Strawberry Vampire Episode 2 is complete! AVAILABLE NOW ON YOUTUBE! 🍓🦇
Hi everyone! Thanks to the community for successfully funding the Kickstarter, Emily and here team were able to complete Episode 2: "Bat Franny"!
Watch it below on YouTube! If you like it, leave a like and comment to show your support, and share it with others! 💕🥰
Personally, I enjoy the plot in this episode even better compared to Episode 1 (which I still really like)! We get to see another layer of Franny's struggle: she experiences her first transformation into "bat form"! And while it is super adorable, Franny herself is horrified and tries to control it / hide it from the school to avoid being different.
The Kickstarter finished on April 20th, and the episode was released a couple days ago (mid-August). The reason why they were able to turn around this episode so quickly is because this is technically an animatic. In case you don't know, that means the episode is not fully animated but rather has storyboard frames instead. Less frames to draw = faster release time!
This isn't the typical storyboarding you might be thinking of. There are many frames changes (sometimes every second) across each scene to show every little movement and facial expression. The timing of the frames feel so natural, it almost makes you forget that you're watching something that isn't fully animated.
Additionally, this episode has fully finished voice acting, sound effects, and music like Episode 1! The song that Franny sings, "Different" is very sweet and heartfelt. I think Emily and her team did a fantastic job on delivering a quality viewing experience!
Okay, gushing is over! If you've read through all this, thank you for reading. Hope you enjoy watching the new episode! To sign off, here are some frames from the new episode below. 😊
Summary: Lando Norris was thirteen when she used to help him with his homework. Y/N was just three years older, but back then it felt like a lifetime. She was untouchable, his parents’ favorite, the girl who always left before he could find the courage to say more than “thanks.”
What he never told anyone, not even her, was that he had the softest, childlike crush on her. The kind that never really went away.
When she came back into his life, he’s 25. She's 28. They are both adults. The age gap doesn’t seem so impossible anymore, but nothing is simple. Especially not when his older brother is suddenly in the picture too.
Genre : angst and fluff
World count : 8,4k
Series Masterlist
Author note : First part of this new series, hope you will like it :) This one is for forgetting the result of the Las Vegas race and the disqualifying of both papaya cars...
Age 13 & 16 :
Lando was sulking at his kitchen table, his arms were folded over his chest, chin tucked into his hoodie, eyes fixed on the math workbook in front of him like it had personally offended him. The numbers swam. The pencil felt heavy. His trophy from the weekend still sat on the sideboard behind him, gleaming in the late afternoon light.
He’d rather be with that than with fractions.
Lando had won the world championship in karting and still couldn’t sit still for ten seconds.
He bounced his leg under the kitchen table hard enough to make the pencil vibrate. The workbook in front of him lay open on a page of fractions he’d already decided he hated, numbers blurring together into one long, smug line.
“Lando, stop kicking,” Cisca, his mom, said from the stove, not even turning around. “You’re shaking the whole table.”
“I’m not,” he muttered automatically, even as he dragged his heel back under his chair.
“You are,” she replied. “And we’ve been over this page three times.”
“I don’t get it,” he snapped, quieter than he wanted. “It’s stupid.”
She sighed, tired in a way he recognised lately. “The fractions aren’t stupid. You’re tired. You’ve had a long week. We’ll wait for Y/N and then try again, okay?”
His chest pulled tight.
He pretended to flick dust from the corner of his worksheet. “She’s really coming?”
“Yes, she’s really coming.” Now she did turn around, wiping her hands on a towel. “She finished her own classes and said she’d be here by four.”
“It’s already four,” he pointed out.
“It’s three fifty-eight.”
“Same thing.”
She gave him a look that said don’t start and he dropped his eyes back to the page.
In his head, he tried to remember the last time he’d seen Y/N properly.
She used to live a few houses down. Used to babysit his younger sisters sometimes. Once or twice, she’d been the one to walk him home when he was younger and scraped his knee or had to leave the park early. He remembered her voice more than anything, teasing but not mean, soft when he cried, never talking to him like he was five.
Then everything had gotten busier.
Karting, flights, races, tutoring that didn’t stick, online classes he ignored. His parents had started snapping at each other more, his sisters get older, Oliver gone most of the time. The house felt full and crowded and somehow still like no one had time to sit at the table with him and make the numbers make sense.
So they’d called her.
The doorbell rang and Lando’s leg stopped bouncing on its own.
“I’ll get it,” Cisca said, smoothing her hair as she left the kitchen.
He heard the door open. Voices in the hallway.
“Hi, Mrs Norris.”
Her voice was the same. Older, maybe, but the same.
“Y/N! Come in, darling. Shoes off, you know the rules.”
There was a small laugh. “Wouldn’t dare break them.”
Lando stared so hard at his workbook his eyes hurt.
He heard footsteps, then she appeared in the doorway.
The first thing he noticed was that she looked… taller. It confused him for a second. Her school blazer hung open over her shirt, her tie was already loosened like she’d yanked it down the second she left the building. Her bag strap dug into her shoulder, heavy with books. Her hair was pulled back, but pieces had escaped to frame her face. There was blue ink smudged along the side of her hand.
She smiled when she saw him, easy and bright.
“Hey Lando,” she said.
His cheeks burned. “Hi.”
Cisca clapped her hands lightly. “Thank you for coming, really. He’s been… a handful.”
“I’m not,” Lando muttered.
“You are,” she and his mum said at the same time, and to his horror, Y/N grinned.
“It’s fine,” she replied. “I’ve survived worse. Year elevens are feral.”
She walked over and dropped her bag on the chair beside him, not across from him like a teacher would. Already different.
“Okay,” she said, sliding into the seat and pulling his workbook closer. “What are we looking at?”
“Fractions,” his mum said dramatically, like she was announcing a villain. “He hates them.”
“Hate is a strong word,” Y/N said.
“I hate them,” Lando confirmed.
She snorted. “Alright then. Challenge accepted.”
Cisca placed a plate of biscuits on the table. “I’ll leave you to it. Lando, be nice. Y/N, if he gives you trouble, you have my permission to throw a biscuit at him.”
“Got it,” Y/N said, saluting.
When his mum left, the kitchen went quieter. Lando stared at the underlines in his workbook, feeling suddenly very aware of his own breathing.
“So,” Y/N said, leaning on her elbows. “How much do you actually understand here, and how much are you pretending not to?”
He blinked. “I’m not pretending.”
“Okay,” she said easily. “Then show me where it stops making sense. I’m not gonna tell your mum if it’s everything.”
No one had said that to him before. Every other adult had a tone: disappointed, impatient, too bright. Y/N just sounded like… someone older talking to someone slightly younger. Not a small child. Not a problem.
He pointed at the middle of the page, heat creeping up his neck. “Here. When they start doing… that thing. With… the lines. And the numbers change.”
“The thing with the lines. Very technical,” she said, mouth twitching. “Alright. So you get this part?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes.”
“What do you get about it?”
He hesitated. “You, like… make the bottom numbers match?”
“There we go,” she said. “See? Not hopeless.”
He blinked again.
She pulled his workbook toward her and tore a sheet of paper from her own notebook, rewriting the first problem in bigger, clearer numbers.
“These books suck,” she said. “Everything’s tiny. No one’s brain wants to look at that after a race weekend.”
“Everyone says I’m just lazy,” he muttered.
“Well, everyone’s wrong,” she said simply. “You’re tired. And you’ve got a lot going on. So we make it easier to look at first, yeah?”
He nodded before he could stop himself.
They went through the question slowly. She didn’t rush him. Every time he answered, she let him finish instead of finishing the sentence for him. When he got something wrong, she didn’t sigh or tell him to “focus”; she just circled it and said, “Okay, cool, now tell me what you were thinking here.”
Sometimes she swore under her breath at the layout of the book. It made him snort, then pretend he hadn’t.
He caught himself watching the way she chewed the inside of her cheek when she was concentrating. The way her handwriting slanted slightly up at the end of words. The pen twirling between her fingers when she waited for him to answer.
It wasn’t like the boys at karting talked about girls. They talked about engines, about corners, about who’d crashed in the dumbest way that weekend. Girls were just… there. Sisters, cousins, people in the background.
Y/N didn’t feel like that.
By the time Cisca peeked back in, they were both hunched over the workbook, Y/N drawing little kart track diagrams in the margins to explain common denominators.
“So this is your lap,” she was saying. “And this is the other guy’s lap. You wanna be on the same bit of track to compare times, yeah? So you line them up. That’s all you’re doing with the fractions.”
“Ohhh,” Lando muttered, the penny finally dropping. “Why didn’t they just say that?”
Cisca’s eyes widened a little. “You’re still working? I thought he’d have given up by now.”
Y/N leaned back, stretching her arms above her head. “He’s killing it. We’re making peace with the fractions.”
Cisca smiled, a little surprised. “Well… that’s more than we got out of you yesterday.”
Lando shrugged, suddenly shy under both their gazes. “It’s… not that bad.”
“High praise,” Y/N said, grinning.
They wrapped up not long after. Y/N closed his workbook with a little thump and pushed it toward him. “You did good, Norris.”
He picked at the edge of the cover. “It’s just maths.”
“It’s also focus,” she said. “You were here the whole time. That’s harder.”
He didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything. His chest felt weird again. Tight but not in a bad way.
Y/N slung her bag over her shoulder. “Alright, I’ve gotta go finish my own homework before my mum hunts me down. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” he repeated.
She looked at Cisca. “Same time okay with you?”
“Yes, please,” Cisca said immediately. “If you’re sure you don’t mind. We can pay a bit more if...”
“It’s fine,” Y/N cut in. “I like it. He’s… fun.”
Lando’s ears burned.
She turned back to him. “You okay with another round tomorrow? Or have I traumatised you too much already?”
He shook his head. “No, it’s… it’s fine. You can… come back. If you want.”
“I will then,” she said simply. “See you, champ.”
He watched her leave. Listened to the door click shut. The house seemed quieter, but not as heavy as usual. The numbers on the page didn’t look like a foreign language anymore, just a language he hadn’t fully learned yet.
Cisca started stacking plates in the sink. “So? What did you think?”
He pretended to shrug, heart beating a little faster. “She’s… okay.”
“Just okay?” his mum asked, amused.
He hesitated. “She… doesn’t talk to me like I’m stupid.”
Something in her face softened. “You’re not stupid.”
“I know,” he said quickly, because he did know… mostly. “She just… she’s different. She’s… cool.”
Cisca dried her hands. “Well, if it works, it works. We’ll see how long we can keep this going. She has her own exams, you know.”
Lando nodded, trying not to look as disappointed as he felt at the idea of that ending.
He looked at the workbook again. At the neat numbers, the stupid track drawings in the margins.
“Can we do maths again tomorrow?” he asked suddenly.
His mum paused. “Maths?”
“Yeah.” He tried to sound casual. “If she’s coming anyway, we should do more. Before I forget.”
Cisca actually laughed. “Who are you and what have you done with my son?”
He rolled his eyes and reached for his pencil, but inside, something uncurled slightly.
He was still too young to care about girls the way Oliver did. He didn’t have posters of anyone on his wall except drivers and cars. But he knew he liked the way Y/N talked to him. The way she made his brain feel less wrong. The way the afternoon didn’t drag when she was there.
He didn’t have a word for it yet.
He just knew that for the first time, he was actually looking forward to a maths lesson.
Age 15 & 18 :
Sunday night smelled like takeout and rain.
The race was still in his bones, engine noise echoing in his ears, phantom vibration buzzing under his skin, but the house was quiet in that post-weekend way. His suit was dumped somewhere in his room, his bag half-unpacked. His trophy for P2 sat on the sideboard next to the old karting ones, a newer, sleeker shape.
Lando sat at the dining table in a hoodie and joggers, knees bouncing, staring at the laptop screen that refused to make sense.
Physics worksheet. Email from his online tutor. A list of assignments he was technically meant to finish before next Friday, which was hilarious considering he’d be on a plane by Wednesday and hadn’t even unpacked from this trip yet.
He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.
“Don’t you dare fall asleep,” his mum warned from the kitchen. “She’s coming straight from school as it is.”
“I’m not sleeping,” he muttered.
“You look like you’re sleeping.”
“I’m reading,” he said, squinting harder at the screen. The words still blurred.
He wasn’t sure this counted as reading.
He heard the front door open. Voices. The familiar shuffle of shoes.
“Hi, Mrs Norris. Sorry, bus was a nightmare.”
His chest did that stupid little pull it always did now.
“In the dining room,” Cisca called.
Y/N appeared in the doorway a second later, hair damp from the drizzle outside, blazer unbuttoned, tie hanging loose around her neck. Her school bag looked even heavier than usual, a tube for drawings slung over her shoulder, sketchbook tucked under one arm.
“Wow,” she said, dropping her bag on a chair. “Look at Mr F3, pretending he does homework.”
He tried not to smile. Failed. “I do do homework.”
“Sure you do,” she said, shrugging off her blazer. “Between flights and podiums and photoshoots.”
He looked away quickly so she wouldn’t see the way his ears went hot when she said it like that. Mr F3. Like it meant something.
“Hi,” he said, because his brain suddenly couldn’t come up with anything else.
“Hi,” she echoed, smiling, and that stupid little pull in his chest got worse.
She rolled her sleeves up to her elbows, revealing ink-smudged wrists and a thin bracelet he’d never seen before. He caught himself staring at it, wondering who’d given it to her, and snapped his gaze back to the laptop.
“So,” she said, dropping into the chair beside him, not across from him. Always beside. “What’s on the menu? Physics? English? Existential dread?”
“Physics,” he muttered. “And… the last one.”
She snorted. “Relatable.”
His mum drifted in with a mug of tea and a plate of leftover noodles. “Here,” she said, setting them down. “Food. Tea. Y/N, you’re an angel. If he were in normal school, I think they’d have expelled him by now.”
“I’m very charming,” Lando protested, even as he dug his fork into the noodles.
She laughed, and the sound nudged something warm under his ribs.
It was… weird.
Now she was eighteen, in her last year of highschool, buried in university applications and portfolios. He was fifteen, in F3, his life a blur of flights and simulators and interviews and tutors he never saw twice.
They still ended up here, though. Sunday nights in his dining room, bleary from travel and school, trying to cram a week’s worth of schoolwork into a couple of hours before the next race swallowed him again.
She leaned in, shoulder brushing his as she pointed at the diagram on the screen. “So. You’ve got your angle, your initial velocity. What do you do first?”
He tried to focus on the problem. Really, he did. Not on how close she was. Not on the faint smell of her shampoo, something citrusy and clean. Not on the way her hair had slipped from its ponytail and a strand was resting against his arm.
“Um,” he said intelligently. “You… split it? Into… up and sideways?”
“Components, yeah,” she said. “See? Your brain is intact.”
He worked through the question, mumbling the steps. She didn’t interrupt. Just waited. When he messed up, she didn’t sigh, just nudged him back.
“Check your units,” she said at one point, tapping the screen.
“What?” he asked, blinking.
“You switched from metres per second to kilometres per hour halfway through,” she said.
He groaned. “Stupid.”
“Not stupid,” she corrected, voice firm. “Just tired. You’ve been going since, what, six this morning?”
“Five,” he corrected. “Call time.”
“Exactly,” she said. “Meanwhile, I’ve been staring at my personal statement for so long I’m starting to hate the word ‘architecture.’ We’re allowed to mess up units.”
He snorted. “You’d still get it right.”
“You’re annoying,” she said, poking his arm. “How many times do I have to tell you, you’re not dumb. You just learn fast, and school likes slow.”
He ducked his head, fighting a smile he didn’t want her to see. It felt… too vulnerable.
Something had shifted in the last year.
He’d noticed it first when she’d come over one evening in a dress instead of her usual hoodie and jeans, some school thing she was going to later. His brain had short-circuited so hard he’d forgotten the difference between sine and cosine for a full ten minutes.
Then he’d started noticing everything. The way she tugged at the cuffs of her sleeves when she was nervous. The soft crease that appeared between her brows when she talked about her future like she didn’t quite believe she’d get there. The way her laugh sounded different when it was for him versus when it was for his sisters or his mum.
He’d catch himself staring, eyes lingering a little too long on the curve of her smile, the slope of her neck, the ink stains on her fingers. His gaze clung, heavy, and he’d have to yank it back.
He hated it. And he loved it. And he hated that he loved it.
Because she still treated him like a kid.
“Your hair’s getting long,” she said idly now, mid-question, reaching over to ruffle his curls without warning.
He jolted. “Oi.”
“What?” she asked, amused. “It suits you. You look less like a baby bird.”
“I was never a baby bird.”
“You kind of were,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Big eyes. Messy hair. Constantly falling over.”
“I fall over in a race car,” he said. “It’s different.”
“Sure, sure.” She ruffled again, gentler. “You’re cute, deal with it.”
He swatted her hand away, but his heart was pounding embarrassingly hard.
Cute.
He didn’t want to be cute.
He wanted… he didn’t even know. Something that didn’t make her voice tilt like she was talking about a puppy.
He dragged his attention back to the laptop. “So if it lands after three seconds, then the height is…”
They worked through another set. Time blurred. The clock crept past ten, then ten thirty. The house got quieter. His sisters disappeared upstairs, his mum’s footsteps faded, even Oliver’s music turned down.
He forced his eyes back to the notebook, but her laugh slid under his skin, warm and familiar.
Halfway through the session, her phone buzzed, she ignored it at first, but it kept going.
“Someone’s desperate,” Lando said, trying to sound like he didn’t care.
She huffed and checked it. The corner of her mouth twitched.
“Who is it?” he asked, casual. Too casual.
“Just… Tom,” she said.
“Tom who?” he pressed.
“Boy from school,” she replied. “We’re, uh, going to prom together. Maybe. I don’t know.”
Something sharp and stupid flared in his chest.
“Oh.” He tried to make his voice flat. “Cool.”
“He’s not that cool,” she said quickly. “He just… keeps asking what colour my dress is gonna be so he can match his tie. Which is… sweet? Maybe? I don’t know. Feels weird.”
Lando picked at a crumb on the table. “You’re going with him, though?”
She shrugged, cheeks pink. “I guess. It’s just prom. Not that deep.”
It felt deep. He didn’t know why. He’d never been to a prom. He didn’t even go to normal school anymore. But the idea of her dressed up, dancing with some guy called Tom who got to be there just because he sat in the same classroom as her every day...He shoved that thought away.
“You’d look nice,” he muttered.
She looked up. “What?”
“In… whatever dress,” he said, ears burning. “You’d look nice.”
Her face softened. “That’s sweet, Lando.”
He pretended to be fascinated by his pencil.
“Anyway,” she said, clearing her throat. “Enough about my weird almost-prom. Back to you. Racing going okay?”
He shrugged, grateful for the subject change. “Yeah. I mean. I won last weekend.”
“I saw,” she said. “Your mum sent me the livestream link. You were amazing.”
He tried not to glow under the praise. “I had a good kart.”
“You had good lines,” she corrected. “You always see where to go before everyone else does.”
They ended up on the floor in the living room, sitcom reruns playing in the background while she scribbled building facades in the margin of her notebook and he half-watched, half-listened as she talked about cities she wanted to visit.
“Barcelona,” she said dreamily. “The architecture there… Gaudí… it’s like the whole place is a sketchbook that came to life.”
“You should go,” he said.
“Maybe one day,” she replied. “If I get into the uni I want.”
“You will,” he said, too certain.
She raised an eyebrow. “How do you know?”
“You just… will,” he said, shrugging. “You always see the whole picture. Not just what something is. What it could be.”
She stared at him for a second, something unreadable in her eyes.
Then she smiled, soft. “Thanks.”
He pretended it didn’t make his heart sprint faster than it did on the longest straights.
That night, when she left, he walked her to the door without being asked.
“You’ll… come next week?” he asked, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.
“If you still wants me,” she teased.
“I do,” he blurted, then immediately looked away. “I mean. For… homework. And stuff.”
She bit back a grin. “I’ll be here. Don’t worry.”
He watched her walk down the path, backpack bouncing against her hip, phone lighting up in her hand.
He tried not to think about Tom. And prom. And ties matching dresses.
He didn’t have a name for the twisting feeling in his chest yet.
He only knew that when she was here, everything made more sense.
And when she was gone, it didn’t.
Age 18 & 21 :
By eighteen, Lando had everything he’d ever said he wanted.
Almost.
The email from McLaren was still open on his laptop, the orange logo staring back at him like it knew how badly his hands were shaking.
We’re delighted to confirm your position as reserve driver…
He didn’t read the rest again. He’d already memorised it. The words blurred now, not from speed but from the thousandth reread.
Reserve driver.
McLaren.
He was in.
“Lando!” his mum called from downstairs. “Have you told your grandparents yet?”
“In a minute!” he shouted back, though his voice cracked halfway through.
His phone buzzed non-stop: team notifications, mentions, texts from drivers, emojis from friends, a voice note from Max that just sounded like screaming. He ignored most of it, thumb hovering over one chat that had been dead for months.
Y/N.
Their last messages were buried under everyone else’s. A reaction to a race result. A “Proud of you, kid” she’d sent after he’d won a race. A picture she’d sent once of a building model she’d made, asking, Does this look stupid or kind of cool? and he’d replied Very cool. Obviously.
Nothing recent.
He locked his phone and shut the laptop, heart pounding. He should go downstairs. Celebrate. Be the son his parents had pushed and sacrificed for, the success story everyone kept saying he was.
Instead he sat on the edge of his bed for a second, breathing.
Reserve driver. Probably F1 next year. Full-time racing driver. No more online school, no more tutors, no more “balancing.”
No more excuses.
No more homework.
No more Y/N.
The thought dropped into his chest like a stone.
They’d already drifted. It hadn’t been sudden; it was worse than that. Slow. Gradual. She’d moved to London for uni, just like she’d said she would. First year had been chaos for her: new city, studio projects, late nights. His racing calendar had swallowed him whole with F3, then more testing, more travel, more everything.
Sunday lessons had become Sunday calls. Then Sunday texts. Then just… sometimes. When they both remembered. When one of them wasn’t exhausted or in another time zone.
He’d told himself it was normal. People grow up. Lives split off, like branching lines on a track map.
Still, every now and then in hotel rooms at midnight, in long flights staring at nothing, he’d think of her. Of the way she’d scribbled formulas next to little racetrack doodles. Of her laugh echoing off his kitchen walls. Of her hand in his hair, messing it up like he was something small and breakable.
He still heard her voice in his head sometimes. You’re not dumb. School just likes slow.
She was twenty-one. At uni. In London. Designing impossible buildings and going out with friends and doing all the grown-up city things he only saw on Instagram.
It was stupid, to miss something that never really existed. But it still hurt.
His eighteenth birthday crept up on him in a blur of simulator sessions and press things and people asking if he felt different yet.
He didn’t.
He felt… tired. Busy. Like his whole life was about to turn up a notch and no one had given him the manual.
“Big eighteen,” Oliver said, clapping him on the back one night. “We doing anything? Or are you going to celebrate with a protein shake and an early night?”
“Funny,” Lando said. “I was thinking house party.”
Oliver blinked. “Here?”
“Yeah. Mum and Dad said they’d go to some friends’ place,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Like, give us the house for the night. As long as we don’t burn it down.”
Oliver’s grin turned feral. “My little brother, throwing a proper party. I’m so proud.”
“Don’t be weird about it.”
“I’m going to be very weird about it.”
Somewhere in the middle of planning: group chats exploding, someone making a playlist, people talking about turning the living room into a dance floor and the garden into a smoking area, someone mentioned alcohol.
“Obviously we’ll have drinks,” one of his mates said. “You’re eighteen, mate. Legal now. It’s basically mandatory.”
He pretended not to hesitate.
They got beer. Some cheap vodka. Someone’s older brother promised to bring something stronger. Girls from his old school were added to the invite list, people who’d never really talked to him before he started showing up on TV, now suddenly sliding into his DMs with, Heard you’re doing F1 stuff, that’s sick.
It made his stomach twist, but he didn’t stop it.
Being a racing driver helped with girls, apparently. Even if the confidence part of his brain hadn’t quite caught up.
Late one night, while Oliver argued with someone about playlists over the phone, Lando lay on his bed, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the search bar.
He typed her name.
It popped up after three letters.
Her profile picture was different now. Not the one he remembered from before. This one was at night, fairy lights blurred in the background, her in a black dress, shoulder bare, eyes crinkled mid-laugh, mouth open like someone had just said the funniest thing.
Still, his thumb hovered over the message button for a long time.
He could not message her. That was an option. Let the memory sit where it was: old notebooks, pizza cut into squares, Sunday nights that had faded into something hazy and warm.
Or he could.
He opened the chat before he could talk himself out of it.
Hey Y/N :)
Long time no see like properly. Hope London hasn’t eaten you alive.
It’s my 18th next Saturday & I’m doing a thing at my parents’ place – just some friends & stuff. Would be cool if you came by, if you’re around.
Also I, uh, became reserve driver for McLaren so… yeah. That’s a thing.
Hope you’re good
He hit send before he could change his mind.
Immediately, he wanted to throw his phone out the window.
He set it face down on his chest and tried to think about literally anything else. Tyre compounds. Setup changes. Snake. The ceiling.
The buzz came sooner than he expected.
He snatched the phone up so fast he nearly dropped it.
Y/N: Landoooo no way 🧡 that’s amazing, congrats!! Proud of you doesn’t even cover it
His lungs started working again.
Another bubble appeared.
Y/N: 18 already wtf, you were like 13 yesterday. Time is fake
He rolled his eyes, grinning despite himself.
Y/N: I’m probably going to be in London that weekend, deadlines are murdering me slowly BUT if I can escape for a bit I’ll swing by, okay? No promises, I suck.
If I don’t make it, happy early birthday you menace 🎂 and congrats again on McLaren. You’re smashing it.
He read the message three times. Four.
Probably busy. No promises.
He typed back:
All good, I get it. Uni stuff sounds brutal. Would be cool to see you though :)
He hovered over send, then tapped it. This time, no reply came back straight away.
The next day, his chat with her had slid down the list again, buried under planning and memes and someone sending a screenshot of a truly horrifying amount of alcohol.
The night of his birthday party, the house looked almost unrecognisable.
Furniture pushed back. Fairy lights strung along curtain rails. A Bluetooth speaker that definitely wasn’t theirs thumping bass through the walls. The kitchen counters lined with bottles and mixers, red cups stacked next to the sink.
“Remember,” his mum said, giving him The Look before leaving. “No broken bones. No broken furniture. No calls from the neighbours.”
“We trust you,” his dad added. “Sort of.”
“Thanks,” Lando said dryly.
“Happy birthday, baby,” Cisca said, pulling him into a quick hug. “We’re proud of you.”
“Thanks, Mum.”
“And if you’re sick, aim for the toilet,” she whispered.
“Mum.”
Then they were gone, the car pulling out of the driveway, leaving him standing in his own house that suddenly didn’t feel like his.
“THIS IS GONNA BE SICK,” one of his mates yelled, barging past him with a bag of ice.
It started slow. A few people trickled in, mates from karting, neighbours, Oliver’s friends. Someone started the playlist. Someone else started pouring. The house filled with voices and music and the sweet-sour smell of fruity alcohol.
Some he recognised from old school days, others from friends-of-friends.
“Happy birthday, Norris,” one of the girls that he barely knows said, fingers curling around his wrist for a second. “Heard you’re big time now.”
He laughed it off, ducking his head. “Something like that.”
He tried to be present. To enjoy it. To be the version of himself everyone expected, fun, cocky, the kid living his dream.
But every time the front door opened, his head snapped toward it.
It was never her.
He told himself she wouldn’t come before midnight. She’d have stuff to finish. Uni deadlines. Night buses. London things.
He checked his phone secretly in the kitchen every half hour. No new messages from her.
At some point, someone shoved a drink into his hand and pushed him toward the living room.
“You gotta do a speech!” a mate shouted.
“I really don’t,” Lando said.
He ended up on the coffee table anyway, Oliver hyping him up in the background, everyone cheering when he muttered something about being grateful and not remembering any of this tomorrow.
He laughed. Played along. Took stupid photos. Let people sling arms around his shoulders and yell happy birthday in his ear.
There was a girl who stuck close, a blonde from his old school. She laughed at his jokes and asked him about racing and touched his arm a lot. Eventually they ended up in the hallway, half-shouting over the music.
“It’s so cool what you do,” she said, eyes bright. “You’re like, actually famous now.”
“Not really,” he said, scratching the back of his neck.
“Come on,” she said, stepping closer. “McLaren? That’s huge.”
He smiled, but it felt thin. “Yeah. It’s… good.”
She tilted her head. “You okay? You seem… I don’t know. Distracted.”
He glanced toward the door without meaning to.
“Just tired,” he lied. “Long week.”
“If you want to, like, sneak off for a bit,” she said, lowering her voice. “We can… you know. Get somewher more quiet.”
He blinked at her.
She was pretty. Nice. His age. Interested.
A few years ago, he’d have combusted on the spot at the idea. Maybe he still would, another day.
But right now, his brain just… stalled.
He pulled a smile. “Maybe later. Need to make sure no one burns the place down first.”
She laughed, flicking his arm. “You’re such kid.”
She drifted back toward the crowd, and he let her go.
Time blurred. Midnight ticked past. People sang an uncoordinated version of “Happy Birthday.” Someone smeared cake on his face. Someone else filmed it. He played beer pong and lost disastrously. He drank more than he meant to and less than everyone expected.
Every time the door opened, he still looked.
Every time, his chest fell a little more.
By two in the morning, some people had gone, taxis called, lifts arranged. Others were half-asleep on couches or in corners, music turned down to appease the neighbours. Oliver was arguing gently with someone about not throwing up in the kitchen sink.
Lando slipped out the back door into the garden.
The cold hit him immediately, sharp against his overheated skin. He sucked in a breath and sat down on the back step, hoodie pulled over his head.
The faint thump of music carried through the walls. Someone laughed. A door banged. The world felt fuzzy at the edges.
He unlocked his phone.
No new messages from her.
She was probably out somewhere in London. Or asleep, exhausted from work. Or curled up on some couch with friends, or with her boyfriend, because of course she had one by now, some tall art guy who knew about buildings and wine and didn’t have to fly to different countries every week.
He was just… him.
Still the kid she’d once walked home with a scraped knee. The one who’d cried over maths and followed her around the house. The one she’d ruffled and called cute.
Eighteen was technically an adult on paper. But for her?
He doubted it meant much.
He tipped his head back against the door, closing his eyes.
He’d done it. The thing they’d talked about in half-finished sentences over worksheets and pizza squares. McLaren. Reserve driver. F1 within reach.
He should’ve been thinking about that. About the cars and the tracks and the fact that his life was about to become something even crazier than it already was.
Instead, all he could think about was a girl three years older who hadn’t been in his kitchen in years, who’d maybe thought about coming tonight and then… didn’t.
The back door creaked behind him.
“You hiding out here?” Oliver’s voice asked.
Lando cracked an eye open. “Just… getting air.”
Oliver dropped down onto the step beside him with a soft grunt. “Good party.”
“Yeah.”
“You okay?” his brother asked after a beat.
“Fine.”
“You sure? You’ve got your moody face on.”
“This is just my face,” Lando muttered.
Oliver snorted. “Right.”
They sat in silence for a minute, breath fogging in the cold.
“You did it, you know,” Oliver said eventually.
“Yeah,” Lando said quietly.
“You don’t sound very excited.”
“I am,” he insisted. It was true. Somewhere under everything, the excitement hummed, constant and bright. “Just… tired.”
Oliver hummed.
Lando didn’t mention her. Or the way his brain kept replaying old scenes like someone stuck on a highlight reel.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew how this looked.
A boy on the edge of the thing he’d always wanted. Clinging to a crush on someone who’d already run ahead into a different life.
He hadn’t seen her in person in… what, a year?
He’d thought, stupidly, that tonight might reset something. That her walking into his house again, him eighteen now, might shift the way she saw him, even a little.
It hadn’t happened.
He locked his phone and shoved it into his pocket.
“Come back in when you’re done brooding,” Oliver said, standing. “Before you freeze to death and Mum blames me.”
Lando huffed. “I’m not brooding.”
“You’re absolutely brooding.” Oliver ruffled his hair on the way back inside. “Happy birthday, idiot.”
The door clicked shut.
Lando sat there a moment longer, the cold seeping through his jeans, stars faint behind the thin layer of clouds.
Then he pulled in a breath, pushed the thoughts down where he kept old race results and half-forgotten lap times, and stood.
Inside, the music picked up again.
He squared his shoulders, plastered on the easy grin he’d been practising for cameras, and went back into the party.
He had his dream lined up in front of him.
That would have to be enough.
25 & 28 :
Lando had always imagined what it’d be like to see Y/N again.
Not in a dreamy, still-a-kid kind of way, but in that vague, persistent daydream he got sometimes when he couldn’t sleep. The Y/N he remembered was warm, familiar. Always a little ahead of him. Always looking back to make sure he kept up.
But he hadn’t expected this.
Y/N was standing in the hallway, chatting with his mum like no time had passed, like she wasn’t the exact ghost he kept trying to outgrow.
Her hair was longer now, falling in soft waves over her shoulders. Her smile, still bright, still her, came easier somehow. Like she didn’t second-guess it as much anymore. The confidence in her posture, in her laugh, it was new. Or maybe he just hadn’t noticed before.
“Lando,” his mum called, “look who showed up.”
Y/N turned.
He froze.
“…Hi,” she said, a little too quiet.
“Hey,” he replied, voice lower now. Scratchier. A little hoarse.
She blinked. He had a beard now.
Not a full one, just enough to notice. His jaw was sharper. His curls longer. He looked older, yes. But also more tired, somehow. Like he’d lived a whole life she hadn’t seen.
“Really?” she asked, half-teasing. “I feel like I look exactly the same.”
“Nah,” he said. “You’re… brighter or something.”
She glanced at his mum, who had tactfully stepped away, then back at him. “So. F1 driver now, huh?”
He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Yeah.”
“Kind of a big deal.”
He met her gaze for a second before looking away. “Yeah it is.”
She studied him. The rings under his eyes. The slight edge to his voice. The way he stood like he was never quite still. Like he didn’t know how to be anymore.
She nodded, eyes flicking to the watch on his wrist, the way his phone buzzed constantly in his back pocket. “You’re not the kid who used to cry whenever you didn’t figure out your math exercises anymore.”
“Thank God,” he muttered.
She laughed softly. “You really did hate those exercises.”
He grinned, and for a second, just a second, he looked like the boy she remembered. The one who sat on the floor with her eating pizza and asking if she’d still come around when he got older.
He gestured toward the kitchen. “Want tea? Or something stronger?”
“Tea’s fine.”
He didn’t protest.
In the kitchen, he moved with practiced ease. Everything about him was smoother now, like he knew people were always watching. Like he’d gotten used to being looked at.
She leaned against the counter. “Your mum says you’ve been home less and less.”
“Racing schedule’s brutal,” he said, not looking at her.
“And the afterparties?”
He gave her a look. “What, you keeping tabs?”
She shrugged. “Just heard things.”
“Figures.”
She sipped her tea, watching him. “This… this isn’t how I pictured you’d turn out.”
He raised an eyebrow. “How did you picture it?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know. Quieter. More… focused. Not clubbing at 4am.”
He smirked again, but this one didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Guess I’m not who you expect huh?”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
“You’ve really made it tough,” she said softly. “You did it.”
He nodded once, lips pressed into a line.
“I’m proud of you, you know,” she added. “Even if you’re a little messier than I imagined.”
That made him laugh. A real one this time.
“You’re still designing buildings?” he asked, shifting the subject like he needed to breathe again.
She smiled. “Yeah. I'm working for a firm in London now. It’s good and it pays well.”
“Knew you’d be good at that.”
She glanced at him. “How?”
“You always saw the whole picture. Not just what something was, but what it could be.”
Her breath caught, just a little.
He looked away again, almost shy. “Anyway. Just thought I’d say it.”
She nodded, eyes gentle. “Thanks.”
She didn’t say more, and neither did he.
But when he walked her to her car an hour later, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders curled slightly inward, he looked at her like maybe, just maybe, he’d finally caught up enough to be seen.
Days later his mum mentioned Y/N’s name, casually, saying she will come by for dinner tonight.
“She said yes?” Lando asked, trying not to sound like he cared too much.
Cisca smiled over the stove. “Of course. She always loved us.”
Oliver, his older brother, seated lazily at the bar with a glass of wine. “Who are we talking about?”
Lando stiffened.
“Remember the girl who used to babysit Lando?” Flo chimed in, flipping through her phone.
“She didn’t babysit me, she helps me with homework.” Lando muttered.
“Yes, she did,” Cisca Jr. said bluntly. “You used to cry when she left.”
“Traitor,” Lando shot back.
Oliver leaned forward, more interested now. “Wait...her? She’s coming for dinner?”
His mum nodded. “She’s back in town for a bit. Thought it’d be nice.”
Oliver smirked. “Isn’t she, like, my age?”
“She is,” Cisca said, far too casually. “Three years older than Lando. Just like you.”
By the time the doorbell rang, he didn’t move at first, just listened.
He heard her laugh as she came in. Hugged Flo like a little sister she hadn’t seen in ages. Kissed Cisca on the cheek, hugged Adam with a warmth that reminding him of old time, where she used to pass all evenings taking care of him and when he used to pretend, he didn’t look up to her.
“Hey,” she said, soft and sure when she turns to him.
He looked up and everything in his chest knotted a little tighter.
She was radiant. Not in some overdone, movie-style way. Just… her. Smiling, eyes kind, coat slightly windswept from the evening air. Still the same in all the ways that mattered.
He barely got out a “Hey” before Oliver was already moving.
“Look who finally made it,” Oliver said, stepping in like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life.
Y/N smiled at him. “Oliver! God, it’s been...what, years?”
He leaned in for a hug. “Far too long.”
Lando watched, silent and tense, as Oliver’s hand slid to the small of her back, just a little too low. Guiding her inside like she didn’t already know where the dining room was. Took her coat without asking. Took the bottle of wine she brought. Even pulled out her chair like she needed help sitting down.
It made Lando want to scream.
Dinner was torture.
It started fine. Y/N caught up with his sisters, laughed at Flo’s latest dating disaster, asked about Cisca Jr.’s internship. Adam beamed as he served the roast, proud of himself like always.
But the shift came, subtle and slow, when his mum started her little... hints.
“So, remind me,” Cisca said sweetly, “you’re still in London, yes?”
Y/N nodded. “Yeah. Been there two years now. Working with a firm in Shoreditch.”
“Funny,” she replied, slicing into her roast. “That’s not far from where Oliver lives.”
Oliver looked up, pretending it was the first time he’d heard about it. “It’s really not.”
Y/N glanced over. “Oh, really?”
Lando stared at his plate, jaw clenched tight.
“And you’re single now?” Cisca continued, far too pleased with herself.
Y/N smiled politely. “I am.”
“Well, what a coincidence,” Cisca said, like this was a sitcom. “So is Oliver.”
Y/N laughed. “Cisca…”
“I’m just saying,” she added lightly. “You’re both in the same city. Same age. Seems like fate, doesn’t it?”
Lando wanted to disappear.
And Oliver, of course, leaned right in. Asked Y/N about her firm, her office, her commute. Gave her his favorite spots in Shoreditch. Complimented her dress like it was normal.
And she laughed.
She laughed.
And what burned worse than Oliver’s smug charm or the way his hand brushed her arm every time he joked, was the way Y/N looked at him.
Like Oliver mattered.
Lando sat through all of it. Barely spoke. Pushed his food around, forced polite smiles, watched her through the glow of candlelight and felt something ancient and aching claw up his throat.
Because Oliver didn’t know her.
He didn’t know that she hated horror movies but still watched them if someone else wanted to. That she pulled at loose threads on the couch when she was nervous. That she always cut her pizza into squares instead of triangles because she said it felt “less chaotic.”
Oliver didn’t know any of that.
But it didn’t seem to matter.
Because she was smiling. Engaged. Open. And it was so easy for Oliver to slide into the space Lando had never let himself touch.
When dinner ended and everyone filtered into the living room for dessert and tea, Oliver gestured to the seat beside him.
And she took it.
Lando sat across the room, hands gripping the armrest, jaw tight.
He didn’t say much after that, just watched. Watched Oliver lean closer when Y/N spoke. Watched her lean back. Watched everything unfold in slow motion.
And when she finally stood to leave, hugging everyone again, thanking Adam for the food and Cisca for the invite, Lando stood last.
Half-hoping.
Maybe she’d look at him too, not like a little boy anymore but as maybe more.
But her smile was kind. Familiar. Polite.
Not the kind he wanted.
“Bye, Lando,” she said gently. “Good seeing you again.”
He nodded. Couldn’t quite get the words out.
As the door shut behind her, Oliver strolled into the kitchen, humming under his breath. “She’s really nice. Smart. Pretty. Even more than I remembered.”
Lando felt the words land like punches.
Cisca clutched her chest like she’d won a lottery ticket. “Oh, I love her. I always have. I told you, didn’t I, Adam? I always said she was like a daughter already.”
Adam just smiled, nodding at his wife words.
“She was such a part of this house,” Cisca went on, hands waving with joy. “Can you imagine if she ended up with Oliver? It would be perfect. Like fate. Like the universe fixed it all for us.”
“She’ll be around more too,” Cisca continue, suddenly turning to him. “Isn’t that nice, Lando? You always liked her, didn’t you? Used to follow her around like a little shadow when you were small. So cute.”
Lando said nothing.
Oliver laughed, eyes glinting. “Now she could be your sister-in-law. Funny, yeah?”
It wasn’t.
It wasn’t funny at all.
Lando forced a smile, one he’d mastered for press conferences and fake interviews, one that never reached his eyes.
His chest was tight. Hot. He could hear the sound of your laugh in his head, the way she had laughed at Oliver’s jokes that night. The way she leaned toward him. Let him touch her arm. Looked at him like he belonged in her world.
He hated it, he hated every second.
He pushed back his chair slowly. “I need air.”
“Lando,” his mum said, halfway rising. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” he lied. “Just… tired.”
He stepped outside onto the porch, the night colder than expected. The air sharp against his face. He gripped the railing, breathing like he’d just come out of a spin on track.
From inside, he could still hear them. Laughter. His mum telling Oliver how it would be so lovely if she came for Christmas. How natural the two looked together.
His stomach twisted.
He always knew she was out of reach. He’d accepted that. Told himself he was just a kid, just a footnote in her life. But hearing his brother, Oliver, say her name like that, hearing his mum call it fate…
It made everything inside him crack open.
Because he didn’t want her to be a memory.
He didn’t want her to be someone else’s.
He stayed out there a while, jaw tight, heart louder than the wind.
Wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now.
After years apart, you're pulled back into your ex-husband’s life when an accident leaves him believing you're still married. Forced to play along for his recovery, you quickly realize some things, like love, lies, and the past, don’t stay buried as easily as they should.
tags: 18+ MDNI, amnesia, slow burn, divorce, arguing, infidelity, eventual smut, a slap, angst, medical terminology, but i'm not a professional so pls be kind.
words: 9.0K
notes: happy friday all! this is my first series, so i appreciate your thoughts and comments! i hope you enjoy - mack 🂱
New York City, 2026
You’re halfway through reheating leftovers when your phone starts buzzing on the counter.
You almost ignore it.
It’s late. Your feet ache in that familiar, dull way that means you’ve been standing too long, smiling too hard, being competent for too many people who don’t know you. New York hums outside your apartment window—sirens, voices, the low rumble of the city that never quite lets you rest.
The phone buzzes again.
You glance at the screen.
Unknown Caller.Texas area code.
Your stomach tightens, sharp and instinctive, like your body remembers something your mind has worked way too hard to forget.
You answer anyway.
“Hello?”
There’s a pause. Papers rustling. A breath that doesn’t belong to anyone you know.
“Hi, is this… is this Mrs.Miller?”
You hesitate a moment. Mrs.Miller. You haven’t been Mrs. in almost 5 years, but maybe it was a mistake.
“Yes,” you respond, slightly breathless.
“This is St. Luke’s Medical Center in Austin. I’m calling regarding Joel—”
You stop breathing. Those words sucking all the oxygen from the room, straight from your lungs. Just for a second. Just long enough for the room to tilt.
“We’re calling because you’re listed as his emergency contact.”
You laugh before you can stop yourself. It comes out wrong, thin, disbelieving.
“That-that can’t be right,” you say. “I’m his ex-wife.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“I see,” the woman says gently. “Well, he was brought in earlier today after an accident at work. He’s stable. But he’s experiencing some memory loss, and-”
Your hand curls into the edge of the counter, gripping onto it a little harder than necessary, almost as if you’re hoping it’ll keep you grounded for what's to come next.
“What kind of memory loss?”
“We believe it’s retrograde amnesia. The doctors are still running tests, but from what we can tell… his most recent memories don’t extend past about five years ago.”
Five years.
The word echoes. Hollow. Loud.
“That would place his last clear memories at…” the woman hesitates, checking something, “…just before your divorce.”
The microwave beeps.
You don’t move to turn it off.
You picture Joel as he was then, scruffy, tired, still wearing his wedding ring even when you’d stopped wearing yours. You picture the way he used to lean in doorways, arms crossed, watching you like you were something he might lose if he blinked.
“Has he… has he asked for me?” you ask.
“Yes,” she says. “He woke up about an hour ago. He was confused. When we asked if there was someone he trusted, someone who would know him well, he said your name.”
Your chest aches in a way you thought you’d outgrown.
“He thinks you’re still married,” she adds quietly. “And we didn’t want to contradict him without support present… You see, the brain is a tricky thing, but the doctor can explain everything once you get here.”
Support.
You look around your apartment, your clean lines, your carefully chosen furniture, the life you built brick by brick to get as far away from Texas as possible, to start fresh.
“I live in New York,” you supply.
“That’s okay,” the woman replies. “We just needed to notify you. But… he keeps asking when you’re coming.”
You close your eyes, and your left hand comes up to rub at your eyelids, probably more harshly than you should. It brings black dots swimming over your vision, and all of a sudden, you have a thumping headache sitting right in your temples.
Five years ago, you left with a suitcase and a certainty that you would never go back. Now, the past is calling, and it frustrates you to no end that you even picked up the phone.
“When do you need me there?” you ask.
And that's how you found yourself on the first redeye to Texas. Your seat was stiff, close to the back of the plane, and the crick in your neck would not go away, no matter what you did. You asked yourself over and over why you were even doing this, why you were putting in the effort, why you even cared… but it hit you square in the chest. It was Joel; you were always going to care, no matter what happened five years ago.
The entire flight, you just stared ahead, thoughts racing through your mind. Maybe when you landed, there would be voicemails saying he remembered, that the amnesia was gone, and you could just go home.
But luck was never really on your side.
You powered your phone back on when you landed, and nothing. No messages, no voicemails, just emails relating to work. Thankfully, your boss hadn’t hesitated. Family emergency, you’d said, and she told you to go, no questions, no guilt. You were a hard worker, after all, and even though you insisted you could work remotely on the cases you were actively handling, she still told you to take the time you needed. They could find someone to fill your shoes for the time being.
You hadn’t corrected yourself about it being a family emergency. It was just easier than explaining everything that had happened, and the history was better left buried.
Because Joel wasn’t family anymore.
At least not on paper.
Not since your shaky hand signed those goddamn divorce papers. Not since you last looked Joel in the eyes as you left your lawyer’s office, searching for any ounce of sorrow… but his gaze wouldn’t meet yours.
Good, you had thought then. He doesn’t get the satisfaction.
But your body didn’t seem to know that Joel wasn’t family anymore.
Your heart had been thrumming since the phone call, and those old butterfly feelings were back. Whether it was nervousness or anger, you didn’t know, but you fucking hated it. How could you even let that brooding man have such an effect on you after what he did? How could you still feel anything other than strict hatred after he cheated on you?
And with your best friend at that.
It was honestly one of the worst moments of your life.
You and Joel had already been on the rocks at the time. You were going to couples counseling to try to fix things, but it just wasn’t working. Joel was always mad about how focused and busy you were with work, and you were always picking fights with him over his nightly bar visits. Or maybe it was something small—him tracking dirt through the house with his boots, or you forgetting to clean your hair out of the sink.
It just wasn’t working.
At first, you thought it was just normal bickering, but then it got mean. And one night, things were said that couldn’t be taken back. That pushed Joel to leave with a slam of the door, and left you sitting on the couch crying.
How productive.
Really, you hadn’t meant for it to come to that. It had just been a long day at work, your boss yelling at you for what felt like the eightieth time that week, not getting the case you wanted, and that promotion to partner at the law firm seeming further and further out of reach.
So coming home to an absolute mess of a kitchen, and Joel’s attitude, was what finally sent everything over the edge.
You slipped out of your heels as you closed the door, glancing toward the living room where Joel sat in front of the TV watching the pregame announcers talking about the Cowboys game. It was late, and you had gotten home much later than you’d originally planned. Even from where you were standing, you could tell Joel was pissed. He’d expected you home two hours ago, and the dinner he’d made was sitting on the kitchen counter, cold.
You took a deep breath and made your way over to the couch, plopping down beside him.
“I’m sorry that I’m la—”
“Don’t.”
He cut you off. You bit down on your lower lip, trying to compose yourself before responding.
“Baby, I really am sorry.”
“Really, darlin’? How many times can you be sorry before I actually see a change? What’s the excuse tonight? Some bullshit about your boss again?”
He snapped with a scoff as he rose from the couch, grabbing his plate and carrying it into the kitchen.
“For all I know, you’re probably fucking the guy with how bad you want this promotion,” he added over his shoulder.
You scoffed and followed him.
“Really, Joel? Fuckin’ really?” you threw back, standing on the opposite side of the island as he had his back to you, taking deep breaths.
“You think I’m fucking Larry?” you start, voice already rising, heat already finding its way to your cheeks as you felt the anger creep in. “He’s fuckin’ in his 70s for christs sake, and about to retire. I’m working my ass off to be the one who gets to step up and fill his position. Lord knows we could use the money-”
“Use the money on what? You’re never here to use the money on anything anyway!” he shouted back in his deep southern drawl as he spun around to look at you, letting out a sharp, dry laugh. It came out venomous, like he was ready to attack if you pressed the right buttons, and damn did you want to.
“You’re always workin’, I don’t even see you anymore. I wake up, go to work, come home, and you’re not here. Most nights I go to bed alone, because you would rather be in that fucking office, slaving away for a guy who just wants to get into your fuckin’ pants,” he added on, placing his hands on his hips as his angry eyes found yours.
“Oh, you’re disgusting, Joel. How can you be this insecure to think that I would sleep with someone in their fuckin elder years? Huh?” You crossed your arms, feeling your nails dig into your biceps slightly as you tried to hold on to the little reserve you had left.
“Me? Insecure? You’re fuckin’ delusional,” he scoffed, walking from the kitchen to the bedroom, where you followed closely behind.
“Delusional? Yeah, maybe, but at least I know I actually have a career worth something, rather than trying to start a fuckin’ company with my deadbeat brother who needs to be bailed out of jail every other night.”
Joel turned around so fast that you almost ran straight into his chest, “That's rich coming from a girl who would do anything to get her Daddy’s attention, and, again, practically fucked her way to the top-”
Crack.
The sound echoed through the bedroom, sharp and violent in the quiet house. Your palm stung instantly, heat blooming across your skin as your hand lingered in the air between you, fingers slightly curled like your body hadn’t quite caught up to what you’d just done.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Joel’s head had turned slightly with the impact, his jaw tightening as a red mark began to bloom across his cheek. Slowly, almost carefully, he turned his face back toward you. Not angry. Not shocked. Just… tired.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand across his jaw as if testing whether it actually hurt.
Your chest rose and fell too fast as the adrenaline rushed through you. Your fingers trembled slightly as you lowered your hand to your side.
“You don’t get to say that to me,” you said, though most of the bite had drained from your voice. “You don’t get to talk about me like that.”
Joel stared at you for a long moment, his eyes dark and unreadable, something heavy shifting behind them.
“You wanna know the truth?” he said quietly.
You should have walked away then. You knew you should have. But your feet stayed planted where they were, like the floor had nailed you in place.
“The truth is,” he continued, his voice low and steady, “I haven’t had a wife for a long damn time. You stopped being here years ago. You just didn’t notice.”
The words hit harder than the slap.
Your throat tightened instantly. “That’s not fair.”
“Fair?” Joel let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head as he dragged a hand through his hair. “Fair would’ve been my wife giving a shit about this marriage.”
“I do give a shit!” you snapped, the words rushing out before you could stop them. You felt crazy, screaming at the man you once loved more than anything in the world, the same man who now only seemed capable of filling you with shaking rage.
“Do you?” he shot back immediately. “Because from where I’m standing, you gave more of a damn about becoming partner than you ever did about being my wife.”
The accusation landed square in your chest like a physical blow. The anger surged back, hot and familiar.
“You think I work this hard for fun?” you said, your voice trembling with the effort to hold yourself together, tears threatening to spill. “I’m doing it for us, Joel. For our future.”
Joel’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
“What future?”
The question hung in the air between you like a crack running through glass.
He exhaled sharply and ran both hands through his hair before pacing across the room, the worn wood floors creaking under his dirt-caked boots.
“You’re never here,” he continued, his voice quieter now but heavier. “We don’t talk anymore. We don’t eat together. Hell, half the time we don’t even sleep in the same bed.”
Your stomach twisted.
“That’s not because of me,” you said, though the words felt weak the moment they left your mouth.
Joel stopped pacing and slowly turned back toward you, his eyes locking onto yours.
“No?” he said. “Then whose fault is it?”
You swallowed, your throat dry, but the anger pushed forward again. If he could hurt you, you could hurt him too.
“At least I’m trying to build something,” you shot back, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “What are you doing, Joel? Drinking every night with your brother and pretending that stupid company of yours is ever going to take off?”
His expression hardened instantly, the muscles in his jaw tightening.
“You know what?” he said quietly. “At least when I’m at the bar, someone actually wants to talk to me.”
The words landed deep.
“That’s pathetic,” you said, though your voice lacked the confidence you wanted it to have.
Joel shrugged slightly, his shoulders lifting before falling again. “Maybe,” he said. “But at least they look at me like I matter.”
Silence fell between you, heavy, ugly, the kind that made the room feel smaller.
Joel rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze dropping briefly to the floor before lifting again.
“I don’t think you’ve loved me for a long time.”
The words knocked the air out of your lungs.
“You’re wrong,” you whispered, your eyes burning.
Joel shook his head slowly, the movement tired and resigned. “No,” he said quietly. “I think I just admitted it before you did.”
He grabbed his coat from the closet and shrugged it on quickly before heading for the door. The slam echoed through the house as he left.
Three hours later, you were still sitting there, the silence of the house pressing in on you. The silence nearly suffocating. The fridges hum, the clock ticking on the wall, the lull of commentary from the Cowboys game that Joel was watching… Waiting had started to feel pathetic.
So, fuck it.
If Joel wasn’t coming home, you knew exactly where he’d be.
The Bison.
You didn’t bother changing. You just slipped on a pair of dirty sneakers, grabbed your keys, and headed out. The drive was quiet, the kind that let your thoughts get too loud. You rehearsed what you were going to say in your head, even muttering pieces of it out loud to make sure it didn’t come out wrong. The last thing you wanted was to sound like an idiot, or worse, a complete dick.
The time alone had helped you calm down. The anger had burned itself out somewhere between pacing the living room and staring at the clock for the better part of three hours. Now you could actually think.
Maybe you had overreacted a little.
You were tired. That was the truth of it. Tired of the stress, tired of the long days, tired of feeling like everything in your life was constantly hanging by a thread. And if you were being honest with yourself, you missed Joel. You missed what things used to feel like between the two of you.
Things didn’t have to stay like this.
Cutting back on your hours would help. You could step away from the office more, actually be home for dinner again, and spend time together like you used to. Hell, maybe you could even start talking seriously about the family you’d both been dancing around for the last year.
It hadn’t always been like this.
Just a year ago, the two of you had been good. Happy, even. But the pressure of money started creeping in, and the hours at work kept piling up. One late night turned into two, then three, then suddenly you were barely home at all. Somewhere along the way, you’d turned into someone you didn’t even recognize anymore.
Getting the promotion at the firm would be nice.
But saving your marriage was better.
And why it took you this long to realize that, you didn’t know. But better now than never.
The Bison’s parking lot was already packed when you pulled in. Of course it was. The fucking Cowboys were playing.
When you stepped out of the car, you could already hear the roar of the crowd spilling out through the bar’s front doors. Cheers, shouting, the muffled echo of the game blasting from the televisions inside.
You made your way toward the entrance.
The second you opened the door, the noise hit you.
The Bison smelled like cheap beer, fried food, and too many sweaty bodies packed into one place. Every TV in the bar was tuned to the game, the crowd erupting in cheers as the Cowboys pushed down the field. Glasses clinked, someone whooped near the bar, and the bartender shouted something you couldn’t make out over the noise.
You hesitated just inside the doorway, letting your eyes adjust to the dim lighting as you scanned the room.
Joel had to be here; he was always here on game nights.
You pushed your way through the crowd, squeezing past groups of guys in jerseys and women perched on barstools. Someone bumped into your shoulder, sloshing beer onto the floor.
“Watch it,” someone muttered.
You ignored it, craning your neck to see over the crowd.
Then a voice came from your left.
“Well damn,” a guy slurred from a high-top table. “Did someone get lost?”
His friends laughed.
You kept walking.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he called after you again, louder this time. “Cowboys are playin’, come sit on my lap and make me a cowboy!”
You didn’t even bother looking at him. Your eyes were still scanning the room, searching past the bar, past the dart boards, toward the booths lining the back wall.
Joel usually sat back there. At least you both used to on late nights after a date or just a hard day at work.
Your heart started beating faster the closer you got.
Maybe he’d cooled off. Maybe he’d be sitting there with a beer, sulking like he always did when the two of you fought. Maybe you’d slide into the booth across from him and say what you’d practiced in the car. Maybe the two of you would finally talk. Maybe things could still be fixed.
You slowed as you reached the back of the bar, your eyes drifting across the booths.
One booth held a group of college kids yelling at the TV.
Another had two older men arguing over a play.
Then the corner booth.
At first, you only noticed the boots. Joel’s boots.
You knew them instantly, scuffed leather, the same pair he wore nearly every day.
Relief rushed through you so fast it almost made you dizzy.
See? you thought. Of course, he’s here. You’re being dramatic.
You took a step closer, and that’s when you saw her.
She was half in his lap, her hand tangled in the back of his hair as she leaned across the booth. Joel’s hand was on her waist, pulling her in as their mouths pressed together like they had nothing else to do in the world.
For a second, your brain refused to process what you were looking at. The noise of the bar faded into a dull roar in your ears, then the girl shifted slightly, and her face came into full view.
Familiar, too familiar, your stomach dropped, because you knew her.
For a moment, your brain refused to place the face, as if it were trying to spare yourself the answer. But then the girl shifted slightly, brushing Joel’s cheek as she leaned back just enough to laugh at something he’d said.
And there it was.
Claire.
Your best friend. The girl who took you to the bars on nights when you were studying too hard. The girl who cried on your shoulder after her first real heartbreak. The girl you have known since middle school. The girl who was now holding the knife she just used to stab you in the back.
The noise of the bar faded into a dull roar in your ears. The televisions were still blaring, people still shouting at the game, glasses clinking somewhere behind you, but it all sounded distant, like you were hearing it from underwater.
Joel noticed you first.
His eyes flicked up over Claire’s shoulder, and the moment he saw you standing there, they widened. His body went rigid beneath her.
Claire didn’t notice right away. She was still half draped across him, one hand tangled loosely in the back of his hair, the other resting against his chest, lips still roaming along his jaw.
“Joel?” you said.
Your voice came out quieter than you expected, almost swallowed by the noise around you.
Claire turned, and the smile on her face disappeared the moment she saw you.
For a second, none of you moved.
Joel’s hand slipped quickly from her waist like he’d just realized it was there. His eyes were dark and heavy, like he’d almost been here before. Had this happened before? Had he fucked her already?
“Hey-” he started, already pushing himself up from the booth. “This isn’t-”
You let out a short laugh, not amused, not angry.
Just… disbelieving.
“Really?” you said flatly.
Joel ran a hand through his hair, panic flashing across his face as he stepped out of the booth. “She-she came onto me, I didn’t-”
You scoffed softly and shook your head.
“Right.”
Your eyes slid to Claire, lingering on her for a long moment. She didn’t say anything, just watched you with wide eyes like she was the one who’d been caught in the middle of something terrible. You gave a small, incredulous shake of your head.
“Really?”
You didn’t wait for an answer.
You turned and pushed your way out of the bar, the cold night air hitting your face as soon as the door swung open. Your hands were already shaking as you crossed the parking lot, digging your keys from your pocket and fumbling with them as you reached your car.
Behind you, the bar door burst open again.
“Hey, wait!”
Claire.
Of course.
You turned just as she hurried across the lot toward you, her heels clicking against the pavement. She slowed when she reached you, reaching out gently to grab your arm.
“Please just listen for a second,” she said softly.
You looked down at her hand on your arm before meeting her eyes. Your best friend. The girl who had cried on your couch over bad boyfriends. The girl who had stood beside you at your wedding, holding your bouquet while you fixed your veil.
“What?” you said, cold, wanting to get out of there, and also wanting to slap the taste out of her mouth. The rage from earlier was slowly creeping back in.
Claire’s grip loosened slightly. She glanced back toward the bar door, then back at you again. “I didn’t want you to find out like that,” she said with a coy smirk.
Your stomach twisted, “What are you talking about?”
Claire hesitated just long enough to make it look like the words were hard to say, then she sighed.
“Joel and I… this wasn’t the first time.”
The words landed slowly, like they needed a second to sink in.
“We’ve been fooling around for a while,” she continued, her voice overly smooth. “I kept telling him we needed to tell you, but he didn’t want to hurt you.”
She shook her head slightly, almost tauntingly as she sucked her teeth, “I guess he was never going to.”
Something inside your chest cracked. You didn’t yell. Didn’t cry. Didn’t even argue. You just nodded once, like everything suddenly made sense.
“Okay,” you said quietly.
Claire’s expression stayed hardened, like she expected you to fall apart. “I’m really sorry,” she added, a sly smirk making her way to her lips as she shrugged.
But you were already opening your car door.
You slid into the driver’s seat and slammed it shut before she could say anything else. Your hands were still shaking as you started the engine.
Behind you, the bar door burst open again.
Joel.
You saw him in the rearview mirror as he ran out into the parking lot, scanning the rows of cars until his eyes landed on yours.
He started toward you immediately.
“Wait!” he shouted.
Your foot hit the gas.
The tires crunched against gravel as you pulled out of the lot. In the rearview mirror, Joel slowed to a stop in the glow of the neon bar sign, one hand dragging through his hair as he shouted something you couldn’t hear.
He got smaller.
And smaller.
Until he disappeared completely.
Sometimes it still felt like you could see him in the rearview mirror like that, even now as you drove toward the hospital.
The ride had been silent. No radio, no podcasts, just you and the steady hum of the road beneath the tires while your thoughts circled endlessly.
You hadn’t seen Joel since the day you signed the papers and left for New York.
Would he look different now?
Would there be grey threaded through his dark hair? Would the Texas sun have left his skin tanner, rougher? Maybe he’d gotten leaner. Harder. Maybe time had carved new lines into his face the way it had yours.
And his voice…
Would it still sound the same? That southern drawl that had always been the perfect mix of rough and smooth, the one that used to make your stomach flip the first time he said your name.
Or would it be different now? Deeper somehow. Sharper. Filled with anger and years of things left unsaid.
You pulled into the hospital parking lot almost on autopilot, barely registering that you had arrived until the engine clicked softly as you turned it off. For a moment, you just sat there, picking at your nails while you worked up the courage to go inside.
Eventually, you opened the car door.
Heat pressed in immediately, heavy and familiar in a way that made your chest tighten. Texas didn’t ease into you the way New York did; it announced itself. The air smelled faintly of asphalt and something green, maybe fresh-cut grass, and for a second, you just stood there with your keys dangling loosely from your fingers, letting the reality of where you were sink in.
You shut the door and turned toward the building.
The hospital rose in front of you, all glass and pale stone, the early morning sun glaring off the windows so brightly you had to squint. It looked clean. Neutral. Like nothing bad could ever happen inside it.
Like it wasn’t holding someone who once knew you better than anyone else.
The automatic doors slid open with a soft hiss, and the blast of air-conditioning hit you hard enough to make you shiver.
The smell came first—sterile and sharp, tinged with something faintly metallic that clung to the back of your throat. Your shoes squeaked softly against the polished floor as you stepped into the lobby, the sound embarrassingly loud in the open space.
People moved around you with purpose. A nurse hurried past, her ponytail swinging behind her. A man in scrubs laughed quietly into his phone. A couple sat close together near the wall, their heads bowed toward each other.
Everyone looked like they belonged here.
You didn’t.
You paused just inside the entrance, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you glanced down at your phone out of habit, hoping that there would be a phone call or a text saying that this was all some cruel joke. Still nothing.
You shoved it back into your bag before you could check again.
Information Desk, a sign read, with an arrow pointing left.
You follow the sign, your legs carrying you forward before your mind has fully caught up. The lobby feels larger the farther you move into it, the ceiling high and echoing with the muted shuffle of footsteps and the low murmur of voices. When you reach the information desk, the woman behind the counter glances up from her computer. Her smile is the kind that feels practiced but sincere, the quiet professionalism of someone who spends her days guiding people through moments they’d rather not be having.
“Hi,” she says gently. “Can I help you?”
Your throat tightens before the words can reach it.
“Yes,” you manage after a moment. “I’m here to see someone. Joel Miller.”
His name feels strange leaving your mouth after all this time. Too personal. Too familiar. As if saying it out loud exposes something you’d meant to keep buried.
The woman’s fingers move across the keyboard, her nails tapping softly against the keys. The sound fills the brief silence between you, each second stretching longer than it should.
“Date of birth?”
You answer immediately. The numbers come easily, instinctively, something you’ve written down on forms and paperwork so many times they exist somewhere in muscle memory. Your voice remains steady despite the weight of it.
“And your relationship?”
The question lands heavier.
It’s simple. Routine. Something she probably asks a hundred times a day.
Still, your mouth opens and then stalls.
“I’m his-”
The sentence falters. The word ex presses against the back of your teeth, precise and painful in its accuracy. You swallow hard, forcing it down.
“…wife,” you say instead.
The lie sits between you.
She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t question it. Just nods once, as though it fits neatly into whatever quiet category she’s placed you in.
“He’s on the fourth floor,” she says, her voice warm but efficient. “Room 412. Visiting hours are open right now. The elevators are just past the gift shop.”
“Thank you,” you murmur.
You turn away before she can say anything else, afraid that if you linger, she might offer something sympathetic—something gentle enough to break whatever fragile composure you’ve managed to hold together.
The gift shop sits just off the corridor, spilling the faint scent of coffee and artificial lilies into the hallway. Shelves of stuffed animals, greeting cards, and overly cheerful balloons blur together as you pass, but you don’t slow down long enough to actually see any of it. The elevator doors glide open as you approach, and you step inside without company.
The ride upward unfolds in silence, broken only by the low mechanical hum of the elevator cables working somewhere above you. You watch the digital numbers illuminate one by one, each floor punctuating the climb with a soft chime.
Two.
Three.
Four.
The doors slide apart.
The hallway on the fourth floor feels quieter than the lobby below, the lighting softer and dimmer, casting everything in a muted yellow glow. The air here carries the same sterile sharpness, but heavier somehow, thick with the steady rhythm of machines beeping behind closed doors and the faint murmur of a television somewhere farther down the corridor.
You move slowly down the hall, your eyes tracing the numbers beside each door as you pass. Your footsteps fall carefully against the polished tile, measured and deliberate, like you’re trying not to disturb the quiet that hangs over the floor.
410
411
Your breath catches in your chest.
412
You stop in front of the door.
Your hand lifts, hovering just short of the doorframe. Your pulse pounds so loudly in your ears you’re half convinced it must be echoing down the corridor. Five years. This is the closest you’ve been to him in five years.
You draw in a slow breath, steadying yourself, then push the door open before you can talk yourself out of it.
The room is brighter than the hallway outside, sunlight filtering through a narrow window and spilling across the floor in pale, slanted bands. The quiet hum of hospital equipment fills the space, machines breathing softly beside the bed while a monitor ticks along in steady rhythm, as though keeping time for him. The air smells aggressively clean, that sharp antiseptic scent that seems determined to erase whatever happened here.
Joel is sitting upright in the bed.
At first, he doesn’t notice you.
His gaze is fixed on his hands resting in his lap, turning them slowly beneath the light as though he’s trying to decipher something written in the creases of his palms. A thick bandage wraps around his head, stark white against his dark hair, and a bruise spreads along his temple, yellowing at the edges where it’s beginning to fade. He looks thinner than you remember. Not fragile, exactly, just worn down, like something inside him has been rattled loose.
Then he lifts his head. His eyes land on you. And everything inside your chest collapses inward.
There’s no hesitation in his expression. No flicker of confusion. He doesn’t study your face the way a stranger might, searching for recognition.
It finds him instantly. Easily. Devastatingly.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says softly.
The words land somewhere deep in your chest, stirring memories you thought you’d buried years ago. It’s the same way he used to say it when you came home late from work, when you’d step through the front door, and he’d glance up from wherever he was sitting, looking at you like he’d been waiting without realizing it.
Your breath falters.
Sweetheart.
You hadn’t heard that word in years… Hadn’t been called it in years.
Across the room, Joel’s entire posture loosens. His shoulders sink as though some invisible tension has finally slipped from them, like the strings cut from a puppet, relief spreading openly across his face. It’s warm. Immediate. Unmistakable.
“You’re here,” he says.
The simple statement lands harder than you expect.
Without meaning to, you take a step farther into the room, your body moving before your thoughts can catch up with it.
“Yeah,” you manage after a moment. “I’m here.”
His gaze follows you carefully, tracking every small movement as if he’s afraid you might disappear if he looks away. There’s something disarmingly soft in his expression, a tenderness that makes your chest tighten, like he’s committing you to memory all over again.
“I knew you would,” he says with quiet certainty, as though your presence had never once been in doubt.
Your fingers curl slowly into your palm.
“They kept askin’ if there was anyone else they should call,” he continues, his voice still easy, still calm. “I told ’em no. Just you.”
You nod automatically, even as the truth presses painfully against your ribs.
His smile deepens, reassured by the gesture.
“Didn’t like the idea of wakin’ up without you.”
The words land square in your chest, knocking the air from your lungs. He doesn’t notice the way your shoulders stiffen or the careful effort it takes to keep your expression composed. Joel only looks relieved, anchored, somehow steadied by the simple fact that you’re standing there.
“Yeah…” you let out a soft chuckle, “Sorry, it was a long flight…”
Joel nods while he shifts slightly against the pillows, a faint wince crossing his face as he lifts a hand toward the bandage wrapped around his head before letting it fall back to the sheets.
“Tommy’s been here most of the night,” he says casually, like the detail barely matters. “Wouldn’t leave. Guess he finally stepped out to get coffee.” One corner of his mouth lifts in a tired half-smile. “Said the stuff here tastes like burnt dirt.”
That sounds exactly like Tommy.
“Oh,” you say quietly. “Okay.”
“He knows you were comin’, though,” Joel adds, glancing back at you. “Seemed real relieved when I told him.”
You nod again, though you aren’t entirely sure what you’re nodding to. The words settle heavily in your chest, another quiet weight you’re not prepared to carry.
“He okay?” you ask after a moment, choosing your words carefully. “Tommy, I mean.”
Joel lets out a soft huff of amusement. “Yeah. Just… hoverin’. Kept actin’ like I was gonna forget my own name.”
If only he knew.
Joel’s gaze drifts back to you then, more thoughtful this time. A faint crease forms between his brows as he studies your face, something quietly uncertain flickering behind his eyes.
“You said long flight,” he says slowly.
Your stomach tightens.
“Yeah.”
He frowns, not with suspicion, but with the mild confusion of someone trying to piece together something that doesn’t quite make sense.
“Why’d you fly?”
The question is gentle. It still lands like a bruise. Well fuck, how were you going to get out of this?
“What do you mean?” you ask slowly.
“Well…” His gaze drifts briefly toward the window, hand rubbing at his stubble, like the answer might be waiting somewhere outside. “You would’ve just driven. It’s only like thirty minutes.”
Your hands tighten together in your lap.
“I thought you were at the house,” he continues, his voice quieter now, softer in a way that makes your chest ache. “Figured you’d walk in complainin’ about traffic, ask if I ate yet.” A chuckle breaks free from his chest, his eyes squinting as he tries to solve the puzzle in his head.
The image forms instantly in your mind, so ordinary, so familiar it almost steals the air from your lungs.
“I didn’t realize you were that far, whe-” he murmurs, pausing himself as he looks around confused, “Where were you?” the thought still sounding like it arrived only halfway formed. “How long were you on the plane?”
“About four hours.”
Joel goes very still.
Four hours is too long to brush aside, too long to tuck neatly into the explanation he’s been building in his head.
“That… doesn’t make sense,” he says quietly, the words drifting out more to himself than to you. “You hate flyin’. Only do it if you absolutely have to.”
Of course he remembers that.
His gaze lifts again, settling on your face with a new kind of focus, not suspicious, not accusing, just searching, like he’s trying to assemble a picture with pieces that refuse to cooperate.
“Where were you comin’ from?” he pushes gently after you don’t answer right away.
Before you can muster up an answer, find some form of excuse to spill, the door swings open.
“Alright,” Tommy’s voice cuts through the room, gravelly and familiar. “I swear they make this shit by runnin’ it through a sock.”
He stops short when he sees you.
For a brief moment, the entire room seems to pause, the quiet hum of machines suddenly louder in the silence.
Then recognition settles over his face, followed by something softer, relief, maybe, though it carries a heavier weight behind it.
“Hey,” Tommy says, his voice dropping as you both exchange a look.
“Hey,” you answer.
Joel glances between the two of you, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Took you long enough,” he tells his brother. “She just got here.”
Tommy nods slowly as he steps farther into the room, the paper coffee cup still warm in his hand.
“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”
But his eyes never leave yours.
There’s something in them, steady, apologetic, burdened with a knowledge Joel no longer carries.
And standing there, caught between the man who looks at you like nothing in the world ever broke between you and the one who remembers exactly how it did, you realize something with a slow, sinking clarity.
Joel has no idea you ever left.
You aren’t the only one holding the truth anymore.
The door opens again, this time with a softer, more clinical presence. A man in a white coat steps inside, a clipboard tucked beneath his arm as his eyes move quickly around the room before settling on Joel.
“Mr. Miller?” he asks.
Joel straightens immediately, shoulders tightening. “Yeah. That’s me.”
“I’m Dr. Anders,” the man says, voice calm and measured. “I understand you sustained a concussion at work today. First, I want to reassure you, you’re stable. There’s no internal bleeding and no life-threatening injuries.” He gestures briefly toward the bed. “The head trauma caused a concussion, and you’ve got a mild fracture in your left tibia. We’ve already set it and placed a cast. Orthopedics will take another look before you’re discharged and set up a physical therapy schedule for you.”
Joel glances down, like he’s just now remembering his body belongs to him. The blanket shifts slightly, revealing the thick gray cast extending from just below his knee to his ankle.
“Huh,” he mutters, flexing his fingers against the sheets. “That explains why it feels like someone took a golf club to it.”
Dr.Anders nods once, keeping his attention on Joel. “Because of the concussion, you’re also experiencing retrograde amnesia. That means your memory of the time leading up to the accident, and possibly a longer period before that, may be temporarily lost.” The doctors voice is calm, almost like he’s approaching a startled horse, not wanting to spook it further.
Joel’s brow furrows, his hand twitching toward the bandage wrapped around his head, moving downwards to rub at his eyes, like he’s trying to put a puzzle together that only he can see. “How long? How much did I… lose?”
“That’s difficult to predict,” Dr. Anders says carefully. “Memories may return gradually, all at once, or, in some cases, not fully. What’s most important right now is that you don’t try to force them. Straining to remember can actually make the condition worse.”
Joel shifts slightly, then winces as his casted leg moves beneath the blanket.
“I… I want to know,” he says. “I need to know what I missed. Everything. Did anything happen? Did anyone… anyone important… pass? Ma? Pa?”
“No, no,” Tommy assures gently, “Ma and Pa are still good, just maybe a lil’ older than you remember,” he lets out with a forced chuckle as he rubs at the scruff on his face.
Joel shifts slightly in the bed, adjusting his weight without thinking. The movement is small, but the second his injured leg moves beneath the blanket, his face tightens.
“Jesus-”
He exhales sharply through his teeth and glances down, like he’s just remembered something is wrong with his body. The blanket has slipped just enough to reveal the thick gray cast running from below his knee to his ankle. Joel stares at it for a moment.
Tommy snorts quietly from where he’s leaning against the wall. “You fell off a scaffold, man. You should feel hella lucky right now.”
Joel glances between the two of you, still trying to piece together the edges of his reality. His hand moves carefully toward the cast, fingers brushing along the hard plaster like he’s checking to see if it’s real.
“Scaffold,” he repeats slowly.
Dr. Anders nods, “About ten to twelve feet, from what your coworkers told us. You were unconscious for a short period of time, which is likely what caused the concussion.”
Joel leans back against the pillows again, staring up at the ceiling for a moment as he processes everything.
“Head’s foggy,” Joel admits, rubbing absently at the edge of the bandage on the side of his temple again.
“That’s normal,” Dr. Anders replies evenly. “You’ll likely experience headaches, fatigue, and confusion for a few days. The most important thing right now is rest.”
Joel nods, though his attention has already drifted elsewhere. His gaze finds you again, lingering in a way that makes your chest tighten.
There’s something unsettling about it to you, the way he looks at you like you’re the only stable thing left in a world that suddenly stopped making sense.
Dr. Anders notices it too.
His eyes flick briefly between the two of you before he clears his throat and straightens slightly.
“Joel, I want you to focus on resting for the next few days, alright?” he says gently. “I’m going to step out into the hallway with your family for a moment and go over the details of your recovery plan with them. We’ll make sure everything is set up so you have the help you need while you’re healing.”
Joel glances between you and Tommy, then gives a small, tired nod.
“Alright.”
Dr. Anders opens the door and gestures politely toward the hall.
“If you two wouldn’t mind.”
You push yourself out of the chair, Tommy following a step behind as the three of you slip into the quiet corridor. The door closes softly behind you, the muffled hum of Joel’s monitors fading as the fluorescent lights overhead take their place.
Dr. Anders exhales quietly, leaning back against the wall for a moment as if organizing his thoughts.
“We need to be mindful that Joel is dealing with both a concussion and retrograde amnesia,” he begins carefully. “His brain is essentially trying to rebuild connections. If we push too hard—or introduce emotionally distressing information too quickly, it can interfere with that process. In some cases, it can delay the return of memories for months, maybe years.”
He pauses, choosing his next words with care before looking directly at you.
“For example… his relationship with you.”
Your stomach twists.
“Joel currently believes you’re still married,” Dr. Anders continues. “For the time being, it would be best not to challenge that assumption. Speak to him as his wife. Treat things as normally as possible.”
Your stomach drops.
“Wait,” you say slowly. “You’re telling me to lie to him? Pretend we’re married?”
“Yes,” Dr. Anders replies, calm but unwavering. “For the time being. Joel trusts you, and right now that trust is incredibly important. It gives him a sense of stability. If he’s suddenly confronted with information that contradicts what he believes, especially something emotionally significant, it could create stress that interferes with his recovery.”
Your jaw tightens.
“So it’s all on me,” you murmur, staring down at the polished hospital floor. “I’m the one keeping him stable… by pretending to still be his wife.”
Dr. Anders doesn’t argue.
“I understand how unfair that sounds,” he says gently. “But in the state he’s in, you are the most familiar and emotionally grounding presence he has. Right now, you’re his anchor, even if he doesn’t fully realize it.”
He glances briefly toward Joel’s room before continuing.
“There’s also the matter of his leg. The fracture means he’ll be on crutches for several weeks, possibly longer, depending on how the bone heals. Combined with the concussion, he shouldn’t be living alone or moving around without help for a while. Someone will need to assist him at home, getting around, monitoring symptoms, making sure he doesn’t push himself too quickly.”
Tommy exhales slowly beside you.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “And that someone sure as hell ain’t me.”
Dr. Anders turns toward him.
Tommy rubs the back of his neck, already looking apologetic. “My wife’s eight months pregnant. She’d kill me if I disappeared for a few weeks to babysit my stubborn older brother.”
Your chest tightens.
“So that leaves…” Tommy gestures vaguely between the two of you.
You.
A bitter breath escapes before you can stop it.
“Unbelievable,” you mutter.
Five years. Five years spent building something separate from Joel. A different city, a different routine, a different life entirely. You had finally learned how to exist without him in it. And now you’re supposed to step right back into the role you fought so hard to leave behind. As if none of those years ever happened. As if you never signed the papers and walked away.
Just… step back in and pretend. Just for him.
Tommy gives you a small, sympathetic nod, but it does nothing to quiet the storm inside your chest.
You’re not fine. You shouldn’t have to be fine.
But if you walk away… he could get worse.
And somehow, after everything, you still care enough not to let that happen.
You straighten slowly, shoulders squaring as you force your hands to unclench.
“Fine,” you say at last, your voice low and tight with restraint. “I’ll do it. But don’t pretend that makes this okay.”
Dr. Anders nods once, solemn.
“I don’t expect it to feel fair,” he says. “But you’re doing the best thing for Joel right now. The most important thing is patience. Let his memories return naturally. Don’t push him to remember, and don’t overwhelm him with information. His brain needs time.”
Tommy shifts beside you, his voice softer now.
“We’ll get through this,” he says quietly. “Just… take it one day at a time.”
He pauses, then adds with a small, almost apologetic shrug, “It’s good to have you back. Even if the circumstances are pretty damn terrible.”
You give him a stiff nod, then turn back toward Joel’s room.
Your chest feels heavy as you walk down the hallway, every step pulling you closer to a life you thought you’d buried years ago.
A lie. That’s what this is now. A carefully maintained illusion for the man who once shattered everything you had together. And the worst part, the part you don’t dare say out loud, is that beneath the anger, beneath the resentment, beneath the years of distance…
A small, stubborn part of you still wants to be there for him.
Even if pretending doesn’t just break your heart. Even if it slowly kills you to do it.
You push the door open, the soft click of the latch announcing your return. Joel’s head lifts, dark eyes tracking you immediately, alert but not tense.
“Hey,” you murmur, stepping closer.
Joel props himself up slightly, a small wince escaping his mouth, a forced crooked grin tugging at his lips. “There she is. What’d he say?”
“I… talked to the doctor,” you say carefully, “He wants you to rest, but… I’m gonna go home and grab some things for you. Stuff you might need when you’re ready to leave.”
Joel quirks an eyebrow, still grinning. “Stuff, huh? You packing my royal necessities?” His tone is teasing, light, like he’s trying to make the hospital feel a little less serious.
“Yes,” you say softly, a gentle chuckle and smile forcing its way out. “The essentials for surviving with Joel Miller…”
“Right,” he mutters, shaking his head, amused. Then he leans back slightly, eyes narrowing playfully. “But before you go… can I get a kiss?”
You freeze. Your chest tightens, stomach coiling. A kiss. Here. Now. With him like this.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” you say. It’s a lame excuse, but god, you’re hoping it works. Twenty-four hours ago, you wouldn’t have imagined being in the same state as Joel, and now, here you were, trying to get out of kissing him.
“Hurt me? C’mon, I hit my head, didn’t break my neck.”
And damn, if that wasn’t a good argument.
Joel watches you patiently, that familiar spark in his eyes making it impossible to resist. After a long beat, you lean in and give him a tiny, careful peck.
He blinks, a mischievous glint in his eye, and quips, “That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna give me?” He asks, going to grab your wrist to pull you back in.
You bite back a nervous laugh as you evade his grip, “That’s… enough,” you murmur, cheeks warming, lips still tingling from where the other man’s were moments ago.
Joel shakes his head, grinning wider now, clearly enjoying himself. “Damn. You’ve gone stingy on me,” he teases. “I know you’re more generous than that. Is it the bandage? Is it a turnoff?”
You can’t help the laugh that escapes, despite the tension in your chest. Even pretending, he still has that way of drawing you in.
“No, it’s not the bandage… Just get some rest, I’ll be back before you know it.”
Joel settles back against the pillows, surrendering to the fight, hands behind his head, eyes following you. “Okay, go then. But don’t take too long. You know I get bored when I’m stuck somewhere with nothing to do.” He winks, light and playful, like he’s still your Joel, the same man you remember.
“I’ll miss you,” he added, and just like that, the air from your lungs was gone.
You nod, turning towards the door slowly, gripping your purse strap. One last glance at him, grinning softly in that rugged, familiar way, and you step out of the room, heart tight, chest heavy, but knowing this little spark of playfulness makes the lie a little easier to bear… for now.
The door closes softly behind you.
Inside the room, Joel watches the door for a long moment after you leave, and the smile fades slowly from his face.
summary: an ancient witch curses an infant princess to a fate that cannot be undone. condemned to watch the child grow from the shadows of the old forest, wanda expects only regret. instead, the years soften a heart she believed long buried, and she finds herself protecting the very soul she once sought to ruin.
au/background: a maleficent inspired au featuring ancient witch!wanda maximoff x princess!reader.
authors note: welcome to my very exciting first attempt at a long series! i’m going to be stretching my limits as a writer and challenge my ability to write a slow burn type story. i’m so so excited for this! after re-watching one of my favorite disney movies for the 100th time, i couldn’t resist running with this idea. comment if you’d like to be added to a tag list <3
Summary: You hit your head and don't want to wait for medical treatment, but Jack will be damned if he lets you leave
Warnings: Established relationship, mentions of vomiting, concussion accurate symptoms, passing out, brief mention of IV placement, reader is about as stubborn as you could possibly get
WC: ~1.3k
a/n: New series! Thank you again for all the love on my works!
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~~~~~
“Fuck this.” You stood from your chair in the ER waiting room, having waited for three hours now. You knew people had been waiting much longer than that but you were hesitant to come in the first place. It was nothing.
You blinked rapidly while walking away from the hospital.
“Y/N?” You cursed yourself as you heard your boyfriend’s voice behind you.
You turned slowly. “Hi.”
“What are you doing here?” He walked closer and a small part of you considered running.
“Nothing, was just in the area and-”
He grabbed your chin and moved your head to the side when he finally stood in front of you. “You hit your head?”
“No.” You lied.
“Right, so the cut here and the dried blood around it is what, an accessory?”
You sighed. “Jack, I'm fine. I have to get home and you have to work. I'll see you later.”
Jack caught your wrist as you tried to walk away. “Hey. Not so fast. What happened?”
You rolled your eyes, spinning back toward him. “I just fell off a stool and hit my head on the counter a little. It's nothing, really. I shouldn't have even come.”
“Why didn't you call me?” He tugged at your wrist to prevent you from turning away again.
“Because I knew you'd worry too much. It's okay babe, just need to put a bandaid on and get some rest. Just, go work and I'll text you later, okay?”
“No, not okay. You're not leaving until I do an exam and maybe get you a head CT.” He demanded.
“Jack-”
“Jack nothing. You're not getting out of this. Come on.” You groaned, following him. Not that you had much choice, he practically had a death grip on your wrist.
A blonde nurse at the main desk in the ER glanced up at you and the man pulling you behind him. “What's going on here?”
“You got a room open?” Jack didn't hesitate, but sighed, knowing she wasn't going to budge without more detail. “This is Y/N. She hit her head.”
The woman perked up and walked over. “Oh, so you're the girl our very own Dr. Abbot is head over heels for.”
You shot Jack a look. “What have you been saying about me?”
“Nothing, that's the problem. I'm Dana, it's nice to meet you.” She smiled.
“Nice to-” Your hand jerked out of Jack’s grip, flying toward your face.
Dana had a puke bag in front of you within a second, clearly something she'd done many times before.
You wiped your mouth with a tissue she handed you. “Thanks. Sorry about that.” You took note of the increase in worry on Jack’s face, but elected to ignore it.
“It's okay, it's a pretty normal occurrence around here. Central Two is available, Abbot. Let me know if you need me.” Dana gave your arm a gentle squeeze before returning to the desk.
“Jack, I'm fine. Stop looking at me like that.” He ignored you, gripping your shoulder firmly but not painfully, leading you to the room Dana had mentioned.
“Sit.” He pointed to the bed there and sanitized his hands before sliding on a pair of gloves. You stood your ground.
Jack always had mixed feelings about this side of you. He admired your determination and ability to not be swayed. But along with that came a very stubborn woman. Often too stubborn for your own good.
“It’s noth-”
“Y/N, I swear to God if you say it's nothing one more time… Just sit down. I'm not asking.” He stared you down until you finally relented.
You slapped his hand when his penlight hit your eye. “Holy shit that's bright.”
“I know. Just let me do this. I'll be quick.” He started again and you tried to sit still. “When did you hit your head?”
You glanced at your watch. “Like five hours ago.”
“Was this the first time you threw up?” He saw you pause for only a moment, but he knew you well enough at this point to know you were about to lie to him. “Let me rephrase. How many times did you throw up prior to arriving here? Don't bullshit me, Y/N.”
“Twice.” You mumbled.
“Twice?! You hit your head, started bleeding, threw up TWICE and still didn't call me?!” Jack didn't notice he was shouting until another doctor peaked his head in.
“Dr. Abbot? Everything okay?”
Jack turned. “Yeah. Yes, sorry Robby, didn't mean to raise my voice.”
“Is this the infamous Y/N?” The doctor, Robby, inquired.
Your lip twitched up in an awkward smile. “Jack, how many people did you tell about me?”
“I literally only told them your name. That's it. But they're all extremely nosy.” He turned his attention back to Robby. “We're good brother, I've got it.”
Robby was clearly hesitant to leave, but gave a short nod and walked out.
“I want to get a head CT. To be safe.” Jack expressed, continuing his exam.
“I just want to go home. You're overreacting. Besides, aren't CT’s like, super expensive?” You asked.
“I'll pay for it. And I'm not overreacting. I'm going to order one. Stay put.” He pointed at you sternly while backing out of the room.
…
Forty-five minutes later, you were still sitting in the room and Jack hadn't come back.
“Alright, I'm done.” You slipped out of the room, careful that no one saw you. That was, until you started seeing stars. You heard someone calling your name but the voice seemed distant.
“Y/N!” Jack yelled from the other side of the large area. He started running when he saw you stumble and caught you in his arms just as you passed out.
He threw an arm under your legs and lifted you bridal style, carrying you back into the room and laying you down.
Dana followed behind. “What happened?”
Jack didn't respond, just lifted your eyelids to check your pupils again. “Y/N look at me. Open your eyes baby. Come on. Dana get-”
He cut himself short upon seeing her already starting an IV.
You stirred a few seconds later with a deep groan. Dana pinned your arm down. “Stay still honey, almost done.”
“Wh-what?” You whispered.
“Open your eyes Y/N, look at me. Come on, you can do it. Show me those pretty eyes.” He pleaded.
You forced one eye open. “Jack?”
“Yeah baby, it's me. How are you feeling?”
“I'm fine I was just… How'd I get back in here?” You looked around the space as if that would give you some sort of answer.
“You were trying to sneak out but I saw you start to stumble and got to you just in time for you to pass out in my arms. I carried you in here.” Jack explained.
“Was I out for long?”
He huffed. “No, only about thirty seconds, but it's not something I wanted to see. Dana, put a rush on that CT?”
She nodded and hurried out.
Jack squeezed your hand and kissed it, lowering himself onto a stool beside you while another nurse hooked your IV up to a bag of fluids. “Don't do that to me.”
You smiled. “I wasn’t trying to.”
“I know, but you did try to leave when I told you to stay put.” He couldn’t decide if he was mad at you for putting yourself at risk or just grateful that you had opened your eyes again.
“I didn't think it was a big deal.” You shrugged.
“Well maybe next time, God forbid there be a next time, just listen to me? I may be your boyfriend but I'm also a doctor. I know what I'm doing.” He waited for your nod, then smoothed your hair out and kissed your forehead. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Jackaroo.” You winked at him.
He hid his chuckle with a scoff, trying to keep up the charade that he hated the ‘Jackaroo’ part you always added when returning his words.
But right now, you in front of him like this, all he could think about was how he wanted to hear those words for the rest of his life.
peds!reader who is on her emergency medicine rotation after spending most of intern year in inpatient and outpatient pediatrics. she's still adjusting to the pace of the ER, where everything is louder and faster. she asks a million questions, carries too many pens in her scrub pockets, and still occasionally gets lost trying to find supply rooms because she spent the last year living on entirely different floors.
peds!reader who's known santos since her first day in pittsburg, they met at a bar one night and quickly became friends. eventually they became roomates and took in poor whitaker.
peds!reader who is slowly started to observe that ever since frank langdon started working closely with her, everyone else in the department has decided they are witnessing “something.” she does not agree. at all. she is extremely normal about it. they are just professional friends. the fact that she immediately starts talking faster whenever he walks into a room is irrelevant.
peds!reader who talks a lot. not because she likes hearing herself speak, but because silence makes her nervous. she'll ramble while placing IVs, while charting, while walking between rooms.
peds!reader who is incredibly good with scared children. she can convince a terrified five-year-old to take medicine, talk an anxious teenager through stitches, and somehow perform an exam while discussing dinosaurs, taylor swift, or whatever hyperfixation the kid currently has.
peds!reader who discovers that frank is weirdly protective of her. not because he thinks she can't handle herself, but because he knows she runs herself into the ground trying to take care of everyone else.
peds!reader who stress bakes. after bad shifts she'll go home and make bread from scratch at midnight because kneading dough feels easier than processing emotions. her apartment constantly smells like fresh bread, muffins, or whatever recipe she found online at 2 a.m.
peds!reader who never quite understands how she became so important to langdon, and she can't help but think that maybe, maybe she should start listening to the others...
