no longer single as a pringle — po5
smau + written blurbs
pato o’ward x !malukas model reader
you’ve always been the chaotic older sister—loud, dramatic, always dressed like you’re heading to the met gala, and completely allergic to anything resembling subtlety. david spent his whole life begging you not to come to his races. then there was pato o’ward.
now you’re not just in the paddock—you’re in his bed, his instagram posts, his team radio, his hoodie, and absolutely in david’s nightmares. and a soft launch was too boring for you.
because love should be loud, messy, and just a little bit chaotic. especially when it’s with your brothers ex teammate.
original request is here.
fc: bella hadid !
—
yn_malukas
liked by davidmalukas, elbaoward, patriciooward and 2,507,003 others.
yn_malukas : when in nashville…or wtv they say
tagged : davidmalukas
—
view 205,077 other comments.
patriciooward : save a horse, ride a cowboy…or whatever they say
liked by yn_malukas
↳ patriciooward : im on my knees pleaseeee🙏🏻
liked by yn_malukas
↳ patriciooward : im about to start barking
liked by yn_malukas
↳ nolansiegel : i don’t think this is what we rehearsed
liked by yn_malukas
↳ davidmalukas : why r you barking at my sister
↳ patriciooward : she is hot.
liked by yn_malukas
↳ davidmalukas : can I barf now
↳ yn_malukas : y’all need to all go outside and touch some grass ❤️
↳ patriciooward : ** yes pato i will go out with you
liked by yn_malukas
↳ yn_malukas : in your dreams o’ward
↳ davidmalukas : preferably never 🫶🏻
↳ yn_malukas : on second thought….
liked by patriciooward
↳ patriciooward : pick you up at 8?
liked by yn_malukas
↳ davidmalukas : im gonna kms
↳ patriciooward : just don’t ruin this for me bud☺️
liked by yn_malukas
elbaoward : the prettiest angel <3
liked by yn_malukas
↳ yn_malukas : might want to take notes from your sister patricio...
liked by elbaoward and patriciooward
↳ yn_malukas : but i love you my pretty
liked by elbaoward
davidmalukas : love the pics of me you chose to post 🙄
liked by yn_malukas
↳ yn_malukas : be grateful your ugly mug was even allowed on my feed
↳ davidmalukas : i am literally the reason ur in nashville but ok
↳ yn_malukas : whatever you want to think. i came to see elba and get free food
liked by elbaoward
—
earlier in the day
You weren’t supposed to be in Nashville. Or at least that’s what David had been counting on when he sent his usual “pls don’t come” text three days before the race weekend. Naturally, that only made you book the flight faster.
Now you’re leaning against the pit wall, sunglasses on, iced coffee in hand, red bandana knotted around your neck. David clocked you an hour ago and groaned so loud it echoed through the garage. Victory.
You’re halfway through making fun of his race suit when you hear it–
“No mames,” someone laughs behind you, that voice too familiar and too dangerous. “I know that’s not who I think it is.”
You turn your head slowly. Sunglasses slide down the bridge of your nose. And there he is.
Pato O’Ward. Looking like trouble. And smiling like he knows it.
He’s walking toward you in full McLaren gear, undershirt clinging to him in all the right ways, hair wild, sunglasses pushed up on his head. That grin hasn’t changed one bit since the last time you saw him.
—Which, for the record, was like eight minutes total a year ago when he and David were teammates. But clearly, it was enough.
“Well, well, well,” you hum, giving him a once-over. “If it isn’t IndyCar’s favorite boy.”
“If it isn’t David’s favorite headache,” Pato fires back, stopping right in front of you, smirking like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.
You smirk right back. “That’s crazy, I thought you were his favorite headache now.”
“Why not both?”
“Oh my god,” comes Elba’s voice as she appears beside him, sunglasses on, head already in her hands. “This is already too much. He might pass out.”
“Elba,” you grin, hopping down from the tires, “you’re looking radiant as ever.”
“Don’t distract me with your flirting,” she says, pointing between you two. “Whatever’s about to happen, I want no part in it. I know both of you. You’re demons.”
“I’m literally just saying hi,” Pato says innocently, throwing an arm around your shoulders like he hasn’t just revived every last ounce of tension from last year.
“Uh huh,” Elba deadpans. “Because people usually say hi with heart eyes and flirty banter in stereo.”
Pato ignores her. “So. You in town just to stress out your brother or…?”
“Always,” you say, taking a sip of your coffee. “But if I’d known you were here looking like that, I would’ve flown in sooner.”
He laughs—loud, bright, eyes crinkling in the corners—and it makes your stomach do something very inconvenient.
“Just say the word,” he leans in, “you know I’ll do whatever for you.”
“Say the word,” you echo, “and I’ll have that suit off you before the national anthem.”
“NOPE!” David’s voice rings out as he rounds the corner and nearly drops his water bottle. “Nope nope nope. I don’t like whatever this is."
You both look at him, grinning.
“Hey little brother,” you call sweetly.
Pato smiles. “Looking good, man.”
David stares like he’s reliving a trauma. “You two talked once. Once. This is not a real thing.”
“Elba, tell him it’s a real thing,” you say, grinning.
“I’m staying out of it,” she replies immediately. “Pato still believes it was fate.”
“It was fate,” Pato says without looking away from you. “I just didn’t have the balls to shoot my shot when she was standing next to her baby brother.”
“Who is, for the record, still right over there,” David’s voice chimes in, horrified, from a few feet away. “And can hear all of this.”
“Then plug your ears, baby Malukas,” you call sweetly, barely turning your head.
—
present
There’s a knock at your hotel room door exactly at 8:00 PM. Which, frankly, pisses you off a little — because it means Pato O’Ward is punctual, too. Like being hot, fast, and funny wasn’t already enough. Now he’s also courteous? Infuriating.
You peek through the peephole, half-hoping it’s just room service or David coming to beg you to cancel whatever the hell it is you agreed to in that comment section.
It’s not.
It’s Pato.
In a black button-up, top two buttons undone, sleeves rolled just enough to show forearm. He’s got one hand shoved in his pocket and the other holding a bouquet of flowers. His hair still damp from a shower, and when you open the door, his grin is already full wattage.
“I come bearing peace offerings,” he says, holding out the flowers.
You tilt your head. “Peace offerings for…?”
“Flirting with you in public. Breaking your brother’s will to live. Existing in a way that’s apparently ‘too much.’”
You smirk, stepping back to let him in. “You’re lucky I like ‘too much.’”
“Don’t I know it.”
You gently set the flowers down and grab your purse. He’s already scanning the room like he’s casing it.
“So this is where the chaos lives,” he says.
“Temporary chaos,” you correct. “I leave destruction wherever I go. Keeps things interesting.”
“I think I’m in love.”
You roll your eyes, brushing past him toward the hallway. “Save the sweet talk for after dinner, vaquero.”
The date starts at a food truck parked under a string of flickering lights.
There’s nowhere to sit, so you eat standing side by side on the sidewalk, the Nashville humidity clinging to your skin and the air buzzing with music from a bar across the street.
Pato hands you an empanada. “Best in the city,” he promises.
You take one bite and pretend to think about it. “Hmm.”
He narrows his eyes. “Don’t play with me.”
“Mid.”
“Mid?!” he gasps, clutching his chest like he’s been stabbed. “That’s actually hate speech.”
You laugh, tossing a chip at him, and he tries to catch it in his mouth. Misses by a mile.
“Not exactly helping your case,” you say.
“I’m nervous!” he protests.
“Oh? Nervous around me?”
He shrugs. “You’re terrifying. In a very hot way.”
The second stop is even worse. He takes you to a bar with a mechanical bull.
“Absolutely not,” you say the second he gestures to it.
“Oh, absolutely yes.”
“Pato.”
“Don’t you wanna make your brother cry?”
“…fine.”
You last nine seconds on the bull. You blame the tequila. And the boots. And the fact that Pato is cheering so loudly.
When you stumble off, hair wild and bandana slipping, he’s waiting with a stupid grin and both hands out to catch you.
“You’re so annoying,” you mutter.
“You’re so hot when you almost die,” he says.
“You’re actually disgusting.”
“You’re gonna kiss me later.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
You don’t answer. But you don’t let go of his hand, either.
—
The rooftop is quiet. The kind of quiet that only comes at the end of a loud night — when the city’s still buzzing below, but up here, it’s just the two of you. Stillness and starlight and the soft rustle of your knee brushing his.
You’re sitting cross-legged now, the heels long gone, one of his arms stretched behind you as he leans on it, and the other holding the shared bag of gummy bears between you both. He hasn’t looked away from you in at least five minutes.
“Do you always do this?” he asks, voice a little quieter now. “Charm people on Instagram, kiss them on rooftops, ruin their lives a little?”
You smile lazily, turning your head to meet his gaze. “Only the special ones.”
“Good,” he says, blinking slowly, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I like being ruined by the best.”
You shake your head, but it’s hard to hide your smile.
There’s a pause. One of those pauses that hums with something. Not tension, not hesitation—just weight. Like the air between you knows exactly what’s coming.
Pato shifts a little closer, his knee touching yours. “You know,” he murmurs, "I didn’t actually think you’d say yes.”
You look at him, brow raised. “Why not?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. You’re…”
He trails off, searching for the word.
“Unreachable,” he says finally. “Like the kind of girl people write songs about and then regret ever meeting.”
You laugh softly. “So dramatic.”
“You bring it out of me.”
And maybe it’s the city lights flickering in his eyes, or the way he’s looking at you like he’s trying to memorize this exact version of you — wind-swept, sun-warmed, legs tucked under you and smile just a little too dangerous — but it happens. You lean in. He meets you halfway.
It’s not fireworks. It’s not loud. It’s soft — steady — something that lingers. His lips are warm, and his hand finds your waist like it’s instinct, pulling you just a little closer as your fingers slip into the curls at the nape of his neck. You pull back a moment later, just enough to catch the look in his eyes. He’s smiling like he’s in trouble.
“So,” you say, your voice a little breathless, “still think I’m unreachable?”
Pato exhales a laugh, resting his forehead lightly against yours.
“No,” he says, grinning. “I think I’m completely screwed.”
—
patriciooward
liked by yn_malukas, nolansiegel, elbaoward and 1,114,003 others.
patriciooward : photo dump with a little bit of advice (never stop yearning fellas 🙏🏻 it pays off)
tagged : yn_malukas
—
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nolansiegel : patiently waiting on david's comment.
↳ nolansiegel : also sorry i did not believe in your techniques
liked by patriciooward
↳ patriciooward : it's okay little one. watch and learn ;)
↳ yn_malukas : do not feel bad nolan. he did not believe in his own techniques
liked by nolansiegel and patriciooward
↳ patriciooward : babe stop lying to the child pls
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username00 : someone check on david pls
↳ yn_malukas : pls don't. he does not deserve comfort at this time or anytime
liked by username00
yn_malukas : ok but why do you look so good in the second one
liked by patriciooward
↳ patriciooward : idk babe that’s your man. go ahead and act accordingly
liked by yn_malukas
↳ yn_malukas : respectfully i would climb you like a tree
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↳ patriciooward : i believe that i already let you do that this morning
liked by yn_malukas
↳ yn_malukas : don’t act like you didn’t beg
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↳ davidmalukas : other forms of communication exist and i suggest you both utilize them before i scratch my eyes out
liked by patriciooward
↳ patriciooward : mi cuñadooooooo (my brother in law)
↳ davidmalukas : nope do not even start o'ward.
—
You wake up slowly, cocooned in his arms. His chest is pressed against your back, breath warm against your shoulder, one leg tangled between yours and his arm wrapped tight around your waist. You stretch a little, careful not to wake him, but the second you shift, he hums sleepily and pulls you closer.
“Mm-mm, don’t move,” he mumbles, voice rough and low.
You glance at the clock. “We have to leave in an hour.”
“No we don’t.”
“Yes, we do.”
“Lies.”
You turn your head slightly and catch him grinning against your skin. “You’re clingy.”
“You literally fell asleep holding my hoodie.”
“Because you stole the blanket.”
“Because you hog the blanket.”
“You snore—”
“I do not!”
“You do,” you laugh, wriggling out of his grip just enough to roll over and face him. His hair is a mess, his eyes are still half-lidded, and he looks unfairly good for someone who just woke up. You hate him a little for it. But not really.
He smiles lazily, eyes locked on you. “You look pretty in the morning.”
You blink. “I look like a raccoon.”
“Racoons are adorable.”
You narrow your eyes, but he leans in and kisses the corner of your mouth like it’s second nature. Soft, sweet, easy.
God, this was supposed to be casual. You were supposed to be just flirting. Breaking your brother’s brain a little. Not waking up beside him feeling like you’ve done this a hundred times already.
“You sure you want to come?” you ask quietly. “To brunch?”
He hums, pressing another kiss to your cheekbone. “With your brother? Obviously.”
“He’s going to implode.”
“Even better.”
“Pato.”
He opens his eyes fully now, hand sliding down your back with all the ease of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing. “Come on. He’ll survive. We’re adults.”
You raise a brow. “You hard launched us without warning yesterday. He left three voice notes in the family group chat and one of them was just him screaming.”
Pato grins. “He’ll scream in person too. Can’t wait.”
You groan, dropping your face into his chest. He laughs, arms coming around you again, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on your back. You could stay here forever. Which is alarming.
“You like this too much,” you mumble.
“I like you too much,” he corrects.
You lift your head. “Okay, that was gross.”
“You love it.”
“I do,” you admit.
He tilts his head, smirking. “You love me.”
“Don’t start.”
“Oh, it’s already started.”
You kiss him again just to shut him up. It works — for now.
—
The second you step into the café, you feel it. The storm brewing. David’s already there — baseball cap pulled low, sunglasses on inside like he’s in witness protection, half a mimosa in hand, and absolutely no idea what’s about to hit him.
You pause just inside the door, Pato beside you, both of you still slightly flushed from laughing the entire Uber ride there.
“Last chance to fake an emergency,” you whisper.
Pato grins. “What, and miss the live reaction?”
You groan but start walking, weaving through the tables, trying to suppress the pure glee radiating off the man next to you. David looks up when he hears footsteps, sees you first — and relaxes slightly — until his eyes drift. And then he freezes. The sunglasses come off. Slowly. Like his brain needs visual confirmation.
“No.”
“Hi David,” Pato says cheerfully, sliding into the booth directly across from him like he belongs there.
“No.”
You sit down next to Pato, sip your coffee, and smile sweetly. “Surprise.”
“NO.”
People are starting to stare. David looks like a man on the brink of a full-blown existential crisis.
“What is he doing here?!” he hisses.
“Brunch,” Pato answers, stealing a piece of toast off David’s plate. “Obviously.”
“You said it was just you!”
“Plans changed.”
David glares at you, then Pato, then back at you. “You brought him to family brunch.”
You shrug. “You brought me to my first karting lesson in gym shorts and made me cry when I couldn’t brake. We all make choices.”
“This isn’t a choice, this is a betrayal.”
“David,” you sigh. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Am I?! Because I feel like I’m watching my ex teammate seduce my sister in real time.”
“She seduced me, actually,” Pato says, biting into the toast.
“I did not,” you protest.
Pato grins. “In the comments.”
David looks like he’s about to burst into flames. “You need help. Both of you.”
You turn to Pato. “Are we being annoying?”
“Deeply,” he nods. “But also, kind of iconic?”
David slams his menu shut. “I’m leaving.”
“You haven’t ordered yet,” you point out.
“I don’t want anything.”
Pato waves the waitress over. “He’ll have the waffles.”
“I don’t—”
“You love waffles, David,” you say firmly.
“I hate this family.”
“You love us.”
He scowls. “No. I tolerate you.”
Pato nudges your leg under the table and leans over to whisper in your ear, low and smug. “He’s going to forgive us eventually.”
You whisper back, “You’re very confident for someone who’s one group chat meme away from exile.”
He just winks. David is muttering to himself now, flipping through the menu again while loudly sighing every few seconds like a dad who was dragged to a brunch spot with no burgers.
But when the waffles arrive, he eats them. Silently. Resigned. He doesn’t look either of you in the eye, but he finishes the whole plate.
“You good now?” you ask when he sets his fork down.
David takes a deep breath. “Just don’t kiss in front of me, okay?”
Pato immediately reaches for your hand on the table.
“DON’T—”
You and Pato break into matching grins, fingers intertwined as David looks up at the ceiling like he’s searching for a higher power. He won’t admit it. Not today. But he will get used to it. And you?
You’re already texting Elba under the table:
he made it through brunch without jumping across the table. we’re basically married now.
—
You and Elba were supposed to be shopping for the next race. That was the plan. One store, maybe two. A light browse.
Instead, two hours later, you’re deep in a boutique that smells like eucalyptus and expensive linen, trying on matching silk skirts while Elba holds up a pair of ridiculously sparkly heels and says, “Okay, but hear me out — bachelorette weekend in Ibiza?”
You blink. “That’s… specific.”
She shrugs, completely unbothered. “I like to be prepared.”
You narrow your eyes. “Prepared for what, exactly?”
Elba grins like she’s been waiting for the setup. “For the wedding, obviously.”
You nearly drop the clutch you’re holding.
“Elba.”
“What?” she says innocently, like she hasn’t just casually mentioned marriage in the middle of a boutique next to a $400 throw pillow. “I just like to plan ahead. You’re basically already married anyway.”
You stare at her. “Because I like your brother?”
“Because you match my brother,” she says, smug. “Like. Disturbingly well. It’s kind of horrifying.”
“I’m not that bad.”
She snorts. “You’re both loud. You both love chaos. You both think Instagram comments are a form of communication. You flirt like it’s an Olympic sport, and somehow you make it look charming. And don’t even get me started on the dramatic exits.”
You try not to laugh, failing miserably. “We’re not that dramatic.”
She tilts her head. “You wore a full Armani suit to brunch.”
“I was on theme.”
“You made the theme.”
You’re still laughing when she walks over, links her arm with yours, and drops her head dramatically against your shoulder. “I’m just saying. If you and Pato elope, I’ll be happy for you but also furious I didn’t get to throw a party.”
“Noted,” you smile, nudging her gently. “But if there is a wedding, you’re picking the playlist.”
“Obviously,” she says, straightening up. “And walking him down the aisle because he’d absolutely trip over his own feet if left unsupervised.”
You imagine it for half a second — Pato standing at the altar, grinning like an idiot, Elba fussing with his boutonnière while you fix your veil. It’s stupid. And ridiculous. And— You kind of love it.
“You’re insane,” you mutter.
Elba beams. “And you’re family now. So get used to it.”
—
You swore you weren’t going to cause a scene. Really. You did.
You even told Pato in the car on the way to the track — “I’m just here to watch. No chaos. No memes. No hard launches.” And he smiled that crooked little smile and said, “Sure, baby,” in the exact tone of voice someone uses when they know you’re lying.
And okay. Maybe you were. Because here you are — a little too dressed for the weather, sunglasses perched on your head, wearing one of Pato’s old McLaren jackets that’s at least two sizes too big — standing at the back of the garage like you’re part of the team.
Pato walks by on the way to debrief, still in his fireproofs, towel draped around his neck, cheeks flushed with heat. He catches sight of you and immediately veers off course like a magnet’s been pulled.
“You look dangerous,” he murmurs as he leans in, hand settling at your waist. “You trying to distract me before qualifying?”
“Always,” you reply sweetly. “Is it working?”
He pretends to think about it, eyes flicking over your lips. “Well, I nearly walked into a tire rack, so…”
“Perfect.”
You both smile. It’s easy, warm, familiar — and you feel the eyes on you. The crew. The media. Fans just beyond the barricade. You don’t care.
“I’ll be watching,” you say, fixing the collar of his suit like you’re not being painfully annoying.
“I’ll drive faster just to get back to you sooner.”
“Pato.”
“I’m romantic, let me live.”
You roll your eyes, but when he jogs off toward pit lane, you’re still smiling. You stay close to the monitors, Elba's hand wrapped tightly around yours, headset on, and listen in while pretending not to understand half of what’s being said. Still, when his name pops to the top of the timing sheets, you let out a very smug little cheer.
Later, after qualifying, he finds you outside the motorhome, leaning against the wall and scrolling through your phone. He sneaks up behind you — very poorly — and snakes his arms around your waist.
“You’re not subtle,” you say without looking up.
“Neither are you,” he says. “You did a whole victory dance in the garage.”
“I was being supportive.”
“You still danced.”
“I was being supportive.”
He spins you around and lifts you off your feet like you weigh nothing. You yelp, laughing as your legs wrap instinctively around his waist.
“There she is,” someone mutters nearby. “Paddock’s newest power couple.”
You glance over Pato’s shoulder to see a few crew members watching, amused. One gives you a thumbs-up.
“I’m gonna get you fired,” you whisper in Pato’s ear.
“You’re gonna make me win,” he whispers back, pressing a kiss to your jaw before setting you down gently. “Then marry me. And then probably get me fired.”
You hum. “Sounds like a plan.”
And just like that, he’s gone again — back to business, helmet in hand, but not before throwing you a wink over his shoulder.
—
yn_malukas
liked by patriciooward, elbaoward, davidmalukas and 2,705,007 others.
yn_malukas : honestly only posted this dump to post pictures of my boyfriend.
tagged : elbaoward and patriciooward
—
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—
6 months later...
patriciooward
liked by elbaoward, yn_malukas, davidmalukas and 1,140,008 others.
patriciooward : happiest of birthdays to the love of my life<3 i love you entirely too much for my own good. thank you for giving me a new purpose.
tagged : yn_malukas
—
It doesn’t feel like real life. The sun’s just starting to set, casting everything in that golden, syrupy glow that makes the ocean shimmer and the world slow down. You’re barefoot in a gauzy white cover-up, curls still damp from the water, skin warm from the sun, and laughter caught in your chest.
And Pato?
He’s sitting across from you, shirt halfway unbuttoned, curls a little wild from the wind, one hand holding a glass of something citrusy and the other resting casually on your thigh.
The cabana is perfect — breezy white curtains, pillows scattered everywhere, candles flickering gently even though the sun hasn’t fully dipped below the horizon yet. There’s a tiny speaker playing some soft, lazy playlist in the background, and a little two-tier cake sitting on the low table in front of you, covered in pale flowers and a topper that reads “mi amor” in delicate gold script.
You don’t know who ordered it. But you can guess.
“Pato,” you say, softly, already smiling.
He just shrugs, like it’s nothing. “You only turn twenty-something once.”
You laugh. “That’s not how that saying goes.”
He grins. “It is when I forget your age every time someone asks.”
You hit him with a pillow lightly. He blocks it with one hand, still smirking. “Seriously, though. You like it?”
You look around — at the waves crashing a few feet away, at the cake and the champagne and the string lights beginning to flicker on overhead, at him, sitting there like the sun set just to frame him in gold.
“I love it.”
He leans in, presses a kiss to your cheek. Then your jaw. Then, finally, your mouth — slow and warm, like he’s been holding it in all day just for this moment.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I love you.”
You blink. The words settle on your skin like sunlight. It’s not the first time. He’s said it before — messy and breathless after a race, sleepy and tangled in bed, whispered in Spanish when he thought you were asleep. But here, now, it lands differently. Softer. Stronger.
You smile. “I know.”
He squints. “That’s it? I love you, and you hit me with a Han Solo?”
You laugh and lean in, kissing him again. “I love you too, idiot.”
He kisses you back like he’s waited all year to hear that again. Eventually — after champagne and cake and two rounds of dancing barefoot in the sand while he sings into his phone like a fake microphone — you curl up together in the cabana, wrapped in a blanket that smells like saltwater and coconut sunscreen.
He’s got his chin on your shoulder, arms around your waist, and your birthday card tucked between your fingers — handwritten, messy, full of Pato-isms.
You sigh contentedly, eyes closing. “I’m never topping this birthday.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he murmurs against your skin. “I already booked next year’s.”
You open one eye. “You what?”
He just grins. “Surprise.”
—
flashback (third pov)
It takes Pato four tries to knock on David’s hotel room door. He’s already paced the hallway. Twice. Practiced the speech in his head. Rehearsed exactly how he’s going to bring it up — casually, calmly, like it’s not the biggest thing he’s ever said in his life. He knocks.
David opens the door half a second later, hair a mess, socks mismatched, mouth full of protein bar. “What?”
“Can we talk?” Pato asks.
David narrows his eyes. “Did you crash another car?"
“No.”
“Break your phone?”
“No.”
“Post something unhinged?”
“…Technically, yes. But that’s not why I’m here.”
David groans and steps aside to let him in. Pato walks into the room like he’s entering a courtroom. Stiff, fidgety, hands in his pockets. The TV’s on, muted, Formula 2 replay in the background.
David flops onto the bed. “What’s going on?”
Pato stays standing. Clears his throat.
Then blurts, “I’m gonna propose.”
David blinks. “To who?”
Pato stares at him.
David blinks again. “Oh my god.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Pato lies.
“It’s the biggest deal,” David says, sitting up, suddenly wide awake. “You’re proposing to my sister.”
“I know.”
“My sister.”
“I know, man.”
David runs a hand through his hair, looking somewhere between shocked and horrified. “How long have you been planning this?”
“A while.”
“And you’re telling me now?”
“I wanted to do it right.”
David stares. “So why are you here?”
And finally — finally — Pato looks at him, eyes a little too sincere.
“Because I love her. Because she’s… everything. And I know we’re a lot. I know we move fast and we make everyone uncomfortable with our Instagram PDA and that I stress you out literally every day. But I want to marry her. And I wanted to ask you first.”
David doesn’t say anything right away.
He just exhales and looks down, fingers twisting the edge of the comforter. It’s weird — watching Pato be serious. Not performative. Not charming. Just real.
“You really love her?” he asks quietly.
Pato nods. “Completely.”
There’s another pause.
Then David sighs. “She’s gonna say yes.”
“I hope so.”
“No, I mean like… she’s gonna ugly cry and probably tackle you.”
Pato grins. “Good.”
David groans and flops backward. “God. This is gonna be so emotional. You’re gonna make me be in the wedding party, aren’t you?”
“Best man,” Pato says, smug.
David throws a pillow at him. “You’re lucky I like you.”
“I know.”
David sits up again, shaking his head. “If you hurt her—”
“I won’t.”
“I will drive a golf cart through your living room.”
“I believe you.”
David sighs again, then sticks out his hand.
Pato blinks. “That’s a yes?”
“That’s a try not to pass out when you propose yes.”
Pato laughs, grabs his hand, and pulls him into a hug before David can escape it. “Thank you, man.”
“Yeah, yeah,” David mutters, trying not to smile.
—
present day (2nd pov)
You think something’s up when Pato insists on driving. Not because he’s acting weird — in fact, it’s the opposite. He’s being almost too casual. Calm. One hand on the wheel, the other linked with yours over the center console, humming to some old Spanish love song like he didn’t just ask you to dress nice for “a little surprise.”
“You’re being suspicious,” you murmur, eyeing him.
“I’m being charming,” he corrects.
“You’re being secretive.”
“I’m romantic.”
“Same thing.”
He glances at you with a smirk and squeezes your hand. “You’ll like it. I promise.”
And the thing is? You already do. You’d like anything, really, as long as he’s beside you.
The sun’s just beginning to dip low in the sky when the car pulls into a quiet little cliffside road overlooking the ocean — one of those secret scenic spots locals keep to themselves. There’s a tiny trail that leads to a tucked-away overlook surrounded by tall grass and wildflowers and nothing else but endless blue water stretching all the way to the horizon.
It’s beautiful. Still. Warm in the air and in your chest.
There’s no crowd. No paparazzi. Just you, him, and the sound of the waves crashing far below.
He walks you to the edge slowly, fingers intertwined, shoulders brushing.
“Pato,” you murmur, “this is—”
He stops you, turning to face you fully. His hand doesn’t let go of yours.
“I know,” he says softly. “It’s already perfect. But I want to ruin it a little.”
You laugh, heart racing. “That doesn’t even make sense—”
But he’s already dropping to one knee.
You freeze. The world stills. The air leaves your lungs.
Pato looks up at you, ring box in hand, and smiles like he’s been waiting for this moment since the day he met you.
“Mi amor,” he begins, voice steady but eyes just slightly glassy, “you know I talk too much. All the time. I fill every room. I make noise. I spin chaos.”
You’re already crying.
“But then you came along and matched me,” he grins, soft and sure. “You never tried to quiet me down — you amplified me. You make everything feel bigger. Brighter. You make me want to be better and slower and funnier and softer. All at once.”
He takes a breath.
“I don’t want another minute of life that doesn’t have you in it. I want every morning, every track walk, every screaming group chat with David, every broken headboard, every dumb Instagram comment thread. All of it. If you’ll let me.”
You blink back tears. “I—”
“Will you marry me?”
The words fall into the ocean air like they belong there.
You’re nodding before you can speak, sob-laughing as you drop to your knees to kiss him, the ring forgotten in his hand as you wrap your arms around his neck.
“Yes,” you whisper against his lips. “Yes, yes, yes.”
He’s kissing you like the sky just cracked open, one hand still clutching the box, the other tangled in your hair as you both laugh and cry at the same time.
And then — from somewhere behind the tall grass — you hear it.
“OH MY GOD FINALLY.”
You pull back, confused, just in time to see David burst from the bushes like he’s been hiding there for hours, followed by your mom, your dad, Elba, and half of O'ward and the Malukas family trailing behind them.
“Surprise!” they shout in chaotic, overlapping voices.
You gasp. “What—”
“You think I was gonna miss this?” David says, already filming with his phone. His eyes are red, but he tries to play it cool. “I helped plan the Spotify playlist, by the way.”
“You were IN THE BUSHES?”
“For like forty-five minutes,” Elba sighs. “I told them we should’ve waited in the parking lot.”
Pato stands up beside you, one arm still around your waist, the ring now gently slipped onto your finger. He’s flushed with happiness, curls wild from the wind, and smiling at the chaos like it’s his own personal fairy tale. Which, maybe, it is.
Your mom’s crying. Your dad’s taking blurry pictures. Elba is popping champagne and pouring it into Solo cups someone definitely forgot to replace with real glasses. David is already threatening Pato with a baseball bat and hugging you so tight your ribs ache. And still — through all of it — Pato never stops looking at you. Like you hung the stars. Like you are the stars.
—
yn_malukas and patriciooward
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yn_malukas : best day ever<3 (ft a pic of david when pato asked him if he could marry me) (but he was crying today, don't let him fool you) so excited to marry you, mi amor. i love you forever and always.
tagged : davidmalukas, elbaoward and patriciooward
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patriciooward: mi esposaaaa 🥹 te amo, te amo, te amoooooo
liked by yn_malukas
↳ patriciooward: also david did cry. he sobbed. full breakdown.
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↳ davidmalukas : I WAS SWEATING FROM MY EYES
liked by patriciooward and yn_malukas
↳ patriciooward: sweating??? in 72° and a breeze??? ↳ yn_malukas: babe be honest he did the little shoulder tremble cry
davidmalukas : currently : in mourning. no one contact me.
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↳ yn_malukas : no. he is currently sitting on the beach with his future brother in law.
↳ davidmalukas: i’ve been betrayed. in public.
elbaoward : officially my sister <3 love you always!!
liked by yn_malukas and patriciooward
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