.
You gave her the smallest smile you could manage.
It was meant to reassure her.
It didn’t.
By the end of March, you had three lawyers.
One specialized in employment sponsorship. Another handled complex immigration cases for high-net-worth clients and public figures. The third had been recommended by London City’s ownership group.
They worked from offices in Barcelona and London. They spoke with your employer, reviewed your contracts, translated your qualifications, and produced lists of organizations that might be able to hire someone with your experience.
No expense was spared.
It still didn’t change the answer.
The second lawyer was the first to mention marriage.
He did it carefully after nearly an hour spent reviewing the same qualifications, job classifications, and sponsorship requirements you already knew by heart.
“There is another potential route,” he said.
Alexia leaned forward immediately.
“What route?”
The lawyer glanced between you.
“If you were married, or if you could otherwise establish eligibility as long-term partners, she may be able to apply as your dependent.”
For one suspended second, the room changed.
Alexia’s fingers tightened around yours.
You had discussed marriage before. Not seriously enough to choose a date, but enough that it existed somewhere in the future you’d built together. It belonged to a quiet morning, a family dinner, a ring Alexia would overthink for months before pretending she hadn’t.
It had never belonged to a conference room.
It had never been meant to arrive as an immigration strategy.
Alexia looked at you, and you saw the hope before either of you understood the full answer.
“So she could come?” she asked.
“She could potentially live in the United Kingdom with you.”
“And work?”
His pause was brief.
It still answered the question.
“That would depend on the specific terms attached to the immigration arrangement secured through the club. We would need the final documentation before giving you a definitive answer. However, you should prepare for the possibility of restrictions that would prevent her from continuing paid employment.”
The hope disappeared from Alexia’s face.
You stared at the legal pad in front of you.
“So I could move,” you said slowly, “but I might not be allowed to work.”
“That is a possibility.”
“In any job?”
“Potentially.”
“And volunteering?”
“That may be permitted, provided it doesn’t amount to unpaid employment that would ordinarily be compensated.”
You nodded as though the distinction made sense.
It didn’t.
Alexia turned toward you.
“We could do that.”
Her voice was soft. Careful.
You knew what she meant.
You had enough money. More than enough. Alexia could support both of you without noticing the difference in her bank account. You could live in the house she’d chosen, travel when her schedule allowed, fill your days with dinners, charity appearances, language classes, and carefully approved volunteer work.
You could be with her.
You would simply have to stop being the version of yourself you’d spent nearly a decade becoming.
“I can’t,” you said.
Alexia went still.
The lawyer looked down at his papers, offering you the illusion of privacy.
“I don’t mean I won’t marry you,” you added quickly.
“I know.”
But the hurt was already there.
You reached for her hand.
“I love you. I want to marry you one day.”
“Then why can’t we do this?”
“Because I’d have to leave my work.”
“Only until we find another route.”
“And if we don’t?”
“We will.”
You looked at her.
She stopped.
For weeks, Alexia had spoken in certainties because anything else frightened her. There would be another lawyer. Another application. Another exception. Another route.
You couldn’t build your life around another promise that neither of you controlled.
“I’d wake up every morning in your house,” you said. “You’d leave for training, and I’d have nowhere I needed to be.”
“You could do anything you wanted.”
“Except work.”
“You could study. You could volunteer.”
“I don’t want to study for the sake of filling time. I don’t want to volunteer beside people doing the same work as me while knowing I’m not legally allowed to build a career from it.”
Her expression tightened.
“I’m not asking you to give up who you are.”
“You wouldn’t have to ask.”
You lowered your voice.
“That’s what the visa would require.”
Alexia pulled her hand away and stood. She crossed to the window, staring down at the street.
The lawyer remained silent.
You hated that the conversation had an audience. You hated that something as private as marriage had become another file on his desk.
“I can support you,” Alexia said.
“I know.”
“You’d never have to worry about money.”
“I know.”
“You could have anything.”
“Not anything.”
She turned.
You could see the frustration rising in her, sharpened by helplessness.
“You’d have me.”
“I already have you.”
“Not in London.”
The words struck hard enough that you had to look away.
Alexia’s face changed immediately.
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
“But you meant it.”
She came back to the table and crouched beside your chair.
“I meant that I want you there. I don’t mean that your work doesn’t matter.”
“I know you don’t.”
You took her face in your hands.
“That’s why I can’t do it.”
Her eyes filled.
You continued before you lost the nerve.
“If I leave everything and become dependent on you in every legal and financial sense, I’m afraid I’ll start resenting the life we built there.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I might.”
“I wouldn’t let you.”
“You can’t control that.”
She closed her eyes.
“I love my work, Ale. I love having something that belongs to me. I love being good at something that has nothing to do with football or your name or the opportunities your career can give us.”
“You think people would see you as my wife.”
“I think immigration would.”
The word wife sat between you.
Under any other circumstances, it might have made Alexia smile.
Now she looked devastated.
“They’d call me your dependent,” you said. “That would be my legal status. Dependent on your contract. Dependent on your income. Dependent on whether London City renewed you.”
“You wouldn’t be dependent on me.”
“On paper, I would be.”
“You know that isn’t how I see you.”
“I do.”
You brushed your thumb beneath her eye.
“But I have to live inside my own life too.”
Alexia lowered her forehead to your knee.
The lawyer quietly excused himself to make coffee, leaving the two of you alone in the conference room.
“I hate that there’s a way,” she whispered, “and we still can’t take it.”
You rested your hand against the back of her head.
“There’s a way for me to exist beside you.”
“That’s not enough.”
“No.”
She looked up.
“I want you to have your own life there.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want you waiting for me to come home every day.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want you to marry me because the government has made it the least impossible option.”
Your throat tightened.
“Neither do I.”
Marriage had always felt like something you would choose when the time was right.
Now it had been placed before you as a transaction.
Sign here.
Prove the relationship.
Give up your work.
Receive permission to remain beside the person you loved.
Alexia stood and pulled you into her arms.
“I would marry you tomorrow,” she said against your hair.
You held her tighter.
“I’d marry you tomorrow too.”
“Just not like this.”
“Not if it means disappearing.”
She pressed her lips to your temple.
“I couldn’t bear that.”
“Neither could I.”
That was the cruelty of it.
You had enough money to survive without your salary.
You had enough money for lawyers, applications, appeals, and every legitimate legal route worth pursuing.
What you didn’t have was a way to bring your whole life with you.
The United Kingdom might allow Alexia to carry you across the border as her dependent.
It simply wouldn’t promise to let you remain yourself once you arrived.
You sent applications to museums, galleries, charities, heritage organizations, and educational foundations throughout London.
You applied for positions beneath your level of experience because the titles sounded promising. You applied for jobs you didn’t really want because they came with a small line at the bottom of the advertisement about sponsorship being considered in exceptional circumstances.
You were exceptional, Alexia told you.
The employers disagreed.
Some rejected you within hours.
Others invited you to interviews, praised your experience, and apologized when the subject of immigration arose.
One director called personally. She told you that your community access programs were exactly the kind of work their organization wanted to develop. She asked intelligent questions about sensory-friendly exhibitions and multilingual family programming. For forty minutes, you felt like yourself again.
Then she asked whether you already had the right to work in the United Kingdom.
When you said no, her expression changed.
Not because she thought less of you.
Because she already knew what came next.
Their organization had a sponsorship license, she explained, but the position hadn’t been approved for international recruitment. The salary band was fixed. They couldn’t restructure the role. They couldn’t justify the administrative burden when qualified applicants were already permitted to work in the country.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Professionally, you’d be an excellent fit.”
You thanked her.
After the call ended, you remained at the dining table with your laptop open in front of you.
Alexia was at training. The apartment was silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator and faint traffic from the street.
Professionally, you’d be an excellent fit.
Legally, you were an inconvenience.
The message from the lawyer sat unread beside the rejection email. It contained further information about the dependent route, documentation requirements, and the risks of committing to a status that could leave you unable to work.
You closed both windows.
Then you went to work.
That evening, you guided a group of teenagers through a new exhibition by a Catalan photographer. You helped one girl find the words to describe why a portrait of an empty kitchen made her feel lonely. You adjusted the route when another student became overwhelmed by the crowd. You stayed late to speak with their teacher about returning for a quieter session.
You were good at your job.
You knew you were good at it.
For the first time, knowing that hurt.
Alexia didn’t announce her decision immediately.
The club knew.
Her agent knew.
You knew.
The rest of the world continued to speculate.
Every training session produced another article. Every photograph of Alexia became evidence for a different theory. She was staying because she’d smiled during warmups. She was leaving because she hadn’t celebrated a goal intensely enough. She was retiring. She was moving to the United States. She was accepting an executive role at Barcelona. She was joining London City.
That last rumor was accurate, but it still felt unreal when you saw it written by strangers.
You watched people debate the decision as if they understood what it cost.
They discussed salary, ambition, legacy, playing time, and the appeal of joining an independent women’s club with plans to challenge England’s established powers.
No one mentioned your visa.
No one knew that Alexia had sat on the bathroom floor with you after the third lawyer confirmed that the dependent route would likely cost you the career you loved.
No one knew she’d asked whether she should refuse the offer.
You’d been brushing your teeth when she said it.
Her voice had been so quiet you initially thought you’d misheard her.
You turned off the tap.
“What?”
Alexia stood in the bathroom doorway wearing a faded Barcelona shirt and sleep shorts. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and there were shadows beneath her eyes from another night spent staring at the ceiling.
“I can say no.”
“To London?”
She nodded.
You set your toothbrush beside the sink.
“Alexia.”
“I haven’t signed.”
“You’ve agreed.”
“Verbally. It isn’t finished.”
“You want to go.”
“I want you with me.”
The words made your chest ache.
You dried your hands slowly, buying time to arrange your thoughts.
“We knew there was a possibility I wouldn’t be able to come.”
“We knew it would be complicated.”
“We knew it might be impossible.”
“No.” She shook her head. “You said that. The lawyers said that. I didn’t believe it.”
You almost smiled because it was such an Alexia answer.
She moved closer.
“I thought we’d find someone better. Another lawyer. A different job classification. Some exception no one had considered.”
“We did find better lawyers.”
“Then better than them.”
“There are only so many lawyers in Europe, amor.”
“I don’t care.”
“I know.”
Her eyes filled with a frustration that had followed her for weeks. It had become part of the apartment, moving with her from room to room. She carried it into bed, into breakfast, into phone calls with her agent. It lived in the tense line of her shoulders and the way she checked your email more anxiously than you did.
“I can stay,” she said again.
“You could.”
Her face shifted.
She hadn’t expected you to agree.
You stepped closer and rested your hands against her waist.
“You could stay, and we’d still have this apartment. I’d still go to work every morning. You’d still know all the roads without using your phone. Your family would still be close. We’d have dinner with Alba on Sundays, and we wouldn’t need to calculate how many days a visitor is allowed to spend in another country.”
“Then I stay.”
“But every time London City played, part of you would wonder.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You would.”
She looked away.
You touched her cheek, guiding her attention back to you.
“You’ve given everything to Barcelona.”
“I don’t feel like I’ve finished.”
“That isn’t what I mean. You’ve given this club your childhood, your knee, your best years, every version of yourself you knew how to give. Wanting to discover who you are somewhere else doesn’t mean you love it less.”
Her mouth tightened.
“You sound like my agent.”
“Your agent is very wise.”
“My agent doesn’t sleep beside me.”
“Thank God.”
She almost laughed.
It didn’t last.
“What happens to us?” she asked.
There it was.
Not the contract.
Not London.
Not whether she could adjust to England’s weather or a new league or teammates who had grown up watching her on television.
Us.
You lowered your hands from her waist.
“I don’t know.”
Her expression crumpled before she controlled it.
You hated yourself for giving her the truth, but you’d made too many promises to each other to begin lying now.
“I know what I want,” you continued. “I want to go with you. I want to complain about the rain and pretend I don’t like the house you chose. I want to find a job there and build a life with you. I’ve done everything they’ve asked, and I’ll keep trying.”
“But?”
“But loving you doesn’t give me the legal right to live in the same country as you without giving up something I can’t bear to lose.”
Alexia turned away sharply.
She lowered herself onto the closed toilet lid, elbows resting on her knees. You watched her press both hands against her face.
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I hate that they can decide this.”
“I know.”
“I hate that I can sign one piece of paper and move, and you need strangers to decide whether the work you’ve spent your life building is valuable enough.”
The last words broke in her throat.
You sat on the tiled floor in front of her.
Alexia immediately reached down, pulling you closer until you were kneeling between her legs. She cradled your face with both hands.
“Your work matters.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
You swallowed.
“I did before all of this.”
Her eyes closed.
You hadn’t meant the admission as an accusation. It still wounded her.
“I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t do it.”
“I’m still sorry.”
She bent until her forehead rested against yours.
You stayed on the bathroom floor for a long time. The overhead light was too bright. Your knees began to hurt against the tile. Neither of you moved.
Eventually, Alexia whispered, “I don’t want to leave you.”
“You aren’t leaving me.”
“It feels exactly like that.”
The official announcement came two days after Barcelona’s final match.
By then, most of Alexia’s belongings had already been divided into three categories.
London.
Storage.
Yours.
The categories didn’t work particularly well.
Half the clothes marked for London migrated back into the wardrobe because you weren’t ready to watch her pack them. She kept placing things in your pile that clearly belonged to her, claiming she wanted you to have them. You accused her of trying to avoid exceeding the airline’s baggage limit.
She bought a house in England rather than renting.
You learned about it through a video tour conducted by an estate agent who called you both “ladies” with relentless cheerfulness. The property was in a quiet area with enough privacy for Alexia, a garden neither of you knew how to maintain, and a spare room that she immediately referred to as your office.
You didn’t correct her.
The announcement video was filmed with the club’s owner. Alexia wore the new colors and spoke about ambition, identity, and the future of women’s football. She looked composed and certain.
You watched from your office at the cultural center.
Your coworkers had gathered around your computer, whispering excitedly as the video began. Most of them knew Alexia. They’d met her at exhibition openings or staff dinners. They knew she sent coffee to the entire building when a program you’d designed won a national award. They knew she sometimes appeared thirty minutes before closing, leaning against the reception desk until you finished work.
They knew you were trying to move.
They didn’t know you’d received another rejection that morning.
When Alexia appeared wearing the London City shirt, the room erupted.
Your closest colleague grabbed your shoulders.
“She looks incredible.”
“She does.”
“You must be so proud.”
“I am.”
“When do you leave?”
The question came from somewhere behind you.
You kept your eyes on the screen.
Alexia was talking about challenging herself.
“I’m not.”
The excitement faded so quickly that you could feel it leave the room.
Your colleague’s hands loosened on your shoulders.
“What do you mean?”
“The visa isn’t happening.”
“But with Alexia’s club…”
“They’ve tried.”
“And the lawyers?”
“They’ve tried too.”
Someone muttered a curse under their breath.
Your colleague lowered her voice.
“Couldn’t you marry her?”
The question was gentle.
That made it worse.
You stared at the screen.
“We could.”
Her confusion deepened.
“But I wouldn’t be able to keep working.”
The room became quiet.
You didn’t explain further.
You didn’t tell them that Alexia had offered to support you before you could even calculate the cost. You didn’t tell them that you could live comfortably for the rest of your life without earning another salary.
That had never been the point.
Money paid for the apartment you shared and the food on your table. Your work gave shape to your days. It gave you relationships, responsibility, confidence, and an identity that belonged entirely to you.
You didn’t know who you’d become if you surrendered it to follow Alexia.
You were afraid that one day you’d look at the woman you loved and blame her for a sacrifice she had begged you not to make.
“It’s okay,” you said.
It wasn’t.
You’d begun saying it anyway.
The farewell at Camp Nou belonged to Alexia.
You made sure of that.
You stood with her family and watched the stadium honor fourteen years of her life. You watched highlights of the girl she’d been and the woman she’d become. The screens showed goals, trophies, celebrations, and the long walk back from injury.
The supporters sang her name.
Alexia cried without hiding it.
You cried too.
For Barcelona.
For her.
For yourself.
When she thanked the club, her teammates, her family, and everyone who had carried her through the years, her eyes found you.
She didn’t name you.
She didn’t need to.
You knew the look she gave you. You’d seen it across crowded rooms, airport terminals, hospital corridors, and football pitches. It was the look that had always meant home.
For the first time, home was becoming two places.
Afterward, the celebrations continued in a private suite. Former teammates embraced her. Staff members told stories. Her mother held her face between both hands and kissed her forehead as though Alexia were still a child returning from her first training session.
You slipped out into a quiet corridor.
The stadium sounded different from there. The singing became a distant vibration through the concrete. You leaned against the wall and tried to breathe through the pressure building in your chest.
The door opened a minute later.
You didn’t have to look to know who had followed you.
Alexia stopped beside you.
“You disappeared.”
“I needed a minute.”
She studied your face.
“You said that seventeen minutes ago before disappearing from the party.”
“You’re counting?”
“I always know where you are.”
The words hurt more than she intended.
Her expression changed immediately.
“Amor.”
“I know.”
She reached for you, but you folded your arms across your chest.
Not to reject her.
To keep yourself together.
“This is your night.”
“It’s ours.”
“No. It isn’t.”
Her forehead creased.
You looked toward the closed door.
“Everything in there belongs to you. The memories. The people. The years. I don’t want my sadness to take up space tonight.”
“You’re part of those years.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t stand in a corridor pretending you aren’t.”
You looked at her.
She was still wearing the suit she’d chosen for the ceremony, though the jacket was open now. Her eyes were red from crying. A strand of hair had fallen loose near her face.
“You’re leaving in twelve days.”
Her lips parted.
You’d both known the date for weeks.
Saying it in the stadium made it real.
“I know.”
“I thought I was handling it.”
“You don’t have to handle it.”
“I do. Everyone keeps looking at me like I’m the tragic partner being abandoned for football.”
“I’m not abandoning you.”
“I know that.”
The answer came too quickly and too loudly. You lowered your voice.
“I know you’re not. That’s what makes this so hard. I can’t even be angry with you.”
“You can.”
“For what? Taking an opportunity you earned? Wanting something after giving your entire life to one club? Believing me when I said we’d find a way?”
Alexia stared at you.
You pressed your tongue against the inside of your cheek, trying to stop the tears.
“I applied for another job last week.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t want you waiting for another answer.”
“What happened?”
“They offered it to someone who didn’t need sponsorship.”
Her eyes closed briefly.
“They said I was the strongest candidate.”
“Of course you were.”
“But not strong enough to make the paperwork worthwhile.”
“That isn’t what it means.”
“It’s exactly what it means.”
“No.” Alexia moved in front of you. “It means their system is broken.”
“A system can be broken and still decide what happens to my life.”
She took your hands despite the way you’d folded them against yourself.
“You have a life here.”
“I know.”
“You have work you love.”
“I know.”
“You have friends, people who depend on you, an entire community you built.”
“I know, Alexia.”
“You aren’t being left with nothing.”
“I don’t want to be grateful that I’m only losing you.”
The words silenced both of you.
You tried to pull your hands away.
She held on.
Not forcefully.
Desperately.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.” Her voice trembled. “Don’t apologize for that.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“You did.”
Tears slipped down her face.
“You meant it because it’s true.”
You let her pull you closer.
The first contact was awkward; both of you were still too tense to soften. Then Alexia wrapped her arms fully around you, and whatever remained of your composure disappeared.
You pressed your face into her shoulder.
“I want to go with you.”
“I know.”
“I want to see the house.”
“It’s yours too.”
“I want to hate London until it becomes home.”
Her arms tightened around you.
“I want that.”
“I don’t want to visit you. I don’t want to count days or keep clothes in a suitcase or ask border officers how long I’m allowed to stay with the woman I love.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want our life to become evidence in a legal application.”
Alexia made a broken sound against your hair.
For months, lawyers had requested proof.
Joint bills.
Travel records.
Photographs.
Messages.
Evidence that your relationship was genuine and continuing.
Years of love had been reduced to documents organized inside electronic folders.
You had photographs of birthdays, holidays, hospital visits, ordinary dinners, and sleepy mornings. You had lease agreements and shared accounts. You had thousands of messages.
None of it had produced the outcome you needed.
Alexia drew back enough to look at you.
“I’ll come back whenever I can.”
“You’ll be playing.”
“There are breaks.”
“You’ll have Spain.”
“I’ll make time.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“I can.”
“Alexia.”
“I can promise that I’ll try.”
You touched the dampness beneath her eye with your thumb.
“That’s different.”
“Then I promise I’ll try.”
You nodded.
It was the only honest promise either of you had left.
The last night in the apartment wasn’t romantic.
The bed had been stripped because Alexia had accidentally packed the sheets. You ate takeaway on the living room floor surrounded by boxes she’d sworn she didn’t need.
At eleven, she realized she’d packed her phone charger.
At midnight, you found it inside a box labeled kitchen.
At one, neither of you were asleep.
You lay on the bare mattress beneath a blanket that had escaped the movers. Alexia rested with her head against your chest, one arm across your stomach.
The apartment echoed around you.
“I can hear the refrigerator,” she murmured.
“You’ve always been able to hear it.”
“No. You usually talk too much.”
You threaded your fingers through her hair.
“I’m glad you’re leaving.”
She lifted her head.
“That isn’t funny.”
“I’m serious. I’ve spent months thinking about what this is taking from us. I don’t want you to get on the plane believing I resent the part of you that needs to go.”
“You can resent it.”
“I don’t.”
She watched you carefully.
“I resent the border. I resent every employer who told me I was perfect before deciding I was too complicated. I resent that before Brexit, we could’ve packed our lives into boxes and figured the rest out after we arrived.”
Alexia’s fingers curled into the blanket.
“I resent that we could get married and go together tomorrow, but only if I agreed to stop working.”
“I hate that most.”
You looked down at her.
“Why?”
“Because it would put you beside me and still take you away.”
Your throat tightened.
Alexia shifted until she was sitting beside you.
“I’ve imagined you in that house,” she said. “I’ve imagined waking up beside you. I’ve imagined you making coffee and complaining that the kitchen is too small. But every time I picture leaving for training while you stay behind with nothing that’s yours, I can’t breathe.”
“I’d find things to do.”
“That isn’t the same as having a life.”
“No.”
“You’d tell me you were fine.”
“Probably.”
“You’d try to make it easy for me.”
“Probably.”
“And one day I’d come home and realize you’d made yourself smaller so I wouldn’t feel guilty.”
You reached for her hand.
“I wouldn’t mean to.”
“I know.”
She laced her fingers with yours.
“That’s why I can’t ask.”
“You never did.”
“I thought about it.”
You appreciated the honesty even though it hurt.
“How many times?”
“Every day.”
You lowered your head to her shoulder.
“I thought about saying yes every day.”
Her cheek rested against your hair.
Neither of you spoke for a while.
There was comfort in admitting it.
You had both wanted the easier answer.
You had both understood it would create a different kind of damage.
“I don’t know how to do this without you,” Alexia eventually whispered.
“You’re not doing it without me.”
“You won’t be there.”
“I won’t be in London.”
“That’s what I mean.”
You cupped the back of her neck.
“Look at me.”
She did.
“You’re going to wake up there. You’re going to train. You’re going to learn everyone’s names and forget where you left your keys. You’re going to call me to complain about the weather.”
“I already hate the weather.”
“You haven’t moved yet.”
“I’ve seen it.”
“You’re going to play football. I’m going to go to work here. We’re going to miss calls and become irritated and say things badly sometimes.”
“This isn’t helping.”
“We’ll visit. We’ll keep speaking to lawyers. I’ll keep applying. Maybe something changes. Maybe a museum realizes I’m worth the trouble. Maybe the law changes. Maybe your contract ends before any of that happens.”
“And if none of it does?”
You looked at the ceiling.
“Then eventually, we make another decision.”
Fear moved across her face.
“About us?”
“About what we’re willing to keep sacrificing.”
She sat up straighter.
“I’m not sacrificing us.”
“Neither am I.”
“Then don’t talk like this has an ending.”
“Everything has an ending, Alexia. A contract. A season. A life. That doesn’t mean we stop choosing it while it’s here.”
Her jaw tightened.
You knew she wanted certainty.
You wished you could give it to her.
Instead, you sat up and took her face between your hands.
“I love you.”
“That sounds like a goodbye.”
“It’s not.”
“It feels like one.”
“Then listen to the rest.”
She became very still.
“I love you, and I want you to go. I want you to find out who you are when everyone around you doesn’t already know your history. I want you to build something there. I want to hear every detail, even when it hurts.”
Tears gathered in her eyes.
“I want you beside me.”
“I want that too.”
“I could still stay.”
You shook your head.
“No.”
“You don’t get to decide for me.”
“And you don’t get to turn down London because a government made me feel small.”
“You aren’t small.”
“Then don’t make your life smaller to prove it.”
Alexia’s breath caught.
You moved closer until your knees touched hers.
“My work matters. My life here matters. I matter. I need to believe all of that even if the United Kingdom doesn’t recognize it on a list.”
“It should.”
“Yes.”
“It should recognize everything you’ve done.”
“Yes.”
“It should let you come with me without asking you to surrender it.”
“Yes.”
Her face crumpled.
You pulled her into your arms.
She cried against you with a rawness she’d held back for months. You kept one hand at the base of her neck and the other around her waist.
There was no solution hidden inside the moment.
There was only grief.
You let yourselves feel it.
At the airport, Alexia’s luggage was overweight.
It was such an ordinary problem that both of you laughed when the attendant told her.
Alexia opened one suitcase on the floor and began moving clothing between bags with the same concentration she used to study match footage.
“You don’t need six jackets,” you said.
“I do.”
“You’re moving to London, not the Arctic.”
“It’s cold.”
“It’s July.”
“It will become cold.”
“You could buy a jacket there.”
“I like these.”
You crouched beside her and lifted a Barcelona sweatshirt.
“This is mine.”
“You gave it to me.”
“You stole it.”
“You didn’t ask for it back.”
“I’m asking now.”
She held the sweatshirt against her chest.
“No.”
You laughed again.
For a few minutes, you were simply yourselves.
Then the suitcase closed.
The attendant accepted it.
There was nothing left to delay.
Alexia stood in front of the security entrance, one hand wrapped around the strap of her carry-on. People moved around you with practiced impatience, dragging bags and checking phones.
“I don’t want to go through,” she said.
“You have to.”
“I could miss the flight.”
“There’s another one tonight.”
“I could miss that too.”
“They’ll keep scheduling flights, Ale.”
Her mouth trembled.
You reached into your bag and handed her a small wrapped package.
“What’s this?”
“Open it when you get there.”
“I’ll open it now.”
“You won’t.”
She looked at the package, then back at you.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“No matter what happens.”
“Don’t.”
She frowned.
“Don’t make it sound like we’re already preparing for the end.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Alexia set her carry-on down and took your face between her hands.
“Then let me say it properly.”
You waited.
“I’m going to England. You’re staying in Barcelona. I hate both of those sentences.”
“So do I.”
“But I am still your partner.”
“Yes.”
“And you are still the person I’m coming home to.”
Your eyes burned.
“Even if home is here?”
“Home isn’t a country.”
She kissed you before you could answer.
It wasn’t delicate. Her hand slid behind your neck as you clutched the front of her shirt, holding her close despite knowing you couldn’t keep her there.
When she pulled back, both of you were crying.
“I’ll call when I land.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
“I’ll call from the car.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I’ll call from the house.”
“Alexia.”
“I’m going to call too much.”
“I know.”
She kissed your forehead.
Then she picked up her bag and walked toward security.
She looked back four times.
You counted.
You remained in the terminal long after she disappeared.
The package contained a key.
Alexia called you from the floor of the empty bedroom, holding it in her palm.
“What does it open?”
“The apartment.”
“Our apartment?”
“My apartment.”
“Our apartment.”
You smiled despite the ache in your chest.
“You left yours in the bowl beside the door twice last month. I thought you should have a spare.”
She ran her thumb across the metal.
“Why give it to me now?”
“Because I need you to know you can come back.”
Her face blurred briefly as the video call adjusted.
“You think I don’t know that?”
“I think leaving makes people feel like they need permission to return.”
Alexia looked away from the screen.
Behind her, the new bedroom was empty except for her suitcases and a mattress still wrapped in plastic.
“I put a key to this house aside for you.”
“I don’t know when I’ll be allowed to use it.”
“You’ll use it when you visit.”
“That isn’t the same.”
“No.”
You appreciated that she didn’t pretend.
She held your key in her closed fist.
“One day, I’m going to put this on the ring beside the London key.”
“One day.”
“And we won’t need lawyers.”
“I’d like never to speak to another lawyer again.”
She laughed softly.
The sound traveled from England to Barcelona with a slight digital delay.
It wasn’t enough.
It was something.
Outside your window, the city had begun to darken. The apartment around you still held evidence of Alexia everywhere. Her mug is beside the sink. Her spare boots near the door. The indentation her body had made on her side of the sofa.
In London, she sat in a new house that had been purchased with you in mind, though you had no legal right to build your life there without surrendering the work that helped make you whole.
The unfairness remained.
It would still be there tomorrow.
You would wake alone. She would begin training. You would return to the cultural center and guide another group through rooms filled with art people had created because ordinary language wasn’t enough.
Perhaps that was what the two of you were doing now.
Building something from absence.
Giving shape to a hurt too large to explain cleanly.
Alexia lifted the key toward the camera.
“I’m coming home.”
“You just arrived.”
“I mean Barcelona.”
“I know.”
“And you’re coming here.”
“I’m going to keep trying.”
Her eyes softened.
It wasn’t certainty.
It was the promise you could honestly make.
For now, it had to be enough.
The border had decided where you could work. It had decided how many days you could spend in Alexia’s new home and what documents you would need to show before being permitted to enter.
It had measured your education, your salary, and your profession.
It had offered you a route through marriage, but only if you agreed to become dependent on the woman you loved and leave behind the work that made your life your own.
It had found your career useful, admirable, and insufficient.
It could determine where your body was allowed to remain.
🐺 main masterlist | The TW Survival Program Series
part1 | part2 | part3 | part4 | part5
Toto Wolff x assistant!reader
Summary: After your injured hand turns The Toto Wolff Survival Program upside down, Toto decides it is his turn to take care of you. What starts as stolen tablets, ice packs, snacks, and bossy hydration quickly becomes secret hotel-room tenderness, mutual survival management, and one morning that proves Toto is dangerously good at much more than keeping you safe.
Warnings: 18+, smut, fluff, humor, injury care, secret relationship, age gap, boss/assistant dynamic, protective!Toto, emotional intimacy, oral sex (f&m reciving), unprotected sex with IUD mention, praise kink, creampie, soft aftercare.
word count: 5.4k
a/n: final part! thank you all for reading this story, all the comments and likes ❤️
The doctor gives you one very simple instruction.
“Do not overuse the hand. Rest. No carrying boxes. No rushing around. No unnecessary strain.”
You nod seriously. Toto nods even more seriously. Which is how you know you are in trouble. Because Toto taking instructions seriously is dangerous. Usually for everyone else.
The second you leave the medical room, he takes your tablet.
You blink. “Toto.”
“No.”
“I need that.”
“You need rest.”
“I need my tablet.”
“You have a bruised hand.”
“My other hand works.”
“So does mine.”
You stare at him. He looks very pleased with himself.
“This is theft.”
“This is care.”
“This is mutiny.”
“This is The Survival Program,” he says smoothly. “Reversed.”
You gasp. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“I absolutely would.”
And he does. All afternoon. He opens doors before you can touch them. He carries your bag. He tells Bradley to move two non-urgent meetings. He personally hands you water every twenty minutes with the solemn focus of a man defusing a bomb.
At one point, you reach for a folder and Toto appears beside you like a two meters security system.
“No.”
“Toto, it’s paper.”
“It has weight.”
“It has three pages.”
“Still.”
George walks past, sees Toto taking the folder from you, and stops. “Oh,” he says, visibly delighted. “So this is what it looks like from the outside.”
You glare at him. “Careful, George.”
George raises both hands. “I’m just saying, very educational.”
Kimi appears with a snack.
Toto points at him. “Is that lunch?”
Kimi freezes.
You smile sweetly. “Oh, look. He learns.”
Kimi looks between you and Toto. “I don’t like this new version.”
Bradley, naturally, loves it. He finds you sitting in hospitality with your wrapped hand resting on a cushion Toto definitely stole from a sponsor lounge.
Bradley looks at the cushion. Then at Toto. Then at you. “I support this development.”
“You would,” you mutter.
Toto hands you a plate. “Eat.”
You stare at him. He stares back. You narrow your eyes. “This is deeply annoying.”
His mouth twitches. “You said that to me yesterday.”
“Yes, and I was charming.”
“So am I.”
You look at him. He lifts one eyebrow. Unfortunately, he is. Very.
You take the plate. “Fine.”
“Does it hurt?”
You close your eyes. It is the seventh time he has asked in one hour.
“No.”
“You hesitated.”
“I hesitated because I was praying for patience.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Toto.”
“Answer me.”
You sigh. “A little.”
His face softens instantly. Damn him.
“Then we get more ice.”
“No, we do not.”
“Yes.”
“I am not made of glass.”
“I know.” His voice lowers. “But you are hurt.”
And just like that, your irritation loses its shoes and walks quietly out of the room. Because he means it. Because under all the bossiness, all the reversed survival management, all the overdramatic folder confiscation, there is genuine worry.
For you.
You look away before your face does something embarrassing. “Fine,” you mumble. “Ice.”
His smile is small and victorious. “Good girl.”
Your head snaps up. His expression changes. A beat, a spark.
Then he clears his throat. “I mean good… employee.”
George chokes on his smoothie.
Kimi whispers, “That was not professional.”
Bradley says, “I am suddenly needed elsewhere.”
You bury your face in your uninjured hand. Toto looks at the ceiling like he is asking God for legal assistance.
This secrecy thing is going to kill you both.
*
By evening, everyone has been fooled. Well, mostly. In the same way people pretend not to see smoke before a fire alarm starts screaming.
You and Toto act professional. Painfully professional. He stands too close, then remembers and steps away.
You call him “Toto” in your normal voice, then panic because your normal voice now has feelings in it. He says “thank you” like it means three extra things. You respond with “of course” like a woman actively trying not to combust.
Nobody says anything, but Susie texts you once.
Susie: Subtle as a chandelier falling down stairs.
You do not answer. Cowardice remains your strongest skill.
Later, after the day finally ends, you return to your hotel room with your bandaged hand, your overfull heart, and the strange, glowing knowledge that Toto Wolff is yours now. In secret, but still yours.
You change into soft pajamas and sit on the bed, staring at your phone. No message. Which is fine, healthy and normal.
He is busy. You are both being careful. This is mature.
Then there is a quiet knock at your door. Your heart almost leaves your body.
You open it. Toto stands in the corridor in dark trousers and a black sweater, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding a small bag.
He looks far too soft for a man who terrifies boardrooms. “Room service,” he says.
You blink. “You are not room service.”
“No. I am better dressed.”
You bite your lip to stop smiling. “What are you doing here?”
His eyes move over your face, then down to your hand. “Checking if you are alive.”
“That is my line.”
“I am stealing your job.”
“You already stole my tablet today.”
“And your folder.”
“And my dignity.”
“That one was already compromised.”
You gasp. He smiles.
You step aside. “Get in before someone sees you.”
He slips inside, and you close the door quickly, heart racing with the ridiculous thrill of it.
He places the bag on the bedside table. “Painkillers, water, snacks, and the ice pack the doctor recommended.”
You stare at him. “You are alarmingly good at this.”
“I had an excellent teacher.”
You soften despite yourself. “Toto…”
He steps closer, slow enough to ask without words. You close the distance first. He exhales when you wrap your good arm around him. His arms come around you carefully, protecting your injured hand like it is sacred.
For a while, neither of you says anything. You just stand there, tucked against his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your cheek.
“You came,” you whisper.
“Of course I came.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.”
That makes you smile into his sweater. “Dangerous answer.”
“I know.”
Eventually, you end up in bed. Not like that. Well, not yet.
Just curled together under the covers, your bandaged hand resting safely on a pillow, Toto beside you with one arm around your waist and the other hand gently brushing hair away from your face.
It feels absurdly intimate. More intimate than the kiss, somehow. No cameras, no paddock, no schedules, no scooter. Just the two of you in the quiet.
“Does it hurt?” he asks again.
You groan. “Toto.”
“I am serious.”
“I know. That’s the problem.”
“Answer.”
“A little. Less than before.”
He reaches for the water. “Drink.”
You stare at him. He looks very pleased.
“You are enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
“This is revenge.”
“This is care.”
“This is dictatorship.”
“This is Mercedes,” he says.
You laugh, and his face softens like he has been waiting for that sound all day.
“There it is,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“My favorite sound.”
Your cheeks warm. “Oh, shut up.”
“No.”
“You’re unbearable when you’re romantic.”
“I am only beginning.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“It is a promise.”
Your heart does something stupid and happy. You settle closer, your head on his chest. His fingers trace slow, soothing lines along your arm.
For a moment, everything is quiet. Then you whisper, “Are we really doing this?”
His hand pauses. “Yes,” he says. “But carefully.”
“Secretly.”
“For now.”
“Professionally.”
“In public.”
You lift your head. “And privately?”
His eyes meet yours. “Privately, I am yours.”
Oh. That is rude. Completely unfair. You stare at him. “You cannot just say things like that while I’m injured.”
“Why?”
“My defenses are weak.”
His smile turns soft. “Good.”
You laugh again and hide your face against him.
He kisses the top of your head. Slow and tender. Like he has all the time in the world. And for the first time in days, your body finally relaxes. Just happiness. Quiet and warm and terrifyingly real.
“You know,” you murmur, “if anyone finds out you snuck into my room, Bradley will need medical attention.”
“Bradley already suspects.”
“Susie knows.”
“Susie always knows.”
“Kimi will figure it out if there are snacks involved.”
“Then we hide the snacks.”
“And George?”
Toto considers this. “George will look concerned.”
You laugh into his chest. Toto holds you closer. After a while, your eyelids grow heavy.
His hand keeps moving slowly over your back. “Sleep,” he murmurs.
“I don’t want to.”
“Why?”
You look up at him, sleepy and honest. “Because I’m happy you’re here.”
His expression changes. It's soft, deep, almost wounded by tenderness.
“I am happy too,” he whispers.
You smile. “Even without the scooter?”
He sighs dramatically. “For you, I make sacrifices.”
“My hero.”
“Your very obedient hero.”
“Finally.”
He kisses you then. Softly, but still carefully. A quiet kiss in the dark, with his hand gentle at your cheek and your heart no longer trying to escape.
This time, you do not run. You simply curl into him afterward, your good hand resting over his chest. His arms tighten around you. And as you drift toward sleep, warm and safe and ridiculously happy, you realize something very important.
Keeping Toto Wolff alive was still your job. But now? He had decided keeping you safe was his.
*
In the early morning, you wake slowly, warm and soft beneath the sheets, only to realize Toto is already awake.
He isn’t moving. He’s just watching you. And God, the look in his eyes should honestly be illegal before coffee. It's tender, warm, almost devastatingly soft, like sometime during the night he forgot every meeting, every sponsor, every responsibility beyond the fact that you are here, with him, wrapped in sheets, your hair a mess, your breathing still sleepy.
For a second, you just stare at each other. Then your voice comes out quiet, rough with sleep. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
His hand lifts immediately, fingertips brushing a loose strand of hair from your face with such infuriating gentleness your heart nearly gives up on the spot.
“Because,” he says softly, “I woke up before you… and then I couldn’t stop.”
Your entire body melts a little. Which is deeply inconvenient.
“You are very dangerous in the morning,” you mumble.
A slow smile curves his lips. “And you,” he murmurs, leaning closer, “are very beautiful when you forget to be terrifying.”
You roll your eyes, but it lacks any real force because his mouth is suddenly there — brushing yours slowly, gently, like he has nowhere else to be.
The kiss is soft at first. Sleepy, tender. It feels like warmth spreading through your entire body.
And then… not so sleepy. Because Toto, unfortunately for your dignity, seems to notice immediately how quickly you melt beneath him. How your breath catches. How your body softens. How one quiet kiss from him turns your brain into complete static.
His hand slides slowly down your side, deliberate, giving you every chance to stop him.
You don’t. Absolutely not. Instead, you make the kind of tiny sound against his mouth that seems to do something dangerous to him.
His exhale is deeper now. Warmer. And suddenly, his kisses are no longer just tender. Still gentle, still patient, but hungrier.
“Toto…” you whisper.
“Mm?”
“That is very unfair.”
His mouth trails to your jaw. “What is?”
“You know exactly what you’re doing.”
His low chuckle against your skin is devastating. “Yes,” he admits.
Oh. Arrogant man.
Your fingers barely have time to tighten in the sheets before he starts kissing lower, slow and deliberate, down your neck, across your collarbone, while his hands carefully, begin pushing your pajama top higher. It's not rushed. Like he wants to savor every second. Every reaction. Every breathless little sound.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmurs against your skin.
You should probably appreciate how respectful that is. Instead, your sleep-soft brain simply goes: Absolutely not.
So what actually comes out is, “Don’t you dare.”
Toto’s laugh is soft, pleased… and deeply male in a way that sends heat straight through you.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
Your soul nearly leaves your body.
Slowly, he lifts your top over your head, his gaze dragging over you with such open admiration it makes your face heat.
“Beautiful,” he says quietly. And then he kisses lower.
Your breath catches sharply the moment his mouth reaches your breast.
“Toto—”
His answer is not verbal. Because apparently this man believes communication can happen through devastatingly skilled mouthwork.
His lips close around one sensitive nipple slowly, deliberately, sucking just enough to make your entire back arch.
“Oh God—”
Your hand flies straight into his hair. Your fingers tighten, and Toto actually makes a low sound of satisfaction against your skin. Like he enjoys that. Like he enjoys you falling apart.
His tongue teases, circles, then his teeth graze just enough to make you gasp.
Your hips shift helplessly. And somehow, that only encourages him.
“Toto…” you breathe, barely coherent now.
He lifts his head just enough to look at you. Brown eyes dark. Focused and entirely too pleased.
“You’re so responsive,” he murmurs.
This should embarrass you. It does not. Mostly because his hand is already sliding lower, pushing your pajama bottoms down your legs with slow, infuriating patience.
By the time he settles between your thighs, your breathing is already ruined.
“Still with me?” he asks softly.
You stare down at him. At this absurdly handsome, emotionally dangerous man between your legs asking for consent like he hasn’t already dismantled your nervous system.
“Yes,” you say immediately.
His smile is pure sin. “Good.”
And then — Oh. Oh, no. Because Toto Wolff, team principal, your boss, menace to your sanity… apparently knows exactly what he’s doing here too.
His fingers part you slowly, carefully, like he’s learning something precious.
Your body jolts when his thumb brushes your clit.
“Toto—”
“Sensitive?” he asks, voice low.
“Yes—”
“Good.”
You do not even have time to process that smug response before his mouth is on you. And then coherent thought simply… dies.
Your entire body jerks. “Oh my God, Toto—”
His hands hold you steady instantly, firm on your thighs, while his tongue moves with devastating precision. Slow enough to make you feel everything. Thorough enough to make it impossible to think.
Your healthy hand tangles tighter in his hair, and the sound he makes — that deep, pleased hum — vibrates through you so intensely you nearly see stars immediately.
“Please—”
He does not stop. If anything, he becomes more focused. More deliberate. Like your pleasure is not just important to him. It is his entire mission.
Your hips move on their own, chasing, trembling.
“Toto— oh God—”
“That’s it,” he murmurs against you, voice rough and warm and impossibly intimate. “You’re so beautiful.”
Your thighs shake. He keeps going.
“Good girl.”
Your breath breaks.
“My girl.”
And that... that is what destroys you. The orgasm hits hard. Long. Rolling. Wave after wave that Toto somehow drags out with unbearable skill, refusing to rush, refusing to let you come down too quickly, like he is determined to keep you there as long as possible.
Your back arches. Your mouth opens in a completely shameless cry. Your fingers pull helplessly at his hair.
And Toto — God. Toto looks entirely too satisfied with himself while your entire body falls apart under his mouth.
You genuinely do see stars. Your legs tremble. Your breathing is wrecked. And still, he keeps you floating there just a little longer, drawing every last shiver from you until you are completely, utterly undone.
By the time he finally lifts his head, you are a boneless, gasping disaster. A very happy disaster.
Toto kisses the inside of your thigh once, slow and affectionate, before looking up at you.
His hair is a mess. Your fault. His mouth is devastating. Also your fault, probably.
And his expression? Pure male satisfaction.
“How,” you whisper breathlessly, “are you a real person?”
His laugh is low, warm, and unbearably smug as he crawls back up your body.
“Careful,” he murmurs, kissing you slowly, letting you taste exactly what he’s done to you. “Or I’ll start thinking my survival program is working a little too well.”
Then you feel it. His erection, hard and unmistakable, pressed against your thigh.
And... oh. Your breath catches. Because suddenly, despite the fact that Toto has already completely ruined your ability to think like a functional human being this morning, you realize something deeply satisfying.
You did that. The thought alone sends another pulse of heat straight through you.
Your hand slides down before you can overthink it, fingers brushing over him through his pants, and the second you wrap your hand around him, Toto groans. Quiet and low.
The sound alone nearly destroys your remaining self-control. And maybe it should terrify you how much satisfaction floods through you at being the reason Toto Wolff — composed, terrifying, hyper-controlled Toto Wolff — sounds like that.
But honestly? You are far too gone to care.
His head falls back slightly against the pillow, his breathing already heavier, and that alone gives you just enough confidence to gently push at his chest.
He blinks, surprised, but very willing.
“Lie back,” you murmur.
That damn eyebrow lifts. God, even now.
“Bossy.”
“You started this.”
His smile is sinful. “Did I?”
You do not dignify that with an answer. Instead, you push him properly onto his back, and before this maddening man can say another smug thing, you slide lower.
His breath catches immediately. And when your fingers finally free him... oh. For one completely overwhelming second, all coherent thought leaves your body. Because Toto is... large. Very large.
Which should probably concern you more than it does. Instead, it mostly makes you wetter. A deeply reckless personal failure.
“Toto,” you whisper, and the sound of his name on your lips like that seems to affect him almost as much as the sight of you between his thighs.
His hand twitches against the sheets. “You do not have to—”
But then you lick slowly over the tip, and Toto stops speaking entirely. Excellent.
A quiet, wrecked sound leaves him, and the sheer power of it sends a pulse of satisfaction straight through you. Because this man — this powerful, controlled, impossible man — is unraveling. And you are the reason.
Your tongue moves slowly, teasing, learning, savoring, and when you glance up… God. That view.
Toto is watching you through half-lidded eyes, his jaw tight, his breathing uneven, every inch of him looking dangerously close to losing that famous control.
His hand moves to your hair. Not pushing, never forcing, just there. Holding. Like he needs contact or he might actually combust.
“You are…” he starts, then exhales shakily when you take him deeper. “Oh, fuck.”
The praise that burns in your chest at that sound should honestly be studied.
Slowly, you move, your mouth working over him while your eyes stay on his, and the effect that has on him is almost unfair.
This man, who commands teams, controls races, terrifies executives, is falling apart beneath you.
His head tips back. His chest rises harder. His fingers tighten. And when a genuinely helpless sound escapes him? Oh, you could absolutely become addicted to this.
But then... no. Because suddenly, you need something else more. Need him differently. Need him inside you now.
So before Toto can fully lose himself, you stop. His eyes open immediately, dazed and wrecked and already protesting. “Why did you—”
You do not answer. You simply move. Climbing back up his body. And then, you settle over him.
His hands land instantly on your hips, firm, warm, possessive. His breath catches. “Are you sure?”
The fact that he asks, even now, nearly breaks your heart.
“Yes,” you whisper. “I need you.”
That does something to him. You feel it. Every inch of him.
His hands flex harder. And slowly— God, so slowly— you guide him.
The first press of him against you makes you both groan.
“Oh—”
“Toto—”
And then you begin to sink. Slowly. Carefully. Centimeter by centimeter.
Your breath stutters. Because he is so much. Stretching. Filling. Your entire body trembling around the sensation of taking him deeper and deeper until coherent thought becomes almost impossible.
“Toto…”
His head falls back, jaw tight, his voice rough and wrecked. “Fuck… you feel…”
He cannot even finish. Which, honestly, is deeply flattering.
His hands grip your hips tighter, helping steady you as you finally take him fully.
And when you are finally there, completely seated. Completely full. Both of you just… stop. Because oh. Oh, God. Your lungs forget how to function. His mouth finds your breast almost immediately, like he physically cannot help himself.
And the combination. His mouth. His tongue. His lips around your sensitive nipple. And him buried completely inside you — It is too much. In the absolute best way.
Your head falls back with a helpless cry. “Oh my God—”
“That’s it,” Toto murmurs against your skin, his voice wrecked. “Beautiful girl…”
Then you move. And apparently, so does the entire universe. Because the second your hips begin to roll, slow, deep.
Toto groans like a man seeing God. His mouth leaves your breast only long enough for him to look at you, and the expression on his face, pure admiration. Pure hunger. Pure disbelief.
Like he cannot quite believe this is real. Like he cannot believe you are real.
Your hands brace against his chest as you ride him properly now, your body finding rhythm, your breathing ruined almost immediately.
And Toto, oh God. Toto meets you. His hips rising instinctively, perfectly, matching your movements in a way that feels devastatingly good.
The room fills with sound. Your breath. His groans. Skin against skin. The quiet, shameless sounds falling from your lips every time he fills you just right.
And then, you glance sideways. The mirror. Oh. Your entire body nearly shorts out. Because there, you can see everything. You. Riding your boss. Your body moving over his. His hands gripping your hips. His mouth on your breasts. The sight of him disappearing inside you over and over.
Your breath catches so hard it almost becomes another moan.
Toto notices immediately. His hand slides to your chin, gently turning your face back toward him. “Stay with me.”
And somehow, that makes it worse or better. Maybe both.
You move faster. You cannot help it. Your breasts bounce with every movement, and Toto looks genuinely hypnotized by it, his hands sliding lower now, gripping your ass, kneading gently, guiding you harder.
“Fuck,” he groans, watching you. “Look at you…”
Your name on his lips sounds like worship.
Then his hand moves, between you. His fingers find your clit. And, you break. Completely.
Your entire body jolts. “Toto!”
“I know,” he says, voice rough and devastatingly calm for a man currently being ruined. “Come for me.”
That command, that praise, that touch. Your orgasm crashes through you so hard you nearly collapse.
Your whole body spasms, your cries loud and completely shameless as pleasure tears through you in waves.
And Toto, the way you clench around him pushes him dangerously close too. You feel it. The way he swells. The way his control snaps.
“Fuck— I’m close—”
His voice is strained now. Warning. Real warning.
“No condom—”
And your brain, completely gone, somehow still manages one thing. “Yes,” you gasp. “Come inside me— I have an IUD—”
That is all it takes. Every remaining restraint in him shatters.
His hands lock on you. His head falls back. And Toto comes hard. With a groan so deep, so wrecked, so utterly sinful it nearly triggers another wave through you all over again.
You feel him pulse inside you. Feel the heat. Feel every trembling aftershock as he fills you completely. And somehow, that only prolongs everything. Your own orgasm flares again, sharp and overwhelming, dragging another helpless cry from you as you both completely fall apart together.
For a long moment, neither of you can breathe properly. You finally collapse forward, exhausted, trembling, boneless and utterly blissed out, landing against his chest.
Toto’s arms come around you instantly. Protective, possessive but tender.
His chest heaves beneath your cheek. Your entire body feels molten.
And then Toto presses a slow, tender kiss to your hair. Followed by his wrecked, breathless voice. “Good God.”
You laugh weakly against him. “That good?”
His chest shakes beneath you. Then his hand slides slowly up your back, and his voice, still completely ruined, murmurs against your temple, “Schatz…”
His kiss is softer this time. Almost emotional.
“You may actually kill me.”
And honestly? Judging by the way you are both shaking… That seems entirely possible.
You lie on top of him for a long moment, both of you barely breathing. Because everything is too much. Too warm, too real. Too intimate for a hotel room in the middle of a race weekend, where technically you are still supposed to be his assistant and not a woman currently melted across his chest like she has lost all professional structure.
Toto’s arms stay around you. Firm and careful.
One hand moves slowly over your back. The other avoids your injured hand with almost ridiculous precision, because apparently even after sex, part of him is still monitoring your medical status.
The man could be half-dead and still ask whether you had enough water.
His chest rises beneath your cheek. Fast. Not calm at all.
That surprises you. Toto Wolff, terrifying team principal, walking strategy weapon, is lying beneath you with his heart racing like yours.
Then his voice comes, low and rough near your ear. “Are you okay?”
You close your eyes. There it is. That tenderness again.
You lift your head enough to look at him. His hair is a mess, his eyes dark and warm, searching your face like he is trying to read every tiny shift before you can hide it.
“I think so,” you whisper.
His brows pull together. “You think?”
“Toto, my brain is currently somewhere near the ceiling.”
“That does not answer the question.”
“Of course it doesn’t. You destroyed my ability to answer questions.”
He laughs, low and tired.
Your face heats. “Don’t look so proud.”
“I am not proud.”
“You look like Mercedes just won a double championship.”
His smile deepens. “That good?”
You groan and hide your face against his neck.
“No comment.”
His arms tighten slightly. “Schatz,” he murmurs, softer now. “Really. Are you okay?”
That shift in his voice makes your heart squeeze.
“Yes,” you whisper. “I’m okay.”
“Nothing hurts?”
“My hand is fine.”
“I was not only asking about your hand.”
Oh. Because of course he means everything. Your body. Your heart. Your head. This new, secret, risky thing between you.
You soften. “No,” you say quietly. “Nothing hurts.”
“Good.”
You bite your lip. “I mean… I may never walk normally again, but emotionally, I’m thriving.”
Toto stares at you. Then he laughs warmly. “There she is.”
You smile despite yourself. “What?”
“My girl with the terrible jokes.”
Your heart stumbles.
My girl.
Still dangerous, still unfair. Still enough to make something tender bloom inside your chest.
“You can’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m fragile now.”
“You were very bossy ten minutes ago.”
“That was before you rearranged my nervous system.”
His mouth twitches. “Noted.”
“Do not put that in your internal performance review.”
“Too late.”
“Toto.”
“Yes, boss?”
You narrow your eyes. “Careful.”
But your voice is soft, and he notices. His hand brushes your cheek.
“You are beautiful,” he says quietly.
You go still. After everything, after the heat, after the way he held you like he was afraid you might disappear, those words hit harder than they should.
“Toto…”
“I know,” he murmurs. “It’s complicated.”
You let out a small, tired laugh. “You skipped my entire speech.”
“It was very predictable.”
“And Bradley?”
“He already has a hypothetical crisis plan.”
You bury your face in his chest. “Of course he does.”
Toto chuckles and kisses your hair.
For a while, neither of you moves. His arm stays around you, warm and careful, his hand avoiding your injured one with ridiculous precision.
Then he shifts.
“What are you doing?” you ask.
“Taking care of you.”
“You say that far too responsibly.”
His mouth twitches. “Would you prefer irresponsibly?”
You look at him properly then. His hair is still messy, his breathing still uneven, his hand lingering on your waist like letting go is difficult.
Oh.
“You’re not calm,” you whisper.
“No,” he says softly. “I am not.”
That makes something inside you melt.
He gets water, helps you clean up, checks your hand, and pulls the blanket over both of you when he comes back to bed.
“Drink.”
You take the glass from him with a suspicious look. “You really turned this into mutual survival management.”
“Yes.”
“I created a monster.”
His mouth twitches. “You did.”
You take a small sip, still watching him over the rim of the glass. “You’re abusing boyfriend privileges already.”
Toto goes still. So do you. The room turns very quiet.
Your face heats immediately. “I mean—”
“No,” he says softly.
You look at him. His expression has changed completely. Softer. Warmer. Almost careful.
“Say it again.”
Your heart does something stupid. “Toto…”
“Please.”
You swallow, suddenly shy. “Boyfriend.”
His smile comes slowly, like the word has landed somewhere deep.
“I like that.”
You look down, embarrassed and happy in a way that feels almost ridiculous. “Good.”
His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “Girlfriend,” he says, and your heart nearly gives up completely.
“That sounds terrifying.”
“In a bad way?”
You tuck yourself closer to him. “In a very nice way.”
His lips brush your hair. “We will get used to it.”
“Secretly.”
“For now.”
“For now,” he agrees.
You lie there in the soft blue light of early morning, tangled under the sheets, with the world waiting outside. The paddock. The meetings. Bradley’s crisis plan. Susie’s knowing looks. Kimi and snacks. George looking concerned on principle.
You sigh.
“What is it?” Toto asks.
“You have to leave soon.”
“I know.”
“If someone sees you…”
“I know.”
“I don’t want this to become a scandal.”
His fingers brush your cheek. “I will protect you from it.”
Your throat tightens. “That’s the problem.”
“Why?”
“Because you say things like that, and then I want to believe everything will be fine.”
His eyes soften. “Maybe not fine all the time,” he says. “But handled.”
You laugh weakly. “That is such a team principal answer.”
“It is a good answer.”
“It is a very Toto answer.”
“You like those.”
“Unfortunately.”
He smiles and pulls you closer.
“I don’t know how to act today,” you whisper.
“At work?”
“Yes.”
“Professional.”
You lift your head. “That’s your advice?”
“In public,” he adds. “Professional.”
“And in private?”
His hand settles gently at your waist. “In private, you let me take care of you.”
Your heart does something stupid and soft. “That sounds dangerous.”
“It is.”
“Toto.”
“Yes, boss?”
You narrow your eyes at him. “No kissing at work.”
His silence is deeply suspicious.
“Toto.”
“I was considering emergency exceptions.”
“What kissing emergency could possibly exist?”
“You looking sad.”
“That is not an emergency.”
“It is to me.”
You stare at him. “That was manipulative.”
“That was romantic.”
“That was both.”
He smiles, completely unrepentant.
“No obvious touching,” you continue.
“Agreed.”
“No looking at me during meetings like you want to carry me away.”
“That will be difficult.”
“Toto.”
“I said difficult, not impossible.”
“No scooter.”
He sighs like a man being persecuted. “No scooter.”
“And you tell me when you’re tired,” he says. “Or in pain. Or overwhelmed.”
“That sounds awful.”
“That is the rule.”
“You are enjoying this far too much.”
His mouth twitches. “I am taking my new responsibilities seriously.”
“You have had them for five minutes.”
“And yet I am already excellent.”
You roll your eyes. “Unbearable.”
His face softens, warmth replacing the smugness. “Maybe,” he says. “But you started The Survival Program.”
You rest your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
“Yes,” you whisper. “And somehow you became part of it.”
His arms tighten around you.
Outside, morning keeps coming. Soon, he will have to leave. Soon, you will have to become his assistant again, polished and calm and normal.
For now, though, he is warm beside you. Yours. Secretly. Carefully. Terrifyingly.
And when he kisses your forehead, slow and tender, you finally let yourself believe it.
The Toto Wolff Survival Program has officially expanded. Keeping him alive is still your job.
