𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐪𝐮𝐞 𝐮𝐧 á𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥 — kika gomes!
francisca ‘kika’ gomes x !vs angel verstappen reader (smau + written)
the show lights hit you like heaven’s halo. you are opening AND closing the victoria's secret fashion show— your wings are glittering, your walk effortless. cameras flash, angels sing, and somewhere in the front row, kika gomes can’t take her eyes off you.
kelly piquet is seated beside her, smiling knowingly—she’d told kika how magnetic her sister-in-law was, but words hadn’t done you justice. and when you finally meet backstage, sweat and glitter on your collarbones, she looks at you like you were carved straight out of her dreams. you shake her hand, say something polite—but the air hums. neither of you sleeps that night.
fc : bella hadid (i imagine reader to be 23-24)
(day 6 of chef’s tea party series!) (mentions of jos being homophobic but big brother max steps in)
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
f1gossipgirls
1,290,000 likes.
f1gossipgirls : kika gomes, kelly piquet and several other wags have been spotted at this years VS fashion show! supermodel and sister to max verstappen, yn verstappen, happens to be opening and closing the show. kelly and kika appeared to be seated together alongside yn and max's mother and sister, sophie and victoria!
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view 45,000 other comments.
username007 : yn looked SO fucking good. i was down on my hands and knees after that second look.
liked by f1gossipgirls and 10,000 others.
↳ f1gossipgirls : real af. she even got a bark outta me.
username05 : sophie, victoria and kelly all looked so proud. i swear i saw sophie crying when the camera panned to her. so wholesome.
↳ username070 : did you see kika??? she was all smiles the entire time.
↳ username88 : im starting a rumor.
liked by f1gossipgirls
username0005 : the verstappen siblings are something else...and i really don't understand how with jos being involved in the process. everyone let's thank sophie for her contribution!!!!
liked by f1gossipgirls and 17,500 others.
↳ f1gossipgirls : @/sophiekumpen you are a goddess. thank you for birthing 3 stunning children.
username77 : imagine if Kika and yn start hanging out after this… the internet would EXPLODE 💅
username88 : yn walking in VS feels like the return of the real angels era, idc what anyone says
liked by f1gossipgirls
username050 : max's comment on her insta had me crying. they support each other sm.
liked by f1gossipgirls
username10 : have kika and kelly always hung out or is this a new development???
↳ f1gossipgirls : i've never really seen them hangout in the paddock but they were at a few modeling events a few months ago.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
ynverstappen
nyc📍. 🎶karol g — ivonny bonita
liked by maxverstappen1, kellypiquet, kikagomes, lando and 7,800,000 others.
ynverstappen : another year, another set of wings<3 i always love walking this show and i love it even more with my family there to support me. thank u to mama, vic and kelly for making the trip to see little ol me :,) love you all tremendously.
tagged : sophiekumpen, victoriaverstappen and kellypiquet
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kellypiquet : Always so proud of you, meu anjinho 🤍 you were breathtaking tonight — as always 🕊️
liked by ynverstappen
↳ ynverstappen : my heart 🤍 love you always
liked by kellypiquet
victoriaverstappen : still can’t believe you’re MY sister! proud is an understatement. we were all screaming for you!! 😭🩵
liked by ynverstappen
↳ ynverstappen : i heard you all and ive never felt more loved 😭😭 forever blessed to have the best sister on the planet 🤍
liked by victoriaverstappen
↳ victoriaverstappen : don’t make me cry again!!
liked by ynverstappen
sophiekumpen : mijn mooie meisje❤️ never a day passes that i am not proud to be your mama
liked by ynverstappen
↳ ynverstappen : mommy🥹 love you to pieces
liked by sophiekumpen
maxverstappen1 : still wish i could’ve been there but i am always so proud of you. you looked beautiful, kleine zusje❤️
liked by ynverstappen
↳ ynverstappen : mijn maxie 🥲 missed having you there but i can always feel your support even when you’re not there 🩵 ty for the flowers!!!!
liked by maxverstappen1
lilymhe : a real life ANGEL 🤍 the body is insane. idk how you always serve but you do<3
liked by ynverstappen
↳ ynverstappen : i’m blushing over here!!!! stawppp💋
liked by lilymhe
kikagomes : so so great to finally meet you, beautiful! (the red look still has me speechless) ❤️🔥
liked by ynverstappen
↳ ynverstappen : you still have me speechless! even more gorgeous in personnn😻
liked by kikagomes
↳ username88 : oh yeah def starting a rumor
lando : for once in my life i am speechless 😶
liked by ynverstappen
↳ ynverstappen : i made THE lando norris speechless???
liked by lando
alexandrasaintmleux : you are the blueprint. absolutely so stunning. no notes 🤏🏻🤍
liked by ynverstappen
username007 : gods favorite fr
danielricciardo : perfection doesn’t even cover it 😮💨 miss you angel
liked by ynverstappen
↳ ynverstappen : dannyyyyyy!!! miss you sooooo much
liked by danielricciardo
↳ username789 : idgaf about the age difference. i need them to date
↳ username57 : i have a theory that she is for the girls. she has turned down literally half the grid
victoriassecret : the most beautiful angel❤️💋 (you’ve influenced us to wear head to toe red now)
liked by ynverstappen
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
The venue hums with electric anticipation — photographers shouting, lights flashing, the distinct sound of stilettos against marble echoing through the air. The Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show has always been an event, but tonight feels heavier, grander, brighter. Maybe because you’re opening and closing, maybe because your name — YN Verstappen — has been on every magazine cover leading up to tonight.
Kelly arrives with Sophie and Victoria in tow, all three effortlessly elegant. They’re ushered toward the front row, flashes trailing behind them. Sophie is glowing with maternal pride, Victoria looks like she’s ready to cry, and Kelly — always poised — is scanning the crowd when her eyes land on a familiar face.
“Kika!” she calls out with a delighted smile.
Kika Gomes turns, her now dark colored hair perfectly curled, soft eyes lighting up as she spots Kelly. She looks surprised at first — and then warmly pleased when Kelly waves her over. The two hug like old friends, air kisses on both cheeks.
“I didn’t know you’d be here!” Kelly exclaims.
“I got invited last minute,” Kika replies, her accent lilting, voice soft but confident. “I couldn’t miss it. YN’s walking tonight, no?”
Kelly smiles, eyes bright with affection. “She’s opening and closing. Come sit with us — the seats next to us are open.”
Kika hesitates for a second, but Kelly’s sincerity makes it impossible to say no. Soon enough, she’s seated beside her, chatting easily with Victoria and Sophie as photographers take discreet (and not so discreet) photos of the glamorous group.
Backstage, you’re in a flurry of last-minute touch-ups — powder on your collarbones, shimmer on your cheekbones, wings adjusted for balance. Victoria and Sophie peek in just before the show begins, sneaking past handlers to reach you.
“Mama,” you grin, turning as your mother pulls you into her arms. She smells like her usual perfume — warm, floral, comforting.
“My beautiful girl,” she says softly. “We’re all so proud. You look incredible.”
Victoria wraps you in a quick hug too, teary-eyed. “You’re going to kill it. I’ll scream loud enough for the whole place”
You laugh, eyes shining, and wave as they’re ushered back to their seats. And then, suddenly, the lights dim. The air shifts.
Showtime.
The first few steps always feel like a dream — a rush of adrenaline, the music vibrating through your chest, the crowd blurring into a halo of camera flashes. You walk out in a silver set dusted in crystals, your white rose wings spreading behind you like something celestial. Every head turns. Every whisper fades.
You catch sight of them — your family, front row center. Kelly’s smile beams like a proud sister, Victoria has her phone out filming, Sophie clasps her hands together, eyes wet. You can hear them cheering even over the music, and for a split second, you lock eyes with Kelly’s friend sitting beside her — Kika.
She’s not cheering. She’s just… watching.
Her gaze is steady, wide-eyed, almost reverent. The kind of look that lingers. You don’t know her well — you don’t know her at all, actually — but something about the way she looks at you feels disarming. Like she’s seeing more than glitter and fabric. Like she’s seeing you.
Your heartbeat stumbles. You smile instinctively, your practiced angelic expression softening into something real for just that moment.
When you reach the end of the runway, you turn, wings catching the light like a thousand small suns. On your way back, the moment passes, but it leaves a mark.
The show continues — changes, quick fittings, makeup touch-ups, applause. You close the show in red: lace, silk, confidence personified. By the time the final curtain falls, the air backstage is filled with laughter and congratulations.
You barely have a moment to breathe before you’re whisked toward your waiting family. Kelly spots you first, waving you over with that brilliant smile.
“You were divine,” she says, pulling you into a hug that smells faintly of Chanel.
Sophie joins next, followed by Victoria — proud chaos, happy tears, a blur of warmth. When you pull back, you notice her again. Kika, standing just behind them, her lips parted slightly as she smiles.
Kelly notices the exchange immediately and grins. “Oh, YN! This is Kika — Pierre’s girlfriend. I invited her to sit with us.”
You reach out your hand, polite but curious. “Hi. It’s really nice to meet you.”
Her hand fits into yours — warm, soft. “Nice to meet you too,” she says, and her voice is quieter than before. “You were… unbelievable out there.”
You laugh shyly, rubbing your thumb against your palm when you let go. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
And it’s innocent, really — a normal introduction between two women who move in similar circles. But there’s something about it, something that hums beneath the surface. You can’t quite name it, but it lingers even as a producer calls your name from across the room, pulling you back into the whirlwind.
“Duty calls,” you joke lightly. “But it was really nice meeting you.”
“Likewise,” she says, smiling — small, sincere.
You’re gone before you can overthink it, surrounded by assistants and designers and cameras again. But as the night goes on — after the interviews, after the champagne, after the final round of photos — the world quiets down.
Back in your hotel room, hair pinned up and makeup half-removed, you sit by the window, legs curled beneath you, looking down at the city lights. The adrenaline has faded, but something else hasn’t. Her face, her voice, the way she said unbelievable like it wasn’t just about your walk.
You try to brush it off — a random connection, a harmless spark — but your heart won’t listen.
Across town, in a suite just a few floors away, Kika is sitting in bed, her phone open to a clip of the show. She replays the moment you smiled — that fraction of a second where your eyes found hers — again and again.
She tells herself she’s just admiring the artistry. The performance. The aesthetic.
But when she finally sets her phone down, she’s smiling without realizing it.
And she can’t stop thinking about you either.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
Morning light spills through the hotel curtains — soft, honey-colored, too gentle for how restless your mind feels. You’ve barely slept. Every time you closed your eyes, the same image replayed behind them: the way Kika’s eyes had found yours in the middle of the chaos, the way her voice had wrapped around unbelievable like a secret.
You sit up slowly, pressing a palm to your forehead, still wrapped in the hotel robe that smells faintly of rose lotion and leftover perfume. The room is quiet, peaceful, except for the faint hum of city noise from the street below.
There’s a knock on the door.
You blink, startled, and shuffle to answer it — only to be met by a hotel attendant standing beside a massive bouquet of white tulips and soft pink roses, all tied with a satin ribbon.
“Delivery for Miss Verstappen,” he says cheerfully, wheeling the bouquet inside.
“Thank you,” you reply, smiling as you reach for the small envelope tucked between the stems.
It’s in Max’s handwriting — neat but quick, unmistakably him.
Proud of you, zus. I saw the clips — you looked incredible. Mama cried. Don’t let fame go to your head. Love, Max.
You snort softly, shaking your head. You can practically hear his voice saying it — dry and teasing, but full of affection. You set the flowers on the table by the window and snap a picture to text him.
You’re halfway through typing thanks for making me cry before breakfast when your phone starts ringing.
“Good morning, superstar,” Max says when you answer, his voice low and rough like he’s still half-asleep.
“Morning,” you hum, sitting cross-legged on the bed. “Did you really send flowers? That’s kind of soft for you.”
He chuckles. “Kelly told me to. I just signed the card.”
You laugh. “I knew it. I was about to start worrying you’d gone sentimental.”
He hums quietly for a second, then adds, “The show looked insane. Seriously, you killed it. I’m proud of you, YN.”
“Thanks, Max.”
There’s a pause — long enough for him to notice the shift in your tone.
“You sound… I don’t know. Tired?”
You pick at the edge of your robe. “Just exhausted. It was a long night.”
“Yeah, but that’s not it,” he says, voice softening. “What’s going on?”
You smile despite yourself. He’s always been like this — blunt, but perceptive in ways you sometimes wish he wasn’t.
“Nothing’s going on,” you lie, laughing it off. “I’m just running on caffeine and adrenaline. Standard post-runway hangover.”
He hums skeptically. “Right.”
“Stop psychoanalyzing me, Verstappen,” you tease. “Go back to bed.”
He laughs, muttering something in Dutch under his breath that sounds suspiciously like stubborn as always, before saying, “Alright, fine. But call me later, okay? We’re all proud of you.”
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
When the call ends, the room feels quiet again — too quiet. You glance at the flowers, at your reflection in the window, at the faint smudge of lipstick still on your mouth from last night.
You tell yourself to stop thinking about her. You tell yourself that it was just an introduction, nothing more. But then your phone buzzes, and Kelly’s name lights up the screen.
brunch at le coucou in an hour! come join us 🤍(ps. invited kika too, hope that’s alright!)
Your pulse trips.
You type back something casual — of course! see you soon xx — before realizing you’ve read her text three times over, each one slower than the last.
You take your time getting ready, trying not to overthink it, though you inevitably do. You choose a soft cream dress — simple but elegant — and twist your hair up into something that looks effortlessly done, even though it takes twenty minutes to perfect. You add just a touch of gloss, a whisper of perfume, enough to make you feel alive again.
And then you’re in the back of a black car, watching Manhattan blur by, heart tapping unevenly in your chest.
Le Coucou is busy but beautiful, sunlight streaming through tall windows, soft jazz playing faintly in the background. Kelly waves you over from a table tucked in the corner, looking stunning in a silk blouse and oversized sunglasses. Beside her sits Kika — red nails curled around a champagne flute, laughter glinting in her eyes like sunlight on water.
You feel the air shift the moment you walk in.
“YN!” Kelly beams, rising to greet you with a hug. “You look like you got actual sleep!”
“I faked it with concealer,” you joke, hugging her back. When you pull away, your eyes meet Kika’s.
“Hi,” she says, smiling that same warm, almost shy smile.
“Hi,” you echo. “Glad you came.”
“I wasn’t going to miss brunch with the angel herself,” she teases gently, and the words make something flutter deep in your chest.
Kelly watches the exchange from behind her glass, eyes flicking between you two, the corner of her mouth twitching like she knows exactly what’s happening.
You sit beside Kika, and conversation flows easily — maybe too easily. You talk about the show, about the chaos backstage, about how Kelly had to try and stop Sophie from sneaking a peek before curtain call. Kika laughs, bright and soft, covering her mouth in that way that makes you want to make her laugh again, just to see it.
There are moments that feel harmless, and then there are moments that feel like something else. When your knees brush under the table and neither of you pull away. When she reaches for the same butter knife and your fingers touch, light as a sigh. When she glances at you from across her mimosa and looks away too late.
Kelly notices all of it. She’s leaning back now, swirling her drink with the faintest smirk.
“So,” she says casually, “Kika, did you ever model with VS?”
Kika shakes her head, cheeks flushed. “Once, years ago. I don’t think I could ever do what YN does — that kind of confidence?” She glances at you again. “It’s… magnetic.”
You smile, heat creeping up your neck. “You’d be incredible. I could teach you my walk sometime.”
Kelly bites back a grin. “Oh, I’m sure she’d learn quickly.”
You nudge her playfully with your elbow, and she just laughs, the sound smug but affectionate.
By the time brunch ends, you’re both lingering longer than necessary — finishing coffee slowly, stealing glances when you think the other isn’t looking. When Kika stands to leave, she touches your arm lightly.
“It was really nice seeing you again,” she says softly.
You swallow, meeting her eyes. “You too. I—” you pause, searching for words that don’t sound too much. “I’m really glad you came.”
For a heartbeat, the world feels too quiet, too still. Then her phone rings, breaking the moment.
Kika smiles once more before slipping away with a wave. You watch her leave — the sway of her hair, the faint scent of her perfume lingering like the memory of a dream.
Kelly slides her sunglasses down her nose, watching you with that knowing look only she can pull off.
“She’s lovely,” she says lightly, stirring her coffee.
You hum noncommittally. “She is.”
Kelly smiles. “And you’re terrible at pretending you’re not smitten.”
You gape at her. “I am not—”
She just raises an eyebrow. “Mhm. Whatever you say, meu anjinho.”
You try to roll your eyes, but you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. Because maybe you are smitten. Maybe you’ve been that way since the moment she looked at you like you were something celestial.
And deep down, you know — she felt it too.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
several weeks later…
The Chanel event is one of those nights that feels dipped in gold — perfume in the air, diamonds catching light like stars, champagne bubbling in every glass. You’ve been to hundreds of these things, but tonight feels heavier, quieter somehow. Maybe it’s the cold air outside, maybe it’s the exhaustion beneath your practiced smile.
You’re halfway through a conversation with a stylist when you hear your name — soft, familiar.
“YN?”
You turn, and there she is. Kika.
Her hair is swept into a loose knot, a few tendrils framing her face, the black satin of her Chanel gown glowing under the chandeliers. There’s that same look in her eyes as before — warmth, surprise, something unspoken.
For a second, you just stare, both caught in that small, strange silence that happens when something clicks into place.
Then you smile. “Kika. Hi.”
Her smile widens, slow and genuine. “Hi. You look… stunning.”
“So do you,” you reply, voice coming out softer than you intend.
You don’t even think before you add, “Please tell me you’re sitting somewhere near me.”
“As a matter of fact,” she grins, “I think we’re at the same table.”
And she’s right — you find her name card right beside yours, a quiet mercy you didn’t know you needed. When you sit, she leans close enough that her perfume — soft, floral, intoxicating — replaces the scent of champagne in the air. The conversation around you fades in and out, a blur of laughter and camera flashes, but the two of you stay in your own small world.
You talk about everything and nothing — travel schedules, favorite fabrics, the chaos of fittings. Kika tells you about a campaign she shot in Morocco; you tell her about the time your wings broke right before a show and you had to walk pretending nothing happened.
“You didn’t,” she gasps, eyes bright.
“I did,” you laugh. “The producer nearly had a heart attack.”
Her laugh spills out of her like music, and it makes you feel lighter than you’ve felt in weeks.
At some point, you both glance toward the floor where the crowd has grown louder, flashier. The air feels heavy again — too many eyes, too many cameras.
“Do you want to get some air?” you ask, almost a whisper.
Kika meets your gaze, her smile turning soft. “God, yes.”
You slip away quietly, unnoticed, weaving through the glittering crowd until you’re outside — the city cool and quiet compared to the noise inside. The moon hangs low, soft against the skyline.
You walk slowly, heels clicking against the stone path, shoulders brushing occasionally. It’s easy — too easy — how comfortable it feels to talk to her like this, away from the lights and the pretense.
“I’m really glad you’re here tonight,” Kika says after a while. Her voice is gentler now, the kind people use when they stop performing.
You glance at her. “Yeah?”
She nods. “These events can feel… fake. But it’s nice when you find someone real in the middle of it.”
Something in your chest tightens. “I get that.”
The silence that follows isn’t awkward; it’s comfortable, humming with the quiet rhythm of something growing. You both stop at the edge of the terrace, where the city stretches out beneath you in shimmering blues and golds.
You look at her, really look at her — the way her hair catches the light, the curve of her smile, the small line between her brows when she looks thoughtful.
“Do you want to…” you hesitate, half-smiling, “maybe have dinner sometime? When you’re free?”
She blinks, surprised but not hesitant. “I’d love that.”
“Tomorrow?”
Her mouth curves upward. “Tomorrow.”
You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until she says it. You stand there for another few minutes, trading small stories — favorite cities, little fears, the strangest modeling experiences. When she laughs, you do too. When she looks at you, it feels like the night narrows down to the two of you alone.
Eventually, someone calls her name from inside — a PR manager, probably. She sighs softly, turning to you.
“I should get back,” she murmurs, “but… dinner, tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” you promise.
She squeezes your hand before she leaves — light, brief, but enough to leave your pulse stuttering. You stay outside for a moment longer, watching her go, the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air.
And for the first time in a long time, you’re not thinking about work, or image, or perfection. You’re only thinking about her.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
Dinner with Kika feels different before it even begins. You’ve been to hundreds of dinners — industry events, brand parties, quiet meals with agents and designers — but this one has you nervously smoothing the hem of your dress in the elevator mirror, heart beating a little too fast. You chose something simple but elegant: a black slip dress, gold earrings, hair pinned loosely back. Not a red-carpet look, not a performance. Just you.
The restaurant is small, tucked away on a quiet Parisian street. Dim lights, soft jazz, the faint clinking of cutlery — intimate, unpretentious. She’s already there when you arrive, sitting at a corner table with her chin resting on her hand. When she looks up and smiles, it’s that same warm, slow smile that’s been haunting your thoughts since the night you saw her.
“Hi,” she says softly when you sit down.
“Hi,” you echo, your voice coming out a little shy. “You look beautiful.”
“So do you,” she says, and for a moment, you just… look at each other. The silence isn’t uncomfortable — it’s electric.
Dinner starts light, easy. You talk about modeling horror stories, favorite shows you’ve done, fashion week chaos. She laughs when you imitate a designer’s dramatic breakdown backstage, you laugh when she confesses she once walked the wrong way during a rehearsal.
But then the conversation slows, deepens. The candles burn lower. The music softens.
Kika sets down her glass of wine, tracing the rim with her finger. “Can I be honest about something?”
“Of course.”
She hesitates — the kind of pause that means she’s about to say something she’s never said aloud. “Things with Pierre… they’ve been… hard.”
You don’t say anything — just listen. The way she exhales tells you she needed someone to.
“He’s a good man,” she says quietly. “Sweet, charming. He treats me well. But lately… it feels like we’re living on autopilot. He’s always traveling, I’m always working. We send each other heart emojis and airport selfies but… that’s it.”
You nod, softly. “The surface-level stuff.”
“Exactly.” She looks up, eyes glassy but not teary. “It’s like he sees the version of me that everyone else does — the perfect, smiling one. But not me. Not who I am when the makeup comes off and I can’t sleep at 2 a.m. Not when I’m… tired of pretending.”
Something about her words hits too close to home. You take a quiet breath, your voice gentler now. “I know what that’s like.”
She tilts her head, eyes searching yours. “You do?”
You nod. “People always think my life is this… dream. Runways, interviews, the whole fantasy. But sometimes it’s the loneliest thing in the world. You start wondering if anyone actually knows you, or if they just love the idea of you.”
The table between you feels smaller now — like the two of you are the only ones in the room.
Kika leans forward slightly. “So who are you, really?” she asks softly.
You let out a small laugh, looking down at your glass. “A girl who misses home more often than she admits. Who still calls her brother when she feels lost, even though he’s half a world away. Someone who’s always trying to be strong, even when she just wants someone to say, ‘you don’t have to be tonight.’”
You glance up, expecting her to look away — but she doesn’t. She’s watching you like you’ve just said something sacred.
“That’s…” she says slowly, “beautiful. And sad. And real.”
You smile faintly. “Your turn.”
She exhales, laughing under her breath. “I’m someone who keeps telling herself she’s fine because she doesn’t want to disappoint anyone. I’m supposed to have it all together, to be grateful, to be the perfect girlfriend. But sometimes, I feel like I’m just… fading into the background of my own life.”
Your chest tightens. “You’re not invisible, Kika.”
The words come out before you can stop them — instinctive, certain.
Her eyes meet yours again, shimmering under the candlelight. “You say that like you mean it.”
“I do,” you whisper.
For a moment, neither of you move. The tension is soft but palpable, like the space between two notes in a song.
She looks away first, smiling a little to break it. “God, I didn’t mean to unload all that on you.”
“You didn’t,” you assure her. “You trusted me with it. That means something.”
Something shifts then — not a grand moment, not a confession, but something quiet and intimate. You talk for hours, sharing stories no one else gets to hear. Childhood memories. Career regrets. Secret dreams you’re both a little scared to say aloud.
By the time the waiter comes by to tell you they’re closing soon, your plates are empty and your hearts are full.
Outside, the night air is cool against your skin. Paris glows softly — golden streetlights, a distant hum of music. You walk side by side, close enough that your hands brush once, twice.
When you reach the corner where you’re meant to part, she turns to you, eyes gentle.
“I’m really glad we did this,” she says.
“So am I.”
There’s a moment — suspended, unspoken — where it feels like she might step closer. You can almost feel it in the air, the magnetic pull between you.
But she just smiles, and so do you.
“Goodnight, YN.”
“Goodnight, Kika.”
You watch her walk away until she disappears into the city glow. And as you turn toward your car, your heart feels like it’s carrying something new — something fragile, something real. You know it already: this dinner will replay in your mind for weeks. The candlelight, her laugh, the way she saw you — really saw you.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
two weeks later…
f1gossipgirls
1,890,000 likes.
f1gossipgirls : supermodel, yn verstappen, has arrived for the us gp in austin today! serving cowboy cunty realness🤠✨ I WISH I WAS HER. HELP.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
ynverstappen
liked by lando, maxverstappen1, kikagomes and 5,700,000 others.
ynverstappen : i really do love texas…especially when my big brother is p1🤏🏻
tagged : maxverstappen1 and kikagomes
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
The Texas sun hangs heavy over the paddock, glinting off the cars and cameras as fans shout for drivers across the barriers. You’re here for Max — you always are — but it’s been a while since you’ve felt this kind of nervous energy at a race weekend. Maybe it’s the humidity. Maybe it’s the adrenaline. Or maybe it’s because the moment you stepped through the hospitality gates, your eyes instinctively started scanning for her. And then you see her.
Kika stands near the Alpine motorhome, her hair loosely tied back, wearing denim shorts and a white button-up that looks almost too effortless. She’s talking to Pierre, smiling politely — but when she looks up and catches sight of you across the walkway, the smile changes. It softens. Brightens. Deepens.
Before you know it, you’re crossing the paddock, and she’s doing the same.
“Fancy seeing you here,” you tease as you reach her, the grin impossible to hide.
She laughs, a quiet, delighted sound. “I could say the same thing. You following your brother around the world again?”
“Always,” you say. “It’s a full-time job keeping him humble.”
Kika laughs again — that same radiant laugh that you swear you’d recognize in any crowd — and for a moment, it’s like the noise of the paddock fades into a low hum.
Pierre joins in briefly — polite but watchful — the kind of territorial energy that doesn’t go unnoticed. He greets you with a friendly smile, a quick hug, and then excuses himself to find a teammate. But not before giving Kika’s waist a small squeeze. You don’t miss it, and neither does she.
“You two okay?” you ask softly once he’s out of earshot.
Kika sighs, looking down at the ground for a moment. “Yeah, just… long week. You know how it is. Traveling, sponsors, PR.”
You nod. You know exactly how it is. “You look like you could use something calm. Something… grounding.”
She smiles, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Like what?”
“Like horseback riding.”
Her head tilts. “You ride?”
You grin. “Of course. I have two horses just outside Austin. Max calls them my ‘retirement plan.’ I was planning on going for a ride tomorrow morning before the race. You should come.”
Her eyes light up instantly — it’s not the polite kind of excitement, it’s real. “Wait, seriously?”
“Seriously,” you say, hands in your pockets. “I promise they’re both sweet. And you’d look incredible in the helmet.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re terrible.”
“But you’ll come?”
Kika hesitates just long enough for you to notice. Her eyes flick briefly toward the direction Pierre went, then back to you. “Yeah,” she says finally, her voice quiet but certain. “I’d love to.”
You can’t help it — you smile, wide and genuine. “Good. I’ll text you the address.”
“Looking forward to it.”
Before either of you can say more, Max appears, a towel draped around his neck, Red Bull in hand. “There you are!” he says to you, then glances at Kika. “Oh, hey. Good to see you.”
“You too,” Kika says warmly, stepping back slightly.
Max looks between the two of you for a second, sensing something, but decides not to comment — for now. “Come on, we’re heading to hospitality.”
“Right,” you say, turning back to Kika. “Tomorrow morning, then?”
“Tomorrow,” she promises.
When she walks away toward the Alpine garage, Pierre slips an arm around her shoulder, saying something that makes her nod but doesn’t quite reach her eyes. You catch the faintest glance she sends over her shoulder — a quiet, knowing look that lingers until she disappears around the corner.
That night, you find yourself replaying it all: the sunlight catching her hair, the way she said tomorrow, the way it felt to stand beside her again after all these weeks.
And in another hotel across the city, Kika lies awake staring at the ceiling, Pierre sleeping soundly beside her — her phone glowing faintly on the nightstand. Your text sits unread but not unseen:
can’t wait to see you in the morning. promise the horses are gentle <3
She smiles to herself, fingertips hovering over the screen before finally typing back:
looking forward to it already :)
And just like that, the spark that had never quite gone out starts to burn again.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
The morning sun filters through the trees, golden and hazy, the air thick with warmth and quiet promise. The stables smell of hay and earth and sunlight — a kind of peace that’s hard to find anywhere else. When Kika arrives, wearing soft jeans, a white linen shirt, and her hair tied back, she looks so at ease that for a moment, you forget to breathe.
“You weren’t kidding,” she says, eyes wide as she takes in the open pasture and the two horses waiting, saddled and calm.
“Told you,” you say, smiling as you hand her a helmet. “They’re my safe place.”
She runs a hand along your horse’s neck, murmuring something softly in Portuguese that makes you grin. “You talk to them?” you tease.
“Of course,” she says. “They deserve sweet words, too.”
And something in your chest stirs at that. You help her up onto her horse — your hand resting briefly at her waist, the contact sending a small jolt through both of you. The morning is still and bright, and the sound of hooves against the dirt fills the space between you as you ride side by side through the trails that wind along the fields.
Conversation flows easily, carried by the rhythm of the horses. She asks about your childhood in the Netherlands; you ask about hers in Portugal. She tells you about the beaches she misses, the quiet mornings with her family, how modeling sometimes feels like living a thousand borrowed lives and never having enough of your own. You tell her you understand that better than most.
At one point, you stop at a small clearing. She dismounts first, brushing her hair back from her face, and you swear she looks like sunlight made human. You tie the horses loosely to a fence and sit together on the edge of a low wooden rail, shoulders brushing.
“It’s so quiet here,” she says softly. “It feels like the world disappears.”
You glance at her — she’s staring at the horizon, her lips parted just slightly, eyes soft. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” you murmur.
She turns toward you, and the moment stretches — long and heavy and perfect. There’s something there, unspoken but undeniable. You both feel it. But instead of leaning in, she just smiles faintly and exhales, looking down at her hands.
“I needed this,” she whispers.
“Me too,” you reply.
The rest of the ride is quieter, but it’s the kind of silence that feels full — not empty. When you part at the paddock later, she squeezes your hand briefly before heading toward the Alpine garage, and you catch yourself watching her walk away, sunlight glinting off her hair.
The race is everything you’d hoped for. Max is flawless — smooth, relentless, untouchable. You cheer until your throat hurts, sunglasses barely hiding your tears when he crosses the line first. When he jumps out of the car, grinning like a kid again, you’re already waiting near the barriers.
He spots you immediately and runs straight into your arms. You hug him tightly, laughing into his shoulder.
“You were perfect,” you say.
He smirks. “You’re biased.”
“Maybe,” you grin. “But I’m also right.”
It’s soft and genuine — one of those moments where fame, noise, and chaos fade, and it’s just you and your big brother again.
Later that night, the celebration spills into a crowded Austin club. Music pulses, champagne flows, everyone’s laughing — the familiar chaos of a race win. You’re in a sleek black dress, your hair loose, trying to keep up with Max’s endless rounds of toasts.
You spot Kika across the room, sitting beside Pierre. She looks beautiful, as always, but there’s a tension in her posture — the kind of stiffness you recognize all too well. Her gaze drifts across the room, finds you, and lingers. Just for a second.
You take that as your cue.
You slip outside, the humid night air hitting your skin like a sigh of relief. The alley behind the club is quiet, lit only by the glow of a few dim lights. You light a cigarette, the smoke curling into the dark sky.
The door creaks open behind you. “You shouldn’t smoke,” a familiar voice says.
You turn, smirking. “Didn’t think you’d follow me out here.”
Kika steps closer, her heels clicking softly against the pavement. “Pierre’s talking to some sponsors,” she says. “I needed some air.”
You offer her the cigarette. She shakes her head but smiles. “You always look like you’re in a movie when you do that,” she teases.
You laugh quietly. “Guess I’ve been around too many cameras.”
There’s a long pause — the kind that hums beneath the skin. The music inside is faint now, the night around you both slow and heavy.
She steps a little closer. “I had a really good time this morning,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Me too,” you reply. “Felt like we were the only people in the world for a while.”
“You make it easy to forget everything else,” she admits.
You swallow, your pulse quickening. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”
Her eyes flick down to your lips, then back up to meet yours. The air shifts — every molecule between you charged. You can feel her breath, the warmth of her so close it almost hurts.
And then — a shout from the club door. Someone calling her name. Pierre’s voice.
She steps back instantly, blinking hard as if the moment itself startled her. “I should—”
“Yeah,” you say quickly, exhaling the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.
She hesitates at the door, glancing over her shoulder one last time. “Goodnight, YN.”
Your voice is softer than you mean it to be. “Goodnight, Kika.”
The door closes, and the quiet rushes back in. You take one last drag from your cigarette and stare at the faint smoke twisting toward the stars — wondering what would’ve happened if no one had called her name.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
a week later…
f1gossipgirls
1,350,000 likes.
f1gossipgirls : rumor has it that kika gomes and pierre gasly have broken up. sources tell us that it was amicable and the two will still remain friends.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
Your phone buzzes just as you’re stepping out of a fitting— the kind of day where your body’s moving, but your mind’s elsewhere. You check the screen and freeze.
Kika 💋 calling…
Your heart skips. You haven’t heard from her since Austin — not really. Just a few polite texts here and there. You swipe to answer.
“Hey,” you say softly, almost careful.
There’s no greeting on her end. Just the sound of her breath — shaky, uneven. Then, “YN?”
Your chest tightens instantly. “Kika? What’s wrong?”
A pause. Then her voice breaks, quiet and raw. “It’s over. Me and Pierre.”
You sink into the nearest chair. “Oh, Kika…”
She sniffles, trying to keep it together. “I knew it was coming, but I just— I didn’t expect it to hurt this much. He was so kind about it, but it still feels like something just… ended.”
You can hear her trying not to cry, voice trembling on the edges. “I feel so stupid. I kept telling myself things would get better.”
“Kika,” you say gently, “you’re not stupid.”
“I just— I don’t even know who I am without someone else expecting something from me. I feel like I’m falling apart.”
You don’t think. You just move.
“Pack a bag,” you say.
There’s a pause. “What?”
“You heard me,” you say, standing up already, motioning for your assistant to hold your schedule. “Something comfortable, something summery. I’ll send a car to pick you up within the hour.”
“YN, what are you—?”
“I’m taking you away,” you interrupt softly. “Somewhere quiet. Somewhere warm. Somewhere we can just… breathe for a bit.”
There’s silence on the other end — then a shaky, half-disbelieving laugh. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious,” you say. “I’ll text you the address. Bring sunglasses.”
Four hours later, the two of you are boarding your private jet. Kika looks exhausted — oversized sweatshirt, messy bun, no makeup. But even then, she’s breathtaking in a way that makes your heart twist. She blinks in disbelief as she steps inside the cabin. “YN… this is…”
“Just a jet,” you tease, trying to lighten the air.
She gives you a look. “It’s your jet.”
You shrug. “Technically, Max and I share it. But he’s not exactly going to Ibiza anytime soon.”
She laughs softly, shaking her head as she sinks into the plush seat beside you. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe,” you say, smiling. “But I’m also right.”
As the engines start to hum, she turns toward the window, watching the world shrink below. “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”
You glance at her, softer now. “You needed to get away. And I wanted to be the person who could give that to you.”
Her eyes meet yours, and for a moment she looks like she might cry again — but this time, it’s something else entirely. The flight is quiet in the best way — laughter between long silences, hands brushing when you both reach for the same snack, soft music playing through the cabin speakers. Every now and then, she looks at you like she still can’t believe you’re real.
When you land, the sun is setting — Ibiza glowing gold and pink beneath the horizon. A car takes you up winding hills to a private villa perched above the sea. The villa itself is everything: open, airy, with white stone walls, a pool that melts into the view, and the sound of waves crashing faintly in the distance.
Kika stands there in the doorway, her bag still in her hand, eyes wide. “You did all this… for me?”
You shrug, smiling faintly. “Maybe I just wanted an excuse to get away.”
“YN,” she says softly, shaking her head. “You don’t have to pretend. I know this was for me.”
You meet her gaze and don’t look away. “Yeah. It was.”
She sets her bag down and steps forward, wrapping her arms around you in a quiet, desperate hug. You feel her exhale against your shoulder — the kind of sigh that releases days of tension.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
You rest your chin lightly on her hair. “You don’t have to thank me. You just have to let yourself breathe again.”
When she finally pulls back, her eyes are glassy but bright. “You’re like—” she laughs softly, trying to find the word— “you’re like sunshine when everything feels cold.”
“Careful,” you tease. “I might start thinking you like me.”
She grins, a small, genuine one. “Maybe I do.”
That night, the two of you sit by the pool under the stars — bare feet dangling in the water, a bottle of rosé between you, laughter soft and easy. The sea glimmers in the distance, the air sweet with salt and summer.
For the first time in weeks, Kika looks at peace. And for the first time in longer than you care to admit, so do you. You don’t know where this will go, or what will come next. But as she leans her head gently against your shoulder, you know one thing for certain — this was exactly where she was meant to be tonight.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
The water is warm from the day’s sun, the pool glowing gold as the last bit of sunlight melts into the horizon. The air smells like salt and sunscreen, like freedom. You float lazily on your back, eyes closed, listening to the soft hum of the music drifting from the villa speakers. A glass of wine sits on the edge of the pool, half-forgotten.
Kika is at the other end, her hair slicked back, eyes on you in a way that makes your skin prickle. She looks peaceful for the first time in days — maybe weeks. No cameras, no noise, no pretending. Just her, and you, and the sun sinking into the sea.
“You look happy,” you say softly, kicking your feet just enough to drift toward her.
She smiles faintly, voice quiet. “You make it easy to be.”
Something in your chest tightens. You’ve both been dancing around it all week — the glances that last too long, the late-night talks in the villa’s garden, the way she laughs differently when it’s just the two of you. But this moment feels different. The air hums with something unspoken, tender and terrifying all at once.
Kika swims closer until she’s right in front of you, the water rippling between you like an electric current. Her hand floats up, fingers tracing a droplet down your collarbone. “You really did all this for me?” she whispers, like she still doesn’t believe it.
You nod, barely breathing. “You needed somewhere to breathe. I just… wanted to give you that.”
Her eyes soften — and then, without meaning to, you both laugh quietly, the kind that feels like relief. She tilts her head, studying your face under the fading sun. “You always know what to say,” she murmurs. “You always see me.”
Your heart stutters. You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you speak, you’ll tell her everything — that you’ve thought about her every day since that night in Austin, that her smile has lodged itself into your ribs, that you want her more than you’ve wanted anything in a long time. So instead, you lean in. And she does too.
The kiss happens like it’s been waiting for both of you to finally catch up — soft, trembling, slow. The world falls away: no noise, no names, no complications. Just the warmth of her lips, the taste of salt and sunset, and the way her hands frame your face like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.
When you finally pull apart, her forehead rests against yours, both of you breathless and quiet. “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she whispers, almost apologetic.
“I know,” you murmur. “Me neither.”
But neither of you move away.
Later, when the stars are out and the pool lights flicker, you both wrap yourselves in towels and stretch out on the sunbed. She curls up against your chest, her fingers drawing shapes on your skin. You play with her damp hair, heart beating steadily beneath her ear.
There’s no need to talk anymore. Everything has already been said.
The night is still, the waves crashing softly in the distance. Kika falls asleep first, her breath evening out, your arms still around her. And as you close your eyes, you can’t help the small, stunned smile that creeps onto your face. Because somehow, in the middle of everything — the chaos, the heartbreak, the noise — you’ve found something quiet. Something that feels like the start of something real.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
kikagomes added two posts to her story!
seen by pierregasly, ynverstappen, alexandrasaintmleux and 5,700,000 others.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
several months later…
The light spills through the wide glass windows of the studio, soft and golden — the kind of light that makes everything feel like a dream. Stylists move quietly between racks of couture gowns, photographers adjust lenses, and someone in the corner hums along to the playlist thrumming through the speakers.
You’re sitting in a makeup chair, eyes closed as an artist dusts shimmer along your cheekbones. It’s surreal, really — after months of stolen moments and hidden smiles, today is the day. The day you and Kika stop being a secret.
Kika is a few feet away, her reflection catching yours in the mirror. She’s in the middle of having her hair pinned up, but she keeps glancing your way — that tiny, familiar smile tugging at her lips. You can’t help it; you grin back.
“Excited?” the photographer teases as he walks past, camera slung around his neck.
You glance at Kika again before answering. “More than excited,” you say softly. “Ready.”
The first setup is elegant — white silk and soft lighting, the two of you sitting close on a cream sofa. The photographer directs gently, his voice calm. “Look at her like you’re home,” he says. And you do.
Your hand finds Kika’s without even thinking. Her thumb brushes over your knuckles, grounding you both. The shutter clicks — once, twice, a dozen times — and each one feels like a heartbeat being documented.
Later, the shoot shifts outdoors, into a courtyard draped in bougainvillea. Kika’s in a flowy blush gown, you in a sharp cream suit. She looks ethereal, sunlight catching in her hair, and when you step up beside her, the photographer just laughs softly. “You two make this too easy.”
He asks you to dance for the next shot, something spontaneous and natural. So you take her hand, pulling her in, spinning her once — she laughs, full and bright, and it’s caught perfectly on camera. Then she stops, looking up at you, her hands still in yours.
“You realize this is forever now?” she murmurs.
You smile, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “I was hoping it would be.”
The rest of the day flows in a blur of camera flashes and easy laughter. Between outfit changes, she sneaks sips of your coffee; you steal kisses when no one’s looking. Kelly sends a few teasing texts from the group chat, and even Max calls during lunch just to tell you he’s proud.
When the editor comes over to show you the preview shots, your breath catches. The photos don’t look posed — they look alive. Every smile, every glance, every touch tells a story.
The cover is the last shot of the day: you and Kika sitting close, her head resting on your shoulder, your fingers intertwined. The headline will read something like Love in Full Bloom, but what the picture really says — without needing words — is that this is real.
When the camera clicks for the final time, Kika squeezes your hand. “We did it,” she whispers.
You grin, heart full. “Yeah. We really did.”
And when the magazine finally comes out — your faces on glossy paper, your love no longer a secret — the world will see what your family and friends have known for months: two souls who found each other when they weren’t even looking, shining quietly but fiercely, side by side.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
vogue
liked by maxverstappen1, kikagomes, ynverstappen and 14,500,000 others.
vogue : Love is in full bloom. Supermodel YN Verstappen and fashion muse Kika Gomes open up about connection, confidence, and finding each other in the quiet moments. Read the full story in our November issue.
tagged : kikagomes & ynverstappen
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
The sun filters lazily through the windows of Max and Kelly’s penthouse in Monaco. The air smells faintly of fresh croissants, coffee, and the faint tang of salt from the nearby sea. You and Kika are nestled on the oversized cream sofa, plates of breakfast scattered around you — perfectly scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, and too many croissants to count. Kelly is nearby, perched at the island counter, scrolling through her phone and laughing quietly at some viral meme.
It’s quiet, domestic, exactly the way you like it. Kika stretches lazily, hair still damp from her shower, and smiles at you across the table. “I still can’t believe the magazine dropped yesterday,” she murmurs, voice soft but delighted. “You look… beautiful.”
“You look incredible too,” you reply, reaching over to brush a stray curl behind her ear. The corners of her mouth turn up, a shy smile, but her eyes sparkle with something deeper — pride, relief, contentment. This — this feeling of being allowed to exist fully without hiding — it’s still new for both of you, but intoxicating.
Max wanders into the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his usual easy grin. “So, should we be expecting fan mail now?” he jokes, glancing between you and Kika.
“You mean death threats?” you quip back, taking a bite of your croissant. Kika laughs quietly, the sound light and melodic.
Kelly, rolling her eyes, gives a dramatic sigh. “Honestly, you two make it look too easy. Can you not?”
The three of you share a laugh, and for a brief moment, the world outside doesn’t exist. Then, a knock at the door.
The sound is sharp against the quiet morning, and Max frowns, his brow knitting just slightly. “Who…?”
“Wait here,” you murmur to Kika, sliding your hand out of hers. “Kelly, go check on something in the kitchen with her, please.”
Both women exchange a questioning look, but obey, leaving you and Max by the door. When Max opens it, the familiar figure of your father, Jos, fills the frame. His expression is tight, controlled, but there’s a flicker of irritation in his eyes that immediately sets your nerves on edge.
“YN,” he says, voice carefully neutral, though the undertone is sharp. “We need to talk.”
You fold your arms across your chest, waiting. Max steps slightly to the side, letting him in — but standing close enough that you know he’s alert.
Jos glances around the apartment, eyes flicking over Kika’s abandoned purse in the corner and the scattered breakfast plates, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he looks directly at you.
“About the magazine cover,” he begins, voice tight. “You… I don’t understand. Being with… women. Publicly. This isn’t… it isn’t right. People are going to talk. People are going to judge. And honestly, I’m ashamed.”
Your jaw tightens. There it is — the old Jos, full of judgment and expectation, the kind of shame that’s never about you and always about his idea of control.
Before you can even respond, Max’s voice cuts through, calm but unshakably firm. “Jos. That’s enough.”
Jos looks at him, brows raising. “Max, I’m just—”
“You’re not just anything,” Max interrupts, stepping closer, voice low and steady. “You have no right to come in here and shame her. None. YN is brilliant, talented, and she’s living her life on her own terms. If you can’t accept that, the door is that way.”
Jos’s mouth opens, closes, struggles for words. Max’s stare doesn’t waver. There’s that rare thing in Max — the protective older brother who will not back down, the man who has always been willing to stand in front of you and shield you from the world.
“You—” Jos starts again.
“Go,” Max says. “Now.”
A tense beat passes, then Jos huffs, face flushed, and finally storms toward the door. Max follows him to the threshold, watching him leave, then closes it with a quiet click that echoes in the apartment.
For a second, the silence is heavy. Then Max turns to you, expression softening. “Are you okay?”
You tilt your head, exhaling slowly. Not sad, not scared — just angry. A dull, simmering frustration that comes from knowing exactly what Jos is like. “Yeah,” you say firmly, voice calm but edged. “I’m more mad than anything. I knew he’d react like this. Always does. No surprises.”
Max’s shoulders relax, and he steps closer, placing a hand gently on your back. “You didn’t deserve that,” he murmurs. “Not from him, not from anyone.”
You glance up at him, eyes narrowing slightly, lips pressed together in that determined way you’ve learned to wear. “I know,” you reply. “I don’t need to be comforted, Max. Just… wanted to make sure I’m not losing my mind.”
He chuckles softly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re not. You’re brilliant. And anyone who can’t see that… well, that’s their problem, not yours.”
You grin faintly, the corners of your mouth tugging up despite the lingering heat of anger. “Exactly. Now, can we go back to brunch before I start getting hangry?”
Max laughs, the tension breaking, and leads you toward the kitchen. Moments later, Kika and Kelly reappear, carrying fresh coffee cups and a platter of croissants, oblivious to the confrontation.
Kika slides onto the sofa beside you, resting her head against your shoulder, and whispers, “You okay?”
You smile down at her, shaking your head gently. “Better than okay. Let’s eat.”
By the time the three of you settle back into your quiet morning, laughter bouncing again around the sunlit apartment, the confrontation is already dissolving into the background — powerless against the comfort of family, love, and the way the day stretches before you in golden, endless ease.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
The evening air in Monaco is warm and fragrant, carrying a hint of salt from the sea and the soft hum of distant traffic. Streetlights glimmer against the water as you and Kika step out of the car, hands brushing before intertwining, fingers lacing together naturally — the kind of touch that doesn’t need permission anymore. Tonight is different. Tonight is public.
The restaurant is tucked away on a quiet street, lights twinkling in the trees overhead. The hostess leads you past the small, intimate tables to a candlelit corner with a view of the marina. You slide into your seats opposite each other, eyes already locked, and the world seems to shrink until it’s just the two of you.
Kika laughs softly at your playful teasing over the menu. The sound feels like home. You smile back, heart thudding, and realize you could sit here forever, just watching her move, listening to her talk about anything and everything.
Between courses, you steal little touches — fingertips brushing as you reach for wine glasses, her hand resting lightly on your arm when she laughs, shoulders leaning together when the conversation dips into quiet, personal confessions. The restaurant staff glance discreetly, some noticing the glow that surrounds the two of you, but no one interrupts the spell.
After dessert — a decadent tiramisu that Kika insists on sharing bite by bite — you rise to leave, the night air cooler now but still soft against your skin. The marina is alive with reflections of lights on the water, and the gentle sound of waves adds to the magic.
You both walk slowly, weaving between the yachts and taking in the quiet beauty of the evening. Kika slips her hand fully into yours, resting her head briefly on your shoulder. “I can’t believe this is real,” she murmurs.
“It is real,” you say softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “We found each other, Kika. And nothing can change that.”
Her eyes lift to yours, wide and shining, and you feel the warmth of the moment settle deep into your chest. “I never thought I’d get to feel this… safe. Seen. Loved.”
You stop walking, turning her gently toward you. “You deserve it. You deserve every bit of this happiness.”
She smiles, a little shy, a little teasing, and then your lips meet. Soft at first, tentative, and then with more certainty, more joy. The world falls away — the water, the lights, the quiet hum of the marina — all of it fades until it’s just the two of you, wrapped up in each other.
When you finally pull back, she rests her forehead against yours, laughter bubbling quietly. “I think this is my favorite night ever,” she whispers.
“Mine too,” you reply, fingers brushing her cheek.
You walk the rest of the evening hand in hand, past the twinkling lights, past the whispers of the night, and everything feels right — because after months of stolen moments, quiet confessions, and heartbeats shared in private, you finally get to be together. Publicly, proudly, and perfectly. And as the two of you pause on a small bridge overlooking the marina, arms wrapped around each other, you realize something simple, profound, and unshakable: you found her, she found you, and together, you’ve found a kind of happiness that was always worth waiting for.
ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
